Part 91 (1/2)

”I confess I am sensitive, if that is what you mean,” he replied.

”Well, yes, if you like,” she said, ”hyper-sensitive. But I thought you asked for me.”

”It is true I came to see you; but that is no reason why I should be slighted by your friends--especially when I came because I think I have something to show you that will interest you.” He took a little packet from the breast-pocket of his coat as he spoke, and began to undo it. ”I took the trouble to go all the way home to get them to show you. My mother was the only person who had them. They are photographs of myself when I was a boy.”

”I wonder your mother parted with them,” Beth said.

”I persuaded her with difficulty,” he rejoined complacently. ”I have often tried before, but nothing would induce her to part with them, until this time, when a bright idea occurred to me. I told her they were to be published among portraits of celebrated people when my new book comes out, and naturally she liked the idea. Her only son, you know!”

”And are they to be published?” Beth asked.

”Oh--well--of course I hope so--some day,” he answered, smiling and hesitating. ”But the truth is I got them for you.”

Beth did not thank him, but he was too engrossed with his own portraits to notice the omission. She was interested in them, too, when at last he let her look at them.

”What do you think of that?” he asked, showing her a good likeness of himself as she remembered him. ”I was a pretty boy then, I think, with my curls! Burning the midnight oil had not bared my forehead in those days, and my beard had not grown. Life was all poetry then!” he sighed affectedly. What had once been spontaneous feeling in him had become a mere recollection, only to be called up by an effort.

”Later it became all excesses, I suppose,” said Beth.

”Ah!” he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed in a tone of pleased regret. ”I had to live like other men of my standing, you know, and I had to pay for it. The boy was lost, but the man developed. You may think the change a falling off----”

He waited for Beth to express an opinion; but as it was impossible for her to say what she thought of the difference between the conceited, dissipated-looking, hysterical man of many meannesses, and the diffident unspoilt promising boy, she held her peace.

When she had seen the photographs, and he had looked at them himself to his heart's content, he did them up again, and then formally presented her with the packet. ”Will you keep them?” he said solemnly.

”Oh no!” she answered with decision. ”I am not the proper person to keep them. If they did not belong to your mother, they would be for your wife and children.”

”Ah, my wife!” he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed bitterly. ”I haven't a word to say against my wife, remember that! Only--you are the one to whom I would confide them.”

”I decline the responsibility,” Beth said, keeping her countenance with difficulty.

He returned the packet to the breast-pocket of his coat. ”I shall carry them here, then,” he said, tapping his chest with the points of his fingers, ”until you ask for them.”

As usual, he stayed a preposterous time that day, and when at last he went, even Beth's kindly forbearance was exhausted, and she determined to see no more of him. He was not the man to take a hint, however, and it was no easy matter to get rid of him. He sent her flowers, for which she did not thank him, books which she did not read; wrote her long letters of the clever kind, discussing topics of the day or remarks she herself had made, which she left unanswered; called, but never found her at home, yet still persisted, until she was fain to exclaim: ”Will no one rid me of this troublesome priest?”

”It is your own fault,” said Angelica. ”I warned you that good-nature is wasted on that sort of man.”

”But surely he must see that I wish to avoid him,” Beth exclaimed.

”Of course he sees it,” Angelica rejoined, ”but you may be sure that he interprets your reluctance in some way very flattering to himself.”

”I shall really be rude to him,” Beth said desperately. ”He is a most exasperating person, the kind of man to drive a woman mad, and then blame her for it. I pity his wife!”

Beth stayed with the Kilroys until the end of June, when the season was all but over and everybody was leaving town; and it was the busiest and happiest time she had ever known. She had enjoyed the work, the play, the society, the solitude, and had blossomed forth in that congenial atmosphere both mentally and physically, and become a braver and a better woman.

The Kilroys were to go abroad the day that Beth returned to Slane. The evening before, she went with Angelica to a theatre. But Angelica, being much occupied at the moment with arrangements that had to be made for the carrying on of her special work during her absence, was not able to stay for the whole performance, so she left Beth alone at the theatre, and sent the carriage back to take her home.

Beth, sitting in the corner of a box, had eyes for nothing the whole time but the play, which, being one of those that stimulate the mind, had appealed to her so powerfully that even after it was over she remained where she was a little, deep in thought. On leaving the theatre, she found the footman on the steps looking out for her, and he remained, standing a little behind her, till the carriage came up.

While she waited, she was annoyed to see Mr. Alfred Cayley Pounce making his way towards her officiously. ”You are alone!” he exclaimed, with a note of critical disapproval in his voice, as if the circ.u.mstance reflected on somebody.