The Sign of the Spider

by Bertram Mitford

  Produced by David Clarke, Martin Pettit and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

  THE SIGN OF THE SPIDER

  BY

  BERTRAM MITFORD

  AUTHOR OF "A VELDT OFFICIAL," "'TWIXT SNOW AND FIRE"

  DODD MEAD AND COMPANY 1897

  COPYRIGHT, 1896,

  BY

  DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY.

  "DON'T FIRE THIS WAY ... KEEP THE FOOLS IN HAND."]

  CONTENTS.

  CHAPTER PAGE

  I. "SWEET HOME," 1

  II. ADAM'S FIRST WIFE, 11

  III. "BEWARE SUCH UNHOLY SPELLS," 26

  IV. THE LAND OF PROMISE, 41

  V. KING SCRIP, 54

  VI. "PIRATE" HAZON, 67

  VII. "THE WHOLE SOUL PRISONER ..." 82

  VIII. DARK DAYS, 94

  IX. HIS GUARDIAN ANGEL, 106

  X. PREPARATION, 120

  XI. "AT THE TWELFTH HOUR," 130

  XII. "THE DARK PLACES OF THE EARTH," 145

  XIII. THE MAN HUNTER, 155

  XIV. A DREAM, 163

  XV. AN AWAKENING, 174

  XVI. AN ANGEL UNAWARES, 184

  XVII. DISSENSIONS, 195

  XVIII. TWO PERILS, 205

  XIX. THE SIGN, 215

  XX. TO WHAT END! 223

  XXI. "THE STRONG WIND THAT BURNS FROM THE NORTH," 235

  XXII. THE SHADOW OF THE MYSTERY, 246

  XXIII. LINDELA, 257

  XXIV. AS FROM THE DEAD, 268

  XXV. HIS LIFE FOR HIS FRIEND, 279

  XXVI. THE PLACE OF THE HORROR, 290

  XXVII. THE HORROR, 301

  XXVIII. "ONLY A SAVAGE!" 313

  XXIX. "A DEEP--A SOLITARY GRAVE," 324

  XXX. "GOOD-BYE, MY IDEAL!" 334

  XXXI. CONCLUSION, 348

  THE SIGN OF THE SPIDER.

  CHAPTER I.

  "SWEET HOME!"

  She was talking _at_ him.

  This was a thing she frequently did, and she had two ways of doing it.One was to talk at him through a third party when they two were notalone together; the other to convey moralizings and innuendo for hisedification when they were--as in the present case.

  Just now she was extolling the superabundant virtues of somebody else'shusband, with a tone and meaning which were intended to convey toLaurence Stanninghame that she wished to Heaven one-twentieth part ofthem was vested in hers.

  He was accustomed to being thus talked at. He ought to be, seeing he hadknown about thirteen years of it, on and off. But he did not like it anythe better from force of habit. We doubt if anybody ever does. However,he had long ceased to take any notice, in the way of retort, no matterhow acrid the tone, how biting the innuendo. Now, pushing back his chairfrom the breakfast-table, he got up, and, turning to the mantelpiece,proceeded to fill a pipe. His spouse, exasperated by his silence,continued to talk at--his back.

  The sickly rays of the autumn sun struggled feebly through the murk ofthe suburban atmosphere, creeping half-ashamedly over the well-worncarpet, then up to the dingy wall-paper, whose dinginess had thisredeeming point, that it toned down what otherwise would have beenstaring, crude, hideous. The furniture was battered and worn, and therewas an atmosphere of dustiness, thick-laid, grimy, which seemedinseparable from the place. In the street a piano-organ, engineered by abrace of sham Italians, was rapping out the latest music-hallabomination. Laurence Stanninghame turned again to his wife, who wasstill seated at the table.

  "Continue," he said. "It is a great art knowing when to make the most ofone's opportunities, which, for present purposes, may be taken to meanthat you had better let off all the steam you can, for you have only twodays more to do it in--only two whole days."

  "Going away again?" (staccato).

  Laurence nodded, and emitted a cloud or two of smoke.

  There rumbled forth a cannonade of words, which did not preciselyexpress approval. Then, staccato:

  "Where are you going to this time?"

  "Johannesburg."

  "What? But it's nonsense."

  "It's fact."

  "Well--of course you can't go."

  "Who says so?"

  "Of course you can't go, and leave us here all alone," she replied,speaking quickly. "Why, it's too preposterous! I've been treatedshamefully enough all these years, but this puts the crowning straw onto it," she went on, beginning to mix her metaphor, as angry people--andespecially angry women--will. "Of course you can't go!"

  To one statement, as made above, he was at no pains to reply. He hadheard it so often that it had long since passed into the category of"not new, not true, and doesn't matter." To the other he answered:

  "I've an idea that the term 'of course' makes the other way; I _can_ go,and I am going--in fact, I have already booked my passage by the_Persian_, sailing from Southampton the day after to-morrow. Look! willthat convince you?" holding out the passage ticket.

