The Spider and the Fly

Then, when the servant had withdrawn, he smiled over his cup quite calmly and unmoved.

"Bertie Fairfax," said the countess, with a frown.

"What is to be done? Of course he comes to ask for Ethel."

"Not having seen him, I cannot say."

"What shall you say if he does?"

"It all depends," said the earl, wiping his mustache. "I may have to order him to leave the house, or I may – "

"Be careful!" said the countess.

The earl smiled coldly, and left the room.

Bertie rose as the earl entered.

"Good-morning, Mr. Fairfax," he said, fixing his cold, steely eyes on Bertie's face, and holding out a cold, impassive hand.

"Good-morning, my lord," said Bertie, who had determined to remain self-possessed and unembarrassed, whatever might be the issue of the interview, or, however the question might go. "Good-morning. I am afraid I am rather early, but I have come on a matter in which impatience is permissible."

"Pray sit down," said the earl, seating himself as he spoke in a hard, straight-backed chair, and looking as straight as the chair itself. "Nothing has happened, I hope."

"Nothing of harm, I hope," said Bertie, gravely. "I have come, my lord, to ask you for the hand of Lady Boisdale."

The earl raised his eyebrows, assuming a surprise which, of course, he did not feel.

"I had thought it best to declare my purpose and put my request as plainly and as straightforwardly as I could. I do not undervalue the prize which I pray for at your hands, my lord, and I am humbly conscious that I am not worthy to receive it from you. I can only plead that I love her with all my heart and that I have loved her for years. But, a few months ago, I should have deemed my request presumptuous to the extent of madness, but now, although I am not one whit more worthy of her, I am, perhaps, in the eyes of the world a little less presumptuous."

The earl listened with an unmoved countenance, as if he were listening to some passage from a book which in no way concerned him.

"May I ask, Mr. Fairfax," he said, "if you have made Lady Boisdale acquainted with the state of your feelings?"

Bertie flushed the slightest in the world.

"I regret to say that I have, my lord. No one can regret it more than I do. I know that I should have come to you first, and have gained permission to place myself at your daughter's feet. But the depth of my devotion must plead for me; may I hope that it will? We are all, the best of us, the slaves of impulse. There are times when the heart asserts itself and enslaves the will, which, perhaps for years, has bidden its voice be silent, as mine has done."

The earl bowed.

"May I ask," he said, "in what way Lady Ethel received your advances?"

"I found that, for once, true love had won its best return."

"She consented, do you mean?"

Bertie bowed.

"Then, doubtless, Mr. Fairfax," said the earl, as softly as ever, "you were kind enough to place her in possession of facts of which I am in ignorance?"

Bertie did not understand, and looked as if he did not.

"In such matters as this," said the earl, "it is best, as you say, to speak with candor. I refer to your position in the world, and your ability to keep Lady Boisdale in the society which, all my friends tell me, she so greatly adorns."

Bertie bowed.

"My lord, I should have shamed her by any such allusion, and lost all hope of winning her heart. To you I may say that I am not poor in the eyes of many, though I may seem poor indeed to one of your lordship's position and wealth."

The earl winced inwardly, but showed nothing of it outwardly.

"I have an income of two thousand pounds a year, and I trust that I may be able before long to own with gratitude that it is doubled. It is not a large sum, my lord."

"I may conclude that the sum you mention is the whole – in fact, that you are not prepared to make any settlement?"

"All that I have shall be hers," said Bertie. "The richest man in England can do no more."

"No settlement!" said the earl, coldly. "Under the circumstances, you would not, therefore, expect a fortune with her?"

Bertie crimsoned.

"Your lordship forgets," he said, with quiet dignity, "that I came to ask for your daughter and not for your money."

The earl showed no displeasure at the stern retort, but took it simply as an assent, and nodded.

"Mr. Fairfax, to be candid, as we have been all through, Lady Lackland and I have had higher hopes for Ethel, much higher. It is true that you are famous, and that you are well descended; the Fairfaxes run with ourselves, I think. It is usual – nay, it is the duty of a father to endeavor to place his daughter in a higher station than the one which she inherits from him. If I ignore that duty and consent to give up that hope, I trust I shall be pardoned if I make one suggestion."

