No. 300 (EAGLE SERIES) 10 CENTS
THE SPIDER
AND THE FLY
[Illustration]
BY
CHARLES GARVICE
STREET & SMITH, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK
The Eagle Series
_RETAIL, 10 CENTS_
293--For Love of Anne Lambart. By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
292--For Her Only. By Charles Garvice.
291--A Mysterious Wedding Ring. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
290--A Change of Heart. By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
289--Married in Mask. By Mansfield T. Walworth.
288--Sibyl's Influence. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
287--The Lady of Darracourt. By Charles Garvice.
286--A Debt of Vengeance. By Mrs. E. Burke Collins.
285--Born to Betray. By Mrs. M. V. Victor.
284--Dr. Jack's Widow. By St. George Rathborne.
283--My Lady Pride. By Charles Garvice.
282--The Forsaken Bride. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
281--For Love Alone. By Wenona Gilman.
280--Love's Dilemma. By Charles Garvice.
279--Nina's Peril. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
278--Laura Brayton. By Julia Edwards.
277--Brownie's Triumph. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
276--So Nearly Lost. By Charles Garvice.
275--Love's Cruel Whim. By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
274--A Romantic Girl. By Evelyn E. Green.
273--At Swords' Points. By St. George Rathborne.
272--So Fair, So False. By Charles Garvice.
271--With Love's Laurel Crowned. By W. O. Stiles.
270--Had She Foreseen. By Dora Delmar.
269--Brunette and Blonde. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
268--Olivia; or, It Was for Her Sake. By Charles Garvice.
267--Jeanne. By Charles Garvice.
266--The Welfleet Mystery. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
265--First Love is Best. By S. K. Hocking.
264--For Gold or Soul. By Lurana W. Sheldon.
263--An American Nabob. By St. George Rathborne.
262--A Woman's Faith. By Henry Wallace.
261--A Siren's Heart. By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
260--At a Girl's Mercy. By Jean Kate Ludlum.
259--By a Golden Cord. By Dora Delmar.
258--An Amazing Marriage. By Mrs. Sumner Hayden.
257--A Martyred Love. By Charles Garvice.
256--Thy Name is Woman. By F. H. Howe.
255--The Little Marplot. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
254--Little Miss Millions. By St. George Rathborne.
253--A Fashionable Marriage. By Mrs. Alex. Frazer.
252--A Handsome Sinner. By Dora Delmar.
251--When Love is True. By Mable Collins.
250--A Woman's Soul. By Charles Garvice.
249--What Love Will Do. By Geraldine Fleming.
248--Jeanne, Countess Du Barry. By H. L. Williams.
247--Within Love's Portals. By Frank Barrett.
246--True to Herself. By Mrs. J. H. Walworth.
245--A Modern Marriage. By Clara Lanza.
244--A Hoiden's Conquest. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
243--His Double Self. By Scott Campbell.
242--A Wounded Heart. By Charles Garvice.
241--Her Love and Trust. By Adeline Sergeant.
240--Saved by the Sword. By St. George Rathborne.
239--Don Cæsar De Bazan. By Victor Hugo.
238--That Other Woman. By Annie Thomas.
237--Woman or Witch? By Dora Delmar.
235--Gratia's Trials. By Lucy Randall Comfort.
234--His Mother's Sin. By Adeline Sergeant.
233--Nora. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
232--A Debt of Honor. By Mabel Collins.
230--A Woman's Atonement, and A Mother's Mistake. By Adah M. Howard.
229--For the Sake of the Family. By May Crommelin.
228--His Brother's Widow. By Mary Grace Halpine.
227--For Love and Honor. By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
226--The Roll of Honor. By Annie Thomas.
225--A Miserable Woman. By Mrs. H. C. Hoffman.
224--A Sister's Sacrifice. By Geraldine Fleming.
223--Leola Dale's Fortune. By Charles Garvice.
222--The Lily of Mordaunt. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
221--The Honorable Jane. By Annie Thomas.
220--A Fatal Past. By Dora Russell.
219--Lost, A Pearle. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
218--A Life for a Love. By Mrs. L. T. Meade.
217--His Noble Wife. By George Manville Fenn.
216--The Lost Bride. By Clara Augusta.
215--Only a Girl's Love. By Charles Garvice.
214--Olga's Crime. By Frank Barrett.
213--The Heiress of Egremont. By Mrs. Harriet Lewis.
212--Doubly Wronged. By Adah M. Howard.
211--As We Forgive. By Lurana W. Sheldon.
210--Wild Oats. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
209--She Loved but Left Him. By Julia Edwards.
