II.DISTINCTIONS AND DIFFERENCES.
ConstanceandMrs. Wyatt.
Constance.—"And he is still here? He is going to stay on, mother?" She reclines in a low folding chair, and languidly rests her head against one of the pillows with which her mother has propped her; on the bright coloured shawl which has been thrown over her lie her pale hands loosely holding her shut fan. Her mother stands half across the parlour from her, and wistfully surveys her work, to see if some touch may not yet be added for the girl's comfort.
Mrs. Wyatt.—"Yes, my child. He will stay. He told your father he would stay."
Constance.—"That's very kind of him. He's very good."
Mrs. Wyatt, seating herself before her daughter.—"Do you really wish him to stay? Remember how weak you are, Constance.If you are taking anything upon yourself out of a mistaken sense of duty, of compunction, you are not kind to your poor father or to me. Not that I mean to reproach you."
Constance.—"Oh, no. And I am not unkind to you in the way you think. I'm selfish enough in wishing him to stay. I can't help wanting to see him again and again,—it's so strange, so strange. All this past week, whenever I've caught a glimpse of him, it's been like an apparition; and whenever he has spoken, it has been like a ghost speaking. But I haven't been afraid since the first time. No, there's been a dreary comfort in it; you won't understand it; I can't understand it myself; but I know now why people are glad to see their dead in dreams. If the ghost went, there would be nothing."
Mrs. Wyatt.—"Constance, you break my heart!"
Constance.—"Yes, I know it; it's because I've none." She remains a little space without speaking, while she softly fingers the edges of the fan lying in her lap. "I suppose we shall become more acquainted, if he stays?"
Mrs. Wyatt.—"Why, not necessarily, dear. You need know nothing more of him than you do now. He seems very busy, and not in the least inclined to intrude upon us. Your father thinks him a little odd, but very gentlemanly."
Constance, dreamily.—"I wonder what he would think if he knew that the man whom I would have given my life did not find my love worth having? I suppose itwasworthless; but it seemed so much in the giving; it was that deceived me. He was wiser. Oh, me!" After a silence: "Mother, why was I so different from other girls?"
Mrs. Wyatt.—"So different, Constance? You were only different in being lovelier and better than others."
Constance.—"Ah, that's the mistake! If that were true, it could never have happened. Other girls, the poorest and plainest, are kept faith with; but I was left. There must have been something about me that made him despise me. Was I silly, mother? Was I too bold, too glad to have him care for me? I was so happy that I couldn't help showing it. May be that displeased him. I must have been dull andtiresome. And I suppose I was somehow repulsive, and at last he couldn't bear it any longer and had to break with me. Did I dress queerly? I know I looked ridiculous at times; and people laughed at me before him."
Mrs. Wyatt.—"Oh, Constance, Constance! Can't you understand that it was his unworthiness alone, his wicked heartlessness?"
Constance, with gentle slowness.—"No, I can't understand that. It happened after we had learned to know each other so well. If he had been fickle, it would have happened long before that. It was something odious in me that he didn't see at first. I have thought it out. It seems strange now that people could ever have tolerated me." Desolately: "Well, they have their revenge."
Mrs. Wyatt.—"Their revenge onyou, Constance? What harm did you ever do them, my poor child? Oh, you mustn't let these morbid fancies overcome you. Where is our Constance that used to be,—our brave, bright girl, that nothing could daunt, and nothing could sadden?"
Constance, sobbing.—"Dead, dead!"
Mrs. Wyatt.—"I can't understand! You are so young still, and with the world allbefore you. Why will you let one man's baseness blacken it all, and blight your young life so? Where is your pride, Constance?"
Constance.—"Pride? What have I to do with pride? A thing like me!"
Mrs. Wyatt.—"Oh, child, you're pitiless! It seems as if you took a dreadful pleasure in torturing those who love you."
Constance.—"You've said it, mother. I do. I know now that I am a vampire, and that it's my hideous fate to prey upon those who are dearest to me. He must have known, he must have felt the vampire in me."
Mrs. Wyatt.—"Constance!"
Constance.—"But at least I can be kind to those who care nothing for me. Who is this stranger? He must be an odd kind of man to forgive us. What is he, mother?—if he is anything in himself; he seems to me only a likeness, not a reality."
Mrs. Wyatt.—"He is a painter, your father says." Mrs. Wyatt gives a quick sigh of relief, and makes haste to confirm the direction of the talk away from Constance: "He is painting some landscapes here. That friend of his who went to-day is acousin of your father's old friend, Major Cummings. He is a minister."
Constance.—"What is the painter's name? Not that it matters. But I must call him something if I meet him again."
Mrs. Wyatt.—"Mr. Bartlett."
Constance.—"Oh yes, I forgot." She falls into a brooding silence. "I wonder ifhewill despise me—if he will be like in that too?" Mrs. Wyatt sighs patiently. "Why do you mind what I say, mother? I'm not worth it. I must talk on, or else go mad with the mystery of what has been. We were so happy; he was so good to me, so kind; there was nothing but papa's not seeming to like him; and then suddenly, in an instant, he turns and strikes me down! Yes, it was like a deadly blow. If you don't let me believe that it was because he saw all at once that I was utterly unworthy, I can't believe in anything."
Mrs. Wyatt.—"Hush, Constance; you don't know what you're saying."
Constance.—"Oh, I know too well! And now this stranger, who is so like him—who has all his looks, who has his walk, who has his voice,—won't he have his insight too? I had better show myself for what I am, atonce—weak, stupid, selfish, false; it'll save me the pain of being found out. Pain? Oh, I'm past hurting! Why do you cry, mother? I'm not worth your tears."
Mrs. Wyatt.—"You're all the world to us, Constance; you know it, child. Your poor father"—
Constance.—"Does papa really like me?"
Mrs. Wyatt.—"Constance!"
