ITALY VALE’S SONG.
As the carriage rolled away along the level beach Francis Murray said
amusedly:
“I think you will find the gayest party you ever encountered, Italy.
There are about a dozen of them, and they have taken possession of the
hull of an old wreck washed up last spring upon the beach. The girls
have brought several varieties of musical instruments, and when I came
away they were all singing a glee song with the whole strength of their
lungs. At a little distance away it sounded quite sweet.”
“I should fancy so,” she answered, in that quiet way she always had
with Francis Murray. Sitting there close by his side, she was thrilling
with a strange sense of utter content and peace. She did not feel the
least eagerness to reach the party. She knew too well that no one would
give her a welcome, except Alexie and Ralph.
But the two miles were quickly passed over, and they saw at a little
distance ahead in the starlight the old black hulk of the wrecked ship
and light figures moving about it. Blent with the voice of the sea came
the soft notes of a guitar, and Ralph Allen’s rich tenor voice singing
very sweetly a little song of love and sorrow.
The pathetic last words were dying on the air as Francis Murray gave
Italy his hand to assist her from the carriage. But why did both their
hearts sink so strangely as he released the little fingers? Why did
both sigh in unison? The melody with its sweet refrain had touched them
with audible sadness.
Italy went toward the party a little timidly, as one uncertain of a
welcome, but Alexie had an eager embrace ready.
“You darling, I’m so glad Mr. Murray brought you! Come, I’ve saved
you a seat. Miss Vale, ladies and gentlemen--but I think you’re all
acquainted. The same crowd we had on the yacht, dear. You’re just in
time; the moon will soon be up. You have missed some lovely singing by
not getting here a little sooner. Can’t we have it all over again?”
“No, no!” vociferated all the singers. “It is our turn now. Let Miss
Vale give us a song.”
“Let her rest first,” Francis Murray said, in a voice of quiet
authority. Then he went and stooped over Alys, where she was sulking a
little apart.
“You will give us that pretty little recitation of yours--‘A
Portrait’--will you not?”
He knew that Alys loved him, and he guessed at his mother’s hopes and
plans. He was sorry for the fair, blue-eyed girl who had set her heart
on him only to be disappointed.
Perhaps--if Italy had never come, with her voice like music and her
dusky Oriental eyes--he might in time have grown fond of pretty Alys,
and if he had never discovered what a petty, ignoble soul she had, he
might have married her, but--now all was changed. His heart had proved
traitor to his will. He could never feel for the pretty blonde anything
deeper than pity.
Alys was furious because he had gone back for Italy. She had, indeed,
now given up all hope of winning him, and considered dissimulation no
longer necessary, so she tossed her golden head angrily, and curtly
refused his request.
He turned away from her, and asked her aunt for that sweet little song
she had composed herself, and the lady very willingly complied, though
her voice was too weak and thin to do justice to her little ballad of
love and jealousy.
She had written it at a moment when her fiery heart was consumed with
pain over her lover’s attentions to a beautiful, dark-eyed coquette in
New Orleans, and it was quite meritorious. She did not dream that Percy
Seabright, who listened with such sympathetic eyes, had often given his
convulsed friends a ridiculous parody of her style of rendering the
song.
But Mr. Seabright, although very fond of directing his wit against
other people, was quite vain himself, and responded cordially to the
call upon himself for a recitation, giving one of some length, with
good effect, albeit with rather theatrical style. Then he sat down, and
the girls began to tell ghost-stories and startling dreams.
“Make them stop it--oh, do, they frighten me!” Italy whispered
nervously to Alexie.
“Hush, girls, I don’t like to hear such things!” cried the lovely
blonde, who looked like a piece of Dresden china, so fair, so fragile
was her bright, blonde beauty.
Never were two girls more different at heart than Alys and Alexie, in
spite of their being twins. They looked alike, but there was more soul
in Alexie’s face, and her heart was noble and true, while Alys was
selfish and unprincipled. Neither was there between the two girls the
affection usual between twins. Alexie was always chaffing Alys, and
Alys was always sneering at Alexie. They could not harmonize.
“A song from Miss Vale,” cried several voices, but she drew back
unwillingly.
“Do not refuse them. Every one is expected to contribute to the
amusements of the night,” cried Ralph Allen, putting the guitar-ribbon
over her head. “Please give us that sweet thing you sang for Alexie and
me the other night in the garden among the roses.”
