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?"