The Spider and the Fly

So Marie ventured to remark that there were a great many servants at Coombe Lodge, and that the people were very glad that the Lacklands had come down; but they seemed quite as pleased that Mr. Leicester had come, too.

Mr. Leicester's name seemed to rouse her mistress from her reverie, and she looked up, with her bright, clear gaze.

"What did you say about Mr. Leicester Dodson?"

"I said, miss, that the people in the village and the servants up at the Cedars were very glad that Mr. Leicester had come down again, for, though he's so very stern and grave-looking, he seems to be very kind, and everybody gives him a good name. And he's so liberal, miss! He gives a sovereign where others look hard at shillings. Only the last time he was down, miss, he went into Will Sanderson's cottage and sat and talked with little Jemmie, Willie Sanderson's brother, you know, miss, little lame Willie; and he sat and asked questions about his not being able to walk, and then he got up with a start, and in his thoughtful way, which almost makes you think you've done something wrong; but there comes down one o' them little inwalid chairs from London, and Willie says his brother is as well again now that he can be wheeled about. Of course, it came from Mr. Leicester, though when Willie went up to thank him, he sent word down that he was to have a glass of wine, and not to wait. And they say – the servants, you know – miss, that Mr. Leicester is so kind to Mrs. Dodson, and speaks to her quite soft, and when she was ill with the rheumatics he carried her up and downstairs; and so no wonder they likes him; though I did hear the cook say that Mr. Leicester was very particular about the made dishes, and that when he is angry it's something fearful, he's so stern, and what you might call overpowering, miss."

"Oh," said Violet, with her sweet little laugh, "throws the dishes at the butler's head, I suppose you think, Marie?"

"Oh, no, miss, but has the cook up, and talks to him so cold and sternlike, like he talked to Bill Summers, who threw down the horse he was so fond of. But, notwithstanding that way of his, he's very kind to all the servants, and any of 'em would do anything for him. They like Mr. Fairfax, too, miss, and he, I heard 'em say, was an artist or an author, or something clever, miss, in London, and he lives with Mr. Leicester, in the same house, and him and Lord Fitz Boisdale are all great friends. And they do say, miss, though, of course, I can't tell whether it's true, that Mr. Leicester is courting Lady Ethel. Did I hurt you, miss?" she broke off, suspending her operations with the hair brush, for Violet had turned round her head rather suddenly.

"No," said Violet, quietly. "What do you say, that Mr. Leicester is in love with Lady Ethel Boisdale?"

"Well, miss, they say so, and it certainly do look like it, if all accounts be true, for Mr. Leicester's man says that his master is at all the balls and soirées and dinners at the Earl of Lackland's, and that he only came down here so suddenlike because Lady Lackland and Lord Fitz and Lady Ethel were coming down to Coombe Lodge."

"That will do," said Violet, "I will go to bed now."

And Marie braided the heavy mass of hair into thick, silken plaits, rattling on meanwhile with a laughable account of Mr. Starling's sayings and doings in the servants' hall, to which he seemed, by Marie's account, quite an acquisition. Violet smiled with her usual enjoyment of the humorous, of which she had a quick perception, and Marie left her still smiling.

But when the talkative little maid had closed the door behind her, light-hearted Violet felt rather lonely.

Her aunt slept in the next suite of rooms, and by touching a small bell, she could summon her, or by opening a door and passing through a little anteroom she could reach her, but Violet was not nervous or timid, and after a little wrestling with the feeling she conquered it.

But she could not altogether dismiss the small incidents of the evening from her mind.

Had she really seen the White Nun, or had fancy deceived her?

That was a question she could not answer satisfactorily.

Then another one presented itself for consideration. Was Mr. Leicester Dodson a suitor for Lady Ethel's hand?

That also was a question which she could not answer.

It was true he had gone up to town suddenly, and it was true that he had been present at a ball at which Lady Ethel was also present. It was also a singular coincidence that he should return so suddenly to Penruddie at the time of the Lacklands' visit to Coombe Lodge.

"Well, if it was so," thought Violet, humming the air of a song which Captain Murpoint had sung, "it was nothing whatever to do with her."

Then she thought of his manner by the stile that evening – of its quiet sense of power and protection; of the grasp of his firm, strong hand on her trembling arm, of – well, of every word he had spoken, of every gesture he had used, of that act of kindness toward Jemmie Sanderson.

