The Web of the Golden Spider

“This will never do,” he said. “You’ve got to get dry–clear to your bones. Somehow a woman doesn’t look right–wet. She gets so very wet–like a kitten. I’m going foraging now. You keep turning round and round.”

“Till I’m brown on the outside?”

“Till I come back and see if you’re done.”

She followed him with her eyes as he went out, and in less than five minutes she heard him calling for her. She hurried to the next room and found him bending over a tumbled heap of fluffy things which he had gingerly picked from the bureau drawers.

“Help yourself,” he commanded, with a wave of his hand.

“But–I oughtn’t to take these things!”

“My girl,” he answered in an even voice that seemed to steady her, “when it’s either these or pneumonia–it’s these. I’ll leave you the candle.”

“But you–”

“I’ll find something.”

He went out. She stood bewildered in the midst of the dimly revealed luxury about her. The candle threw feeble rays into the dark corners of the big room, over the four-posted oak bed covered with its daintily monogrammed spread, over the heavy hangings at the windows, and the bright pictures on the walls. She caught a glimpse of closets, of a graceful dressing table, and finally saw her reflection in the long mirror which reached to the floor.

She held the candle over her head and stared at herself. She cut but a sorry figure in her own eyes in the midst of such spotless richness as now surrounded her. She shivered a little as her own damp clothes pressed clammily against her skin. Then with a flush she turned again to the garments rifled from their perfumed hiding places. They looked very white and crisp. She hesitated but a second.

“She’ll forgive,” she whispered, and threw off her dripping waist. The clothes, almost without exception, fitted her remarkably well. She found herself dressing leisurely, enjoying to the fullest the feel of the rich goods. She shook her hair free, dried it as best she could, and took some pains to put it up nicely. It was long and glossy black, but not inclined to curl. It coiled about her head in silken strands of dark richness.

She demurred at first at the silk dress which he had tossed upon the bed, but she could find no other. It was of a golden yellow, dainty and foreign in its design. It fitted snugly to her slim figure as though it had been made for her. She stood off at a little distance and studied herself in the mirror. She was a girl who had an instinct for dress which had never been satisfied; a girl who could give, as well as take, an air from her garments. She admired herself quite as frankly as though it had been some other person who, with head uptilted and teeth flashing in a contented smile, challenged her from the clear surface of the mirror, looking as though she had just stepped through the wall into the room. The cold, the wet, and for a moment even the hunger vanished, so that as she glanced back at her comfortable reflection it seemed as if it were all just a dream of cold and wet and hunger. With silk soothing her skin, with the crisp purity of spotless linen rustling about her, with the faultless gown falling in rich splendor about her feet, she felt so much a part of these new surroundings that it was as though she melted into them–blended her own personality with the unstinted luxury about her.

But her foot scuffled against a wet stocking lying as limp as water grass, which recalled her to herself and the man who had led the way to this. A wave of pity swept over her as she wondered if he had found dry things for himself. She must hurry back and see that he was comfortable. She felt a certain pride that the beaded slippers she had found in the closet fitted her a bit loosely. With the candle held far out from her in one hand and the other lifting her dress from the floor, she rustled along the hall to the study, pausing there to speak his name.

“All ready?” he shouted.

He strode from a door to the left, but stopped in the middle of the room to study her as she stood framed in the doorway–a picture for Whistler. With pretty art and a woman’s instinctive desire to please, she had placed the candle on a chair and assumed something of a pose. The mellow candle-light deepened the raven black of her hair, softened the tint of her gown until it appeared of almost transparent fineness. It melted the folds of the heavy crimson draperies by her side into one with the dark behind her. She had shyly dropped her eyes, but in the excitement of the moment she quickly raised them again. They sparkled with merriment at sight of his lean frame draped in a lounging robe of Oriental ornateness. It was of silk and embellished with gold-spun figures.

“It was either this,” he apologized, “or a dress suit. If I had seen you first, I should have chosen the latter. I ought to dress for dinner, I suppose, even if there isn’t any.”

“You look as though you ought to make a dinner come out of those sleeves, just as the magicians make rabbits and gold-fish.”

“And you,” he returned, “look as though you ought to be able to get a dinner by merely summoning the butler.”

