It happened that one of the most curious documents of the period in
question was a scrap of vellum containing a fragment of a chronicle
of Prince Arthur, with an illuminated portrait of his mother. It had
been purchased for a trifling sum by the late Mr. Carew, and was now
in the possession of Lydia, to whom the actor-manager applied for
leave to inspect it. Leave being readily given, he visited the house
in Regent's Park, which he declared to be an inexhaustible
storehouse of treasure. He deeply regretted, he said, that he could
not show the portrait to Miss Gisborne. Lydia replied that if Miss
Gisborne would come and look at it, she should be very welcome. Two
days later, at noon, Mrs. Byron arrived and found Lydia alone; Alice
having contrived to be out, as she felt that it was better not to
meet an actress--one could never tell what they might have been.

The years that had elapsed since Mrs. Byron's visit to Dr. Moncrief
had left no perceptible trace on her; indeed she looked younger now
than on that occasion, because she had been at the trouble of
putting on an artificial complexion. Her careless refinement of
manner was so different from the studied dignity and anxious
courtesy of the actor-manager, that Lydia could hardly think of them
as belonging to the same profession. Her voice was not her stage
voice; it gave a subtle charm to her most commonplace remarks, and
it was as different as possible from Cashel's rough tones. Yet Lydia
was convinced by the first note of it that she was Cashel's mother.
Besides, their eyes were so like that they might have made an
exchange without altering their appearance.

Mrs. Byron, coming to the point without delay, at once asked to see
the drawing. Lydia brought her to the library, were several
portfolios were ready for inspection. The precious fragment of
vellum was uppermost.

"Very interesting, indeed," said Mrs. Byron, throwing it aside after
one glance at it, and turning over some later prints, while Lydia,
amused, looked on in silence. "Ah," she said, presently, "here is
something that will suit me exactly. I shall not trouble to go
through the rest of your collection, thank you. They must do that
robe for me in violet silk. What is your opinion of it, Miss Carew?
I have noticed, from one or two trifles, that your taste is
exquisite."

"For what character do you intend the dress?"

"Constance, in 'King John.'"

"But silk was not made in western Europe until three hundred years
after Constance's death. And that drawing is a sketch of Marie de
Medicis by Rubens."

"Never mind," said Mrs. Byron, smoothly. "What does a dress three
hundred years out of date matter when the woman inside it is seven
hundred years out? What can be a greater anachronism than the death
of Prince Arthur three months hence on the stage of the Panopticon
Theatre? I am an artist giving life to a character in romance, I
suppose; certainly not a grown-up child playing at being somebody
out of Mrs. Markham's history of England. I wear whatever becomes
me. I cannot act when I feel dowdy."

"But what will the manager say?"

"I doubt if he will say anything. He will hardly venture to press on
me anything copied from that old parchment. As he will wear a suit
of armor obviously made the other day in Birmingham, why--!" Mrs.
Byron shrugged her shoulders, and did not take sufficient interest
in the manager's opinion to finish her sentence.

"After all, Shakespeare concerned himself very little about such
matters," said Lydia, conversationally.

"No doubt. I seldom read him."

"Is this part of Lady Constance a favorite one of yours?"

"Troublesome, my dear," said Mrs. Byron, absently. "The men look
ridiculous in it; and it does not draw."

"No doubt," said Lydia, watching her face. "But I spoke rather of
your personal feeling towards the character. Do you, for instance,
like portraying maternal tenderness on the stage?"

"Maternal tenderness," said Mrs. Byron with sudden nobleness, "is
far too sacred a thing to be mimicked. Have you any children?"

"No," said Lydia, demurely. "I am not married."

"Of course not. You should get married. Maternity is a liberal
education in itself."

"Do you think that it suits every woman?"

"Undoubtedly. Without exception. Only think, dear Miss Carew, of the
infinite patieuce with which you must tend a child, of the necessity
of seeing with its little eyes and with your own wise ones at the
same time, of bearing without reproach the stabs it innocently
inflicts, of forgiving its hundred little selfishnesses, of living
in continual fear of wounding its exquisite sensitiveness, or
rousing its bitter resentment of injustice and caprice. Think of how
you must watch yourself, check yourself, exercise and develop
everything in you that can help to attract and retain the most
jealous love in the world! Believe me, it is a priceless trial to be
a mother. It is a royal compensation for having been born a woman."

"Nevertheless," said Lydia, "I wish I had been born a man. Since you
seem to have thought deeply into these problems, I will venture to
ask you a question. Do you not think that the acquirement of an art
demanding years of careful self-study and training--such as yours,
for example--is also of great educational value? Almost a sufficient
discipline to make one a good mother?"

"Nonsense!" said Mrs. Byron, decidedly. "People come into the world
ready-made. I went on the stage when I was eighteen, and succeeded
at once. Had I known anything of the world, or been four years
older, I should have been weak, awkward, timid, and flat; it would
have taken me twelve years to crawl to the front. But I was young,
passionate, beautiful, and indeed terrible; for I had run away from
home two years before, and been cruelly deceived. I learned the
business of the stage as easily and thoughtlessly as a child learns
a prayer; the rest came to me by nature. I have seen others spend
years in struggling with bad voices, uncouth figures, and
diffidence; besides a dozen defects that existed only in their
imaginations. Their struggles may have educated them; but had they
possessed sufficient genius they would have had neither struggle nor
education. Perhaps that is why geniuses are such erratic people, and
mediocrities so respectable. I grant you that I was very limited
when I first came out; I was absolutely incapable of comedy. But I
never took any trouble about it; and by and by, when I began to
mature a little, and to see the absurdity of most of the things I
had been making a fuss about, comedy came to me unsought, as
romantic tragedy had come before. I suppose it would have come just
the same if I had been laboring to acquire it, except that I would
have attributed its arrival to my own exertions. Most of the
laborious people think they have made themselves what they are--much
as if a child should think it had made itself grow."

