Cashel Byron's Profession: Chapter 8

Chapter 8

One morning a handsome young man, elegantly dressed, presented
himself at Downing Street, and asked to see Mr. Lucian Webber. He
declined to send in a card, and desired to be announced simply as
"Bashville." Lucian ordered him to be admitted at once, and, when he
entered, nodded amiably to him and invited him to sit down.

"I thank you, sir," said Bashville, seating himself. It struck
Lucian then, from a certain strung-up resolution in his visitor's
manner, that he had come on some business of his own, and not, as he
had taken for granted, with a message from his mistress.

"I have come, sir, on my own responsibility this morning. I hope yon
will excuse the liberty."

"Certainly. If I can do anything for you, Bashville, don't be afraid
to ask. But be as brief as you can. I am so busy that every second I
give you will probably be subtracted from my night's rest. Will ten
minutes be enough?"

"More than enough, sir, thank you. I only wish to ask one question.
I own that I am stepping out of my place to ask it; but I'll risk
all that. Does Miss Carew know what the Mr. Cashel Byron is that she
receives every Friday with her other friends?"

"No doubt she does," said Lucian, at once becoming cold in his
manner, and looking severely at Bashville. "What business is that of
yours?"

"Do YOU know what he is, sir?" said Bashville, returning Lucian's
gaze steadily.

Lucian changed countenance, and replaced a pen that had slipped from
a rack on his desk. "He is not an acquaintance of mine," he said. "I
only know him as a friend of Lord Worthington's."

"Sir," said Bashville, with sudden vehemence, "he is no more to Lord
Worthington than the racehorse his lordship bets on. _I_ might as
well set up to be a friend of his lordship because I, after a manner
of speaking, know him. Byron is in the ring, sir. A common
prize-fighter!"

Lucian, recalling what had passed at Mrs. Hoskyn's, and Lord
Worthington's sporting habits, believed the assertion at once. But
he made a faint effort to resist conviction. "Are you sure of this,
Bashville?" he said. "Do you know that your statement is a very
serious one?"

"There is no doubt at all about it, sir. Go to any sporting
public-house in London and ask who is the best-known fighting man of
the day, and they'll tell you, Cashel Byron. I know all about him,
sir. Perhaps you have heard tell of Ned Skene, who was champion,
belike, when you were at school."

"I believe I have heard the name."

"Just 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 silver-mounted 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 prize-fighting than that it was a brutal
and illegal practice, akin to cock-fighting, 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 prize-fighter."

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 prize-fighter 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 prize-fighter is usually a man of naturally ferocious
disposition, who has acquired some reputation among his associates
as a bully; and who, by constantly quarrelling, has acquired some
practice in fighting. On the strength of this reputation he can
generally find some gambler willing to stake a sum of money that he
will vanquish a pugilist of established fame in single combat. Bets
are made between the admirers of the two men; a prize is subscribed
for, each party contributing a share; the combatants are trained as
racehorses, gamecocks, or their like are trained; they meet, and
beat each other as savagely as they can until one or the other is
too much injured to continue the combat. This takes place in the
midst of a mob of such persons as enjoy spectacles of the kind; that
is to say, the vilest blackguards whom a large city can afford to
leave at large, and many whom it cannot. As the prize-money
contributed by each side often amounts to upwards of a thousand
pounds, and as a successful pugilist commands far higher terms for
giving tuition in boxing than a tutor at one of the universities
does for coaching, you will see that such a man, while his youth and
luck last, may have plenty of money, and may even, by aping the
manners of the gentlemen whom he teaches, deceive careless
people--especially those who admire eccentricity--as to his
character and position."

"What is his true position? I mean before he becomes a
prize-fighter."

"Well, he may be a handicraftsman of some kind: a journeyman
butcher, skinner, tailor, or baker. Possibly a soldier, sailor,
policeman, gentleman's servant, or what not? But he is generally a
common laborer. The waterside is prolific of such heroes."

"Do they never come from a higher rank?"

"Never even from the better classes in their own. Broken-down
gentlemen are not likely to succeed at work that needs the strength
and endurance of a bull and the cruelty of a butcher."

"And the end of a prize-fighter. What is that like?"

"He soon has to give up his trade. For, if he be repeatedly beaten,
no one will either bet on him or subscribe to provide him with a
stake. If he is invariably successful, those, if any, who dare fight
him find themselves in a like predicament. In either case his
occupation is gone. If he has saved money he opens a sporting
public-house, where he sells spirits of the worst description to his
old rivals and their associates, and eventually drinks himself to
death or bankruptcy. If, however, he has been improvident or
unfortunate, he begs from his former patrons and gives lessons.
Finally, when the patrons are tired of him and the pupils fail, he
relapses into the laboring class with a ruined constitution, a
disfigured face, a brutalized nature, and a tarnished reputation."

Lydia remained silent so long after this that Lucian's expression of
magisterial severity first deepened, then wavered, and finally gave
way to a sense of injury; for she seemed to have forgotten him. He
was about to protest against this treatment, when she looked at him
again, and said,

"Why did Lord Worthington introduce a man of this class to me?"

"Because you asked him to do so. Probably he thought that if you
chose to make such a request without previous inquiry, you should
not blame him if you found yourself saddled with an undesirable
acquaintance. Recollect that you asked for the introduction on the
platform at Wiltstoken, in the presence of the man himself. Such a
ruffian would be capable of making a disturbance for much less
offence than an explanation and refusal would have given him."

