IN A SPIDER’S WEB.
Mrs. Murray was right in believing that Italy would seek the protection
of the lawyer who had been her mother’s trusted friend.
A railway-journey of only half an hour took the girl away from the
pretty New England hamlet, Winthrop, and brought her into the noise
and bustle of busy Boston. She engaged a cab at the station, and drove
straight to the lawyer’s office on Tremont Street.
It had been late in the afternoon when she held that angry interview
with Francis Murray. It was nearly sunset when she paid and dismissed
her cab, and, passing across the pavement through the hurrying throngs
of people, stepped into the office.
A pert office-boy dashed past as she entered--quitting-time, evidently,
and he did not mean to be hindered.
She found herself quite alone in a gloomy little anteroom. But a door
was ajar at one end, and she heard the busy scratching of a clerk’s
pen. She crossed and looked in.
She saw a handsome office, well furnished, and before a large desk a
young man sat alone, scribbling very busily. She rapped softly.
“Come in,” said a curt voice, and the young man looked around, showing
a dark, strong face, good-looking, but rather sinister in its impatient
scowl. But the frown turned into a smile at sight of the beautiful
intruder.
“I--I wish to see Mr. Gardner,” she said timidly.
“Certainly, certainly, miss”--he sprang to his feet with a courteous
bow--“I am Craig Severn, his head clerk, and I will hand him your card,
please, as our office-boy has gone.”
Italy handed him a dainty bit of pasteboard. He glanced at the pretty
name, and again at the pretty face, then disappeared through an open
door that led into a narrow hallway. In a few minutes he returned, and
said regretfully:
“Mr. Gardner is out at present. Be seated, Miss Vale; he will probably
return in a short time.”
He placed a chair for her, and assumed an engaging air.
“Client of Mr. Gardner?”
“No.”
“Relative, eh?”
Italy had heard something about Yankee inquisitiveness, so she smiled
just a little, and answered again:
“No.”
“Ah, friend!”
“Ye-es,” she answered timidly, without comprehending the veiled
significance of the tone.
She had never known Mr. Gardner, but she felt she had a right to claim
her mother’s friend as her own.
Craig Severn smiled broadly, and added:
“Mr. Gardner is a married man, you know?”
“Of course,” she replied carelessly, and added:
“Do you think he will come in soon?”
“I cannot tell. In fact, I expect he has gone home. It is past
office-hours now, and I only remained to finish up some papers I was
working on.”
Italy rose hastily, her beautiful face clouded with disappointment.
“Where is his home? I must take a cab there at once,” she cried.
“Then you did not know that he lived in the country?” asked the
inquisitive clerk.
“No, no”--impatiently. “I may as well tell you, sir, I am a stranger in
Boston. Although I was born in America, I have lived abroad since my
early childhood. But now I am an orphan, with no near relations, and as
Lawyer Gardner was my mother’s true friend, I sailed for this country
thinking, thinking----” but her voice faltered and she paused.
“Does he know--does he expect you?” Craig Severn asked eagerly.
“No; I shall take him quite by surprise,” she replied; then, weary of
his questioning, that began to appear almost rude, she crested her dark
head almost haughtily, and added:
“You must not detain me, sir, with idle questions. Please give me Mr.
Gardner’s address at once.”
Craig Severn’s intensely black eyes were glittering strangely. It was
most unfortunate for her that she had thoughtlessly confided her sad
story to his ears--an orphan and a stranger, alone and friendless in a
great, wicked city--and she so beautiful!
“Mr. Gardner’s house is out in the suburbs of Boston--several miles
distant,” declared the clerk. “But I am going in that direction, for I
live close to him, so I will be glad to show you the way, if you will
accept my escort.”
Unnerved and troubled by the occurrences of the day, she did not notice
how ambiguous his words were. She bowed assent to his offer, glad of
assistance in her search for the only friend she could claim in all
wide America.
A few moments later they were seated side by side in a cab, riding
rapidly toward their destination. Italy’s companion exerted himself
to be entertaining while she listened almost in silence and with a
desolate pain at her heart as she thought how easily she had been
vanquished in her brave attempt at piercing the dark veil of a hidden
and torturing mystery.
