A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P R S T U V W X Z

Stephen Archer and Other Tales

G >> George MacDonald >> Stephen Archer and Other Tales




_Gives a few touches, then steps back again and contemplates the
figure. Turns away and walks up and down. The light darkens to slow
plaintive music, which lasts for a minute. Then the morning begins
to dawn, gleaming blue upon the statues and casts, and revealing_
GER. _seated before his Psyche, gazing at her. He rises, and exit.
Enter_ COL. G. _and looks about_.

_Col. G._ I don't know what to make of it! Or rather I'm afraid I do
know what to make of it! It looks bad. He's not been in bed all night.
But it shows he has some conscience left--and that's a comfort.

_Enter_ Mrs. CLIFFORD, _peeping round cautiously_.

_Col. G._ What, Clara! you here so early!

_Mrs. C._ Well, you know, brother, you're so fond of mystery!

_Col. G._ It's very kind of you to come! But we must be very careful;
I can't tell when my master may be home.

_Mrs. C._ Has he been out all night, then?

_Col. G._ Oh no; he's just gone.

_Mrs. C._ I never knew him such an early bird. I made sure he was safe
in bed for a couple of hours yet. But I do trust, Walter, you have had
enough of this fooling, and are prepared to act like a rational man
and a gentleman.

_Col. G._ On the contrary, Clara, with my usual obstinacy, I am more
determined than ever that my boy shall not know me, until, as I told
you, I have rendered him such service as may prove me not altogether
unworthy to be his father. Twenty years of neglect will be hard to
surmount.

_Mrs. C._ But mere menial service cannot discharge the least portion
of your obligations. As his father alone can you really serve him.

_Col. G._ You persist in misunderstanding me. This is not the service
I mean. I scorn the fancy. This is only the means, as I told you
plainly before, of finding out _how_ I may serve him--of learning what
he really needs--or most desires. If I fail in discovering how to
recommend myself to him, I shall go back to India, and content myself
with leaving him a tolerable fortune.

_Mrs. C._ How ever a hair-brained fellow like you, Walter, could have
made such a soldier!--Why don't you tell your boy you love him, and
have done with it?

_Col. G._ I will, as soon as I have proof to back the assertion.

_Mrs. C._ I tell you it is rank pride.

_Col. G._ It may be pride, sister; but it is the pride of a repentant
thief who puts off his confession until he has the money in his hand
to prove the genuineness of his sorrow.

_Mrs. C._ It never _was_ of any use to argue with _you_, Walter; you
know that, or at least I know it. So I give up.--I trust you have got
over your prejudice against his profession. It is not my fault.

_Col. G._ In truth, I had forgotten the profession--as you call it--in
watching the professor.

_Mrs. C._ And has it not once occurred to you to ask how he may take
such watching?

_Col. G._ By the time he is aware of it, he will be ready to
understand it.

_Mrs. C._ But suppose he should discover you before you have thus
established your position?

_Col. G._ I must run the risk.

_Mrs. C._ Suppose then you should thus find out something he would not
have you know?

_Col. G._ (_hurriedly_). Do you imagine his servant might know a thing
he would hide from his father?

_Mrs. C._ I do not, Walter. I can trust him. But he might well resent
the espionage of even his father. You cannot get rid of the vile look
of the thing.

_Col. G._ Again I say, my boy shall be my judge, and my love shall be
my plea. In any case I shall have to ask his forgiveness. But there is
his key in the lock! Run into the house.

_Exit_ MRS. C. _Enter_ GER., _and goes straight to the Psyche_.

_Col. G._ Breakfast is waiting, sir.

_Ger._ By and by, William.

_Col. G._ You haven't been in bed, sir!

_Ger._ Well? What of that?

_Col. G._ I hope you're not ill, sir.

_Ger._ Not in the least: I work all night sometimes.--You can go.
(COL. G. _lingers, with a searching gaze at the Psyche_.)--I don't
want anything.

_Col. G._ Pardon me, sir, but I am sure you are ill. You've done no
work since last night.

_Ger._ (_with displeasure_). I am quite well, and wish to be alone.

_Col. G._ Mayn't I go and fetch a doctor, sir? It is better to take
things in time.

_Ger._ You are troublesome. (_Exit_ COL. G.)--What can the fellow
mean? He looked at me so strangely too! He's officious--that's all, I
dare say. A good sort of man, I do think! William!--What is it in the
man's face?--(_Enter_ Col G.) Is the breakfast ready?