Francis Murray turned quickly. He had never heard Italy sing. He did
not know that there was a little song-bird pent up in that graceful
white throat, and yet he fancied that with those wondrous eyes she
could sing well.
He saw the lovely white hands fluttering over the guitar-strings.
A strain of exquisite melody mingled with the ocean tone, then Italy’s
face turned upward to the stars, and she sang a love-song.
Not a sound from any one broke upon the divine sweetness of the night
and the song, but every eye lingered in almost wonder upon the lovely
young girl singing to the stars of love in a voice as sweet and clear
as the nightingale’s.
The song died into silence, the white fingers fell from the strings.
There was tumultuous applause.
“Miss Vale, you are a born prima donna,” Percy Seabright said
gallantly, unheeding Mrs. Dunn’s envious frown.
The young men began to crowd about Italy. Her beauty and her genius had
charmed them. They pleaded for another song; Francis Murray, like one
waking from a dream, added his entreaties. She smiled dreamily and sang
again.
“I want you, my darling, my darling!
I’m tired with care and with fret;
I’d nestle in silence beside you,
And all but your presence forget.
I call you, my darling, my darling!
My voice echoes back on the heart;
I stretch my arms to you in longing,
And, lo, they fall empty apart.
“I need you, my darling, my darling!
With its yearnings my very heart aches;
The load that divides us weighs harder,
I shrink from the jar that it makes.
Old sorrows rise up to beset me,
Old doubts make my spirit their own;
Oh, come through the darkness and save me,
For I am alone!”
It was a heart’s cry. The girl was thinking sadly of her loved and lost
mother, but the listeners believed that she was singing to some lover
over the dark-blue sea.
“That is sweet, but too sad, Miss Vale,” said one of her admirers.
“Please give us a happier strain.”
And Percy Seabright chimed in vivaciously:
“She seems to agree with the poet:
“‘Each note recalls some withered leaf;
I’m saddest when I sing!’”
“Oh, see the moon!” cried Alexie suddenly, and they all started and
turned to the sea, where the silver rim of the moon was just rising
over the dark-purple line of water, building a silver bridge of
resplendent beauty across the restless waves.
With cries of eager admiration they all scrambled out of the wreck and
hastened down to the beach, where the rolling surf boomed in and kissed
their feet, then receded with a hollow murmur.
Italy did not know how it happened, but she found Francis Murray by her
side as she stood gazing delightedly at the full moon rising as if from
a bed in the sea. In the silvery rays of light it seemed to her that
his face was godlike in its manly beauty. She drew a long breath that
was half-pain, half-pleasure, and exclaimed:
“Ah, if one could cross to the other shore on that silver bridge!”
“Are you home-sick?” he asked gently.
And she sighed:
“You know I have never really had a home. We were wanderers, mama and
I. But yet I love the Old World, and, most of all, my birthplace, sunny
Italy. I should like to be there to-night.”
“Would you like to have a moonlight sail? The wind is freshening
nicely, and here is a little boat,” he said.
“Yes, I should like it,” she answered, and he helped her in, saying
gaily:
“We will sail a little way on that bridge of moonlight.”
“Oh, how romantic!” cried several of the young people, as the
white-sailed little dory skimmed lightly over the waves, right in
the silver path of light, looking in the strange radiance like two
glorified beings setting sail for Paradise.
“Come back soon. I want to take Alexie sailing!” called out Ralph Allen.
Alys Audenreid was close to her aunt’s side. She whispered vindictively:
“I hope they will both get drowned.”
“So do I,” was the instant reply, in a tone of sibilant hate and envy.
Then the little dory sailed away until it grew a mere speck on the
water, and they ceased to watch it, the young people pairing off and
walking up and down the sands.
“Let us go back to the wreck. I want to talk to you,” Mrs. Dunn said
imperiously to her cavalier.
He gave her his arm, and they returned alone to the old hull and sat
down side by side. Usually Percy Seabright was very gay and dashing in
manner, and a great favorite with women for his courtliness, but at
times he was a victim to the blues, and made himself a most unsocial
companion to any one into whose company fate threw him.
