"Never even from the better classes in their own. Broken-down
gentlemen are not likely to succeed at work that needs the strength
and endurance of a bull and the cruelty of a butcher."

"And the end of a prize-fighter. What is that like?"

"He soon has to give up his trade. For, if he be repeatedly beaten,
no one will either bet on him or subscribe to provide him with a
stake. If he is invariably successful, those, if any, who dare fight
him find themselves in a like predicament. In either case his
occupation is gone. If he has saved money he opens a sporting
public-house, where he sells spirits of the worst description to his
old rivals and their associates, and eventually drinks himself to
death or bankruptcy. If, however, he has been improvident or
unfortunate, he begs from his former patrons and gives lessons.
Finally, when the patrons are tired of him and the pupils fail, he
relapses into the laboring class with a ruined constitution, a
disfigured face, a brutalized nature, and a tarnished reputation."

Lydia remained silent so long after this that Lucian's expression of
magisterial severity first deepened, then wavered, and finally gave
way to a sense of injury; for she seemed to have forgotten him. He
was about to protest against this treatment, when she looked at him
again, and said,

"Why did Lord Worthington introduce a man of this class to me?"

"Because you asked him to do so. Probably he thought that if you
chose to make such a request without previous inquiry, you should
not blame him if you found yourself saddled with an undesirable
acquaintance. Recollect that you asked for the introduction on the
platform at Wiltstoken, in the presence of the man himself. Such a
ruffian would be capable of making a disturbance for much less
offence than an explanation and refusal would have given him."

"Lucian," said Lydia, in a tone of gentle admonition, "I asked to be
introduced to my tenant, for whose respectability you had vouched by
letting the Warren Lodge to him." Lucian reddened. "How does Lord
Worthington explain Mr. Byron's appearance at Mrs. Hoskyn's?"

"It was a stupid joke. Mrs. Hoskyn had worried Worthington to bring
some celebrity to her house; and, in revenge, he took his pugilistic
protege."

"Hm!"

"I do not defend Worthington. But discretion is hardly to be
expected from him."

"He has discretion enough to understand a case of this kind
thoroughly. But let that pass. I have been thinking upon what you
tell me about these singular people, whose existence I hardly knew
of before. Now, Lucian, in the course of my reading I have come upon
denunciations of every race and pursuit under the sun. Very
respectable and well-informed men have held that Jews, Irishmen,
Christians, atheists, lawyers, doctors, politicians, actors,
artists, flesh-eaters, and spirit-drinkers are all of necessity
degraded beings. Such statements can be easily proved by taking a
black sheep from each flock, and holding him up as the type. It is
more reasonable to argue a man's character from the nature of his
profession; and yet even that is very unsafe. War is a cruel
business; but soldiers are not necessarily bloodthirsty and inhuman
men. I am not quite satisfied that a prize-fighter is a violent and
dangerous man because he follows a violent and dangerous
profession--I suppose they call it a profession."

Lucian was about to speak; but she interrupted him by continuing,

"And yet that is not what concerns me at present. Have you found out
anything about Mr. Byron personally? Is he an ordinary
representative of his class?"

"No; I should rather think--and hope--that he is a very
extraordinary representative of it. I have traced his history back
to his boyhood, when he was a cabin-boy. Having apparently failed
to recommend himself to his employers in that capacity, he became
errand-boy to a sort of maitre d'armes at Melbourne. Here he
discovered where his genius lay; and he presently appeared in the
ring with an unfortunate young man named Ducket, whose jaw he
fractured. This laid the foundation of his fame. He fought several
battles with unvarying success; but at last he allowed his valor to
get the better of his discretion so far as to kill an Englishman who
contended with him with desperate obstinacy for two hours. I am
informed that the particular blow by which he felled the poor wretch
for the last time is known in pugilistic circles as 'Cashel's
killer,' and that he has attempted to repeat it in all his
subsequent encounters, without, however, achieving the same fatal
result. The failure has doubtless been a severe disappointment to
him. He fled from Australia and reappeared in America, where he
resumed his victorious career, distinguishing himself specially by
throwing a gigantic opponent in some dreadful fashion that these men
have, and laming him for life. He then--"

"Thank you, Lucian," said Lydia rather faintly. "That is quite
enough. Are you sure that it is all true?"

"My authority is Lord Worthington, and a number of newspaper reports
which he showed me. Byron himself will probably be proud to give you
the fullest confirmation of the record. I should add, in justice to
him, that he is looked upon as a model--to pugilists--of temperance
and general good conduct."

"Do you remember my remarking a few days ago, on another subject,
how meaningless our observations are until we are given the right
thread to string them on?"

"Yes," said "Webber, disconcerted by the allusion.

"My acquaintance with this man is a case in point. He has obtruded
his horrible profession upon me every time we have met. I have
actually seen him publicly cheered as a pugilist-hero; and yet,
being off the track, and ignorant of the very existence of such a
calling, I have looked on and seen nothing."

Lydia then narrated her adventure in Soho, and listened with the
perfect patience of indifference to his censure of her imprudence in
going there alone.

"And now, Lydia," he added, "may I ask what you intend to do in this
matter?"

"What would you have me do?"

"Drop his acquaintance at once. Forbid him your house in the most
explicit terms."

"A pleasant task!" said Lydia, ironically. "But I will do it--not so
much, perhaps, because he is a prize-fighter, as because he is an
impostor. Now go to the writing-table and draft me a proper letter
to send him."

