The Net
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22 Beth Constantine, Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team.
[Illustration: "I DO NOT KNOW WHY I HAVE SUMMONED YOU," SHE SAID]
THE NET
A NOVEL
By REX BEACH
Author of "The Spoilers," "The Barrier," "The Silver Horde," Etc.
WITH FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS BY WALTER TITTLE
CONTENTS
CHAP.
I. THE TRAIN FROM PALERMO
II. A CONFESSION AND A PROMISE
III. THE GOLDEN GIRL
IV. THE FEAST AT TERRANOVA
V. WHAT WAITED AT THE ROADSIDE
VI. A NEW RESOLVE
VII. THE SEARCH BEGINS
VIII. OLD TRAILS
IX. "ONE WHO KNOWS"
X. MYRA NELL WARREN
XI. THE KIDNAPPING
XII. LA MAFIA XIII. THE BLOOD OF HIS ANCESTORS
XIV. THE NET TIGHTENS
XV. THE END OF THE QUEST
XVI. QUARANTINE
XVII. AN OBLIGATION IS MET
XVIII. BELISARIO CARDI
XIX. FELICITE
XX. THE MAN IN THE SHADOWS
XXI. UNDER FIRE
XXII. A MISUNDERSTANDING
XXIII. THE TRIAL AND THE VERDICT
XXIV. AT THE FEET OF THE STATUE
XXV. THE APPEAL
XXVI. AT THE DUSK
ILLUSTRATIONS
"I DO NOT KNOW WHY I HAVE SUMMONED YOU,' SHE SAID _Frontispiece_
"SILENZIO!" HE GROWLED, "I PLAY MY OWN GAME, AND I LOSE"
HE WRESTLED FOR POSSESSION OF THE GUN
"P-PLEASE DON'T KILL YOURSELF, DEAR? I COULDN'T HELP IT"
I
THE TRAIN FROM PALERMO
The train from Palermo was late. Already long, shadowy fingers were
reaching down the valleys across which the railroad track meandered.
Far to the left, out of an opalescent sea, rose the fairy-like Lipari
Islands, and in the farthest distance Stromboli lifted its smoking
cone above the horizon. On the landward side of the train, as it
reeled and squealed along its tortuous course, were gray and gold
Sicilian villages perched high against the hills or drowsing among
fields of artichoke and sumac and prickly pear.
To one familiar with modern Sicilian railway trains the journey
eastward from Palermo promises no considerable discomfort, but
twenty-five years ago it was not to be lightly undertaken--not to be
undertaken at all, in fact, without an unusual equipment of patience
and a resignation entirely lacking in the average Anglo-Saxon. It was
not surprising, therefore, that Norvin Blake, as the hours dragged
along, should remark less and less upon the beauties of the island and
more and more upon the medieval condition of the rickety railroad
coach in which he was shaken and buffeted about. He shifted himself to
an easier position upon the seat and lighted a cheroot; for although
this was his first glimpse of Sicily, he had watched the same villages
come and go all through a long, hot afternoon, had seen the same
groves of orange and lemon and dust-green olive-trees, the same fields
of Barbary figs, the same rose-grown garden spots, until he was
heartily tired of them all. He felt at liberty to smoke, for the only
other occupant of the compartment was a young priest in flowing mantle
and silk beaver hat.
Finding that Blake spoke Italian remarkably well for a foreigner, the
priest had shown an earnest desire for closer acquaintance and now
plied him eagerly with questions, hanging upon his answers with a
childlike intensity of gaze which at first had been amusing.
"And so the Signore has traveled all the way from Paris to attend the
wedding at Terranova. Veramente! That is a great journey. Many
wonderful adventures befell you, perhaps. Eh?" The priest's little
eyes gleamed from his full cheeks, and he edged forward until his
knees crowded Blake's. It was evident that he anticipated a thrilling
tale and did not intend to be disappointed.
"It was very tiresome, that's all, and the beggars at Naples nearly
tore me asunder."
"Incredible! You will tell me about it?"
"There's nothing to tell. These European trains cannot compare with
ours."
Evidently discouraged at this lack of response, the questioner tried a
new line of approach.
"The Signore is perhaps related to our young Conte?" he suggested.
"And yet that can scarcely be, for you are Inglese--"
"Americano."
"Indeed?"
"Martel and I are close friends, however. We met in Paris. We are
almost like brothers."
"Truly! I have heard that he spends much time studying to be a great
painter. It is very strange, but many of our rich people leave Sicily
to reside elsewhere. As for me, I cannot understand it."
