Cashel Byron's Profession

By

George Bernard Shaw







PROLOGUE

I





Moncrief House, Panley Common. Scholastic establishment for the sons
of gentlemen, etc.

Panley Common, viewed from the back windows of Moncrief House, is a
tract of grass, furze and rushes, stretching away to the western
horizon.

One wet spring afternoon the sky was full of broken clouds, and the
common was swept by their shadows, between which patches of green
and yellow gorse were bright in the broken sunlight. The hills to
the northward were obscured by a heavy shower, traces of which were
drying off the slates of the school, a square white building,
formerly a gentleman's country-house. In front of it was a well-kept
lawn with a few clipped holly-trees. At the rear, a quarter of an
acre of land was enclosed for the use of the boys. Strollers on the
common could hear, at certain hours, a hubbub of voices and racing
footsteps from within the boundary wall. Sometimes, when the
strollers were boys themselves, they climbed to the coping, and saw
on the other side a piece of common trampled bare and brown, with a
few square yards of concrete, so worn into hollows as to be unfit
for its original use as a ball-alley. Also a long shed, a pump, a
door defaced by innumerable incised inscriptions, the back of the
house in much worse repair than the front, and about fifty boys in
tailless jackets and broad, turned-down collars. When the fifty boys
perceived a stranger on the wall they rushed to the spot with a wild
halloo, overwhelmed him with insult and defiance, and dislodged him
by a volley of clods, stones, lumps of bread, and such other
projectiles as were at hand.

On this rainy spring afternoon a brougham stood at the door of
Moncrief House. The coachman, enveloped in a white india-rubber
coat, was bestirring himself a little after the recent shower.
Within-doors, in the drawing-room, Dr. Moncrief was conversing with
a stately lady aged about thirty-five, elegantly dressed, of
attractive manner, and only falling short of absolute beauty in her
complexion, which was deficient in freshness.

"No progress whatever, I am sorry to say," the doctor was remarking.

"That is very disappointing," said the lady, contracting her brows.

"It is natural that you should feel disappointed," replied the
doctor. "I would myself earnestly advise you to try the effect of
placing him at some other--" The doctor stopped. The lady's face had
lit up with a wonderful smile, and she had raised her hand with a
bewitching gesture of protest.

"Oh, no, Dr. Moncrief," she said. "I am not disappointed with YOU;
but I am all the more angry with Cashel, because I know that if he
makes no progress with you it must be his own fault. As to taking
him away, that is out of the question. I should not have a moment's
peace if he were out of your care. I will speak to him very
seriously about his conduct before I leave to-day. You will give him
another trial, will you not?"

"Certainly. With the greatest pleasure," exclaimed the doctor,
confusing himself by an inept attempt at gallantry. "He shall stay
as long as you please. But"--here the doctor became grave
again--"you cannot too strongly urge upon him the importance of hard
work at the present time, which may be said to be the turning-point
of his career as a student. He is now nearly seventeen; and he has
so little inclination for study that I doubt whether he could pass
the examination necessary to entering one of the universities. You
probably wish him to take a degree before he chooses a profession."

"Yes, of course," said the lady, vaguely, evidently assenting to the
doctor's remark rather than expressing a conviction of her own.
"What profession would you advise for him? You know so much better
than I."

"Hum!" said Dr. Moncrief, puzzled. "That would doubtless depend to
some extent on his own taste--"

"Not at all," said the lady, interrupting him with vivacity. "What
does he know about the world, poor boy? His own taste is sure to be
something ridiculous. Very likely he would want to go on the stage,
like me."

"Oh! Then you would not encourage any tendency of that sort?"

"Most decidedly not. I hope he has no such idea."

"Not that I am aware of. He shows so little ambition to excel in any
particular branch that I should say his choice of a profession may
be best determined by his parents. I am, of course, ignorant whether
his relatives possess influence likely to be of use to him. That is
often the chief point to be considered, particularly in cases like
your son's, where no special aptitude manifests itself."

"I am the only relative he ever had, poor fellow," said the lady,
with a pensive smile. Then, seeing an expression of astonishment on
the doctor's face, she added, quickly, "They are all dead."

"Dear me!"

"However," she continued, "I have no doubt I can make plenty of
interest for him. But it is difficult to get anything nowadays
without passing competitive examinations. He really must work. If he
is lazy he ought to be punished."

The doctor looked perplexed. "The fact is," he said, "your son can
hardly be dealt with as a child any longer. He is still quite a boy
in his habits and ideas; but physically he is rapidly springing up
into a young man. That reminds me of another point on which I will
ask you to speak earnestly to him. I must tell you that he has
attained some distinction among his school-fellows here as an
athlete. Within due bounds I do not discourage bodily exercises:
they are a recognized part of our system. But I am sorry to say that
Cashel has not escaped that tendency to violence which sometimes
results from the possession of unusual strength and dexterity. He
actually fought with one of the village youths in the main street of
Panley some months ago. The matter did not come to my ears
immediately; and, when it did, I allowed it to pass unnoticed, as he
had interfered, it seems, to protect one of the smaller boys.
Unfortunately he was guilty of a much more serious fault a little
later. He and a companion of his had obtained leave from me to walk
to Panley Abbey together. I afterwards found that their real object
was to witness a prize-fight that took place--illegally, of
course--on the common. Apart from the deception practised, I think
the taste they betrayed a dangerous one; and I felt bound to punish
them by a severe imposition, and restriction to the grounds for six
weeks. I do not hold, however, that everything has been done in
these cases when a boy has been punished. I set a high value on a
mother's influence for softening the natural roughness of boys."

