Cashel Byron's Profession

"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.