One of these moods had suddenly overtaken the dashing bachelor
to-night. He lounged at Mrs. Dunn’s side, in gloomy silence until
she began to rally him upon his depression. He turned his strange,
glittering eyes upon her smiling face, and said abruptly:
“Don’t jest with me, Ione. I am wretched. I can scarcely restrain
myself from leaping into the sea and so ending the misery of my life!”
His look was wild, his voice tragic, but Mrs. Dunn did not know that
the woman who wants to be charming to a man must fall in with his
moods--“from grave to gay, from lively to severe.”
She pouted prettily.
“You pay a poor compliment to me, permitting yourself to be unhappy in
my presence,” she exclaimed, dropping her chin into two jeweled hands
that held a tiny lace handkerchief, and looking up at him with arch
reproach.
But the coquetry was wasted on Percy Seabright. He sighed wearily, and
looked away from her at the moonlit sea.
“Can’t you see that I am troubled, Ione?” he said fretfully. “You know
I have these fitful moods and that nothing can charm me out of them.”
“But what is the cause of them, Percy?” she asked curiously.
He looked back at her, and answered restlessly:
“I will tell you what has caused these moods since I came back to The
Lodge. It is the look of Ronald Vale in his daughter’s face.”
“Italy Vale--so she resembles her father? But what is that to you,
Percy?”
“Everything, for it gives me the heartache. Ione, you know Ronald Vale
was my dearest friend. I loved him with all the devotion of a boy’s
warm heart. I have never known one happy hour since his tragic death,
and that girl’s eyes--so dark, so glorious, so like her father’s--they
break my heart.”
“Is that the reason you hate the girl so bitterly?” she asked, with
veiled malice.
“Hate her?” he exclaimed.
“Yes, you hate her and wish her dead,” was the strange reply.
He started and gazed at her wildly, and she said significantly:
“Italy Vale spoke the truth the day she said that some enemy had pushed
her into the water. I lied when I said that I saw Emmett Harlow do the
dastardly deed. It was your arm, Percy, but--I love you, and I know how
to shield those that I love.”
Even in the moonlight she could see his face whiten with awful terror.
She laughed low and harshly.
“Do not be frightened. I am not going to betray you--that is, unless
you play me false. A woman whose trust is betrayed is usually capable
of doing anything for revenge,” she said. “But I am sure you will not
give me any cause for anger. We will be married soon, you know, and I
should have no cause to betray your crime.”
He stared blankly at her, and she heard his writhing lips repeat
faintly:
“‘Soon’?”
She smiled at him with cool assurance.
“Yes,” she replied. “You know my niece, Alexie, is to be married in
January. I have decided that you and I will be married at the same
time.”
“Yes,” he replied, without remonstrance, but it piqued her that he
received the communication without any sign of pleasure.
“We will go abroad on our bridal tour,” she continued. “You know it is
the great hope of my life to visit Europe.”
“Yes,” he said again passively, as if she were making plans for another.
But suddenly his dark eyes beamed, and he cried feverishly:
“I have been abroad many times, but I remember my first trip with
the keenest pleasure. Ronald Vale and I went together. We were
chums--brothers. No woman had then come between us. It was the happiest
time of my whole life.”
* * * * *
“Isn’t it really time for Italy and Mr. Murray to be getting back?”
inquired Alexie, at length, as she and Ralph walked, arm in arm, upon
the sands, happy lovers that they were.
He looked at his watch in the clear rays of the moonlight, and
exclaimed:
“Positively, my darling, it is close upon midnight. I had no idea the
time was going so fast.”
“A tribute to my charms--thank you,” replied his pretty sweetheart
vivaciously. “But, really, they have been gone two hours, have they
not?”
“It is nearer three hours. It was only nine o’clock when they started,
and I’m sure they only meant it for a short sail. I hope nothing has
happened them----” began Ralph anxiously. Then he stopped short and
laughed. “Oh, what a joke! Feel the air, dear, how calm and still,
almost sultry--not a breath of wind stirring. As sure as you live, they
are becalmed, Alexie. There is not enough wind to fill their sail.”
Some others of the party came up just then, and they all agreed that
Ralph’s idea was the correct one, and that there was no cause for
anxiety.
“They are becalmed, and will have to wait for wind and tide, that is
all,” said one vivacious young man; “but I am tremendously hungry, and
don’t want to wait any longer for my lunch.”
