Chapter III: Part 3

_Constance_, laughing.--"Across the room."

_Bartlett._--"Shall you like me better at that distance?"

_Constance._--"I can't let you make a joke of our liking for you."

_Bartlett._--"You defend me, even in my presence. What kindness I must miss when I'm absent! Well, I will go and see what interests General Wyatt."

_General Wyatt._--"Madame Le May? Yes, certainly. Remember her perfectly. False hair, false teeth, false"--

_Constance._--"Why, what _are_ you talking of, papa?"

_General Wyatt._--"Mayo. Capital cavalry officer--cutting down the pay of such a man"--

_Constance._--"What _are_ you reading?" The General makes no answer.

_Bartlett._--"Don't disturb him. I'll walk off here at this end of the room." He paces softly up and down, while Constance returns to her drawing, to which she diligently applies herself. A thought seems to strike Bartlett as his wandering eye falls upon General Wyatt, who still sits with his head buried in his newspaper. He approaches, and remarks in a low tone: "I believe I _will_ take a cigar _now_, Gen--" The newspaper falls slightly, and Bartlett makes a discovery. The General has dropped off into a doze. With a gesture of amusement, Bartlett restores the paper to its place, and resumes his walk in a quiet rapture, interrupting it now and then to dwell in silent adoration on the young lady's absorption in the fine arts.

_Constance._--"Mr. Bartlett"--

_Bartlett_, halting.--"Recalled from exile already? Well?"

_Constance._--"I'm afraid I can't get by this point alone."

_Bartlett._--"Yes? Let's see it." He eagerly crosses the room, takes his stand behind her, and throws up his hands in despair. Constance indicates her difficulties.

_Constance._--"The question is how to get in some idea of those slopes of the mountain. These things seem to crowd everything out."

_Bartlett_, hopelessly regarding the work.--"I see. You have been composing a little,--idealising. Well, I don't object to that. Though perhaps it had better come later. This long stretch of rocky cliff"--

_Constance._--"Rocky cliff?"

_Bartlett._--"Isn't in nature, but it might have a good effect if properly utilised"--

_Constance._--"But it isn't rocky cliff, Mr. Bartlett. It's"--

_Bartlett_, looking a second time, and more closely.--"Why, of course! It's that stretch of broken woodland at the foot of the mountain. Very good; very good indeed; very boldly treated. Still, I should say"--

_Constance_, in desperation.--"Oh, Mr. Bartlett, it _isn't_ rocks, and it isn't _woods_; it's--_hay-stacks_!"

_Bartlett._--"Hay-stacks?"

_Constance_, desolately.--"Yes, hay-stacks."

_Bartlett._--"But hay-stacks at the foot of the mountain, Miss Wyatt"--

_Constance_, inconsolably.--"They're _not_ at the foot of the mountain. They're those hay-stacks, just out there in the meadow. I thought it would be nice to have them in near that clump of birches you drew."

_Bartlett._--"Oh-h-h-h!" He scratches his head in visible stupefaction. Then with reanimation: "I see. It was my error. _I_ was looking for middle distance, and _you_ had been working on the foreground. Very good; very-- Oh, gracious powers--No, no! Don't be discouraged, Miss Wyatt; remember it's the first time you've attempted anything of the sort, and you've really done very well. Here!" He seizes the pencil and draws. "We will just sink these hay-stacks,--which are very good in their way, but not perhaps sufficiently subordinated,--just sink them into the lake yonder. They will serve very well for the reflections of those hills beyond, and now you can work away at some of the details of the foreground; they will interest you more." He retires a pace. "It's really not a bad start as it is."

_Constance_, ruefully.--"But it's all yours, Mr. Bartlett."

_Bartlett._--"Eh?"

_Constance._--"You drew every line in it."

_Bartlett._--"No, you drew the line of the distant hills."

_Constance._--"But I didn't mean it for that!"

_Bartlett._--"Well, well; but the lady's figure, that was good"--

_Constance._--"You turned her into a clump of birches."

_Bartlett._--"True. A mere exigency of the perspective. The hay-stacks"--

_Constance._--"You've just sunk them into the lake!"

_Bartlett._--"Well, well. Perhaps I may have helped in the execution of the picture, a little. But my dear Miss Wyatt, the _drawing_ is nothing; it's the _design_ is what makes the picture, and that's _entirely_ yours; the ideas were all _yours_. Come! Try your hand now at the shore line of the lake, just here."

_Constance._--"I'm afraid I'm a little tired. My hands are cold."

_Bartlett._--"Oh, I'm sorry!" He takes one of them and places it between either of his. "That shows you've been working too hard. I can't allow that. All the art in the world isn't worth--I mustn't forget that you have not been well; and I want these little lessons to be a pastime and not a burden to you. The picture's sufficiently advanced now"--he mechanically puts her hand under his left arm, and keeps his own right hand upon it, while he takes his station with her in front of the easel--"to warrant us in trying a little colour to-morrow. You'll be very much more interested in colour. It _is_ refreshing to get at the brushes after you've tired yourself out with the black and white. You've got a very pretty outfit, there, Miss Wyatt." He indicates her colours on the little table.

_Constance._--"I didn't mean to refuse the offer of your paints, but I thought it would be better to have the colours _perfectly fresh_, you know."

_Bartlett._--"Quite right. Quite right. Now you see-- Rest on _me_, Miss Wyatt, or I shall be afraid of fatiguing you by standing; and I'd like to point out a few things for you to begin on here to-morrow."

_Constance._--"Oh, I'm not _very_ tired. But I _will_ keep your arm if you will let me."

_Bartlett_, making her sustain her weight more distinctly on his arm.--"By all means. Now, here, at this point, I think I'd better sketch you in that old oak down there at the foot of our hill, with its grape-vine, and you can work away at these without reference to Ponkwasset. The line of that clinging vine is one of the most graceful things that Nature--and Nature _does_ know a thing or two, Miss Wyatt; she's particularly good at clinging vines--ever drew." He looks at her over his shoulder with an involuntary sigh. Then, "Suppose"--he takes up the charcoal--"I do it now. No, don't disturb yourself." They lean forward, and as he sketches, their faces, drawn together, almost touch. Bartlett drops the pencil, and starts away, releasing his arm: "Oh, no, no!"

