The Spider and the Fly

"Just my luck," he murmured. "Of course, now I've plucked up courage, she won't come. Serve me right. I know she's far too precious for me."

He sauntered to a corner and sat down beside an Italian, who had a series of sketches to show and tried to get poor Fitz to speak to him.

But the Italian only knew "Yes" and "No" in English, and Fitz only knew "Macaroni" in Italian, so thus the conversation did not afford much amusement to either party.

Presently, as the rooms grew fuller, a tall gentleman with white hair and wearing spectacles approached the two, and, bowing to the Italian, asked permission to see the sketches.

He spoke in Spanish, a language as strange to Fitz as Italian, so after a few minutes, Fitz rose and left the Italian and Spaniard together.

The Spaniard looked up wistfully.

"Do you know that gentleman?" he asked.

"No," said the Italian.

"I do," said a stranger who stood near, and who was none other than the club newsmonger, Tommy Gossip. "That is Lord Boisdale, eldest son of Lord Lackland. He's engaged – or going to be – to Miss Violet Mildmay."

The Spaniard bowed, smiled and departed.

At that moment Violet entered on the arm of Howard Murpoint.

The Spaniard saw Lord Fitz approach and take her from Mr. Murpoint and frowned.

"Is it true?" he murmured to himself. "Is she going to marry him? Has she forgotten me?"

Then he sighed and sauntered off with a melancholy smile to a retired alcove.

He was not in the humor for the gay and talkative crowd, and wanted a little quiet.

He sank down in a cool corner of the velvet lounge and fixed his dark eyes upon the floor.

"Why did I come back?" he mused. "They think me dead; they have forgotten me – they have ceased to mourn for me, and others have stepped into my place. I had better leave the world which knows me no more, and try for a new life in some new land. I see the best and fairest – she whom I loved – has no thought, no faith that lasts more than twelve months. I see that the rogue flourishes. I am disgusted with the world, and I will leave it. That poor fellow, the escaped convict, has more gratitude and affection and faithfulness than all the rest put together. We will go together – he and I, outcasts – and see the world no more."

He half rose in his bitterness as if to carry out his threat at once and leave the world, but at that moment two persons entered the alcove.

They were Fitz and Violet.

Fitz led Violet to a seat, then, murmuring something about the draught, let down a heavy curtain before the couch on which sat the melancholy Spaniard.

Thus the muser was cut off from the others, a listener, and made a spy much against his will.

Before he could move to make known his presence Fitz spoke, and his tone, more than his words, transfixed the listener to the spot.

"Miss Mildmay," said Fitz, plumping into his task with a nervous precipitance, "I am so glad I can see you alone for a few minutes."

"Yes?" said Violet, looking up with a dreamy, calmly serene gaze, which had nothing of embarrassment and, therefore, nothing of love in it.

"Yes," said Fitz; "I have been longing for this opportunity for some time. Miss Mildmay, I am a bad hand at speaking what I mean, but you know I mean all I say. You know that, though I'm a poor, good-for-nothing wretch who oughtn't to be allowed to breathe the same air with one so good and clever as you, but you know that I love you – "

Violet's face grew pale and very sad and mournful.

She raised her hand to stop him, but Fitz had made the plunge, and now, like all nervous people, was reckless.

"Don't stop me, Miss Mildmay; let me go on and say my say. I've kept it within my bosom so long that I feel bursting with it. I love you with all my heart, and no man, let him be as clever as he may, can do more; and if I'm not worthy of you – which I am not – I am sure no one else is. Violet, look at me a little more kindly, you look so pale and sorrowful. Can – cannot you love me – only a little – just enough to say that you will be my wife?"

Violet turned her pale, sad face to him.

"Lord Boisdale – I – how can I answer you? You know that I have no love to give. It was thrown with all my hopes in the sea; that sea which breaks beneath those awful cliffs at Penruddie. You see I can speak calmly. I can look back at that dreadful past bravely and without shame! I am not ashamed to say that I have no heart for anything but the memory of a vanished past."

There was a slight stir behind the curtain, but the speaker did not notice it.