_Col. G._ Quite ready, sir.

_Ger._ I'm sorry I spoke to you so hastily. The fact is--

_Col. G._ Don't mention it, sir. Speak as you will to me; I shan't
mind it. When there's anything on a man's conscience--I--I--I mean on
a man's mind--

_Ger._ What _do_ you mean?

_Col. G._ I mean, when there is anything there, he can't well help his
temper, sir.

_Ger._ I don't understand you; but, anyhow, you--go too far, William.

_Col. G._ I beg your pardon, sir: I forgot myself. I do humbly beg
your pardon. Shall I make some fresh coffee, sir? It's not cold--only
it's stood too long.

_Ger._ The coffee will do well enough. (_Exit_ COL. G.)--Is she so
beautiful? (_turning to the Psyche_)--Is there a likeness?--I see
it.--Nonsense! A mere chance confluence of the ideal and the
actual.--Even then the chance must mean something. Such a _mere_
chance would indeed be a strange one!

_Enter_ CONSTANCE.

Oh, my heart! here she comes! my Psyche herself!--Well, Constance!

_Con._ Oh, Arthur, I am _so_ glad I've found you! I want to talk to
you about something. I know you don't care much about me now, but I
_must_ tell you, for it would be wrong not.

_Ger._ (_aside_). How beautiful she is! What _can_ she have to tell me
about? It cannot be--it _shall_ not be--. Sit down, won't you?
(_offering her a chair_.)

_Con._ No. _You_ sit there (_pointing to the dais_), and I will sit
here (_placing herself on the lower step_). It was here I used to sit
so often when I was a little girl. Why can't one keep little? I was
always with you then! (_Sighs_.)

_Ger._ It is not my fault, Constance.

_Con._ Oh no! I suppose it can't be. Only I don't see why. Oh, Arthur,
where should I be but for you! I saw the old place yesterday. How
dreadful and yet how dear it was!

_Ger._ Who took you there?

_Con._ Nobody. I went alone.

_Ger._ It was hardly safe.--I don't like your going out alone, Constance.

_Con._ Why, Arthur! I used to know every court and alley about Shoreditch
better than I know Berkeley Square now!

_Ger._ But what made you go there?

_Con._ I went to find a dressmaker who has been working for my aunt,
and lost my way. And--would you believe it?--I was actually
frightened!

_Ger._ No wonder! There are rough people about there.

_Con._ I never used to think them rough when I lived among them with
my father and mother. There must be just as good people there as
anywhere else. Yet I could not help shuddering at the thought of
living there again!--How strange it made me feel! You have been my
angel, Arthur. What would have become of me if you hadn't taken me, I
dare not think.

_Ger._ I have had my reward, Constance: you are happy.

_Con._ Not quite. There's something I want to tell you.

_Ger._ Tell on, child.

_Con._ Oh, thank you!--that is how you used to talk to me.
(_Hesitates_.)

_Ger._ (_with foreboding_) Well, what is it?

_Con._ (_pulling the fingers of her gloves_) A gentleman--you know
him--has been--calling upon aunt--and me. We have seen a good deal of
him.

_Ger._ Who is he?

_Con._ Mr. Waterfield. (_Keeps her eyes on the floor_.)

_Ger._ Well?

_Con._ He says--he--he--he wants me to marry him.--Aunt likes him.

_Ger._ And you?

_Con._ I like him too. I don't think I like him enough--I dare say I
shall. It is _so_ good of him to take poor me! He is _very_ rich, they
say.

_Ger._ Have you accepted him?

_Con._ I am afraid he thinks so.--Ye--e--s.--I hardly know.

_Ger._ Haven't you--been rather--in a hurry--Constance?

_Con._ No, indeed! I haven't been in a hurry at all. He has been a long
time trying to make me like him. I have been too long a burden to Mrs.
Clifford.

_Ger._ So! it is her doing, then!

_Con._ You were away, you know.

_Ger._ (_bitterly_) Yes; too far--chipping stones and making mud-pies!

_Con._ I don't know what you mean by that, Arthur.