"I don't think he minds what I say to him in the least," said the
lady, with a sympathetic air, as if she pitied the doctor in a
matter that chiefly concerned him. "I will speak to him about it, of
course. Fighting is an unbearable habit. His father's people were
always fighting; and they never did any good in the world."

"If you will be so kind. There are just the three points: the
necessity for greater--much greater--application to his studies; a
word to him on the subject of rough habits; and to sound him as to
his choice of a career. I agree with you in not attaching much
importance to his ideas on that subject as yet. Still, even a boyish
fancy may be turned to account in rousing the energies of a lad."

"Quite so," assented the lady. "I will certainly give him a
lecture."

The doctor looked at her mistrustfully, thinking perhaps that she
herself would be the better for a lecture on her duties as a mother.
But he did not dare to tell her so; indeed, having a prejudice to
the effect that actresses were deficient in natural feeling, he
doubted the use of daring. He also feared that the subject of her
son was beginning to bore her; and, though a doctor of divinity, he
was as reluctant as other men to be found wanting in address by a
pretty woman. So he rang the bell, and bade the servant send Master
Cashel Byron. Presently a door was heard to open below, and a buzz
of distant voices became audible. The doctor fidgeted and tried to
think of something to say, but his invention failed him: he sat in
silence while the inarticulate buzz rose into a shouting of
"By-ron!" "Cash!" the latter cry imitated from the summons usually
addressed to cashiers in haberdashers' shops. Finally there was a
piercing yell of "Mam-ma-a-a-a-ah!" apparently in explanation of the
demand for Byron's attendance in the drawing-room. The doctor
reddened. Mrs. Byron smiled. Then the door below closed, shutting
out the tumult, and footsteps were heard on the stairs.

"Come in," cried the doctor, encouragingly.

Master Cashel Byron entered blushing; made his way awkwardly to his
mother, and kissed the critical expression which was on her upturned
face as she examined his appearance. Being only seventeen, he had
not yet acquired a taste for kissing. He inexpertly gave Mrs. Byron
quite a shock by the collision of their teeth. Conscious of the
failure, he drew himself upright, and tried to hide his hands, which
were exceedingly dirty, in the scanty folds of his jacket. He was a
well-grown youth, with neck and shoulders already strongly formed,
and short auburn hair curling in little rings close to his scalp. He
had blue eyes, and an expression of boyish good-humor, which,
however, did not convey any assurance of good temper.

"How do you do, Cashel?" said Mrs. Byron, in a queenly manner, after
a prolonged look at him.

"Very well, thanks," said he, grinning and avoiding her eye.

"Sit down, Byron," said the doctor. Byron suddenly forgot how to sit
down, and looked irresolutely from one chair to another. The doctor
made a brief excuse, and left the room; much to the relief of his
pupil.

"You have grown greatly, Cashel. And I am afraid you are very
awkward." Cashel colored and looked gloomy.

"I do not know what to do with you," continued Mrs. Byron. "Dr.
Moncrief tells me that you are very idle and rough."

"I am not," said Cashel, sulkily. "It is bec--"

"There is no use in contradicting me in that fashion," said Mrs.
Byron, interrupting him sharply. "I am sure that whatever Dr.
Moncrief says is perfectly true."

"He is always talking like that," said Cashel, plaintively. "I can't
learn Latin and Greek; and I don't see what good they are. I work as
hard as any of the rest--except the regular stews, perhaps. As to my
being rough, that is all because I was out one day with Gully
Molesworth, and we saw a crowd on the common, and when we went to
see what was up it was two men fighting. It wasn't our fault that
they came there to fight."

"Yes; I have no doubt that you have fifty good excuses, Cashel. But
I will not allow any fighting; and you really must work harder. Do
you ever think of how hard _I_ have to work to pay Dr. Moncrief one
hundred and twenty pounds a year for you?"

"I work as hard as I can. Old Moncrief seems to think that a fellow
ought to do nothing else from morning till night but write Latin
verses. Tatham, that the doctor thinks such a genius, does all his
constering from cribs. If I had a crib I could conster as well--very
likely better."

"You are very idle, Cashel; I am sure of that. It is too provoking
to throw away so much money every year for nothing. Besides, you
must soon be thinking of a profession."

"I shall go into the army," said Cashel. "It is the only profession
for a gentleman."

Mrs. Byron looked at him for a moment as if amazed at his
presumption. But she checked herself and only said, "I am afraid you
will have to choose some less expensive profession than that.
Besides, you would have to pass an examination to enable you to
enter the army; and how can you do that unless you study?"

"Oh, I shall do that all right enough when the time comes."

"Dear, dear! You are beginning to speak so coarsely, Cashel. After
all the pains I took with you at home!"

"I speak the same as other people," he replied, sullenly. "I don't
see the use of being so jolly particular over every syllable. I used
to have to stand no end of chaff about my way of speaking. The
fellows here know all about you, of course."

"All about me?" repeated Mrs. Byron, looking at him curiously.

"All about your being on the stage, I mean," said Cashel. "You
complain of my fighting; but I should have a precious bad time of it
if I didn't lick the chaff out of some of them."