"Martel left when his father was killed. He says this country is
behind the times, and he prefers to be out in the world where there is
life and where things progress."
But the priest showed by a blank stare that he did not begin to grasp
the meaning of this statement. He shook his head. "He was always a
wild lad. Now as to the Signorina Ginini, who is to be his beautiful
Contessa, she loves Sicily. She has spent most of her life here among
us."
With a flash of interest Blake inquired: "What is she like? Martel has
spoken of her a great many times, but one can't place much dependence
on a lover's description."
"Bellissima!" the priest sighed, and rolled his eyes eloquently. "You
have never seen anything like her, I assure you. She is altogether too
beautiful. If I had my way all the beautiful women would be placed in
a convent where no man could see them. Then there would be no fighting
and no flirting, and the plain women could secure husbands. Beautiful
women are dangerous. She is rich, too."
"Of course! That's what Martel says, and that is exactly the way he
says it. But describe her."
"Oh, I have never seen her! I merely know that she is very rich and
very beautiful." He went off into a number of rapturous "issimas!"
"Now as for the Conte, I know him like a book. I know his every
thought."
"But Martel has been abroad for ten years, and he has only returned
within a month."
"To be sure, but I come from the village this side of San Sebastiano,
and my second cousin Ricardo is his uomo d'affare--his overseer. It
is a very great position of trust which Ricardo occupies, for I must
tell you that he attends to the leasing of the entire estate during
the Conte's absence in France, or wherever it is he draws those
marvelous pictures. Ricardo collects the rents." With true Sicilian
naivete the priest added: "He is growing rich! Beato lui! He for one
will not need to go to your golden America. Is it true, Signore, that
in America any one who wishes may be rich?"
"Quite true," smiled the young man. "Even our beggars are rich."
The priest wagged his head knowingly. "My mother's cousin, Alfio
Amato, he is an American. You know him?"
"I'm afraid not."
"But surely--he has been in America these five years. A tall, dark
fellow with fine teeth. Think! He is such a liar any one would
remember him. Ebbene! _He_ wrote that there were poor people in
America as here, but we knew him too well to believe him."
"I suppose every one knows about the marriage?"
"Oh, indeed! It will unite two old families--two rich families. You
know the Savigni are rich also. Even before the children were left as
orphans it was settled that they should be married. What a great
fortune that will make for Ricardo to oversee! Then, perhaps, he will
be more generous to his own people. He is a hard man in money matters,
and a man of action also; he does not allow flies to sit upon his
nose. He sent his own daughter Lucrezia to Terranova when the Contessa
was still a child, and what is the result? Lucrezia is no longer a
servant. Indeed no, she is more like a sister to the Signorina. At the
marriage no doubt she will receive a fine present, and Ricardo as
well. He is as silent as a Mafioso, but he thinks."
Young Blake stretched his tired muscles, yawning.
"I'm sorry Martel couldn't marry in France; this has been a tedious
trip."
"It was the Contessa's wish, then, to be wed in Sicily?"
"I believe she insisted. And Martel agreed that it was the proper
thing to do, since they are both Sicilians. He was determined also
that I should be present to share his joy, and so here I am. Between
you and me, I envy him his lot so much that it almost spoils for me
the pleasure of this unique journey."
"You are an original!" murmured the priest, admiringly, but it was
evident that his thirst for knowledge of the outside world was not to
be so easily quenched, for he began to question his traveling
companion closely regarding America, Paris, the journey thence, the
ship which bore him to Palermo, and a dozen other subjects upon which
his active mind preyed. He was full of the gossip of the countryside,
moreover, and Norvin learned much of interest about Sicily and the
disposition of her people. One phenomenon to which the good man
referred with the extremest wonder was Blake's intimacy with a
Sicilian nobleman. How an American signore had become such a close
friend of the illustrious Conte, who was almost a stranger, even to
his own people, seemed very puzzling indeed, until Norvin explained
that they had been together almost constantly during the past three
years.
"We met quite by chance, but we quickly became friends--what in my
country we call chums--and we have been inseparable ever since."
"And you, then, are also a great artist?"
Blake laughed at the indirect compliment to his friend.
"I am not an artist at all. I have been exiled to Europe for three
years, upon my mother's orders. She has her own ideas regarding a
man's education and wishes me to acquire a Continental polish. My
ability to tell you all this shows that I have at least made progress
with the languages, although I have doubts about the practical value
of anything else I have learned. Martel has taught me Italian; I have
taught him English. We use both, and sometimes we understand each
other. My three years are up now, and once I have seen my good friend
safely married I shall return to America and begin the serious
business of life."