"You are the first artist I ever met," said Lydia, "who did not
claim art as the most laborious of all avocations. They all deny the
existence of genius, and attribute everything to work."

"Of course one picks up a great deal from experience; and there is
plenty of work on the stage. But it in my genius which enables me to
pick up things, and to work on the stage instead of in a kitchen or
laundry."

"You must be very fond of your profession."

"I do not mind it now; I have shrunk to fit it. I began because I
couldn't help myself; and I go on because, being an old woman, I
have nothing else to do. Bless me, how I hated it after the first
month! I must retire soon, now. People are growing weary of me."

"I doubt that. I am bound to assume that you are an old woman, since
you say so; but you must be aware, flattery apart, that you hardly
seem to have reached your prime yet."

"I might be your mother, my dear. I might be a grand mother. Perhaps
I am." There was a plaintive tone in the last sentence; and Lydia
seized the opportunity.

"You spoke of maternity then from experience, Miss Gisborne?"

"I have one son--a son who was sent to me in my eighteenth year."

"I hope he inherits his mother's genius and personal grace."

"I am sure I don't know," said Mrs. Byron, pensively. "He was a
perfect devil. I fear I shock you, Miss Carew; but really I did
everything for him that the most devoted mother could do; and yet he
ran away from me without making a sign of farewell. Little wretch!"

"Boys do cruel things sometimes in a spirit of adventure," said
Lydia, watching her visitor's face narrowly.

"It was not that. It was his temper, which was ungovernable. He was
sulky and vindictive. It is quite impossible to love a sulky child.
I kept him constantly near me when he was a tiny creature; and when
he got too big for that I spent oceans of money on his education.
All in vain! He never showed any feeling towards me except a sense
of injury that no kindness could remove. And he had nothing to
complain of. Never was there a worse son."

Lydia remained silent and grave. Mrs. Byron looked rather beside her
than at her. Suddenly she added,

"My poor, darling Cashel" (Lydia suppressed a start), "what a shame
to talk of you so! You see, I love him in spite of his wickedness."
Mrs. Byron took out her handkerchief, and Lydia for a moment was
alarmed by the prospect of tears. But Miss Gisborne only blew her
nose with perfect composure, and rose to take her leave. Lydia, who,
apart from her interest in Cashel's mother, was attracted and amused
by the woman herself, induced her to stay for luncheon, and
presently discovered from her conversation that she had read much
romance of the Werther sort in her youth, and had, since then,
employed her leisure in reading every book that came in her way
without regard to its quality. Her acquirements were so odd, and her
character so unreasonable, that Lydia, whose knowledge was unusually
well organized, and who was eminently reasonable, concluded that she
was a woman of genius. For Lydia knew the vanity of her own
attainments, and believed herself to be merely a patient and
well-taught plodder. Mrs. Byron happening to be pleased with the
house, the luncheon, and Lydia's intelligent listening, her
unaccountable natural charm became so intensified by her good-humor
that Lydia became conscious of it, and began to wonder what its
force might have been if some influence--that of a lover, for
instance--had ever made Mrs. Byron ecstatically happy. She surprised
herself at last in the act of speculating whether she could ever
make Cashel love her as his father must, for a time at least, have
loved her visitor.

When Lydia was alone, she considered whether she was justified in
keeping Mrs. Byron apart from her son. It seemed plain that at
present Cashel was a disgrace to his mother, and had better remain
hidden from her. But if he should for any reason abandon his
ruffianly pursuits, as she had urged him to do, then she could bring
about a meeting between them; and the truant's mother might take
better care of him in the future, besides making him pecuniarily
independent of prize-fighting. This led Lydia to ask what new
profession Cashel could adopt, and what likelihood there was of his
getting on with his mother any better than formerly. No satisfactory
answer was forthcoming. So she went back to the likelihood of his
reforming himself for her sake. On this theme her imagination
carried her so far from all reasonable probability, that she was
shaking her head at her own folly when Bashville appeared and
announced Lord Worthington, who came into the room with Alice. Lydia
had not seen him since her discovery of the true position of the
tenant he had introduced to her, and he was consequently a little
afraid to meet her. To cover his embarrassment, he began to talk
quickly on a number of commonplace topics. But when some time had
elapsed, he began to show signs of fresh uneasiness. He looked at
his watch, and said,

"I don't wish to hurry you, ladies; but this affair commences at
three."

"What affair?" said Lydia, who had been privately wondering why he
had come.

"The assault-at-arms. King What's-his-name's affair. Webber told me
he had arranged that you should come with me."

"Oh, you have come to take us there. I had forgotten. Did I promise
to go?"

"Webber said so. He was to have taken you himself; but, failing
that, he promised to do a good thing for me and put me in his place.
He said you particularly wanted to go, hang him!"

Lydia then rose promptly and sent for her carriage. "There is no
hurry," bhe said. "We can drive to St. James's Hall in twelve
minutes."

