Cashel Byron's Profession: Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Next evening, Lydia and Alice reached Mrs. Hoskyn's house in Campden
Hill Road a few minutes before ten o'clock. They found Lord
Worthington in the front garden, smoking and chatting with Mr.
Hoskyn. He threw away his cigar and returned to the house with the
two ladies, who observed that he was somewhat flushed with wine.
They went into a parlor to take off their wraps, leaving him at the
foot of the stairs. Presently they heard some one come down and
address him excitedly thus,

"Worthington. Worthington. He has begun making a speech before the
whole room. He got up the moment old Abendgasse sat down. Why the
deuce did you give him that glass of champagne?"

"Sh-sh-sh! You don't say so! Come with me; and let us try to get him
away quietly."

"Did you hear that?" said Alice. "Something must have happened."

"I hope so," said Lydia. "Ordinarily, the fault in these receptions
is that nothing happens. Do not announce us, if you please," she
added to the servant, as they ascended the stairs. "Since we have
come late, let us spare the feelings of Herr Abendgasse by going in
as quietly as possible."

They had no difficulty in entering unnoticed, for Mrs. Hoskyn
considered obscurity beautiful; and her rooms were but dimly lighted
by two curious lanterns of pink glass, within which were vaporous
flames. In the middle of the larger apartment was a small table
covered with garnet-colored plush, with a reading-desk upon it, and
two candles in silver candlesticks, the light of which, being
brighter than the lanterns, cast strong double shadows from a group
of standing figures about the table. The surrounding space was
crowded with chairs, occupied chiefly by ladies. Behind them, along
the wall, stood a row of men, among whom was Lucian Webber. All were
staring at Cashel Byron, who was making a speech to some bearded and
spectacled gentlemen at the table. Lydia, who had never before seen
him either in evening dress or quite at his ease, was astonished at
his bearing. His eyes were sparkling, his confidence overbore the
company, and his rough voice created the silence it broke. He was in
high good-humor, and marked his periods by the swing of his extended
left arm, while he held his right hand close to his body and
occasionally pointed his remarks by slyly wagging his forefinger.

