The Spider and the Fly

He paused a moment.

Violet, who had stood silent and motionless, was silent still, but a burning flush of indignation flushed to her face.

He mistook it for conscious guilt and shame, and it maddened him.

"I speak harshly," he said. "But I pray you pardon me if for to-night, the last night I shall have the happiness of seeing you, I cast off the falsities of conventionality and speak as a man wronged and injured to the woman who has wronged and injured him. That I cannot heal the wound you have inflicted on me I am assured; but I may prevent you wounding others. You are young, Miss Mildmay, and there is a life before you in which you will have it in your power to save hearts or break them. I ask you to-night, here and now, to decide. I implore you to cast off the coquette and to be, what you are at heart, a woman true and noble! Be contented with the harm you have done, and lay aside the power of which my wasted life is the dire evidence – "

He paused, more for lack of breath than words and passion to speak them, and then Violet found her tongue.

"Sir!" she said, in that suppressed voice which tells of the heart's conflict. "Are you mad?"

"No!" he said, hoarsely, "but I have been. I am sane now, Miss Mildmay, sane and sorrowful. The glamour which you had cast over me I have driven off. I see you in your true light, and I rise from the trance which your beauty has wooed me to. Violet – for I will call you by that name once and for the last time – you taught me to love you but to scorn the slave who knelt at your feet. You made me a toy to be cast aside when the new one should come. It came, and your slave, your toy, was forgotten, or remembered only in your contempt. You the fair, and I – Well, being a man with a heart, I was foolish. But, oh, shame, that one so fair should be so false."

"False!" breathed Violet, her eyes flashing, her lips trembling with indignation and passionate agony.

"Ay, false!" he retorted, sternly. "False to the pure promptings of your own nature, false to your own heart, and false to mine. Enough; forgive me if you can, I do not doubt you will forget me; but forgive me, if you can, for speaking as I have done. Do not dread another reproach or accusation. You will never again hear either from these lips. They should have uttered none now, but the heart will assert itself sometimes, do what we will to keep it silent. Mine has spoken for the last time."

He stopped and waited motionless and stern as a statue, or some pagan at the altar on which his dearest lay sacrificed.

Violet would have spoken, but she had no words. His words weighed all hers back – choked them on her lips.

He waited for the reply. None came. He took her silence as a confession of guilt.

So he turned, and, with drooped head, left her, mistaken and blind to the last.

Not a very great distance from the spot where the lovers were going through their stormy interview and farewell, the captain was waiting for Job to explain to him the danger of which he had given due notice.

Another minute and Job emerged cautiously from behind the laurels.

"Come," said the captain, glancing at the horizon, "you are late."

"Can't help it, cap'n," said Job, with a shake of the head. "I been hanging about here waitin' for an opportunity for the last hour; somebody's been about, too close for me to get near you."

"Who?" asked the captain.

"Maester Leicester," replied Job.

"I thought so," said the captain, beckoning Job to come farther under the shadow of the ruined arches. "I thought so, Job; it was to speak of him I wanted you here."

He then recounted his adventures of the preceding night after parting from Job and Willie, concluding, emphatically:

"So, if Leicester Dodson has not already discovered the secret, he will do so before many hours are past, to be sure."

Job looked as grave as the captain could desire.

"It's an orkard thing," he muttered. "Who'd 'a' thought as Maester Leicester would 'a' taken the trouble to go looking about after anything? Nobody must interfere, whether it be Maester Leicester or any one else. What I'm grieved at is that it should be him."

"But, bein' him, what then?" asked the captain.

"Why, we'll have to – "

Job paused.

"What's that?" he asked, as a quick, firm step was heard near them.

"It is he, Leicester Dodson," said the captain, as Leicester's stalwart figure moved past the lane. "He is always hanging about on the watch. Rest assured that very few nights will pass before he has unearthed the secret. Remember his own words to me."

Job looked seaward, and a determined light came into his eyes.

"He is going up the cliffs at a good pace," he said. "Perhaps he's going up to the coastguard now."

"Not unlikely," said the captain.

Job nodded, grimly.

"He must be got rid of."

The captain's heart beat fast.

"What!" he said. "You think it would be easy to tip Mr. Leicester over these cliffs?"

Job's face paled a little.

