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+Project Gutenberg’s Cashel Byron’s Profession, by George Bernard Shaw
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Cashel Byron’s Profession
+
+Author: George Bernard Shaw
+
+
+Release Date: June, 2004 [EBook #5872]
+This file was first posted on September 15, 2002
+Last Updated: September 21, 2016
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CASHEL BYRON’S PROFESSION ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks and the
+Online Distributed Proofreading Team
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CASHEL BYRON’S PROFESSION
+
+By George Bernard Shaw
+
+
+
+
+PROLOGUE
+
+
+
+
+I
+
+
+Moncrief House, Panley Common. Scholastic establishment for the sons of
+gentlemen, etc.
+
+Panley Common, viewed from the back windows of Moncrief House, is
+a tract of grass, furze and rushes, stretching away to the western
+horizon.
+
+One wet spring afternoon the sky was full of broken clouds, and the
+common was swept by their shadows, between which patches of green
+and yellow gorse were bright in the broken sunlight. The hills to the
+northward were obscured by a heavy shower, traces of which were drying
+off the slates of the school, a square white building, formerly a
+gentleman’s country-house. In front of it was a well-kept lawn with a
+few clipped holly-trees. At the rear, a quarter of an acre of land was
+enclosed for the use of the boys. Strollers on the common could hear, at
+certain hours, a hubbub of voices and racing footsteps from within the
+boundary wall. Sometimes, when the strollers were boys themselves,
+they climbed to the coping, and saw on the other side a piece of common
+trampled bare and brown, with a few square yards of concrete, so worn
+into hollows as to be unfit for its original use as a ball-alley. Also
+a long shed, a pump, a door defaced by innumerable incised inscriptions,
+the back of the house in much worse repair than the front, and about
+fifty boys in tailless jackets and broad, turned-down collars. When the
+fifty boys perceived a stranger on the wall they rushed to the spot with
+a wild halloo, overwhelmed him with insult and defiance, and dislodged
+him by a volley of clods, stones, lumps of bread, and such other
+projectiles as were at hand.
+
+On this rainy spring afternoon a brougham stood at the door of Moncrief
+House. The coachman, enveloped in a white india-rubber coat, was
+bestirring himself a little after the recent shower. Within-doors, in
+the drawing-room, Dr. Moncrief was conversing with a stately lady aged
+about thirty-five, elegantly dressed, of attractive manner, and only
+falling short of absolute beauty in her complexion, which was deficient
+in freshness.
+
+“No progress whatever, I am sorry to say,” the doctor was remarking.
+
+“That is very disappointing,” said the lady, contracting her brows.
+
+“It is natural that you should feel disappointed,” replied the doctor.
+“I would myself earnestly advise you to try the effect of placing him
+at some other--” The doctor stopped. The lady’s face had lit up with a
+wonderful smile, and she had raised her hand with a bewitching gesture
+of protest.
+
+“Oh, no, Dr. Moncrief,” she said. “I am not disappointed with YOU; but
+I am all the more angry with Cashel, because I know that if he makes no
+progress with you it must be his own fault. As to taking him away, that
+is out of the question. I should not have a moment’s peace if he were
+out of your care. I will speak to him very seriously about his conduct
+before I leave to-day. You will give him another trial, will you not?”
+
+“Certainly. With the greatest pleasure,” exclaimed the doctor, confusing
+himself by an inept attempt at gallantry. “He shall stay as long as
+you please. But”--here the doctor became grave again--“you cannot too
+strongly urge upon him the importance of hard work at the present time,
+which may be said to be the turning-point of his career as a student. He
+is now nearly seventeen; and he has so little inclination for study that
+I doubt whether he could pass the examination necessary to entering one
+of the universities. You probably wish him to take a degree before he
+chooses a profession.”
+
+“Yes, of course,” said the lady, vaguely, evidently assenting to the
+doctor’s remark rather than expressing a conviction of her own. “What
+profession would you advise for him? You know so much better than I.”
+
+“Hum!” said Dr. Moncrief, puzzled. “That would doubtless depend to some
+extent on his own taste--”
+
+“Not at all,” said the lady, interrupting him with vivacity. “What does
+he know about the world, poor boy? His own taste is sure to be something
+ridiculous. Very likely he would want to go on the stage, like me.”
+
+“Oh! Then you would not encourage any tendency of that sort?”
+
+“Most decidedly not. I hope he has no such idea.”
+
+“Not that I am aware of. He shows so little ambition to excel in any
+particular branch that I should say his choice of a profession may be
+best determined by his parents. I am, of course, ignorant whether his
+relatives possess influence likely to be of use to him. That is often
+the chief point to be considered, particularly in cases like your son’s,
+where no special aptitude manifests itself.”
+
+“I am the only relative he ever had, poor fellow,” said the lady, with
+a pensive smile. Then, seeing an expression of astonishment on the
+doctor’s face, she added, quickly, “They are all dead.”
+
+“Dear me!”
+
+“However,” she continued, “I have no doubt I can make plenty of interest
+for him. But it is difficult to get anything nowadays without passing
+competitive examinations. He really must work. If he is lazy he ought to
+be punished.”
+
+The doctor looked perplexed. “The fact is,” he said, “your son can
+hardly be dealt with as a child any longer. He is still quite a boy in
+his habits and ideas; but physically he is rapidly springing up into a
+young man. That reminds me of another point on which I will ask you
+to speak earnestly to him. I must tell you that he has attained some
+distinction among his school-fellows here as an athlete. Within due
+bounds I do not discourage bodily exercises: they are a recognized part
+of our system. But I am sorry to say that Cashel has not escaped that
+tendency to violence which sometimes results from the possession of
+unusual strength and dexterity. He actually fought with one of the
+village youths in the main street of Panley some months ago. The matter
+did not come to my ears immediately; and, when it did, I allowed it to
+pass unnoticed, as he had interfered, it seems, to protect one of the
+smaller boys. Unfortunately he was guilty of a much more serious fault
+a little later. He and a companion of his had obtained leave from me to
+walk to Panley Abbey together. I afterwards found that their real object
+was to witness a prize-fight that took place--illegally, of course--on
+the common. Apart from the deception practised, I think the taste they
+betrayed a dangerous one; and I felt bound to punish them by a severe
+imposition, and restriction to the grounds for six weeks. I do not hold,
+however, that everything has been done in these cases when a boy has
+been punished. I set a high value on a mother’s influence for softening
+the natural roughness of boys.”
+
+“I don’t think he minds what I say to him in the least,” said the lady,
+with a sympathetic air, as if she pitied the doctor in a matter that
+chiefly concerned him. “I will speak to him about it, of course.
+Fighting is an unbearable habit. His father’s people were always
+fighting; and they never did any good in the world.”
+
+“If you will be so kind. There are just the three points: the necessity
+for greater--much greater--application to his studies; a word to him
+on the subject of rough habits; and to sound him as to his choice of a
+career. I agree with you in not attaching much importance to his ideas
+on that subject as yet. Still, even a boyish fancy may be turned to
+account in rousing the energies of a lad.”
+
+“Quite so,” assented the lady. “I will certainly give him a lecture.”
+
+The doctor looked at her mistrustfully, thinking perhaps that she
+herself would be the better for a lecture on her duties as a mother. But
+he did not dare to tell her so; indeed, having a prejudice to the effect
+that actresses were deficient in natural feeling, he doubted the use of
+daring. He also feared that the subject of her son was beginning to bore
+her; and, though a doctor of divinity, he was as reluctant as other men
+to be found wanting in address by a pretty woman. So he rang the bell,
+and bade the servant send Master Cashel Byron. Presently a door was
+heard to open below, and a buzz of distant voices became audible.
+The doctor fidgeted and tried to think of something to say, but his
+invention failed him: he sat in silence while the inarticulate buzz rose
+into a shouting of “By-ron!” “Cash!” the latter cry imitated from the
+summons usually addressed to cashiers in haberdashers’ shops.
+Finally there was a piercing yell of “Mam-ma-a-a-a-ah!” apparently in
+explanation of the demand for Byron’s attendance in the drawing-room.
+The doctor reddened. Mrs. Byron smiled. Then the door below closed,
+shutting out the tumult, and footsteps were heard on the stairs.
+
+“Come in,” cried the doctor, encouragingly.
+
+Master Cashel Byron entered blushing; made his way awkwardly to his
+mother, and kissed the critical expression which was on her upturned
+face as she examined his appearance. Being only seventeen, he had not
+yet acquired a taste for kissing. He inexpertly gave Mrs. Byron quite a
+shock by the collision of their teeth. Conscious of the failure, he drew
+himself upright, and tried to hide his hands, which were exceedingly
+dirty, in the scanty folds of his jacket. He was a well-grown youth,
+with neck and shoulders already strongly formed, and short auburn hair
+curling in little rings close to his scalp. He had blue eyes, and an
+expression of boyish good-humor, which, however, did not convey any
+assurance of good temper.
+
+“How do you do, Cashel?” said Mrs. Byron, in a queenly manner, after a
+prolonged look at him.
+
+“Very well, thanks,” said he, grinning and avoiding her eye.
+
+“Sit down, Byron,” said the doctor. Byron suddenly forgot how to sit
+down, and looked irresolutely from one chair to another. The doctor made
+a brief excuse, and left the room; much to the relief of his pupil.
+
+“You have grown greatly, Cashel. And I am afraid you are very awkward.”
+ Cashel colored and looked gloomy.
+
+“I do not know what to do with you,” continued Mrs. Byron. “Dr. Moncrief
+tells me that you are very idle and rough.”
+
+“I am not,” said Cashel, sulkily. “It is bec--”
+
+“There is no use in contradicting me in that fashion,” said Mrs. Byron,
+interrupting him sharply. “I am sure that whatever Dr. Moncrief says is
+perfectly true.”
+
+“He is always talking like that,” said Cashel, plaintively. “I can’t
+learn Latin and Greek; and I don’t see what good they are. I work as
+hard as any of the rest--except the regular stews, perhaps. As to
+my being rough, that is all because I was out one day with Gully
+Molesworth, and we saw a crowd on the common, and when we went to see
+what was up it was two men fighting. It wasn’t our fault that they came
+there to fight.”
+
+“Yes; I have no doubt that you have fifty good excuses, Cashel. But I
+will not allow any fighting; and you really must work harder. Do you
+ever think of how hard _I_ have to work to pay Dr. Moncrief one hundred
+and twenty pounds a year for you?”
+
+“I work as hard as I can. Old Moncrief seems to think that a fellow
+ought to do nothing else from morning till night but write Latin verses.
+Tatham, that the doctor thinks such a genius, does all his constering
+from cribs. If I had a crib I could conster as well--very likely
+better.”
+
+“You are very idle, Cashel; I am sure of that. It is too provoking to
+throw away so much money every year for nothing. Besides, you must soon
+be thinking of a profession.”
+
+“I shall go into the army,” said Cashel. “It is the only profession for
+a gentleman.”
+
+Mrs. Byron looked at him for a moment as if amazed at his presumption.
+But she checked herself and only said, “I am afraid you will have to
+choose some less expensive profession than that. Besides, you would have
+to pass an examination to enable you to enter the army; and how can you
+do that unless you study?”
+
+“Oh, I shall do that all right enough when the time comes.”
+
+“Dear, dear! You are beginning to speak so coarsely, Cashel. After all
+the pains I took with you at home!”
+
+“I speak the same as other people,” he replied, sullenly. “I don’t see
+the use of being so jolly particular over every syllable. I used to have
+to stand no end of chaff about my way of speaking. The fellows here know
+all about you, of course.”
+
+“All about me?” repeated Mrs. Byron, looking at him curiously.
+
+“All about your being on the stage, I mean,” said Cashel. “You complain
+of my fighting; but I should have a precious bad time of it if I didn’t
+lick the chaff out of some of them.”
+
+Mrs. Byron smiled doubtfully to herself, and remained silent and
+thoughtful for a moment. Then she rose and said, glancing at the
+weather, “I must go now, Cashel, before another shower begins. And do,
+pray, try to learn something, and to polish your manners a little. You
+will have to go to Cambridge soon, you know.”
+
+“Cambridge!” exclaimed Cashel, excited. “When, mamma? When?”
+
+“Oh, I don’t know. Not yet. As soon as Dr. Moncrief says you are fit to
+go.”
+
+“That will be long enough,” said Cashel, much dejected by this reply.
+“He will not turn one hundred and twenty pounds a year out of doors in
+a hurry. He kept big Inglis here until he was past twenty. Look here,
+mamma; might I go at the end of this half? I feel sure I should do
+better at Cambridge than here.”
+
+“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Byron, decidedly. “I do not expect to have to take
+you away from Dr. Moncrief for the next eighteen months at least, and
+not then unless you work properly. Now don’t grumble, Cashel; you annoy
+me exceedingly when you do. I am sorry I mentioned Cambridge to you.”
+
+“I would rather go to some other school, then,” said Cashel, ruefully.
+“Old Moncrief is so awfully down on me.”
+
+“You only want to leave because you are expected to work here; and that
+is the very reason I wish you to stay.”
+
+Cashel made no reply; but his face darkened ominously.
+
+“I have a word to say to the doctor before I go,” she added, reseating
+herself. “You may return to your play now. Good-bye, Cashel.” And she
+again raised her face to be kissed.
+
+“Good-bye,” said Cashel, huskily, as he turned toward the door,
+pretending that he had not noticed her action.
+
+“Cashel!” she said, with emphatic surprise. “Are you sulky?”
+
+“No,” he retorted, angrily. “I haven’t said anything. I suppose my
+manners are not good enough, I’m very sorry; but I can’t help it.”
+
+“Very well,” said Mrs. Byron, firmly. “You can go, Cashel. I am not
+pleased with you.”
+
+Cashel walked out of the room and slammed the door. At the foot of the
+staircase he was stopped by a boy about a year younger than himself, who
+accosted him eagerly.
+
+“How much did she give you?” he whispered.
+
+“Not a halfpenny,” replied Cashel, grinding his teeth.
+
+“Oh, I say!” exclaimed the other, much disappointed. “That was beastly
+mean.”
+
+“She’s as mean as she can be,” said Cashel. “It’s all old Monkey’s
+fault. He has been cramming her with lies about me. But she’s just as
+bad as he is. I tell you, Gully, I hate my mother.”
+
+“Oh, come!” said Gully, shocked. “That’s a little too strong, old chap.
+But she certainly ought to have stood something.”
+
+“I don’t know what you intend to do, Gully; but I mean to bolt. If she
+thinks I am going to stick here for the next two years she is jolly much
+mistaken.”
+
+“It would be an awful lark to bolt,” said Gully, with a chuckle. “But,”
+ he added, seriously, “if you really mean it, by George, I’ll go too!
+Wilson has just given me a thousand lines; and I’ll be hanged if I do
+them.”
+
+“Gully,” said Cashel, his eyes sparkling, “I should like to see one of
+those chaps we saw on the common pitch into the doctor--get him on the
+ropes, you know.”
+
+Gully’s mouth watered. “Yes,” he said, breathlessly; “particularly the
+fellow they called the Fibber. Just one round would be enough for the
+old beggar. Let’s come out into the playground; I shall catch it if I am
+found here.”
+
+
+
+
+II
+
+
+That night there was just sufficient light struggling through the clouds
+to make Panley Common visible as a black expanse, against the lightest
+tone of which a piece of ebony would have appeared pale. Not a human
+being was stirring within a mile of Moncrief House, the chimneys of
+which, ghostly white on the side next the moon, threw long shadows on
+the silver-gray slates. The stillness had just been broken by the stroke
+of a quarter past twelve from a distant church tower, when, from the
+obscurity of one of these chimney shadows, a head emerged. It belonged
+to a boy, whose body presently wriggled through an open skylight. When
+his shoulders were through he turned himself face upward, seized the
+miniature gable in which the skylight was set, drew himself completely
+out, and made his way stealthily down to the parapet. He was immediately
+followed by another boy.
+
+The door of Moncrief House was at the left-hand corner of the front, and
+was surmounted by a tall porch, the top of which was flat and could be
+used as a balcony. A wall, of the same height as the porch, connected
+the house front with the boundary wall, and formed part of the enclosure
+of a fruit garden which lay at the side of the house between the lawn
+and the playground. When the two boys had crept along the parapet to a
+point directly above the porch they stopped, and each lowered a pair
+of boots to the balcony by means of fishing-lines. When the boots were
+safely landed, their owners let the lines drop and reentered the house
+by another skylight. A minute elapsed. Then they reappeared on the top
+of the porch, having come out through the window to which it served as a
+balcony. Here they put on their boots, and stepped on to the wall of the
+fruit garden. As they crawled along it, the hindmost boy whispered.
+
+“I say, Cashy.”
+
+“Shut up, will you,” replied the other under his breath. “What’s wrong?”
+
+“I should like to have one more go at old mother Moncrief’s pear-tree;
+that’s all.”
+
+“There are no pears on it this season, you fool.”
+
+“I know. This is the last time we shall go this road, Cashy. Usen’t it
+to be a lark? Eh?”
+
+“If you don’t shut up, it won’t be the last time; for you’ll be caught.
+Now for it.”
+
+Cashel had reached the outer wall, and he finished his sentence by
+dropping from it to the common. Gully held his breath for some moments
+after the noise made by his companion’s striking the ground. Then he
+demanded in a whisper whether all was right.
+
+“Yes,” returned Cashel, impatiently. “Drop as soft as you can.”
+
+Gully obeyed; and was so careful lest his descent should shake the
+earth and awake the doctor, that his feet shrank from the concussion. He
+alighted in a sitting posture, and remained there, looking up at Cashel
+with a stunned expression.
+
+“Crikey!” he ejaculated, presently. “That was a buster.”
+
+“Get up, I tell you,” said Cashel. “I never saw such a jolly ass as you
+are. Here, up with you! Have you got your wind back?”
+
+“I should think so. Bet you twopence I’ll be first at the cross roads. I
+say, let’s pull the bell at the front gate and give an awful yell before
+we start. They’ll never catch us.”
+
+“Yes,” said Cashel, ironically; “I fancy I see myself doing it, or you
+either. Now then. One, two, three, and away.”
+
+They ran off together, and reached the cross roads about eight minutes
+later; Gully completely out of breath, and Cashel nearly so. Here,
+according to their plan, Gully was to take the north road and run to
+Scotland, where he felt sure that his uncle’s gamekeeper would hide
+him. Cashel was to go to sea; where, he argued, he could, if his affairs
+became desperate, turn pirate, and achieve eminence in that profession
+by adding a chivalrous humanity to the ruder virtues for which it is
+already famous.
+
+Cashel waited until Gully had recovered from his race. Then he said.
+
+“Now, old fellow, we’ve got to separate.”
+
+Gully, thus confronted with the lonely realities of his scheme, did not
+like the prospect. After a moment’s reflection he exclaimed:
+
+“Damme, old chap, but I’ll come with you. Scotland may go and be
+hanged.”
+
+But Cashel, being the stronger of the two, was as anxious to get rid of
+Gully as Gully was to cling to him. “No,” he said; “I’m going to rough
+it; and you wouldn’t be able for that. You’re not strong enough for a
+sea life. Why, man, those sailor fellows are as hard as nails; and even
+they can hardly stand it.”
+
+“Well, then, do you come with me,” urged Gully. “My uncle’s gamekeeper
+won’t mind. He’s a jolly good sort; and we shall have no end of
+shooting.”
+
+“That’s all very well for you, Gully; but I don’t know your uncle;
+and I’m not going to put myself under a compliment to his gamekeeper.
+Besides, we should run too much risk of being caught if we went through
+the country together. Of course I should be only too glad if we could
+stick to one another, but it wouldn’t do; I feel certain we should be
+nabbed. Good-bye.”
+
+“But wait a minute,” pleaded Gully. “Suppose they do try to catch us; we
+shall have a better chance against them if there are two of us.”
+
+“Stuff!” said Cashel. “That’s all boyish nonsense. There will be at
+least six policemen sent after us; and even if I did my very best, I
+could barely lick two if they came on together. And you would hardly
+be able for one. You just keep moving, and don’t go near any railway
+station, and you will get to Scotland all safe enough. Look here, we
+have wasted five minutes already. I have got my wind now, and I must be
+off. Good-bye.”
+
+Gully disdained to press his company on Cashel any further. “Good-bye,”
+ he said, mournfully shaking his hand. “Success, old chap.”
+
+“Success,” echoed Cashel, grasping Gully’s hand with a pang of remorse
+for leaving him. “I’ll write to you as soon as I have anything to tell
+you. It may be some months, you know, before I get regularly settled.”
+
+He gave Gully a final squeeze, released him, and darted off along the
+road leading to Panley Village. Gully looked after him for a moment, and
+then ran away Scotlandwards.
+
+Panley Village consisted of a High Street, with an old-fashioned inn at
+one end, a modern railway station and bridge at the other, and a pump
+and pound midway between. Cashel stood for a while in the shadow under
+the bridge before venturing along the broad, moonlit street. Seeing no
+one, he stepped out at a brisk walking pace; for he had by this time
+reflected that it was not possible to run all the way to the Spanish
+main. There was, however, another person stirring in the village besides
+Cashel. This was Mr. Wilson, Dr. Moncrief’s professor of mathematics,
+who was returning from a visit to the theatre. Mr. Wilson had
+an impression that theatres were wicked places, to be visited by
+respectable men only on rare occasions and by stealth. The only plays he
+went openly to witness were those of Shakespeare; and his favorite was
+“As You Like It”; Rosalind in tights having an attraction for him which
+he missed in Lady Macbeth in petticoats. On this evening he had seen
+Rosalind impersonated by a famous actress, who had come to a neighboring
+town on a starring tour. After the performance he had returned to
+Panley, supped there with a friend, and was now making his way back to
+Moncrief House, of which he had been intrusted with the key. He was in
+a frame of mind favorable for the capture of a runaway boy. An habitual
+delight in being too clever for his pupils, fostered by frequently
+overreaching them in mathematics, was just now stimulated by the effect
+of a liberal supper and the roguish consciousness of having been to the
+play. He saw and recognized Cashel as he approached the village pound.
+Understanding the situation at once, he hid behind the pump, waited
+until the unsuspecting truant was passing within arm’s-length, and then
+stepped out and seized him by the collar of his jacket.
+
+“Well, sir,” he said. “What are you doing here at this hour? Eh?”
+
+Cashel, scared and white, looked up at him, and could not answer a word.
+
+“Come along with me,” said Wilson, sternly.
+
+Cashel suffered himself to be led for some twenty yards. Then he stopped
+and burst into tears.
+
+“There is no use in my going back,” he said, sobbing. “I have never done
+any good there. I can’t go back.”
+
+“Indeed,” said Wilson, with magisterial sarcasm. “We shall try to make
+you do better in future.” And he forced the fugitive to resume his
+march.
+
+Cashel, bitterly humiliated by his own tears, and exasperated by a
+certain cold triumph which his captor evinced on witnessing them, did
+not go many steps farther without protest.
+
+“You needn’t hold me,” he said, angrily; “I can walk without being
+held.” The master tightened his grasp and pushed his captive forward.
+“I won’t run away, sir,” said Cashel, more humbly, shedding fresh tears.
+“Please let me go,” he added, in a suffocated voice, trying to turn his
+face toward his captor. But Wilson twisted him back again, and urged him
+still onward. Cashel cried out passionately, “Let me go,” and struggled
+to break loose.
+
+“Come, come, Byron,” said the master, controlling him with a broad,
+strong hand; “none of your nonsense, sir.”
+
+Then Cashel suddenly slipped out of his jacket, turned on Wilson, and
+struck up at him savagely with his right fist. The master received the
+blow just beside the point of his chin; and his eyes seemed to Cashel
+roll up and fall back into his head with the shock. He drooped forward
+for a moment, and fell in a heap face downward. Cashel recoiled,
+wringing his hand to relieve the tingling of his knuckles, and terrified
+by the thought that he had committed murder. But Wilson presently moved
+and dispelled that misgiving. Some of Cashel’s fury returned as he shook
+his fist at his prostrate adversary, and, exclaiming, “YOU won’t
+brag much of having seen me cry,” wrenched the jacket from him with
+unnecessary violence, and darted away at full speed.
+
+Mr. Wilson, though he was soon conscious and able to rise, did not feel
+disposed to stir for a long time. He began to moan with a dazed faith
+that some one would eventually come to him with sympathy and assistance.
+Five minutes elapsed, and brought nothing but increased cold and pain.
+It occurred to him that if the police found him they would suppose him
+to be drunk; also that it was his duty to go to them and give them
+the alarm. He rose, and, after a struggle with dizziness and nausea,
+concluded that his most pressing duty was to get to bed, and leave Dr.
+Moncrief to recapture his ruffianly pupil as best he could.
+
+Accordingly, at half-past one o’clock, the doctor was roused by a
+knocking at his chamber-door, outside which he presently found his
+professor of mathematics, bruised, muddy, and apparently inebriated.
+Five minutes elapsed before Wilson could get his principal’s mind on the
+right track. Then the boys were awakened and the roll called. Byron and
+Molesworth were reported absent. No one had seen them go; no one had
+the least suspicion of how they got out of the house. One little boy
+mentioned the skylight; but observing a threatening expression on the
+faces of a few of the bigger boys, who were fond of fruit, he did not
+press his suggestion, and submitted to be snubbed by the doctor for
+having made it. It was nearly three o’clock before the alarm reached the
+village, where the authorities tacitly declined to trouble themselves
+about it until morning. The doctor, convinced that the lad had gone to
+his mother, did not believe that any search was necessary, and contented
+himself with writing a note to Mrs. Byron describing the attack on Mr.
+Wilson, and expressing regret that no proposal having for its object the
+readmission of Master Byron to the academy could be entertained.
+
+The pursuit was now directed entirely after Molesworth, an it wan plain,
+from Mr. Wilson’s narrative, that he had separated from Cashel outside
+Panley. Information was soon forthcoming. Peasants in all parts of
+the country had seen, they said, “a lad that might be him.” The
+search lasted until five o’clock next afternoon, when it was rendered
+superfluous by the appearance of Gully in person, footsore and
+repentant. After parting from Cashel and walking two miles, he had lost
+heart and turned back. Half way to the cross roads he had reproached
+himself with cowardice, and resumed his flight. This time he placed
+eight miles betwixt himself and Moncrief House. Then he left the road to
+make a short cut through a plantation, and went astray. After wandering
+until morning, thinking dejectedly of the story of the babes in the
+wood, he saw a woman working in a field, and asked her the shortest way
+to Scotland. She had never heard of Scotland; and when he asked the way
+to Panley she lost patience and threatened to set her dog at him.
+This discouraged him so much that he was afraid to speak to the other
+strangers whom he met. Having the sun as a compass, he oscillated
+between Scotland and Panley according to the fluctuation of his courage.
+At last he yielded to hunger, fatigue, and loneliness, devoted his
+remaining energy to the task of getting back to school; struck the
+common at last, and hastened to surrender himself to the doctor, who
+menaced him with immediate expulsion. Gully was greatly concerned at
+having to leave the place he had just run away from, and earnestly
+begged the doctor to give him another chance. His prayer was granted.
+After a prolonged lecture, the doctor, in consideration of the facts
+that Gully had been seduced by the example of a desperate associate,
+that he had proved the sincerity of his repentance by coming back of his
+own accord, and had not been accessory to the concussion of the brain
+from which Mr. Wilson supposed himself to be suffering, accepted his
+promise of amendment and gave him a free pardon. It should be added
+that Gully kept his promise, and, being now the oldest pupil, graced his
+position by becoming a moderately studious, and, on one occasion, even a
+sensible lad.
+
+Meanwhile Mrs. Byron, not suspecting the importance of the doctor’s
+note, and happening to be in a hurry when it arrived, laid it by
+unopened, intending to read it at her leisure. She would have forgotten
+it altogether but for a second note which came two days later,
+requesting some acknowledgment of the previous communication. On
+learning the truth she immediately drove to Moncrief House, and there
+abused the doctor as he had never been abused in his life before; after
+which she begged his pardon, and implored him to assist her to recover
+her darling boy. When he suggested that she should offer a reward for
+information and capture she indignantly refused to spend a farthing on
+the little ingrate; wept and accused herself of having driven him away
+by her unkindness; stormed and accused the doctor of having treated him
+harshly; and, finally, said that she would give one hundred pounds to
+have him back, but that she would never speak to him again. The doctor
+promised to undertake the search, and would have promised anything
+to get rid of his visitor. A reward of fifty pounds was offered. But
+whether the fear of falling into the clutches of the law for murderous
+assault stimulated Cashel to extraordinary precaution, or whether he had
+contrived to leave the country in the four days which elapsed between
+his flight and the offer of the reward, the doctor’s efforts were
+unsuccessful; and he had to confess their failure to Mrs. Byron. She
+agreeably surprised him by writing a pleasant letter to the effect that
+it was very provoking, and that she could never thank him sufficiently
+for all the trouble he had taken. And so the matter dropped.
+
+Long after that generation of scholars had passed away from Moncrief
+House, the name of Cashel Byron was remembered there as that of a hero
+who, after many fabulous exploits, had licked a master and bolted to the
+Spanish Main.
+
+
+
+
+III
+
+
+There was at this time in the city of Melbourne, in Australia, a wooden
+building, above the door of which was a board inscribed “GYMNASIUM AND
+SCHOOL OF ARMS.” In the long, narrow entry hung a framed manuscript
+which set forth that Ned Skene, ex-champion of England and the colonies,
+was to be heard of within daily by gentlemen desirous of becoming
+proficient in the art of self-defence. Also the terms on which Mrs.
+Skene, assisted by a competent staff of professors, would give lessons
+in dancing, deportment, and calisthenics.
+
+One evening a man sat smoking on a common wooden chair outside the door
+of this establishment. On the ground beside him were some tin tacks and
+a hammer, with which he had just nailed to the doorpost a card on which
+was written in a woman’s handwriting: “WANTED A MALE ATTENDANT WHO CAN
+KEEP ACCOUNTS. INQUIRE WITHIN.” The smoker was a powerful man, with a
+thick neck that swelled out beneath his broad, flat ear-lobes. He had
+small eyes, and large teeth, over which his lips were slightly parted in
+a good-humored but cunning smile. His hair was black and close-cut; his
+skin indurated; and the bridge of his nose smashed level with his face.
+The tip, however, was uninjured. It was squab and glossy, and, by giving
+the whole feature an air of being on the point of expanding to its
+original shape, produced a snubbed expression which relieved the
+otherwise formidable aspect of the man, and recommended him as probably
+a modest and affable fellow when sober and unprovoked. He seemed about
+fifty years of age, and was clad in a straw hat and a suit of white
+linen.
+
+He had just finished his pipe when a youth stopped to read the card on
+the doorpost. This youth was attired in a coarse sailor’s jersey and a
+pair of gray tweed trousers, which he had considerably outgrown.
+
+“Looking for a job?” inquired the ex-champion of England and the
+colonies.
+
+The youth blushed and replied, “Yes. I should like to get something to
+do.”
+
+Mr. Skene stared at him with stern curiosity. His piofessional pursuits
+had familiarized him with the manners and speech of English gentlemen,
+and he immediately recognized the shabby sailor lad as one of that
+class.
+
+“Perhaps you’re a scholar,” said the prize-fighter, after a moment’s
+reflection.
+
+“I have been at school; but I didn’t learn much there,” replied the
+youth. “I think I could bookkeep by double entry,” he added, glancing at
+the card.
+
+“Double entry! What’s that?”
+
+“It’s the way merchants’ books are kept. It is called so because
+everything is entered twice over.”
+
+“Ah!” said Skene, unfavorably impressed by the system; “once is enough
+for me. What’s your weight?”
+
+“I don’t know,” said the lad, with a grin.
+
+“Not know your own weight!” exclaimed Skene. “That ain’t the way to get
+on in life.”
+
+“I haven’t been weighed since I was in England,” said the other,
+beginning to get the better of his shyness. “I was eight stone four
+then; so you see I am only a light-weight.”
+
+“And what do you know about light-weights? Perhaps, being so well
+educated, you know how to fight. Eh?”
+
+“I don’t think I could fight you,” said the youth, with another grin.
+
+Skene chuckled; and the stranger, with boyish communicativeness,
+gave him an account of a real fight (meaning, apparently, one between
+professional pugilists) which he had seen in England. He went on to
+describe how he had himself knocked down a master with one blow
+when running away from school. Skene received this sceptically, and
+cross-examined the narrator as to the manner and effect of the blow,
+with the result of convincing himself that the story was true. At the
+end of a quarter of an hour the lad had commended himself so favorably
+by his conversation that the champion took him into the gymnasium,
+weighed him, measured him, and finally handed him a pair of boxing
+gloves and invited him to show what he was made of. The youth, though
+impressed by the prize-fighter’s attitude with a hopeless sense of
+the impossibility of reaching him, rushed boldly at him several times,
+knocking his face on each occasion against Skene’s left fist, which
+seemed to be ubiquitous, and to have the property of imparting the
+consistency of iron to padded leather. At last the novice directed
+a frantic assault at the champion’s nose, rising on his toes in his
+excitement as he did so. Skene struck up the blow with his right arm,
+and the impetuous youth spun and stumbled away until he fell supine in a
+corner, rapping his head smartly on the floor at the same time. He rose
+with unabated cheerfulness and offered to continue the combat; but Skene
+declined any further exercise just then, and, much pleased with his
+novice’s game, promised to give him a scientific education and make a
+man of him.
+
+The champion now sent for his wife, whom he revered as a preeminently
+sensible and well-mannered woman. The newcomer could see in her only a
+ridiculous dancing-mistress; but he treated her with great deference,
+and thereby improved the favorable opinion which Skene had already
+formed of him. He related to her how, after running away from school, he
+had made his way to Liverpool, gone to the docks, and contrived to hide
+himself on board a ship bound for Australia. Also how he had suffered
+severely from hunger and thirst before he discovered himself; and how,
+notwithstanding his unpopular position as stowaway, he had been fairly
+treated as soon as he had shown that he was willing to work. And in
+proof that he was still willing, and had profited by his maritime
+experience, he offered to sweep the floor of the gymnasium then and
+there. This proposal convinced the Skenes, who had listened to his story
+like children listening to a fairy tale, that he was not too much of a
+gentleman to do rough work, and it was presently arranged that he should
+thenceforth board and lodge with them, have five shillings a week for
+pocket-money, and be man-of-all-work, servant, gymnasium-attendant,
+clerk, and apprentice to the ex-champion of England and the colonies.
+
+He soon found his bargain no easy one. The gymnasium was open from nine
+in the morning until eleven at night, and the athletic gentlemen who
+came there not only ordered him about without ceremony, but varied the
+monotony of being set at naught by the invincible Skene by practising
+what he taught them on the person of his apprentice, whom they pounded
+with great relish, and threw backwards, forwards, and over their
+shoulders as though he had been but a senseless effigy, provided for
+that purpose. Meanwhile the champion looked on and laughed, being too
+lazy to redeem his promise of teaching the novice to defend himself. The
+latter, however, watched the lessons which he saw daily given to others,
+and, before the end of a month, he so completely turned the tables on
+the amateur pugilists of Melbourne that Skene one day took occasion to
+remark that he was growing uncommon clever, but that gentlemen liked
+to be played easy with, and that he should be careful not to knock them
+about too much. Besides these bodily exertions, he had to keep account
+of gloves and foils sold and bought, and of the fees due both to Mr. and
+Mrs. Skene. This was the most irksome part of his duty; for he wrote
+a large, schoolboy hand, and was not quick at figures. When he at last
+began to assist his master in giving lessons the accounts had fallen
+into arrear, and Mrs. Skene had to resume her former care of them; a
+circumstance which gratified her husband, who regarded it as a fresh
+triumph of her superior intelligence. Then a Chinaman was engaged to do
+the more menial work of the establishment. “Skene’s novice,” as he was
+now generally called, was elevated to the rank of assistant professor to
+the champion, and became a person of some consequence in the gymnasium.
+
+He had been there more than nine months, and had developed from an
+active youth into an athletic young man of eighteen, when an important
+conversation took place between him and his principal. It was evening,
+and the only persons in the gymnasium were Ned Skene, who sat smoking
+at his ease with his coat off, and the novice, who had just come
+down-stairs from his bedroom, where he had been preparing for a visit to
+the theatre.
+
+“Well, my gentleman,” said Skene, mockingly; “you’re a fancy man, you
+are. Gloves too! They’re too small for you. Don’t you get hittin’ nobody
+with them on, or you’ll mebbe sprain your wrist.”
+
+“Not much fear of that,” said the novice, looking at his watch, and,
+finding that he had some minutes to spare, sitting down opposite Skene.
+
+“No,” assented the champion. “When you rise to be a regular professional
+you won’t care to spar with nobody without you’re well paid for it.”
+
+“I may say I am in the profession already. You don’t call me an amateur,
+do you?”
+
+“Oh, no,” said Skene, soothingly; “not so bad as that. But mind you,
+my boy, I don’t call no man a fighting-man what ain’t been in the ring.
+You’re a sparrer, and a clever, pretty sparrer; but sparring ain’t the
+real thing. Some day, please God, we’ll make up a little match for you,
+and show what you can do without the gloves.”
+
+“I would just as soon have the gloves off as on,” said the novice, a
+little sulkily.
+
+“That’s because you have a heart as big as a lion,” said Skene, patting
+him on the shoulder. But the novice, who was accustomed to hear his
+master pay the same compliment to his patrons whenever they were seized
+with fits of boasting (which usually happened when they got beaten),
+looked obdurate and said nothing.
+
+“Sam Ducket, of Milltown, was here to-day while you was out giving
+Captain Noble his lesson,” continued Skene, watching his apprentice’s
+face cunningly. “Now Sam is a real fighting-man, if you like.”
+
+“I don’t think much of him. He’s a liar, for one thing.”
+
+“That’s a failing of the profession. I don’t mind telling YOU so,”
+ said Skene, mournfully. Now the novice had found out this for himself,
+already. He never, for instance, believed the accounts which his master
+gave of the accidents and conspiracies which had led to his being
+defeated three times in the ring. However, as Skene had won fifteen
+battles, his next remark was undeniable. “Men fight none the worse for
+being liars. Sam Ducket bet Ebony Muley in twenty minutes.”
+
+“Yes,” said the novice, scornfully; “and what is Ebony Muley? A wretched
+old nigger nearly sixty years old, who is drunk seven days in the week,
+and would sell a fight for a glass of brandy! Ducket ought to have
+knocked him out of time in seventy seconds. Ducket has no science.”
+
+“Not a bit,” said Ned. “But he has lots of game.”
+
+“Pshaw! Come, now, Ned; you know as well as I do that that is one of the
+stalest commonplaces going. If a fellow knows how to box, they always
+say he has science but no pluck. If he doesn’t know his right hand from
+his left, they say that he isn’t clever but that he is full of game.”
+
+Skene looked with secret wonder at his pupil, whose powers of
+observation and expression sometimes seemed to him almost to rival those
+of Mrs. Skene. “Sam was saying something like that to-day,” he remarked.
+“He says you’re only a sparrer, and that you’d fall down with fright if
+you was put into a twenty-four-foot ring.”
+
+The novice flushed. “I wish I had been here when Sum Ducket said that.”
+
+“Why, what could you ha’ done to him?” said Skene, his small eyes
+twinkling.
+
+“I’d have punched his head; that’s what I could and would have done to
+him.”
+
+“Why, man, he’d eat you.”
+
+“He might. And he might eat you too, Ned, if he had salt enough with
+you. He talks big because he knows I have no money; and he pretends he
+won’t strip for less than fifty pounds a side.”
+
+“No money!” cried Skene. “I know them as’ll make up fifty pound before
+twelve to-morrow for any man as I will answer for. There’d be a start
+for a young man! Why, my fust fight was for five shillings in Tott’nam
+Fields; and proud I was when I won it. I don’t want to set you on to
+fight a crack like Sam Ducket anyway against your inclinations; but
+don’t go for to say that money isn’t to be had. Let Ned Skene pint to a
+young man and say, ‘That’s the young man as Ned backs,’ and others will
+come for’ard--ay, crowds of ‘em.”
+
+The novice hesitated. “Do you think I ought to, Ned?” he said.
+
+“That ain’t for me to say,” said Skene, doggedly. “I know what I would
+ha’ said at your age. But perhaps you’re right to be cautious. I tell
+you the truth, I wouldn’t care to see you whipped by the like of Sam
+Ducket.”
+
+“Will you train me if I challenge him?”
+
+“Will I train you!” echoed Skene, rising with enthusiasm. “Ay will I
+train you, and put my money on you, too; and you shall knock fireworks
+out of him, my boy, as sure as my name’s Ned Skene.”
+
+“Then,” cried the novice, reddening with excitement, “I’ll fight him.
+And if I lick him you will have to hand over your belt as champion of
+the colonies to me.”
+
+“So I will,” said Skene, affectionately. “Don’t out late; and don’t for
+your life touch a drop of liquor. You must go into training to-morrow.”
+
+This was Cashel Byron’s first professional engagement.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I
+
+
+Wiltstoken Castle was a square building with circular bastions at the
+corners, each bastion terminating skyward in a Turkish minaret. The
+southwest face was the front, and was pierced by a Moorish arch fitted
+with glass doors, which could be secured on occasion by gates of
+fantastically hammered iron. The arch was enshrined by a Palladian
+portico, which rose to the roof, and was surmounted by an open pediment,
+in the cleft of which stood a black-marble figure of an Egyptian, erect,
+and gazing steadfastly at the midday sun. On the ground beneath was
+an Italian terrace with two great stone elephants at the ends of the
+balustrade. The windows on the upper story were, like the entrance,
+Moorish; but the principal ones below were square bays, mullioned.
+The castle was considered grand by the illiterate; but architects and
+readers of books on architecture condemned it as a nondescript
+mixture of styles in the worst possible taste. It stood on an eminence
+surrounded by hilly woodland, thirty acres of which were enclosed as
+Wiltstoken Park. Half a mile south was the little town of Wiltstoken,
+accessible by rail from London in about two hours.
+
+Most of the inhabitants of Wiltstoken were Conservatives. They stood in
+awe of the castle; and some of them would at any time have cut half a
+dozen of their oldest friends to obtain an invitation to dinner, or oven
+a bow in public, from Miss Lydia Carew, its orphan mistress. This Miss
+Carew was a remarkable person. She had inherited the castle and park
+from her aunt, who had considered her niece’s large fortune in railways
+and mines incomplete without land. So many other legacies had Lydia
+received from kinsfolk who hated poor relations, that she was now, in
+her twenty-fifth year, the independent possessor of an annual income
+equal to the year’s earnings of five hundred workmen, and under no
+external compulsion to do anything in return for it. In addition to the
+advantage of being a single woman in unusually easy circumstances, she
+enjoyed a reputation for vast learning and exquisite culture. It was
+said in Wiltstoken that she knew forty-eight living languages and
+all dead ones; could play on every known musical instrument; was an
+accomplished painter, and had written poetry. All this might as well
+have been true as far as the Wiltstokeners were concerned, since she
+knew more than they. She had spent her life travelling with her father,
+a man of active mind and bad digestion, with a taste for sociology,
+science in general, and the fine arts. On these subjects he had written
+books, by which he had earned a considerable reputation as a critic and
+philosopher. They were the outcome of much reading, observation of men
+and cities, sight-seeing, and theatre-going, of which his daughter had
+done her share, and indeed, as she grew more competent and he weaker and
+older, more than her share. He had had to combine health-hunting with
+pleasure-seeking; and, being very irritable and fastidious, had schooled
+her in self-control and endurance by harder lessons than those which had
+made her acquainted with the works of Greek and German philosophers long
+before she understood the English into which she translated them.
+
+When Lydia was in her twenty-first year her father’s health failed
+seriously. He became more dependent on her; and she anticipated that he
+would also become more exacting in his demands on her time. The contrary
+occurred. One day, at Naples, she had arranged to go riding with an
+English party that was staying there. Shortly before the appointed
+hour he asked her to make a translation of a long extract from Lessing.
+Lydia, in whom self-questionings as to the justice of her father’s yoke
+had been for some time stirring, paused thoughtfully for perhaps two
+seconds before she consented. Carew said nothing, but he presently
+intercepted a servant who was bearing an apology to the English party,
+read the note, and went back to his daughter, who was already busy at
+Lessing.
+
+“Lydia,” he said, with a certain hesitation, which she would have
+ascribed to shyness had that been at all credible of her father when
+addressing her, “I wish you never to postpone your business to literary
+trifling.”
+
+She looked at him with the vague fear that accompanies a new and
+doubtful experience; and he, dissatisfied with his way of putting the
+case, added, “It is of greater importance that you should enjoy yourself
+for an hour than that my book should be advanced. Far greater!”
+
+Lydia, after some consideration, put down her pen and said, “I shall not
+enjoy riding if there is anything else left undone.”
+
+“I shall not enjoy your writing if your excursion is given up for it,”
+ he said. “I prefer your going.”
+
+Lydia obeyed silently. An odd thought struck her that she might end the
+matter gracefully by kissing him. But as they were unaccustomed to make
+demonstrations of this kind, nothing came of the impulse. She spent the
+day on horseback, reconsidered her late rebellious thoughts, and made
+the translation in the evening.
+
+Thenceforth Lydia had a growing sense of the power she had unwittingly
+been acquiring during her long subordination. Timidly at first, and more
+boldly as she became used to dispense with the parental leading-strings,
+she began to follow her own bent in selecting subjects for study, and
+even to defend certain recent developments of art against her father’s
+conservatism. He approved of this independent mental activity on her
+part, and repeatedly warned her not to pin her faith more on him than
+on any other critic. She once told him that one of her incentives to
+disagree with him was the pleasure it gave her to find out ultimately
+that he was right. He replied gravely:
+
+“That pleases me, Lydia, because I believe you. But such things are
+better left unsaid. They seem to belong to the art of pleasing, which
+you will perhaps soon be tempted to practise, because it seems to all
+young people easy, well paid, amiable, and a mark of good breeding. In
+truth it is vulgar, cowardly, egotistical, and insincere: a virtue in
+a shopman; a vice in a free woman. It is better to leave genuine praise
+unspoken than to expose yourself to the suspicion of flattery.”
+
+Shortly after this, at his desire, she spent a season in London, and
+went into English polite society, which she found to be in the main a
+temple for the worship of wealth and a market for the sale of virgins.
+Having become familiar with both the cult and the trade elsewhere, she
+found nothing to interest her except the English manner of conducting
+them; and the novelty of this soon wore off. She was also incommoded by
+her involuntary power of inspiring affection in her own sex. Impulsive
+girls she could keep in awe; but old women, notably two aunts who had
+never paid her any attention during her childhood, now persecuted her
+with slavish fondness, and tempted her by mingled entreaties and bribes
+to desert her father and live with them for the remainder of their
+lives. Her reserve fanned their longing to have her for a pet; and, to
+escape them, she returned to the Continent with her father, and ceased
+to hold any correspondence with London. Her aunts declared themselves
+deeply hurt, and Lydia was held to have treated them very injudiciously;
+but when they died, and their wills became public, it was found that
+they had vied with one another in enriching her.
+
+When she was twenty-five years old the first startling event of her life
+took place. This was the death of her father at Avignon. No endearments
+passed between them even on that occasion. She was sitting opposite to
+him at the fireside one evening, reading aloud, when he suddenly said,
+“My heart has stopped, Lydia. Good-bye!” and immediately died. She had
+some difficulty in quelling the tumult that arose when the bell was
+answered. The whole household felt bound to be overwhelmed, and took
+it rather ill that she seemed neither grateful to them nor disposed to
+imitate their behavior.
+
+Carew’s relatives agreed that he had made a most unbecoming will. It
+was a brief document, dated five years before his death, and was to the
+effect that he bequeathed to his dear daughter Lydia all he possessed.
+He had, however, left her certain private instructions. One of these,
+which excited great indignation in his family, was that his body
+should be conveyed to Milan, and there cremated. Having disposed of
+her father’s remains as he had directed, she came to set her affairs
+in order in England, where she inspired much hopeless passion in
+the toilers in Lincoln’s Inn Fields and Chancery Lane, and agreeably
+surprised her solicitors by evincing a capacity for business, and a
+patience with the law’s delay, that seemed incompatible with her age and
+sex. When all was arranged, and she was once more able to enjoy perfect
+tranquillity, she returned to Avignon, and there discharged her last
+duty to her father. This was to open a letter she had found in his desk,
+inscribed by his hand: “For Lydia. To be read by her at leisure when I
+and my affairs shall be finally disposed of.” The letter ran thus:
+
+“MY DEAR LYDIA,--I belong to the great company of disappointed men. But
+for you, I should now write myself down a failure like the rest. It is
+only a few years since it first struck me that although I had failed in
+many ambitions with which (having failed) I need not trouble you now,
+I had achieved some success as a father. I had no sooner made this
+discovery than it began to stick in my thoughts that you could draw no
+other conclusion from the course of our life together than that I have,
+with entire selfishness, used you throughout as my mere amanuensis
+and clerk, and that you are under no more obligation to me for your
+attainments than a slave is to his master for the strength which
+enforced labor has given to his muscles. Lest I should leave you
+suffering from so mischievous and oppressive an influence as a sense of
+injustice, I now justify myself to you.
+
+“I have never asked you whether you remember your mother. Had you at any
+time broached the subject, I should have spoken quite freely to you on
+it; but as some wise instinct led you to avoid it, I was content to let
+it rest until circumstances such as the present should render further
+reserve unnecessary. If any regret at having known so little of the
+woman who gave you birth troubles you, shake it off without remorse. She
+was the most disagreeable person I ever knew. I speak dispassionately.
+All my bitter personal feeling against her is as dead while I write as
+it will be when you read. I have even come to cherish tenderly certain
+of her characteristics which you have inherited, so that I confidently
+say that I never, since the perishing of the infatuation in which I
+married, felt more kindly toward her than I do now. I made the best,
+and she the worst, of our union for six years; and then we parted. I
+permitted her to give what account of the separation she pleased, and
+allowed her about five times as much money as she had any right
+to expect. By these means I induced her to leave me in undisturbed
+possession of you, whom I had already, as a measure of precaution,
+carried off to Belgium. The reason why we never visited England during
+her lifetime was that she could, and probably would, have made my
+previous conduct and my hostility to popular religion an excuse for
+wresting you from me. I need say no more of her, and am sorry it was
+necessary to mention her at all.
+
+“I will now tell you what induced me to secure you for myself. It was
+not natural affection; I did not love you then, and I knew that you
+would be a serious encumbrance to me. But, having brought you into the
+world, and then broken through my engagements with your mother, I felt
+bound to see that you should not suffer for my mistake. Gladly would
+I have persuaded myself that she was (as the gossips said) the fittest
+person to have charge of you; but I knew better, and made up my mind to
+discharge my responsibility as well as I could. In course of time
+you became useful to me; and, as you know, I made use of you without
+scruple, but never without regard to your own advantage. I always kept
+a secretary to do whatever I considered mere copyist’s work. Much as you
+did for me, I think I may say with truth that I never imposed a task of
+absolutely no educational value on you. I fear you found the hours you
+spent over my money affairs very irksome; but I need not apologize for
+that now: you must already know by experience how necessary a knowledge
+of business is to the possessor of a large fortune.