"--executive power," he was saying as Lydia entered. "That's a very
good expression, gentlemen, and one that I can tell you a lot about.
We have been told that if we want to civilize our neighbors we must
do it mainly by the example of our own lives, by each becoming a
living illustration of the highest culture we know. But what I ask
is, how is anybody to know that you're an illustration of culture.
You can't go about like a sandwich man with a label on your back to
tell all the fine notions you have in your head; and you may be sure
no person will consider your mere appearance preferable to his own.
You want an executive power; that's what you want. Suppose you
walked along the street and saw a man beating a woman, and setting a
bad example to the roughs. Well, you would be bound to set a good
example to them; and, if you're men, you'd like to save the woman;
but you couldn't do it by merely living; for that would be setting
the bad example of passing on and leaving the poor creature to be
beaten. What is it that you need to know then, in order to act up to
your fine ideas? Why, you want to know how to hit him, when to hit
him, and where to hit him; and then you want the nerve to go in and
do it. That's executive power; and that's what's wanted worse than
sitting down and thinking how good you are, which is what this
gentleman's teaching comes to after all. Don't you see? You want
executive power to set an example. If you leave all that to the
roughs, it's their example that will spread, and not yours. And look
at the politics of it. We've heard a good deal about the French
to-night. Well, they've got executive power. They know how to make a
barricade, and how to fight behind it when they've made it. What's
the result? Why, the French, if they only knew what they wanted,
could have it to-morrow for the asking--more's the pity that they
don't know. In this country we can do nothing; and if the lords and
the landlords, or any other collection of nobs, were to drive us
into the sea, what could we do but go? There's a gentleman laughing
at me for saying that; but I ask him what would he do if the police
or the soldiers came this evening and told him to turn out of his
comfortable house into the Thames? Tell 'em he wouldn't vote for
their employers at the next election, perhaps? Or, if that didn't
stop them, tell 'em that he'd ask his friends to do the same? That's
a pretty executive power! No, gentlemen. Don't let yourself be
deceived by people that have staked their money against you. The
first thing to learn is how to fight. There's no use in buying books
and pictures unless you know how to keep them and your own head as
well. If that gentleman that laughed know how to fight, and his
neighbors all knew how to fight too, he wouldn't need to fear
police, nor soldiers, nor Russians, nor Prussians, nor any of the
millions of men that may be let loose on him any day of the week,
safe though he thinks himself. But, says you, let's have a division
of labor. Let's not fight for ourselves, but pay other men to fight
for us. That shows how some people, when they get hold of an idea,
will work it to that foolish length that it's wearisome to listen to
them. Fighting is the power of self-preservation; another man can't
do it for you. You might as well divide the labor of eating your
dinner, and pay one fellow to take the beef, another the beer, and a
third the potatoes. But let us put it for the sake of argument that
you do pay others to fight for you. Suppose some one else pays them
higher, and they fight a cross, or turn openly against you! You'd
have only yourself to blame for giving the executive power to money.
And so long as the executive power is money the poor will be kept
out of their corner and fouled against the ropes; whereas, by what I
understand, the German professor wants them to have their rights.
Therefore I say that a man's first duty is to learn to fight. If he
can't do that he can't set an example; he can't stand up for his own
rights or his neighbors'; he can't keep himself in bodily health;
and if he sees the weak ill-used by the strong, the most he can do
is to sneak away and tell the nearest policeman, who most likely
won't turn up until the worst of the mischief is done. Coming to
this lady's drawing-room, and making an illustration of himself,
won't make him feel like a man after that. Let me be understood,
though, gentlemen: I don't intend that you should take everything I
say too exactly--too literally, as it were. If you see a man beating
a woman, I think you should interfere on principle. But don't expect
to be thanked by her for it; and keep your eye on her; don't let her
get behind you. As for him, just give him a good one and go away.
Never stay to get yourself into a street fight; for it's low, and
generally turns out badly for all parties. However, that's only a
bit of practical advice. It doesn't alter the great principle that
you should get an executive power. When you get that, you'll have
courage in you; and, what's more, your courage will be of some use
to you. For though you may have courage by nature, still, if you
haven't executive power as well, your courage will only lead you to
stand up to be beaten by men that have both courage and executive
power; and what good does that do you? People say that you're a game
fellow; but they won't find the stakes for you unless you can win
them. You'd far better put your game in your pocket, and throw up
the sponge while you can see to do it.

"Now, on this subject of game, I've something to say that will ease
the professor's mind on a point that he seemed anxious about. I am
no musician; but I'll just show you how a man that understands one
art understands every art. I made out from the gentleman's remarks
that there is a man in the musical line named Wagner, who is what
you might call a game sort of composer; and that the musical fancy,
though they can't deny that his tunes are first-rate, and that, so
to speak, he wins his fights, yet they try to make out that he wins
them in an outlandish way, and that he has no real science. Now I
tell the gentleman not to mind such talk. As I have just shown you,
his game wouldn't be any use to him without science. He might have
beaten a few second-raters with a rush while he was young; but he
wouldn't have lasted out as he has done unless he was clever as
well. You will find that those that run him down are either jealous,
or they are old stagers that are not used to his style, and think
that anything new must be bad. Just wait a bit, and, take my word
for it, they'll turn right round and swear that his style isn't new
at all, and that he stole it from some one they saw when they were
ten years old. History shows us that that is the way of such fellows
in all ages, as the gentleman said; and he gave you Beethoven as an
example. But an example like that don't go home to you, because
there isn't one man in a million that ever heard of Beethoven. Take
a man that everybody has heard of--Jack Randall! The very same
things were said of HIM. After that, you needn't go to musicians for
an example. The truth is, that there are people in the world with
that degree of envy and malice in them that they can't bear to allow
a good man his merits; and when they have to admit that he can do
one thing, they try to make out that there's something else he can't
do. Come: I'll put it to you short and business-like. This German
gentleman, who knows all about music, tells you that many pretend
that this Wagner has game but no science. Well, I, though I know
nothing about music, will bet you twenty-five pounds that there's
others that allow him to be full of science, but say that he has no
game, and that all he does comes from his head, and not from his
heart. I will. I'll bet twenty-five pounds on it, and let the
gentleman of the house be stakeholder, and the German gentleman
referee. Eh? Well, I'm glad to see that there are no takers.