_Constance_, simply.--"Can't you do it?"

_Bartlett_, in deep emotion.--"No, no; I can't do it--I mustn't--it would be outrageous--I--I"-- Regaining his self-possession at sight of Constance's astonished face: "You said yourself just now that I had drawn everything in the picture. I can't do any more. _You_ must do the clinging vine!"

_Constance_, innocently.--"Very well, I'll try. If you'll do the oak for me. I'll let you do _that_ much more." They regard each other, she with her innocent smile, he with a wild rapture of hope, doubt, and fear. Then Bartlett draws a long, despairing sigh, and turns away.

_Bartlett._--"To-morrow, to-morrow!" He walks away, and returns to her. "Have you read--have you ever read The Talking Oak, Miss Wyatt?"

_Constance._--"Tennyson's? A thousand times. Isn't it charming?"

_Bartlett._--"It's absurd, I think. Do you remember where he makes the oak say of the young lady,--

'And in a fit of frolic, mirth
She strove to span my waist:....
I wish'd myself the fair young beech
That here beside me stands,
That round me, clasping each in each,
She might have lock'd her hands'?"

_Constance._--"Why, that's lovely,--that attribution of human feeling to the tree. Don't you think so?"

_Bartlett_, absently.--"Yes, yes; beautiful. But it's terrible, too; terrible. Supposing the oak really had human feeling; or supposing that a man had been meant in the figure of an oak"-- He has drawn near Constance again; but now he retreats. "Ah, I can't work out the idea."

_Constance._--"What idea? I can't imagine what you mean."

_Bartlett._--"Ah! I can. My trouble is, I can't _say_ what I mean! This was sometime a paradox."

_Constance._--"Oh! I should think, a riddle."

_Bartlett._--"Some day I hope you'll let me read it to you."

_Constance._--"Why not now?"

_Bartlett_, impetuously.--"If you only meant what you said, it would be--so much better than if I said what I meant!"

_Constance._--"You are dealing in mysteries to-day."

_Bartlett._--"Oh, the greatest of them! But don't mind. Wait! I'll try to tell you what I mean. I won't make you stand, while I talk. Here!" He wheels up in front of the picture one of the haircloth sofas; Constance mechanically sinks down upon it, and he takes his place at her side; she bends upon him a look of smiling amusement. "I can put my meaning best, I think, in the form of allegory. Do you like allegory, Miss Wyatt?"

_Constance._--"Yes. That is, not very much."

_Bartlett_.--"Oh! You don't like allegory! Upon second thoughts, I don't myself. We will not try allegory. We will try a supposed case. I think that's always the best way, don't you?"

_Constance._--"No, I don't like any sort of indirection. I believe the straightforward way is the best."

_Bartlett._--"Yes, so do I; but it's impossible. We _must_ try a supposed case."

_Constance_, laughing.--"Well!"

_Bartlett._--"Ah! I can't say anything if you laugh. It's a serious matter."

_Constance_, with another burst of laughter.--"I should never have thought so." With a sudden return of her old morbid mood: "I beg your pardon for laughing. What right have I to laugh? Go on, Mr. Bartlett, and I will listen as I should have done. I am ashamed."

_Bartlett._--"No, no! That won't do! You mustn't take me so seriously as that! Oh, Miss Wyatt, if I could only be so much your friend, your fool,--I don't care what,--as to banish that look, that tone from you for ever!"

_Constance._--"Why do you care?"

_Bartlett._--"Why do I care?"

_Constance._--"Yes. Why should you mind whether so weak and silly a thing as I is glad or sad? I can't understand. Why have you had so much patience with me? Why do you take all this trouble on my account, and waste your time on me? Why"--

_Bartlett_, starting up.--"_Why_ do I do it?" He walks away to the other side of the room with signs of great inward struggle; then he swiftly returns to her side where she has risen and stands near the sofa, and seizes her hand. "Well, I will tell you why. No, no! I can't! It would be"--

_General Wyatt_, behind his newspaper.--"Outrageous! Gross violation of good faith! Infernal shame!" The General concludes these observations with a loud, prolonged, and very stertorous respiration.

_Constance_, running to him.--"Why, papa, what _do_ you mean? Oh poor papa! He's asleep, and in _such_ a wretched position!" From which she hastens to move him, while Bartlett, recovering from the amaze in which the appositeness of the General's remarks had plunged him, breaks into a harsh "Ha! ha!" Constance turns and advances upon him in threatening majesty: "Did you _laugh_, Mr. Bartlett?"

_Bartlett_, after a moment's dismay.--"Well, I don't know whether you call it laughing. I smiled."

_Constance_, with increasing awfulness: "_Why_ did you laugh, Mr. Bartlett?"

_Bartlett._--"I--I--I can't say."

_Constance._--"You were laughing at General Wyatt!"

_Bartlett._--"Was there nothing to laugh at?"

_Constance._--"For children! For vulgar, silly boys! For a gentleman, nothing!"

_Bartlett_, with rising wrath.--"Then I have no excuse, unless I say that I am no gentleman."

_Constance._--"_I_ shall not dispute you in anything; and I will leave you to the enjoyment of your mirth."

_Bartlett._--"Very well. As you like. I am sorry to have offended you. I shall take care never to offend you again." Constance sweeps towards one door, at the threshold of which she pauses to look round and see Bartlett dashing her box of colours together as if it were his own, and thrusting it under his arm, seizing with a furious hand the canvas on the easel and his coat from the chair-back, and then rushing from the room. She drops her face into her hands and vanishes, and the next moment Mrs. Wyatt enters.

IV.

MRS. WYATT _and_ GENERAL WYATT.

_Mrs. Wyatt._--"What is the matter with Constance, James? Have you been"-- She goes up to the General and discovers his vigilance: "Asleep!" Waking him: "James, James! Is _this_ the way you do the dragon, as you call it?"

_General Wyatt_, starting awake: "Dragon? Dragon? What dragon? I dreamt I was a perfect fiery dragon, and went about breathing flame and smoke. How long have I slept, Margaret? Where is Mr. Bartlett? Where is Constance?"

