"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 yon 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. Yon 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; be 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; hut 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 yon
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?"