Constance.—"No; but why should he? He never likedhim; and sometimes I've wondered, if it wasn't papa's not liking him that first set him against me. Of course, it was best he should find me out, but still I can't keep from thinking that if he had neverbegunto dislike me! I noticed from the first that after papa had been with us he was cold and constrained. Mother, I had better say it: I don't believe I love papa as I ought. There's something in my heart—some hardness—against him when he's kindest to me. If he had only been kinder tohim"—
Mrs. Wyatt.—"Kinder tohim? Constance, you drive me wild! Kind to a wolf, kind to a snake! Kind to the thief who has robbed us of all that made our lives dear; who stole your love, and then your hope, your health, your joy, your pride, yourpeace! And you think your father might have been kinder tohim! Constance, you were our little girl when the war began,—the last of brothers and sisters that had died. You seemed given to our later years to console and comfort us for those that had been taken; and you weresobright and gay! All through those dreadful days and months and years you were our stay and hope,—mine at home, his in the field. Our letters were full of you,—like young people's with their first child; all that you did and said I had to tell him, and then he had to talk it over in his answers back. When he came home at last after the peace—can you remember it, Constance?"
Constance.—"I can remember a little girl that ran down the street, and met an officer on horseback. He was all tanned and weather-beaten; he sat his horse at the head of his troop like a statue of bronze. When he saw her come running, dancing down the street, he leaped from his horse and caught her in his arms, and hugged her close and kissed her, and set her all crying and laughing in his saddle, and walked on beside her; and the men burst out with a wild yell, and the ragged flags flapped over her, and themusic flashed out"— She rises in her chair with the thrill of her recollection; her voice comes free and full, and her pale cheeks flush; suddenly she sinks back upon the pillows: "Was it really I, mother?"
Mrs. Wyatt.—"Yes, it was you, Constance. And do you remember all through your school-days, how proud and fond he was of you? what presents and feasts and pleasures he was always making you? I thought he would spoil you; he took you everywhere with him, and wanted to give you everything. When I saw you growing up with his pride and quick temper, I trembled, but I felt safe when I saw that you had his true and tender heart too. You can never know what a pang it cost him to part with you when we went abroad, but you can't forget how he met you in Paris?"
Constance.—"Oh, no, no! Poor papa!"
Mrs. Wyatt.—"Oh, child! And I could tell you something of his bitter despair when he saw the man"—
Constance, wearily.—"You needn't tell me. I knew it as soon as they met, without looking at either of them."
Mrs. Wyatt.—"And when the worst that he feared came true, he was almost glad, Ibelieve. He thought, and I thought, that your self-respect would come to your aid against such treachery."
Constance.—"My self-respect? Now I know you've not been talking of me."
Mrs. Wyatt, desperately.—"Oh, what shall I do?"
Mary, the serving-woman, at the door.—"If you please, Mrs. Wyatt, I can't open Miss Constance's hat-box."
Mrs. Wyatt, rising.—"Oh, yes. There's something the matter with the lock. I'll come, Mary." She looks at Constance.
Constance.—"Yes, go, mother. I'm perfectly well here. I like being alone well enough." As Mrs. Wyatt, after a moment's reluctance, goes out, the girl's heavy eyelids fall, and she lies motionless against her pillows, while the fan, released from her careless hold, slides slowly over the shawl, and drops with a light clash upon the floor. She starts at the sound, and utters a little involuntary cry at sight of Bartlett, who stands irresolute in the doorway on her right. He makes as if to retreat, but at a glance from her he remains.
BartlettandConstance.
Bartlett, with a sort of subdued gruffness.—"I'm afraid I disturbed you."
Constance, passively.—"No, I think it was my fan. It fell."
Bartlett.—"I'm glad I can lay the blame on the fan." He comes abruptly forward and picks it up for her. She makes no motion to receive it, and he lays it on her lap.
Constance, starting from the abstraction in which she has been gazing at him.—"Oh! thanks."
Bartlett, with constraint.—"I hope you're better this morning?"
Constance.—"Yes." She has again fallen into a dreamy study of him, as unconscious, apparently, as if he were a picture before her, the effect of which is to reduce him toa state of immovable awkwardness. At last he tears himself loose from the spot on which he has been petrifying, and takes refuge in the business which has brought him into the room.
Bartlett.—"I came to look for one of my brushes. It must have dropped out of my traps here the other day." He goes up to the piano and looks about the floor, while Constance's gaze follows him in every attitude and movement. "Ah, here it is! I knew it would escape the broom under the landlady's relaxed régime. If you happen to drop anything in this room, Miss Wyatt, you needn't be troubled; you can always find it just where it fell." Miss Wyatt's fan again slips to the floor, and Bartlett again picks it up and restores it to her: "A case in point."
Constance, blushing faintly.—"Don't do it for me. It isn't worth while."
Bartlett, gravely.—"It doesn't take a great deal of time, and the exercise does me good." Constance faintly smiles, but does not relax her vigilance. "Isn't that light rather strong for you?" He goes to the glass doors opening on the balcony, and offers to draw down one of their shades.
Constance.—"It doesn't make any difference."
Bartlett, bluffly.—"If it's disagreeable it makes some difference. Is it disagreeable?"
Constance.—"The light's strong"—Bartlett dashes the curtain down—"but I could see the mountain." He pulls the curtain up.
Bartlett.—"I beg your pardon." He again falls into statue-like discomposure under Miss Wyatt's gaze, which does not seek the distant slopes of Ponkwasset, in spite of the lifted curtain.
Constance.—"What is the name? Do you know?"
Bartlett.—"Whose? Oh! Ponkwasset. It's not a pretty name, but it's aboriginal. And it doesn't hurt the mountain." Recovering a partial volition, he shows signs of a purpose to escape, when Miss Wyatt's next question arrests him.
Constance.—"Are you painting it, Mr.—Bartlett?"
Bartlett, with a laugh.—"Oh no, I don't soar so high as mountains; I only lift my eyes to a tree here and there, and a bit of pasture and a few of the lowlier and friendlier sort of rocks." He now so far effects hispurpose as to transfer his unwieldy presence to a lateral position as regards Miss Wyatt. The girl mechanically turns her head upon the pillow and again fixes her sad eyes upon him.
Constance.—"Have you ever been up it?"
Bartlett.—"Yes, half a dozen times."
Constance.—"Is it hard to climb—like the Swiss mountains?"
Bartlett.—"Youmust speak for the Swiss mountains after you've tried Ponkwasset, Miss Wyatt. I've never been abroad."