_Mrs. Wyatt._--"Oh, you may well ask that, James. I just met Constance at the door, in tears. Oh, I hope nothing dreadful has happened."

_General Wyatt._--"Nonsense, Margaret. Here, help me up, my dear. My nap hasn't done me any good. I'm stiff all over."

_Mrs. Wyatt_, anxiously.--"I'm afraid you have taken cold, James."

_General Wyatt_, with impatience.--"Cold? No! Not in the least. I'm perfectly well. But that was a very unpleasant dream. Margaret, I'm afraid that I breathed rather--explosively, at one time."

_Mrs. Wyatt._--"Oh, James, this is worse and worse. It must have mortified Constance, dreadfully."

_General Wyatt_, taking his wife's arm, and limping from the scene:--"Well, well! Never mind! I'll make it right with Bartlett. He's a man of sense, and will help me laugh it off with her. It will be all right, Margaret; don't worry over a trifle like that."

_Mrs. Wyatt_, as they disappear:--"Trifle? Her whole happiness may depend upon it." At the instant of their withdrawal, Constance and Bartlett, hastily entering by opposite doors, encounter each other in the middle of the room.

V.

BARTLETT _and_ CONSTANCE

_Both_, at once.--"I came to"--

_Bartlett._--"Restore you your box of colours and your canvas, which I carried off by mistake."

_Constance._--"To say that I am very, very sorry for my rudeness to you, and to entreat you to forget my abominable words, if you can."

_Bartlett_, with a generous rush of emotion, dropping the canvas on the floor at one side and the box of colours on the other, and snatching her extended hand to his lips.-- "Don't say that. I deserved a thousand times more. You were right."

_Constance._--"No, no! I can't let you blame yourself to save me from self-reproach. I know papa was ridiculous. But what made me angry was this thought that you were laughing at _him_. I couldn't bear that. I shouldn't have minded your laughing at me; but at papa!"

_Bartlett_, sadly.--"I happened to be laughing much more at myself than your father. Where is the General?"

_Constance._--"He has gone with mamma. They wondered where you were, and I said you were coming back again."

_Bartlett._--"How did you know?"

_Constance._--"I thought you would come,--that you would upbraid yourself for my bad behaviour, and return to excuse it to me. You see what perfect faith I--we--have in you."

_Bartlett_, earnestly.--"Have you indeed perfect faith in me?"

_Constance._--"Perfect!"

_Bartlett_, vehemently.--"But why, _why_ do you trust me? You see that I am hasty and rude."

_Constance._--"Oh no, not rude."

_Bartlett._--"But I assure you that I am so; and you have seen that I laughed--that I am wanting in delicacy, and"--

_Constance_, devoutly.--"How can you say that to _us_, when every day, every hour, every instant of the last month has given us proof of unimaginable kindness in you!" He eagerly approaches and takes her hands, which she frankly yields him. "Your patience, your noble forbearance, which we so sorely tried, has made us all forget that you are a stranger, and--and--to me it's as if we had always known you"--her head droops--"as if you were a--an old friend, a--brother"--

_Bartlett_, dropping her hands.--"Oh!" He turns away, and pacing the length of the room reapproaches her hastily.

_Constance_, with a little cry.--"Mr. Bartlett! Do look! Did you intend to trample my canvas and colours under foot?" She makes as if to stoop for them.

_Bartlett_, his manner undergoing a total change as if he had been suddenly recalled to himself at a critical moment.--"Don't!" He hastily picks them up, and puts the canvas on the easel and the colours on the table. With a glance at the canvas: "Ponkwasset doesn't seem to have been seriously injured by his violent usage. Shall you like to try your hand at him again to-morrow?"

_Constance._--"Oh, yes. But on one condition."

_Bartlett._--"Yes."

_Constance._--"That you have a little faith in _me_, too."

_Bartlett._--"Oh, Miss Wyatt"--

_Constance._--"I used to have a bad temper, and now that I'm getting better it seems to be getting worse. Try to believe in me enough to know that when I do or say some violent thing, I'm ashamed of it; and that when I wounded you, I really meant to hurt myself; that I-- Oh, you know, Mr. Bartlett, how much you've borne from us, and how much we owe you; and if you did anything now to make us think less of your unselfish goodness, we never could forgive you!" Bartlett remains with bowed head. "I must go, now." Gaily: "Perhaps to-morrow, when we resume our lessons, you'll tell me what you meant to-day, when you couldn't explain yourself."

_Bartlett_, vehemently.--"No, I can never tell you."

_Constance._--"I can't believe that! At any rate, we shall talk the matter over, and I may say something to help you. You know how one thing leads to another."

_Bartlett._--"But nothing you can ever say now will lead to what I wanted to say."

_Constance_, laughing.--"Don't be sure. If you rouse my curiosity, I shall be a powerful aid to expression. With a woman's wit to help you out with your meaning, how can you help making it clear?"

_Bartlett._--"Because--because it wants something more than wit in you to make it clear."

_Constance._--"Well, you shall have sympathy, if sympathy is what you need. Is it something like sympathy?"

_Bartlett._--"Something like sympathy; but--not--not exactly sympathy."

_Constance_, with another laugh.--"How difficult you make it! I see! You want compassion."

_Bartlett_, quickly.--"Oh, no! I would sooner have contempt!"

_Constance._--"But that's the one thing you can't have. Try to think of something else you want, and let me know to-morrow." She nods brightly to him, and he follows her going with a gaze of hopeless longing. As she vanishes through the doorway, he lifts his hand to his lips, and reverently kisses it to her.

_Bartlett_, alone.--"Try to _think_ what I want and let you know! Ah, my darling, my darling! Your faith in me kills my hope. If you only dared a little less with me, how much more I might dare with you; and if you were not so sisterly sweet, how much sweeter you might be! Brother? Forty thousand brothers could not with all their quantity of love make up my sum! You drive me farther than your worst enemy from you with that fatal word. Brother? I hate brother! If it had been cousin--And kind? Oh, I would we were

'A little less than kin, and more than kind!'"

IV.

NOT AT ALL LIKE.

I.

BARTLETT _and_ CUMMINGS.