  Then there was a scene--an awful racket. It was infamous. She would notput up with such treatment. It amounted to desertion, and so forth. Yes,it was a "scene," indeed. But force of habit had utterly dulled itseffectiveness as a weapon. Indeed, the only effect it might have beencalculated to produce in the mind of the offending party had he notalready secured his berth, would be that of moving him to sally forthand carry out that operation on the spot.

  "Look here!" he said, when failure of breath and vocabulary had perforceeffected a lull. "I've had about enough of this awful life, and so I'mgoing to try if I can't do something to set things right again, beforeit's too late. Now, the Johannesburg 'boom' is the thing to do it, ifanything will. It's kill or cure."

  "And what if it's kill?"

  "What if it's kill? Then, one may as well take it fighting. Better,anyway, than scattering one's brains on that hearth-rug some morning inthe small hours out of sheer disgust with the dead hopelessness of life.That's what it is coming to as things now are."

  "All very well. But, in that case, what is to become of me--of us?"

  A very hard look came into the man's face at the question.

  "In that case--draw on the other side of the house. There's plentythere," he answered shortly, re-lighting his pipe, which had gone out inmid-blast.

  The reply seemed to fan up her wrath anew, and she started in to talk athim again. Under which circumstances, perhaps it was just as well that acouple of heavy bangs overhead and a series of appalling yells,betokening a nursery catastrophe, should cut short her eloquence, andstart her off, panic-stricken, to investigate.

  Left alone, still standing
with his back to the mantelpiece, LaurenceStanninghame put forth a hand. It shook--was, in fact, all of a tremble.

  "Look at that!" he said to himself. "The squalid racket of thisrough-and-tumble life is playing the devil with my nerves. I believe Icouldn't drink a wineglassful of grog at this moment without spillinghalf of it on the floor. I'll try, anyhow."

  He unlocked a chiffonier, produced a whisky bottle, and, having pouredsome into a wineglass, not filling it, tossed off the "nip."

  "That's better," he said. Then mechanically he moved to the window andstood looking out, though in reality seeing nothing. He wasthinking--thinking hard. The course he had decided to adopt was theright thing--as to that he had no sort of doubt. He had no regularincome, and such remnant of capital as he still possessed was dwindlingalarmingly. Men had made fortunes at places like Johannesburg, startingwith almost literally the traditional half-crown, why should not he? Notthat he expected to make a fortune; a fair competence would satisfy him,a sufficiency. The thought of no longer being obliged to hold an inqueston every sixpence; of bidding farewell forever to this life of pinchingand screwing; of dwelling decently instead of pigging it in a crampedand jerry-built semi-detached; of enjoying once more some of life'sbrightnesses--sport, for instance, of which he was passionately fond; ofthe means to wander, when disposed, through earth's fairestplaces--these reflections would have fired his soul as he stood there,but that the flame of hopefulness had long since died within him andgone out. Now they only evoked bitterness by their tantalizingallurement.

  Other men had made their pile, why should not he? Rainsford, forinstance, who had been, if possible, more down on his luck thanhimself--Rainsford had gone out to the new gold town while it was yetvery new and had made a good thing of it. Two or three otheracquaintances of his had gone there and had made very much more than agood thing of it. Why should not he?

  Laurence Stanninghame was just touching middle age. As he stood at thewindow, the murky September sun seemed to bring out the lines andwrinkles of his clear-cut face, which was distinctly the face of a manwho has not made a good thing of life, and who can never for a momentlose sight of that fact. There were lines above the eyes, clear, blue,and somewhat sunken eyes, which denoted the habit of the brows tocontract on very slight provocation, and far oftener than was good fortheir owner's peace of mind, and the bronze underlying the clear skintold of a former life in the open--possibly under a warmer sun than thatnow playing upon it. As to its features, it was a strong face, but therewas a certain indefinable something about it when off its guard, whichwould have told a close physiognomist of the possession of latentinstincts, unknown to their possessor, instincts which, if stifled,choked, were not dead, and which, if ever their depths were stirred,would yield forth strange and dangerous possibilities.

  He was of fine constitution, active and wiry; but the cramped life andsqualid worry of a year-in year-out, semi-detached, suburban existencehad, as he told himself, played the mischief with his nerves, and now tothis was added the ghastly vista of impending actual beggary. Whateverhe did and wherever he went this thought would not be quenched. It wasever with him, gnawing like an aching tooth. Lying awake at night itwould glare at him with spectral eyes in the darkness; then, unless hecould force himself by all manner of strange and artificial means, suchas repeating favourite verse, and so forth, to throw it off, good-bye tosleep--result, nerves yet further shaken, a succession of brooding days,and system thrown off its balance by domestic friction and strife. Manya man has sought a remedy for far less ill in the bottle, whether ofgrog or laudanum; but this one's character was in its strength proofagainst the first, while for the latter, that might come, but only as avery last extremity. Meanwhile ofttimes he wondered how that blank,hopeless feeling of having completely done with life could be his,seeing that he was still in his prime. Formerly eager, sanguine,warm-hearted, glowing with good impulses; now indifferent, sceptical,with a heart of stone and the chronic sneer of a cynic.