Constance, her large eyes dilating with surprise.—"Never been abroad?"
Bartlett.—"I enjoy that distinction."
Constance.—"Oh! I thought you had been abroad." She speaks with a slow, absent, earnest accent, regarding him, as always, with a look of wistful bewilderment.
Bartlett, struggling uneasily for his habitual lightness.—"I'm sorry to disappoint you, Miss Wyatt. I will go abroad as soon as possible. I'm going out in a boat this morning to work at a bit on the point of the island yonder, and I'll take lessons in sea-faring." Bartlett, managing at last to get fairly behind Miss Wyatt's chair, indulges himself in a long, low sigh of relief, andtaking out his handkerchief rubs his face with it.
Constance, with sudden, meek compunction.—"I've been detaining you."
Bartlett, politely coming forward again.—"Oh no, not at all! I'm afraid I've tiredyou."
Constance.—"No, I'm glad to have you stay." In the unconscious movement necessary to follow Bartlett in his changes of position, the young girl has loosened one of the pillows that prop her head. It slowly disengages itself and drops to the floor. Bartlett, who has been crushing his brush against the ball of his thumb, gives a start of terror, and looks from Constance to the pillow, and back again to Constance in despair.
Constance.—"Never mind." She tries to adjust her head to the remaining pillows, and then desists in evident discomfort.
Bartlett, in great agony of spirit.—"I—I'm afraid you miss it."
Constance.—"Oh no."
Bartlett.—"Shall I call your mother, Miss Wyatt?"
Constance.—"No. Oh no. She will be here presently. Thank you so much."
Bartlett eyes the pillow in renewed desperation.
Bartlett.—"Do you think—do you suppose I could"— Recklessly: "Miss Wyatt, letmeput back that pillow for you!"
Constance, promptly, with a little flush:—"Why, you're very good! I'm ashamed to trouble you." As she speaks, she raises her head, and lifts herself forward slightly by help of the chair-arms; two more pillows topple out, one on either side, unknown to her.
Bartlett, maddened by the fresh disaster:—"Good Lord!" He flings himself wildly upon the first pillow, and crams it into the chair behind Miss Wyatt; then without giving his courage time to flag, he seizes the others, and packs them in on top of it: "Will that do?" He stands hot and flushed, looking down upon her, as she makes a gentle attempt to adjust herself to the mass.
Constance.—"Oh, perfectly." She puts her hand behind her and feebly endeavours to modify Bartlett's arrangement.
Bartlett.—"What is it?"
Constance.—"Oh—nothing. Ah—would—would you draw this one a little—towardyou? So! Thanks. And that one—out a little on the—other side? You're very kind; that's right. And this one under my neck—lift it up a little? Ah, thank you ever so much." Bartlett, in a fine frenzy, obeying these instructions, Miss Wyatt at last reposes herself against the pillows, looks up into his embarrassed face, and deeply blushes; then she turns suddenly white, and weakly catching up her fan she passes it once or twice before her face, and lets it fall: "I'm a little—faint." Bartlett seizes the fan, and after a moment of silent self-dedication kneels down beside her chair, and fans her.
Constance, after a moment:—"Thanks, thanks. You are very good. I'm better now. I'm ashamed to have troubled you. But I seem to live only to give trouble."
Bartlett, with sudden deep tenderness:—"Oh, Miss Wyatt, you mustn't say that. I'm sure I—we all—that is—shall I call your mothernow, Miss Wyatt?"
Constance, after a deep breath, firmly:—"No. I'm quite well, now. She is busy. But I know I'm keepingyoufrom your work,"—with ever so slight a wan little smile. "I mustn't do that."
Bartlett.—"Oh, you're notkeepingme! There's no hurry. I can work later just as well."
Constance.—"Then,"—with a glance at his devout posture, of which Bartlett has himself become quite unconscious,—"won't you sit down, Mr. Bartlett?"
Bartlett, restored to consciousness and confusion:—"Thanks; I think it will be better." He rises, and in his embarrassment draws a chair to the spot on which he has been kneeling, and sits down very close to her. He keeps the fan in his hand, as he talks: "It's rather nice out there, Miss Wyatt,—there on the island. You must be rowed out as soon as you can stand it. The General would like it."
Constance.—"Is it a large place, the island?"
Bartlett.—"About two acres, devoted exclusively to golden-rod and granite. The fact is, I was going to make a little study of golden-rod and granite, there. You shall visit the Fortunate Isle in my sketch, this afternoon, and see whether you'd like to go, really. People camp out there in the summer. Who knows, but if you keep on—gaining—this way, you may yet feel likecamping out there yourself before you go away? You do begin to feel better, don't you? Everybody cries up this air."
Constance.—"It's very pleasant; it seems fine and pure. Is the island a pretty place?"
Bartlett, glancing out at it over his shoulder:—"Well, you get the best of it from the parlour window, here. Not that it's so bad when you're on it; there's a surly, frugal, hard-headed kind of beauty about it,—like the local human nature—and it has its advantages. If you were camping out there, you could almost provision yourself from the fish and wild fowl of the surrounding waters,—supposing any of your party liked to fish or shoot. Does your father like shooting?"
Constance.—"No, I don't believe he cares for it."
Bartlett.—"I'm glad of that. I shall be spared the painful hospitality of pointing out the best places for ducks." At an inquiring look from Constance: "I'm glad for their sakes, not mine;Idon't want to kill them."
Constance, with grave mistrust:—"Not like shooting?"
Bartlett.—"No, I think it's the sneakingest sort of assassination; it's the pleasureof murder without the guilt. If you must kill, you ought to be man enough to kill something that you'll suffer remorse for. Do you consider those atrocious sentiments, Miss Wyatt? I assure you that they're entirely my own."
Constance, blankly.—"I wasn't thinking—I was thinking—I supposed you liked shooting."
Bartlett, laughing uneasily.—"How did you get that impression?"
Constance, evasively.—"I thought all gentlemen did."
