Lydia leaned back in her chair and looked at Mrs. Skene with a
curious expression which soon brightened into an irrepressible
smile. Mrs. Skene smiled very slightly in complaisance, but conveyed
by her serious brow that what she had said was no laughing matter.

"I must take some time to consider all that you have so eloquently
urged," said Lydia. "I am in earnest, Mrs. Skene; you have produced
a great effect upon me. Now let us talk of something else for the
present. Your daughter is quite well, I hope."

"Thank you kindly, ma'am, she enjoys her health."

"And you also?"

"I am as well as can be expected," said Mrs. Skene, too fond of
commiseration to admit that she was perfectly well.

"You must have a rare sense of security," said Lydia, watching her,
"being happily married to so celebrated a--a professor of boxing as
Mr. Skene. Is it not pleasant to have a powerful protector?"

"Ah, miss, you little know," exclaimed Mrs. Skene, falling into the
trap baited by her own grievances, and losing sight of Cashel's
interests. "The fear of his getting into trouble is never off my
mind. Ned is quietness itself until he has a drop of drink in him;
and then he is like the rest--ready to fight the first that provokes
him. And if the police get hold of him he has no chance. There's no
justice for a fighting man. Just let it be said that he's a
professional, and that's enough for the magistrate; away with him to
prison, and good-by to his pupils and his respectability at once.
That's what I live in terror of. And as to being protected, I'd let
myself be robbed fifty times over sooner than say a word to him that
might bring on a quarrel. Many a time when we were driving home of a
night have I overpaid the cabman on the sly, afraid he would grumble
and provoke Ned. It's the drink that does it all. Gentlemen are
proud to be seen speaking with him in public; and they come up one
after another asking what he'll have, until the next thing he knows
is that he's in bed with his boots on, his wrist sprained, and maybe
his eye black, trying to remember what he was doing the night
before. What I suffered the first three years of our marriage none
can tell. Then he took the pledge, and ever since that he's been
very good--I haven't seen him what you could fairly call drunk, not
more than three times a year. It was the blessing of God, and a
beating he got from a milkman in Westminster, that made him ashamed
of himself. I kept him to it and made him emigrate out of the way of
his old friends. Since that, there has been a blessing on him; and
we've prospered."

"Is Cashel quarrelsome?"

At the tone of this question Mrs. Skene suddenly realized the
untimeliness of her complaints. "No, no," she protested. "He never
drinks; and as to fighting, if you can believe such a thing, miss, I
don't think he has had a casual turnup three times in his life--not
oftener, at any rate. All he wants is to be married; and then he'll
be steady to his grave. But if he's left adrift now, Lord knows what
will become of him. He'll mope first--he's moping at present--then
he'll drink; then he'll lose his pupils, get out of condition, be
beaten, and--One word from you, miss, would save him. If I might
just tell him--"

"Nothing," said Lydia. "Absolutely nothing. The only assurance I
can give you is that you have softened the hard opinion that I had
formed of some of his actions. But that I should marry Mr. Cashel
Byron is simply the most improbable thing in the world. All
questions of personal inclination apart, the mere improbability is
enough in itself to appal an ordinary woman."

Mrs. Skene did not quite understand this; but she understood
sufficiently for her purpose. She rose to go, shaking her head
despondently, and saying, "I see how it is, ma'am. You think him
beneath you. Your relations wouldn't like it."

"There is no doubt that my relatives would be greatly shocked; and I
am bound to take that into account for--what it is worth."

"We should never trouble you," said Mrs. Skene, lingering. "England
will see the last of us in a month of two."

"That will make no difference to me, except that I shall regret not
being able to have a pleasant chat with you occasionally." This was
not true; but Lydia fancied she was beginning to take a hardened
delight in lying.

Mrs. Skene was not to be consoled by compliments. She again shook
her head. "It is very kind of you to give me good words, miss," she
said; "but if I might have one for the boy you could say what you
liked to me."

Lydia considered far before she replied. At last she said, "I am
sorry I spoke harshly to him, since, driven as he was by
circumstances, I cannot see how he could have acted otherwise than
he did. And I overlooked the economic conditions of his profession.
In short, I am not used to fisticuffs; and what I saw shocked me so
much that I was unreasonable. But," continued Lydia, checking Mrs.
Skene's rising hope with a warning finger, "how, if you tell him
this, will you make him understand that I say so as an act of
justice, and not in the least as a proffer of affection?"

"A crumb of comfort will satisfy him, miss. I'll just tell him that
I've seen you, and that you meant nothing by what you said the other
day; and--"

"Mrs. Skene," said Lydia, interrupting her softly; "tell him nothing
at all as yet. I have made up my mind at last. If he does not hear
from me within a fortnight you may tell him what you please. Can you
wait so long?"

"Of course. Whatever you wish, ma'am. But Mellish's benefit is to be
to-morrow night; and--"

"What have I to do with Mellish or his benefit?"

Mrs. Skene, abashed, murmured apologetically that she was only
wishful that the boy should do himself credit.

"If he is to benefit Mellish by beating somebody, he will not be
behindhand. Remember you are not to mention me for a fortnight. Is
that a bargain?"

"Whatever you wish, ma'am," repeated Mrs. Skene, hardly satisfied.
But Lydia gave her no further comfort; so she begged to take her
leave, expressing a hope that things would turn out to the advantage
of all parties. Then Lydia insisted on her partaking of some solid
refreshment, and afterwards drove her to the railway station in the
pony-carriage. Just before they parted Lydia, suddenly recurring to
their former subject, said,

"Does Mr. Byron ever THINK?"

