Next day Alice accepted Miss Carew’s invitation. Lydia, who seemed to regard all conclusions as foregone when she had once signified her approval of them, took the acceptance as a matter of course. Alice thereupon thought fit to remind her that there were other persons to be considered. So she said, “I should not have hesitated yesterday but for my mother. It seems so heartless to leave her.”
“You have a sister at home, have you not?”
“Yes. But she is not very strong, and my mother requires a great deal of attention.” Alice paused, and added in a lower voice, “She has never recovered from the shock of my father’s death.”
“Your father is then not long dead?” said Lydia in her usual tone.
“Only two years,” said Alice, coldly. “I hardly know how to tell my mother that I am going to desert her.”
“Go and tell her today, Alice. You need not be afraid of hurting her. Grief of two years’ standing is only a bad habit.”
Alice started, outraged. Her mother’s grief was sacred to her; and yet it was by her experience of her mother that she recognized the truth of Lydia’s remark, and felt that it was unanswerable. She frowned; but the frown was lost: Miss Carew was not looking at her. Then she rose and went to the door, where she stopped to say,
“You do not know our family circumstances. I will go now and try to prevail on my mother to let me stay with you.”
“Please come back in good time for dinner,” said Lydia, unmoved. “I will introduce you to my cousin Lucian Webber. I have just received a telegram from him. He is coming down with Lord Worthington. I do not know whether Lord Worthington will come to dinner or not. He has an invalid friend at the Warren, and Lucian does not make it clear whether he is coming to visit him or me. However, it is of no consequence; Lord Worthington is only a young sportsman. Lucian is a clever man, and will be an eminent one some day. He is secretary to a Cabinet Minister, and is very busy; but we shall probably see him often while the Whitsuntide holidays last. Excuse my keeping you waiting at the door to hear that long history. Adieu!” She waved her hand; Alice suddenly felt that it was possible to be very fond of Miss Carew.
She spent an unhappy afternoon with her mother. Mrs. Goff had had the good-fortune to marry a man of whom she was afraid, and who made himself very disagreeable whenever his house or his children were neglected in the least particular. Making a virtue of necessity, she had come to be regarded in Wiltstoken as a model wife and mother. At last, when a drag ran over Mr. Goff and killed him, she was left almost penniless, with two daughters on her hands. In this extremity she took refuge in grief, and did nothing. Her daughters settled their father’s affairs as best they could, moved her into a cheap house, and procured a strange tenant for that in which they had lived during many years. Janet, the elder sister, a student by disposition, employed herself as a teacher of the scientific fashions in modern female education, rumors of which had already reached Wiltstoken. Alice was unable to teach mathematics and moral science; but she formed a dancing-class, and gave lessons in singing and in a language which she believed to be current in France, but which was not intelligible to natives of that country travelling through Wiltstoken. Both sisters were devoted to one another and to their mother. Alice, who had enjoyed the special affection of her self-indulgent father, preserved some regard for his memory, though she could not help wishing that his affection had been strong enough to induce him to save a provision for her. She was ashamed, too, of the very recollection of his habit of getting drunk at races, regattas, and other national festivals, by an accident at one of which he had met his death.
Alice went home from the castle expecting to find the household divided between joy at her good-fortune and grief at losing her; for her views of human nature and parental feeling were as yet pure superstitions. But Mrs. Goff at once became envious of the luxury her daughter was about to enjoy, and overwhelmed her with accusations of want of feeling, eagerness to desert her mother, and vain love of pleasure. Alice, who loved Mrs. Goff so well that she had often told her as many as five different lies in the course of one afternoon to spare her some unpleasant truth, and would have scouted as infamous any suggestion that her parent was more selfish than saintly, soon burst into tears, declaring that she would not return to the castle, and that nothing would have induced her to stay there the night before had she thought that her doing so could give pain at home. This alarmed Mrs. Goff, who knew by experience that it was easier to drive Alice upon rash resolves than to shake her in them afterwards. Fear of incurring blame in Wiltstoken for wantonly opposing her daughter’s obvious interests, and of losing her share of Miss Carew’s money and countenance, got the better of her jealousy. She lectured Alice severely for her headstrong temper, and commanded her, on her duty not only to her mother, but also and chiefly to her God, to accept Miss Carew’s offer with thankfulness, and to insist upon a definite salary as soon as she had, by good behavior, made her society indispensable at the castle. Alice, dutiful as she was, reduced Mrs. Goff to entreaties, and even to symptoms of an outburst of violent grief for the late Mr. Goff, before she consented to obey her. She would wait, she said, until Janet, who was absent teaching, came in, and promised to forgive her for staying away the previous night (Mrs. Goff had falsely represented that Janet had been deeply hurt, and had lain awake weeping during the small hours of the morning). The mother, seeing nothing for it but either to get rid of Alice before Janet’s return or to be detected in a spiteful untruth, had to pretend that Janet was spending the evening with some friends, and to urge the unkindness of leaving Miss Carew lonely. At last Alice washed away the traces of her tears and returned to the castle, feeling very miserable, and trying to comfort herself with the reflection that her sister had been spared the scene which had just passed.
Lucian Webber had not arrived when she reached the castle. Miss Carew glanced at her melancholy face as she entered, but asked no questions. Presently, however, she put down her book, considered for a moment, and said,
“It is nearly three years since I have had a new dress.” Alice looked up with interest. “Now that I have you to help me to choose, I think I will be extravagant enough to renew my entire wardrobe. I wish you would take this opportunity to get some things for yourself. You will find that my dress-maker, Madame Smith, is to be depended on for work, though she is expensive and dishonest. When we are tired of Wiltstoken we will go to Paris, and be millinered there; but in the meantime we can resort to Madame Smith.”
“I cannot afford expensive dresses,” said Alice.
“I should not ask you to get them if you could not afford them. I warned you that I should give you expensive habits.”
Alice hesitated. She had a healthy inclination to take whatever she could get on all occasions; and she had suffered too much from poverty not to be more thankful for her good-fortune than humiliated by Miss Carew’s bounty. But the thought of being driven, richly attired, in one of the castle carriages, and meeting Janet trudging about her daily tasks in cheap black serge and mended gloves, made Alice feel that she deserved all her mother’s reproaches. However, it was obvious that a refusal would be of no material benefit to Janet, so she said,
“Really I could not think of imposing on your kindness in this wholesale fashion. You are too good to me.”