"But," said Fitz, "you will not spend your life in utter mourning, you will not sacrifice your own happiness and my life to such a shadow as that memory – "

"It is no shadow to me," said Violet, softly, sadly, her voice dreamily distinct and low, her eyes fixed as if gazing upon something very far off. "Oh, no! I see it all, day and night, I hear his last words – the man I loved – with the roar of the sea upon the shore. I see that past life of mine ever, day and night, and I am wedded to it. You see," she said with a start, and evidently arousing from her reverie, and remembering, "that it is useless to ask me for love. You would not have me without, Lord Boisdale?"

"I would," said Fitz, his eyes filled with tears. "Violet, dear Violet, you need some one to watch over and guard you – you need some one who could and would devote his life to recalling the smile and the sunlight to yours. I am willing, I am anxious. Confide in me, Violet; trust yourself to me. My love asks for nothing at your hands but yourself and the right to guard you. Oh, Violet, I have loved you so long – I – I would have died for you."

"Do not speak of death!" said Violet, with a shudder and a hurried gesture of entreaty. "I cannot bear that! I will have no one speak of dying for me! I believe – the dread clings to me – that he – Leicester – came to harm through me. No, no; no one shall die for me!"

And she half rose, wild and pale.

"Be calm, dear Violet," implored Fitz. "See how wild, how frightened you have become. Confess now that you need some strong right arm to protect you, to save you from the terrible state into which you have fallen! Violet, I do not ask you to love me, I only ask that you will promise to try. Have pity on me! You have a little, you say, but remember how I have been hoping for so long, and say that you will promise to try and love me."

Violet closed her eyes, and seemed lost in thought, then she opened them and smiled sadly.

"I have been thinking of all you say, dear Lord Boisdale," she said. "I am grateful, very, very grateful. I know how good, how true you are, and I would implore you to give that noble love to some one more deserving of it, but that I feel it would be an insult to do so. I know I am weak – perhaps that I am wicked. Oh, that I knew what was right!" she broke off wildly and with clasped hands.

"Say yes," pleaded Fitz. "You cannot trust yourself to any one who can understand you or love you better."

"Give me time, time," pleaded Violet. "I must have time to think."

"A week?" said Fitz.

"No, no; a month – a month!" said Violet, in a low, constrained voice.

"Well," sighed Fitz, "a month, if you will have it so long. Say a month. It's a very long time, but – " and he sighed again. "Well, a month! Try to say yes, dear Violet."

"I will," breathed Violet. "I will try to do what is right. I ought not to sacrifice you if – if you love me as you say. I am weak and feeble and selfish, but I will do what is right."

Then Fitz rose and looked down upon her, pale and struggling with her weakness.

"I will leave you now," he said. "I am sure you are tired and – and excited."

And he raised her hand to his lips.

But before he could kiss it the curtain was pushed aside and the tall, white-haired Spaniard came before them.

Fitz dropped Violet's hand with a nervous start.

Violet herself rose to her feet and stared wildly, but the Spaniard paused only for one moment, then, fixing his dark eyes upon her face, bowed low, murmured gravely "Pardon, señora," and vanished as noiselessly as he had appeared.

Violet, seated on a footstool at her aunt's feet, told her all that night, and Mrs. Mildmay, as in duty bound, informed Howard Murpoint.

In some way, before night fell, the world had got at it, and the clubs were rumoring that Lord Fitz Boisdale was engaged to Miss Mildmay.

In a few days a rumor still more exciting and relishing was produced, to the effect that Lord Lackland had accepted the wealthy millionaire, Mr. Wilhelm Smythe, as suitor for the hand of Lady Ethel Boisdale.

Bertie, at his club, heard the rumor, and dashed off in search of Fitz.

He found him seated moodily and dreamily in an easy-chair at the smoking-room of his favorite haunt.

"Ha, Fitz," he exclaimed, "is it true?"

"What?" said Fitz, flushing. "What have you heard? Don't say it's too good to be true; don't cast me down, old fellow; you don't know how my heart is set upon it!" he exclaimed, thinking that Bertie alluded to the understanding between Violet and him.

"What do you mean?"

"What do you?" asked Fitz.

"Why, this – this – false report that – that Ethel is to be married to that odious fellow, that miserable young money-bag?"

"I can't say I've heard," said Fitz, frowning earnestly. "If I thought that there was anything in it, I'd go for my big whip and thrash him!"

At that moment a waiter put a letter into his hand.

He opened it, and his face grew red with indignation.

"Read it," he said, and thrust it into Bertie's hand.

It was an intimation from the earl that Mr. Wilhelm Smythe had proposed and been accepted.

