"When you weave a web, shrewd sir," wrote Rathbeal, quoting an observation made by Mr. Fox-Cordery in the course of their recent interview, "nothing ever escapes from it.
Beneath these words was the picture of a large web, in a corner of which lurked a spider, bearing an unmistakable likeness to Mr. Fox-Cordery. A number of unfortunate creatures, with human faces, struggled in the meshes. The face of one figure, designated Fate, was hidden, purposely it seemed.
"There are other webs than those that mortals weave," wrote Rathbeal, quoting his reply to Mr. Fox-Cordery's observation. "Fate is ever at work.
Beneath this was the same web, but this time Mr. Fox-Cordery was in the meshes, struggling in terror to release himself; while in the corner lurked the figure of Fate, still with its face hidden.
"The man is crazy," was Mr. Fox-Cordery's comment, "or in his dotage."
Nevertheless he could not banish these sketches from his mind, and he found himself wondering who the figure with his hidden face was intended to represent.
The bark we steer has stranded. O breeze, auspicious swell: We yet may see once more the friend we love so well.
"For auspicious," wrote Rathbeal, "read malefic. For love, read hate."
Better the drunkard void of fraud and wiles Than virtue's braggart who by fraud beguiles.
What serves thy armor 'gainst Fate's arrows fierce? What serves thy shield if Destiny transpierce?
Had Mr. Fox-Cordery not been sensible of the advisability of silence he might have taken fighting notice of these missives, which, in their frequency, savored of persecution. He was tempted, as his eyes fell upon the familiar writing on the envelope, to tear and burn it, unopened, but he had not the nerve to do this; he was possessed with a strange fear that it might contain some news of importance to himself, and thus he was made to contribute to his own uneasiness.
But these were small matters in comparison with the one desire of which he had become the slave. In the retreat he had chosen he had hoped to attain his wish, and to win from Mrs. Grantham a promise that she would become his wife. Long as he had loved her, he had not had the courage to speak to her openly. Many times had he approached the boundary line which stood between friendship and love, and had never dared to cross it. Something in her manner, which he could not define or satisfactorily explain to himself, deterred him; and he lacked the gamester's mettle to risk his all upon the hazard of the die. He argued with himself that she could scarcely mistake the meaning of the attentions he was paying her during this visit. Daily offerings of flowers, a constant ministering to her pleasure, fulfillment of any wish she expressed, the most careful attention to the adornment of his small person, a display of amiability to her, to Charlotte and his mother, and even to the servants who waited on them--all these efforts seemed to be thrown away upon her. As has been stated, he was growing savage to find his meaning thus misunderstood, his desire thus frustrated. Had he seen her while he was restlessly and moodily pacing the lawn and been able to read what was passing within her, he might have arrived at a better understanding of the position of affairs; and had he witnessed a scene which was presently to take place between Mrs. Grantham and his sister Charlotte, it would not have assisted in comforting him.