Every one else was of the same mind; so, while they discuss their
dainty midnight supper, let us take a bird’s-eye view of the wide waste
of moonlit waters in search of the truants.
At first the dainty little dory sailed blithely before the freshening
breeze, and the two occupants reveled in the beauty and sweetness of
the summer night.
Francis Murray, as if tempted for once to show his latent powers, bent
his energies to the task of entertaining his lovely companion.
He threw aside his usual air of hauteur, and showed himself brilliant,
witty, and interesting, keeping through it all a dangerous softness of
manner, an empressement that would have made the most finished coquette
believe that he was about to throw himself at her feet and declare his
love.
Italy was no coquette, however, and was not well versed in the signs of
love, so she could by no means read her companion’s mood.
But she thought him kind, very kind, and she had a struggling
consciousness that she had done wrong in coming. Yet she could not
resist the charm of his manner. It inspired in her an irresistible
joyousness. She, too, threw off the diffident manner that had
dominated her in his presence until now, and replied to him freely
and vivaciously. Her soft laugh, as it echoed over the rippling waves
sounded to him like sweetest music.
Time flew fast, and suddenly he observed that the boat was going slower
and slower, and the wind dying away.
“I could stay out here on this beautiful sea for hours with you, Italy,
but yet I think we must be going back, or we shall have no wind,” he
exclaimed, and turned about to return.
Slowly, more slowly than they knew, absorbed in their own thoughts, the
dory moved through the small, crisp wavelets. The wind that had fanned
their faces so joyously a little while ago lulled and stopped, the sail
drooped dismally, they came to a dead pause out there in the open sea
under the starry sky.
“Do not be frightened, Italy,” he said to her anxiously. “We are
becalmed and must wait till the wind rises before we can get back to
shore.”
Her face grew pale, and she asked:
“How long?”
“I cannot tell you, but I hope not long. The wind will be almost sure
to rise at midnight, if not before, but it is more than an hour off
yet. Can you be patient, and wait, or will you scold me for bringing
you into such a predicament?”
“Is there any danger?” she asked, in a subdued tone.
“None, unless a heavy fog comes up. But it is very clear now. We are
not more than two miles from shore. See, there is Great Head in the
distance and the lights of Winthrop. You need not be alarmed. It is
only a vexatious delay, and I will try to amuse you so that the time
will go fast.”
“Thank you,” she said very low, and both were quite silent for a few
moments. Italy was looking down at the rippling waves with a solemn
face.
“Are you frightened, or are you angry?” her companion asked gently.
“I am neither,” she answered. “But I am suddenly sad. There came into
my mind this moment a picture of my mother.”
“Your mother was a most unhappy woman,” he said half-inquiringly.
“Oh, Heaven, how unhappy!” sighed the girl; some impulse of confidence
seized her, and while they waited there becalmed on the wide ocean,
seemingly alone in the world, she told him something of the lonely life
she had led, hounded through the world by a foe in ambush.
“Oh, Mr. Murray, tell me if you have any suspicion who that enemy could
be?” she cried imploringly.
But he was honestly surprised and startled.
“I have not the least idea. I did not know your mother had an enemy in
the world. I heard that she had placed you in a convent to be educated,
and was living there herself in quiet comfort.”
“We were only two years at the convent. My mother’s health could not
bear the sedentary life, and----” But suddenly she looked up and cried
in a startled voice:
“Why, how strange! I cannot see Great Head and the lights of Winthrop
now. It seems misty.”
“There is a fog, and it is growing quite thick, but I hope the wind
will rise presently and blow it away,” he answered in a troubled tone.
He had been watching the creeping mist with startled eyes while she
talked to him. It had stolen on them like a thief in the night. They
could not see the sky nor the stars now, and scarcely each other’s
faces for the insidious white fog.
Suddenly there came a sound that struck terror to their hearts.
“A steamer is approaching us!” cried Francis Murray wildly. He leaned
forward and caught her cold little hand.
“Italy, my love, my darling, say that you forgive me for bringing you
into this deadly peril, and let us pray God that we be not in the track
of the coming horror!”
She could not answer. Her lips seemed frozen, but Francis Murray lifted
up his voice and shrieked a warning to the steamer. Too late! She bore
down swiftly upon them, cutting the little dory in twain.