Bartlett.—"They do in this region. It's the only thing that can comfort them in affliction. The other day our ostler's brother lost his sweetheart—she died, poor girl—and the ostler and another friend had him over here to cheer him up. They took him to the stable, and whittled round among the stalls with him half the forenoon, and let him rub down some of the horses; they stood him out among the vegetables and let him gather some of the new kind of potato-bugs; they made him sit in the office with his feet on top of the stove; they played billiards with him; but he showed no signs of resignation till they borrowed three squirrel-guns andstarted with him to the oak woods yonder. That seemed to 'fetch' him. You should have seen them trudging off together with their guns all aslant,—this way,—the stricken lover in the middle!" Bartlett rises to illustrate, and then at the deepening solemnity of Constance's face he desists in sudden dismay: "Miss Wyatt, I've shocked you!"
Constance.—"Oh, no—no!"
Bartlett.—"Itwasshocking. I wonder how I could do it! I—I thought it would amuse you."
Constance, mournfully.—"It did, thank you, very much." After a pause: "I didn't know you liked—joking."
Bartlett.—"Ah! I don't believe I do—all kinds. Good Lord—I beg your pardon." Bartlett turns away with an air of guilty consciousness, and goes to the window and looks out, Constance's gaze following him: "It's a wonderful day!" He comes back toward her: "What a pity you couldn't be carried there in your chair!"
Constance.—"I'm not equal to that yet." Presently: "Then you—like—nature?"
Bartlett.—"Why, that's mere shop in a landscape painter. I get my bread andbutter by her. At least I ought to have some feeling of gratitude."
Constance, hastily.—"Of course, of course. It's very stupid of me, asking."
Bartlett, with the desperate intention of grappling with the situation.—"I see you have a passion for formulating, classifying people, Miss Wyatt. That's all very well, if one's characteristics were not so very characteristic of everybody else. But I generally find in my moments of self-consciousness, when I've gone round priding myself that such and such traits are my peculiar property, that the first man I meet has them all and as many more, and isn't the least proud of them. I dare say you don't see anything very strange in them, so far."
Constance, musingly.—"Oh, yes; very strange indeed. They're all—wrong!"
Bartlett.—"Well! I don't know—I'm very sorry— Then you consider it wrong not to like shooting and to be fond of joking and nature, and"—
Constance, bewilderedly.—"Wrong? Oh no!"
Bartlett.—"Oh, I'm glad to hear it. But you just said it was."
Constance, slowly recalling herself, with a painful blush, at last.—"I meant—I meant I didn't expect any of those things of you."
Bartlett, with a smile.—"Well, on reflection, I don't know that I did, either. I think they must have come without being expected. Upon my word, I'm tempted to propose something very ridiculous."
Constance, uneasily.—"Yes? What is that?"
Bartlett.—"That you'll let me try to guessyouout. I've failed so miserably in my own case, that I feel quite encouraged."
Constance, morbidly.—"I'm not worth the trouble of guessing out."
Bartlett.—"That means no. You always mean no by yes, because you can't bear to say no. That is the mark of a very deep and darkling nature. I feel that Icouldgo on and read your mind perfectly, but I'm afraid to do it. Let's get back to myself. I can't allow that you've failed to read my mind aright; I think you were careless about it. Will you give your intuitions one more chance?"
Constance, with an anxious smile.—"Oh yes."
Bartlett.—"All those traits and tasteswhich we both find so unexpected in me are minor matters at the most. The great test question remains. If you answer it rightly, you prove yourself a mind-reader of wonderful power; if you miss it— The question is simply this: Do I like smoking?"
Constance, instantly, with a quick, involuntary pressure of her handkerchief to her delicate nostrils.—"Oh, yes, indeed!"
Bartlett, daunted and reddening.—"Miss Wyatt, you have been deluding me. You are really a mind-reader of great subtlety."
Constance.—"I don't know—I can't say that it wasmind-reading exactly." She lifts her eyes to his, and in his embarrassment he passes his hand over his forehead and then feels first in one pocket, and then in the other for his handkerchief; suddenly he twitches it forth, and with it a pipe, half a dozen cigars, and a pouch of smoking tobacco, which fly in different directions over the floor. As he stoops in dismay and sweeps together these treasures, she cries: "Oh, it didn't need allthatto prove it!" and breaks into a wild, helpless laugh, and striving to recover herself with many little moans and sighs behind her handkerchief, laughs on and on: "Oh, don't! I oughtn't! Oh dear,oh dear!" When at last she lies spent with her reluctant mirth, and uncovers her face, Bartlett is gone, and it is her mother who stands over her, looking down at her with affectionate misgiving.
Mrs. WyattandConstance.
Mrs. Wyatt.—"Laughing, Constance?"
Constance, with a burst of indignant tears.—"Yes, yes! Isn't it shocking? It's horrible! He made me."
Mrs. Wyatt.—"He?"
Constance, beginning to laugh again.—"Mr. Bartlett; he's been here. Oh, IwishIwouldn'tbe so silly!"
Mrs. Wyatt.—"Made you? How could he makeyoulaugh, poor child?"
Constance.—"Oh, it's a long story. It was all through my bewilderment at his resemblance. It confused me. I kept thinking it washe,—as if it were some dream,—and whenever this one mentioned some trait of his that totally differed fromhis, don't you know, I got more and more confused, and—mamma!"—with sudden desolation—"I know he knows all about it!"
Mrs. Wyatt.—"I am sure he doesn't. Mr. Cummings only told him that his resemblance was a painful association. He assured your father of this, and wouldn't hear a word more. I'm certain you're wrong. But what made you think he knows?"
Constance, solemnly.—"He behaved just as if he didn't."
Mrs. Wyatt.—"Ah, you can't judge from that, my dear." Impressively: "Men are very different."
Constance, doubtfully.—"Do you think so, mamma?"
Mrs. Wyatt.—"I'm certain of it."
Constance, after a pause.—"Mamma, will you help take this shawl off my feet? I am so warm. I think I should like to walk about a little. Can you see the island from the gallery?"
Mrs. Wyatt.—"Do you think you'd better try to leave your chair, Constance?"
Constance.—"Yes, I'm stronger this morning. And I shall never gain, lounging about this way." She begins to loose the wraps from her feet, and Mrs. Wyatt coming doubtfully to her aid she is presently freed. She walks briskly towards the sofa, and sits down quite erectly in the corner ofit. "There! that's pleasanter. I get so tired of being a burden." She is silent, and then she begins softly and wearily to laugh again.
