Lord Arthur Saviles Crime | Page 4

when Mr. Podgers saw Lord Arthur's hand he grew curiously pale,
and said nothing. A shudder seemed to pass through him, and his great
bushy eyebrows twitched convulsively, in an odd, irritating way they
had when he was puzzled. Then some huge beads of perspiration broke
out on his yellow forehead, like a poisonous dew, and his fat fingers
grew cold and clammy.
Lord Arthur did not fail to notice these strange signs of agitation, and,
for the first time in his life, he himself felt fear. His impulse was to rush
from the room, but he restrained himself. It was better to know the
worst, whatever it was, than to be left in this hideous uncertainty.
'I am waiting, Mr. Podgers,' he said.
'We are all waiting,' cried Lady Windermere, in her quick, impatient
manner, but the cheiromantist made no reply.
'I believe Arthur is going on the stage,' said Lady Jedburgh, 'and that,
after your scolding, Mr. Podgers is afraid to tell him so.'
Suddenly Mr. Podgers dropped Lord Arthur's right hand, and seized
hold of his left, bending down so low to examine it that the gold rims of
his spectacles seemed almost to touch the palm. For a moment his face
became a white mask of horror, but he soon recovered his sang-froid,
and looking up at Lady Windermere, said with a forced smile, 'It is the
hand of a charming young man.
'Of course it is!' answered Lady Windermere, 'but will he be a charming
husband? That is what I want to know.'
'All charming young men are,' said Mr. Podgers.

'I don't think a husband should be too fascinating,' murmured Lady
Jedburgh pensively, 'it is so dangerous.'
'My dear child, they never are too fascinating,' cried Lady Windermere.
'But what I want are details. Details are the only things that interest.
What is going to happen to Lord Arthur?'
'Well, within the next few months Lord Arthur will go a voyage--'
'Oh yes, his honeymoon, of course!'
'And lose a relative.'
'Not his sister, I hope?' said Lady Jedburgh, in a piteous tone of voice.
'Certainly not his sister,' answered Mr. Podgers, with a deprecating
wave of the hand, 'a distant relative merely.'
'Well, I am dreadfully disappointed,' said Lady Windermere. 'I have
absolutely nothing to tell Sybil to-morrow. No one cares about distant
relatives nowadays. They went out of fashion years ago. However, I
suppose she had better have a black silk by her; it always does for
church, you know. And now let us go to supper. They are sure to have
eaten everything up, but we may find some hot soup. Francois used to
make excellent soup once, but he is so agitated about politics at present,
that I never feel quite certain about him. I do wish General Boulanger
would keep quiet. Duchess, I am sure you are tired?'
'Not at all, dear Gladys,' answered the Duchess, waddling towards the
door. 'I have enjoyed myself immensely, and the cheiropodist, I mean
the cheiromantist, is most interesting. Flora, where can my
tortoise-shell fan be? Oh, thank you, Sir Thomas, so much. And my
lace shawl, Flora? Oh, thank you, Sir Thomas, very kind, I'm sure'; and
the worthy creature finally managed to get downstairs without dropping
her scent-bottle more than twice.
All this time Lord Arthur Savile had remained standing by the fireplace,
with the same feeling of dread over him, the same sickening sense of

coming evil. He smiled sadly at his sister, as she swept past him on
Lord Plymdale's arm, looking lovely in her pink brocade and pearls,
and he hardly heard Lady Windermere when she called to him to
follow her. He thought of Sybil Merton, and the idea that anything
could come between them made his eyes dim with tears.
Looking at him, one would have said that Nemesis had stolen the shield
of Pallas, and shown him the Gorgon's head. He seemed turned to stone,
and his face was like marble in its melancholy. He had lived the
delicate and luxurious life of a young man of birth and fortune, a life
exquisite in its freedom from sordid care, its beautiful boyish
insouciance; and now for the first time he became conscious of the
terrible mystery of Destiny, of the awful meaning of Doom.
How mad and monstrous it all seemed! Could it be that written on his
hand, in characters that he could not read himself, but that another
could decipher, was some fearful secret of sin, some blood- red sign of
crime? Was there no escape possible? Were we no better than
chessmen, moved by an unseen power, vessels the potter fashions at his
fancy, for honour or for shame? His reason revolted against it, and yet
he felt that some tragedy was hanging over