Was it a mockery of Fate that within a few blocks of the law-office
there whirled past them a light, open vehicle, in which sat a man of
magnificent physique, with a fair, handsome face, clouded and grave
now with keen anxiety? Italy saw him and drew back from sight with a
stifled cry.
“What is the matter?” asked Craig Severn, and she answered evasively:
“Nothing.”
But to herself she said:
“Mr. Murray suspected I had gone to Mr. Gardner for protection. He is
following, searching for me. Perhaps he repents his harshness, and
has come to take me back. He will soon find me at the lawyer’s,” and
somehow the desolate pain at her heart grew less keen and bitter.
“Here we are,” said Craig Severn presently, and, having dismissed
the cab, he led Italy up a broad, graveled path to a house built of
red bricks in an old-fashioned style, and standing in a thick grove
of trees. It was at some distance from any other habitation, and the
dark front and shuttered windows looked very gloomy in the deepening
twilight and the shadows of the trees.
Italy’s heart sank strangely while they waited after ringing the
door-bell. Would Mr. Gardner be angry at her unceremonious invasion?
Would his wife be kind and tender? Would they help her in her quest,
or, like Francis Murray, “command her not to interfere with the
long-pronounced verdict of the jury--and the world?”
A trim maid admitted them into a dim, square hall, and then to a
bright, well-furnished parlor.
“You will wait here just one moment, while I bring Mr. Gardner from his
study to welcome you,” Craig Severn said, disappearing.
Italy’s glance, roving carelessly at first from one to another of the
handsome pictures that adorned the walls, suddenly paused with some
interest before a portrait, half life-size, that hung over the mantel.
It was a man’s face, not strictly handsome, but fascinating, as many
faces are. The brow was high and white, the hair dark and thin, with
curling locks at the parting; the eyes were dark, keen, and mirthful,
closely set together over a handsome nose, large in size and almost
Roman in shape, just enough to give the face a slight Jewish cast.
A round, almost womanish chin, indented with a very slight dimple,
supplemented a weak mouth, the curve of whose thin red lips was
scarcely hidden by a thin black mustache, elaborately curled at the
ends, bespeaking some masculine vanity. At first glance this face
seemed very boyish. A closer inspection showed the lines of at least
thirty years. To this portrait Italy’s eyes returned again and again
while she waited.
“How handsome it is, how winning,” she thought; then she grew restless.
She contrasted it in her thoughts with the fair, grave, intellectual
face of Francis Murray.
“Pshaw! I do not think it compares with Mr. Murray. It looks like a
Jew!” she murmured, beginning to find flaws all at once; and she was
just turning her back on it, when the door opened and Craig Severn
returned, accompanied by a fine-looking, showily dressed woman past the
middle age.
“Mrs. Gardner, your husband’s friend, Miss Vale,” he said smoothly.
Mrs. Gardner welcomed her effusively.
“I am charmed to welcome you to my home, dear Miss Vale, and I hope you
will remain our guest for a long time. I am so sorry that my husband
went out to a neighbor’s a while ago, to write a will for a dying man,
but he will be back in about an hour, I think. Let me help you to
remove your hat, dear child, and then, if you will excuse me, I will go
out and send a servant to hasten my husband’s return.”
Purring like a graceful tabby cat, she hastened out, leaving the pair
of young people alone.
Craig Severn immediately drew his own chair close to Italy’s side, and
murmured tenderly:
“I am very glad to have this opportunity of declaring my sentiments for
you, Miss Vale. Fair one, your grace and beauty have carried my heart
by storm. I love you!”
He attempted to take her hand, but she withdrew it indignantly, her
large eyes flashing with surprise and scorn.
“Sir, your words are presumptuous. You are little more than a stranger
to me!”
“No, no. I love you as fondly as though I had known you for years!” he
cried, and flung himself at her feet with passionate protestations of
devotion.
Italy was bitterly disgusted. She repulsed her would-be lover angrily.
“Rise. I will hear no more,” she exclaimed.
“You _shall_ listen!”
“I will not. I dislike you very much, and no power could force me to
marry you!” she cried.
Craig Severn laughed harshly, and sprang to his feet.