“I will write to Madame Smith this evening,” said Lydia.
Alice was about to renew her protest more faintly, when a servant entered and announced Mr. Webber. She stiffened herself to receive the visitor. Lydia’s manner did not alter in the least. Lucian, whose demeanor resembled Miss Goff’s rather than his cousin’s, went through the ceremony of introduction with solemnity, and was received with a dash of scorn; for Alice, though secretly awe-stricken, bore herself tyrannically towards men from habit.
In reply to Alice, Mr. Webber thought the day cooler than yesterday. In reply to Lydia, he admitted that the resolution of which the leader of the opposition had given notice was tantamount to a vote of censure on the government. He was confident that ministers would have a majority. He had no news of any importance. He had made the journey down with Lord Worthington, who had come to Wiltstoken to see the invalid at the Warren. He had promised to return with him in the seven-thirty train.
When they went down to dinner, Alice, profiting by her experience of the day before, faced the servants with composure, and committed no solecisms. Unable to take part in the conversation, as she knew little of literature and nothing of politics, which were the staple of Lucian’s discourse, she sat silent, and reconsidered an old opinion of hers that it was ridiculous and ill-bred in a lady to discuss anything that was in the newspapers. She was impressed by Lucian’s cautious and somewhat dogmatic style of conversation, and concluded that he knew everything. Lydia seemed interested in his information, but quite indifferent to his opinions.
Towards half-past seven Lydia proposed that they should walk to the railway station, adding, as a reason for going, that she wished to make some bets with Lord Worthington. Lucian looked grave at this, and Alice, to show that she shared his notions of propriety, looked shocked. Neither demonstration had the slightest effect on Lydia. On their way to the station he remarked,
“Worthington is afraid of you, Lydia—needlessly, as it seems.”
“Why?”
“Because you are so learned, and he so ignorant. He has no culture save that of the turf. But perhaps you have more sympathy with his tastes than he supposes.”
“I like him because I have not read the books from which he has borrowed his opinions. Indeed, from their freshness, I should not be surprised to learn that he had them at first hand from living men, or even from his own observation of life.”
“I may explain to you, Miss Goff,” said Lucian, “that Lord Worthiugton is a young gentleman—”
“Whose calendar is the racing calendar,” interposed Lydia, “and who interests himself in favorites and outsiders much as Lucian does in prime-ministers and independent radicals. Would you like to go to Ascot, Alice?”
Alice answered, as she felt Lucian wished her to answer, that she had never been to a race, and that she had no desire to go to one.
“You will change your mind in time for next year’s meeting. A race interests every one, which is more than can be said for the opera or the Academy.”
“I have been at the Academy,” said Alice, who had made a trip to London once.
“Indeed!” said Lydia. “Were you in the National Gallery?”
“The National Gallery! I think not. I forget.”
“I know many persons who never miss an Academy, and who do not know where the National Gallery is. Did you enjoy the pictures, Alice?”
“Oh, very much indeed.”
“You will find Ascot far more amusing.”
“Let me warn you,” said Lucian to Alice, “that my cousin’s pet caprice is to affect a distaste for art, to which she is passionately devoted; and for literature, in which she is profoundly read.”
“Cousin Lucian,” said Lydia, “should you ever be cut off from your politics, and disappointed in your ambition, you will have an opportunity of living upon art and literature. Then I shall respect your opinion of their satisfactoriness as a staff of life. As yet you have only tried them as a sauce.”
“Discontented, as usual,” said Lucian.
“Your one idea respecting me, as usual,” replied Lydia, patiently, as they entered the station.
The train, consisting of three carriages and a van, was waiting at the platform. The engine was humming subduedly, and the driver and fireman were leaning out; the latter, a young man, eagerly watching two gentlemen who were standing before the first-class carriage, and the driver sharing his curiosity in an elderly, preoccupied manner. One of the persons thus observed was a slight, fair-haired man of about twenty-five, in the afternoon costume of a metropolitan dandy. Lydia knew the other the moment she came upon the platform as the Hermes of the day before, modernized by a straw hat, a canary-colored scarf, and a suit of a minute black-and-white chess-board pattern, with a crimson silk handkerchief overflowing the breast pocket of the coat. His hands were unencumbered by stick or umbrella; he carried himself smartly, balancing himself so accurately that he seemed to have no weight; and his expression was self-satisfied and good-humored. But—! Lydia felt that there was a “but” somewhere—that he must be something more than a handsome, powerful, and light-hearted young man.
“There is Lord Worthington,” she said, indicating the slight gentleman. “Surely that cannot be his invalid friend with him?”
“That is the man that lives at the Warren,” said Alice. “I know his appearance.”
“Which is certainly not suggestive of a valetudinarian,” remarked Lucian, looking hard at the stranger.
They had now come close to the two, and could hear Lord Worthington, as he prepared to enter the carriage, saying, “Take care of yourself, like a good fellow, won’t you? Remember! if it lasts a second over the fifteen minutes, I shall drop five hundred pounds.”
Hermes placed his arm round the shoulders of the young lord and gave him a playful roll. Then he said with good accent and pronunciation, but with a certain rough quality of voice, and louder than English gentlemen usually speak, “Your money is as safe as the mint, my boy.”
Evidently, Alice thought, the stranger was an intimate friend of Lord Worthington. She resolved to be particular in her behavior before him, if introduced.
“Lord Worthington,” said Lydia.
At the sound of her voice he climbed hastily down from the step of the carriage, and said in some confusion, “How d’ do, Miss Carew. Lovely country and lovely weather—must agree awfully well with you. Plenty of leisure for study, I hope.”
“Thank you; I never study now. Will you make a book for me at Ascot?”
He laughed and shook his head. “I am ashamed of my low tastes,” he said; “but I haven’t the heap to distinguish myself in your—Eh?”
Miss Carew was saying in a low voice, “If your friend is my tenant, introduce him to me.”
Lord Worthington hesitated, looked at Lucian, seemed perplexed and amused at the name time, and at last said,
“You really wish it?”
“Of course,” said Lydia. “Is there any reason—”
“Oh, not the least in the world since you wish it,” he replied quickly, his eyes twinkling mischievously as he turned to his companion who was standing at the carriage door admiring Lydia, and being himself admired by the stoker. “Mr. Cashel Byron: Miss Carew.”
