Young Mr. Barter's Repentance / From "Schwartz" by David Christie Murray

by David Christie Murray

It would appear that a spider may be among the most daring, skilful, and predatory of his species, that he may be gifted with the most constant watchfulness and appetite, and yet, whether by the intrusion of an accidental walking-stick or broom (which would assuredly seem providential to the fly), or by stress of weather, or the desperate activity of a victim, may have his best laid schemes brought to nought, and his most mathematically laid web rent to tatters. In the entomological world a solitary interview between fly and spider is usually fatal to the one, and satisfactory to the other. But we of the higher developments, who model ourselves, or are modelled, upon the lines of myriads of remote ancestors, and far-away relatives, have refined upon their primitive proceedings, and have made their simple activities complex by development.

In an absolutely primitive condition the Steinberg spider would have drained the Barter fly at a single orgie, and would have left him to wither on the lines. As things were, he came back to him with a constant gusto of appetite, tasting him on Monday, despatching him to buzz among his fellows until Saturday, and then tasting him again, the Barter fly seeming for a while—for quite a considerable time in fact—lusty and active and able-bodied, and looking as though this kind of thing might go on for ever without much damage to him, and the spider himself giving no sign of overtaxed digestive powers.

Not to run this striking and original simile out of breath, the Barter fly endured for a round twelve months, without showing signs of anaemia so pronounced as to look dangerous to his constitution. At the end of that time, however, all the surplus blood had been drawn from his body, and the spider had grown so keen by the habit of constant recurrence to him that any prolonged connection between them began to look desperate. In plain English, the eight thousand pounds which had once so lightly passed from the hands of Mr. Brown to the hands of Mr. Bommaney had now passed, with just as little profit to the man who parted with them, from the hands of young Barter to the hands of Steinberg.

It was just about the time when this lingering but inevitable transaction was completed that chance led young Barter to his encounter with the son of the man whose belongings he had appropriated. Everybody knows how apt newly-made acquaintances sometimes are to renew themselves again and again. You meet a man whom you have never seen before, see him just long enough to take a passing interest in him, and to know generally who and what he is, and you run against him on the morrow, and again on the morrow, and so on, until in a week he has grown as familiar to your thoughts as any other mere acquaintance of whose identity you may have been aware for years. This happened in the case of Philip Bommaney and younger Mr. Barter. They entered the Inn together, or left it together, or Philip ran upstairs or downstairs as Barter was in the very act of leaving or entering his chambers. Putting together a certain family resemblance which he thought he noticed, the identity of a rather uncommon name, and the curious frequency of these chance encounters, Barter found it hard to avoid the belief that his new-made acquaintance had a rather careful eye upon him. His nerve was a good deal shaken, and he was by no means the man he had been. To the unobservant stranger the frank gaiety of his laugh was as spontaneous as ever, but then that had never had much to do with Barter’s inward sensations. Perhaps he got the laugh in some remote fashion from an ancestor who really ought to have had it, and who may have been as dull and as little laughter-loving to look at as his successor was within. Philip rather took to the fellow at first sight, and was slow to suspect him, even when James Hornett had told his story. But the young Barter was not satisfied, as he should have been, with playing the part of one insect at a time. It was unwholesome enough, one might have thought, for him to play fly to Steinberg’s spider, and yet he must needs take to playing moth to Philip Bommaney’s candle, a light of danger to him, as he recognised almost from the first He was always polite to Phil, and always stopped him for a moment’s conversation at their chance encounters. Phil, having been inspired at least with a suspicion that this engaging young man was responsible for the actual disgrace which had fallen upon Bommaney senior, always bent a grave scrutiny upon him. Barter sometimes wondered whether his new-found acquaintance’s way of looking at him were habitual or particular, but he could never solve that problem. To Barter’s nerves the glance of dispassionate analysis always seemed to ask—Did you steal those notes? and whether his mind and nerves were at accord or no made but little difference to him. His mind rejected the idea of suspicion, but his nerves accepted it with trembling. He knew perfectly well that he could not endure the certainty of Phil Bommaney’s knowledge, but none the less he found the uncertainty tantalising and painful. This is perhaps one of the hardest things an undetected criminal has to endure, that he lives in a world of suspicion of his own making, where every imagination is real and as dreadful as the fact. In his own mind young Barter credited himself with courage when he made overtures for Philip’s companionship. In reality he made the overtures because he was a coward, and a braver scoundrel would have disdained them.

Philip felt himself impelled to watch this young man, and was not altogether displeased that he found the opportunity thrust upon him. Almost facing the gateway of the old Inn there is an old-fashioned restaurant, deserted from its hour of opening until noon, and from then crowded inconveniently till two o’clock, deserted again till five, and once more inconveniently crowded till seven. Philip, having the power to choose his own time for meals, and frequenting this old house, sometimes met Barter in the act of coming away from it with the dregs of the stream of the late lunchers or diners. He fell into the habit of going a little earlier, and Barter would signal him to the table at which he sat, if by rare chance there happened to be a vacant seat at it. The young rascal’s tendency lay towards monologue, and since it was his cue to be open-hearted, and very unsuspicious of being suspected, he talked with much freedom of himself, his pursuits, and his affairs. The question which Barter’s nerves were always finding in Philip’s eyes was, as a matter of fact, not often absent from his mind. ‘Now, how did you steal those notes?’ was the one active query of his intelligence as he listened to Barter’s candid prattle.

It was in the course of these confidences that Philip learned of the existence of that Pigeon Trap of which Mr. Barter was so proud to be an inhabitant. It was at Barter’s solicitation that he visited the place, and it was Barter who proposed him as a member.

Being a member it was not long before he discovered the fact of Steinberg’s influence over the young solicitor. He noticed a terrified deference in Barter’s manner towards the other, a frightened alacrity of obedience to his suggestions. He noticed also that Steinberg and Barter played a good deal by themselves, and that Barter always lost.

The men of Hawks’ Boost talked pretty freely about each other in the absence of such of their fellow clubmen as were under discussion. Barter was spoken of as Steinberg’s Mug, Berg’s Juggins, Stein’s Spoofmarker. It was generally admitted that Stein made a good thing out of him, and the wonder was where Barter got his money. There was a pretty general apprehension that the young man, at no very far future date, would come to grief. The contemplation of this probability affected the Boosters but little in an emotional way, but it made them keen to see that Mr. Barter paid up punctually, and though they were very shy of paper acceptances from their comrades as a general thing, they were shyer of his than of most men’s.

These things Philip Bommaney junior attentively noted. At first the clubmen rather wondered at him. He was in their precincts often, and would smoke his pipe and watch whatever game might be going with tranquil interest, but he never played, and could not be induced to bet. Que diable faisant-il dans cette gaière? the clubmen wanted to know. He never told them, and in a while they grew accustomed to him and his ways. He continued his quiet watch upon Mr. Barter, and included Steinberg in his field of observation. One evening, dining at the old restaurant, he marked Barter, melancholy and alone. He was sitting in an attitude of apparent dejection, tapping upon the table with a fork, and deep sunk in what seemed to be an uncomfortable contemplation. But when the moth saw his candle he brightened, and fluttered over to it.

‘You might come over,’ said Barter, when they had sat together until the latest of the dining guests had gone away. ‘You might come over to my chambers and smoke a cigar if you’ve nothing else to do. I don’t care about going down to the club tonight.’