Charles Garvice - The Spider and the Fly

Mildmay Park – or The Park, as it was more generally called – was peculiarly placed on the slope of a hill climbing toward the cliff.

The lower part of the building was that remnant of the old abbey of which Violet had spoken to Captain Murpoint. The upper part was the modern luxurious mansion in which the wealthy merchant prince, John Mildmay, had lived.

Money can command all things in the way of architecture and luxury, and The Park was a fitting residence for a marquis, to say nothing of an East Indian merchant.

Having passed so much of his time in the crowded, bustling streets of both hemispheres, it was only natural that Violet's father should choose a quiet resting place.

Penruddie was quiet enough to suit an Anglican monk.

Beside the Cedars there was no other house on the cliff, and the village in the valley was so small as to scarcely be deserving of the name. A few fishermen's cottages, a general shop, and an inn, picturesque and inviting, comprised it.

The fishermen were simple people, who looked upon The Park and its inmates as a place and people to be worshiped from afar; the general shop, a little more elevated in its notions, prided itself upon the custom of the "gentry," and the inn – well, the inn deserves something more than a statistical mention.

It was a pretty little place, midway in the single street, overgrown with ivy, from which its windows peered like so many eyes struggling to catch a glimpse of the glittering sign board through their lids of leaves.

This sign board was a wonder. In Martha Pettingall's opinion there had never been, or ever would be a work of art to compare with it. It bore on its crimson background a lion so blue, so fierce, and in attitude so wickedly and preposterously unnatural that, perhaps, Martha's pride was, after all, excusable. Certainly, there was some truth in her assertion that there was "ne'er a lion in the whole world like it."

Martha Pettingall was a thin old lady, with sharp eyes and a mysterious complaint. This disease – it was painless – attacked her whenever the wind was in the East, her customers troublesome, and her niece, pretty Polly Pettingall, aggravating. It proclaimed itself by sharp tones and a yellow bandanna.

The sharp tones were freely employed to all about her, and the fishermen knew when to expect them by the appearance of the yellow flag tied tightly round Martha's head and face.

At such times it was astonishing how quiet the gruff, hard-voiced men became, and how early they left the little taproom and departed to their by no means soft couches.

The day after the captain's arrival Martha appeared in the bar with the yellow bandanna and the vinegarish tones in full battle array.

Polly – light-hearted, slippery-fingered Polly – had dropped and broken one of the best jugs, one of that precious set which the late Joe Pettingall had presented to her aunt as a wedding gift, and there was wrath in the hostess' bosom and fierce ire in the bandanna.

Polly was red and flushed about the neighborhood of the eyes, and her pretty lips were fixed in a sullen, tear-threatening pout.

It was a quarter to eleven, the men had just come in from a mackerel haul and were inclined to be jovial.

"Where's the missus?" inquired Willie Sanderson, as, followed by a dozen of his mates, young and old, he trudged into the barroom. "Well, Polly, my lass, thee's as fresh as a herrin' this mornin'! There's a mack'rel for ye, the biggest I've seen this season."

And Willie, a great, strapping giant with a good-natured face and a pair of dark, wide-awake eyes, threw an enormous fish upon the polished counter.

"Thank you, Willie," said Polly, with a dolorous sniggle.

"Why, what's the matter, lass?" exclaimed the brawny fisherman, taking her by the shoulders and swinging her round. "Here, you Bill, and Jim, and Jake, here's the lass piping her eye! Can't ye say a word o' comfort?"

The young fellows, fresh-cheeked, brown-eyed sons of the hamlet, gathered round sympathetically and admiringly, ready with their inquiries and their condolences, but pretty Polly with a pout stepped from among them and ran into the long bar parlor.

"Come along, lads," said Willie, "women's tears are like gurnets – no sooner here than gone again. Jake, where's the mistress?"

At that moment the door was flung open with no gentle hand, and Martha appeared with the yellow bandanna tightly bound round her head.

The young fellows looked at one another and sank into the seats round the sanded room in grim, expressive silence.

"Well!" said Martha, sharply. "Is the haul in? It's mighty early ye are, Willie Sanderson, and it's no great take, I suppose, as usual."

"Indeed you're wrong, mistress," said big Willie, with a short laugh. "The haul's as good as ye could wish, and we be come up to wet the fish afore they starts on their last journey."

"Ye'd better have sent them off and took to your drinking after," said Martha, sharply.

"That's a matter of opinion, arter all," retorted Willie, who was the only one in Penruddie who dared bandy words with the owner of the "Blue Lion" and the yellow bandanna.

"What's it to be, lads?" he continued, looking round.

"Ye'd get nothing but ale so early as this," declared Martha, decisively, and so, fully aware that any opposite opinion, however firmly delivered, would be of no avail, the "boys" nodded good-naturedly, and the shrewish hostess left the room for the ale.

Four huge tankards were soon foaming at the mouth, and Polly was bearing them into the room on a tray when the low-browed door swung open and the well-built, dapper form of Mr. Starling entered.

"'Eavens, what a sight!" he exclaimed, throwing himself into an elaborate pose of ecstatic admiration and arresting Polly's progress thereby. "It's a study of Michael Hangelo," and he clasped his hands with an artistic enthusiasm.

Pretty Polly threw up her head with a pert smile and a side glance at the stranger.

"Oh, indeed!" she said, "and pray who's Mr. Hangelo? And who's a sight, I should like to know?"

"You're a sight, my dear," retorted Mr. Starling, who, however deferential and meek he might be in his master's presence, was thoroughly at home and at his ease in a public house. "You're a sight beautiful enough to gladden any hartist's eyes."

"Nonsense!" said Polly, tripping into the taproom.

Mr. Starling, with a cast of his sharp eyes in that direction, strolled up to the bar and bowed with proper respect to the landlady.

"Good-morning, ma'am. I hope I see you well. Beautiful morning for the hay – "

"Do you want anything to drink?" sternly interrupted Martha.

Not at all discomposed, Mr. Starling intimated that he should feel obliged if the lady would favor him with a glass of her very best ale, and draw it mild.

Perfectly unmoved by his grand manner and repeated bows, Martha drew the glass of ale and flung the twopence with a clash into the large pocket at her side.

Mr. Starling winked at the ceiling, chuckled noiselessly, and disposed of the ale with a peculiar drawing in of the breath and turn of the little finger.

"That's good tackle," he said.

"Ye asked for the best," said Martha, who was not to be conciliated.

"And I've got it; and I'll have another," said Mr. Starling.

This glass he dealt with more mercifully, and after taking a draught carried the remainder to the taproom door.

The sunburnt faces and bright eyes of the lads were lifted as he appeared, and Willie's sharp gray orbs seemed to take an inventory of his every inch, as Mr. Starling, with a nod and a smile, said:

"Good-morning. Any fish this morning?"

"Ay, lots," said Willie, curtly.

"Ah, glad to hear it," said Mr. Starling, edging a little farther into the room. "I'm very fond of fishing – allus was. Used to catch little bats with a umbrella handle and a bent pin when I was so high," and he put his hand about five inches from the floor.