"Hut we have to go to Islington, to the Agricultural Hall. There
will be cavalry charges, and all sorts of fun."

"Bless me!" said Lydia. "Will there be any boxing?"

"Yes," said Lord Worthington, reddening, but unabashed. "Lots of it.
It will be by gentlemen, though, except perhaps one bout to show the
old king our professional form."

"Then excuse me while I go for my hat," said Lydia, leaving the
room. Alice had gone some time before to make a complete change in
her dress, as the occasion was one for display of that kind.

"You look awfully fetching, Miss Goff," Lord Worthington said, as he
followed them to the carriage. Alice did not deign to reply, but
tossed her head superbly, and secretly considered whether people
would, on comparison, think her overdressed or Lydia underdressed.
Lord Worthington thought they both looked their best, and reflected
for several seconds on the different styles of different women, and
how what would suit one would not do at all for another. It seemed
to him that Miss Carew's presence made him philosophical.

The Agricultural Hall struck Alice at first sight as an immense barn
round which heaps of old packing-cases had been built into
race-course stands, scantily decorated with red cloth and a few
flags. She was conducted to a front seat in one of these balconies,
which overhung the tan-strewn arena. Just below her were the
palisades, ornamented at intervals with evergreens in tubs, and
pressed against from without by a crowd who had paid a shilling
apiece for the privilege of admission. She remarked that it was
little to the credit of the management that these people should be
placed so close beneath her that she could hear their conversation;
but as Lydia did not seem to share her disgust, she turned her
attention to the fashionable part of the audience. On the opposite
side of the arena the balconies seemed like beds of flowers in
bloom, blacknesses formed here and there by the hats and coats of
gentlemen representing the interspaces of clay. In the midst of the
flowers was a gaudy dais, on which a powerfully-built black
gentleman sat in a raised chair, his majestic impassivity
contrasting with the overt astonishment with which a row of savagely
ugly attendant chiefs grinned and gaped on either side of him.

"What a pity we are not nearer the king!" said Alice. "I can hardly
see the dear old fellow."

"You will find these the best seats for seeing the assault. It will
be all right," said Lord Worthington.

Lydia's attention was caught by something guilty in his manner.
Following a furtive glance of his, she saw in the arena, not far
from her, an enclosure about twenty feet square, made with ropes and
stakes. It was unoccupied, and there were a few chairs, a basin, and
a sponge, near it.

"What is that?" she asked.

"That! Oh, that's the ring."

"It is not a ring. It is square."

"They call it the ring. They have succeeded in squaring the circle."

Here there was a piercing bugle-call, and a troop of cavalry trotted
into the arena. Lydia found it pleasant enough to sit lazily
admiring the horses and men, and comparing the members of the
Olympian Club, who appeared when the soldiers retired, to the marble
gods of Athens, and to the Bacchus or David of Michael Angelo. They
fell short of the Greek statues in refinement, and of the Italian in
impressiveness as they vaulted over a wooden horse, and swung upon
horizontal bars, each cheapening the exploits of his forerunner by
out-doing them. Lord Worthington, who soon grew tired of this,
whispered that when all that rubbish was over, a fellow would cut a
sheep in two with a sword, after which there would be some boxing.

"Do you mean to say," said Lydia, indignantly, "that they are going
to turn a sheep loose and hunt it on horseback with swords?"

Lord Worthington laughed and said yes; but it presently appeared
that by a sheep was meant a lean carcass of mutton. A stalwart
sergeant cut it in half as a climax to slicing lemons, bars of lead,
and silk handkerchiefs; and the audience, accustomed to see much
more disgusting sights in butchers' shops, liberally applauded him.

Two gentlemen of the Olympian Club now entered the enclosure which
Lord Worthington called the ring. After shaking hands with one
another as well as their huge padded gloves permitted, they hugged
themselves with their right arms as if there were some danger of
their stomachs falling out if not held tightly in, and danced round
one another, throwing out and retracting their left fists like
pawing horses. They were both, as Lydia learned from the
announcement of their names and achievements by the master of the
ceremonies, amateur champions. She thought their pawing and dancing
ridiculous; and when they occasionally rushed together and scuffled,
she could distinguish nothing of the leading off, stopping, ducking,
countering, guarding, and getting away to which Lord Worthington
enthusiastically invited her attention, and which elicited alternate
jeers and applause from the shilling audience below. She laughed
outright when, at the expiration of three minutes, the two dropped
supine into chairs at opposite corners of the ring as if they had
sustained excessive fatigue. At the end of a minute, some one
hoarsely cried "Time!" and they rose and repeated their previous
performance for three minutes more. Another minute of rest followed;
and then the dancing and pawing proceeded for four minutes, after
which the champions again shook hands and left the arena.

"And is that all?" said Lydia.

"That's all," said Lord Worthington. "It's the most innocent thing
in the world, and the prettiest."

"It does not strike me as being pretty," said Lydia; "but it seems
as innocent as inanity can make it." Her mind misgave her that she
had ignorantly and unjustly reproached Cashel Byron with ferocity
merely because he practised this harmless exercise.

The show progressed through several phases of skilled violence.
Besides single combats between men armed in various fashions, there
were tilts, tent-peggings, drilling and singlestick practice by
squads of British tars, who were loudly cheered, and more boxing and
vaulting by members of the club. Lydia's attention soon began to
wander from the arena. Looking down at the crowd outside the
palisades, she saw a small man whom she vaguely remembered, though
his face was turned from her. In conversation with him was a
powerful man dressed in a yellow tweed suit and green scarf. He had
a coarse, strong voice, and his companion a shrill, mean one, so
that their remarks could be heard by an attentive listener above the
confused noise of the crowd.

