Cashel Byron's Profession Part 21

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 a.s.sistance. 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.

CHAPTER IX

Cashel's pupils frequently requested him to hit them hard--not to play with them--to accustom them to regular, right down, severe hitting, and no nonsense. He only pretended to comply; for he knew that a black eye or loosened tooth would be immoderately boasted of if received in combat with a famous pugilist, and that the sufferer's friends would make private notes to avoid so rough a professor. But when Miss Carew's note reached him he made an exception to his practice in this respect. A young guardsman, whose lesson began shortly after the post arrived, remarked that Cashel was unusually distraught. He therefore exhorted his instructor to wake up and pitch into him in earnest. Immediately he received a blow in the epigastrium that stretched him almost insensible on the floor. Rising with his complexion considerably whitened, he recollected an appointment which would prevent him from finis.h.i.+ng his lesson, and withdrew, declaring in a somewhat shaky voice that that was the sort of bout he really enjoyed.

Cashel did not at first make any profitable use of the leisure thus earned. He walked to and fro, cursing, and occasionally stopping to read the letter. His restlessness only increased his agitation. The arrival of a Frenchman whom he employed to give lessons in fencing made the place unendurable to him. He changed his attire, went out, called a cab, and bade the driver, with an oath, drive to Lydia's house as fast as the horse could go. The man made all the haste he could, and was presently told impatiently that there was no hurry. Accustomed to this sort of inconsistency, he was not surprised when, as they approached the house, he was told not to stop but to drive slowly past. Then, in obedience to further instructions, he turned and repa.s.sed the door. As he did so a lady appeared for an instant at a window. Immediately his fare, with a groan of mingled rage and fear, sprang from the moving vehicle, rushed up the steps of the mansion, and rang the bell violently. Bashville, faultlessly dressed and impa.s.sibly mannered, opened the door. In reply to Cashel's half-inarticulate inquiry, he said,

"Miss Carew is not at home."

"You lie," said Cashel, his eyes suddenly dilating. "I saw her."

Bashville reddened, but replied, coolly, "Miss Carew cannot see you to-day."

"Go and ask her," returned Cashel sternly, advancing.

Bashville, with compressed lips, seized the door to shut him out; but Cashel forced it back against him, sent him reeling some paces by its impact, went in, and shut the door behind him. He had to turn from Bashville for a moment to do this, and before he could face him again he was clutched, tripped, and flung down upon the tessellated pavement of the hall.

When Cashel gave him the lie, and pushed the door against him, the excitement he had been suppressing since his visit to Lucian exploded.

He had thrown Cashel in Cornish fas.h.i.+on, and now desperately awaited the upshot.

Cashel got up so rapidly that he seemed to rebound from the flags.

Bashville, involuntarily cowering before his onslaught, just escaped his right fist, and felt as though his heart had been drawn with it as it whizzed past his ear. He turned and fled frantically up-stairs, mistaking for the clatter of pursuit the noise with which Cashel, overbalanced by his ineffectual blow, stumbled against the banisters.

Lydia was in her boudoir with Alice when Bashville darted in and locked the door. Alice rose and screamed. Lydia, though startled, and that less by the unusual action than by the change in a familiar face which she had never seen influenced by emotion before, sat still and quietly asked what was the matter. Bashville checked himself for a moment. Then he spoke unintelligibly, and went to the window, which he opened. Lydia divined that he was about to call for help to the street.

"Bashville," she said, authoritatively: "be silent, and close the window. I will go down-stairs myself."

Bashville then ran to prevent her from unlocking the door; but she paid no attention to him. He did not dare to oppose her forcibly. He was beginning to recover from his panic, and to feel the first stings of shame for having yielded to it.

"Madam," he said: "Byron is below; and he insists on seeing you. He's dangerous; and he's too strong for me. I have done my best--on my honor I have. Let me call the police. Stop," he added, as she opened the door.

"If either of us goes, it must be me."

"I will see him in the library," said Lydia, composedly. "Tell him so; and let him wait there for me--if you can approach him without running any risk."

"Oh, pray let him call the police," urged Alice. "Don't attempt to go to that man."

"Nonsense!" said Lydia, good-humoredly. "I am not in the least afraid.

We must not fail in courage when we have a prize-fighter to deal with."

Bashville, white, and preventing with difficulty his knees from knocking together, went down-stairs and found Cashel leaning upon the bal.u.s.trade, panting, and looking perplexedly about him as he wiped his dabbled brow.

Bashville approached him with the firmness of a martyr, halted on the third stair, and said,

"Miss Carew will see you in the library. Come this way, please."

Cashel's lips moved, but no sound came from them; he followed Bashville in silence. When they entered the library Lydia was already there.

Bashville withdrew without a word. Then Cashel sat down, and, to her consternation, bent his head on his hand and yielded to an hysterical convulsion. Before she could resolve how to act he looked up at her with his face distorted and discolored, and tried to speak.

"Pray be calm," said Lydia. "I am told that you wish to speak to me."

"I don't wish to speak to you ever again," said Cashel, hoa.r.s.ely. "You told your servant to throw me down the steps. That's enough for me."

Lydia caught from him the tendency to sob which he was struggling with; but she repressed it, and answered, firmly, "If my servant has been guilty of the least incivility to you, Mr. Cashel Byron, he has exceeded his orders."

"It doesn't matter," said Cashel. "He may thank his luck that he has his head on. If I had planted on him that time--but HE doesn't matter.

Hold on a bit--I can't talk--I shall get my second wind presently, and then--" Cashel stopped a moment to pant, and then asked, "Why are you going to give me up?"

Lydia ranged her wits in battle array, and replied,