"I wish I were a little sleepier," she said, at last.

But though she went to bed sleep would not come to her sweet, deep eyes, which Mr. Leicester so much admired, and they were wide open watching the moonlight as it fell upon the wall for some time.

Had they possessed the power of looking through the wall they might have seen Mr. Leicester's tall, stalwart figure where he leaned against the garden gate, smoking his before-bed cigar, and ruminating, as wakeful as herself.

As for Lady Ethel, she, too, was thoughtful; but that was nothing unusual for her. But when Lord Fitz himself, who was generally extremely talkative, leaned back in profound silence for at least the time occupied in traversing two of the six miles to Coombe Lodge, Ethel felt rather surprised.

"How quiet you are, Fitz!" she said.

"Eh! am I?" he replied, rousing. "I was thinking. I say, Ethel, what do you think of the Mildmays?"

"I haven't thought very much about them," said Lady Ethel, and indeed she had not. "I think Violet Mildmay is very pretty."

"Isn't she!" exclaimed Lord Fitz, eagerly. "I think her the nicest girl I've seen. She's what you call a 'bluestocking,' isn't she? One of the 'merry and wise sort,' eh, Ethel?"

"Yes, I liked what I have seen of her very much. I am glad we have met."

"Yes, so am I," said Lord Fitz. "I say, I heard Bertie and Leicester arranging a riding party; do you know if Miss Mildmay is coming?"

"I believe so," said Ethel; "yes, I am sure she is."

"Then," said his lordship, "I think I shall go."

"Of course you will, to take care of me," said Ethel, smiling.

There was a short pause, then Lord Fitz roused again with the sudden question:

"Ethel, do you think the Mildmays are well tiled in?"

"Tiled in, you inscrutable boy, what can you mean?" asked Ethel, with laughing bewilderment.

"Tiled in, well off, rich, you know, and all that."

"I should think so," said Lady Ethel, thoughtfully. "They have a very beautiful place and I have heard that her father was a merchant. Oh, yes, I should think she was rich."

Lord Fitz gave a sigh of relief.

"I'm glad of that," he said.

Ethel laughed.

"Why should you be glad?" she said, looking at him curiously.

"Oh, never mind," said Lord Fitz, rather embarrassed. "So her father was a merchant. All those merchant fellows get rich. Look at Leicester's father, he's as rich as Crœsus. I wish my governor was a merchant."

"He would be very much obliged to you for the compliment," said Lady Ethel, with a smile. "For my part I am satisfied with an earldom."

"Oh!" said Lord Fitz, and as he drew a long sigh he murmured inaudibly: "So should I if it had a lot of money with it."

"That's a rum fellow, that captain," said Lord Fitz, after a pause.

"In what way?" asked Ethel. "He seemed very ordinary, very amusing, too."

"Oh, yes, he's amusing enough," assented Lord Fitz. "But I'm half inclined to think he's deuced sharp. He can play whist like a book, and picked up the coin like old Hawksey at the club. But I say, Eth, you're pretty sharp, sharper than I am, and did you notice the rum look of the captain's eyes? They seemed to be watching everybody and everything, and when he caught you looking at him they shifted down the table, and he was sure to make one of those funny speeches of his, as if he didn't want you to think he'd noticed you looking at him. And every time he lifted his wineglass he looked over the top all down the table."

"No, I didn't notice all that," replied Ethel. "You are getting quite a student of human nature and manners, Fitz."

"Oh," said Fitz, nodding his curly head decisively. "You were too much taken up with Mr. Bert. I saw you, Miss Sly Boots, laughing and whispering."

"For shame, Fitz!" retorted Ethel, blushing in the darkness. "Whispering to a stranger?"

"Well, and what then?" said Lord Fitz. "And I don't wonder at any one being taken up with Bert. He knows more stories than any man in all the clubs in London, and he can tell 'em better, too. Pity he's so poor, Ethel. Poor old Bert!"

Lady Ethel looked straight before her.

"He ought to have been a merchant or a tea grocer, or something of that sort," said Lord Fitz. "That's the way to make money."

By this time, or very shortly afterward, the carriage rolled up to the door of Coombe Lodge.

Ethel, who had not spoken since Lord Fitz's assertion that Bertie should have been a tea grocer, went straight up to Lady Lackland's room, where her mother was waiting for her.