_Bartlett._--"Six weeks since you were here? I shouldn't have thought that." Bartlett's easel stands before the window, in the hotel parlour; he has laid a tint upon the canvas, and has retired a few paces for the effect, his palette and mahl-stick in hand, and his head carried at a critical angle. Cummings, who has been doing the duty of art-culture by the picture, regards it with renewed interest. Bartlett resumes his work: "Pretty good, Cummings?"

_Cummings._--"Capital! The blue of that distance"--

_Bartlett_, with a burlesque sigh.--"Ah, I looked into my heart and painted for _that_! Well, you find me still here, Cummings, and apparently more at home than ever. The landlord has devoted this parlour to the cause of art,--makes the transients use the lower parlour, now,--and we have this all to ourselves: Miss Wyatt sketches, you know. Her mother brings her sewing, and the General his bruises; he hasn't quite scrambled up, yet, from that little knock-down of his; a man doesn't, at his time of life, I believe; and we make this our family-room; and a very queer family we are! Fine old fellow, the General; he's behaved himself since his accident like a disabled angel, and hasn't sworn,--well, anything worth speaking of. Yes, here I am. I suppose it's all right, but for all I know it may be all wrong." Bartlett sighs in unguarded sincerity. "_I_ don't know what I'm here for. Nature began shutting up shop a fortnight ago at a pretty lively rate, and edging loafers to the door, with every sign of impatience; and yet here I am, hanging round still. I suppose this glimpse of Indian Summer is some excuse just now; it's a perfect blessing to the landlord, and he's making hay--rowen crop[1]--while the sun shines; I've been with him so long now, I take quite an interest in his prosperity, if eight dollars a week of it _do_ come out of me! What is talked of in 'art-circles' down in Boston, brother Cummings?"

_Cummings._--"Your picture."

_Bartlett_, inattentively, while he comes up to his canvas, and bestows an infinitesimal portion of paint upon a destitute spot in the canvas.--"Don't be sarcastic, Cummings."

_Cummings._--"I'm not, I assure you."

_Bartlett_, turning toward him incredulously.--"Do you mean to say that The First Grey Hair is liked?"

_Cummings._--"I do. There hasn't been any picture so much talked of this season."

_Bartlett._--"Then it's the shameless slop of the name. I should think you'd blush for your part in that swindle. But clergymen have _no_ conscience, where they've a chance to do a fellow a kindness, I've observed." He goes up to Cummings with his brush in his mouth, his palette on one hand, and his mahl-stick in the other, and contrives to lay hold of his shoulders with a few disengaged fingers. As Cummings shrinks a little from his embrace: "Oh, don't be afraid; I shan't get any paint on you. You need a whole coat of whitewash, though, you unscrupulous saint!" He returns to his easel. "So The Old Girl--that's what I shall call the picture--is a success, is she? The admiring public ought to see the original elm-tree now; she hasn't got a hair, grey or green, on her head; she's perfectly bald. I say, Cummings, how would it do for me to paint a pendant, _The Last Grey Hair_? I might look up a leaf or two on the elm, somewhere: stick it on to the point of twig; they wouldn't know any better."

_Cummings._--"The leafless elm would make a good picture, whatever you called it." Bartlett throws back his shaggy head and laughs up at the ceiling. "The fact is, Bartlett, I've got a little surprise for you."

_Bartlett_, looking at him askance.--"Somebody wanting to chromo The Old Girl? No, no; it isn't quite so bad as that!"

_Cummings_, in a burst.--"They _did_ want to chromo it. But it's sold. They've got you two hundred dollars for it." Bartlett lays down his brush, palette, and mahl-stick, dusts his fingers, puts them in his pockets, and comes and stands before Cummings, on whom, seated, he bends a curious look.

_Bartlett._--"And do you mean to tell me, you hardened atheist, that you don't believe in the doctrine of future punishments? What are they going to do with _you_ in the next world? And that picture-dealer? And _me_? Two hun-- It's an outrage! It's--the picture wasn't worth fifty, by a stretch of the most charitable imagination! Two hundred, d-- Why, Cummings, I'll paint no end of Old Girls, First and Last Grey Hairs--I'll flood the market! Two-- Good Lord!" Bartlett goes back to his easel, and silently resumes his work. After a while: "Who's been offered up?"

_Cummings._--"What?"

_Bartlett._--"Who's the victim? My patron? The noble and discriminating and munificent purchaser of The Old Girl?"

_Cummings._--"Oh! Mrs. Bellingham. She's going to send it out to her daughter in Omaha."

_Bartlett._--"Ah! Mrs. Blake wishes to found an art museum with that curiosity out there? Sorry for the Omaha-has." Cummings makes a gesture of impatience. "Well, well; I won't then, old fellow! I'm truly obliged to you. I accept my good fortune with compunction, but with all the gratitude imaginable. I say, Cummings!"

_Cummings._--"Well?"

_Bartlett._--"What do you think of my taking to high art,--mountains twelve hundred feet above the sea, like this portrait of Ponkwasset?"

_Cummings._--"I've always told you that you had only to give yourself scope,--attempt something worthy of your powers"--

_Bartlett._--"Ah, I thought so. Then you believe that a good big canvas and a good big subject would be the making of me? Well, I've come round to that idea myself. I used to think that if there was any greatness in me, I could get it into a small picture, like Meissonier or Corot. But I can't. I must have room, like the Yellowstone and Yo-Semite fellows. Don't you think Miss Wyatt is looking wonderfully improved?"

_Cummings._--"Wonderfully! And how beautiful she is! She looked lovely that first day, in spite of her ghostliness; but now"--

_Bartlett._--"Yes; a _phantom_ of delight is good enough in its way, but a _well woman_ is the prettiest, after all. Miss Wyatt sketches, I think I told you."

_Cummings._--"Yes, you mentioned it."