Lucian's face elongated. "I think," he said, "you can do that better
for yourself. It is a delicate sort of thing."

"Yes. It is not so easy as you implied a moment ago. Otherwise I
should not require your assistance. As it is--" She pointed again to
the table.

Lucian was not ready with an excuse. He sat down reluctantly, and,
after some consideration, indited the following:

"Miss Carew presents her compliments to Mr. Cashel Byron, and begs
to inform him that she will not be at home during the remainder of
the season as heretofore. She therefore regrets that she cannot have
the pleasure of receiving him on Friday afternoon."

"I think you will find that sufficient," said Lucian.

"Probably," said Lydia, smiling as she read it. "But what shall I do
if he takes offence; calls here, breaks the windows, and beats
Bashville? Were I in his place, that is what such a letter would
provoke me to do."

"He dare not give any trouble. But I will warn the police if you
feel anxious."

"By no means. We must not show ourselves inferior to him in courage,
which is, I suppose, his cardinal virtue."

"If you write the note now, I will post it for you."

"No, thank you. I will send it with my other letters."

Lucian would rather have waited; but she would not write while he
was there. So he left, satisfied on the whole with the success of
his mission. When he was gone, she took a pen, endorsed his draft
neatly, placed it in a drawer, and wrote to Cashel thus:

"Dear Mr. Cashel Byron,--I have just discovered your secret. I am
sorry; but you must not come again. Farewell. Yours faithfully,

"Lydia Carew."

Lydia kept this note by her until next morning, when she read it
through carefully. She then sent Bashville to the post with it.






CHAPTER IX





Cashel's pupils frequently requested him to hit them hard--not to
play with them--to accustom them to regular, right down, severe
hitting, and no nonsense. He only pretended to comply; for he knew
that a black eye or loosened tooth would be immoderately boasted of
if received in combat with a famous pugilist, and that the
sufferer's friends would make private notes to avoid so rough a
professor. But when Miss Carew's note reached him he made an
exception to his practice in this respect. A young guardsman, whose
lesson began shortly after the post arrived, remarked that Cashel
was unusually distraught. He therefore exhorted his instructor to
wake up and pitch into him in earnest. Immediately he received a
blow in the epigastrium that stretched him almost insensible on the
floor. Rising with his complexion considerably whitened, he
recollected an appointment which would prevent him from finishing
his lesson, and withdrew, declaring in a somewhat shaky voice that
that was the sort of bout he really enjoyed.

Cashel did not at first make any profitable use of the leisure thus
earned. He walked to and fro, cursing, and occasionally stopping to
read the letter. His restlessness only increased his agitation. The
arrival of a Frenchman whom he employed to give lessons in fencing
made the place unendurable to him. He changed his attire, went out,
called a cab, and bade the driver, with an oath, drive to Lydia's
house as fast as the horse could go. The man made all the haste he
could, and was presently told impatiently that there was no hurry.
Accustomed to this sort of inconsistency, he was not surprised when,
as they approached the house, he was told not to stop but to drive
slowly past. Then, in obedience to further instructions, he turned
and repassed the door. As he did so a lady appeared for an instant
at a window. Immediately his fare, with a groan of mingled rage and
fear, sprang from the moving vehicle, rushed up the steps of the
mansion, and rang the bell violently. Bashville, faultlessly dressed
and impassibly mannered, opened the door. In reply to Cashel's
half-inarticulate inquiry, he said,

"Miss Carew is not at home."

"You lie," said Cashel, his eyes suddenly dilating. "I saw her."

Bashville reddened, but replied, coolly, "Miss Carew cannot see you
to-day."

"Go and ask her," returned Cashel sternly, advancing.

Bashville, with compressed lips, seized the door to shut him out;
but Cashel forced it back against him, sent him reeling some paces
by its impact, went in, and shut the door behind him. He had to turn
from Bashville for a moment to do this, and before he could face him
again he was clutched, tripped, and flung down upon the tessellated
pavement of the hall.

When Cashel gave him the lie, and pushed the door against him, the
excitement he had been suppressing since his visit to Lucian
exploded. He had thrown Cashel in Cornish fashion, and now
desperately awaited the upshot.

Cashel got up so rapidly that he seemed to rebound from the flags.
Bashville, involuntarily cowering before his onslaught, just escaped
his right fist, and felt as though his heart had been drawn with it
as it whizzed past his ear. He turned and fled frantically
up-stairs, mistaking for the clatter of pursuit the noise with which
Cashel, overbalanced by his ineffectual blow, stumbled against the
banisters.

Lydia was in her boudoir with Alice when Bashville darted in and
locked the door. Alice rose and screamed. Lydia, though startled,
and that less by the unusual action than by the change in a familiar
face which she had never seen influenced by emotion before, sat
still and quietly asked what was the matter. Bashville checked
himself for a moment. Then he spoke unintelligibly, and went to the
window, which he opened. Lydia divined that he was about to call for
help to the street.

"Bashville," she said, authoritatively: "be silent, and close the
window. I will go down-stairs myself."

Bashville then ran to prevent her from unlocking the door; but she
paid no attention to him. He did not dare to oppose her forcibly. He
was beginning to recover from his panic, and to feel the first
stings of shame for having yielded to it.

"Madam," he said: "Byron is below; and he insists on seeing you.
He's dangerous; and he's too strong for me. I have done my best--on
my honor I have. Let me call the police. Stop," he added, as she
opened the door. "If either of us goes, it must be me."