“Who was talking of marriage? I only asked you for your love, my pretty
queen,” he cried insolently.
With a face of horror, Italy flew to the door.
“I will appeal to Mr. Gardner for protection from your insults!” she
cried stormily.
Her persecutor laughed tauntingly, for the door resisted her efforts.
It was locked on the outside.
“Open the door at once, or I will scream and rouse the whole house!”
she exclaimed imperiously.
But he stood calmly in the middle of the room, surveying her
ineffectual struggles with the door-knob with a tantalizing smile.
“Scream as much as you like, pretty one, but no one will heed you,” he
returned coolly; “Mrs. Gardner--Smith is her real name, by the way--is
only the housekeeper here, and will not interfere with me. I’ll make a
clean breast of the whole thing, my sweet little girlie. Mr. Gardner
is abroad, and I’m in charge of his office till he returns. When you
came to seek him I fell in love with your black eyes and red lips, and
as soon as you owned up to the facts about yourself, I pitied your
loneliness and fixed up this little plan to win your heart!”
“Fiend!” cried the girl indignantly; but with that cool smile, he
continued:
“This house isn’t Gardner’s, either. It belongs to a rich bachelor
friend of mine, now absent, who keeps up the place as a sort of
private club-house for his intimates. We have jolly times here, I tell
you--suppers, cards, wine, and--sometimes--pretty women, actresses
and dancers, you know, but all on the strictly quiet, for if it were
known of any woman that she ever set foot here she could never have any
social standing afterward.”
He paused, for the white horror and anguish of her lovely face showed
that she took in all his brutal meaning.
“Oh, Heaven!” she thought, “how careless I was to fall into this trap!
To think, only to think, how I drew back from Mr. Murray’s sight but a
few hours ago, when I ought to have been crying out to him to save me
from this demon! May Heaven guide me now!”
Her tormentor resumed calmly:
“You came here with me willingly, and in so doing placed the stain
upon your reputation that nothing can ever wipe out. But what does
that matter, since you have no friends to miss you? I love you madly,
and you are wholly in my power. I shall keep you shut up in this house
until you consent to love me and be mine. That will not be long, I’m
sure, for many other women have loved me, and so will you at last. You
need not look so pale and alarmed. I shall attempt no harshness. I
shall woo you like a lover till I win your heart. I will be patient,
darling, but one kiss you must give me now to pay me for my waiting!”
“Back! Do not dare to touch me!” she cried madly.
But his outstretched arms clasped the shuddering form, his hot breath
fanned her cheek.
She struggled wildly, but she was like a reed in his strong grasp, and
his lips almost touched hers, when--suddenly there rang through the
room a pistol-shot!
A pistol-shot--a flash of light so close that it scorched Italy’s
cheek, a thread of thin blue smoke, a sharp report--then--the arms that
held Italy so tight fell apart, the lips that would have pressed hers
parted with a groan, the blood spurted from Craig Severn’s heart, and
he fell backward--gasping, dying, _dead_! But who had fired the fatal
shot?
As the victim fell Italy heard one great cry of horror and despair.
“Oh, God, I have killed _him_!”
Her eyes flashed toward the window, for she recalled the crashing of
glass mingling with the sound of the shot.
She saw that the silken curtains were looped aside, and that some one
had opened the outside shutters of the window. In the sash there was
one pane, shattered into fragments. Above it Italy saw gleaming a wild,
white, anguished face, a woman’s face--one that she knew, one that she
had seen only that forenoon, bright, insolent, smiling.
One moment that face gleamed ghostlike in the gloom outside the
window, and it seemed to her, too, that there were white hands flung
upward--white, jeweled hands, writhing in fierce despair--then the
eerie vision faded from her sight, and Italy was alone--alone with the
dead man whose treachery had brought her to this awful pass, and whose
punishment had been meted out to him so swiftly.
She stood silent one moment, like one in a trance. She heard, as in a
painful dream, steps and voices in the hall outside the door--the key
grated in the lock. Somebody was coming. Perhaps it would be said that
she killed this monster--Craig Severn.
Her tortured senses reeled and failed. She fell in a crouching,
senseless heap behind the door, and her dark robes trailed in the pool
of warm blood.