_Bartlett._--"Of course. Otherwise, I couldn't possibly have thought of her while I was at work on a great picture like this. She sketches"-- Bartlett puts his nose almost on the canvas in the process of bestowing a delicate touch--"she sketches about as badly as any woman I ever saw, and _that's_ saying a good deal. But she looks uncommonly well while she's at it. The fact is, Cummings,"--Bartlett retires some feet from the canvas and squints at it,--"this very picture which you approve of so highly is--Miss Wyatt's. _I_ couldn't attempt anything of the size of Ponkwasset! But she allows me to paint at it a little when she's away." Bartlett steals a look of joy at his friend's vexation, and then continues seriously: "I've been having a curious time, Cummings." The other remains silent. "Don't you want to ask me about it?"

_Cummings._--"I don't know that I do."

_Bartlett._--"Why, my dear old fellow, you're hurt! It _was_ a silly joke, and I honestly ask your pardon." He lays down his brush and palette and leaves the easel. "Cummings, I don't know what to do. I'm in a perfect deuce of a state. I'm hit--awfully hard; and I don't know what to do about it. I wish I had gone at once--the first day. But I had to stay,--I had to stay." He turns and walks away from Cummings, whose eyes follow him in pardon and sympathy.

_Cummings._--"Do you really mean it, Bartlett? I didn't dream of such a thing. I thought you were still brooding over that affair with Miss Harlan."

_Bartlett._--"Oh, child's-play! A prehistoric illusion! A solar myth! The thing never was." He rejects the obsolete superstition with a wave of his left hand. "I'm in love with this girl, and I feel like a sneak and a brute about it. At the very best it would be preposterous. Who am I, a poor devil of a painter, the particular pet of Poverty, to think of a young lady whose family and position could command her the best? But putting that aside,--putting that insuperable obstacle lightly aside, as a mere trifle,--the thing remains an atrocity. It's enormously indelicate to think of loving a woman who would never have looked twice at me if I hadn't resembled an infernal scoundrel who tried to break her heart; and I've nothing else to commend me. I've the perfect certainty that she doesn't and can't care anything for me in myself; and it grinds me into the dust to realise on what terms she tolerates me. I could carry it off as a joke at first; but when it became serious, I had to look it in the face; and that's what it amounts to, and if you know of any more hopeless and humiliating tangle, _I_ don't." Bartlett, who has approached his friend during this speech, walks away again; and there is an interval of silence.

_Cummings_, at last, musingly.--"_You_ in love with Miss Wyatt; I can't imagine it!"

_Bartlett_, fiercely.--"You can't imagine it? What's the reason you can't imagine it? Don't be offensive, Cummings!" He stops in his walk and lowers upon his friend. "Why shouldn't I be in love with Miss Wyatt?"

_Cummings._--"Oh, nothing. Only you were saying"--

_Bartlett._--"I was saying! Don't tell me what _I_ was saying. Say something yourself."

_Cummings._--"Really, Bartlett, you can't expect me to stand this sort of thing. You're preposterous."

_Bartlett._--"I know it! But don't blame me. I beg your pardon. Is it because of the circumstances that you can't imagine my being in love with her?"

_Cummings._--"Oh, no; I wasn't thinking of the circumstances; but it seemed so out of character for you"--

_Bartlett_, impatiently.--"Oh, love's always out of character, just as it's always out of reason. I admit freely that I'm an ass. And then?"

_Cummings._--"Well, then, I don't believe you have any more reason to be in despair than you have to be in love. If she tolerates you, as you say, it _can't_ be because you look like the man who jilted her."

_Bartlett._--"Ah! But if she still loves _him_?"

_Cummings._--"You don't know that. That strikes me as a craze of jealousy. What makes you think she tolerates you for that reason or no-reason?"

_Bartlett._--"What makes me think it? From the very first she interpreted _me_ by what she knew of _him_. She expected me to be this and not to be that; to have one habit and not another; and I could see that every time the fact was different, it was a miserable disappointment to her, a sort of shock. Every little difference between me and that other rascal gave her a start; and whenever I looked up I found her wistful eyes on me as if they were trying to puzzle me out; they used to follow me round the room like the eyes of a family portrait. You wouldn't have liked it yourself, Cummings. For the first three weeks I simply existed on false pretences,--involuntary false pretences, at that. I wanted to explode; I wanted to roar out. If you think I'm at all like that abandoned scoundrel of yours in anything but looks, I'm _not_! But I was bound by everything that was decent, to hold my tongue, and let my soul be rasped out of me in silence and apparent unconsciousness. That was _your_ fault. If you hadn't told me all about the thing, I could have done something outrageous and stopped it. But I was tied hand and foot by what I knew. I had to let it go on."

_Cummings._--"I'm very sorry, Bartlett, but"--

_Bartlett._--"Oh, I dare say you wouldn't have done it if you hadn't had a wild ass of the desert to deal with. Well, the old people got used to some little individuality in me, by-and-by, and beyond a suppressed whoop or two from the mother when I came suddenly into the room, they didn't do anything to annoy me directly. But they were anxious every minute for the effect on _her_; and it worried me as much to have _them_ watching _her_ as to have _her_ watching _me_. Of course I knew that she talked this confounded resemblance over with her mother every time I left them, and avoided talking it over with the father."

_Cummings._--"But you say the trouble's over now."

_Bartlett._--"Oh--_over_! No, it isn't over. When she's with me a while she comes to see that I am not a mere _doppelgänger_. She respites me to that extent. But I have still some small rags of self-esteem dangling about me; and now suppose I should presume to set up for somebody on my own account; the first hint of my caring for her as I do, if she could conceive of anything so atrocious, would tear open all the old sorrows. Ah! I can't think of it. Besides, I tell you, it isn't all over. It's only not so bad as it was. She's subject to relapses, when it's much worse than ever. Why"--Bartlett stands facing his friend, with a half-whimsical, half-desperate smile, as if about to illustrate his point, when Constance and her mother enter the parlour.

[Footnote 1: Aftermath.]

II.

CONSTANCE, MRS. WYATT, BARTLETT, _and_ CUMMINGS.

_Constance_, with a quick violent arrest.--"Ah! Oh!"

_Mrs. Wyatt._--"Constance, Constance, darling! What's the matter?"

_Constance._--"Oh, nothing--nothing." She laughs, nervously. "I thought there was nobody--here; and it--startled me. How do you do, Mr. Cummings?" She goes quickly up to that gentleman, and gives him her hand. "Don't you think it wonderful to find such a day as this, up here, at this time of year?" She struggles to control the panting breath in which she speaks.