"Now we'll go to another little point that the gentleman forgot. He
recommended you to LEARN--to make yourselves better and wiser from
day to day. But he didn't tell you why it is that you won't learn,
in spite of his advice. I suppose that, being a foreigner, he was
afraid of hurting your feelings by talking too freely to you. But
you're not so thin-skinned as to take offence at a little
plain-speaking, I'll be bound; so I tell you straight out that the
reason you won't learn is not that you don't want to be clever, or
that you are lazier than many that have learned a great deal, but
just because you'd like people to think that you know everything
already--because you're ashamed to be seen going to school; and you
calculate that if you only hold your tongue and look wise you'll get
through life without your ignorance being found out. But where's the
good of lies and pretence? What does it matter if you get laughed at
by a cheeky brat or two for your awkward beginnings? What's the use
of always thinking of how you're looking, when your sense might tell
you that other people are thinking about their own looks and not
about yours? A big boy doesn't look well on a lower form, certainly,
but when he works his way up he'll be glad he began. I speak to you
more particularly because you're Londoners; and Londoners beat all
creation for thinking about themselves. However, I don't go with the
gentleman in everything he said. All this struggling and striving to
make the world better is a great mistake; not because it isn't a
good thing to improve the world if you know how to do it, but
because striving and struggling is the worst way you could set about
doing anything. It gives a man a bad style, and weakens him. It
shows that he don't believe in himself much. When I heard the
professor striving and struggling so earnestly to set you to work
reforming this, that, and the other, I said to myself, 'He's got
himself to persuade as well as his audience. That isn't the language
of conviction.' Whose--"

"Really, sir," said Lucian Webber, who had made his way to the
table, "I think, as you have now addressed us at considerable
length, and as there are other persons present whose opinions
probably excite as much curiosity as yours--" He was interrupted by
a, "Hear, hear," followed by "No, no," and "Go on," uttered in more
subdued tones than are customary at public meetings, but with more
animation than is usually displayed in drawing-rooms. Cashel, who
had been for a moment somewhat put out, turned to Lucian and said,
in a tone intended to repress, but at the same time humor his
impatience, "Don't you be in a hurry, sir. You shall have your turn
presently. Perhaps I may tell you something you don't know, before I
stop." Then he turned again to the company, and resumed.

"We were talking about effort when this young gentleman took it upon
himself to break the ring. Now, nothing can be what you might call
artistically done if it's done with an effort. If a thing can't be
done light and easy, steady and certain, let it not be done at all.
Sounds strange, doesn't it? But I'll tell you a stranger thing. The
more effort you make, the less effect you produce. A WOULD-BE artist
is no artist at all. I see that in my own profession (never mind
what that profession is just at present, as the ladies might think
the worse of me for it). But in all professions, any work that shows
signs of labor, straining, yearning--as the German gentleman
said--or effort of any kind, is work beyond the man's strength that
does it, and therefore not well done. Perhaps it's beyond his
natural strength; but it is more likely that he was badly taught.
Many teachers set their pupils on to strain, and stretch, so that
they get used up, body and mind, in a few months. Depend upon it,
the same thing is true in other arts. I once taught a fiddler that
used to get a hundred guineas for playing two or three tunes; and he
told me that it was just the same thing with the fiddle--that when
you laid a tight hold on your fiddle-stick, or even set your teeth
hard together, you could do nothing but rasp like the fellows that
play in bands for a few shillings a night."

"How much more of this nonsense must we endure?" said Lucian,
audibly, as Cashel stopped for breath. Cashel turned and looked at
him.

"By Jove!" whispered Lord Worthington to his companion, "that fellow
had better be careful. I wish he would hold his tongue."

