The Spider and the Fly. Garvice Charles
am happy to have been of some slight service to you, Miss Mildmay," he said, coldly, with a careless but distant bow; then he turned and walked slowly down the steep path.
Violet, looking down after him until his bare head had dropped slowly out of sight, then said, audibly:
"Well, that is pride now; but it is proper pride, I think," smiled rather sadly, and returned homeward.
"Aunt!" she said, coming into the drawing-room just before dinner was served, and more quietly than was her wont, "I've had an adventure on the cliffs, startling and melodramatic. My sunshade blew over, and a gentleman was polite enough to go after it."
"My dear!" exclaimed the old lady, thinking it one of her darling's jokes.
"It's true, aunt. A stranger risked his neck – precious, no doubt, to himself and family – for a fifteen-and-six-penny sunshade. Imprudent, but heroic, was it not?"
"Very good and kind, but imprudent, as you say, my dear. Young men are so rash!"
"This one was not," said Violet, picking at the costly fringe on her dress; "he was as calm and cool as – as – a cucumber."
"A stranger," said Mrs. Mildmay, smiling. "Whom can it be, I wonder? Somebody staying at the Wenningfords, no doubt."
"Aunt!" said Violet; then suddenly changing the subject, "do not the vicar and his wife dine with us on Saturday?"
"Yes, my dear, and I have asked Mr. and Mrs. Giles. The vicar is a dear, good man, but – "
"Rather a bore," put in Violet, decidedly.
Mrs. Mildmay looked shocked, but Violet, without waiting for a reprimand, went on, with slow and most unusual gravity:
"Do you know, aunt, I should like to ask this heroic gentleman of mine?"
"A perfect stranger, my dear!" said Mrs. Mildmay, with a smile.
"Yes, a perfect stranger, but a gentleman. Perfect strangers who are gentlemen, and heroic enough to risk their lives for one's sunshade, are people worth knowing. Aunt, ask him. He is tall, rather dark, goldeny-brown, you know, nice eyes, a yellow mustache and – I think that's all I remember – I was going to mention the smile but, of course, he may not always wear that."
"I don't remember him, my dear," said Mrs. Mildmay. "But if you really want to know him I'll try and find out who he is from the servants."
"And ask him to dinner?" urged Violet.
Mrs. Mildmay looked bewildered and puzzled.
"Yes, my dear, if you wish it, and he really belongs to the Wenningfords."
"I do wish it, aunt," said Violet. "But he doesn't belong to the Wenningfords. He belongs to the Cedars, and is no other than Mr. Leicester Dodson, the tallow melter's son!"
It is Saturday evening, and Mrs. Mildmay's little dinner is in progress.
There are the vicar and his wife, Mr. and Mrs. Giles from the Ferns, and, wonderful to say, the Dodsons from the Cedars.
Miss Violet had, as usual, had her way with her aristocratic aunt, and the Dodsons are here.
For a whole day Mrs. Mildmay, with tears in her eyes, declared that she would not call at the Cedars; and it was not until Violet had, with greater firmness, vowed that she would go to the Cedars by herself rather than not at all, that the good old lady had given in.
And when they had called, and Mrs. Dodson had accepted the invitation for herself and two menfolk, Violet had still further worried her aunt by declaring that the Dodsons, though they were tallow melters, were not snobs, and that for her part she saw nothing to find fault with in Mrs. Dodson save, perhaps, rather a redundancy of color in her morning cap.
"Which, my dear aunt," Violet said, in conclusion, "is an error in taste not confined to tallow chandlers."
So there they are. Mr. Dodson, the father, a quiet, mild-eyed old gentleman, with a partiality for clear soup; Mrs. Dodson, a smiling, homely looking lady, with a devouring admiration for her son; and the son, Mr. Leicester himself, with no particularly prominent virtues or vices save that of silence.
He had scarcely spoken a word during the soup and the fish, and Violet had almost made up her mind that he was too proud and unforgiving, and was prepared to dislike him, when suddenly he, looking across the table, met her questioning glance, and with a smile dispelled his gravity or ill humor as a mist evaporates before the midday sun, broke out into conversation.
Then Violet understands that he is not only heroic but amusing, that he is handsomer even than she had thought him, and that, above all, his manner, speech, and bearing are those of a perfect gentleman.
The entrées are passed round and partaken of.
Mr. Leicester is describing the Vicani Pass to Miss Mildmay, and interesting her deeply therein.
Mrs. Dodson is comparing notes with Mrs. Mildmay, and Mr. Dodson is lost in the beauties of a curried fowl, when the butler, a model of solemn propriety, is approached by a footman, with whom he confers in stately, but rather disturbed asides.
"What is it, James?" asks Mrs. Mildmay, who has noticed the conference.
"If you please, ma'am, a gentleman – "
But all explanation is rendered unnecessary by the opening of the door, and the entrance of another servant, who says, with that clear sing-song, proper for the occasion:
"Captain Howard Murpoint!" and, stepping aside, allows a tall, dark gentleman to pass through the doorway.
Conversation immediately ceases.
Dumbly, hostess and guests regard the newcomer; dumbly still, Mrs. Mildmay rises from her chair.
"Captain Murpoint!" she repeats.
"Captain Murpoint!" suddenly echoes Violet, whose quick, thoughtful eyes have been scanning every feature of the dark, pale face from its piercing, black eye to the scar on its left cheek, and its black mustache.
"Captain Murpoint!" she repeats, "my father's dearest friend!"
Captain Murpoint came forward, with a smile evidently struggling against some emotion, and met her halfway, taking her outstretched hands, and, looking with what may well pass for tear-dimmed eyes into her pure, youthful face.
"And you are John Mildmay's daughter!" he exclaims, in a tremulous voice. "Poor Jack, poor Jack!" and evidently overcome by the likeness or some memory of the past, Captain Murpoint, after wringing the girl's slight hand, conveys his own to his eyes and – weeps!
CHAPTER III
THE RETURNED CAPTIVE
In the few minutes consumed by Captain Murpoint in mastering the emotion which the sight of his old friend's daughter had produced, Mrs. Mildmay had recovered from her astonishment, and, with her well-bred composure still a little shaken, came forward, with outstretched hand.
"And is it, indeed, poor John's old friend, Captain Murpoint?" she said, with a little smile.
"It is, indeed," said the captain, taking her hand, and bending over it with graceful empressement. "Alas, that I should return to find his place empty! Yet scarcely empty, for here is a beautiful reflection of my dear friend's face and form."
And he turned his eyes with affectionate admiration upon Violet again.
Mrs. Mildmay sighed, then quickly called his attention to her guests.
"We have got half through dinner, Captain Murpoint, as you see, but I am sure my friends will not mind a little extension of the meal, while fresh courses are prepared. Let me introduce you. Mrs. Dodson, this is an old friend of Violet's father, consequently a dear friend of ours, Captain Murpoint."
The captain's quick, black eyes rested for a moment upon her and Mrs. Dodson's physiognomies while the introduction was being made; as quickly passed over Mr. and Mrs. Giles' and the vicar's, but rested a little longer when Mr. Leicester's turn came, and grew more searching in their expression as they met the calm regard of the young man.
But the keenness of the scrutiny –