The Web of the Golden Spider. Bartlett Frederick Orin
that he had gone away.”
“But if he is dead–”
“He isn’t dead,” she answered with conviction.
“On the strength of that vision you came here to look for him?”
“Yes.”
“When you believe, you believe hard, don’t you?”
“I believe the crystal,” she answered soberly.
“Yet you didn’t find your father?”
“No,” she admitted.
“You are still sure he is here?”
“I am still sure he is living. I may have made a mistake in the place, but I know he is alive and well somewhere. I shall look again in the crystal to-morrow.”
“Yes, to-morrow,” answered Wilson, vaguely.
He rose to his feet.
“But there is still the hunger of to-day.”
She seemed disappointed in the lightness with which apparently he took her search.
“You don’t believe?”
“I believe you. And I believe that you believe. But I have seen little of such things myself. In the meanwhile it would be good to eat–if only a few crackers. Are you afraid to stay here alone while I explore a bit?”
She shook her head.
He was gone some ten minutes, and when he came back his loose robe bulged suspiciously in many places.
“Madame,” he exclaimed, “I beg you to observe me closely. I snap my fingers twice,–so! Then I motion,–so! Behold!”
He deftly extricated from one of the large sleeves a can of soup, and held it triumphantly aloft.
“Once more,–so!”
He produced a package of crackers; next a can of coffee, next some sugar. And she, watching him with face alight, applauded vigorously and with more genuine emotion than usually greets the acts of a prestidigitator.
“But, oh!” she exclaimed, with her hands clasped beneath her chin, “don’t you dare to make them disappear again!”
“Madame,” answered Wilson, with a bow, “that shall be your privilege.”
He hurried below once more, and this time returned with a chafing-dish, two bowls, and a couple of iron spoons which he had found in the kitchen. In ten minutes the girl had prepared a lunch which to them was the culmination of their happiness. Warmed, clothed, and fed, there seemed nothing left for them.
When they had finished and had made everything tidy in the room, and he had gone to the cellar and replenished the coal-hod, he told her something of his own life. For a little while she listened, but soon the room became blurred to her and she sank farther and farther among the heavy shadows and the old paintings on the wall. The rain beat against the muffled windows drowsily. The fire warmed her brow like some hypnotic hand. Then his voice ceased and she drew her feet beneath her and slept in the chair, looking like a soft Persian kitten.
CHAPTER III
A Stranger Arrives
It was almost two in the morning when Wilson heard the sound of wheels in the street without, and conceived the fear that they had stopped before the house. He found himself sitting rigidly upright in the room which had grown chill, staring at the dark doorway. The fire had burned low and the girl still slept in the shadows, her cheeks pressed against her hands. He listened with suspended breath. For a moment there was no other sound and so he regained his composure, concluding it had been only an evil dream. Crossing to the next room, he drew a blanket from the little bed and wrapped the sleeping girl about with it so carefully that she did not awake. Then he gently poked up the fire and put on more coal, taking each lump in his fingers so as to make no noise.
Her face, even while she slept, seemed to lose but little of its animation. The long lashes swept her flushed cheeks. The eyes, though closed, still remained expressive. A smile fluttered about her mouth as though her dreams were very pleasant. To Wilson, who neither had a sister nor as a boy or man had been much among women, the sight of this sleeping girl so near to him was particularly impressive. Her utter trust and confidence in his protection stirred within him another side of the man who had stood by the gate clutching his club like a savage. She looked so warm and tender a thing that he felt his heart growing big with a certain feeling of paternity. He knew at that moment how the father must have felt when, with the warm little hand within his own, he had strode down those foreign streets conscious that every right-hearted man would turn to look at the pretty girl; with what joy he had stopped at strange bazaars to watch her eyes brighten as the shopkeepers did their best to please. Those must have been days which the father, if alive, was glad to remember.
A muffled beat as upon the steps without again brought him to attention, but again the silence closed in upon it until he doubted whether he had truly heard. But the dark had become alive now, and he seemed to see strange, moving shadows in the corners and hear creakings and rustlings all about him. He turned sharply at a soft tread behind him only to start at the snapping of a coal in the fire from the other side. Finally, in order to ease his mind, he crossed the room and looked beyond the curtains into the darkness of the hall. There was neither movement nor sound. He ventured out and peered down the staircase into the dark chasm marking the lower hall. He heard distinctly the sound of a key being fitted rather clumsily into the lock, then an inrush of air as the door was thrown open and someone entered, clutching at the wall as though unable to stand.
It never occurred to Wilson to do the natural and obviously simple thing: awake the girl at once and steal down the stairs in the rear until he at least should have a chance to reconnoitre. It seemed necessary for him to meet the situation face to face, to stand his ground as though this were an intrusion upon his own domain. The girl in the next room was sleeping soundly in perfect faith that he would meet every danger that should approach her. And so, by the Lord, he would. Neither she nor he were thieves or cowards, and he refused to allow her to be placed for a minute in such a position.
Someone followed close behind the first man who had entered and lighted a match. As the light flashed, Wilson caught a glimpse of two men; one tall and angular, the other short and broad-shouldered.
“The–the lights aren’t on, cabby,” said one of them; “but I–I can find my way all right.”
“The divil ye can, beggin’ yer pardon,” answered the other. “I’ll jist go ahead of ye now an’–”
“No, cabby, I don’t need help.”
“Jist to th’ top of the shtairs, sor. I know ye’re thot weak with sickness–”
The answer came like a military command, though in a voice heavy with weariness.
“Light a candle, if you can find one, and–go.”
The cabby struck another match and applied it to a bit of candle he found on a hall table. As the light dissolved the dark, Wilson saw the taller man straighten before the anxious gaze of the driver.
“Sacré, are you going?” exclaimed the stranger, impatiently.
“Good night, sor.”
“Good night.” The words were uttered like a command.
The man went out slowly and reluctantly closed the door behind him. The echo pounded suddenly in the distance.
No sooner was the door closed than the man remaining slumped like an empty grain-sack and only prevented himself from falling by a wild clutch at the bannister. He raised himself with an effort, the candle drooping sidewise in his hand. His broad shoulders sagged until his chin almost rested upon his breast and his big slouch hat slopped down over his eyes. His breathing was slow and labored, each breath being delayed as long as possible as though it were accompanied by severe pain. It was clear that only the domination of an extraordinary will enabled the man to keep his feet at all.
The stranger began a struggle for the mastery of the stairs that held Wilson spellbound.