Mrs. Byron smiled doubtfully to herself, and remained silent and
thoughtful for a moment. Then she rose and said, glancing at the
weather, "I must go now, Cashel, before another shower begins. And
do, pray, try to learn something, and to polish your manners a
little. You will have to go to Cambridge soon, you know."

"Cambridge!" exclaimed Cashel, excited. "When, mamma? When?"

"Oh, I don't know. Not yet. As soon as Dr. Moncrief says you are fit
to go."

"That will be long enough," said Cashel, much dejected by this
reply. "He will not turn one hundred and twenty pounds a year out of
doors in a hurry. He kept big Inglis here until he was past twenty.
Look here, mamma; might I go at the end of this half? I feel sure I
should do better at Cambridge than here."

"Nonsense," said Mrs. Byron, decidedly. "I do not expect to have to
take you away from Dr. Moncrief for the next eighteen months at
least, and not then unless you work properly. Now don't grumble,
Cashel; you annoy me exceedingly when you do. I am sorry I mentioned
Cambridge to you."

"I would rather go to some other school, then," said Cashel,
ruefully. "Old Moncrief is so awfully down on me."

"You only want to leave because you are expected to work here; and
that is the very reason I wish you to stay."

Cashel made no reply; but his face darkened ominously.

"I have a word to say to the doctor before I go," she added,
reseating herself. "You may return to your play now. Good-bye,
Cashel." And she again raised her face to be kissed.

"Good-bye," said Cashel, huskily, as he turned toward the door,
pretending that he had not noticed her action.

"Cashel!" she said, with emphatic surprise. "Are you sulky?"

"No," he retorted, angrily. "I haven't said anything. I suppose my
manners are not good enough, I'm very sorry; but I can't help it."

"Very well," said Mrs. Byron, firmly. "You can go, Cashel. I am not
pleased with you."

Cashel walked out of the room and slammed the door. At the foot of
the staircase he was stopped by a boy about a year younger than
himself, who accosted him eagerly.

"How much did she give you?" he whispered.

"Not a halfpenny," replied Cashel, grinding his teeth.

"Oh, I say!" exclaimed the other, much disappointed. "That was
beastly mean."

"She's as mean as she can be," said Cashel. "It's all old Monkey's
fault. He has been cramming her with lies about me. But she's just
as bad as he is. I tell you, Gully, I hate my mother."

"Oh, come!" said Gully, shocked. "That's a little too strong, old
chap. But she certainly ought to have stood something."

"I don't know what you intend to do, Gully; but I mean to bolt. If
she thinks I am going to stick here for the next two years she is
jolly much mistaken."

"It would be an awful lark to bolt," said Gully, with a chuckle.
"But," he added, seriously, "if you really mean it, by George, I'll
go too! Wilson has just given me a thousand lines; and I'll be
hanged if I do them."

"Gully," said Cashel, his eyes sparkling, "I should like to see one
of those chaps we saw on the common pitch into the doctor--get him
on the ropes, you know."

Gully's mouth watered. "Yes," he said, breathlessly; "particularly
the fellow they called the Fibber. Just one round would be enough
for the old beggar. Let's come out into the playground; I shall
catch it if I am found here."






II





That night there was just sufficient light struggling through the
clouds to make Panley Common visible as a black expanse, against the
lightest tone of which a piece of ebony would have appeared pale.
Not a human being was stirring within a mile of Moncrief House, the
chimneys of which, ghostly white on the side next the moon, threw
long shadows on the silver-gray slates. The stillness had just been
broken by the stroke of a quarter past twelve from a distant church
tower, when, from the obscurity of one of these chimney shadows, a
head emerged. It belonged to a boy, whose body presently wriggled
through an open skylight. When his shoulders were through he turned
himself face upward, seized the miniature gable in which the
skylight was set, drew himself completely out, and made his way
stealthily down to the parapet. He was immediately followed by
another boy.

The door of Moncrief House was at the left-hand corner of the front,
and was surmounted by a tall porch, the top of which was flat and
could be used as a balcony. A wall, of the same height as the porch,
connected the house front with the boundary wall, and formed part of
the enclosure of a fruit garden which lay at the side of the house
between the lawn and the playground. When the two boys had crept
along the parapet to a point directly above the porch they stopped,
and each lowered a pair of boots to the balcony by means of
fishing-lines. When the boots were safely landed, their owners let
the lines drop and reentered the house by another skylight. A minute
elapsed. Then they reappeared on the top of the porch, having come
out through the window to which it served as a balcony. Here they
put on their boots, and stepped on to the wall of the fruit garden.
As they crawled along it, the hindmost boy whispered.

"I say, Cashy."

"Shut up, will you," replied the other under his breath. "What's
wrong?"

"I should like to have one more go at old mother Moncrief's
pear-tree; that's all."

"There are no pears on it this season, you fool."

"I know. This is the last time we shall go this road, Cashy. Usen't
it to be a lark? Eh?"

"If you don't shut up, it won't be the last time; for you'll be
caught. Now for it."

Cashel had reached the outer wall, and he finished his sentence by
dropping from it to the common. Gully held his breath for some
moments after the noise made by his companion's striking the ground.
Then he demanded in a whisper whether all was right.

"Yes," returned Cashel, impatiently. "Drop as soft as you can."

Gully obeyed; and was so careful lest his descent should shake the
earth and awake the doctor, that his feet shrank from the
concussion. He alighted in a sitting posture, and remained there,
looking up at Cashel with a stunned expression.

"Crikey!" he ejaculated, presently. "That was a buster."