+
+“I did not think, when I undertook your education, that I was laying the
+foundation of any comfort for myself. For a long time you were only a
+good girl, and what ignorant people called a prodigy of learning.
+In your circumstances a commonplace child might have been both. I
+subsequently came to contemplate your existence with a pleasure which
+I never derived from the contemplation of my own. I have not succeeded,
+and shall not succeed in expressing the affection I feel for you, or
+the triumph with which I find that what I undertook as a distasteful
+and thankless duty has rescued my life and labor from waste. My literary
+travail, seriously as it has occupied us both, I now value only for
+the share it has had in educating you; and you will be guilty of no
+disloyalty to me when you come to see that though I sifted as much sand
+as most men, I found no gold. I ask you to remember, then, that I did my
+duty to you long before it became pleasurable or even hopeful. And, when
+you are older and have learned from your mother’s friends how I failed
+in my duty to her, you will perhaps give me some credit for having
+conciliated the world for your sake by abandoning habits and
+acquaintances which, whatever others may have thought of them, did much
+while they lasted to make life endurable to me.
+
+“Although your future will not concern me, I often find myself thinking
+of it. I fear you will soon find that the world has not yet provided a
+place and a sphere of action for wise and well-instructed women. In my
+younger days, when the companionship of my fellows was a necessity
+to me, I voluntarily set aside my culture, relaxed my principles, and
+acquired common tastes, in order to fit myself for the society of the
+only men within my reach; for, if I had to live among bears, I had
+rather be a bear than a man. Let me warn you against this. Never attempt
+to accommodate yourself to the world by self-degradation. Be patient;
+and you will enjoy frivolity all the more because you are not frivolous:
+much as the world will respect your knowledge all the more because of
+its own ignorance.
+
+“Some day, I expect and hope, you will marry. You will then have an
+opportunity of making an irremediable mistake, against the possibility
+of which no advice of mine or subtlety of yours can guard you. I think
+you will not easily find a man able to satisfy in you that desire to be
+relieved of the responsibility of thinking out and ordering our course
+of life that makes us each long for a guide whom we can thoroughly
+trust. If you fail, remember that your father, after suffering a bitter
+and complete disappointment in his wife, yet came to regard his marriage
+as the happiest event in his career. Let me remind you also, since you
+are so rich, that it would be a great folly for you to be jealous of
+your own income, and to limit your choice of a husband to those already
+too rich to marry for money. No vulgar adventurer will be able to
+recommend himself to you; and better men will be at least as much
+frightened as attracted by your wealth. The only class against which
+I need warn you is that to which I myself am supposed to belong. Never
+think that a man must prove a suitable and satisfying friend for
+you merely because he has read much criticism; that he must feel
+the influences of art as you do because he knows and adopts the
+classification of names and schools with which you are familiar; or
+that because he agrees with your favorite authors he must necessarily
+interpret their words to himself as you understand them. Beware of men
+who have read more than they have worked, or who love to read better
+than to work. Beware of painters, poets, musicians, and artists of all
+sorts, except very great artists: beware even of them as husbands and
+fathers. Self-satisfied workmen who have learned their business well,
+whether they be chancellors of the exchequer or farmers, I recommend to
+you as, on the whole, the most tolerable class of men I have met.
+
+“I shall make no further attempt to advise you. As fast as my counsels
+rise to my mind follow reflections that convince me of their futility.
+
+“You may perhaps wonder why I never said to you what I have written down
+here. I have tried to do so and failed. If I understand myself aright,
+I have written these lines mainly to relieve a craving to express
+my affection for you. The awkwardness which an over-civilized man
+experiences in admitting that he is something more than an educated
+stone prevented me from confusing you by demonstrations of a kind I had
+never accustomed you to. Besides, I wish this assurance of my love--my
+last word--to reach you when no further commonplaces to blur the
+impressiveness of its simple truth are possible.
+
+“I know I have said too much; and I feel that I have not said enough.
+But the writing of this letter has been a difficult task. Practised as I
+am with my pen, I have never, even in my earliest efforts, composed with
+such labor and sense of inadequacy----”
+
+Here the manuscript broke off. The letter had never been finished.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II
+
+
+In the month of May, seven years after the flight of the two boys from
+Moncrief House, a lady sat in an island of shadow which was made by
+a cedar-tree in the midst of a glittering green lawn. She did well
+to avoid the sun, for her complexion was as delicately tinted as
+mother-of-pearl. She was a small, graceful woman, with sensitive lips
+and nostrils, green eyes, with quiet, unarched brows, and ruddy gold
+hair, now shaded by a large, untrimmed straw hat. Her dress of Indian
+muslin, with half-sleeves terminating at the elbows in wide ruffles,
+hardly covered her shoulders, where it was supplemented by a scarf
+through which a glimpse of her throat was visible in a nest of soft
+Tourkaris lace. She was reading a little ivory-bound volume--a miniature
+edition of the second part of Goethe’s “Faust.”
+
+As the afternoon wore on and the light mellowed, the lady dropped her
+book and began to think and dream, unconscious of a prosaic black object
+crossing the lawn towards her. This was a young gentleman in a
+frock coat. He was dark, and had a long, grave face, with a reserved
+expression, but not ill-looking.
+
+“Going so soon, Lucian?” said the lady, looking up as he came into the
+shadow.
+
+Lucian looked at her wistfully. His name, as she uttered it, always
+stirred him vaguely. He was fond of finding out the reasons of things,
+and had long ago decided that this inward stir was due to her fine
+pronunciation. His other intimates called him Looshn.
+
+“Yes,” he said. “I have arranged everything, and have come to give an
+account of my stewardship, and to say good-bye.”
+
+He placed a garden-chair near her and sat down. She laid her hands one
+on the other in her lap, and composed herself to listen.
+
+“First,” he said, “as to the Warren Lodge. It is let for a month only;
+so you can allow Mrs. Goff to have it rent free in July if you still
+wish to. I hope you will not act so unwisely.”
+
+She smiled, and said, “Who are the present tenants? I hear that they
+object to the dairymaids and men crossing the elm vista.”
+
+“We must not complain of that. It was expressly stipulated when they
+took the lodge that the vista should be kept private for them. I had
+no idea at that time that you were coming to the castle, or I should of
+course have declined such a condition.”
+
+“But we do keep it private for them; strangers are not admitted. Our
+people pass and repass once a day on their way to and from the dairy;
+that is all.”
+
+“It seems churlish, Lydia; but this, it appears, is a special case--a
+young gentleman, who has come to recruit his health. He needs daily
+exercise in the open air; but he cannot bear observation, and he has
+only a single attendant with him. Under these circumstances I agreed
+that they should have the sole use of the elm vista. In fact, they are
+paying more rent than would be reasonable without this privilege.”
+
+“I hope the young gentleman is not mad.”
+
+“I satisfied myself before I let the lodge to him that he would be a
+proper tenant,” said Lucian, with reproachful gravity. “He was strongly
+recommended to me by Lord Worthington, whom I believe to be a man of
+honor, notwithstanding his inveterate love of sport. As it happens,
+I expressed to him the suspicion you have just suggested. Worthington
+vouched for the tenant’s sanity, and offered to take the lodge in his
+own name and be personally responsible for the good behavior of this
+young invalid, who has, I fancy, upset his nerves by hard reading.
+Probably some college friend of Worthington’s.”
+
+“Perhaps so. But I should rather expect a college friend of Lord
+Worthington’s to be a hard rider or drinker than a hard reader.”
+
+“You may be quite at ease, Lydia. I took Lord Worthington at his word
+so far as to make the letting to him. I have never seen the real tenant.
+But, though I do not even recollect his name, I will venture to answer
+for him at second-hand.”
+
+“I am quite satisfied, Lucian; and I am greatly obliged to you. I will
+give orders that no one shall go to the dairy by way of the warren. It
+is natural that he should wish to be out of the world.”
+
+“The next point,” resumed Lucian, “is more important, as it concerns
+you personally. Miss Goff is willing to accept your offer. And a most
+unsuitable companion she will be for you!”
+
+“Why, Lucian?”
+
+“On all accounts. She is younger than you, and therefore cannot
+chaperone you. She has received only an ordinary education, and her
+experience of society is derived from local subscription balls. And, as
+she is not unattractive, and is considered a beauty in Wiltstoken, she
+is self-willed, and will probably take your patronage in bad part.”
+
+“Is she more self-willed than I?”
+
+“You are not self-willed, Lydia; except that you are deaf to advice.”
+
+“You mean that I seldom follow it. And so you think I had better employ
+a professional companion--a decayed gentlewoman--than save this
+young girl from going out as a governess and beginning to decay at
+twenty-three?”
+
+“The business of getting a suitable companion, and the pleasure or duty
+of relieving poor people, are two different things, Lydia.”
+
+“True, Lucian. When will Miss Goff call?”
+
+“This evening. Mind; nothing is settled as yet. If you think better of
+it on seeing her you have only to treat her as an ordinary visitor and
+the subject will drop. For my own part, I prefer her sister; but she
+will not leave Mrs. Goff, who has not yet recovered from the shock of
+her husband’s death.”
+
+Lydia looked reflectively at the little volume in her hand, and seemed
+to think out the question of Miss Goff. Presently, with an air of having
+made up her mind, she said, “Can you guess which of Goethe’s characters
+you remind me of when you try to be worldly-wise for my sake?”
+
+“When I try--What an extraordinary irrelevance! I have not read Goethe
+lately. Mephistopheles, I suppose. But I did not mean to be cynical.”
+
+“No; not Mephistopheles, but Wagner--with a difference. Wagner taking
+Mephistopheles instead of Faust for his model.” Seeing by his face
+that he did not relish the comparison, she added, “I am paying you a
+compliment. Wagner represents a very clever man.”
+
+“The saving clause is unnecessary,” he said, somewhat sarcastically. “I
+know your opinion of me quite well, Lydia.”
+
+She looked quickly at him. Detecting the concern in her glance, he shook
+his head sadly, saying, “I must go now, Lydia. I leave you in charge of
+the housekeeper until Miss Goff arrives.”
+
+She gave him her hand, and a dull glow came into his gray jaws as he
+took it. Then he buttoned his coat and walked gravely away. As he went,
+she watched the sun mirrored in his glossy hat, and drowned in his
+respectable coat. She sighed, and took up Goethe again.
+
+But after a little while she began to be tired of sitting still, and she
+rose and wandered through the park for nearly an hour, trying to find
+the places in which she had played in her childhood during a visit to
+her late aunt. She recognized a great toppling Druid’s altar that had
+formerly reminded her of Mount Sinai threatening to fall on the head of
+Christian in “The Pilgrim’s Progress.” Farther on she saw and avoided a
+swamp in which she had once earned a scolding from her nurse by filling
+her stockings with mud. Then she found herself in a long avenue of green
+turf, running east and west, and apparently endless. This seemed the
+most delightful of all her possessions, and she had begun to plan a
+pavilion to build near it, when she suddenly recollected that this must
+be the elm vista of which the privacy was so stringently insisted upon,
+by her invalid tenant at the Warren Lodge. She fled into the wood at
+once, and, when she was safe there, laughed at the oddity of being a
+trespasser in her own domain. She made a wide detour in order to avoid
+intruding a second time; consequently, after walking for a quarter of
+an hour, she lost herself. The trees seemed never ending; she began to
+think she must possess a forest as well as a park. At last she saw an
+opening. Hastening toward it, she came again into the sunlight, and
+stopped, dazzled by an apparition which she at first took to be a
+beautiful statue, but presently recognized, with a strange glow of
+delight, as a living man.
+
+To so mistake a gentleman exercising himself in the open air on a
+nineteenth-century afternoon would, under ordinary circumstances, imply
+incredible ignorance either of men or statues. But the circumstances in
+Miss Carew’s case were not ordinary; for the man was clad in a jersey
+and knee-breeches of white material, and his bare arms shone like those
+of a gladiator. His broad pectoral muscles, in their white covering,
+were like slabs of marble. Even his hair, short, crisp, and curly,
+seemed like burnished bronze in the evening light. It came into Lydia’s
+mind that she had disturbed an antique god in his sylvan haunt. The
+fancy was only momentary; for she perceived that there was a third
+person present; a man impossible to associate with classic divinity. He
+looked like a well to do groom, and was contemplating his companion much
+as a groom might contemplate an exceptionally fine horse. He was the
+first to see Lydia; and his expression as he did so plainly showed that
+he regarded her as a most unwelcome intruder. The statue-man, following
+his sinister look, saw her too, but with different feelings; for his
+lips parted, his color rose, and he stared at her with undisguised
+admiration and wonder. Lydia’s first impulse was to turn and fly; her
+next, to apologize for her presence. Finally she went away quietly
+through the trees.
+
+The moment she was out of their sight she increased her pace almost to
+a run. The day was too warm for rapid movement, and she soon stopped
+and listened. There were the usual woodland sounds; leaves rustling,
+grasshoppers chirping, and birds singing; but not a human voice or
+footstep. She began to think that the god-like figure was only the
+Hermes of Praxiteles, suggested to her by Goethe’s classical Sabbat, and
+changed by a day-dream into the semblance of a living reality. The
+groom must have been one of those incongruities characteristic of
+dreams--probably a reminiscence of Lucian’s statement that the tenant
+of the Warren Lodge had a single male attendant. It was impossible that
+this glorious vision of manly strength and beauty could be substantially
+a student broken down by excessive study. That irrational glow of
+delight, too, was one of the absurdities of dreamland; otherwise she
+should have been ashamed of it.
+
+Lydia made her way back to the castle in some alarm as to the state of
+her nerves, but dwelling on her vision with a pleasure that she would
+not have ventured to indulge had it concerned a creature of flesh
+and blood. Once or twice it recurred to her so vividly that she
+asked herself whether it could have been real. But a little reasoning
+convinced her that it must have been an hallucination.
+
+“If you please, madam,” said one of her staff of domestics, a native of
+Wiltstoken, who stood in deep awe of the lady of the castle, “Miss Goff
+is waiting for you in the drawing-room.”
+
+The drawing-room of the castle was a circular apartment, with a
+dome-shaped ceiling broken into gilt ornaments resembling thick
+bamboos, which projected vertically downward like stalagmites. The
+heavy chandeliers were loaded with flattened brass balls, magnified
+fac-similes of which crowned the uprights of the low, broad,
+massively-framed chairs, which were covered in leather stamped with
+Japanese dragon designs in copper-colored metal. Near the fireplace was
+a great bronze bell of Chinese shape, mounted like a mortar on a black
+wooden carriage for use as a coal-scuttle. The wall was decorated with
+large gold crescents on a ground of light blue.
+
+In this barbaric rotunda Miss Carew found awaiting her a young lady
+of twenty-three, with a well-developed, resilient figure, and a clear
+complexion, porcelain surfaced, and with a fine red in the cheeks.
+The lofty pose of her head expressed an habitual sense of her
+own consequence given her by the admiration of the youth of the
+neighborhood, which was also, perhaps, the cause of the neatness of her
+inexpensive black dress, and of her irreproachable gloves, boots, and
+hat. She had been waiting to introduce herself to the lady of the castle
+for ten minutes in a state of nervousness that culminated as Lydia
+entered.
+
+“How do you do, Miss Goff, Have I kept you waiting? I was out.”
+
+“Not at all,” said Miss Goff, with a confused impression that red hair
+was aristocratic, and dark brown (the color of her own) vulgar. She had
+risen to shake hands, and now, after hesitating a moment to consider
+what etiquette required her to do next, resumed her seat. Miss Carew
+sat down too, and gazed thoughtfully at her visitor, who held herself
+rigidly erect, and, striving to mask her nervousness, unintentionally
+looked disdainful.
+
+“Miss Goff,” said Lydia, after a silence that made her speech
+impressive, “will you come to me on a long visit? In this lonely place I
+am greatly in want of a friend and companion of my own age and position.
+I think you must be equally so.”
+
+Alice Goff was very young, and very determined to accept no credit that
+she did not deserve. With the unconscious vanity and conscious honesty
+of youth, she proceeded to set Miss Carew right as to her social
+position, not considering that the lady of the castle probably
+understood it better than she did herself, and indeed thinking it quite
+natural that she should be mistaken.
+
+“You are very kind,” she replied, stiffly; “but our positions are quite
+different, Miss Carew. The fact is that I cannot afford to live an
+idle life. We are very poor, and my mother is partly dependent on my
+exertions.”
+
+“I think you will be able to exert yourself to good purpose if you come
+to me,” said Lydia, unimpressed. “It is true that I shall give you very
+expensive habits; but I will of course enable you to support them.”
+
+“I do not wish to contract expensive habits,” said Alice, reproachfully.
+“I shall have to content myself with frugal ones throughout my life.”
+
+“Not necessarily. Tell me, frankly: how had you proposed to exert
+yourself? As a teacher, was it not?”
+
+Alice flushed, but assented.
+
+“You are not at all fitted for it; and you will end by marrying. As
+a teacher you could not marry well. As an idle lady, with expensive
+habits, you will marry very well indeed. It is quite an art to know how
+to be rich--an indispensable art, if you mean to marry a rich man.”
+
+“I have no intention of marrying,” said Alice, loftily. She thought
+it time to check this cool aristocrat. “If I come at all I shall come
+without any ulterior object.”
+
+“That is just what I had hoped. Come without condition, or second
+thought of any kind.”
+
+“But--” began Alice, and stopped, bewildered by the pace at which the
+negotiation was proceeding. She murmured a few words, and waited for
+Lydia to proceed. But Lydia had said her say, and evidently expected a
+reply, though she seemed assured of having her own way, whatever Alice’s
+views might be.
+
+“I do not quite understand, Miss Carew. What duties?--what would you
+expect of me?”
+
+“A great deal,” said Lydia, gravely. “Much more than I should from a
+mere professional companion.”
+
+“But I am a professional companion,” protested Alice.
+
+“Whose?”
+
+Alice flushed again, angrily this time. “I did not mean to say--”
+
+“You do not mean to say that you will have nothing to do with me,” said
+Lydia, stopping her quietly. “Why are you so scrupulous, Miss Goff? You
+will be close to your home, and can return to it at any moment if you
+become dissatisfied with your position here.”
+
+Fearful that she had disgraced herself by ill manners; loath to be taken
+possession of as if her wishes were of no consequence when a rich
+lady’s whim was to be gratified; suspicious--since she had often heard
+gossiping tales of the dishonesty of people in high positions--lest she
+should be cheated out of the salary she had come resolved to demand; and
+withal unable to defend herself against Miss Carew, Alice caught at the
+first excuse that occurred to her.
+
+“I should like a little time to consider,” she said.
+
+“Time to accustom yourself to me, is it not? You can have as long as you
+plea-”
+
+“Oh, I can let you know tomorrow,” interrupted Alice, officiously.
+
+“Thank you. I will send a note to Mrs. Goff to say that she need not
+expect you back until tomorrow.”
+
+“But I did not mean--I am not prepared to stay,” remonstrated Alice,
+feeling that she was being entangled in a snare.
+
+“We shall take a walk after dinner, then, and call at your house, where
+you can make your preparations. But I think I can supply you with all
+you will require.”
+
+Alice dared make no further objection. “I am afraid,” she stammered,
+“you will think me horribly rude; but I am so useless, and you are so
+sure to be disappointed, that--that--”
+
+“You are not rude, Miss Goff; but I find you very shy. You want to
+run away and hide from new faces and new surroundings.” Alice, who was
+self-possessed and even overbearing in Wiltstoken society, felt that
+she was misunderstood, but did not know how to vindicate herself. Lydia
+resumed, “I have formed my habits in the course of my travels, and so
+live without ceremony. We dine early--at six.”
+
+Alice had dined at two, but did not feel bound to confess it.
+
+“Let me show you your room,” said Lydia, rising. “This is a curious
+drawingroom,” she added, glancing around. “I only use it occasionally to
+receive visitors.” She looked about her again with some interest, as if
+the apartment belonged to some one else, and led the way to a room on
+the first floor, furnished as a lady’s bed-chamber. “If you dislike
+this,” she said, “or cannot arrange it to suit you, there are others, of
+which you can have your choice. Come to my boudoir when you are ready.”
+
+“Where is that?” said Alice, anxiously.
+
+“It is--You had better ring for some one to show you. I will send you my
+maid.”
+
+Alice, even more afraid of the maid than of the mistress, declined
+hastily. “I am accustomed to attend to myself, Miss Carew,” with proud
+humility.
+
+“You will find it more convenient to call me Lydia,” said Miss Carew.
+“Otherwise you will be supposed to refer to my grandaunt, a very old
+lady.” She then left the room.
+
+Alice was fond of thinking that she had a womanly taste and touch
+in making a room pretty. She was accustomed to survey with pride her
+mother’s drawing-room, which she had garnished with cheap cretonnes,
+Japanese paper fans, and knick-knacks in ornamental pottery. She felt
+now that if she slept once in the bed before her, she could never be
+content in her mother’s house again. All that she had read and believed
+of the beauty of cheap and simple ornament, and the vulgarity of
+costliness, recurred to her as a hypocritical paraphrase of the “sour
+grapes” of the fox in the fable. She pictured to herself with a shudder
+the effect of a sixpenny Chinese umbrella in that fireplace, a cretonne
+valance to that bed, or chintz curtains to those windows. There was in
+the room a series of mirrors consisting of a great glass in which she
+could see herself at full length, another framed in the carved oaken
+dressing-table, and smaller ones of various shapes fixed to jointed arms
+that turned every way. To use them for the first time was like having
+eyes in the back of the head. She had never seen herself from all points
+of view before. As she gazed, she strove not to be ashamed of her dress;
+but even her face and figure, which usually afforded her unqualified
+delight, seemed robust and middle-class in Miss Carew’s mirrors.
+
+“After all,” she said, seating herself on a chair that was even more
+luxurious to rest in than to look at; “putting the lace out of
+the question--and my old lace that belongs to mamma is quite as
+valuable--her whole dress cannot have cost much more than mine. At any
+rate, it is not worth much more, whatever she may have chosen to pay for
+it.”
+
+But Alice was clever enough to envy Miss Carew her manners more than
+her dress. She would not admit to herself that she was not thoroughly
+a lady; but she felt that Lydia, in the eye of a stranger, would answer
+that description better than she. Still, as far as she had observed,
+Miss Carew was exceedingly cool in her proceedings, and did not take
+any pains to please those with whom she conversed. Alice had often made
+compacts of friendship with young ladies, and had invited them to call
+her by her Christian name; but on such occasions she had always called
+themn “dear” or “darling,” and, while the friendship lasted (which was
+often longer than a month, for Alice was a steadfast girl), had never
+met them without exchanging an embrace and a hearty kiss.
+
+“And nothing,” she said, springing from the chair as she thought of
+this, and speaking very resolutely, “shall tempt me to believe that
+there is anything vulgar in sincere affection. I shall be on my guard
+against this woman.”
+
+Having settled that matter for the present, she resumed her examination
+of the apartment, and was more and more attracted by it as she
+proceeded. For, thanks to her eminence as a local beauty, she had not
+that fear of beautiful and rich things which renders abject people
+incapable of associating costliness with comfort. Had the counterpane of
+the bed been her own, she would have unhesitatingly converted it into a
+ball-dress. There were toilet appliances of which she had never felt the
+need, and could only guess the use. She looked with despair into the two
+large closets, thinking how poor a show her three dresses, her ulster,
+and her few old jackets would make there. There was also a dressing-room
+with a marble bath that made cleanliness a luxury instead of one of the
+sternest of the virtues, as it seemed at home. Yet she remarked that
+though every object was more or less ornamental, nothing had been placed
+in the rooms for the sake of ornament alone. Miss Carew, judged by her
+domestic arrangements, was a utilitarian before everything. There was
+a very handsome chimney piece; but as there was nothing on the mantel
+board, Alice made a faint effort to believe that it was inferior in
+point of taste to that in her own bedroom, which was covered with blue
+cloth, surrounded by fringe and brass headed nails, and laden with
+photographs in plush frames.
+
+The striking of the hour reminded her that she had forgotten to prepare
+for dinner. Khe hastily took off her hat, washed her hands, spent
+another minute among the mirrors, and was summoning courage to ring
+the bell, when a doubt occurred to her. Ought she to put on her gloves
+before going down or not? This kept her in perplexity for many seconds.
+At last she resolved to put her gloves in her pocket, and be guided
+as to their further disposal by the example of her hostess. Then, not
+daring to hesitate any longer, she rang the bell, and was presently
+joined by a French lady of polished manners--Miss Carew’s maid who
+conducted her to the boudoir, a hexagonal apartment that, Alice thought,
+a sultana might have envied. Lydia was there, reading. Alice noted with
+relief that she had not changed her dress, and that she was ungloved.
+
+Miss Goff did not enjoy the dinner. There was a butler who seemed to
+have nothing to do but stand at a buffet and watch her. There was also a
+swift, noiseless footman who presented himself at her elbow at intervals
+and compelled her to choose on the instant between unfamiliar things
+to eat and drink. She envied these men their knowledge of society, and
+shrank from their criticism. Once, after taking a piece of asparagus
+in her hand, she was deeply mortified at seeing her hostess consume the
+vegetable with the aid of a knife and fork; but the footman’s back was
+turned to her just then, and the butler, oppressed by the heat of the
+weather, was in a state of abstraction bordering on slumber. On the
+whole, by dint of imitating Miss Oarew, who did not plague her with any
+hostess-like vigilance, she came off without discredit to her breeding.
+
+Lydia, on her part, acknowledged no obligation to entertain her guest
+by chatting, and enjoyed her thoughts and her dinner in silence. Alice
+began to be fascinated by her, and to wonder what she was thinking
+about. She fancied that the footman was not quite free from the same
+influence. Even the butler might have been meditating himself to
+sleep on the subject. Alice felt tempted to offer her a penny for her
+thoughts. But she dared not be so familiar as yet. And, had the offer
+been made and accepted, butler, footman, and guest would have been
+plunged into equal confusion by the explanation, which would have run
+thus:
+
+“I saw a vision of the Hermes of Praxiteles in a sylvan haunt to-day;
+and I am thinking of that.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III.
+
+
+Next day Alice accepted Miss Carew’s invitation. Lydia, who seemed
+to regard all conclusions as foregone when she had once signified her
+approval of them, took the acceptance as a matter of course. Alice
+thereupon thought fit to remind her that there were other persons to be
+considered. So she said, “I should not have hesitated yesterday but for
+my mother. It seems so heartless to leave her.”
+
+“You have a sister at home, have you not?”
+
+“Yes. But she is not very strong, and my mother requires a great deal
+of attention.” Alice paused, and added in a lower voice, “She has never
+recovered from the shock of my father’s death.”
+
+“Your father is then not long dead?” said Lydia in her usual tone.
+
+“Only two years,” said Alice, coldly. “I hardly know how to tell my
+mother that I am going to desert her.”
+
+“Go and tell her today, Alice. You need not be afraid of hurting her.
+Grief of two years’ standing is only a bad habit.”
+
+Alice started, outraged. Her mother’s grief was sacred to her; and yet
+it was by her experience of her mother that she recognized the truth of
+Lydia’s remark, and felt that it was unanswerable. She frowned; but the
+frown was lost: Miss Carew was not looking at her. Then she rose and
+went to the door, where she stopped to say,
+
+“You do not know our family circumstances. I will go now and try to
+prevail on my mother to let me stay with you.”
+
+“Please come back in good time for dinner,” said Lydia, unmoved. “I
+will introduce you to my cousin Lucian Webber. I have just received a
+telegram from him. He is coming down with Lord Worthington. I do not
+know whether Lord Worthington will come to dinner or not. He has an
+invalid friend at the Warren, and Lucian does not make it clear whether
+he is coming to visit him or me. However, it is of no consequence; Lord
+Worthington is only a young sportsman. Lucian is a clever man, and will
+be an eminent one some day. He is secretary to a Cabinet Minister, and
+is very busy; but we shall probably see him often while the Whitsuntide
+holidays last. Excuse my keeping you waiting at the door to hear that
+long history. Adieu!” She waved her hand; Alice suddenly felt that it
+was possible to be very fond of Miss Carew.
+
+She spent an unhappy afternoon with her mother. Mrs. Goff had had the
+good-fortune to marry a man of whom she was afraid, and who made himself
+very disagreeable whenever his house or his children were neglected in
+the least particular. Making a virtue of necessity, she had come to be
+regarded in Wiltstoken as a model wife and mother. At last, when a drag
+ran over Mr. Goff and killed him, she was left almost penniless, with
+two daughters on her hands. In this extremity she took refuge in grief,
+and did nothing. Her daughters settled their father’s affairs as best
+they could, moved her into a cheap house, and procured a strange tenant
+for that in which they had lived during many years. Janet, the elder
+sister, a student by disposition, employed herself as a teacher of the
+scientific fashions in modern female education, rumors of which had
+already reached Wiltstoken. Alice was unable to teach mathematics and
+moral science; but she formed a dancing-class, and gave lessons in
+singing and in a language which she believed to be current in France,
+but which was not intelligible to natives of that country travelling
+through Wiltstoken. Both sisters were devoted to one another and to
+their mother. Alice, who had enjoyed the special affection of her
+self-indulgent father, preserved some regard for his memory, though
+she could not help wishing that his affection had been strong enough
+to induce him to save a provision for her. She was ashamed, too, of the
+very recollection of his habit of getting drunk at races, regattas, and
+other national festivals, by an accident at one of which he had met his
+death.
+
+Alice went home from the castle expecting to find the household divided
+between joy at her good-fortune and grief at losing her; for her views
+of human nature and parental feeling were as yet pure superstitions. But
+Mrs. Goff at once became envious of the luxury her daughter was about
+to enjoy, and overwhelmed her with accusations of want of feeling,
+eagerness to desert her mother, and vain love of pleasure. Alice, who
+loved Mrs. Goff so well that she had often told her as many as five
+different lies in the course of one afternoon to spare her some
+unpleasant truth, and would have scouted as infamous any suggestion
+that her parent was more selfish than saintly, soon burst into tears,
+declaring that she would not return to the castle, and that nothing
+would have induced her to stay there the night before had she thought
+that her doing so could give pain at home. This alarmed Mrs. Goff, who
+knew by experience that it was easier to drive Alice upon rash resolves
+than to shake her in them afterwards. Fear of incurring blame in
+Wiltstoken for wantonly opposing her daughter’s obvious interests,
+and of losing her share of Miss Carew’s money and countenance, got the
+better of her jealousy. She lectured Alice severely for her headstrong
+temper, and commanded her, on her duty not only to her mother, but also
+and chiefly to her God, to accept Miss Carew’s offer with thankfulness,
+and to insist upon a definite salary as soon as she had, by good
+behavior, made her society indispensable at the castle. Alice, dutiful
+as she was, reduced Mrs. Goff to entreaties, and even to symptoms of an
+outburst of violent grief for the late Mr. Goff, before she consented
+to obey her. She would wait, she said, until Janet, who was absent
+teaching, came in, and promised to forgive her for staying away the
+previous night (Mrs. Goff had falsely represented that Janet had been
+deeply hurt, and had lain awake weeping during the small hours of the
+morning). The mother, seeing nothing for it but either to get rid of
+Alice before Janet’s return or to be detected in a spiteful untruth, had
+to pretend that Janet was spending the evening with some friends, and to
+urge the unkindness of leaving Miss Carew lonely. At last Alice washed
+away the traces of her tears and returned to the castle, feeling very
+miserable, and trying to comfort herself with the reflection that her
+sister had been spared the scene which had just passed.
+
+Lucian Webber had not arrived when she reached the castle. Miss Carew
+glanced at her melancholy face as she entered, but asked no questions.
+Presently, however, she put down her book, considered for a moment, and
+said,
+
+“It is nearly three years since I have had a new dress.” Alice looked up
+with interest. “Now that I have you to help me to choose, I think I will
+be extravagant enough to renew my entire wardrobe. I wish you would take
+this opportunity to get some things for yourself. You will find that my
+dress-maker, Madame Smith, is to be depended on for work, though she is
+expensive and dishonest. When we are tired of Wiltstoken we will go to
+Paris, and be millinered there; but in the meantime we can resort to
+Madame Smith.”
+
+“I cannot afford expensive dresses,” said Alice.
+
+“I should not ask you to get them if you could not afford them. I warned
+you that I should give you expensive habits.”
+
+Alice hesitated. She had a healthy inclination to take whatever she
+could get on all occasions; and she had suffered too much from poverty
+not to be more thankful for her good-fortune than humiliated by Miss
+Carew’s bounty. But the thought of being driven, richly attired, in
+one of the castle carriages, and meeting Janet trudging about her daily
+tasks in cheap black serge and mended gloves, made Alice feel that she
+deserved all her mother’s reproaches. However, it was obvious that a
+refusal would be of no material benefit to Janet, so she said,
+
+“Really I could not think of imposing on your kindness in this wholesale
+fashion. You are too good to me.”
+
+“I will write to Madame Smith this evening,” said Lydia.
+
+Alice was about to renew her protest more faintly, when a servant
+entered and announced Mr. Webber. She stiffened herself to receive
+the visitor. Lydia’s manner did not alter in the least. Lucian, whose
+demeanor resembled Miss Goff’s rather than his cousin’s, went through
+the ceremony of introduction with solemnity, and was received with a
+dash of scorn; for Alice, though secretly awe-stricken, bore herself
+tyrannically towards men from habit.
+
+In reply to Alice, Mr. Webber thought the day cooler than yesterday. In
+reply to Lydia, he admitted that the resolution of which the leader of
+the opposition had given notice was tantamount to a vote of censure on
+the government. He was confident that ministers would have a majority.
+He had no news of any importance. He had made the journey down with
+Lord Worthington, who had come to Wiltstoken to see the invalid at the
+Warren. He had promised to return with him in the seven-thirty train.
+
+When they went down to dinner, Alice, profiting by her experience of
+the day before, faced the servants with composure, and committed no
+solecisms. Unable to take part in the conversation, as she knew little
+of literature and nothing of politics, which were the staple of Lucian’s
+discourse, she sat silent, and reconsidered an old opinion of hers that
+it was ridiculous and ill-bred in a lady to discuss anything that was
+in the newspapers. She was impressed by Lucian’s cautious and somewhat
+dogmatic style of conversation, and concluded that he knew everything.
+Lydia seemed interested in his information, but quite indifferent to his
+opinions.
+
+Towards half-past seven Lydia proposed that they should walk to the
+railway station, adding, as a reason for going, that she wished to make
+some bets with Lord Worthington. Lucian looked grave at this, and
+Alice, to show that she shared his notions of propriety, looked shocked.
+Neither demonstration had the slightest effect on Lydia. On their way to
+the station he remarked,
+
+“Worthington is afraid of you, Lydia--needlessly, as it seems.”
+
+“Why?”
+
+“Because you are so learned, and he so ignorant. He has no culture save
+that of the turf. But perhaps you have more sympathy with his tastes
+than he supposes.”
+
+“I like him because I have not read the books from which he has borrowed
+his opinions. Indeed, from their freshness, I should not be surprised to
+learn that he had them at first hand from living men, or even from his
+own observation of life.”
+
+“I may explain to you, Miss Goff,” said Lucian, “that Lord Worthiugton
+is a young gentleman--”
+
+“Whose calendar is the racing calendar,” interposed Lydia, “and who
+interests himself in favorites and outsiders much as Lucian does in
+prime-ministers and independent radicals. Would you like to go to Ascot,
+Alice?”
+
+Alice answered, as she felt Lucian wished her to answer, that she had
+never been to a race, and that she had no desire to go to one.
+
+“You will change your mind in time for next year’s meeting. A race
+interests every one, which is more than can be said for the opera or the
+Academy.”
+
+“I have been at the Academy,” said Alice, who had made a trip to London
+once.
+
+“Indeed!” said Lydia. “Were you in the National Gallery?”
+
+“The National Gallery! I think not. I forget.”
+
+“I know many persons who never miss an Academy, and who do not know
+where the National Gallery is. Did you enjoy the pictures, Alice?”
+
+“Oh, very much indeed.”
+
+“You will find Ascot far more amusing.”
+
+“Let me warn you,” said Lucian to Alice, “that my cousin’s pet caprice
+is to affect a distaste for art, to which she is passionately devoted;
+and for literature, in which she is profoundly read.”
+
+“Cousin Lucian,” said Lydia, “should you ever be cut off from
+your politics, and disappointed in your ambition, you will have an
+opportunity of living upon art and literature. Then I shall respect your
+opinion of their satisfactoriness as a staff of life. As yet you have
+only tried them as a sauce.”
+
+“Discontented, as usual,” said Lucian.
+
+“Your one idea respecting me, as usual,” replied Lydia, patiently, as
+they entered the station.
+
+The train, consisting of three carriages and a van, was waiting at the
+platform. The engine was humming subduedly, and the driver and fireman
+were leaning out; the latter, a young man, eagerly watching two
+gentlemen who were standing before the first-class carriage, and the
+driver sharing his curiosity in an elderly, preoccupied manner. One
+of the persons thus observed was a slight, fair-haired man of about
+twenty-five, in the afternoon costume of a metropolitan dandy. Lydia
+knew the other the moment she came upon the platform as the Hermes of
+the day before, modernized by a straw hat, a canary-colored scarf, and
+a suit of a minute black-and-white chess-board pattern, with a crimson
+silk handkerchief overflowing the breast pocket of the coat. His hands
+were unencumbered by stick or umbrella; he carried himself smartly,
+balancing himself so accurately that he seemed to have no weight; and
+his expression was self-satisfied and good-humored. But--! Lydia felt
+that there was a “but” somewhere--that he must be something more than a
+handsome, powerful, and light-hearted young man.
+
+“There is Lord Worthington,” she said, indicating the slight gentleman.
+“Surely that cannot be his invalid friend with him?”
+
+“That is the man that lives at the Warren,” said Alice. “I know his
+appearance.”
+
+“Which is certainly not suggestive of a valetudinarian,” remarked
+Lucian, looking hard at the stranger.
+
+They had now come close to the two, and could hear Lord Worthington, as
+he prepared to enter the carriage, saying, “Take care of yourself,
+like a good fellow, won’t you? Remember! if it lasts a second over the
+fifteen minutes, I shall drop five hundred pounds.”
+
+Hermes placed his arm round the shoulders of the young lord and gave
+him a playful roll. Then he said with good accent and pronunciation, but
+with a certain rough quality of voice, and louder than English gentlemen
+usually speak, “Your money is as safe as the mint, my boy.”
+
+Evidently, Alice thought, the stranger was an intimate friend of Lord
+Worthington. She resolved to be particular in her behavior before him,
+if introduced.
+
+“Lord Worthington,” said Lydia.
+
+At the sound of her voice he climbed hastily down from the step of the
+carriage, and said in some confusion, “How d’ do, Miss Carew. Lovely
+country and lovely weather--must agree awfully well with you. Plenty of
+leisure for study, I hope.”
+
+“Thank you; I never study now. Will you make a book for me at Ascot?”
+
+He laughed and shook his head. “I am ashamed of my low tastes,” he said;
+“but I haven’t the heap to distinguish myself in your--Eh?”
+
+Miss Carew was saying in a low voice, “If your friend is my tenant,
+introduce him to me.”
+
+Lord Worthington hesitated, looked at Lucian, seemed perplexed and
+amused at the name time, and at last said,
+
+“You really wish it?”
+
+“Of course,” said Lydia. “Is there any reason--”
+
+“Oh, not the least in the world since you wish it,” he replied quickly,
+his eyes twinkling mischievously as he turned to his companion who was
+standing at the carriage door admiring Lydia, and being himself admired
+by the stoker. “Mr. Cashel Byron: Miss Carew.”
+
+Mr. Cashel Byron raised his straw hat and reddened a little; but, on the
+whole, bore himself like an eminent man who was not proud. As, however,
+he seemed to have nothing to say for himself, Lord Worthington hastened
+to avert silence by resuming the subject of Ascot. Lydia listened to
+him, and looked at her new acquaintance. Now that the constraint of
+society had banished his former expression of easy good-humor, there
+was something formidable in him that gave her an unaccountable thrill
+of pleasure. The same impression of latent danger had occurred, less
+agreeably, to Lucian, who was affected much as he might have been by
+the proximity of a large dog of doubtful temper. Lydia thought that Mr.
+Byron did not, at first sight, like her cousin; for he was looking at
+him obliquely, as though steadily measuring him.
+
+The group was broken up by the guard admonishing the gentlemen to take
+their seats. Farewells were exchanged; and Lord Worthington cried, “Take
+care of yourself,” to Cashel Byron, who replied somewhat impatiently,
+and with an apprehensive glance at Miss Carew, “All right! all right!
+Never you fear, sir.” Then the train went off, and he was left on the
+platform with the two ladies.
+
+“We are returning to the park, Mr. Cashel Byron,” said Lydia.
+
+“So am I,” said he. “Perhaps--” Here he broke down, and looked at Alice
+to avoid Lydia’s eye. Then they went out together.
+
+When they had walked some distance in silence, Alice looking rigidly
+before her, recollecting with suspicion that he had just addressed
+Lord Worthington as “sir,” while Lydia was admiring his light step and
+perfect balance, which made him seem like a man of cork; he said,
+
+“I saw you in the park yesterday, and I thought you were a ghost. But
+my trai--my man, I mean--saw you too. I knew by that that you were
+genuine.”
+
+“Strange!” said Lydia. “I had the same fancy about you.”
+
+“What! You had!” he exclaimed, looking at her. While thus unmindful of
+his steps, he stumbled, and recovered himself with a stifled oath. Then
+he became very red, and remarked that it was a warm evening.
+
+Miss Goff, whom he had addressed, assented. “I hope,” she added, “that
+you are better.”
+
+He looked puzzled. Concluding, after consideration, that she had
+referred to his stumble, he said,
+
+“Thank you: I didn’t hurt myself.”
+
+“Lord Worthington has been telling us about you,” said Lydia. He
+recoiled, evidently deeply mortified. She hastened to add, “He mentioned
+that you had come down here to recruit your health; that is all.”
+
+Cashel’s features relaxed into a curious smile. But presently he became
+suspicious, and said, anxiously, “He didn’t tell you anything else about
+me, did he?”
+
+Alice stared at him superciliously. Lydia replied, “No. Nothing else.”
+
+“I thought you might have heard my name somewhere,” he persisted.
+
+“Perhaps I have; but I cannot recall in what connection. Why? Do you
+know any friend of mine?”
+
+“Oh, no. Only Lord Worthington.”
+
+“I conclude then that you are celebrated, and that I have the misfortune
+not to know it, Mr. Cashel Byron. Is it so?”
+
+“Not a bit of it,” he replied, hastily. “There’s no reason why you
+should ever have heard of me. I am much obliged to you for your kind
+inquiries,” he continued, turning to Alice. “I’m quite well now, thank
+you. The country has set me right again.”
+
+Alice, who was beginning to have her doubts of Mr. Byron, in spite of
+his familiarity with Lord Worthington, smiled falsely and drew herself
+up a little. He turned away from her, hurt by her manner, and so ill
+able to conceal his feelings that Miss Carew, who was watching him, set
+him down privately as the most inept dissimulator she had ever met. He
+looked at Lydia wistfully, as if trying to read her thoughts, which
+now seemed to be with the setting sun, or in some equally beautiful and
+mysterious region. But he could see that there was no reflection of Miss
+Goff’s scorn in her face.
+
+“And so you really took me for a ghost,” he said.
+
+“Yes. I thought at first that you were a statue.”
+
+“A statue!”
+
+“You do not seem flattered by that.”
+
+“It is not flattering to be taken for a lump of stone,” he replied,
+ruefully.
+
+Lydia looked at him thoughtfully. Here was a man whom she had mistaken
+for the finest image of manly strength and beauty in the world; and
+he was so devoid of artistic culture that he held a statue to be a
+distasteful lump of stone.
+
+“I believe I was trespassing then,” she said; “but I did so
+unintentionally. I had gone astray; for I am comparatively a stranger
+here, and cannot find my way about the park yet.”
+
+“It didn’t matter a bit,” said Cashel, impetuously. “Come as often as
+you want. Mellish fancies that if any one gets a glimpse of me he won’t
+get any odds. You see he would like people to think--” Cashel checked
+himself, and added, in some confusion, “Mellish is mad; that’s about
+where it is.”
+
+Alice glanced significantly at Lydia. She had already suggested that
+madness was the real reason of the seclusion of the tenants at the
+Warren. Cashel saw the glance, and intercepted it by turning to her and
+saying, with an attempt at conversational ease,
+
+“How do you young ladies amuse yourselves in the country? Do you play
+billiards ever?”
+
+“No,” said Alice, indignantly. The question, she thought, implied
+that she was capable of spending her evenings on the first floor of a
+public-house. To her surprise, Lydia remarked,
+
+“I play--a little. I do not care sufficiently for the game to make
+myself proficient. You were equipped for lawn-tennis, I think, when I
+saw you yesterday. Miss Goff is a celebrated lawn-tennis player. She
+vanquished the Australian champion last year.”
+
+It seemed that Byron, after all, was something of a courtier; for he
+displayed great astonishment at this feat. “The Australian champion!” he
+repeated. “And who may HE--Oh! you mean the lawn-tennis champion. To be
+sure. Well, Miss Goff, I congratulate you. It is not every amateur that
+can brag of having shown a professional to a back seat.”
+
+Alice, outraged by the imputation of bragging, and certain that slang
+was vulgar, whatever billiards might be, bore herself still more
+loftily, and resolved to snub him explicitly if he addressed her again.
+But he did not; for they presently came to a narrow iron gate in the
+wall of the park, at which Lydia stopped.
+
+“Let me open it for you,” said Cashel. She gave him the key, and he
+seized one of the bars of the gate with his left hand, and stooped as
+though he wanted to look into the keyhole. Yet he opened it smartly
+enough.
+
+Alice was about to pass in with a cool bow when she saw Miss Carew offer
+Cashel her hand. Whatever Lydia did was done so well that it seemed the
+right thing to do. He took it timidly and gave it a little shake,
+not daring to meet her eyes. Alice put out her hand stiffly. Cashel
+immediately stepped forward with his right foot and enveloped her
+fingers with the hardest clump of knuckles she had ever felt. Glancing
+down at this remarkable fist, she saw that it was discolored almost to
+blackness. Then she went in through the gate, followed by Lydia, who
+turned to close it behind her. As she pushed, Cashel, standing outside,
+grasped a bar and pulled. She at once relinquished to him the labor of
+shutting the gate, and smiled her thanks as she turned away; but in that
+moment he plucked up courage to look at her. The sensation of being so
+looked at was quite novel to her and very curious. She was even a little
+out of countenance, but not so much so as Cashel, who nevertheless could
+not take his eyes away.
+
+“Do you think,” said Alice, as they crossed the orchard, “that that man
+is a gentleman?”
+
+“How can I possibly tell? We hardly know him.”
+
+“But what do you think? There is always a certain something about a
+gentleman that one recognizes by instinct.”
+
+“Is there? I have never observed it.”
+
+“Have you not?” said Alice, surprised, and beginning uneasily to fear
+that her superior perception of gentility was in some way the effect of
+her social inferiority to Miss Carew. “I thought one could always tell.”
+
+“Perhaps so,” said Lydia. “For my own part I have found the same
+varieties of address in every class. Some people enjoy a native
+distinction and grace of manner--”
+
+“That is what I mean,” said Alice.
+
+“--but they are seldom ladies and gentlemen; often actors, gypsies, and
+Celtic or foreign peasants. Undoubtedly one can make a fair guess, but
+not in the case of this Mr. Cashel Byron. Are you curious about him?”
+
+“I!” exclaimed Alice, superbly. “Not in the least.”
+
+“I am. He interests me. I seldom see anything novel in humanity; and he
+is a very singular man.”
+
+“I meant,” said Alice, crestfallen, “that I take no special interest in
+him.”
+
+Lydia, not being curious as to the exact degree of Alice’s interest,
+merely nodded, and continued, “He may, as you suppose, be a man
+of humble origin who has seen something of society; or he may be a
+gentleman unaccustomed to society. Probably the latter. I feel no
+conviction either way.”
+
+“But he speaks very roughly; and his slang is disgusting. His hands are
+hard and quite black. Did you not notice them?”
+
+“I noticed it all; and I think that if he were a man of low condition he
+would be careful not to use slang. Self-made persons are usually precise
+in their language; they rarely violate the written laws of society.
+Besides, his pronunciation of some words is so distinct that an idea
+crossed me once that he might be an actor. But then it is not uniformly
+distinct. I am sure that he has some object or occupation in life: he
+has not the air of an idler. Yet I have thought of all the ordinary
+professions, and he does not fit one of them. This is perhaps what makes
+him interesting. He is unaccountable.”
+
+“He must have some position. He was very familiar with Lord
+Worthington.”
+
+“Lord Worthington is a sportsman, and is familiar with all sorts of
+people.”
+
+“Yes; but surely he would not let a jockey, or anybody of that class,
+put his arm round his neck, as we saw Mr. Byron do.”
+
+“That is true,” said Lydia, thoughtfully. “Still,” she added, clearing
+her brow and laughing, “I am loath to believe that he is an invalid
+student.”
+
+“I will tell you what he is,” said Alice suddenly. “He is companion
+and keeper to the man with whom he lives. Do you recollect his saying
+‘Mellish is mad’?”
+
+“That is possible,” said Lydia. “At all events we have got a topic; and
+that is an important home comfort in the country.”
+
+Just then they reached the castle. Lydia lingered for a moment on the
+terrace. The Gothic chimneys of the Warren Lodge stood up against the
+long, crimson cloud into which the sun was sinking. She smiled as if
+some quaint idea had occurred to her; raised her eyes for a moment to
+the black-marble Egyptian gazing with unwavering eyes into the sky; and
+followed Alice in-doors.
+
+Later on, when it was quite dark, Cashel sat in a spacious kitchen at
+the lodge, thinking. His companion, who had laid his coat aside, was at
+the fire, smoking, and watching a saucepan that simmered there. He broke
+the silence by remarking, after a glance at the clock, “Time to go to
+roost.”
+
+“Time to go to the devil,” said Cashel. “I am going out.”
+
+“Yes, and get a chill. Not if I know it you don’t.”
+
+“Well, go to bed yourself, and then you won’t know it. I want to take a
+walk round the place.”
+
+“If you put your foot outside that door to-night Lord Worthington will
+lose his five hundred pounds. You can’t lick any one in fifteen minutes
+if you train on night air. Get licked yourself more likely.”
+
+“Will you bet two to one that I don’t stay out all night and knock the
+Flying Dutchman out of time in the first round afterwards? Eh?”
+
+“Come,” said Mellish, coaxingly; “have some common-sense. I’m advising
+you for your good.”
+
+“Suppose I don’t want to be advised for my good. Eh? Hand me over that
+lemon. You needn’t start a speech; I’m not going to eat it.”
+
+“Blest if he ain’t rubbing his ‘ands with it!” exclaimed Mellish, after
+watching him for some moments. “Why, you bloomin’ fool, lemon won’t
+‘arden your ‘ands. Ain’t I took enough trouble with them?”
+
+“I want to whiten them,” said Cashel, impatiently throwing the lemon
+under the grate; “but it’s no use; I can’t go about with my fists like a
+nigger’s. I’ll go up to London to-morrow and buy a pair of gloves.”
