‘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 charming face 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 on
immense 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 give Mr. 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 with you. 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.