"Think!" said Mrs. Skene emphatically. "Never. There isn't a more
cheerful lad in existence, miss."

Then Mrs. Skene was carried away to London, wondering whether it
could be quite right for a young lady to live in a gorgeous castle
without any elder of her own sex, and to speak freely and civilly to
her inferiors. When she got home she said nothing of her excursion
to Mr. Skene, in whose disposition valor so entirely took the place
of discretion that he had never been known to keep a secret except
as to the whereabouts of a projected fight. But she sat up late with
her daughter Fanny, tantalizing her by accounts of the splendor of
the castle, and consoling her by describing Miss Carew as a slight
creature with red hair and no figure (Fanny having jet black hair,
fine arms, and being one of Cashel's most proficient pupils).

"All the same, Fan," added Mrs. Skene, as she took her candlestick
at two in the morning, "if it comes off, Cashel will never be master
in his own house."

"I can see that very plain," said Fanny; "but if respectable
professional people are not good enough for him, he will have only
himself to thank if he gets himself looked down upon by empty-headed
swells."

Meanwhile, Lydia, on her return to the castle after a long drive
round the country, had attempted to overcome an attack of
restlessness by setting to work on the biography of her father. With
a view to preparing a chapter on his taste in literature she had
lately been examining his favorite books for marked passages. She
now resumed this search, not setting methodically to work, but
standing perched on the library ladder, taking down volume after
volume, and occasionally dipping into the contents for a few pages
or so. At this desultory work the time passed as imperceptibly as
the shadows lengthened. The last book she examined was a volume of
poems. There were no marks in it; but it opened at a page which had
evidently lain open often before. The first words Lydia saw were
these:

"What would I give for a heart of flesh to warm me through Instead
of this heart of stone ice-cold whatever I do; Hard and cold and
small, of all hearts the worst of all."

Lydia hastily stepped down from the ladder, and recoiled until she
reached a chair, where she sat and read and reread these lines. The
failing light roused her to action. She replaced the book on the
shelf, and said, as she went to the writing-table, "If such a doubt
as that haunted my father it will haunt me, unless I settle what is
to be my heart's business now and forever. If it be possible for a
child of mine to escape this curse of autovivisection, it must
inherit its immunity from its father, and not from me--from the man
of emotion who never thinks, and not from the woman of
introspection, who cannot help thinking. Be it so."






CHAPTER XIV





Before many days had elapsed a letter came for Cashel as he sat
taking tea with the Skene family. When he saw the handwriting, a
deep red color mounted to his temples.

"Oh, Lor'!" said Miss Skene, who sat next him. "Let's read it."

"Go to the dickens," cried Cashel, hastily baffling her as she
snatched at it.

"Don't worrit him, Fan," said Mrs. Skene, tenderly.

"Not for the world, poor dear," said Miss Skene, putting her hand
affectionately on his shoulder. "Let me just peep at the name--to
see who it's from. Do, Cashel, DEAR."

"It's from nobody," said Cashel. "Here, get out. If you don't let me
alone I'll make it warm for you the next time you come to me for a
lesson."

"Very likely," said Fanny, contemptuously. "Who had the best of it
to-day, I should like to know?"

"Gev' him a hot un on the chin with her right as ever I see,"
observed Skene, with hoarse mirth.

Cashel went away from the table, out of Fanny's reach; and read the
letter, which ran thus:

"Regent's Park. "Dear Mr. Cashel Byron,--I am desirous that you
should meet a lady friend of mine. She will be here at three o'clock
to-morrow afternoon. You would oblige me greatly by calling on me at
that hour.

"Yours faithfully,

"Lydia Carew."

There was a long pause, during which there was no sound in the room
except the ticking of the clock and the munching of shrimps by the
ex-champion.

"Good news, I hope, Cashel," said Mrs. Skene, at last, tremulously.

"Blow me if I understand it," said Cashel. "Can you make it out?"
And he handed the letter to his adopted mother. Skene ceased eating
to see his wife read, a feat which was to him one of the wonders of
science.

"I think the lady she mentions must be herself," said Mrs. Skene,
after some consideration.

"No," said Cashel, shaking his head. "She always says what she
means."

"Ah," said Skene, cunningly; "but she can't write it though. That's
the worst of writing; no one can't never tell exactly what it means.
I never signed articles yet that there weren't some misunderstanding
about; and articles is the best writing that can be had anywhere."

"You'd better go and see what it means," said Mrs. Skene.

"Right," said Skene. "Go and have it out with her, my boy."

"It is short, and not particularly sweet," said Fanny. "She might
have had the civility to put her crest at the top."

"What would you give to be her?" said Cashel, derisively, catching
the letter as she tossed it disdainfully to him.

"If I was I'd respect myself more than to throw myself at YOUR
head."

"Hush, Fanny," said Mrs. Skene; "you're too sharp. Ned, you oughtn't
to encourage her by laughing."

Next day Cashel rose early, went for a walk, paid extra attention to
his diet, took some exercise with the gloves, had a bath and a rub
down, and presented himself at Regent's Park at three o'clock in
excellent condition. Expecting to see Bashville, he was surprised
when the door was opened by a female servant.

"Miss Carew at home?"

"Yes, sir," said the girl, falling in love with him at first sight.
"Mr. Byron, sir?"

"That's me," said Cashel. "I say, is there any one with her?"

"Only a lady, sir."

"Oh, d--n! Well, it can't be helped. Never say die."