Lord Fitz sauntered off to the billiard room, where he lighted a huge cigar and, with half-closed eyes, tried to decide upon the color of Violet's.

"I'm glad she's rich," he muttered, "very glad!"

Lady Lackland had been prevented from accompanying Fitz and Ethel by one of a series of headaches produced by the last balls of the past season, and she was now quite anxious to hear a full account of the party.

Ethel gave her a list of the guests.

Lady Lackland, who was lying on a couch, raised her head with a grave look of displeasure as Ethel mentioned Bertie Fairfax's name.

"Mr. Fairfax there?" she said. "You did not tell me he was to be there, Ethel."

"Did I not, mamma?" said Ethel, calmly. "I had forgotten it, perhaps, or did not think his expected presence of sufficient consequence. Yes, he was there."

"And this Miss Mildmay? I remember Mrs. Mildmay – quite a distingué looking woman. Is her niece like her?"

"She is very pretty and well bred," said Ethel.

Her ladyship mused coldly, eying her daughter at intervals while she sat looking through the window at the moon.

"And how did the Dodsons seem? Do you like them?"

"Yes," said Ethel, "very much. It was a very pleasant party, mamma; and we have arranged another, a riding party this time. I may go, I suppose?"

"Y – es," said Lady Lackland, "if Fitz goes with you – oh, yes, certainly. Mr. Leicester Dodson goes, I suppose?"

"Yes," said Ethel, "we are all going, all the young ones. Shall I stay any longer? I make your head ache more by talking."

"No, don't stay any longer," said Lady Lackland, coldly. "Before you go you will please draw that writing table near to me?"

Ethel did so, kissed her mother, who returned the warm pressure of her soft, sweet lips by a cold touch with her own, and left the room.

Lady Lackland drew the table to a convenient position, and without rising wrote a note to the earl, who was still in London.

"Tell me by return," she wrote, "who and what these Dodsons are, whether they are really as rich as they are supposed to be and if I am right in letting Ethel see so much of the son. She and Fitz dined at their place, the Cedars, this evening, and met a Miss Mildmay, Violet Mildmay, the merchant John Mildmay's daughter. I believe he left an immense fortune behind him, but I am not certain, and perhaps you can ascertain. I have not seen Fitz, but Ethel says the girl is very pretty and well bred. I am sorry to say that odious Mr. Fairfax was there also; he is staying at the Cedars."

Poor Bertie!

CHAPTER XI

THE LITTLE OLD MAN

It happened that Mr. Starling was rather late in arriving at the "Blue Lion" on the evening following that of the dinner party at the Cedars.

He had been sent over to the nearest market town on some errand of his master's and had not returned until after the servants' dinner, which meal he had partaken of "warmed up," a state and condition which he declared to the cook was enough to drive a parson swearing.

Altogether Jem was not in the brightest of moods when he entered the hospitable doors of the "Blue Lion", and it did not help to disperse the gloom to find that the parlor door was locked. The room was not empty, for he could hear the hum of voices inside talking in a hushed sort of undertone.

There was no one in the bar, and Mr. Starling, rendered by his early training and the influence of circumstances suspicious by anything out of the common, crept back on tiptoe into the street, and peeped through the crack of the window which was formed by the uplifting of the curtain.

There he saw that the usual number of the gentlemen was reinforced by a little old man, whom he seemed to recollect as having seen somewhere before.

He commenced whistling "Villikins and His Dinah," and re-entered the bar.

His quick ears detected the unslipping of the bolt, and he pushed open the door without any difficulty.

All the men had suddenly assumed an air of the usual indifference and sleepiness, and responded to his cheerful salutation after their various kinds.

"Bring me a pint of the very best, Miss Polly," said Mr. Starling, sinking into his seat, and eying from under his frowning eyelids the strange little man.

"A nice night for salamanders, mates."

"Yes," said Willie Sanderson, "it's mighty hot."

"No fish?" asked Jem.

"No," was the response.

"But we expect a shoal over to-night," said the little man, with an almost imperceptible glance around the room.

"Ay," said the others, in a chorus. "We may do something to-night."

"And a very pleasant little trip, too," said Mr. Starling, nodding all round over his pewter pot. "I quite envy you, and I don't mind volunteering if so be as I shouldn't be in the way."

A slight but unmistakable expression of dismay shot for one instant on his manly face, then Willie Sanderson laughed slowly.

