The Spider and the Fly

CHAPTER XXII

THE FADED PARCHMENT

The days rolled on in the little fishing village, and the terrible drama which had convulsed it was still talked of and remembered, but with less vividness every day.

Up at the Cedars two sorrowful human beings, clad in black, were learning that bitter lesson which all must learn, to suffer and to bear.

Violet was their sole comfort in the hour of darkness.

She had given them the only explanation of the tragedy they would accept, namely that Leicester had slain Starling in self-defense and had himself fallen over the cliff into the sea.

Violet's plump roundness gradually toned down to a spareness which was grace itself, but, alas! strangely different to her old healthful vigor.

One other person beside the relations of Leicester mourned for him, and that was little, lame Jemmie, Willie Sanderson's brother.

To the poor, afflicted lad Leicester had seemed to be a beneficent god. The child adored the man who had, in so kindly and true a fashion, ministered to his wants, and no one shed more tears than little Jemmie.

In his little chair, which he could propel himself, he would haunt the Cedars, and the walks which had been favorite resorts of Leicester, and there weep over the memory of his great friend and hero.

One evening, the lad set off in his quiet, sad way for a walk, or, rather, ride on the cliff.

Impelled by an awful curiosity, the boy drove close to the edge of the cliff, and looked down.

He drew back, with a sob of grief and was about to return, but, as he made the movement, his tear-dimmed eyes caught the glimmer of some object lying under the edge of the cliff, half hidden by the overhanging tufts of grass.

With a mechanical curiosity, he drew near to it, and saw, with a beating heart, that it was a knife.

Instantly it flashed upon him that it was the very knife with which Leicester had, in self-defense, slain Jem Starling.

With the knife hidden in his bosom he returned home, determined to destroy the weapon, with its telltale rust of blood, on the first opportunity.

Of course, the doctor was not at all satisfied with the outward calm and serenity with which Violet bore her grief.

"It is all very well," he said to Mr. Thaxton, as he and that gentleman were smoking a cigar on the lawn and conferring together as to the state of Violet's health, "it is all very well to say that she is resigned, but I must confess that I do not like the word when it is applied to the numbed stillness of a young girl. Could you not get up a little difficulty of some sort? Anything would answer the purpose to divert her mind from this terrible subject."

"Hem!" said Mr. Thaxton. "I have always avoided business, though, as you are aware, I was summoned to go into some matter. Every day I offer to touch upon the subject with Mrs. Mildmay she entreats me to wait a little and to remain."

"Yes," said the doctor, "and I am very glad you are here, but still I think I would attempt to interest her. Cannot Captain Murpoint assist us? He seems to have taken the management of affairs."

"Yes," said Mr. Thaxton, and his brow clouded slightly. "Captain Murpoint is invaluable; he is extremely clever, and seems to obtain implicit obedience here."

At that moment Captain Murpoint came on to the lawn.

"Good-morning," said Mr. Thaxton. "We were talking of you, captain. Mr. Boner was suggesting that it would be as well to attempt a little diversion for Miss Mildmay."

"With all my heart," said the captain, gravely.

"In the shape of business," continued Mr. Thaxton. "You have never informed me yet why my presence was wanted at the Park."

The captain's face flushed slightly. He had been waiting for this moment, and now it had come he braved it boldly.

"I wrote to you at the request of Miss Mildmay," he said. "It was a matter connected with a locket of her father's – mine it would have been had he lived longer. But let us come in; we will find the ladies, and go into it – that is, if Violet is well enough. You, Mr. Boner, must come and ascertain that for us."

So, with his usual artfulness, he secured another witness for the business which he had on hand.

The three gentlemen went into the drawing-room, where Mrs. Mildmay and Violet were seated, the elder lady knitting, the younger, not reading, with a book open before her.

Mr. Thaxton crossed over to her, and, seating himself by her side, said, in the gentle voice with which he always addressed her:

"My dear young lady, do you feel well enough to go into business this morning?"

Violet smiled, faintly.