The girl led him then to a door, opened it, and when he entered shut
it softly without announcing him. The room in which he found himself
was a long one, lighted from the roof. The walls were hung with
pictures. At the far end, with their backs towards him, were two
ladies: Lydia, and a woman whose noble carriage and elegant form
would, have raised hopes of beauty in a man less preoccupied than
Cashel. But he, after advancing some distance with his eyes on
Lydia, suddenly changed countenance, stopped, and was actually
turning to fly, when the ladies, hearing his light step, faced about
and rooted him to the spot. As Lydia offered him her hand, her
companion, who had surveyed the visitor first with indifference, and
then with incredulous surprise, exclaimed, with a burst of delighted
recognition, like a child finding a long-lost plaything, "My darling
boy!" And going to Cashel with the grace of a swan, she clasped him
in her arms. In acknowledgment of which he thrust his red,
discomfited face over her shoulder, winked at Lydia with his tongue
in his cheek, and said,

"This is what you may call the voice of nature, and no mistake."

"What a splendid creature you are!" said Mrs. Byron, holding him a
little way from her, the better to admire him. "Do you know how
handsome you are, you wretch?"

"How d'ye do, Miss Carew," said Cashel, breaking loose, and turning
to Lydia. "Never mind her; it's only my mother. At least," he added,
as if correcting himself, "she's my mamma."

"And where have you come from? Where have you been? Do you know that
I have not seen you for seven years, you unnatural boy? Think of his
being my son, Miss Carew. Give me another kiss, my own," she
continued, grasping his arm affectionately.

"What a muscular creature you are!"

"Kiss away as much as you like," said Cashel, struggling with the
old school-boy sullenness as it returned oppressively upon him. "I
suppose you're well. You look right enough."

"Yes," she said, mockingly, beginning to despise him for his
inability to act up to her in this thrilling scene; "I AM right
enough. Your language is as refined as ever. And why do you get your
hair cropped close like that? You must let it grow, and--"

"Now, look here," said Cashel, stopping her hand neatly as she
raised it to rearrange his locks. "You just drop it, or I'll walk
out at that door and you won't see me again for another seven years.
You can either take me as you find me, or let me alone. Absalom and
Dan Mendoza came to grief through wearing their hair long, and I am
going to wear mine short."

Mrs. Byron became a shade colder. "Indeed!" she said. "Just the same
still, Cashel?"

"Just the same, both one and other of us," he replied. "Before you
spoke six words I felt as if we'd parted only yesterday."

"I am rather taken aback by the success of my experiment,"
interposed Lydia. "I invited you purposely to meet one another. The
resemblance between you led me to suspect the truth, and my
suspicion was confirmed by the account Mr. Byron gave me of his
adventures."

Mrs. Byron's vanity was touched. "Is he like me?" she said, scanning
his features. He, without heeding her, said to Lydia with
undisguised mortification,

"And was THAT why you sent for me?"

"Are you disappointed?" said Lydia.

"He is not in the least glad to see me," said Mrs. Byron,
plaintively. "He has no heart."

"Now she'll go on for the next hour," said Cashel, looking to Lydia,
obviously because he found it much pleasanter than looking at his
mother. "However, if you don't care, I don't. So, fire away, mamma."

"And you think we are really like one another?" said Mrs. Byron, not
heeding him. "Yes; I think we are. There is a certain--Are you
married, Cashel?" with sudden mistrust.

"Ha! ha! ha!" shouted Cashel. "No; but I hope to be, some day," he
added, venturing to glance again at Lydia, who was, however,
attentively observing Mrs. Byron.

"Well, tell me everything about yourself. What are you? Now, I do
hope, Cashel, that you have not gone upon the stage."

"The stage!" said Cashel, contemptuously. "Do I look like it?"

"You certainly do not," said Mrs. Byron, whimsically--"although you
have a certain odious professional air, too. What did you do when
you ran away so scandalously from that stupid school in the north?
How do you earn your living? Or DO you earn it?"

"I suppose I do, unless I am fed by ravens, as Elijah was. What do
you think I was best fitted for by my education and bringing up?
Sweep a crossing, perhaps! When I ran away from Panley, I went to
sea."

"A sailor, of all things! You don't look like one. And pray, what
rank have you attained in your profession?"

"The front rank. The top of the tree," said Cashel, shortly.

"Mr. Byron is not at present following the profession of a sailor;
nor has he done so for many years," said Lydia.

Cashel looked at her, half in appeal, half in remonstrance.

"Something very different, indeed," pursued Lydia, with quiet
obstinacy. "And something very startling."

"CAN'T you shut up?" exclaimed Cashel. "I should have expected more
sense from you. What's the use of setting her on to make a fuss and
put me in a rage? I'll go away if you don't stop."

"What is the matter?" said Mrs. Byron. "Have you been doing anything
disgraceful, Cashel?"

"There she goes. I told you so. I keep a gymnasium, that's all.
There's nothing disgraceful in that, I hope."

"A gymnasium?" repeated Mrs. Byron, with imperious disgust. "What
nonsense! You must give up everything of that kind, Cashel. It is
very silly, and very low. You were too ridiculously proud, of
course, to come to me for the means of keeping yourself in a proper
position. I suppose I shall have to provide you with--"

"If I ever take a penny from you, may I--" Cashel caught Lydia's
anxious look, and checked himself. He paused and got away a step, a
cunning smile flickering on his lips. "No," he said; "it's just
playing into your hands to lose temper with you. You think you know
me, and you want to force the fighting. Well, we'll see. Make me
angry now if you can."