Mr. Cashel Byron raised his straw hat and reddened a little; but, on the whole, bore himself like an eminent man who was not proud. As, however, he seemed to have nothing to say for himself, Lord Worthington hastened to avert silence by resuming the subject of Ascot. Lydia listened to him, and looked at her new acquaintance. Now that the constraint of society had banished his former expression of easy good-humor, there was something formidable in him that gave her an unaccountable thrill of pleasure. The same impression of latent danger had occurred, less agreeably, to Lucian, who was affected much as he might have been by the proximity of a large dog of doubtful temper. Lydia thought that Mr. Byron did not, at first sight, like her cousin; for he was looking at him obliquely, as though steadily measuring him.
The group was broken up by the guard admonishing the gentlemen to take their seats. Farewells were exchanged; and Lord Worthington cried, “Take care of yourself,” to Cashel Byron, who replied somewhat impatiently, and with an apprehensive glance at Miss Carew, “All right! all right! Never you fear, sir.” Then the train went off, and he was left on the platform with the two ladies.
“We are returning to the park, Mr. Cashel Byron,” said Lydia.
“So am I,” said he. “Perhaps—” Here he broke down, and looked at Alice to avoid Lydia’s eye. Then they went out together.
When they had walked some distance in silence, Alice looking rigidly before her, recollecting with suspicion that he had just addressed Lord Worthington as “sir,” while Lydia was admiring his light step and perfect balance, which made him seem like a man of cork; he said,
“I saw you in the park yesterday, and I thought you were a ghost. But my trai—my man, I mean—saw you too. I knew by that that you were genuine.”
“Strange!” said Lydia. “I had the same fancy about you.”
“What! You had!” he exclaimed, looking at her. While thus unmindful of his steps, he stumbled, and recovered himself with a stifled oath. Then he became very red, and remarked that it was a warm evening.
Miss Goff, whom he had addressed, assented. “I hope,” she added, “that you are better.”
He looked puzzled. Concluding, after consideration, that she had referred to his stumble, he said,
“Thank you: I didn’t hurt myself.”
“Lord Worthington has been telling us about you,” said Lydia. He recoiled, evidently deeply mortified. She hastened to add, “He mentioned that you had come down here to recruit your health; that is all.”
Cashel’s features relaxed into a curious smile. But presently he became suspicious, and said, anxiously, “He didn’t tell you anything else about me, did he?”
Alice stared at him superciliously. Lydia replied, “No. Nothing else.”
“I thought you might have heard my name somewhere,” he persisted.
“Perhaps I have; but I cannot recall in what connection. Why? Do you know any friend of mine?”
“Oh, no. Only Lord Worthington.”
“I conclude then that you are celebrated, and that I have the misfortune not to know it, Mr. Cashel Byron. Is it so?”
“Not a bit of it,” he replied, hastily. “There’s no reason why you should ever have heard of me. I am much obliged to you for your kind inquiries,” he continued, turning to Alice. “I’m quite well now, thank you. The country has set me right again.”
Alice, who was beginning to have her doubts of Mr. Byron, in spite of his familiarity with Lord Worthington, smiled falsely and drew herself up a little. He turned away from her, hurt by her manner, and so ill able to conceal his feelings that Miss Carew, who was watching him, set him down privately as the most inept dissimulator she had ever met. He looked at Lydia wistfully, as if trying to read her thoughts, which now seemed to be with the setting sun, or in some equally beautiful and mysterious region. But he could see that there was no reflection of Miss Goff’s scorn in her face.
“And so you really took me for a ghost,” he said.
“Yes. I thought at first that you were a statue.”
“A statue!”
“You do not seem flattered by that.”
“It is not flattering to be taken for a lump of stone,” he replied, ruefully.
Lydia looked at him thoughtfully. Here was a man whom she had mistaken for the finest image of manly strength and beauty in the world; and he was so devoid of artistic culture that he held a statue to be a distasteful lump of stone.
“I believe I was trespassing then,” she said; “but I did so unintentionally. I had gone astray; for I am comparatively a stranger here, and cannot find my way about the park yet.”
“It didn’t matter a bit,” said Cashel, impetuously. “Come as often as you want. Mellish fancies that if any one gets a glimpse of me he won’t get any odds. You see he would like people to think—” Cashel checked himself, and added, in some confusion, “Mellish is mad; that’s about where it is.”
Alice glanced significantly at Lydia. She had already suggested that madness was the real reason of the seclusion of the tenants at the Warren. Cashel saw the glance, and intercepted it by turning to her and saying, with an attempt at conversational ease,
“How do you young ladies amuse yourselves in the country? Do you play billiards ever?”
“No,” said Alice, indignantly. The question, she thought, implied that she was capable of spending her evenings on the first floor of a public-house. To her surprise, Lydia remarked,
“I play—a little. I do not care sufficiently for the game to make myself proficient. You were equipped for lawn-tennis, I think, when I saw you yesterday. Miss Goff is a celebrated lawn-tennis player. She vanquished the Australian champion last year.”
It seemed that Byron, after all, was something of a courtier; for he displayed great astonishment at this feat. “The Australian champion!” he repeated. “And who may HE—Oh! you mean the lawn-tennis champion. To be sure. Well, Miss Goff, I congratulate you. It is not every amateur that can brag of having shown a professional to a back seat.”
Alice, outraged by the imputation of bragging, and certain that slang was vulgar, whatever billiards might be, bore herself still more loftily, and resolved to snub him explicitly if he addressed her again. But he did not; for they presently came to a narrow iron gate in the wall of the park, at which Lydia stopped.
“Let me open it for you,” said Cashel. She gave him the key, and he seized one of the bars of the gate with his left hand, and stooped as though he wanted to look into the keyhole. Yet he opened it smartly enough.
Alice was about to pass in with a cool bow when she saw Miss Carew offer Cashel her hand. Whatever Lydia did was done so well that it seemed the right thing to do. He took it timidly and gave it a little shake, not daring to meet her eyes. Alice put out her hand stiffly. Cashel immediately stepped forward with his right foot and enveloped her fingers with the hardest clump of knuckles she had ever felt. Glancing down at this remarkable fist, she saw that it was discolored almost to blackness. Then she went in through the gate, followed by Lydia, who turned to close it behind her. As she pushed, Cashel, standing outside, grasped a bar and pulled. She at once relinquished to him the labor of shutting the gate, and smiled her thanks as she turned away; but in that moment he plucked up courage to look at her. The sensation of being so looked at was quite novel to her and very curious. She was even a little out of countenance, but not so much so as Cashel, who nevertheless could not take his eyes away.