_Ger._ Oh--nothing. I mean that--that--Of course if you are engaged to
him, then--

_Con._ I'm afraid I've done very wrong, Arthur. If I had thought you
would care!--I knew aunt would be pleased!--she wanted me to have him,
I knew.--I ought to do what I can to please her,--ought I not? I have
no right to--

_Ger._ Surely, surely. Yes, yes; I understand. It was not your fault.
Only you mustn't marry him, if you--. Thank you for telling me.

_Con._ I ought to have told you before--before I let him speak to me
again. But I didn't think you would care--not much.

_Ger._ Yes, yes.

_Con._ (_looking up with anxiety_) Ah! you _are_ vexed with me,
Arthur! I see how wrong it was now. I never saw you look like that. I
am very, very sorry. (_Bursts into tears_.)

_Ger._ No, no, child! Only it is rather sudden, and I want to think
about it. Shall I send William home with you?

_Con._ No, thank you. I have a cab waiting. You're not angry with your
little beggar, Arthur?

_Ger._ What is there to be angry about, child?

_Con._ That I--did anything without asking you first.

_Ger._ Nonsense! You couldn't help it. _You_'re not to blame one bit.

_Con._ Oh, yes, I am! I ought to have asked you first. But indeed I
did not know you would care. Good-bye.--Shall I go at once?

_Ger._ Good-bye. (_Exit_ CON., _looking back troubled_.) Come at last!
Oh fool! fool! fool! In love with her at last!--and too late! For
three years I haven't seen her--have not once written to her! Since I
came back I've seen her just twice,--and now in the very hell of love!
The ragged little darling that used to lie coiled up there in that
corner! If it were my sister, it would be hard to lose her so! And to
such a fellow as that!--not even a gentleman! How _could_ she take him
for one! That does perplex me! Ah, well! I suppose men _have_ borne
such things before, and men will bear them again! I must work! Nothing
but work will save me. (_Approaches the Psyche, but turns from it with
a look of despair and disgust_.) What a fool I have been!--Constance!
Constance!--A brute like that to touch one of her fingers! God in
heaven! It will drive me mad. (_Rushes out, leaving the door open_.)

_Enter_ COL. GERVAISE.

_Col. G._ Gone again! and without his breakfast! My poor boy! There's
something very wrong with you! It's that girl! It must be! But there's
conscience in him yet!--It is all my fault. If I had been a father to
him, this would never have happened.--If he were to marry the girl
now?--Only, who can tell but _she_ led _him_ astray? I have known such
a thing. (_Sits down and buries his face in his hands_.)

_Enter_ WATERFIELD.

_Wat_. Is Mr. Gervaise in?

_Col. G._ (_rising_) No, sir.

_Wat_. Tell him I called, will you? [_Exit_.]

_Col. G._ Yes, sir.--Forgot again. Young man;--gentleman or cad?--don't
know; think the latter.

_Enter_ THOMAS.

_Th._ Han yo heard speyk ov mo chylt yet, sir?

_Col. G._ (_starting up_). In the name of God, I know nothing of your
child; but bring her here, and I will give you a hundred pounds--in
golden sovereigns.

_Th._ Hea am aw to fot her yere, when I dunnot know wheer hoo be, sir?

_Col. G._ That's your business. Bring her, and there will be your
money.

_Th._ Dun yo think, sir, o' the gouden suverings i' th' Bank ov
England would put a sharper edge on mo oud eighes when they look for
mo lass? Eh, mon! Yo dunnot know the heart ov a feyther--ov the
feyther ov a lass-barn, sir. Han yo kilt and buried her, and nea be yo
sorry for't? I' hoo be dead and gwoan, tell mo, sir, and aw'll goo
whoam again, for mo oud lass be main lonesome beout mo, and we'll wait
till we goo to her, for hoo winnot coom no moor to us.

_Col. G._ For anything I know, your daughter is alive and well. Bring
her here, I say, and I will make you happy.

_Th._ Aw shannot want thes or thi silverings either to mak mo happy
then, maister. Iv aw hed a houd o' mo lass, it's noan o' yere aw'd be
a coomin' wi' her. It's reet streight whoam to her mother we'd be
gooin', aw'll be beawn. Nay, nay, mon!--aw'm noan sich a greight foo
as yo tak mo for.

_Exit._ COL. G. _follows him. Enter._ GER. _Sits down before the
Psyche, but without looking at her_.