"There is not the slightest reason for anger," said Mrs. Byron,
angry herself. "Your temper seems to have become ungovernable--or,
rather, to have remained so; for it was never remarkable for
sweetness."

"No," retorted Cashel, jeering good-humoredly. "Not the slightest
occasion to lose my temper! Not when I am told that I am silly and
low! Why, I think you must fancy that you're talking to your little
Cashel, that blessed child you were so fond of. But you're not.
You're talking--now for a screech, Miss Carew!--to the champion of
Australia, the United States, and England, holder of three silver
belts and one gold one (which you can have to wear in 'King John' if
you think it'll become you); professor of boxing to the nobility and
gentry of St. James's, and common prize-fighter to the whole globe,
without reference to weight or color, for not less than five hundred
pounds a side. That's Cashel Byron."

Mrs. Byron recoiled, astounded. After a pause she said, "Oh, Cashel,
how COULD you?" Then, approaching him again, "Do you mean to say
that you go out and fight those great rough savages?"

"Yes, I do."

"And that you BEAT them?"

"Yes. Ask Miss Carew how Billy Paradise looked after standing before
me for an hour."

"You wonderful boy! What an occupation! And you have done all this
in your own name?"

"Of course I have. I am not ashamed of it. I often wondered whether
you had seen my name in the papers."

"I never read the papers. But you must have heard of my return to
England. Why did you not come to see me?"

"I wasn't quite certain that you would like it," said Cashel,
uneasily, avoiding her eye. "Hullo!" he exclaimed, as he attempted
to refresh himself by another look at Lydia, "she's given us the
slip."

"She is quite right to leave us alone together under the
circumstances. And now tell me why my precious boy should doubt that
his own mother wished to see him."

"I don't know why he should," said Cashel, with melancholy
submission to her affection. "But he did."

"How insensible you are! Did you not know that you were always my
cherished darling--my only son?"

Cashel, who was now sitting beside her on an ottoman, groaned and
moved restlessly, but said nothing.

"Are you glad to see me?"

"Yes," said Cashel, dismally, "I suppose I am. I--By Jingo," he
cried, with sudden animation, "perhaps you can give me a lift here.
I never thought of that. I say, mamma; I am in great trouble at
present, and I think you can help me if you will."

Mrs. Byron looked at him satirically. But she said, soothingly, "Of
course I will help you--as far as I am able--my precious one. All I
possess is yours."

Cashel ground his feet on the floor impatiently, and then sprang up.
After an interval, during which he seemed to be swallowing some
indignant protest, he said,

"You may put your mind at rest, once and for all, on the subject of
money. I don't want anything of that sort."

"I am glad you are so independent, Cashel."

"So am I."

"Do, pray, be more amiable."

"I am amiable enough," he cried, desperately, "only you won't
listen."

"My treasure," said Mrs. Byron, remorsefully. "What is the matter?"

"Well," said Cashel, somewhat mollified, "it is this. I want to
marry Miss Carew; that's all."

"YOU marry Miss Carew!" Mrs. Byron's tenderness had vanished, and
her tone was shrewd and contemptuous. "Do you know, you silly boy,
that--"

"I know all about it," said Cashel, determinedly--"what she is, and
what I am, and the rest of it. And I want to marry her; and, what's
more, I will marry her, if I have to break the neck of every swell
in London first. So you can either help me or not, as you please;
but if you won't, never call me your precious boy any more. Now!"

Mrs. Byron abdicated her dominion there and then forever. She sat
with quite a mild expression for some time in silence. Then she
said,

"After all, I do not see why you should not. It would be a very good
match for you."

"Yes; but a deuced bad one for her."

"Really, I do not see that, Cashel. When your uncle dies, I suppose
you will succeed to the Dorsetshire property."

"I the heir to a property! Are you in earnest?"

"Of course. Don't you know who your people are?"

"How could I? You never told me. Do you mean to say that I have an
uncle?"

"Old Bingley Byron? Certainly."

"Well, I AM blowed. But--but--I mean--Supposing he IS my uncle, am
I his lawful heir?"

"Yes. Walford Byron, the only other brother of your father, died
years ago, while you were at Moncrief's; and he had no sons. Bingley
is a bachelor."

"But," said Cashel, cautiously, "won't there be some bother about
my--at least--"

"My dearest child, what are you thinking or talking about? Nothing
can be clearer than your title."

"Well," said Cashel, blushing, "a lot of people used to make out
that you weren't married at all."

"What!" exclaimed Mrs. Byron, indignantly. "Oh, they DARE not say
so! Impossible. Why did you not tell me at once?"

"I didn't think about it," said Cashel, hastily excusing himself. "I
was too young to care. It doesn't matter now. My father is dead,
isn't he?"

"He died when you were a baby. You have often made me angry with
you, poor little innocent, by reminding me of him. Do not talk of
him to me."

"Not if you don't wish. Just one thing, though, mamma. Was he a
gentleman?"

"Of course. What a question!"

"Then I am as good as any of the swells that think themselves her
equals? She has a cousin in the government office; a fellow who
gives out that he is the home secretary, and most likely sits in a
big chair in a hall and cheeks the public. Am I as good as he is?"

"You are perfectly well connected by your mother's side, Cashel. The
Byrons are only commoners; but even they are one of the oldest
county families in England."

Cashel began to show signs of excitement. "How much a year are they
worth?" he demanded.

"I do not know how much they are worth now. Your father was always
in difficulties, and so was his father. But Bingley is a miser. Five
thousand a year, perhaps."

"That's an independence. That's enough. She said she couldn't expect
a man to be so thunderingly rich as she is."