“Do you think,” said Alice, as they crossed the orchard, “that that man is a gentleman?”
“How can I possibly tell? We hardly know him.”
“But what do you think? There is always a certain something about a gentleman that one recognizes by instinct.”
“Is there? I have never observed it.”
“Have you not?” said Alice, surprised, and beginning uneasily to fear that her superior perception of gentility was in some way the effect of her social inferiority to Miss Carew. “I thought one could always tell.”
“Perhaps so,” said Lydia. “For my own part I have found the same varieties of address in every class. Some people enjoy a native distinction and grace of manner—”
“That is what I mean,” said Alice.
“—but they are seldom ladies and gentlemen; often actors, gypsies, and Celtic or foreign peasants. Undoubtedly one can make a fair guess, but not in the case of this Mr. Cashel Byron. Are you curious about him?”
“I!” exclaimed Alice, superbly. “Not in the least.”
“I am. He interests me. I seldom see anything novel in humanity; and he is a very singular man.”
“I meant,” said Alice, crestfallen, “that I take no special interest in him.”
Lydia, not being curious as to the exact degree of Alice’s interest, merely nodded, and continued, “He may, as you suppose, be a man of humble origin who has seen something of society; or he may be a gentleman unaccustomed to society. Probably the latter. I feel no conviction either way.”
“But he speaks very roughly; and his slang is disgusting. His hands are hard and quite black. Did you not notice them?”
“I noticed it all; and I think that if he were a man of low condition he would be careful not to use slang. Self-made persons are usually precise in their language; they rarely violate the written laws of society. Besides, his pronunciation of some words is so distinct that an idea crossed me once that he might be an actor. But then it is not uniformly distinct. I am sure that he has some object or occupation in life: he has not the air of an idler. Yet I have thought of all the ordinary professions, and he does not fit one of them. This is perhaps what makes him interesting. He is unaccountable.”
“He must have some position. He was very familiar with Lord Worthington.”
“Lord Worthington is a sportsman, and is familiar with all sorts of people.”
“Yes; but surely he would not let a jockey, or anybody of that class, put his arm round his neck, as we saw Mr. Byron do.”
“That is true,” said Lydia, thoughtfully. “Still,” she added, clearing her brow and laughing, “I am loath to believe that he is an invalid student.”
“I will tell you what he is,” said Alice suddenly. “He is companion and keeper to the man with whom he lives. Do you recollect his saying ‘Mellish is mad’?”
“That is possible,” said Lydia. “At all events we have got a topic; and that is an important home comfort in the country.”
Just then they reached the castle. Lydia lingered for a moment on the terrace. The Gothic chimneys of the Warren Lodge stood up against the long, crimson cloud into which the sun was sinking. She smiled as if some quaint idea had occurred to her; raised her eyes for a moment to the black-marble Egyptian gazing with unwavering eyes into the sky; and followed Alice in-doors.
Later on, when it was quite dark, Cashel sat in a spacious kitchen at the lodge, thinking. His companion, who had laid his coat aside, was at the fire, smoking, and watching a saucepan that simmered there. He broke the silence by remarking, after a glance at the clock, “Time to go to roost.”
“Time to go to the devil,” said Cashel. “I am going out.”
“Yes, and get a chill. Not if I know it you don’t.”
“Well, go to bed yourself, and then you won’t know it. I want to take a walk round the place.”
“If you put your foot outside that door to-night Lord Worthington will lose his five hundred pounds. You can’t lick any one in fifteen minutes if you train on night air. Get licked yourself more likely.”
“Will you bet two to one that I don’t stay out all night and knock the Flying Dutchman out of time in the first round afterwards? Eh?”
“Come,” said Mellish, coaxingly; “have some common-sense. I’m advising you for your good.”
“Suppose I don’t want to be advised for my good. Eh? Hand me over that lemon. You needn’t start a speech; I’m not going to eat it.”
“Blest if he ain’t rubbing his ‘ands with it!” exclaimed Mellish, after watching him for some moments. “Why, you bloomin’ fool, lemon won’t ‘arden your ‘ands. Ain’t I took enough trouble with them?”
“I want to whiten them,” said Cashel, impatiently throwing the lemon under the grate; “but it’s no use; I can’t go about with my fists like a nigger’s. I’ll go up to London to-morrow and buy a pair of gloves.”
“What! Real gloves? Wearin’ gloves?”
“You thundering old lunatic,” said Cashel, rising and putting on his hat; “is it likely that I want a pair of mufflers? Perhaps YOU think you could teach me something with them. Ha! ha! By-the-bye—now mind this, Mellish—don’t let it out down here that I’m a fighting man. Do you hear?”
“Me let it out!” cried Mellish, indignantly. “Is it likely? Now, I asts you, Cashel Byron, is it likely?”
“Likely or not, don’t do it,” said Cashel. “You might get talking with some of the chaps about the castle stables. They are generous with their liquor when they can get sporting news for it.”
Mellish looked at him reproachfully, and Cashel turned towards the door. This movement changed the trainer’s sense of injury into anxiety. He renewed his remonstrances as to the folly of venturing into the night air, and cited many examples of pugilists who had suffered defeat in consequence of neglecting the counsel of their trainers. Cashel expressed his disbelief in these anecdotes in brief and personal terms; and at last Mellish had to content himself with proposing to limit the duration of the walk to half an hour.
“Perhaps I will come back in half an hour,” said Cashel, “and perhaps I won’t.”
“Well, look here,” said Mellish; “we won’t quarrel about a minute or two; but I feel the want of a walk myself, and I’ll come with you.”
“I’m d—d if you shall,” said Cashel. “Here, let me out; and shut up. I’m not going further than the park. I have no intention of making a night of it in the village, which is what you are afraid of. I know you, you old dodger. If you don’t get out of my way I’ll seat you on the fire.”
“But duty, Cashel, duty,” pleaded Mellish, persuasively. “Every man oughter do his duty. Consider your duty to your backers.”
“Are you going to get out of my way, or must I put you out of it?” said Cashel, reddening ominously.