"My lord, I am in your hands," said Bertie, with simple dignity and earnestness.

"And that is that you will give me, both of you, a formal quittal of any fortune or estate that may be due to her. I simply suggest it as a fair and honorable thing. You may be aware, or you may not, that Lady Ethel has some small fortune of her own; under the circumstances I must make the condition that should I give my consent you will agree to let the money remain in the estate, vested, so to speak, in the family."

Bertie smiled.

"As I said before, my lord, I ask only for Ethel. What money she may have is at her own disposal. I don't wish to touch one penny of it, directly or indirectly."

"My dear Mr. Fairfax, do not let us continue this branch of our subject, then," said the earl, with a smile that was intended to be cordial, but was more like a stray sunbeam on an October morning. "I will confess that I merely put the question to test you, not that I doubted your honor, but – well, well, you are young, she is young, and I am obliged to guard both of you. But, there, if you still feel confident that you can make her happy, and that you can take her for herself alone, my dear Fairfax, I give her to you, and with her my most hearty blessing."

Bertie gasped with astonishment.

To him, knowing nothing of Ethel's fortune which the earl had appropriated, his consent to Ethel's betrothal was simply astonishing.

He had expected to be repulsed, refused.

The tears sprang to his eyes, his gentle nature was filled with gratitude.

"My lord," he said, grasping the cold hand, "I cannot thank you; thanks for such a gift were idle and vain. Only one who has waited for years, hoping against hope until the heart was sick, can tell what I feel now. My lord, if you will pardon me I will take my leave."

"Good-by, my dear boy," said the earl, "good-by; you will find Ethel in the park. Heaven bless you!"

Bertie found himself outside – how he scarcely knew – bathed in delight and satisfaction.

Where should he find Ethel? Every moment he was away from her now seemed an insane delay.

Where – As he hurried to make his way to the Park there came around the corner, smiling and serene as usual, Mr. Howard Murpoint.

A short gentleman leaned upon his arm.

"Ah, Mr. Fairfax, how d'ye do?" said the captain, with a sunny smile of friendly greeting. "What a delightful morning. Allow me to introduce my friend – Mr. Wilhelm Smythe, Mr. Bertie Fairfax."

Bertie shook hands with the captain, and bowed slightly to his friend, then with a nod hurried on.

He turned at the corner in time to see the captain and his friend standing on the doorsteps of the Lackland house, and as he saw an indefinable and intangible shadow crept over him and chilled him.

By some strange course of reasoning or feeling, he had grown to connect the captain with every mishap of his life.

What were he and his friend doing thus early at Lackland house?

Casting from him the dim foreboding which had fallen upon him at the sight of Howard Murpoint and Mr. Smythe, Bertie hurried to the park.

It was the unfashionable hour – at eleven the Upper Ten are either in bed or just thinking of breakfast – and the Row was nearly empty.

Bertie did not meet with much difficulty in finding his quarry, for they were galloping up and down the tan in the height of enjoyment.

Ethel saw Bertie first, and exclaimed:

"Fitz, there is Bert – Mr. Fairfax."

"What, Bert out of his den as early as this! Hello, old fellow," he exclaimed, as Bert came up, "what's the matter? Temple burned down?"

"No," said Bert, "not that I am aware of."

Then he took off his hat as Ethel rode up.

"I've come out for a run," he said, the happiness and delight within him showing itself in his eyes, "and I thought perhaps I should find you here."

"Do you want me?" said Fitz, rather puzzled, for there was something in Bertie's face that looked momentous.

"No, I don't want you," said Bertie; "I wanted a word with your sister."

Fitz looked puzzled still, but nodded to Ethel.

"Do you hear that, Eth? He wants to speak to you."

Ethel steered her horse near the rails, and Bertie went up and patted it.

Now that he had the opportunity he did not know what to say, or rather he was loath to say it before Fitz; he would rather have had Ethel alone, and, besides, his news was so precious that he clung to it and hugged it.

"Fitz," he said, "do you mind lending me your nag? It isn't far to walk home."

"Eh?" said Fitz, "what do you mean? I say, what's up? Something between you and Eth, I'll bet a pound. Yes, here you are, old fellow, here's the nag. Don't you two get up to mischief."

He got off in a moment, like the good-natured fellow that he was, and Bertie sprang into the saddle.

"You're a good fellow, Fitz," he said, gratefully.

"Just so," said Fitz, "that's what every man says; but, I say, I don't know whether it's the right thing. What will the earl and countess say? They're mighty particular, you know."

"I'll be responsible," said Bertie, laughing. "Good-by, old fellow; you are a good fellow, too."

Fitz nodded smilingly, and trotted off.

The two lovers, left thus, sat still, Ethel blushing and trembling, Bertie flushed and excited.

"Shall we have a gallop?" he said, and accordingly Ethel, without a word, put her horse into a run.

They rode to the end of the Row, then Bertie said:

"Don't you think it is very impudent of me to borrow your brother's horse and capture you?"

Ethel smiled faintly.

"Oh, my darling!" he burst out, triumphantly, delightedly, "you are mine! I have seen the earl this morning and he has given you to me."

They rode side by side, Bertie speaking of all his hopes and plans, she listening and drinking in the music of his voice.

Somehow or other they found themselves out of the Row and away to a secluded road, where there were no spectators.

Then Bertie took possession of the hand, and while he murmured soft, sweet words, as lovers can and will, he performed a feat of equestrianism which would have made him a worthy candidate for a circus, for with reckless daring he bent forward and actually snatched a kiss from the blushing but forgiving Ethel.

Then they rode home, happy, glowing, at peace with all the world, and as madly in love as any young couple in England.

"We shall meet to-night," said Bertie, "at Mrs. Mildmay's?"

"Yes," said Ethel, "to-night," and, though it was then one o'clock, "to-night" seemed as far off to her as the week after next.

Bertie left the horse at the Lacklands' stables and walked home to his chambers.

As he sat down at his table, his man entered with a letter.

Bertie glanced at the envelope and tore it open. It was stamped with the Lackland crest. It contained a short note, which Bertie had no sooner read than he turned as pale as the paper and staggered back into his chair like a man mortally wounded.

Before we glance over his shoulder and ascertain the contents of the letter which had so affected him let us return to Mr. Howard Murpoint and Mr. Wilhelm Smythe as they stand on the doorstep of Lackland House.

When the servant opened the door Mr. Murpoint inquired for Lord Lackland, and was soon, accompanied by his friend, Mr. Wilhelm Smythe, ushered into the earl's presence.

When they entered the room Howard Murpoint introduced Mr. Smythe to the earl and then proceeded to business.

He said that Mr. Smythe had been anxious to see the earl, as one of the directors of a certain mining company, to ask a few questions.

The earl admitted that he was on the board of directors and answered the questions, or rather the captain answered them for him.

Then Mr. Smythe announced his intention of becoming a director, and incidentally mentioned that he would, if there was any occasion for it, purchase the mine.

This made the earl stare, as the captain had intended that it should; and when Mr. Smythe rose to take his leave, Lackland's adieu was a great deal more cordial than his greeting.

When the rich Mr. Smythe had gone the captain eyed his dupe warily.

"A nice young fellow," he said.

"Very," said the earl. "A good business man, I have no doubt."

"Immensely rich," said the captain – "immensely. I wonder if the countess would oblige me by sending him a card for her next ball? I should take it as a personal favor."

The earl stroked his mustache.

"I am sure the countess would only be too delighted," he said. "But are you sure that Mr. Smythe would care to come?"

"I am certain that he would," said the captain. "Indeed, he was speaking of it only this morning. Poor fellow, he has become infatuated with the beauty of Lady Boisdale!"

The earl was almost guilty of a start.

"Indeed!" he said. "I am sure we are very much flattered by Mr. Smythe's preference. It is a pity we did not know him. Unfortunately there is no chance of his wishes being fulfilled. I have this morning promised the hand of Ethel to Mr. Fairfax."

"To Mr. Fairfax!" echoed the captain, with as much polite astonishment and disgust in his voice as if the earl had said "His Satanic Majesty." "To Mr. Fairfax!"

"Yes," said the earl. "Mr. Fairfax called here this morning, just before you came, and pressed his suit so earnestly that I yielded and gave my consent – a very reluctant consent, I must confess."

"Write a letter to him recalling your consent."

"Impossible," said the earl.

"Why so?" inquired Mr. Murpoint.

"My word has been given and if I were to break it I should be cut by every man in London. I dared not show my face in a single club."

"It is very unfortunate," said the captain, coolly, "more unfortunate than you can imagine, for I have not told you all."

"All?" inquired the earl. "What else is there to tell?"

"Mr. Smythe is a determined man," said the captain, quietly, "and he assured me this morning that if he did not get your consent to his suit he should go to extremities."

"Extremities! what do you mean?"

"Simply this: that he will buy up the mortgages and the numerous bills which you have given, and come down on you like a hawk. He is a most determined young man. He will sell Lackland Hall and everything you possess, as sure as you stand there."

"He cannot," said the earl, with a smile. "I can make arrangements with my creditors. I can purchase the bills, raise the money, pay off the debts."

"I am afraid not," said the captain. "Because, you see, the bills are all in my hands."

"Your hands?" exclaimed Lord Lackland.

"Yes, mine," answered the captain, softly and with the sweetest smile. "It is very unfortunate! I promised this worthy young man that I would use my influence with your lordship to gain your consent. I gave my word of honor, and if I were to break it I should be cut by every man in London and should not be able to enter a single club."

As he used the earl's own words, and smiled his soft, deadly smile, the earl sank into a chair and gasped for breath.

"Are you a man or a fiend?" he breathed.

"I am simply a man of business," said Mr. Murpoint, "and a man of my word."

"What am I to do? I am in your power!"

"Write a letter to this Mr. Fairfax and tell him that you cannot consent, that you rescind the promise you gave this morning."

The captain stood over him, quite the master of the situation, and dictated.

"Dear Sir: I regret that circumstances have occurred which compel me, on consideration, to recall the consent which I reluctantly gave you this morning. I must beg of you to believe that I am obliged by the force of circumstances to rescind that promise, and that I am strengthened in my resolution to refuse you the hand of my daughter by the countess, who is strongly opposed to any engagement taking place between you. If you have already seen Lady Boisdale, and acquainted her with your hopes and wishes, I must beg that you will, by writing, inform her that all engagements between you must cease, and that you are compelled in honor to refrain from prosecuting your suit. With regret I have arrived at this decision, and sign myself most sincerely your well-wisher, Lackland.

"P.S. – It would be as well, perhaps, if you could make arrangements to leave London for a time. If it should be inconvenient to you to do so, I will remove Lady Boisdale to one of my places in the country."

This letter was written and signed by the earl.

It was carried by a servant to the Temple, and it was read by our friend, Bertie, as we have seen.

Its effect upon him was beyond all description.

CHAPTER XXV

"MAN OVERBOARD."

Leicester had not much to complain of on the score of treatment from the captain and crew of the smuggler.

He went about his work silently, and with a certain dignity which repelled any advances on the part of his companions.

A year and some months passed wearily enough for Leicester, who hoped day by day for opportunity of escape.

But none presented itself, and at last he had almost determined to fling himself overboard, when the captain came one day to where he stood in the forecastle, and addressed him thus, in his Yankee drawl:

"Stranger, I guess we understand each other by this time?"

"I hope we do," said Leicester, moodily. "I am hoping that this accursed vessel will wreck some day," said Leicester, "and then – "

"And then what?" asked the captain.

"Then I may stand a chance," said Leicester, fiercely.

"So," said the Yankee, "that's the game, is it? Here!" and he called to two or three of the crew. "Clap this chap into irons."

The men came forward reluctantly, and Leicester, after a fierce struggle, was forced down upon the deck and heavily ironed.

Then he was hoisted and dragged to the mast, and lashed there, an example and a warning to all others who might be inclined to be "obstreperous," as the captain said.

All this time the schooner was making to get clear of the Channel, which they hoped to reach before dawn on the morrow.

The crew, already favorably impressed by Leicester's conduct and his uncomplaining capability, were much aggrieved at this treatment.

The Yankee skipper appeared to take no notice of the complaints for some time, but when the dissatisfaction arrived at that point when the men declared they would not work the vessel while Leicester was tied up the captain, with an oath, drew his revolver.

"Who says I mayn't do what I like on my own vessel?" he roared. "If there's one o' you as wants an inch o' lead let him stand out!"

One man, a weather-beaten little fellow whose face Leicester seemed to have remembered as having seen before he was carried on board, stepped forward and, with a savage sort of courage, stared the captain in the face.

"Wal, Stumpy," he said, "what have you got to say?"

"Why, this 'ere," said the courageous little fellow, "that it ain't the square thing to keep a man as does his duty and ain't shown no cheek skewered on the masthead."

The captain lowered his revolver.

"If you've all o' ye set your minds upon having this yer tarnation mighty gentleman a darncin' round agin, let him darnce."

Here the men set up a shout, and Stumpy leaped forward and commenced knocking Leicester's irons off.

With a malicious spite the Yankee set Leicester – almost exhausted as he was – and Stumpy, his advocate, to the hardest tasks.

In spite of all efforts to keep the vessel from going coastward the schooner gradually but surely drifted toward a line of reefs, and the strain was so great on the rudder that the Yankee issued an order for bracing it.

Of course Stumpy and Leicester were told off, and without a moment's hesitation they seized the necessary ropes and commenced the perilous task.

Leicester expected every moment that he and his comrade in danger would be blown or buffeted overboard, and so kept a keen lookout for Stumpy and grasped a spar, upon which he knelt, with the determination of an already drowning man.

The result showed that his fears were well grounded.

Suddenly he missed from his side the small but courageous form of his comrade.

Stumpy had succumbed to the latest billow.

With a shout of "A man overboard!" he hung over the side and peered into the heaving deep.

Grasping the spar in both hands Leicester rose to his full height, and, amid a roar of warning and excitement from the crew, leaped into the sea.

The drowning man was very nearly finished by Leicester's well meant effort at rescue, for the spar just missed his head by a foot.

As it was, however, he seized it with a convulsive grasp, and the two men were once more together.

For a few moments the ship was lost to them.

They were pitched up and down, backward and forward, the rain cutting their faces, and the cold numbing their hands.

Then it was that Leicester hit upon a means of securing them to the spar.

The rope which had been fastened to his waist still hung there, and he managed, by dint of sheer force, to drag it up, and drop it over the spar once or twice, at each turn passing it round the armpit of Stumpy or himself.

By this means they were completely entangled, and in a rough fashion lashed to the long piece of wood in which all their hopes of life rested.

Dawn broke at last, and the storm subsided; but long before then they were half unconscious and wholly numbed.

When Leicester came to, he found himself lying on his back, and the weather-beaten face of Stumpy over him.

He smiled, and the man groaned back in reply; but for quite an hour no words were spoken.

At the end of that time, when they had almost recovered from the exhaustion, Leicester struggled to his feet and approached Stumpy, who was sitting, hugging his knees, at a little distance on the beach.

"Come," he said. "We are safe, thank Heaven! Cheer up! We must move on."

The man rose and looked at him, but although he nodded his head in assent he made no allusion to their late peril or made any attempt to thank his preserver.

They scrambled up the beach for some little distance, then Stumpy stopped.

"It's no use of my going any farther, sir; I can't indeed."

Leicester, fully appreciating the "sir," by which the man addressed him, stared in astonishment.

"Why not, man? We must go on! Why should you be afraid to go on? This is Ireland, you say. Do you fear anything from the people on the coast? Ah, I forgot!" he added, as the remembrance of his comrade's occupation flashed on him. "You fear the coastguard!"

"That's it," said Stumpy. "I should be in quod in half an hour."

"But how should they know you?" asked Leicester. "You need not proclaim yourself."

"No need for that, sir," said Stumpy, with a grin. "Look here," and he pulled up the bottom of his trousers and showed Leicester a mark branded upon his leg.

Leicester colored in spite of himself.

"You are a convict!" he said.

"That's it, sir; I am," said Stumpy, "and, what's more, I haven't served my time. That's the mark of the chain-gang, and it will never come out. The first thing the guard will ask will be 'Show us your leg, mate,' and then where am I?"

Leicester thought for a moment deeply.

"All right," he said. "I've hit upon it. You get into that cave there, and I'll hasten up and hunt out some people. I can get some provisions, and will not be here until dark. We can creep away then and gain one of the towns."

So without waiting for any more objections or refusals, he hurried up the beach.