+
+“What! Real gloves? Wearin’ gloves?”
+
+“You thundering old lunatic,” said Cashel, rising and putting on his
+hat; “is it likely that I want a pair of mufflers? Perhaps YOU think you
+could teach me something with them. Ha! ha! By-the-bye--now mind this,
+Mellish--don’t let it out down here that I’m a fighting man. Do you
+hear?”
+
+“Me let it out!” cried Mellish, indignantly. “Is it likely? Now, I asts
+you, Cashel Byron, is it likely?”
+
+“Likely or not, don’t do it,” said Cashel. “You might get talking with
+some of the chaps about the castle stables. They are generous with their
+liquor when they can get sporting news for it.”
+
+Mellish looked at him reproachfully, and Cashel turned towards the door.
+This movement changed the trainer’s sense of injury into anxiety. He
+renewed his remonstrances as to the folly of venturing into the night
+air, and cited many examples of pugilists who had suffered defeat
+in consequence of neglecting the counsel of their trainers. Cashel
+expressed his disbelief in these anecdotes in brief and personal terms;
+and at last Mellish had to content himself with proposing to limit the
+duration of the walk to half an hour.
+
+“Perhaps I will come back in half an hour,” said Cashel, “and perhaps I
+won’t.”
+
+“Well, look here,” said Mellish; “we won’t quarrel about a minute or
+two; but I feel the want of a walk myself, and I’ll come with you.”
+
+“I’m d--d if you shall,” said Cashel. “Here, let me out; and shut up.
+I’m not going further than the park. I have no intention of making a
+night of it in the village, which is what you are afraid of. I know
+you, you old dodger. If you don’t get out of my way I’ll seat you on the
+fire.”
+
+“But duty, Cashel, duty,” pleaded Mellish, persuasively. “Every man
+oughter do his duty. Consider your duty to your backers.”
+
+“Are you going to get out of my way, or must I put you out of it?” said
+Cashel, reddening ominously.
+
+Mellish went back to his chair, bowed his head on his hands, and wept.
+“I’d sooner be a dog nor a trainer,” he exclaimed. “Oh! the cusseduess
+of bein’ shut up for weeks with a fightin’ man! For the fust two days
+they’re as sweet as treacle; and then their con trairyness comes out.
+Their tempers is puffict ‘ell.”
+
+Cashel, additionally enraged by a sting of remorse, went out and slammed
+the door. He made straight towards the castle, and watched its windows
+for nearly half an hour, keeping in constant motion so as to avert a
+chill. At last an exquisitely toned bell struck the hour from one of
+the minarets. To Cashel, accustomed to the coarse jangling of ordinary
+English bells, the sound seemed to belong to fairyland. He went slowly
+back to the Warren Lodge, and found his trainer standing at the open
+door, smoking, and anxiously awaiting his return. Cashel rebuffed
+certain conciliatory advances with a haughty reserve more dignified,
+but much less acceptable to Mr. Mellish, than his former profane
+familiarity, and went contemplatively to bed.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV
+
+
+One morning Miss Carew sat on the bank of a great pool in the park,
+throwing pebbles two by two into the water, and intently watching the
+intersection of the circles they made on its calm surface. Alice was
+seated on a camp-stool a little way off, sketching the castle, which
+appeared on an eminence to the southeast. The woodland rose round them
+like the sides of an amphitheatre; but the trees did not extend to the
+water’s edge, where there was an ample margin of bright greensward and a
+narrow belt of gravel, from which Lydia was picking her pebbles.
+
+Presently, hearing a footstep, she looked back, and saw Cashel Byron
+standing behind Alice, apparently much interested in her drawing. He was
+dressed as she had last seen him, except that he wore primrose gloves
+and an Egyptian red scarf. Alice turned, and surveyed him with haughty
+surprise; but he made nothing of her looks; and she, after glancing at
+Lydia to reassure herself that she was not alone, bade him good-morning,
+and resumed her work.
+
+“Queer place,” he remarked, after a pause, alluding to the castle.
+“Chinese looking, isn’t it?”
+
+“It is considered a very fine building,” said Alice.
+
+“Oh, hang what it is considered!” said Cashel. “What IS it? That is the
+point to look to.”
+
+“It is a matter of taste,” said Alice, very coldly.
+
+“Mr. Cashel Byron.”
+
+Cashel started and hastened to the bank. “How d’ye do, Miss Carew,” he
+said. “I didn’t see you until you called me.” She looked at him; and he,
+convicted of a foolish falsehood, quailed. “There is a splendid view of
+the castle from here,” he continued, to change the subject. “Miss Goff
+and I have just been talking about it.”
+
+“Yes. Do you admire it?”
+
+“Very much indeed. It is a beautiful place. Every one must acknowledge
+that.”
+
+“It is considered kind to praise my house to me, and to ridicule it to
+other people. You do not say, ‘Hang what it is considered,’ now.”
+
+Cashel, with an unaccustomed sense of getting the worst of an encounter,
+almost lost heart to reply. Then he brightened, and said, “I can tell
+you how that is. As far as being a place to sketch, or for another
+person to look at, it is Chinese enough. But somehow your living in it
+makes a difference. That is what I meant; upon my soul it is.”
+
+Lydia smiled; but he, looking down at her, did not see the smile because
+of her coronet of red hair, which seemed to flame in the sunlight. The
+obstruction was unsatisfactory to him; he wanted to see her face. He
+hesitated, and then sat down on the ground beside her cautiously, as if
+getting into a very hot bath.
+
+“I hope you won’t mind my sitting here,” he said, timidly. “It seems
+rude to talk down at you from a height.”
+
+She shook her head and threw two more stones into the pool. He could
+think of nothing further to say, and as she did not speak, but gravely
+watched the circles in the water, he began to stare at them too; and
+they sat in silence for some minutes, steadfastly regarding the waves,
+she as if there were matter for infinite thought in them, and he as
+though the spectacle wholly confounded him. At last she said,
+
+“Have you ever realized what a vibration is?”
+
+“No,” said Cashel, after a blank look at her.
+
+“I am glad to hear you make that admission. Science has reduced
+everything nowadays to vibration. Light, sound, sensation--all the
+mysteries of nature are either vibrations or interference of vibrations.
+There,” she said, throwing another pair of pebbles in, and pointing
+to the two sets of widening rings as they overlapped one another; “the
+twinkling of a star, and the pulsation in a chord of music, are THAT.
+But I cannot picture the thing in my own mind. I wonder whether the
+hundreds of writers of text-books on physics, who talk so glibly of
+vibrations, realize them any better than I do.”
+
+“Not a bit of it. Not one of them. Not half so well,” said Cashel,
+cheerfully, replying to as much of her speech as he understood.
+
+“Perhaps the subject does not interest you,” she said, turning to him.
+
+“On the contrary; I like it of all things,” said he, boldly.
+
+“I can hardly say so much for my own interest in it. I am told that you
+are a student, Mr. Cashel Byron. What are your favorite studies?--or
+rather, since that is generally a hard question to answer, what are your
+pursuits?”
+
+Alice listened.
+
+Cashel looked doggedly at Lydia, and his color slowly deepened. “I am a
+professor,” he said.
+
+“A professor of what? I know I should ask of where; but that would only
+elicit the name of a college, which would convey no real information to
+me.”
+
+“I am a professor of science,” said Cashel, in a low voice, looking
+down at his left fist, which he was balancing in the air before him, and
+stealthily hitting his bent knee as if it were another person’s face.
+
+“Physical or moral science?” persisted Lydia.
+
+“Physical science,” said Cashel. “But there’s more moral science in it
+than people think.”
+
+“Yes,” said Lydia, seriously. “Though I have no real knowledge of
+physics, I can appreciate the truth of that. Perhaps all the science
+that is not at bottom physical science is only pretentious nescience.
+I have read much of physics, and have often been tempted to learn
+something of them--to make the experiments with my own hands--to
+furnish a laboratory--to wield the scalpel even. For, to master science
+thoroughly, I believe one must take one’s gloves off. Is that your
+opinion?”
+
+Cashel looked hard at her. “You never spoke a truer word,” he said. “But
+you can become a very respectable amateur by working with the gloves.”
+
+“I never should. The many who believe they are the wiser for reading
+accounts of experiments deceive themselves. It is as impossible to learn
+science from theory as to gain wisdom from proverbs. Ah, it is so easy
+to follow a line of argument, and so difficult to grasp the facts that
+underlie it! Our popular lecturers on physics present us with chains of
+deductions so highly polished that it is a luxury to let them slip from
+end to end through our fingers. But they leave nothing behind but a
+vague memory of the sensation they afforded. Excuse me for talking
+figuratively. I perceive that you affect the opposite--a reaction on
+your part, I suppose, against tall talk and fine writing. Pray, should
+I ever carry out my intention of setting to work in earnest at science,
+will you give me some lessons?”
+
+“Well,” said Cashel, with a covert grin, “I would rather you came to me
+than to another professor; but I don’t think it would suit you. I should
+like to try my hand on your friend there. She’s stronger and straighter
+than nine out of ten men.”
+
+“You set a high value on physical qualifications then. So do I.”
+
+“Only from a practical point of view, mind you,” said Cashel, earnestly.
+“It isn’t right to be always looking at men and women as you would at
+horses. If you want to back them in a race or in a fight, that’s one
+thing; but if you want a friend or a sweetheart, that’s another.”
+
+“Quite so,” said Lydia, smiling. “You do not wish to commit yourself to
+any warmer feeling towards Miss Goff than a critical appreciation of her
+form and condition.”
+
+“Just that,” said Cashel, satisfied. “YOU understand me, Miss Carew.
+There are some people that you might talk to all day, and they’d be no
+wiser at the end of it than they were at the beginning. You’re not one
+of that sort.”
+
+“I wonder do we ever succeed really in communicating our thoughts to one
+another. A thought must take a new shape to fit itself into a strange
+mind. You, Mr. Professor, must have acquired special experience of the
+incommunicability of ideas in the course of your lectures and lessons.”
+
+Cashel looked uneasily at the water, and said in a lower voice, “Of
+course you may call me just whatever you like; but--if it’s all the same
+to you--I wish you wouldn’t call me professor.”
+
+“I have lived so much in countries where professors expect to be
+addressed by their titles on all occasions, that I may claim to be
+excused for having offended on that point. Thank you for telling me. But
+I am to blame for discussing science with you. Lord Worthington told
+us that you had come down here expressly to escape from it--to recruit
+yourself after an excess of work.”
+
+“It doesn’t matter,” said Cashel.
+
+“I have not done harm enough to be greatly concerned; but I will not
+offend again. To change the subject, let us look at Miss Goff’s sketch.”
+
+Miss Carew had hardly uttered this suggestion, when Cashel, in a
+business-like manner, and without the slightest air of gallantry,
+expertly lifted her and placed her on her feet. This unexpected
+attention gave her a shock, followed by a thrill that was not
+disagreeable. She turned to him with a faint mantling on her cheeks. He
+was looking with contracted brows at the sky, as though occupied with
+some calculation.
+
+“Thank you,” she said; “but pray do not do that again. It is a little
+humiliating to be lifted like a child. You are very strong.”
+
+“There is not much strength needed to lift such a feather-weight as you.
+Seven stone two, I should judge you to be, about. But there’s a great
+art in doing these things properly. I have often had to carry off a man
+of fourteen stone, resting him all the time as if he was in bed.”
+
+“Ah,” said Lydia; “I see you have had some hospital practice. I
+have often admired the skill with which trained nurses handle their
+patients.”
+
+Cashel made no reply, but, with a sinister grin, followed her to where
+Alice sat.
+
+“It is very foolish of me, I know,” said Alice, presently; “but I never
+can draw when any one is looking at me.”
+
+“You fancy that everybody is thinking about how you’re doing it,” said
+Cashel, encouragingly. “That’s always the way with amateurs. But the
+truth is that not a soul except yourself is a bit concerned about it.
+EX-cuse me,” he added, taking up the drawing, and proceeding to examine
+it leisurely.
+
+“Please give me my sketch, Mr. Byron,” she said, her cheeks red with
+anger. Puzzled, he turned to Lydia for an explanation, while Alice
+seized the sketch and packed it in her portfolio.
+
+“It is getting rather warm,” said Lydia. “Shall we return to the
+castle?”
+
+“I think we had better,” said Alice, trembling with resentment as she
+walked away quickly, leaving Lydia alone with Cashel, who presently
+exclaimed,
+
+“What in thunder have I done?”
+
+“You have made an inconsiderate remark with unmistakable sincerity.”
+
+“I only tried to cheer her up. She must have mistaken what I said.”
+
+“I think not. Do you believe that young ladies like to be told that
+there is no occasion for them to be ridiculously self-conscious?”
+
+“I say that! I’ll take my oath I never said anything of the sort.”
+
+“You worded it differently. But you assured her that she need not object
+to have her drawing overlooked, as it is of no importance to any one.”
+
+“Well, if she takes offence at that she must be a born fool. Some people
+can’t bear to be told anything. But they soon get all that thin-skinned
+nonsense knocked out of them.”
+
+“Have you any sisters, Mr. Cashel Byron?”
+
+“No. Why?”
+
+“Or a mother?”
+
+“I have a mother; but I haven’t seen her for years; and I don’t much
+care if I never see her. It was through her that I came to be what I
+am.”
+
+“Are you then dissatisfied with your profession?”
+
+“No--I don’t mean that. I am always saying stupid things.”
+
+“Yes. That comes of your ignorance of a sex accustomed to have its
+silliness respected. You will find it hard to keep on good terms with my
+friend without some further study of womanly ways.”
+
+“As to her, I won’t give in that I’m wrong unless I AM wrong. The
+truth’s the truth.”
+
+“Not even to please Miss Goff?”
+
+“Not even to please you. You’d only think the worse of me afterwards.”
+
+“Quite true, and quite right,” said Lydia, cordially. “Good-bye, Mr.
+Cashel Byron. I must rejoin Miss Goff.”
+
+“I suppose you will take her part if she keeps a down on me for what I
+said to her.”
+
+“What is ‘a down’? A grudge?”
+
+“Yes. Something of that sort.”
+
+“Colonial, is it not?” pursued Lydia, with the air of a philologist.
+
+“Yes; I believe I picked it up in the colonies.” Then he added,
+sullenly, “I suppose I shouldn’t use slang in speaking to you. I beg
+your pardon.”
+
+“I do not object to it. On the contrary, it interests me. For example, I
+have just learned from it that you have been in Australia.”
+
+“So I have. But are you out with me because I annoyed Miss Goff?”
+
+“By no means. Nevertheless, I sympathize with her annoyance at the
+manner, if not the matter, of your rebuke.”
+
+“I can’t, for the life of me, see what there was in what I said to raise
+such a fuss about. I wish you would give me a nudge whenever you see me
+making a fool of myself. I will shut up at once and ask no questions.”
+
+“So that it will be understood that my nudge means ‘Shut up, Mr. Cashel
+Byron; you are making a fool of yourself’?”
+
+“Just so. YOU understand me. I told you that before, didn’t I?”
+
+“I am afraid,” said Lydia, her face bright with laughter, “that I cannot
+take charge of your manners until we are a little better acquainted.”
+
+He seemed disappointed. Then his face clouded; and he began, “If you
+regard it as a liberty--”
+
+“Of course I regard it as a liberty,” she said, neatly interrupting him.
+“Is not my own conduct a sufficient charge upon my attention? Why should
+I voluntarily assume that of a strong man and learned professor as
+well?”
+
+“By Jingo!” exclaimed Cashel, with sudden excitement, “I don’t care what
+you say to me. You have a way of giving things a turn that makes it a
+pleasure to be shut up by you; and if I were a gentleman, as I ought
+to be, instead of a poor devil of a professional pug, I would--” He
+recollected himself, and turned quite pale. There was a pause.
+
+“Let me remind you,” said Lydia, composedly, though she too had changed
+color at the beginning of his outburst, “that we are both wanted
+elsewhere at present; I by Miss Goff, and you by your servant, who has
+been hovering about us and looking at you anxiously for some minutes.”
+
+Cashel turned fiercely, and saw Mellish standing a little way off,
+sulkily watching him. Lydia took the opportunity, and left the place. As
+she retreated she could hear that they were at high words together; but
+she could not distinguish what they were saying. Fortunately so; for
+their language was villainous.
+
+She found Alice in the library, seated bolt upright in a chair that
+would have tempted a good-humored person to recline. Lydia sat down in
+silence. Alice, presently looking at her, discovered that she was in
+a fit of noiseless laughter. The effect, in contrast to her habitual
+self-possession, was so strange that Alice almost forgot to be offended.
+
+“I am glad to see that it is not hard to amuse you,” she said.
+
+Lydia waited to recover herself thoroughly, and then replied, “I have
+not laughed so three times in my life. Now, Alice, put aside your
+resentment of our neighbor’s impudence for the moment, and tell me what
+you think of him.”
+
+“I have not thought about him at all, I assure you,” said Alice,
+disdainfully.
+
+“Then think about him for a moment to oblige me, and let me know the
+result.”
+
+“Really, you have had much more opportunity of judging than I. _I_ have
+hardly spoken to him.”
+
+Lydia rose patiently and went to the bookcase. “You have a cousin at one
+of the universities, have you not?” she said, seeking along the shelf
+for a volume.
+
+“Yes,” replied Alice, speaking very sweetly to atone for her want of
+amiability on the previous subject.
+
+“Then perhaps you know something of university slang?”
+
+“I never allow him to talk slang to me,” said Alice, quickly.
+
+“You may dictate modes of expression to a single man, perhaps, but not
+to a whole university,” said Lydia, with a quiet scorn that brought
+unexpected tears to Alice’s eyes. “Do you know what a pug is?”
+
+“A pug!” said Alice, vacantly. “No; I have heard of a bulldog--a
+proctor’s bulldog, but never a pug.”
+
+“I must try my slang dictionary,” said Lydia, taking down a book and
+opening it. “Here it is. ‘Pug--a fighting man’s idea of the contracted
+word to be produced from pugilist.’ What an extraordinary definition!
+A fighting man’s idea of a contraction! Why should a man have a special
+idea of a contraction when he is fighting; or why should he think of
+such a thing at all under such circumstances? Perhaps ‘fighting man’ is
+slang too. No; it is not given here. Either I mistook the word, or it
+has some signification unknown to the compiler of my dictionary.”
+
+“It seems quite plain to me,” said Alice. “Pug means pugilist.”
+
+“But pugilism is boxing; it is not a profession. I suppose all men are
+more or less pugilists. I want a sense of the word in which it denotes
+a calling or occupation of some kind. I fancy it means a demonstrator of
+anatomy. However, it does not matter.”
+
+“Where did you meet with it?”
+
+“Mr. Byron used it just now.”
+
+“Do you really like that man?” said Alice, returning to the subject more
+humbly than she had quitted it.
+
+“So far, I do not dislike him. He puzzles me. If the roughness of his
+manner is an affectation I have never seen one so successful before.”
+
+“Perhaps he does not know any better. His coarseness did not strike me
+as being affected at all.”
+
+“I should agree with you but for one or two remarks that fell from him.
+They showed an insight into the real nature of scientific knowledge, and
+an instinctive sense of the truths underlying words, which I have never
+met with except in men of considerable culture and experience. I suspect
+that his manner is deliberately assumed in protest against the selfish
+vanity which is the common source of social polish. It is partly
+natural, no doubt. He seems too impatient to choose his words heedfully.
+Do you ever go to the theatre?”
+
+“No,” said Alice, taken aback by this apparent irrelevance. “My father
+disapproved of it. But I was there once. I saw the ‘Lady of Lyons.’”
+
+“There is a famous actress, Adelaide Gisborne--”
+
+“It was she whom I saw as the Lady of Lyons. She did it beautifully.”
+
+“Did Mr. Byron remind you of her?”
+
+Alice stared incredulously at Lydia. “I do not think there can be two
+people in the world less like one another,” she said.
+
+“Nor do I,” said Lydia, meditatively. “But I think their dissimilarity
+owes its emphasis to some lurking likeness. Otherwise how could he
+have reminded me of her?” Lydia, as she spoke, sat down with a troubled
+expression, as if trying to unravel her thoughts. “And yet,” she added,
+presently, “my theatrical associations are so complex that--” A long
+silence ensued, during which Alice, conscious of some unusual stir in
+her patroness, watched her furtively and wondered what would happen
+next.
+
+“Alice.”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“My mind is exercising itself in spite of me on small and impertinent
+matters--a sure symptom of failing mental health. My presence here is
+only one of several attempts that I have made to live idly since my
+father’s death. They have all failed. Work has become necessary to me. I
+will go to London tomorrow.”
+
+Alice looked up in dismay; for this seemed equivalent to a dismissal.
+But her face expressed nothing but polite indifference.
+
+“We shall have time to run through all the follies of the season before
+June, when I hope to return here and set to work at a book I have
+planned. I must collect the material for it in London. If I leave town
+before the season is over, and you are unwilling to come away with me, I
+can easily find some one who will take care of you as long as you please
+to stay. I wish it were June already!”
+
+Alice preferred Lydia’s womanly impatience to her fatalistic calm.
+It relieved her sense of inferiority, which familiarity had increased
+rather than diminished. Yet she was beginning to persuade herself,
+with some success, that the propriety of Lydia’s manners was at least
+questionable. That morning Miss Carew had not scrupled to ask a man what
+his profession was; and this, at least, Alice congratulated herself on
+being too well-bred to do. She had quite lost her awe of the servants,
+and had begun to address them with an unconscious haughtiness and a
+conscious politeness that were making the word “upstart” common in the
+servants’ hall. Bashville, the footman, had risked his popularity there
+by opining that Miss Goff was a fine young woman.
+
+Bashville was in his twenty-fourth year, and stood five feet ten in his
+stockings. At the sign of the Green Man in the village he was known as a
+fluent orator and keen political debater. In the stables he was deferred
+to as an authority on sporting affairs, and an expert wrestler in the
+Cornish fashion. The women servants regarded him with undissembled
+admiration. They vied with one another in inventing expressions of
+delight when he recited before them, which, as he had a good memory and
+was fond of poetry, he often did. They were proud to go out walking with
+him. But his attentions never gave rise to jealousy; for it was an open
+secret in the servants’ hall that he loved his mistress. He had never
+said anything to that effect, and no one dared allude to it in his
+presence, much less rally him on his weakness; but his passion was well
+known for all that, and it seemed by no means so hopeless to the younger
+members of the domestic staff as it did to the cook, the butler, and
+Bashville himself. Miss Carew, who knew the value of good servants,
+appreciated her footman’s smartness, and paid him accordingly; but she
+had no suspicion that she was waited on by a versatile young student of
+poetry and public affairs, distinguished for his gallantry, his personal
+prowess, his eloquence, and his influence on local politics.
+
+It was Bashville who now entered the library with a salver, which he
+proffered to Alice, saying, “The gentleman is waiting in the round
+drawing-room, miss.”
+
+Alice took the gentleman’s card, and read, “Mr. Wallace Parker.”
+
+“Oh!” she said, with vexation, glancing at Bashville as if to divine his
+impression of the visitor. “My cousin--the one we were speaking of just
+now--has come to see me.”
+
+“How fortunate!” said Lydia. “He will tell me the meaning of pug. Ask
+him to lunch with us.”
+
+“You would not care for him,” said Alice. “He is not much used to
+society. I suppose I had better go and see him.”
+
+Miss Carew did not reply, being plainly at a loss to understand how
+there could be any doubt about the matter. Alice went to the round
+drawing-room, where she found Mr. Parker examining a trophy of Indian
+armor, and presenting a back view of a short gentleman in a spruce blue
+frock-coat. A new hat and pair of gloves were also visible as he stood
+looking upward with his hands behind him. When he turned to greet Alice
+lie displayed a face expressive of resolute self-esteem, with eyes whose
+watery brightness, together with the bareness of his temples, from which
+the hair was worn away, suggested late hours and either very studious
+or very dissipated habits. He advanced confidently, pressed Alice’s hand
+warmly for several seconds, and placed a chair for her, without noticing
+the marked coldness with which she received his attentions.
+
+“I was surprised, Alice,” he said, when he had seated himself opposite
+to her, “to learn from Aunt Emily that you had come to live here without
+consulting me. I--”
+
+“Consult you!” she said, contemptuously, interrupting him. “I never
+heard of such a thing! Why should I consult you as to my movements?”
+
+“Well, I should not have used the word consult, particularly to such
+an independent little lady as sweet Alice Goff. Still, I think you
+might--merely as a matter of form, you know--have informed me of the
+step you were taking. The relations that exist between us give me a
+right to your confidence.”
+
+“What relations, pray?”
+
+“What relations!” he repeated, with reproachful emphasis.
+
+“Yes. What relations?”
+
+He rose, and addressed her with tender solemnity. “Alice,” he began; “I
+have proposed to you at least six times--”
+
+“And have I accepted you once?”
+
+“Hear me to the end, Alice. I know that you have never explicitly
+accepted me; but it has always been understood that my needy
+circumstances were the only obstacle to our happiness. We--don’t
+interrupt me, Alice; you little know what’s coming. That obstacle no
+longer exists. I have been made second master at Sunbury College, with
+three hundred and fifty pounds a year, a house, coals, and gas. In the
+course of time I shall undoubtedly succeed to the head mastership--a
+splendid position, worth eight hundred pounds a year. You are now free
+from the troubles that have pressed so hard upon you since your father’s
+death; and you can quit at once--now--instantly, your dependent position
+here.”
+
+“Thank you: I am very comfortable here. I am staying on a visit with
+Miss Carew.”
+
+Silence ensued; and he sat down slowly. Then she added, “I am
+exceedingly glad that you have got something good at last. It must be a
+great relief to your poor mother.”
+
+“I fancied, Alice--though it may have been only fancy--I fancied that
+YOUR mother was colder than usual in her manner this morning. I hope
+that the luxuries of this palatial mansion are powerless to corrupt
+your heart. I cannot lead you to a castle and place crowds of liveried
+servants at your beck and call; but I can make you mistress of an
+honorable English home, independent of the bounty of strangers. You can
+never be more than a lady, Alice.”
+
+“It is very good of you to lecture me, I am sure.”
+
+“You might be serious with me,” he said, rising in ill-humor, and
+walking a little way down the room.
+
+“I think the offer of a man’s hand ought to be received with respect.”
+
+“Oh! I did not quite understand. I thought we agreed that you are not to
+make me that offer every time we meet.”
+
+“It was equally understood that the subject was only deferred until
+I should be in a position to resume it without binding you to a long
+engagement. That time has come now; and I expect a favorable answer at
+last. I am entitled to one, considering how patiently I have waited for
+it.”
+
+“For my part, Wallace, I must say I do not think it wise for you to
+think of marrying with only three hundred and fifty pounds a year.”
+
+“With a house: remember that; and coals and gas! You are becoming very
+prudent, now that you live with Miss Whatshername here. I fear you no
+longer love me, Alice.”
+
+“I never said I loved you at any time.”
+
+“Pshaw! You never said so, perhaps; but you always gave me to understand
+that--”
+
+“I did nothing of the sort, Wallace; and I won’t have you say so.”
+
+“In short,” he retorted, bitterly, “you think you will pick up some
+swell here who will be a better bargain than I am.”
+
+“Wallace! How dare you?”
+
+“You hurt my feelings, Alice, and I speak out. I know how to behave
+myself quite as well as those who have the entree here; but when my
+entire happiness is at stake I do not stand on punctilio. Therefore, I
+insist on a straightforward answer to my fair, honorable proposal.”
+
+“Wallace,” said Alice, with dignity; “I will not be forced into giving
+an answer against my will. I regard you as a cousin.”
+
+“I do not wish to be regarded as a cousin. Have I ever regarded you as a
+cousin?”
+
+“And do you suppose, Wallace, that I should permit you to call me by my
+Christian name, and be as familiar as we have always been together, if
+you were not my cousin? If so, you must have a very strange opinion of
+me.”
+
+“I did not think that luxury could so corrupt--”
+
+“You said that before,” said Alice, pettishly. “Do not keep repeating
+the same thing over and over; you know it is one of your bad habits.
+Will you stay to lunch? Miss Carew told me to ask you.”
+
+“Indeed! Miss Carew is very kind. Please inform her that I am deeply
+honored, and that I feel quite disturbed at being unable to accept her
+patronage.”
+
+Alice poised her head disdainfully. “No doubt it amuses you to make
+yourself ridiculous,” she said; “but I must say I do not see any
+occasion for it.”
+
+“I am sorry that my behavior is not sufficiently good for you. You
+never found any cause to complain of it when our surroundings were less
+aristocratic. I am quite ashamed of taking so much of your valuable
+time. GOOD-morning.”
+
+“Good-morning. But I do not see why you are in such a rage.”
+
+“I am not in a rage. I am only grieved to find that you are corrupted by
+luxury. I thought your principles were higher. Good-morning, Miss Goff.
+I shall not have the pleasure of seeing you again in this very choice
+mansion.”
+
+“Are you really going, Wallace?” said Alice, rising.
+
+“Yes. Why should I stay?”
+
+She rang the bell, greatly disconcerting him; for he had expected her
+to detain him and make advances for a reconciliation. Before they could
+exchange more words, Bashville entered.
+
+“Good-bye,” said Alice, politely.
+
+“Good-bye,” he replied, through his teeth. He walked loftily out,
+passing Bashville with marked scorn.
+
+He had left the house, and was descending the terrace steps, when he was
+overtaken by the footman, who said, civilly,
+
+“Beg your pardon, sir. You’ve forgotten this, I think.” And he handed
+him a walking-stick.
+
+Parker’s first idea was that his stick had attracted the man’s attention
+by the poor figure it made in the castle hall, and that Bashville was
+requesting him, with covert superciliousness, to remove his property.
+On second thoughts, his self-esteem rejected this suspicion as too
+humiliating; but he resolved to show Bashville that he had a gentleman
+to deal with. So he took the stick, and instead of thanking Bashville,
+handed him five shillings.
+
+Bashville smiled and shook his head. “Oh, no, sir,” he said, “thank you
+all the same! Those are not my views.”
+
+“The more fool you,” said Parker, pocketing the coins, and turning away.
+
+Bashville’s countenance changed. “Come, come, sir,” he said, following
+Parker to the foot of the stops, “fair words deserve fair words. I am no
+more a fool than you are. A gentleman should know his place as well as a
+servant.”
+
+“Oh, go to the devil,” muttered Parker, turning very red and hurrying
+away.
+
+“If you weren’t my mistress’s guest,” said Bashville, looking menacingly
+after him, “I’d send you to bed for a week for sending me to the devil.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V
+
+
+Miss Carew remorselessly carried out her intention of going to London,
+where she took a house in Regent’s Park, to the disappointment of Alice,
+who had hoped to live in Mayfair, or at least in South Kensington. But
+Lydia set great store by the high northerly ground and open air of the
+park; and Alice found almost perfect happiness in driving through London
+in a fine carriage and fine clothes. She liked that better than concerts
+of classical music, which she did not particularly relish, or even than
+the opera, to which they went often. The theatres pleased her more,
+though the amusements there were tamer than she had expected. Society
+was delightful to her because it was real London society. She acquired a
+mania for dancing; went out every night, and seemed to herself far more
+distinguished and attractive than she had ever been in Wiltstoken, where
+she had nevertheless held a sufficiently favorable opinion of her own
+manners and person.
+
+Lydia did not share all these dissipations. She easily procured
+invitations and chaperones for Alice, who wondered why so intelligent
+a woman would take the trouble to sit out a stupid concert, and then go
+home, just as the real pleasure of the evening was beginning.
+
+One Saturday morning, at breakfast, Lydia said,
+
+“Your late hours begin to interfere with the freshness of your
+complexion, Alice. I am getting a little fatigued, myself, with literary
+work. I will go to the Crystal Palace to-day, and wander about the
+gardens for a while; there is to be a concert in the afternoon for the
+benefit of Madame Szczymplica, whose playing you do not admire. Will you
+come with me?”
+
+“Of course,” said Alice, resolutely dutiful.
+
+“Of choice; not of course,” said Lydia. “Are you engaged for to-morrow
+evening?”
+
+“Sunday? Oh, no. Besides, I consider all my engagements subject to your
+convenience.”
+
+There was a pause, long enough for this assurance to fall perfectly
+flat. Alice bit her lip. Then Lydia said, “Do you know Mrs. Hoskyn?”
+
+“Mrs. Hoskyn who gives Sunday evenings? Shall we go there?” said Alice,
+eagerly. “People often ask me whether I have been at one of them. But I
+don’t know her--though I have seen her. Is she nice?”
+
+“She is a young woman who has read a great deal of art criticism, and
+been deeply impressed by it. She has made her house famous by bringing
+there all the clever people she meets, and making them so comfortable
+that they take care to come again. But she has not, fortunately for her,
+allowed her craze for art to get the better of her common-sense. She
+married a prosperous man of business, who probably never read anything
+but a newspaper since he left school; and there is probably not a
+happier pair in England.”
+
+“I presume she had sense enough to know that she could not afford to
+choose,” said Alice, complacently. “She is very ugly.”
+
+“Do you think so? She has many admirers, and was, I am told, engaged to
+Mr. Herbert, the artist, before she met Mr. Hoskyn. We shall meet Mr.
+Herbert there to-morrow, and a number of celebrated persons besides--his
+wife, Madame Szczymplica the pianiste, Owen Jack the composer, Hawkshaw
+the poet, Conolly the inventor, and others. The occasion will be a
+special one, as Herr Abendgasse, a remarkable German socialist and art
+critic, is to deliver a lecture on ‘The True in Art.’ Be careful, in
+speaking of him in society, to refer to him as a sociologist, and not as
+a socialist. Are you particularly anxious to hear him lecture?”
+
+“No doubt it will be very interesting,” said Alice. “I should not like
+to miss the opportunity of going to Mrs. Hoskyn’s. People so often ask
+me whether I have been there, and whether I know this, that, and the
+other celebrated person, that I feel quite embarrassed by my rustic
+ignorance.”
+
+“Because,” pursued Lydia, “I had intended not to go until after the
+lecture. Herr Abendgasse is enthusiastic and eloquent, but not original;
+and as I have imbibed all his ideas direct from their inventors, I
+do not feel called upon to listen to his exposition of them. So that,
+unless you are specially interested--”
+
+“Not at all. If he is a socialist I should much rather not listen to
+him, particularly on Sunday evening.”
+
+So it was arranged that they should go to Mrs. Hoskyn’s after the
+lecture. Meanwhile they went to Sydenham, where Alice went through
+the Crystal Palace with provincial curiosity, and Lydia answered her
+questions encyclopedically. In the afternoon there was a concert, at
+which a band played several long pieces of music, which Lydia seemed to
+enjoy, though she found fault with the performers. Alice, able to detect
+neither the faults in the execution nor the beauty of the music, did as
+she saw the others do--pretended to be pleased and applauded decorously.
+Madame Szczymplica, whom she expected to meet at Mrs. Hoskyn’s,
+appeared, and played a fantasia for pianoforte and orchestra by the
+famous Jack, another of Mrs. Hoskyn’s circle. There was in the programme
+an analysis of this composition from which Alice learned that by
+attentively listening to the adagio she could hear the angels singing
+therein. She listened as attentively as she could, but heard no angels,
+and was astonished when, at the conclusion of the fantasia, the audience
+applauded Madame Szczymplica as if she had made them hear the music of
+the spheres. Even Lydia seemed moved, and said,
+
+“Strange, that she is only a woman like the rest of us, with just
+the same narrow bounds to her existence, and just the same prosaic
+cares--that she will go by train to Victoria, and from thence home in a
+common vehicle instead of embarking in a great shell and being drawn by
+swans to some enchanted island. Her playing reminds me of myself as I
+was when I believed in fairyland, and indeed knew little about any other
+land.”
+
+“They say,” said Alice, “that her husband is very jealous, and that she
+leads him a terrible life.”
+
+“THEY SAY anything that brings gifted people to the level of their own
+experience. Doubtless they are right. I have not met Mr. Herbert, but I
+have seen his pictures, which suggest that he reads everything and sees
+nothing; for they all represent scenes described in some poem. If
+one could only find an educated man who had never read a book, what a
+delightful companion he would be!”
+
+When the concert was over they did not return directly to town, as Lydia
+wished to walk awhile in the gardens. In consequence, when they left
+Sydenham, they got into a Waterloo train, and so had to change at
+Clapham Junction. It was a fine summer evening, and Alice, though she
+thought that it became ladies to hide themselves from the public in
+waiting-rooms at railway stations, did not attempt to dissuade Lydia
+from walking to and fro at an unfrequented end of the platform, which
+terminated in a bank covered with flowers.
+
+“To my mind,” said Lydia, “Clapham Junction is one of the prettiest
+places about London.”
+
+“Indeed!” said Alice, a little maliciously. “I thought that all artistic
+people looked on junctions and railway lines as blots on the landscape.”
+
+“Some of them do,” said Lydia; “but they are not the artists of our
+generation; and those who take up their cry are no better than parrots.
+If every holiday recollection of my youth, every escape from town
+to country, be associated with the railway, I must feel towards it
+otherwise than did my father, upon whose middle age it came as a
+monstrous iron innovation. The locomotive is one of the wonders of
+modern childhood. Children crowd upon a bridge to see the train pass
+beneath. Little boys strut along the streets puffing and whistling in
+imitation of the engine. All that romance, silly as it looks, becomes
+sacred in afterlife. Besides, when it is not underground in a foul
+London tunnel, a train is a beautiful thing. Its pure, white fleece of
+steam harmonizes with every variety of landscape. And its sound! Have
+you ever stood on a sea-coast skirted by a railway, and listened as the
+train came into hearing in the far distance? At first it can hardly be
+distinguished from the noise of the sea; then you recognize it by its
+vibration; one moment smothered in a deep cutting, and the next sent
+echoing from some hillside. Sometimes it runs smoothly for many minutes,
+and then breaks suddenly into a rhythmic clatter, always changing
+in distance and intensity. When it comes near, you should get into a
+tunnel, and stand there while it passes. I did that once, and it was
+like the last page of an overture by Beethoven--thunderingly impetuous.
+I cannot conceive how any person can hope to disparage a train
+by comparing it with a stage-coach; and I know something of
+stage-coaches--or, at least, of diligences. Their effect on the men
+employed about them ought to decide the superiority of steam without
+further argument. I have never observed an engine-driver who did not
+seem an exceptionally intelligent mechanic, while the very writers and
+artists who have preserved the memory of the coaching days for us do
+not appear to have taken coachmen seriously, or to have regarded them
+as responsible and civilized men. Abuse of the railway from a pastoral
+point of view is obsolete. There are millions of grown persons in
+England to whom the far sound of the train is as pleasantly suggestive
+as the piping of a blackbird. Again--is not that Lord Worthington
+getting out of the train? Yes, that one, at the third platform from
+this. He--” She stopped.
+
+Alice looked, but could see neither Lord Worthington nor the cause of a
+subtle but perceptible change in Lydia, who said, quickly,
+
+“He is probably coming to our train. Come to the waiting-room.” She
+walked swiftly along the platform as she spoke. Alice hurried after her;
+and they had but just got into the room, the door of which was close to
+the staircase which gave access to the platform, when a coarse din
+of men’s voices showed that a noisy party were ascending the steps.
+Presently a man emerged reeling, and at once began to execute a drunken
+dance, and to sing as well as his condition and musical faculty allowed.
+Lydia stood near the window of the room and watched in silence. Alice,
+following her example, recognized the drunken dancer as Mellish. He was
+followed by three men gayly attired and highly elated, but comparatively
+sober. After them came Cashel Byron, showily dressed in a velveteen
+coat, and tightly-fitting fawn-colored pantaloons that displayed the
+muscles of his legs. He also seemed quite sober; but he was dishevelled,
+and his left eye blinked frequently, the adjacent brow and cheek being
+much yellower than his natural complexion, which appeared to advantage
+on the right side of his face. Walking steadily to Mellish, who was now
+asking each of the bystanders in turn to come and drink at his expense,
+he seized him by the collar and sternly bade him cease making a fool of
+himself. Mellish tried to embrace him.
+
+“My own boy,” he exclaimed, affectionately. “He’s my little nonpareil.
+Cashel Byron again’ the world at catch weight. Bob Mellish’s money--”
+
+“You sot,” said Cashel, rolling him about until he was giddy as well as
+drunk, and then forcing him to sit down on a bench; “one would think you
+never saw a mill or won a bet in your life before.”
+
+“Steady, Byron,” said one of the others. “Here’s his lordship.” Lord
+Worthington was coming up the stairs, apparently the most excited of the
+party.
+
+“Fine man!” he cried, patting Cashel on the shoulder. “Splendid man! You
+have won a monkey for me to-day; and you shall have your share of it,
+old boy.”
+
+“I trained him,” said Mellish, staggering forward again. “I trained him.
+You know me, my lord. You know Bob Mellish. A word with your lordship in
+c-confidence. You ask who knows how to make the beef go and the muscle
+come. You ask--I ask your lordship’s pard’n. What’ll your lordship
+take?”
+
+“Take care, for Heaven’s sake!” exclaimed Lord Worthington, clutching at
+him as he reeled backward towards the line. “Don’t you see the train?”
+
+“_I_ know,” said Mellish, gravely. “I am all right; no man more so. I am
+Bob Mellish. You ask--”
+
+“Here. Come out of this,” said one of the party, a powerful man with a
+scarred face and crushed nose, grasping Mellish and thrusting him into
+the train. “Y’ll ‘ave to clap a beefsteak on that ogle of yours, where
+you napped the Dutchman’s auctioneer, Byron. It’s got more yellow paint
+on it than y’ll like to show in church to-morrow.”
+
+At this they all gave a roar of laughter, and entered a third-class
+carriage. Lydia and Alice had but just time to take their places in the
+train before it started.
+
+“Eeally, I must say,” said Alice, “that if those were Mr. Cashel Byron’s
+and Lord Worthington’s associates, their tastes are very peculiar.”
+
+“Yes,” said Lydia, almost grimly. “I am a fair linguist; but I did not
+understand a single sentence of their conversation, though I heard it
+all distinctly.”
+
+“They were not gentlemen,” said Alice. “You say that no one can tell by
+a person’s appearance whether he is a gentleman or not; but surely you
+cannot think that those men are Lord Worthington’s equals.”
+
+“I do not,” said Lydia. “They are ruffians; and Cashel Byron is the most
+unmistakable ruffian of them all.”
+
+Alice, awestruck, did not venture to speak again until they left the
+train at Victoria. There was a crowd outside the carriage in which
+Cashel had travelled. They hastened past; but Lydia asked a guard
+whether anything was the matter. He replied that a drunken man,
+alighting from the train, had fallen down upon the rails, and that, had
+the carriage been in motion, he would have been killed. Lydia thanked
+her informant, and, as she turned from him, found Bashville standing
+before her, touching his hat. She had given him no instructions to
+attend. However, she accepted his presence as a matter of course, and
+inquired whether the carriage was there.
+
+“No, madam,” replied Bashville. “The coachman had no orders.”
+
+“Quite right. A hansom, if you please.” When he was gone she said to
+Alice, “Did you tell Bashville to meet us?”
+
+“Oh, DEAR, no,” said Alice. “I should not think of doing such a thing.”
+
+“Strange! However, he knows his duties better than I do; so I have no
+doubt that he has acted properly. He has been waiting all the afternoon,
+I suppose, poor fellow.”
+
+“He has nothing else to do,” said Alice, carelessly. “Here he is. He has
+picked out a capital horse for us, too.”
+
+Meanwhile, Mellish had been dragged from beneath the train and seated on
+the knee of one of his companions. He was in a stupor, and had a large
+lump on his brow. His eye was almost closed. The man with the crushed
+nose now showed himself an expert surgeon. While Cashel supported the
+patient on the knee of another man, and the rest of the party kept off
+the crowd by mingled persuasion and violence, he produced a lancet
+and summarily reduced the swelling by lancing it. He then dressed the
+puncture neatly with appliances for that purpose which he carried about
+him, and shouted in Mellish’s ear to rouse him. But the trainer only
+groaned, and let his head drop inert on his breast. More shouting was
+resorted to, but in vain. Cashel impatiently expressed an opinion that
+Mellish was shamming, and declared that he would not stand there to be
+fooled with all the evening.
+
+“If he was my pal ‘stead o’ yours,” said the man with the broken nose,
+“I’d wake him up fast enough.”
+
+“I’ll save you the trouble,” said Cashel, coolly stooping and seizing
+between his teeth the cartilage of the trainer’s ear.
+
+“That’s the way to do it,” said the other, approvingly, as Mellish
+screamed and started to his feet. “Now, then. Up with you.”
+
+He took Mellish’s right arm, Cashel took the left, and they brought
+him away between them without paying the least heed to his tears, his
+protestations that he was hurt, his plea that he was an old man, or his
+bitter demand as to where Cashel would have been at that moment without
+his care.
+
+Lord Worthington had taken advantage of this accident to slip away from
+his travelling companions and drive alone to his lodgings in Jermyn
+Street. He was still greatly excited; and when his valet, an old
+retainer with whom he was on familiar terms, brought him a letter that
+had arrived during his absence, he asked him four times whether any
+one had called, and four times interrupted him by scraps of information
+about the splendid day he had had and the luck he was in.
+
+“I bet five hundred even that it would be over in a quarter of an hour;
+and then I bet Byron two hundred and fifty to one that it wouldn’t.
+That’s the way to doit; eh, Bedford? Catch Cashel letting two hundred
+and fifty slip through his fingers! By George, though, he’s an artful
+card. At the end of fourteen minutes I thought my five hundred was
+corpsed. The Dutchman was full of fight; and Cashel suddenly turned weak
+and tried to back out of the rally. You should have seen the gleam in
+the Dutchman’s eye when he rushed in after him. He made cock-sure of
+finishing him straight off.”
+
+“Indeed, my lord. Dear me!”
+
+“I should think so: I was taken in by it myself. It was only done to
+draw the poor devil. By George, Bedford, you should have seen the way
+Cashel put in his right. But you couldn’t have seen it; it was too
+quick. The Dutchman was asleep on the grass before he knew he’d been
+hit. Byron had collected fifteen pounds for him before he came to. His
+jaw must feel devilish queer after it. By Jove, Bedford, Cashel is a
+perfect wonder. I’d back him for every cent I possess against any man
+alive. He makes you feel proud of being an Englishman.”
+
+Bedford looked on with submissive wonder as his master, transfigured
+with enthusiasm, went hastily to and fro through the room, occasionally
+clinching his fist and smiting an imaginary Dutchman. The valet at last
+ventured to remind him that he had forgotten the letter.
+
+“Oh, hang the letter!” said Lord Worthington. “It’s Mrs. Hoskyn’s
+writing--an invitation, or some such rot. Here; let’s see it.”
+
+“Campden Hill Road, Saturday.
+
+“My dear Lord Worthington,--I have not forgotten my promise to obtain
+for you a near view of the famous Mrs. Herbert--‘Madame Simplicita,’
+as you call her. She will be with us to-morrow evening; and we shall be
+very happy to see you then, if you care to come. At nine o’clock, Herr
+Abendgasse, a celebrated German art critic and a great friend of mine,
+will read us a paper on ‘The True in Art’; but I will not pay you the
+compliment of pretending to believe that that interests you, so you may
+come at ten or half-past, by which hour all the serious business of the
+evening will be over.”
+
+“Well, there is nothing like cheek,” said Lord Worthington, breaking
+off in his perusal. “These women think that because I enjoy life in a
+rational way I don’t know the back of a picture from the front, or the
+inside of a book from the cover. I shall go at nine sharp.”
+
+“If any of your acquaintances take an interest in art, I will gladly
+make them welcome. Could you not bring me a celebrity or two? I am very
+anxious to have as good an audience as possible for Herr Abendgasse.
+However, as it is, he shall have no reason to complain, as I flatter
+myself that I have already secured a very distinguished assembly. Still,
+if you can add a second illustrious name to my list, by all means do
+so.”
+
+“Very good, Mrs. Hoskyn,” said Lord Worthington, looking cunningly at
+the bewildered Bedford. “You shall have a celebrity--a real one--none
+of your mouldy old Germans--if I can only get him to come. If any of her
+people don’t like him they can tell him so. Eh, Bedford?”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI
+
+
+Next evening, Lydia and Alice reached Mrs. Hoskyn’s house in Campden
+Hill Road a few minutes before ten o’clock. They found Lord Worthington
+in the front garden, smoking and chatting with Mr. Hoskyn. He threw away
+his cigar and returned to the house with the two ladies, who observed
+that he was somewhat flushed with wine. They went into a parlor to take
+off their wraps, leaving him at the foot of the stairs. Presently they
+heard some one come down and address him excitedly thus,
+
+“Worthington. Worthington. He has begun making a speech before the whole
+room. He got up the moment old Abendgasse sat down. Why the deuce did
+you give him that glass of champagne?”
+
+“Sh-sh-sh! You don’t say so! Come with me; and let us try to get him
+away quietly.”
+
+“Did you hear that?” said Alice. “Something must have happened.”
+
+“I hope so,” said Lydia. “Ordinarily, the fault in these receptions is
+that nothing happens. Do not announce us, if you please,” she added to
+the servant, as they ascended the stairs. “Since we have come late,
+let us spare the feelings of Herr Abendgasse by going in as quietly as
+possible.”
+
+They had no difficulty in entering unnoticed, for Mrs. Hoskyn considered
+obscurity beautiful; and her rooms were but dimly lighted by two curious
+lanterns of pink glass, within which were vaporous flames. In the middle
+of the larger apartment was a small table covered with garnet-colored
+plush, with a reading-desk upon it, and two candles in silver
+candlesticks, the light of which, being brighter than the lanterns, cast
+strong double shadows from a group of standing figures about the table.
+The surrounding space was crowded with chairs, occupied chiefly by
+ladies. Behind them, along the wall, stood a row of men, among whom was
+Lucian Webber. All were staring at Cashel Byron, who was making a speech
+to some bearded and spectacled gentlemen at the table. Lydia, who had
+never before seen him either in evening dress or quite at his ease,
+was astonished at his bearing. His eyes were sparkling, his confidence
+overbore the company, and his rough voice created the silence it broke.
+He was in high good-humor, and marked his periods by the swing of his
+extended left arm, while he held his right hand close to his body and
+occasionally pointed his remarks by slyly wagging his forefinger.