"Do you admire that man?" said Lord Worthington, following Lydia's
gaze.

"No. Is he anybody in particular?"

"He was a great man once--in the days of the giants. He was champion
of England. He has a special interest for us as the preceptor of a
mutual friend of ours."

"Please name him," said Lydia, intending that the mutual friend
should be named.

"Ned Skene," said Lord Worthington, taking her to mean the man
below. "He has done so well in the colonies that he has indulged
himself and his family with a trip to England. His arrival made
quite a sensation in this country: last week he had a crowded
benefit, at which he sparred with our mutual friend and knocked him
about like a baby. Our mutual behaved very well on the occasion in
letting himself be knocked about. You see he could have killed old
Skene if he had tried in earnest."

"Is that Skene?" said Lydia, looking at him with an earnest interest
that astonished Lord Worthington. "Ah! Now I recognize the man with
him. He is one of my tenants at the Warren Lodge--I believe I am
indebted to you for the introduction."

"Mellish the trainer?" said Lord Worthington, looking a little
foolish. "So it is. What a lovely bay that lancer has!--the second
from the far end."

But Lydia would not look at the lancer's horse. "Paradise!" she
heard Skene exclaim just then with scornful incredulity. "Ain't it
likely?" It occurred to her that if he was alluding to his own
chance of arriving there, it was not likely.

"Less likely things have happened," said Mellish. "I won't say that
Cashel Byron is getting stale; but I will say that his luck is too
good to last; and I know for a fact that he's gone quite melancholy
of late."

"Melancholy be blowed!" said Skene. "What should he go melancholy
for?"

"Oh, _I_ know," said Mellish, reticently.

"You know a lot," retorted Skene with contempt. "I s'pose you mean
the young 'oman he's always talking to my missis about."

"I mean a young woman that he ain't likely to get. One of the
biggest swells in England--a little un with a face like the inside
of a oyster-shell, that he met down at Wiltstoken, where I trained
him to fight the Flying Dutchman. He went right off his training
after he met her--wouldn't do anything I told him. I made so
cock-sure that he'd be licked that I hedged every penny I had laid
on him except twenty pound that I got a flat to bet agin him down at
the fight after I had changed my mind. Curse that woman! I lost a
hundred pound by her."

"And served you right, too, you old stupid. You was wrong then; and
you're wrong now, with your blessed Paradise."

"Paradise has never been licked yet."

"No more has my boy."

"Well, we'll see."

"We'll see! I tell you I've seed for myself. I've seed Billy
Paradise spar; and it ain't fighting, it's ruffianing: that's what
it is. Ruffianing! Why, my old missis has more science."

"Mebbe she has," said Mellish. "But look at the men he's licked that
were chock full of science. Shepstone, clever as he is, only won a
fight from him by claiming a foul, because Billy lost his temper and
spiked him. That's the worst of Billy; he can't keep his feelings
in. But no fine-lady sparrer can stand afore that ugly rush of his.
Do you think he'll care for Cashel's showy long shots? Not he: he'll
just take 'em on that mahogany nut of his, and give him back one o'
them smashers that he settled poor Dick Weeks with."

"I'll lay you any money he don't. If he does, I'll go back into the
ring myself, and bust his head off for it." Here Skene, very angry,
applied several epithets to Paradise, and became so excited that
Mellish had to soothe him by partially retracting his forebodings,
and asking how Cashel had been of late.

"He's not been taking care of himself as he oughter," said Skene,
gloomily. "He's showing the London fashions to the missis and
Fanny--they're here in the three-and-sixpenny seats, among the
swells. Theatres every night; and walks every day to see the queen
drive through the park, or the like. My Fan likes to have him with
her on account of his being such a gentleman: she don't hardly think
her own father not good enough to walk down Piccadilly with. Wants
me to put on a black coat and make a parson of myself. The missis
just idolizes him. She thinks the boy far too good for the young
'oman you was speaking of, and tells him that she's only letting on
not to care for him to raise her price, just as I used to pretend to
be getting beat, to set the flats betting agin me. The women always
made a pet of him. In Melbourne it was not what _I_ liked for
dinner: it was always what the boy 'ud like, and when it 'ud please
him to have it. I'm blest if I usen't to have to put him up to ask
for a thing when I wanted it myself. And you tell me that that's the
lad that's going to let Billy Paradise lick him, I s'pose. Walker!"

Lydia, with Mrs. Byron's charm fresh upon her, wondered what manner
of woman this Mrs. Skene could be who had supplanted her in the
affections of her son, and yet was no more than a prize-fighter's
old missis. Evidently she was not one to turn a young man from a
career in the ring. Again the theme of Cashel's occupation and the
chances of his quitting it ran away with Lydia's attention. She sat
with her eyes fixed on the arena, without seeing the soldiers,
swordsmen, or athletes who were busy there; her mind wandered
further and further from the place; and the chattering of the people
resolved itself into a distant hum and was forgotten.