208--A Chase for a Bride. By St. George Rathborne.
207--Little Golden's Daughter. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
206--A Daughter of Maryland. By G. Waldo Browne.
205--If Love be Love. By D. Cecil Gibbs.
204--With Heart So True. By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
203--Only One Love. By Charles Garvice.
202--Marjorie. By Katharine S. MacQuoid.
201--Blind Elsie's Crime. By Mary Grace Halpine.
200--In God's Country. By D. Higbee.
199--Geoffrey's Victory. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
198--Guy Kenmore's Wife, and The Rose and the Lily. By
Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
197--A Woman Scorned. By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
196--A Sailor's Sweetheart. By the author of Dr. Jack.
195--Her Faithful Knight. By Gertrude Warden.
194--A Sinless Crime. By Geraldine Fleming.
193--A Vagabond's Honor. By Ernest De Lancey Pierson.
192--An Old Man's Darling, and Jacquelina. By Mrs. Alex.
McVeigh Miller.
191--A Harvest of Thorns. By Mrs. H. C. Hoffman.
190--A Captain of the Kaiser. By St. George Rathborne.
189--Berris. By Katharine S. MacQuoid.
188--Dorothy Arnold's Escape. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
187--The Black Ball. By Ernest De Lancey Pierson.
186--Beneath a Spell. By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
185--The Adventures of Miss Volney. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
184--Sunlight and Gloom. By Geraldine Fleming.
183--Quo Vadis. By Henryk Sienkiewicz.
182--A Legal Wreck. By William Gillette.
181--The Baronet's Bride. By May Agnes Fleming.
180--A Lazy Man's Work. By Frances Campbell Sparhawk.
179--One Man's Evil. By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
178--A Slave of Circumstances. By Ernest De Lancey Pierson.
177--A True Aristocrat. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
176--Jack Gordon, Knight Errant. By William C. Hudson (Barclay North).
175--For Honor's Sake. By Laura C. Ford.
174--His Guardian Angel. By Charles Garvice.
173--A Bar Sinister. By the Author of Dr. Jack.
172--A King and a Coward. By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
171--That Dakota Girl. By Stella Gilman.
170--A Little Radical. By Mrs. J. H. Walworth.
169--The Trials of an Actress. By Wenona Gilman.
168--Thrice Lost, Thrice Won. By May Agnes Fleming.
167--The Manhattaners. By Edward S. Van Zile.
166--The Masked Bridal. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
165--The Road of the Rough. By Maurice M. Minton.
164--Couldn't Say No. By the author of Helen's Babies.
163--A Splendid Egotist. By Mrs. J. H. Walworth.
162--A Man of the Name of John. By Florence King.
161--Miss Fairfax of Virginia. By the author of Dr. Jack.
160--His Way and Her Will. By Frances Aymar Mathews.
159--A Fair Maid of Marblehead. By Kate Tannatt Woods.
158--Stella, the Star. By Wenona Gilman.
157--Who Wins? By May Agnes Fleming.
156--A Soldier Lover. By Edward S. Brooks.
155--Nameless Dell. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
154--Husband and Foe. By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
153--Her Son's Wife. By Hazel Wood.
152--A Mute Confessor. By Will N. Harben.
151--The Heiress of Glen Gower. By May Agnes Fleming.
150--Sunset Pass. By General Charles King.
149--The Man She Loved. By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
148--Will She Win? By Emma Garrison Jones.
147--Under Egyptian Skies. By the author of Dr. Jack.
146--Magdalen's Vow. By May Agnes Fleming.
145--Country Lanes and City Pavements. By Maurice M. Minton.
144--Dorothy's Jewels. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
143--A Charity Girl. By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
142--Her Rescue from the Turks. By the author of Dr. Jack.
141--Lady Evelyn. By May Agnes Fleming.
140--That Girl of Johnson's. By Jean Kate Ludlum.
139--Little Lady Charles. By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
138--A Fatal Wooing. By Laura Jean Libbey.
137--A Wedded Widow. By T. W. Hanshew.
136--The Unseen Bridegroom. By May Agnes Fleming.
135--Cast Up by the Tide. By Dora Delmar.
134--Squire John. By the author of Dr. Jack.
133--Max. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
132--Whose Was the Crime? By Gertrude Warden.
131--Nerine's Second Choice. By Adelaide Stirling.
130--A Bitter Bondage. By Bertha M. Clay.
129--In Sight of St. Paul's. By Sutton Vane.
128--The Scent of the Roses. By Dora Delmar.
127--Nobody's Daughter. By Clara Augusta.