+
+“--executive power,” he was saying as Lydia entered. “That’s a very good
+expression, gentlemen, and one that I can tell you a lot about. We have
+been told that if we want to civilize our neighbors we must do it mainly
+by the example of our own lives, by each becoming a living illustration
+of the highest culture we know. But what I ask is, how is anybody to
+know that you’re an illustration of culture. You can’t go about like a
+sandwich man with a label on your back to tell all the fine notions you
+have in your head; and you may be sure no person will consider your mere
+appearance preferable to his own. You want an executive power; that’s
+what you want. Suppose you walked along the street and saw a man beating
+a woman, and setting a bad example to the roughs. Well, you would be
+bound to set a good example to them; and, if you’re men, you’d like to
+save the woman; but you couldn’t do it by merely living; for that would
+be setting the bad example of passing on and leaving the poor creature
+to be beaten. What is it that you need to know then, in order to act up
+to your fine ideas? Why, you want to know how to hit him, when to hit
+him, and where to hit him; and then you want the nerve to go in and do
+it. That’s executive power; and that’s what’s wanted worse than sitting
+down and thinking how good you are, which is what this gentleman’s
+teaching comes to after all. Don’t you see? You want executive power to
+set an example. If you leave all that to the roughs, it’s their example
+that will spread, and not yours. And look at the politics of it. We’ve
+heard a good deal about the French to-night. Well, they’ve got executive
+power. They know how to make a barricade, and how to fight behind it
+when they’ve made it. What’s the result? Why, the French, if they only
+knew what they wanted, could have it to-morrow for the asking--more’s
+the pity that they don’t know. In this country we can do nothing; and
+if the lords and the landlords, or any other collection of nobs, were
+to drive us into the sea, what could we do but go? There’s a gentleman
+laughing at me for saying that; but I ask him what would he do if the
+police or the soldiers came this evening and told him to turn out of his
+comfortable house into the Thames? Tell ‘em he wouldn’t vote for their
+employers at the next election, perhaps? Or, if that didn’t stop them,
+tell ‘em that he’d ask his friends to do the same? That’s a pretty
+executive power! No, gentlemen. Don’t let yourself be deceived by people
+that have staked their money against you. The first thing to learn is
+how to fight. There’s no use in buying books and pictures unless you
+know how to keep them and your own head as well. If that gentleman that
+laughed know how to fight, and his neighbors all knew how to fight
+too, he wouldn’t need to fear police, nor soldiers, nor Russians, nor
+Prussians, nor any of the millions of men that may be let loose on him
+any day of the week, safe though he thinks himself. But, says you, let’s
+have a division of labor. Let’s not fight for ourselves, but pay other
+men to fight for us. That shows how some people, when they get hold
+of an idea, will work it to that foolish length that it’s wearisome to
+listen to them. Fighting is the power of self-preservation; another man
+can’t do it for you. You might as well divide the labor of eating your
+dinner, and pay one fellow to take the beef, another the beer, and a
+third the potatoes. But let us put it for the sake of argument that you
+do pay others to fight for you. Suppose some one else pays them higher,
+and they fight a cross, or turn openly against you! You’d have only
+yourself to blame for giving the executive power to money. And so long
+as the executive power is money the poor will be kept out of their
+corner and fouled against the ropes; whereas, by what I understand, the
+German professor wants them to have their rights. Therefore I say that a
+man’s first duty is to learn to fight. If he can’t do that he can’t set
+an example; he can’t stand up for his own rights or his neighbors’; he
+can’t keep himself in bodily health; and if he sees the weak ill-used
+by the strong, the most he can do is to sneak away and tell the nearest
+policeman, who most likely won’t turn up until the worst of the mischief
+is done. Coming to this lady’s drawing-room, and making an illustration
+of himself, won’t make him feel like a man after that. Let me be
+understood, though, gentlemen: I don’t intend that you should take
+everything I say too exactly--too literally, as it were. If you see
+a man beating a woman, I think you should interfere on principle. But
+don’t expect to be thanked by her for it; and keep your eye on her;
+don’t let her get behind you. As for him, just give him a good one and
+go away. Never stay to get yourself into a street fight; for it’s low,
+and generally turns out badly for all parties. However, that’s only a
+bit of practical advice. It doesn’t alter the great principle that you
+should get an executive power. When you get that, you’ll have courage
+in you; and, what’s more, your courage will be of some use to you. For
+though you may have courage by nature, still, if you haven’t executive
+power as well, your courage will only lead you to stand up to be beaten
+by men that have both courage and executive power; and what good does
+that do you? People say that you’re a game fellow; but they won’t find
+the stakes for you unless you can win them. You’d far better put your
+game in your pocket, and throw up the sponge while you can see to do it.
+
+“Now, on this subject of game, I’ve something to say that will ease
+the professor’s mind on a point that he seemed anxious about. I am no
+musician; but I’ll just show you how a man that understands one art
+understands every art. I made out from the gentleman’s remarks that
+there is a man in the musical line named Wagner, who is what you might
+call a game sort of composer; and that the musical fancy, though they
+can’t deny that his tunes are first-rate, and that, so to speak, he wins
+his fights, yet they try to make out that he wins them in an outlandish
+way, and that he has no real science. Now I tell the gentleman not to
+mind such talk. As I have just shown you, his game wouldn’t be any use
+to him without science. He might have beaten a few second-raters with a
+rush while he was young; but he wouldn’t have lasted out as he has done
+unless he was clever as well. You will find that those that run him down
+are either jealous, or they are old stagers that are not used to his
+style, and think that anything new must be bad. Just wait a bit, and,
+take my word for it, they’ll turn right round and swear that his style
+isn’t new at all, and that he stole it from some one they saw when
+they were ten years old. History shows us that that is the way of such
+fellows in all ages, as the gentleman said; and he gave you Beethoven as
+an example. But an example like that don’t go home to you, because there
+isn’t one man in a million that ever heard of Beethoven. Take a man that
+everybody has heard of--Jack Randall! The very same things were said of
+HIM. After that, you needn’t go to musicians for an example. The truth
+is, that there are people in the world with that degree of envy and
+malice in them that they can’t bear to allow a good man his merits; and
+when they have to admit that he can do one thing, they try to make out
+that there’s something else he can’t do. Come: I’ll put it to you short
+and business-like. This German gentleman, who knows all about music,
+tells you that many pretend that this Wagner has game but no science.
+Well, I, though I know nothing about music, will bet you twenty-five
+pounds that there’s others that allow him to be full of science, but say
+that he has no game, and that all he does comes from his head, and not
+from his heart. I will. I’ll bet twenty-five pounds on it, and let the
+gentleman of the house be stakeholder, and the German gentleman referee.
+Eh? Well, I’m glad to see that there are no takers.
+
+“Now we’ll go to another little point that the gentleman forgot. He
+recommended you to LEARN--to make yourselves better and wiser from day
+to day. But he didn’t tell you why it is that you won’t learn, in spite
+of his advice. I suppose that, being a foreigner, he was afraid of
+hurting your feelings by talking too freely to you. But you’re not so
+thin-skinned as to take offence at a little plain-speaking, I’ll be
+bound; so I tell you straight out that the reason you won’t learn is not
+that you don’t want to be clever, or that you are lazier than many that
+have learned a great deal, but just because you’d like people to think
+that you know everything already--because you’re ashamed to be seen
+going to school; and you calculate that if you only hold your tongue
+and look wise you’ll get through life without your ignorance being found
+out. But where’s the good of lies and pretence? What does it matter if
+you get laughed at by a cheeky brat or two for your awkward beginnings?
+What’s the use of always thinking of how you’re looking, when your sense
+might tell you that other people are thinking about their own looks and
+not about yours? A big boy doesn’t look well on a lower form, certainly,
+but when he works his way up he’ll be glad he began. I speak to you more
+particularly because you’re Londoners; and Londoners beat all creation
+for thinking about themselves. However, I don’t go with the gentleman in
+everything he said. All this struggling and striving to make the world
+better is a great mistake; not because it isn’t a good thing to improve
+the world if you know how to do it, but because striving and struggling
+is the worst way you could set about doing anything. It gives a man a
+bad style, and weakens him. It shows that he don’t believe in himself
+much. When I heard the professor striving and struggling so earnestly to
+set you to work reforming this, that, and the other, I said to myself,
+‘He’s got himself to persuade as well as his audience. That isn’t the
+language of conviction.’ Whose--”
+
+“Really, sir,” said Lucian Webber, who had made his way to the table, “I
+think, as you have now addressed us at considerable length, and as
+there are other persons present whose opinions probably excite as much
+curiosity as yours--” He was interrupted by a, “Hear, hear,” followed by
+“No, no,” and “Go on,” uttered in more subdued tones than are customary
+at public meetings, but with more animation than is usually displayed
+in drawing-rooms. Cashel, who had been for a moment somewhat put out,
+turned to Lucian and said, in a tone intended to repress, but at the
+same time humor his impatience, “Don’t you be in a hurry, sir. You shall
+have your turn presently. Perhaps I may tell you something you don’t
+know, before I stop.” Then he turned again to the company, and resumed.
+
+“We were talking about effort when this young gentleman took it upon
+himself to break the ring. Now, nothing can be what you might call
+artistically done if it’s done with an effort. If a thing can’t be done
+light and easy, steady and certain, let it not be done at all. Sounds
+strange, doesn’t it? But I’ll tell you a stranger thing. The more effort
+you make, the less effect you produce. A WOULD-BE artist is no artist at
+all. I see that in my own profession (never mind what that profession is
+just at present, as the ladies might think the worse of me for it).
+But in all professions, any work that shows signs of labor, straining,
+yearning--as the German gentleman said--or effort of any kind, is work
+beyond the man’s strength that does it, and therefore not well done.
+Perhaps it’s beyond his natural strength; but it is more likely that
+he was badly taught. Many teachers set their pupils on to strain, and
+stretch, so that they get used up, body and mind, in a few months.
+Depend upon it, the same thing is true in other arts. I once taught
+a fiddler that used to get a hundred guineas for playing two or
+three tunes; and he told me that it was just the same thing with the
+fiddle--that when you laid a tight hold on your fiddle-stick, or even
+set your teeth hard together, you could do nothing but rasp like the
+fellows that play in bands for a few shillings a night.”
+
+“How much more of this nonsense must we endure?” said Lucian, audibly,
+as Cashel stopped for breath. Cashel turned and looked at him.
+
+“By Jove!” whispered Lord Worthington to his companion, “that fellow had
+better be careful. I wish he would hold his tongue.”
+
+“You think it’s nonsense, do you?” said Cashel, after a pause. Then he
+raised one of the candles, and illuminated a picture that hung on
+the wall, “Look at that picture,” he said. “You see that fellow in
+armor--St. George and the dragon, or whatever he may be. He’s jumped
+down from his horse to fight the other fellow--that one with his head in
+a big helmet, whose horse has tumbled. The lady in the gallery is
+half crazy with anxiety for St. George; and well she may be. THERE’S a
+posture for a man to fight in! His weight isn’t resting on his legs; one
+touch of a child’s finger would upset him. Look at his neck craned out
+in front of him, and his face as flat as a full moon towards his man, as
+if he was inviting him to shut up both his eyes with one blow. You can
+all see that he’s as weak and nervous as a cat, and that he doesn’t know
+how to fight. And why does he give you that idea? Just because he’s all
+strain and stretch; because he isn’t at his ease; because he carries the
+weight of his body as foolishly as one of the ladies here would carry a
+hod of bricks; because he isn’t safe, steady, and light on his pins, as
+he would be if he could forget himself for a minute, and leave his body
+to find its proper balance of its own accord. If the painter of that
+picture had known his business he would never have sent his man up to
+the scratch in such a figure and condition as that. But you can see
+with one eye that he didn’t understand--I won’t say the principles of
+fighting, but the universal principles that I’ve told you of, that ease
+and strength, effort and weakness, go together. Now,” added Cashel,
+again addressing Lucian; “do you still think that notion of mine
+nonsense?” And he smacked his lips with satisfaction; for his criticism
+of the picture had produced a marked sensation, and he did not know
+that this was due to the fact that the painter, Mr. Adrian Herbert, was
+present.
+
+Lucian tried to ignore the question; but he found it impossible to
+ignore the questioner. “Since you have set the example of expressing
+opinions without regard to considerations of common courtesy,” he
+said, shortly, “I may say that your theory, if it can be called one, is
+manifestly absurd.”
+
+Cashel, apparently unruffled, but with more deliberation of manner than
+before, looked about him as if in search of a fresh illustration. His
+glance finally rested on the lecturer’s seat, a capacious crimson damask
+arm-chair that stood unoccupied at some distance behind Lucian.
+
+“I see you’re no judge of a picture,” said he, good-humoredly, putting
+down the candle, and stepping in front of Lucian, who regarded him
+haughtily, and did not budge. “But just look at it in this way. Suppose
+you wanted to hit me the most punishing blow you possibly could. What
+would you do? Why, according to your own notion, you’d make a great
+effort. ‘The more effort the more force,’ you’d say to yourself. ‘I’ll
+smash him even if I burst myself in doing it.’ And what would happen
+then? You’d only cut me and make me angry, besides exhausting all your
+strength at one gasp. Whereas, if you took it easy--like this--” Here
+he made a light step forward and placed his open palm gently against the
+breast of Lncian, who instantly reeled back as if the piston-rod of a
+steam-engine had touched him, and dropped into the chair.
+
+“There!” exclaimed Cashel, standing aside and pointing to him. “It’s
+like pocketing a billiard-ball!”
+
+A chatter of surprise, amusement, and remonstrance spread through the
+rooms; and the company crowded towards the table. Lucian rose, white
+with rage, and for a moment entirely lost his self-control. Fortunately,
+the effect was to paralyze him; he neither moved nor spoke, and only
+betrayed his condition by his pallor and the hatred in his expression.
+Presently he felt a touch on his arm and heard his name pronounced by
+Lydia. Her voice calmed him. He tried to look at her, but his vision was
+disturbed; he saw double; the lights seemed to dunce before his eyes;
+and Lord Worthington’s voice, saying to Cashel, “Rather too practical,
+old fellow,” seemed to come from a remote corner of the room, and yet to
+be whispered into his ear. He was moving irresolutely in search of
+Lydia when his senses and his resentment were restored by a clap on the
+shoulder.
+
+“You wouldn’t have believed that now, would you?” said Cashel. “Don’t
+look startled; you’ve no bones broken. You had your little joke with me
+in your own way; and I had mine in MY own way. That’s only--”
+
+He stopped; his brave bearing vanished; he became limp and shamefaced.
+Lucian, without a word, withdrew with Lydia to the adjoining apartment,
+and left him staring after her with wistful eyes and slackened jaw.
+
+In the meantime Mrs. Hoskyn, an earnest-looking young woman, with
+striking dark features and gold spectacles, was looking for Lord
+Worthington, who betrayed a consciousness of guilt by attempting to
+avoid her. But she cut off his retreat, and confronted him with a
+steadfast gaze that compelled him to stand and answer for himself.
+
+“Who is that gentleman whom you introduced to me? I do not recollect his
+name.”
+
+“I am really awfully sorry, Mrs. Hoskyn. It was too bad of Byron. But
+Webber was excessively nasty.”
+
+Mrs. Hoskyn, additionally annoyed by apologies which she had not
+invited, and which put her in the ignominious position of a complainant,
+replied coldly, “Mr. Byron! Thank you; I had forgotten,” and was turning
+away when Lydia came up to introduce Alice, and to explain why she had
+entered unannounced. Lord Worthington then returned to the subject of
+Cashel, hoping to improve his credit by claiming Lydia’s acquaintance
+with him.
+
+“Did you hear our friend Byron’s speech, Miss Carew? Very
+characteristic, I thought.”
+
+“Very,” said Lydia. “I hope Mrs. Hoskyn’s guests are all familiar with
+his style. Otherwise they must find him a little startling.”
+
+“Yes,” said Mrs. Hoskyn, beginning to wonder whether Cashel could be
+some well-known eccentric genius. “He is very odd. I hope Mr. Webber is
+not offended.”
+
+“He is the less pleased as he was in the wrong,” said Lydia. “Intolerant
+refusal to listen to an opponent is a species of violence that has no
+business in such a representative nineteenth-century drawing-room
+as yours, Mrs. Hoskyn. There was a fitness in rebuking it by skilled
+physical violence. Consider the prodigious tact of it, too! One
+gentleman knocks another half-way across a crowded room, and yet no one
+is scandalized.”
+
+“You see, Mrs. Hoskyn, the general verdict is ‘Served him right,’” said
+Lord Worthington.
+
+“With a rider to the effect that both gentlemen displayed complete
+indifference to the comfort of their hostess,” said Lydia. “However, men
+so rarely sacrifice their manners to their minds that it would be a pity
+to blame them. You do not encourage conventionality, Mrs. Hoskyn?”
+
+“I encourage good manners, though certainly not conventional manners.”
+
+“And you think there is a difference?”
+
+“I FEEL that there is a difference,” said Mrs. Hoskyn, with dignity.
+
+“So do I,” said Lydia; “but one can hardly call others to account for
+one’s own subjective ideas.”
+
+Lydia went away to another part of the room without waiting for a reply.
+Meanwhile, Cashel stood friendless in the middle of the room, stared
+at by most of his neighbors, and spoken to by none. Women looked at him
+coldly lest it should be suspected that they were admiring him; and
+men regarded him stiffly according to the national custom. Since his
+recognition of Lydia, his self-confidence had given place to a misgiving
+that he had been making a fool of himself. He began to feel lonely and
+abashed; and but for his professional habit of maintaining a cheerful
+countenance under adverse circumstances, he would have hid himself
+in the darkest corner of the room. He was getting sullen, and seeking
+consolation in thoughts of how terribly he could handle all these
+distantly-mannered, black-coated gentlemen if he chose, when Lord
+Worthington came up to him.
+
+“I had no idea you were such an orator, Byron,” he said. “You can go
+into the Church when you cut the other trade. Eh?”
+
+“I wasn’t brought up to the other trade,” said Cashel; “and I know how
+to talk to ladies and gentlemen as well as to what you’d suppose to be
+my own sort. Don’t you be anxious about me, my lord. I know how to make
+myself at home.”
+
+“Of course, of course,” said Lord Worthington, soothingly. “Every one
+can see by your manners that you are a gentleman; they recognize that
+even in the ring. Otherwise--I know you will excuse my saying so--I
+daren’t have brought you here.”
+
+Cashel shook his head, but was pleased. He thought he hated
+flattery; had Lord Worthington told him that he was the best boxer
+in England--which he probably was--he would have despised him. But he
+wished to believe the false compliment to his manners, and was therefore
+perfectly convinced of its sincerity. Lord Worthington perceived this,
+and retired, pleased with his own tact, in search of Mrs. Hoskyn, to
+claim her promise of an introduction to Madame Szczymplica, which Mrs.
+Hoskyn had, by way of punishing him for Cashel’s misdemeanor, privately
+determined not to redeem.
+
+Cashel began to think he had better go. Lydia was surrounded by men
+who were speaking to her in German. He felt his own inability to talk
+learnedly even in English; and he had, besides, a conviction that she
+was angry with him for upsetting her cousin, who was gravely conversing
+with Miss Goff. Suddenly a horrible noise caused a general start and
+pause. Mr. Jack, the eminent composer, had opened the piano-forte, and
+was illustrating some points in a musical composition under discussion
+by making discordant sounds with his voice, accompanied by a few chords.
+Cashel laughed aloud in derision as he made his way towards the door
+through the crowd, which was now pressing round the pianoforte at which
+Madame Szczymplica had just come to the assistance of Jack. Near the
+door, and in a corner remote from the instrument, he came upon Lydia and
+a middle-aged gentleman, evidently neither a professor nor an artist.
+
+“Ab’n’gas is a very clever man,” the gentleman was saying. “I am sorry I
+didn’t hear the lecture. But I leave all that to Mary. She receives the
+people who enjoy high art up-stairs; and I take the sensible men down to
+the garden or the smoking-room, according to the weather.”
+
+“What do the sensible women do?” said Lydia.
+
+“They come late,” said Mr. Hoskyn, and then laughed at his repartee
+until he became aware of the vicinity of Cashel, whose health he
+immediately inquired after, shaking his hand warmly and receiving a
+numbing grip in return. As soon as he saw that Lydia and Cashel were
+acquainted, he slipped away and left them to entertain one another.
+
+“I wonder how he knows me,” said Cashel, heartened by her gracious
+reception of a nervous bow. “I never saw him before in my life.”
+
+“He does not know you,” said Lydia, with some sternness. “He is your
+host, and therefore concludes that he ought to know you.”
+
+“Oh! That was it, was it?” He paused, at a loss for conversation. She
+did not help him. At last he added, “I haven’t seen you this long time,
+Miss Carew.”
+
+“It is not very long since I saw you, Mr. Cashel Byron. I saw you
+yesterday at some distance from London.”
+
+“Oh, Lord!” exclaimed Cashel, “don’t say that. You’re joking, ain’t
+you?”
+
+“No. Joking, in that sense, does not amuse me.”
+
+Cashel looked at her in consternation. “You don’t mean to say that you
+went to see a--a--Where--when did you see me? You might tell me.”
+
+“Certainly. It was at Clapham Junction, at a quarter-past six.”
+
+“Was any one with me?”
+
+“Your friend, Mr. Mellish, Lord Worthington, and some other persons.”
+
+“Yes. Lord Worthington was there. But where were you?”
+
+“In a waiting-room, close to you.”
+
+“I never saw you,” said Cashel, growing red as he recalled the scene.
+“We must have looked very queer. I had had an accident to my eye, and
+Mellish was not sober. Did you think I was in bad company?”
+
+“That was not my business, Mr. Cashel Byron.”
+
+“No,” said Cashel, with sudden bitterness. “What did YOU care what
+company I kept? You’re mad with me because I made your cousin look like
+a fool, I suppose. That’s what’s the matter.”
+
+Lydia looked around to see that no one was within earshot, and, speaking
+in a low tone to remind him that they were not alone, said, “There is
+nothing the matter, except that you are a grown-up boy rather than a
+man. I am not mad with you because of your attack upon my cousin; but he
+is very much annoyed, and so is Mrs. Hoskyn, whose guest you were bound
+to respect.”
+
+“I knew you’d be down on me. I wouldn’t have said a word if I’d known
+that you were here,” said Cashel, dejectedly. “Lie down and be walked
+over; that’s what you think I’m fit for. Another man would have twisted
+his head off.”
+
+“Is it possible that you do not know that gentlemen never twist
+one another’s heads off in society, no matter how great may be the
+provocation?”
+
+“I know nothing,” said Cashel with plaintive sullenness. “Everything I
+do is wrong. There. Will that satisfy you?”
+
+Lydia looked up at him in doubt. Then, with steady patience, she added:
+“Will you answer me a question on your honor?”
+
+He hesitated, fearing that she was going to ask what he was.
+
+“The question is this,” she said, observing the hesitation. “Are you a
+simpleton, or a man of science pretending to be a simpleton for the sake
+of mocking me and my friends?”
+
+“I am not mocking you; honor bright! All that about science was only a
+joke--at least, it’s not what you call science. I’m a real simpleton in
+drawing-room affairs; though I’m clever enough in my own line.”
+
+“Then try to believe that I take no pleasure in making you confess
+yourself in the wrong, and that you cannot have a lower opinion of me
+than the contrary belief implies.”
+
+“That’s just where you’re mistaken,” said Cashel, obstinately. “I
+haven’t got a low opinion of you at all. There’s such a thing as being
+too clever.”
+
+“You may not know that it is a low opinion. Nevertheless, it is so.”
+
+“Well, have it your own way. I’m wrong again; and you’re right.”
+
+“So far from being gratified by that, I had rather that we were both in
+the right and agreed. Can you understand that?”
+
+“I can’t say I do. But I give in to it. What more need you care for?”
+
+“I had rather you understood. Let me try to explain. You think that I
+like to be cleverer than other people. You are mistaken. I should like
+them all to know whatever I know.”
+
+Cashel laughed cunningly, and shook his head. “Don’t you make any
+mistake about that,” he said. “You don’t want anybody to be quite as
+clever as yourself; it isn’t in human nature that you should. You’d like
+people to be just clever enough to show you off--to be worth beating.
+But you wouldn’t like them to be able to beat you. Just clever enough to
+know how much cleverer you are; that’s about the mark. Eh?”
+
+Lydia made no further effort to enlighten him. She looked at him
+thoughtfully, and said, slowly, “I begin to hold the clew to your
+idiosyncrasy. You have attached yourself to the modern doctrine of a
+struggle for existence, and look on life as a perpetual combat.”
+
+“A fight? Just so. What is life but a fight? The curs forfeit or get
+beaten; the rogues sell the fight and lose the confidence of their
+backers; the game ones and the clever ones win the stakes, and have to
+hand over the lion’s share of them to the loafers; and luck plays the
+devil with them all in turn. That’s not the way they describe life in
+books; but that’s what it is.”
+
+“Oddly put, but perhaps true. Still, is there any need of a struggle? Is
+not the world large enough for us all to live peacefully in?”
+
+“YOU may think so, because you were born with a silver spoon in your
+mouth. But if you hadn’t to fight for that silver spoon, some one else
+had; and no doubt he thought it hard that it should be taken away from
+him and given to you. I was a snob myself once, and thought the world
+was made for me to enjoy myself and order about the poor fellows whose
+bread I was eating. But I was left one day where I couldn’t grab any
+more of their bread, and had to make some for myself--ay, and some extra
+for loafers that had the power to make me pay for what they didn’t own.
+That took the conceit out of me fast enough. But what do you know about
+such things?”
+
+“More than you think, perhaps. These are dangerous ideas to take with
+you into English society.”
+
+“Hmf!” growled Cashel. “They’d be more dangerous if I could give every
+man that is robbed of half what he earns twelve lessons--in science.”
+
+“So you can. Publish your lessons. ‘Twelve lectures on political
+economy, by Cashel Byron.’ I will help you to publish them, if you
+wish.”
+
+“Bless your innocence!” said Cashel: “the sort of political economy I
+teach can’t be learned from a book.”
+
+“You have become an enigma again. But yours is not the creed of a
+simpleton. You are playing with me--revealing your wisdom from beneath a
+veil of infantile guilelessness. I have no more to say.”
+
+“May I be shot if I understand you! I never pretended to be guileless.
+Come: is it because I raised a laugh against your cousin that you’re so
+spiteful?”
+
+Lydia looked earnestly and doubtfully at him; and he instinctively put
+his head back, as if it were in danger. “You do not understand, then?”
+ she said. “I will test the genuineness of your stupidity by an appeal to
+your obedience.”
+
+“Stupidity! Go on.”
+
+“But will you obey me, if I lay a command upon you?”
+
+“I will go through fire and water for you.”
+
+Lydia blushed faintly, and paused to wonder at the novel sensation
+before she resumed. “You had better not apologize to my cousin: partly
+because you would only make matters worse; chiefly because he does not
+deserve it. But you must make this speech to Mrs. Hoskyn when you are
+going: ‘I am very sorry I forgot myself’--”
+
+“Sounds like Shakespeare, doesn’t it?” observed Cashel.
+
+“Ah! the test has found you out; you are only acting after all. But that
+does not alter my opinion that you should apologize.”
+
+“All right. I don’t know what you mean by testing and acting; and I only
+hope you know yourself. But no matter; I’ll apologize; a man like me can
+afford to. I’ll apologize to your cousin, too, if you like.”
+
+“I do not like. But what has that to do with it? I suggest these things,
+as you must be aware, for your own sake and not for mine.”
+
+“As for my own, I don’t care twopence: I do it all for you. I don’t even
+ask whether there is anything between you and him.”
+
+“Would you like to know?” said Lydia, deliberately, after a pause of
+astonishment.
+
+“Do you mean to say you’ll tell me?” he exclaimed. “If you do, I’ll say
+you’re as good as gold.”
+
+“Certainly I will tell you. There is an old friendship and cousinship
+between us; but we are not engaged, nor at all likely to be. I tell you
+so because, if I avoided the question, you would draw the opposite and
+false conclusion.”
+
+“I am glad of it,” said Cashel, unexpectedly becoming very gloomy. “He
+isn’t man enough for you. But he’s your equal, damn him!”
+
+“He is my cousin, and, I believe, my sincere friend. Therefore please do
+not damn him.”
+
+“I know I shouldn’t have said that. But I am only damning my own luck.”
+
+“Which will not improve it in the least.”
+
+“I know that. You needn’t have said it. I wouldn’t have said a thing
+like that to you, stupid as I am.”
+
+“Evidently you suppose me to have meant more than I really did. However,
+that does not matter. You are still an enigma to me. Had we not better
+try to hear a little of Madame Szczymplica’s performance?”
+
+“I’m a pretty plain enigma, I should think,” said Cashel, mournfully. “I
+would rather have you than any other woman in the world; but you’re too
+rich and grand for me. If I can’t have the satisfaction of marrying you,
+I may as well have the satisfaction of saying I’d like to.”
+
+“Hardly a fair way of approaching the subject,” said Lydia, composedly,
+but with a play of color again in her cheeks. “Allow me to forbid it
+unconditionally. I must be plain with you, Mr. Cashel Byron. I do
+not know what you are or who you are; and I believe you have tried to
+mystify me on both points--”
+
+“And you never shall find out either the one or the other, if I can help
+it,” put in Cashel; “so that we’re in a preciously bad way of coming to
+a good understanding.”
+
+“True,” assented Lydia. “I do not make secrets; I do not keep them; and
+I do not respect them. Your humor clashes with my principle.”
+
+“You call it a humor!” said Cashel, angrily. “Perhaps you think I am
+a duke in disguise. If so, you may think better of it. If you had a
+secret, the discovery of which would cause you to be kicked out of
+decent society, you would keep it pretty tight. And that through
+no fault of your own, mind you; but through downright cowardice and
+prejudice in other people.”
+
+“There are at least some fears and prejudices common in society that I
+do not share,” said Lydia, after a moment’s reflection. “Should I
+ever find out your secret, do not too hastily conclude that you have
+forfeited my consideration.”
+
+“You are just the last person on earth by whom I want to be found out.
+But you’ll find out fast enough. Pshaw!” cried Cashel, with a laugh,
+“I’m as well known as Trafalgar Square. But I can’t bring myself to tell
+you; and I hate secrets as much as you do; so let’s drop it and talk
+about something else.”
+
+“We have talked long enough. The music is over, and the people will
+return to this room presently, perhaps to ask me who and what is the
+stranger who made them such a remarkable speech.”
+
+“Just a word. Promise me that you won’t ask any of THEM that.”
+
+“Promise you! No. I cannot promise that.”
+
+“Oh, Lord!” said Cashel, with a groan.
+
+“I have told you that I do not respect secrets. For the present I will
+not ask; but I may change my mind. Meanwhile we must not hold long
+conversations. I even hope that we shall not meet. There is only one
+thing that I am too rich and grand for. That one thing--mystification.
+Adieu.”
+
+Before he could reply she was away from him in the midst of a number
+of gentlemen, and in conversation with one of them. Cashel seemed
+overwhelmed. But in an instant he recovered himself, and stepped
+jauntily before Mrs. Hoskyn, who had just come into his neighborhood.
+
+“I’m going, ma’am,” he said. “Thank you for a pleasant evening--I’m very
+sorry I forgot myself. Good-night.”
+
+Mrs. Hoskyn, naturally frank, felt some vague response within herself
+to this address. But, though not usually at a loss for words in social
+emergencies, she only looked at him, blushed slightly, and offered
+her hand. He took it as if it were a tiny baby’s hand and he afraid
+of hurting it, gave it a little pinch, and turned to go. Mr. Adrian
+Herbert, the painter, was directly in his way, with his back towards
+him.
+
+“If YOU please, sir,” said Cashel, taking him gently by the ribs, and
+moving him aside. The artist turned indignantly, but Cashel was passing
+the doorway. On the stairs he met Lucian and Alice, and stopped a moment
+to take leave of them.
+
+“Good-night, Miss Goff,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to see the country
+roses in your cheeks.” He lowered his voice as he added, to Lucian,
+“Don’t you worry yourself over that little trick I showed you. If any of
+your friends chafe you about it, tell them that it was Cashel Byron did
+it, and ask them whether they think they could have helped themselves
+any better than you could. Don’t ever let a person come within distance
+of you while you’re standing in that silly way on both your heels. Why,
+if a man isn’t properly planted on his pins, a broom-handle falling
+against him will upset him. That’s the way of it. Good-night.”
+
+Lucian returned the salutation, mastered by a certain latent
+dangerousness in Cashel, suggestive that he might resent a snub by
+throwing the offender over the balustrade. As for Alice, she had
+entertained a superstitious dread of him ever since Lydia had pronounced
+him a ruffian. Both felt relieved when the house door, closing, shut
+them out of his reach.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII
+
+
+Society was much occupied during Alice’s first season in London with
+the upshot of an historical event of a common kind. England, a few years
+before, had stolen a kingdom from a considerable people in Africa, and
+seized the person of its king. The conquest proved useless, troublesome,
+and expensive; and after repeated attempts to settle the country on
+impracticable plans suggested to the Colonial Office by a popular
+historian who had made a trip to Africa, and by generals who were tired
+of the primitive remedy of killing the natives, it appeared that
+the best course was to release the captive king and get rid of the
+unprofitable booty by restoring it to him. In order, however, that
+the impression made on him by England’s short-sighted disregard of her
+neighbor’s landmark abroad might be counteracted by a glimpse of the
+vastness of her armaments and wealth at home, it was thought advisable
+to take him first to London, and show him the wonders of the town. But
+when the king arrived, his freedom from English prepossessions made it
+difficult to amuse, or even to impress him. A stranger to the idea that
+a private man could own a portion of the earth and make others pay him
+for permission to live on it, he was unable to understand why such
+a prodigiously wealthy nation should be composed partly of poor and
+uncomfortable persons toiling incessantly to create riches, and partly
+of a class that confiscated and dissipated the wealth thus produced
+without seeming to be at all happier than the unfortunate laborers at
+whose expense they existed. He was seized with strange fears, first for
+his health, for it seemed to him that the air of London, filthy with
+smoke, engendered puniness and dishonesty in those who breathed it;
+and eventually for his life, when he learned that kings in Europe were
+sometimes shot at by passers-by, there being hardly a monarch there who
+had not been so imperilled more than once; that the Queen of England,
+though accounted the safest of all, was accustomed to this variety of
+pistol practice; and that the autocrat of an empire huge beyond all
+other European countries, whose father had been torn asunder in the
+streets of his capital, lived surrounded by soldiers who shot down all
+strangers that approached him even at his own summons, and was an
+object of compassion to the humblest of his servants. Under these
+circumstances, the African king was with difficulty induced to stir
+out of doors; and he only visited Woolwich Arsenal--the destructive
+resources of which were expected to influence his future behavior in
+a manner favorable to English supremacy--under compulsion. At last the
+Colonial Office, which had charge of him, was at its wit’s end to devise
+entertainments to keep him in good-humor until the appointed time for
+his departure.
+
+On the Tuesday following Mrs. Hoskyn’s reception, Lucian Webber called
+at his cousin’s house in Regent’s Park, and said, in the course of a
+conversation with the two ladies there,
+
+“The Colonial Office has had an idea. The king, it appears, is something
+of an athlete, and is curious to witness what Londoners can do in that
+way. So a grand assault-at-arms is to be held for him.”
+
+“What is an assault-at-arms?” said Lydia. “I have never been at one; and
+the name suggests nothing but an affray with bayonets.”
+
+“It is an exhibition of swordsmanship, military drill, gymnastics, and
+so forth.”
+
+“I will go to that,” said Lydia. “Will you come, Alice?”
+
+“Is it usual for ladies to go to such exhibitions?” said Alice,
+cautiously.
+
+“On this occasion ladies will go for the sake of seeing the king,”
+ said Lucian. “The Olympian gymnastic society, which has undertaken the
+direction of the part of the assault that is to show off the prowess of
+our civilians, expects what they call a flower-show audience.”
+
+“Will you come, Lucian?”
+
+“If I can be spared, yes. If not, I will ask Worthington to go with you.
+He understands such matters better than I.”
+
+“Then let us have him, by all means,” said Lydia.
+
+“I cannot see why you are so fond of Lord Worthington,” said Alice. “His
+manners are good; but there is nothing in him. Besides, he is so young.
+I cannot endure his conversation. He has begun to talk about Goodwood
+already.”
+
+“He will grow out of his excessive addiction to sport,” said Lucian.
+
+“Indeed,” said Lydia. “And what will he grow into?”
+
+“Possibly into a more reasonable man,” said Lucian, gravely.
+
+“I hope so,” said Lydia; “but I prefer a man who is interested in sport
+to a gentleman who is interested in nothing.”
+
+“Much might indubitably be said from that point of view. But it is not
+necessary that Lord Worthington should waste his energy on horse-racing.
+I presume you do not think political life, for which his position
+peculiarly fits him, unworthy his attention.”
+
+“Party tactics are both exciting and amusing, no doubt. But are they
+better than horse-racing? Jockeys and horse-breakers at least know their
+business; our legislators do not. Is it pleasant to sit on a bench--even
+though it be the treasury bench--and listen to either absolute nonsense
+or childish disputes about conclusions that were foregone in the minds
+of all sensible men a hundred years ago?”
+
+“You do not understand the duties of a government, Lydia. You never
+approach the subject without confirming my opinion that women are
+constitutionally incapable of comprehending it.”
+
+“It is natural for you to think so, Lucian. The House of Commons is
+to you the goal of existence. To me it is only an assemblage of
+ill-informed gentlemen who have botched every business they have ever
+undertaken, from the first committee of supply down to the last land
+act; and who arrogantly assert that I am not good enough to sit with
+them.”
+
+“Lydia,” said Lucian, annoyed; “you know that I respect women in their
+own sphere--”
+
+“Then give them another sphere, and perhaps they will earn your respect
+in that also. I am sorry to say that men, in THEIR sphere, have not won
+my respect. Enough of that for the present. I have to make some domestic
+arrangements, which are of more immediate importance than the conversion
+of a good politician into a bad philosopher. Excuse me for five
+minutes.”
+
+She left the room. Lucian sat down and gave his attention to Alice,
+who had still enough of her old nervousness to make her straighten her
+shoulders and look stately. But he did not object to this; a little
+stiffness of manner gratified his taste.
+
+“I hope,” he said, “that my cousin has not succeeded in inducing you to
+adopt her peculiar views.”
+
+“No,” said Alice. “Of course her case is quite exceptional--she is so
+wonderfully accomplished. In general, I do not think women should
+have views. There are certain convictions which every lady holds: for
+instance, we know that Roman Catholicism is wrong. But that can hardly
+be called a view; indeed it would be wicked to call it so, as it is one
+of the highest truths. What I mean is that women should not be political
+agitators.”
+
+“I understand, and quite agree with you. Lydia is, as you say, an
+exceptional case. She has lived much abroad; and her father was a very
+singular man. Even the clearest heads, when removed from the direct
+influence of English life and thought, contract extraordinary
+prejudices. Her father at one time actually attempted to leave a large
+farm to the government in trust for the people; but fortunately he found
+that it was impossible; no such demise was known to the English law
+or practicable by it. He subsequently admitted the folly of this by
+securing Lydia’s rights as his successor as stringently as he could.
+It is almost a pity that such strength of mind and extent of knowledge
+should be fortified by the dangerous independence which great wealth
+confers. Advantages like these bring with them certain duties to the
+class that has produced them--duties to which Lydia is not merely
+indifferent, but absolutely hostile.”
+
+“I never meddle with her ideas on--on these subjects. I am too
+ignorant to understand them. But Miss Carew’s generosity to me has been
+unparalleled. And she does not seem to know that she is generous. I owe
+more to her than I ever can repay. At least,” Alice added, to herself,
+“I am not ungrateful.”
+
+Miss Carew now reappeared, dressed in a long, gray coat and plain beaver
+hat, and carrying a roll of writing materials.
+
+“I am going to the British Museum to read,” said she.
+
+“To walk!--alone!” said Lucian, looking at her costume.
+
+“Yes. Prevent me from walking, and you deprive me of my health. Prevent
+me from going alone where I please and when I please, and you deprive me
+of my liberty--tear up Magna Charta, in effect. But I do not insist upon
+being alone in this instance. If you can return to your office by way of
+Regent’s Park and Gower Street without losing too much time, I shall be
+glad of your company.”
+
+Lucian decorously suppressed his eagerness to comply by looking at his
+watch and pretending to consider his engagements. In conclusion, he said
+that he should be happy to accompany her.
+
+It was a fine summer afternoon, and there were many people in the park.
+Lucian was soon incommoded by the attention his cousin attracted. In
+spite of the black beaver, her hair shone like fire in the sun. Women
+stared at her with unsympathetic curiosity, and turned as they passed
+to examine her attire. Men resorted to various subterfuges to get a
+satisfactory look without rudely betraying their intention. A few stupid
+youths gaped; and a few impudent ones smiled. Lucian would gladly have
+kicked them all, without distinction. He at last suggested that they
+should leave the path, and make a short cut across the green-sward. As
+they emerged from the shade of the trees he had a vague impression that
+the fineness of the weather and the beauty of the park made the occasion
+romantic, and that the words by which he hoped to make the relation
+between him and his cousin dearer and closer would be well spoken there.
+But he immediately began to talk, in spite of himself, about the cost of
+maintaining the public parks, of the particulars of which he happened to
+have some official knowledge. Lydia, readily interested by facts of
+any sort, thought the subject not a bad one for a casual afternoon
+conversation, and pursued it until they left the turf and got into the
+Euston Road, where the bustle of traffic silenced them for a while. When
+they escaped from the din into the respectable quietude of Gower Street,
+he suddenly said,
+
+“It is one of the evils of great wealth in the hands of a woman, that
+she can hardly feel sure--” His ideas fled suddenly. He stopped; but
+he kept his countenance so well that he had the air of having made a
+finished speech, and being perfectly satisfied with it.
+
+“Do you mean that she can never feel sure of the justice of her title to
+her riches? That used to trouble me; but it no longer does so.”
+
+“Nonsense!” said Lucian. “I alluded to the disinterestedness of your
+friends.”
+
+“That does not trouble me either. Absolutely disinterested friends I do
+not seek, as I should only find them among idiots or somnambulists. As
+to those whose interests are base, they do not know how to conceal their
+motives from me. For the rest, I am not so unreasonable as to object to
+a fair account being taken of my wealth in estimating the value of my
+friendship.”
+
+“Do you not believe in the existence of persons who would like you just
+as well if you were poor?”
+
+“Such persons would, merely to bring me nearer to themselves, wish me to
+become poor; for which I should not thank them. I set great store by the
+esteem my riches command, Lucian. It is the only set-off I have against
+the envy they inspire.”
+
+“Then you would refuse to believe in the disinterestedness of any man
+who--who--”
+
+“Who wanted to marry me? On the contrary: I should be the last person
+to believe that a man could prefer my money to myself. If he wore
+independent, and in a fair way to keep his place in the world without
+my help, I should despise him if he hesitated to approach me for fear of
+misconstruction. I do not think a man is ever thoroughly honest until he
+is superior to that fear. But if he had no profession, no money, and
+no aim except to live at my expense, then I should regard him as an
+adventurer, and treat him as one--unless I fell in love with him.”
+
+“Unless you fell in love with him!”
+
+“That--assuming that such things really happen--would make a difference
+in my feeling, but none in my conduct. I would not marry an adventurer
+under any circumstances. I could cure myself of a misdirected passion,
+but not of a bad husband.”
+
+Lucian said nothing; he walked on with long, irregular steps, lowering
+at the pavement as if it were a difficult problem, and occasionally
+thrusting at it with his stick. At last he looked up, and said,
+
+“Would you mind prolonging your walk a little by going round Bedford
+Square with me? I have something particular to say.”
+
+She turned and complied without a word; and they had traversed one side
+of the square before he spoke again, in these terms:
+
+“On second thoughts, Lydia, this is neither the proper time nor place
+for an important communication. Excuse me for having taken you out of
+your way for nothing.”
+
+“I do not like this, Lucian. Important communications--in this
+case--corrupt good manners. If your intended speech is a sensible one,
+the present is as good a time, and Bedford Square as good a place, as
+you are likely to find for it. If it is otherwise, confess that you have
+decided to leave it unsaid. But do not postpone it. Reticence is always
+an error--even on the treasury bench. It is doubly erroneous in dealing
+with me; for I have a constitutional antipathy to it.”
+
+“Yes,” he said, hurriedly; “but give me one moment--until the policeman
+has passed.”
+
+The policeman went leisurely by, striking the flags with his heels, and
+slapping his palm with a white glove.
+
+“The fact is, Lydia, that--I feel great difficulty--”
+
+“What is the matter?” said Lydia, after waiting in vain for further
+particulars. “You have broken down twice in a speech.” There was a
+pause. Then she looked at him quickly, and added, incredulously, “Are
+you going to get married? Is that the secret that ties your practised
+tongue?”
+
+“Not unless you take part in the ceremony.”
+
+“Very gallant; and in a vein of humor that is new in my experience of
+you. But what have you to tell me, Lucian? Frankly, your hesitation is
+becoming ridiculous.”
+
+“You have certainly not made matters easier for me, Lydia. Perhaps
+you have a womanly intuition of my purpose, and are intentionally
+discouraging me.”
+
+“Not the least. I am not good at speculations of that sort. On my word,
+if you do not confess quickly, I will hurry away to the museum.”
+
+“I cannot find a suitable form of expression,” said Lucian, in painful
+perplexity. “I am sure you will not attribute any sordid motive to
+my--well, to my addresses, though the term seems absurd. I am too well
+aware that there is little, from the usual point of view, to tempt you
+to unite yourself to me. Still--”
+
+A rapid change in Lydia’s face showed him that he had said enough. “I
+had not thought of this,” she said, after a silence that seemed long to
+him. “Our observations are so meaningless until we are given the thread
+to string them on! You must think better of this, Lucian. The relation
+that at present exists between us is the very best that our different
+characters will admit of. Why do you desire to alter it?”
+
+“Because I would make it closer and more permanent. I do not wish to
+alter it otherwise.”
+
+“You would run some risk of simply destroying it by the method you
+propose,” said Lydia, with composure. “We could not co-operate. There
+are differences of opinion between us amounting to differences of
+principle.”
+
+“Surely you are not serious. Your political opinions, or notions,
+are not represented by any party in England; and therefore they are
+practically ineffective, and could not clash with mine. And such
+differences are not personal matters.”
+
+“Such a party might be formed a week after our marriage--will, I think,
+be formed a long time before our deaths. In that case I fear that our
+difference of opinion would become a very personal matter.”
+
+He began to walk more quickly as he replied, “It is too absurd to set up
+what you call your opinions as a serious barrier between us. You have no
+opinions, Lydia. The impracticable crotchets you are fond of airing are
+not recognized in England as sane political convictions.”
+
+Lydia did not retort. She waited a minute in pensive silence, and then
+said,
+
+“Why do you not marry Alice Goff?”
+
+“Oh, hang Alice Goff!”
+
+“It is so easy to come at the man beneath the veneer by expertly
+chipping at his feelings,” said Lydia, laughing. “But I was serious,
+Lucian. Alice is energetic, ambitious, and stubbornly upright in
+questions of principle. I believe she would assist you steadily at
+every step of your career. Besides, she has physical robustness. Our
+student-stock needs an infusion of that.”
+
+“Many thanks for the suggestion; but I do not happen to want to marry
+Miss Goff.”
+
+“I invite you to consider it. You have not had time yet to form any new
+plans.”
+
+“New plans! Then you absolutely refuse me--without a moment’s
+consideration?”
+
+“Absolutely, Lucian. Does not your instinct warn you that it would be a
+mistake for you to marry me?”
+
+“No; I cannot say that it does.”
+
+“Then trust to mine, which gives forth no uncertain note on this
+question, as your favorite newspapers are fond of saying.”
+
+“It is a question of feeling,” he said, in a constrained voice.
+
+“Is it?” she replied, with interest. “You have surprised me somewhat,
+Lucian. I have never observed any of the extravagances of a lover in
+your conduct.”
+
+“And you have surprised me very unpleasantly, Lydia. I do not think now
+that I ever had much hope of success; but I thought, at least, that my
+disillusion would be gently accomplished.”
+
+“What! Have I been harsh?”
+
+“I do not complain.”
+
+“I was unlucky, Lucian; not malicious. Besides, the artifices by
+which friends endeavor to spare one another’s feelings are pretty
+disloyalties. I am frank with you. Would you have me otherwise?”
+
+“Of course not. I have no right to be offended.”
+
+“Not the least. Now add to that formal admission a sincere assurance
+that you ARE not offended.”
+
+“I assure you I am not,” said Lucian, with melancholy resignation.
+
+They had by this time reached Charlotte Street, and Lydia tacitly
+concluded the conference by turning towards the museum, and beginning to
+talk upon indifferent subjects. At the corner of Russell Street he got
+into a cab and drove away, dejectedly acknowledging a smile and wave
+of the hand with which Lydia tried to console him. She then went to the
+national library, where she forgot Lucian. The effect of the shock of
+his proposal was in store for her, but as yet she did not feel it; and
+she worked steadily until the library was closed and she had to leave.
+As she had been sitting for some hours, and it was still light, she did
+not take a cab, and did not even walk straight home. She had heard of
+a bookseller in Soho who had for sale a certain scarce volume which she
+wanted; and it occurred to her that the present was a good opportunity
+to go in search of him. Now, there was hardly a capital in western
+Europe that she did not know better than London. She had an impression
+that Soho was a region of quiet streets and squares, like Bloomsbury.
+Her mistake soon became apparent; but she felt no uneasiness in the
+narrow thoroughfares, for she was free from the common prejudice of
+her class that poor people are necessarily ferocious, though she often
+wondered why they were not so. She got as far as Great Pulteney Street
+in safety; but in leaving it she took a wrong turning and lost herself
+in a labyrinth of courts where a few workmen, a great many workmen’s
+wives and mothers, and innumerable workmen’s children were passing the
+summer evening at gossip and play. She explained her predicament to
+one of the women, who sent a little boy wilh her to guide her. Business
+being over for the day, the street to which the boy led her was almost
+deserted. The only shop that seemed to be thriving was a public-house,
+outside which a few roughs were tossing for pence.
+
+Lydia’s guide, having pointed out her way to her, prepared to return to
+his playmates. She thanked him, and gave him the smallest coin in her
+purse, which happened to be a shilling. He, in a transport at possessing
+what was to him a fortune, uttered a piercing yell, and darted off to
+show the coin to a covey of small ragamuffins who had just raced into
+view round the corner at which the public-house stood. In his haste he
+dashed against one of the group outside, a powerfully built young man,
+who turned and cursed him. The boy retorted passionately, and then,
+overcome by pain, began to cry. When Lydia came up the child stood
+whimpering directly in her path; and she, pitying him, patted him on
+the head and reminded him of all the money he had to spend. He seemed
+comforted, and scraped his eyes with his knuckles in silence; but
+the man, who, having received a sharp kick on the ankle, was stung by
+Lydia’s injustice in according to the aggressor the sympathy due to
+himself, walked threateningly up to her and demanded, with a startling
+oath, whether HE had offered to do anything to the boy. And, as he
+refrained from applying any epithet to her, he honestly believed that in
+deference to Lydia’s sex and personal charms, he had expressed himself
+with studied moderation. She, not appreciating his forbearance,
+recoiled, and stepped into the roadway in order to pass him. Indignant
+at this attempt to ignore him, he again placed himself in her path, and
+was repeating his question with increased sternness, when a jerk in
+the pit of his stomach caused him a severe internal qualm, besides
+disturbing his equilibrium so rudely that he narrowly escaped a fall
+against the curb-stone. When he recovered himself he saw before him a
+showily dressed young man, who accosted him thus:
+
+“Is that the way to talk to a lady, eh? Isn’t the street wide enough for
+two? Where’s your manners?”
