CHAPTER XXXIV.
‘If Sorrow stoleA charm awhile from Beauty, Beauty’s selfMight envy well the charm that Sorrow lentTo every perfect feature.’
‘If Sorrow stoleA charm awhile from Beauty, Beauty’s selfMight envy well the charm that Sorrow lentTo every perfect feature.’
‘If Sorrow stoleA charm awhile from Beauty, Beauty’s selfMight envy well the charm that Sorrow lentTo every perfect feature.’
‘If Sorrow stole
A charm awhile from Beauty, Beauty’s self
Might envy well the charm that Sorrow lent
To every perfect feature.’
He draws Bonnie forward—Bonnie, who has been sitting so quietly in his corner for the past thirty minutes, enchanted with the strange scene. He has cared nothing for his aunt’s eccentricities; he has thought only of the wonderful things that were done behind that dingy black velvet curtain. Oh, if he could only get behind it too, and find out! The sickly child’s frame was weak, but his mind was fresh and strong, and ran freely into regions far beyond his ken.
With the boy’s hand in his, Crosby turns courteously to Miss Barry.
‘I hope you will let me have this charmingface taken, if only for my own gratification,’ says he. ‘I have long wished it. And as he is here—if you will allow me. It is quite an ideal type, you know—I may have him photographed?’
‘Yes—yes,’ says Miss Barry, with slow acquiescence, uttered with a pause between. And then all at once, as if she has come to the end of her hesitation, ‘Yes, certainly.’ She looks at Susan as if for approval, but Susan does not return her glance. She has cast down her eyes, and is distinctly pale.
Poor Susan! So delighted at the thought of having a picture of her Bonnie given her, yet so sorry for the occasion of it. She has lowered her eyes so that no one may see what she is thinking about, or what she is suffering; the quick beating of her heart is also a secret known only to herself.
The throbs run like this: Oh, how good of him! Oh, no matter what he is or whom he loves, he will surely give her one of Bonnie’s pictures—a picture of her lovely, pretty Bonnie!
Meantime, Bonnie is being taken by the photographer, and so still, so calm a little subject he is, that his picture is, perhaps, the best of all, after Miss Barry’s, which is unique. Just Bonnie’s head—only that. But so sweet, so perfect, and the earnest eyes—
The photographer tells them that they shall have them all in a week or so. The photographer’s ‘week or so’ is so well understanded of the people, that the Barrys tell themselves in whispers in the little studio that if they get them in a fortnight they may thank their lucky stars.
‘A fortnight with that man!’ says Miss Barry, with ill-subdued wrath. ‘A month, you mean. I tell you he’s got the evil eye.’
Having thus relieved herself, and the photographer having vanished into a room beyond, she rises into happier ways.
‘Any way, in spite of him,’ says she, pointing towards the dark doorway into which he has vanished, ‘this must be called a most happy occasion—an auspicious one even, indeed.’ Miss Barry is always onimmense terms with her dictionary. ‘I really think’—with sudden sprightliness—‘we should all exchange photos. I hope, Mr. Crosby’—turning pleasantly to him—‘that you will give us one of yours.’
‘I shall give you one with pleasure, Miss Barry,’ says Crosby, ‘and feel very proud about your wanting to have it. I shall, however, demand one of yours in return. As to your suggestion about a general exchange, I think it delightful.’ He turns suddenly to Susan. ‘I hope you will give me one of yours,’ says he.
Susan hesitates. To give her picture to him, when he thinks Lady Muriel Kennedy so lovely? Why, if he thinks a girl is so very lovely—she has described Lady Muriel to herself as a mere girl—why should he want a photograph of herself?
Miss Barry has noticed Susan’s hanging back, and, wondering that she should refuse her photograph to so good a friend, comes quickly forward.
‘Susan, I really think you might giveMr. Crosby your picture. You know, Mr. Crosby, I have always kept the girls a little strict, and perhaps Susan thinks—’
‘I don’t,’ says Susan, with sudden vehemence. She has shrunk back a little; her lovely eyes have suddenly grown shamed. ‘It—isn’t that, auntie.’
‘Oh, my dear, if it isn’t that—’ says Miss Barry; and being now called by Dominick, she turns away.
‘Auntie takes such queer views of things,’ says Susan, pale and unhappy. ‘It seems, however, that she would like me to give you my photograph. Well’—grudgingly—‘you can have it.’
‘I didn’t want it on those terms,’ says Crosby. ‘And yet’—quickly—‘I do on any terms.’
‘Oh no,’ says Susan; ‘auntie is right. Why should I refuse it to you?’
‘Susan,’ says he, ‘is the feud so strong as all that? Will you refuse me your picture?’
‘No, I shall give it,’ says she, faintly smiling; ‘but I shall make a bargain withyou. If you will give me one of Bonnie’s, you shall have one of mine.’
‘I gain, but you do not,’ says he; ‘for you should have had one of Bonnie all the same. But what has come between us, Susan? I thought I was quite a friend of yours. Why am I to be dismissed like this, without even a character? You must remember one great occasion when you said that anyone who was allowed to go through my grounds would be sure to treat me with respect, or something like that. Now, you have often gone through my grounds, Susan, and is this respect that you are offering me?’
‘I thought,’ says Susan gravely, ‘that you promised never to speak of that again.’
‘Of what—respect?’
‘No, of that’—reluctantly—‘that day in the garden.’ The dawn of a blush appears upon her face, and her eyes rest on him reproachfully. ‘You are not to be depended on,’ says she.
‘Oh, Susan!’
His air is so abject that, in spite of herself,Susan laughs, and presently she holds out her hand to him with the sweetest air. ‘Any way, I have to thank you a thousand times for having had my Bonnie’s picture taken,’ says she. ‘And I know you knew that I wished for it.’ She gives him her hand. Tears rise to her eyes. ‘You could never know how I wished for it,’ says she.