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!'"