Suddenly she saw a dreadful-looking man coming towards her across
the arena. His face had the surface and color of blue granite; his
protruding jaws and retreating forehead were like those of an
orang-outang. She started from her reverie with a shiver, and,
recovering her hearing as well as her vision of external things,
became conscious of an attempt to applaud this apparition by a few
persons below. The man grinned ferociously, placed one hand on a
stake of the ring, and vaulted over the ropes. Lydia now remarked
that, excepting his hideous head and enormous hands and feet, he was
a well-made man, with loins and shoulders that shone in the light,
and gave him an air of great strength and activity.

"Ain't he a picture?" she heard Mellish exclaim, ecstatically.
"There's condition for you!"

"Ah!" said Skene, disparagingly. "But ain't HE the gentleman! Just
look at him. It's like the Prince of Wales walking down Pall Mall."

Lydia, hearing this, looked again, and saw Cashel Byron, exactly as
she had seen him for the first time in the elm vista at Wiltstoken,
approaching the ring with the indifferent air of a man going through
some tedious public ceremony.

"A god coming down to compete with a gladiator," whispered Lord
Worthington, eagerly. "Isn't it, Miss Carew? Apollo and the satyr!
You must admit that our mutual friend is a splendid-looking fellow.
If he could go into society like that, by Jove, the women--"

"Hush," said Lydia, as if his words were intolerable.

Cashel did not vault over the ropes. He stepped through them
languidly, and, rejecting the proffered assistance of a couple of
officious friends, drew on a boxing-glove fastidiously, like an
exquisite preparing for a fashionable promenade. Having thus muffled
his left hand so as to make it useless for the same service to his
right, he dipped his fingers into the other glove, gripped it
between his teeth, and dragged it on with the action of a tiger
tearing its prey. Lydia shuddered again.

"Bob Mellish," said Skene, "I'll lay you twenty to one he stops that
rush that you think so much of. Come: twenty to one!"

Mellish shook his head. Then the master of the ceremonies, pointing
to the men in succession, shouted, "Paradise: a professor. Cashel
Byron: a professor. Time!"

Cashel now looked at Paradise, of whose existence he had not before
seemed to be aware. The two men advanced towards the centre of the
ring, shook hands at arm's-length, cast off each other's grasp
suddenly, fell back a step, and began to move warily round one
another from left to right like a pair of panthers.

"I think they might learn manners from the gentlemen, and shake
hands cordially," said Alice, trying to appear unconcerned, but
oppressed by a vague dread of Cashel.

"That's the traditional manner," said Lord Worthington. "It is done
that way to prevent one from holding the other; pulling him over,
and hitting him with the disengaged hand before he could get loose."

"What abominable treachery!" exclaimed Lydia.

"It's never done, you know," said Lord Worthington, apologetically.
"Only it might be."

Lydia turned away from him, and gave all her attention to the
boxers. Of the two, Paradise shocked her least. He was evidently
nervous and conscious of a screwed-up condition as to his courage;
but his sly grin implied a wild sort of good-humor, and seemed to
promise the spectators that he would show them some fun presently.
Cashel watched his movements with a relentless vigilance and a
sidelong glance in which, to Lydia's apprehension, there was
something infernal.

Suddenly the eyes of Paradise lit up: he lowered his head, made a
rush, balked himself purposely, and darted at Cashel. There was a
sound like the pop of a champagne-cork, after which Cashel was seen
undisturbed in the middle of the ring, and Paradise, flung against
the ropes and trying to grin at his discomfiture, showed his white
teeth through a mask of blood.

"Beautiful!" cried Skene with emotion. "Beautiful! There ain't but
me and my boy in the world can give the upper cut like that! I wish
I could see my old missis's face now! This is nuts to her."

"Let us go away," said Alice.

"That was a very different blow to any that the gentlemen gave,"
said Lydia, without heeding her, to Lord Worthington. "The man is
bleeding horribly."

"It's only his nose," said Lord Worthington. "He's used to it."

Meanwhile Cashel had followed Paradise to the ropes.

"Now he has him," chuckled Skene. "My boy's got him agin the ropes;
and he means to keep him there. Let him rush now, if he can. See
what it is to have a good judgment."

Mellish shook his head again despondently. The remaining minutes of
the round were unhappy ones for Paradise. He struck viciously at his
opponent's ribs; but Cashel stepped back just out of his reach, and
then returned with extraordinary swiftness and dealt him blows from
which, with the ropes behind him, he had no room to retreat, and
which he was too slow to stop or avoid. His attempts to reach his
enemy's face were greatly to the disadvantage of his own; for
Cashel's blows were never so tremendous as when he turned his head
deftly out of harm's way, and met his advancing foe with a counter
hit. He showed no chivalry and no mercy, and revelled in the
hardness of his hitting; his gloves either resounding on Paradise's
face or seeming to go almost through his body. There was little
semblance to a contest: to Lydia there was nothing discernible but a
cruel assault by an irresistible athlete on a helpless victim. The
better sort among the spectators were disgusted by the sight; for,
as Paradise bled profusely, and as his blood besmeared the gloves
and the gloves besmeared the heads and bodies of both combatants,
they were soon stained with it from their waists upward. The
managers held a whispered consultation as to whether the sparring
exhibition had not better be stopped; but they decided to let it
proceed on seeing the African king, who had watched the whole
entertainment up to the present without displaying the least
interest, now raise his hands and clap them with delight.

"Billy don't look half pleased with hisself," observed Mellish, as
the two boxers sat down. "He looks just like he did when he spiked
Shepstone."

"What does spiking mean?" said Lydia.