"Get up, I tell you," said Cashel. "I never saw such a jolly ass as
you are. Here, up with you! Have you got your wind back?"

"I should think so. Bet you twopence I'll be first at the cross
roads. I say, let's pull the bell at the front gate and give an
awful yell before we start. They'll never catch us."

"Yes," said Cashel, ironically; "I fancy I see myself doing it, or
you either. Now then. One, two, three, and away."

They ran off together, and reached the cross roads about eight
minutes later; Gully completely out of breath, and Cashel nearly so.
Here, according to their plan, Gully was to take the north road and
run to Scotland, where he felt sure that his uncle's gamekeeper
would hide him. Cashel was to go to sea; where, he argued, he could,
if his affairs became desperate, turn pirate, and achieve eminence
in that profession by adding a chivalrous humanity to the ruder
virtues for which it is already famous.

Cashel waited until Gully had recovered from his race. Then he said.

"Now, old fellow, we've got to separate."

Gully, thus confronted with the lonely realities of his scheme, did
not like the prospect. After a moment's reflection he exclaimed:

"Damme, old chap, but I'll come with you. Scotland may go and be
hanged."

But Cashel, being the stronger of the two, was as anxious to get rid
of Gully as Gully was to cling to him. "No," he said; "I'm going to
rough it; and you wouldn't be able for that. You're not strong
enough for a sea life. Why, man, those sailor fellows are as hard as
nails; and even they can hardly stand it."

"Well, then, do you come with me," urged Gully. "My uncle's
gamekeeper won't mind. He's a jolly good sort; and we shall have no
end of shooting."

"That's all very well for you, Gully; but I don't know your uncle;
and I'm not going to put myself under a compliment to his
gamekeeper. Besides, we should run too much risk of being caught if
we went through the country together. Of course I should be only too
glad if we could stick to one another, but it wouldn't do; I feel
certain we should be nabbed. Good-bye."

"But wait a minute," pleaded Gully. "Suppose they do try to catch
us; we shall have a better chance against them if there are two of
us."

"Stuff!" said Cashel. "That's all boyish nonsense. There will be at
least six policemen sent after us; and even if I did my very best, I
could barely lick two if they came on together. And you would hardly
be able for one. Yon just keep moving, and don't go near any railway
station, and you will get to Scotland all safe enough. Look here, we
have wasted five minutes already. I have got my wind now, and I must
be off. Good-bye."

Gully disdained to press his company on Cashel any further.
"Good-bye," he said, mournfully shaking his hand. "Success, old
chap."

"Success," echoed Cashel, grasping Gully's hand with a pang of
remorse for leaving him. "I'll write to you as soon as I have
anything to tell you. It may be some months, you know, before I get
regularly settled."

He gave Gully a final squeeze, released him, and darted off along
the road leading to Panley Village. Gully looked after him for a
moment, and then ran away Scotlandwards.

Panley Village consisted of a High Street, with an old-fashioned inn
at one end, a modern railway station and bridge at the other, and a
pump and pound midway between. Cashel stood for a while in the
shadow under the bridge before venturing along the broad, moonlit
street. Seeing no one, he stepped out at a brisk walking pace; for
he had by this time reflected that it was not possible to run all
the way to the Spanish main. There was, however, another person
stirring in the village besides Cashel. This was Mr. Wilson, Dr.
Moncrief's professor of mathematics, who was returning from a visit
to the theatre. Mr. Wilson had an impression that theatres were
wicked places, to be visited by respectable men only on rare
occasions and by stealth. The only plays he went openly to witness
were those of Shakespeare; and his favorite was "As You Like It";
Rosalind in tights having an attraction for him which he missed in
Lady Macbeth in petticoats. On this evening he had seen Rosalind
impersonated by a famous actress, who had come to a neighboring town
on a starring tour. After the performance he had returned to Panley,
supped there with a friend, and was now making his way back to
Moncrief House, of which he had been intrusted with the key. He was
in a frame of mind favorable for the capture of a runaway boy. An
habitual delight in being too clever for his pupils, fostered by
frequently overreaching them in mathematics, was just now stimulated
by the effect of a liberal supper and the roguish consciousness of
having been to the play. He saw and recognized Cashel as he
approached the village pound. Understanding the situation at once,
he hid behind the pump, waited until the unsuspecting truant was
passing within arm's-length, and then stepped out and seized him by
the collar of his jacket.

"Well, sir," he said. "What are you doing here at this hour? Eh?"

Cashel, scared and white, looked up at him, and could not answer a
word.

"Come along with me," said Wilson, sternly.

Cashel suffered himself to be led for some twenty yards. Then he
stopped and burst into tears.

"There is no use in my going back," he said, sobbing. "I have never
done any good there. I can't go back."

"Indeed," said Wilson, with magisterial sarcasm. "We shall try to
make you do better in future." And he forced the fugitive to resume
his march.

Cashel, bitterly humiliated by his own tears, and exasperated by a
certain cold triumph which his captor evinced on witnessing them,
did not go many steps farther without protest.

"You needn't hold me," he said, angrily; "I can walk without being
held." The master tightened his grasp and pushed his captive
forward. "I won't run away, sir," said Cashel, more humbly, shedding
fresh tears. "Please let me go," he added, in a suffocated voice,
trying to turn his face toward his captor. But Wilson twisted him
back again, and urged him still onward. Cashel cried out
passionately, "Let me go," and struggled to break loose.