Mellish went back to his chair, bowed his head on his hands, and wept. “I’d sooner be a dog nor a trainer,” he exclaimed. “Oh! the cusseduess of bein’ shut up for weeks with a fightin’ man! For the fust two days they’re as sweet as treacle; and then their con trairyness comes out. Their tempers is puffict ‘ell.”
Cashel, additionally enraged by a sting of remorse, went out and slammed the door. He made straight towards the castle, and watched its windows for nearly half an hour, keeping in constant motion so as to avert a chill. At last an exquisitely toned bell struck the hour from one of the minarets. To Cashel, accustomed to the coarse jangling of ordinary English bells, the sound seemed to belong to fairyland. He went slowly back to the Warren Lodge, and found his trainer standing at the open door, smoking, and anxiously awaiting his return. Cashel rebuffed certain conciliatory advances with a haughty reserve more dignified, but much less acceptable to Mr. Mellish, than his former profane familiarity, and went contemplatively to bed.
One morning Miss Carew sat on the bank of a great pool in the park, throwing pebbles two by two into the water, and intently watching the intersection of the circles they made on its calm surface. Alice was seated on a camp-stool a little way off, sketching the castle, which appeared on an eminence to the southeast. The woodland rose round them like the sides of an amphitheatre; but the trees did not extend to the water’s edge, where there was an ample margin of bright greensward and a narrow belt of gravel, from which Lydia was picking her pebbles.
Presently, hearing a footstep, she looked back, and saw Cashel Byron standing behind Alice, apparently much interested in her drawing. He was dressed as she had last seen him, except that he wore primrose gloves and an Egyptian red scarf. Alice turned, and surveyed him with haughty surprise; but he made nothing of her looks; and she, after glancing at Lydia to reassure herself that she was not alone, bade him good-morning, and resumed her work.
“Queer place,” he remarked, after a pause, alluding to the castle. “Chinese looking, isn’t it?”
“It is considered a very fine building,” said Alice.
“Oh, hang what it is considered!” said Cashel. “What IS it? That is the point to look to.”
“It is a matter of taste,” said Alice, very coldly.
“Mr. Cashel Byron.”
Cashel started and hastened to the bank. “How d’ye do, Miss Carew,” he said. “I didn’t see you until you called me.” She looked at him; and he, convicted of a foolish falsehood, quailed. “There is a splendid view of the castle from here,” he continued, to change the subject. “Miss Goff and I have just been talking about it.”
“Yes. Do you admire it?”
“Very much indeed. It is a beautiful place. Every one must acknowledge that.”
“It is considered kind to praise my house to me, and to ridicule it to other people. You do not say, ‘Hang what it is considered,’ now.”
Cashel, with an unaccustomed sense of getting the worst of an encounter, almost lost heart to reply. Then he brightened, and said, “I can tell you how that is. As far as being a place to sketch, or for another person to look at, it is Chinese enough. But somehow your living in it makes a difference. That is what I meant; upon my soul it is.”
Lydia smiled; but he, looking down at her, did not see the smile because of her coronet of red hair, which seemed to flame in the sunlight. The obstruction was unsatisfactory to him; he wanted to see her face. He hesitated, and then sat down on the ground beside her cautiously, as if getting into a very hot bath.
“I hope you won’t mind my sitting here,” he said, timidly. “It seems rude to talk down at you from a height.”
She shook her head and threw two more stones into the pool. He could think of nothing further to say, and as she did not speak, but gravely watched the circles in the water, he began to stare at them too; and they sat in silence for some minutes, steadfastly regarding the waves, she as if there were matter for infinite thought in them, and he as though the spectacle wholly confounded him. At last she said,
“Have you ever realized what a vibration is?”
“No,” said Cashel, after a blank look at her.
“I am glad to hear you make that admission. Science has reduced everything nowadays to vibration. Light, sound, sensation—all the mysteries of nature are either vibrations or interference of vibrations. There,” she said, throwing another pair of pebbles in, and pointing to the two sets of widening rings as they overlapped one another; “the twinkling of a star, and the pulsation in a chord of music, are THAT. But I cannot picture the thing in my own mind. I wonder whether the hundreds of writers of text-books on physics, who talk so glibly of vibrations, realize them any better than I do.”
“Not a bit of it. Not one of them. Not half so well,” said Cashel, cheerfully, replying to as much of her speech as he understood.
“Perhaps the subject does not interest you,” she said, turning to him.
“On the contrary; I like it of all things,” said he, boldly.
“I can hardly say so much for my own interest in it. I am told that you are a student, Mr. Cashel Byron. What are your favorite studies?—or rather, since that is generally a hard question to answer, what are your pursuits?”
Alice listened.
Cashel looked doggedly at Lydia, and his color slowly deepened. “I am a professor,” he said.
“A professor of what? I know I should ask of where; but that would only elicit the name of a college, which would convey no real information to me.”
“I am a professor of science,” said Cashel, in a low voice, looking down at his left fist, which he was balancing in the air before him, and stealthily hitting his bent knee as if it were another person’s face.
“Physical or moral science?” persisted Lydia.
“Physical science,” said Cashel. “But there’s more moral science in it than people think.”
“Yes,” said Lydia, seriously. “Though I have no real knowledge of physics, I can appreciate the truth of that. Perhaps all the science that is not at bottom physical science is only pretentious nescience. I have read much of physics, and have often been tempted to learn something of them—to make the experiments with my own hands—to furnish a laboratory—to wield the scalpel even. For, to master science thoroughly, I believe one must take one’s gloves off. Is that your opinion?”
Cashel looked hard at her. “You never spoke a truer word,” he said. “But you can become a very respectable amateur by working with the gloves.”
“I never should. The many who believe they are the wiser for reading accounts of experiments deceive themselves. It is as impossible to learn science from theory as to gain wisdom from proverbs. Ah, it is so easy to follow a line of argument, and so difficult to grasp the facts that underlie it! Our popular lecturers on physics present us with chains of deductions so highly polished that it is a luxury to let them slip from end to end through our fingers. But they leave nothing behind but a vague memory of the sensation they afforded. Excuse me for talking figuratively. I perceive that you affect the opposite—a reaction on your part, I suppose, against tall talk and fine writing. Pray, should I ever carry out my intention of setting to work in earnest at science, will you give me some lessons?”