"You think it's nonsense, do you?" said Cashel, after a pause. Then
he raised one of the candles, and illuminated a picture that hung on
the wall, "Look at that picture," he said. "You see that fellow in
armor--St. George and the dragon, or whatever he may be. He's jumped
down from his horse to fight the other fellow--that one with his
head in a big helmet, whose horse has tumbled. The lady in the
gallery is half crazy with anxiety for St. George; and well she may
be. THERE'S a posture for a man to fight in! His weight isn't
resting on his legs; one touch of a child's finger would upset him.
Look at his neck craned out in front of him, and his face as flat as
a full moon towards his man, as if he was inviting him to shut up
both his eyes with one blow. You can all see that he's as weak and
nervous as a cat, and that he doesn't know how to fight. And why
does he give you that idea? Just because he's all strain and
stretch; because he isn't at his ease; because he carries the weight
of his body as foolishly as one of the ladies here would carry a hod
of bricks; because he isn't safe, steady, and light on his pins, as
he would be if he could forget himself for a minute, and leave his
body to find its proper balance of its own accord. If the painter of
that picture had known his business he would never have sent his man
up to the scratch in such a figure and condition as that. But you
can see with one eye that he didn't understand--I won't say the
principles of fighting, but the universal principles that I've told
you of, that ease and strength, effort and weakness, go together.
Now," added Cashel, again addressing Lucian; "do you still think
that notion of mine nonsense?" And he smacked his lips with
satisfaction; for his criticism of the picture had produced a marked
sensation, and he did not know that this was due to the fact that
the painter, Mr. Adrian Herbert, was present.

Lucian tried to ignore the question; but he found it impossible to
ignore the questioner. "Since you have set the example of expressing
opinions without regard to considerations of common courtesy," he
said, shortly, "I may say that your theory, if it can be called one,
is manifestly absurd."

Cashel, apparently unruffled, but with more deliberation of manner
than before, looked about him as if in search of a fresh
illustration. His glance finally rested on the lecturer's seat, a
capacious crimson damask arm-chair that stood unoccupied at some
distance behind Lucian.

"I see you're no judge of a picture," said he, good-humoredly,
putting down the candle, and stepping in front of Lucian. who
regarded him haughtily, and did not budge. "But just look at it in
this way. Suppose you wanted to hit me the most punishing blow you
possibly could. What would you do? Why, according to your own
notion, you'd make a great effort. 'The more effort the more force,'
you'd say to yourself. 'I'll smash him even if I burst myself in
doing it.' And what would happen then? You'd only cut me and make me
angry, besides exhausting all your strength at one gasp. Whereas, if
you took it easy--like this--" Here he made a light step forward and
placed his open palm gently against the breast of Lncian, who
instantly reeled back as if the piston-rod of a steam-engine had
touched him, and dropped into the chair.

"There!" exclaimed Cashel, standing aside and pointing to him. "It's
like pocketing a billiard-ball!"

A chatter of surprise, amusement, and remonstrance spread through
the rooms; and the company crowded towards the table. Lucian rose,
white with rage, and for a moment entirely lost his self-control.
Fortunately, the effect was to paralyze him; he neither moved nor
spoke, and only betrayed his condition by his pallor and the hatred
in his expression. Presently he felt a touch on his arm and heard
his name pronounced by Lydia. Her voice calmed him. He tried to look
at her, but his vision was disturbed; he saw double; the lights
seemed to dunce before his eyes; and Lord Worthington's voice,
saying to Cashel, "Rather too practical, old fellow," seemed to come
from a remote corner of the room, and yet to be whispered into his
ear. He was moving irresolutely in search of Lydia when his senses
and his resentment were restored by a clap on the shoulder.

"You wouldn't have believed that now, would you?" said Cashel.
"Don't look startled; you've no bones broken. You had your little
joke with me in your own way; and I had mine in MY own way. That's
only--"

He stopped; his brave bearing vanished; he became limp and
shamefaced. Lucian, without a word, withdrew with Lydia to the
adjoining apartment, and left him staring after her with wistful
eyes and slackened jaw.

In the meantime Mrs. Hoskyn, an earnest-looking young woman, with
striking dark features and gold spectacles, was looking for Lord
Worthington, who betrayed a consciousness of guilt by attempting to
avoid her. But she cut off his retreat, and confronted him with a
steadfast gaze that compelled him to stand and answer for himself.

"Who is that gentleman whom you introduced to me? I do not recollect
his name."

"I am really awfully sorry, Mrs. Hoskyn. It was too bad of Byron.
But Webber was excessively nasty."

