“Less likely things have happened,” said Mellish. “I won’t say that Cashel Byron is getting stale; but I will say that his luck is too good to last; and I know for a fact that he’s gone quite melancholy of late.”
“Melancholy be blowed!” said Skene. “What should he go melancholy for?”
“Oh, I know,” said Mellish, reticently.
“You know a lot,” retorted Skene with contempt. “I s’pose you mean the young ‘oman he’s always talking to my missis about.”
“I mean a young woman that he ain’t likely to get. One of the biggest swells in England — a little un with a face like the inside of a oyster-shell, that he met down at Wiltstoken, where I trained him to fight the Flying Dutchman. He went right off his training after he met her — wouldn’t do anything I told him. I made so cocksure that he’d be licked that I hedged every penny I had laid on him except twenty pound that I got a flat to bet agin him down at the fight after I had changed my mind. Curse that woman! I lost a hundred pound by her.”
“And served you right, too, you old stupid. You was wrong then; and you’re wrong now, with your blessed Paradise.”
“Paradise has never been licked yet.”
“No more has my boy.”
“Well, we’ll see.”
“We’ll see! I tell you I’ve seed for myself. I’ve seed Billy Paradise spar; and it ain’t fighting, it’s ruffianing: that’s what it is. Ruffianing! Why, my old missis has more science.”
“Mebbe she has,” said Mellish. “But look at the men he’s licked that were chock full of science. Shepstone, clever as he is, only won a fight from him by claiming a foul, because Billy lost his temper and spiked him. That’s the worst of Billy; he can’t keep his feelings in. But no fine-lady sparrer can stand afore that ugly rush of his. Do you think he’ll care for Cashel’s showy long shots? Not he: he’ll just take ’em on that mahogany nut of his, and give him back one o’ them smashers that he settled poor Dick Weeks with.”
“I’ll lay you any money he don’t. If he does, I’ll go back into the ring myself, and bust his head off for it.” Here Skene, very angry, applied several epithets to Paradise, and became so excited that Mellish had to soothe him by partially retracting his forebodings, and asking how Cashel had been of late.
“He’s not been taking care of himself as he oughter,” said Skene, gloomily. “He’s showing the London fashions to the missis and Fanny — they’re here in the three-and-sixpenny seats, among the swells. Theatres every night; and walks every day to see the queen drive through the park, or the like. My Fan likes to have him with her on account of his being such a gentleman: she don’t hardly think her own father not good enough to walk down Piccadilly with. Wants me to put on a black coat and make a parson of myself. The missis just idolizes him. She thinks the boy far too good for the young ‘oman you was speaking of, and tells him that she’s only letting on not to care for him to raise her price, just as I used to pretend to be getting beat, to set the flats betting agin me. The women always made a pet of him. In Melbourne it was not what I liked for dinner: it was always what the boy ‘ud like, and when it ‘ud please him to have it. I’m blest if I usen’t to have to put him up to ask for a thing when I wanted it myself. And you tell me that that’s the lad that’s going to let Billy Paradise lick him, I s’pose. Walker!”
Lydia, with Mrs. Byron’s charm fresh upon her, wondered what manner of woman this Mrs. Skene could be who had supplanted her in the affections of her son, and yet was no more than a prizefighter’s old missis. Evidently she was not one to turn a young man from a career in the ring. Again the theme of Cashel’s occupation and the chances of his quitting it ran away with Lydia’s attention. She sat with her eyes fixed on the arena, without seeing the soldiers, swordsmen, or athletes who were busy there; her mind wandered further and further from the place; and the chattering of the people resolved itself into a distant hum and was forgotten.
Suddenly she saw a dreadful-looking man coming towards her across the arena. His face had the surface and color of blue granite; his protruding jaws and retreating forehead were like those of an orang-outang. She started from her reverie with a shiver, and, recovering her hearing as well as her vision of external things, became conscious of an attempt to applaud this apparition by a few persons below. The man grinned ferociously, placed one hand on a stake of the ring, and vaulted over the ropes. Lydia now remarked that, excepting his hideous head and enormous hands and feet, he was a well-made man, with loins and shoulders that shone in the light, and gave him an air of great strength and activity.
“Ain’t he a picture?” she heard Mellish exclaim, ecstatically. “There’s condition for you!”
“Ah!” said Skene, disparagingly. “But ain’t HE the gentleman! Just look at him. It’s like the Prince of Wales walking down Pall Mall.”
Lydia, hearing this, looked again, and saw Cashel Byron, exactly as she had seen him for the first time in the elm vista at Wiltstoken, approaching the ring with the indifferent air of a man going through some tedious public ceremony.
“A god coming down to compete with a gladiator,” whispered Lord Worthington, eagerly. “Isn’t it, Miss Carew? Apollo and the satyr! You must admit that our mutual friend is a splendid-looking fellow. If he could go into society like that, by Jove, the women—”
“Hush,” said Lydia, as if his words were intolerable.
Cashel did not vault over the ropes. He stepped through them languidly, and, rejecting the proffered assistance of a couple of officious friends, drew on a boxing-glove fastidiously, like an exquisite preparing for a fashionable promenade. Having thus muffled his left hand so as to make it useless for the same service to his right, he dipped his fingers into the other glove, gripped it between his teeth, and dragged it on with the action of a tiger tearing its prey. Lydia shuddered again.
“Bob Mellish,” said Skene, “I’ll lay you twenty to one he stops that rush that you think so much of. Come: twenty to one!”
Mellish shook his head. Then the master of the ceremonies, pointing to the men in succession, shouted, “Paradise: a professor. Cashel Byron: a professor. Time!”
Cashel now looked at Paradise, of whose existence he had not before seemed to be aware. The two men advanced towards the centre of the ring, shook hands at arm’s-length, cast off each other’s grasp suddenly, fell back a step, and began to move warily round one another from left to right like a pair of panthers.
“I think they might learn manners from the gentlemen, and shake hands cordially,” said Alice, trying to appear unconcerned, but oppressed by a vague dread of Cashel.
“That’s the traditional manner,” said Lord Worthington. “It is done that way to prevent one from holding the other; pulling him over, and hitting him with the disengaged hand before he could get loose.”
“What abominable treachery!” exclaimed Lydia.
“It’s never done, you know,” said Lord Worthington, apologetically. “Only it might be.”
Lydia turned away from him, and gave all her attention to the boxers. Of the two, Paradise shocked her least. He was evidently nervous and conscious of a screwed-up condition as to his courage; but his sly grin implied a wild sort of goodhumor, and seemed to promise the spectators that he would show them some fun presently. Cashel watched his movements with a relentless vigilance and a sidelong glance in which, to Lydia’s apprehension, there was something infernal.
Suddenly the eyes of Paradise lit up: he lowered his head, made a rush, balked himself purposely, and darted at Cashel. There was a sound like the pop of a champagne-cork, after which Cashel was seen undisturbed in the middle of the ring, and Paradise, flung against the ropes and trying to grin at his discomfiture, showed his white teeth through a mask of blood.
“Beautiful!” cried Skene with emotion. “Beautiful! There ain’t but