But there was nothing very miraculous to be seen; nothing- exceptthe trifles previously noticed- to confirm the idea of asupernatural peril environing the pretty Polly. The stranger it istrue was evidently a thorough and practised man of the world,systematic and self-possessed, and therefore the sort of a person towhom a parent ought not to confide a simple, young girl without duewatchfulness for the result. The worthy magistrate, who had beenconversant with all degrees and qualities of mankind, could not butperceive every motion and gesture of the distinguished Feathertop camein its proper place; nothing had been left rude or native in him; awell-digested conventionalism had incorporated itself thoroughlywith his substance and transformed him into a work of art. Perhapsit was this peculiarity that invested him with a species ofghastliness and awe. It is the effect of anything completely andconsummately artificial, in human shape, that the person impressesus as an unreality and as having hardly pith enough to cast a shadowupon the floor. As regarded Feathertop, all this resulted in a wild,extravagant, and fantastical impression, as if his life and being wereakin to the smoke that curled upward from his pipe.
But pretty Polly Gookin felt not thus. The pair were nowpromenading the room: Feathertop with his dainty stride and no lessdainty grimace; the girl with a native maidenly grace, just touched,not spoiled, by a slightly affected manner, which seemed caught fromthe perfect artifice of her companion. The longer the interviewcontinued, the more charmed was pretty Polly, until, within thefirst quarter of an hour (as the old magistrate noted by his watch),she was evidently beginning to be in love. Nor need it have beenwitchcraft that subdued her in such a hurry; the poor child's heart,it may be, was so very fervent that it melted her with its ownwarmth as reflected from the hollow semblance of a lover. No matterwhat Feathertop said, his words found depth and reverberation in herear; no matter what he did, his action was heroic to her eye. And bythis time it is to be supposed there was a blush on Polly's cheek, atender smile about her mouth, and a liquid softness in her glance;while the star kept coruscating on Feathertop's breast, and the littledemons careered with more frantic merriment than ever about thecircumference of his pipe bowl. O pretty Polly Gookin, why shouldthese imps rejoice so madly that a silly maiden's heart was about tobe given to a shadow! Is it so unusual a misfortune, so rare atriumph?
By and by Feathertop paused, and throwing himself into animposing attitude, seemed to summon the fair girl to survey his figureand resist him longer if she could. His star, his embroidery, hisbuckles glowed at that instant with unutterable splendor; thepicturesque hues of his attire took a richer depth of coloring;there was a gleam and polish over his whole presence betokening theperfect witchery of well-ordered manners. The maiden raised her eyesand suffered them to linger upon her companion with a bashful andadmiring gaze. Then, as if desirous of judging what value her ownsimple comeliness might have side by side with so much brilliancy, shecast a glance towards the full-length looking-glass in front ofwhich they happened to be standing. It was one of the truest plates inthe world and incapable of flattery. No sooner did the imagestherein reflected meet Polly's eye than she shrieked, shrank fromthe stranger's side, gazed at him for a moment in the wildestdismay, and sank insensible upon the floor. Feathertop likewise hadlooked towards the mirror, and there beheld, not the glitteringmockery of his outside show, but a picture of the sordid patchworkof his real composition, stripped of all witchcraft.
The wretched simulacrum! We almost pity him. He threw up his armswith an expression of despair that went further than any of hisprevious manifestations towards vindicating his claims to bereckoned human; for, perchance the only time since this so often emptyand deceptive life of mortals began its course, an illusion had seenand fully recognized itself.
Mother Rigby was seated by her kitchen hearth in the twilight ofthis eventful day, and had just shaken the ashes out of a new pipe,when she heard a hurried tramp along the road. Yet it did not seemso much the tramp of human footsteps as the clatter of sticks or therattling of dry bones.
"Ha!" thought the old witch, "what step is that? Whose skeletonis out of its grave now, I wonder?"A figure burst headlong into the cottage door. It was Feathertop!
His pipe was still alight; the star still flamed upon his breast;the embroidery still glowed upon his garments; nor had he lost, in anydegree or manner that could be estimated, the aspect thatassimilated him with our mortal brotherhood. But yet, in someindescribable way (as is the case with all that has deluded us whenonce found out), the poor reality was felt beneath the cunningartifice.
