THE SPIDER AND THE FLY
How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds
Makes ill deeds done!
He is a wise liar who makes use of the truth at times. Seymour Michael
was clever enough to stay his fantastic tongue in his further explanation
to Arthur Agar.
“It is a long story,” he said, “and in order to fully state the case to
you I must go into some matters of which perhaps you have heard little.
Do you happen to be anything of a politician? Are you, I mean, interested
in foreign affairs?”
Arthur confessed that he knew nothing of foreign affairs, a fact of which
Michael had become fully aware on entering the narrow-minded,
characteristic room.
“You perhaps know,” Seymour Michael went on, in a tone of which the
sarcasm was lost upon its victim, “that Russia is living in hopes of some
day possessing India?”
“Oh--ah--yes!”
Arthur Agar was obviously not at all interested. There were so many
things of a similar nature to be remembered--things which did not really
interest him--and those nearer home had precedence in his mind. He knew,
for instance, that Trinity Hall lived in hopes of heading the river that
year, and that the Narcissus Club were going to give a narcissus-coloured
dance in May week, at which entertainment even the jellies were to be
yellow.
The General now launched into an explanation, couched carefully in
language suitable to his hearer's limited knowledge of the facts.
“Russia,” he said, “is now so large that, unless they make it larger
still and get tropical resources to draw upon, it will fall to pieces.
They want India. Some day there will be a fight, a very large fight. But
not yet. In the meantime it is a question of learning every inch of that
country where the battle-fields will be, and every thought in the minds
of those men who will look on at the fight. I--”
He paused, recollecting that the fame of his own name might have
penetrated even to this out-of-the-way spot. “Some of us have been at
this all our lives. Over there, on the Frontier, there are certain
numbers of us, on both sides, playing a very deep game. Your brother is
one of the players, a prominent man on the field; a half-back, one might
call him.”
There was a strong temptation to continue the allegory--to say that he
himself was goal-keeper; but Seymour Michael was one of the few men who
can in need make even their own vanity subservient to convenience.
“We watch each other,” he went on, “like cats. We always know where the
others are, and what they are doing. Your brother was one of the most
closely watched by the other side. For some time we have been aware of an
influence at work with a tribe of Hillmen who have hitherto been friendly
to us, and we have not been able to find what this influence is, or how
it is brought to bear upon them. We were so closely watched that we could
not penetrate to the affected country. But at last the chance came. Your
brother was gazetted as killed. We allowed the report to remain
uncontradicted. We let the other side think that Jem Agar was dead, and
therefore incapable of doing any more harm, and now he has gone up into
that country to find out what they are after.”
Arthur nodded.
“I see,” he said. He was rather vague about it all, and had not quite
realised yet that this was all true, that this man whom he still hated
and distrusted without any apparent reason was real and living, speaking
to him in real waking life and not in a dream. Moreover, he had not
nearly realised that Jem was alive. The evidence of his own black
clothes, of the sombre-edged stationery, of his mourning habit of life
this term, was too strong upon a mind like his to be suddenly thrown
aside. Perhaps he had discovered that the consolation of inheritance was
greater than was at first apparent. In six weeks he had slipped very
comfortably into Jem's shoes, and it seemed only right and proper that
his life should have a background of the noble proportions of Stagholme.
Also, now Stagholme meant Dora; for he was worldly-wise enough to know
that his own personal value in the world's estimation had undergone a
great change in six short weeks. He knew that the man with the money
usually wins.
It would almost seem that Seymour Michael divined his thoughts, at least
in part.
“There are two reasons,” he went on to say, “why absolute secrecy is
necessary; first, for Agar's own sake. He is, of course, in disguise. No
one suspects that he is there, and that is his only safeguard in the
country where he is. Secondly--but I want your whole attention, please.”
“Yes, I am listening.”
Seymour Michael leant forward and emphasised his remark by tapping on the
table with his gloved finger.
“The mission is so extremely dangerous that it comes almost to the same
thing.”
“What do you mean?” inquired Arthur Agar, whose gentle intellect only
compassed subtleties of the drawing-room type.
“I mean that Jem Agar is almost as good as a dead man, although he was
not killed at Pregalla.”
The man who had wept in this same room six weeks before looked up with a
gleam of something very like hope in his troubled eyes. Such is the power
of love. For Arthur Agar had not been ignorant of the probability that in
his step-brother, once dead but now living, he had had a rival. Sister
Cecilia had seen to that.
“But when shall we know? When will he come back?” inquired he. And
Seymour Michael, the subtle, began to see his way more clearly.
“Certainly not for six months, probably not for nine.”
One may take it that no man is sent into the world a ready-made
scoundrel. It all depends upon the circumstances of life. No one is safe
right up to the end, and events may combine to make the very best of us
into that thing which the world calls a villain.
Arthur Agar, all inexperienced, weak, hereditarily handicapped, suddenly
found himself on the balance. And the scales were held, not by the hand
of Justice, blind and clement, but by Seymour Michael, very open-eyed,
with a keen watchfulness for his own purpose; biassed; unscrupulous. It
must be admitted that circumstances were against Arthur Agar.
“There is nothing to be done,” added Seymour Michael, with a smile which
his companion could not be expected to fathom, “but to keep very quiet,
and to make the best of your opportunities while you occupy the position
of heir.”
Arthur smiled in a sickly way. He felt suddenly as if this man could see
right through him, and all the while he hated him. Seymour Michael meant
“debts”--it was only natural that one of his race should think of money
before all things--Arthur's thoughts were fixed on Dora. And guiltily he
imagined himself to be detected.
“You will be doing no harm to Jem,” said the tempter, with his pleasant
laugh. “You are called upon to act the part well for his sake.”
“Ye-es, I suppose I am,” answered Arthur. “And I must tell no one?”