Mrs. Hoskyn, additionally annoyed by apologies which she had not
invited, and which put her in the ignominious position of a
complainant, replied coldly, "Mr. Byron! Thank you; I had
forgotten," and was turning away when Lydia came up to introduce
Alice, and to explain why she had entered unannounced. Lord
Worthington then returned to the subject of Cashel, hoping to
improve his credit by claiming Lydia's acquaintance with him.

"Did you hear our friend Byron's speech, Miss Carew? Very
characteristic, I thought."

"Very," said Lydia. "I hope Mrs. Hoskyn's guests are all familiar
with his style. Otherwise they must find him a little startling."

"Yes," said Mrs. Hoskyn, beginning to wonder whether Cashel could be
some well-known eccentric genius. "He is very odd. I hope Mr. Webber
is not offended."

"He is the less pleased as he was in the wrong," said Lydia.
"Intolerant refusal to listen to an opponent is a species of
violence that has no business in such a representative
nineteenth-century drawing-room as yours, Mrs. Hoskyn. There was a
fitness in rebuking it by skilled physical violence. Consider the
prodigious tact of it, too! One gentleman knocks another half-way
across a crowded room, and yet no one is scandalized."

"You see, Mrs. Hoskyn, the general verdict is 'Served him right,'"
said Lord Worthington.

"With a rider to the effect that both gentlemen displayed complete
indifference to the comfort of their hostess," said Lydia. "However,
men so rarely sacrifice their manners to their minds that it would
be a pity to blame them. You do not encourage conventionality, Mrs.
Hoskyn?"

"I encourage good manners, though certainly not conventional
manners."

"And you think there is a difference?"

"I FEEL that there is a difference," said Mrs. Hoskyn, with dignity.

"So do I," said Lydia; "but one can hardly call others to account
for one's own subjective ideas."

Lydia went away to another part of the room without waiting for a
reply. Meanwhile, Cashel stood friendless in the middle of the room,
stared at by most of his neighbors, and spoken to by none. Women
looked at him coldly lest it should be suspected that they were
admiring him; and men regarded him stiffly according to the national
custom. Since his recognition of Lydia, his self-confidence had
given place to a misgiving that he had been making a fool of
himself. He began to feel lonely and abashed; and but for his
professional habit of maintaining a cheerful countenance under
adverse circumstances, he would have hid himself in the darkest
corner of the room. He was getting sullen, and seeking consolation
in thoughts of how terribly he could handle all these
distantly-mannered, black-coated gentlemen if he chose, when Lord
Worthington came up to him.

"I had no idea you were such an orator, Byron," he said. "You can go
into the Church when you cut the other trade. Eh?"

"I wasn't brought up to the other trade," said Cashel; "and I know
how to talk to ladies and gentlemen as well as to what you'd suppose
to be my own sort. Don't you be anxious about me, my lord. I know
how to make myself at home."

"Of course, of course," said Lord Worthington, soothingly. "Every
one can see by your manners that you are a gentleman; they recognize
that even in the ring. Otherwise--I know you will excuse my saying
so--I daren't have brought you here."

Cashel shook his head, but was pleased. He thought he hated
flattery; had Lord Worthington told him that he was the best boxer
in England--which he probably was--he would have despised him. But
he wished to believe the false compliment to his manners, and was
therefore perfectly convinced of its sincerity. Lord Worthington
perceived this, and retired, pleased with his own tact, in search of
Mrs. Hoskyn, to claim her promise of an introduction to Madame
Szczymplica, which Mrs. Hoskyn had, by way of punishing him for
Cashel's misdemeanor, privately determined not to redeem.

Cashel began to think he had better go. Lydia was surrounded by men
who were speaking to her in German. He felt his own inability to
talk learnedly even in English; and he had, besides, a conviction
that she was angry with him for upsetting her cousin, who was
gravely conversing with Miss Goff. Suddenly a horrible noise caused
a general start and pause. Mr. Jack, the eminent composer, had
opened the piano-forte, and was illustrating some points in a
musical composition under discussion by making discordant sounds
with his voice, accompanied by a few chords. Cashel laughed aloud in
derision as he made his way towards the door through the crowd,
which was now pressing round the pianoforte at which Madame
Szczymplica had just come to the assistance of Jack. Near the door,
and in a corner remote from the instrument, he came upon Lydia and a
middle-aged gentleman, evidently neither a professor nor an artist.