"I will see him in the library," said Lydia, composedly. "Tell him
so; and let him wait there for me--if you can approach him without
running any risk."

"Oh, pray let him call the police," urged Alice. "Don't attempt to
go to that man."

"Nonsense!" said Lydia, good-humoredly. "I am not in the least
afraid. We must not fail in courage when we have a prize-fighter to
deal with."

Bashville, white, and preventing with difficulty his knees from
knocking together, went down-stairs and found Cashel leaning upon
the balustrade, panting, and looking perplexedly about him as he
wiped his dabbled brow. Bashville approached him with the firmness
of a martyr, halted on the third stair, and said,

"Miss Carew will see you in the library. Come this way, please."

Cashel's lips moved, but no sound came from them; he followed
Bashville in silence. When they entered the library Lydia was
already there. Bashville withdrew without a word. Then Cashel sat
down, and, to her consternation, bent his head on his hand and
yielded to an hysterical convulsion. Before she could resolve how to
act he looked up at her with his face distorted and discolored, and
tried to speak.

"Pray be calm," said Lydia. "I am told that you wish to speak to
me."

"I don't wish to speak to you ever again," said Cashel, hoarsely.
"You told your servant to throw me down the steps. That's enough for
me."

Lydia caught from him the tendency to sob which he was struggling
with; but she repressed it, and answered, firmly, "If my servant has
been guilty of the least incivility to you, Mr. Cashel Byron, he has
exceeded his orders."

"It doesn't matter," said Cashel. "He may thank his luck that he has
his head on. If I had planted on him that time--but HE doesn't
matter. Hold on a bit--I can't talk--I shall get my second wind
presently, and then--" Cashel stopped a moment to pant, and then
asked, "Why are you going to give me up?"

Lydia ranged her wits in battle array, and replied,

"Do you remember our conversation at Mrs. Hoskyn's?"

"Yes."

"You admitted then that if the nature of your occupation became
known to me our acquaintance should cease. That has now come to
pass."

"That was all very fine talk to excuse my not telling you. But I
find, like many another man when put to the proof, that I didn't
mean it. Who told you I was a fighting man?"

"I had rather not tell you that."

"Aha!" said Cashel, with a triumph that was half choked by the
remnant of his hysteria. "Who is trying to make a secret now, I
should like to know?"

"I do so in this instance because I am afraid to expose a friend to
your resentment."

"And why? He's a man, of course; else you wouldn't be afraid. You
think that I'd go straight off and murder him. Perhaps he told you
that it would come quite natural to a man like me--a ruffian like
me--to smash him up. That comes of being a coward. People run my
profession down; not because there is a bad one or two in
it--there's plenty of bad bishops, if you come to that--but because
they're afraid of us. You may make yourself easy about your friend.
I am accustomed to get well paid for the beatings I give; and your
own common-sense ought to tell you that any one who is used to being
paid for a job is just the last person in the world to do it for
nothing."

"I find the contrary to be the case with first-rate artists," said
Lydia.

"Thank you," retorted Cashel, sarcastically. "I ought to make you a
bow for that. I'm glad you acknowledge that it IS an art."

"But," said Lydia seriously, "it seems to me that it is an art
wholly anti-social and retrograde. And I fear that you have forced
this interview on me to no purpose."

"I don't know whether it's anti-social or not. But I think it hard
that I should be put out of decent society when fellows that do far
worse than I are let in. Who did I see here last Friday, the most
honored of your guests? Why, that Frenchman with the gold
spectacles. What do you think I was told when I asked what HIS
little game was? Baking dogs in ovens to see how long a dog could
live red hot! I'd like to catch him doing it to a dog of mine. Ay;
and sticking a rat full of nails to see how much pain a rat could
stand. Why, it's just sickening. Do you think I'd have shaken hands
with that chap? If he hadn't been a guest of yours I'd have given
him a notion of how much pain a Frenchman can stand without any
nails in him. And HE'S to be received and made much of, while I am
kicked out! Look at your relation, the general. What is he but a
fighting man, I should like to know? Isn't it his pride and boast
that as long as he is paid so much a day he'll ask no questions
whether a war is fair or unfair, but just walk out and put thousands
of men in the best way to kill and be killed?--keeping well behind
them himself all the time, mind you. Last year he was up to his chin
in the blood of a lot of poor blacks that were no more a match for
his armed men than a feather-weight would be for me. Bad as I am, I
wouldn't attack a feather-weight, or stand by and see another heavy
man do it. Plenty of your friends go pigeon-shooting to Hurlingham.
THERE'S a humane and manly way of spending a Saturday afternoon!
Lord Worthington, that comes to see you when he likes, though he's
too much of a man or too little of a shot to kill pigeons, thinks
nothing of fox-hunting. Do you think foxes like to be hunted, or
that the people that hunt them have such fine feelings that they can
afford to call prize-fighters names? Look at the men that get killed
or lamed every year at steeple-chasing, fox-hunting, cricket, and
foot-ball! Dozens of them! Look at the thousands killed in battle!
Did you ever hear of any one being killed in the ring? Why, from
first to last, during the whole century that prize-fighting has been
going on, there's not been six fatal accidents at really respectable
fights. It's safer than dancing; many a woman has danced her skirt
into the fire and been burned. I once fought a man who had spoiled
his constitution with bad living; and he exhausted himself so by
going on and on long after he was beaten that he died of it, and
nearly finished me, too. If you'd heard the fuss that even the
oldest fighting men made over it you'd have thought that a baby had
died from falling out of its cradle. A good milling does a man more
good than harm. And if all these--dog-bakers, and soldiers, and
pigeon-shooters, and fox-hunters, and the rest of them--are made
welcome here, why am I shut out like a brute beast?"

