Suddenly and without warning the curtain between the two rooms moved. How quickly those two hands drew apart from each other, as if some act of guilt had been doing! If any additional proof was wanting, of something clandestine (and of course improper!) between the parties, here it was certainly supplied. People never attempt to deceive, who have not been playing tricks. Well-regulated and candid people, who do everything by rule, never start and blush at any awkward contretemps, never have any concealments, but tell everything to the outer world. Privacy is a crime—all sly people are reprobates. Wicked Tom and erring Joe!—what a gulf of perdition they were sinking into without knowing it!
The curtain not only moved but was drawn aside, and out of it stepped Bell Crawford. She walked slowly and deliberately, like one in deep thought, and without a word crossed the room towards the point where her two friends were sitting. Something in her face brought them both to their feet. What was that something? She had been absent from them for perhaps ten minutes—certainly not more than a quarter of an hour; and yet change enough had passed over her, to have marked the passage of ten twelve-months. The face looked older, perhaps sadder, more like that of her brother, and yet less querulous, more womanly, better and more loveable. Something seemed to have stirred the depths of her nature, of which only the surface had been before exposed to view. The revelation was better than the index. She was capable of generous things at that moment, of which she had been utterly incapable the hour before. It was probable that she could never again dash all over town in the search for a yard of ribbon of a particular color: her next search was likely to be a much more serious one.
The first glance at her face, and the marvellous change there exhibited, wrought in so short a time, not only puzzled but alarmed Josephine Harris. She could not see where and in what feature lay the change, any more than she could realize what could have been powerful enough to produce it. Tom Leslie may have been quite as much alarmed; but his older years and wider experience, conjoined with the feelings with which he had come to that house, made it impossible that he should be so much puzzled. He saw at once that the marked change was in the eyes. In their depths (he had before remarked them, that day, as indicating a nature a little weak, purposeless and not prone to self-examination)—in their depths, clear enough now, there lay a dark, sombre, but not unpleasing shadow, such as only shows itself in eyes that have been turned inward. We usually say of a man whose eyes show the same expression: "That man has studied much," or, "he has suffered much," or, "he is a spiritualist." By the latter expression, we mean that he looks more or less beneath the surface of events that meet him in the world—that he is more or less a student of the spiritual in mentality, and of the supernatural in cause and effect. Such eyes do not stare, they merely gaze. When they look at you, they look at something else through you and behind you, of which you may or may not be a part.
Let it be said here, the occasion being a most inviting one for this species of digression,—that the painter who can succeed in transferring to canvas that expression of seeing more than is presented to the physical eye, has achieved a triumph over great difficulties. Frequent visitors to the old Dusseldorf Gallery, now so sadly disrupted and its treasures scattered through twenty private galleries where they can only be visible to the eyes of a favored few,—will remember two instances, perhaps by the same painter, of the eye being thus made to reveal the inner thought and a life beyond that passing at the moment. The first and most notable is in the "Charles the Second fleeing from the Battle of Worcester." The king and two nobles are in the immediate foreground, in flight, while far away the sun is going down in a red glare behind the smoke of battle, the lurid flames of the burning town, and the royal standard just fluttering down from the battlements of a castle lost by the royal arms at the very close of Cromwell's "crowning mercy." Through the smoke of the middle distance can be dimly seen dusky forms in flight, or in the last hopeless conflict. Each of the nobles at the side of the fugitive king is heavily armed, with sword in hand, mounted on heavy, galloping horses, going at high speed; and each is looking out anxiously, with head turned aside as he flies, for any danger which may menace—not himself, but the sovereign. Charles Stuart, riding between them, is mounted upon a dark, high-stepping, pure-blooded English horse. He wears the peaked hat of the time, and his long hair—that which afterward became so notorious in the masks and orgies of Whitehall, and in the prosecution of his amours in the purlieus of the capital—floats out in wild dishevelment from his shoulders. He is dressed in the dark velvet short cloak, and broad, pointed collar peculiar to pictures of himself and his unfortunate father; he shows no weapon, and is leaning ungracefully forward, as if outstripping the hard-trotting speed of his horse. But the true interest of this figure, and of the whole picture, is concentrated in the eyes. Those sad, dark eyes, steady and immovable in their fixed gaze, reveal whole pages of history and whole years of suffering. The fugitive king is not thinking of his flight, of any dangers that may beset him, of the companions at his side, or even of where he shall lay his perilled head in the night that is coming. Those eyes have shut away the physical and the real, and through the mists of the future they are trying to read the great question of fate! Worcester is lost, and with it a kingdom: is he to be henceforth a crownless king and a hunted fugitive, or has the future its compensations? This is what the fixed and glassy eyes are saying to every beholder, and there is not one who does not answer the question with a mental response forced by that mute appeal of suffering thought: "The king shall have his own again!"
