GEORGE SHAW - The Complete Works

“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 prizefighter, 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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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 finishing 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 repassed 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 impassibly 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 fashion, 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 upstairs, 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 downstairs 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.”