"Ab'n'gas is a very clever man," the gentleman was saying. "I am
sorry I didn't hear the lecture. But I leave all that to Mary. She
receives the people who enjoy high art up-stairs; and I take the
sensible men down to the garden or the smoking-room, according to
the weather."

"What do the sensible women do?" said Lydia.

"They come late," said Mr. Hoskyn, and then laughed at his repartee
until he became aware of the vicinity of Cashel, whose health he
immediately inquired after, shaking his hand warmly and receiving a
numbing grip in return. As soon as he saw that Lydia and Cashel were
acquainted, he slipped away and left them to entertain one another.

"I wonder how he knows me," said Cashel, heartened by her gracious
reception of a nervous bow. "I never saw him before in my life."

"He does not know you," said Lydia, with some sternness. "He is your
host, and therefore concludes that he ought to know you."

"Oh! That was it, was it?" He paused, at a loss for conversation.
She did not help him. At last he added, "I haven't seen you this
long time, Miss Carew."

"It is not very long since I saw you, Mr. Cashel Byron. I saw you
yesterday at some distance from London."

"Oh, Lord!" exclaimed Cashel, "don't say that. You're joking, ain't
you?"

"No. Joking, in that sense, does not amuse me."

Cashel looked at her in consternation. "You don't mean to say that
you went to see a--a--Where--when did you see me? You might tell
me."

"Certainly. It was at Clapham Junction, at a quarter-past six."

"Was any one with me?"

"Your friend, Mr. Mellish, Lord Worthington, and some other
persons."

"Yes. Lord Worthington was there. But where were you?"

"In a waiting-room, close to you."

"I never saw you," said Cashel, growing red as he recalled the
scene. "We must have looked very queer. I had had an accident to my
eye, and Mellish was not sober. Did you think I was in bad company?"

"That was not my business, Mr. Cashel Byron."

"No," said Cashel, with sudden bitterness. "What did YOU care what
company I kept? You're mad with me because I made your cousin look
like a fool, I suppose. That's what's the matter."

Lydia looked around to see that no one was within earshot, and,
speaking in a low tone to remind him that they were not alone, said,
"There is nothing the matter, except that you are a grown-up boy
rather than a man. I am not mad with you because of your attack upon
my cousin; but he is very much annoyed, and so is Mrs. Hoskyn, whose
guest you were bound to respect."

"I knew you'd be down on me. I wouldn't have said a word if I'd
known that you were here," said Cashel, dejectedly. "Lie down and be
walked over; that's what you think I'm fit for. Another man would
have twisted his head off."

"Is it possible that you do not know that gentlemen never twist one
another's heads off in society, no matter how great may be the
provocation?"

"I know nothing," said Cashel with plaintive sullenness. "Everything
I do is wrong. There. Will that satisfy you?"

Lydia looked up at him in doubt. Then, with steady patience, she
added: "Will you answer me a question on your honor?"

He hesitated, fearing that she was going to ask what he was.

"The question is this," she said, observing the hesitation. "Are you
a simpleton, or a man of science pretending to be a simpleton for
the sake of mocking me and my friends?"

"I am not mocking you; honor bright! All that about science was only
a joke--at least, it's not what you call science. I'm a real
simpleton in drawing-room affairs; though I'm clever enough in my
own line."

"Then try to believe that I take no pleasure in making you confess
yourself in the wrong, and that you cannot have a lower opinion of
me than the contrary belief implies."

"That's just where you're mistaken," said Cashel, obstinately. "I
haven't got a low opinion of you at all. There's such a thing as
being too clever."

"You may not know that it is a low opinion. Nevertheless, it is so."

"Well, have it your own way. I'm wrong again; and you're right."

"So far from being gratified by that, I had rather that we were both
in the right and agreed. Can you understand that?"

"I can't say I do. But I give in to it. What more need you care
for?"

"I had rather you understood. Let me try to explain. You think that
I like to be cleverer than other people. You are mistaken. I should
like them all to know whatever I know."