+
+“And who are you; and where are you shoving your elbow to?” said the
+man, with a surpassing imprecation.
+
+“Come, come,” said Cashel Byron, admonitorily. “You’d better keep your
+mouth clean if you wish to keep your teeth inside it. Never you mind who
+I am.”
+
+Lydia, foreseeing an altercation, and alarmed by the threatening aspect
+of the man, attempted to hurry away and send a policeman to Cashel’s
+assistance. But, on turning, she discovered that a crowd had already
+gathered, and that she was in the novel position of a spectator in the
+inner ring at what promised to be a street fight. Her attention was
+recalled to the disputants by a violent demonstration on the part of her
+late assailant. Cashel seemed alarmed; for he hastily retreated a step
+without regard to the toes of those behind him, and exclaimed, waving
+the other off with his open hand,
+
+“Now, you just let me alone. I don’t want to have anything to say to
+you. Go away from me, I tell you.”
+
+“You don’t want to have nothink to say to me! Oh! And for why? Because
+you ain’t man enough; that’s why. Wot do you mean by coming and shoving
+your elbow into a man’s bread-basket for, and then wanting to sneak off?
+Did you think I’d ‘a’ bin frightened of your velvet coat?”
+
+“Very well,” said Cashel, pacifically; “we’ll say that I’m not man
+enough for you. So that’s settled. Are you satisfied?”
+
+But the other, greatly emboldened, declared with many oaths that he
+would have Cashel’s heart out, and also that of Lydia, to whom he
+alluded in coarse terms. The crowd cheered, and called upon him to “go
+it.” Cashel then said, sullenly,
+
+“Very well. But don’t you try to make out afterwards that I forced a
+quarrel on you. And now,” he added, with a grim change of tone that made
+Lydia shudder, and shifted her fears to the account of his antagonist,
+“I’ll make you wish you’d bit your tongue out before you said what you
+did a moment ago. So, take care of yourself.”
+
+“Oh, I’ll take care of myself,” said the man, defiantly. “Put up your
+hands.”
+
+Cashel surveyed his antagonist’s attitude with unmistakable
+disparagement. “You will know when my hands are up by the feel of the
+pavement,” he said, at last. “Better keep your coat on. You’ll fall
+softer.”
+
+The rough expressed his repudiation of this counsel by beginning to
+strip energetically. A thrill of delight passed through the crowd. Those
+who had bad places pressed forward, and those who formed the inner ring
+pressed back to make room for the combatants. Lydia, who occupied a
+coveted position close to Cashel, hoped to be hustled out of the throng;
+for she was beginning to feel faint and ill. But a handsome butcher,
+who had made his way to her side, gallantly swore that she should not be
+deprived of her place in the front row, and bade her not be frightened,
+assuring her that he would protect her, and that the fight would be well
+worth seeing. As he spoke, the mass of faces before Lydia seemed to
+give a sudden lurch. To save herself from falling, she slipped her arm
+through the butcher’s; and he, much gratified, tucked her close to him,
+and held her up effectually. His support was welcome, because it was
+needed.
+
+Meanwhile, Cashel stood motionless, watching with unrelenting
+contempt the movements of his adversary, who rolled up his discolored
+shirt-sleeves amid encouraging cries of “Go it, Teddy,” “Give it
+‘im, Ted,” and other more precise suggestions. But Teddy’s spirit
+was chilled; he advanced with a presentiment that he was courting
+destruction. He dared not rush on his foe, whose eye seemed to discern
+his impotence. When at last he ventured to strike, the blow fell short,
+as Cashel evidently knew it would; for he did not stir. There was a
+laugh and a murmur of impatience in the crowd.
+
+“Are you waiting for the copper to come and separate you?” shouted the
+butcher. “Come out of your corner and get to work, can’t you?”
+
+This reminder that the police might balk him of his prey seemed to move
+Cashel. He took a step forward. The excitement of the crowd rose to a
+climax; and a little man near Lydia cut a frenzied caper and screamed,
+“Go it, Cashel Byron.”
+
+At these words Teddy was terror-stricken. He made no attempt to disguise
+his condition. “It ain’t fair,” he exclaimed, retreating as far as the
+crowd would permit him. “I give in. Cut it, master; you’re too clever
+for me.” But his comrades, with a pitiless jeer, pushed him towards
+Cashel, who advanced remorselessly. Teddy dropped on both knees.
+“Wot can a man say more than that he’s had enough?” he pleaded. “Be a
+Englishman, master; and don’t hit a man when he’s down.”
+
+“Down!” said Cashel. “How long will you stay down if I choose to have
+you up?” And, suiting the action to the word, he seized Teddy with his
+left hand, lifted him to his feet, threw him into a helpless position
+across his knee, and poised his right fist like a hammer over his
+upturned face. “Now,” he said, “you’re not down. What have you to say
+for yourself before I knock your face down your throat?”
+
+“Don’t do it, gov’nor,” gasped Teddy. “I didn’t mean no harm. How was
+I to know that the young lady was a pal o’ yourn?” Here he struggled a
+little; and his face assumed a darker hue. “Let go, master,” he cried,
+almost inarticulately. “You’re ch--choking me.”
+
+“Pray let him go,” said Lydia, disengaging herself from the butcher and
+catching Cashel’s arm.
+
+Cashel, with a start, relaxed his grasp; and Teddy rolled on the ground.
+He went away thrusting his hands iuto his sleeves, and out-facing his
+disgrace by a callous grin. Cashel, without speaking, offered Lydia
+his arm; and she, seeing that her best course was to get away from that
+place with as few words as possible, accepted it, and then turned and
+thanked the butcher, who blushed and became speechless. The little man
+whose exclamation had interrupted the combat, now waved his hat, and
+cried,
+
+“The British Lion forever! Three cheers for Cashel Byron.”
+
+Cashel turned upon him curtly, and said, “Don’t you make so free with
+other people’s names, or perhaps you may get into trouble yourself.”
+
+The little man retreated hastily; but the crowd responded with three
+cheers as Cashel, with Lydia on his arm, withdrew through a lane of
+disreputable-looking girls, roughs of Teddy’s class, white-aproned
+shopmen who had left their counters to see the fight, and a few pale
+clerks, who looked with awe at the prize-fighter, and with wonder at the
+refined appearance of his companion. The two were followed by a double
+file of boys, who, with their eyes fixed earnestly on Cashel, walked
+on the footways while he conducted Lydia down the middle of the narrow
+street. Not one of them turned a somersault or uttered a shout. Intent
+on their hero, they pattered along, coming into collision with every
+object that lay in their path. At last Cashel stopped. They instantly
+stopped too. He took some bronze coin from his pocket, rattled it in his
+hand, and addressed them.
+
+“Boys!” Dead silence. “Do you know what I have to do to keep up my
+strength?” The hitherto steadfast eyes wandered uneasily. “I have to eat
+a little boy for supper every night, the last thing before to bed. Now,
+I haven’t quite made up my mind which of you would be the most to my
+taste; but if one of you comes a step further, I’ll eat HIM. So, away
+with you.” And he jerked the coin to a considerable distance. There
+was a yell and a scramble; and Cashel and Lydia pursued their way
+unattended.
+
+Lydia had taken advantage of the dispersion of the boys to detach
+herself from Cashel’s arm. She now said, speaking to him for the first
+time since she had interceded for Teddy,
+
+“I am sorry to have given you so much trouble, Mr. Cashel Byron. Thank
+you for interfering to protect me; but I was in no real danger. I would
+gladly have borne with a few rough words for the sake of avoiding a
+disturbance.”
+
+“There!” cried Cashel. “I knew it. You’d a deal rather I had minded
+my own business and not interfered. You’re sorry for the poor fellow I
+treated so badly; ain’t you now? That’s a woman all over.”
+
+“I have not said one of these things.”
+
+“Well, I don’t see what else you mean. It’s no pleasure to me to fight
+chance men in the streets for nothing: I don’t get my living that way.
+And now that I have done it for your sake, you as good as tell me I
+ought to have kept myself quiet.”
+
+“Perhaps I am wrong. I hardly understand what passed. You seemed to drop
+from the clouds.”
+
+“Aha! You were glad when you found me at your elbow, in spite of your
+talk. Come now; weren’t you glad to see me?”
+
+“I was--very glad indeed. But by what magic did you so suddenly subdue
+that man? And was it necessary to sully your hands by throttling him?”
+
+“It was a satisfaction to me; and it served him right.”
+
+“Surely a very poor satisfaction! Did you notice that some one in the
+crowd called out your name, and that it seemed to frighten the man
+terribly?”
+
+“Indeed? Odd, wasn’t it? But you were saying that you thought I dropped
+from the sky. Why, I had been following you for five minutes before!
+What do you think of that? If I may take the liberty of asking, how did
+you come to be walking round Soho at such an hour with a little ragged
+boy?”
+
+Lydia explained. When she finished, it was nearly dark, and they
+had reached Oxford Street, where, like Lucian in Regent’s Park that
+afternoon, she became conscious that her companion was an object
+of curiosity to many of the young men who were lounging in that
+thoroughfare.
+
+“Alice will think that I am lost,” she said, making a signal to a
+cabman. “Good-bye; and many thanks. I am always at home on Fridays, and
+shall be very happy to see you.”
+
+She handed him a card. He took it, read it, looked at the back to see if
+there was anything written there, and then said, dubiously,
+
+“I suppose there will be a lot of people.”
+
+“Yes; you will meet plenty of people.”
+
+“Hm! I wish you’d let me see you home now. I won’t ask to go any further
+than the gate.”
+
+Lydia laughed. “You should be very welcome,” she said; “but I am quite
+safe, thank you. I need not trouble you.”
+
+“But suppose the cabman bullies you for double fare,” persisted Cashel.
+“I have business up in Finchley; and your place is right in any way
+there. Upon my soul I have,” he added, suspecting that she doubted him.
+“I go every Tuesday evening to the St. John’s Wood Cestus Club.”
+
+“I am hungry and in a hurry to got home,” said Lydia. “‘I must be gone
+and live, or stay and die.’ Come if you will; but in any case let us go
+at once.”
+
+She got into the cab, and Cashel followed, making some remark which she
+did not quite catch about its being too dark for any one to recognize
+him. They spoke little during the drive, which was soon over. Bashville
+was standing at the open door as they came to the house. When Cashel got
+out the footman looked at him with interest and some surprise, But when
+Lydia alighted he was so startled that he stood open-mouthed, although
+he was trained to simulate insensibility to everything except his own
+business, and to do that as automatically as possible. Cashel bade Lydia
+good-bye, and shook hands with her. As she went into the house, she
+asked Bashville whether Miss Goff was within. To her surprise, he paid
+no attention to her, but stared after the retreating cab. She repeated
+the question.
+
+“Madam,” he said, recovering himself with a start, “she has asked for
+you four times.”
+
+Lydia, relieved of a disagreeable suspicion that her usually faultless
+footman must be drunk, thanked him and went up-stairs.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII
+
+
+One morning a handsome young man, elegantly dressed, presented himself
+at Downing Street, and asked to see Mr. Lucian Webber. He declined
+to send in a card, and desired to be announced simply as “Bashville.”
+ Lucian ordered him to be admitted at once, and, when he entered, nodded
+amiably to him and invited him to sit down.
+
+“I thank you, sir,” said Bashville, seating himself. It struck Lucian
+then, from a certain strung-up resolution in his visitor’s manner, that
+he had come on some business of his own, and not, as he had taken for
+granted, with a message from his mistress.
+
+“I have come, sir, on my own responsibility this morning. I hope you
+will excuse the liberty.”
+
+“Certainly. If I can do anything for you, Bashville, don’t be afraid to
+ask. But be as brief as you can. I am so busy that every second I give
+you will probably be subtracted from my night’s rest. Will ten minutes
+be enough?”
+
+“More than enough, sir, thank you. I only wish to ask one question.
+I own that I am stepping out of my place to ask it; but I’ll risk
+all that. Does Miss Carew know what the Mr. Cashel Byron is that she
+receives every Friday with her other friends?”
+
+“No doubt she does,” said Lucian, at once becoming cold in his manner,
+and looking severely at Bashville. “What business is that of yours?”
+
+“Do YOU know what he is, sir?” said Bashville, returning Lucian’s gaze
+steadily.
+
+Lucian changed countenance, and replaced a pen that had slipped from a
+rack on his desk. “He is not an acquaintance of mine,” he said. “I only
+know him as a friend of Lord Worthington’s.”
+
+“Sir,” said Bashville, with sudden vehemence, “he is no more to Lord
+Worthington than the racehorse his lordship bets on. _I_ might as well
+set up to be a friend of his lordship because I, after a manner of
+speaking, know him. Byron is in the ring, sir. A common prize-fighter!”
+
+Lucian, recalling what had passed at Mrs. Hoskyn’s, and Lord
+Worthington’s sporting habits, believed the assertion at once. But
+he made a faint effort to resist conviction. “Are you sure of this,
+Bashville?” he said. “Do you know that your statement is a very serious
+one?”
+
+“There is no doubt at all about it, sir. Go to any sporting public-house
+in London and ask who is the best-known fighting man of the day, and
+they’ll tell you, Cashel Byron. I know all about him, sir. Perhaps you
+have heard tell of Ned Skene, who was champion, belike, when you were at
+school.”
+
+“I believe I have heard the name.”
+
+“Just so, sir. Ned Skene picked up this Cashel Byron in the streets of
+Melbourne, where he was a common sailor-boy, and trained him for the
+ring. You may have seen his name in the papers, sir. The sporting ones
+are full of him; and he was mentioned in the Times a month ago.”
+
+“I never read articles on such subjects. I have hardly time to glance
+through the ones that concern me.”
+
+“That’s the way it is with everybody, sir. Miss Carew never thinks
+of reading the sporting intelligence in the papers; and so he passes
+himself off on her for her equal. He’s well known for his wish to be
+thought a gentleman, sir, I assure you.”
+
+“I have noticed his manner as being odd, certainly.”
+
+“Odd, sir! Why, a child might see through him; for he has not the sense
+to keep his own secret. Last Friday he was in the library, and he got
+looking at the new biographical dictionary that Miss Carew contributed
+the article on Spinoza to. And what do you think he said, sir? ‘This is
+a blessed book,’ he says. ‘Here’s ten pages about Napoleon Bonaparte,
+and not one about Jack Randall; as if one fighting man wasn’t as good as
+another!’ I knew by the way the mistress took up that saying, and drew
+him out, so to speak, on the subject, that she didn’t know who she had
+in her house; and then I determined to tell you, sir. I hope you won’t
+think that I come here behind his back out of malice against him. All I
+want is fair play. If I passed myself off on Miss Carew as a gentleman,
+I should deserve to be exposed as a cheat; and when he tries to take
+advantages that don’t belong to him, I think I have a right to expose
+him.”
+
+“Quite right, quite right,” said Lucian, who cared nothing for
+Bashville’s motives. “I suppose this Byron is a dangerous man to have
+any personal unpleasantness with.”
+
+“He knows his business, sir. I am a better judge of wrestling than half
+of these London professionals; but I never saw the man that could put a
+hug on him. Simple as he is, sir, he has a genius for fighting, and has
+beaten men of all sizes, weights, and colors. There’s a new man from
+the black country, named Paradise, who says he’ll beat him; but I won’t
+believe it till I see it.”
+
+“Well,” said Lucian, rising, “I am much indebted to you, Bashville, for
+your information; and I will take care to let Miss Carew know how you
+have--”
+
+“Begging your pardon, sir,” said Bashville; “but, if you please, no. I
+did not come to recommend myself at the cost of another man; and perhaps
+Miss Carew might not think it any great recommendation neither.” Lucian
+looked quickly at him, and seemed about to speak, but checked himself.
+Bashville continued, “If he denies it, you may call me as a witness,
+and I will tell him to his face that he lies--and so I would if he were
+twice as dangerous; but, except in that way, I would ask you, sir, as a
+favor, not to mention my name to Miss Carew.”
+
+“As you please,” said Lucian, taking out his purse. “Perhaps you are
+right. However, you shall not have your trouble for nothing.”
+
+“I couldn’t, really, sir,” said Bashville, retreating a step. “You will
+agree with me, I’m sure, that this is not a thing that a man should take
+payment for. It is a personal matter between me and Byron, sir.”
+
+Lucian, displeased that a servant should have any personal feelings on
+any subject, much more one that concerned his mistress, put back
+his purse without comment and said, “Will Miss Carew be at home this
+afternoon between three and four?”
+
+“I have not heard of any arrangement to the contrary, sir. I will
+telegraph to you if she goes out--if you wish.”
+
+“It does not matter. Thank you. Good-morning.”
+
+“Good-morning, sir,” said Bashville, respectfully, as he withdrew.
+Outside the door his manner changed. He put on a pair of primrose
+gloves, took up a silver-mounted walking-stick that he had left in the
+corridor, and walked from Downing Street into Whitehall. A party
+of visitors from the country, who were standing there examining the
+buildings, guessed that he was a junior lord of the Treasury.
+
+He waited in vain that afternoon for Lucian to appear at the house
+in Regent’s Park. There were no callers, and he wore away the time by
+endeavoring, with the aid of a library that Miss Carew had placed at the
+disposal of her domestics, to unravel the philosophy of Spinoza. At the
+end of an hour, feeling satisfied that he had mastered that author’s
+views, he proceeded to vary the monotony of the long summer’s day by
+polishing Lydia’s plate.
+
+Meanwhile, Lucian was considering how he could best make Lydia not only
+repudiate Cashel’s acquaintance, but feel thoroughly ashamed of herself
+for having encouraged him, and wholesomely mistrustful of her own
+judgment for the future. His parliamentary experience had taught him
+to provide himself with a few well-arranged, relevant facts before
+attempting to influence the opinions of others on any subject. He
+knew no more of prize-fighting than that it was a brutal and illegal
+practice, akin to cock-fighting, and, like it, generally supposed to be
+obsolete. Knowing how prone Lydia was to suspect any received opinion
+of being a prejudice, he felt that he must inform himself more
+particularly. To Lord Worthington’s astonishment, he not only asked him
+to dinner next evening, but listened with interest while he descanted to
+his heart’s content on his favorite topic of the ring.
+
+As the days passed, Bashville became nervous, and sometimes wondered
+whether Lydia had met her cousin and heard from him of the interview at
+Downing Street. He fancied that her manner towards him was changed; and
+he was once or twice on the point of asking the most sympathetic of the
+housemaids whether she had noticed it. On Wednesday his suspense ended.
+Lucian came, and had a long conversation with Lydia in the library.
+Bashville was too honorable to listen at the door; but he felt a strong
+temptation to do so, and almost hoped that the sympathetic housemaid
+might prove less scrupulous. But Miss Carew’s influence extended farther
+than her bodily presence; and Lucian’s revelation was made in complete
+privacy.
+
+When he entered the library he looked so serious that she asked him
+whether he had neuralgia, from which he occasionally suffered. He
+replied with some indignation that he had not, and that he had a
+communication of importance to make to her.
+
+“What! Another!”
+
+“Yes, another,” he said, with a sour smile; “but this time it does not
+concern myself. May I warn you as to the character of one of your guests
+without overstepping my privilege?”
+
+“Certainly. But perhaps you mean Vernet. If so, I am perfectly aware
+that he is an exiled Communard.”
+
+“I do not mean Monsieur Vernet. You understand, I hope, that I do not
+approve of him, nor of your strange fancy for Nihilists, Fenians, and
+other doubtful persons; but I think that even you might draw the line at
+a prize-fighter.”
+
+Lydia lost color, and said, almost inaudibly, “Cashel Byron!”
+
+“Then you KNEW!” exclaimed Lucian, scandalized.
+
+Lydia waited a moment to recover, settled herself quietly in her chair,
+and replied, calmly, “I know what you tell me--nothing more. And now,
+will you explain to me exactly what a prize-fighter is?”
+
+“He is simply what his name indicates. He is a man who fights for
+prizes.”
+
+“So does the captain of a man-of-war. And yet society does not place
+them in the same class--at least, I do not think so.”
+
+“As if there could be any doubt that society does not! There is no
+analogy whatever between the two cases. Let me endeavor to open your
+eyes a little, if that be possible, which I am sometimes tempted
+to doubt. A prize-fighter is usually a man of naturally ferocious
+disposition, who has acquired some reputation among his associates as a
+bully; and who, by constantly quarrelling, has acquired some practice in
+fighting. On the strength of this reputation he can generally find some
+gambler willing to stake a sum of money that he will vanquish a pugilist
+of established fame in single combat. Bets are made between the admirers
+of the two men; a prize is subscribed for, each party contributing a
+share; the combatants are trained as racehorses, gamecocks, or their
+like are trained; they meet, and beat each other as savagely as they can
+until one or the other is too much injured to continue the combat. This
+takes place in the midst of a mob of such persons as enjoy spectacles of
+the kind; that is to say, the vilest blackguards whom a large city can
+afford to leave at large, and many whom it cannot. As the prize-money
+contributed by each side often amounts to upwards of a thousand pounds,
+and as a successful pugilist commands far higher terms for giving
+tuition in boxing than a tutor at one of the universities does for
+coaching, you will see that such a man, while his youth and luck last,
+may have plenty of money, and may even, by aping the manners of the
+gentlemen whom he teaches, deceive careless people--especially those who
+admire eccentricity--as to his character and position.”
+
+“What is his true position? I mean before he becomes a prize-fighter.”
+
+“Well, he may be a handicraftsman of some kind: a journeyman butcher,
+skinner, tailor, or baker. Possibly a soldier, sailor, policeman,
+gentleman’s servant, or what not? But he is generally a common laborer.
+The waterside is prolific of such heroes.”
+
+“Do they never come from a higher rank?”
+
+“Never even from the better classes in their own. Broken-down gentlemen
+are not likely to succeed at work that needs the strength and endurance
+of a bull and the cruelty of a butcher.”
+
+“And the end of a prize-fighter. What is that like?”
+
+“He soon has to give up his trade. For, if he be repeatedly beaten, no
+one will either bet on him or subscribe to provide him with a stake.
+If he is invariably successful, those, if any, who dare fight him find
+themselves in a like predicament. In either case his occupation is gone.
+If he has saved money he opens a sporting public-house, where he sells
+spirits of the worst description to his old rivals and their associates,
+and eventually drinks himself to death or bankruptcy. If, however, he
+has been improvident or unfortunate, he begs from his former patrons and
+gives lessons. Finally, when the patrons are tired of him and the pupils
+fail, he relapses into the laboring class with a ruined constitution, a
+disfigured face, a brutalized nature, and a tarnished reputation.”
+
+Lydia remained silent so long after this that Lucian’s expression of
+magisterial severity first deepened, then wavered, and finally gave way
+to a sense of injury; for she seemed to have forgotten him. He was about
+to protest against this treatment, when she looked at him again, and
+said,
+
+“Why did Lord Worthington introduce a man of this class to me?”
+
+“Because you asked him to do so. Probably he thought that if you chose
+to make such a request without previous inquiry, you should not blame
+him if you found yourself saddled with an undesirable acquaintance.
+Recollect that you asked for the introduction on the platform at
+Wiltstoken, in the presence of the man himself. Such a ruffian would
+be capable of making a disturbance for much less offence than an
+explanation and refusal would have given him.”
+
+“Lucian,” said Lydia, in a tone of gentle admonition, “I asked to be
+introduced to my tenant, for whose respectability you had vouched
+by letting the Warren Lodge to him.” Lucian reddened. “How does Lord
+Worthington explain Mr. Byron’s appearance at Mrs. Hoskyn’s?”
+
+“It was a stupid joke. Mrs. Hoskyn had worried Worthington to bring
+some celebrity to her house; and, in revenge, he took his pugilistic
+protege.”
+
+“Hm!”
+
+“I do not defend Worthington. But discretion is hardly to be expected
+from him.”
+
+“He has discretion enough to understand a case of this kind thoroughly.
+But let that pass. I have been thinking upon what you tell me about
+these singular people, whose existence I hardly knew of before. Now,
+Lucian, in the course of my reading I have come upon denunciations of
+every race and pursuit under the sun. Very respectable and well-informed
+men have held that Jews, Irishmen, Christians, atheists, lawyers,
+doctors, politicians, actors, artists, flesh-eaters, and spirit-drinkers
+are all of necessity degraded beings. Such statements can be easily
+proved by taking a black sheep from each flock, and holding him up as
+the type. It is more reasonable to argue a man’s character from the
+nature of his profession; and yet even that is very unsafe. War is
+a cruel business; but soldiers are not necessarily bloodthirsty and
+inhuman men. I am not quite satisfied that a prize-fighter is a
+violent and dangerous man because he follows a violent and dangerous
+profession--I suppose they call it a profession.”
+
+Lucian was about to speak; but she interrupted him by continuing,
+
+“And yet that is not what concerns me at present. Have you found out
+anything about Mr. Byron personally? Is he an ordinary representative of
+his class?”
+
+“No; I should rather think--and hope--that he is a very extraordinary
+representative of it. I have traced his history back to his boyhood,
+when he was a cabin-boy. Having apparently failed to recommend himself
+to his employers in that capacity, he became errand-boy to a sort of
+maitre d’armes at Melbourne. Here he discovered where his genius lay;
+and he presently appeared in the ring with an unfortunate young man
+named Ducket, whose jaw he fractured. This laid the foundation of his
+fame. He fought several battles with unvarying success; but at last he
+allowed his valor to get the better of his discretion so far as to kill
+an Englishman who contended with him with desperate obstinacy for two
+hours. I am informed that the particular blow by which he felled
+the poor wretch for the last time is known in pugilistic circles as
+‘Cashel’s killer,’ and that he has attempted to repeat it in all his
+subsequent encounters, without, however, achieving the same fatal
+result. The failure has doubtless been a severe disappointment to him.
+He fled from Australia and reappeared in America, where he resumed
+his victorious career, distinguishing himself specially by throwing
+a gigantic opponent in some dreadful fashion that these men have, and
+laming him for life. He then--”
+
+“Thank you, Lucian,” said Lydia rather faintly. “That is quite enough.
+Are you sure that it is all true?”
+
+“My authority is Lord Worthington, and a number of newspaper reports
+which he showed me. Byron himself will probably be proud to give you
+the fullest confirmation of the record. I should add, in justice to
+him, that he is looked upon as a model--to pugilists--of temperance and
+general good conduct.”
+
+“Do you remember my remarking a few days ago, on another subject, how
+meaningless our observations are until we are given the right thread to
+string them on?”
+
+“Yes,” said “Webber, disconcerted by the allusion.
+
+“My acquaintance with this man is a case in point. He has obtruded his
+horrible profession upon me every time we have met. I have actually seen
+him publicly cheered as a pugilist-hero; and yet, being off the track,
+and ignorant of the very existence of such a calling, I have looked on
+and seen nothing.”
+
+Lydia then narrated her adventure in Soho, and listened with the perfect
+patience of indifference to his censure of her imprudence in going there
+alone.
+
+“And now, Lydia,” he added, “may I ask what you intend to do in this
+matter?”
+
+“What would you have me do?”
+
+“Drop his acquaintance at once. Forbid him your house in the most
+explicit terms.”
+
+“A pleasant task!” said Lydia, ironically. “But I will do it--not
+so much, perhaps, because he is a prize-fighter, as because he is an
+impostor. Now go to the writing-table and draft me a proper letter to
+send him.”
+
+Lucian’s face elongated. “I think,” he said, “you can do that better for
+yourself. It is a delicate sort of thing.”
+
+“Yes. It is not so easy as you implied a moment ago. Otherwise I should
+not require your assistance. As it is--” She pointed again to the table.
+
+Lucian was not ready with an excuse. He sat down reluctantly, and, after
+some consideration, indited the following:
+
+“Miss Carew presents her compliments to Mr. Cashel Byron, and begs to
+inform him that she will not be at home during the remainder of the
+season as heretofore. She therefore regrets that she cannot have the
+pleasure of receiving him on Friday afternoon.”
+
+“I think you will find that sufficient,” said Lucian.
+
+“Probably,” said Lydia, smiling as she read it. “But what shall I do if
+he takes offence; calls here, breaks the windows, and beats Bashville?
+Were I in his place, that is what such a letter would provoke me to do.”
+
+“He dare not give any trouble. But I will warn the police if you feel
+anxious.”
+
+“By no means. We must not show ourselves inferior to him in courage,
+which is, I suppose, his cardinal virtue.”
+
+“If you write the note now, I will post it for you.”
+
+“No, thank you. I will send it with my other letters.”
+
+Lucian would rather have waited; but she would not write while he
+was there. So he left, satisfied on the whole with the success of his
+mission. When he was gone, she took a pen, endorsed his draft neatly,
+placed it in a drawer, and wrote to Cashel thus:
+
+“Dear Mr. Cashel Byron,--I have just discovered your secret. I am sorry;
+but you must not come again. Farewell. Yours faithfully,
+
+“Lydia Carew.”
+
+Lydia kept this note by her until next morning, when she read it through
+carefully. She then sent Bashville to the post with it.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX
+
+
+Cashel’s pupils frequently requested him to hit them hard--not to play
+with them--to accustom them to regular, right down, severe hitting, and
+no nonsense. He only pretended to comply; for he knew that a black eye
+or loosened tooth would be immoderately boasted of if received in combat
+with a famous pugilist, and that the sufferer’s friends would make
+private notes to avoid so rough a professor. But when Miss Carew’s note
+reached him he made an exception to his practice in this respect. A
+young guardsman, whose lesson began shortly after the post arrived,
+remarked that Cashel was unusually distraught. He therefore exhorted
+his instructor to wake up and pitch into him in earnest. Immediately he
+received a blow in the epigastrium that stretched him almost insensible
+on the floor. Rising with his complexion considerably whitened, he
+recollected an appointment which would prevent him from finishing his
+lesson, and withdrew, declaring in a somewhat shaky voice that that was
+the sort of bout he really enjoyed.
+
+Cashel did not at first make any profitable use of the leisure thus
+earned. He walked to and fro, cursing, and occasionally stopping to read
+the letter. His restlessness only increased his agitation. The arrival
+of a Frenchman whom he employed to give lessons in fencing made the
+place unendurable to him. He changed his attire, went out, called a cab,
+and bade the driver, with an oath, drive to Lydia’s house as fast as the
+horse could go. The man made all the haste he could, and was presently
+told impatiently that there was no hurry. Accustomed to this sort of
+inconsistency, he was not surprised when, as they approached the house,
+he was told not to stop but to drive slowly past. Then, in obedience to
+further instructions, he turned and repassed the door. As he did so a
+lady appeared for an instant at a window. Immediately his fare, with a
+groan of mingled rage and fear, sprang from the moving vehicle, rushed
+up the steps of the mansion, and rang the bell violently. Bashville,
+faultlessly dressed and impassibly mannered, opened the door. In reply
+to Cashel’s half-inarticulate inquiry, he said,
+
+“Miss Carew is not at home.”
+
+“You lie,” said Cashel, his eyes suddenly dilating. “I saw her.”
+
+Bashville reddened, but replied, coolly, “Miss Carew cannot see you
+to-day.”
+
+“Go and ask her,” returned Cashel sternly, advancing.
+
+Bashville, with compressed lips, seized the door to shut him out; but
+Cashel forced it back against him, sent him reeling some paces by its
+impact, went in, and shut the door behind him. He had to turn from
+Bashville for a moment to do this, and before he could face him again he
+was clutched, tripped, and flung down upon the tessellated pavement of
+the hall.
+
+When Cashel gave him the lie, and pushed the door against him, the
+excitement he had been suppressing since his visit to Lucian exploded.
+He had thrown Cashel in Cornish fashion, and now desperately awaited the
+upshot.
+
+Cashel got up so rapidly that he seemed to rebound from the flags.
+Bashville, involuntarily cowering before his onslaught, just escaped his
+right fist, and felt as though his heart had been drawn with it as
+it whizzed past his ear. He turned and fled frantically up-stairs,
+mistaking for the clatter of pursuit the noise with which Cashel,
+overbalanced by his ineffectual blow, stumbled against the banisters.
+
+Lydia was in her boudoir with Alice when Bashville darted in and locked
+the door. Alice rose and screamed. Lydia, though startled, and that less
+by the unusual action than by the change in a familiar face which she
+had never seen influenced by emotion before, sat still and quietly asked
+what was the matter. Bashville checked himself for a moment. Then he
+spoke unintelligibly, and went to the window, which he opened. Lydia
+divined that he was about to call for help to the street.
+
+“Bashville,” she said, authoritatively: “be silent, and close the
+window. I will go down-stairs myself.”
+
+Bashville then ran to prevent her from unlocking the door; but she paid
+no attention to him. He did not dare to oppose her forcibly. He was
+beginning to recover from his panic, and to feel the first stings of
+shame for having yielded to it.
+
+“Madam,” he said: “Byron is below; and he insists on seeing you. He’s
+dangerous; and he’s too strong for me. I have done my best--on my honor
+I have. Let me call the police. Stop,” he added, as she opened the door.
+“If either of us goes, it must be me.”
+
+“I will see him in the library,” said Lydia, composedly. “Tell him so;
+and let him wait there for me--if you can approach him without running
+any risk.”
+
+“Oh, pray let him call the police,” urged Alice. “Don’t attempt to go to
+that man.”
+
+“Nonsense!” said Lydia, good-humoredly. “I am not in the least afraid.
+We must not fail in courage when we have a prize-fighter to deal with.”
+
+Bashville, white, and preventing with difficulty his knees from knocking
+together, went down-stairs and found Cashel leaning upon the balustrade,
+panting, and looking perplexedly about him as he wiped his dabbled brow.
+Bashville approached him with the firmness of a martyr, halted on the
+third stair, and said,
+
+“Miss Carew will see you in the library. Come this way, please.”
+
+Cashel’s lips moved, but no sound came from them; he followed Bashville
+in silence. When they entered the library Lydia was already there.
+Bashville withdrew without a word. Then Cashel sat down, and, to her
+consternation, bent his head on his hand and yielded to an hysterical
+convulsion. Before she could resolve how to act he looked up at her with
+his face distorted and discolored, and tried to speak.
+
+“Pray be calm,” said Lydia. “I am told that you wish to speak to me.”
+
+“I don’t wish to speak to you ever again,” said Cashel, hoarsely. “You
+told your servant to throw me down the steps. That’s enough for me.”
+
+Lydia caught from him the tendency to sob which he was struggling with;
+but she repressed it, and answered, firmly, “If my servant has been
+guilty of the least incivility to you, Mr. Cashel Byron, he has exceeded
+his orders.”
+
+“It doesn’t matter,” said Cashel. “He may thank his luck that he has his
+head on. If I had planted on him that time--but HE doesn’t matter.
+Hold on a bit--I can’t talk--I shall get my second wind presently, and
+then--” Cashel stopped a moment to pant, and then asked, “Why are you
+going to give me up?”
+
+Lydia ranged her wits in battle array, and replied,
+
+“Do you remember our conversation at Mrs. Hoskyn’s?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“You admitted then that if the nature of your occupation became known to
+me our acquaintance should cease. That has now come to pass.”
+
+“That was all very fine talk to excuse my not telling you. But I find,
+like many another man when put to the proof, that I didn’t mean it. Who
+told you I was a fighting man?”
+
+“I had rather not tell you that.”
+
+“Aha!” said Cashel, with a triumph that was half choked by the remnant
+of his hysteria. “Who is trying to make a secret now, I should like to
+know?”
+
+“I do so in this instance because I am afraid to expose a friend to your
+resentment.”
+
+“And why? He’s a man, of course; else you wouldn’t be afraid. You think
+that I’d go straight off and murder him. Perhaps he told you that it
+would come quite natural to a man like me--a ruffian like me--to smash
+him up. That comes of being a coward. People run my profession down; not
+because there is a bad one or two in it--there’s plenty of bad bishops,
+if you come to that--but because they’re afraid of us. You may make
+yourself easy about your friend. I am accustomed to get well paid for
+the beatings I give; and your own common-sense ought to tell you that
+any one who is used to being paid for a job is just the last person in
+the world to do it for nothing.”
+
+“I find the contrary to be the case with first-rate artists,” said
+Lydia.
+
+“Thank you,” retorted Cashel, sarcastically. “I ought to make you a bow
+for that. I’m glad you acknowledge that it IS an art.”
+
+“But,” said Lydia seriously, “it seems to me that it is an art wholly
+anti-social and retrograde. And I fear that you have forced this
+interview on me to no purpose.”
+
+“I don’t know whether it’s anti-social or not. But I think it hard that
+I should be put out of decent society when fellows that do far worse
+than I are let in. Who did I see here last Friday, the most honored of
+your guests? Why, that Frenchman with the gold spectacles. What do you
+think I was told when I asked what HIS little game was? Baking dogs in
+ovens to see how long a dog could live red hot! I’d like to catch him
+doing it to a dog of mine. Ay; and sticking a rat full of nails to see
+how much pain a rat could stand. Why, it’s just sickening. Do you think
+I’d have shaken hands with that chap? If he hadn’t been a guest of
+yours I’d have given him a notion of how much pain a Frenchman can stand
+without any nails in him. And HE’S to be received and made much of,
+while I am kicked out! Look at your relation, the general. What is he
+but a fighting man, I should like to know? Isn’t it his pride and boast
+that as long as he is paid so much a day he’ll ask no questions whether
+a war is fair or unfair, but just walk out and put thousands of men in
+the best way to kill and be killed?--keeping well behind them himself
+all the time, mind you. Last year he was up to his chin in the blood of
+a lot of poor blacks that were no more a match for his armed men than
+a feather-weight would be for me. Bad as I am, I wouldn’t attack a
+feather-weight, or stand by and see another heavy man do it. Plenty
+of your friends go pigeon-shooting to Hurlingham. THERE’S a humane and
+manly way of spending a Saturday afternoon! Lord Worthington, that comes
+to see you when he likes, though he’s too much of a man or too little
+of a shot to kill pigeons, thinks nothing of fox-hunting. Do you think
+foxes like to be hunted, or that the people that hunt them have such
+fine feelings that they can afford to call prize-fighters names? Look
+at the men that get killed or lamed every year at steeple-chasing,
+fox-hunting, cricket, and foot-ball! Dozens of them! Look at the
+thousands killed in battle! Did you ever hear of any one being killed
+in the ring? Why, from first to last, during the whole century that
+prize-fighting has been going on, there’s not been six fatal accidents
+at really respectable fights. It’s safer than dancing; many a woman has
+danced her skirt into the fire and been burned. I once fought a man who
+had spoiled his constitution with bad living; and he exhausted himself
+so by going on and on long after he was beaten that he died of it, and
+nearly finished me, too. If you’d heard the fuss that even the oldest
+fighting men made over it you’d have thought that a baby had died from
+falling out of its cradle. A good milling does a man more good than
+harm. And if all these--dog-bakers, and soldiers, and pigeon-shooters,
+and fox-hunters, and the rest of them--are made welcome here, why am I
+shut out like a brute beast?”
+
+“Truly I do not know,” said Lydia, puzzled; “unless it be that your
+colleagues have failed to recommend themselves to society by their
+extra-professional conduct as the others have.”
+
+“I grant you that fighting men ar’n’t gentlemen, as a rule. No more were
+painters, or poets, once upon a time. But what I want to know is this:
+Supposing a fighting man has as good manners as your friends, and is
+as well born, why shouldn’t he mix with them and be considered their
+equal?”
+
+“The distinction seems arbitrary, I confess. But perhaps the true remedy
+would be to exclude the vivisectors and soldiers, instead of admitting
+the prize-fighters. Mr. Cashel Byron,” added Lydia, changing her manner,
+“I cannot discuss this with you. Society has a prejudice against you.
+I share it; and I cannot overcome it. Can you find no nobler occupation
+than these fierce and horrible encounters by which you condescend to
+gain a living?”
+
+“No,” said Cashel, flatly. “I can’t. That’s just where it is.”
+
+Lydia looked grave, and said nothing.
+
+“You don’t see it?” said Cashel. “Well, I’ll just tell you all about
+myself, and then leave you to judge. May I sit down while I talk?”
+ He had risen in the course of his remarks on Lydia’s scientific and
+military acquaintances.
+
+She pointed to a chair near her. Something in the action brought color
+to his cheeks.
+
+“I believe I was the most unfortunate devil of a boy that ever walked,”
+ he began, when he was seated. “My mother was--and is--an actress, and
+a tiptop crack in her profession. One of the first things I remember
+is sitting on the floor in the corner of a room where there was a big
+glass, and she flaring away before it, attitudinizing and spouting
+Shakespeare like mad. I was afraid of her, because she was very
+particular about my manners and appearance, and would never let me go
+near a theatre. I know very little about either my people or hers; for
+she boxed my ears one day for asking who my father was, and I took good
+care not to ask her again. She was quite young when I was a child; at
+first I thought her a sort of angel--I should have been fond of her, I
+think, if she had let me. But she didn’t, somehow; and I had to keep my
+affection for the servants. I had plenty of variety in that way; for
+she gave her whole establishment the sack about once every two months,
+except a maid who used to bully her, and gave me nearly all the nursing
+I ever got. I believe it was my crying about some housemaid or other who
+went away that first set her abusing me for having low tastes--a sort of
+thing that used to cut me to the heart, and which she kept up till
+the very day I left her for good. We were a precious pair: I sulky and
+obstinate, she changeable and hot-tempered. She used to begin breakfast
+sometimes by knocking me to the other side of the room with a slap, and
+finish it by calling me her darling boy and promising me all manner of
+toys and things. I soon gave up trying to please her, or like her, and
+became as disagreeable a young imp as you’d ask to see. My only thought
+was to get all I could out of her when she was in a good-humor, and to
+be sullen and stubborn when she was in a tantrum. One day a boy in the
+street threw some mud at me, and I ran in crying and complained to
+her. She told me I was a little coward. I haven’t forgiven her for that
+yet--perhaps because it was one of the few true things she ever said to
+me. I was in a state of perpetual aggravation; and I often wonder that
+I wasn’t soured for life at that time. At last I got to be such a little
+fiend that when she hit me I used to guard off her blows, and look so
+wicked that I think she got afraid of me. Then she put me to school,
+telling me that I had no heart, and telling the master that I was an
+ungovernable young brute. So I, like a little fool, cried at leaving
+her; and she, like a big one, cried back again over me--just after
+telling the master what a bad one I was, mind you--and off she went,
+leaving her darling boy and blessed child howling at his good luck in
+getting rid of her.
+
+“I was a nice boy to let loose in a school. I could speak as well as an
+actor, as far as pronunciation goes; but I could hardly read words of
+one syllabile; and as to writing, I couldn’t make pothooks and hangers
+respectably. To this day, I can no more spell than old Ned Skene can.
+What was a worse sort of ignorance was that I had no idea of fair play.
+I thought that all servants would be afraid of me, and that all grown-up
+people would tyrannize over me. I was afraid of everybody; afraid
+that my cowardice would be found out; and as angry and cruel in my
+ill-tempers as cowards always are. Now you’ll hardly believe this; but
+what saved me from going to the bad altogether was my finding out that
+I was a good one to fight. The bigger boys were given to fighting,
+and used to have mills every Saturday afternoon, with seconds,
+bottle-holders, and everything complete, except the ropes and stakes. We
+little chaps used to imitate them among ourselves as best we could. At
+first, when they made me fight, I shut my eyes and cried; but for all
+that I managed to catch the other fellow tight round the waist and throw
+him. After that it became a regular joke to make me fight, for I always
+cried. But the end of it was that I learned to keep my eyes open and hit
+straight. I had no trouble about fighting then. Somehow, I could tell by
+instinct when the other fellow was going to hit me, and I always hit him
+first. It’s the same with me now in the ring; I know what a man is going
+to do before he rightly knows himself. The power that this gave
+me, civilized me. It made me cock of the school; and I had to act
+accordingly. I had enough good-nature left to keep me from being a
+bully; and, as cock, I couldn’t be mean or childish. There would be
+nothing like fighting for licking boys into shape if every one could be
+cock; but every one can’t; so I suppose it does more harm than good.
+
+“I should have enjoyed school well enough if I had worked at my
+books. But I wouldn’t study; and the masters were all down on me as an
+idler--though I shouldn’t have been like that if they had known how to
+teach--I have learned since what teaching is. As to the holidays, they
+were the worst part of the year to me. When I was left at school I was
+savage at not being let go home; and when I went home my mother did
+nothing but find fault with my school-boy manners. I was getting too big
+to be cuddled as her darling boy, you understand. In fact, her treatment
+of me was just the old game with the affectionate part left out. It
+wasn’t pleasant, after being cock of the school, to be made feel like
+a good-for-nothing little brat tied to her apron-strings. When she saw
+that I was learning nothing she sent me to another school at a place in
+the north called Panley. I stayed there until I was seventeen; and then
+she came one day, and we had a row, as usual. She said she wouldn’t let
+me leave school until I was nineteen; and so I settled that question by
+running away the same night. I got to Liverpool, where I hid in a ship
+bound for Australia. When I was starved out they treated me better than
+I expected; and I worked hard enough to earn my passage and my victuals.
+But when I wad left ashore in Melbourne I was in a pretty pickle. I
+knew nobody, and I had no money. Everything that a man could live by
+was owned by some one or other. I walked through the town looking for
+a place where they might want a boy to run errands or to clean windows.
+But somehow I hadn’t the cheek to go into the shops and ask. Two or
+three times, when I was on the point of trying, I caught sight of some
+cad of a shopman, and made up my mind that I wouldn’t be ordered about
+by HIM, and that since I had the whole town to choose from I might as
+well go on to the next place. At last, quite late in the afternoon, I
+saw an advertisement stuck up on a gymnasium, and, while I was reading
+it, I got talking to old Ned Skene, the owner, who was smoking at the
+door. He took a fancy to me, and offered to have me there as a sort of
+lad-of-all-work. I was only too glad to get the chance, and I closed
+with him at once. As time went on I became so clever with the gloves
+that Ned matched me against a light-weight named Ducket, and bet a lot
+of money that I would win. Well, I couldn’t disappoint him after his
+being so kind to me--Mrs. Skene had made as much of me as if I was her
+own son. What could I do but take my bread as it came to me? I was fit
+for nothing else. Even if I had been able to write a good hand and keep
+accounts I couldn’t have brought myself to think that quill-driving and
+counting other people’s money was a fit employment for a man. It’s not
+what a man would like to do that he must do in this world, it’s what
+he CAN do; and the only mortal thing I could do properly was to fight.
+There was plenty of money and plenty of honor and glory among my
+acquaintances to be got by fighting. So I challenged Ducket, and knocked
+him all to pieces in about ten minutes. I half killed him because I
+didn’t know my own strength and was afraid of him. I have been at the
+same work ever since. I was training for a fight when I was down at
+Wiltstoken; and Mellish was my trainer. It came off the day you saw me
+at Clapham; that was how I came to have a black eye. Wiltstoken did for
+me. With all my nerve and science, I’m no better than a baby at heart;
+and ever since I found out that my mother wasn’t an angel I have always
+had a notion that a real angel would turn up some day. You see, I never
+cared much for women. Bad as my mother was as far as being what you
+might call a parent went, she had something in her looks and manners
+that gave me a better idea of what a nice woman was like than I had of
+most things; and the girls I met in Australia and America seemed very
+small potatoes to me in comparison with her. Besides, of course they
+were not ladies. I was fond of Mrs. Skene because she was good to me;
+and I made myself agreeable, for her sake, to the girls that came to
+see her; but in reality I couldn’t stand them. Mrs. Skene said that
+they were all setting their caps at me--women are death on a crack
+fighter--but the more they tried it on the less I liked them. It was no
+go; I could get on with the men well enough, no matter how common they
+were; but the snobbishness of my breed came out with regard to the
+women. When I saw you that day at Wiltstoken walk out of the trees and
+stand looking so quietly at me and Mellish, and then go back out of
+sight without a word, I’m blessed if I didn’t think you were the angel
+come at last. Then I met you at the railway station and walked with you.
+You put the angel out of my head quick enough; for an angel, after all,
+is only a shadowy, childish notion--I believe it’s all gammon about
+there being any in heaven--but you gave me a better idea than mamma of
+what a woman should be, and you came up to that idea and went beyond
+it. I have been in love with you ever since; and if I can’t have you,
+I don’t care what becomes of me. I know I am a bad lot, and have always
+been one; but when I saw you taking pleasure in the society of fellows
+just as bad as myself, I didn’t see why I should keep away when I was
+dying to come. I am no worse than the dog-baker, any how. And hang it,
+Miss Lydia, I don’t want to brag; but I never fought a cross or struck
+a foul blow in my life; and I have never been beaten, though I’m only a
+middle-weight, and have stood up with the best fourteen-stone men in the
+Colonies, the States, or in England.”
+
+Cashel ceased. As he sat eying her wistfully, Lydia, who had been
+perfectly still, said musingly,
+
+“Strange! that I should be so much more prejudiced than I knew. What
+will you think of me when I tell you that your profession does not seem
+half so shocking now that I know you to be the son of an artist, and not
+a journeyman butcher or a laborer, as my cousin told me.”
+
+“What!” exclaimed Cashel. “That lantern-jawed fellow told you I was a
+butcher!”
+
+“I did not mean to betray him; but, as I have already said, I am bad at
+keeping secrets. Mr. Lucian Webber is my cousin and friend, and has done
+me many services. May I rest assured that he has nothing to fear from
+you?”
+
+“He has no right to tell lies about me. He is sweet on you, too: I
+twigged that at Wiltstoken. I have a good mind to let him know whether I
+am a butcher or not.”
+
+“He did not say so. What he told me of you, as far as it went, is
+exactly confirmed by what you have said yourself. But I happened to ask
+him to what class men of your calling usually belonged; and he said that
+they were laborers, butchers, and so forth. Do you resent that?”
+
+“I see plainly enough that you won’t let me resent it. I should like
+to know what else he said of me. But he was right enough about the
+butchers. There are all sorts of blackguards in the ring: there’s no use
+in denying it. Since it’s been made illegal, decent men won’t go into
+it. But, all the same, it’s not the fighting men, but the betting men,
+that bring discredit on it. I wish your cousin had held his confounded
+tongue.”
+
+“I wish you had forestalled him by telling me the truth.”
+
+“I wish I had, now. But what’s the use of wishing? I didn’t dare run the
+chance of losing you. See how soon you forbade me the house when you did
+find out.”
+
+“It made little difference,” said Lydia, gravely.
+
+“You were always friendly to me,” said Cashel, plaintively.
+
+“More so than you were to me. You should not have deceived me. And now
+I think we had better part. I am glad to know your history; and I admit
+that when you embraced your profession you made perhaps the best choice
+that society offered you. I do not blame you.”
+
+“But you give me the sack. Is that it?”
+
+“What do you propose, Mr. Cashel Byron? Is it to visit my house in the
+intervals of battering and maiming butchers and laborers?”
+
+“No, it’s not,” retorted Cashel. “You’re very aggravating. I won’t stay
+much longer in the ring now, because my luck is too good to last. I
+shall have to retire soon, luck or no luck, because no one can match me.
+Even now there’s nobody except Bill Paradise that pretends to be able
+for me; and I’ll settle him in September if he really means business.
+After that, I’ll retire. I expect to be worth ten thousand pounds then.