"Lucian," said Lydia, in a tone of gentle admonition, "I asked to be
introduced to my tenant, for whose respectability you had vouched by
letting the Warren Lodge to him." Lucian reddened. "How does Lord
Worthington explain Mr. Byron's appearance at Mrs. Hoskyn's?"

"It was a stupid joke. Mrs. Hoskyn had worried Worthington to bring
some celebrity to her house; and, in revenge, he took his pugilistic
protege."

"Hm!"

"I do not defend Worthington. But discretion is hardly to be
expected from him."

"He has discretion enough to understand a case of this kind
thoroughly. But let that pass. I have been thinking upon what you
tell me about these singular people, whose existence I hardly knew
of before. Now, Lucian, in the course of my reading I have come upon
denunciations of every race and pursuit under the sun. Very
respectable and well-informed men have held that Jews, Irishmen,
Christians, atheists, lawyers, doctors, politicians, actors,
artists, flesh-eaters, and spirit-drinkers are all of necessity
degraded beings. Such statements can be easily proved by taking a
black sheep from each flock, and holding him up as the type. It is
more reasonable to argue a man's character from the nature of his
profession; and yet even that is very unsafe. War is a cruel
business; but soldiers are not necessarily bloodthirsty and inhuman
men. I am not quite satisfied that a prize-fighter is a violent and
dangerous man because he follows a violent and dangerous
profession--I suppose they call it a profession."

Lucian was about to speak; but she interrupted him by continuing,

"And yet that is not what concerns me at present. Have you found out
anything about Mr. Byron personally? Is he an ordinary
representative of his class?"

"No; I should rather think--and hope--that he is a very
extraordinary representative of it. I have traced his history back
to his boyhood, when he was a cabin-boy. Having apparently failed
to recommend himself to his employers in that capacity, he became
errand-boy to a sort of maitre d'armes at Melbourne. Here he
discovered where his genius lay; and he presently appeared in the
ring with an unfortunate young man named Ducket, whose jaw he
fractured. This laid the foundation of his fame. He fought several
battles with unvarying success; but at last he allowed his valor to
get the better of his discretion so far as to kill an Englishman who
contended with him with desperate obstinacy for two hours. I am
informed that the particular blow by which he felled the poor wretch
for the last time is known in pugilistic circles as 'Cashel's
killer,' and that he has attempted to repeat it in all his
subsequent encounters, without, however, achieving the same fatal
result. The failure has doubtless been a severe disappointment to
him. He fled from Australia and reappeared in America, where he
resumed his victorious career, distinguishing himself specially by
throwing a gigantic opponent in some dreadful fashion that these men
have, and laming him for life. He then--"

"Thank you, Lucian," said Lydia rather faintly. "That is quite
enough. Are you sure that it is all true?"

"My authority is Lord Worthington, and a number of newspaper reports
which he showed me. Byron himself will probably be proud to give you
the fullest confirmation of the record. I should add, in justice to
him, that he is looked upon as a model--to pugilists--of temperance
and general good conduct."

"Do you remember my remarking a few days ago, on another subject,
how meaningless our observations are until we are given the right
thread to string them on?"

"Yes," said "Webber, disconcerted by the allusion.

"My acquaintance with this man is a case in point. He has obtruded
his horrible profession upon me every time we have met. I have
actually seen him publicly cheered as a pugilist-hero; and yet,
being off the track, and ignorant of the very existence of such a
calling, I have looked on and seen nothing."

Lydia then narrated her adventure in Soho, and listened with the
perfect patience of indifference to his censure of her imprudence in
going there alone.

"And now, Lydia," he added, "may I ask what you intend to do in this
matter?"

"What would you have me do?"

"Drop his acquaintance at once. Forbid him your house in the most
explicit terms."

"A pleasant task!" said Lydia, ironically. "But I will do it--not so
much, perhaps, because he is a prize-fighter, as because he is an
impostor. Now go to the writing-table and draft me a proper letter
to send him."

Lucian's face elongated. "I think," he said, "you can do that better
for yourself. It is a delicate sort of thing."

"Yes. It is not so easy as you implied a moment ago. Otherwise I
should not require your assistance. As it is--" She pointed again to
the table.

Lucian was not ready with an excuse. He sat down reluctantly, and,
after some consideration, indited the following:

"Miss Carew presents her compliments to Mr. Cashel Byron, and begs
to inform him that she will not be at home during the remainder of
the season as heretofore. She therefore regrets that she cannot have
the pleasure of receiving him on Friday afternoon."

"I think you will find that sufficient," said Lucian.

"Probably," said Lydia, smiling as she read it. "But what shall I do
if he takes offence; calls here, breaks the windows, and beats
Bashville? Were I in his place, that is what such a letter would
provoke me to do."

"He dare not give any trouble. But I will warn the police if you
feel anxious."

"By no means. We must not show ourselves inferior to him in courage,
which is, I suppose, his cardinal virtue."

"If you write the note now, I will post it for you."

"No, thank you. I will send it with my other letters."

Lucian would rather have waited; but she would not write while he
was there. So he left, satisfied on the whole with the success of
his mission. When he was gone, she took a pen, endorsed his draft
neatly, placed it in a drawer, and wrote to Cashel thus:

"Dear Mr. Cashel Byron,--I have just discovered your secret. I am
sorry; but you must not come again. Farewell. Yours faithfully,

"Lydia Carew."

Lydia kept this note by her until next morning, when she read it
through carefully. She then sent Bashville to the post with it.

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