It was the hour when the sun in heaven is supposed
to be least promiscuous—the hour when the
five hundred fashionables of London West-End receive
his visit in the open air, to the entire exclusion
(it is presumed) of the remaining population of the
globe. The cabs and jarveys, the vehicles of the despised
public, rolled past the forbidden gate of Hyde
park, and the echo stationed in the arched portal announced
the coroneted carriages as they nicely nibbled
the pleased gravel in passing under. A plebeian or
two stood outside to get a look at the superior beings
whose daily list of company to dine is the news most
carefully furnished to the instructed public. The
birds (having “fine feathers”) flew over the iron railing
unchallenged by the gate-keeper. Four o'clock
went up to Heaven's gate with the souls of those who
had died since three, and with the hour's report of the
world's sins and good deeds; and at the same moment
a chariot rolled into the park, holding between its
claret panels the embellished flesh and blood of Lady
Aymar and her incomparable daughter.

A group of gay men on horseback stood at the bend
of “Rotten Row,” watching the comers-in; and within
the inner railing of the park, among the promenaders
on foot, was distinguishable the slight figure of Count
Pallardos, pacing to and fro with step somewhat irregular.
As Lady Aymar's chariot went by, he bowed
with a frank and ready smile, but the smile was quickly
banished by a flushed cheek and lowering brow, for,
from the group of mounted dandies, dashed out Lord
Frederick Beauchief, upon a horse of unparalleled
beauty, and with a short gallop took and kept his place
close at the chariot window.

Pallardos watched them till the turn of the ring took
them from his sight. The fitness of the group—the
evident suitableness of Lord Frederick's position at
that chariot window, filled him with a jealousy he could
no longer stifle. The contest was all unequal, it was
too palpable to deny. He, himself, whatever his person
or qualities, was, when on foot, in the place allotted
to him by his fortunes—not only unnoticed by the
contagious admiration of the crowd, but unable even
to obey his mistress, though beckoned by her smile to
follow her! That superb animal, the very type of
pride and beauty, arching his glossy neck and tossing
his spirited head before the eyes of Lady Angelica,
was one of those unanalyzed, undisputed vouchers for
the owner's superiority, which make wealth the devil's
gift—irresistible but by the penetrating and cold judgment
of superior beings. How should a woman, born
with the susceptible weaknesses of her sex, most impressible
by that which is most showy and beautiful—
how should she be expected to reason coldly and with
philosophic discrimination on this subject?—how separate
from Lord Frederick, the mere man, his subservient
accompaniments of wealth, attendance, homage
from others, and infatuated presumption in himself?
Nay—what presumption in Spiridion Pallardos (so
he felt, with his teeth set together in despair, as he
walked rapidly along)—to suppose that he could contend
successfully against this and a thousand such advantages
and opportunities, with only his unpriced,
unproved love to offer her, with a hand of poverty!
His heart ran drowningly over with the bitterness of
conviction!

After a few steps, Pallardos turned back with an in
stinctive though inexplicable desire to hasten the pang
of once more meeting them as they came round the
ring of the park. Coming toward him, was one of the
honorable officials of Downing street, with whom he
had been thrown in contact, a conceited and wellborn
diner-out, mounted on a handsome cob, but
with his servant behind him on a blood hunter.
Mr. Dallinger was walking his horse slowly along the
fence, and, as he came opposite Pallardos, he drew
rein.

“Count!” said he, in that patronising tone which is
tossed over the head of the patronised like a swan's

[figure description] Page 303.[end figure description]

neck over the worm about to be gobbled, “a—a—a—
do you know Spanish?”

“Yes. Why?”

“A—a—I've a job for you! You know Moreno,
the Spanish secretary—well, his wife—she will persist
in disguising her billet-doux in that stilted language,
and—you know what I want—suppose you come and
breakfast with me to-morrow morning?”

Pallardos was mentally crowding his contemptuous
refusal into the smallest phrase that could convey repulse
to insolence, when the high-stepping and foamspattered
forelegs of Lady Aymar's bays appeared under
the drooping branch of the tree beyond him. The
next instant, Lord Frederick's easily-carried head
danced into sight—a smile of perfect self-satisfaction
on his face, and his magnificent horse, excited by the
constant check, prancing at his proudest. At the moment
they passed, Dallinger's groom, attempting to
restrain the impatience of the spirited hunter he was
upon, drew the curb a little too violently, and the man
was thrown. The sight of the empty saddle sent a
thought through the brain of Pallardos like a shaft.