+Ten thousand pounds, I’m told, is the same as five hundred a year. Well,
+I suppose, judging from the style you keep here, that you’re worth as
+much more, besides your place in the country; so, if you will marry me,
+we shall have a thousand a year between us. I don’t know much of money
+matters; but at any rate we can live like fighting-cocks on that much.
+That’s a straight and business-like proposal, isn’t it?”
+
+“And if I refuse?” said Lydia, with some sternness.
+
+“Then you may have the ten thousand pounds to do what you like with,”
+ said Cashel, despairingly. “It won’t matter what becomes of me. I
+won’t go to the devil for you or any woman if I can help it; and I--but
+where’s the good of saying IF you refuse. I know I don’t express myself
+properly; I’m a bad hand at sentimentality; but if I had as much gab as
+a poet, I couldn’t be any fonder of you, or think more highly of you.”
+
+“But you are mistaken as to the amount of my income.”
+
+“That doesn’t matter a bit. If you have more, why, the more the merrier.
+If you have less, or if you have to give up all your property when
+you’re married, I will soon make another ten thousand to supply the
+loss. Only give me one good word, and, by George, I’ll fight the
+seven champions of Christendom, one down and t’other come on, for five
+thousand a side each. Hang the money!”
+
+“I am richer than you suppose,” said Lydia, unmoved. “I cannot tell
+you exactly how much I possess; but my income is about forty thousand
+pounds.”
+
+“Forty thousand pounds!” ejaculated Cashel.
+
+“Holy Moses! I didn’t think the queen had so much as that.”
+
+He paused a moment, and became very red. Then, in a voice broken by
+mortification, he said, “I see I have been making a fool of myself,” and
+took his hat and turned to go.
+
+“It does not follow that you should go at once without a word,” said
+Lydia, betraying nervousness for the first time during the interview.
+
+“Oh, that’s all rot,” said Cashel. “I may be a fool while my eyes are
+shut, but I’m sensible enough when they’re open. I have no business
+here. I wish to the Lord I had stayed in Australia.”
+
+“Perhaps it would have been better,” said Lydia, troubled. “But since
+we have met, it is useless to deplore it; and--Let me remind you of one
+thing. You have pointed out to me that I have made friends of men whose
+pursuits are no better than yours. I do not wholly admit that; but there
+is one respect in which they are on the same footing as you. They are
+all, as far as worldly gear is concerned, much poorer than I. Many of
+them, I fear, are much poorer than you are.”
+
+Cashel looked up quickly with returning hope; but it lasted only a
+moment. He shook his head dejectedly.
+
+“I am at least grateful to you,” she continued, “because you have sought
+me for my own sake, knowing nothing of my wealth.”
+
+“I should think not,” groaned Cashel. “Your wealth may be a very fine
+thing for the other fellows; and I’m glad you have it, for your own
+sake. But it’s a settler for me. It’s knocked me out of time, so it has.
+I sha’n’t come up again; and the sooner the sponge is chucked up in my
+corner, the better. So good-bye.”
+
+“Good-bye,” said Lydia, almost as pale as he had now become, “since you
+will have it so.”
+
+“Since the devil will have it so,” said Cashel, ruefully. “It’s no use
+wishing to have it any other way. The luck is against me. I hope, Miss
+Carew, that you’ll excuse me for making such an ass of myself. It’s all
+my blessed innocence; I never was taught any better.”
+
+“I have no quarrel with you except on the old score of hiding the truth
+from me; and that I forgive you--as far as the evil of it affects me.
+As for your declaration of attachment to me personally, I have received
+many similar ones that have flattered me less. But there are certain
+scruples between us. You will not court a woman a hundred-fold richer
+than yourself; and I will not entertain a prize-fighter. My wealth
+frightens every man who is not a knave; and your profession frightens
+every woman who is not a fury.”
+
+“Then you--Just tell me this,” said Cashel, eagerly. “Suppose I were a
+rich swell, and were not a--”
+
+“No,” said Lydia, peremptorily interrupting him. “I will suppose nothing
+but what is.”
+
+Cashel relapsed into melancholy. “If you only hadn’t been kind to me!”
+ he said. “I think the reason I love you so much is that you’re the only
+person that is not afraid of me. Other people are civil because they
+daren’t be otherwise to the cock of the ring. It’s a lonely thing to be
+a champion. You knew nothing about that; and you knew I was afraid of
+you; and yet you were as good as gold.”
+
+“It is also a lonely thing to be a very rich woman. People are afraid of
+my wealth, and of what they call my learning. We two have at least one
+experience in common. Now do me a great favor, by going. We have nothing
+further to say.”
+
+“I’ll go in two seconds. But I don’t believe much in YOUR being lonely.
+That’s only fancy.”
+
+“Perhaps so. Most feelings of this kind are only fancies.”
+
+There was a pause. Then Cashel said,
+
+“I don’t feel half so downhearted as I did a minute ago. Are you sure
+that you’re not angry with me?”
+
+“Quite sure. Pray let me say good-bye.”
+
+“And may I never see you again? Never at all?--world without end, amen?”
+
+“Never as the famous prize-fighter. But if a day should come when Mr.
+Cashel Byron will be something better worthy of his birth and nature, I
+will not forget an old friend. Are you satisfied now?”
+
+Cashel’s face began to glow, and the roots of his hair to tingle. “One
+thing more,” he said. “If you meet me by chance in the street before
+that, will you give me a look? I don’t ask for a regular bow, but just a
+look to keep me going?”
+
+“I have no intention of cutting you,” said Lydia, gravely. “But do not
+place yourself purposely in my way.”
+
+“Honor bright, I won’t. I’ll content myself with walking through that
+street in Soho occasionally. Now I’m off; I know you’re in a hurry to
+be rid of me. So good-b--Stop a bit, though. Perhaps when that time you
+spoke of comes, you will be married.”
+
+“It is possible; but I am not likely to marry. How many more things have
+you to say that you have no right to say?”
+
+“Not one,” said Cashel, with a laugh that rang through the house. “I
+never was happier in my life, though I’m crying inside all the time.
+I’ll have a try for you yet. Good-bye. No,” he added, turning from her
+proffered hand; “I daren’t touch it; I should eat you afterwards.” And
+he ran out of the room.
+
+In the hall was Bashville, pale and determined, waiting there to rush
+to the assistance of his mistress at her first summons. He had a poker
+concealed at hand. Having just heard a great laugh, and seeing Cashel
+come down-stairs in high spirits, he stood stock-still, and did not know
+what to think.
+
+“Well, old chap,” said Cashel, boisterously, slapping him on the
+shoulder, “so you’re alive yet. Is there any one in the dining-room?”
+
+“No,” said Bashville.
+
+“There’s a thick carpet there to fall soft on,” said Cashel, pulling
+Bashville into the room. “Come along. Now, show me that little trick of
+yours again. Come, don’t be afraid. Down with me. Take care you don’t
+knock my head against the fire-irons.”
+
+“But--”
+
+“But be hanged. You were spry enough at it before. Come!”
+
+Bashville, after a moment’s hesitation, seized Cashel, who immediately
+became grave and attentive, and remained imperturbably so while
+Nashville expertly threw him. He sat for a moment thinking on the
+hearth-rug before he rose. “_I_ see,” he said, then, getting up. “Now,
+do it again.”
+
+“But it makes such a row,” remonstrated Bashville.
+
+“Only once more. There’ll be no row this time.”
+
+“Well, you ARE an original sort of cove,” said Bashville, complying.
+But instead of throwing his man, he found himself wedged into a collar
+formed by Cashel’s arms, the least constriction of which would have
+strangled him. Cashel again roared with laughter as he released him.
+
+“That’s the way, ain’t it?” he said. “You can’t catch an old fox twice
+in the same trap. Do you know any more falls?”
+
+“I do,” said Bashville; “but I really can’t show them to you here. I
+shall get into trouble on account of the noise.”
+
+“You can come down to me whenever you have an evening out,” said Cashel,
+handing him a card, “to that address, and show me what you know, and
+I’ll see what I can do with you. There’s the making of a man in you.”
+
+“You’re very kind,” said Bashville, pocketing the card with a grin.
+
+“And now let me give you a word of advice that will be of use to you
+as long as you live,” said Cashel, impressively. “You did a very silly
+thing to-day. You threw a man down--a fighting-man--and then stood
+looking at him like a fool, waiting for him to get up and kill you. If
+ever you do that again, fall on him as heavily as you can the instant
+he’s off his legs. Drop your shoulder well into him, and, if he pulls
+you over, make play with the back of your head. If he’s altogether too
+big for you, put your knee on his throat as if by accident. But, on no
+account, stand and do nothing. It’s flying in the face of Providence.”
+
+Cashel emphasized these counsels by taps of his forefinger on one of
+Bashville’s buttons. In conclusion, he nodded, opened the house-door,
+and walked away in buoyant spirits.
+
+Lydia, standing year the library window, saw him pass, and observed how
+his light, alert step and a certain gamesome assurance of manner marked
+him off from a genteelly promenading middle-aged gentleman, a trudging
+workman, and a vigorously striding youth who were also passing by. The
+iron railings through which she saw him reminded her of the admirable
+and dangerous creatures which were passing and repassing behind iron
+bars in the park yonder. But she exulted, in her quiet manner, in the
+thought that, dangerous as he was, she had no fear of him. When his
+cabman had found him and driven him off she went to her desk, opened
+a private drawer in it, took out her falher’s last letter, and sat for
+some time looking at it without unfolding it.
+
+“It would be a strange thing, father,” she said, as if he were actually
+there to hear her, “if your paragon should turn aside from her friends,
+the artists, philosophers, and statesmen, to give herself to an
+illiterate prize-fighter. I felt a pang of absolute despair when
+he replied to my forty thousand pounds a year with an unanswerable
+good-bye.”
+
+She locked up her father, as it were, in the drawer again, and rang the
+bell. Bashville appeared, somewhat perturbed.
+
+“If Mr. Byron calls again, admit him if I am at home.”
+
+“Yes, madam.”
+
+“Thank you.”
+
+“Begging your pardon, madam, but may I ask has any complaint been made
+of me?”
+
+“None.” Bashville was reluctantly withdrawing when she added, “Mr. Byron
+gave me to understand that you tried to prevent his entrance by force.
+You exposed yourself to needless risk by doing so; and you may make a
+rule in future that when people are importunate, and will not go away
+when asked, they had better come in until you get special instructions
+from me. I am not finding fault; on the contrary, I approve of
+your determination to carry out your orders; but under exceptional
+circumstances you may use your own discretion.”
+
+“He shoved the door into my face, and I acted on the impulse of the
+moment, madam. I hope you will forgive the liberty I took in locking the
+door of the boudoir. He is older and heavier than I am, madam; and he
+has the advantage of being a professional. Else I should have stood my
+ground.”
+
+“I am quite satisfied,” said Lydia, a little coldly, as she left the
+room.
+
+“How long you have been!” cried Alice, almost in hysterics, as Lydia
+entered. “Is he gone? What were those dreadful noises? IS anything the
+matter?”
+
+“Dancing and late hours are the matter,” said Lydia, coolly. “The season
+is proving too much for you, Alice.”
+
+“It is not the season; it is the man,” said Alice, with a sob.
+
+“Indeed? I have been in conversation with the man for more than half an
+hour; and Bashville has been in actual combat with him; yet we are not
+in hysterics. You have been sitting here at your ease, have you not?”
+
+“I am not in hysterics,” said Alice, indignantly.
+
+“So much the better,” said Lydia, gravely, placing her hand on the
+forehead of Alice, who subsided with a sniff.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X
+
+
+Mrs. Byron, under her stage name of Adelaide Gisborne, was now, for the
+second time in her career, much talked of in London, where she had boon
+for many years almost forgotten. The metropolitan managers of her own
+generation had found that her success in new parts was very uncertain;
+that she was more capricious than the most petted favorites of the
+public; and that her invariable reply to a business proposal was that
+she detested the stage, and was resolved never to set foot upon it
+again. So they had managed to do without her for so long that the
+younger London playgoers knew her by reputation only as an old-fashioned
+actress who wandered through the provinces palming herself off on
+the ignorant inhabitants as a great artist, and boring them with
+performances of the plays of Shakespeare. It suited Mrs. Byron well to
+travel with the nucleus of a dramatic company from town to town, staying
+a fortnight in each, and repeating half a dozen characters in which she
+was very effective, and which she knew so well that she never thought
+about them except when, as indeed often happened, she had nothing else
+to think about. Most of the provincial populations received her annual
+visits with enthusiasm. Among them she found herself more excitingly
+applauded before the curtain, her authority more despotic behind it, her
+expenses smaller, and her gains greater than in London, for which she
+accordingly cared as little as London cared for her. As she grew older
+she made more money and spent less. When she complained to Cashel of the
+cost of his education, she was rich. Since he had relieved her of that
+cost she had visited America, Egypt, India, and the colonies, and
+had grown constantly richer. From this great tour she had returned to
+England on the day when Cashel added the laurels of the Flying Dutchman
+to his trophies; and the next Sunday’s paper had its sporting column
+full of the prowess of Cashel Byron, and its theatrical column full of
+the genius of Adelaide Gisborne. But she never read sporting columns,
+nor he theatrical ones.
+
+The managers who had formerly avoided Mrs. Byron were by this time dead,
+bankrupt, or engaged in less hazardous pursuits. One of their successors
+had lately restored Shakespeare to popularity as signally as Cashel had
+restored the prize ring. He was anxious to produce the play of “King
+John,” being desirous of appearing as Faulconbridge, a part for which he
+was physically unfitted. Though he had no suspicion of his unfitness,
+he was awake to the fact that the favorite London actresses, though
+admirable in modern comedy, were not mistresses of what he called, after
+Sir Walter Scott, the “big bow wow” style required for the part of Lady
+Constance in Shakespeare’s history. He knew that he could find in the
+provinces many veteran players who knew every gesture and inflection of
+voice associated by tradition with the part; but he was afraid that
+they would remind Londoners of Richardson’s show, and get Faulconbridge
+laughed at. Then he thought of Adelaide Gisborne. For some hours after
+the idea came to him he was gnawed at by the fear that her performance
+would throw his into the shade. But his confidence in his own popularity
+helped his love of good acting to prevail; and he made the newly
+returned actress a tempting offer, instigating some journalist friends
+of his at the same time to lament over the decay of the grand school of
+acting, and to invent or republish anecdotes of Mrs. Siddons.
+
+This time Mrs. Byron said nothing about detesting the stage. She had
+really detested it once; but by the time she was rich enough to give
+up the theatre she had worn that feeling out, and had formed a habit of
+acting which was as irksome to shake off as any other habit. She also
+found a certain satisfaction in making money with ease and certainty,
+and she made so much that at last she began to trifle with plans of
+retirement, of playing in Paris, of taking a theatre in London, and
+other whims. The chief public glory of her youth had been a sudden
+triumph in London on the occasion of her first appearance on any stage;
+and she now felt a mind to repeat this and crown her career where it had
+begun. So she accepted the manager’s offer, and even went the length of
+reading the play of “King John” in order to ascertain what it was all
+about.
+
+The work of advertisement followed her assent. Portraits of Adelaide
+Gisborne were displayed throughout the town. Paragraphs in the papers
+mentioned large sums as the cost of mounting the historical masterpiece
+of the national bard. All the available seats in the theatre--except
+some six or seven hundred in the pit and gallery--were said to be
+already disposed of for the first month of the expected run of the
+performance. The prime minister promised to be present on the opening
+night. Absolute archaeologic accuracy was promised. Old paintings were
+compared to ascertain the dresses of the period. A scene into which
+the artist had incautiously painted a pointed arch was condemned as
+an anachronism. Many noblemen gave the actor-manager access to their
+collections of armor and weapons in order that his accoutrement should
+exactly counterfeit that of a Norman baron. Nothing remained doubtful
+except the quality of the acting.
+
+It happened that one of the most curious documents of the period in
+question was a scrap of vellum containing a fragment of a chronicle of
+Prince Arthur, with an illuminated portrait of his mother. It had been
+purchased for a trifling sum by the late Mr. Carew, and was now in the
+possession of Lydia, to whom the actor-manager applied for leave to
+inspect it. Leave being readily given, he visited the house in Regent’s
+Park, which he declared to be an inexhaustible storehouse of treasure.
+He deeply regretted, he said, that he could not show the portrait to
+Miss Gisborne. Lydia replied that if Miss Gisborne would come and look
+at it, she should be very welcome. Two days later, at noon, Mrs. Byron
+arrived and found Lydia alone; Alice having contrived to be out, as she
+felt that it was better not to meet an actress--one could never tell
+what they might have been.
+
+The years that had elapsed since Mrs. Byron’s visit to Dr. Moncrief had
+left no perceptible trace on her; indeed she looked younger now than
+on that occasion, because she had been at the trouble of putting on
+an artificial complexion. Her careless refinement of manner was
+so different from the studied dignity and anxious courtesy of the
+actor-manager, that Lydia could hardly think of them as belonging to
+the same profession. Her voice was not her stage voice; it gave a
+subtle charm to her most commonplace remarks, and it was as different as
+possible from Cashel’s rough tones. Yet Lydia was convinced by the first
+note of it that she was Cashel’s mother. Besides, their eyes were
+so like that they might have made an exchange without altering their
+appearance.
+
+Mrs. Byron, coming to the point without delay, at once asked to see the
+drawing. Lydia brought her to the library, were several portfolios were
+ready for inspection. The precious fragment of vellum was uppermost.
+
+“Very interesting, indeed,” said Mrs. Byron, throwing it aside after one
+glance at it, and turning over some later prints, while Lydia, amused,
+looked on in silence. “Ah,” she said, presently, “here is something that
+will suit me exactly. I shall not trouble to go through the rest of your
+collection, thank you. They must do that robe for me in violet silk.
+What is your opinion of it, Miss Carew? I have noticed, from one or two
+trifles, that your taste is exquisite.”
+
+“For what character do you intend the dress?”
+
+“Constance, in ‘King John.’”
+
+“But silk was not made in western Europe until three hundred years after
+Constance’s death. And that drawing is a sketch of Marie de Medicis by
+Rubens.”
+
+“Never mind,” said Mrs. Byron, smoothly. “What does a dress three
+hundred years out of date matter when the woman inside it is seven
+hundred years out? What can be a greater anachronism than the death of
+Prince Arthur three months hence on the stage of the Panopticon Theatre?
+I am an artist giving life to a character in romance, I suppose;
+certainly not a grown-up child playing at being somebody out of Mrs.
+Markham’s history of England. I wear whatever becomes me. I cannot act
+when I feel dowdy.”
+
+“But what will the manager say?”
+
+“I doubt if he will say anything. He will hardly venture to press on me
+anything copied from that old parchment. As he will wear a suit of armor
+obviously made the other day in Birmingham, why--!” Mrs. Byron shrugged
+her shoulders, and did not take sufficient interest in the manager’s
+opinion to finish her sentence.
+
+“After all, Shakespeare concerned himself very little about such
+matters,” said Lydia, conversationally.
+
+“No doubt. I seldom read him.”
+
+“Is this part of Lady Constance a favorite one of yours?”
+
+“Troublesome, my dear,” said Mrs. Byron, absently. “The men look
+ridiculous in it; and it does not draw.”
+
+“No doubt,” said Lydia, watching her face. “But I spoke rather of your
+personal feeling towards the character. Do you, for instance, like
+portraying maternal tenderness on the stage?”
+
+“Maternal tenderness,” said Mrs. Byron with sudden nobleness, “is far
+too sacred a thing to be mimicked. Have you any children?”
+
+“No,” said Lydia, demurely. “I am not married.”
+
+“Of course not. You should get married. Maternity is a liberal education
+in itself.”
+
+“Do you think that it suits every woman?”
+
+“Undoubtedly. Without exception. Only think, dear Miss Carew, of the
+infinite patieuce with which you must tend a child, of the necessity
+of seeing with its little eyes and with your own wise ones at the same
+time, of bearing without reproach the stabs it innocently inflicts, of
+forgiving its hundred little selfishnesses, of living in continual
+fear of wounding its exquisite sensitiveness, or rousing its bitter
+resentment of injustice and caprice. Think of how you must watch
+yourself, check yourself, exercise and develop everything in you that
+can help to attract and retain the most jealous love in the world!
+Believe me, it is a priceless trial to be a mother. It is a royal
+compensation for having been born a woman.”
+
+“Nevertheless,” said Lydia, “I wish I had been born a man. Since you
+seem to have thought deeply into these problems, I will venture to
+ask you a question. Do you not think that the acquirement of an art
+demanding years of careful self-study and training--such as yours,
+for example--is also of great educational value? Almost a sufficient
+discipline to make one a good mother?”
+
+“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Byron, decidedly. “People come into the world
+ready-made. I went on the stage when I was eighteen, and succeeded at
+once. Had I known anything of the world, or been four years older, I
+should have been weak, awkward, timid, and flat; it would have taken
+me twelve years to crawl to the front. But I was young, passionate,
+beautiful, and indeed terrible; for I had run away from home two years
+before, and been cruelly deceived. I learned the business of the stage
+as easily and thoughtlessly as a child learns a prayer; the rest came
+to me by nature. I have seen others spend years in struggling with bad
+voices, uncouth figures, and diffidence; besides a dozen defects that
+existed only in their imaginations. Their struggles may have educated
+them; but had they possessed sufficient genius they would have had
+neither struggle nor education. Perhaps that is why geniuses are such
+erratic people, and mediocrities so respectable. I grant you that I
+was very limited when I first came out; I was absolutely incapable of
+comedy. But I never took any trouble about it; and by and by, when I
+began to mature a little, and to see the absurdity of most of the things
+I had been making a fuss about, comedy came to me unsought, as romantic
+tragedy had come before. I suppose it would have come just the same if I
+had been laboring to acquire it, except that I would have attributed
+its arrival to my own exertions. Most of the laborious people think they
+have made themselves what they are--much as if a child should think it
+had made itself grow.”
+
+“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.
+
+When Lydia was alone, she considered whether she was justified in
+keeping Mrs. Byron apart from her son. It seemed plain that at present
+Cashel was a disgrace to his mother, and had better remain hidden from
+her. But if he should for any reason abandon his ruffianly pursuits, as
+she had urged him to do, then she could bring about a meeting between
+them; and the truant’s mother might take better care of him in the
+future, besides making him pecuniarily independent of prize-fighting.
+This led Lydia to ask what new profession Cashel could adopt, and what
+likelihood there was of his getting on with his mother any better than
+formerly. No satisfactory answer was forthcoming. So she went back to
+the likelihood of his reforming himself for her sake. On this theme her
+imagination carried her so far from all reasonable probability, that
+she was shaking her head at her own folly when Bashville appeared and
+announced Lord Worthington, who came into the room with Alice. Lydia had
+not seen him since her discovery of the true position of the tenant he
+had introduced to her, and he was consequently a little afraid to meet
+her. To cover his embarrassment, he began to talk quickly on a number
+of commonplace topics. But when some time had elapsed, he began to show
+signs of fresh uneasiness. He looked at his watch, and said,
+
+“I don’t wish to hurry you, ladies; but this affair commences at three.”
+
+“What affair?” said Lydia, who had been privately wondering why he had
+come.
+
+“The assault-at-arms. King What’s-his-name’s affair. Webber told me he
+had arranged that you should come with me.”
+
+“Oh, you have come to take us there. I had forgotten. Did I promise to
+go?”
+
+“Webber said so. He was to have taken you himself; but, failing that, he
+promised to do a good thing for me and put me in his place. He said you
+particularly wanted to go, hang him!”
+
+Lydia then rose promptly and sent for her carriage. “There is no hurry,”
+ bhe said. “We can drive to St. James’s Hall in twelve minutes.”
+
+“Hut we have to go to Islington, to the Agricultural Hall. There will be
+cavalry charges, and all sorts of fun.”
+
+“Bless me!” said Lydia. “Will there be any boxing?”
+
+“Yes,” said Lord Worthington, reddening, but unabashed. “Lots of it. It
+will be by gentlemen, though, except perhaps one bout to show the old
+king our professional form.”
+
+“Then excuse me while I go for my hat,” said Lydia, leaving the room.
+Alice had gone some time before to make a complete change in her dress,
+as the occasion was one for display of that kind.
+
+“You look awfully fetching, Miss Goff,” Lord Worthington said, as he
+followed them to the carriage. Alice did not deign to reply, but tossed
+her head superbly, and secretly considered whether people would,
+on comparison, think her overdressed or Lydia underdressed. Lord
+Worthington thought they both looked their best, and reflected for
+several seconds on the different styles of different women, and how what
+would suit one would not do at all for another. It seemed to him that
+Miss Carew’s presence made him philosophical.
+
+The Agricultural Hall struck Alice at first sight as an immense barn
+round which heaps of old packing-cases had been built into race-course
+stands, scantily decorated with red cloth and a few flags. She was
+conducted to a front seat in one of these balconies, which overhung
+the tan-strewn arena. Just below her were the palisades, ornamented at
+intervals with evergreens in tubs, and pressed against from without by a
+crowd who had paid a shilling apiece for the privilege of admission. She
+remarked that it was little to the credit of the management that these
+people should be placed so close beneath her that she could hear their
+conversation; but as Lydia did not seem to share her disgust, she turned
+her attention to the fashionable part of the audience. On the opposite
+side of the arena the balconies seemed like beds of flowers in bloom,
+blacknesses formed here and there by the hats and coats of gentlemen
+representing the interspaces of clay. In the midst of the flowers was a
+gaudy dais, on which a powerfully-built black gentleman sat in a raised
+chair, his majestic impassivity contrasting with the overt astonishment
+with which a row of savagely ugly attendant chiefs grinned and gaped on
+either side of him.
+
+“What a pity we are not nearer the king!” said Alice. “I can hardly see
+the dear old fellow.”
+
+“You will find these the best seats for seeing the assault. It will be
+all right,” said Lord Worthington.
+
+Lydia’s attention was caught by something guilty in his manner.
+Following a furtive glance of his, she saw in the arena, not far from
+her, an enclosure about twenty feet square, made with ropes and stakes.
+It was unoccupied, and there were a few chairs, a basin, and a sponge,
+near it.
+
+“What is that?” she asked.
+
+“That! Oh, that’s the ring.”
+
+“It is not a ring. It is square.”
+
+“They call it the ring. They have succeeded in squaring the circle.”
+
+Here there was a piercing bugle-call, and a troop of cavalry trotted
+into the arena. Lydia found it pleasant enough to sit lazily admiring
+the horses and men, and comparing the members of the Olympian Club, who
+appeared when the soldiers retired, to the marble gods of Athens, and
+to the Bacchus or David of Michael Angelo. They fell short of the Greek
+statues in refinement, and of the Italian in impressiveness as they
+vaulted over a wooden horse, and swung upon horizontal bars, each
+cheapening the exploits of his forerunner by out-doing them. Lord
+Worthington, who soon grew tired of this, whispered that when all that
+rubbish was over, a fellow would cut a sheep in two with a sword, after
+which there would be some boxing.
+
+“Do you mean to say,” said Lydia, indignantly, “that they are going to
+turn a sheep loose and hunt it on horseback with swords?”
+
+Lord Worthington laughed and said yes; but it presently appeared that by
+a sheep was meant a lean carcass of mutton. A stalwart sergeant cut
+it in half as a climax to slicing lemons, bars of lead, and silk
+handkerchiefs; and the audience, accustomed to see much more disgusting
+sights in butchers’ shops, liberally applauded him.
+
+Two gentlemen of the Olympian Club now entered the enclosure which Lord
+Worthington called the ring. After shaking hands with one another as
+well as their huge padded gloves permitted, they hugged themselves with
+their right arms as if there were some danger of their stomachs falling
+out if not held tightly in, and danced round one another, throwing out
+and retracting their left fists like pawing horses. They were both, as
+Lydia learned from the announcement of their names and achievements
+by the master of the ceremonies, amateur champions. She thought their
+pawing and dancing ridiculous; and when they occasionally rushed
+together and scuffled, she could distinguish nothing of the leading off,
+stopping, ducking, countering, guarding, and getting away to which Lord
+Worthington enthusiastically invited her attention, and which elicited
+alternate jeers and applause from the shilling audience below. She
+laughed outright when, at the expiration of three minutes, the two
+dropped supine into chairs at opposite corners of the ring as if they
+had sustained excessive fatigue. At the end of a minute, some one
+hoarsely cried “Time!” and they rose and repeated their previous
+performance for three minutes more. Another minute of rest followed; and
+then the dancing and pawing proceeded for four minutes, after which the
+champions again shook hands and left the arena.
+
+“And is that all?” said Lydia.
+
+“That’s all,” said Lord Worthington. “It’s the most innocent thing in
+the world, and the prettiest.”
+
+“It does not strike me as being pretty,” said Lydia; “but it seems as
+innocent as inanity can make it.” Her mind misgave her that she had
+ignorantly and unjustly reproached Cashel Byron with ferocity merely
+because he practised this harmless exercise.
+
+The show progressed through several phases of skilled violence. Besides
+single combats between men armed in various fashions, there were tilts,
+tent-peggings, drilling and singlestick practice by squads of British
+tars, who were loudly cheered, and more boxing and vaulting by members
+of the club. Lydia’s attention soon began to wander from the arena.
+Looking down at the crowd outside the palisades, she saw a small man
+whom she vaguely remembered, though his face was turned from her. In
+conversation with him was a powerful man dressed in a yellow tweed suit
+and green scarf. He had a coarse, strong voice, and his companion a
+shrill, mean one, so that their remarks could be heard by an attentive
+listener above the confused noise of the crowd.
+
+“Do you admire that man?” said Lord Worthington, following Lydia’s gaze.
+
+“No. Is he anybody in particular?”
+
+“He was a great man once--in the days of the giants. He was champion of
+England. He has a special interest for us as the preceptor of a mutual
+friend of ours.”
+
+“Please name him,” said Lydia, intending that the mutual friend should
+be named.
+
+“Ned Skene,” said Lord Worthington, taking her to mean the man below.
+“He has done so well in the colonies that he has indulged himself and
+his family with a trip to England. His arrival made quite a sensation
+in this country: last week he had a crowded benefit, at which he sparred
+with our mutual friend and knocked him about like a baby. Our mutual
+behaved very well on the occasion in letting himself be knocked about.
+You see he could have killed old Skene if he had tried in earnest.”
+
+“Is that Skene?” said Lydia, looking at him with an earnest interest
+that astonished Lord Worthington. “Ah! Now I recognize the man with him.
+He is one of my tenants at the Warren Lodge--I believe I am indebted to
+you for the introduction.”
+
+“Mellish the trainer?” said Lord Worthington, looking a little foolish.
+“So it is. What a lovely bay that lancer has!--the second from the far
+end.”
+
+But Lydia would not look at the lancer’s horse. “Paradise!” she heard
+Skene exclaim just then with scornful incredulity. “Ain’t it likely?”
+ It occurred to her that if he was alluding to his own chance of arriving
+there, it was not likely.
+
+“Less likely things have happened,” said Mellish. “I won’t say that
+Cashel Byron is getting stale; but I will say that his luck is too good
+to last; and I know for a fact that he’s gone quite melancholy of late.”
+
+“Melancholy be blowed!” said Skene. “What should he go melancholy for?”
+
+“Oh, _I_ know,” said Mellish, reticently.
+
+“You know a lot,” retorted Skene with contempt. “I s’pose you mean the
+young ‘oman he’s always talking to my missis about.”
+
+“I mean a young woman that he ain’t likely to get. One of the biggest
+swells in England--a little un with a face like the inside of a
+oyster-shell, that he met down at Wiltstoken, where I trained him to
+fight the Flying Dutchman. He went right off his training after he met
+her--wouldn’t do anything I told him. I made so cock-sure that he’d be
+licked that I hedged every penny I had laid on him except twenty pound
+that I got a flat to bet agin him down at the fight after I had changed
+my mind. Curse that woman! I lost a hundred pound by her.”
+
+“And served you right, too, you old stupid. You was wrong then; and
+you’re wrong now, with your blessed Paradise.”
+
+“Paradise has never been licked yet.”
+
+“No more has my boy.”
+
+“Well, we’ll see.”
+
+“We’ll see! I tell you I’ve seed for myself. I’ve seed Billy Paradise
+spar; and it ain’t fighting, it’s ruffianing: that’s what it is.
+Ruffianing! Why, my old missis has more science.”
+
+“Mebbe she has,” said Mellish. “But look at the men he’s licked that
+were chock full of science. Shepstone, clever as he is, only won a fight
+from him by claiming a foul, because Billy lost his temper and spiked
+him. That’s the worst of Billy; he can’t keep his feelings in. But no
+fine-lady sparrer can stand afore that ugly rush of his. Do you think
+he’ll care for Cashel’s showy long shots? Not he: he’ll just take ‘em on
+that mahogany nut of his, and give him back one o’ them smashers that he
+settled poor Dick Weeks with.”
+
+“I’ll lay you any money he don’t. If he does, I’ll go back into the ring
+myself, and bust his head off for it.” Here Skene, very angry, applied
+several epithets to Paradise, and became so excited that Mellish had
+to soothe him by partially retracting his forebodings, and asking how
+Cashel had been of late.
+
+“He’s not been taking care of himself as he oughter,” said Skene,
+gloomily. “He’s showing the London fashions to the missis and
+Fanny--they’re here in the three-and-sixpenny seats, among the swells.
+Theatres every night; and walks every day to see the queen drive through
+the park, or the like. My Fan likes to have him with her on account of
+his being such a gentleman: she don’t hardly think her own father not
+good enough to walk down Piccadilly with. Wants me to put on a black
+coat and make a parson of myself. The missis just idolizes him. She
+thinks the boy far too good for the young ‘oman you was speaking of, and
+tells him that she’s only letting on not to care for him to raise her
+price, just as I used to pretend to be getting beat, to set the flats
+betting agin me. The women always made a pet of him. In Melbourne it was
+not what _I_ liked for dinner: it was always what the boy ‘ud like, and
+when it ‘ud please him to have it. I’m blest if I usen’t to have to put
+him up to ask for a thing when I wanted it myself. And you tell me that
+that’s the lad that’s going to let Billy Paradise lick him, I s’pose.
+Walker!”
+
+Lydia, with Mrs. Byron’s charm fresh upon her, wondered what manner of
+woman this Mrs. Skene could be who had supplanted her in the affections
+of her son, and yet was no more than a prize-fighter’s old missis.
+Evidently she was not one to turn a young man from a career in the ring.
+Again the theme of Cashel’s occupation and the chances of his quitting
+it ran away with Lydia’s attention. She sat with her eyes fixed on the
+arena, without seeing the soldiers, swordsmen, or athletes who were busy
+there; her mind wandered further and further from the place; and the
+chattering of the people resolved itself into a distant hum and was
+forgotten.
+
+Suddenly she saw a dreadful-looking man coming towards her across
+the arena. His face had the surface and color of blue granite;
+his protruding jaws and retreating forehead were like those of
+an orang-outang. She started from her reverie with a shiver, and,
+recovering her hearing as well as her vision of external things, became
+conscious of an attempt to applaud this apparition by a few persons
+below. The man grinned ferociously, placed one hand on a stake of the
+ring, and vaulted over the ropes. Lydia now remarked that, excepting his
+hideous head and enormous hands and feet, he was a well-made man, with
+loins and shoulders that shone in the light, and gave him an air of
+great strength and activity.
+
+“Ain’t he a picture?” she heard Mellish exclaim, ecstatically. “There’s
+condition for you!”
+
+“Ah!” said Skene, disparagingly. “But ain’t HE the gentleman! Just look
+at him. It’s like the Prince of Wales walking down Pall Mall.”
+
+Lydia, hearing this, looked again, and saw Cashel Byron, exactly as
+she had seen him for the first time in the elm vista at Wiltstoken,
+approaching the ring with the indifferent air of a man going through
+some tedious public ceremony.
+
+“A god coming down to compete with a gladiator,” whispered Lord
+Worthington, eagerly. “Isn’t it, Miss Carew? Apollo and the satyr! You
+must admit that our mutual friend is a splendid-looking fellow. If he
+could go into society like that, by Jove, the women--”
+
+“Hush,” said Lydia, as if his words were intolerable.
+
+Cashel did not vault over the ropes. He stepped through them languidly,
+and, rejecting the proffered assistance of a couple of officious
+friends, drew on a boxing-glove fastidiously, like an exquisite
+preparing for a fashionable promenade. Having thus muffled his left hand
+so as to make it useless for the same service to his right, he dipped
+his fingers into the other glove, gripped it between his teeth, and
+dragged it on with the action of a tiger tearing its prey. Lydia
+shuddered again.
+
+“Bob Mellish,” said Skene, “I’ll lay you twenty to one he stops that
+rush that you think so much of. Come: twenty to one!”
+
+Mellish shook his head. Then the master of the ceremonies, pointing to
+the men in succession, shouted, “Paradise: a professor. Cashel Byron: a
+professor. Time!”
+
+Cashel now looked at Paradise, of whose existence he had not before
+seemed to be aware. The two men advanced towards the centre of the ring,
+shook hands at arm’s-length, cast off each other’s grasp suddenly, fell
+back a step, and began to move warily round one another from left to
+right like a pair of panthers.
+
+“I think they might learn manners from the gentlemen, and shake hands
+cordially,” said Alice, trying to appear unconcerned, but oppressed by a
+vague dread of Cashel.
+
+“That’s the traditional manner,” said Lord Worthington. “It is done that
+way to prevent one from holding the other; pulling him over, and hitting
+him with the disengaged hand before he could get loose.”
+
+“What abominable treachery!” exclaimed Lydia.
+
+“It’s never done, you know,” said Lord Worthington, apologetically.
+“Only it might be.”
+
+Lydia turned away from him, and gave all her attention to the boxers.
+Of the two, Paradise shocked her least. He was evidently nervous and
+conscious of a screwed-up condition as to his courage; but his sly grin
+implied a wild sort of good-humor, and seemed to promise the spectators
+that he would show them some fun presently. Cashel watched his movements
+with a relentless vigilance and a sidelong glance in which, to Lydia’s
+apprehension, there was something infernal.
+
+Suddenly the eyes of Paradise lit up: he lowered his head, made a rush,
+balked himself purposely, and darted at Cashel. There was a sound like
+the pop of a champagne-cork, after which Cashel was seen undisturbed in
+the middle of the ring, and Paradise, flung against the ropes and trying
+to grin at his discomfiture, showed his white teeth through a mask of
+blood.
+
+“Beautiful!” cried Skene with emotion. “Beautiful! There ain’t but me
+and my boy in the world can give the upper cut like that! I wish I could
+see my old missis’s face now! This is nuts to her.”
+
+“Let us go away,” said Alice.
+
+“That was a very different blow to any that the gentlemen gave,” said
+Lydia, without heeding her, to Lord Worthington. “The man is bleeding
+horribly.”
+
+“It’s only his nose,” said Lord Worthington. “He’s used to it.”
+
+Meanwhile Cashel had followed Paradise to the ropes.
+
+“Now he has him,” chuckled Skene. “My boy’s got him agin the ropes; and
+he means to keep him there. Let him rush now, if he can. See what it is
+to have a good judgment.”
+
+Mellish shook his head again despondently. The remaining minutes of
+the round were unhappy ones for Paradise. He struck viciously at his
+opponent’s ribs; but Cashel stepped back just out of his reach, and then
+returned with extraordinary swiftness and dealt him blows from which,
+with the ropes behind him, he had no room to retreat, and which he was
+too slow to stop or avoid. His attempts to reach his enemy’s face were
+greatly to the disadvantage of his own; for Cashel’s blows were never so
+tremendous as when he turned his head deftly out of harm’s way, and
+met his advancing foe with a counter hit. He showed no chivalry and no
+mercy, and revelled in the hardness of his hitting; his gloves either
+resounding on Paradise’s face or seeming to go almost through his body.
+There was little semblance to a contest: to Lydia there was nothing
+discernible but a cruel assault by an irresistible athlete on a helpless
+victim. The better sort among the spectators were disgusted by the
+sight; for, as Paradise bled profusely, and as his blood besmeared the
+gloves and the gloves besmeared the heads and bodies of both combatants,
+they were soon stained with it from their waists upward. The managers
+held a whispered consultation as to whether the sparring exhibition had
+not better be stopped; but they decided to let it proceed on seeing the
+African king, who had watched the whole entertainment up to the present
+without displaying the least interest, now raise his hands and clap them
+with delight.
+
+“Billy don’t look half pleased with hisself,” observed Mellish, as
+the two boxers sat down. “He looks just like he did when he spiked
+Shepstone.”
+
+“What does spiking mean?” said Lydia.
+
+“Treading on a man’s foot with spiked boots,” replied Lord Worthington.
+“Don’t be alarmed; they have no spikes in their shoes to-day. It is not
+my fault that they do such things, Miss Carew. Really, you make me feel
+quite criminal when you look at me in that way.”
+
+Time was now called; and the pugilists, who had, by dint of sponging,
+been made somewhat cleaner, rose with mechanical promptitude at the
+sound, Cashel had hardly advanced two steps when, though his adversary
+seemed far out of his reach, he struck him on the forehead with such
+force as to stagger him, and then jumped back laughing. Paradise rushed
+forward; but Cashel eluded him, and fled round the ring, looking back
+derisively over his shoulder. Paradise now dropped all pretence of
+good-humor. With an expression of reckless ferocity, he dashed at
+Cashel; endured a startling blow without flinching, and engaged him at
+close quarters. For a moment the falling of their blows reminded Lydia
+of the rush of raindrops against a pane in a sudden gust of wind.
+The next moment Cashel was away; and Paradise, whose blood was again
+flowing, was trying to repeat his manoeuvre, to be met this time by a
+blow that brought him upon one knee. He had scarcely risen when Cashel
+sprang at him; dealt him four blows with dazzling rapidity; drove him
+once more against the ropes; but this time, instead of keeping him
+there, ran away in the manner of a child at play. Paradise, with foam
+as well as blood at his lips, uttered a howl, and tore off his gloves.
+There was a shout of protest from the audience; and Cashel, warned
+by it, tried to get off his gloves in turn. But Paradise was upon
+him before he could accomplish this, and the two men laid hold of one
+another amid a great clamor, Lord Worthington and others rising and
+excitedly shouting, “Against the rules! No wrestling!” followed by a
+roar of indignation as Paradise was seen to seize Cashel’s shoulder in
+his teeth as they struggled for the throw. Lydia, for the first time
+in her life, screamed. Then she saw Cashel, his face fully as fierce as
+Paradise’s, get his arm about his neck; lift him as a coal-heaver lifts
+a sack, and fling him over his back, heels over head, to the ground,
+where he instantly dropped on him with his utmost weight and impetus.
+The two were at once separated by a crowd of managers, umpires,
+policemen, and others who had rushed towards the ring when Paradise had
+taken off his gloves. A distracting wrangle followed. Skene had climbed
+over the palisade, and was hurling oaths, threats, and epithets at
+Paradise, who, unable to stand without assistance, was trying to lift
+his leaden eyelids and realize what had happened to him. A dozen others
+were trying to bring him to his senses, remonstrating with him on his
+conduct, or trying to pacify Skene. Cashel, on the other side, raged at
+the managers, who were reminding him that the rules of glove-fighting
+did not allow wrestling and throwing.
+
+“Rules be d---d,” Lydia heard him shouting. “He bit me; and I’ll throw
+him to--” Then everybody spoke at once; and she could only conjecture
+where he would throw him to. He seemed to have no self-control:
+Paradise, when he came to himself, behaved better. Lord Worthington
+descended into the ring and tried to calm the hubbub; but Cashel shook
+his hand fiercely from his arm; menaced a manager who attempted to call
+him sternly to order; frantically pounded his wounded shoulder with his
+clenched fist, and so outswore and outwrangled them all, that even
+Skene began to urge that there had been enough fuss made. Then Lord
+Worthington whispered a word more; and Cashel suddenly subsided,
+pale and ashamed, and sat down on a chair in his corner as if to hide
+himself. Five minutes afterwards, he stepped out from the crowd with
+Paradise, and shook hands with him amid much cheering. Cashel was the
+humbler of the two. He did not raise his eyes to the balcony once; and
+he seemed in a hurry to retire. But he was intercepted by an officer in
+uniform, accompanied by a black chief, who came to conduct him to the
+dais and present him to the African king; an honor which he was not
+permitted to decline.
+
+The king informed him, through an interpreter, that he had been
+unspeakably gratified by what he had just witnessed; expressed great
+surprise that Cashel, notwithstanding his prowess, was neither in the
+army nor in Parliament; and finally offered to provide him with three
+handsome wives if he would come out to Africa in his suite. Cashel
+was much embarrassed; but he came off with credit, thanks to the
+interpreter, who was accustomed to invent appropriate speeches for
+the king on public occasions, and was kind enough to invent equally
+appropriate ones for Cashel on this.
+
+Meanwhile, Lord Worthington had returned to his place. “It is all
+settled now,” he said to Lydia. “Byron shut up when I told him his
+aristocratic friends were looking at him; and Paradise has been so
+bullied that he is crying in a corner down-stairs. He has apologized;
+but he still maintains that he can beat our mutual friend without the
+gloves; and his backers apparently think so too, for it is understood
+that they are to fight in the autumn for a thousand a side.”
+
+“To fight! Then he has no intention of giving up his profession?”
+
+“No!” said Lord Worthington, astonished. “Why on earth should he give it
+up? Paradise’s money is as good as in his pocket. You have seen what he
+can do.”
+
+“I have seen enough. Alice, I am ready to go as soon as you are.”
+
+Early in the following week Miss Carew returned to Wiltstoken. Miss Goff
+remained in London to finish the season in charge of a friendly lady
+who, having married off all her own daughters, was willing to set to
+work again to marry Alice sooner than remain idle.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI
+
+
+Alice was more at her ease during the remnant of the London season.
+Though she had been proud of her connection with Lydia, she had always
+felt eclipsed in her presence; and now that Lydia was gone, the pride
+remained and the sense of inferiority was forgotten. Her freedom
+emboldened and improved her. She even began to consider her own judgment
+a safer guide in the affairs of every day than the example of her
+patroness. Had she not been right in declaring Cashel Byron an ignorant
+and common man when Lydia, in spite of her warning, had actually invited
+him to visit them? And now all the newspapers were confirming the
+opinion she had been trying to impress on Lydia for months past. On
+the evening of the assault-at-arms, the newsmen had shouted through the
+streets, “Disgraceful scene between two pugilists at Islington in the
+presence of the African king.” Next day the principal journals commented
+on the recent attempt to revive the brutal pastime of prize-fighting;
+accused the authorities of conniving at it, and called on them to put it
+down at once with a strong hand. “Unless,” said a clerical organ, “this
+plague-spot be rooted out from our midst, it will no longer be possible
+for our missionaries to pretend that England is the fount of the
+Gospel of Peace.” Alice collected these papers, and forwarded them to
+Wiltstoken.
+
+On this subject one person at least shared her bias. Whenever she
+met Lucian Webber, they talked about Cashel, invariably coming to the
+conclusion that though the oddity of his behavior had gratified Lydia’s
+unfortunate taste for eccentricity, she had never regarded him with
+serious interest, and would not now, under any circumstances, renew her
+intercourse with him. Lucian found little solace in these conversations,
+and generally suffered from a vague sense of meanness after them. Yet
+next time they met he would drift into discussing Cashel over again;
+and he always rewarded Alice for the admirable propriety of her views by
+dancing at least three times with her when dancing was the business of
+the evening. The dancing was still less congenial than the conversation.
+Lucian, who had at all times too much of the solemnity of manner for
+which Frenchmen reproach Englishmen, danced stiffly and unskilfully.
+Alice, whose muscular power and energy were superior to anything of
+the kind that Mr. Mellish could artificially produce, longed for swift
+motion and violent exercise, and, even with an expert partner, could
+hardly tame herself to the quietude of dancing as practised in London.
+When waltzing with Lucian she felt as though she were carrying a stick
+round the room in the awkward fashion in which Punch carries his baton.
+In spite of her impression that he was a man of unusually correct morals
+and great political importance, and greatly to be considered in
+private life because he was Miss Carew’s cousin, it was hard to spend
+quarter-hours with him that some of the best dancers in London asked
+for.
+
+She began to tire of the subject of Cashel and Lydia. She began to tire
+of Lucian’s rigidity. She began to tire exceedingly of the vigilance she
+had to maintain constantly over her own manners and principles. Somehow,
+this vigilance defeated itself; for she one evening overheard a lady of
+rank speak of her as a stuck-up country girl. The remark gave her acute
+pain: for a week afterwards she did not utter a word or make a movement
+in society without first considering whether it could by any malicious
+observer be considered rustic or stuck-up. But the more she strove to
+attain perfect propriety of demeanor, the more odious did she seem to
+herself, and, she inferred, to others. She longed for Lydia’s secret
+of always doing the right thing at the right moment, even when defying
+precedent. Sometimes she blamed the dulness of the people she met for
+her shortcomings. It was impossible not to be stiff with them. When she
+chatted with an entertaining man, who made her laugh and forget herself
+for a while, she was conscious afterwards of having been at her best
+with him. But she saw others who, in stupid society, were pleasantly
+at their ease. She began to fear at last that she was naturally
+disqualified by her comparatively humble birth from acquiring the
+well-bred air for which she envied those among whom she moved.
+
+One day she conceived a doubt whether Lucian was so safe an authority
+and example in matters of personal deportment as she had hitherto
+unthinkingly believed. He could not dance; his conversation was
+priggish; it was impossible to feel at ease when speaking to him. Was it
+courageous to stand in awe of his opinion? Was it courageous to stand in
+awe of anybody? Alice closed her lips proudly and began to be defiant.
+Then a reminiscence, which had never before failed to rouse indignation
+in her, made her laugh. She recalled the scandalous spectacle of
+Lucian’s formal perpendicularity overbalanced and doubled up into Mrs.
+Hoskyn’s gilded arm-chair in illustration of the prize-fighter’s theory
+of effort defeating itself. After all, what was that caressing touch of
+Cashel’s hand in comparison with the tremendous rataplan he had
+beaten on the ribs of Paradise? Could it be true that effort defeated
+itself--in personal behavior, for instance? A ray of the truth that
+underlay Cashel’s grotesque experiment was flickering in her mind as she
+asked herself that question. She thought a good deal about it; and
+one afternoon, when she looked in at four at-homes in succession, she
+studied the behavior of the other guests from a new point of view,
+comparing the most mannered with the best mannered, and her recent self
+with both. The result half convinced her that she had been occupied
+during her first London season in displaying, at great pains, a
+very unripe self-consciousness--or, as she phrased it, in making an
+insufferable fool of herself.
+
+Shortly afterwards, she met Lucian at a cinderella, or dancing-party
+concluding at midnight. He came at eleven, and, as usual, gravely asked
+whether he might have the pleasure of dancing with her. This form of
+address he never varied. To his surprise, she made some difficulty about
+granting the favor, and eventually offered him “the second extra.” He
+bowed. Before he could resume a vertical position a young man came up,
+remarked that he thought this was his turn, and bore Alice away.
+Lucian smiled indulgently, thinking that though Alice’s manners were
+wonderfully good, considering her antecedents, yet she occasionally
+betrayed a lower tone than that which he sought to exemplify in his own
+person.