Bertie, in his passion, could not speak a word.

Fitz tore the letter into a hundred pieces, and threw the fragments into the grate.

"Cheer up! But," he said, "he shall no more have her than those pieces shall come together again. We'll show them that right is stronger than might in this case."

Bertie clasped his hand.

"You will come down with me?" he said.

"I will, and will put our plot into execution; no time must be lost."

"I'll go to-night," said Fitz. "You stay here and wait till I telegraph. I'll put it carefully so that nothing happens. I'll telegraph that 'wheat has gone up.' Then you'll know that you're to come down."

The two talked together for a few moments excitedly and eagerly, then Fitz went off, calling to a servant to saddle a horse at once.

He started that night for Coombe Lodge, and appeared there the following morning as fresh and as light-hearted as usual, but with the determination to stand by his friend and save his sister at all costs.

Ethel was not up when he arrived, and she entered the breakfast-room without any expectation of seeing him.

"Fitz!" she exclaimed, the warm blood rushing to her face as she sprang to him.

He held her in his arms, but would not show any emotion.

"Hello, Eth!" he said, "why you've gone pale again! where's that summer rose? I've heard the news – don't tell me any more – I'll congratulate Mr. Smythe when I see him."

Her face went paler, and her eyes filled with tears.

She crossed her hands upon her breast.

"I have done right, Fitz, have I not?" she said. "The earl has told me all – how poor we are, and how necessary it is that you and I should sacrifice ourselves for the house. You will not sacrifice yourself, though, Fitz, will you? There need be no occasion. You will give your hand where you give your heart. Dear Violet."

Honest Fitz turned his face aside to conceal his emotion.

"No, Eth," he said, "that will be all right."

Then, to avert suspicion, he rattled away to the countess, as she came in, in his old style, and actually spoke of Mr. Smythe in a friendly way.

It cost him something to be deceitful, but he did it, and succeeded in blinding them all.

The next day he was particular in his attentions to the ladies, and allowed himself to be inveigled into a game of croquet – a game he detested.

In the afternoon he went into the servants' hall and nodded to Ethel's maid.

She came out into the garden, and a conversation took place between her and Fitz, which was concluded by Fitz dropping some gold into her hand.

That evening he was more merry than ever, and not even a letter from Mr. Smythe, saying that he should be down the day following, depressed his spirits.

That night, when the countess and Ethel were seated in the drawing-room, the former gloating over the approaching wedding, the latter inwardly shrinking from and shuddering at it, Fitz rode over to Tenby and telegraphed the few significant words:

"Wheat has gone up."

The following morning broke finely.

"What time is Mr. Smythe to arrive?" asked Fitz, cheerfully.

Ethel flushed, and bent her eyes to her plate.

"He will be here before dinner," said the countess.

"See that the horses are sent for him," said the earl from behind his paper.

"All right, I'll see to that," said Fitz. "Meanwhile, just to spend time, suppose you and I have a gallop, Eth?"

Ethel thanked him with her eyes.

"Then go and get your habit on at once," said Fitz.

On the staircase Mary, the maid, met her crying.

"If you please, my lady, my brother's broken his leg, and – and – and can I go home at once?"

"Certainly," said Ethel, softly. "I am sorry, Mary. You must not wait for anything. Fitz," she called down, "can you let Mary have the brougham?"

"Yes," said Fitz. "What does she want it for?"

Then when the sobbing handmaid told him all, he said, like the kind fellow he was:

"Yes, and tell William to put the pair of grays in for you. They'll take you to the station fast enough to catch the train."

Mary went off gratefully, and Fitz and Ethel soon afterward mounted and started for their ride.

"I wouldn't heat him too much," said Fitz, who seemed to be saving his horse, to Ethel.

"We are not going far, are we?" asked Ethel.

"Oh, not if you like, though I think we had better take the opportunity. We may not have many more rides together, Eth."

Her eyes filled with tears.

"Let us have a long ride, Fitz, then," she said.

They rode on, Fitz saving his horse and showing no disposition to turn.

At last Ethel said:

"Don't you think we had better turn, Fitz? We shall not be in time."

"Let us go as far as that signpost," said Fitz. "Then – "

"We shall not be in time for – for Mr. Smythe," said Ethel, forcing herself to say the hateful word.

