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Updated: June 3, 2025
But what could be the purpose of the unseasonable toil, which was again resumed, as the watchman knew by the lines of lamplight through the crevices of Owen Warland's shutters? The towns-people had one comprehensive explanation of all these singularities. Owen Warland had gone mad!
After the old watchmaker and his pretty daughter had gazed at him out of the obscurity of the street, Owen Warland was seized with a fluttering of the nerves, which made his hand tremble too violently to proceed with such delicate labor as he was now engaged upon. "It was Annie herself!" murmured he. "I should have known it, by this throbbing of my heart, before I heard her father's voice.
"Surely; it is to disclose it that I have come," answered Owen Warland. "You shall know, and see, and touch, and possess the secret! For, Annie, if by that name I may still address the friend of my boyish years, Annie, it is for your bridal gift that I have wrought this spiritualized mechanism, this harmony of motion, this mystery of beauty.
I was right then you're a collector? One must make a beginning. I think I shall begin with you. Hullo, Isabel you're here after all? Isabel. And so is Mr. Oberville. So glad to meet you. My wife talks of you so often. She's been looking forward tremendously to your visit. Oberville. It's a long time since I've had the pleasure of seeing Mrs. Warland. Isabel.
"For Heaven's sake," screamed Owen Warland, springing up with wonderful energy, "as you would not drive me mad, do not touch it! The slightest pressure of your finger would ruin me forever." "Aha, young man! And is it so?" said the old watchmaker, looking at him with just enough penetration to torture Owen's soul with the bitterness of worldly criticism.
In consequence of the good report thus acquired, Owen Warland was invited by the proper authorities to regulate the clock in the church steeple.
Owen Warland felt the impulse to give external reality to his ideas as irresistibly as any of the poets or painters who have arrayed the world in a dimmer and fainter beauty, imperfectly copied from the richness of their visions. The night was now his time for the slow progress of re-creating the one idea to which all his intellectual activity referred itself.
It was not your fault, Annie; but you have ruined me!" Poor Owen Warland! He had indeed erred, yet pardonably; for if any human spirit could have sufficiently reverenced the processes so sacred in his eyes, it must have been a woman's. Even Annie Hovenden, possibly might not have disappointed him had she been enlightened by the deep intelligence of love.
But now we are going to make up for lost time. Oberville bows and goes out. Isabel. Lucius... I think you'd better go to Washington, after all. I shall have a headache and stay at home. Oberville is a bad sailor. Warland advances demonstratively. It's time to go and dress. I think you said the black gown with spangles?
Oh, it was only a subterfuge to conceal the fact that I have no distinct recollection of my reasons. The fact is, a girl's motives in marrying are like a passport apt to get mislaid. One is so seldom asked for either. But mine certainly couldn't have been mercenary: I never heard a mother praise you to her daughters. Warland. No, I never was much of a match. Isabel. You impugn my judgment.
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