_Cummings._--"Yes, I supposed I had come quite too late for anything of the sort. You must make haste with your Ponkwasset, Miss Wyatt, or you'll have to paint him with his winter cap on."

_Constance._--"Ah, yes! My picture. Mr. Bartlett has been telling you." Her eyes have already wandered away from Cummings, and they now dwell, with a furtive light of reparation and imploring upon Bartlett's disheartened patience: "Good _morning_." It is a delicately tentative salutation, in a low voice, still fluttered by her nervous agitation.

_Bartlett_, in dull despair: "_Good_ morning."

_Constance._--"How is the light on the mountain this morning?" She drifts deprecatingly up to the picture, near which Bartlett has stolidly kept his place.

_Bartlett_, in apathetic inattention.--"Oh, very well, very well indeed, thank you."

_Constance_, after a hesitating glance at him.--"Did you like what I had done on it yesterday?"

_Bartlett_, very much as before.--"Oh, yes; why not?"

_Constance_, with a meek subtlety.--"I was afraid I had vexed you--by it." She bends an appealing glance upon him, to which Bartlett remains impervious, and she drops her eyes with a faint sigh. Then she lifts them again: "I was afraid I had--made the distance too blue."

_Bartlett._--"Oh, no; not at all."

_Constance._--"Do you think I had better try to finish it?"

_Bartlett._--"Oh, certainly. Why not? If it amuses you!"

_Constance_, perplexedly.--"Of course." Then with a sad significance: "But I know I am trying your patience too far. You have been so kind, so good, I can't forgive myself for annoying you."

_Bartlett._--"It doesn't annoy me. I'm very glad to be useful to you."

_Constance_, demurely.--"I didn't mean painting; I meant--screaming." She lifts her eyes to Bartlett's face, with a pathetic, inquiring attempt at lightness, the slightest imaginable experimental archness in her self-reproach, which dies out as Bartlett frowns and bites the corner of his moustache in unresponsive silence. "I ought to be well enough now to stop it: I'm quite well enough to be ashamed of it." She breaks off a miserable little laugh.

_Bartlett_, with cold indifference.--"There's no reason why you should stop it--if it amuses you." She looks at him in surprise at this rudeness. "Do you wish to try your hand at Ponkwasset this morning?"

_Constance_, with a flash of resentment.--"No; thanks." Then with a lapse into her morbid self-abasement: "I shall not touch it again. Mamma!"

_Mrs. Wyatt._--"Yes, Constance." Mrs. Wyatt and Cummings, both intent on Bartlett and Constance, have been heroically feigning a polite interest in each other, from which pretence they now eagerly release themselves.

_Constance._--"Oh--nothing. I can get it of Mary. I won't trouble you." She goes toward the door.

_Mrs. Wyatt._--"Mary isn't up from her breakfast yet. If you want anything, let me go with you, dear." She turns to follow Constance. "Good morning, Mr. Cummings; we shall see you at dinner. Good morning,"--with an inquiring glance at Bartlett. Constance slightly inclines towards the two gentlemen without looking at them, in going out with her mother; and Cummings moves away to the piano, and affects to examine the sheet-music scattered over it. Bartlett remains in his place near the easel.

III.

BARTLETT _and_ CUMMINGS.

_Bartlett_, harshly, after a certain silence which his friend is apparently resolved not to break.--"Sail in, Cummings!"

_Cummings._--"Oh, I've got nothing to say."

_Bartlett._--"Yes, you have. You think I'm a greater fool and a greater brute than you ever supposed in your most sanguine moments. Well, I am! What then?"

_Cummings_, turning about from the music at which he has been pretending to look, and facing Bartlett, with a slight shrug.--"If you choose to characterise your own behaviour in that way, I shall not dispute you at any rate."

_Bartlett._--"Go on!"

_Cummings._--"Go on? You saw yourself, I suppose, how she hung upon every syllable you spoke, every look, every gesture?"

_Bartlett._--"Yes, I saw it."

_Cummings._--"You saw how completely crushed she was by your tone and manner. You're not blind. Upon my word, Bartlett, if I didn't know what a good, kind-hearted fellow you are, I should say you were the greatest ruffian alive."

_Bartlett_, with a groan.--"Go on! That's something like."

_Cummings._--"I couldn't hear what was going on--I'll own I tried--but I could see; and to see the delicate _amende_ she was trying to offer you, in such a way that it should not seem an amende,--a perfect study of a woman's gracious, unconscious art,--and then to see your sour refusal of it all, it made me sick."

_Bartlett_, with a desperate clutch at his face, like a man oppressed with some stifling vapour.--"Yes, yes! I saw it all, too! And if it had been for _me_, I would have given anything for such happiness. Oh, gracious powers! How dear she is! I would rather have suffered any anguish than give her pain, and yet I gave her pain! I knew how it entered her heart: I felt it in my own. But what could I do? If I am to be myself, if I am not to steal the tenderness meant for another man, the _love_ she shows to me because I'm like somebody else, I _must_ play the brute. But have a little mercy on me. At least, I'm a _baited_ brute. I don't know which way to turn, I don't know what to do. She's so dear to me,--so dear in every tone of her voice, every look of her eyes, every aspiration or desire of her transparent soul, that it seems to me my whole being is nothing but a thought of her. I loved her helplessness, her pallor, her sorrow; judge how I adore her return to something like life! Oh, you blame me! You simplify this infernal perplexity of mine and label it brutality, and scold me for it. Great heaven! And yet you saw, you heard how she entered this room. In that instant the old illusion was back on her, and _I_ was nothing. All that I had been striving and longing to be to her, and hoping and despairing to seem, was swept out of existence; I was reduced to a body without a soul, to a shadow, a counterfeit! You think I resented it? Poor girl, I _pitied_ her so; and my own heart all the time like lead in my breast,--a dull lump of ache! I swear, I wonder I don't go mad. I suppose--why, I suppose I _am_ insane. No man in his senses was ever bedevilled by such a maniacal hallucination. Look here, Cummings: tell me that this damnable coil isn't simply a matter of my own fancy. It'll be some little relief to know that it's _real_."