Mrs. Wyatt, smiling curiously.—"What is it, Constance? I don't at all understand what made you laugh."
Constance.—"Why, don't you know? Several times after I had been surprised that he didn't like this thing, and hadn't that habit and the other, he noticed it, and pretended that it was an attempt at mind-reading, and then all at once he turned and said I must try once more, and he asked, 'Do I like smoking?' and I said instantly, 'Oh, yes!' Why, it was like having a whole tobacconist's shop in the same room with you from the moment he came in; and of course he understood what I meant, and blushed, and then felt for his handkerchief, and pulled it out, and discharged a perfect volley of pipes and tobacco, that seemed to be tangled up in it, all over the floor, and then I began to laugh—so silly, so disgusting; so perfectly flat! and I thought I shoulddie, it was so ridiculous! and— Oh, dear, I'm beginning again!" She hides her face in her handkerchief and leans her head onthe back of the sofa: "Say something,dosomething to stop me, mother!" She stretches an imploring left hand toward the elder lady, who still remains apparently but half convinced of any reason for mirth, when General Wyatt, hastily entering, pauses in abrupt irresolution at the spectacle of Constance's passion.
General Wyatt,Constance,andMrs. Wyatt.
Constance.—"Oh, ha, ha, ha! Oh,ha, ha, ha, ha!"
General Wyatt.—"Margaret! Constance!" At the sound of his voice, Constance starts up with a little cry, and stiffens into an attitude of ungracious silence, without looking at her father, who turns with an expression of pain toward her mother.
Mrs. Wyatt.—"Yes, James. We were laughing at something Constance had been telling me about Mr. Bartlett. Tell your father, Constance."
Constance, coldly, while she draws through her hand the handkerchief which she has been pressing to her eyes.—"I don't think it would amuse papa." She passes her hand across her lap, and does not lift her heavy eye-lashes.
Mrs. Wyatt, caressingly.—"Oh, yes, it would; I'm sure it would."
Constance.—"You can tell it then, mamma."
Mrs. Wyatt.—"No; you, my dear. You tell it so funnily; and"—in a lower tone—"it's so long since your father heard you laugh."
Constance.—"There was nothing funny in it. It was disgusting. I was laughing from nervousness."
Mrs. Wyatt.—"Why, Constance"—
General Wyatt.—"Never mind, Margaret. Another time will do." He chooses to ignore the coldness of his daughter's bearing toward himself. "I came to see if Constance were not strong enough to go out on the lake this morning. The boats are very good, and the air is so fine that I think she'll be the better for it. Mr. Bartlett is going out to the island to sketch, and"—
Constance.—"I don't care to go."
Mrs. Wyatt.—"Do go, my daughter! I know it will do you good."
Constance.—"I am not strong enough."
Mrs. Wyatt.—"But you said you were better, just now; and you should yield to to your father's judgment."
Constance.—"I will do whatever papa bids me."
General Wyatt.—"I don't bid you. Margaret, I think I will go out with Mr. Bartlett. We will be back at dinner." He turns and leaves the room without looking again at Constance.
ConstanceandMrs. Wyatt;thenBartlett.
Mrs. Wyatt.—"Oh, Constance! How can you treat your father so coldly? You will suffer some day for the pain you give him!"
Constance.—"Suffer? No, I'm past that. I've exhausted my power of suffering."
Mrs. Wyatt.—"You haven't exhausted your power of making others suffer."
Constance, crouching listlessly down upon the sofa.—"I told you that I lived only to give pain. But it's my fate, not my will. Nothing but that can excuse me."
Mrs. Wyatt, wringing her hands.—"Oh, oh! Well, then, givemepain if you must torment somebody. But spare your father,—spare the heart that loves you so tenderly, you unhappy girl."
Constance, with hardness.—"Whenever Isee papa, my first thought is, If he had not been so harsh and severe, it might never have happened! What can I care for his loving me when he hatedhim? Oh,Iwill do my duty, mother;Iwill obey; Ihaveobeyed, and I know how. Papa can't demand anything of menowthat isn't easy. I have forgiven everything, and if you give me time I can forget. Ihaveforgotten. I have been laughing at something so foolish, it ought to make me cry for shame."
Mrs. Wyatt.—"Constance, you try me beyond all endurance! You talk of forgiving, you talk of forgetting, you talk of that wretch! Forgivehim, forgethim, if you can. If he had been half a man, if he had ever cared a tithe as much for you as for himself, all the hate of all the fathers in the world could not have driven him from you. You talk of obeying"—
Mary, the serving woman, flying into the room.—"Oh, please, Mrs. Wyatt! There are four men carrying somebody up the hill. And General Wyatt just went down, and I can't see him anywhere, and"—
Mrs. Wyatt.—"You're crazy, Mary! He hasn't been gone a moment; there isn't time; it can't be he!" Mrs. Wyatt rushesto the gallery that overlooks the road to verify her hope or fear, and then out of one of the doors into the corridor, while Constance springs frantically to her feet and runs toward the other door.
Constance.—"Oh, yes, yes! It's papa! It's my dear, good, kind papa! He's dead; he's drowned; I drove him away; I murdered him! Ah-h-h-h!" She shrinks back with a shriek at sight of Bartlett, whose excited face appears at the door.—"Go! It was you,youwho made me hate my father! You made me kill him, and now I abhor you! I"—
Bartlett.—"Wait! Hold on! What is it all?"
Constance.—"Oh, forgive me! I didn't mean—I didn't know it was you, sir! But whereishe? Oh, take me to him! Is he dead?" She seizes his arm, and clings to it trembling.
Bartlett.—"Dead? No, he isn't dead. He was knocked over by a team coming behind him down the hill, and was slightly bruised. There's no cause for alarm. He sent me to tell you; they've carried him to your rooms."
Constance.—"Oh, thank Heaven!" Shebows her head with a sob, upon his shoulder, and then lifts her tearful eyes to his: "Help me to get to him! I am weak." She totters and Bartlett mechanically passes a supporting arm about her. "Help me, and don't—don't leave me!" She moves with him a few paces toward the door, her head drooping; but all at once she raises her face again, stares at him, stiffly releases herself, and with a long look of reproach walks proudly away to the other door, by which she vanishes without a word.