"You are then in business? My mother's cousin, Alfio Amato, is
likewise a business man. He deals in fruit. Beware of him, for he
would sell you rotten oranges and swear by the saints that they were
excellent."
"Like Martel, I have land which I lease. I am, or I will be, a
cotton-planter."
This opened a new field of inquiry for the priest, who was making the
most of it when the train drew into a station and was stormed by a
horde of chattering country folk. The platform swarmed with vividly
dressed women, most of whom carried bundles wrapped up in variegated
handkerchiefs, and all of whom were tremendously excited at the
prospect of travel. Lean-visaged, swarthy men peered forth from the
folds of shawls or from beneath shapeless caps of many colors; a pair
of carabinieri idled past, a soldier in jaunty feathered hat posed
before the contadini. Dogs, donkeys, fowls added their clamor to the
high-pitched voices.
Twilight had settled and lights were kindling in the village, while
the heights above were growing black against a rose-pink and
mother-of-pearl sky. The air was cool and fragrant with the odor of
growing things and the open sea glowed with a subdued, pulsating fire.
The capo stazione rushed madly back and forth striving by voice and
gesture to hasten the movements of his passengers.
"Partenza! Pronto!" he cried, then blew furiously upon his bugle.
After a series of shudders and convulsions the train began to hiss and
clank and finally crept on into the twilight, while the priest sat knee to
knee with his companion and resumed his endless questioning.
It was considerably after dark when Norvin Blake alighted at San
Sebastiano, to be greeted effusively by a young man of about his own
age who came charging through the gloom and embraced him with a great
hug.
"So! At last you come!" Savigno cried. "I have been here these three
hours eating my heart out, and every time I inquired of that head of a
cabbage in yonder he said, 'Pazienza! The world was not made in a
day!'
"'But when? When?' I kept repeating, and he could only assure me that
your train was approaching with the speed of the wind. The saints in
heaven--even the superintendent of the railway himself--could not tell
the exact hour of its arrival, which, it seems, is never twice the
same. And now, yourself? You are well?"
"Never better. And you? But there is no need to ask. You look
disgustingly contented. One would think you were already married."
Martel Savigno showed a row of even, white teeth beneath his military
mustache and clapped his friend affectionately on the back.
"It is good to be among my own people. I find, after all, that I am a
Sicilian. But let me tell you, that train is not always late. Once,
seven years ago, it arrived upon the moment. There were no passengers
at the station to meet it, however, so it was forced to wait, and now,
in order to keep our good-will it always arrives thus."
The Count was a well-set-up youth of an alert and active type, tall,
dark, and vivacious, with a skin as smooth as a girl's. He had an
impulsive, energetic nature that seldom left him in repose, and hence
the contrast between the two men was marked, for Blake was of a more
serious cast of features and possessed a decidedly Anglo-Saxon
reserve. He was much the heavier in build, also, which detracted from
his height and robbed him of that elegance which distinguished the
young Sicilian. Yet the two made a fine-looking pair as they stood
face to face in the yellow glare of the station lights.
"What the deuce made me agree to this trip, I don't know," the
American declared. "It was vile. I've been carsick, seasick, homesick--"
"And all for poor, lovesick Martel!" The Count laughed. "Ah, but if
you knew how glad I am to see you!"
"Really? Then that squares it." Blake spoke with that indefinable
undernote which creeps into men's voices when friend meets friend.
"I've been lost without you, too. I was quite ashamed of myself."
The Count turned to a middle-aged man who had remained in the shadows,
saying: "This is Ricardo Ferara, my good right hand, of whom you have
heard me speak." The overseer raised his hat, and Blake took his hand,
catching a glimpse of a grizzled face and a stiff mop of iron-gray
hair. "You will see to Signore Blake's baggage, Ricardo. Michele!
Ippolito!" the Count called. "The carretta, quickly! And now, caro
Norvin, for the last leg of your journey. Will you ride in the cart or
on horseback? It is not far, but the roads are steep."
"Horseback, by all means. My muscles need exercise."