"Indeed? Then you have discussed the question with her?"

Cashel was about to speak, when a servant entered to say that Miss
Carew was in the library, and begged that they would come to her as
soon as they were quite disengaged. When the maid withdrew he said,
eagerly,

"I wish you'd go home, mamma, and let me catch her in the library by
herself. Tell me where you live, and I'll come in the evening and
tell you all about it. That is, if you have no objection."

"What objection could I possibly have, dearest one? Are you sure
that you are not spoiling your chance by too much haste? She has no
occasion to hurry, Cashel, and she knows it."

"I am dead certain that now is my time or never. I always know by
instinct when to go in and finish. Here's your mantle."

"In such a hurry to get rid of your poor old mother, Cashel?"

"Oh, bother! you're not old. You won't mind my wanting you to go for
this once, will you?"

She smiled affectionately, put on her mantle, and turned her cheek
towards him to be kissed. The unaccustomed gesture alarmed him; he
retreated a step, and involuntary assumed an attitude of
self-defence, as if the problem before him were a pugilistic one.
Recovering himself immediately, he kissed her, and impatiently
accompanied her to the house door, which he closed softly behind
her, leaving her to walk in search of her carriage alone. Then he
stole up-stairs to the library, where he found Lydia reading.

"She's gone," he said.

Lydia put down her book, looked up at him, saw what was coming,
looked down again to hide a spasm of terror, and said, with a steady
severity that cost her a great effort, "I hope you have not
quarrelled."

"Lord bless you, no! We kissed one another like turtle-doves. At odd
moments she wheedles me into feeling fond of her in spite of myself.
She went away because I asked her to."

"And why do you ask my guests to go away?"

"Because I wanted to be alone with you. Don't look as if you didn't
understand. She's told me a whole heap of things about myself that
alter our affairs completely. My birth is all right; I'm heir to a
county family that came over with the Conqueror, and I shall have a
decent income. I can afford to give away weight to old Webber now."

"Well," said Lydia, sternly.

"Well," said Cashel, unabashed, "the only use of all that to me is
that I may marry if I like. No more fighting or teaching now."

"And when you are married, will you be as tender to your wife as you
are to your mother?"

Cashel's elation vanished. "I knew you'd think that," he said. "I am
always the same with her; I can't help it. She makes me look like a
fool, or like a brute. Have I ever been so with you?"

"Yes," said Lydia. "Except," she added, "that you have never shown
absolute dislike to me."

"Ah! EXCEPT! That's a very big except. But I don't dislike her.
Blood is thicker than water, and I have a softness for her; only I
won't put up with her nonsense. But it's different with you. I don't
know how to say it; I'm not good at sentiment--not that there's any
sentiment about it. At least, I don't mean that; but--You're fond
of me in a sort of way, ain't you?"

"Yes; I'm fond of you in a sort of way."

"Well, then," he said, uneasily, "won't you marry me? I'm not such a
fool as you think; and you'll like me better after a while."

Lydia became very pale. "Have you considered," she said, "that
henceforth you will be an idle man, and that I shall always be a
busy woman, preoccupied with the work that may seem very dull to
you?"

"I won't be idle. There's lots of things I can do besides boxing.
We'll get on together, never fear. People that are fond of one
another never have any difficulty; and people that hate each other
never have any comfort. I'll be on the lookout to make you happy.
You needn't fear my interrupting your Latin and Greek: I won't
expect you to give up your whole life to me. Why should I? There's
reason in everything. So long as you are mine, and nobody else's,
I'll be content. And I'll be yours and nobody else's. What's the use
of supposing half a dozen accidents that may never happen? Let's
sign reasonable articles, and then take our chance. You have too
much good-nature ever to be nasty."

"It would be a hard bargain," she said, doubtfully; "for you would
have to give up your occupation; and I should give up nothing but my
unfruitful liberty."

"I will swear never to fight again; and you needn't swear anything.
If that is not an easy bargain, I don't know what is."

"Easy for me, yes. But for you?"

"Never mind me. You do whatever you like; and I'll do whatever you
like. You have a conscience; so I know that whatever you like will
be the best thing. I have the most science; but you have the most
sense. Come!"

Lydia looked around, as if for a means of escape. Cashel waited
anxiously. There was a long pause.

"It can't be," he said, pathetically, "that you are afraid of me
because I was a prize-fighter."

"Afraid of you! No: I am afraid of myself; afraid of the future;
afraid FOR you. But my mind is already made up on this subject. When
I brought about this meeting between you and your mother I
determined to marry you if you asked me again."

She stood up, quietly, and waited. The rough hardihood of the ring
fell from him like a garment: he blushed deeply, and did not know
what to do. Nor did she; but without willing it she came a step
closer to him, and turned up her face towards his. He, nearly blind
with confusion, put his arms about her and kissed her. Suddenly she
broke loose from his arms, seized the lapels of his coat tightly in
her hands, and leaned back until she nearly hung from him with all
her weight.

"Cashel," she said, "we are the silliest lovers in the world, I
believe--we know nothing about it. Are you really fond of me?"

She recovered herself immediately, and made no further demonstration
of the kind. He remained shy, and was so evidently anxious to go,
that she presently asked him to leave her for a while, though she
was surprised to feel a faint pang of disappointment when he
consented.

