her."
_General Wyatt._--"Ah, that's a different thing. A man doesn't wear his
hat for looks."
_Constance._--"That's true, papa,--_some_ of 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 pictures _are_ bad 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 a _curved_ line? 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!
_You_ must 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 he has 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 this outline 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._--"You _know_ I 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--that _is_--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--"treat her 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 am _so_ glad." 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 army appropriations; 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 believe _that_! 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, 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."