“I could almost make oath, at least, that I have known this ugly specimen of his race,” observed Redclyffe. “A very dear friend, now deceased, to whom I owed the highest obligations, was studious of spiders, and his chief treasure was one the very image of this.”
“How strange!” said the priest. “There has always appeared to me to be something uncanny in spiders. I should be glad to talk further with you on this subject. Several times I have fancied a strange intelligence in this monster; but I have natural horror of him, and therefore refrain from interviews.”
“You do wisely, sir,” said Redclyffe. “His powers and purposes are questionably beneficent, at best.”
In truth, the many-legged monster made the old library ghostly to him by the associations which it summoned up, and by the idea that it was really the identical one that had seemed so stuffed with poison, in the lifetime of the Doctor, and at that so distant spot. Yet, on reflection, it appeared not so strange; for the old Doctor’s spider, as he had heard him say, was one of an ancestral race that he had brought from beyond the sea. They might have been preserved, for ages possibly, in this old library, whence the Doctor had perhaps taken his specimen, and possibly the one now before him was the sole survivor. It hardly, however, made the monster any the less hideous to suppose that this might be the case; and to fancy the poison of old times condensed into this animal, who might have sucked the diseases, moral and physical, of all this family into him, and to have made himself their demon. He questioned with himself whether it might not be well to crush him at once, and so perhaps do away with the evil of which he was the emblem.
“I felt a strange disposition to crush this monster at first,” remarked the priest, as if he knew what Redclyffe was thinking of,—“a feeling that in so doing I should get rid of a mischief; but then he is such a curious monster. You cannot long look at him without coming to the conclusion that he is indestructible.”
“Yes; and to think of crushing such a deep-bowelled monster!” said Redclyffe, shuddering. “It is too great a catastrophe.”
During this conversation in which he was so deeply concerned, the spider withdrew himself, and hand over hand ascended to a remote and dusky corner, where was his hereditary abode.
“Shall I be likely to meet Lord Braithwaite here in the library?” asked Redclyffe, when the fiend had withdrawn himself. “I have not yet seen him since my arrival.”
“I trust,” said the priest, with great courtesy, “that you are aware of some peculiarities in his Lordship’s habits, which imply nothing in detriment to the great respect which he pays all his few guests, and which, I know, he is especially desirous to pay to you. I think that we shall meet him at lunch, which, though an English institution, his Lordship has adopted very readily.”
“I should hope,” said Redclyffe, willing to know how far he might be expected to comply with the peculiarities—which might prove to be eccentricities—of his host, “that my presence here will not be too greatly at variance with his Lordship’s habits, whatever they may be. I came hither, indeed, on the pledge that, as my host would not stand in my way, so neither would I in his.”