"Come, come, Byron," said the master, controlling him with a broad,
strong hand; "none of your nonsense, sir."

Then Cashel suddenly slipped out of his jacket, turned on Wilson,
and struck up at him savagely with his right fist. The master
received the blow just beside the point of his chin; and his eyes
seemed to Cashel roll up and fall back into his head with the shock.
He drooped forward for a moment, and fell in a heap face downward.
Cashel recoiled, wringing his hand to relieve the tingling of his
knuckles, and terrified by the thought that he had committed murder.
But Wilson presently moved and dispelled that misgiving. Some of
Cashel's fury returned as he shook his fist at his prostrate
adversary, and, exclaiming, "YOU won't brag much of having seen me
cry," wrenched the jacket from him with unnecessary violence, and
darted away at full speed.

Mr. Wilson, though he was soon conscious and able to rise, did not
feel disposed to stir for a long time. He began to moan with a dazed
faith that some one would eventually come to him with sympathy and
assistance. Five minutes elapsed, and brought nothing but increased
cold and pain. It occurred to him that if the police found him they
would suppose him to be drunk; also that it was his duty to go to
them and give them the alarm. He rose, and, after a struggle with
dizziness and nausea, concluded that his most pressing duty was to
get to bed, and leave Dr. Moncrief to recapture his ruffianly pupil
as best he could.

Accordingly, at half-past one o'clock, the doctor was roused by a
knocking at his chamber-door, outside which he presently found his
professor of mathematics, bruised, muddy, and apparently inebriated.
Five minutes elapsed before Wilson could get his principal's mind on
the right track. Then the boys were awakened and the roll called.
Byron and Molesworth were reported absent. No one had seen them go;
no one had the least suspicion of how they got out of the house. One
little boy mentioned the skylight; but observing a threatening
expression on the faces of a few of the bigger boys, who were fond
of fruit, he did not press his suggestion, and submitted to be
snubbed by the doctor for having made it. It was nearly three
o'clock before the alarm reached the village, where the authorities
tacitly declined to trouble themselves about it until morning. The
doctor, convinced that the lad had gone to his mother, did not
believe that any search was necessary, and contented himself with
writing a note to Mrs. Byron describing the attack on Mr. Wilson,
and expressing regret that no proposal having for its object the
readmission of Master Byron to the academy could be entertained.

The pursuit was now directed entirely after Molesworth, an it wan
plain, from Mr. Wilson's narrative, that he had separated from
Cashel outside Panley. Information was soon forthcoming. Peasants in
all parts of the country had seen, they said, "a lad that might be
him." The search lasted until five o'clock next afternoon, when it
was rendered superfluous by the appearance of Gully in person,
footsore and repentant. After parting from Cashel and walking two
miles, he had lost heart and turned back. Half way to the cross
roads he had reproached himself with cowardice, and resumed his
flight. This time he placed eight miles betwixt himself and Moncrief
House. Then he left the road to make a short cut through a
plantation, and went astray. After wandering until morning, thinking
dejectedly of the story of the babes in the wood, he saw a woman
working in a field, and asked her the shortest way to Scotland. She
had never heard of Scotland; and when he asked the way to Panley she
lost patience and threatened to set her dog at him. This discouraged
him so much that he was afraid to speak to the other strangers whom
he met. Having the sun as a compass, he oscillated between Scotland
and Panley according to the fluctuation of his courage. At last he
yielded to hunger, fatigue, and loneliness, devoted his remaining
energy to the task of getting back to school; struck the common at
last, and hastened to surrender himself to the doctor, who menaced
him with immediate expulsion. Gully was greatly concerned at having
to leave the place he had just run away from, and earnestly begged
the doctor to give him another chance. His prayer was granted. After
a prolonged lecture, the doctor, in consideration of the facts that
Gully had been seduced by the example of a desperate associate, that
he had proved the sincerity of his repentance by coming back of his
own accord, and had not been accessory to the concussion of the
brain from which Mr. Wilson supposed himself to be suffering,
accepted his promise of amendment and gave him a free pardon. It
should be added that Gully kept his promise, and, being now the
oldest pupil, graced his position by becoming a moderately studious,
and, on one occasion, even a sensible lad.

Meanwhile Mrs. Byron, not suspecting the importance of the doctor's
note, and happening to be in a hurry when it arrived, laid it by
unopened, intending to read it at her leisure. She would have
forgotten it altogether but for a second note which came two days
later, requesting some acknowledgment of the previous communication.
On learning the truth she immediately drove to Moncrief House, and
there abused the doctor as he had never been abused in his life
before; after which she begged his pardon, and implored him to
assist her to recover her darling boy. When he suggested that she
should offer a reward for information and capture she indignantly
refused to spend a farthing on the little ingrate; wept and accused
herself of having driven him away by her unkindness; stormed and
accused the doctor of having treated him harshly; and, finally, said
that she would give one hundred pounds to have him back, but that
she would never speak to him again. The doctor promised to undertake
the search, and would have promised anything to get rid of his
visitor. A reward of fifty pounds wag offered. But whether the fear
of falling into the clutches of the law for murderous assault
stimulated Cashel to extraordinary precaution, or whether he had
contrived to leave the country in the four days which elapsed
between his flight and the offer of the reward, the doctor's efforts
were unsuccessful; and he had to confess their failure to Mrs.
Byron. She agreeably surprised him by writing a pleasant letter to
the effect that it was very provoking, and that she could never
thank him sufficiently for all the trouble he had taken. And so the
matter dropped.