"Treading on a man's foot with spiked boots," replied Lord
Worthington. "Don't be alarmed; they have no spikes in their shoes
to-day. It is not my fault that they do such things, Miss Carew.
Really, you make me feel quite criminal when you look at me in that
way."

Time was now called; and the pugilists, who had, by dint of
sponging, been made somewhat cleaner, rose with mechanical
promptitude at the sound, Cashel had hardly advanced two steps when,
though his adversary seemed far out of his reach, he struck him on
the forehead with such force as to stagger him, and then jumped back
laughing. Paradise rushed forward; but Cashel eluded him, and fled
round the ring, looking back derisively over his shoulder. Paradise
now dropped all pretence of good-humor. With an expression of
reckless ferocity, he dashed at Cashel; endured a startling blow
without flinching, and engaged him at close quarters. For a moment
the falling of their blows reminded Lydia of the rush of raindrops
against a pane in a sudden gust of wind. The next moment Cashel was
away; and Paradise, whose blood was again flowing, was trying to
repeat his manoeuvre, to be met this time by a blow that brought him
upon one knee. He had scarcely risen when Cashel sprang at him;
dealt him four blows with dazzling rapidity; drove him once more
against the ropes; but this time, instead of keeping him there, ran
away in the manner of a child at play. Paradise, with foam as well
as blood at his lips, uttered a howl, and tore off his gloves. There
was a shout of protest from the audience; and Cashel, warned by it,
tried to get off his gloves in turn. But Paradise was upon him
before he could accomplish this, and the two men laid hold of one
another amid a great clamor, Lord Worthington and others rising and
excitedly shouting, "Against the rules! No wrestling!" followed by a
roar of indignation as Paradise was seen to seize Cashel's shoulder
in his teeth as they struggled for the throw. Lydia, for the first
time in her life, screamed. Then she saw Cashel, his face fully as
fierce as Paradise's, get his arm about his neck; lift him as a
coal-heaver lifts a sack, and fling him over his back, heels over
head, to the ground, where he instantly dropped on him with his
utmost weight and impetus. The two were at once separated by a crowd
of managers, umpires, policemen, and others who had rushed towards
the ring when Paradise had taken off his gloves. A distracting
wrangle followed. Skene had climbed over the palisade, and was
hurling oaths, threats, and epithets at Paradise, who, unable to
stand without assistance, was trying to lift his leaden eyelids and
realize what had happened to him. A dozen others were trying to bring
him to his senses, remonstrating with him on his conduct, or trying to
pacify Skene. Cashel, on the other side, raged at the managers, who
were reminding him that the rules of glove-fighting did not allow
wrestling and throwing.

"Rules be d---d," Lydia heard him shouting. "He bit me; and I'll
throw him to--" Then everybody spoke at once; and she could only
conjecture where he would throw him to. He seemed to have no
self-control: Paradise, when he came to himself, behaved better.
Lord Worthington descended into the ring and tried to calm the
hubbub; but Cashel shook his hand fiercely from his arm; menaced a
manager who attempted to call him sternly to order; frantically
pounded his wounded shoulder with his clenched fist, and so outswore
and outwrangled them all, that even Skene began to urge that there
had been enough fuss made. Then Lord Worthington whispered a word
more; and Cashel suddenly subsided, pale and ashamed, and sat down
on a chair in his corner as if to hide himself. Five minutes
afterwards, he stepped out from the crowd with Paradise, and shook
hands with him amid much cheering. Cashel was the humbler of the
two. He did not raise his eyes to the balcony once; and he seemed in
a hurry to retire. But he was intercepted by an officer in uniform,
accompanied by a black chief, who came to conduct him to the dais
and present him to the African king; an honor which he was not
permitted to decline.

The king informed him, through an interpreter, that he had been
unspeakably gratified by what he had just witnessed; expressed great
surprise that Cashel, notwithstanding his prowess, was neither in
the army nor in Parliament; and finally offered to provide him with
three handsome wives if he would come out to Africa in his suite.
Cashel was much embarrassed; but he came off with credit, thanks to
the interpreter, who was accustomed to invent appropriate speeches
for the king on public occasions, and was kind enough to invent
equally appropriate ones for Cashel on this.

Meanwhile, Lord Worthington had returned to his place. "It is all
settled now," he said to Lydia. "Byron shut up when I told him his
aristocratic friends were looking at him; and Paradise has been so
bullied that he is crying in a corner down-stairs. He has
apologized; but he still maintains that he can beat our mutual
friend without the gloves; and his backers apparently think so too,
for it is understood that they are to fight in the autumn for a
thousand a side."

"To fight! Then he has no intention of giving up his profession?"

"No!" said Lord Worthington, astonished. "Why on earth should he
give it up? Paradise's money is as good as in his pocket. You have
seen what he can do."

"I have seen enough. Alice, I am ready to go as soon as you are."

Early in the following week Miss Carew returned to Wiltstoken. Miss
Goff remained in London to finish the season in charge of a friendly
lady who, having married off all her own daughters, was willing to
set to work again to marry Alice sooner than remain idle.