126--The Girl from Hong Kong. By the author of Dr. Jack.
125--Devil's Island. By A. D. Hall.
124--Prettiest of All. By Julia Edwards.
123--Northern Lights. By A. D. Hall.
122--Grazia's Mistake. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
121--Cecile's Marriage. By Lucy Randall Comfort.
120--The White Squadron. By T. C. Harbaugh.
119--An Ideal Love. By Bertha M. Clay.
118--Saved From the Sea. By Richard Duffy.
117--She Loved Him. By Charles Garvice.
116--The Daughter of the Regiment. By Mary A. Denison.
115--A Fair Revolutionist. By the author of Dr. Jack.
114--Half a Truth. By Dora Delmar.
113--A Crushed Lily. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
112--The Cattle King. By A. D. Hall.
111--Faithful Shirley. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
110--Whose Wife Is She? By Annie Lisle.
109--A Heart's Bitterness. By Bertha M. Clay.
108--A Son of Mars. By the author of Dr. Jack.
107--Carla; or, Married at Sight. By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
106--Lilian, My Lilian. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
105--When London Sleeps. By Chas. Darrell.
104--A Proud Dishonor. By Genie Holzmeyer.
103--The Span of Life. By Sutton Vane.
102--Fair But Faithless. By Bertha M. Clay.
101--A Goddess of Africa. By the author of Dr. Jack.
100--Alice Blake. By Francis S. Smith.
99--Audrey's Recompense. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
98--Claire. By Charles Garvice.
97--The War Reporter. By Warren Edwards.
96--The Little Minister. By J. M. Barrie.
95--Twixt Love and Hate. By Bertha M. Clay.
94--Darkest Russia. By H. Grattan Donnelly.
93--A Queen of Treachery. By T. W. Hanshew.
92--Humanity. By Sutton Vane.
91--Sweet Violet. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
90--For Fair Virginia. By Russ Whytal.
89--A Gentleman From Gascony. By Bicknell Dudley.
88--Virgie's Inheritance. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
87--Shenandoah. By J. Perkins Tracy.
86--A Widowed Bride. By Lucy Randall Comfort.
85--Lorrie; or, Hollow Gold. By Charles Garvice.
84--Between Two Hearts. By Bertha M. Clay.
83--The Locksmith of Lyons. By Prof. Wm. Henry Peck.
82--Captain Impudence. By Edwin Milton Royle.
81--Wedded For an Hour. By Emma Garrison Jones.
80--The Fair Maid of Fez. By the author of Dr. Jack.
79--Marjorie Deane. By Bertha M. Clay.
78--The Yankee Champion. By Sylvanus Cobb, Jr.
77--Tina. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
76--Mavourneen. From the celebrated play.
75--Under Fire. By T. P. James.
74--The Cotton King. By Sutton Vane.
73--The Marquis. By Charles Garvice.
72--Willful Winnie. By Harriet Sherburne.
71--The Spider's Web. By the author of Dr. Jack.
70--In Love's Crucible. By Bertha M. Clay.
69--His Perfect Trust. By a popular author.
68--The Little Cuban Rebel. By Edna Winfield.
67--Gismonda. By Victorien Sardou.
66--Witch Hazel. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
65--Won By the Sword. By J. Perkins Tracy.
64--Dora Tenney. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
63--Lawyer Bell From Boston. By Robert Lee Tyler.
62--Stella Stirling. By Julia Edwards.
61--La Tosca. By Victorien Sardou.
60--The County Fair. By Neil Burgess.
59--Gladys Greye. By Bertha M. Clay.
58--Major Matterson of Kentucky. By the author of Dr. Jack.
57--Rosamond. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
56--The Dispatch Bearer. By Warren Edwards.
55--Thrice Wedded. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
54--Cleopatra. By Victorien Sardou.
53--The Old Homestead. By Denman Thompson.
52--Woman Against Woman. By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
51--The Price He Paid. By E. Werner.
50--Her Ransom. By Charles Garvice.
49--None Bet the Brave. By Robert Lee Tyler.
48--Another Man's Wife. By Bertha M. Clay.
47--The Colonel By Brevet. By the author of Dr. Jack.
46--Off With the Old Love. By Mrs. M. V. Victor.
45--A Yale Man. By Robert Lee Tyler.
44--That Dowdy. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
43--Little Coquette Bonnie. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
42--Another Woman's Husband. By Bertha M. Clay.
41--Her Heart's Desire. By Charles Garvice.
40--Monsieur Bob. By the author of Dr. Jack.
39--The Colonel's Wife. By Warren Edwards.
38--The Nabob of Singapore. By the author of Dr. Jack.