On leaving the house he hurried to the address which his mother had
given him: a prodigious building in Westminster, divided into
residential flats, to the seventh floor of which he ascended in a
lift. As he stepped from it he saw Lucian Webber walking away from
him along a corridor. Obeying a sudden impulse, he followed, and
overtook him just as he was entering a room. Lucian, finding that
some one was resisting his attempt to close the door, looked out,
recognized Cashel, turned white, and hastily retreated into the
apartment, where, getting behind a writing-table, he snatched a
revolver from a drawer. Cashel recoiled, amazed and frightened, with
his right arm up as if to ward off a blow.

"Hullo!" he cried. "Drop that d--d thing, will you? If you don't,
I'll shout for help."

"If you approach me I will fire," said Lucian, excitedly. "I will
teach you that your obsolete brutality is powerless against the
weapons science has put into the hands of civilized men. Leave my
apartments. I am not afraid of you; but I do not choose to be
disturbed by your presence."

"Confound your cheek," said Cashel, indignantly; "is that the way
you receive a man who comes to make a friendly call on you?"

"Friendly NOW, doubtless, when you see that I am well protected."

Cashel gave a long whistle. "Oh," he said, "you thought I came to
pitch into you. Ha! ha! And you call that science--to draw a pistol
on a man. But you daren't fire it, and well you know it. You'd
better put it up, or you may let it off without intending to: I
never feel comfortable when I see a fool meddling with firearms. I
came to tell you that I'm going to be married to your cousin. Ain't
you glad?"

Lucian's face changed. He believed; but he said, obstinately, "I
don't credit that statement. It is a lie."

This outraged Cashel. "I tell you again," he said, in a menacing
tone, "that your cousin is engaged to me. Now call me a liar, and
hit me in the face, if you dare. Look here," he added, taking a
leather case from his pocket, and extracting from it a bank note,
"I'll give you that twenty-pound note if you will hit me one blow."

Lucian, sick with fury, and half paralyzed by a sensation which he
would not acknowledge as fear, forced himself to come forward.
Cashel thrust out his jaw invitingly, and said, with a sinister
grin, "Put it in straight, governor. Twenty pounds, remember."

At that moment Lucian would have given all his political and social
chances for the courage and skill of a prize-fighter. He could see
only one way to escape the torment of Cashel's jeering and the self-
reproach of a coward. He desperately clenched his fist and struck
out. The blow wasted itself on space; and he stumbled forward
against his adversary, who laughed uproariously, grasped his hand,
clapped him on the back, and exclaimed,

"Well done, my boy. I thought you were going to be mean; but you've
been game, and you're welcome to the stakes. I'll tell Lydia that
you have fought me for twenty pounds and won on your merits. Ain't
you proud of yourself for having had a go at the champion?"

"Sir--" began Lucian. But nothing coherent followed.

"You just sit down for a quarter of an hour, and don't drink
anything, and you'll be all right. When you recover you'll be glad
you showed pluck. So, good-night, for the present--I know how you
feel, and I'll be off. Be sure not to try to settle yourself with
wine; it'll only make you worse. Ta-ta!"

As Cashel withdrew, Lucian collapsed into a chair, shaken by the
revival of passions and jealousies which he had thought as
completely outgrown as the school-boy jackets in which he had
formerly experienced them. He tried to think of some justification
of his anger--some better reason for it than the vulgar taunt of a
bully. He told himself presently that the idea of Lydia marrying
such a man had maddened him to strike. As Cashel had predicted, he
was beginning to plume himself on his pluck. This vein of
reflection, warring with his inner knowledge that he had been driven
by fear and hatred into a paroxysm of wrath against a man to whom he
should have set an example of dignified self-control, produced an
exhausting whirl in his thoughts, which were at once quickened and
confused by the nervous shock of bodily violence, to which he was
quite unused. Unable to sit still, he rose, put on his hat, went
out, and drove to the house in Regent's Park.

Lydia was in her boudoir, occupied with a book, when he entered. He
was not an acute observer; he could see no change in her. She was as
calm as ever; her eyes were not even fully open, and the touch of
her hand subdued him as it had always done. Though he had never
entertained any hope of possessing her since the day when she had
refused him in Bedford Square, a sense of intolerable loss came upon
him as he saw her for the first time pledged to another--and such
another!

"Lydia," he said, trying to speak vehemently, but failing to shake
off the conventional address of which he had made a second nature,
"I have heard something that has filled me with inexpressible
dismay. Is it true?"

"The news has travelled fast," she said. "Yes; it is true." She
spoke composedly, and so kindly that he choked in trying to reply.

"Then, Lydia, you are the chief actor in a greater tragedy than I
have ever witnessed on the stage."

"It is strange, is it not?" she said, smiling at his effort to be
impressive.

"Strange! It is calamitous. I trust I may be allowed to say so. And
you sit there reading as calmly as though nothing had happened."

She handed him the book without a word.

"'Ivanhoe'!" he said. "A novel!"

"Yes. Do you remember once, before you knew me very well, telling me
that Scott's novels were the only ones that you liked to see in the
hands of ladies?"

"No doubt I did. But I cannot talk of literature just--"

"I am not leading you away from what you want to talk about. I was
about to tell you that I came upon 'Ivanhoe' by chance half an hour
ago, when I was searching--I confess it--for something very romantic
to read. Ivanhoe was a prize-fighter--the first half of the book is
a description of a prize-fight. I was wondering whether some
romancer of the twenty-fourth century will hunt out the exploits of
my husband, and present him to the world as a sort of English
nineteenth-century Cyd, with all the glory of antiquity upon his
deeds."