"Easy enough," he muttered; "but is there any occasion for such out and out work as that, cap'n? Look 'ee here," and, drawing the captain closer, he whispered something in his ear.

Captain Howard Murpoint nodded.

"I see," he said, musingly, his eyes fixed upon the figure of Leicester, which had dropped down upon the hot grass, with his face turned seaward. "I see. It is a good idea, and easily carried out."

"Well, let it go at that, cap'n," said Job, as if he had been striking a bargain. "Let it go at that. We meet here to-night, say at twelve. You'll work that part of the game, and leave the rest to me."

"Agreed," assented the captain, consulting his watch. And, after a few more words, the conspirators parted – Job stealing away down toward the beach, the captain carelessly passing through the wilderness of the ruined chapel to the trim kept lawns of the Park.

As he entered the hall, the servant brought him a note.

It was from the solicitor, Mr. Thaxton, and indicated that the writer would be at the Park on the morrow.

"To-morrow," he muttered; "there is no time to lose."

With an air of careless serenity, he entered the drawing-room, with the open letter in his hand.

For the moment, seeing no one, he thought that the room was empty, but, as he was about to leave it, he caught a glimpse of a muslin dress in a corner, and, going nearer, found that it was Violet, and that Violet herself was lying crouched in the semi-darkness as if asleep.

He laid his hand upon her shoulder lightly, and called her.

But the limp figure did not move, and, bending down, he saw that she was not asleep, but in a swoon.

Stepping back to the door, he closed it softly, and sprinkled some water from a caraffe upon her forehead.

It was some moments before Violet's eyes opened, and when they did, it was as if reluctant to return to the consciousness of her position.

Her lips parted slightly, and murmured:

"Leicester! You will not leave me?"

"So," thought the captain, "there has been a scene, and my loving lass has given way. That accounted for the pace at which my Lord Leicester was striding up the cliffs."

Then, aloud, he added:

"My dear Violet, the heat has been too much for you. Do you feel better now? Give me your hand," and, with the greatest gentleness, he raised her to a chair.

Violet struggled against the deadly confusion of mind and soul, and smiled faintly, as she said, wearily:

"Yes, it was the heat."

"Let me call Mrs. Mildmay," said the captain.

Violet rose, with difficulty, and stopped him in his assumed eagerness.

"Captain Murpoint," she said, looking at him from the depths of her great, sad eyes, "do not call any one." Then, with a louder tone and a closer scrutiny, she added: "How long have you been here in the room?"

"Some little time," said the captain. "But, pray, let me summon Mrs. Mildmay."

"No," said Violet. "'Some little time.' Tell me, truthfully, please, I implore you – have you heard me – have I said anything on any point that I would not have said had I been conscious?"

"I gathered from what you let slip – a few words, merely – that you had seen and been talking to Mr. Leicester Dodson."

Violet flushed for a moment, then turned deadly pale.

"Yes," she said. "Is that all?"

"My dear young lady," said the captain, "why distress yourself needlessly? Can you deem me so base, so dishonorable, as to be capable of repeating anything I may have heard? No," and he laid his hand upon his breast, and turned his face, with a hurt expression on it. "No, I am incapable of such measures toward any one, least of all to the daughter of my old friend, John Mildmay."

Violet's eyes moistened, and the captain, taking advantage of her weakness, instantly added:

"But, my dear Violet – if you will permit me to call you so – why distress yourself at all? Nothing is so bad but it can be mended. Lovers' quarrels are proverbially bitter only to turn sweet."

"Lovers' quarrels?" interrupted Violet, bitterly. "Do you think it was only that? Oh," she continued, eagerly, "if I could but believe that he did not mean or think all he said! If I could persuade myself that he did not scorn and despise me!"

"Tush! tush!" said the captain, with a gentle smile. "Leicester scorn, despise you? My dear young lady, he loves the very ground upon which you tread! Despise? He worships you!"

"No, no! He hates me!" said Violet, hiding her face. "He has started for – Africa," here she broke down, and sobbed aloud. "Gone – gone, thinking me all that he called me – heartless, vain, wicked – oh, so wicked!"