37--The Heart of Virginia. By J. Perkins Tracy.
36--Fedora. By Victorien Sardou.
35--The Great Mogul. By the author of Dr. Jack.
34--Pretty Geraldine. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
33--Mrs. Bob. By the author of Dr. Jack.
32--The Blockade Runner. By J. Perkins Tracy.
31--A Siren's Love. By Robert Lee Tyler.
30--Baron Sam. By the author of Dr. Jack.
29--Theodora. By Victorien Sardou.
28--Miss Caprice. By the author of Dr. Jack.
27--Estelle's Millionaire Lover. By Julia Edwards.
26--Captain Tom. By the author of Dr. Jack.
25--Little Southern Beauty. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
24--A Wasted Love. By Charles Garvice.
23--Miss Pauline of New York. By the author of Dr. Jack.
22--Elaine. By Charles Garvice.
21--A Heart's Idol. By Bertha M. Clay.
20--The Senator's Bride. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
19--Mr. Lake of Chicago. By Harry DuBois Milman.
18--Dr. Jack's Wife. By the author of Dr. Jack.
17--Leslie's Loyalty. By Charles Garvice.
16--The Fatal Card. By Haddon Chambers and B. C. Stephenson.
15--Dr. Jack. By St. George Rathborne.
14--Violet Lisle. By Bertha M. Clay.
13--The Little Widow. By Julia Edwards.
12--Edrie's Legacy. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
11--The Gypsy's Daughter. By Bertha M. Clay.
10--Little Sunshine. By Francis S. Smith.
9--The Virginia Heiress. By May Agnes Fleming.
8--Beautiful But Poor. By Julia Edwards.
7--Two Keys. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
6--The Midnight Marriage. By A. M. Douglas.
5--The Senator's Favorite. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
4--For a Woman's Honor. By Bertha M. Clay.
3--He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not. By Julia Edwards.
2--Ruby's Reward. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
1--Queen Bess. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
THE SPIDER AND THE FLY;
OR,
AN UNDESIRED LOVE
BY
CHARLES GARVICE
AUTHOR OF
"Claire," "Elaine," "The Lady of Darracourt," "Her Heart's Desire,"
"The Earl's Heir," "Olivia," "A Martyred Love,"
"Iris; or, A Woman's Soul," etc.
[Illustration: S AND S
NOVELS]
NEW YORK
STREET & SMITH, PUBLISHERS
238 WILLIAM STREET
"The Spider and the Fly" is the
title under which this story originally
appeared, serially, in an English
publication.
THE SPIDER AND THE FLY.
CHAPTER I.
A SWIM FOR LIFE.
It is sunset; a dusky red is spreading out from the horizon and
throwing a duskier reflection upon the sullen sea and its more sullen
shore. A weird, awful shore it is, encumbered with huge rocks and
strangely hewn stone.
A grim, shuddering waste, made grimmer and more terrible by strange,
stray specks of humanity, that, seen in the falling sunlight seemed
rather distorted creations of fancy than actual human beings; from
stone to stone they pace, stepping with a peculiar, halting, laborious
gait, and looking sullenly earthward as if their eyes were chained to
the hateful, barren shore and the looking upward were death.
Look closer and gain fresh cause for wonderment. There is a strange
likeness in these dim figures. They move alike, their gaze is directed
sullenly downward alike, they are dressed alike. A sad, dingy, gray
garment, half shirt, half tunic, relieved in all cases by a patch of
crimson across the arm, upon which is stamped, in letters of black
relief, a number. Their feet are shod with thick, heavy, iron-soled
boots; a coarse, hideous cap is upon their heads, and the hair beneath
it is cut almost to the skin.
The faces--ah, no! who could describe those faces? Who can speak of
those crime-stamped brows, those passion-distorted lips, and those
despairing eyes?
Listen! There is no sound but the sudden crash, crash of the falling
stone that the coarse-grained hands are pushing, and the bent,
gray-clad shoulders are heaving, from the quarries. One other sound
still, heard only at intervals when the stone is silent, and that is
the tramp, tramp of the sentries, who, like the figures of Death and
Eternity in the old Roman temple, forever, day and night, march to and
fro on the battlements, forever, night and day, keeping watch and ward
on the terrible, gray-clad figures, that despairingly toil upon the
barren plain below.
It is the convict station at Portland, and the figures are the shadows
of some of England's vilest criminals.
The sun sinks lower, the warders, stationed at measured intervals
between the various gangs, yawn with weary impatience and long for the
sound of the prison bell. When that rings, which it will do within half
an hour, the gangs will have finished their work for the day and the
march for the gloomy prison upon the heights will commence.