The young men mounted a pair of compact Sicilian horses, which were
held by still another man in the street behind the depot, and set off
up the winding road which climbed to the village above. Blake
regretted the lateness of the hour, which prevented him from gaining
an adequate idea of his surroundings. He could see, however, that they
were picturesque, for San Sebastiano lay in a tiny step hewed out of
the mountain-side and was crowded into one street overlooking the
railway far below and commanding a view of the sea toward the
Calabrian coast. As the riders clattered through the poorly lighted
village, Blake saw the customary low-roofed houses, the usual squalid
side-streets, more like steep lanes than thoroughfares, and heard the
townspeople pronouncing the name of the Count of Martinello, while the
ever-present horde of urchins fled from their path. A beggar appeared
beside his stirrup, crying, "I die of hunger, your worship." But the
fellow ran with surprising vigor and manifested a degree of endurance
quite unexampled in a starving man. A glimpse of these, and then the
lights were left behind and they were moving swiftly upward and into
the mountains, skirting walls of stone over which was wafted the
perfume of many flowers, passing fragrant groves of orange and lemon
trees, and less fragrant cottages, the contents of which were bared to
their eyes with utter lack of modesty. They disturbed herds of drowsy
cattle and goats lying at the roadside, and all the time they
continued to climb, until their horses heaved and panted.
The American's impressions of this entire journey, from the time of
his leaving Paris up to the present moment, had been hurried and
unreal, for he had made close connections at Rome, at Naples, and at
Palermo. Having the leisurely deliberateness of the American
Southerner, he disliked haste and confusion above all things. He had
an intense desire, therefore, to come to anchor and to adjust himself
to his surroundings.
As Martel chattered along, telling of his many doings, Blake noted
that Ricardo and the man who had held the horses were following
closely. Then, as the cavalcade paused at length to breathe their
mounts, he saw that both men carried rifles.
"Why! We look like an American sheriff's posse, Martel," said he. "Do
all Sicilian bridegrooms travel with an armed escort?"
Savigno showed a trace of hesitation. "The nights are dark; the
country is wild."
"But, my dear boy, this country is surely old enough to be safe. Why,
Sicily was civilized long before my country was even heard of. All
sorts of ancient gods and heroes used to live here, I am told, and I
supposed Diana had killed all the game long ago."
He laughed, but Savigno did not join him, and a moment later they were
under way again.
After a brief gallop they drew up at a big, dark house, hidden among
the deeper shadows of many trees, and in answer to Martel's shout a
wide door was flung back; then by the light which streamed forth from
it they dismounted and made their way up a flight of stone steps. Once
inside, Savigno exclaimed:
"Welcome to my birthplace! A thousand welcomes!" Seizing Norvin by the
shoulders, he whirled him about. "Let me see you once. Ah! I am glad
you made this sacrifice for me, for I need you above all men." His
eyes, though bright with affection, were grave--something unusual in
him--and the other inquired, quickly:
"There's nothing wrong, I hope?"
Savigno tossed his head and smiled.
"Wrong! What could be wrong with me now that you are here? No! All is
quite right, but I have been accursed with lonesomeness. Something was
lacking, It was you, caro mio. Now, however, I am the most contented
of mortals. But you must be famished, so I will show you to your room
at once. Francesca has provided a feast for us, I assure you."
"Give me a moment to look around. So this is the castello? Jove! It's
ripping!"
Blake found himself in a great hall similar to many he had seen in his
European wanderings, but ruder and older by far. He judged the
castello to be of Norman build, but remodeled to suit the taste of the
Savigni. To the right, through an open door, he saw a large room where
a fat Sicilian woman was laying the table; to the left was a drawing-room
lighted only by a fire of fagots in a huge, black fireplace, the
furniture showing curiously distorted in the long shadows. Other rooms
opened towards the rear, and he realized that the old place was very
large. It was unkempt also, and showed the lack of a woman's hand.
"You exaggerate!" said Savigno. "After Paris the castello will seem
very mean. We Siciliani do not live in grand style, and, besides, I
have spent practically no time here, since my father (may the saints
receive him) left me free to wander. The place has been closed; the
old servants have gone; it is dilapidated."
"On the contrary, it's just the sort of place it should be--venerable
and overflowing with romance. You must rule like a medieval baron.
Why, you could sell this woodwork to some millionaire countryman of
mine for enough to realize a fortune."
"Per Dio! If taxes are not reduced I shall be forced to some such
expedient," the Count laughed. "It was my mother's home, it is my
birthplace, so I love it--even though I neglect it. As you perceive,
it is high time I took a wife. But enough! If you are lacking in
appetite, I am not, and Francesca is an unbearable tyrant when her
meals grow cold."
He led his friend up the wide stairs and left him to prepare for
supper.
"And so this ends it all," said Blake, as the two young men lounged in
the big, empty drawing-room later that evening. They had dined and
gossiped as only friends of their age can gossip, had relived their
adventures of the past three years, and still were loath to part, even
for sleep.