Cashel laughed cunningly, and shook his head. "Don't you make any
mistake about that," he said. "You don't want anybody to be quite as
clever as yourself; it isn't in human nature that you should. You'd
like people to be just clever enough to show you off--to be worth
beating. But you wouldn't like them to be able to beat you. Just
clever enough to know how much cleverer you are; that's about the
mark. Eh?"

Lydia made no further effort to enlighten him. She looked at him
thoughtfully, and said, slowly, "I begin to hold the clew to your
idiosyncrasy. You have attached yourself to the modern doctrine of a
struggle for existence, and look on life as a perpetual combat."

"A fight? Just so. What is life but a fight? The curs forfeit or get
beaten; the rogues sell the fight and lose the confidence of their
backers; the game ones and the clever ones win the stakes, and have
to hand over the lion's share of them to the loafers; and luck plays
the devil with them all in turn. That's not the way they describe
life in books; but that's what it is."

"Oddly put, but perhaps true. Still, is there any need of a
struggle? Is not the world large enough for us all to live
peacefully in?"

"YOU may think so, because you were born with a silver spoon in your
mouth. But if you hadn't to fight for that silver spoon, some one
else had; and no doubt he thought it hard that it should be taken
away from him and given to you. I was a snob myself once, and
thought the world was made for me to enjoy myself and order about
the poor fellows whose bread I was eating. But I was left one day
where I couldn't grab any more of their bread, and had to make some
for myself--ay, and some extra for loafers that had the power to
make me pay for what they didn't own. That took the conceit out of
me fast enough. But what do you know about such things?"

"More than you think, perhaps. These are dangerous ideas to take
with you into English society."

"Hmf!" growled Cashel. "They'd be more dangerous if I could give
every man that is robbed of half what he earns twelve lessons--in
science."

"So you can. Publish your lessons. 'Twelve lectures on political
economy, by Cashel Byron.' I will help you to publish them, if you
wish."

"Bless your innocence!" said Cashel: "the sort of political economy
I teach can't be learned from a book."

"You have become an enigma again. But yours is not the creed of a
simpleton. You are playing with me--revealing your wisdom from
beneath a veil of infantile guilelessness. I have no more to say."

"May I be shot if I understand you! I never pretended to be
guileless. Come: is it because I raised a laugh against your cousin
that you're so spiteful?"

Lydia looked earnestly and doubtfully at him; and he instinctively
put his head back, as if it were in danger. "You do not understand,
then?" she said. "I will test the genuineness of your stupidity by
an appeal to your obedience."

"Stupidity! Go on."

"But will you obey me, if I lay a command upon you?"

"I will go through fire and water for you."

Lydia blushed faintly, and paused to wonder at the novel sensation
before she resumed. "You had better not apologize to my cousin:
partly because you would only make matters worse; chiefly because he
does not deserve it. But you must make this speech to Mrs. Hoskyn
when you are going: 'I am very sorry I forgot myself'--"

"Sounds like Shakespeare, doesn't it?" observed Cashel.

"Ah! the test has found you out; you are only acting after all. But
that does not alter my opinion that you should apologize."

"All right. I don't know what you mean by testing and acting; and I
only hope you know yourself. But no matter; I'll apologize; a man
like me can afford to. I'll apologize to your cousin, too, if you
like."

"I do not like. But what has that to do with it? I suggest these
things, as you must be aware, for your own sake and not for mine."

"As for my own, I don't care twopence: I do it all for you. I don't
even ask whether there is anything between you and him."

"Would you like to know?" said Lydia, deliberately, after a pause of
astonishment.

"Do you mean to say you'll tell me?" he exclaimed. "If you do, I'll
say you're as good as gold."

"Certainly I will tell you. There is an old friendship and
cousinship between us; but we are not engaged, nor at all likely to
be. I tell you so because, if I avoided the question, you would draw
the opposite and false conclusion."

"I am glad of it," said Cashel, unexpectedly becoming very gloomy.
"He isn't man enough for you. But he's your equal, damn him!"

"He is my cousin, and, I believe, my sincere friend. Therefore
please do not damn him."

"I know I shouldn't have said that. But I am only damning my own
luck."

"Which will not improve it in the least."

