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.”