He exhibited a daguerreotype miniature in a morocco case. Phœbe merely glanced at it, and gave it back.
“I know the face,” she replied; “for its stern eye has been following me about all day. It is my Puritan ancestor, who hangs yonder in the parlor. To be sure, you have found some way of copying the portrait without its black velvet cap and gray beard, and have given him a modern coat and satin cravat, instead of his cloak and band. I don’t think him improved by your alterations.”
“You would have seen other differences had you looked a little longer,” said Holgrave, laughing, yet apparently much struck. “I can assure you that this is a modern face, and one which you will very probably meet. Now, the remarkable point is, that the original wears, to the world’s eye,—and, for aught I know, to his most intimate friends,—an exceedingly pleasant countenance, indicative of benevolence, openness of heart, sunny good-humor, and other praiseworthy qualities of that cast. The sun, as you see, tells quite another story, and will not be coaxed out of it, after half a dozen patient attempts on my part. Here we have the man, sly, subtle, hard, imperious, and, withal, cold as ice. Look at that eye! Would you like to be at its mercy? At that mouth! Could it ever smile? And yet, if you could only see the benign smile of the original! It is so much the more unfortunate, as he is a public character of some eminence, and the likeness was intended to be engraved.”
“Well, I don’t wish to see it any more,” observed Phœbe, turning away her eyes. “It is certainly very like the old portrait. But my cousin Hepzibah has another picture,—a miniature. If the original is still in the world, I think he might defy the sun to make him look stern and hard.”
“You have seen that picture, then!” exclaimed the artist, with an expression of much interest. “I never did, but have a great curiosity to do so. And you judge favorably of the face?”
“There never was a sweeter one,” said Phœbe. “It is almost too soft and gentle for a man’s.”
“Is there nothing wild in the eye?” continued Holgrave, so earnestly that it embarrassed Phœbe, as did also the quiet freedom with which he presumed on their so recent acquaintance. “Is there nothing dark or sinister anywhere? Could you not conceive the original to have been guilty of a great crime?”