THE ESSENTIAL GEORGE BERNARD SHAW COLLECTION. GEORGE BERNARD SHAW
he did.”
“How insensible you are! Did you not know that you were always my cherished darling — my only son?”
Cashel, who was now sitting beside her on an ottoman, groaned and moved restlessly, but said nothing.
“Are you glad to see me?”
“Yes,” said Cashel, dismally, “I suppose I am. I — By Jingo,” he cried, with sudden animation, “perhaps you can give me a lift here. I never thought of that. I say, mamma; I am in great trouble at present, and I think you can help me if you will.”
Mrs. Byron looked at him satirically. But she said, soothingly, “Of course I will help you — as far as I am able — my precious one. All I possess is yours.”
Cashel ground his feet on the floor impatiently, and then sprang up. After an interval, during which he seemed to be swallowing some indignant protest, he said,
“You may put your mind at rest, once and for all, on the subject of money. I don’t want anything of that sort.”
“I am glad you are so independent, Cashel.”
“So am I.”
“Do, pray, be more amiable.”
“I am amiable enough,” he cried, desperately, “only you won’t listen.”
“My treasure,” said Mrs. Byron, remorsefully. “What is the matter?”
“Well,” said Cashel, somewhat mollified, “it is this. I want to marry Miss Carew; that’s all.”
“YOU marry Miss Carew!” Mrs. Byron’s tenderness had vanished, and her tone was shrewd and contemptuous. “Do you know, you silly boy, that—”
“I know all about it,” said Cashel, determinedly— “what she is, and what I am, and the rest of it. And I want to marry her; and, what’s more, I will marry her, if I have to break the neck of every swell in London first. So you can either help me or not, as you please; but if you won’t, never call me your precious boy any more. Now!”
Mrs. Byron abdicated her dominion there and then forever. She sat with quite a mild expression for some time in silence. Then she said,
“After all, I do not see why you should not. It would be a very good match for you.”
“Yes; but a deuced bad one for her.”
“Really, I do not see that, Cashel. When your uncle dies, I suppose you will succeed to the Dorsetshire property.”
“I the heir to a property! Are you in earnest?”
“Of course. Don’t you know who your people are?”
“How could I? You never told me. Do you mean to say that I have an uncle?”
“Old Bingley Byron? Certainly.”
“Well, I AM blowed. But — but — I mean — Supposing he IS my uncle, am I his lawful heir?”
“Yes. Walford Byron, the only other brother of your father, died years ago, while you were at Moncrief’s; and he had no sons. Bingley is a bachelor.”
“But,” said Cashel, cautiously, “won’t there be some bother about my — at least—”
“My dearest child, what are you thinking or talking about? Nothing can be clearer than your title.”
“Well,” said Cashel, blushing, “a lot of people used to make out that you weren’t married at all.”
“What!” exclaimed Mrs. Byron, indignantly. “Oh, they DARE not say so! Impossible. Why did you not tell me at once?”
“I didn’t think about it,” said Cashel, hastily excusing himself. “I was too young to care. It doesn’t matter now. My father is dead, isn’t he?”
“He died when you were a baby. You have often made me angry with you, poor little innocent, by reminding me of him. Do not talk of him to me.”
“Not if you don’t wish. Just one thing, though, mamma. Was he a gentleman?”
“Of course. What a question!”
“Then I am as good as any of the swells that think themselves her equals? She has a cousin in the government office; a fellow who gives out that he is the home secretary, and most likely sits in a big chair in a hall and cheeks the public. Am I as good as he is?”
“You are perfectly well connected by your mother’s side, Cashel. The Byrons are only commoners; but even they are one of the oldest county families in England.”
Cashel began to show signs of excitement. “How much a year are they worth?” he demanded.
“I do not know how much they are worth now. Your father was always in difficulties, and so was his father. But Bingley is a miser. Five thousand a year, perhaps.”
“That’s an independence. That’s enough. She said she couldn’t expect a man to be so thunderingly rich as she is.”
“Indeed? Then you have discussed the question with her?”
Cashel was about to speak, when a servant entered to say that Miss Carew was in the library, and begged that they would come to her as soon as they were quite disengaged. When the maid withdrew he said, eagerly,
“I wish you’d go home, mamma, and let me catch her in the library by herself. Tell me where you live, and I’ll come in the evening and tell you all about it. That is, if you have no objection.”
“What objection could I possibly have, dearest one? Are you sure that you are not spoiling your chance by too much haste? She has no occasion to hurry, Cashel, and she knows it.”
“I am dead certain that now is my time or never. I always know by instinct when to go in and finish. Here’s your mantle.”
“In such a hurry to get rid of your poor old mother, Cashel?”
“Oh, bother! you’re not old. You won’t mind my wanting you to go for this once, will you?”
She smiled affectionately, put on her mantle, and turned her cheek towards him to be kissed. The unaccustomed gesture alarmed him; he retreated a step, and involuntary assumed an attitude of self-defence, as if the problem before him were a pugilistic one. Recovering himself immediately, he kissed her, and impatiently accompanied her to the house door, which he closed softly behind her, leaving her to walk in search of her carriage alone. Then he stole upstairs to the library, where he found Lydia reading.
“She’s gone,” he said.
Lydia put down her book, looked up at him, saw what was coming, looked down again to hide a spasm of terror, and said, with a steady severity that cost her a great effort, “I hope you have not quarrelled.”
“Lord bless you, no! We kissed one another like turtle-doves. At odd moments she wheedles me into feeling fond of her in spite of myself. She went away because I asked her to.”
“And why do you ask my guests to go away?”
“Because I wanted to be alone with you. Don’t look as if you didn’t understand. She’s told me a whole heap of things about myself that alter our affairs completely. My birth is all right; I’m heir to a county family that came over with the Conqueror, and I shall have a decent income. I can afford to give away weight to old Webber now.”
“Well,” said Lydia, sternly.
“Well,” said Cashel, unabashed, “the only use of all that to me is that I may marry if I like. No more fighting or teaching now.”
“And when you are married, will you be as tender to your wife as you are to your mother?”
Cashel’s elation vanished. “I knew you’d think that,” he said. “I am always the same with her; I can’t help it. She makes me look like a fool, or like a