The Spider and the Fly. Garvice Charles
am so sorry!" said Leicester, and his voice, naturally so cold and grave, grew wonderfully gentle and anxious. "I did not mean to hurt you."
"No, no; it's nothing," Violet said, coloring with shame at her weakness. "I am really very grateful. You did not hurt me. May I keep the reins a little longer? I don't deserve to after such a silly mistake."
"Yes," he said, "there is a bit of straight road now."
He seemed so genuinely kind that Violet could not refrain from thanking him again.
"You are very good-natured, Mr. Dodson," she said. "I might have thought you proud if I had judged by first impressions."
"Why?" he asked.
"Why?" she repeated. "Are you sure that I shall not offend you?"
"Quite," he said, with a short laugh. "Pray, go on."
"Well, then, if you remember how abruptly you turned away from me that morning when you so foolishly and recklessly, but so heroically, risked your life for my paltry sunshade? You actually refused to shake hands," and she laughed, "and turned away with the cut direct."
He laughed, and looked up at her with a half-amused smile.
"I did, did I?" he said. "Come, I will be candid. I had judged you, not by first impressions, but by hearsay. The unkind things said of one always get repeated – one's friends always see to that. And I have heard some of the mighty civil things your aunt, and perhaps you had said of tallow chandlers in general, and ourselves and the Cedars in particular."
Violet crimsoned, and whipped Dot almost angrily for very shame.
"And," he exclaimed, laughing again, "I thought when you told me your name, 'Well, she shan't be compelled to know me because I picked up her sunshade,' and so I took myself off with all humility."
"Some one's darling sin is the pride that apes humility," answered Violet, with an arch smile.
"Exactly," said Mr. Leicester, "I did not choose that the acquaintanceship should be one of my commencing. If you chose to look down with contempt upon tallow melters – "
Violet stopped him, with a look almost of pain.
"You are unjust," she said, in a low voice. "And you forget that I never thought less of you for what you were. You are not a tallow melter – and – and – oh, I do not know what to say, save that I am not guilty of the meanness you lay to my charge."
"Forgive me," he said, gently and earnestly. "I was only half serious. I did not think so really. But," he added, laughing, "it is a fact that we made our money from tallow, and there's no getting over it. Ah! here is Captain Murpoint," he broke off, as the captain's tall and powerful figure stepped out on to the path beside the drive.
So sudden was his appearance, seeming to grow out of her thoughts, as it were, that Violet, who was by no means a nervous or sentimental young lady, half started, and certainly paled.
In starting, she tugged the reins.
Dot and Spot took the jerk as an excuse for a little freshness, and started off, with their heads down viciously.
Leicester, who had noticed her start, and the sudden pallor, caught hold of her hand, and soon pulled the sprightly ponies into a trot again.
But Violet's hands and his had met once more, and the contact had produced a strange thrill, which was as wonderful as that feeling which they had been speaking of, but it was certainly not one of antipathy.
Leicester stepped out, handed Violet to the steps; then, after patting the ponies, held out his hand.
"Will you not come in?" said Violet.
"No, thank you. It is nearly dinner time. I hope you are not tired."
"No," said Violet, giving him her hand, which he kept while she finished speaking. "No, and I am very much obliged. Good-by."
"Good-by," he said, and perhaps unconsciously he pressed her little hand as he released it.
Then he turned, and Violet, watching him, saw him stand for a moment to exchange a good-day with Captain Murpoint, then stride on.
It was nearly dinner time, as he had said, and he sauntered up to his room, and put himself into the hands of his valet with his usual indolence.
Then he came down to dinner, and ate it with rather more than his usual gravity, talking little, save to his mother, to whom he was always the perfection of knightly courtesy.
Once only he seemed cold, and that was when she said, "Leicester, we have been talking of returning the Mildmays' dinner party. What day would you like me to ask them?" for she always consulted her darling son on every matter, important or trifling.
"I do not care," he said; "I am going to town to-morrow, and I may not return for a week or two. You might ask them next week."
"Going to town," said Mrs. Dodson, ruefully. "Why my dear Leicester, you said you would stay a month with us!"
"I must go to-morrow, mother," he said, and she knew that it was useless to contend against the fiat when pronounced in that calm, cold tone.
After dinner he strolled out on to the cliffs and lit a cigar.
"Yes," he muttered, looking at the sea, lying like a great opal in the low sunset. "I will go to town; I am better there out of mischief. She is very pretty – beautiful, I think, if any woman's face did deserve the word; and there is something about her – is it her voice, or her look, or that swift turn of the head? – which moves me as never voice or look or gesture of woman moved me yet. She is a beautiful, bewitching snare, and, as I have no desire to be snared, as I am too selfish, too cynical, too philosophical to make any woman happy, I will fly. Yes, I will go to town before the danger grows greater." And, as to resolve and perform were nearly one with Mr. Leicester Dodson, to town he went, and Violet saw his dogcart rattling down to Burfield from her bedroom window.
He went to town, but, as we have seen, he could not be happy, contented, or even satisfied, and before the fortnight had passed, he was on his way back to Penruddie, with Bertie Fairfax accompanying him.
Fate stands at the crossroads of life and beckons with inexorable finger, and man, though he strive against the stern command and struggles to avoid that particular path up which the great fate beckons him, must yield at last and walk on to his happiness or his doom.
Fate beckons you, Leicester Dodson, and, though you proudly set your face against its decree, you cannot avoid the inevitable.
CHAPTER VIII
SYMPATHY OR ANTIPATHY?
The captain, as he opened his bedroom window, saw Mr. Leicester Dodson's departure, and was rather surprised.
Captain Murpoint was too shrewd an observer of human nature not to have noticed Mr. Leicester's evident partiality for Miss Violet's society, and, although it would seem to be antagonistic to the captain's plans that the young man should be hanging about the house, yet, in reality, he was quite willing that Violet's attention should be absorbed by handsome Mr. Leicester, or any one else, so that it was drawn for the present from Captain Murpoint.
He could not understand Mr. Leicester's sudden flight, and Mr. Starling, when interrogated, could not very much enlighten him.
Jem or "Starling," as the captain now called him, entered his master's bedroom with the water for the bath, and found the captain still in bed, but with his head resting on one strong hand, and his face turned dreamily to the window.
Starling grunted his morning salutation, and the captain nodded.
"Go to the window," he said, "and tell me if that young Dodson's dogcart has come back; if I have calculated correctly, it has just had about time enough to get to the station and back."
"Here it comes, captain."
"Without Mr. Leicester?"
"Without Mr. Leicester," replied Starling.
"Then he has gone to town," said the captain, springing out of bed and stretching himself thoughtfully. "Gone to town! What the deuce has he gone to town for?"
"That's