"Better be in bed, mate. We might have it rough, for all the wind's so dead now, and if you ain't a first-rate sailor the smell of the fish – if we get's any – might disagree with ye."

"Ay," said the little man. "Better stay in bed."

"Well, perhaps you're right," said Jem, thinking to himself that they were all mighty considerate on his behalf. "Yes, perhaps you're right. I like 'em when they are cooked, though, and I'll just look down in the morning and see if you've had a take."

"Do," said Willie, shortly, and then started another topic. But though many others followed, and Mr. Starling was quite as amusing as usual, the company did not seem to be in the mood for conversation or laughter, and Jem noticed that every man seemed to be watching or listening.

Once the door opened rather suddenly, and the little man rose with an ill attempt at indifference, but only Polly entered with some tobacco, and the little man sat down again.

Presently the door opened again, and Martha Pettingall entered.

She wore her yellow bandana, and as she looked round the room Jem, who while lighting his pipe was watching her closely, saw her raise her hand and scratch her ear.

He looked round the room covertly to see for whom the sign was intended, and was not surprised to see the little man lift his hand with a natural air and scratch his ear.

"Well, boys, what do you say, shall we be starting?" And as he spoke he went to the window and pushed the curtain aside to look out at the night.

As he did so Jem, who was watching under his eyelids with the most lynx-like intention, saw a streak of light cleave the sky seawards.

The old man dropped the curtain again immediately, but Mr. Starling's eyes were sharp ones, and he had seen the light distinctly enough to know that it was not a natural phenomenon.

"Well, come along, boys," said Willie Sanderson, and, hastily tossing down the remains of their potations, the boys rose and trudged out, giving Martha Pettingall and Polly a cheery "good-night" as they passed.

Jem sat for a little while in deep thought. Then he sauntered out.

Outside he paused and looked up at the sky, then scratched his head, and instead of turning homeward he bent his steps toward the beach.

The tide was coming in; it was a fine night, and Jem could see every ripple upon the smiling, playful ocean.

There, far out now, were the fishing boats, looking like magnified walnut shells as they rose and fell on the light swell.

He waited until the boats were lost to sight, then climbed up the beach again.

As he passed through the street he peeped into the "Blue Lion".

There was no one in the bar, and he was about to peep in when he saw a light pierce the chink in the cellar flap.

He stooped and knelt down, and was rewarded, not with a sight of Polly or Martha, but of the little old man, peering on his knees into what seemed to Jem like the mouth of a well.

"Hello," he thought, "here's the old chap playing larks with old Grunty-grump's beer," and he was about to run into the bar with the information.

But before he could get up from his knees another figure, no other than Martha Pettingall, entered the cellar, and, far from expressing alarm or indignation at the old man's presence, commenced talking with him in a low, confidential tone.

Jem would have given one of his large eyes to have heard that conversation, or for a peep into that hole over which it was held.

But the pair spoke in a faint whisper, and Jem could not catch a word.

Presently the man dropped the lid of the well, spread some sawdust over it, and, taking up the candle from a cask, lighted Martha up the steps, following himself immediately after.

Jem got up, gave vent to a noiseless whistle, and, having had his curiosity sharpened to a most ravening edge, determined to play spy a little longer.

Accordingly he drew back into the shadow of the house, chose a tree as ambush, and kept a sharp watch both upon cellar and door.

The light did not appear in the former, and for some time the latter was not moved, but at last Jem heard voices in the bar, and presently Martha opened the door.

She stood for a few moments looking up and down the empty street, then re-entered.

"What they call reckonorriting," muttered Jem. "Now I bet the old chap'll come out."

And so it proved.

The little old man did come out, and set off at a sharp trot up the hill.

"Well, I'm blest; that must be funny fishin' up a mountain," said Jem to himself. "He's in a mighty hurry, too. But what's my move? Do I dog him or wait here a bit longer and see what the old woman will be up to? If I sets off arter him he's safe to see me; you could see a brass farden at two miles in this light. No, I'll stop here."

And he did, but was rather disgusted at his fortune when about half an hour afterward Martha came out, banged the shutters to, and shut up the house for the night.

"The performance is hover," said Jem, coming out of his ambush, "and a werry pretty play it's been, only, as the chap said at the Hitalian hopera, it 'ud be all the better if I knowed what it means, which jigger me if I do."