“Absolutely no one.”
Despite his credulous nature, Arthur Agar was singularly suspicious on
this occasion.
“Are these Jem's own instructions?” he asked.
“His own instructions,” replied Seymour Michael callously.
Arthur paused in deep reflection. It was evident, he argued to himself,
that Jem could not have cared for Dora, or he would never have left her
in ignorance of the truth. If, therefore, during Jem's absence, he could
win Dora for himself, he could not in any way be accused of wronging his
step-brother. And we all know that a conscience which argues with itself
is lost.
“To make things easier for us both,” pursued Seymour Michael, “I propose
that this interview remain a strict secret between ourselves, and for
that purpose I have suppressed my own name. It is a fairly well-known
name. I may mention that in guarantee of good faith. As, however, you do
not know me, it will be easier for you to suppress the fact that we have
ever met.”
Arthur almost laughed at these last words. It seemed as if he had known
this man all his life--as if his whole existence had merely been a period
of waiting until he should come.
“And my mother must not know?” he said. He kept harking back to this
question with a singular persistence. There are a few men and many
women for whom a secret is a responsibility to be transferred to the
first-comer without hesitation. One half of the world takes pleasure in
divulging a secret--for the other half it is positive pain to keep one.
Seymour Michael never dreamt that the secret might be in unsafe hands. To
a secretive man like himself the incapacity to keep a counsel never
suggested itself. There is no doubt that where we all err is in
persistently judging others by ourselves. Arthur Agar was keenly aware of
his own incompetence in many things--he was one of those promising
undergraduates who hire a man to water six small plants in a window-box.
Incompetence was by him reduced to a science. There were so many things
which he could not do, that he was forced to find occupations for a very
extensive leisure, and these were usually of the petty accomplishment
order, which are graceful in young girls and very disgraceful in young
men.
Now the doctrine of incompetence is a very dangerous one. Already in the
criminal courts we are beginning to hear of men and women who do not feel
competent to keep the law. There were many laws of social procedure and a
few of schoolboy honour which Arthur Agar felt to be beyond him, and he
considered that in making confession he was acquiring a right to
absolution.
He did not tell General Michael that he was not good at keeping secrets,
chiefly because that gentleman was not of the trivial confession type;
but he made a mental reservation.
Seymour Michael had risen and was walking backwards and forwards slowly
between the window and the door. He seemed quite at home in the small
room, and his manner of taking three strides and then wheeling round
suggested the habit of living in tents.
“What you must say is that you have received your brother's effects,” he
said. “If they ask from whence--from the War Office. I am the War Office
to all intents and purposes. The affair is almost forgotten. All the
details have been published--the usual newspaper details, with Fleet
Street local colouring. You should have no difficulty.”
“No,” answered Arthur meekly, but with another mental reservation.
“There are, of course, certain legal formalities in progress,” went on
the General, “relative to the estate. Those must be allowed to go on. We
may trust the lawyers to go slowly. And afterwards they can amuse
themselves by undoing what they have done. That is their trade. Half of
them make a living by undoing what the others have done. You are ...”
Seymour Michael so far forgot himself as to pause and make a mental
calculation. Arthur saw him do it and never thought of being surprised.
It seemed quite natural that this man should possess data upon which to
base mental calculations.
“... not twenty-one yet?” Michael finished the sentence.
“No.”
“So that, you see, they cannot make over the estate to you before the
time your brother comes or--should--come--back.”
Arthur understood the emphasis perfectly this time. He was getting on.
“There are,” continued Michael, who was eminently methodical, “a few
military formalities, which have had my attention. In fact, I think that
everything has been attended to. In case you should require any
information, or perhaps advice, write to C 74, Smith's Library, Vigo
Street. That is the address on that envelope.”
Arthur rose too. The thought that his visitor might be about to depart
thrilled through him with the warmth of relieved suspense.
“For your own information,” said Michael, looking straight into the
wavering, colourless eyes, “I may tell you that in my opinion--the
opinion of an expert--this expedition is exceedingly hazardous. We--we
must be prepared for the worst.”
Arthur Agar turned away. He had felt the deep eyes probing his very
soul--looking right through him. A sickening sense of weakness was at his
heart. He felt that in the presence of this man he did not belong to
himself.
“You mean,” he muttered awkwardly, “that Jem will never come back?”
“I think it most probable. And then--when we have to abandon all hope, I
mean--we shall be glad that we kept this thing to ourselves.”
Seymour Michael held out his hand, and pressed the boy's weak fingers in
a careless grip. Then he turned, and with a short “Good-bye” left him.
Arthur stood looking at the closed door with the frightened eyes of a
woman. He looked round at the familiar objects of his room--the futile
little gimcracks with which he had surrounded an existence worthy of such
environments--the invitation cards on the draped mantelpiece, the little
glass vases of fantastic shape with a single bloom of stephanotis, the
hundred and one fantasies of a finicking generation wherein Art sappeth
Manhood. And his eyes were suddenly opened to a new world of things
which he could not do. He gazed--not without a vague shame--into a
perspective of incompetencies.
In the _laissez-aller_ of the unreflective he had assumed that life would
be a continuance of small pleasures and refined enjoyments, little
dinners and pleasant converse, Dora and a comfortable home, mutual mild
delight in flowers and table decoration. Into this assumption Seymour
Michael had suddenly stepped--strong, restless, and mysterious--and
Arthur became uneasily conscious of possibilities. There might be
something in his own life, there might even be something within himself,
over which he could have no control. There was something within
himself--something connected with the man who had gone, leaving unrest
behind him, as he left it wherever he passed. What was this? whither
would it lead?
Arthur Agar rang the bell, and kept the “gyp” in the room on some trivial
pretext. He was afraid of solitude.