Cashel Byron's Profession

Lucian, sick with fury, and half paralyzed by a sensation which he

would not acknowledge as fear, forced himself to come forward.

Cashel thrust out his jaw invitingly, and said, with a sinister

grin, "Put it in straight, governor. Twenty pounds, remember."

At that moment Lucian would have given all his political and social

chances for the courage and skill of a prize-fighter. He could see

only one way to escape the torment of Cashel's jeering and the self-

reproach of a coward. He desperately clenched his fist and struck

out. The blow wasted itself on space; and he stumbled forward

against his adversary, who laughed uproariously, grasped his hand,

clapped him on the back, and exclaimed, "Well done, my boy. I thought you were going to be mean; but you've

been game, and you're welcome to the stakes. I'll tell Lydia that

you have fought me for twenty pounds and won on your merits. Ain't

you proud of yourself for having had a go at the champion?"

"Sir--" began Lucian. But nothing coherent followed.

"You just sit down for a quarter of an hour, and don't drink

anything, and you'll be all right. When you recover you'll be glad

you showed pluck. So, good-night, for the present--I know how you

feel, and I'll be off. Be sure not to try to settle yourself with

wine; it'll only make you worse. Ta-ta!"

As Cashel withdrew, Lucian collapsed into a chair, shaken by the

revival of passions and jealousies which he had thought as

completely outgrown as the school-boy jackets in which he had

formerly experienced them. He tried to think of some justification

of his anger--some better reason for it than the vulgar taunt of a

bully. He told himself presently that the idea of Lydia marrying

such a man had maddened him to strike. As Cashel had predicted, he

was beginning to plume himself on his pluck. This vein of

reflection, warring with his inner knowledge that he had been driven

by fear and hatred into a paroxysm of wrath against a man to whom he

should have set an example of dignified self-control, produced an

exhausting whirl in his thoughts, which were at once quickened and

confused by the nervous shock of bodily violence, to which he was

quite unused. Unable to sit still, he rose, put on his hat, went

out, and drove to the house in Regent's Park.

Lydia was in her boudoir, occupied with a book, when he entered. He

was not an acute observer; he could see no change in her. She was as

calm as ever; her eyes were not even fully open, and the touch of

her hand subdued him as it had always done. Though he had never

entertained any hope of possessing her since the day when she had

refused him in Bedford Square, a sense of intolerable loss came upon

him as he saw her for the first time pledged to another--and such

another!