“Well,” said Cashel, with a covert grin, “I would rather you came to me than to another professor; but I don’t think it would suit you. I should like to try my hand on your friend there. She’s stronger and straighter than nine out of ten men.”
“You set a high value on physical qualifications then. So do I.”
“Only from a practical point of view, mind you,” said Cashel, earnestly. “It isn’t right to be always looking at men and women as you would at horses. If you want to back them in a race or in a fight, that’s one thing; but if you want a friend or a sweetheart, that’s another.”
“Quite so,” said Lydia, smiling. “You do not wish to commit yourself to any warmer feeling towards Miss Goff than a critical appreciation of her form and condition.”
“Just that,” said Cashel, satisfied. “YOU understand me, Miss Carew. There are some people that you might talk to all day, and they’d be no wiser at the end of it than they were at the beginning. You’re not one of that sort.”
“I wonder do we ever succeed really in communicating our thoughts to one another. A thought must take a new shape to fit itself into a strange mind. You, Mr. Professor, must have acquired special experience of the incommunicability of ideas in the course of your lectures and lessons.”
Cashel looked uneasily at the water, and said in a lower voice, “Of course you may call me just whatever you like; but—if it’s all the same to you—I wish you wouldn’t call me professor.”
“I have lived so much in countries where professors expect to be addressed by their titles on all occasions, that I may claim to be excused for having offended on that point. Thank you for telling me. But I am to blame for discussing science with you. Lord Worthington told us that you had come down here expressly to escape from it—to recruit yourself after an excess of work.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Cashel.
“I have not done harm enough to be greatly concerned; but I will not offend again. To change the subject, let us look at Miss Goff’s sketch.”
Miss Carew had hardly uttered this suggestion, when Cashel, in a business-like manner, and without the slightest air of gallantry, expertly lifted her and placed her on her feet. This unexpected attention gave her a shock, followed by a thrill that was not disagreeable. She turned to him with a faint mantling on her cheeks. He was looking with contracted brows at the sky, as though occupied with some calculation.
“Thank you,” she said; “but pray do not do that again. It is a little humiliating to be lifted like a child. You are very strong.”
“There is not much strength needed to lift such a feather-weight as you. Seven stone two, I should judge you to be, about. But there’s a great art in doing these things properly. I have often had to carry off a man of fourteen stone, resting him all the time as if he was in bed.”
“Ah,” said Lydia; “I see you have had some hospital practice. I have often admired the skill with which trained nurses handle their patients.”
Cashel made no reply, but, with a sinister grin, followed her to where Alice sat.
“It is very foolish of me, I know,” said Alice, presently; “but I never can draw when any one is looking at me.”
“You fancy that everybody is thinking about how you’re doing it,” said Cashel, encouragingly. “That’s always the way with amateurs. But the truth is that not a soul except yourself is a bit concerned about it. EX-cuse me,” he added, taking up the drawing, and proceeding to examine it leisurely.
“Please give me my sketch, Mr. Byron,” she said, her cheeks red with anger. Puzzled, he turned to Lydia for an explanation, while Alice seized the sketch and packed it in her portfolio.
“It is getting rather warm,” said Lydia. “Shall we return to the castle?”
“I think we had better,” said Alice, trembling with resentment as she walked away quickly, leaving Lydia alone with Cashel, who presently exclaimed,
“What in thunder have I done?”
“You have made an inconsiderate remark with unmistakable sincerity.”
“I only tried to cheer her up. She must have mistaken what I said.”
“I think not. Do you believe that young ladies like to be told that there is no occasion for them to be ridiculously self-conscious?”
“I say that! I’ll take my oath I never said anything of the sort.”
“You worded it differently. But you assured her that she need not object to have her drawing overlooked, as it is of no importance to any one.”
“Well, if she takes offence at that she must be a born fool. Some people can’t bear to be told anything. But they soon get all that thin-skinned nonsense knocked out of them.”
“Have you any sisters, Mr. Cashel Byron?”
“No. Why?”
“Or a mother?”
“I have a mother; but I haven’t seen her for years; and I don’t much care if I never see her. It was through her that I came to be what I am.”
“Are you then dissatisfied with your profession?”
“No—I don’t mean that. I am always saying stupid things.”
“Yes. That comes of your ignorance of a sex accustomed to have its silliness respected. You will find it hard to keep on good terms with my friend without some further study of womanly ways.”
“As to her, I won’t give in that I’m wrong unless I AM wrong. The truth’s the truth.”
“Not even to please Miss Goff?”
“Not even to please you. You’d only think the worse of me afterwards.”
“Quite true, and quite right,” said Lydia, cordially. “Good-bye, Mr. Cashel Byron. I must rejoin Miss Goff.”
“I suppose you will take her part if she keeps a down on me for what I said to her.”
“What is ‘a down’? A grudge?”
“Yes. Something of that sort.”
“Colonial, is it not?” pursued Lydia, with the air of a philologist.
“Yes; I believe I picked it up in the colonies.” Then he added, sullenly, “I suppose I shouldn’t use slang in speaking to you. I beg your pardon.”
“I do not object to it. On the contrary, it interests me. For example, I have just learned from it that you have been in Australia.”
“So I have. But are you out with me because I annoyed Miss Goff?”
“By no means. Nevertheless, I sympathize with her annoyance at the manner, if not the matter, of your rebuke.”
“I can’t, for the life of me, see what there was in what I said to raise such a fuss about. I wish you would give me a nudge whenever you see me making a fool of myself. I will shut up at once and ask no questions.”
“So that it will be understood that my nudge means ‘Shut up, Mr. Cashel Byron; you are making a fool of yourself’?”
“Just so. YOU understand me. I told you that before, didn’t I?”
“I am afraid,” said Lydia, her face bright with laughter, “that I cannot take charge of your manners until we are a little better acquainted.”
He seemed disappointed. Then his face clouded; and he began, “If you regard it as a liberty—”
“Of course I regard it as a liberty,” she said, neatly interrupting him. “Is not my own conduct a sufficient charge upon my attention? Why should I voluntarily assume that of a strong man and learned professor as well?”
“By Jingo!” exclaimed Cashel, with sudden excitement, “I don’t care what you say to me. You have a way of giving things a turn that makes it a pleasure to be shut up by you; and if I were a gentleman, as I ought to be, instead of a poor devil of a professional pug, I would—” He recollected himself, and turned quite pale. There was a pause.