Bartlett, remaining planted, with a bewildered glance at his empty arm: "Well, I wonder who and what and where I am!"
III.DISSOLVING VIEWS.
General WyattandMrs. Wyatt.
In the parlour stands an easel with a canvas of inordinate dimensions upon it, and near this a small table, with a fresh box of colours in tubes, and a holiday outfit of new brushes, pallet, and other artist's materials, evidently not the property of Bartlett. Across the room from this apparatus is stretched Constance's easy-chair, towards which General Wyatt, bearing some marks of his recent accident in a bandaged wrist and a stiff leg, stumps heavily, supported by Mrs. Wyatt. Beside this chair is the centre-table of the parlour, on which are an open box of cigars, and a pile of unopened newspapers.
General Wyatt, dropping into the chair with a groan.—"Well, my dear! I feel uncommonly ashamed of myself, taking Constance's chair in this manner. Though there's a great consolation in thinking shedoesn't need it any longer." Settling himself more comfortably in the chair, and laying his stick across his knees: "Margaret, I begin to be very happy about Constance. I haven't had so light a heart for many a long day. The last month has made a wonderful change in her. She is almost like her old self again."
Mrs. Wyatt, sighing.—"Yes, it seems almost too good to be true. I don't know quite what to make of it. Sometimes, I almost fear for her mind. I'm sure that half the time she forgets that Mr. Bartlett isn't that wretch, and I can see her awake with a start to the reality every little while, and then wilfully lull her consciousness to sleep again. He's terribly like. I can hardly keep from crying out at times; and yesterday I did give way: I wassoashamed, and he looked sohurt. I see Constance restrain herself often, and I dare say there are times that we don't know of when she doesn't."
General Wyatt.—"Well, all that may be. But it's a thing that will right itself in time. We must do our best not to worry him. This painter is a fine fellow, my dear. I took a great fancy to him at the beginning. I liked him from the moment I saw him."
Mrs. Wyatt.—"James! You were going to strike him with your cane."
General Wyatt.—"That was before I sawhim. I was going to strike the other one. But that's neither here nor there. We must be careful not to hurt his feelings; that's all. We've got our Constance back again, Margaret. Impossible as it seems, we have got her back by his help. Isn't it wonderful to see that killing weight lifted from her young life? It's like a miracle."
Mrs. Wyatt.—"It isn't liftedallthe time, James."
General Wyatt.—"No matter—no matter. It isn't crushing her all the time either. I'm glad for what relief there is, and I feel that all is going well. Do you hear that step, Margaret? Listen! That'slikethe old bounding tread of our little girl. Where is the leaden-footed phantom that used to drag along that hall? Is she coming this way?"
Mrs. Wyatt, listening.—"No, she is going to our rooms. Has Mr. Bartlett been here yet?"
General Wyatt.—"Not yet. He was to come when he got back from his sketching.Whata good fellow, to take so much troublefor Constance's amusement! It was uncommonly kind of Mr. Bartlett, Margaret, offering to give her these lessons."
Mrs. Wyatt.—"Yes, it worries me."
General Wyatt.—"Why in the world should it worry you, Margaret?"
Mrs. Wyatt.—"You can't offer him any compensation for his instructions."
General Wyatt.—"Of course not. That would be offensive. Well?"
Mrs. Wyatt.—"Well, James, can't you see how it complicates everything? He is conferring another obligation. He might almost think we tried to throw them together."
General Wyatt, fiercely.—"He had better not! Why, Margaret, he's a gentleman! He can't think that."
Mrs. Wyatt.—"No, I suppose not. I suppose it's our trouble that has made me suspicious of every one." She goes sadly about the room, rearranging, with a house-keeper's instinct, everything in it.
General Wyatt.—"You needn't trouble yourself with the room, Margaret; Mary told me that she and the landlady had put it in order."
Mrs. Wyatt.—"That's just why I need."After a moment: "Are you going to be here, James?"
General Wyatt.—"Yes, I thought I should stay. It's a cheerful place to read and smoke. It won't disturb them, will it?"
Mrs. Wyatt.—"Oh, no! It's quite necessary some one should stay. I'm very glad you can, for I've got a few little things to do."
General Wyatt.—"All right. I'll stay and do the dragon, or whatever it is. But I wish you hadn't put it in that light, Margaret. I was proposing to enjoy myself."
Mrs. Wyatt.—"Enjoy yourself, James? With such a terribly perplexing affair before you!"
General Wyatt.—"I don't see anything perplexing about it. It's perfectly simple, to my mind. Mr. Bartlett kindly proposes to give Constance a few lessons in drawing,—or painting; I don't know which it is. That's the beginning and the end of it."
Mrs. Wyatt, with a heavy sigh.—"Yes, that's thebeginning."
General Wyatt, impatiently.—"Well?"
Mrs. Wyatt.—"Nothing. Are you quite comfortable, here? Have you got everything you wish?"
General Wyatt, with a glance at the things on the table at his elbow.—"Here are my cigars, and—yes, here are the papers. Yes, I'm all right. But what do you mean by 'nothing'? What—Ah, here's Mr. Bartlett!" As Bartlett comes into the room, the General, since he cannot conveniently rise, makes a demonstration of welcome with his hands. Bartlett has his colour-box under his arm, and a canvas in his hand. "You've been improving the shining hour, I see. What have you there?"
Bartlett,General Wyatt,andMrs. Wyatt.
Bartlett, with a smile and nod inclusive of Mrs. Wyatt.—"Nothing worth looking at." He goes and faces it against the wall. "Have I kept Miss Wyatt waiting?"
Mrs. Wyatt, anxiously.—"It's too bad you should waste your time upon her, Mr. Bartlett. I don't know why we let you."
Bartlett.—"You can't help yourself, Mrs. Wyatt. The wrong is owing to circumstances beyond your control. If I have any virtue it is a particularly offensive form of stubbornness. Besides,"—more seriously,—"I feel myself honoured to do it—to contribute anything to Miss Wyatt's—ah—ah—In short, if she can stand itIcan."