"Truly I do not know," said Lydia, puzzled; "unless it be that your
colleagues have failed to recommend themselves to society by their
extra-professional conduct as the others have."

"I grant you that fighting men ar'n't gentlemen, as a rule. No more
were painters, or poets, once upon a time. But what I want to know
is this: Supposing a fighting man has as good manners as your
friends, and is as well born, why shouldn't he mix with them and be
considered their equal?"

"The distinction seems arbitrary, I confess. But perhaps the true
remedy would be to exclude the vivisectors and soldiers, instead of
admitting the prize-fighters. Mr. Cashel Byron," added Lydia,
changing her manner, "I cannot discuss this with you. Society has a
prejudice against you. I share it; and I cannot overcome it. Can you
find no nobler occupation than these fierce and horrible encounters
by which you condescend to gain a living?"

"No," said Cashel, flatly. "I can't. That's just where it is."

Lydia looked grave, and said nothing.

"You don't see it?" said Cashel. "Well, I'll just tell you all about
myself, and then leave you to judge. May I sit down while I talk?"
He had risen in the course of his remarks on Lydia's scientific and
military acquaintances.

She pointed to a chair near her. Something in the action brought
color to his cheeks.

"I believe I was the most unfortunate devil of a boy that ever
walked," he began, when he was seated. "My mother was--and is--an
actress, and a tiptop crack in her profession. One of the first
things I remember is sitting on the floor in the corner of a room
where there was a big glass, and she flaring away before it,
attitudinizing and spouting Shakespeare like mad. I was afraid of
her, because she was very particular about my manners and
appearance, and would never let me go near a theatre. I know very
little about either my people or hers; for she boxed my ears one day
for asking who my father was, and I took good care not to ask her
again. She was quite young when I was a child; at first I thought
her a sort of angel--I should have been fond of her, I think, if
she had let me. But she didn't, somehow; and I had to keep my
affection for the servants. I had plenty of variety in that way; for
she gave her whole establishment the sack about once every two
months, except a maid who used to bully her, and gave me nearly all
the nursing I ever got. I believe it was my crying about some
housemaid or other who went away that first set her abusing me for
having low tastes--a sort of thing that used to cut me to the heart,
and which she kept up till the very day I left her for good. We were
a precious pair: I sulky and obstinate, she changeable and
hot-tempered. She used to begin breakfast sometimes by knocking me
to the other side of the room with a slap, and finish it by calling
me her darling boy and promising me all manner of toys and things. I
soon gave up trying to please her, or like her, and became as
disagreeable a young imp as you'd ask to see. My only thought was to
get all I could out of her when she was in a good-humor, and to be
sullen and stubborn when she was in a tantrum. One day a boy in the
street threw some mud at me, and I ran in crying and complained to
her. She told me I was a little coward. I haven't forgiven her for
that yet--perhaps because it was one of the few true things she ever
said to me. I was in a state of perpetual aggravation; and I often
wonder that I wasn't soured for life at that time. At last I got to
be such a little fiend that when she hit me I used to guard off her
blows, and look so wicked that I think she got afraid of me. Then
she put me to school, telling me that I had no heart, and telling
the master that I was an ungovernable young brute. So I, like a
little fool, cried at leaving her; and she, like a big one, cried
back again over me--just after telling the master what a bad one I
was, mind you--and off she went, leaving her darling boy and blessed
child howling at his good luck in getting rid of her.

"I was a nice boy to let loose in a school. I could speak as well as
an actor, as far as pronunciation goes; but I could hardly read
words of one syllabile; and as to writing, I couldn't make pothooks
and hangers respectably. To this day, I can no more spell than old
Ned Skene can. What was a worse sort of ignorance was that I had no
idea of fair play. I thought that all servants would be afraid of
me, and that all grown-up people would tyrannize over me. I was
afraid of everybody; afraid that my cowardice would be found out;
and as angry and cruel in my ill-tempers as cowards always are. Now
you'll hardly believe this; but what saved me from going to the bad
altogether was my finding out that I was a good one to fight. The
bigger boys were given to fighting, and used to have mills every
Saturday afternoon, with seconds, bottle-holders, and everything
complete, except the ropes and stakes. We little chaps used to
imitate them among ourselves as best we could. At first, when they
made me fight, I shut my eyes and cried; but for all that I managed
to catch the other fellow tight round the waist and throw him. After
that it became a regular joke to make me fight, for I always cried.
But the end of it was that I learned to keep my eyes open and hit
straight. I had no trouble about fighting then. Somehow, I could
tell by instinct when the other fellow was going to hit me, and I
always hit him first. It's the same with me now in the ring; I know
what a man is going to do before he rightly knows himself. The power
that this gave me, civilized me. It made me cock of the school; and
I had to act accordingly. I had enough good-nature left to keep me
from being a bully; and, as cock, I couldn't be mean or childish.
There would be nothing like fighting for licking boys into shape if
every one could be cock; but every one can't; so I suppose it does
more harm than good.

