THE SPIDER WEAVES HIS WEB.
"A fearful sign stands in thy house of life--
An enemy--a fiend lurks close behind
The radiance of thy planet. Oh, be warned!"
--COLERIDGE.
"And now a darker hour ascends."--MARMION.
A week after the event recorded in the last chapter Archie went back to
the city. Before he went, he had obtained a promise from Gipsy--who had
grown strangely still and gentle since the death of Danvers--to become
his wife immediately upon his return; but, with her usual eccentricity,
she refused to allow him to make their engagement public.
"Time enough by and by," was still her answer; and Archie was forced to
be content.
Gipsy was, for a while, sad and quiet, but both were foreign to her
character; and, with the natural buoyancy of youth, she shook off her
gloom, and soon once more her merry laugh made music through the old
house.
Doctor Nicholas Wiseman sometimes made his appearance at Sunset Hall of
late. Lizzie was suffering from a low fever; and as he was the only
physician in St. Mark's, he was called in.
As he sat one day in the parlor at luncheon with the squire, Gipsy came
tripping along with her usual elastic step, and touching her hat
gallantly to the gentlemen, ran up to her own room. The squire's eyes
followed her with a look of fond pride.
"Did you ever see such another charming little vixen?" he asked, turning
to the doctor.
"Miss Gower's certainly an extraordinary young lady," said the doctor,
dryly. "I have often been surprised, Squire Erliston, that you should
treat your housekeeper's niece as one of your own family."
"She's not my housekeeper's niece," blurted out the squire; "she
was----"
He paused, suddenly recollecting that the discovery of Gipsy was a
secret.
"She was what?" said the doctor, fixing his keen eyes on the old man's
face.
"Well, hang it, Wiseman, I suppose it makes no difference whether I tell
_you_ or not. Gipsy is not Mrs. Gower's niece: she is a foundling."
"Yes," said the doctor, pricking up his ears.
"Yes, last Christmas Eve, just seventeen years ago, Mrs. Gower,
returning from A----, found Gipsy lying on the beach, near the south end
of the city."
Long habit had given Dr. Wiseman full control over his emotions, but now
the blood rushed in a purple tide to his sallow face, as he leaped from
his chair and fairly shouted:
"_What!_"
"Eh? Lord bless the man!--what's the matter?" said the squire, staring
at him until his little fat eyes seemed ready to burst from their
sockets.
"What did you say?--found her on the beach on Christmas Eve, seventeen
years ago?" said the doctor, seizing him fiercely by the arm, and
glaring upon him with his yellow eyes.
"Yes, I said so. What in the name of all the demons is the matter with
you?" roared the squire, shaking him off. "What do _you_ know about it?"
"Nothing! nothing! nothing!" replied the doctor, remembering himself,
and sinking back in his chair. "Pray, go on."
The squire eyed him suspiciously.
"My dear sir," said the doctor, every trace of emotion now passed away,
"forgive my violence. But, really, the story seemed so improbable----"
"Improbable or not, sir," interrupted the squire, angry at being
doubted, "it's true as Gospel. It was a snowy, unpleasant night. Mrs.
Gower and Jupiter were returning from the city, and took the shore road
in preference to going over the hills. As they went along, Mrs. Gower
was forced to get out on account of the dangerous road; and hearing a
child cry, she stooped down, and found Gipsy lying wrapped up in a
shawl, in the sand. Well, sir, _my_ housekeeper, as a matter of
course--being a humane woman--brought the child (which could not have
been a week old) home, and gave it her name. And _that_, sir, is the
history of Gipsy Gower, let it seem ever so improbable."
Like lightning there flashed across the mind of the doctor the
recollection of the advancing sleigh-bells which had startled him from
the beach. This, then, was the secret of her disappearance! This, then,
was the child of Esther Erliston and Alfred Oranmore! This wild,
untamed, daring elf was the heiress, in her mother's right, of all the
broad lands of the Erlistons. She had been brought up as a dependent in
the house of which she was the rightful heiress: and the squire dreamed
not that his "monkey" was his grandchild!
Thoughts like these flashed like lightning through the mind of Dr.