"I am quite well," she said. "I always am. It is only your kind heart which fears otherwise. What business is it?"

"The business upon which you sent for me," said Mr. Thaxton.

Violet started slightly, and a dim look of pain shadowed her eyes.

"I forgot," she said. "I forget so many things." Then she looked over at the captain. "Captain Murpoint sent for you; he will tell you."

The captain, thus adjured, crossed over to them, and explained.

Mr. Thaxton listened.

"And this locket," he said; "you are anxious to get, my dear?"

"Yes," said Violet, sadly. "I would like to have it. I had forgotten it. Yes, I would like to have it; I must have it."

"Then," said Mr. Thaxton, cheerily, hoping to rouse her to something like interest, "suppose we venture boldly into the ghost's quarters, and find it? What do you say, Mr. Boner? Are you courageous enough to accompany us?"

The doctor smiled an assent.

"Miss Mildmay must come, too," he said, hoping to rouse her, or to awaken some feeling in place of the dull lethargy which had taken hold of her.

"Yes, I will come. Auntie!" and she called to Mrs. Mildmay; "we will go together."

The whole plan, as far as this, had worked admirably, and the captain, offering his arm to Violet, led the way to the closed chamber.

Arrived at the door, Mr. Thaxton tried the handle.

"Have you the key?" he asked.

"Yes," said Violet, and she went to fetch it.

While she was gone, Mr. Boner examined the door.

"We shall want a screwdriver," he said; "the door is screwed up."

A servant was dispatched for the tool, and Mr. Thaxton himself unscrewed the door.

"The screws are quite rusty," he said; "the door has not been opened since the day on which it was first closed thus."

"No," said Violet, "it has never been opened," and, as she spoke, she unlocked it.

There was a few moments of silence, during which the lawyer's acute eyes had taken an inventory of the room and its contents.

"Yes," he said, "the room has evidently not been entered for years. Have you the keys, Miss Mildmay?"

Violet handed him a bunch of keys.

The doctor followed the lawyer into the room, and, drawing forward chairs, dusted them and requested Violet and Mrs. Mildmay to be seated.

"I suppose," said Mr. Thaxton, "that we had better try this old bureau first."

Mr. Thaxton slowly tried a key, and opened a drawer.

It was full of papers, which he merely glanced at and laid aside.

Then he opened the writing-desk portion of the bureau, and found a drawer full of trinkets.

"Here it must be," he said, pointing to the drawer. "Will you look?"

Violet rose, and, with trembling fingers, turned over the jewelry.

"These were my mother's jewels," she said.

"Is the locket in there?" asked Mrs. Mildmay.

"No," said Violet, after a pause, and with evident disappointment. "No, there is no locket here."

"Let us search another drawer," said the lawyer, and he unlocked the next in succession.

This, also, was full of papers, but nothing in the shape of a locket could be found there.

Mr. Boner came forward.

"I am rather familiar with the oddities of this sort of furniture," he said. "Indeed, I have a taste for old bookcases and secretaries. May I see if I can find a secret drawer?"

He passed his hand upon the beading running round the writing desk.

"No," said the doctor; "I am disappointed."

Violet rose.

"I will try," she said, and she passed her white, slender fingers over the ornamental part of the bureau.

As she did so, there was a sudden click, and before them all the secret drawer glided out.

Violet started, then bent down and examined it.

There was only an old, faded piece of parchment.

"There is no locket here," she said. "Only this," and she laid the paper on the table. "Will you please put the papers where they were – and – and – close the room again?"

And she shuddered.

"You are chilled," said the doctor. "There is a draught here from that broken window," and he pointed to the window, in which a pane was broken.

The captain started.

He had quite forgotten that slight evidence of his dark deed.

"A bat or an owl has flown against it," he said. "Let me take you downstairs, Miss Mildmay."

Violet placed her hand upon his arm.

"One moment," said Mr. Thaxton. "With your permission, I will glance at this document; it should be of some importance, so carefully preserved."

Violet made a gesture of assent.

