"After all," I said, "this is the finest face among them."
Mr. Rutledge shook his head dissentingly, and looked sadly up at Richard's portrait.
"No indeed," I exclaimed, "that's not near so good a face as this; handsomer, perhaps, dreamy and poetical, but not so brave and spirited. Look at the impatient fire in those eyes! And his smile is truth itself. There is something so determined in the attitude too."
"He was, I believe, an honest, truthful lad," said Mr. Rutledge, unenthusiastically.
"He was more than that I'm sure," I exclaimed, "or would have been, if he had lived. With that high spirit he would have made everything bend to him; and if fair fortune hadn't smiled upon his humble birth (which, however, I suppose she did, being a Rutledge), he would have conquered her, you may be sure. I am certain he wouldn't have known the meaning of the words despair and doubt; but come what might, would have hoped and believed to the end."
"But perhaps," said my companion, "perhaps a hand of ice might have been laid upon his youth; a cruel blow might in one day have dashed from him all that feeds hope and faith; perhaps disgrace, grief, illness, coming all together, might have crushed out of him all energy and spirit. What would have become of your hero then? Would he have hoped, when death and the grave had all that he loved? Would he have believed, when what from his cradle he had most trusted in had proved false and worthless?"
I was a little startled at the bitterness of his tone, but persisted, "All that wouldn't have happened to him. 'Fortune favors the brave.'"
"Not always, petite, not always," he said, with an ironical laugh.
"Nevertheless, I wish he had lived," I said; "I am sure he would have been my hero."
"Why," said Mr. Rutledge, looking at me, "why, if, as you say, that boy had lived, he would have been—let me see—nearly forty years old: and that, you know, would have made it out of the question for you to love him."