ITALY’S RESOLUTION.
The lawyer had scarcely taken his departure before Italy had another
visitor. It was that dainty, blonde beauty--Alexie Audenreid. She
looked lovely in a handsome carriage-suit of dark-blue cloth and
velvet that formed so pleasing a contrast with her curly, golden hair
and peachy complexion. Her dazzling, dark-blue eyes were radiant with
happiness.
“Are you ready to go for your sitting this morning? My coupé is
waiting,” she said, then started in surprise at Italy’s agitated looks.
Ralph Allen was painting their portraits, and they went together each
morning for alternate sittings.
“Oh, my dear! what is the matter? You are so pale, and you look like
you had been crying?” exclaimed sweet Alexie anxiously.
“I--I--have a headache,” Italy faltered evasively. “Dear Alexie, I
_cannot_ sit to Ralph this morning. You must take my place, please.”
“But, Italy, come with me to the studio, won’t you? The morning is so
bright and crisp that it will cure your head to get out in the fresh
air, and you can rest on the sofa there, you know.”
Italy could not resist the sweet pleading of her friend, and she knew
it would be better to get away from her own torturing thoughts for
the present, so she hastily made a fresh toilet, and, joining Alexie,
they were driven in the natty coupé to Ralph Allen’s studio on Tremont
Street.
“You are late,” the young artist said, greeting them with his bright
smile and a sweet, stolen glance at his adored one.
“It was all my fault. I was not feeling well and forgot my sitting
until Alexie called for me. Then she had to wait for me to dress.
And--I cannot sit to you this morning. Alexie must have my turn,”
explained Italy, who was still looking ghastly pale and distrait with
the memory of all that Mr. Gardner had told her that morning.
“You shall lie on the sofa and rest,” said the artist kindly. “And here
is Mr. Seabright to amuse you.”
Percy Seabright came forward with his cheerful air and greeted both
girls warmly.
“I heard that Ralph was painting you two on canvas together as ‘Night’
and ‘Morning,’ and rushed off to see it,” he explained. “It is going
to be beautiful--beautiful! How arch and smiling Alexie looks as
‘Morning,’ ‘in her eyes the blue of the sea, on her hair the gold of
the sun,’ and Italy, with that pensive, moonlight smile and her dusky
hair and eyes, makes an ideal ‘Night.’”
They stood a few moments contemplating the canvas on which the two girl
faces were growing in exquisite likeness to the originals, then Alexie
exclaimed:
“Come, Italy, take off your hat and lie down on the sofa in this
little alcove. I know Mr. Seabright will amuse you until Ralph finishes
my sitting.”
She lay down and closed her eyes wearily, but knowing too well that she
should not rest, but go on thinking, thinking, until her brain seemed
to burn with its torturing burdens.
Suddenly a soft, cool hand fell on her hot forehead.
“Do you know that there is magic in my touch? Just a few light little
passes, if you will permit me, and the poor head will be well,” said
Percy Seabright’s voice, low and tenderly.
She did not answer, and he continued to stroke her brow and hair with
light, caressing touches that did indeed seem to charm away the heated
throbbing in her temples. Then she opened her eyes with a faint,
grateful little smile.
“It is so much better--thank you!” she said, drawing back her head
gently from the hand whose pressure was so tender she found it
embarrassing.
“I knew you would be better,” he said smilingly. “Now close your eyes
and you will sleep.”
“Oh, that I could sleep and forget,” she sighed, and let the
dark-fringed lids droop wearily again.
Surely he possessed some magnetic power, or else the narcotic influence
of pain overpowered her. She sank quickly into a deep, restful sleep,
and the man by her side sat very still, watching the lovely, sleeping
face and the closed lids, still delicately roseate from the tears she
had shed a while ago.
“She has been weeping--over what, I wonder?” he thought curiously.
The studio grew very still as Italy slept and Ralph painted, though
not very industriously, he exchanged so many sweet whispers with his
beautiful model; but the sitting was almost over when Italy sighed
softly and opened her eyes.
She saw Mr. Seabright still by her side, watching her with an air of
tender devotion.
“I have really slept,” she said gently, forcing a smile for him.
“And your dreams were sad, for you sighed often in your sleep,” he
said. “Forgive me for watching you so closely, dear little friend, but
my heart ached for you. I saw that you had been weeping before you came
here. Ah, Italy, how can I help you?”
His voice was divinely sympathetic, his bright, dark eyes softened with
tender regard. It won upon her insensibly, this unobtrusive tenderness.
“You are so good to me,” she sighed gratefully, and whispered: “I had a
very unhappy interview with Mr. Gardner this morning. I wanted him to
search for new evidence against my father’s murderer, and he wished to
refuse, but I would not permit him to say no.”
“He accepted the case?” Percy Seabright’s voice trembled over the
question, and his face paled to an ashy tint.
“No, he did not accept. I gave him two days to consider the
proposition, and I told him if he refused I would place the case in
the hands of some other good lawyer. I think I shall employ some clever
detective to follow up the clues in my possession.”
“And so you will follow up the clues and blacken Francis Murray’s
memory and break his mother’s heart? Miss Vale, you surprise me,” he
breathed reproachfully.
“And why?” she murmured defiantly. “My mother’s name was blackened, and
her heart broken. If there are any who should stand in her stead and
bear all that she bore let the blow fall upon them. There is no pity in
my heart for the criminal. And yet--yet I do not believe that Francis
Murray was guilty; no, no, no!”