"A lease, or something of the sort," muttered the lawyer, putting on his spectacles and taking up the parchment. "Ah!" he exclaimed, suddenly, looking up and scanning the faces all round with a look of surprise.

"What is the matter?" said Mrs. Mildmay, nervously.

"Have you any idea as to what this paper may be?" he asked Violet.

She shook her head, wearily.

"No," she said. "What is it?"

"This," said the lawyer, tapping the document, "is a codicil to your father's will, signed" – here he glanced at the last page – "by him, legally and in due form."

Violet remained silent.

There was a general expression of surprise.

Mr. Thaxton thought for a moment, with the document in his hand.

Then he said:

"I am glad there were so many present at the finding of the deed, and I think I will take the precaution of sealing it in your presence. May I ring for sealing-wax and paper?"

He rang the long silent bell, and a servant, at his request, brought the required articles.

Then, with due formality, the man of law folded the document and sealed it, using a seal of Violet's for the purpose.

"Now," he said, looking at his watch, "as it is important and only reasonable that we should learn the contents, I should recommend that Mr. Beal, the solicitor at Tenby, be telegraphed for. I would rather that another legal adviser as well as myself were present at the reading.

"I will telegraph at once," said the captain, gravely, as the party passed out of the room, which was locked and screwed up as it had been before.

In a very short time Mr. Beal, the Tenby solicitor, arrived.

Mr. Beal was the exact opposite to Mr. Thaxton in appearance and demeanor. He was astute, but a gentleman of the old legal school, and he had risen from a heavy dinner at the special summons with not a little of ill-humor.

"This is a singular discovery," said Mr. Beal. "Of course, it has considerably surprised you, madam."

Mrs. Mildmay murmured "Yes," and the lawyer, after conferring for a moment, broke the seal.

"It is very short," said Mrs. Beal. "Will you read it, or shall I?"

"You," said Mr. Thaxton.

Mr. Beal opened the parchment, and continued:

"'I, John Mildmay, being in sound bodily and mental health, do declare this to be my true codicil to my last will and testament. I do hereby bequeath to my dear and beloved daughter, Violet Mildmay, the whole of my real and personal estates, with the exception of the legacies mentioned in my will, to hold and to have on these terms; that is to say: That I hereby appoint Howard Murpoint, captain in Her Majesty's army, sole guardian and trustee of my moneys and estates, in trust for Violet Mildmay, who shall have and hold them so long as she remains unmarried or marries with the consent of the said Howard Murpoint; and I hereby will that, in case of Violet Mildmay's death unwedded or her marriage without the consent of the said Howard Murpoint, that all moneys and properties held under my will shall revert to the said Howard Murpoint, with the exception of the bequests and legacies contained in my will; and I bequeath the sum of five thousand pounds, to be raised from the estate, or from my personal assets, to the said Howard Murpoint, to have and to hold for his own use. And I do assign to him the sole charge and care of my beloved daughter, Violet Mildmay, and do beseech him to hold her as his own daughter, and to guard and cherish her as such. The aforesaid are my last bequests and wishes, subject, so far as legacies to servants and relations are contained in my last will and testament. Dated the – day of – , 18 – . As witness my hand.

"'(Signed) John Mildmay.'

"'Witnesses: Henry Matthews, Mary Matthews.'"

Mr. Thaxton looked gravely from one to the other, and examined the document.

"Is it in my brother's handwriting?" asked Mrs. Mildmay.

"Yes, madam," said Mr. Beal. "The late Mr. Mildmay's handwriting, I should say, undoubtedly."

"It is only my duty to state," said Mr. Thaxton, after a moment's silence, "that this document is singularly informal, and that it could be set aside – I do not say that there exists any wish to set it aside – but I say that it would not, in my opinion, hold good in a court of equity."

"Just so," said Mr. Beal, with legal solemnity.

"You say that it is my father's handwriting?" asked Violet.

"I should say so. Yes, certainly," said Mr. Beal.

Mr. Thaxton remained silent.

"What is your opinion, Mr. Thaxton?" asked the captain.