The warders yawn impatiently, but the silent, gray-clad figures feel no
impatience. They have nothing to long for, nothing to hope for.
One and all toiling on this particular plain toil on till death, and
that has been longed for so long that it seems so far off as to be
hopeless.
Death comes to men free and happy, but them it seems to avoid; it
leaves them to their most awful punishment of life.
The quarter has chimed, the warders have grown more impatient, perhaps
less vigilant, or does this tall, thin figure with No. 108 stamped upon
his arm only fancy so? For he has broken the rule which says that no
man shall separate himself from his particular gang, and is crouching
behind a bowlder. Is he resting? His hazel, hunted eyes flash from the
nearest warder to the sentinels upon the battlements. His hand grasps
the chain at his leg to deaden its rattle as he glides along. His eyes
drop from the sentinel and travel swiftly but keenly along the grim
rank of the next gang. They rest upon one gray-clad figure numbered
ninety-nine. His breath comes faster, he crouches until his breast
touches the ground, and, though his lips are too tightly pressed for
speech, his eyes seem to speak in the intensity of their gaze.
Perhaps No. 99 feels their gaze, for as he stoops with the gang to
heave the hard, cruel stone he lifts his small, villainous eyes and
sees the dark, piercing ones fixed so earnestly upon him. A start,
imperceptible, thrills through him, and, as he raises his shoulder, he
contrives to lift one hand as a signal that he has seen and understands.
No. 108 seems satisfied, he drops his eyes with a sigh, and waits with
sullen impatience.
The stone is upheaved. The gang moves round and pauses to gain breath.
A few of the miserable figures drop upon the stones.
No. 99 flings himself sullenly upon the stone behind which crouches No.
108, and so effectually conceals the piercing eyes from the warders'
catlike vigilance.
"Jem," says a low, hoarse voice from below the stone. "Can you hear me?
Don't turn your head, and speak low."
"I hear," replies No. 99, with a hoarse voice.
"Jem, there's a chance; don't start or I'll kill you. There's a chance,
but it wants working. I've been wanting to speak to you for six weeks.
Warder No. 24 drinks like a fish. He'll be drunk to-night--to-night
at seven. I've the stuff in the corridor. Our cells are opposite. He
carries the keys in his breast pocket. At half-past seven to-night,
Jem, he or I will be a dead man. You know me and my stroke. If I can
get a clear blow with the iron jug and without noise we are free. Once
in the corridor with his keys, we can gain this cursed cliff. Don't
speak--he's looking this way! The tide comes in at ten; we must swim
for it--go this minute, or we are lost."
A warder leaps along the stones; No. 99 rises as if rested; No. 108
crawls like a serpent back to his proper gang.
Crash, crash, the last stone is lifted for to-night; the bell chimes
the hour, the gangs form with listless, weary sullenness into lines,
stalwart warders, well armed, order them sternly to march. Another
dreary, hopeless day of toil is done.
The sun has sunk, the red glow has left the sky, darkness has fallen
upon the surging sea and barren shore.
The tramp of the sentinels can just be heard above the rattle of
the falling beach. It is too dark to see them, but two figures are
crawling under the beetling cliffs, they crawl hand in hand, fearful of
losing each other for a moment. Not a word is spoken, their movement
makes no sound. Five, ten, twenty minutes pass, and then they stop and
draw long, husky gasps of relief.
"Jem," says one, "where are we?"
No. 99 shakes his head and peers into the darkness.
"Under the cliff," returns the other. "Right under the guardhouse, I
think; if so, far enough."
"Quite far enough, captain," is the hoarse reply. "And now we are here,
what's the next move?"
The other remains silent for a moment, while he fumbles at his leg,
then touches his breast and face.
"What's the matter, guv'nor, are you hurt?"
"A little," is the reply. "I'm bleeding like an ox."
No. 99 emits a grim, guttural laugh.
"There's enough of that with both on us," he says. "It's like our luck
as the beast should turn. I thought you'd struck him straight, too,
guv'nor."
"So did I," is the curt retort. "No matter; we are here and that's luck
enough."
"But we can't stop here."
"We must till the tide's up, and it's coming now, half an hour and the
fishing yawls will be in front of us."
His companion shudders.
"The fishing yawls!" he repeats. "D'ye mean we're to swim for them,
guv'nor, through this, in the pitch dark? Why, it's death!"
"Or freedom. Death! Jem, my man, you're worse than an idiot. What's the
name you'll give to what we've left behind us? If that's life, we take
death, Jem, and be thankful for it."