CHAPTER XI





Alice was more at her ease during the remnant of the London season.
Though she had been proud of her connection with Lydia, she had
always felt eclipsed in her presence; and now that Lydia was gone,
the pride remained and the sense of inferiority was forgotten. Her
freedom emboldened and improved her. She even began to consider her
own judgment a safer guide in the affairs of every day than the
example of her patroness. Had she not been right in declaring Cashel
Byron an ignorant and common man when Lydia, in spite of her
warning, had actually invited him to visit them? And now all the
newspapers were confirming the opinion she had been trying to
impress on Lydia for months past. On the evening of the
assault-at-arms, the newsmen had shouted through the streets,
"Disgraceful scene between two pugilists at Islington in the
presence of the African king." Next day the principal journals
commented on the recent attempt to revive the brutal pastime of
prize-fighting; accused the authorities of conniving at it, and
called on them to put it down at once with a strong hand. "Unless,"
said a clerical organ, "this plague-spot be rooted out from our
midst, it will no longer be possible for our missionaries to pretend
that England is the fount of the Gospel of Peace." Alice collected
these papers, and forwarded them to Wiltstoken.

On this subject one person at least shared her bias. Whenever she
met Lucian Webber, they talked about Cashel, invariably coming to
the conclusion that though the oddity of his behavior had gratified
Lydia's unfortunate taste for eccentricity, she had never regarded
him with serious interest, and would not now, under any
circumstances, renew her intercourse with him. Lucian found little
solace in these conversations, and generally suffered from a vague
sense of meanness after them. Yet next time they met he would drift
into discussing Cashel over again; and he always rewarded Alice for
the admirable propriety of her views by dancing at least three times
with her when dancing was the business of the evening. The dancing
was still less congenial than the conversation. Lucian, who had at
all times too much of the solemnity of manner for which Frenchmen
reproach Englishmen, danced stiffly and unskilfully. Alice, whose
muscular power and energy were superior to anything of the kind that
Mr. Mellish could artificially produce, longed for swift motion and
violent exercise, and, even with an expert partner, could hardly
tame herself to the quietude of dancing as practised in London. When
waltzing with Lucian she felt as though she were carrying a stick
round the room in the awkward fashion in which Punch carries his
baton. In spite of her impression that he was a man of unusually
correct morals and great political importance, and greatly to be
considered in private life because he was Miss Carew's cousin, it
was hard to spend quarter-hours with him that some of the best
dancers in London asked for.

She began to tire of the subject of Cashel and Lydia. She began to
tire of Lucian's rigidity. She began to tire exceedingly of the
vigilance she had to maintain constantly over her own manners and
principles. Somehow, this vigilance defeated itself; for she one
evening overheard a lady of rank speak of her as a stuck-up country
girl. The remark gave her acute pain: for a week afterwards she did
not utter a word or make a movement in society without first
considering whether it could by any malicious observer be considered
rustic or stuck-up. But the more she strove to attain perfect
propriety of demeanor, the more odious did she seem to herself, and,
she inferred, to others. She longed for Lydia's secret of always
doing the right thing at the right moment, even when defying
precedent. Sometimes she blamed the dulness of the people she met
for her shortcomings. It was impossible not to be stiff with them.
When she chatted with an entertaining man, who made her laugh and
forget herself for a while, she was conscious afterwards of having
been at her best with him. But she saw others who, in stupid
society, were pleasantly at their ease. She began to fear at last
that she was naturally disqualified by her comparatively humble
birth from acquiring the well-bred air for which she envied those
among whom she moved.

One day she conceived a doubt whether Lucian was so safe an
authority and example in matters of personal deportment as she had
hitherto unthinkingly believed. He could not dance; his conversation
was priggish; it was impossible to feel at ease when speaking to him.
Was it courageous to stand in awe of his opinion? Was it courageous
to stand in awe of anybody? Alice closed her lips proudly and began to
be defiant. Then a reminiscence, which had never before failed to
rouse indignation in her, made her laugh. She recalled the
scandalous spectacle of Lucian's formal perpendicularity
overbalanced and doubled up into Mrs. Hoskyn's gilded arm-chair in
illustration of the prize-fighter's theory of effort defeating
itself. After all, what was that caressing touch of Cashel's hand in
comparison with the tremendous rataplan he had beaten on the ribs of
Paradise? Could it be true that effort defeated itself--in personal
behavior, for instance? A ray of the truth that underlay Cashel's
grotesque experiment was flickering in her mind as she asked herself
that question. She thought a good deal about it; and one afternoon,
when she looked in at four at-homes in succession, she studied the
behavior of the other guests from a new point of view, comparing the
most mannered with the best mannered, and her recent self with both.
The result half convinced her that she had been occupied during her
first London season in displaying, at great pains, a very unripe
self-consciousness--or, as she phrased it, in making an insufferable
fool of herself.

Shortly afterwards, she met Lucian at a cinderella, or dancing-party
concluding at midnight. He came at eleven, and, as usual, gravely
asked whether he might have the pleasure of dancing with her. This
form of address he never varied. To his surprise, she made some
difficulty about granting the favor, and eventually offered him "the
second extra." He bowed. Before he could resume a vertical position
a young man came up, remarked that he thought this was his turn, and
bore Alice away. Lucian smiled indulgently, thinking that though
Alice's manners were wonderfully good, considering her antecedents,
yet she occasionally betrayed a lower tone than that which he sought
to exemplify in his own person.

"I wish you would learn to reverse," said Alice unexpectedly to him,
when they had gone round the room twice to the strains of the second
extra.

"I DO reverse," he said, taken aback, and a little indignant.

"Everybody does--that way."

This silenced him for a moment. Then he said, slowly, "Perhaps I am
rather out of practice. I am not sure that reversing is quite
desirable. Many people consider it bad form."