The second picture lately in the same collection, is much smaller, and commands less attention; but it tells another story of the same great struggle between King and Parliament, through the agency of the same feature. A wounded cavalier, accompanied by one of his retainers, also wounded, is being forced along on foot, evidently to imprisonment, by one of Cromwell's Ironsides and a long-faced, high-hatted Puritan cavalry-man, both on horseback, and a third on foot, with musquetoon on shoulder. The cavalier's garments are red and blood-stained, and there is a bloody handkerchief binding his brow, and telling how, when his house was surprised and his dependants slaughtered, he himself fought till he was struck down, bound and overpowered, still hurling defiance at his enemies and their cause, until his anger and disdain grew to the terrible height of silence and he said no more. He strides sullenly along, looking neither to the right nor the left; and the triumphant captors behind him know nothing of the story that is told in his face. The eyes fixed and steady in the shadow of the bloody bandage, tell nothing of the pain of his wound or the tension of the cords which are binding his crossed wrists. In their intense depth, which really seems to convey the impression of looking through forty feet of the still but dangerous waters of Lake George and seeing the glimmering of the golden sand beneath,—we read of a burned house and an outraged family, and we see a prophecy written there, that if his mounted guards could read, they would set spurs and flee away like the wind—a calm, silent, but irrevocable prophecy: "I can bear all this, for my time is coming! Not a man of all these will live, not a roof-tree that shelters them but will be in ashes, when I take my revenge!" Not a gazer but knows, through those marvellous eyes alone, that the day is coming when he will have his revenge, and that the subject of pity is the victorious Roundhead instead of the wounded and captive cavalier!
Not all this, of course, was expressed in the eyes of Bell Crawford as she stood before her two companions under the circumstances just detailed; but it scarcely needed a second glance to tell the keen man of the world that the eyes and the brain beneath them had both been taught something before unknown. He thought what might possibly have been the expression of his own eyes, on a night so many times before alluded to, could he but have seen them as did others; and if he had before held one lingering doubt of the personality of the woman whose presence she had just quitted, that doubt would have remained no longer. It was the "red woman," beyond a question. For just one moment another thought crossed his mind, founded upon that "union of hands" so lately consummated. Should he permit her to be subjected to the same influences? And yet, why not? The good within her could not be injured, either by sorcery or super-knowledge—either by the assumption or the possession on the part of the seeress, of information beyond that of ordinary mortality and altogether out of its pale. He would permit her to undergo the same influences, even as in a few moments he would submit to them himself.
Josephine Harris, in the time consumed by all these reflections running through the mind of Leslie, had not yet recovered from her surprise at the altered expression on the face of her friend—an expression, oddly enough, that pleased her better than any she had ever before observed there, and yet frightened her correspondingly.
"Dear Bell," she said, anxiously, and using a word of endearment that had been very rare between them, spite of their extreme intimacy.—"What has happened? What have you seen? Are you sick? Your eyes frighten me—they seem so sad and earnest!"
"Do they?" said Bell, forcing a smile that was really sad enough, but better became her face than many expressions that had before passed over it. "Well, Josey, to tell you the truth, I have seen some strange things, of which I will tell you at another time; and I have been thinking very deeply. Nothing more."
"You have seen nothing frightful—dreadful—terrible?" the young girl asked, with an unmistakable expression of anxiety upon her face.