"I should have enjoyed school well enough if I had worked at my
books. But I wouldn't study; and the masters were all down on me as
an idler--though I shouldn't have been like that if they had known
how to teach--I have learned since what teaching is. As to the
holidays, they were the worst part of the year to me. When I was
left at school I was savage at not being let go home; and when I
went home my mother did nothing but find fault with my school-boy
manners. I was getting too big to be cuddled as her darling boy, you
understand. In fact, her treatment of me was just the old game with
the affectionate part left out. It wasn't pleasant, after being cock
of the school, to be made feel like a good-for-nothing little brat
tied to her apron-strings. When she saw that I was learning nothing
she sent me to another school at a place in the north called Panley.
I stayed there until I was seventeen; and then she came one day, and
we had a row, as usual. She said she wouldn't let me leave school
until I was nineteen; and so I settled that question by running away
the same night. I got to Liverpool, where I hid in a ship bound for
Australia. When I was starved out they treated me better than I
expected; and I worked hard enough to earn my passage and my
victuals. But when I wad left ashore in Melbourne I was in a pretty
pickle. I knew nobody, and I had no money. Everything that a man
could live by was owned by some one or other. I walked through the
town looking for a place where they might want a boy to run errands
or to clean windows. But somehow I hadn't the cheek to go into the
shops and ask. Two or three times, when I was on the point of
trying, I caught sight of some cad of a shopman, and made up my mind
that I wouldn't be ordered about by HIM, and that since I had the
whole town to choose from I might as well go on to the next place.
At last, quite late in the afternoon, I saw an advertisement stuck
up on a gymnasium, and, while I was reading it, I got talking to old
Ned Skene, the owner, who was smoking at the door. He took a fancy
to me, and offered to have me there as a sort of lad-of-all-work. I
was only too glad to get the chance, and I closed with him at once.
As time went on I became so clever with the gloves that Ned matched
me against a light-weight named Ducket, and bet a lot of money that
I would win. Well, I couldn't disappoint him after his being so kind
to me--Mrs. Skene had made as much of me as if I was her own son.
What could I do but take my bread as it came to me? I was fit for
nothing else. Even if I had been able to write a good hand and keep
accounts I couldn't have brought myself to think that quill-driving
and counting other people's money was a fit employment for a man.
It's not what a man would like to do that he must do in this world,
it's what he CAN do; and the only mortal thing I could do properly
was to fight. There was plenty of money and plenty of honor and
glory among my acquaintances to be got by fighting. So I challenged
Ducket, and knocked him all to pieces in about ten minutes. I half
killed him because I didn't know my own strength and was afraid of
him. I have been at the same work ever since. I was training for a
fight when I was down at Wiltstoken; and Mellish was my trainer. It
came off the day you saw me at Clapham; that was how I came to have
a black eye. Wiltstoken did for me. With all my nerve and science,
I'm no better than a baby at heart; and ever since I found out that
my mother wasn't an angel I have always had a notion that a real
angel would turn up some day. You see, I never cared much for women.
Bad as my mother was as far as being what you might call a parent
went, she had something in her looks and manners that gave me a
better idea of what a nice woman was like than I had of most things;
and the girls I met in Australia and America seemed very small
potatoes to me in comparison with her. Besides, of course they were
not ladies. I was fond of Mrs. Skene because she was good to me; and
I made myself agreeable, for her sake, to the girls that came to see
her; but in reality I couldn't stand them. Mrs. Skene said that they
were all setting their caps at me--women are death on a crack
fighter--but the more they tried it on the less I liked them. It was
no go; I could get on with the men well enough, no matter how common
they were; but the snobbishness of my breed came out with regard to
the women. When I saw you that day at Wiltstoken walk out of the
trees and stand looking so quietly at me and Mellish, and then go
back out of sight without a word, I'm blessed if I didn't think you
were the angel come at last. Then I met you at the railway station
and walked with you. You put the angel out of my head quick enough;
for an angel, after all, is only a shadowy, childish notion--I
believe it's all gammon about there being any in heaven--but you
gave me a better idea than mamma of what a woman should be, and you
came up to that idea and went beyond it. I have been in love with
you ever since; and if I can't have you, I don't care what becomes
of me. I know I am a bad lot, and have always been one; but when I
saw you taking pleasure in the society of fellows just as bad as
myself, I didn't see why I should keep away when I was dying to
come. I am no worse than the dog-baker, any how. And hang it, Miss
Lydia, I don't want to brag; but I never fought a cross or struck a
foul blow in my life; and I have never been beaten, though I'm only
a middle-weight, and have stood up with the best fourteen-stone men
in the Colonies, the States, or in England."

Cashel ceased. As he sat eying her wistfully, Lydia, who had been
perfectly still, said musingly,

"Strange! that I should be so much more prejudiced than I knew. What
will you think of me when I tell you that your profession does not
seem half so shocking now that I know you to be the son of an
artist, and not a journeyman butcher or a laborer, as my cousin told
me."

"What!" exclaimed Cashel. "That lantern-jawed fellow told you I was
a butcher!"

"I did not mean to betray him; but, as I have already said, I am bad
at keeping secrets. Mr. Lucian Webber is my cousin and friend, and
has done me many services. May I rest assured that he has nothing to
fear from you?"

"He has no right to tell lies about me. He is sweet on you, too: I
twigged that at Wiltstoken. I have a good mind to let him know
whether I am a butcher or not."

"He did not say so. What he told me of you, as far as it went, is
exactly confirmed by what you have said yourself. But I happened to
ask him to what class men of your calling usually belonged; and he
said that they were laborers, butchers, and so forth. Do you resent
that?"

