Irene was playing a waltz now--something as gay and joyous as her song
had been sweet and pensive. Guy Kenmore touched Mrs. Leslie's arm.
"Let us go on the balcony. The moonlight is so beautiful," he said.
They went, and though Irene did not turn her head she knew that they had
left the room, and her heart sank unaccountably. But she went on playing
with tireless fingers, and the gay, sweet music floated deliciously out
on the balcony where the young man was saying in a low voice to his
companion:
"I must confess to an almost feminine curiosity regarding your promised
story of your beautiful _protege_."
"You wish to hear it now?" said the lady, smilingly.
"Yes," he admitted, frankly.
"After all there is little to tell," she replied. "I know actually
nothing of her except that she is a beautiful, fascinating mystery."
"A mystery--how?" he asked.
"I will tell you," she said, "for I do not suppose it is any betrayal of
confidence. If I do not tell it you will hear it from others who love
her less than I do."
"No one could appreciate your confidence more than I will do," he said,
eagerly.
Mrs. Leslie's heart beat quickly. She believed that Mr. Kenmore held the
key to the mystery she had promised to unravel for Clarence Stuart. She
determined to tell him Irene's story, in the hope of eliciting a like
confidence.
"It is nearly four months now since we left Richmond for Italy," she
began. "We sailed in Mr. Stuart's own yacht."
"Yes. I saw that fact duly announced in the Richmond papers," he
observed.
"But, pardon me for having interrupted your story. Please go on."
"It was the tenth of June when we left Richmond--I like to be particular
as to dates," said Mrs. Leslie. "Well, it was lovely weather, and we all
planned to get up early the next morning and see the sun rise over the
sea. We did so, and as you may be aware, it was a glorious sight; but we
only got one glimpse of it, for its first beams showed us a more tragic
and interesting sight."
Mr. Kenmore caught his breath, and gazed eagerly at the speaker.
"It was a loud scream for help that first attracted our attention," said
Mrs. Leslie. "The sound was not very far away, and we all turned
instinctively toward it. To our horror we saw on the level, sun-lighted
waves a floating plank, with a human figure clinging to its frail
support. Literally, there remained but one plank between her and
eternity."
"Ah!" exclaimed Guy Kenmore, with a shudder.
"Mr. Stuart is one of the bravest men in the world, I think. He
immediately sprang over the side of the yacht into the sea, and swam
toward the floating figure. Before he reached her she lost her hold of
the plank, and sank under the water. Mr. Stuart instantly dived, and
brought her up in his arms."
"_He_ saved her life. How strange," exclaimed Mr. Kenmore, as if
speaking to himself.
"Do you think so?" she asked, looking at him keenly. "Why strange, Mr.
Kenmore?"
"I beg your pardon. I did not express myself properly," he said, biting
his lips nervously. "Well, Mrs. Leslie, do you mean to tell me that the
heroine of that romantic episode was the beautiful Miss Berlin?"
"Yes, it was she," replied Mrs. Leslie.
There was a minute's dead pause. Irene was singing again. In the
stillness her full, sweet voice floated out to them softly:
"Go! be sure of my love--by that treason forgiven,
Of my prayers, by the blessings they win thee from Heaven;
Of my griefs (guess the length of the sword by the sheath's)
By the silence of life more pathetic than death's!
Go, be clear of that day!"
Mrs. Leslie looked at the man's handsome face. It was grave and troubled
in the moonlight.
"Is it not strange?" she said. "She would never sing for us until
to-night. We did not suspect that she had such a soulful voice. But she
was betrothed to Mr. Revington to-day. Perhaps the happiness of her soul
finds natural vent in song."
She saw him wince as if she had touched a secret wound. He looked away
from her at the lovely Italian landscape bathed in the pearly radiance
of the moonlight. When he spoke again he did not look at her.
"Mrs. Leslie. I am curious to hear how your _protege_ came to be in the
water?"