_Ger._ Oh those fingers! They are striking terrible chords on my
heart! I _will_ conquer it. But I _will_ love her. The spear shall
fill its own wound. To draw it out and die, would be no victory. "I'll
but lie down and bleed awhile, and then I'll rise and fight again."
Brave old Sir Andrew!

_Enter_ COL. G.

_Col. G._ I beg your pardon, sir--a young man called while you were
out.

_Ger._ (_listlessly_). Very well, William.

_Col. G._ Is there any message, if he calls again, sir? He said he
would.

_Ger._ No. (COL. G. _lingers_.) You can go.

_Col. G._ I hope you feel better, sir?

_Ger._ Quite well.

_Col. G._ Can I get you anything, sir?

_Ger._ No, thank you; I want nothing.--Why do you stay?

_Col. G._ Can't you think of something I can do for you, sir?

_Ger._ Fetch that red cloth.

_Col. G._ Yes, sir.

_Ger._ Throw it over that--

_Col. G._ This, sir?

_Ger._ No, no--the clay there. Thank you. (_A knock at the door_.) See
who that is.

_Col. G._ Are you at home, sir?

_Ger._ That depends. Not to Mr. Waterfield. Oh, my head! my head!
[_Exit_ COL. G.

_Enter_ CONSTANCE. GER. _starts, but keeps his head leaning on his
hand_.

_Con._ I forgot to say to you, Arthur,--. But you are ill! What is the
matter, dear Arthur?

_Ger._ (_without looking up_) Nothing--only a headache.

_Con._ Do come home with me, and let aunt and me nurse you. Don't be
vexed with me any more. I will do whatever you like. I couldn't go
home without seeing you again. And now I find you ill!

_Ger._ Not a bit. I am only dreadfully busy. I must go out of town. I
am so busy! I can't stay in it a moment longer. I have so many things
to do.

_Con._ Mayn't I come and see you while you work? I never used to
interrupt you. I want so to sit once more in my old place. (_Draws a
stool towards him_.)

_Ger._ No, no--not--not there! Constance used to sit there. William!

_Con._ You frighten me, Arthur!

_Enter_ COL. G.

_Ger._ Bring a chair, William.

_Constance sits down like a chidden child. Exit_ COL. G.

_Con._ I must have offended you more than I thought, Arthur! What
_can_ I say? It is so stupid to be always saying _I am sorry_.

_Ger._ No, no. But some one may call.

_Con._ You mean more than that. Will you not let me understand?

_Ger._ Your friend Mr. Waterfield called a few minutes ago. He will be
here again presently, I dare say.

_Con._ (_indifferently_). Indeed!

_Ger._ I suppose you appointed--expected--to meet him here.

_Con._ Arthur! Do you think I would come to you to meet _him_? I saw
him this morning; I don't want to see him again. I wish you knew him.

_Ger._ Why should you want me to know him?

_Con._ Because you would do him good.

_Ger._ What good does he want done him?

_Con._ He has got beautiful things in him--talks well--in bits--arms
and feet and faces--never anything like--(_turning to the Psyche_) Why
have you--? Has _she_ been naughty too?

_Ger._ Is it _only_ naughty things that must be put out of sight,
Constance?

_Con._ Dear Arthur! you spoke like your own self then.

_Ger._ (_rising hurriedly_). Excuse me. I must go. It is very rude,
but--William!

_Enter_ COL. G.

_Col. G._ Yes, sir.

_Ger._ Fetch a hansom directly.

_Col. G._ Yes, sir. _Exit_.

_Con._ You do frighten me, Arthur! I am sure you are ill.

_Ger._ Not at all. I have an engagement.

_Con._ I must go then--must I?

_Ger._ Do not think me unkind?

_Con._ I will not think anything you would not have me think.

_Re-enter_ COL. G.

_Col. G._ The cab is at the door, sir.

_Ger._ Thank you. Then show Miss Lacordère out. Stay. I will open the
door for her myself. _Exeunt_ GER. _and_ CON.

_Col. G._ He speaks like one in despair, forcing every word! If he
should die! Oh, my God!

_Re-enter_ GER. _Walks up and down the room_.

_Col. G._ Ain't you going, sir?

_Ger._ No. I have sent the lady in the cab.

_Col. G._ Then hadn't you better lie down, sir?

_Ger._ Lie down! What do you mean? I'm not in the way of lying down
except to sleep.

_Col. G._ And let me go for the doctor, sir?