  He was one of those men who seem born never to succeed. With everythingin his favour apparently, Laurence Stanninghame never did succeed.Everything he touched seemed to go wrong. If he speculated, whether itwas a half-crown bet or a thousand-pound investment, smash went theconcern. He was of an inventive turn and had patented--of course atconsiderable expenditure--a thing or two; but by some crafty twist ofthe law's subtle rascalities, others had managed to reap the benefit. Hehad tried his hand at writing, but press and publisher alike shied athim. He was too bitter, too bold, too sweeping, too thorough. So hethrew that, as he had thrown other things, in sheer disgust andhopelessness.

  Now he was going to cast in the net for a final effort, and already hisspirits began to revive at the thought. Any faint spark of lingeringsentiment, if any there were, was quenched in the thought that the turnof the wheel might bring good luck, but it was impossible it couldstrand him in worse case. For the sentimental side of it--separation,long absence--well, the droop of the cynical corners of the mouth becamemore emphasized at the recollection of that faded old figment, "home,sweet home," and glowing aspirations after the so-called holy and purejoys of the family circle; whereas the reality, a sort of Punch and Judyshow at best. No, there was no sentimental side to this undertaking.

  Yet Laurence Stanninghame's partner in life was by no means a bad sortof a woman. She had plenty of redeeming qualities, in that she wasgood-hearted at bottom and well-meaning, and withal a most devotedmother. But she had a tongue and a temper, together with an exceedinglyinjudicious, not to say foolish twist of mind; and this combination,other good points notwithstanding, the quality which should avail toredeem has hitherto remained undiscoverable in any live human being.Furthermore, she owned a will. When two wills come into contact theweakest goes under, and that soon. Then there may be peace. In this caseneither went under, because, presumably, evenly balanced.Result--warfare, incessant, chronic.

  Having finished his pipe, Laurence Stanninghame got out a hat and anumbrella, and set to work to brush the former and furl the latter priorto going out. The hat was not of that uniform and glossy smoothnesswhich one could see into to shave, and the umbrella was weather-beatenof aspect. The morning coat, though well cut, was shiny at the seams.Yet, in spite of the wear and tear of his outer gear, with sounmistakably thoroughbred a look was their wearer stamped that it seemedhe might have worn anything. Many a man would have looked and feltshabby in this long service get-up; this one never gave it a thought,or, if he did, it was only to wonder whether he should ever again, afterthis time, put on that venerable "stove-pipe," and if so, what sort ofexperiences would have been his in the interim.

  Now there was a patter of feet in the passage, the door-handle turnedsoftly, and a little girl came in. She was a sweetly-pretty child, withthat rare combination of dark-lashed brown eyes and golden hair. Here,if anywhere, was Laurence Stanninghame's soft place. His other progenywas represented by two sturdy boys, combative of instinct and firm oftread, and whose gambols, whether pacific or bellicose, were apt toshake the rattletrap old semi-detached and the parental nerves in aboutequal proportions; constituting, furthermore, a standing bone ofparental contention. This little one, however, having turned ten, was ofa companionable age; and to the male understanding the baby stage doesnot, as a rule, commend itself.

  She was full of the racket which had just taken place overhead; but tothis Laurence hardly listened. There was always a racket overhead, afight or a fall or a bumping. One more or less hardly mattered. He wasthinking of his own weakness. Would she feel parting with him? Childrenas a rule were easily consoled. A new and gaudy toy would make themforget anything. And appositely to this thought, the little one's mindwas also full of a marvellous engine she had seen the last time she hadbeen taken into London--one which wound up with a key and ran a greatdistance without stopping.

  Being alone--for by this time he had come to regard all display ofaffection before others as a weakness--Laurence drew the child to himand kissed her tenderly.

  "And supposing
that engine were some day to come puffing in, Fay;to-morrow or the day after?" he said.

  The little one's eyes danced. The toy was an expensive one, quite out ofreach for her, she knew. If only it were not! And now her delighted lookand her reply made him smile with a strange mixture of sadness andcynicism. And as approaching footsteps heralded further invasion, he putthe child from him hurriedly, and went out. Hailing a tram car, he madehis way up to town to carry out the remainder of his sudden, though notvery extensive, preparations.

  Now on the following evening arrived a package of toys, of a splendourhitherto unparalleled within that dingy suburban semi-detached, andthere was a great banging of gorgeous drums and a tootling of glitteringtrumpets, and little Fay was round-eyed with delight in the acquisitionof the wondrous locomotive, ultimately declining to go to sleep savewith one tiny fist shut tight round the chimney thereof. That wouldcounteract any passing effect that might be inspired by a vacant chair,thought Laurence Stanninghame, amid the roar of the mail train speedingthrough the raw haze of the early morning. Sentiment? feelings? What hadhe to do with such? They were luxuries, and as such only for those whocould afford to indulge in them. He could not.