_Cummings._--"It's real enough, my dear fellow. And it _is_ a trial,--more than I could have believed such a fantastic thing could be."

_Bartlett._--"Trial? Ordeal by fire! Torment! I can't stand it any longer."

_Cummings_, musingly.--"She _is_ beautiful, isn't she, with that faint dawn of red in her cheeks,--not a colour, but a coloured light like the light that hangs round a rose-tree's boughs in the early spring! And what a magnificent movement, what a stately grace! The girl must have been a goddess!"

_Bartlett._--"And now she's a saint--for sweetness and patience! You think she's had nothing to suffer before from me? You know me better! Well, I am going away."

_Cummings._--"Perhaps it will be the best. You can go back with me to-morrow."

_Bartlett._--"To-morrow? Go back with you to-morrow? What are you talking about, man?" Cummings smiles. "I can't go to-morrow. I can't leave her hating me."

_Cummings._--"I knew you never meant to go. Well, what will you do?"

_Bartlett._--"Don't be so cold-blooded! What would _you_ do?"

_Cummings._--"I would have it out somehow."

_Bartlett._--"Oh, you talk! How?"

_Cummings._--"I am not in love with Miss Wyatt."

_Bartlett._--"Oh, don't try to play the cynic with me! It doesn't become you. I know I've used you badly at times, Cummings. I behaved abominably in leaving you to take the brunt of meeting General Wyatt that first day; I said so then, and I shall always say it. But I thought you had forgiven that."

_Cummings_, with a laugh.--"You make it hard to treat you seriously, Bartlett. What do you want me to do? Do you want me to go to Miss Wyatt and explain your case to her?"

_Bartlett_, angrily.--"No!"

_Cummings._--"Perhaps to Mrs. Wyatt?"

_Bartlett_, infuriate.--"No!"

_Cummings._--"To the General?"

_Bartlett_, with sudden quiet.--"You had better go away from here, Cummings--while you can."

_Cummings._--"I see you don't wish me to do anything, and you're quite right. Nobody _can_ do anything but yourself."

_Bartlett._--"And what would you advise me to do?"

_Cummings._--"I've told you that I would have it out. You can't make matters worse. You can't go on in this way indefinitely. It's just possible that you might find yourself mistaken,--that Miss Wyatt cares for you in your own proper identity."

_Bartlett._--"For shame!"

_Cummings._--"Oh, if you like!"

_Bartlett_, after a pause.--"Would you--would you see the General?"

_Cummings._--"If I wanted to marry the General. Come, Bartlett; don't be ridiculous. You know you don't want my advice, and I haven't any to give. I must go to my room a moment."

_Bartlett._--"Well, go! You're of no advantage here. You'd have it out, would you? Well, then, I wouldn't. I'm a brute, I know, and a fool, but I'm not such a brute and fool as that!" Cummings listens with smiling patience, and then goes without reply, while Bartlett drops into the chair near the easel, and sulkily glares at the picture. Through the window at his back shows the mellow Indian summer landscape. The trees have all dropped their leaves, save the oaks which show their dark crimson banners among the deep green of the pines and hemlocks on the hills; the meadows, verdant as in June, slope away toward the fringe of birches and young maples along the borders of the pond; the low-blackberry trails like a running fire over the long grass limp from the first frosts, which have silenced all the insect voices. No sound of sylvan life is heard but the harsh challenge of a jay, answered from many trees of the nearest wood-lot. The far-off hill-tops are molten in the soft azure haze of the season; the nearer slopes and crests sleep under a greyer and thinner veil. It is to this scene that the painter turns from the easel, with the sullen unconsciousness in which he has dwelt upon the picture. Its beauty seems at last to penetrate his mood; he rises and looks upon it; then he goes out on the gallery, and, hidden by the fall of one of the curtains, stands leaning upon the rail and rapt in the common reverie of the dreaming world. While he lingers there, Cummings appears at the door, and looks in; then with an air of some surprise, as if wondering not to see Bartlett, vanishes again, to give place to General Wyatt, who after a like research retires silently and apparently disconcerted. A few moments later Mrs. Wyatt comes to the threshold, and calling gently into the room, "Constance!" waits briefly and goes away. At last, the young girl herself appears, and falters in the doorway an instant, but finally comes forward and drifts softly and indirectly up to the picture, at which she glances with a little sigh. At the same moment Bartlett's voice, trolling a snatch of song, comes from the gallery without:--

ROMANCE.

I.

Here apart our paths, then, lie:
This way you wend, that way I;
Speak one word before you go:
Do not, do not leave me so!

II.

What is it that I should say?
Tell me quick; I cannot stay;
Quick! I am not good at guessing:
Night is near, and time is pressing.

III.

Nay, then, go! But were I you,
I will tell you what I'd do:
Rather than be baffled so,
I would never, never go!

As the song ends, Bartlett reappears at the gallery door giving into the parlour, and encounters Constance turning at his tread from the picture on which she has been pensively gazing while he sang. He puts up a hand on either side of the door.

IV.

BARTLETT _and_ CONSTANCE.

_Bartlett._--"I didn't know you were here."

_Constance._--"Neither did I--know you were, till I heard you singing."

_Bartlett_, smiling ironically.--"Oh, you didn't suppose I sang!"

_Constance_, confusedly.--"I--I don't know"--

_Bartlett._--"Ah, you thought I did! I don't. I was indulging in a sort of modulated howling which I flatter myself is at least one peculiarity that's entirely my own. I was baying the landscape merely for my private amusement, and I'd not have done it, if I'd known you were in hearing. However, if it's helped to settle the fact one way or other, concerning any little idiosyncrasy of mine, I shan't regret it. I hope not to disappoint you in anything, by-and-by." He drops his hands from the door-posts and steps into the room, while Constance, in shrinking abeyance, stands trembling at his harshness.

_Constance_, in faltering reproach.--"Mr. Bartlett!"

_Bartlett._--"Constance!"

_Constance_, struggling to assert herself, but breaking feebly in her attempt at hauteur.--"Constance? What does this mean, Mr. Bartlett?"