Long after that generation of scholars had passed away from Moncrief
House, the name of Cashel Byron was remembered there as that of a
hero who, after many fabulous exploits, had licked a master and
bolted to the Spanish Main.






III





There was at this time in the city of Melbourne, in Australia, a
wooden building, above the door of which was a board inscribed
"GYMNASIUM AND SCHOOL OF ARMS." In the long, narrow entry hung a
framed manuscript which set forth that Ned Skene, ex-champion of
England and the colonies, was to be heard of within daily by
gentlemen desirous of becoming proficient in the art of
self-defence. Also the terms on which Mrs. Skene, assisted by a
competent staff of professors, would give lessons in dancing,
deportment, and calisthenics.

One evening a man sat smoking on a common wooden chair outside the
door of this establishment. On the ground beside him were some tin
tacks and a hammer, with which he had just nailed to the doorpost a
card on which was written in a woman's handwriting: "WANTED A MALE
ATTENDANT WHO CAN KEEP ACCOUNTS. INQUIRE WITHIN." The smoker was a
powerful man, with a thick neck that swelled out beneath his broad,
flat ear-lobes. He had small eyes, and large teeth, over which his
lips were slightly parted in a good-humored but cunning smile. His
hair was black and close-cut; his skin indurated; and the bridge of
his nose smashed level with his face. The tip, however, was
uninjured. It was squab and glossy, and, by giving the whole feature
an air of being on the point of expanding to its original shape,
produced a snubbed expression which relieved the otherwise
formidable aspect of the man, and recommended him as probably a
modest and affable fellow when sober and unprovoked. He seemed about
fifty years of age, and was clad in a straw hat and a suit of white
linen.

He had just finished his pipe when a youth stopped to read the card
on the doorpost. This youth was attired in a coarse sailor's jersey
and a pair of gray tweed trousers, which he had considerably
outgrown.

"Looking for a job?" inquired the ex-champion of England and the
colonies.

The youth blushed and replied, "Yes. I should like to get something
to do."

Mr. Skene stared at him with stern curiosity. His piofessional
pursuits had familiarized him with the manners and speech of English
gentlemen, and he immediately recognized the shabby sailor lad as
one of that class.

"Perhaps you're a scholar," said the prize-fighter, after a moment's
reflection.

"I have been at school; but I didn't learn much there," replied the
youth. "I think I could bookkeep by double entry," he added,
glancing at the card.

"Double entry! What's that?"

"It's the way merchants' books are kept. It is called so because
everything is entered twice over."

"Ah!" said Skene, unfavorably impressed by the system; "once is
enough for me. What's your weight?"

"I don't know," said the lad, with a grin.

"Not know your own weight!" exclaimed Skene. "That ain't the way to
get on in life."

"I haven't been weighed since I was in England," said the other,
beginning to get the better of his shyness. "I was eight stone four
then; so you see I am only a light-weight."

"And what do you know about light-weights? Perhaps, being so well
educated, you know how to fight. Eh?"

"I don't think I could fight you," said the youth, with another
grin.

Skene chuckled; and the stranger, with boyish communicativeness,
gave him an account of a real fight (meaning, apparently, one
between professional pugilists) which he had seen in England. He
went on to describe how he had himself knocked down a master with
one blow when running away from school. Skene received this
sceptically, and cross-examined the narrator as to the manner and
effect of the blow, with the result of convincing himself that the
story was true. At the end of a quarter of an hour the lad had
commended himself so favorably by his conversation that the champion
took him into the gymnasium, weighed him, measured him, and finally
handed him a pair of boxing gloves and invited him to show what he
was made of. The youth, though impressed by the prize-fighter's
attitude with a hopeless sense of the impossibility of reaching him,
rushed boldly at him several times, knocking his face on each
occasion against Skene's left fist, which seemed to be ubiquitous,
and to have the property of imparting the consistency of iron to
padded leather. At last the novice directed a frantic assault at the
champion's nose, rising on his toes in his excitement as he did so.
Skene struck up the blow with his right arm, and the impetuous youth
spun and stumbled away until he fell supine in a corner, rapping his
head smartly on the floor at the same time. He rose with unabated
cheerfulness and offered to continue the combat; but Skene declined
any further exercise just then, and, much pleased with his novice's
game, promised to give him a scientific education and make a man of
him.

The champion now sent for his wife, whom he revered as a
preeminently sensible and well-mannered woman. The newcomer could
see in her only a ridiculous dancing-mistress; but he treated her
with great deference, and thereby improved the favorable opinion
which Skene had already formed of him. He related to her how, after
running away from school, he had made his way to Liverpool, gone to
the docks, and contrived to hide himself on board a ship bound for
Australia. Also how he had suffered severely from hunger and thirst
before he discovered himself; and how, notwithstanding his unpopular
position as stowaway, he had been fairly treated as soon as he had
shown that he was willing to work. And in proof that he was still
willing, and had profited by his maritime experience, he offered to
sweep the floor of the gymnasium then and there. This proposal
convinced the Skenes, who had listened to his story like children
listening to a fairy tale, that he was not too much of a gentleman
to do rough work, and it was presently arranged that he should
thenceforth board and lodge with them, have five shillings a week
for pocket-money, and be man-of-all-work, servant, gymnasium-
attendant, clerk, and apprentice to the ex-champion of England and
the colonies.

