The Spider and the Fly

CHAPTER XVII

THE LOCKET

It was rather a large party at Coombe Lodge.

There were the Wilsons, the Gileses and several of the county families.

Lord Lackland had been expected, but business kept him in town, and Lord Fitz was at the head of the table.

Next him was an old dowager, but within speaking distance sat Violet, and Lord Fitz's frank face was turned toward her all dinner time.

Ethel and Bertie were separated, as they had expected to be, but Bertie could see the pale, low forehead just above an epergne, and was fain to be content.

Leicester sat with Ethel, and for a while was grave and taciturn; but suddenly he saw Violet look over toward Fitz with a smile and a nod of significant meaning, and in an instant Leicester's jealousy arose, and he brightened up. The nod was only one of affirmation that the day was fine, and Violet, with such a sweet face, could not help looking enticing, but jealousy casts a green shade over everything great and small, and Leicester grew sibilant and fascinating too, murmuring:

"Let her flirt with her boy-lord. I could show the proud, vain girl that there are other women worthy attention beside herself."

And so Ethel was overwhelmed with his attention, his conversation and his wit.

Violet, glancing down the table, saw the pair laughing and talking in that strain, she, misunderstanding, resolved to join in the battle.

When Lord Fitz came with the other gentlemen to the dining-room, it was to find a seat reserved for him beside Violet and her smile of welcome to greet him.

Fitz and she sang together and laughed and talked together the whole evening, and when Mrs. Mildmay's carriage was announced Leicester noticed bitterly that it was Lord Fitz who escorted Violet, while the captain had charge of Mrs. Mildmay.

As usual the captain was in the best of spirits; the homeward journey was as enjoyable for Mrs. Mildmay as the evening which had preceded it.

Violet was asleep, or feigning it, in the corner, so that the captain had Mrs. Mildmay to himself.

"That is an old-fashioned locket," he said, motioning to one, which was suspended by a chain to Mrs. Mildmay's neck.

"Yes," she said, with a sigh; "my brother gave me that when I was a little girl. A very long time ago that, Captain Murpoint!"

"Not very, indeed!" said the captain, with subdued gallantry. "It contains his portrait, I suppose?"

"No, I am sorry to say that it does not. I have no miniature of poor John," she replied, with a sigh. "I would give anything for one painted while he was alive."

"Would you?" said the captain, with a curious earnestness. "Then I think – I hope you are nearer obtaining your desire than you imagine."

"Indeed!" said Mrs. Mildmay; "how so? – Violet, we have awakened you?"

"No, auntie," said Violet, whose eyes had opened and whose face was pale with earnestness and painful interest.

"Some years ago," said the captain, leaning forward and addressing both ladies, but keeping his eyes upon Violet's face, "my dear friend promised that he would have his portrait painted in water-colors so that I might wear it. At that time we were staying at Calcutta. In the market-place there was a wonderful miniature painter – he may be there still, in all probability he is – and dear John commissioned him to paint his portrait. He sat for it two or three times, and the man finished it."

"Was it a good – a truthful portrait?" asked Mrs. Mildmay.

"A wonderful portrait," said the captain. "It was John Mildmay, living and breathing in a miniature, so to speak. He gave it to me on my birthday. I kept it, I wore it on my watch chain for years, until we started for our home voyage. Then he took it from me."

"Why did he do that?" asked Violet, in a faint voice.

"It was in a locket," said the captain, "in a double locket. The space opposite was empty, and my dear friend took the trinket from me, saying that there should be another portrait in it – one fitting to face his. Can you guess whose, my dear madam?"

Mrs. Mildmay glanced at Violet, who had sunk back into her seat.

"Yes," said the captain, expressing a deep tenderness with his voice, "it was hers – his dearly loved child's." And he drew out his pocket handkerchief and hid his eyes for a moment. "I gave him the locket reluctantly, I admit; for I was loth to part with it for so long a time as that required for his voyage home and back again. But I gave it to him, for I was anxious to possess the other portrait, that I might have the face my dear friend loved better than his life next his own."

He paused and sighed deeply.

"From the first moment of my parting with the locket I have regretted it."

"Regretted it – why?" asked Mrs. Mildmay, in a low voice.

"Because, my dear madam, I never saw it again."

Violet's hands clasped tightly, and he went on more quickly:

"No; I see what you dread, but I am not going to harrow your hearts by recalling that great sorrow. No; John returned to me at Madras, and before the first hour had passed I asked him for my treasure. With a look of dismay and a laugh of annoyance he told me that he had forgotten it."

"Forgotten it!" said Mrs. Mildmay, deeply interested.

"Yes, that he had left it at home, at Mildmay Park. I asked him to write for it; but he laughingly assured me that no one could find it."

"Did he not remember where he had put it?" asked Mrs. Mildmay. "For I do hope we shall find it."

"No, he had not forgotten where he had put it, but he assured me that he had placed it where no hand but his could find it."

"And where was that?" asked Mrs. Mildmay.

"In the secret drawer of his writing bureau," replied the captain, in a low voice.

There was a long pause of deep silence.

"He had placed it there," continued the captain, sinking back and looking at Violet with half-closed eyes, "he had placed it there on the day of his arrival in England, and was so taken up with one thing and the other that he had forgotten it. He promised me that he would, on his next visit to England, have the portrait of Violet painted, and bring the locket out to me. But man proposes and Providence disposes. Heaven willed it that he should never see England again."