General Wyatt.—"It's immensely kind of you. By the way, you won't mind my staying here, will you, to read my papers, while you're at work? Because if you do, Ican clear out at once." Mrs. Wyatt, with mute but lively tokens of dismay, attends the General's further remarks: "I don't want to stay here and be a bore and a nuisance, you know." Mrs. Wyatt vanishes from the scene in final despair.
Bartlett, going up to the easel and dragging it into an entirely new position.—"Not in the least. Some woman been putting this room in order, hasn't there?"
General Wyatt.—"Three."
Bartlett.—"I thought so." He continues to disarrange all the preparations for his work. His operations bring him in the vicinity of General Wyatt, upon whose box of cigars his eye falls. "Oh, I say, General! Smoking?"
General Wyatt.—"Certainly. Why not?"
Bartlett.—"Well, I don't know. I thought perhaps—I supposed—I imagined somehow from something she said, or that happened—it was offensive to Miss Wyatt."
General Wyatt.—"Why, bless your heart, man, she minds it no more than I do!"
Bartlett.—"You don't say so! Why, I haven't smoked any for the last two weeks, because—because— And I'm almost dead for a pipe!"
General Wyatt.—"Why, poor fellow! Why, here! Take a cigar!"
Bartlett, significantly shaking his head.—"Oh, no, no! I said apipe." He rushes to an old studio jacket which the landlady has hung for him on the back of a chair; he dives in one pocket and gets out a pipe, plunges into another and extracts a pouch of tobacco. He softly groans and murmurs with impatience while he makes these explorations. Upon their success: "So lucky Mrs. Ransom brought down that coat. I couldn't have lived to get up-stairs after it!" Stuffing his pipe in a frenzy, he runs to the General for a match; that veteran has already lighted it, and extends it toward him. Bartlett stoops over the flame, pipe in mouth. As the General drops the extinct match upon the floor the painter puffs a great cloud, in which involved he is putting on his studio jacket when Constance appears at the door. He instinctively snatches his pipe from his lips and puts it in his pocket.
Constance,Bartlett,andGeneral Wyatt.
Constance, fighting her way through the smoke to the General's chair.—"Why, papa, how youhavebeen smoking!"
General Wyatt, with a queer look.—"Yes, I find it rests me after a bad night. I didn't sleep well."
Constance.—"Oh, poor papa! How doyoudo, Mr. Bartlett?" She gives him her hand for good-morning.
Bartlett.—"Oh, quite well, quite wellnow, thank you. I—I—had been a little off my—diet."
Constance.—"Oh!"
Bartlett.—"Yes. But I've gone back now, and I'm all right again." He retires to the easel, and mechanically resumes his pipe, but takes it from his mouth again, and after an impatient glance at it, throws it outof the window. "When you're ready, Miss Wyatt, we can begin any time. There's no hurry, though."
Constance.—"I'm ready now. Is everything in reach, papa?"
General Wyatt.—"Yes, my dear. I'm so perfectly comfortable that one touch more would make me miserable."
Constance.—"Can't I do something for you?"
General Wyatt.—"Not a thing. I'm a prodigy of content."
Constance.—"Not lift up this last fold of the chair, so your foot won't rest so heavily on the floor?"
General Wyatt.—"Was it resting heavily? I hadn't noticed. Yes, it was; how you see everything, my dear! Yes"— Constance stoops to put up the chair to its last extension, and Bartlett runs forward to anticipate her.
Bartlett.—"Miss Wyatt, let me do that!"
Constance.—"No, no! No one must touch papa but me. There, is that right, papa?"
General Wyatt.—"Exactly. That makes me pluperfectly comfortable. I haven't a wish in the world, and all I ask now is to"—
Constance.—"Get at your newspapers? Let me take off the wrappers for you."
General Wyatt.—"Not on any account." He gently withdraws from her the newspaper she has taken up. "That is truly a kindness that kills. Open my papers for me? I'd as lief you'd put on my hat for me, my dear."
Bartlett.—"That is the one thing that can't be done for any man!"
Constance.—"Why not? A woman can put on another woman's bonnet for her."
General Wyatt.—"Ah, that's a different thing. A man doesn't wear his hat for looks."
Constance.—"That's true, papa,—someof them." She turns gaily from her father, and looks up at Bartlett, who has smilingly listened. She gives a start, and suppresses a cry; she passes her hand quickly over her eyes, and then staying herself a moment with one hand on the back of a chair resumes with forced calm: "Shall we begin, now—ah—Mr.—Bartlett?" An awkward silence ensues, in which Bartlett remains frowning, and the General impatiently flings open a newspaper. Then Bartlett's frown relaxes into a compassionate response to her appealing look.
Bartlett.—"Yes, I'm quite ready. But it's you who are to begin, Miss Wyatt. I am to assume the safe and eligible position of art critic. I wish I had some of those fellows who write about my pictures before an easel; I'd stand their unpleasant company a while for the sake of taking the conceit out of them. Not but what my picturesarebad enough,—as bad as any critic says, for that matter. Well, Miss Wyatt; here is the charcoal, and yonder out-doors is the mountain."
Constance.—"Excuse me a moment. Papa, will our talking disturb you?" To Bartlett: "I suppose we will have to talk a little?"
Bartlett.—"A little."
General Wyatt, from behind his paper.—"It won't disturb me if you don't talk to me."
Constance.—"We'll try not." To Bartlett: "Well?"
Bartlett, as Constance places herself before the canvas, and receiving the charcoal from his fingers, glances out at Ponkwasset.—"May I ask why you chose such a capacious canvas?"
Constance, in meek surprise.—"Why, the mountain being a large object"—
Bartlett.—"A large canvas was necessary, I see. There's reason in that. But were you going to do it life size?"
Constance, as before.—"Why, no!"
Bartlett.—"What was your idea?"
Constance.—"I don't know. I thought—I thought I would have the mountain in the back-ground, with some clouds over it, and a few figures in the foreground, to give it a human interest."
Bartlett.—"Yes, that's a good notion. Well, now begin. First get your distance— No; better strike in a horizon line first. That will keep you right. Draw the line straight across the middle of the canvas." Constance retires a few steps from the canvas, measures its spaces with her eye, and then with a glance at the horizon outside draws. Bartlett, looking over her shoulder: "Straight, straight! The line should be straight. Don't you see?"