He offered her his arm with exaggerated gallantry and escorted her to a chair by the fire. She seated herself and, thrusting out her toes towards the flames, gave herself up for a moment to the drowsy warmth. He shoved a large leather chair into place to the left and, facing her, enjoyed to himself the sensation of playing host to her hostess in this beautiful house. She looked up at him.

“I suppose you wonder what brought me out there?”

“In a general way–yes,” he answered frankly. “But I don’t wish you to feel under any obligation to tell me. I see you as you sit there,–that is enough.”

“There is so little else,” she replied. She hesitated, then added, “That is, that anyone seems to understand.”

“You really had no place to which you could go for the night?”

“No. I am an utter stranger here. I came up this morning from Newburyport–that’s about forty miles. I lost my purse and my ticket, so you see I was quite helpless. I was afraid to ask anyone for help, and then–I hoped every minute that I might find my father.”

“But I thought you knew no one here?”

“I don’t. If Dad is here, it is quite by chance.”

She looked again into his blue eyes and then back to the fire.

“It is wonderful how you came to me,” she said.

“I saw you twice before.”

“Once,” she said, “was just beyond the Gardens.”

“You noticed me?”

“Yes.”

She leaned forward.

“Yes,” she repeated, “I noticed you because of all the faces I had looked into since morning yours was the first I felt I could trust.”

“Thank you.”

“And now,” she continued, “I feel as though you might even understand better than the others what my errand here to Boston was.” She paused again, adding, “I should hate to have you think me silly.”

She studied his face eagerly. His eyes showed interest; his mouth assured her of sympathy.

“Go on,” he bade her.

To him she was like someone he had known before–like one of those vague women he used to see between the stars. Within even these last few minutes he had gotten over the strangeness of her being here. He did not think of this building as a house, of this room as part of a home; it was just a cave opening from the roadside into which they had fled to escape the rain.

It seemed difficult for her to begin. Now that she had determined to tell him she was anxious for him to see clearly.

“I ought to go back,” she faltered; “back a long way into my life, and I’m afraid that won’t be interesting to you.”

“You can’t go very far back,” he laughed. Then he added seriously, “I am really interested. Please to tell it in your own way.”

“Well, to begin with, Dad was a sea captain and he married the very best woman in the world. But she died when I was very young. It was after this that Dad took me on his long voyages with him,–to South America, to India, and Africa. I don’t remember much about it, except as a series of pictures. I know I had the best of times for somehow I can remember better how I felt than what I saw. I used to play on the deck in the sun and listen to the sailors who told me strange stories. Then when we reached a port Dad used to take me by the hand and lead me through queer, crooked little streets and show me the shops and buy whole armfuls of things for me. I remember it all just as you remember brightly colored pictures of cities–pointed spires in the sunlight, streets full of bright colors, and dozens of odd men and women whose faces come at night and are forgotten in the morning. Dad was big and handsome and very proud of me. He used to like to show me off and take me with him everywhere. Those years were very wonderful and beautiful.

“Then one day he brought me back to shore again, and for a while we lived together in a large white house within sight of the ocean. We used to take long walks and sometimes went to town, but he didn’t seem very happy. One day he brought home with him a strange woman and told me that she was to be housekeeper, and that I must obey her and grow up to be a fine woman. Then he went away. That was fifteen years ago. Then came the report he was dead; that was ten years ago. After a while I didn’t mind so much, for I used to lie on my back and recall all the places we had been together. When these pictures began to fade a little, I learned another way,–a way taught me by a sailor. I took a round crystal I found in the parlor and I looked into it hard,–oh, very, very hard. Then it happened. First all I saw was a blur of colors, but in a little while these separated and I saw as clearly as at first all the streets and places I had ever visited, and sometimes others too. Oh, it was such a comfort! Was that wrong?”

“No,” he answered slowly, “I can’t see anything wrong in that.”

“She–the housekeeper–called it wicked–devilish. She took away the crystal. But after a while I found I could see with other things–even with just a glass of clear water. All you have to do is to hold your eyes very still and stare and stare. Do you understand?”

He nodded.

“I’ve heard of that.”

She dropped her voice, evidently struggling with growing excitement, colored with something of fear.