Lucian made a gesture of impatience. "I have never been able to
understand," he said, "how it is that a woman of your ability can
habitually dwell on perverse and absurd ideas. Oh, Lydia, is this to
be the end of all your great gifts and attainments? Forgive me if I
touch a painful chord; but this marriage seems to me so unnatural
that I must speak out. Your father made you one of the richest and
best-educated women in the world. Would he approve of what you are
about to do?"

"It almost seems to me that he educated me expressly to some such
end. Whom would you have me marry?"

"Doubtless few men are worthy of you, Lydia. But this man least of
all. Could you not marry a gentleman? If he were even an artist, a
poet, or a man of genius of any kind, I could bear to think of it;
for indeed I am not influenced by class prejudice in the matter. But
a--I will try to say nothing that you must not in justice admit to
be too obvious to be ignored--a man of the lower orders, pursuing a
calling which even the lower orders despise; illiterate, rough,
awaiting at this moment a disgraceful sentence at the hands of the
law! Is it possible that you have considered all these things?"

"Not very deeply; they are not of a kind to concern me much. I can
console you as to one of them. I have always recognized him as a
gentleman, in your sense of the word. He proves to be so--one of
considerable position, in fact. As to his approaching trial, I have
spoken with Lord Worthington about it, and also with the lawyers who
have charge of the case; and they say positively that, owing to
certain proofs not being in the hands of the police, a defence can
be set up that will save him from imprisonment."

"There is no such defence possible," said Lucian, angrily.

"Perhaps not. As far as I understand it, it is rather an aggravation
of the offence than an excuse for it. But if they imprison him it
will make no difference. He can console himself by the certainty
that I will marry him at once when he is released."

Lucian's face lengthened. He abandoned the argument, and said,
blankly, "I cannot suppose that you would allow yourself to be
deceived. If he is a gentleman of position, that of course alters
the case completely."

"Very little indeed from my point of view. Hardly at all. And now,
worldly cousin Lucian, I have satisfied you that I am not going to
connect you by marriage with a butcher, bricklayer, or other member
of the trades from which Cashel's profession, as you warned me, is
usually recruited. Stop a moment. I am going to do justice to you.
You want to say that my unworldly friend Lucian is far more deeply
concerned at seeing the phoenix of modern culture throw herself away
on a man unworthy of her."

"That IS what I mean to say, except that you put it too modestly. It
is a case of the phoenix, not only of modern culture, but of natural
endowment and of every happy accident of the highest civilization,
throwing herself away on a man specially incapacitated by his tastes
and pursuits from comprehending her or entering the circle in which
she moves."

"Listen to me patiently, Lucian, and I will try to explain the
mystery to you, leaving the rest of the world to misunderstand me as
it pleases. First, you will grant me that even a phoenix must marry
some one in order that she may hand on her torch to her children.
Her best course would be to marry another phoenix; but as she--poor
girl!--cannot appreciate even her own phoenixity, much less that of
another, she must perforce be content with a mere mortal. Who is the
mortal to be? Not her cousin Lucian; for rising young politicians
must have helpful wives, with feminine politics and powers of
visiting and entertaining; a description inapplicable to the
phoenix. Not, as you just now suggested, a man of letters. The
phoenix has had her share of playing helpmeet to a man of letters,
and does not care to repeat that experience. She is sick to death of
the morbid introspection and womanish self-consciousness of poets,
novelists, and their like. As to artists, all the good ones are
married; and ever since the rest have been able to read in hundreds
of books that they are the most gifted and godlike of men, they are
become almost as intolerable as their literary flatterers. No,
Lucian, the phoenix has paid her debt to literature and art by the
toil of her childhood. She will use and enjoy both of them in future
as best she can; but she will never again drudge in their
laboratories. You say that she might at least have married a
gentleman. But the gentlemen she knows are either amateurs of the
arts, having the egotism of professional artists without their
ability, or they are men of pleasure, which means that they are
dancers, tennis-players, butchers, and gamblers. I leave the
nonentities out of the question. Now, in the eyes of a phoenix, a
prize-fighter is a hero in comparison with a wretch who sets a leash
of greyhounds upon a hare. Imagine, now, this poor phoenix meeting
with a man who had never been guilty of self-analysis in his
life--who complained when he was annoyed, and exulted when he was
glad, like a child (and unlike a modern man)--who was honest and
brave, strong and beautiful. You open your eyes, Lucian: you do not
do justice to Cashel's good looks. He is twenty-five, and yet there
is not a line in his face. It is neither thoughtful, nor poetic, nor
wearied, nor doubting, nor old, nor self-conscious, as so many of
his contemporaries' faces are--as mine perhaps is. The face of a
pagan god, assured of eternal youth, and absolutely disqualified
from comprehending 'Faust.' Do you understand a word of what I am
saying, Lucian?"

"I must confess that I do not. Either you have lost your reason, or
I have. I wish you had never taking to reading 'Faust.'"

"It is my fault. I began an explanation, and rambled off, womanlike,
into praise of my lover. However, I will not attempt to complete my
argument; for if you do not understand me from what I have already
said, the further you follow the wider you will wander. The truth,
in short, is this: I practically believe in the doctrine of
heredity; and as my body is frail and my brain morbidly active, I
think my impulse towards a man strong in body and untroubled in mind
a trustworthy one. You can understand that; it is a plain
proposition in eugenics. But if I tell you that I have chosen this
common pugilist because, after seeing half the culture of Europe, I
despaired of finding a better man, you will only tell me again that
I have lost my reason."

"I know that you will do whatever you have made up your mind to do,"
said Lucian, desolately.

"And you will make the best of it, will you not?"

"The best or the worst of it does not rest with me. I can only
accept it as inevitable."