"Hush! hush!" said the captain, dreading that the girl's unusual excitement would result in a fit of hysterics, which would prove eminently inconvenient to him. "Hush, my dear girl; he has not gone. I saw him climbing the cliffs just now, looking as miserable as a starved jackal. There, let me go and fetch him back – you will thank me afterward; but you will hate yourself – and me, also – if you allow him to go. Africa is a fearful place."

Violet looked up suddenly.

"Yes, yes," she said, "I am a weak, foolish girl, but at least I would not have him go without hearing what I have to say. He – he may, perhaps, think less cruelly of me."

"I will go at once," said the captain, with eagerness. "I will tell him that, and" – he looked at her dress – "can I not take something in the shape of credentials? Ah, give me that rose at your bosom – you wore it when he saw you?"

Violet nodded, and commenced to unfasten it.

"Ah, he will remember it, without doubt," said the captain.

"Give him this," said Violet, in a low voice, taking out a lily from her little bouquet. "It will mean no more than I would have it mean – peace."

"I will," said the captain, snatching up his hat; "and rely upon my haste."

Then, with an affectionate nod, full of refined sympathy, he departed on his mission of peace-making.

The lily he stuck into his buttonhole, ready for use at the proper moment.

As he left the house, the stable clock struck ten.

Now, the captain did not want to see Mr. Leicester for at least an hour and a half.

He was also particularly anxious that the offended lovers should not meet in the meanwhile.

Therefore, he made a slight detour, and comfortably ensconced himself in the shrubbery, which commanded a view of the cliffs, the cedars, the road therefrom, and a part of the beach.

Leicester Dodson could not gain sight or speech of Violet without the captain's knowledge.

With an exercise of restraint and patience highly commendable, the schemer sat and smoked until the clock struck eleven.

Then he rose, and left his post of observation. It was almost dark, and the lights in the village twinkled in the valley like so many fireflies.

Very cautiously, after inspecting Violet's window, and satisfying himself by the light which burned in the window that Violet was still upstairs, he descended the hill, and, keeping close to the hedge, gained the village.

As it was positively necessary to the success of his plot that he should be seen by as few people as possible that evening, he diverged from the high street and approached the "Blue Lion" by a back way.

As he walked quickly thus far, he knew that Leicester could not have left the Cedars for his nightly promenade on the cliffs, or he, the captain, would have seen him.

The task before him, then, was to crouch behind the cluster of outbuildings behind the "Blue Lion", and wait for him.

By the noise and confusion inside the "Blue Lion", he could tell that Martha was preparing to turn "the boys" out, and he fancied that he could hear Jem's voice among the rest.

If it should be so, and the collision could be brought about between the drunken ruffian and Leicester Dodson, how much trouble would be spared him!

While he was listening and watching impatiently, he saw the star, which Jem had seen shoot up from the sea, and which the captain knew for the signal from the smuggler's vessel, rise into the air.

"They'll come now," he muttered. "They'll come; and that young idiot not here yet!"

Even as he spoke, and raised his hand to wipe the perspiration which excitement had raised upon his forehead, Martha's shrill voice could be heard.

"Out with you! You've had enough to-night, and more than enough! As for you, Jem Starling, you're a disgrace to the house, and I wish that master o' yours had hunted you out o' the village."

"He's no master o' mine," hiccoughed Jem's voice, as the small crowd poured out. "He's a nasty, mean sneak, as used me when he wanted me, and then turned me off! But he can't give me the sack so easily! I'll be even with him! I knows – I knows – "

"Come on, and hold your tongue!" cried two or three voices, and the captain knew that there were several hands dragging the drunken man away.

And, at that moment, Jem uttered a snarl, and the captain, peering out to ascertain the cause, saw that Leicester Dodson was striding down the path.

CHAPTER XX

LURED TO HIS DOOM

Leicester came striding down, apparently unconscious of the scene and the actors.

As he passed the group, who drew back to let him go by, he turned his head slightly, and frowned at Jem, who had suddenly become sober, and stood, with hangdog head, looking upward from the corners of his evil, little eyes.

"Seems cut up about summut," said one of the men.

"Crossed in love," said Job, with a laugh. "But that's no business o' ours, lads."

The men, with Job and Willie at their head, ran down to the beach, and again the captain saw the signal fly out into the night.

"No time to lose," he muttered. "Now, will this drunken fellow get out of the way and let me get to work?"