"I have formed none at present," said the lawyer, quietly. "I have not examined the document sufficiently to do so. I know that it was an oft-expressed wish of the late Mr. Mildmay that his daughter should be placed under your guardianship."

"And it is so set down," said Violet, rising with her usual decision. "My father's will is mine!" She held out her hand to the captain, with a sad, gentle smile. "He has assigned me to your charge, and I resign myself. Will you undertake that responsibility? Will you be the guardian of the daughter of your dead friend?"

The captain took the little thin hand and bent over it while his tears – by some miraculous effort – dropped on it.

"I will," he breathed, struggling with his emotion. "I will cherish you, as he says, as if you were my own!"

CHAPTER XXIII

THE EARL'S SECRET

We must return for a while to the kidnaped Leicester.

Gagged and completely powerless, he was hurried along by his captors, through the ruins and down, by a circuitous path, terribly narrow and steep, to the beach.

Though his mouth was gagged, he could still see and hear, and when they had reached the beach he saw the starlike signal which had often puzzled him and heard the sound of muffled oars.

Presently, amidst a dead silence, he was lifted into a boat, which instantly put about toward the open sea.

After some little time he saw the spars of a small schooner looming in the distance.

The boat reached it.

He was lifted from the boat and carried on deck.

There he was instantly surrounded by a crew of desperate and ferocious-looking sailors, half of them Lascars, a few Spanish, and one or two Englishmen.

Job, who had remained on deck, drew aside with the captain, and, after a few minutes' rapid conversation with him, returned to where Leicester lay.

"I am going, Maester Leicester," he said, gravely, and almost sadly. "I be sorry to leave ye like this, but ye wouldn't come to terms and there was naught else to do. I'd advise ye to give in like a wise gentleman; no harm'll come to yer if yer keeps quiet. Good-by, Maester Leicester. I be sorry, mortal sorry, and I'd give a sight of money if it was any one else as we'd had to play the trick on."

So saying, he turned and dropped over into the boat, which instantly rowed away.

Immediately afterward the order was given to crowd all canvas and put the ship about.

While it was being executed the captain of the motley crew strode up to Leicester and unbound his hands and removed the gag.

Leicester sprang to his feet.

"Stranger," he said, with that nasal twang which proclaimed the Yankee, "I guess we'd better understand each other. I'm captain of this yere vessel, and what I say I mean; and no gentleman, whether he's an etarnal Britisher or a free man born under the Stars and Stripes can mean more. You've been consigned to my charge under peculiar circumstances. I'm to take care of you, keep yer safe and sound, and drop you soft as a kitten at a sartain place. Them's my instructions, and them's my intentions."

"I will offer no resistance to this villainous oppression," said Leicester, "on the condition that I am not kept in confinement and am allowed to mingle with and assist your crew."

The Yankee thought a moment and nodded.

"That's fair," he said. "And I agree, with this yere stipulation, that you comes no nonsense with my men, none of yer pitching yarns or tempting to a mutiny."

Leicester smiled bitterly as he glanced at the villainous countenance of the crew.

"I give you that promise," he said.

Leicester took off his coat, waistcoat, boots and stockings and quietly joined the crew at their task of setting the sails.

It was his wisest course of action, for had he been left idle and fettered with nothing to do but to think and dwell upon his position he must have gone mad.

It is a beautiful spring morning, and the London season is, like the time of year, just at its greenest and most verdant state.

This afternoon the Lady's Mile in the park is tolerably full, and the loungers against the railings especially numerous.

At the corner, near the old elm, leans little Tommy Gossip; everybody knows Tommy, and, what is worse, Tommy knows everybody and everything.

"Who's that, my dear boy?" says Tommy, as a green chariot dashes by, in which are seated a stout elderly lady and a companion; "that's the Duchess of St. Clare," and he lifts his hat. "She's the queen of fashion, my boy, and can make or mar a reputation with a word. Jingo! how she paints! Ha!" And here Tommy Gossip brightens up into a state of mild excitement. "Here she is!"

"Who?" asked the lad at his side.