He soon found his bargain no easy one. The gymnasium was open from
nine in the morning until eleven at night, and the athletic
gentlemen who came there not only ordered him about without
ceremony, but varied the monotony of being set at naught by the
invincible Skene by practising what he taught them on the person of
his apprentice, whom they pounded with great relish, and threw
backwards, forwards, and over their shoulders as though he had been
but a senseless effigy, provided for that purpose. Meanwhile the
champion looked on and laughed, being too lazy to redeem his promise
of teaching the novice to defend himself. The latter, however,
watched the lessons which he saw daily given to others, and, before
the end of a month, he so completely turned the tables on the
amateur pugilists of Melbourne that Skene one day took occasion to
remark that he was growing uncommon clever, but that gentlemen liked
to be played easy with, and that he should be careful not to knock
them about too much. Besides these bodily exertions, he had to keep
account of gloves and foils sold and bought, and of the fees due
both to Mr. and Mrs. Skene. This was the most irksome part of his
duty; for he wrote a large, schoolboy hand, and was not quick at
figures. When he at last began to assist his master in giving
lessons the accounts had fallen into arrear, and Mrs. Skene had to
resume her former care of them; a circumstance which gratified her
husband, who regarded it as a fresh triumph of her superior
intelligence. Then a Chinaman was engaged to do the more menial work
of the establishment. "Skene's novice," as he was now generally
called, was elevated to the rank of assistant professor to the
champion, and became a person of some consequence in the gymnasium.

He had been there more than nine months, and had developed from an
active youth into an athletic young man of eighteen, when an
important conversation took place between him and his principal. It
was evening, and the only persons in the gymnasium were Ned Skene,
who sat smoking at his ease with his coat off, and the novice, who
had just come down-stairs from his bedroom, where he had been
preparing for a visit to the theatre.

"Well, my gentleman," said Skene, mockingly; "you're a fancy man,
you are. Gloves too! They're too small for you. Don't you get
hittin' nobody with them on, or you'll mebbe sprain your wrist."

"Not much fear of that," said the novice, looking at his watch, and,
finding that he had some minutes to spare, sitting down opposite
Skene.

"No," assented the champion. "When you rise to be a regular
professional you won't care to spar with nobody without you're well
paid for it."

"I may say I am in the profession already. You don't call me an
amateur, do you?"

"Oh, no," said Skene, soothingly; "not so bad as that. But mind you,
my boy, I don't call no man a fighting-man what ain't been in the
ring. You're a sparrer, and a clever, pretty sparrer; but sparring
ain't the real thing. Some day, please God, we'll make up a little
match for you, and show what you can do without the gloves."

"I would just as soon have the gloves off as on," said the novice, a
little sulkily.

"That's because you have a heart as big as a lion," said Skene,
patting him on the shoulder. But the novice, who was accustomed to
hear his master pay the same compliment to his patrons whenever they
were seized with fits of boasting (which usually happened when they
got beaten), looked obdurate and said nothing.

"Sam Ducket, of Milltown, was here to-day while you was out giving
Captain Noble his lesson," continued Skene, watching his
apprentice's face cunningly. "Now Sam is a real fighting-man, if you
like."

"I don't think much of him. He's a liar, for one thing."

"That's a failing of the profession. I don't mind telling YOU so,"
said Skene, mournfully. Now the novice had found out this for
himself, already. He never, for instance, believed the accounts
which his master gave of the accidents and conspiracies which had
led to his being defeated three times in the ring. However, as Skene
had won fifteen battles, his next remark was undeniable. "Men fight
none the worse for being liars. Sam Ducket bet Ebony Muley in twenty
minutes."

"Yes," said the novice, scornfully; "and what is Ebony Muley? A
wretched old nigger nearly sixty years old, who is drunk seven days
in the week, and would sell a fight for a glass of brandy! Ducket
ought to have knocked him out of time in seventy seconds. Ducket has
no science."

"Not a bit," said Ned. "But he has lots of game."

"Pshaw! Come, now, Ned; you know as well as I do that that is one of
the stalest commonplaces going. If a fellow knows how to box, they
always say he has science but no pluck. If he doesn't know his right
hand from his left, they say that he isn't clever but that he is
full of game."

Skene looked with secret wonder at his pupil, whose powers of
observation and expression sometimes seemed to him almost to rival
those of Mrs. Skene. "Sam was saying something like that to-day," he
remarked. "He says you're only a sparrer, and that you'd fall down
with fright if you was put into a twenty-four-foot ring."

The novice flushed. "I wish I had been here when Sum Ducket said
that."

"Why, what could you ha' done to him?" said Skene, his small eyes
twinkling.

"I'd have punched his head; that's what I could and would have done
to him."

"Why, man, he'd eat you."

"He might. And he might eat you too, Ned, if he had salt enough with
you. He talks big because he knows I have no money; and he pretends
he won't strip for less than fifty pounds a side."

"No money!" cried Skene. "I know them as'll make up fifty pound
before twelve to-morrow for any man as I will answer for. There'd be
a start for a young man! Why, my fust fight was for five shillings
in Tott'nam Fields; and proud I was when I won it. I don't want to
set you on to fight a crack like Sam Ducket anyway against your
inclinations; but don't go for to say that money isn't to be had.
Let Ned Skene pint to a young man and say, 'That's the young man as
Ned backs,' and others will come for'ard--ay, crowds of 'em."

The novice hesitated. "Do you think I ought to, Ned?" he said.