"I see plainly enough that you won't let me resent it. I should like
to know what else he said of me. But he was right enough about the
butchers. There are all sorts of blackguards in the ring: there's no
use in denying it. Since it's been made illegal, decent men won't go
into it. But, all the same, it's not the fighting men, but the
betting men, that bring discredit on it. I wish your cousin had held
his confounded tongue."

"I wish you had forestalled him by telling me the truth,"

"I wish I had, now. But what's the use of wishing? I didn't dare run
the chance of losing you. See how soon you forbade me the house when
you did find out."

"It made little difference," said Lydia, gravely.

"You were always friendly to me," said Cashel, plaintively.

"More so than you were to me. You should not have deceived me. And
now I think we had better part. I am glad to know your history; and
I admit that when you embraced your profession you made perhaps the
best choice that society offered you. I do not blame you."

"But you give me the sack. Is that it?"

"What do you propose, Mr. Cashel Byron? Is it to visit my house in
the intervals of battering and maiming butchers and laborers?"

"No, it's not," retorted Cashel. "You're very aggravating. I won't
stay much longer in the ring now, because my luck is too good to
last. I shall have to retire soon, luck or no luck, because no one
can match me. Even now there's nobody except Bill Paradise that
pretends to be able for me; and I'll settle him in September if he
really means business. After that, I'll retire. I expect to be worth
ten thousand pounds then. Ten thousand pounds, I'm told, is the same
as five hundred a year. Well, I suppose, judging from the style you
keep here, that you're worth as much more, besides your place in the
country; so, if you will marry me, we shall have a thousand a year
between us. I don't know much of money matters; but at any rate we
can live like fighting-cocks on that much. That's a straight and
business-like proposal, isn't it?"

"And if I refuse?" said Lydia, with some sternness.

"Then you may have the ten thousand pounds to do what you like
with," said Cashel, despairingly. "It won't matter what becomes of
me. I won't go to the devil for you or any woman if I can help it;
and I--but where's the good of saying IF you refuse. I know I don't
express myself properly; I'm a bad hand at sentimentality; but if I
had as much gab as a poet, I couldn't be any fonder of you, or think
more highly of you."

"But you are mistaken as to the amount of my income."

"That doesn't matter a bit. If you have more, why, the more the
merrier. If you have less, or if you have to give up all your
property when you're married, I will soon make another ten thousand
to supply the loss. Only give me one good word, and, by George, I'll
fight the seven champions of Christendom, one down and t'other come
on, for five thousand a side each. Hang the money!"

"I am richer than you suppose," said Lydia, unmoved. "I cannot tell
you exactly how much I possess; but my income is about forty
thousand pounds."

"Forty thousand pounds!" ejaculated Cashel.

"Holy Moses! I didn't think the queen had so much as that."

He paused a moment, and became very red. Then, in a voice broken by
mortification, he said, "I see I have been making a fool of myself,"
and took his hat and turned to go.

"It does not follow that you should go at once without a word," said
Lydia, betraying nervousness for the first time during the
interview.

"Oh, that's all rot," said Cashel. "I may be a fool while my eyes
are shut, but I'm sensible enough when they're open. I have no
business here. I wish to the Lord I had stayed in Australia."

"Perhaps it would have been better," said Lydia, troubled. "But
since we have met, it is useless to deplore it; and--Let me remind
you of one thing. You have pointed out to me that I have made
friends of men whose pursuits are no better than yours. I do not
wholly admit that; but there is one respect in which they are on the
same footing as you. They are all, as far as worldly gear is
concerned, much poorer than I. Many of them, I fear, are much poorer
than you are."

Cashel looked up quickly with returning hope; but it lasted only a
moment. He shook his head dejectedly.

"I am at least grateful to you," she continued, "because you have
sought me for my own sake, knowing nothing of my wealth."

"I should think not," groaned Cashel. "Your wealth may be a very
fine thing for the other fellows; and I'm glad you have it, for your
own sake. But it's a settler for me. It's knocked me out of time, so
it has. I sha'n't come up again; and the sooner the sponge is
chucked up in my corner, the better. So good-bye."

"Good-bye," said Lydia, almost as pale as he had now become, "since
you will have it so."

"Since the devil will have it so," said Cashel, ruefully. "It's no
use wishing to have it any other way. The luck is against me. I
hope, Miss Carew, that you'll excuse me for making such an ass of
myself. It's all my blessed innocence; I never was taught any
better."

"I have no quarrel with you except on the old score of hiding the
truth from me; and that I forgive you--as far as the evil of it
affects me. As for your declaration of attachment to me personally,
I have received many similar ones that have flattered me less. But
there are certain scruples between us. You will not court a woman a
hundred-fold richer than yourself; and I will not entertain a
prize-fighter. My wealth frightens every man who is not a knave; and
your profession frightens every woman who is not a fury."

"Then you--Just tell me this," said Cashel, eagerly. "Suppose I were
a rich swell, and were not a--"

"No," said Lydia, peremptorily interrupting him. "I will suppose
nothing but what is."

Cashel relapsed into melancholy. "If you only hadn't been kind to
me!" he said. "I think the reason I love you so much is that you're
the only person that is not afraid of me. Other people are civil
because they daren't be otherwise to the cock of the ring. It's a
lonely thing to be a champion. You knew nothing about that; and you
knew I was afraid of you; and yet you were as good as gold."