As he speaks, with a bitterness beyond description, he stoops and
fumbles at his leg again. The sharp ears of his companion catch the
grating of steel on iron.
"What's that, guv'nor?"
"A file," was the reply.
"Where did you get it from?" asks the other, with undisguised
astonishment.
"I made it, Jem," replies his companion, quietly.
"What with?"
"An old piece of iron and my brains. It's a good one; try it for
yourself."
As he speaks, he shakes the horrible link of iron from his foot and
passes the instrument to the other.
No. 99 takes it, with a muttered oath.
"You're a wonderful man, captain, a wonderful man. There ain't nothing
as you can't do--or won't do if we gets clear of this frightful
torment. I'll be sworn, the game's all planned out a'ready."
"It is," replies the other, with quiet coolness.
The grating of the file stops for a moment.
"I thought so! S'help me, if I didn't! Might a humble pal, as has
always stood by you, captain, ask what the move is? It 'u'd pass the
time away and keep the shivers off. There's a curse in the very air o'
this place that cramps a man's heart and a'most chokes him. Tell us the
plot, captain. I'm yourn, and you know it."
The captain looks into the darkness before him in silence for a moment;
then, speaking in the whisper above which their voices had never for a
moment been raised, he says:
"I'll tell you, Jem, as we swim together, as you say. We must, taking
all things into consideration, and so--Jem, give me your hand."
The man he called Jem feels about in the darkness until his hard-grimed
hand is clasped in the softer one of his companion, and waits silently.
"I'm going to take your oath," says the captain, coolly. "Swear that
you'll follow me faithfully--as, to give you your due, you always have
done--right to the end of what is to come. Swear it, Jem, and I'll open
up the game. You'll keep your oath, I know, because I'll swear at the
same time that this hand of mine shall wring your neck if you break it.
You swear?"
"I swear, captain!" replies Jem, hoarsely. "I've never played you false
yet, captain. Would it pay me to do it now after this little bout?
Would it pay me, I asks yer?"
"No; now nor ever. Come closer; these cursed cliffs seem to me to have
ears. Keep a look out all round. I'm watching for the lights of the
fishing yawls."
"All right, captain," replies the other, eagerly. "Go on, if it's only
for talking's sake," and he shivers under the strain of long-sustained
fear and excitement.
"You're right, Jem, I have a game on the board already. It wouldn't
be me if I hadn't. It's a good game, too, and worth playing. Better
than the last, which landed us here--not so risky, either. Did I ever
tell you where I came from? No? Well, it isn't likely, when I come to
think of it. I am not one of the communicative sort. What do you say to
India--to Madras? I am a captain, Jem, by something more than courtesy.
Captain Murpoint's a good enough name and title, and they're my real
ones. They'll do again, too."
For a moment he relapses into silence, his eyes scanning the sea
before. Then he takes up the thread again, in a tone rather of
soliloquy than communication; but his companion, though apparently
forgotten, listens eagerly.
"Five years ago I was the most popular man in Madras. You cannot
understand all that short sentence means, my friend; no matter. I was a
rich man--as men went--and could count friends by the score. If there
had been fewer friends and less whist I might not have been here; who
knows? No one, and no one cares; not even I myself. Madras! I see it
now. Bah! A high-flown description of the presidency would be lost on
you, Jem, and it is a rule of mine to waste nothing. At Madras, among
the host of friends, some of whom plundered me, and some of whom I had
the extreme happiness to plunder, was one, the best and bravest of the
lot, John Mildmay----"
"John Mildmay," repeats the man, Jem, to show his companion that he is
listening carefully.
"John Mildmay, a merchant, a prince among merchants, with a fortune
in England, India--and I know not where else also. He was a fine
fellow, but simple--simple as a schoolgirl, and too bountifully
supplied with those awkward incumbrances called feelings. We were bosom
friends. I borrowed his money, and he loved me too well to remind me
of the debt--you understand that, Jem--that is something within your
comprehension."
Jem chuckles with hoarse enjoyment.
"He made me his confidant--told me everything of his own affairs and
a great deal of other people's. He had a daughter. I remember her
name--Violet. Beautiful, he said she was; but that goes for nothing.