Wiseman. The sudden, startling discovery bewildered him; he felt unequal
to the task of conversing. And making some excuse, he arose abruptly,
entered his gig, and letting the reins fall on his horse's neck, allowed
him to make the best of his way home; while, with his head dropped on
his breast, he pondered on the strange disclosure he had just heard.
No one living, it was evident, knew who she was, save himself. What
would old Dame Oranmore say when she heard it? Wretch as he was, he
found himself forced to acknowledge the hand of a ruling Providence in
all this. The child who had been cast out to die had been nurtured in
the home that was hers by right. By _his_ hand the mother had perished;
yet the heroism of the daughter had preserved his worthless life.
"What use shall I make of this discovery?" he mused, as he rode along.
"How can I turn it to my own advantage? If I wish it, I can find little
difficulty in convincing the world that she is the rightful heiress of
Mount Sunset, instead of Louis Oranmore. But how to do it, without
implicating myself--that's the question. There was no witness to the
death-bed scene of Esther Erliston; and I can assert that Madam Oranmore
caused me to remove the child, without mentioning the mother at all. I
can also easily feign some excuse for leaving her in the snow--talk
about my remorse and anguish at finding her gone, and all that. Now, if
I could only get this hare-brained girl securely in my power, in such a
way as to make her money the price of her freedom, I would not hesitate
one moment about proclaiming it all. But how to get her in my power--she
is keen and wide-awake, with all her madness, and not half so easily
duped as most girls of her age. Let me think!"
His head fell lower, his claw-like hands opened and shut as though
clutching some one, his brows knit in a hard knot, and his eyes seemed
burning holes in the ground, with their wicked, immovable gaze.
At last, his mind seemed to be made up. Lifting his head, he said, with
calm, grim determination:
"Yes, my mind is made up; that--girl--shall--be--my--WIFE!"
Again he paused. His project, when repeated aloud, seemed so impossible
to accomplish that it almost startled him.
"It may be difficult to bring about," he said, as if in answer to his
momentary hesitation. "No doubt it will; but, nevertheless, it shall, it
will, it _must_ be done! Once her husband, and I shall have a legal
right to everything she possesses. The world need not know I have made
the discovery until after our marriage; it shall think it is for love I
marry her. Love!--ha, ha, ha! Just fancy Dr. Wiseman, at the age of
fifty-nine, falling in love with a chit of a girl of seventeen! Well, I
shall set my wits to work; and if I fail to accomplish it, it will be
the first time I have ever failed in aught I have undertaken. She calls
me a spider; let her take care lest she be caught--lest her bright wings
are imprisoned in the web I will weave. Her opposition will be fierce
and firm; and, if I have studied her aright, she can only be conquered
through those she loves. That she loves that whipper-snapper of a nephew
of mine, I have long known; and yet that very love shall make her
become my wife. And so my bright little Gipsy Gower--or Gipsy
Oranmore--from this day forth you are mine!"
* * * * *
"Look here, aunty," said Gipsy, following Mrs. Gower, as she wandered
through the house, brush in hand, "what brings that old spider here so
often of late? He and Guardy appear to be as thick as two
pickpockets--though, a few years ago, Guardy detested the sight of him.
They are for everlasting closeted together, plotting something. Now,
aunty, it looks suspicious, don't it?"
"I am afraid Dr. Wiseman is drawing your guardian into some rash
speculation," said Mrs. Gower. "The squire is always muttering about
'stocks,' and 'interest,' and such things. I am afraid the doctor is
using him for his own purposes. Heaven forgive me if I wrong him!"
"Wrong him! I tell you, aunty, that Spider's a regular snake. I wouldn't
trust him as far as I could see him. He has a way of looking at me that
I don't half like. Whenever I'm in the room he stares and stares at me,
as if I were some natural curiosity. Perhaps he's falling in love with
me. There! I tell you what, aunty--I've just hit the right thing in the
middle--he's meditating whether or not he'll raise me to the dignity of
Mrs. Spider Wiseman--I know he is!" exclaimed Gipsy, laughing, little
dreaming how near she had stumbled to the truth.
"Nonsense, child. A man of Dr. Wiseman's age and habits has little
thought of taking a wife, much less such a wild one as you. I hope it
may all turn out well, though I have my doubts."