_Bartlett_, with a sudden burst.--"What does it mean? It means that I'm sick of this nightmare masquerade. It means that I want to be something to you--all the world to you--in and for myself. It means that I can't play another man's part any longer and live. It means that I love you, love you, love you, Constance!" He starts involuntarily toward her with outstretched arms, from which she recoils with a convulsive cry.

_Constance._--"You love me? _Me?_ Oh, no, no! How can you be so merciless as to talk to me of love?" She drops her glowing face into her hands.

_Bartlett._--"Because I'm a man. Because love is more than mercy--better, higher, wiser. Listen to me, Constance!--yes, I will call you so now if never again: you are so dear to me that I must say it at last if it killed you. If loving you is cruel, I'm pitiless! Give me some hope, tell me to breathe, my girl!"

_Constance._--"Oh go, while I can still forgive you."

_Bartlett._--"I won't go; I won't have your forgiveness; I will have all or nothing; I want your love!"

_Constance_, uncovering her face and turning its desolation upon him: "My love? I have no love to give. My heart is dead."

_Bartlett._--"No, no! That's part of the ugly trance that we've both been living in so long. Look! You're better now than when you came here; you're stronger, braver, more beautiful. My angel, you're turned a woman again! Oh, you can love me if you will; and you will! Look at me, darling!" He takes her listless right hand in his left, and gently draws her toward him.

_Constance_, starting away.--"You're wrong; you're all wrong! You don't understand; you don't know-- Oh, listen to me!"

_Bartlett_, still holding her cold hand fast.--"Yes, a thousand years. But you must tell me first that I may love you. That first!"

_Constance._--"No! That never! And since you speak to me of love, listen to what it's my right you should hear."

_Bartlett_, releasing her.--"I don't care to hear. Nothing can ever change me. But if you bid me, I will go!"

_Constance._--"You shall not go now till you know what despised and hated and forsaken thing you've offered your love to."

_Bartlett_, beseechingly.--"Constance, let me go while I can forgive myself. Nothing you can say will make me love you less; remember that; but I implore you to spare yourself. Don't speak, my love."

_Constance._--"Spare myself? Not speak? Not speak what has been on my tongue and heart and brain, a burning fire, so long?-- Oh, I was a happy girl once! The days were not long enough for my happiness; I woke at night to think of it. I was proud in my happiness and believed myself, poor fool, one to favour those I smiled on; and I had my vain and crazy dreams of being the happiness of some one who should come to ask for--what you ask now. Some one came. At first I didn't care for him, but he knew how to make me. He knew how to make my thoughts of him part of my happiness and pride and vanity till he was all in all, and I had no wish, no hope, no life but him; and then he--left me!" She buries her face in her hands again, and breaks into a low, piteous sobbing.

_Bartlett_, with a groan of helpless fury and compassion.--"The fool, the sot, the slave! Constance, I knew all this,--I knew it from the first."

_Constance_, recoiling in wild reproach.--"You _knew_ it?"

_Bartlett_, desperately.--"Yes, I knew it--in spite of myself, through my own stubborn fury I knew it, that first day, when I had obliged my friend to tell me what your father had told him, before I would hear reason. I would have given anything not to have known it then, when it was too late, for I had at least the grace to feel the wrong, the outrage of my knowing it. You can never pardon it, I see; but you must feel what a hateful burden I had to bear, when I found that I had somehow purloined the presence, the looks, the voice of another man--a man whom I would have joyfully changed myself to any monstrous shape _not_ to resemble, though I knew that my likeness to him, bewildering you in a continual dream of him, was all that ever made you look at me or think of me. I lived in the hope--Heaven only knows why I should have had the hope!--that I might yet be myself to you; that you might wake from your dream of him and look on me in the daylight, and see that I was at least an honest man, and pity me and may be love me at last, as I loved you at first, from the moment I saw your dear pale face, and heard your dear, sad voice." He follows up her slow retreat and again possesses himself of her hand: "Don't cast me off! It was monstrous, out of all decency, to know your sorrow; but I never tried to know it; I tried _not_ to know it." He keeps fast hold of her hand, while she remains with averted head. "I love you, Constance; I loved you; and when once you had bidden me stay, I was helpless to go away, or I would never be here now to offend you with the confession of that shameful knowledge. Do you think it was no trial to me? It gave me the conscience of an eavesdropper and a spy; yet all I knew was sacred to me."

_Constance_, turning and looking steadfastly into his face.--"And you could care for so poor a creature as I--so abject, so obtuse as never to know what had made her intolerable to the man that cast her off?"

_Bartlett._--"Man? He was _no_ man! He"--

_Constance_, suddenly.--"Oh, wait! I--I love him yet."

_Bartlett_, dropping her hand.--"You"--

_Constance._--"Yes, yes! As much as I live, I love him! But when he left me, I seemed to die; and now it's as if I were some wretched ghost clinging for all existence to the thought of my lost happiness. If that slips from me, then I cease to be."

_Bartlett._--"Why, this is still your dream. But I won't despair. You'll wake yet, and care for me: I know you will."

_Constance_, tenderly.--"Oh, I'm not dreaming now. I know that you are not he. You are everything that is kind and good; and some day you will be very happy."

_Bartlett_, desolately.--"I shall never be happy without your love." After a pause: "It will be a barren, bitter comfort, but let me have it if you can: if _I_ had met you first, could you have loved _me_?"

_Constance._--"I might have loved you if--I had--lived." She turns from him again, and moves softly toward the door; his hollow voice arrests her.

_Bartlett._--"If you are dead, then I have lived too long. Your loss takes the smile out of life for me." A moment later: "You are cruel, Constance."

_Constance_, abruptly facing him.--"I cruel? To _you_?"

_Bartlett._--"Yes, you have put me to shame before myself. You might have spared me! A treacherous villain is false in time to save you from a life of betrayal, and you say your heart is dead. But that isn't enough. You tell me that you cannot care for me because you love that treacherous villain still. That's my disgrace, that's my humiliation, that's my killing shame. I could have borne all else. You might have cast me off however you would, driven me away with any scorn, whipped me from you with the sharpest rebuke that such presumption as mine could merit; but to drag a decent man's self-respect through such mire as that poor rascal's memory for six long weeks, and then tell him that you prefer the mire"--