“Dear Mr. Cashel Byron, — I am desirous that you should meet a lady friend of mine. She will be here at three o’clock tomorrow afternoon. You would oblige me greatly by calling on me at that hour.
“Yours faithfully,
“Lydia Carew.”
There was a long pause, during which there was no sound in the room except the ticking of the clock and the munching of shrimps by the ex-champion.
“Good news, I hope, Cashel,” said Mrs. Skene, at last, tremulously.
“Blow me if I understand it,” said Cashel. “Can you make it out?” And he handed the letter to his adopted mother. Skene ceased eating to see his wife read, a feat which was to him one of the wonders of science.
“I think the lady she mentions must be herself,” said Mrs. Skene, after some consideration.
“No,” said Cashel, shaking his head. “She always says what she means.”
“Ah,” said Skene, cunningly; “but she can’t write it though. That’s the worst of writing; no one can’t never tell exactly what it means. I never signed articles yet that there weren’t some misunderstanding about; and articles is the best writing that can be had anywhere.”
“You’d better go and see what it means,” said Mrs. Skene.
“Right,” said Skene. “Go and have it out with her, my boy.”
“It is short, and not particularly sweet,” said Fanny. “She might have had the civility to put her crest at the top.”
“What would you give to be her?” said Cashel, derisively, catching the letter as she tossed it disdainfully to him.
“If I was I’d respect myself more than to throw myself at YOUR head.”
“Hush, Fanny,” said Mrs. Skene; “you’re too sharp. Ned, you oughtn’t to encourage her by laughing.”
Next day Cashel rose early, went for a walk, paid extra attention to his diet, took some exercise with the gloves, had a bath and a rub down, and presented himself at Regent’s Park at three o’clock in excellent condition. Expecting to see Bashville, he was surprised when the door was opened by a female servant.
“Miss Carew at home?”
“Yes, sir,” said the girl, falling in love with him at first sight. “Mr. Byron, sir?”
“That’s me,” said Cashel. “I say, is there any one with her?”
“Only a lady, sir.”
“Oh, d — n! Well, it can’t be helped. Never say die.”
The girl led him then to a door, opened it, and when he entered shut it softly without announcing him. The room in which he found himself was a long one, lighted from the roof. The walls were hung with pictures. At the far end, with their backs towards him, were two ladies: Lydia, and a woman whose noble carriage and elegant form would, have raised hopes of beauty in a man less preoccupied than Cashel. But he, after advancing some distance with his eyes on Lydia, suddenly changed countenance, stopped, and was actually turning to fly, when the ladies, hearing his light step, faced about and rooted him to the spot. As Lydia offered him her hand, her companion, who had surveyed the visitor first with indifference, and then with incredulous surprise, exclaimed, with a burst of delighted recognition, like a child finding a long-lost plaything, “My darling boy!” And going to Cashel with the grace of a swan, she clasped him in her arms. In acknowledgment of which he thrust his red, discomfited face over her shoulder, winked at Lydia with his tongue in his cheek, and said,
“This is what you may call the voice of nature, and no mistake.”
“What a splendid creature you are!” said Mrs. Byron, holding him a little way from her, the better to admire him. “Do you know how handsome you are, you wretch?”
“How d’ye do, Miss Carew,” said Cashel, breaking loose, and turning to Lydia. “Never mind her; it’s only my mother. At least,” he added, as if correcting himself, “she’s my mamma.”
“And where have you come from? Where have you been? Do you know that I have not seen you for seven years, you unnatural boy? Think of his being my son, Miss Carew. Give me another kiss, my own,” she continued, grasping his arm affectionately.
“What a muscular creature you are!”
“Kiss away as much as you like,” said Cashel, struggling with the old schoolboy sullenness as it returned oppressively upon him. “I suppose you’re well. You look right enough.”
“Yes,” she said, mockingly, beginning to despise him for his inability to act up to her in this thrilling scene; “I AM right enough. Your language is as refined as ever. And why do you get your hair cropped close like that? You must let it grow, and—”
“Now, look here,” said Cashel, stopping her hand neatly as she raised it to rearrange his locks. “You just drop it, or I’ll walk out at that door and you won’t see me again for another seven years. You can either take me as you find me, or let me alone. Absalom and Dan Mendoza came to grief through wearing their hair long, and I am going to wear mine short.”
Mrs. Byron became a shade colder. “Indeed!” she said. “Just the same still, Cashel?”
“Just the same, both one and other of us,” he replied. “Before you spoke six words I felt as if we’d parted only yesterday.”
“I am rather taken aback by the success of my experiment,” interposed Lydia. “I invited you purposely to meet one another. The resemblance between you led me to suspect the truth, and my suspicion was confirmed by the account Mr. Byron gave me of his adventures.”
Mrs. Byron’s vanity was touched. “Is he like me?” she said, scanning his features. He, without heeding her, said to Lydia with undisguised mortification,
“And was THAT why you sent for me?”
“Are you disappointed?” said Lydia.
“He is not in the least glad to see me,” said Mrs. Byron, plaintively. “He has no heart.”
“Now she’ll go on for the next hour,” said Cashel, looking to Lydia, obviously because he found it much pleasanter than looking at his mother. “However, if you don’t care, I don’t. So, fire away, mamma.”
“And you think we are really like one another?” said Mrs. Byron, not heeding him. “Yes; I think we are. There is a certain — Are you married, Cashel?” with sudden mistrust.
“Ha! ha! ha!” shouted Cashel. “No; but I hope to be, some day,” he added, venturing to glance again at Lydia, who was, however, attentively observing Mrs. Byron.
“Well, tell me everything about yourself. What are you? Now, I do hope, Cashel, that you have not gone upon the stage.”
“The stage!” said Cashel, contemptuously. “Do I look like it?”
“You certainly do not,” said Mrs. Byron, whimsically— “although you have a certain odious professional air, too. What did you do when you ran away so scandalously from that stupid school in the north? How do you earn your living? Or DO you earn it?”
“I suppose I do, unless I am fed by ravens, as Elijah was. What do you think I was best fitted for by my education and bringing up? Sweep a crossing, perhaps! When I ran away from Panley, I went to sea.”
“A sailor, of all things! You don’t look like one. And pray, what rank have you attained in your profession?”
“The front rank. The top of the tree,” said Cashel, shortly.
“Mr. Byron is not at present following the profession of a sailor; nor has he done so for many years,” said Lydia.
Cashel looked at her, half in appeal, half in remonstrance.
“Something