Constance, falteringly.—"I meant that for a straight line."
Bartlett.—"Oh! well! Yes! I see. However, now you've got it in, hadn't you better use it for acurvedline? Say for that wavering outline of the hills beyond Ponkwasset?"
Constance.—"Why, if you think so, Mr. Bartlett."
Bartlett.—"And I'll just strike in the horizon line here." He draws rapidly, steps back a pace, approaches, and touches Constance's line at different points. Then he gives her the chalk again. "Now, scratch in the outline of Ponkwasset." Constance begins to draw. "Ah! Wait a moment, please. You're not quite getting it. Will you let me?" Constance offers him the charcoal, which he declines with a gesture, "No, no!Youmust do it. I meant"—
Constance.—"What?"
Bartlett.—"That if you would allow me to—to—guide your hand"—
Constance, frankly.—"Why, of course. Do what you like with it"—
Bartlett.—"Oh!"
Constance.—"So that you teach it a little of the skill of yours." He gently, and after some delicate hesitations, takes her hand, as it grasps the charcoal, and slowly guides it in forming the outline of the mountain. Constance, in admiration of his cleverness: "What a delicious touch you have!"
Bartlett, confusedly.—"Yes?"
Constance, regarding the outline after hehas released her hand, while Bartlett, with a gesture of rapturous fondness, looks at the fingers that have guided hers, and tenderly kisses them.—"Oh, yes: I'd give anything if I had your hand!"
Bartlett.—"It's at your service always, Miss Wyatt."
Constance, still regarding the picture.—"Ah, but I should need your mind, too!"
Bartlett.—"Well?"
Constance.—"I couldn't rob you of everything." She begins to draw again, and then, in pretty, unconscious imitation of Bartlett, throws back her head.
Bartlett, breaking forth in rapture at her movement and attitude.—"Oh, divine!"
Constance, innocently beaming upon him.—"Do you think so? I didn't suppose I could get it so at once. Is it really good?"
Bartlett, recalled to himself.—"Who? What? Yes, yes; it isn't bad. Not at all bad. That is"—
Constance, disappointedly.—"I thought you liked it." Gravely: "Why did you say it was divine?"
Bartlett.—"Because—I—I—thought so!"
Constance, with mystification.—"I'm afraid I don't understand. Shall I let thisoutline remain for Ponkwasset, or shall I use it for something else?"
Bartlett.—"Yes, let it remain for Ponkwasset; if it needs changing that can easily be done afterwards. Now block out your middle distance. So!" He takes the charcoal from her and draws. "Now, then, sketch in your figures."
Constance, timidly.—"How large shall I make them?"
Bartlett.—"Oh, as large as you like. How large did you think?"
Constance.—"I don't know. About a foot high."
Bartlett.—"Well, try them." Constance draws, and Bartlett regards the operation with gestures and contortions of countenance expressive of mingled tenderness for Constance and extreme suffering from her performance. She turns about, and surprises him with his hands clutched in his shaggy hair.
Constance, with dignity.—"What is the matter, Mr. Bartlett?"
Bartlett, forcing an imbecile smile.—"Nothing, I was just thinking—I should—like to venture to make a remark."
Constance.—"YouknowI wish you to speak to me about everything."
Bartlett.—"Did you mean that lady to be in the middle distance?"
Constance.—"Yes."
Bartlett.—"Well, there is a slight, a very slight, error in the perspective. She is as tall as Ponkwasset, you see, and could touch the top of it with the point of her parasol."
Constance, dejectedly.—"I see. I can never do it."
Bartlett.—"Oh, yes, you can, Miss Wyatt; you mustn't lose patience with me."
Constance.—"It's you who won't be able to keep your patience with my stupidity."
Bartlett.—"That's not the name for it. I shall think more of your failures than of anybody's successes—thatis—I mean—if you don't let this thing be a pain instead of a pleasure to you. Remember, I hoped it would amuse you."
Constance.—"Oh, yes. You have been only too kind, in that and everything."
Bartlett.—"Well, now, let us begin again. This lady is very well as a lady; you understand the figure better than perspective; but she's out of place here, a little; and a flower out of place, you know, is a weed. Suppose we"—he takes up the charcoal, and makes a few dashes at the canvas—"treather as a clump of tall birch-trees,—that clump over there in the edge of the meadow; that will bring her into the foreground, and entitle her to be three inches high; we can't really allow her more, even as a clump of birches. Eh?"
Constance.—"Oh, yes; that's better, decidedly." Smiling: "Being under instruction, this way, makes me think of my school-days."
Bartlett, impressively.—"I hope they were happy days."
Constance.—"Oh, the happiest of my life."
Bartlett.—"I amsoglad." Constance stares at him in surprise, but finally says nothing. "I mean since this is like them."
Constance, pensively.—"Yes, it's pleasant to go back to that time." With more animation: "Papa, I wonder if you remember Madame Le May, who used to teach me French when you came home after the war?"
General Wyatt, behind his newspaper.—"Eh? What? What's that? Some difficulty in the drawing? You must both have patience,—patience"—
Constance.—"Why, papa! Oh, well, I won't worry him. I suppose he's found something about cutting down the armyappropriations; that always absorbs him. What shall I try next, Mr. Bartlett?"
Bartlett.—"You can rub in your middle distance."
Constance, laughing.—"I'll try. But I think I should be at my best beyond the vanishing point."
Bartlett.—"Oh, I don't believethat!Perhaps it annoys you to have me looking over your shoulder while you work?"
Constance.—"No. Oh, no."
Bartlett.—"I see that it does."
Constance.—"It makes me a little nervous. I'm afraid of you, you know."
Bartlett.—"I didn't know I was so terrible. How far off shall I go, to be agreeable?"
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, whatareyou talking of, papa?"
General Wyatt.—"Mayo. Capital cavalry officer—cutting down the pay of such a man"—
Constance.—"Whatareyou 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 Iwilltake a cigarnow, 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, itisn'trocks, and it isn'twoods; it's—hay-stacks!"
Bartlett.—"Hay-stacks?"