The Collected Works of George Bernard Shaw: Plays, Novels, Articles, Letters and Essays. GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

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СКАЧАТЬ scruples between us. You will not court a woman a hundred-fold richer than yourself; and I will not entertain a prizefighter. My wealth frightens every man who is not a knave; and your profession frightens every woman who is not a fury.”

      “Then you — Just tell me this,” said Cashel, eagerly. “Suppose I were a rich swell, and were not a—”

      “No,” said Lydia, peremptorily interrupting him. “I will suppose nothing but what is.”

      Cashel relapsed into melancholy. “If you only hadn’t been kind to me!” he said. “I think the reason I love you so much is that you’re the only person that is not afraid of me. Other people are civil because they daren’t be otherwise to the cock of the ring. It’s a lonely thing to be a champion. You knew nothing about that; and you knew I was afraid of you; and yet you were as good as gold.”

      “It is also a lonely thing to be a very rich woman. People are afraid of my wealth, and of what they call my learning. We two have at least one experience in common. Now do me a great favor, by going. We have nothing further to say.”

      “I’ll go in two seconds. But I don’t believe much in YOUR being lonely. That’s only fancy.”

      “Perhaps so. Most feelings of this kind are only fancies.”

      There was a pause. Then Cashel said,

      “I don’t feel half so downhearted as I did a minute ago. Are you sure that you’re not angry with me?”

      “Quite sure. Pray let me say goodbye.”

      “And may I never see you again? Never at all? — world without end, amen?”

      “Never as the famous prizefighter. But if a day should come when Mr. Cashel Byron will be something better worthy of his birth and nature, I will not forget an old friend. Are you satisfied now?”

      Cashel’s face began to glow, and the roots of his hair to tingle. “One thing more,” he said. “If you meet me by chance in the street before that, will you give me a look? I don’t ask for a regular bow, but just a look to keep me going?”

      “I have no intention of cutting you,” said Lydia, gravely. “But do not place yourself purposely in my way.”

      “Honor bright, I won’t. I’ll content myself with walking through that street in Soho occasionally. Now I’m off; I know you’re in a hurry to be rid of me. So good-b — Stop a bit, though. Perhaps when that time you spoke of comes, you will be married.”

      “It is possible; but I am not likely to marry. How many more things have you to say that you have no right to say?”

      “Not one,” said Cashel, with a laugh that rang through the house. “I never was happier in my life, though I’m crying inside all the time. I’ll have a try for you yet. Goodbye. No,” he added, turning from her proffered hand; “I daren’t touch it; I should eat you afterwards.” And he ran out of the room.

      In the hall was Bashville, pale and determined, waiting there to rush to the assistance of his mistress at her first summons. He had a poker concealed at hand. Having just heard a great laugh, and seeing Cashel come downstairs in high spirits, he stood stock-still, and did not know what to think.

      “Well, old chap,” said Cashel, boisterously, slapping him on the shoulder, “so you’re alive yet. Is there any one in the dining-room?”

      “No,” said Bashville.

      “There’s a thick carpet there to fall soft on,” said Cashel, pulling Bashville into the room. “Come along. Now, show me that little trick of yours again. Come, don’t be afraid. Down with me. Take care you don’t knock my head against the fire-irons.”

      “But—”

      “But be hanged. You were spry enough at it before. Come!”

      Bashville, after a moment’s hesitation, seized Cashel, who immediately became grave and attentive, and remained imperturbably so while Nashville expertly threw him. He sat for a moment thinking on the hearthrug before he rose. “I see,” he said, then, getting up. “Now, do it again.”

      “But it makes such a row,” remonstrated Bashville.

      “Only once more. There’ll be no row this time.”

      “Well, you ARE an original sort of cove,” said Bashville, complying. But instead of throwing his man, he found himself wedged into a collar formed by Cashel’s arms, the least constriction of which would have strangled him. Cashel again roared with laughter as he released him.

      “That’s the way, ain’t it?” he said. “You can’t catch an old fox twice in the same trap. Do you know any more falls?”

      “I do,” said Bashville; “but I really can’t show them to you here. I shall get into trouble on account of the noise.”

      “You can come down to me whenever you have an evening out,” said Cashel, handing him a card, “to that address, and show me what you know, and I’ll see what I can do with you. There’s the making of a man in you.”

      “You’re very kind,” said Bashville, pocketing the card with a grin.

      “And now let me give you a word of advice that will be of use to you as long as you live,” said Cashel, impressively. “You did a very silly thing to-day. You threw a man down — a fighting-man — and then stood looking at him like a fool, waiting for him to get up and kill you. If ever you do that again, fall on him as heavily as you can the instant he’s off his legs. Drop your shoulder well into him, and, if he pulls you over, make play with the back of your head. If he’s altogether too big for you, put your knee on his throat as if by accident. But, on no account, stand and do nothing. It’s flying in the face of Providence.”

      Cashel emphasized these counsels by taps of his forefinger on one of Bashville’s buttons. In conclusion, he nodded, opened the house-door, and walked away in buoyant spirits.

      Lydia, standing year the library window, saw him pass, and observed how his light, alert step and a certain gamesome assurance of manner marked him off from a genteelly promenading middleaged gentleman, a trudging workman, and a vigorously striding youth who were also passing by. The iron railings through which she saw him reminded her of the admirable and dangerous creatures which were passing and repassing behind iron bars in the park yonder. But she exulted, in her quiet manner, in the thought that, dangerous as he was, she had no fear of him. When his cabman had found him and driven him off she went to her desk, opened a private drawer in it, took out her falher’s last letter, and sat for some time looking at it without unfolding it.

      “It would be a strange thing, father,” she said, as if he were actually there to hear her, “if your paragon should turn aside from her friends, the artists, philosophers, and statesmen, to give herself to an illiterate prizefighter. I felt a pang of absolute despair when he replied to my forty thousand pounds a year with an unanswerable goodbye.”

      She locked up her father, as it were, in the drawer again, and rang the bell. Bashville appeared, somewhat perturbed.

      “If Mr. Byron calls again, admit him if I am at home.”

      “Yes, madam.”

      “Thank you.”

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