"I know that. You needn't have said it. I wouldn't have said a thing
like that to you, stupid as I am."

"Evidently you suppose me to have meant more than I really did.
However, that does not matter. You are still an enigma to me. Had we
not better try to hear a little of Madame Szczymplica's
performance?"

"I'm a pretty plain enigma, I should think," said Cashel,
mournfully. "I would rather have you than any other woman in the
world; but you're too rich and grand for me. If I can't have the
satisfaction of marrying you, I may as well have the satisfaction of
saying I'd like to."

"Hardly a fair way of approaching the subject," said Lydia,
composedly, but with a play of color again in her cheeks. "Allow me
to forbid it unconditionally. I must be plain with you, Mr. Cashel
Byron. I do not know what you are or who you are; and I believe you
have tried to mystify me on both points--"

"And you never shall find out either the one or the other, if I can
help it," put in Cashel; "so that we're in a preciously bad way of
coming to a good understanding."

"True," assented Lydia. "I do not make secrets; I do not keep them;
and I do not respect them. Your humor clashes with my principle."

"You call it a humor!" said Cashel, angrily. "Perhaps you think I am
a duke in disguise. If so, you may think better of it. If you had a
secret, the discovery of which would cause you to be kicked out of
decent society, you would keep it pretty tight. And that through no
fault of your own, mind you; but through downright cowardice and
prejudice in other people."

"There are at least some fears and prejudices common in society that
I do not share," said Lydia, after a moment's reflection. "Should I
ever find out your secret, do not too hastily conclude that you have
forfeited my consideration."

"You are just the last person on earth by whom I want to be found
out. But you'll find out fast enough. Pshaw!" cried Cashel, with a
laugh, "I'm as well known as Trafalgar Square. But I can't bring
myself to tell you; and I hate secrets as much as you do; so let's
drop it and talk about something else."

"We have talked long enough. The music is over, and the people will
return to this room presently, perhaps to ask me who and what is the
stranger who made them such a remarkable speech."

"Just a word. Promise me that you won't ask any of THEM that."

"Promise you! No. I cannot promise that."

"Oh, Lord!" said Cashel, with a groan.

"I have told you that I do not respect secrets. For the present I
will not ask; but I may change my mind. Meanwhile we must not hold
long conversations. I even hope that we shall not meet. There is
only one thing that I am too rich and grand for. That one
thing--mystification. Adieu."

Before he could reply she was away from him in the midst of a number
of gentlemen, and in conversation with one of them. Cashel seemed
overwhelmed. But in an instant he recovered himself, and stepped
jauntily before Mrs. Hoskyn, who had just come into his
neighborhood.

"I'm going, ma'am," he said. "Thank you for a pleasant evening--I'm
very sorry I forgot myself. Good-night."

Mrs. Hoskyn, naturally frank, felt some vague response within
herself to this address. But, though not usually at a loss for words
in social emergencies, she only looked at him, blushed slightly, and
offered her hand. He took it as if it were a tiny baby's hand and he
afraid of hurting it, gave it a little pinch, and turned to go. Mr.
Adrian Herbert, the painter, was directly in his way, with his back
towards him.

"If YOU please, sir," said Cashel, taking him gently by the ribs,
and moving him aside. The artist turned indignantly, but Cashel was
passing the doorway. On the stairs he met Lucian and Alice, and
stopped a moment to take leave of them.

"Good-night, Miss Goff," he said. "It's a pleasure to see the
country roses in your cheeks." He lowered his voice as he added, to
Lucian, "Don't you worry yourself over that little trick I showed
you. If any of your friends chafe you about it, tell them that it
was Cashel Byron did it, and ask them whether they think they could
have helped themselves any better than you could. Don't ever let a
person come within distance of yon while you're standing in that
silly way on both your heels. Why, if a man isn't properly planted
on his pins, a broom-handle falling against him will upset him.
That's the way of it. Good-night."

Lucian returned the salutation, mastered by a certain latent
dangerousness in Cashel, suggestive that he might resent a snub by
throwing the offender over the balustrade. As for Alice, she had
entertained a superstitious dread of him ever since Lydia had
pronounced him a ruffian. Both felt relieved when the house door,
closing, shut them out of his reach.

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