"Who? Why the beauty of the day, the new belle, the Ice Queen, as Madam White called her. By St. George, she grows more beautiful every day – and more pale."

And as he spoke he raised his hat, with an emphasis of reverence and eagerness, to an open carriage which slowly passed by.

In the carriage were seated three ladies.

Two of them were old, but one was superbly beautiful, with a beauty that was not only captivating but absorbing in its expression of pensive, resigned and dignified repose.

"There she goes! Look at the men. There's not a head covered, and there's not a heart, my boy, that would not jump out of its shoes at a smile from her. Who is she? Why she is the beauty and the belle and the mystery of London. Her name is Mildmay, Violet Mildmay. One of the old ladies with her is her aunt, Mrs. Mildmay. The other is a Mrs. Dodson – a relation of the family, some say, others a mother of that singular fellow, Leicester Dodson, Bertie Fairfax's sworn friend, who cut his throat down at some outlandish watering-place. Look, you see those two gentlemen, those riding toward us on horseback? That is Howard Murpoint, Esq."

"Which," said the boy, "the old one?"

"No, the young one; the old gentleman is Mr. Dodson, poor Leicester Dodson's father. No, the young one; watch his face, my lad, for it is the face of a great man. That man can command millions. He is chairman of the great Confederated Credit Company, and director of half a hundred companies besides."

At that moment, while Mr. Gossip was running on to the delight of the lad, a tall, golden-haired man came slowly by.

Tommy Gossip caught his arm as he passed.

"Hello, Bert, back again! Dine with us at the Theseus to-night?"

"I can't, I'm busy," said our old friend. "I'm very sorry. Ah, there is Miss Mildmay," and, dragging himself from the gossip he made his way to the carriage.

Barely two years had elapsed since the time of that tragedy in the little watering-place of Penruddie, and wonderful changes have come about.

Captain Howard Murpoint, no longer known as captain, but as Howard Murpoint, Esq., M. P., is, or is supposed to be, one of the great capitalists of the day.

How he has made his money and found his position is a mystery and a marvel.

And what of Violet? Has she forgotten her love-passion? Has she forgotten her ill-fated lover?

Look at her face, and see if it is the face of a woman that forgets.

None know how much she remembers, how much of the past she still clings to.

To no one, not even to Mrs. Dodson, whom she loves as a daughter loves her mother, does she ever mention that familiar name.

"Leicester" may be graven on her heart, but it never passes her lips.

We shall see her to-night, for there is a ball, the first of the season, at the Duchess of St. Clare's, at which she will be present, in company with the élite, including Bertie Fairfax.

Bertie Fairfax, the favorite of the club and the drawing-room. Still the handsome Apollo Belvedere, but not quite the light-hearted, free, laughing fellow as of old.

He is a celebrated man, an author of great repute, whom men point out to their sons as a modern genius, and to procure whom at their balls and dinners women will do much.

Bertie was fond of a dinner once and loved a ball, but it seems now as if "man delighted him not, nor woman either," at least not women.

He will always go to a ball or a dinner if he is sure that Lady Ethel Lackland will be present.

For the rest, he spends his life, writing hard, in those very set of chambers which his dear friend Leicester shared with him, and which his spirit still visits.

There is to be a crowd at Clare House to-night, and Bertie will see Ethel – perhaps speak to her.

As he leans against the Mildmay's carriage he tells Violet that he will be there, and he knows by the gentle smile with which she looks down at him that she knows why.

"I am so glad," she says. "Will you look out for me? Lady Boisdale will not be there till eleven."

There is indeed a crowd at Clare House. The huge staircases are one great crush, the saloons a scene of warfare.

To dance is almost impossible, save to those young and ardent votaries of Terpsichore who are willing to whirl in the mazy waltz reckless of their own dresses and other people's toes.

Still, however, there is breathing and moving room in some of the corridors, and thither many have taken refuge.

Violet dances, and she sings, and laughs sometimes, but not as she did of old.

The earl and Howard Murpoint were alone in a corner.