+
+“I wish you would learn to reverse,” said Alice unexpectedly to him,
+when they had gone round the room twice to the strains of the second
+extra.
+
+“I DO reverse,” he said, taken aback, and a little indignant.
+
+“Everybody does--that way.”
+
+This silenced him for a moment. Then he said, slowly, “Perhaps I am
+rather out of practice. I am not sure that reversing is quite desirable.
+Many people consider it bad form.”
+
+When they stopped--Alice was always willing to rest during a waltz with
+Lucian--he asked her whether she had heard from Lydia.
+
+“You always ask me that,” she replied. “Lydia never writes except when
+she has something particular to say, and then only a few lines.”
+
+“Precisely. But she might have had something particular to say since we
+last met.”
+
+“She hasn’t had,” said Alice, provoked by an almost arch smile from him.
+
+“She will be glad to hear that I have at last succeeded in recovering
+possession of the Warren Lodge from its undesirable tenants.”
+
+“I thought they went long ago,” said Alice, indifferently.
+
+“The men have not been there for a month or more. The difficulty was to
+get them to remove their property. However, we are rid of them now. The
+only relic of their occupation is a Bible with half the pages torn out,
+and the rest scrawled with records of bets, recipes for sudorific
+and other medicines, and a mass of unintelligible memoranda. One
+inscription, in faded ink, runs, ‘To Robert Mellish, from his
+affectionate mother, with her sincere hope that he may ever walk in the
+ways of this book.’ I am afraid that hope was not fulfilled.”
+
+“How wicked of him to tear a Bible!” said Alice, seriously. Then she
+laughed, and added, “I know I shouldn’t; but I can’t help it.”
+
+“The incident strikes me rather as being pathetic,” said Lucian, who
+liked to show that he was not deficient in sensibility. “One can picture
+the innocent faith of the poor woman in her boy’s future, and so forth.”
+
+“Inscriptions in books are like inscriptions on tombstones,” said Alice,
+disparagingly. “They don’t mean much.”
+
+“I am glad that these men have no further excuse for going to
+Wiltstoken. It was certainly most unfortunate that Lydia should have
+made the acquaintance of one of them.”
+
+“So you have said at least fifty times,” replied Alice, deliberately. “I
+believe you are jealous of that poor boxer.”
+
+Lucian became quite red. Alice trembled at her own audacity, but kept a
+bold front.
+
+“Really--it’s too absurd,” he said, betraying his confusion by assuming
+a carelessness quite foreign to his normal manner. “In what way could I
+possibly be jealous, Miss Goff?”
+
+“That is best known to yourself.”
+
+Lucian now saw plainly that there was a change in Alice, and that he
+had lost ground with her. The smarting of his wounded vanity suddenly
+obliterated his impression that she was, in the main, a well-conducted
+and meritorious young woman. But in its place came another impression
+that she was a spoiled beauty. And, as he was by no means fondest of
+the women whose behavior accorded best with his notions of propriety, he
+found, without at once acknowledging to himself, that the change was
+not in all respects a change for the worse. Nevertheless, he could not
+forgive her last remark, though he took care not to let her see how it
+stung him.
+
+“I am afraid I should cut a poor figure in an encounter with my rival,”
+ he said, smiling.
+
+“Call him out and shoot him,” said Alice, vivaciously. “Very likely he
+does not know how to use a pistol.”
+
+He smiled again; but had Alice known how seriously he entertained her
+suggestion for some moments before dismissing it as impracticable,
+she would not have offered it. Putting a bullet into Cashel struck him
+rather as a luxury which he could not afford than as a crime. Meanwhile,
+Alice, being now quite satisfied that this Mr. Webber, on whom she had
+wasted so much undeserved awe, might be treated as inconsiderately as
+she used to treat her beaux at Wiltstoken, proceeded to amuse herself by
+torturing him a little.
+
+“It is odd,” she said, reflectively, “that a common man like that should
+be able to make himself so very attractive to Lydia. It was not because
+he was such a fine man; for she does not care in the least about that.
+I don’t think she would give a second look at the handsomest man in
+London, she is so purely intellectual. And yet she used to delight in
+talking to him.”
+
+“Oh, that is a mistake. Lydia has a certain manner which leads people
+to believe that she is deeply interested in the person she happens to be
+speaking to; But it is only manner--it means nothing.”
+
+“I know that manner of hers perfectly well. But this was something quite
+different.”
+
+Lucian shook his head reproachfully. “I cannot jest on so serious a
+matter,” he said, resolving to make the attempt to re-establish his
+dignity with Alice. “I think, Miss Groff, that you perhaps hardly know
+how absurd your supposition is. There are not many men of distinction
+in Europe with whom my cousin is not personally acquainted. A very young
+girl, who had seen little of the world, might possibly be deceived by
+the exterior of such a man as Byron. A woman accustomed to associate
+with writers, thinkers, artists, statesmen, and diplomatists could make
+no such mistake. No doubt the man’s vulgarity and uncouth address amused
+her for a moment; but--”
+
+“But why did she ask him to come to her Friday afternoons?”
+
+“A mere civility which she extended to him because he assisted her in
+some difficulty she got into in the streets.”
+
+“She might as well have asked a policeman to come to see her. I don’t
+believe that was it.”
+
+Lucian at that moment hated Alice. “I am sorry you think such a thing
+possible,” he said. “Shall we resume our waltz?”
+
+Alice was not yet able to bear an implication that she did not
+understand society sufficiently to appreciate the distance between Lydia
+and Cashel.
+
+“Of course I know it is impossible,” she said, in her old manner. “I did
+not mean it.”
+
+Lucian found some difficulty in gathering from this what she did mean;
+and they presently took refuge in waltzing. Subsequently, Alice, fearing
+that her new lights had led her too far, drew back a little; led the
+conversation to political matters, and expressed her amazement at
+the extent and variety of the work he performed in Downing Street.
+He accepted her compliments with perfect seriousness; and she felt
+satisfied that she had, on the whole, raised herself in his esteem
+by her proceedings during the evening. But she was mistaken. She knew
+nothing of politics or official work, and he knew the worthlessness of
+her pretended admiration of his share in them, although he felt that
+it was right that she should revere his powers from the depths of her
+ignorance. What stuck like a burr in his mind was that she thought him
+small enough to be jealous of the poor boxer, and found his dancing
+awkward.
+
+After that dance Alice thought much about Lucian, and also about the way
+in which society regulated marriages. Before Miss Carew sent for her she
+had often sighed because all the nice men she knew of moved in circles
+into which an obscure governess had no chance of admission. She had
+received welcome attentions from them occasionally at subscription
+balls; but for sustained intimacy and proposals of marriage she had been
+dependent on the native youth of Wiltstoken, whom she looked upon as
+louts or prigs, and among whom Wallace Parker had shone pre-eminent as
+a university man, scholar, and gentleman. And now that she was a
+privileged beauty in society which would hardly tolerate Wallace Parker,
+she found that the nice men were younger sons, poor and extravagant, far
+superior to Lucian Webber as partners for a waltz, but not to be thought
+of as partners in domestic economy. Alice had experienced the troubles
+of poverty, and had never met with excellence in men except in poems,
+which she had long ago been taught to separate from the possibilities of
+actual life. She had, therefore, no conception of any degree of merit
+in a husband being sufficient to compensate for slender means of
+subsistence. She was not base-minded; nothing could have induced her to
+marry a man, however rich, whom she thought wicked. She wanted money;
+but she wanted more than money; and here it was that she found supply
+failing to answer the demand. For not only were all the handsome,
+gallant, well-bred men getting deeply into debt by living beyond smaller
+incomes than that with which Wallace Parker had tempted her, but many
+of those who had inherited both riches and rank were as inferior to him,
+both in appearance and address, as they were in scholarship. No
+man, possessing both wealth and amiability, had yet shown the least
+disposition to fall in love with her.
+
+One bright forenoon in July, Alice, attended by a groom, went to the
+park on horseback. The Row looked its best. The freshness of morning
+was upon horses and riders; there were not yet any jaded people lolling
+supine in carriages, nor discontented spectators sitting in chairs
+to envy them. Alice, who was a better horsewoman than might have been
+expected from the little practice she had had, appeared to advantage in
+the saddle. She had just indulged in a brisk canter from the Corner
+to the Serpentine, when she saw a large white horse approaching with
+Wallace Parker on its back.
+
+“Ah!” he exclaimed, expertly wheeling his steed and taking off his
+hat at the same time with an intentional display of gallantry and
+horsemanship. “How are you, Alice?”
+
+“Goodness!” cried Alice, forgetting her manners in her astonishment.
+“What brings you here; and where on earth did you get that horse?”
+
+“I presume, Alice,” said Parker, satisfied with the impression he had
+made, “that I am here for much the same reason as you are--to enjoy
+the morning in proper style. As for Rozinante, I borrowed him. Is that
+chestnut yours? Excuse the rudeness of the question.”
+
+“No,” said Alice, coloring a little. “This seems such an unlikely place
+to meet you.”
+
+“Oh, no. I always take a turn in the season. But certainly it would have
+been a very unlikely place for us to meet a year ago.”
+
+So far, Alice felt, she was getting the worst of the conversation. She
+changed the subject. “Have you been to Wiltstoken since I last saw you?”
+
+“Yes. I go there once every week at least.”
+
+“Every week! Janet never told me.”
+
+Parker implied by a cunning air that he thought he knew the reason of
+that; but he said nothing. Alice, piqued, would not condescend to make
+inquiries. So he said, presently,
+
+“How is Miss Thingumbob?”
+
+“I do not know any one of that name.”
+
+“You know very well whom I mean. Your aristocratic patron, Miss Carew.”
+
+Alice flushed. “You are very impertinent, Wallace,” she said, grasping
+her riding-whip. “How dare you call Miss Carew my patron?”
+
+Wallace suddenly became solemn. “I did not know that you objected to be
+reminded of all you owe her,” he said. “Janet never speaks ungratefully
+of her, though she has done nothing for Janet.”
+
+“I have not spoken ungratefully,” protested Alice, almost in tears.
+“I feel sure that you are never tired of speaking ill of me to them at
+home.”
+
+“That shows how little you understand my real character. I always make
+excuses for you.”
+
+“Excuses for what? What have I done? What do you mean?”
+
+“Oh, I don’t mean anything, if you don’t. I thought from your beginning
+to defend yourself that you felt yourself to be in the wrong.”
+
+“I did not defend myself; and I won’t have you say so, Wallace.”
+
+“Always your obedient, humble servant,” he replied, with complacent
+irony.
+
+She pretended not to hear him, and whipped up her horse to a smart trot.
+The white steed being no trotter, Parker followed at a lumbering canter.
+Alice, possessed by a shamefaced fear that he was making her ridiculous,
+soon checked her speed; and the white horse subsided to a walk, marking
+its paces by deliberate bobs of its unfashionably long mane and tail.
+
+“I have something to tell you,” said Parker at last.
+
+Alice did not deign to reply.
+
+“I think it better to let you know at once,” he continued. “The fact is,
+I intend to marry Janet.”
+
+“Janet won’t,” said Alice, promptly, retorting first, and then
+reflecting on the intelligence, which surprised her more than it pleased
+her.
+
+Parker smiled conceitedly, and said, “I don’t think she will raise any
+difficulty if you give her to understand that it is all over between
+US.”
+
+“That what is all over?”
+
+“Well, if you prefer it, that there never has been anything between us.
+Janet believes that we were engaged. So did a good many other people
+until you went into high life.”
+
+“I cannot help what people thought.”
+
+“And they all know that I, at least, was ready to perform my part of the
+engagement honorably.”
+
+“Wallace,” she said, with a sudden change of tone; “I think we had
+better separate. It is not right for me to be riding about the park with
+you when I have nobody belonging to me here except a man-servant.”
+
+“Just as you please,” he said, coolly, halting. “May I assure Janet that
+you wish her to marry me?”
+
+“Most certainly not. I do not wish anyone to marry you, much less my
+own sister. I am far inferior to Janet; and she deserves a much better
+husband than I do.”
+
+“I quite agree with you, though I don’t quite see what that has to
+do with it. As far as I understand you, you will neither marry me
+yourself--mind, I am quite willing to fulfil my engagement still--nor
+let any one else have me. Is that so?”
+
+“You may tell Janet,” said Alice, vigorously, her face glowing, “that
+if we--you and I--were condemned to live forever on a desert isl--No; I
+will write to her. That will be the best way. Good-morning.”
+
+Parker, hitherto imperturbable, now showed signs of alarm. “I beg,
+Alice,” he said, “that you will say nothing unfair to her of me. You
+cannot with truth say anything bad of me.”
+
+“Do you really care for Janet?” said Alice, wavering.
+
+“Of course,” he replied, indignantly. “Janet is a very superior girl.”
+
+“I have always said so,” said Alice, rather angry because some one else
+had forestalled her with the meritorious admission. “I will tell her the
+simple truth--that there has never been anything between us except what
+is between all cousins; and that there never could have been anything
+more on my part. I must go now. I don’t know what that man must think of
+me already.”
+
+“I should be sorry to lower you in his esteem,” said Parker,
+maliciously. “Good-bye, Alice.” Uttering the last words in a careless
+tone, he again pulled up the white horse’s head, raised his hat, and
+sped away. It was not true that he was in the habit of riding in the
+park every season. He had learned from Janet that Alice was accustomed
+to ride there in the forenoon; and he had hired the white horse in order
+to meet her on equal terms, feeling that a gentleman on horseback in the
+road by the Serpentine could be at no social disadvantage with any lady,
+however exalted her associates.
+
+As for Alice, she went home with his reminder that Miss Carew was
+her patron rankling in her. The necessity for securing an independent
+position seemed to press imminently upon her. And as the sole way of
+achieving this was by marriage, she felt for the time willing to marry
+any man, without regard to his person, age, or disposition, if only
+he could give her a place equal to that of Miss Carew in the world, of
+which she had lately acquired the manners and customs.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII
+
+
+When the autumn set in, Alice was in Scotland learning to shoot; and
+Lydia was at Wiltstoken, preparing her father’s letters and memoirs for
+publication. She did not write at the castle, all the rooms in which
+were either domed, vaulted, gilded, galleried, three-sided, six-sided,
+anything except four-sided, or in some way suggestive of the “Arabian
+Nights’ Entertainments,” and out of keeping with the associations of her
+father’s life. In her search for a congruous room to work in, the idea
+of causing a pavilion to be erected in the elm vista occurred to her.
+But she had no mind to be disturbed just then by the presence of a
+troop of stone-masons, slaters, and carpenters, nor any time to lose
+in waiting for the end of their operations. So she had the Warren Lodge
+cleansed and lime washed, and the kitchen transformed into a comfortable
+library, where, as she sat facing the door at her writing-table, in the
+centre of the room, she could see the elm vista through one window
+and through another a tract of wood and meadow land intersected by the
+high-road and by a canal, beyond which the prospect ended in a distant
+green slope used as a sheep run. The other apartments were used by
+a couple of maid-servants, who kept the place well swept and dusted,
+prepared Miss Carew’s lunch, answered her bell, and went on her errands
+to the castle; and, failing any of these employments, sat outside in the
+sun, reading novels. When Lydia had worked in this retreat daily for two
+months her mind became so full of the old life with her father that the
+interruptions of the servants often recalled her to the present with
+a shock. On the twelfth of August she was bewildered for a moment when
+Phoebe, one of the maids, entered and said,
+
+“If you please, miss, Bashville is wishful to know can he speak to you a
+moment?”
+
+Permission being given, Bashville entered. Since his wrestle with Cashel
+he had never quite recovered his former imperturbability. His manner and
+speech were as smooth and respectful as before, but his countenance was
+no longer steadfast; he was on bad terms with the butler because he had
+been reproved by him for blushing. On this occasion he came to beg leave
+to absent himself during the afternoon. He seldom asked favors of this
+kind, and was of course never refused.
+
+“The road is quite thronged to-day,” she observed, as he thanked her.
+“Do you know why?”
+
+“No, madam,” said Bashville, and blushed.
+
+“People begin to shoot on the twelfth,” she said; “but I suppose it
+cannot have anything to do with that. Is there a race, or a fair, or any
+such thing in the neighborhood?”
+
+“Not that I am aware of, madam.”
+
+Lydia dipped her pen in the ink and thought no more of the subject.
+Bashville returned to the castle, attired himself like a country
+gentleman of sporting tastes, and went out to enjoy his holiday.
+
+The forenoon passed away peacefully. There was no sound in the Warren
+Lodge except the scratching of Lydia’s pen, the ticking of her favorite
+skeleton clock, an occasional clatter of crockery from the kitchen,
+and the voices of the birds and maids without. The hour for lunch
+approached, and Lydia became a little restless. She interrupted her work
+to look at the clock, and brushed a speck of dust from its dial with the
+feather of her quill. Then she looked absently through the window along
+the elm vista, where she had once seen, as she had thought, a sylvan
+god. This time she saw a less romantic object--a policeman. She looked
+again, incredulously, there he was still, a black-bearded, helmeted man,
+making a dark blot in the green perspective, and surveying the landscape
+cautiously. Lydia rang the bell, and bade Phoebe ask the man what he
+wanted.
+
+The girl soon returned out of breath, with the news that there were
+a dozen more constables hiding in the road, and that the one she had
+spoken to had given no account of himself, but had asked her how many
+gates there were to the park; whether they were always locked, and
+whether she had seen many people about. She felt sure that a murder
+had been committed somewhere. Lydia shrugged her shoulders, and ordered
+luncheon, during which Phoebe gazed eagerly through the window, and left
+her mistress to wait on herself.
+
+“Phoebe,” said Lydia, when the dishes were removed; “you may go to the
+gate lodge, and ask them there what the policemen want. But do not go
+any further. Stay. Has Ellen gone to the castle with the things?”
+
+Phoebe reluctantly admitted that Ellen had.
+
+“Well, you need not wait for her to return; but come back as quickly as
+you can, in case I should want anybody.”
+
+“Directly, miss,” said Phoebe, vanishing.
+
+Lydia, left alone, resumed her work leisurely, occasionally pausing to
+gaze at the distant woodland, and note with transient curiosity a
+flock of sheep on the slope, or a flight of birds above the tree-tops.
+Something more startling occurred presently. A man, apparently
+half-naked, and carrying a black object under his arm, darted through
+a remote glade with the swiftness of a stag, and disappeared. Lydia
+concluded that he had been disturbed while bathing in the canal, and had
+taken flight with his wardrobe under his arm. She laughed at the idea,
+turned to her manuscript again, and wrote on. Suddenly there was a
+rustle and a swift footstep without. Then the latch was violently jerked
+up, and Cashel Byron rushed in as far as the threshold, where he stood,
+stupefied at the presence of Lydia, and the change in the appearance of
+the room.
+
+He was himself remarkably changed. He was dressed in a pea-jacket, which
+evidently did not belong to him, for it hardly reached his middle, and
+the sleeves were so short that his forearms were half bare, showing that
+he wore nothing beneath this borrowed garment. Below it he had on white
+knee-breeches, with green stains of bruised grass on them. The breeches
+were made with a broad ilap in front, under which, and passing round
+his waist, was a scarf of crimson silk. From his knees to his socks, the
+edges of which had fallen over his laced boots, his legs were visible,
+naked, and muscular. On his face was a mask of sweat, dust, and blood,
+partly rubbed away in places by a sponge, the borders of its passage
+marked by black streaks. Underneath his left eye was a mound of bluish
+flesh nearly as large as a walnut. The jaw below it, and the opposite
+cheek, were severely bruised, and his lip was cut through at one corner.
+He had no hat; his close-cropped hair was disordered, and his ears were
+as though they had been rubbed with coarse sand-paper.
+
+Lydia looked at him for some seconds, and he at her, speechless. Then
+she tried to speak, failed, and sunk into her chair.
+
+“I didn’t know there was any one here,” he said, in a hoarse, panting
+whisper. “The police are after me. I have fought for an hour, and run
+over a mile, and I’m dead beat--I can go no farther. Let me hide in the
+back room, and tell them you haven’t seen any one, will you?”
+
+“What have you done?” she said, conquering her weakness with an effort,
+and standing up.
+
+“Nothing,” he replied, groaning occasionally as he recovered breath.
+“Business, that’s all.”
+
+“Why are the police pursuing you? Why are you in such a dreadful
+condition?”
+
+Cashel seemed alarmed at this. There was a mirror in the lid of a
+paper-case on the table. He took it up and looked at himself anxiously,
+but was at once relieved by what he saw. “I’m all right,” he said.
+“I’m not marked. That mouse”--he pointed gayly to the lump under his
+eye-“will run away to-morrow. I am pretty tidy, considering. But it’s
+bellows to mend with me at present. Whoosh! My heart is as big as a
+bullock’s after that run.”
+
+“You ask me to shelter you,” said Lydia, sternly. “What have you done?
+Have you committed murder?”
+
+“No!” exclaimed Cashel, trying to open his eyes widely in his
+astonishment, but only succeeding with one, as the other was gradually
+closing. “I tell you I have been fighting; and it’s illegal. You don’t
+want to see me in prison, do you? Confound him,” he added, reverting to
+her question with sudden wrath; “a steam-hammer wouldn’t kill him.
+You might as well hit a sack of nails. And all my money, my time, my
+training, and my day’s trouble gone for nothing! It’s enough to make a
+man cry.”
+
+“Go,” said Lydia, with uncontrollable disgust. “And do not let me see
+which way you go. How dare you come to me?”
+
+The sponge-marks on Cashel’s face grew whiter, and he began, to pant
+heavily again. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll go. There isn’t a boy in your
+stables that would give me up like that.”
+
+As he spoke, he opened the door; but he involuntarily shut it again
+immediately. Lydia looked through the window, and saw a crowd of men,
+police and others, hurrying along the elm vista. Cashel cast a glance
+round, half piteous, half desperate, like a hunted animal. Lydia could
+not resist it. “Quick!” she cried, opening one of the inner doors. “Go
+in there, and keep quiet--if you can.” And, as he sulkily hesitated a
+moment, she stamped vehemently. He slunk in submissively. She shut the
+door and resumed her place at the writing-table, her heart beating with
+a kind of excitement she had not felt since, in her early childhood, she
+had kept guilty secrets from her nurse.
+
+There was a tramping without, and a sound of voices. Then two peremptory
+raps at the door.
+
+“Come in,” said Lydia, more composedly than she was aware of. The
+permission was not waited for. Before she ceased speaking a policeman
+opened the door and looked quickly round the room. He seemed rather
+taken aback by what he saw, and finally touched his helmet to signify
+respect for Lydia. He was about to speak, when Phoebe, flushed with
+running, pushed past him, put her hand on the door, and pertly asked
+what he wanted.
+
+“Come away from the door, Phoebe,” said Lydia. “Wait here with me until
+I give you leave to go,” she added, as the girl moved towards the inner
+door. “Now,” she said, turning courteously to the policeman, “what is
+the matter?”
+
+“I ask your pardon, mum,” said the constable, agreeably. “Did you happen
+to see any one pass hereabouts lately?”
+
+“Do you mean a man only partly dressed, and carrying a black coat?” said
+Lydia.
+
+“That’s him, miss,” said the policeman, greatly interested.” Which way
+did he go?”
+
+“I will show you where I saw him,” said Lydia, quietly rising and going
+with the man to the door, outside which she found a crowd of rustics,
+and five policemen, having in custody two men, one of whom was Mellish
+(without a coat), and the other a hook-nosed man, whose like Lydia had
+seen often on race-courses. She pointed out the glade across which she
+had seen Cashel run, and felt as if the guilt of the deception she was
+practising was wrenching some fibre in her heart from its natural order.
+But she spoke with apparent self-possession, and no shade of suspicion
+fell on the minds of the police.
+
+Several peasants now came forward, each professing to know exactly
+whither Cashel had been making when he crossed the glade. While they
+were disputing, many persons resembling the hook-nosed captive in
+general appearance sneaked into the crowd and regarded the police with
+furtive hostility. Soon after, a second detachment of police came up,
+with another prisoner and another crowd, among whom was Bashville.
+
+“Better go in, mum,” said the policeman who had spoken to Lydia first.
+“We must keep together, being so few, and he ain’t fit for you to look
+at.”
+
+But Lydia had looked already, and had guessed that the last prisoner was
+Paradise, although his countenance was damaged beyond recognition. His
+costume was like that of Cashel, except that he was girt with a blue
+handkerchief with white spots, and his shoulders were wrapped in a
+blanket, through one of the folds of which his naked ribs could be seen,
+tinged with every hue that a bad bruise can assume. A shocking spectacle
+appeared where his face had formerly been. A crease and a hole in the
+midst of a cluster of lumps of raw flesh indicated the presence of an
+eye and a mouth; the rest of his features were indiscernible. He could
+still see a little, for he moved his puffed and lacerated hand to
+arrange his blanket, and demanded hoarsely, and with greatly impeded
+articulation, whether the lady would stand a dram to a poor fighting
+man wot had done his best for his backers. On this some one produced a
+flask, and Mellish volunteered, provided he were released for a moment,
+to get the contents down Paradise’s throat. As soon as the brandy had
+passed his swollen lips he made a few preliminary sounds, and then
+shouted,
+
+“He sent for the coppers because he couldn’t stand another round. I am
+ready to go on.”
+
+The policemen bade him hold his tongue, closed round him, and hid him
+from Lydia, who, without showing the mingled pity and loathing with
+which his condition inspired her, told them to bring him to the castle,
+and have him attended to there. She added that the whole party could
+obtain refreshment at the same time. The sergeant, who was very tired
+and thirsty, wavered in his resolution to continue the pursuit. Lydia,
+as usual, treated the matter as settled.
+
+“Bashville,” she said, “will you please show them the way, and see that
+they are satisfied.”
+
+“Some thief has stole my coat,” said Mellish, sullenly, to Bashville.
+“If you’ll lend me one, governor, and these blessed policemen will be so
+kind as not to tear it off my back, I’ll send it down to you in a day or
+two. I’m a respectable man, and have been her ladyship’s tenant here.”
+
+“Your pal wants it worse than you,” said the sergeant. “If there was an
+old coachman’s cape or anything to put over him, I would see it returned
+safe. I don’t want to bring him round the country in a blanket, like a
+wild Injin.”
+
+“I have a cloak inside,” said Bashville. “I’ll get it for you.” And
+before Lydia could devise a pretext for stopping him, he went out, and
+she heard him reentering the lodge by the back door. It seemed to
+her that a silence fell on the crowd, as if her deceit were already
+discovered. Then Mellish, who had been waiting for an opportunity to
+protest against the last remark of the policeman, said, angrily,
+
+“Who are you calling my pal? I hope I may be struck dead for a liar if
+ever I set my eyes on him in my life before.”
+
+Lydia looked at him as a martyr might look at a wretch to whom she was
+to be chained. He was doing as she had done--lying. Then Bashville,
+having passed through the other rooms, came into the library by the
+inner door, with an old livery cloak on his arm.
+
+“Put that on him,” he said, “and come along to the castle with me.
+You can see the roads for five miles round from the south tower, and
+recognize every man on them, through the big telescope. By your leave,
+madam, I think Phoebe had better come with us to help.”
+
+“Certainly,” said Lydia, looking steadfastly at him.
+
+“I’ll get clothes at the castle for the man that wants them,” he added,
+trying to return her gaze, but failing with a blush. “Now boys. Come
+along.”
+
+“I thank your ladyship,” said the sergeant. “We have had a hard morning
+of it, and we can do no more at present than drink your health.” He
+touched his helmet again, and Lydia bowed to him. “Keep close together,
+men,” he shouted, as the crowd moved off with Bashville.
+
+“Ah,” sneered Mellish, “keep close together like the geese do. Things
+has come to a pretty pass when an Englishman is run in for stopping when
+he sees a crowd.”
+
+“All right,” said the sergeant. “I have got that bundle of colored
+handkerchiefs you were selling; and I’ll find the other man before
+you’re a day older. It’s a pity, seeing how you’ve behaved so well and
+haven’t resisted us, that you won’t drop a hint of where those ropes and
+stakes are hid. I might have a good word at the sessions for any one who
+would put me in the way of finding them.”
+
+“Ropes and stakes! Fiddlesticks and grandmothers! There weren’t no ropes
+and stakes. It was only a turn-up--that is, if there was any fighting at
+all. _I_ didn’t see none; but I s’pose you did. But then you’re clever,
+and I’m not.”
+
+By this time the last straggler of the party had disappeared from Lydia,
+who had watched their retreat from the door of the Warren Lodge. When
+she turned to go in she saw Cashel cautiously entering from the room in
+which he had lain concealed. His excitement had passed off; he looked
+cold and anxious, as if a reaction were setting in.
+
+“Are they all gone?” he said. “That servant of yours is a good sort.
+He has promised to bring me some clothes. As for you, you’re better
+than--What’s the matter? Where are you going to?”
+
+Lydia had put on her hat, and was swiftly wrapping herself in a shawl.
+Wreaths of rosy color were chasing each other through her cheeks; and
+her eyes and nostrils, usually so tranquil, were dilated.
+
+“Won’t you speak to me?” he said, irresolutely.
+
+“Just this,” she replied, with passion. “Let me never see you again. The
+very foundations of my life are loosened: I have told a lie. I have made
+my servant--an honorable man--an accomplice in a lie. We are worse
+than you; for even your wild-beast’s handiwork is a less evil than the
+bringing of a falsehood into the world. This is what has come to me out
+of our acquaintance. I have given you a hiding-place. Keep it. I will
+never enter it again.”
+
+Cashel, appalled, shrank back with an expression such as a child wears
+when, in trying to steal sweet-meats from a high shelf, it pulls the
+whole cupboard down about its ears. He neither spoke nor stirred as she
+left the lodge.
+
+Finding herself presently at the castle, she went to her boudoir, where
+she found her maid, the French lady, from whose indignant description of
+the proceedings below she gathered that the policemen were being regaled
+with bread and cheese, and beer; and that the attendance of a surgeon
+had been dispensed with, Paradise’s wounds having been dressed skilfully
+by Mellish. Lydia bade her send Bashville to the Warren Lodge to see
+that there were no strangers loitering about it, and ordered that none
+of the female servants should return there until he came back. Then she
+sat down and tried not to think. But she could not help thinking; so she
+submitted and tried to think the late catastrophe out. An idea that she
+had disjointed the whole framework of things by creating a false belief
+filled her imagination. The one conviction that she had brought out of
+her reading, observing, reflecting, and living was that the concealment
+of a truth, with its resultant false beliefs, must produce mischief,
+even though the beginning of that mischief might be as inconceivable
+as the end. She made no distinction between the subtlest philosophical
+misconception and the vulgarest lie. The evil of Cashel’s capture was
+measurable, the evil of a lie beyond all measure. She felt none the less
+assured of that evil because she could not foresee one bad consequence
+likely to ensue from what she had done. Her misgivings pressed heavily
+upon her; for her father, a determined sceptic, had taught her his
+own views, and she was, therefore, destitute of the consolations which
+religion has for the wrongdoer. It was plainly her duty to send for the
+policeman and clear up the deception she had practised on him. But
+this she could not do. Her will, in spite of her reason, acted in the
+opposite direction. And in this paralysis of her moral power she saw the
+evil of the lie beginning. She had given it birth, and nature would not
+permit her to strangle the monster.
+
+At last her maid returned and informed her that the canaille had gone
+away. When she was again alone, she rose and walked slowly to and fro
+through the room, forgetting the lapse of time in the restless activity
+of her mind, until she was again interrupted, this time by Bashville.
+
+“Well?”
+
+He was daunted by her tone; for he had never before heard her speak
+haughtily to a servant. He did not understand that he had changed
+subjectively, and was now her accomplice.
+
+“He’s given himself up.”
+
+“What do you mean?” she said, with sudden dismay.
+
+“Byron, madam. I brought some clothes to the lodge for him, but when I
+got there he was gone. I went round to the gates in search of him,
+and found him in the hands of the police. They told me he’d just
+given himself up. He wouldn’t give any account of himself; and he
+looked--well, sullen and beaten down like.”
+
+“What will they do with him?” she asked, turning quite pale.
+
+“A man got six weeks’ hard labor, last month, for the same offence. Most
+probably that’s what he’ll get. And very little for what’s he’s done, as
+you’d say if you saw him doing it, madam.”
+
+“Then,” said Lydia, sternly, “it was to see this”--she shrank from
+naming it--“this fight, that you asked my permission to go out!”
+
+“Yes, madam, it was,” said Bashville, with some bitterness. “I
+recognized Lord Worthington and plenty more noblemen and gentlemen
+there.”
+
+Lydia was about to reply sharply; but she checked herself; and her usual
+tranquil manner came back as she said, “That is no reason why you should
+have been there.”
+
+Bashville’s color began to waver, and his voice to need increased
+control. “It’s in human nature to go to such a thing once,” he said;
+“but once is enough, at least for me. You’ll excuse my mentioning it,
+madam; but what with Lord Worthington and the rest of Byron’s backers
+screaming oaths and abuse at the other man, and the opposite party doing
+the same to Byron--well, I may not be a gentleman; but I hope I can
+conduct myself like a man, even when I’m losing money.”
+
+“Then do not go to such an exhibition again, Bashville. I must not
+dictate to you what your amusements shall be; but I do not think you are
+likely to benefit yourself by copying Lord Worthington’s tastes.”
+
+“I copy no lord’s tastes,” said Bashville, reddening. “You hid the man
+that was fighting, Miss Carew. Why do you look down on the man that was
+only a bystander?”
+
+Lydia’s color rose, too. Her first impulse was to treat this outburst as
+rebellion against her authority, and crush it. But her sense of justice
+withheld her.
+
+“Would you have had me betray a fugitive who took refuge in my house,
+Bashville? YOU did not betray him.”
+
+“No,” said Bashville, his expression subdued to one of rueful pride.
+“When I am beaten by a better man, I have courage enough to get out of
+his way and take no mean advantage of him.”
+
+Lydia, not understanding, looked inquiringly at him. He made a gesture
+as if throwing something from him, and continued recklessly,
+
+“But one way I’m as good as he, and better. A footman is held more
+respectable than a prize-fighter. He’s told you that he’s in love with
+you; and if it is to be my last word, I’ll tell you that the ribbon
+round your neck is more to me than your whole body and soul is to him or
+his like. When he took an unfair advantage of me, and pretended to be a
+gentleman, I told Mr. Lucian of him, and showed him up for what he was.
+But when I found him to-day hiding in the pantry at the Lodge, I took
+no advantage of him, though I knew well that if he’d been no more to you
+than any other man of his sort, you’d never have hid him. You know best
+why he gave himself up to the police after your seeing his day’s work.
+But I will leave him to his luck. He is the best man: let the best man
+win. I am sorry,” added Bashville, recovering his ordinary suave manner
+with an effort, “to inconvenience you by a short notice, but I should
+take it as a particular favor if I might go this evening.”
+
+“You had better,” said Lydia, rising quite calmly, and keeping
+resolutely away from her the strange emotional result of being
+astonished, outraged, and loved at one unlooked-for stroke. “It is not
+advisable that you should stay after what you have just--”
+
+“I knew that when I said it,” interposed Bashville hastily and doggedly.
+
+“In going away you will be taking precisely the course that would be
+adopted by any gentleman who had spoken to the same effect. I am not
+offended by your declaration: I recognize your right to make it. If you
+need my testimony to further your future arrangements, I shall be happy
+to say that I believe you to be a man of honor.”
+
+Bashville bowed, and said in a low voice, very nervously, that he had
+no intention of going into service again, but that he should always be
+proud of her good opinion.
+
+“You are fitted for better things,” she said. “If you embark in any
+enterprise requiring larger means than you possess, I will be your
+security. I thank you for your invariable courtesy to me in the
+discharge of your duties. Good-bye.”
+
+She bowed to him and left the room. Bashville, awestruck, returned her
+salutation as best he could, and stood motionless after she disappeared;
+his mind advancing on tiptoe to grasp what had just passed. His chief
+sensation was one of relief. He no longer dared to fancy himself in
+love with such a woman. Her sudden consideration for him as a suitor
+overwhelmed him with a sense of his unfitness for such a part. He saw
+himself as a very young, very humble, and very ignorant man, whose head
+had been turned by a pleasant place and a kind mistress. Wakened from
+his dream, he stole away to pack his trunk, and to consider how best to
+account to his fellow-servants for his departure.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIII
+
+
+Lydia resumed her work next day with shaken nerves and a longing for
+society. Many enthusiastic young ladies of her acquaintance would
+have brought her kisses and devotion by the next mail in response to a
+telegram; and many more practical people would have taken considerable
+pains to make themselves agreeable to her for the sake of spending the
+autumn at Wiltstoken Castle. But she knew that they would only cause her
+to regret her former solitude. She shrank from the people who attached
+themselves to her strength and riches even when they had not calculated
+her gain, and were conscious only of admiration and gratitude. Alice,
+as a companion, had proved a failure. She was too young, and too much
+occupied with the propriety of her own behavior, to be anything more
+to Lydia than an occasional tax upon her patience. Lydia, to her own
+surprise, thought several times of Miss Gisborne, and felt tempted to
+invite her, but was restrained by mistrust of the impulse to communicate
+with Cashel’s mother, and reluctance to trace it to its source.
+Eventually she resolved to conquer her loneliness, and apply herself
+with increased diligence to the memoir of her father. To restore her
+nerves, she walked for an hour every day in the neighborhood, and drove
+out in a pony carriage, in the evening. Bashville’s duties were now
+fulfilled by the butler and Phoebe, Lydia being determined to admit no
+more young footmen to her service.
+
+One afternoon, returning from one of her daily walks, she found a
+stranger on the castle terrace, in conversation with the butler. As it
+was warm autumn weather, Lydia was surprised to see a woman wearing a
+black silk mantle trimmed with fur, and heavily decorated with spurious
+jet beads. However, as the female inhabitants of Wiltstoken always
+approached Miss Carew in their best raiment, without regard to hours or
+seasons, she concluded that she was about to be asked for a subscription
+to a school treat, a temperance festival, or perhaps a testimonial to
+one of the Wiltstoken curates.
+
+When she came nearer she saw that the stranger was an elderly lady--or
+possibly not a lady--with crimped hair, and ringlets hanging at each ear
+in a fashion then long obsolete.
+
+“Here is Miss Carew,” said the butler, shortly, as if the old lady had
+tried his temper. “You had better talk to her yourself.”
+
+At this she seemed fluttered, and made a solemn courtesy. Lydia,
+noticing the courtesy and the curls, guessed that her visitor kept a
+dancing academy. Yet a certain contradictory hardihood in her frame and
+bearing suggested that perhaps she kept a tavern. However, as her face
+was, on the whole, an anxious and a good face, and as her attitude
+towards the lady of the castle was one of embarrassed humility, Lydia
+acknowledged her salutation kindly, and waited for her to speak.
+
+“I hope you won’t consider it a liberty,” said the stranger,
+tremulously. “I’m Mrs. Skene.”
+
+Lydia became ominously grave; and Mrs. Skene reddened a little. Then she
+continued, as if repeating a carefully prepared and rehearsed speech,
+“It would be esteemed a favor if I might have the honor of a few words
+in private with your ladyship.”
+
+Lydia looked and felt somewhat stern; but it was not in her nature to
+rebuff any one without strong provocation. She invited her visitor
+to enter, and led the way to the circular drawing-room, the strange
+decorations of which exactly accorded with Mrs. Skene’s ideas of
+aristocratic splendor. As a professor of deportment and etiquette, the
+ex-champion’s wife was nervous under the observation of such an expert
+as Lydia; but she got safely seated without having made a mistake to
+reproach herself with. For, although entering a room seems a simple
+matter to many persons, it was to Mrs. Skene an operation governed by
+the strict laws of the art she professed, and one so elaborate that
+few of her pupils mastered it satisfactorily with less than a month’s
+practice. Mrs Skene soon dismissed it from her mind. She was too old to
+dwell upon such vanities when real anxieties were pressing upon her.
+
+“Oh, miss,” she began, appealingly, “the boy!”
+
+Lydia knew at once who was meant. But she repeated, as if at a loss,
+“The boy?” And immediately accused herself of insincerity.
+
+“Our boy, ma’am. Cashel.”
+
+“Mrs. Skene!” said Lydia, reproachfully.
+
+Mrs. Skene understood all that Lydia’s tone implied. “I know, ma’am,”
+ she pleaded. “I know well. But what could I do but come to you? Whatever
+you said to him, it has gone to his heart; and he’s dying.”
+
+“Pardon me,” said Lydia, promptly; “men do not die of such things; and
+Mr. Cashel Byron is not so deficient either in robustness of body or
+hardness of heart as to be an exception to THAT rule.”
+
+“Yes, miss,” said Mrs. Skene, sadly. “You are thinking of the
+profession. You can’t believe he has any feelings because he fights.
+Ah, miss, if you only knew them as I do! More tender-hearted men don’t
+breathe. Cashel is like a young child, his feelings are that easily
+touched; and I have known stronger than he to die of broken hearts
+only because they were unlucky in their calling. Just think what a
+high-spirited young man must feel when a lady calls him a wild beast.
+That was a cruel word, miss; it was, indeed.”
+
+Lydia was so disconcerted by this attack that she had to pause awhile
+before replying. Then she said, “Are you aware, Mrs. Skene, that my
+knowledge of Mr. Byron is very slight--that I have not seen him ten
+times in my life? Perhaps you do not know the circumstances in which I
+last saw him. I was greatly shocked by the injuries he had inflicted on
+another man; and I believe I spoke of them as the work of a wild beast.
+For your sake, I am sorry I said so; for he has told me that he regards
+you as his mother; and--”
+
+“Oh, no! Far from it, miss. I ask your pardon a thousand times for
+taking the word out of your mouth; but me and Ned is no more to him than
+your housekeeper or governess might be to you. That’s what I’m afraid
+you don’t understand, miss. He’s no relation of ours. I do assure you
+that he’s a gentleman born and bred; and when we go back to Melbourne
+next Christmas, it will be just the same as if he had never known us.”
+
+“I hope he will not be so ungrateful as to forget you. He has told me
+his history.”
+
+“That’s more than he ever told me, miss; so you may judge how much he
+thinks of you.”
+
+A pause followed this. Mrs. Skene felt that the first exchange was over,
+and that she had got the better in it.
+
+“Mrs. Skene,” said Lydia then, penetratingly; “when you came to pay me
+this visit, what object did you propose to yourself? What do you expect
+me to do?”
+
+“Well, ma’am,” said Mrs. Skene, troubled, “the poor lad has had crosses
+lately. There was the disappointment about you--the first one, I
+mean--that had been preying on his mind for a long time. Then there was
+that exhibition spar at the Agricultural Hall, when Paradise acted so
+dishonorable. Cashel heard that you were looking on; and then he read
+the shameful way the newspapers wrote of him; and he thought you’d
+believe it all. I couldn’t get that thought out of his head. I said to
+him, over and over again--”
+
+“Excuse me,” said Lydia, interrupting. “We had better be frank with
+one another. It is useless to assume that he mistook my feeling on
+that subject. I WAS shocked by the severity with which he treated his
+opponent.”
+
+“But bless you, that’s his business,” said Mrs. Skone, opening her eyes
+widely. “I put it to you, miss,” she continued, as if mildly reprobating
+some want of principle on Lydia’s part, “whether an honest man shouldn’t
+fulfil his engagements. I assure you that the pay a respectable
+professional usually gets for a spar like that is half a guinea; and
+that was all Paradise got. But Cashel stood on his reputation, and
+wouldn’t take less than ten guineas; and he got it, too. Now many
+another in his position would have gone into the ring and fooled away
+the time pretending to box, and just swindling those that paid him. But
+Cashel is as honest and high-minded as a king. You saw for yourself the
+trouble he took. He couldn’t have spared himself less if he had been
+fighting for a thousand a side and the belt, instead of for a paltry ten
+guineas. Surely you don’t think the worse of him for his honesty, miss?”
+
+“I confess,” said Lydia, laughing in spite of herself, “that your view
+of the transaction did not occur to me.”
+
+“Of course not, ma’am; no more it wouldn’t to any one, without they were
+accustomed to know the right and wrong of the profession. Well, as I was
+saying, miss, that was a fresh disappointment to him. It worrited him
+more than you can imagine. Then came a deal of bother about the match
+with Paradise. First Paradise could only get five hundred pounds; and
+the boy wouldn’t agree for less than a thousand. I think it’s on your
+account that he’s been so particular about the money of late; for he
+was never covetous before. Then Mellish was bent on its coming off down
+hereabouts; and the poor lad was so mortal afraid of its getting to your
+ears, that he wouldn’t consent until they persuaded him you would be
+in foreign parts in August. Glad I was when the articles were signed
+at last, before he was worrited into his grave. All the time he was
+training he was longing for a sight of you; but he went through with it
+as steady and faithful as a man could. And he trained beautiful. I saw
+him on the morning of the fight; and he was like a shining angel; it
+would have done a lady’s heart good to look at him. Ned went about like
+a madman offering twenty to one on him: if he had lost, we should have
+been ruined at this moment. And then to think of the police coming just
+as he was finishing Paradise. I cried like a child when I heard of it: I
+don’t think there was ever anything so cruel. And he could have finished
+him quarter of an hour sooner, only he held back to make the market for
+Ned.” Here Mrs. Skene, overcome, blew her nose before proceeding. “Then,
+on the top of that, came what passed betwixt you and him, and made him
+give himself up to the police. Lord Worthington bailed him out; but what
+with the disgrace and the disappointment, and his time and money thrown
+away, and the sting of your words, all coming together, he was quite
+broken-hearted. And now he mopes and frets; and neither me nor Ned
+nor Fan can get any good of him. They tell me that he won’t be sent to
+prison; but if he is”--here Mrs. Skene broke down and began to cry--” it
+will be the death of him, and God forgive those that have brought it
+about.”
+
+Sorrow always softened Lydia; but tears hardened her again; she had no
+patience with them.
+
+“And the other man?” she said. “Have you heard anything of him? I
+suppose he is in some hospital.”
+
+“In hospital!” repeated Mrs. Skene, checking her tears in alarm. “Who?”
+
+“Paradise,” replied Lydia, pronouncing the name reluctantly.
+
+“He in hospital! Why, bless your innocence, miss, I saw him yesterday,
+looking as well as such an ugly brute could look--not a mark on him, and
+he bragging what he would have done to Cashel if the police hadn’t come
+up. He’s a nasty, low fighting man, so he is; and I’m only sorry that
+our boy demeaned himself to strip with the like of him. I hear that
+Cashel made a perfect picture of him, and that you saw him. I suppose
+you were frightened, ma’am, and very naturally, too, not being used to
+such sights. I have had my Ned brought home to me in that state that
+I have poured brandy into his eye, thinking it was his mouth; and even
+Cashel, careful as he is, has been nearly blind for three days. It is
+not to be expected that they could have all the money for nothing. Don’t
+let it prey on your mind, miss. If you married--I am only supposing it,”
+ said Mrs. Skene in soothing parenthesis as she saw Lydia shrink from the
+word--“if you were married to a great surgeon, as you might be without
+derogation to your high rank, you’d be ready to faint if you saw him
+cut off a leg or an arm, as he would have to do every day for his
+livelihood; but you’d be proud of his cleverness in being able to do
+it. That’s how I feel with regard to Ned. I tell you the truth, ma’am,
+I shouldn’t like to see him in the ring no more than the lady of an
+officer in the Guards would like to see her husband in the field of
+battle running his sword into the poor blacks or into the French; but as
+it’s his profession, and people think so highly of him for it, I make up
+my mind to it; and now I take quite an interest in it, particularly as
+it does nobody any harm. Not that I would have you think that Ned ever
+took the arm or leg off a man: Lord forbid--or Cashel either. Oh, ma’am,
+I thank you kindly, and I’m sorry you should have given yourself the
+trouble.” This referred to the entry of a servant with tea.
+
+“Still,” said Lydia, when they were at leisure to resume the
+conversation, “I do not quite understand why you have come to me.
+Personally you are quite welcome; but in what way did you expect to
+relieve Mr. Byron’s mind by visiting me? Did he ask you to come?”
+
+“He’d have died first. I came down of my own accord, knowing what was
+the matter with him.”
+
+“And what then?”
+
+Mrs. Skene looked around to satisfy herself that they were alone. Then
+she leaned towards Lydia, and said in an emphatic whisper,
+
+“Why won’t you marry him, miss?”
+
+“Because I don’t choose, Mrs. Skene,” said Lydia, with perfect
+good-humor.
+
+“But consider a little, miss. Where will you ever get such another
+chance? Only think what a man he is! champion of the world and a
+gentleman as well. The two things have never happened before, and
+never will again. I have known lots of champions, but they were not fit
+company for the like of you. Ned was champion when I married him; and my
+family thought that I lowered myself in doing it, although I was only
+a professional dancer on the stage. The men in the ring are common men
+mostly; and so, though they are the best men in the kingdom, ladies are
+cut off from their society. But it has been your good luck to take the
+fancy of one that’s a gentleman. What more could a lady desire? Where
+will you find his equal in health, strength, good looks, or good
+manners? As to his character, I can tell you about that. In Melbourne,
+as you may suppose, all the girls and women were breaking their hearts
+for his sake. I declare to you that I used to have two or three of
+them in every evening merely to look at him, and he, poor innocent lad,
+taking no more notice of them than if they were cabbages. He used to be
+glad to get away from them by going into the saloon and boxing with
+the gentlemen; and then they used to peep at him through the door. They
+never got a wink from him. You were the first, Miss Carew; and, believe
+me, you will be the last. If there had ever been another he couldn’t
+have kept it from me; because his disposition is as open as a child’s.
+And his honesty is beyond everything you can imagine. I have known him
+to be offered eight hundred pounds to lose a fight that he could only
+get two hundred by winning, not to mention his chance of getting nothing
+at all if he lost honestly. You know--for I see you know the world,
+ma’am--how few men would be proof against such a temptation. There are
+men high up in their profession--so high that you’d as soon suspect the
+queen on her throne of selling her country’s battles as them--that fight
+cross on the sly when it’s made worth their while. My Ned is no low
+prize-fighter, as is well known; but when he let himself be beat by that
+little Killarney Primrose, and went out and bought a horse and trap
+next day, what could I think? There, ma’am, I tell you that of my own
+husband; and I tell you that Cashel never was beaten, although times
+out of mind it would have paid him better to lose than to win, along of
+those wicked betting men. Not an angry word have I ever had from him,
+nor the sign of liquor have I ever seen on him, except once on Ned’s
+birthday; and then nothing but fun came out of him in his cups, when the
+truth comes out of all men. Oh, do just think how happy you ought to
+be, miss, if you would only bring yourself to look at it in the proper
+light. A gentleman born and bred, champion of the world, sober, honest,
+spotless as the unborn babe, able to take his own part and yours in any
+society, and mad in love with you! He thinks you an angel from heaven
+and so I am sure you are, miss, in your heart. I do assure you that my
+Fan gets quite put out because she thinks he draws comparisons to her
+disadvantage. I don’t think you can be so hard to please as to refuse
+him, miss.”
+
+Lydia leaned back in her chair and looked at Mrs. Skene with a curious
+expression which soon brightened into an irrepressible smile. Mrs. Skene
+smiled very slightly in complaisance, but conveyed by her serious brow
+that what she had said was no laughing matter.