"So have I," said Gipsy; "and I'm going to keep a bright lookout for
breakers ahead. If that yellow old ogre tries to bamboozle poor, dear,
simple Guardy, he'll find himself in a worse scrape than when I saved
him from drowning. I know I was born to be a knight-errant, and protect
innocent old men, and astonish the world generally. And now I must run
up stairs, and see if I can do anything for poor little Aunt Liz."
While Gipsy was conversing with Mrs. Gower, a dialogue of a different
nature was going on in the parlor betwixt the squire and the doctor.
Artfully had Dr. Wiseman's plans been laid, and skillfully were they
executed. With his oily, persuasive words, and flattering tongue, he had
got the squire completely and irrecoverably in his power, in order that
the hand of his ward might be the price of his freedom.
Dr. Wiseman knew the squire always had a mania for speculating. Taking
advantage of this, he entrapped him into investing in some mad scheme,
which failed, as the doctor well knew it would, leaving the squire
hopelessly in debt. Of all his creditors he owed the doctor himself the
most; for that obliging man had insisted on lending him large sums of
ready money. And now the time of payment was at hand, and where should
he obtain the money?
Squire Erliston was rich--that is, the estate of Mount Sunset was in
itself a princely fortune; but this was to descend to his grandson; and
the squire had too much pride to allow it to go to him burdened with
debt. Neither could he mortgage any part of it to pay off the debt. He
felt that his heir ought not to suffer for his own madness. Besides, he
did not wish his grandson to know how egregiously he had allowed himself
to be duped by a set of sharpers. Therefore he now sat listening to the
doctor, half-stupefied at learning the extent of his losses--the amount
of debts which he had no means of paying; while the doctor condoled with
him outwardly, and chuckled inwardly at the success of his plans.
"Moore, to whom you are indebted to the amount of twenty thousand
dollars, even goes so far as to threaten law proceedings if he is not
immediately paid," said the doctor, continuing the conversation.
The squire groaned.
"I told him it might not be convenient for you to meet so many heavy
liabilities at once; but he would not listen to reason--said he would
give you a week to deliberate, and if at the end of that time the money
was not forthcoming, your _rascality_, as he termed it, should be openly
proclaimed to the world, and the law would force you to pay."
"Oh, Lord!" said the squire, writhing inwardly.
"His intention, without doubt, is to obtain a claim on Mount Sunset;
and, your other creditors joining him, the whole estate will finally
become theirs."
"Never!" shouted the squire, leaping fiercely to his feet. "I will shoot
every villain among them first! Mount Sunset has been in our family for
years, and no gang of swindlers shall ever possess it."
"My dear sir," said the doctor, soothingly, "do not be excited. It is
useless, and will only make matters worse. You see you are completely in
their power, and there is no possible hope of escape. In spite of all
you can do, I fear Mount Sunset will be theirs, and you and your family
will be turned out upon the world, comparatively speaking, beggars."
The unhappy squire sank back in his chair; and, covering his face with
his hands, writhed and groaned in mental torture.
"Your only course now," continued the merciless doctor, fixing his
snake-like eyes with lurking triumph on his victim, "is to write to your
grandson, confess all to him, and bring him home. He is an artist of
some note, they say. Most probably, therefore, he will be able to
support you--though it may seem strange to him first to work for his
living."
"Work for his living!" shouted the squire, maddened by the words. "Louis
Oranmore work for his living! No, sir! he has not sunk so low as that
yet. If need be, he has the property of his grandmother Oranmore still
remaining."
"The property of Mrs. Oranmore will not be his until her death, which
may not be this ten years yet. She is hard and penurious, and would
hardly give him a guinea to keep him from starving. Besides, would
_you_, Squire Erliston, live on the bounty of Mrs. Oranmore?" said the
doctor, with a sarcastic sneer.
"No, sir; I would die of starvation first!" replied the squire, almost
fiercely. "But she, or some one else, might lend me the money to pay off
these accursed debts."
"Not on such security as you would give, Squire Erliston," said the
doctor, calmly. "In fact, my dear sir, it is useless to think of
escaping your fate. Mount Sunset _must_ be given up to satisfy these
men!"