When they stopped--Alice was always willing to rest during a waltz
with Lucian--he asked her whether she had heard from Lydia.

"You always ask me that," she replied. "Lydia never writes except
when she has something particular to say, and then only a few
lines."

"Precisely. But she might have had something particular to say since
we last met."

"She hasn't had," said Alice, provoked by an almost arch smile from
him.

"She will be glad to hear that I have at last succeeded in
recovering possession of the Warren Lodge from its undesirable
tenants."

"I thought they went long ago," said Alice, indifferently.

"The men have not been there for a month or more. The difficulty was
to get them to remove their property. However, we are rid of them
now. The only relic of their occupation is a Bible with half the
pages torn out, and the rest scrawled with records of bets, recipes
for sudorific and other medicines, and a mass of unintelligible
memoranda. One inscription, in faded ink, runs, 'To Robert Mellish,
from his affectionate mother, with her sincere hope that he may ever
walk in the ways of this book.' I am afraid that hope was not
fulfilled."

"How wicked of him to tear a Bible!" said Alice, seriously. Then she
laughed, and added, "I know I shouldn't; but I can't help it."

"The incident strikes me rather as being pathetic," said Lucian, who
liked to show that he was not deficient in sensibility. "One can
picture the innocent faith of the poor woman in her boy's future,
and so forth."

"Inscriptions in books are like inscriptions on tombstones," said
Alice, disparagingly. "They don't mean much."

"I am glad that these men have no further excuse for going to
Wiltstoken. It was certainly most unfortunate that Lydia should have
made the acquaintance of one of them."

"So you have said at least fifty times," replied Alice,
deliberately. "I believe you are jealous of that poor boxer."

Lucian became quite red. Alice trembled at her own audacity, but
kept a bold front.

"Really--it's too absurd," he said, betraying his confusion by
assuming a carelessness quite foreign to his normal manner. "In what
way could I possibly be jealous, Miss Goff?"

"That is best known to yourself."

Lucian now saw plainly that there was a change in Alice, and that he
had lost ground with her. The smarting of his wounded vanity
suddenly obliterated his impression that she was, in the main, a
well-conducted and meritorious young woman. But in its place came
another impression that she was a spoiled beauty. And, as he was by
no means fondest of the women whose behavior accorded best with his
notions of propriety, he found, without at once acknowledging to
himself, that the change was not in all respects a change for the
worse. Nevertheless, he could not forgive her last remark, though he
took care not to let her see how it stung him.

"I am afraid I should cut a poor figure in an encounter with my
rival," he said, smiling.

"Call him out and shoot him," said Alice, vivaciously. "Very likely
he does not know how to use a pistol."

He smiled again; but had Alice known how seriously he entertained
her suggestion for some moments before dismissing it as
impracticable, she would not have offered it. Putting a bullet into
Cashel struck him rather as a luxury which he could not afford than
as a crime. Meanwhile, Alice, being now quite satisfied that this
Mr. Webber, on whom she had wasted so much undeserved awe, might be
treated as inconsiderately as she used to treat her beaux at
Wiltstoken, proceeded to amuse herself by torturing him a little.

"It is odd," she said, reflectively, "that a common man like that
should be able to make himself so very attractive to Lydia. It was
not because he was such a fine man; for she does not care in the
least about that. I don't think she would give a second look at the
handsomest man in London, she is so purely intellectual. And yet she
used to delight in talking to him."

"Oh, that is a mistake. Lydia has a certain manner which leads
people to believe that she is deeply interested in the person she
happens to be speaking to; But it is only manner--it means nothing."

"I know that manner of hers perfectly well. But this was something
quite different."

Lucian shook his head reproachfully. "I cannot jest on so serious a
matter," he said, resolving to make the attempt to re-establish his
dignity with Alice. "I think, Miss Groff, that you perhaps hardly
know how absurd your supposition is. There are not many men of
distinction in Europe with whom my cousin is not personally
acquainted. A very young girl, who had seen little of the world,
might possibly be deceived by the exterior of such a man as Byron. A
woman accustomed to associate with writers, thinkers, artists,
statesmen, and diplomatists could make no such mistake. No doubt the
man's vulgarity and uncouth address amused her for a moment; but--"

"But why did she ask him to come to her Friday afternoons?"

"A mere civility which she extended to him because he assisted her
in some difficulty she got into in the streets."

"She might as well have asked a policeman to come to see her. I
don't believe that was it."

Lucian at that moment hated Alice. "I am sorry you think such a
thing possible," he said. "Shall we resume our waltz?"

Alice was not yet able to bear an implication that she did not
understand society sufficiently to appreciate the distance between
Lydia and Cashel.

"Of course I know it is impossible," she said, in her old manner. "I
did not mean it."

Lucian found some difficulty in gathering from this what she did
mean; and they presently took refuge in waltzing. Subsequently,
Alice, fearing that her new lights had led her too far, drew back a
little; led the conversation to political matters, and expressed her
amazement at the extent and variety of the work he performed in
Downing Street. He accepted her compliments with perfect
seriousness; and she felt satisfied that she had, on the whole,
raised herself in his esteem by her proceedings during the evening.
But she was mistaken. She knew nothing of politics or official work,
and he knew the worthlessness of her pretended admiration of his
share in them, although he felt that it was right that she should
revere his powers from the depths of her ignorance. What stuck like
a burr in his mind was that she thought him small enough to be
jealous of the poor boxer, and found his dancing awkward.