"Oh, yes, we shall, I think," said Fitz, with a twinkle in his eyes. "Hello, here's my horse gone lame!"

"Where?" said Ethel, but Fitz had jumped off.

"What shall we do?" said he, "he's dreadfully lame; I've noticed it for some miles, but said nothing. I can't ride him back, and you can't go alone."

"What shall we do? Where is a post town?" said Ethel.

"I don't know," said Fitz. "Here's a carriage!" and he pulled out his watch as he spoke, muttering, "Punctual, by Jove!"

Then he called to the coachman:

"Can you tell us the nearest post town? We want horses or something."

"I'm going that way, sir," said the man. "My young fellow will take your horses on, and you can get inside."

Fitz, without giving Ethel time to consent, hurried her in and jumped in himself.

"Drive on, my man," he said. "We are in a hurry."

"Fitz," said Ethel, who had been looking out of the window, "do you know anything of this man? He is taking the horses in another direction."

"No," said Fitz, but was spared any other falsehoods by the approach of another carriage which pulled up, as did theirs.

The door of the other carriage opened, and there ran across the road a slim young lady who rushed toward Ethel.

"Mary!" exclaimed Ethel.

"Jump in," cried Fitz, hurrying the maid in.

At the same moment some one mounted the box of their carriage, a heavy weight was thrown upon the top and away they started.

"What does it all mean, Fitz?" asked Ethel, looking half frightened. "Where are we going?"

"We are going to Penwhiffen – to that place where there is the pretty church," said Fitz.

"Church!" said Ethel, "and Mary! – and – Oh, Fitz! who is that on the box going with us?"

"That is the luggage," said Fitz, with a twinkle in his eyes. "The luggage and Mr. Bertie Fairfax. The cat's out of the bag, Ethel, my pretty one! We're running away with you! Bertie's got the special license in his pocket, and Mr. Smythe will have his journey to Coombe Lodge for nothing."

Then as Ethel burst into a flood of tears he caught her to him and gave her a hearty pat on the back.

CHAPTER XXVII

IN THE WEB

While Bertie – happy, lucky Bertie – was standing at the altar with his darling Ethel's hand in his, Howard Murpoint, Esq., and Mr. Wilhelm Smythe were driving through up the avenue to Coombe Lodge.

Howard Murpoint's luck had never deserted him since he had entered the drawing-room of the Park on that night of the dinner party. Everything had been smooth sailing.

He had conquered, so to speak, the whole world. He was rich, influential; he held the happiness, the fate of many in his hands; his brain was full of plots and schemes for his own advancement and others' ruin and discomfiture. Never, since the world began to wag, had the Evil One found a cleverer and more sympathetic servant, for Howard Murpoint, the gentleman, the member of parliament, the influential capitalist, was merciless, avaricious, cunning, and – superstitious. Yes, clever as he was, strong as he was, this was his weakness. He believed in luck; he was superstitious, and he felt a presentiment that the first stroke of bad luck would be the beginning of something more dreadful.

But to-day, as he dropped from his horse, which a groom had sprung forward to hold, he felt no presentiment, and the calm, cool smile which he threw to the nervous Mr. Wilhelm Smythe was one of supreme confidence.

"Be calm, my dear fellow," he whispered, as they were ushered into the drawing-room by the obsequious servant. "You will be the husband of Lady Ethel, and I shall win that twenty thousand pounds before a month has passed."

As he spoke Lady Lackland entered.

Shaking hands with the two, she said, with a troubled look upon her face:

"Did you meet Fitz and Ethel? They have gone for a ride, and should have gone your way."

"No," said the captain, with a smile. "We lost that pleasure."

Mr. Smythe sighed.

"No," he said. "I wish we had, but – but I'm almost glad, for it gives me an opportunity, Lady Lackland, for putting my request. I have come down with my friend – he has indeed been a friend to me – to ask you to persuade Lady Ethel to name an early day for our – our wedding – "

At that moment the door opened and the earl entered.

His face was dark as night, and his lips working with some emotion; he held a letter in his hand, and when he saw the two men he, by a great effort, set his lips with a rigid smile and tried to conceal the letter with a hasty movement.

"Something has happened!" exclaimed the countess.

"Not to Lady Ethel!" almost shrieked Mr. Smythe.

The earl smiled with despair.

"Read that!" he cried, thrusting the letter into the countess' hands.