A sullen light gleamed in Percy Seabright’s eyes as he said:
“I hoped you would be willing to forego this matter, but since you
persist in pushing the search, remember that I can prove my assertion
that Mr. Murray was at The Lodge secretly the night of the murder.”
“I will remember it,” she answered; then her eyes grew soft as she
added: “But I believe in his innocence as I do in my angel mother’s.”
She glanced at him gravely as she spoke, and was startled to see his
lips curl and his brows lift at the corners in that diabolical sneer of
his that had frightened her once before, and that transformed him all
in a moment from a Doctor Jekyll to a Mr. Hyde.
“Oh, don’t,” she cried, in a voice of pain, and the ugly scowl faded
into sullen gravity.
He said quickly:
“I am glad of your absolute faith in Francis Murray, and I will help
you in your researches all that I can, if you will keep me advised of
your progress, and tell me what to do.”
“Thank you,” she answered gratefully, and just then Ralph released his
pretty model for that day, and the conversation became general.
A little later they all took leave of the artist, Percy Seabright
claiming that he had to go out to his country house that day on
business. His smile was very bright as he said adieu, but when he
turned away the malignant scowls returned and lingered.
* * * * *
At Winthrop, in the beautiful villa by the sea, the days and weeks
dragged by, leaden-footed in their torturing anxiety and deadly
suspense.
The lonely mistress of The Lodge had at length given up all hope, and
wore mourning for the son she believed to be dead. She had aged years
and years in those weeks of anguish. Her iron-gray locks had whitened
to snow, her eyes were dim with weeping, her face and form were thin
and wasted. Grief had wrought a deadly work. But if there was one
emotion stronger in her heart than sorrow for the dead it was hatred
for the living--resentful hatred of Italy Vale.
All the loss and sorrow that was weighing her down she dated from the
hour when that dark-eyed beauty had crossed the threshold of this
peaceful home and bewitched her proud, handsome son--led him like a
will-o’-the-wisp on to his dread fate.
“Why did I ever counsel him to receive her into this peaceful home? He
was reluctant enough at first, but I told him it was our duty to our
kinsman’s daughter. Alas! how miserably I am punished for my kindness!
I might have known that her mother’s child would bring woe and
desolation under any roof where she dwelt. Those great dark eyes, that
flowerlike face, how soon they wiled Francis from his first shuddering
dislike, until, in spite of himself, he grew to love her! If he had
lived he would have married her, I know. Perhaps it is better he died
than to have wedded one with that dark brand of a mother’s sin upon her
head! But, ah! I must go down to my grave a lonely old woman, and never
fondle my son’s children upon my knees.”
She wept hot, scalding tears, for she had a true, womanly heart, and
the dream of her life had been to see her grave, intellectual son
wedded to a fair and loving wife, and hear his little children’s voices
making music in the quiet, aristocratic halls of the stately home.
But all was ended now, the hopes, the plans, the longings. All those
future lives, the beloved daughter-in-law, the children that were
to call her grandmother, were buried with Francis in his vast and
wandering grave in old ocean’s deeps. The winds and the waves as they
sounded ceaselessly in her ears seemed to moan their requiem.
Then one day there came shambling up the steps at The Lodge a
rollicking-looking fellow in sailor garb, not too clean or tidy, and
with a rough, hairy face, not too frank or honest in expression. He put
out a grimy paw and rang the door-bell as loudly as though he were the
bearer of good news instead of a vulture of fate.
It was the same day on which Italy Vale sat waiting impatiently for her
answer from Mr. Gardner. The early autumn twilight was hurrying on,
and the sea was veiled in rising white mists. Lights already glimmered
through the windows of The Lodge, for the desolate mistress could not
bear the darkness and her own sad thoughts.
The loud bell-pull resounded through the quiet house, and presently
there appeared before Mrs. Murray a respectful servant announcing that
a sailor-man was waiting in the little reception-room to see her on
important business.
A sailor-man! Who could it be? Perhaps--oh, could it be? he might
bring--_news_? Her heart throbbed almost to suffocation. She staggered
in her wild haste to reach the man’s presence. He rose up before the
stately pale-faced lady, and bowed awkwardly.
“You--you--bring me news--perhaps?” she faltered tremulously.
“Yes, of your son, lady. On the night of the twenty-fourth of August
I was on board a sailing craft hereabouts, and in a fog we ran into a
little dory and cut it in half. Directly afterward we picked up a man
in the water with his head cut very bad. Oh, lady, I’m sorry to pain
you, but he died in a few hours later.”
“My son!” she cried in a voice of mortal agony, and seemed to collapse
in her chair, a white senseless heap.
The sailor went closer, and shook her rudely.
“Please, lady, don’t go off like that till I’m done my story. I’m in a
hurry to go.”
Her eyes opened and stared at him blankly, as he continued:
“The man said as how his name was Francis Murray, and he offered us big
money to put him ashore here, but we was bound for Buenos Ayres with a
cargo, and didn’t want to put back; besides we didn’t know as he could
pay us like he said or not. So we told him no, and our surgeon told him
he had to die, so if he wanted to leave any message for his friends
he’d better. Then he got the surgeon to write a letter to his mother,
and he signed it. He was too far gone to do much, but then he wrote
the address, and I promised that when we came back from the voyage I’d
bring you the letter, that’s all, and we buried him the same night at
sea.”
He pushed the letter hurriedly into her trembling hand, and before she
could speak hurried from the room, leaving her alone to read the last
dying message of her son--the message and the confession that was to
deal the most crushing blow that ever fell with the suddenness of a
lightning bolt on a loving mother’s heart.