"How so?" queried Savigno. "You speak of marriage as if it were
dissolution."
"It might as well be, so far as the other fellow is concerned."
"Nonsense! I shall not change."
"Oh, yes, you will! Besides, I am returning to America."
"Even so, we are rich; we shall travel; we shall meet frequently. You
will come to Sicily. Perhaps the Contessa and I may even go to
America. Friendship such as ours laughs at the leagues."
But Blake was pessimistic. "Perhaps she won't like me."
Martel laughed at this.
"Impossible! She is a woman, she has eyes, she will see you as I see
you. More than that, I have told her that she must love you."
"Then that does settle it! You have hung the crepe on our future
intimacy, for good and all. She will instruct your cook to put a
spider in my dumpling or to do away with me by some characteristic
Sicilian method."
Martel seemed puzzled by the Americanism of this speech, but Norvin
merely smiled and changed to Italian.
"Do you really love her?" he asked.
"Of course! Since I was a boy so high I have known we would marry. She
adores me, she is young, she is beautiful, she is--rich!"
"In Heaven's name don't use that tone in speaking of her wealth. You
make me doubt you."
"No, no!" The Count smiled. "It would be the same if she were a
peasant girl. We shall be so happy--oh, there is no expressing how
happy we intend being."
"I've no doubt. And that makes it quite certain to end our
comradeship."
"You croak like a raven!" declared the Sicilian. "What has soured
you?"
"Nothing. I am a wise young man, that's all. You see, happiness is
all-sufficient; it needs nothing to complete itself. It is a wall
beyond which the owner does not care to wander, so, when you are quite
happy with the new Countess, you will forget your friends of unmarried
days."
"Would you then have me unhappily married?"
"By no means. I am full of regrets at losing you, nothing more."
"It is plain, then, that you also must marry. Is there no admirable
American lady?"
"Any quantity of them, but I don't care much for women except in an
impersonal sort of way, or perhaps I don't attract them. I might enjoy
falling in love if it were not such a tedious process."
"It is not necessarily tedious. One may love with the suddenness of an
explosion. I have done so, many times."
"I know you have, but you are a Sicilian; we go about such things in a
dignified and respectable manner. Love is a serious matter with us. We
don't explode."
"Yes. When you love, you marry; and you marry in the same way you buy
a farm. But we have blood in our veins and lime in our bones. I have
loved many women to distraction; there is only one whom I would
marry."
Ricardo entered at the moment, and the Count arose with a word of
apology to his guest. He spoke earnestly with his overseer, but, as
they were separated from him by the full width of the great room,
Blake overheard no more than a word now and then. They were speaking
in the Sicilian dialect, moreover, which was unfamiliar to him, yet he
caught the mention of Ippolito, one of the men who had met him at the
station, also of an orange-grove, and the word "Mafioso." Then he
heard Martel say:
"The shells for the new rifle--Ippolito is a bad shot--take plenty."
When Ricardo had gone and the Count had returned to his seat, Norvin
fancied he detected once more that grave look he had surprised in his
friend's countenance upon their arrival at the castello.
"What were you telling Ricardo about rifles and cartridges?" he
inquired.
"Eh? It was nothing. We are forced to guard our oranges; there are
thieves about. I have been too long away from Martinello."
Later, as Norvin Blake composed himself to sleep he wondered idly if
Martel had told him the whole truth. He recalled again the faint,
grave lines that had gathered about the Count's eyes, where there had
never been aught but wrinkles of merriment, and he recalled also that
word "Mafioso." It conjured memories of certain tales he had heard of
Sicilian outlawry and brigandage, and of that evil, shadowy society of
"Friends" which he understood dominated this island. There was a story
about the old Count's death also, but Martel had never told him much.
Norvin tried to remember what it was, but sleep was heavy upon him and
he soon gave up.
II
A CONFESSION AND A PROMISE
Norvin Blake slept soundly, as befitted a healthy young man with less
than the usual number of cares upon his mind, and, notwithstanding the
fact that he had retired at a late hour, somewhat worn by his journey,
he awoke earlier than usual. Still lacking an adequate idea of his
surroundings, he arose and, flinging back the blinds of his window,
looked out upon a scene which set him to dressing eagerly.
The big front door of the hall below was barred when he came down, and
only yielded to his efforts with a clanging which would have awakened
any one except Martel, letting him out upon a well-kept terrace
beneath which the hills fell away in majestic sweeps and curves to the
coast-line far beneath.
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