As if he had heard the unspoken question, Jem stopped suddenly, and, after looking round cunningly, turned off to the right and commenced ascending the steep path which led to the cliffs.

He was following in the immediate wake of Leicester Dodson.

The arch plotter, who had pulled all the wires which had moved the passions of both men, softly and swiftly followed up behind, to make the murderer's task easy and effective!

Panting and breathless, the captain at last descried the thickset figure of Jem crouching on the path. With a stealthy caution, the captain crept up to him, and whispered his name.

With a guilty start, and a smothered oath, the ruffian turned.

"Hush!" said the captain. "I've followed you – "

Before he could proceed, the idea of treachery and capture had taken hold of Jem's mind, and, with a livid face, he sprang upon his late master.

In an instant they were locked in each other's arms, and struggling for dear life, afraid to speak for fear of alarming their joint victim, who stood, or lay, on the grass farther up the cliff, and out of sight.

With a fearful tensity, they rocked to and fro, struggling each to get the upper hand of the other.

Nearer and nearer they approached the edge of the cliff.

The captain's brain grew dizzy – he felt himself falling, but, by an effort gigantic and overwhelming, called up all his strength to play a feint.

With a slight cry, he glared over Jem's shoulder, as if he saw some one or something.

The feint took effect. For half an instant Jem relaxed his hold, and turned his head.

In that stroke of time the captain had freed one arm.

A knife flashed through the night and buried itself in Jem's breast. With a muffled cry and a gasp, he threw up his arms, then fell like a log on the sward.

Instantly the captain bent down, and, opening one thick, clammy hand, pressed into it the white, crushed lily which he wore in his buttonhole.

The dying man's hand closed on the flower, and his eyes opened, with a glare of hate and distrust. Then, as the light died out of them, the captain dragged the body of his accomplice and tool to the edge and hurled it over.

So short, though deadly, had been the struggle for the mastery that nothing, not a coat, or collar, was torn, and, after passing his handkerchief over his brow, he was about to hurry on, when he remembered the knife, which, in the excitement, had slipped from his hand.

He went on his hands and knees and searched carefully, but could not find it.

"It must have gone over with him," he muttered, and he decided, after a still more careful examination of the ground, that it had.

All further search for it was rendered impossible by the sound of footsteps.

Looking up, he saw the stalwart figure of Leicester Dodson coming swiftly down toward him.

Instantly, he called out, and without anxiety:

"Is that you, Mr. Leicester?"

"It is," came back Leicester's deep, stern voice.

"I am so glad," replied the captain. "I have been looking for you everywhere!"

"Were you sent to find me?"

"I should not have come on my own account, much as I esteem your society," said the captain, with a grave laugh. "I have come from the woman to whom you have lost your heart, and whom you have lashed and tortured by your romantic upbraidings and reproaches. Don't be offended with me. I have had my days of romance and sentiment, though I am not much older than you. Why, how much older am I? A few years only, if any."

Leicester moved impatiently.

"For Heaven's sake, do not keep me in suspense!" he cried. "You say that Violet – Miss Mildmay – sent for me? Where is she?"

"Where should she be but in her own house?" said the captain, banteringly. "Come, my dear fellow, you have made yourself and her quite miserable enough for one night, and I have come to make you both happy."

"You came from her?" said Leicester.

"Yes, to tell you that you are mistaken, that your reproaches were groundless, that she is not heartless, and, as from herself, she bade me tell you that she required your forgiveness and good will. The word and the thing needed between you is 'peace' – no more, mind!" he added, as Leicester wiped the perspiration from his brow. "No more! We do not say any warmer word! For the present, it is only peace!"

Leicester held out his hand.

"Captain Murpoint," he said, and his voice struggled for calm, "I have wronged you. You are a good fellow, for no other than an honest, simple-hearted, good-natured gentleman would have taken so much trouble to bring happiness to an obstinate, wooden-headed, conceited young fool – "

"No no," said the captain, disclaimingly, as he shook the hot hand cordially.

"And she sent for me!" continued Leicester, in a rhapsody of gratitude and love. "Bless her gentle heart! What a brute I must have seemed to her! I said more than I meant, captain. I swear I did; I was mad at the time, mad with jealousy and love and wounded vanity. But enough of that. Where is she?"