She read it aloud, with a puzzled air at first which rapidly gave place to a shriek of despair and rage.

"My Dear Father: By the time this reaches you Ethel and I shall be at Wivlehurst. Bertie Fairfax goes with us with a special license in his pocket, and he and Ethel will be married, all well, to-day.

"Forgive me my share in the affair, and remember that it is the first time since their birth that your children have dared to show that they have wills and hearts of their own! Your affectionate son,

"Fitz."

There was a moment's silence, which was broken by a hoarse cry of disappointment and misery.

It came from Smythe.

With an oath he sprang at the captain and seized him by the throat.

"You villain! You've tricked me! You planned all this, you scoundrel! You did! You did! You have sold me, but I'll sell you! I'll have the money, or your infernal life!"

The captain struggled and fought to free himself from his dupe's grasp, but he could not, and Mr. Wilhelm Smythe, nerved and goaded to madness, pushed the earl and his servants aside and dragged Mr. Murpoint into the hall.

"Now," he hissed in his ear, "get out your check-book and write me a check for twenty thousand pounds, or I'll kill you! I'll do worse; I'll publish the story and the bet in every club in London! d'ye hear? you thought to get the better of me, to play the idiot and hold me up to ridicule, but you shan't! you shan't! I'll have the money, the money, or I'll crush you!"

"Silence!" hissed the captain, glancing round at the astonished group of guests and servants. "Come outside," and he in turn half dragged and half led the unfortunate man into the courtyard.

"I'll give you the check to-morrow."

"Now, now! this moment, or I'll split all!" cried Smythe, and with an oath he darted his hand in the captain's face.

Howard Murpoint's eyes grew dark, but he was as pale as death. Fear ran in his heart, for he saw that his first ill-luck had set in.

"Confound you!" he cried, "you shall have it! I'll give you a hundred thousand pounds to be rid of such a madman," and with a shaking hand he took a check from his book and filled it in.

Mr. Smythe snatched it from his hand, glanced at it with bloodshot eyes, and leaped upon his horse, which he had shouted for as he came into the yard.

The captain looked round, and murmuring something like:

"He's mad, not safe! I must follow him!" called for his own horse and rode off likewise.

His face was a study for a picture of the fiend, disappointed and checkmated.

"Married!" he muttered, hoarsely. "Married! I have been tricked – tricked! And I have given him bills in full for twenty thousand pounds. I'll stop the check!" And with an oath he drove his spurs into the horse's sides and urged it on.

The animal reared and tore forward. He spurred it again and again, and reached the station in time to see the train, which was bearing Mr. Smythe to town, steam away from the platform. It was his first failure, and his bold, bad heart misgave him.

The next train did not start for three hours, and after a few moments' reflection the schemer turned his horse's head toward Penruddie.

"I'll give the rogues a look up!" he muttered, with an angry scowl. "They showed some disposition to rebel. I'll cow them!"

He reached Penruddie, and the first thing he noticed was a group of men lounging at the door of the "Blue Lion".

They glanced up at him as he pulled up and scowled, but not one raised his hand to his cap, or gave him good-morning.

The captain's face grew dark, and his voice was harsh and stern as he said:

"Can any of you men tell me where the carrier, Job, is to be found?"

One man jerked his finger over his head toward the house, and at that moment Job, hearing his name spoken, came out.

His dark eyes twinkled savagely as he saw the captain, but he touched his hat and came toward the horse.

"I hope I see you well, sir," he said, "and that the young and old lady be well."

"All well," said the captain. "Send some one to take the horse to the stable; I want a word with you, Job, aside."

Job nodded, beckoned to a man to take the horse, then followed the captain into the parlor.

"Now," said the captain, "I have come down to put my threat into execution. I am going to punish you, my friend, and all the rascals with you. Where is the money? Where is the share I was to have regularly of the profits out of your precious trade? Where are they, I ask?"

"There ain't any, captain," said Job, sullenly. "The men won't work; they say if you want all the profit, you may do the work, and take the risk yourself. 'Sides, they're cantankerous, captain, about another matter."

"What else?"

"They wants to know what's done with Maester Leicester."

"What!" sneered the captain. "Actually sentimental, are they? They want to know what's become of that idiot? I can tell you, and I'd have told you six months ago if I'd thought it would have interested you! He's gone where all such as he should go – out of the world! He's dead, rotting at the bottom of the sea!"