"It is also a lonely thing to be a very rich woman. People are
afraid of my wealth, and of what they call my learning. We two have
at least one experience in common. Now do me a great favor, by
going. We have nothing further to say."

"I'll go in two seconds. But I don't believe much in YOUR being
lonely. That's only fancy."

"Perhaps so. Most feelings of this kind are only fancies."

There was a pause. Then Cashel said,

"I don't feel half so downhearted as I did a minute ago. Are you
sure that you're not angry with me?"

"Quite sure. Pray let me say good-bye."

"And may I never see you again? Never at all?--world without end,
amen?"

"Never as the famous prize-fighter. But if a day should come when
Mr. Cashel Byron will be something better worthy of his birth and
nature, I will not forget an old friend. Are you satisfied now?"

Cashel's face began to glow, and the roots of his hair to tingle.
"One thing more," he said. "If you meet me by chance in the street
before that, will you give me a look? I don't ask for a regular bow,
but just a look to keep me going?"

"I have no intention of cutting you," said Lydia, gravely. "But do
not place yourself purposely in my way."

"Honor bright, I won't. I'll content myself with walking through
that street in Soho occasionally. Now I'm off; I know you're in a
hurry to be rid of me. So good-b--Stop a bit, though. Perhaps when
that time you spoke of comes, you will be married."

"It is possible; but I am not likely to marry. How many more things
have you to say that you have no right to say?"

"Not one," said Cashel, with a laugh that rang through the house. "I
never was happier in my life, though I'm crying inside all the time.
I'll have a try for you yet. Good-bye. No," he added, turning from
her proffered hand; "I daren't touch it; I should eat you
afterwards." And he ran out of the room.

In the hall was Bashville, pale and determined, waiting there to
rush to the assistance of his mistress at her first summons. He had
a poker concealed at hand. Having just heard a great laugh, and
seeing Cashel come down-stairs in high spirits, he stood stock-
still, and did not know what to think.

"Well, old chap," said Cashel, boisterously, slapping him on the
shoulder, "so you're alive yet. Is there any one in the
dining-room?"

"No," said Bashville.

"There's a thick carpet there to fall soft on," said Cashel, pulling
Bashville into the room. "Come along. Now, show me that little trick
of yours again. Come, don't be afraid. Down with me. Take care you
don't knock my head against the fire-irons."

"But--"

"But be hanged. You were spry enough at it before. Come!"

Bashville, after a moment's hesitation, seized Cashel, who
immediately became grave and attentive, and remained imperturbably
so while Nashville expertly threw him. He sat for a moment thinking
on the hearth-rug before he rose. "_I_ see," he said, then, getting
up. "Now, do it again."

"But it makes such a row," remonstrated Bashville.

"Only once more. There'll be no row this time."

"Well, you ARE an original sort of cove," said Bashville, complying.
But instead of throwing his man, he found himself wedged into a
collar formed by Cashel's arms, the least constriction of which
would have strangled him. Cashel again roared with laughter as he
released him.

"That's the way, ain't it?" he said. "You can't catch an old fox
twice in the same trap. Do you know any more falls?"

"I do," said Bashville; "but I really can't show them to you here. I
shall get into trouble on account of the noise."

"You can come down to me whenever you have an evening out," said
Cashel, handing him a card, "to that address, and show me what you
know, and I'll see what I can do with you. There's the making of a
man in you."

"You're very kind," said Bashville, pocketing the card with a grin.

"And now let me give you a word of advice that will be of use to you
as long as you live," said Cashel, impressively. "You did a very
silly thing to-day. You threw a man down--a fighting-man--and then
stood looking at him like a fool, waiting for him to get up and kill
you. If ever you do that again, fall on him as heavily as you can
the instant he's off his legs. Drop your shoulder well into him,
and, if he pulls you over, make play with the back of your head. If
he's altogether too big for you, put your knee on his throat as if
by accident. But, on no account, stand and do nothing. It's flying
in the face of Providence."

Cashel emphasized these counsels by taps of his forefinger on one of
Bashville's buttons. In conclusion, he nodded, opened the
house-door, and walked away in buoyant spirits.

Lydia, standing year the library window, saw him pass, and observed
how his light, alert step and a certain gamesome assurance of manner
marked him off from a genteelly promenading middle-aged gentleman, a
trudging workman, and a vigorously striding youth who were also
passing by. The iron railings through which she saw him reminded her
of the admirable and dangerous creatures which were passing and
repassing behind iron bars in the park yonder. But she exulted, in
her quiet manner, in the thought that, dangerous as he was, she had
no fear of him. When his cabman had found him and driven him off she
went to her desk, opened a private drawer in it, took out her
falher's last letter, and sat for some time looking at it without
unfolding it.

"It would be a strange thing, father," she said, as if he were
actually there to hear her, "if your paragon should turn aside from
her friends, the artists, philosophers, and statesmen, to give
herself to an illiterate prize-fighter. I felt a pang of absolute
despair when he replied to my forty thousand pounds a year with an
unanswerable good-bye."

She locked up her father, as it were, in the drawer again, and rang
the bell. Bashville appeared, somewhat perturbed.

"If Mr. Byron calls again, admit him if I am at home."

"Yes, madam."

"Thank you."

"Begging your pardon, madam, but may I ask has any complaint been
made of me?"

