3. CHAPTER III.
SHOWING WHAT MAKES A HORSE-STEALER A GENTLEMAN.
It was the first day of September, and most of the
gold threads were drawn from the tangled and varicolored
woof of London society. “The season” was
over. Two gentlemen stood in the window of Crockford's,
one a Jew barrister (kersey enough for more
russet company by birth and character, but admitted
to the society of “costly stuff” for the equivalent he
gave as a purveyor of scandal), and the other a commoner,
whose wealth and fashion gave him the privilege
of out-staying the season in town, without publishing
in the Morning Post a better reason than inclination
for so unnatural a procedure.
Count Spiridion Pallardos was seen to stroll slowly
up St. James street, on the opposite side.
“Look there, Abrams!” said Mr. Townley Manners,
“there's the Greek who was taken up at one
time by the Aymars. I thought he was transported.”
“No! he still goes to the Aymars, though he is
`in Coventry' everywhere else. Dallinger had him
arrested—for horse-stealing, wasn't it? The officer
nabbed him as he was handing Lady Angelica out of
her carriage in Berkeley square. I remember hearing
of it two months ago. What a chop-fallen blackguard
it looks!”
“Blackguard! Come, come, man!—give the devil
his due!” deprecated the more liberal commoner;
“may be it's from not having seen a gentleman for the
last week, but, hang me if I don't think that same
horse-stealer turning the corner is as crack-looking a
man as I ever saw from this window. What's o'clock?”
“Half-past four,” replied the scandal-monger, swallowing,
with a bland smile,
what there was to swallow
in Manners's two-edged remark, and turning suddenly
on his heel.
Pallardos slowly took his way along Picadilly, and
was presently in Berkeley square, at the door of the
Aymars. The porter admitted him without question,
and he mounted, unannounced, to the drawing-room.
The ladies sat by the window, looking out upon the
garden.
“Is it you, Spiridion?” said Lady Aymar, “I had
hoped you would not come to-day!”
“Oh, mamma!” appealed Lady Angelica.
“Welcome all other days of the year, my dear
Pallardos—warmly welcome, of course”—continued
Lady Aymar, “but—to-day—oh God! you have no
idea what the first of September is—to us—to my
husband!”
Lady Aymar covered her face with her hands, and
the tears streamed through her fingers.
“Pardon me,” said Pallardos—“pardon me, my
dear lady, but I am here by the earl's invitation, to
dine at six.”
Lady Aymar sprang from her seat in astonishment.
“By the earl's invitation, did you say? Angelica,
what can that mean? Was it by note, Count Pallardos?”
“By note,” he replied.
“I am amazed!” she said, “truly amazed! Does
he mean to have a confidant for his family secret? Is
his insanity on one point affecting his reason on all?
What shall we do, Angelica?”
“We may surely confide in Spiridion, whatever the
meaning of it, or the result”—gently murmured Lady
Angelica.
“We may—we may!” said Lady Aymar. “Prepare
him for it as you will. I pray Heaven to help me
through with this day without upsetting my own
reason. I shall meet you at dinner, Spiridion.”
With her hands twisted together in a convulsive
knot, Lady Aymar slowly and musingly passed into
the conservatory on her way to her own room, leaving
to themselves two lovers who had much to talk of
beside dwelling upon a mystery which, even to Lady
Angelica, who knew most of it, was wholly inexplicable.
Yet it was partially explained by the trembling
girl—explained as a case of monomania, and with the
brevity of a disagreeable subject, but listened to by
her lover with a different feeling—a conviction as of a
verified dream, and a vague, inexplicable terror which
he could neither reason down nor account for. But
the lovers must be left to themselves, by the reader as
well as by Lady Aymar; and meantime, till the dinner
hour, when our story begins again, we may glance at
a note which was received, and replied to, by Lord
Aymar in the library below.
“My dear Lord: In the belief that a frank communication
would be best under the circumstances, I
wish to make an inquiry, prefacing it with the assurance
that my only hope of happiness has been for
some time staked upon the successful issue of my
suit for your daughter's hand. It is commonly understood,
I believe, that the bulk of your lordship's fortune
is separate from the entail, and may be disposed
of at your pleasure. May I inquire its amount, or
rather, may I ask what fortune goes with the hand of
Lady Angelica. The Beauchief estates are unfortunately
much embarrassed, and my own debts (I may
frankly confess) are very considerable. You will at
once see, my lord, that, in justice to your daughter, as
well as to myself, I could not do otherwise than make
this frank inquiry before pushing my suit to extremity.
Begging your indulgence and an immediate answer, I
remain, my dear lord,
Yours very faithfully,
“Frederick Beauchief.
“The Earl of Aymar.”
(REPLY.)
“Dear Lord Frederick: I trust you will not
accuse me of a want of candor in declining a direct
answer to your question. Though I freely own to a
friendly wish for your success in your efforts to engage
the affections of Lady Angelica, with a view to marriage,
it can only be in the irrevocable process of a
marriage settlement that her situation, as to the probable
disposal of my fortune, can be disclosed. I may
admit to you, however, that, upon the events of this
day on which you have written (it so chances), may
depend the question whether I should encourage you
to pursue further your addresses to Lady Angelica.
“Yours very faithfully,
“Aymar.
“Lord Frederick Beauchief.”
It seemed like the first day after a death, in the
house of Lord Aymar. An unaccountable hush prevailed
through the servants' offices; the gray-headed
old butler crept noiselessly about, making his preparations
for dinner, and the doors, that were opened
and shut, betrayed the careful touch of apprehension.