“Let me remind you,” said Lydia, composedly, though she too had changed color at the beginning of his outburst, “that we are both wanted elsewhere at present; I by Miss Goff, and you by your servant, who has been hovering about us and looking at you anxiously for some minutes.”
Cashel turned fiercely, and saw Mellish standing a little way off, sulkily watching him. Lydia took the opportunity, and left the place. As she retreated she could hear that they were at high words together; but she could not distinguish what they were saying. Fortunately so; for their language was villainous.
She found Alice in the library, seated bolt upright in a chair that would have tempted a good-humored person to recline. Lydia sat down in silence. Alice, presently looking at her, discovered that she was in a fit of noiseless laughter. The effect, in contrast to her habitual self-possession, was so strange that Alice almost forgot to be offended.
“I am glad to see that it is not hard to amuse you,” she said.
Lydia waited to recover herself thoroughly, and then replied, “I have not laughed so three times in my life. Now, Alice, put aside your resentment of our neighbor’s impudence for the moment, and tell me what you think of him.”
“I have not thought about him at all, I assure you,” said Alice, disdainfully.
“Then think about him for a moment to oblige me, and let me know the result.”
“Really, you have had much more opportunity of judging than I.Ihave hardly spoken to him.”
Lydia rose patiently and went to the bookcase. “You have a cousin at one of the universities, have you not?” she said, seeking along the shelf for a volume.
“Yes,” replied Alice, speaking very sweetly to atone for her want of amiability on the previous subject.
“Then perhaps you know something of university slang?”
“I never allow him to talk slang to me,” said Alice, quickly.
“You may dictate modes of expression to a single man, perhaps, but not to a whole university,” said Lydia, with a quiet scorn that brought unexpected tears to Alice’s eyes. “Do you know what a pug is?”
“A pug!” said Alice, vacantly. “No; I have heard of a bulldog—a proctor’s bulldog, but never a pug.”
“I must try my slang dictionary,” said Lydia, taking down a book and opening it. “Here it is. ‘Pug—a fighting man’s idea of the contracted word to be produced from pugilist.’ What an extraordinary definition! A fighting man’s idea of a contraction! Why should a man have a special idea of a contraction when he is fighting; or why should he think of such a thing at all under such circumstances? Perhaps ‘fighting man’ is slang too. No; it is not given here. Either I mistook the word, or it has some signification unknown to the compiler of my dictionary.”
“It seems quite plain to me,” said Alice. “Pug means pugilist.”
“But pugilism is boxing; it is not a profession. I suppose all men are more or less pugilists. I want a sense of the word in which it denotes a calling or occupation of some kind. I fancy it means a demonstrator of anatomy. However, it does not matter.”
“Where did you meet with it?”
“Mr. Byron used it just now.”
“Do you really like that man?” said Alice, returning to the subject more humbly than she had quitted it.
“So far, I do not dislike him. He puzzles me. If the roughness of his manner is an affectation I have never seen one so successful before.”
“Perhaps he does not know any better. His coarseness did not strike me as being affected at all.”
“I should agree with you but for one or two remarks that fell from him. They showed an insight into the real nature of scientific knowledge, and an instinctive sense of the truths underlying words, which I have never met with except in men of considerable culture and experience. I suspect that his manner is deliberately assumed in protest against the selfish vanity which is the common source of social polish. It is partly natural, no doubt. He seems too impatient to choose his words heedfully. Do you ever go to the theatre?”
“No,” said Alice, taken aback by this apparent irrelevance. “My father disapproved of it. But I was there once. I saw the ‘Lady of Lyons.’”
“There is a famous actress, Adelaide Gisborne—”
“It was she whom I saw as the Lady of Lyons. She did it beautifully.”
“Did Mr. Byron remind you of her?”
Alice stared incredulously at Lydia. “I do not think there can be two people in the world less like one another,” she said.
“Nor do I,” said Lydia, meditatively. “But I think their dissimilarity owes its emphasis to some lurking likeness. Otherwise how could he have reminded me of her?” Lydia, as she spoke, sat down with a troubled expression, as if trying to unravel her thoughts. “And yet,” she added, presently, “my theatrical associations are so complex that—” A long silence ensued, during which Alice, conscious of some unusual stir in her patroness, watched her furtively and wondered what would happen next.
“Alice.”
“Yes.”
“My mind is exercising itself in spite of me on small and impertinent matters—a sure symptom of failing mental health. My presence here is only one of several attempts that I have made to live idly since my father’s death. They have all failed. Work has become necessary to me. I will go to London tomorrow.”
Alice looked up in dismay; for this seemed equivalent to a dismissal. But her face expressed nothing but polite indifference.
“We shall have time to run through all the follies of the season before June, when I hope to return here and set to work at a book I have planned. I must collect the material for it in London. If I leave town before the season is over, and you are unwilling to come away with me, I can easily find some one who will take care of you as long as you please to stay. I wish it were June already!”
Alice preferred Lydia’s womanly impatience to her fatalistic calm. It relieved her sense of inferiority, which familiarity had increased rather than diminished. Yet she was beginning to persuade herself, with some success, that the propriety of Lydia’s manners was at least questionable. That morning Miss Carew had not scrupled to ask a man what his profession was; and this, at least, Alice congratulated herself on being too well-bred to do. She had quite lost her awe of the servants, and had begun to address them with an unconscious haughtiness and a conscious politeness that were making the word “upstart” common in the servants’ hall. Bashville, the footman, had risked his popularity there by opining that Miss Goff was a fine young woman.
Bashville was in his twenty-fourth year, and stood five feet ten in his stockings. At the sign of the Green Man in the village he was known as a fluent orator and keen political debater. In the stables he was deferred to as an authority on sporting affairs, and an expert wrestler in the Cornish fashion. The women servants regarded him with undissembled admiration. They vied with one another in inventing expressions of delight when he recited before them, which, as he had a good memory and was fond of poetry, he often did. They were proud to go out walking with him. But his attentions never gave rise to jealousy; for it was an open secret in the servants’ hall that he loved his mistress. He had never said anything to that effect, and no one dared allude to it in his presence, much less rally him on his weakness; but his passion was well known for all that, and it seemed by no means so hopeless to the younger members of the domestic staff as it did to the cook, the butler, and Bashville himself. Miss Carew, who knew the value of good servants, appreciated her footman’s smartness, and paid him accordingly; but she had no suspicion that she was waited on by a versatile young student of poetry and public affairs, distinguished for his gallantry, his personal prowess, his eloquence, and his influence on local politics.
