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Page 67
"And what do you think of this--and this--and this?" asked Malcom,
rapidly turning from the wall study after study.
After a few moments of silence, she said solemnly: "They're all Barbara.
Here she is thinking earnestly; here she is throwing her head proudly
back, as she so often does; and here she is merry and smiling in her own
adorable way. O you darling Barbara!" with a pathetic little catch of
the breath; "how are you feeling just this minute?" and Bettina sank
upon the floor beside the pictures, looking as if she longed to hug them
all.
"But what does it mean?" persisted Malcom.
"What do _you_ mean?" springing up with a quick look into his eyes.
"You--foolish--boy!" as an inkling of Malcom's meaning crept into her
mind.
"What does it mean, Betty Burnett, that my uncle has had nothing better
to do when he has so zealously labored up here, than to paint your
sister's face in every conceivable way?" slowly and impressively asked
Malcom, as he put still another tell-tale sketch over that on the easel.
"You do not really mean!--it can't be!--Oh!" uttered Bettina in diverse
tones and inflections as she rapidly recalled, one after another,
certain incidents.
Then there was silence in Robert Sumner's studio between these two
discoverers of his long-cherished secret.
"Malcom," at length whispered Bettina, "we must never breathe one word
about what we have found here. You must not tell Margery or your mother.
Promise me that it shall be a solemn secret between you and me."
"I promise, Lady Betty. Your behest shall be sacredly regarded," replied
Malcom with mock gravity. "But," after a little, "shall you tell
Barbara?"
"Tell Barbara? No! no! How could I tell her! Malcom, don't you know that
it is only by a chance that we have found these pictures? That, whatever
they may mean is absolutely sacred to your uncle? Perhaps they mean
nothing--nothing save that he, from an artist's stand-point, admires my
sister's face. Indeed, the more I think of it, the more I am inclined to
believe that is all," she persisted, as she saw Malcom's expressive
shrug and the comical look in his eyes as he moved them slowly along the
half-dozen sketches that were now standing in a row.
"And I shall think no more about it," she added, "and advise you to do
the same."
Bettina, who was usually so gentle, could be prettily imperious when
she chose. And now, wrought up by Malcom's reference to Barbara and her
own fast crowding thoughts, her voice took on this tone, and she turned
with high head to leave the studio.
"Betty! Betty!" pleaded Malcom, running after her. "Why, Betty!" and the
surprised, pained tone of his voice instantly stopped her on the
staircase.
"I do not mean anything disagreeable, Malcom," she conceded, "only I
could not bear to have anything said about Barbara or to Barbara, that
might in any way disturb her. That is all,--forgive me, Malcom." And the
two friends clasped hands.
Malcom went back into the studio, his pursed lips emitting a low,
meditative whistle, while Bettina hurried downstairs, her mind beset
with conjectures.
It was not Mr. Sumner of whom she was thinking, but her sister. A veil
seemed to withdraw before her consciousness, and to reveal the possible
meaning of much that had perplexed her during the past months. For if
Mr. Sumner had really been learning to love Barbara, might it not also
be that Barbara cared more for him than Bettina had been wont to think?
Her thoughts went back to many of their first conversations after
coming to Florence; to Barbara's intense absorption in Mr. Sumner's
talks about the old painters; to her unwearied study of them; to her
evident sympathy with him on all occasions.
Then, in a flash she remembered her faintness in the carriage on the
drive to Sorrento and connected it, as she had never before dreamed of
doing, with the conversation then going on; and recalled all those days
since when she had been so different from the old-time Barbara.
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