With penetrating and glassy clearness, the kitchen
clock, seldom heard above stairs, resounded through
the house, striking six.
In the same neglected attire which she had worn in
the morning, Lady Aymar re-entered the drawing-room.
The lids were drawn up around her large eyes
with a look of unresisting distress, and she walked
with relaxed steps, and had, altogether, an air absent
and full of dread. The interrupted lovers ceased
talking as she approached, but she did not remark the
silence, and walked, errandless, from corner to corner.
The butler announced dinner.
“May I give your ladyship an arm?” asked Pallardos.
“Oh God! is it dinner-time already!” she exclaimed
with a voice of terror. “Williams! is Lord Aymar
below?”
“In the dining-room, miladi.”
She took Spiridion's arm, and they descended the
stairs. As they approached the dining-room, her arm
trembled so violently in his that he turned to her with
the fear that she was about to fall. He did not speak.
A vague dread, which was more than he had caught
from her looks—a something unaccountably heavy at
his own heart—made his voice cling to his throat.
He bowed to Lord Aymar.
His noble host stood leaning upon the mantel-piece,
pale, but seeming less stern and cold than suffering
and nerved to bear pain.
“I am glad to see you, my dear count!” he said,
giving him his hand with an affectionateness that he
had never before manifested. “Are you quite well?”
he added, scrutinizing his features closely with the
question—“for, like myself, you seem to have grown
pale upon this—September dulness.”
“I am commonly less well in this month than in
any other,” said Pallardos, “and—now I think of it—
I had forgotten that I arose this morning with a
depression of spirits as singular as it was unendurable.
I forgot it, when I received your lordship's note, in
the happiness the day was to bring me.”
The lovers exchanged looks, unremarked, apparently,
by either Lord or Lady Aymar, and the conversation
relapsed into the commonplaces of dinner-table
civility. Spiridion observed that the footmen
were excluded, the old butler alone serving them at
table; and that the shutters, of which he got a chance
glimpse between the curtains, were carefully closed.
Once or twice Pallardos roused himself with the
thought that he was ill playing the part of an agreeable
guest, and proposed some question that might
lead to discussion; but the spirits of Lady Angelica
seemed frighted to silence, and Lord and Lady Aymar
were wholly absorbed, or were at least unconscious of
their singular incommunicativeness.
Dinner dragged on slowly—Lady Aymar retarding
every remove with terrified and flurried eagerness.
Pallardos remarked that she did not eat, but she asked
to be helped again from every dish before its removal.
Her fork rattled on the plate with the trembling of her
hand, and, once or twice, an outbreak of hysterical
tears was evidently prevented by a stern word and look
from Lord Aymar.
The butler leaned over to his mistress's ear.
“No—no—no! Not yet—not yet!” she exclaimed,
in a hurried voice, “one minute more!” But the
clock at that instant struck seven, counted by that
table company in breathless silence. Pallardos felt
his heart sink, he knew not why.
Lord Aymar spoke quickly and hoarsely.
“Turn the key, Williams.”
Lady Aymar screamed and covered her face with
her hands.
“Remove the cloth!” he again ordered precipitately.
The butler's hand trembled. He fumbled with the
corner of the cloth a moment, and seemed to want
strength or courage to fulfil his office. With a sudden
effort Lord Aymar seized and threw the cloth to the
other end of the apartment.
“There!” cried he, starting to his feet, and pointing
to the bare table, “there! there!” he repeated,
seizing the hand of Lady Angelica, as she arose terrified
upon her feet. “See you nothing? Do you see
nothing?”
With a look, at her father, of blank inquiry—a look
of pity at her mother, sunk helpless upon the arm of
her chair—a look at Pallardos, who with open mouth,
and eyes starting from their sockets, stood gazing upon
the table, heedless of all present—she answered—
“Nothing—my dear father!—nothing!”
He flung her arm suddenly from his hand.
“I knew it,” said he, with angry emphasis. “Take
her, shameless woman! Take your child, and begone!”
But Pallardos laid his hand upon the earl's arm.
“My lord! my lord!” he said, in a tone of fearful
suppression of outcry, “can we not remove this
hideous object! How it glares at you!—at me!
Why does it look at me! What is it, Lord Aymar?
What brings that ghastly head here? Oh God!
oh God! I have seen it so often!”
“You?—you have seen it?” suddenly asked Lady
Aymar in a whisper. “Is there anything to see? Do
you see the same dreadful sight, Spiridion?” Her
voice rose with the last question to a scream.
Pallardos did not answer. He had forgotten the
presence of them all. He struggled a moment, gasping
and choking for self-control, and then, with a sudden
movement, clutched at the bare table. His empty
hand slowly opened, and his strength sufficed to pass
his finger across the palm. He staggered backward
with an idiotic laugh, and was received in his fall by
the trembling arms of Lady Angelica. A motion
from Lord Aymar conveyed to his faithful servant
that the phantom was vanishing! The door was flung
open and the household summoned.
“Count Pallardos has fainted from the heat of the
room,” said Lord Aymar. “Place him upon my
bed! And—Lady Aymar!—will you step into the
library—I would speak with you a moment!”
There was humility and beseechingness in the last
few words of Lord Aymar, which fell strangely on the
ear of the affrighted and guilty woman. Her mind
had been too fearfully tasked to comprehend the
meaning of that changed tone, but, with a vague
feeling of relief, she staggered through the hall, and
the door of the library closed behind her.