"She threw herself in, Mr. Kenmore."
"No," he cried, with a shudder.
"It is true," she replied. "She says she had lost her only friend and
did not wish to live."
"Who was that friend?" he asked.
"She declined to say. She declined to speak of her past. She had broken
loose from all its ties, and never wished to unite them again. She
shrouded herself in mystery, claiming nothing from the life she had left
except the sweet, simple name of Irene."
"Yet you called her Berlin," he said.
"Yes, but it was my own maiden name which I gave her because she
declared herself nameless," said Mrs. Leslie.
"You were very kind."
"Do you think so? I fell in love with the child, and adopted her as my
_protege_. I am sure she has had a great sorrow in her life, but I am
equally sure that she is pure and innocent as a little child."
He looked at her, gratefully.
"And the Stuarts?" he inquired, in a tone of veiled significance.
"Mr. Stuart was as much fascinated by Irene as I was. He wished to adopt
her as Lilia's sister, but his jealous wife would not permit him to do
so."
"And Revington is her lover?"
"Yes, she accepted him to-day."
"Is it a good match for her?" inquired Mr. Kenmore, dropping into a
light, conventional, society tone.
"Not in a worldly way," she replied. "Mr. Revington's fortune is very
small, barely sufficient for his own luxurious needs. He is of good
family, however, being cousin to Clarence Stuart. I cannot say I have
any admiration for the man, and I am disappointed at Irene's choice."
He made no comment on her words, but remained gazing thoughtfully at the
beautiful starry arch of night. Mrs. Leslie thought that it was now her
turn to receive confidence.
"Now, I have told you all I know of my interesting _protege_, you must
tell me about your friend whom she resembled so much that she frightened
you to-night," she said, blandly.
He started and looked at her, but before he could speak they were
interrupted.
Mr. Revington and Irene came out upon the balcony and took seats near
them. The girl looked at Mr. Kenmore with a bright, careless smile.
"We have been talking about you, Mr. Kenmore," she said. "We are
exceedingly anxious to know how you escaped from the wreck in which you
were reported as lost."
She spoke and looked as if he were an utter stranger. He answered with
indifference equal to her own:
"I am gratified by your solicitude, Miss Berlin. I can very easily
gratify your curiosity. I was rescued by one of the small boats that was
lowered from the steamer that sunk us."
"Thank you for your concise explanation," she replied, gaily. "I see you
are not disposed to weave any romance around it."
"It was too terribly real to be associated with the thought of romance,"
he replied, repressing a slight shudder.
"And yet our daily life is often more romantic than fiction," observed
Mr. Revington, sentimentally.
No one dissented from the proposition. Mr. Kenmore rose and prepared to
take leave.
But when he had bowed formally to Irene and her lover, and returned to
the drawing-room, the hospitable host and hostess quite took him by
storm.
"Return to Florence that night? They would not hear of such a thing!
They could not think of losing such a pleasant addition to their party.
Mr. Kenmore must promise to be their guest a week at least." The end of
it all was that Mr. Kenmore gracefully accepted their cordial
invitation, and promised to send to Florence for his luggage on the
morrow.
Very soon afterwards the party separated for the night. Mr. Kenmore went
to his room, but he was in no mood for retiring. He threw himself down
into a chair at the window and lighted a cigar.
"Decidedly I have made a fine beginning," he said to himself. "I have
found out more than I expected to do when I came to Mr. Stuart's villa.
Perhaps I had been wise to have remained in America. I am come too
late."
He was restless and ill at ease. The four walls of his room, spacious
and elegant as it was, seemed to confine and stifle him. A fancy seized
him to go out into the night air. It would cool his throbbing brow
perhaps and he could think more clearly.
A narrow balcony ran across the front of his window, and a flight of
steps led from it to the garden below. He stepped safely through his
open window and went down the stairs just as all the clocks in the house
simultaneously chimed eleven.