_Ger._ The doctor! Ha! ha ha!--You are a soldier, you say?

_Col. G._ Yes, sir.

_Ger._ Right. We're all soldiers--or ought to be. I will put you to
your catechism. What is a soldier's first duty?

_Col. G._ Obedience, sir.

[GER. _sits down and leans his head on his hands_. COL. G. _watches
him_.]

_Ger._ Ah! obedience, is it? Then turn those women out. They will hurt
you--may kill you; but you must not mind that. They burn, they
blister, and they blast, for as white as they look! The hottest is the
white fire. But duty, old soldier!--obedience, you know!--Ha! ha! Oh,
my head! my head! I believe I am losing my senses, William. I was in a
bad part of the town this morning. I went to see a place I knew long
ago. It had gone to hell--but the black edges of it were left. There
was a smell--and I can't get it out of me. Oh, William! William! take
hold of me. Don't let them come near me. Psyche is laughing at me. I
told you to throw the red cloth over her.

_Col. G._ My poor boy!

_Ger._ Don't fancy you're my father, though! I wish you were. But I
cannot allow that.--Why the devil didn't you throw the red cloth over
that butterfly? She's sucking the blood from my heart.

_Col. G._ You said the Psyche, sir! The red cloth _is_ over the
Psyche, sir. Look.

_Ger._ Yes. Yes. I beg your pardon. Take it off. It is too red. It
will scorch her wings. It burns my brain. Take it off, I say! (COL. G.
_uncovers the Psyche_.) There! I told you! She's laughing at me!
Ungrateful child! _I_'m not her Cupid. Cover her up. Not the red cloth
again. It's too hot, I say. I won't torture _her_. I am a man and I
can bear it. She's a woman and she shan't bear it.

_Sinks back in his chair_. COL. G. _lays him on the dais, and sits
down beside him_.

_Col. G._ His heart's all right! And when a fellow's miserable over
his faults, there must be some way out of them.--But the
consequences?--Ah! there's the rub.

_Ger._ What's the matter? Where am I?

_Col. G._ I must fetch a doctor, sir. You've been in a faint.

_Ger._ Why couldn't I keep in it? It was very nice: you know nothing--and
that's the nicest thing of all. Why is it we can't stop, William?

_Col. G._ I don't understand you, sir.

_Ger._ Stop living, I mean. It's no use killing yourself, for you
don't stop then. At least they say you go on living all the same. If
I thought it did mean stopping, William--

_Col. C._ Do come to your room, sir.

_Ger._ I won't. I'll stop here. How hot it is! Don't let anybody in.

_Stretches out his hand_. COL. G. _holds it. He falls asleep_.

_Col. G._ What _shall_ I do? If he married her, he'd be miserable, and
make her miserable too. I'll take her away somewhere. I'll be a father
to her; I'll tend her as if she were his widow. But what confusions
would follow! Alas! alas! one crime is the mother of a thousand
miseries! And now he's in for a fever--typhus, perhaps!--I _must_ find
this girl!--What a sweet creature that Miss Lacordère is! If only he
might have _her_! I don't care what she was.

_Ger._ Don't let them near me, William! They will drive me mad. They
think I shall love them. I _will_ not. If she comes one step nearer, I
shall strike her. You Diana! Hecate! Hell-cat!--Fire-hearted Chaos is
burning me to ashes! My brain is a cinder! Some water, William!

_Col. G._ Here it is, sir.

_Ger._ But just look to Psyche there. Ah. she's off! There she goes!
melting away in the blue, like a dissolving vapour. Bring me my
field-glass, William. I may catch a glimpse of her yet. Make haste.

_Col. G._ Pray don't talk so, sir. Do be quiet, or you will make
yourself very ill. Think what will become of me if--

_Ger._ What worse would _you_ be, William? You are a soldier. I must
talk. You are all wrong about it: it keeps me quiet (_holding his head
with both hands_). I should go raving mad else (_wildly_). Give me
some water. (_He drinks eagerly, then looks slowly round the room_.)
Now they _are_ gone, and I do believe they won't come again! I see
everything--and your face, William. You are very good to me--very
patient! I should die if it weren't for you.

_Col. G._ I would die for you, sir.