I'll be bound, my friend, that you would have called a bantam of your
own, though it copied every one of your extremely plain features,
a swan. The mother was dead, there was only one relation of any
consequence--an aunt, and Jack Mildmay loved this little girl better
than he did me--and that's saying a good deal. One night--when we
were sitting in the veranda of his mansion on the hills, watching the
Brahmins at their prayers, he declared his intention of making me the
sole guardian of this girl. He prayed me--if anything happened to
him--to be a second father to her, or at least a brother, considering
that he was so much older than I. I swore--readily enough--that I'd
watch over her like a guardian angel, and, after drawing tears from
him by my fervid eloquence, delicately borrowed a hundred pounds. Poor
Jack! we never saw each other again. A special messenger arrived that
night with news from England. His business--an enormous one--required
his presence to tide over an emergency, and with a hasty handshake,
he left me, reminding me of my promise, and declaring his intention
to draw up on parchment the declaration of his wishes as to my
guardianship over his daughter.
"'Good-by, old fellow,' he said. 'It's a long journey; but I feel safe.
I've written about you in every letter to my little darling; I shall be
able to tell her now what a grand guardian she'll have. Good-by, and
Heaven bless you!'
"Jem, my friend, don't believe the good people of this world when they
talk of a special providence for honest men; Jack Mildmay was drowned
on that homeward voyage, and I, Captain Howard Murpoint, was left to
live and rot in a convict station.
"Yes, the ship went down, and soon after Captain Howard Murpoint went
down likewise. I got tired of the army; that's the mild way of putting
it, though if the truth must be spoken, the army got tired of me--or
rather my wonderful luck at cards. You know my little trick with the
ace? Enough. It suited me to cut the military life. How was I to do it?
A fool would have deserted and got shot. I, not being a fool, managed
differently. There was a slight skirmish on the frontier one moonlight
night. My men were cut to pieces like packthread. I, by a miracle,
escaped. Walking over the corpse-strewn field, one of those happy
thoughts which are the inspiration of knaves, struck me. My corporal,
a good fellow, had fallen at his post. I knew it was my corporal by
his accoutrements, his face and features had been obliterated by a
cannon ball. Supposing, was my thought, that Captain Howard Murpoint's
regimentals were upon that poor fellow, then every one would say that
the said Captain Murpoint had fallen with glory and honor, and that the
missing corporal had either been carried away by the Sepoys or deserted.
"Jem, my friend, I lost not a moment, but there and then exchanged
clothes with the corpse, threw a cloak over my new corporal's
regimentals and started for the coast.
"I reached Paris--unfortunately for the Parisians. When Paris grew
too hot I gracefully fluttered to my native land. My native land for
eighteen months proved as rich a harvest as a man of talent could wish.
"During those eighteen months I cleared--no matter--it is all gone,
swallowed up in that fiasco. Idiot that I was to descend to the level
of such poor vermin as you! What could I expect? Were these hands
made for burglary, were these brains? Bah! this is wasting time. Some
sweet friends of yours persuaded me to change my line, and I came to
grief; dragging you in for revenge's sake. Plain truth, you see, Jem.
I scorn to tell a falsehood--when there is nothing to be got by it.
Transportation for life! It was a hard sentence, and I wished when I
heard it, and a hundred times since, that they had not balked Jack
Ketch. I wished it every day till a week ago.
"What changed me? A mere bagatelle. A newspaper. A year-old newspaper,
which that lout of a warder had dropped from his pocket. I snatched it
up and hid it in my bosom. It would lighten many a hateful hour in that
horrible cell. I opened it next morning, and the first words my eyes
rested on were:
"'Grand Fête at Mildmay Park, Penruddie.--On the occasion of Miss
Mildmay's sixteenth birthday a large party of personal friends and the
tenants of the Mildmay estate was gathered at the Park, where most
extensive preparations have been for some time in progress to insure
success for the various festivities. In the morning the numerous
gayly dressed visitors gave themselves with a zest to the enjoyment
of archery, boating and the subtleties of croquet. In the evening the
grand hall--which was decorated by Owen Jones--was opened for a ball
to which invitations to the number of two hundred had been issued. It
is needless to say that the whole affair was brilliantly successful,
and that the twelfth of July will be a white stone in the lives of
Miss Mildmay's tenants and those fortunate friends who were enabled
to partake of her hospitality. Miss Mildmay is at present staying, in
company with her aunt, Mrs. W. Mildmay, at her residence, Mildmay Park.'
"That is something like it, Jem--all glitter and sparkle, diamonds
and rubies. I swear, much as I reveled in that greasy paper a moment
before, I could not read another line of it. Every time I tried my eyes
looked back to Mildmay Park and the wealthy Miss Mildmay.