And with a shake of the head Jem hurried his steps homeward.

He looked about him as he went, but nothing more suspicious occurred than the flitting of a rabbit across the road, at which Mr. Starling flung a stone, and as he paused within sight of the Park he wiped the perspiration from his bottle-shaped head, and sighed.

"Where's that chap gone to?" he asked himself. "Got a sweetheart up in the house, I dare say. I'll ask the cook; he knows everybody, and will put me right about these 'ere goings on at the "Blue Lion"."

Somewhat cheered by that resolution he trudged on again, looking at the house, which even to his unpoetical eyes looked beautiful in the moonlight.

Then he glanced at the sky, in which a few black clouds were gathering.

"All in the dark d'rectly," he muttered.

And as he spoke the moon was obscured.

He turned his eyes up toward it, then was about to lower them, when they saw something which caused him to start, to stop and to stare.

By this time he was near that part of the Park called the "ruins."

Right before him was the façade with the oriel window.

All the way up the hill, when not thinking of the "Blue Lion" and its mysterious frequenters, he had been thinking over the various ghost stories in connection with the Park, and now, just at the moment when the moon was obscured, and he was thinking of one of the latest he had heard, he saw something white pass across the window.

He stared and waited breathlessly.

"I'll take my oath I saw it," he muttered. "It's gone, and I mayn't see it again. But I saw it, I swear! Ah!"

The sharp, smothered exclamation was caused by absolute fear.

It had come again.

There, so plain and distinct that he could see every fold in the white robe, was the White Nun!

Jem's face turned pale and his teeth shook.

He had a sensation as of cold water being quietly poured down his back, and his mouth felt dry and hot.

The ghost stood motionless with its back to the window, and a horror seized upon Jem that it might perhaps turn, see him, and – and – he did not know what else to dread!

The horror was not ill-founded.

The ghost turned.

Jem saw the hideous white, bleached skull-face, and as the gleaming eyes seemed to pierce him through he fell on the ground, stricken by that nameless horror before which the strongest man must succumb.

How long he lay there he did not know.

When he feigned consciousness he found himself covered with dust, fearfully cold, but with no tangible injury.

He rose, shuddered, and striking the dust from his clothes with a shaking, uncertain hand walked slowly on, averting his eyes from the dreadful window.

"Shall I tell the captain what I've seen?" he thought. "No, he'll swear at me, and say I was drunk, and I should think I was, only I know it 'ud take more than three pints o' beer to knock me silly. Ugh! I shan't get the sight o' that thing's face and eyes out o' my head till I'm as dead as she was. This is a rum, unearthly sort o' place, this is, and if summat uncommon queer and nasty don't happen afore long I'm a Dutchman."

CHAPTER XII

UNDER THE EVIL EYE

The morning which had been fixed upon for the riding party was as fine as the many which had preceded it, and there was, as a slice of luck, a fresh breeze blowing from the sea that glittered beyond the cliffs.

Leicester had given his friend Bertie the choice of his stables, and Bertie had selected a rakish-looking chestnut mare, because, as he said, it winked at him as he entered.

"Humor should be encouraged in a horse," he said, with a laugh. "I'll ride this comic old lady."

"And I," said Leicester, "will give the Black Knight a spin."

The Black Knight was a tall, black hunter, a special favorite of Leicester's, and a good but somewhat willful horse.

"I'm afraid the ladies will be burned up," said Mrs. Dodson. "Won't you have a white scarf over your neck, Mr. Fairfax? I can't persuade Leicester, but perhaps you will be more prudent."

"No, thank you, Mrs. Dodson," said Bertie. "I am rather anxious to get tanned, to tell you the truth, but I'm sorry Leicester won't wear one, because if he gets any darker he'll be as black as his horse."

And with that parting sally the light-hearted young fellow rode off after his friend.

When he reached the Park, Violet was standing in her habit on the lawn, with Leo making frantic dashes at her and altogether in insane delight.

"Isn't it hot?" said Violet, as they bent over her hand. "I'm afraid Lady Ethel will not have the courage to venture; the least fastidious might fear for their complexions this morning."

"Then you are not fastidious at all?" said Leicester.

"No, not at all," said Violet. "Besides, my blue veil will protect me. Ah, here's Captain Murpoint. He is going to ride my dear old Ned. Look at him; isn't he a noble fellow?"