"Oh, fool! fool! fool!--miserable old fool that I was, to allow myself
to be so wretchedly duped!" groaned the squire, in bitter anguish and
remorse. "Better for me had I never been born, than that such disgrace
should be mine in my old age! And Louis!--poor Louis! But I will never
see him again. If Mount Sunset be taken from me it will break my heart.
Every tree and picture about the old place is hallowed by the memory of
the past; and now that I should lose it through my own blind, miserable
folly! Oh! woe is me!" And, burying his great head in his hands, the
unhappy old man actually sobbed outright.
Now had the hour of Dr. Wiseman's triumph come; now was the time to make
his daring proposal. Awhile he sat gloating over the agonies of his
victim; and then, in slow, deliberate tones, he said:
"But in all this darkness, Squire Erliston, there still remains one ray
of light--_one_ solitary hope. What would you do if I were to offer to
cancel what you owe me, to pay off all your other debts, and free you
once more?"
"Do!" exclaimed the squire, leaping in his excitement from the chair.
"_Do_, did you say? I tell you, Dr. Wiseman, there is nothing under
heaven I would _not_ do. But you--you only mock me by these words."
"I do not, Squire Erliston. On one condition your debts shall every one
be paid, and Mount Sunset still remain yours."
"And that condition! For Heaven's sake name it!" cried the squire, half
maddened by excitement.
"Will you agree to it?"
"Yes, though you should even ask my life!"
"_That_ would be of little service to me," said the doctor, with a dry
smile. "No; I ask something much easier."
"For Heaven's sake name it!" exclaimed the squire, wildly.
"It is----"
"What?"
"_The hand of your ward, Gipsy Gower._"
The squire stood like one transfixed with amazement, his eyes ready to
shoot from his head with surprise and consternation. And calmly before
him sat the doctor, his leathern countenance as expressionless as ever.
"_What_ did you say?" said the squire, at length, as though doubting the
evidence of his senses.
"My words were plainly spoken. I will free you from all your debts on
condition that you bestow upon me in marriage the hand of your young
ward, Gipsy Gower."
"But--Lord bless me! my _dear_ sir, what in the world can _you_ want
with that chit of a child--that mad girl of the mountains--for a wife?"
exclaimed the squire, still aghast.
"I _want_ her, let that suffice," said the doctor, with a frown. "Do you
agree to this proposal?"
"Why, _I'm_ willing enough, but _she_--oh, Dr. Wiseman, the thing is
hopeless--she'd never consent in this world. She can be as obstinate as
a little mule when she likes. 'When a woman won't, she won't, and
there's the end on't,' as Solomon says."
"You must make her."
"Me! Why, she doesn't mind _me_----"
"Squire Erliston," angrily broke in the doctor, "listen to me; either
you lose Mount Sunset and are publicly disgraced, or you will compel
this girl to marry me. Do you hear?"
"There! there! don't be hasty! I'll do what I can. It won't be my fault
if she don't. But who'd ever think of _you_ wanting to marry little
Gipsy. Well, well, well, 'Wonders will never cease,' as Solomon says."
"You can explain the matter to her--urge her by her gratitude, her love
for you, to consent," said the doctor; "try the sentimental
dodge--commands in this case will be worse than useless. Enlist the
women on your side; and above all things keep it a profound secret from
Archibald Rivers and Louis Oranmore. If none of your arguments move her,
I have still another in reserve that I know will clinch the business.
Give her no rest, day or night, until she consents; and if she complains
of cruelty, and all that, don't mind her. All girls are silly; and she,
being half-crazy, as she is, it seems to me the greatest favor you can
do her is to marry her to a man of sense and experience like myself.
Keep in mind what you lose by her refusal, and what you gain by her
consent. If she will not marry me, I will add my claims to those of your
other creditors, and no earthly power will be able to save you from
total ruin," said the doctor, with grim, iron determination.
"She shall consent! she shall--she _must_!" said the squire, startled by
his last threat; "she shall be your wife, that is settled. I think I can
manage her, though it _will_ be a desperate struggle."
"I shall force myself into her presence as little as possible," said the
doctor, calmly; "she has no particular love for me as yet, and it will
not help on my case. Mind, I shall expect you will use all your
energies, for our marriage must take place in a month at farthest," said
the doctor, as he arose, and, with a last expressive glance at his
victim, withdrew.