"This Violet was to have been my ward, and Jack's money, his enormous
estates, ay, the very diamonds she wore, were to have been under my
charge. What an opportunity I had lost! With such a chance, what might
I not have accomplished? I might have feathered my nest, ay, have
filled it even, with every penny of Jack's gold; for what was a puny
little bit of a girl to count for?--if I had been free. Free! that
was the word, and it haunted me. One day it rang in my ears, making a
chorus to the grand doings at Mildmay Park, and at last I swore that
I'd give this place the slip or die in the attempt. Once away from
here--once in England, the way to Jack Mildmay's gold is as plain as
the road to Rome. I am once more Captain Murpoint. I turn up, looking
the gentleman that I am, at the Park in the character of her father's
friend. She knows all about me, remembers me almost as well as she
does her father. Keeps all his letters, those letters in which he
tells her that he is hunting, fighting, playing, or dining with his
dear Murpoint, on her bosom, perhaps. Here is dear Murpoint, and she
welcomes me to Mildmay Park with open arms and a shower of tears."
There was a moment's pause; Jem crept closer to the daring schemer.
"And me, captain? You won't forget me?"
"No; you go with me as my servant. No thanks. I shouldn't take you if I
didn't want you, my friend. I never did a generous action in my life,
I leave that for idiots. I want you for a hundred things. I want a man
who is completely under my thumb--in my power. You are in both those
situations, so I help you to escape and take you with me. If you have
any gratitude, keep it bottled up, don't let it evaporate in words.
Well?"
The man mutters something, faintly.
"But, captain, is that all the game? Don't we hold no more cards than
that? It seems a chance, a regular chance."
"And what else is life?" says the captain, with a short laugh of
contempt. "But those are not all the cards. Even to you, my bosom
friend, I do not choose to show my whole hand. Enough that I hold
sufficient cards to play the game, and that I have sufficient brains to
win it. You, my poor Jem, have neither cards nor brains! Stop! what's
that?" and his low, subtle voice sinks to a sharp hiss.
"That's the light of the fishing smack," hoarsely returns his companion.
"Not that, idiot!" is the retort, in a sharper voice. "That up above. A
thousand fiends! It is the moon!"
A smothered cry breaks from the parched lips of the convict Jem.
He springs to his feet, then falls to the ground with a quiver of
excitement.
"Captain, we are lost! In two minutes it will be like day! The soldiers
can see every speck on the water for a mile round!"
"Silence!" cries the captain, crouching so motionless that his
gray-clad figure looks part and parcel of the rock against which it
presses. "The tide is in. That is the smack before us. Swim like the
fiend! If we reach it we are safe. I have enough to bribe them. Swim
for liberty and life!--now!"
And, with the word, he rises to his feet, leaps over the patch of beach
that intervenes between cliff and sea, and plunges into the foremost
wave.
His companion follows, and not a moment too soon.
The moon that had been battling with the dark mass of clouds, rises
conqueror at last, and swims majestically into the clear heavens,
lighting up the sea till it glows like a plain of diamonds.
Not a moment too soon, for the monotonous tramp, tramp of the nearest
sentinel upon the ramparts above is suddenly broken, and his sharp
voice gives the challenge:
"Who goes there?"
For answer the moon shoots a bright beam of light full upon the dark
figures swimming toward the smack.
With a shout of alarm, the sentinel brings his musket to his shoulder.
"Dive!" hisses the white lips of the captain.
Crack! ping! and a bullet cleaves the air.
Another moment, and the rampart is alive.
Lights flash to and fro, showing up for a moment the excited faces of
the soldiers.
Shouts of warning and anger break through the silence and affright the
seagulls.
Then an officer's voice rises above the din.
"There they are, close by the smack! Ready--present!--fire!"
Crack! crack! crack!
"Ah! that's got them! There they go--eh, what? couldn't see them?"
says the commandant, angrily, repeating the hesitating suggestion of
a subordinate that the moon was obscured and that he couldn't see the
men as he fired. "Nonsense! You winged them right enough. Anyway, we
must say we did. There have been too many escapes lately to allow of
any more. We shall have the authorities down upon us for negligence.
It's a singular thing that I can't run down to the town to get a rubber
at whist but that somebody must go to sleep. It isn't often I take a
little pleasure, but sure as I leave my post for an hour or two some
foolhardy or sleepy-headed warder lets one of those vermin get away.
There's warder No. 24 got his back broken, and the Lord Harry knows
what. Serves him right! It must be hushed up, mind! There have been too
many escapes lately by far. If there's any inquiring, mind you winged
them twice, and they are dead as nails at the bottom of the sea."
The sentinels give the salute, and the officer starts off to finish the
interrupted rubber.
Next morning the official whose business it was to draw up such
statements reported that convicts Nos. 108 and 99 had attempted escape,
but were shot down by the sentinel while swimming toward a fishing
smack.