"That ain't for me to say," said Skene, doggedly. "I know what I
would ha' said at your age. But perhaps you're right to be cautious.
I tell you the truth, I wouldn't care to see you whipped by the like
of Sam Ducket."

"Will you train me if I challenge him?"

"Will I train you!" echoed Skene, rising with enthusiasm. "Ay will I
train you, and put my money on you, too; and you shall knock
fireworks out of him, my boy, as sure as my name's Ned Skene."

"Then," cried the novice, reddening with excitement, "I'll fight
him. And if I lick him you will have to hand over your belt as
champion of the colonies to me."

"So I will," said Skene, affectionately. "Don't out late; and don't
for your life touch a drop of liquor. You must go into training
to-morrow."

This was Cashel Byron's first professional engagement.






CHAPTER I





Wiltstoken Castle was a square building with circular bastions at
the corners, each bastion terminating skyward in a Turkish minaret.
The southwest face was the front, and was pierced by a Moorish arch
fitted with glass doors, which could be secured on occasion by gates
of fantastically hammered iron. The arch was enshrined by a
Palladian portico, which rose to the roof, and was surmounted by an
open pediment, in the cleft of which stood a black-marble figure of
an Egyptian, erect, and gazing steadfastly at the midday sun. On the
ground beneath was an Italian terrace with two great stone elephants
at the ends of the balustrade. The windows on the upper story were,
like the entrance, Moorish; but the principal ones below were square
bays, mullioned. The castle was considered grand by the illiterate;
but architects and readers of books on architecture condemned it as
a nondescript mixture of styles in the worst possible taste. It
stood on an eminence surrounded by hilly woodland, thirty acres of
which were enclosed as Wiltstoken Park. Half a mile south was the
little town of Wiltstoken, accessible by rail from London in about
two hours.

Most of the inhabitants of Wiltstoken were Conservatives. They stood
in awe of the castle; and some of them would at any time have cut
half a dozen of their oldest friends to obtain an invitation to
dinner, or oven a bow in public, from Miss Lydia Carew, its orphan
mistress. This Miss Carew was a remarkable person. She had inherited
the castle and park from her aunt, who had considered her niece's
large fortune in railways and mines incomplete without land. So many
other legacies had Lydia received from kinsfolk who hated poor
relations, that she was now, in her twenty-fifth year, the
independent possessor of an annual income equal to the year's
earnings of five hundred workmen, and under no external compulsion
to do anything in return for it. In addition to the advantage of
being a single woman in unusually easy circumstances, she enjoyed a
reputation for vast learning and exquisite culture. It was said in
Wiltstoken that she knew forty-eight living languages and all dead
ones; could play on every known musical instrument; was an
accomplished painter, and had written poetry. All this might as well
have been true as far as the Wiltstokeners were concerned, since she
knew more than they. She had spent her life travelling with her
father, a man of active mind and bad digestion, with a taste for
sociology, science in general, and the fine arts. On these subjects
he had written books, by which he had earned a considerable
reputation as a critic and philosopher. They were the outcome of
much reading, observation of men and cities, sight-seeing, and
theatre-going, of which his daughter had done her share, and indeed,
as she grew more competent and he weaker and older, more than her
share. He had had to combine health-hunting with pleasure-seeking;
and, being very irritable and fastidious, had schooled her in
self-control and endurance by harder lessons than those which had
made her acquainted with the works of Greek and German philosophers
long before she understood the English into which she translated
them.

When Lydia was in her twenty-first year her father's health failed
seriously. He became more dependent on her; and she anticipated that
he would also become more exacting in his demands on her time. The
contrary occurred. One day, at Naples, she had arranged to go riding
with an English party that was staying there. Shortly before the
appointed hour he asked her to make a translation of a long extract
from Lessing. Lydia, in whom self-questionings as to the justice of
her father's yoke had been for some time stirring, paused
thoughtfully for perhaps two seconds before she consented. Carew
said nothing, but he presently intercepted a servant who was bearing
an apology to the English party, read the note, and went back to his
daughter, who was already busy at Lessing.

"Lydia," he said, with a certain hesitation, which she would have
ascribed to shyness had that been at all credible of her father when
addressing her, "I wish you never to postpone your business to
literary trifling."

She looked at him with the vague fear that accompanies a new and
doubtful experience; and he, dissatisfied with his way of putting
the case, added, "It is of greater importance that you should enjoy
yourself for an hour than that my book should be advanced. Far
greater!"

Lydia, after some consideration, put down her pen and said, "I shall
not enjoy riding if there is anything else left undone."

"I shall not enjoy your writing if your excursion is given up for
it," he said. "I prefer your going."

Lydia obeyed silently. An odd thought struck her that she might end
the matter gracefully by kissing him. But as they were unaccustomed
to make demonstrations of this kind, nothing came of the impulse.
She spent the day on horseback, reconsidered her late rebellious
thoughts, and made the translation in the evening.

Thenceforth Lydia had a growing sense of the power she had
unwittingly been acquiring during her long subordination. Timidly at
first, and more boldly as she became used to dispense with the
parental leading-strings, she began to follow her own bent in
selecting subjects for study, and even to defend certain recent
developments of art against her father's conservatism. He approved
of this independent mental activity on her part, and repeatedly
warned her not to pin her faith more on him than on any other
critic. She once told him that one of her incentives to disagree
with him was the pleasure it gave her to find out ultimately that he
was right. He replied gravely: