The Spider and the Fly

Stumpy crawled into the cave as he had been directed, and fell to nursing his knees, muttering:

"And to think as a gentleman should act like this to a hinfamous rogue like me! If I'd a known what he was like, if I wouldn't a spiked that villainous skipper and led a mutiny!"

In a short time he heard voices, and peeping out, saw Leicester coming down the beach accompanied by a crowd of people.

Stumpy at once concluded that Leicester had thought better of his generous offer to stand by him, and had sold him to the coastguard.

Therefore he kept in the cave until Leicester crawled in to him, and cried out, laughingly:

"Here's a pretty Irishman!" pointing to a peasant in a blue blouse and with an unmistakably French countenance. "Why, man, this isn't Ireland at all! We're on the coast of France!"

Stumpy's relief of mind at Leicester's intelligence that they were cast ashore in France instead of Ireland was intense, and he fell to and ate heartily of the food which Leicester had brought, but not until he had seen Leicester himself hard at work in a similar way.

The French peasants hung round them while they ate the bread and meat, and then were for taking them into the village to be examined by the notary.

But Leicester, after a moment's conference with Stumpy, told the simple people that he and his companion were very tired, and that they would prefer to rest a while before presenting themselves for examination.

The peasants, with true French politeness, immediately left them.

"Now," said Leicester, as the blue blouse disappeared round the corner, "we must give those good people the slip, I suppose. Do you speak French?"

Stumpy shook his head.

"The only furrin language I knows, guv-nor, is a bit o' Spanish."

"Spanish!" said Leicester. "The very thing. I know enough of it to pass muster in a society where it is seldom spoken. Stumpy, I see it all. I must be a Spanish artist, a musician, and you – if you don't mind playing second fiddle – shall be my servant."

Then he decided to tell Stumpy his story; and a wronged man never had a more sympathetic listener.

When it grew dark the two stole along the beach, and entered a village some miles farther along the coast than that against which they had been cast up.

Leicester had a little money with him sewn in his canvas belt, and Stumpy, having received his wages on the day of the storm, was similarly supplied.

By dint of great economy and carefulness they reached Paris uninterfered with, and here Leicester, without loss of time, commenced to put his plans into execution.

At a broker's shop he purchased a capital wig of white, or rather iron-gray hair, invested in a pair of broad-rimmed spectacles at an optician's, and purchased at a ready-made tailor's a suit befitting an elderly foreigner of modest means.

Stumpy was accommodated with decent clothes, his long black locks well oiled and combed, and a small pair of gold rings set in his ears.

After waiting about a week in Paris to accustom themselves to their disguises the two sham Spaniards crossed to England.

Leicester took tickets, second class, for himself and Stumpy to Penruddie.

They arrived at night, and boldly determined to put their disguises to the test.

Leicester marched slowly down to the "Blue Lion", Stumpy walking at his side and carrying a small valise.

"Can we have something to eat and to drink?" asked Stumpy, in broken English.

Martha nodded irritably and waved her hand toward the parlor.

The two entered.

Leicester looked round the room and seated himself in a distant corner.

A thrill of indignation ran through him as the door opened and Job entered, and he could scarcely refrain from springing at the wily little rogue and securing him at once.

But he was slightly mollified by observing on Job's face, as on that of all the others, a peculiar look of dissatisfaction and discontent.

Job eyed him and Stumpy with suspicious glances, and nodding to the others, took his old seat, calling as he did so for some ale.

Presently Job rose to light his pipe, and instead of reseating himself in his old place dropped into a chair near Leicester.

"Come far, sir?" he said, opening up a conversation.

Leicester raised his eyebrows and shook his head, waving his hand toward Stumpy, who interpreted the sentence, and replied, in broken English:

"No, not far; from London."

Then he commenced to talk of fine houses and big fees, and somehow drew from Job the story of the murder of Starling and the fact that most of the people concerned in the tragedy had gone away.

"It is very strange," he said, "very! A murder is not what you would call common in England? What did you do with ze Mastro Leicester; hang him up by ze neck?"

"No," said the man, shaking his head. "He died without that. He fell over the cliff with the chap he'd done for, and so the country was saved the trouble of that."

Leicester sat like a man in a dream, but gave no outward sign that the story had affected him.

Stumpy, thinking that he had pumped quite enough for the present requested Polly to bring cigars for himself and his master, and leaned back with an air of enjoyment.

After a few words with Leicester, who was known as Signor Edgardo, Stumpy asked if they could have a bed.

Martha answered shortly and decisively:

"No! I haven't got any beds to spare."

Stumpy inquired where he could get one.

"Here, Will," said the talkative fisherman, shaking Willie Sanderson, who had been asleep. "Can't you let this gentleman and his man have a couple of beds?"

Willie rubbed his eyes and nodded.

"I dare say," he said, staring about him.

Then the signor rose, bowed all round, and took his leave, followed by Stumpy, with Willie Sanderson to lead the way.

Slowly they tramped down to the Sandersons' cottage.

Willie opened the door and beckoned to the visitors to enter.

As they entered the small sanded room a lad rose from a chair and hobbled forward on a crutch.

He was a frail boy with a pale, intellectual, and mournful face.

Willie nodded to him.

"Jamie, these gentlemen want a bed; show 'em upstairs to the best room."

The lad took the candle and hobbled up the stairs.

At the stairhead he stopped and looked hard at Leicester, who turned his face slightly and adjusted his spectacles.

Stumpy, who had been warned to be careful, took the candle and thanked the lad.

Then the two Spaniards entered the room.

Leicester lay on the bed for an hour, without moving – plotting, planning; and Stumpy, after a prolonged entreaty that he would undress and get some rest, desisted and sat down patiently to wait until his master and preserver, and hero – for Stumpy considered Leicester to be everything that was courageous and noble and good – should choose to move.

Leicester rose at last full of self-reproach.

"I had forgotten you," he said. "You should have got to bed. Come, let us get some sleep. You want it badly enough."

As he spoke, and commenced undressing, their candle sputtered and went out.

Leicester took no notice, and Stumpy, after a moment's grumbling at having to undress in the dark, was just getting into one of the beds – there were two in the room – when Leicester said:

"Hush! Listen!"

Stumpy listened, and heard a noise of crying and sobbing in the next room.

He stared at Leicester and shook his head.

"It's that young lad we saw downstairs," he said. "Listen! Some one's giving him a beating."

"No," said Leicester, in the same low voice, "there's no other voice or noise in the room. What can be the matter?"

Stumpy looked up at the ceiling.

It was an old cottage, and the partition between the rooms was in some places worn through; light came between these chinks, and supplied Stumpy with an idea.

Without a word he bent down close against the wall and, in silence, motioned Leicester to get on his back.

This Leicester for some time declined to do; but as the sobbing broke out again his curiosity overcame him, and he stepped lightly on to Stumpy's back and then supported himself by clinging to one of the rough beams.

Having gained a position, he peered through one of the holes.

He was looking down into a small room, poorly furnished.

On the bed, in an attitude of abandon, sat the boy, Jamie. His face was hidden in his hands, but his whole figure shook and quivered as he murmured, loud enough for Leicester to hear:

"This is the night he died! The very night! What makes me think of him so? It must be 'cause he was good to me – and he was good to me! He was like no one else! And now he's dead – shamefully murdered and slandered. Oh, Mr. Leicester, Mr. Leicester, if you could only come to life again and prove your innocence! It is false! You did not murder him – you couldn't; and yet – "

Then he stopped suddenly, shuddered, and looked round the room fearfully.

Then he drew himself painfully from the bed and to a box lying in the corner of the room, opened it, and, with another shudder, took something from it.

This something he held in his hand and stared at with an evident horror of fascination.

In his anxiety to see what the article was, Leicester nearly lost his balance, and made a slight noise.

The lad started, and the something dropped with a clash to the floor, revealing itself to be a large clasp-knife.

Leicester could scarcely believe his eyes.

Was the lad mad? or had he committed murder? Why did he sit and shudder over a clasp-knife which he kept hidden in his bedroom?

He got down and motioned Stumpy to his place.

Stumpy was just in time to see the knife hidden away, and on receiving a full account of all Leicester had seen was equally puzzled about it.

"It's very rum!" he said, shaking his head. "There's been some foul work somewhere, sir, take my word for it. What's that youngster got that knife for? It's no common one, or he wouldn't carry on like that over it. All the more reason, all this is, that we should keep dark and play a waiting game."

Then, with respectful earnestness, he implored Leicester to take some rest, and Leicester, to humor the man, who, however much a convict, had served him honestly, yielded.

On the morrow both men were up at sunrise.

Stumpy went down to the beach, and smoked a cigarette Spanish fashion among the fishermen, to whom he chatted and listened with the greatest liveliness.

He could not, however, learn anything and returned rather disappointed.

Not so Leicester, who entered the room looking as white and stern as a ghost, and who laid a soiled sheet of paper upon the table.

"Look at that!" he said. "Stumpy, look at it!"

"Where did you get it, sir?"

"I took it from an old wall at the end of the village," said Leicester, pacing up and down.

Stumpy read it.

It was the handbill offering a hundred pounds reward for the apprehension of Leicester Dodson, charged with the willful murder of James Starling.

No sooner had Stumpy read it than he grew alarmed.

"Some of 'em don't think you're dead," he said; "and this here's a dangerous place. That wig might blow off in the wind, and then where would you be? No, no, London's the place for us! We shan't get any more out of this yet a while, and if we stop here somebody will get suspicious. That bill's enough to make the dullest chap in England sharp. A hundred pounds!"

Leicester was not loth to leave Penruddie.

The place was hateful to him now that all he loved were in London, so the next morning they paid their bill and went up to the great city.

Very changed did Leicester seem as he passed familiar places, and remembered that he must not enter them. Stranger still, he saw some familiar faces, and they passed him and did not recognize him.

In a political paper he read news which astounded him.

The city article was nearly full of one name, and that – Howard Murpoint, Esq., M. P.

Leicester could not believe his eyes, and it was some time before he could realize that the villain who had entrapped and betrayed him was a man of great wealth, influence and power.

He determined to see him in his triumph and set about a way of doing it.

There was at that time a club in London to which foreigners were admitted who could give a reference.

Leicester went there and gave the name of his father, who was well known as a merchant.

At this club, in the smoking-room, he in a feigned voice conversed with several men and learned enough to astound him.

Carefully he led up to the great name, and inquired if Howard Murpoint lived in London.

"Oh, yes," said his informant, "he has two large houses, and another place down in the south – a wonderful man. There is a dinner conversazione on at his place to-night."

"Indeed!" said Leicester, who felt that he would give all he possessed to be a guest.

"Yes," said the gentleman. "A sort of gathering of the lions, you know. Open house. I have a card – two in fact, one for a friend who has discovered a new slab in Assyria. He ought to be here by now."

Just then a servant brought a letter for the gentleman.

"Hem! – can't come; just like that sort of man! I don't know whether you care for this sort of thing, but if you do there is his card."

Leicester thanked his generous acquaintance gratefully, and they dined together on the understanding that they should drop in at Howard Murpoint's house afterward.

Leicester could scarcely eat or restrain his excitement, but by an effort he managed to conceal it and assume a certain amount of indifference.

About nine o'clock they started for their conversazione.

Howard Murpoint's house was magnificently lighted up and a crowd of servants were massed in the hall to receive the guests.

"Heaps of people here to-night," said Leicester's useful friend. "I'm afraid you won't thank me."

"I am anxious to see the great man," said Leicester, "and would go through a greater crush than this."

"Well, he's a great man and worth seeing," said the friend, as they entered the grand salon.

Leicester looked around in astonishment at the assembled crowd of people of the very best sort, the guests of Howard Murpoint.

Where had the money come from?

He left his friend a few minutes after they had entered, and made his way toward the orchestra, where a splendid band was playing.

There, in the midst of a group of lords and ladies, he heard a smooth, serene voice he remembered only too well.

He turned suddenly and came face to face with Howard Murpoint.

For a moment he forgot that he was disguised, for the moment his face flushed, his hand clinched, his lip curled with scorn and contempt, but the next, as Howard Murpoint's eyes met his smilingly and unconsciously, he remembered all, and stepped aside.

In doing so he pressed rather heavily against a lady. With a low and hurried "Pardon me!" he turned and looked upon Violet Mildmay!

This time it was the blood left his cheek, and he staggered.

Violet thought that her long train had inconvenienced the tall old gentleman.

"I am very sorry; but the rooms are so crowded," she said, in her sweet, gentle voice.

The tears sprang into Leicester's eye, his heart leaped as if it would spring from his body, his arms were half extended; but, with another smile, Violet had passed on.

Then a great and terrible feeling of loneliness and desertion came upon him, and he crept back into a corridor all dazed and dreamy.

Round him were the promenaders, about him the exquisite music floating through the perfumed air, the voices of the guests; about all the serene, soft, falsely sweet tones of the villainous schemer; and within him the consciousness that Violet – the woman he loved best in all the world – was near him!

CHAPTER XXVI

A PARDONABLE TREACHERY

For the first few moments Bertie's sensations on reading Lord Lackland's letter were anything but distinct, then gradually, as he realized the blow which the earl's duplicity had dealt him, indignation predominated.

He had been basely deceived and betrayed, and his betrayal was rendered all the more bitter by the foretaste which he had been allowed to have of his happiness.

He wandered listlessly down to his club.

In the smoking-room, to which he repaired, he found Fitz extended at full length, sipping a brandy and soda.

He determined on the spur of the moment to confide in him.

"Hello, Bert," said Fitz. "What have you done with my nag?"

"Taken him to the stable," said Bert. "I suppose you half feared that I had bolted?"

"No," said Fitz. "What is in the wind? No mischief, I hope."

"Fitz," said Bertie, seating himself beside the good-natured Fitz, "I'm in great trouble."

"No!" exclaimed Fitz. "I thought that nothing ever troubled you, Bert."

"Something does now," said Bertie, gravely. "It's about Lady Boisdale – Ethel."

Fitz shook his head gravely.

"I was half afraid there was something on there, Bert, between you and Eth. I've noticed it for some time, and I thought perhaps you'd speak. I wish you had, because I could have told you that there was no chance for you."

Bertie colored.

"No," said Fitz, heartily. "Nothing would give me greater pleasure; but it can't be, Bert. Look here, one secret is as good as another. There's nobody listening, is there? I'll tell you something," and he sighed deeply. "Eth and I are as much slaves as any nigger going. We can't marry where we like, and we can't do as we like. People think because I'm the eldest son and she's the daughter of the Earl of Lackland that we can do just as we like. Bert, it's a mistake. We're tied hand and foot. We must marry money. Why?" And he looked sadly at Bertie, who stared in astonishment. "Why? Because we haven't a single penny ourselves. We Lacklands are as poor as church mice. There isn't an inch of land, there isn't a brick of stone that isn't mortgaged, and we young ones, Eth and I, must bring it all right again by marrying money. She'll have to marry some retired tea-dealer, and I – well, I know where I'd marry, and marry money, too; but I can't. The angel – for she is an angel, Bert – is too great, too grand, too good for me. You know, Bert, that there is no man under the sun I'd like to call brother more than I would you, but it can't be. Take a cigar and some liquor and give it up as a bad job, for it can't be. Eth would never marry you without the earl's consent, and he never will give it."

"But," said Bertie, "he has given it."

"What?" said Fitz, with surprised astonishment.

"Given it and taken it away again. Read that," said Bertie, and he handed the earl's letter to Fitz.

Fitz read it, and his eyes opened their widest.

"But – but," he said, "do you mean to say that the earl gave his consent to your marrying Ethel – don't be offended, old fellow, I know you are worthy of her if any one is – without striking a bargain?"

"N – no," said Bertie, as the earl's words concerning the private fortune of Ethel recurred to his mind. "No, he informed me, very unnecessarily, that Ethel's fortune would be retained or forfeited."

"What!" exclaimed Fitz, springing up, with angry astonishment. "Do you mean to tell me that her money is gone? that she is robbed with the rest of us?"

"I tell you nothing but what I heard," said Bertie, calmly.

"It is gone," said Fitz, white with passion, "of course it is gone! Idiot that I was to think he would spare that when he has taken all else! He has spent – squandered the poor girl's fortune, and then sells her, bargains her away to the first comer. It is shameful. It is unendurable; and, by Heaven, I will not endure it!"

"The bargain is off," said Bertie, bitterly. "You forget that the earl has thought better of it. He has recalled his consent."

"Yes, because he has received a higher bid! I know him!" said Fitz, sternly. "He would sell her to the highest bidder as if she were a horse or a piece of furniture. When did this occur?"

"This morning," said Bertie, and then he placed Fitz in possession of such of the facts as he himself was cognizant of.

"I see it all," said Fitz, pulling at his yellow beard in a frenzy. "That Howard Murpoint has been at the bottom of it. But have you noticed how thick the earl and he have been lately? I begin to hate that fellow. Do you remember the old time down there at Penruddie, when he was a regular bore?"

"Shall I ever forget it?" said Bertie, softly.

"Oh, no! poor Leicester!" said Fitz. "Well, we said there was more in the captain, as he called himself then, than appeared at first sight; and now look at him! He's the heart and soul and the whole machinery of the Mildmays, his name is good on 'Change for any amount, and now – now he has taken an interest in us. Bert, there's mischief brewing, mark me if there ain't. Who is this Mr. Smythe you saw with him this morning?"

"A millionaire, one of his city friends, a nob and an idiot," said Bertie, calmly.

"Then that's the fellow Ethel will be sold to," said Fitz, with calm despair.

"No," said Bertie, rising, white and passionate. "I'd shoot him first."

"Shoot him and be hung?" said Fitz, groaning. "You can't prevent it. Howard Murpoint is cleverer than us all, and if he has set his heart upon Ethel's being sacrificed to this Smythe fellow, why, sacrificed she'll be."

"I will help it," said Bertie. "I do not believe that Ethel will ever consent."

"She will," said Fitz. "I'll tell you why. They'll represent that if she marries the fellow, she'll save the family; and Ethel has such straight ideas of duty that she'll consent to sacrifice herself."

"Never!" said Bertie. "I would sooner see her in her grave. I would sooner tear her from them by force."

"I'll tell you what," said Fitz. "You'd better get her away by cunning."

Bertie thought for a moment.

"My honor – "

"Bids you do it," said Fitz. "She will sacrifice herself for a mistaken idea of duty. Nothing will save her unless – " He hesitated.

Bertie's blood raced through his veins.

"Fitz," he said, "give me your consent, and I will do it. You know how I love her. You have been more of a parent to her than her father. Say you consent, and I will snatch her from their clutches."

"I consent," said Fitz, "with all my heart, and I should think you less than the man you are if you didn't."

"I am thinking of her," said Bertie, rising and walking to the window. "Will she ever forgive me?"

"Try her," said Fitz, rising and walking toward him. "Try her. She loves you, Bert, I know, and – What's the matter?"

"Look here, quick!" exclaimed Bertie, who had started suddenly. "Look there – among the crowd now crossing the road! Isn't that the very figure and walk of poor Les? Heavens above! How like. It sent every nerve of me thrilling," and he sank into a chair, staring out of the window still.

"I didn't see him," said Fitz. "Poor fellow! you were great friends. Was it anything like him in the face?"

"No – too old," said Bertie, with a sigh. "Poor Les! Poor Les!"

Then he fell to walking the room, and drank his soda and brandy like one parched with thirst.

That night Ethel was taken to Coombe Lodge, and Bertie, who had called at Grosvenor Square, was told that the family had left town.

Meanwhile Fitz remained, and the conversation he had with Bertie had nerved him to courage.

They say that one marriage makes nine, by example, and Fitz, seeing that Bertie had been brave enough to declare his love, determined to do so also.

That night there was another conversazione at Lady Merivale's, and Fitz knew that the Mildmays would be guests.

He had an invitation, and he determined to go, though such things were not in his way, hoping to find an opportunity of declaring his long love for Violet.

The night was hot, and Fitz felt burning uneasiness and fear, for he feared Violet as much as he loved her.

He knew within his heart of hearts that she was too good for him, and yet he could not deny himself the pleasure or pain of putting the matter to the test.

Lady Merivale's rooms were not too crowded. Her ladyship had mercifully asked no more than her rooms would hold, and Fitz, as he entered rather early in the evening, could see that the Mildmays party had not arrived.