"You are the first artist I ever met," said Lydia, "who did not
claim art as the most laborious of all avocations. They all deny the
existence of genius, and attribute everything to work."
"Of course one picks up a great deal from experience; and there is
plenty of work on the stage. But it in my genius which enables me to
pick up things, and to work on the stage instead of in a kitchen or
laundry."
"You must be very fond of your profession."
"I do not mind it now; I have shrunk to fit it. I began because I
couldn't help myself; and I go on because, being an old woman, I
have nothing else to do. Bless me, how I hated it after the first
month! I must retire soon, now. People are growing weary of me."
"I doubt that. I am bound to assume that you are an old woman, since
you say so; but you must be aware, flattery apart, that you hardly
seem to have reached your prime yet."
"I might be your mother, my dear. I might be a grand mother. Perhaps
I am." There was a plaintive tone in the last sentence; and Lydia
seized the opportunity.
"You spoke of maternity then from experience, Miss Gisborne?"
"I have one son--a son who was sent to me in my eighteenth year."
"I hope he inherits his mother's genius and personal grace."
"I am sure I don't know," said Mrs. Byron, pensively. "He was a
perfect devil. I fear I shock you, Miss Carew; but really I did
everything for him that the most devoted mother could do; and yet he
ran away from me without making a sign of farewell. Little wretch!"
"Boys do cruel things sometimes in a spirit of adventure," said
Lydia, watching her visitor's face narrowly.
"It was not that. It was his temper, which was ungovernable. He was
sulky and vindictive. It is quite impossible to love a sulky child.
I kept him constantly near me when he was a tiny creature; and when
he got too big for that I spent oceans of money on his education.
All in vain! He never showed any feeling towards me except a sense
of injury that no kindness could remove. And he had nothing to
complain of. Never was there a worse son."
Lydia remained silent and grave. Mrs. Byron looked rather beside her
than at her. Suddenly she added, "My poor, darling Cashel" (Lydia suppressed a start), "what a shame
to talk of you so! You see, I love him in spite of his wickedness."
Mrs. Byron took out her handkerchief, and Lydia for a moment was
alarmed by the prospect of tears. But Miss Gisborne only blew her
nose with perfect composure, and rose to take her leave. Lydia, who,
apart from her interest in Cashel's mother, was attracted and amused
by the woman herself, induced her to stay for luncheon, and
presently discovered from her conversation that she had read much
romance of the Werther sort in her youth, and had, since then,
employed her leisure in reading every book that came in her way
without regard to its quality. Her acquirements were so odd, and her
character so unreasonable, that Lydia, whose knowledge was unusually
well organized, and who was eminently reasonable, concluded that she
was a woman of genius. For Lydia knew the vanity of her own
attainments, and believed herself to be merely a patient and
well-taught plodder. Mrs. Byron happening to be pleased with the
house, the luncheon, and Lydia's intelligent listening, her
unaccountable natural charm became so intensified by her good-humor
that Lydia became conscious of it, and began to wonder what its
force might have been if some influence--that of a lover, for
instance--had ever made Mrs. Byron ecstatically happy. She surprised
herself at last in the act of speculating whether she could ever
make Cashel love her as his father must, for a time at least, have
loved her visitor.