so, sir. Ned Skene picked up this Cashel Byron in the streets of Melbourne, where he was a common sailor-boy, and trained him for the ring. You may have seen his name in the papers, sir. The sporting ones are full of him; and he was mentioned in the Times a month ago.”
“I never read articles on such subjects. I have hardly time to glance through the ones that concern me.”
“That’s the way it is with everybody, sir. Miss Carew never thinks of reading the sporting intelligence in the papers; and so he passes himself off on her for her equal. He’s well known for his wish to be thought a gentleman, sir, I assure you.”
“I have noticed his manner as being odd, certainly.”
“Odd, sir! Why, a child might see through him; for he has not the sense to keep his own secret. Last Friday he was in the library, and he got looking at the new biographical dictionary that Miss Carew contributed the article on Spinoza to. And what do you think he said, sir? ‘This is a blessed book,’ he says. ‘Here’s ten pages about Napoleon Bonaparte, and not one about Jack Randall; as if one fighting man wasn’t as good as another!’ I knew by the way the mistress took up that saying, and drew him out, so to speak, on the subject, that she didn’t know who she had in her house; and then I determined to tell you, sir. I hope you won’t think that I come here behind his back out of malice against him. All I want is fair play. If I passed myself off on Miss Carew as a gentleman, I should deserve to be exposed as a cheat; and when he tries to take advantages that don’t belong to him, I think I have a right to expose him.”
“Quite right, quite right,” said Lucian, who cared nothing for Bashville’s motives. “I suppose this Byron is a dangerous man to have any personal unpleasantness with.”
“He knows his business, sir. I am a better judge of wrestling than half of these London professionals; but I never saw the man that could put a hug on him. Simple as he is, sir, he has a genius for fighting, and has beaten men of all sizes, weights, and colors. There’s a new man from the black country, named Paradise, who says he’ll beat him; but I won’t believe it till I see it.”
“Well,” said Lucian, rising, “I am much indebted to you, Bashville, for your information; and I will take care to let Miss Carew know how you have—”
“Begging your pardon, sir,” said Bashville; “but, if you please, no. I did not come to recommend myself at the cost of another man; and perhaps Miss Carew might not think it any great recommendation neither.” Lucian looked quickly at him, and seemed about to speak, but checked himself. Bashville continued, “If he denies it, you may call me as a witness, and I will tell him to his face that he lies — and so I would if he were twice as dangerous; but, except in that way, I would ask you, sir, as a favor, not to mention my name to Miss Carew.”
“As you please,” said Lucian, taking out his purse. “Perhaps you are right. However, you shall not have your trouble for nothing.”
“I couldn’t, really, sir,” said Bashville, retreating a step. “You will agree with me, I’m sure, that this is not a thing that a man should take payment for. It is a personal matter between me and Byron, sir.”
Lucian, displeased that a servant should have any personal feelings on any subject, much more one that concerned his mistress, put back his purse without comment and said, “Will Miss Carew be at home this afternoon between three and four?”
“I have not heard of any arrangement to the contrary, sir. I will telegraph to you if she goes out — if you wish.”
“It does not matter. Thank you. Good-morning.”
“Good-morning, sir,” said Bashville, respectfully, as he withdrew. Outside the door his manner changed. He put on a pair of primrose gloves, took up a silvermounted walking-stick that he had left in the corridor, and walked from Downing Street into Whitehall. A party of visitors from the country, who were standing there examining the buildings, guessed that he was a junior lord of the Treasury.
He waited in vain that afternoon for Lucian to appear at the house in Regent’s Park. There were no callers, and he wore away the time by endeavoring, with the aid of a library that Miss Carew had placed at the disposal of her domestics, to unravel the philosophy of Spinoza. At the end of an hour, feeling satisfied that he had mastered that author’s views, he proceeded to vary the monotony of the long summer’s day by polishing Lydia’s plate.
Meanwhile, Lucian was considering how he could best make Lydia not only repudiate Cashel’s acquaintance, but feel thoroughly ashamed of herself for having encouraged him, and wholesomely mistrustful of her own judgment for the future. His parliamentary experience had taught him to provide himself with a few well-arranged, relevant facts before attempting to influence the opinions of others on any subject. He knew no more of prizefighting than that it was a brutal and illegal practice, akin to cockfighting, and, like it, generally supposed to be obsolete. Knowing how prone Lydia was to suspect any received opinion of being a prejudice, he felt that he must inform himself more particularly. To Lord Worthington’s astonishment, he not only asked him to dinner next evening, but listened with interest while he descanted to his heart’s content on his favorite topic of the ring.
As the days passed, Bashville became nervous, and sometimes wondered whether Lydia had met her cousin and heard from him of the interview at Downing Street. He fancied that her manner towards him was changed; and he was once or twice on the point of asking the most sympathetic of the housemaids whether she had noticed it. On Wednesday his suspense ended. Lucian came, and had a long conversation with Lydia in the library. Bashville was too honorable to listen at the door; but he felt a strong temptation to do so, and almost hoped that the sympathetic housemaid might prove less scrupulous. But Miss Carew’s influence extended farther than her bodily presence; and Lucian’s revelation was made in complete privacy.
When he entered the library he looked so serious that she asked him whether he had neuralgia, from which he occasionally suffered. He replied with some indignation that he had not, and that he had a communication of importance to make to her.
“What! Another!”
“Yes, another,” he said, with a sour smile; “but this time it does not concern myself. May I warn you as to the character of one of your guests without overstepping my privilege?”
“Certainly. But perhaps you mean Vernet. If so, I am perfectly aware that he is an exiled Communard.”
“I do not mean Monsieur Vernet. You understand, I hope, that I do not approve of him, nor of your strange fancy for Nihilists, Fenians, and other doubtful persons; but I think that even you might draw the line at a prizefighter.”
Lydia lost color, and said, almost inaudibly, “Cashel Byron!”
“Then you KNEW!” exclaimed Lucian, scandalized.
Lydia waited a moment to recover, settled herself quietly in her chair, and replied, calmly, “I know what you tell me — nothing more. And now, will you explain to me exactly what a prizefighter is?”
“He is simply what his name indicates. He is a man who fights for prizes.”
“So does the captain of a man-of-war. And yet society does not place them in the same class — at least, I do not think so.”
“As if there could be any doubt that society does not! There is no analogy whatever between the two cases. Let me endeavor to open your eyes a little, if that be possible, which I am sometimes tempted to doubt. A prizefighter is usually a man of naturally ferocious disposition,