"None." Bashville was reluctantly withdrawing when she added, "Mr.
Byron gave me to understand that you tried to prevent his entrance
by force. You exposed yourself to needless risk by doing so; and you
may make a rule in future that when people are importunate, and will
not go away when asked, they had better come in until you get
special instructions from me. I am not finding fault; on the
contrary, I approve of your determination to carry out your orders;
but under exceptional circumstances you may use your own
discretion."

"He shoved the door into my face, and I acted on the impulse of the
moment, madam. I hope you will forgive the liberty I took in locking
the door of the boudoir. He is older and heavier than I am, madam;
and he has the advantage of being a professional. Else I should have
stood my ground."

"I am quite satisfied," said Lydia, a little coldly, as she left the
room.

"How long you have been!" cried Alice, almost in hysterics, as Lydia
entered. "Is he gone? What were those dreadful noises? IS anything
the matter?"

"Dancing and late hours are the matter," said Lydia, coolly. "The
season is proving too much for you, Alice."

"It is not the season; it is the man," said Alice, with a sob.

"Indeed? I have been in conversation with the man for more than half
an hour; and Bashville has been in actual combat with him; yet we
are not in hysterics. You have been sitting here at your ease, have
yon not?"

"I am not in hysterics," said Alice, indignantly.

"So much the better," said Lydia, gravely, placing her hand on the
forehead of Alice, who subsided with a sniff.






CHAPTER X





Mrs. Byron, under her stage name of Adelaide Gisborne, was now, for
the second time in her career, much talked of in London, where she
had boon for many years almost forgotten. The metropolitan managers
of her own generation had found that her success in new parts was
very uncertain; that she was more capricious than the most petted
favorites of the public; and that her invariable reply to a business
proposal was that she detested the stage, and was resolved never to
set foot upon it again. So they had managed to do without her for so
long that the younger London playgoers knew her by reputation only
as an old-fashioned actress who wandered through the provinces
palming herself off on the ignorant inhabitants as a great artist,
and boring them with performances of the plays of Shakespeare. It
suited Mrs. Byron well to travel with the nucleus of a dramatic
company from town to town, staying a fortnight in each, and
repeating half a dozen characters in which she was very effective,
and which she knew so well that she never thought about them except
when, as indeed often happened, she had nothing else to think about.
Most of the provincial populations received her annual visits with
enthusiasm. Among them she found herself more excitingly applauded
before the curtain, her authority more despotic behind it, her
expenses smaller, and her gains greater than in London, for which
she accordingly cared as little as London cared for her. As she grew
older she made more money and spent less. When she complained to
Cashel of the cost of his education, she was rich. Since he had
relieved her of that cost she had visited America, Egypt, India, and
the colonies, and had grown constantly richer. From this great tour
she had returned to England on the day when Cashel added the laurels
of the Flying Dutchman to his trophies; and the next Sunday's paper
had its sporting column full of the prowess of Cashel Byron, and its
theatrical column full of the genius of Adelaide Gisborne. But she
never read sporting columns, nor he theatrical ones.

The managers who had formerly avoided Mrs. Byron were by this time
dead, bankrupt, or engaged in less hazardous pursuits. One of their
successors had lately restored Shakespeare to popularity as signally
as Cashel had restored the prize ring. He was anxious to produce the
play of "King John," being desirous of appearing as Faulconbridge, a
part for which he was physically unfitted. Though he had no
suspicion of his unfitness, he was awake to the fact that the
favorite London actresses, though admirable in modern comedy, were
not mistresses of what he called, after Sir Walter Scott, the "big
bow wow" style required for the part of Lady Constance in
Shakespeare's history. He knew that he could find in the provinces
many veteran players who knew every gesture and inflection of voice
associated by tradition with the part; but he was afraid that they
would remind Londoners of Richardson's show, and get Faulconbridge
laughed at. Then he thought of Adelaide Gisborne. For some hours
after the idea came to him he was gnawed at by the fear that her
performance would throw his into the shade. But his confidence in
his own popularity helped his love of good acting to prevail; and he
made the newly returned actress a tempting offer, instigating some
journalist friends of his at the same time to lament over the decay
of the grand school of acting, and to invent or republish anecdotes
of Mrs. Siddons.

This time Mrs. Byron said nothing about detesting the stage. She had
really detested it once; but by the time she was rich enough to give
up the theatre she had worn that feeling out, and had formed a habit
of acting which was as irksome to shake off as any other habit. She
also found a certain satisfaction in making money with ease and
certainty, and she made so much that at last she began to trifle
with plans of retirement, of playing in Paris, of taking a theatre
in London, and other whims. The chief public glory of her youth had
been a sudden triumph in London on the occasion of her first
appearance on any stage; and she now felt a mind to repeat this and
crown her career where it had begun. So she accepted the manager's
offer, and even went the length of reading the play of "King John"
in order to ascertain what it was all about.

The work of advertisement followed her assent. Portraits of Adelaide
Gisborne were displayed throughout the town. Paragraphs in the
papers mentioned large sums as the cost of mounting the historical
masterpiece of the national bard. All the available seats in the
theatre--except some six or seven hundred in the pit and
gallery--were said to be already disposed of for the first month of
the expected run of the performance. The prime minister promised to
be present on the opening night. Absolute archaeologic accuracy was
promised. Old paintings were compared to ascertain the dresses of
the period. A scene into which the artist had incautiously painted a
pointed arch was condemned as an anachronism. Many noblemen gave the
actor-manager access to their collections of armor and weapons in
order that his accoutrement should exactly counterfeit that of a
Norman baron. Nothing remained doubtful except the quality of the
acting.