Violet's hands clasped, and her face grew deadly white.

Oh! how she longed for that miniature.

Captain Murpoint had never hit upon a more brilliant device for gaining his end than that which he determined upon as the lever by which his plot should be raised.

"He never reached England, and I never saw him or the locket again," he resumed, in a low voice. "He, my best – ay, dearest friend, lies at the bottom of the sea, and his portrait is buried in the secret drawer of the old bureau."

"Hush!" said Mrs. Mildmay, as a low, suppressed cry of agony came from Violet's corner.

"You say it is – it is like my father?" she said, "and that he placed it there?"

The captain inclined his head.

"Then – then," she breathed, painfully, "the room must be opened. I – I said," she added, with a shudder, "that it never should be! But if the portrait – his portrait – is there, it must be, for I must have it! I must have it!"

"It is an old bureau," said the captain. "For he assured me that his own hands placed it there. But wait until you are stronger."

"No," said Violet, "I am strong enough. I must have it at once – to-morrow!"

Jem Starling had been commanded to refrain from strong drink and to remain sober, and he had kept sober up to the day upon which the captain, with a slight lapse from his usual foresight, discharged him.

On that day he had aired his grievance among the fishermen, who sympathized with him, and, of course, had aired it in the public house.

There were plenty to stand treat, and Jem had drunk heavily.

At ten o'clock he emerged from the "Blue Lion", leaning upon Willie Sanderson's arm – or rather, supported by it – in that state which might be described as desperately intoxicated.

A small crowd of fishermen were round him, and they were all more or less hilarious or excited.

"Hold up!" said Willie to Jem, who was staggering about upon the big young fisherman's arm. "Hold up!"

"Here," said one of the others, the carrier, old Nat, coming forward, "I'll give you a hand with him. We'll take him down to my cottage and let him sleep there to-night. He's had a rare skinful."

Then he turned to the others and said:

"Willie and me 'ull take care of this chap. You get home quickly. There's work to do to-morrow, you know," he added, significantly.

The boys returned a hearty "Ay, ay," and, after an exchange of mutual and noisy adieus, turned down to their cottages by the beach.

Nat and Willie went straight on down the village street, at the end of which, and a little retired from the road, Nat's cottage lay.

As they passed down the street, with Jem rolling and shouting and singing between them, he saw a gentleman in the starlight, coming along the slope toward them.

It was Leicester, who, disgusted and dissatisfied, had turned out for a walk. He saw the group of three, and was about to pass on without recognizing them, but Willie's figure, stalwart and huge, was too well known to pass unrecognized, and Leicester, with his usual kindness, said, gravely:

"Late to-night, Willie! Good-night."

This was just what the two men dreaded. At the sound of the voice which he hated above all, the drunken man started and threw up his head.

"Who's that?" he snarled, hoarsely, staring before him with thick and bloodshot eyes. "Who's that? That's his voice, I'll swear."

"Come on," said Nat, giving him an angry jerk, "come on, and don't make a fool of yourself, Starling."

"I shan't," said Jem, with an oath. "I will stop and look at him. I'm a dog, I am, but a dog can look at a king – ah, and bite, too. D'ye hear that?" he shouted out to Leicester, who had walked on with the greatest indifference. That same indifference seemed to madden the miserable Jem, and, by a sudden jerk, whose very unexpectedness gave it greater force, he wrenched himself away from his keepers and sprang down the path after Leicester.

Leicester heard him coming, and turned round ready to receive him.

With a snarl Jem sprang at him.

Leicester raised his hand and knocked him down.

The next instant Willie and Nat were down upon him and holding him down where he lay struggling and blaspheming, shouting out oaths and threats.

"You ain't hurt, Mr. Leicester?" asked Willie.

"No," said Leicester. "He has not touched me. There is no harm done, if he has received none."

"Not he," growled Willie, "the fool's drunk."

"So I see," said Leicester. "I am not likely to resent the conduct of a drunken man, but I must and I will defend myself against any attack he may make or any annoyances he may give when he is sober."

"Ay, ay," said Willie. "That is right enough."

"Perhaps you will give him to understand that when he is capable of understanding anything," said Leicester.

"Ay, ay, I will," said Willie.

"Good-night," said Leicester.

"Good-night, Maester Leicester," said the two men, or rather shouted it, for they had to make themselves heard above the mad ravings of their companion.

Leicester, calm and unconcerned, gravely walked on.

The two men exchanged glances as they looked at the dark mark of the last blow upon the drunken man's face and grinned appreciatingly.

Nat, the carrier's cottage was but a little distance from the spot, and they succeeded in getting Jem to bed without farther disturbance of her majesty's peace.

In the morning it was soon over the village that there had been another scene between Mr. Leicester and Jem Starling, and when the man appeared at the "Blue Lion" about noon they expected to hear a second edition of the dreadful threats which had broken the stillness of the preceding night.

But Jem came in silently, with the dark bruise upon his face, and sullenly kept that silence.

And so the day passed, and the little incident had before night sunk into insignificance.

But it was doomed to bear bitter fruit, and that before many weeks should pass.

"I have been thinking," said the captain, as he entered the breakfast-room on the same morning, "that this is the very day for a ride. It is not so hot and there is a delicious little breeze."