It was Bashville who now entered the library with a salver, which he proffered to Alice, saying, “The gentleman is waiting in the round drawing-room, miss.”
Alice took the gentleman’s card, and read, “Mr. Wallace Parker.”
“Oh!” she said, with vexation, glancing at Bashville as if to divine his impression of the visitor. “My cousin—the one we were speaking of just now—has come to see me.”
“How fortunate!” said Lydia. “He will tell me the meaning of pug. Ask him to lunch with us.”
“You would not care for him,” said Alice. “He is not much used to society. I suppose I had better go and see him.”
Miss Carew did not reply, being plainly at a loss to understand how there could be any doubt about the matter. Alice went to the round drawing-room, where she found Mr. Parker examining a trophy of Indian armor, and presenting a back view of a short gentleman in a spruce blue frock-coat. A new hat and pair of gloves were also visible as he stood looking upward with his hands behind him. When he turned to greet Alice lie displayed a face expressive of resolute self-esteem, with eyes whose watery brightness, together with the bareness of his temples, from which the hair was worn away, suggested late hours and either very studious or very dissipated habits. He advanced confidently, pressed Alice’s hand warmly for several seconds, and placed a chair for her, without noticing the marked coldness with which she received his attentions.
“I was surprised, Alice,” he said, when he had seated himself opposite to her, “to learn from Aunt Emily that you had come to live here without consulting me. I—”
“Consult you!” she said, contemptuously, interrupting him. “I never heard of such a thing! Why should I consult you as to my movements?”
“Well, I should not have used the word consult, particularly to such an independent little lady as sweet Alice Goff. Still, I think you might—merely as a matter of form, you know—have informed me of the step you were taking. The relations that exist between us give me a right to your confidence.”
“What relations, pray?”
“What relations!” he repeated, with reproachful emphasis.
“Yes. What relations?”
He rose, and addressed her with tender solemnity. “Alice,” he began; “I have proposed to you at least six times—”
“And have I accepted you once?”
“Hear me to the end, Alice. I know that you have never explicitly accepted me; but it has always been understood that my needy circumstances were the only obstacle to our happiness. We—don’t interrupt me, Alice; you little know what’s coming. That obstacle no longer exists. I have been made second master at Sunbury College, with three hundred and fifty pounds a year, a house, coals, and gas. In the course of time I shall undoubtedly succeed to the head mastership—a splendid position, worth eight hundred pounds a year. You are now free from the troubles that have pressed so hard upon you since your father’s death; and you can quit at once—now—instantly, your dependent position here.”
“Thank you: I am very comfortable here. I am staying on a visit with Miss Carew.”
Silence ensued; and he sat down slowly. Then she added, “I am exceedingly glad that you have got something good at last. It must be a great relief to your poor mother.”
“I fancied, Alice—though it may have been only fancy—I fancied that YOUR mother was colder than usual in her manner this morning. I hope that the luxuries of this palatial mansion are powerless to corrupt your heart. I cannot lead you to a castle and place crowds of liveried servants at your beck and call; but I can make you mistress of an honorable English home, independent of the bounty of strangers. You can never be more than a lady, Alice.”
“It is very good of you to lecture me, I am sure.”
“You might be serious with me,” he said, rising in ill-humor, and walking a little way down the room.
“I think the offer of a man’s hand ought to be received with respect.”
“Oh! I did not quite understand. I thought we agreed that you are not to make me that offer every time we meet.”
“It was equally understood that the subject was only deferred until I should be in a position to resume it without binding you to a long engagement. That time has come now; and I expect a favorable answer at last. I am entitled to one, considering how patiently I have waited for it.”
“For my part, Wallace, I must say I do not think it wise for you to think of marrying with only three hundred and fifty pounds a year.”
“With a house: remember that; and coals and gas! You are becoming very prudent, now that you live with Miss Whatshername here. I fear you no longer love me, Alice.”
“I never said I loved you at any time.”
“Pshaw! You never said so, perhaps; but you always gave me to understand that—”
“I did nothing of the sort, Wallace; and I won’t have you say so.”
“In short,” he retorted, bitterly, “you think you will pick up some swell here who will be a better bargain than I am.”
“Wallace! How dare you?”
“You hurt my feelings, Alice, and I speak out. I know how to behave myself quite as well as those who have the entree here; but when my entire happiness is at stake I do not stand on punctilio. Therefore, I insist on a straightforward answer to my fair, honorable proposal.”
“Wallace,” said Alice, with dignity; “I will not be forced into giving an answer against my will. I regard you as a cousin.”
“I do not wish to be regarded as a cousin. Have I ever regarded you as a cousin?”
“And do you suppose, Wallace, that I should permit you to call me by my Christian name, and be as familiar as we have always been together, if you were not my cousin? If so, you must have a very strange opinion of me.”
“I did not think that luxury could so corrupt—”
“You said that before,” said Alice, pettishly. “Do not keep repeating the same thing over and over; you know it is one of your bad habits. Will you stay to lunch? Miss Carew told me to ask you.”
“Indeed! Miss Carew is very kind. Please inform her that I am deeply honored, and that I feel quite disturbed at being unable to accept her patronage.”
Alice poised her head disdainfully. “No doubt it amuses you to make yourself ridiculous,” she said; “but I must say I do not see any occasion for it.”
“I am sorry that my behavior is not sufficiently good for you. You never found any cause to complain of it when our surroundings were less aristocratic. I am quite ashamed of taking so much of your valuable time. GOOD-morning.”
“Good-morning. But I do not see why you are in such a rage.”
“I am not in a rage. I am only grieved to find that you are corrupted by luxury. I thought your principles were higher. Good-morning, Miss Goff. I shall not have the pleasure of seeing you again in this very choice mansion.”
“Are you really going, Wallace?” said Alice, rising.
“Yes. Why should I stay?”
She rang the bell, greatly disconcerting him; for he had expected her to detain him and make advances for a reconciliation. Before they could exchange more words, Bashville entered.
“Good-bye,” said Alice, politely.
“Good-bye,” he replied, through his teeth. He walked loftily out, passing Bashville with marked scorn.
He had left the house, and was descending the terrace steps, when he was overtaken by the footman, who said, civilly,