"I left Violet hiding snugly in the old chapel."

Leicester started, and a slight shadow of suspicion clouded his joy.

"Hiding in the old chapel? Why should she do that?" he asked.

"That she can best tell," said the captain. "Of course, she does not expect to see you, and you are not compelled to come. The fact is, we were out for a walk, and, finding her low-spirited, I drew from her the cause. I left her seated on the old tomb, and there she sits now, depend on it, or I am much out in my estimate of a lover's endurance."

Leicester paused a second.

"You need not come so far," said the captain; "she may have gone on."

"I would go to the end of the world on the chance of seeing her to-night!" said Leicester.

"Come along, then!" exclaimed the captain. "Take my arm."

Leicester raised his arm; the captain at the same moment raised his, and, happening to stumble at the moment over a loose stone, his hand struck Leicester's hat off.

"Tut, tut!" he exclaimed, with annoyance. "How stupid and clumsy of me! I thought you were going to take my arm, and I stumbled over a stone. I wonder whether I can get it?" and he neared the edge.

"No, no!" exclaimed Leicester, impatiently. "Confound the hat! What does it matter? Come away, or you'll stumble again, perhaps, and pop over. It's death if you do."

"Ah, well, I am afraid it has gone over," said the captain, apparently much vexed at his own carelessness. "I wish it had been my hat instead of yours."

"No matter," said Leicester. "Come on; remember that she is waiting there all alone."

Arm in arm, Captain Howard Murpoint and Leicester Dodson descended the cliff.

The heart of the latter was beating fast with joy born of hope.

In a few minutes he should be near his sweet Violet; should, perhaps, clasp her in his arms – for might she not in the excitement of the moment be won to confess that she returned him love for love?

"Come along!" he said. "Every moment – "

"Gently!" replied the captain, cheerily. "Remember, this path is narrow and somewhat dangerous; a false step, and over we should be."

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Leicester, who felt fit for any mad thing. "I could run down it blindfolded."

Thus exhorted, the captain quickened his pace.

While going through the village, Leicester nodded toward the "Blue Lion".

"All quiet now," he said. "As I passed this evening they were just coming out. By the way, your old servant still remains at Penruddie; he was drunk, as usual, to-night, and noisy."

"Oh, he is quiet now – I dare say asleep," said the captain, with a sardonic grin in the darkness.

Leicester made some rejoinder, and he walked on until the chapel came in sight.

"Strange," mused Leicester; "an hour ago I was longing for Africa; now I would not exchange England for ten undiscovered worlds."

"The wind shifts rapidly," said the captain, with his soft, treacherous laugh, "and the weathercock obeys it with all cheerfulness."

Leicester was too happy to resent the sneer, and the next moment they entered the chapel.

"Dark as pitch," he said. "Here is the torch. I do not see – where are you?" he broke off to ask, for the captain had suddenly left his side.

"Here," said the captain.

Leicester turned, but before he could utter another word he felt his arms pinned to his sides, and a bandage thrown over his mouth.

He struggled hard and furiously to free his arms and mouth, but his unseen assailants were four to one, and, after a few moments, he gave up the ineffectual resistance, and knelt, for he had been forced on to his knees at last, nevertheless glaring impotently round him.

He could see dark figures flitting about, but a dead silence reigned.

It was broken at last by a voice, which he knew well.

It was Job's.

"Maester Leicester, it be of no use to struggle agen too many. Do you give in quietly?"

Leicester thought a moment, then nodded, pointing to the gag.

"If we take it off, will 'e promise not to shout?" asked Job.

Again Leicester hesitated, and again made a motion in the affirmative.

"Take it off; he'll not break his word," said Job, and some one from behind slipped off the gag.

"Now, Maester Leicester," said Job, "we've got your word. Mind ye, you're not to speak till ye get permission."

Leicester nodded.

"Do you know me?" asked Job.

"I do," said Leicester. "You are Job, the carrier, and a scoundrel! Why am I decoyed here and treated thus?"

"For a good reason, to be sure," said Job. "Maester Leicester, you've been prying about too much lately, prying into what don't concern you, and you've discovered summut as you shouldn't a knowed anything of. Don't I speak the truth?"