_Ger._ Would you? But perhaps you don't care much for your life.
Anybody might have _my_ life for the asking. I dare say it's just as
good to be dead.--Ah! there is a toad--a toad with a tail! No; it's a
toad with a slow-worm after him. Take them away, William!--Thank
you.--I used to think life pleasant, but now--somehow there's nothing
in it. She told me the truth about it--Constance did. Don't let those
women come back. What if I _should_ love them, William!--love and hate
them both at once! William! William! (_A knock at the door_.) See who
that is. Mind you don't let _them_ in.

_Col. G._ Martha is there, sir.

_Ger._ She's but an old woman; she can't keep them out. They would
walk over her. All the goddesses have such long legs! You go and look.
You'll easily know them: if they've got no irises to their eyes, don't
let them in, for the love of God, William! Real women have irises to
their eyes: those have none--those frightful snowy beauties.--And yet
snow is very nice! And I'm so hot! _There_ they come again! _Exit_
COL. G.

_Enter_ MRS. CLIFFORD.

_Ger._ Aunt! aunt! help me! There they come!

_Mrs. C._ What is it, my Arthur? They shan't hurt you. I am here. I
will take care of you.

_Ger._ Yes, yes, you will! I am not a bit afraid of them now. Do you
know them, aunt? I'll tell you a secret: they are Juno and Diana and
Venus.--They hate sculptors. But I never wronged them. Three white
women--only, between their fingers and behind their knees they are
purple--and inside their lips, when they smile--and in the hollows of
their eyes--ugh! They want me to love them; and they say you are
all--all of you women--no better than they are. I _know_ that is a
lie; for they have no eyelids and no irises to their eyes.

_Mrs. C._ Dear boy, they shan't come near you. Shall I sing to you,
and drive them away?

_Ger._ No, don't. I can't bear birds in my brain.

_Mrs. C._ How long have you had this headache? (_laying her hand on
his forehead_.)

_Ger._ Only a year or two--since the white woman came--that woman
(_pointing to the Psyche_). She's been buried for ages, and won't grow
brown.

_Mrs. C._ There's no woman there, Arthur.

_Ger._ Of course not. It was an old story that bothered me. Oh, my
head! my head!--There's my father standing behind the door and won't
come in!--_He_ could help me now, if he would. William! show my father
in. But he isn't in the story--so he can't.

_Mrs. C._ Do try to keep yourself quiet, Arthur. The doctor will be
here in a few minutes.

_Ger._ He shan't come here! He would put the white woman out. She does
smell earthy, but I won't part with her. (_A knock_.) What a devil of
a noise! Why don't they use the knocker? What's the use of taking a
sledge-hammer?

_Mrs. C._ It's that stupid James!

_Enter_ CONSTANCE. MRS. C. _goes to meet her_.

_Mrs. C._ Constance, you go and hurry the doctor. I will stay with
Arthur.

_Con._ Is he _very_ ill, aunt?

_Mrs. C._ I'm afraid he is.

_Ger._ (_sitting up_). Constance! Constance!

_Con._ Here I am! (_running to him_).

_Ger._ Oh, my head! I wish I could find somewhere to lay it!--Sit by
me, Constance, and let me lay my head on your shoulder--for one
minute--only one minute. It aches so! (_She sits down by him. His head
sinks on her shoulder_. MRS. C. _looks annoyed, and exit_.)

_Con._ Thank you, thank you, dear Arthur! (_sobbing_). You used to
like me! I could not believe you hated me now. You _have_ forgiven me?
Dear head!

_He closes his eyes. Slow plaintive music_.

_Ger._ (_half waking_). I can't read. When I get to the bottom of the
page, I wonder what it was all about. I shall never get to Garibaldi!
and if I don't, I shall never get farther. If I could but keep that
one line away! It drives me mad, mad. "He took her by the lily-white
hand."--I could strangle myself for thinking of such things, but they
_will_ come!--I _won't_ go mad. I should never get to Garibaldi, and
never be rid of this red-hot ploughshare ploughing up my heart. I will
_not_ go mad! I will die like a man.

_Con._ Arthur! Arthur!

_Ger._ God in heaven! she is there! And the others are behind
her!--Psyche! Psyche! Don't speak to those women! Come alone, and I
will tear my heart out and give it you.--It is Psyche herself now, and
the rest are gone! Psyche--listen.

_Con._ It's only me, Arthur! your own little Constance! If aunt would
but let me stay and nurse you! But I don't know what's come to her:
she's not like herself at all.

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