“May I take a little of the nonsense out of that
horse for you?” said he quickly, springing over the
railing, and seizing the rein, to which the man still
held, while the frighted horse backed and reared
toward his master.

“A—a—yes, if you like!”

Pallardos sprang into the saddle, loosened the rein
and leaned forward, and with three or four powerful
bounds, the horse was at the other window of the
chariot. Away, with the bursted trammels of heart
and brain, went all thoughts of the horse's owner, and
all design, if any had flashed on his mind, of time or
place for restoring him. Bred in a half-civilized country,
where the bold hand was often paramount to law,
the Greek had no habit of mind likely to recognise in
a moment of passion even stronger barriers of propriety
than he was now violating; and, to control his
countenance and his tongue, and summon his resources
for an apparently careless and smiling contest of
attraction with his untroubled rival, was work enough
for the whole mind and memory, as well as for all the
nerve and spirit of the excited Greek. He laid his
hand on the chariot window, and thinking no more of
the horse he was subduing than the air he breathed,
broke up his powerful gallop to a pace that suited him,
and played the lover to the best of his coolness and
ability.

“We saw you walking just now, and were lamenting
that you were not on horseback,” said Lady Aymar,
“for it is a sweet evening, and we thought of
driving out for a stroll in old Sir John Chasteney's
grounds at Bayswater. Will you come, Spiridion?
Tell White to drive there!”

Lord Frederick kept his place, and with its double
escort, the equipage of the Aymars sped on its way to
Bayswater. Spiridion was the handsomer man, and
the more graceful rider, and, without forcing the difficult
part of keeping up a conversation with those
within the chariot, he soon found his uneasiness displaced
by a glow of hope and happiness; for Lady
Angelica, leaning far back in her seat, and completely
hidden from Lord Frederick, kept her eyes watchfully
and steadily upon the opposite side where rode her less
confident lover. The evening was of summer's softest
and richest glory, breezy and fragrant; and as the sun
grew golden, the party alighted at the gates of Chasteney
park—in tune for love, it must needs be, if ever
conspiring smiles in nature could compel accord in
human affections.

Ah, happy Spiridion Pallardos! The Lady Angelica
called him to disengage her dress from the step
of the carriage, and her arm was in his when he arose,
placed there as confidingly as a bride's, and with a
gentle pressure that was half love and half mischief—
for she quite comprehended that Lord Frederick's
ride to Bayswater was not for the pleasure of a twilight
stroll through Chasteney park with her mother! That
mother, fortunately, was no duenna. She had pretensions
of her own to admiration, and she was only
particular as to the quantity. Her daughter's division
with her of the homage of their male acquaintances,
was an evil she indolently submitted to, but she was
pleased in proportion as it was not obtruded upon her
notice. As Pallardos and the Lady Angelica turned
into one of the winding alleys of the grounds, Lady
Aymar bent her large eyes very fixedly upon another,
and where such beautiful eyes went before, her small
feet were very sure to follow. The twilight threw its
first blur over the embowering foliage as the parties
lost sight of each other, and, of the pair who are the
hero and heroine of this story, it can only be disclosed
that they found a heaven (embalmed, for their particular
use, in the golden dusk of that evening's twilight),
and returned to the park gate in the latest minute
before dark, sworn lovers, let come what would!
But meantime, the happy man's horse had disappeared,
as well he might have been expected to do, his
bridle having been thrown over a bush by the engrossed
Pallardos, when called upon to assist Lady
Angelica from her carriage, and milord's groom and
miladi's footman having no sovereign reasons for securing
him. Lord Frederick laughed till the count
accepted the offer of Lady Aymar to take him home,
bodkin-wise, between herself and her daughter; and for
the happiness of being close pressed to the loving side
of the Lady Angelica for one hour more, Pallardos
would willingly have lost a thousand horses—his own
or the honorable Mr. Dallinger's. And, by the way,
of Mr. Dallinger and his wrath, and his horseless
groom, Spiridion began now to have a thought or two
of an uncomfortable pertinacity of intrusion.