+
+“I must take some time to consider all that you have so eloquently
+urged,” said Lydia. “I am in earnest, Mrs. Skene; you have produced a
+great effect upon me. Now let us talk of something else for the present.
+Your daughter is quite well, I hope.”
+
+“Thank you kindly, ma’am, she enjoys her health.”
+
+“And you also?”
+
+“I am as well as can be expected,” said Mrs. Skene, too fond of
+commiseration to admit that she was perfectly well.
+
+“You must have a rare sense of security,” said Lydia, watching her,
+“being happily married to so celebrated a--a professor of boxing as Mr.
+Skene. Is it not pleasant to have a powerful protector?”
+
+“Ah, miss, you little know,” exclaimed Mrs. Skene, falling into the trap
+baited by her own grievances, and losing sight of Cashel’s interests.
+“The fear of his getting into trouble is never off my mind. Ned is
+quietness itself until he has a drop of drink in him; and then he is
+like the rest--ready to fight the first that provokes him. And if
+the police get hold of him he has no chance. There’s no justice for a
+fighting man. Just let it be said that he’s a professional, and that’s
+enough for the magistrate; away with him to prison, and good-by to his
+pupils and his respectability at once. That’s what I live in terror of.
+And as to being protected, I’d let myself be robbed fifty times over
+sooner than say a word to him that might bring on a quarrel. Many a time
+when we were driving home of a night have I overpaid the cabman on the
+sly, afraid he would grumble and provoke Ned. It’s the drink that does
+it all. Gentlemen are proud to be seen speaking with him in public; and
+they come up one after another asking what he’ll have, until the
+next thing he knows is that he’s in bed with his boots on, his wrist
+sprained, and maybe his eye black, trying to remember what he was doing
+the night before. What I suffered the first three years of our marriage
+none can tell. Then he took the pledge, and ever since that he’s been
+very good--I haven’t seen him what you could fairly call drunk, not more
+than three times a year. It was the blessing of God, and a beating he
+got from a milkman in Westminster, that made him ashamed of himself. I
+kept him to it and made him emigrate out of the way of his old friends.
+Since that, there has been a blessing on him; and we’ve prospered.”
+
+“Is Cashel quarrelsome?”
+
+At the tone of this question Mrs. Skene suddenly realized the
+untimeliness of her complaints. “No, no,” she protested. “He never
+drinks; and as to fighting, if you can believe such a thing, miss, I
+don’t think he has had a casual turnup three times in his life--not
+oftener, at any rate. All he wants is to be married; and then he’ll be
+steady to his grave. But if he’s left adrift now, Lord knows what will
+become of him. He’ll mope first--he’s moping at present--then he’ll
+drink; then he’ll lose his pupils, get out of condition, be beaten,
+and--One word from you, miss, would save him. If I might just tell
+him--”
+
+“Nothing,” said Lydia. “Absolutely nothing. The only assurance I can
+give you is that you have softened the hard opinion that I had formed of
+some of his actions. But that I should marry Mr. Cashel Byron is simply
+the most improbable thing in the world. All questions of personal
+inclination apart, the mere improbability is enough in itself to appal
+an ordinary woman.”
+
+Mrs. Skene did not quite understand this; but she understood
+sufficiently for her purpose. She rose to go, shaking her head
+despondently, and saying, “I see how it is, ma’am. You think him beneath
+you. Your relations wouldn’t like it.”
+
+“There is no doubt that my relatives would be greatly shocked; and I am
+bound to take that into account for--what it is worth.”
+
+“We should never trouble you,” said Mrs. Skene, lingering. “England will
+see the last of us in a month of two.”
+
+“That will make no difference to me, except that I shall regret not
+being able to have a pleasant chat with you occasionally.” This was not
+true; but Lydia fancied she was beginning to take a hardened delight in
+lying.
+
+Mrs. Skene was not to be consoled by compliments. She again shook her
+head. “It is very kind of you to give me good words, miss,” she said;
+“but if I might have one for the boy you could say what you liked to
+me.”
+
+Lydia considered far before she replied. At last she said, “I am sorry I
+spoke harshly to him, since, driven as he was by circumstances, I cannot
+see how he could have acted otherwise than he did. And I overlooked
+the economic conditions of his profession. In short, I am not used to
+fisticuffs; and what I saw shocked me so much that I was unreasonable.
+But,” continued Lydia, checking Mrs. Skene’s rising hope with a warning
+finger, “how, if you tell him this, will you make him understand that
+I say so as an act of justice, and not in the least as a proffer of
+affection?”
+
+“A crumb of comfort will satisfy him, miss. I’ll just tell him that I’ve
+seen you, and that you meant nothing by what you said the other day;
+and--”
+
+“Mrs. Skene,” said Lydia, interrupting her softly; “tell him nothing at
+all as yet. I have made up my mind at last. If he does not hear from
+me within a fortnight you may tell him what you please. Can you wait so
+long?”
+
+“Of course. Whatever you wish, ma’am. But Mellish’s benefit is to be
+to-morrow night; and--”
+
+“What have I to do with Mellish or his benefit?”
+
+Mrs. Skene, abashed, murmured apologetically that she was only wishful
+that the boy should do himself credit.
+
+“If he is to benefit Mellish by beating somebody, he will not be
+behindhand. Remember you are not to mention me for a fortnight. Is that
+a bargain?”
+
+“Whatever you wish, ma’am,” repeated Mrs. Skene, hardly satisfied. But
+Lydia gave her no further comfort; so she begged to take her leave,
+expressing a hope that things would turn out to the advantage of all
+parties. Then Lydia insisted on her partaking of some solid refreshment,
+and afterwards drove her to the railway station in the pony-carriage.
+Just before they parted Lydia, suddenly recurring to their former
+subject, said,
+
+“Does Mr. Byron ever THINK?”
+
+“Think!” said Mrs. Skene emphatically. “Never. There isn’t a more
+cheerful lad in existence, miss.”
+
+Then Mrs. Skene was carried away to London, wondering whether it could
+be quite right for a young lady to live in a gorgeous castle without any
+elder of her own sex, and to speak freely and civilly to her inferiors.
+When she got home she said nothing of her excursion to Mr. Skene, in
+whose disposition valor so entirely took the place of discretion that he
+had never been known to keep a secret except as to the whereabouts of
+a projected fight. But she sat up late with her daughter Fanny,
+tantalizing her by accounts of the splendor of the castle, and consoling
+her by describing Miss Carew as a slight creature with red hair and
+no figure (Fanny having jet black hair, fine arms, and being one of
+Cashel’s most proficient pupils).
+
+“All the same, Fan,” added Mrs. Skene, as she took her candlestick at
+two in the morning, “if it comes off, Cashel will never be master in his
+own house.”
+
+“I can see that very plain,” said Fanny; “but if respectable
+professional people are not good enough for him, he will have only
+himself to thank if he gets himself looked down upon by empty-headed
+swells.”
+
+Meanwhile, Lydia, on her return to the castle after a long drive round
+the country, had attempted to overcome an attack of restlessness by
+setting to work on the biography of her father. With a view to preparing
+a chapter on his taste in literature she had lately been examining his
+favorite books for marked passages. She now resumed this search, not
+setting methodically to work, but standing perched on the library
+ladder, taking down volume after volume, and occasionally dipping into
+the contents for a few pages or so. At this desultory work the time
+passed as imperceptibly as the shadows lengthened. The last book she
+examined was a volume of poems. There were no marks in it; but it opened
+at a page which had evidently lain open often before. The first words
+Lydia saw were these:
+
+“What would I give for a heart of flesh to warm me through Instead of
+this heart of stone ice-cold whatever I do; Hard and cold and small, of
+all hearts the worst of all.”
+
+Lydia hastily stepped down from the ladder, and recoiled until she
+reached a chair, where she sat and read and reread these lines. The
+failing light roused her to action. She replaced the book on the shelf,
+and said, as she went to the writing-table, “If such a doubt as that
+haunted my father it will haunt me, unless I settle what is to be my
+heart’s business now and forever. If it be possible for a child of mine
+to escape this curse of autovivisection, it must inherit its immunity
+from its father, and not from me--from the man of emotion who never
+thinks, and not from the woman of introspection, who cannot help
+thinking. Be it so.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIV
+
+
+Before many days had elapsed a letter came for Cashel as he sat taking
+tea with the Skene family. When he saw the handwriting, a deep red color
+mounted to his temples.
+
+“Oh, Lor’!” said Miss Skene, who sat next him. “Let’s read it.”
+
+“Go to the dickens,” cried Cashel, hastily baffling her as she snatched
+at it.
+
+“Don’t worrit him, Fan,” said Mrs. Skene, tenderly.
+
+“Not for the world, poor dear,” said Miss Skene, putting her hand
+affectionately on his shoulder. “Let me just peep at the name--to see
+who it’s from. Do, Cashel, DEAR.”
+
+“It’s from nobody,” said Cashel. “Here, get out. If you don’t let me
+alone I’ll make it warm for you the next time you come to me for a
+lesson.”
+
+“Very likely,” said Fanny, contemptuously. “Who had the best of it
+to-day, I should like to know?”
+
+“Gev’ him a hot un on the chin with her right as ever I see,” observed
+Skene, with hoarse mirth.
+
+Cashel went away from the table, out of Fanny’s reach; and read the
+letter, which ran thus:
+
+“Regent’s Park.
+
+“Dear Mr. Cashel Byron,--I am desirous that you should
+meet a lady friend of mine. She will be here at three o’clock to-morrow
+afternoon. You would oblige me greatly by calling on me at that hour.
+
+“Yours faithfully,
+
+“Lydia Carew.”
+
+There was a long pause, during which there was no sound in the room
+except the ticking of the clock and the munching of shrimps by the
+ex-champion.
+
+“Good news, I hope, Cashel,” said Mrs. Skene, at last, tremulously.
+
+“Blow me if I understand it,” said Cashel. “Can you make it out?” And he
+handed the letter to his adopted mother. Skene ceased eating to see his
+wife read, a feat which was to him one of the wonders of science.
+
+“I think the lady she mentions must be herself,” said Mrs. Skene, after
+some consideration.
+
+“No,” said Cashel, shaking his head. “She always says what she means.”
+
+“Ah,” said Skene, cunningly; “but she can’t write it though. That’s the
+worst of writing; no one can’t never tell exactly what it means. I never
+signed articles yet that there weren’t some misunderstanding about; and
+articles is the best writing that can be had anywhere.”
+
+“You’d better go and see what it means,” said Mrs. Skene.
+
+“Right,” said Skene. “Go and have it out with her, my boy.”
+
+“It is short, and not particularly sweet,” said Fanny. “She might have
+had the civility to put her crest at the top.”
+
+“What would you give to be her?” said Cashel, derisively, catching the
+letter as she tossed it disdainfully to him.
+
+“If I was I’d respect myself more than to throw myself at YOUR head.”
+
+“Hush, Fanny,” said Mrs. Skene; “you’re too sharp. Ned, you oughtn’t to
+encourage her by laughing.”
+
+Next day Cashel rose early, went for a walk, paid extra attention to his
+diet, took some exercise with the gloves, had a bath and a rub down,
+and presented himself at Regent’s Park at three o’clock in excellent
+condition. Expecting to see Bashville, he was surprised when the door
+was opened by a female servant.
+
+“Miss Carew at home?”
+
+“Yes, sir,” said the girl, falling in love with him at first sight. “Mr.
+Byron, sir?”
+
+“That’s me,” said Cashel. “I say, is there any one with her?”
+
+“Only a lady, sir.”
+
+“Oh, d--n! Well, it can’t be helped. Never say die.”
+
+The girl led him then to a door, opened it, and when he entered shut it
+softly without announcing him. The room in which he found himself was a
+long one, lighted from the roof. The walls were hung with pictures. At
+the far end, with their backs towards him, were two ladies: Lydia, and a
+woman whose noble carriage and elegant form would, have raised hopes of
+beauty in a man less preoccupied than Cashel. But he, after advancing
+some distance with his eyes on Lydia, suddenly changed countenance,
+stopped, and was actually turning to fly, when the ladies, hearing his
+light step, faced about and rooted him to the spot. As Lydia offered
+him her hand, her companion, who had surveyed the visitor first with
+indifference, and then with incredulous surprise, exclaimed, with
+a burst of delighted recognition, like a child finding a long-lost
+plaything, “My darling boy!” And going to Cashel with the grace of a
+swan, she clasped him in her arms. In acknowledgment of which he thrust
+his red, discomfited face over her shoulder, winked at Lydia with his
+tongue in his cheek, and said,
+
+“This is what you may call the voice of nature, and no mistake.”
+
+“What a splendid creature you are!” said Mrs. Byron, holding him a
+little way from her, the better to admire him. “Do you know how handsome
+you are, you wretch?”
+
+“How d’ye do, Miss Carew,” said Cashel, breaking loose, and turning to
+Lydia. “Never mind her; it’s only my mother. At least,” he added, as if
+correcting himself, “she’s my mamma.”
+
+“And where have you come from? Where have you been? Do you know that I
+have not seen you for seven years, you unnatural boy? Think of his
+being my son, Miss Carew. Give me another kiss, my own,” she continued,
+grasping his arm affectionately.
+
+“What a muscular creature you are!”
+
+“Kiss away as much as you like,” said Cashel, struggling with the old
+school-boy sullenness as it returned oppressively upon him. “I suppose
+you’re well. You look right enough.”
+
+“Yes,” she said, mockingly, beginning to despise him for his inability
+to act up to her in this thrilling scene; “I AM right enough. Your
+language is as refined as ever. And why do you get your hair cropped
+close like that? You must let it grow, and--”
+
+“Now, look here,” said Cashel, stopping her hand neatly as she raised it
+to rearrange his locks. “You just drop it, or I’ll walk out at that door
+and you won’t see me again for another seven years. You can either take
+me as you find me, or let me alone. Absalom and Dan Mendoza came to
+grief through wearing their hair long, and I am going to wear mine
+short.”
+
+Mrs. Byron became a shade colder. “Indeed!” she said. “Just the same
+still, Cashel?”
+
+“Just the same, both one and other of us,” he replied. “Before you spoke
+six words I felt as if we’d parted only yesterday.”
+
+“I am rather taken aback by the success of my experiment,” interposed
+Lydia. “I invited you purposely to meet one another. The resemblance
+between you led me to suspect the truth, and my suspicion was confirmed
+by the account Mr. Byron gave me of his adventures.”
+
+Mrs. Byron’s vanity was touched. “Is he like me?” she said, scanning
+his features. He, without heeding her, said to Lydia with undisguised
+mortification,
+
+“And was THAT why you sent for me?”
+
+“Are you disappointed?” said Lydia.
+
+“He is not in the least glad to see me,” said Mrs. Byron, plaintively.
+“He has no heart.”
+
+“Now she’ll go on for the next hour,” said Cashel, looking to Lydia,
+obviously because he found it much pleasanter than looking at his
+mother. “However, if you don’t care, I don’t. So, fire away, mamma.”
+
+“And you think we are really like one another?” said Mrs. Byron, not
+heeding him. “Yes; I think we are. There is a certain--Are you married,
+Cashel?” with sudden mistrust.
+
+“Ha! ha! ha!” shouted Cashel. “No; but I hope to be, some day,” he
+added, venturing to glance again at Lydia, who was, however, attentively
+observing Mrs. Byron.
+
+“Well, tell me everything about yourself. What are you? Now, I do hope,
+Cashel, that you have not gone upon the stage.”
+
+“The stage!” said Cashel, contemptuously. “Do I look like it?”
+
+“You certainly do not,” said Mrs. Byron, whimsically--“although you have
+a certain odious professional air, too. What did you do when you ran
+away so scandalously from that stupid school in the north? How do you
+earn your living? Or DO you earn it?”
+
+“I suppose I do, unless I am fed by ravens, as Elijah was. What do you
+think I was best fitted for by my education and bringing up? Sweep a
+crossing, perhaps! When I ran away from Panley, I went to sea.”
+
+“A sailor, of all things! You don’t look like one. And pray, what rank
+have you attained in your profession?”
+
+“The front rank. The top of the tree,” said Cashel, shortly.
+
+“Mr. Byron is not at present following the profession of a sailor; nor
+has he done so for many years,” said Lydia.
+
+Cashel looked at her, half in appeal, half in remonstrance.
+
+“Something very different, indeed,” pursued Lydia, with quiet obstinacy.
+“And something very startling.”
+
+“CAN’T you shut up?” exclaimed Cashel. “I should have expected more
+sense from you. What’s the use of setting her on to make a fuss and put
+me in a rage? I’ll go away if you don’t stop.”
+
+“What is the matter?” said Mrs. Byron. “Have you been doing anything
+disgraceful, Cashel?”
+
+“There she goes. I told you so. I keep a gymnasium, that’s all. There’s
+nothing disgraceful in that, I hope.”
+
+“A gymnasium?” repeated Mrs. Byron, with imperious disgust. “What
+nonsense! You must give up everything of that kind, Cashel. It is very
+silly, and very low. You were too ridiculously proud, of course, to come
+to me for the means of keeping yourself in a proper position. I suppose
+I shall have to provide you with--”
+
+“If I ever take a penny from you, may I--” Cashel caught Lydia’s anxious
+look, and checked himself. He paused and got away a step, a cunning
+smile flickering on his lips. “No,” he said; “it’s just playing into
+your hands to lose temper with you. You think you know me, and you want
+to force the fighting. Well, we’ll see. Make me angry now if you can.”
+
+“There is not the slightest reason for anger,” said Mrs. Byron, angry
+herself. “Your temper seems to have become ungovernable--or, rather, to
+have remained so; for it was never remarkable for sweetness.”
+
+“No,” retorted Cashel, jeering good-humoredly. “Not the slightest
+occasion to lose my temper! Not when I am told that I am silly and low!
+Why, I think you must fancy that you’re talking to your little
+Cashel, that blessed child you were so fond of. But you’re not. You’re
+talking--now for a screech, Miss Carew!--to the champion of Australia,
+the United States, and England, holder of three silver belts and one
+gold one (which you can have to wear in ‘King John’ if you think it’ll
+become you); professor of boxing to the nobility and gentry of St.
+James’s, and common prize-fighter to the whole globe, without reference
+to weight or color, for not less than five hundred pounds a side. That’s
+Cashel Byron.”
+
+Mrs. Byron recoiled, astounded. After a pause she said, “Oh, Cashel, how
+COULD you?” Then, approaching him again, “Do you mean to say that you go
+out and fight those great rough savages?”
+
+“Yes, I do.”
+
+“And that you BEAT them?”
+
+“Yes. Ask Miss Carew how Billy Paradise looked after standing before me
+for an hour.”
+
+“You wonderful boy! What an occupation! And you have done all this in
+your own name?”
+
+“Of course I have. I am not ashamed of it. I often wondered whether you
+had seen my name in the papers.”
+
+“I never read the papers. But you must have heard of my return to
+England. Why did you not come to see me?”
+
+“I wasn’t quite certain that you would like it,” said Cashel, uneasily,
+avoiding her eye. “Hullo!” he exclaimed, as he attempted to refresh
+himself by another look at Lydia, “she’s given us the slip.”
+
+“She is quite right to leave us alone together under the circumstances.
+And now tell me why my precious boy should doubt that his own mother
+wished to see him.”
+
+“I don’t know why he should,” said Cashel, with melancholy submission to
+her affection. “But 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 up-stairs 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 brute. Have I ever been so with you?”
+
+“Yes,” said Lydia. “Except,” she added, “that you have never shown
+absolute dislike to me.”
+
+“Ah! EXCEPT! That’s a very big except. But I don’t dislike her. Blood is
+thicker than water, and I have a softness for her; only I won’t put up
+with her nonsense. But it’s different with you. I don’t know how to say
+it; I’m not good at sentiment--not that there’s any sentiment about it.
+At least, I don’t mean that; but--You’re fond of me in a sort of way,
+ain’t you?”
+
+“Yes; I’m fond of you in a sort of way.”
+
+“Well, then,” he said, uneasily, “won’t you marry me? I’m not such a
+fool as you think; and you’ll like me better after a while.”
+
+Lydia became very pale. “Have you considered,” she said, “that
+henceforth you will be an idle man, and that I shall always be a busy
+woman, preoccupied with the work that may seem very dull to you?”
+
+“I won’t be idle. There’s lots of things I can do besides boxing. We’ll
+get on together, never fear. People that are fond of one another never
+have any difficulty; and people that hate each other never have any
+comfort. I’ll be on the lookout to make you happy. You needn’t fear my
+interrupting your Latin and Greek: I won’t expect you to give up your
+whole life to me. Why should I? There’s reason in everything. So long as
+you are mine, and nobody else’s, I’ll be content. And I’ll be yours and
+nobody else’s. What’s the use of supposing half a dozen accidents that
+may never happen? Let’s sign reasonable articles, and then take our
+chance. You have too much good-nature ever to be nasty.”
+
+“It would be a hard bargain,” she said, doubtfully; “for you would
+have to give up your occupation; and I should give up nothing but my
+unfruitful liberty.”
+
+“I will swear never to fight again; and you needn’t swear anything. If
+that is not an easy bargain, I don’t know what is.”
+
+“Easy for me, yes. But for you?”
+
+“Never mind me. You do whatever you like; and I’ll do whatever you like.
+You have a conscience; so I know that whatever you like will be the best
+thing. I have the most science; but you have the most sense. Come!”
+
+Lydia looked around, as if for a means of escape. Cashel waited
+anxiously. There was a long pause.
+
+“It can’t be,” he said, pathetically, “that you are afraid of me because
+I was a prize-fighter.”
+
+“Afraid of you! No: I am afraid of myself; afraid of the future; afraid
+FOR you. But my mind is already made up on this subject. When I brought
+about this meeting between you and your mother I determined to marry you
+if you asked me again.”
+
+She stood up, quietly, and waited. The rough hardihood of the ring fell
+from him like a garment: he blushed deeply, and did not know what to do.
+Nor did she; but without willing it she came a step closer to him, and
+turned up her face towards his. He, nearly blind with confusion, put his
+arms about her and kissed her. Suddenly she broke loose from his arms,
+seized the lapels of his coat tightly in her hands, and leaned back
+until she nearly hung from him with all her weight.
+
+“Cashel,” she said, “we are the silliest lovers in the world, I
+believe--we know nothing about it. Are you really fond of me?”
+
+She recovered herself immediately, and made no further demonstration of
+the kind. He remained shy, and was so evidently anxious to go, that she
+presently asked him to leave her for a while, though she was surprised
+to feel a faint pang of disappointment when he consented.
+
+On leaving the house he hurried to the address which his mother
+had given him: a prodigious building in Westminster, divided into
+residential flats, to the seventh floor of which he ascended in a lift.
+As he stepped from it he saw Lucian Webber walking away from him along
+a corridor. Obeying a sudden impulse, he followed, and overtook him just
+as he was entering a room. Lucian, finding that some one was resisting
+his attempt to close the door, looked out, recognized Cashel, turned
+white, and hastily retreated into the apartment, where, getting behind
+a writing-table, he snatched a revolver from a drawer. Cashel recoiled,
+amazed and frightened, with his right arm up as if to ward off a blow.
+
+“Hullo!” he cried. “Drop that d--d thing, will you? If you don’t, I’ll
+shout for help.”
+
+“If you approach me I will fire,” said Lucian, excitedly. “I will
+teach you that your obsolete brutality is powerless against the weapons
+science has put into the hands of civilized men. Leave my apartments.
+I am not afraid of you; but I do not choose to be disturbed by your
+presence.”
+
+“Confound your cheek,” said Cashel, indignantly; “is that the way you
+receive a man who comes to make a friendly call on you?”
+
+“Friendly NOW, doubtless, when you see that I am well protected.”
+
+Cashel gave a long whistle. “Oh,” he said, “you thought I came to pitch
+into you. Ha! ha! And you call that science--to draw a pistol on a man.
+But you daren’t fire it, and well you know it. You’d better put it up,
+or you may let it off without intending to: I never feel comfortable
+when I see a fool meddling with firearms. I came to tell you that I’m
+going to be married to your cousin. Ain’t you glad?”
+
+Lucian’s face changed. He believed; but he said, obstinately, “I don’t
+credit that statement. It is a lie.”
+
+This outraged Cashel. “I tell you again,” he said, in a menacing tone,
+“that your cousin is engaged to me. Now call me a liar, and hit me in
+the face, if you dare. Look here,” he added, taking a leather case from
+his pocket, and extracting from it a bank note, “I’ll give you that
+twenty-pound note if you will hit me one blow.”
+
+Lucian, sick with fury, and half paralyzed by a sensation which he would
+not acknowledge as fear, forced himself to come forward. Cashel thrust
+out his jaw invitingly, and said, with a sinister grin, “Put it in
+straight, governor. Twenty pounds, remember.”
+
+At that moment Lucian would have given all his political and social
+chances for the courage and skill of a prize-fighter. He could see only
+one way to escape the torment of Cashel’s jeering and the self-reproach
+of a coward. He desperately clenched his fist and struck out. The blow
+wasted itself on space; and he stumbled forward against his adversary,
+who laughed uproariously, grasped his hand, clapped him on the back, and
+exclaimed,
+
+“Well done, my boy. I thought you were going to be mean; but you’ve been
+game, and you’re welcome to the stakes. I’ll tell Lydia that you have
+fought me for twenty pounds and won on your merits. Ain’t you proud of
+yourself for having had a go at the champion?”
+
+“Sir--” began Lucian. But nothing coherent followed.
+
+“You just sit down for a quarter of an hour, and don’t drink anything,
+and you’ll be all right. When you recover you’ll be glad you showed
+pluck. So, good-night, for the present--I know how you feel, and I’ll
+be off. Be sure not to try to settle yourself with wine; it’ll only make
+you worse. Ta-ta!”
+
+As Cashel withdrew, Lucian collapsed into a chair, shaken by the revival
+of passions and jealousies which he had thought as completely outgrown
+as the school-boy jackets in which he had formerly experienced them. He
+tried to think of some justification of his anger--some better reason
+for it than the vulgar taunt of a bully. He told himself presently that
+the idea of Lydia marrying such a man had maddened him to strike. As
+Cashel had predicted, he was beginning to plume himself on his pluck.
+This vein of reflection, warring with his inner knowledge that he had
+been driven by fear and hatred into a paroxysm of wrath against a man to
+whom he should have set an example of dignified self-control, produced
+an exhausting whirl in his thoughts, which were at once quickened and
+confused by the nervous shock of bodily violence, to which he was quite
+unused. Unable to sit still, he rose, put on his hat, went out, and
+drove to the house in Regent’s Park.
+
+Lydia was in her boudoir, occupied with a book, when he entered. He was
+not an acute observer; he could see no change in her. She was as calm
+as ever; her eyes were not even fully open, and the touch of her hand
+subdued him as it had always done. Though he had never entertained any
+hope of possessing her since the day when she had refused him in Bedford
+Square, a sense of intolerable loss came upon him as he saw her for the
+first time pledged to another--and such another!
+
+“Lydia,” he said, trying to speak vehemently, but failing to shake off
+the conventional address of which he had made a second nature, “I have
+heard something that has filled me with inexpressible dismay. Is it
+true?”
+
+“The news has travelled fast,” she said. “Yes; it is true.” She spoke
+composedly, and so kindly that he choked in trying to reply.
+
+“Then, Lydia, you are the chief actor in a greater tragedy than I have
+ever witnessed on the stage.”
+
+“It is strange, is it not?” she said, smiling at his effort to be
+impressive.
+
+“Strange! It is calamitous. I trust I may be allowed to say so. And you
+sit there reading as calmly as though nothing had happened.”
+
+She handed him the book without a word.
+
+“‘Ivanhoe’!” he said. “A novel!”
+
+“Yes. Do you remember once, before you knew me very well, telling me
+that Scott’s novels were the only ones that you liked to see in the
+hands of ladies?”
+
+“No doubt I did. But I cannot talk of literature just--”
+
+“I am not leading you away from what you want to talk about. I was about
+to tell you that I came upon ‘Ivanhoe’ by chance half an hour ago, when
+I was searching--I confess it--for something very romantic to read.
+Ivanhoe was a prize-fighter--the first half of the book is a description
+of a prize-fight. I was wondering whether some romancer of the
+twenty-fourth century will hunt out the exploits of my husband, and
+present him to the world as a sort of English nineteenth-century Cyd,
+with all the glory of antiquity upon his deeds.”
+
+Lucian made a gesture of impatience. “I have never been able to
+understand,” he said, “how it is that a woman of your ability can
+habitually dwell on perverse and absurd ideas. Oh, Lydia, is this to be
+the end of all your great gifts and attainments? Forgive me if I touch
+a painful chord; but this marriage seems to me so unnatural that I must
+speak out. Your father made you one of the richest and best-educated
+women in the world. Would he approve of what you are about to do?”
+
+“It almost seems to me that he educated me expressly to some such end.
+Whom would you have me marry?”
+
+“Doubtless few men are worthy of you, Lydia. But this man least of all.
+Could you not marry a gentleman? If he were even an artist, a poet, or a
+man of genius of any kind, I could bear to think of it; for indeed I am
+not influenced by class prejudice in the matter. But a--I will try to
+say nothing that you must not in justice admit to be too obvious to be
+ignored--a man of the lower orders, pursuing a calling which even the
+lower orders despise; illiterate, rough, awaiting at this moment a
+disgraceful sentence at the hands of the law! Is it possible that you
+have considered all these things?”
+
+“Not very deeply; they are not of a kind to concern me much. I can
+console you as to one of them. I have always recognized him as a
+gentleman, in your sense of the word. He proves to be so--one of
+considerable position, in fact. As to his approaching trial, I have
+spoken with Lord Worthington about it, and also with the lawyers who
+have charge of the case; and they say positively that, owing to certain
+proofs not being in the hands of the police, a defence can be set up
+that will save him from imprisonment.”
+
+“There is no such defence possible,” said Lucian, angrily.
+
+“Perhaps not. As far as I understand it, it is rather an aggravation of
+the offence than an excuse for it. But if they imprison him it will make
+no difference. He can console himself by the certainty that I will marry
+him at once when he is released.”
+
+Lucian’s face lengthened. He abandoned the argument, and said, blankly,
+“I cannot suppose that you would allow yourself to be deceived. If he is
+a gentleman of position, that of course alters the case completely.”
+
+“Very little indeed from my point of view. Hardly at all. And now,
+worldly cousin Lucian, I have satisfied you that I am not going to
+connect you by marriage with a butcher, bricklayer, or other member of
+the trades from which Cashel’s profession, as you warned me, is usually
+recruited. Stop a moment. I am going to do justice to you. You want
+to say that my unworldly friend Lucian is far more deeply concerned
+at seeing the phoenix of modern culture throw herself away on a man
+unworthy of her.”
+
+“That IS what I mean to say, except that you put it too modestly. It
+is a case of the phoenix, not only of modern culture, but of natural
+endowment and of every happy accident of the highest civilization,
+throwing herself away on a man specially incapacitated by his tastes
+and pursuits from comprehending her or entering the circle in which she
+moves.”
+
+“Listen to me patiently, Lucian, and I will try to explain the mystery
+to you, leaving the rest of the world to misunderstand me as it pleases.
+First, you will grant me that even a phoenix must marry some one in
+order that she may hand on her torch to her children. Her best course
+would be to marry another phoenix; but as she--poor girl!--cannot
+appreciate even her own phoenixity, much less that of another, she must
+perforce be content with a mere mortal. Who is the mortal to be? Not
+her cousin Lucian; for rising young politicians must have helpful
+wives, with feminine politics and powers of visiting and entertaining; a
+description inapplicable to the phoenix. Not, as you just now suggested,
+a man of letters. The phoenix has had her share of playing helpmeet to a
+man of letters, and does not care to repeat that experience. She is sick
+to death of the morbid introspection and womanish self-consciousness of
+poets, novelists, and their like. As to artists, all the good ones are
+married; and ever since the rest have been able to read in hundreds of
+books that they are the most gifted and godlike of men, they are become
+almost as intolerable as their literary flatterers. No, Lucian, the
+phoenix has paid her debt to literature and art by the toil of her
+childhood. She will use and enjoy both of them in future as best she
+can; but she will never again drudge in their laboratories. You say that
+she might at least have married a gentleman. But the gentlemen she knows
+are either amateurs of the arts, having the egotism of professional
+artists without their ability, or they are men of pleasure, which means
+that they are dancers, tennis-players, butchers, and gamblers. I leave
+the nonentities out of the question. Now, in the eyes of a phoenix, a
+prize-fighter is a hero in comparison with a wretch who sets a leash of
+greyhounds upon a hare. Imagine, now, this poor phoenix meeting with
+a man who had never been guilty of self-analysis in his life--who
+complained when he was annoyed, and exulted when he was glad, like a
+child (and unlike a modern man)--who was honest and brave, strong and
+beautiful. You open your eyes, Lucian: you do not do justice to Cashel’s
+good looks. He is twenty-five, and yet there is not a line in his face.
+It is neither thoughtful, nor poetic, nor wearied, nor doubting, nor
+old, nor self-conscious, as so many of his contemporaries’ faces are--as
+mine perhaps is. The face of a pagan god, assured of eternal youth, and
+absolutely disqualified from comprehending ‘Faust.’ Do you understand a
+word of what I am saying, Lucian?”
+
+“I must confess that I do not. Either you have lost your reason, or I
+have. I wish you had never taking to reading ‘Faust.’”
+
+“It is my fault. I began an explanation, and rambled off, womanlike,
+into praise of my lover. However, I will not attempt to complete my
+argument; for if you do not understand me from what I have already said,
+the further you follow the wider you will wander. The truth, in short,
+is this: I practically believe in the doctrine of heredity; and as my
+body is frail and my brain morbidly active, I think my impulse towards
+a man strong in body and untroubled in mind a trustworthy one. You can
+understand that; it is a plain proposition in eugenics. But if I tell
+you that I have chosen this common pugilist because, after seeing half
+the culture of Europe, I despaired of finding a better man, you will
+only tell me again that I have lost my reason.”
+
+“I know that you will do whatever you have made up your mind to do,”
+ said Lucian, desolately.
+
+“And you will make the best of it, will you not?”
+
+“The best or the worst of it does not rest with me. I can only accept it
+as inevitable.”
+
+“Not at all. You can make the worst of it by behaving distantly to
+Cashel; or the best of it by being friendly with him.”
+
+Lucian reddened and hesitated. She looked at him, mutely encouraging him
+to be generous.
+
+“I had better tell you,” he said. “I have seen him since--since--”
+ Lydia nodded. “I mistook his object in coming into my room as he did,
+unannounced. In fact, he almost forced his way in. Some words arose
+between us. At last he taunted me beyond endurance, and offered
+me--characteristically--twenty pounds to strike him. And I am sorry to
+say that I did so.”
+
+“You did so! And what followed?”
+
+“I should say rather that I meant to strike him; for he avoided me, or
+else I missed my aim. He only gave the money and went away, evidently
+with a high opinion of me. He left me with a very low one of myself.”
+
+“What! He did not retaliate!” exclaimed Lydia, recovering her color,
+which had fled. “And you STRUCK him!” she added.
+
+“He did not,” replied Lucian, passing by the reproach. “Probably he
+despised me too much.”
+
+“That is not fair, Lucian. He behaved very well--for a prize-fighter!
+Surely you do not grudge him his superiority in the very art you condemn
+him for professing.”
+
+“I was wrong, Lydia; but I grudged him you. I know I have acted hastily;
+and I will apologize to him. I wish matters had fallen out otherwise.”
+
+“They could not have done so; and I believe you will yet acknowledge
+that they have arranged themselves very well. And now that the phoenix
+is disposed of, I want to read you a letter I have received from Alice
+Goff, which throws quite a new light on her character. I have not seen
+her since June, and she seems to have gained three years’ mental growth
+in the interim. Listen to this, for example.”
+
+And so the conversation turned upon Alice.
+
+When Lucian returned to his chambers, he wrote the following note, which
+he posted to Cashel Byron before going to bed:
+
+“Dear Sir,--I beg to enclose you a bank-note which you left here this
+evening. I feel bound to express my regret for what passed on that
+occasion, and to assure you that it proceeded from a misapprehension
+of your purpose in calling on me. The nervous disorder into which the
+severe mental application and late hours of the past session have thrown
+me must be my excuse. I hope to have the pleasure of meeting you again
+soon, and offering you personally my congratulations on your approaching
+marriage. “I am, dear sir, yours truly, “Lucian Webber.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XV
+
+
+In the following month Cashel Byron, William Paradise, and Robert
+Mellish appeared in the dock together, the first two for having
+been principals in a prize-fight, and Mellish for having acted as
+bottle-holder to Paradise. These offences were verbosely described in
+a long indictment which had originally included the fourth man who had
+been captured, but against whom the grand jury had refused to find a
+true bill. The prisoners pleaded not guilty.
+
+The defence was that the fight, the occurrence of which was admitted,
+was not a prize-fight, but the outcome of an enmity which had subsisted
+between the two men since one of them, at a public exhibition at
+Islington, had attacked and bitten the other. In support of this, it was
+shown that Byron had occupied a house at Wiltstoken, and had lived there
+with Mellish, who had invited Paradise to spend a holiday with him
+in the country. This accounted for the presence of the three men at
+Wiltstoken on the day in question. Words had arisen between Byron and
+Paradise on the subject of the Islington affair; and they had at last
+agreed to settle the dispute in the old English fashion. They had
+adjourned to a field, and fought fairly and determinedly until
+interrupted by the police, who were misled by appearances into the
+belief that the affair was a prize-fight.
+
+Prize-fighting was a brutal pastime, Cashel Byron’s counsel said; but
+a fair, stand-up fight between two unarmed men, though doubtless
+technically a breach of the peace, had never been severely dealt with
+by a British jury or a British judge; and the case would be amply met by
+binding over the prisoners, who were now on the best of terms with one
+another, to keep the peace for a reasonable period. The sole evidence
+against this view of the case, he argued, was police evidence; and the
+police were naturally reluctant to admit that they had found a
+mare’s nest. In proof that the fight had been premeditated, and was a
+prize-fight, they alleged that it had taken place within an enclosure
+formed with ropes and stakes. But where were those ropes and stakes?
+They were not forthcoming; and he (counsel) submitted that the reason
+was not, as had been suggested, because they had been spirited away, for
+that was plainly impossible; but because they had existed only in the
+excited imagination of the posse of constables who had arrested the
+prisoners.
+
+Again, it had been urged that the prisoners were in fighting costume.
+But cross-examination had elicited that fighting costume meant
+practically no costume at all: the men had simply stripped in order that
+their movements might be unembarrassed. It had been proved that Paradise
+had been--well, in the traditional costume of Paradise (roars of
+laughter) until the police borrowed a blanket to put upon him.
+
+That the constables had been guilty of gross exaggeration was shown by
+their evidence as to the desperate injuries the combatants had inflicted
+upon one another. Of Paradise in particular it had been alleged that his
+features were obliterated. The jury had before them in the dock the man
+whose features had been obliterated only a few weeks previously. If that
+were true, where had the prisoner obtained the unblemished lineaments
+which he was now, full of health and good-humor, presenting to them?
+(Renewed laughter. Paradise grinning in confusion.) It was said
+that these terrible injuries, the traces of which had disappeared so
+miraculously, were inflicted by the prisoner Byron, a young gentleman
+tenderly nurtured, and visibly inferior in strength and hardihood to his
+herculean opponent. Doubtless Byron had been emboldened by his skill in
+mimic combat to try conclusions, under the very different conditions of
+real fighting, with a man whose massive shoulders and determined cast of
+features ought to have convinced him that such an enterprise was nothing
+short of desperate. Fortunately the police had interfered before he had
+suffered severely for his rashness. Yet it had been alleged that he had
+actually worsted Paradise in the encounter--obliterated his features.
+That was a fair sample of the police evidence, which was throughout
+consistently incredible and at variance with the dictates of
+common-sense.
+
+Attention was then drawn to the honorable manner in which Byron had come
+forward and given himself up to the police the moment he became aware
+that they were in search of him. Paradise would, beyond a doubt, have
+adopted the same course had he not been arrested at once, and that, too,
+without the least effort at resistance on his part. That was hardly
+the line of conduct that would have suggested itself to two lawless
+prize-fighters.
+
+An attempt had been made to prejudice the prisoner Byron by the
+statement that he was a notorious professional bruiser. But no proof of
+that was forthcoming; and if the fact were really notorious there could
+be no difficulty in proving it. Such notoriety as Mr. Byron enjoyed was
+due, as appeared from the evidence of Lord Worthington and others, to
+his approaching marriage to a lady of distinction. Was it credible that
+a highly connected gentleman in this enviable position would engage in
+a prize-fight, risking disgrace and personal disfigurement, for a sum of
+money that could be no object to him, or for a glory that would appear
+to all his friends as little better than infamy?
+
+The whole of the evidence as to the character of the prisoners went to
+show that they were men of unimpeachable integrity and respectability.
+An impression unfavorable to Paradise might have been created by the
+fact that he was a professional pugilist and a man of hasty temper;
+but it had also transpired that he had on several occasions rendered
+assistance to the police, thereby employing his skill and strength in
+the interests of law and order. As to his temper, it accounted for the
+quarrel which the police--knowing his profession--had mistaken for a
+prize-fight.
+
+Mellish was a trainer of athletes, and hence the witnesses to his
+character were chiefly persons connected with sport; but they were not
+the less worthy of credence on that account.
+
+In fine, the charge would have been hard to believe even if supported by
+the strongest evidence. But when there was no evidence--when the police
+had failed to produce any of the accessories of a prize-fight--when
+there were no ropes nor posts--no written articles--no stakes nor
+stakeholders--no seconds except the unfortunate man Mellish, whose
+mouth was closed by a law which, in defiance of the obvious interests
+of justice, forbade a prisoner to speak and clear himself--nothing, in
+fact, but the fancies of constables who had, under cross-examination,
+not only contradicted one another, but shown the most complete ignorance
+(a highly creditable ignorance) of the nature and conditions of a
+prize-fight; then counsel would venture to say confidently that the
+theory of the prosecution, ingenious as it was, and ably as it had been
+put forward, was absolutely and utterly untenable.
+
+This, and much more argument of equal value, was delivered with relish
+by a comparatively young barrister, whose spirits rose as he felt the
+truth change and fade while he rearranged its attendant circumstances.
+Cashel listened for some time anxiously. He flushed and looked moody
+when his marriage was alluded to; but when the whole defence was
+unrolled, he was awestruck, and stared at his advocate as if he half
+feared that the earth would gape and swallow such a reckless perverter
+of patent facts. Even the judge smiled once or twice; and when he did
+so the jurymen grinned, but recovered their solemnity suddenly when the
+bench recollected itself and became grave again. Every one in court knew
+that the police were right--that there had been a prize-fight--that the
+betting on it had been recorded in all the sporting papers for weeks
+beforehand--that Cashel was the mostterrible fighting man of the day,
+and that Paradise had not dared to propose a renewal of the interrupted
+contest. And they listened with admiration and delight while the advocate
+proved that these things were incredible and nonsensical.
+
+It remained for the judge to sweep away the defence, or to favor the
+prisoners by countenancing it. Fortunately for them, he was an old man;
+and could recall, not without regret, a time when the memory of Cribb
+and Molyneux was yet green. He began his summing-up by telling the jury
+that the police had failed to prove that the fight was a prize-fight.
+After that, the public, by indulging in roars of laughter whenever they
+could find a pretext for doing so without being turned out of court,
+showed that they had ceased to regard the trial seriously.
+
+Finally the jury acquitted Mellish, and found Cashel and Paradise guilty
+of a common assault. They were sentenced to two days’ imprisonment,
+and bound over to keep the peace for twelve months in sureties of one
+hundred and fifty pounds each. The sureties were forthcoming; and as the
+imprisonment was supposed to date from the beginning of the sessions,
+the prisoners were at once released.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVI
+
+
+Miss Carew, averse to the anomalous relations of courtship, made as
+little delay as possible in getting married. Cashel’s luck was not
+changed by the event. Bingley Byron died three weeks after the ceremony
+(which was civic and private); and Cashel had to claim possession of the
+property in Dorsetshire, in spite of his expressed wish that the lawyers
+would take themselves and the property to the devil, and allow him
+to enjoy his honeymoon in peace. The transfer was not, however,
+accomplished at once. Owing to his mother’s capricious reluctance to
+give the necessary information without reserve, and to the law’s delay,
+his first child was born some time before his succession was fully
+established and the doors of his ancestral hall opened to him. The
+conclusion of the business was a great relief to his attorneys, who had
+been unable to shake his conviction that the case was clear enough,
+but that the referee had been squared. By this he meant that the Lord
+Chancellor had been bribed to keep him out of his property.
+
+His marriage proved an unusually happy one. To make up for the loss of
+his occupation, he farmed, and lost six thousand pounds by it;
+tried gardening with better success; began to meddle in commercial
+enterprises, and became director of several trading companies in the
+city; and was eventually invited to represent a Dorsetshire constituency
+in Parliament in the Radical interest. He was returned by a large
+majority; and, having a loud voice and an easy manner, he soon
+acquired some reputation both in and out of the House of Commons by the
+popularity of his own views, and the extent of his wife’s information,
+which he retailed at second hand. He made his maiden speech in the House
+unabashed the first night he sat there. Indeed, he was afraid of nothing
+except burglars, big dogs, doctors, dentists, and street-crossings.
+Whenever any accident occurred through any of these he preserved the
+newspaper in which it was reported, read it to Lydia very seriously, and
+repeated his favorite assertion that the only place in which a man was
+safe was the ring. As he objected to most field sports on the ground of
+inhumanity, she, fearing that he would suffer in health and appearance
+from want of systematic exercise, suggested that he should resume the
+practice of boxing with gloves. But he was lazy in this matter, and had
+a prejudice that boxing did not become a married man. His career as a
+pugilist was closed by his marriage.
+
+His admiration for his wife survived the ardor of his first love for
+her, and she employed all her forethought not to disappoint his reliance
+on her judgment. She led a busy life, and wrote some learned monographs,
+as well as a work in which she denounced education as practised in the
+universities and public schools. Her children inherited her acuteness
+and refinement with their father’s robustness and aversion to study.
+They were precocious and impudent, had no respect for Cashel, and showed
+any they had for their mother principally by running to her when they
+were in difficulties. She never punished nor scolded them; but
+she contrived to make their misdeeds recoil naturally upon them so
+inevitably that they soon acquired a lively moral sense which restrained
+them much more effectually than the usual methods of securing order in
+the nursery. Cashel treated them kindly for the purpose of conciliating
+them; and when Lydia spoke of them to him in private, he seldom said
+more than that the imps were too sharp for him, or that he was blest
+if he didn’t believe that they were born older than their father. Lydia
+often thonght so too; but the care of this troublesome family had one
+advantage for her. It left her little time to think about herself, or
+about the fact that when the illusion of her love passed away Cashel
+fell in her estimation. But the children were a success; and she soon
+came to regard him as one of them. When she had leisure to consider
+the matter at all, which seldom occurred, it seemed to her that, on the
+whole, she had chosen wisely.
+
+Alice Goff, when she heard of Lydia’s projected marriage, saw that she
+must return to Wiltstoken, and forget her brief social splendor as soon
+as possible. She therefore thanked Miss Carew for her bounty, and begged
+to relinquish her post of companion. Lydia assented, but managed to
+delay this sacrifice to a sense of duty and necessity until a day early
+in winter, when Lucian gave way to a hankering after domestic joys that
+possessed him, and allowed his cousin to persuade him to offer his
+hand to Alice. She indignantly refused--not that she had any reason to
+complain of him, but because the prospect of returning to Wiltstoken
+made her feel ill used, and she could not help revenging her soreness
+upon the first person whom she could find a pretext for attacking. He,
+lukewarm before, now became eager, and she was induced to relent without
+much difficulty. Lucian was supposed to have made a brilliant match;
+and, as it proved, he made a fortunate one. She kept his house,
+entertained his guests, and took charge of his social connections so
+ably that in course of time her invitations came to be coveted by people
+who were desirous of moving in good society. She was even better looking
+as a matron than she had been as a girl; and her authority in matters of
+etiquette inspired nervous novices with all the terrors she had
+herself felt when she first visited Wiltstoken Castle. She invited her
+brother-in-law and his wife to dinner twice a year--at midsummer and
+Easter; but she never admitted that either Wallace Parker or Cashel
+Byron were gentlemen, although she invited the latter freely,
+notwithstanding the frankness with which he spoke to strangers after
+dinner of his former exploits, without deference to their professions
+or prejudices. Her respect for Lydia remained so great that she never
+complained to her of Cashel save on one occasion, when he had shown a
+bishop, whose house had been recently broken into and robbed, how to
+break a burglar’s back in the act of grappling with him.
+
+The Skenes returned to Australia and went their way there, as Mrs. Byron
+did in England, in the paths they had pursued for years before. Cashel
+spoke always of Mrs. Skene as “mother,” and of Mrs. Byron as “mamma.”
+
+William Paradise, though admired by the fair sex for his strength,
+courage, and fame, was not, like Cashel and Skene, wise or fortunate
+enough to get a good wife. He drank so exceedingly that he had but few
+sober intervals after his escape from the law. He claimed the title of
+champion of England on Cashel’s retirement from the ring, and challenged
+the world. The world responded in the persons of sundry young laboring
+men with a thirst for glory and a taste for fighting. Paradise fought
+and prevailed twice. Then he drank while in training, and was beaten.
+But by this time the ring had again fallen into the disrepute from
+which Cashel’s unusual combination of pugilistic genius with honesty
+had temporarily raised it; and the law, again seizing Paradise as he
+was borne vanquished from the field, atoned for its former leniency by
+incarcerating him for six months. The abstinence thus enforced restored
+him to health and vigor; and he achieved another victory before he
+succeeded in drinking himself into his former state. This was his last
+triumph. With his natural ruffianism complicated by drunkenness, he went
+rapidly down the hill into the valley of humiliation. After becoming
+noted for his readiness to sell the victories he could no longer win,
+he only appeared in the ring to test the capabilities of untried youths,
+who beat him to their hearts’ content. He became a potman, and was
+immediately discharged as an inebriate. He had sunk into beggary when,
+hearing in his misery that his former antagonist was contesting a
+parliamentary election, he applied to him for alms. Cashel at the time
+was in Dorsetshire; but Lydia relieved the destitute wretch, whose
+condition was now far worse than it had been at their last meeting. At
+his next application, which followed soon, he was confronted by Cashel,
+who bullied him fiercely, threatened to break every bone in his skin
+if he ever again dared to present himself before Lydia, flung him five
+shillings, and bade him be gone. For Cashel retained for Paradise that
+contemptuous and ruthless hatred in which a duly qualified professor
+holds a quack. Paradise bought a few pence-worth of food, which he could
+hardly eat, and spent the rest in brandy, which he drank as fast as
+his stomach would endure it. Shortly afterwards a few sporting papers
+reported his death, which they attributed to “consumption, brought on
+by the terrible injuries sustained by him in his celebrated fight with
+Cashel Byron.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of Project Gutenberg’s Cashel Byron’s Profession, by George Bernard Shaw
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