"Not at all. You can make the worst of it by behaving distantly to
Cashel; or the best of it by being friendly with him."

Lucian reddened and hesitated. She looked at him, mutely encouraging
him to be generous.

"I had better tell you," he said. "I have seen him since--since--"
Lydia nodded. "I mistook his object in coming into my room as he
did, unannounced. In fact, he almost forced his way in. Some words
arose between us. At last he taunted me beyond endurance, and
offered me--characteristically--twenty pounds to strike him. And I
am sorry to say that I did so."

"You did so! And what followed?"

"I should say rather that I meant to strike him; for he avoided me,
or else I missed my aim. He only gave the money and went away,
evidently with a high opinion of me. He left me with a very low one
of myself."

"What! He did not retaliate!" exclaimed Lydia, recovering her color,
which had fled. "And you STRUCK him!" she added.

"He did not," replied Lucian, passing by the reproach. "Probably he
despised me too much."

"That is not fair, Lucian. He behaved very well--for a
prize-fighter! Surely you do not grudge him his superiority in the
very art you condemn him for professing."

"I was wrong, Lydia; but I grudged him you. I know I have acted
hastily; and I will apologize to him. I wish matters had fallen out
otherwise."

"They could not have done so; and I believe you will yet acknowledge
that they have arranged themselves very well. And now that the
phoenix is disposed of, I want to read you a letter I have received
from Alice Goff, which throws quite a new light on her character. I
have not seen her since June, and she seems to have gained three
years' mental growth in the interim. Listen to this, for example."

And so the conversation turned upon Alice.

When Lucian returned to his chambers, he wrote the following note,
which he posted to Cashel Byron before going to bed:

"Dear Sir,--I beg to enclose you a bank-note which you left here
this evening. I feel bound to express my regret for what passed on
that occasion, and to assure you that it proceeded from a
misapprehension of your purpose in calling on me. The nervous
disorder into which the severe mental application and late hours of
the past session have thrown me must be my excuse. I hope to have
the pleasure of meeting you again soon, and offering you personally
my congratulations on your approaching marriage. "I am, dear sir,
yours truly, "Lucian Webber."






CHAPTER XV





In the following month Cashel Byron, William Paradise, and Robert
Mellish appeared in the dock together, the first two for having been
principals in a prize-fight, and Mellish for having acted as bottle-
holder to Paradise. These offences were verbosely described in a
long indictment which had originally included the fourth man who had
been captured, but against whom the grand jury had refused to find a
true bill. The prisoners pleaded not guilty.

The defence was that the fight, the occurrence of which was
admitted, was not a prize-fight, but the outcome of an enmity which
had subsisted between the two men since one of them, at a public
exhibition at Islington, had attacked and bitten the other. In
support of this, it was shown that Byron had occupied a house at
Wiltstoken, and had lived there with Mellish, who had invited
Paradise to spend a holiday with him in the country. This accounted
for the presence of the three men at Wiltstoken on the day in
question. Words had arisen between Byron and Paradise on the subject
of the Islington affair; and they had at last agreed to settle the
dispute in the old English fashion. They had adjourned to a field,
and fought fairly and determinedly until interrupted by the police,
who were misled by appearances into the belief that the affair was a
prize-fight.

Prize-fighting was a brutal pastime, Cashel Byron's counsel said;
but a fair, stand-up fight between two unarmed men, though doubtless
technically a breach of the peace, had never been severely dealt
with by a British jury or a British judge; and the case would be
amply met by binding over the prisoners, who were now on the best of
terms with one another, to keep the peace for a reasonable period.
The sole evidence against this view of the case, he argued, was
police evidence; and the police were naturally reluctant to admit
that they had found a mare's nest. In proof that the fight had been
premeditated, and was a prize-fight, they alleged that it had taken
place within an enclosure formed with ropes and stakes. But where
were those ropes and stakes? They were not forthcoming; and he
(counsel) submitted that the reason was not, as had been suggested,
because they had been spirited away, for that was plainly
impossible; but because they had existed only in the excited
imagination of the posse of constables who had arrested the
prisoners.

Again, it had been urged that the prisoners were in fighting
costume. But cross-examination had elicited that fighting costume
meant practically no costume at all: the men had simply stripped in
order that their movements might be unembarrassed. It had been
proved that Paradise had been--well, in the traditional costume of
Paradise (roars of laughter) until the police borrowed a blanket to
put upon him.

That the constables had been guilty of gross exaggeration was shown
by their evidence as to the desperate injuries the combatants had
inflicted upon one another. Of Paradise in particular it had been
alleged that his features were obliterated. The jury had before them
in the dock the man whose features had been obliterated only a few
weeks previously. If that were true, where had the prisoner obtained
the unblemished lineaments which he was now, full of health and
good-humor, presenting to them? (Renewed laughter. Paradise grinning
in confusion.) It was said that these terrible injuries, the traces
of which had disappeared so miraculously, were inflicted by the
prisoner Byron, a young gentleman tenderly nurtured, and visibly
inferior in strength and hardihood to his herculean opponent.
Doubtless Byron had been emboldened by his skill in mimic combat to
try conclusions, under the very different conditions of real
fighting, with a man whose massive shoulders and determined cast of
features ought to have convinced him that such an enterprise was
nothing short of desperate. Fortunately the police had interfered
before he had suffered severely for his rashness. Yet it had been
alleged that he had actually worsted Paradise in the
encounter--obliterated his features. That was a fair sample of the
police evidence, which was throughout consistently incredible and at
variance with the dictates of common-sense.