Three weeks had passed away, and the day of Percy Seabright’s trial had arrived. It had been postponed that long on account of the serious illness of Mrs. Smith, who was expected to be one of the principal witnesses for the defense, as they had decided to set up insanity as their plea.
Percy Seabright had entirely recovered from his paroxysm, and seemed quite sane again, but he was kept a close prisoner in the padded room, the authorities having detailed special guards to prevent his escape.
Mrs. Smith, in spite of a fictitious energy, was very low. She had sustained severe injuries in her breast, and coughed up blood daily. She would never be strong again, and her physician foreboded her sudden death by severe hemorrhage.
It almost broke the faithful old creature’s heart when she learned that her master was to be tried on a charge of murder--murdering his dearest friend, Ronald Vale. She declared that it could not be true.
When they told her that the confession of the crime had been written down in the stolen diary of the murdered man by Percy Seabright’s own hand, she was still obstinate. She could not credit the statement, she said, unless they let her read it with her own eyes.
They were afraid to trust her with it, fearing that devotion to her master would lead her to attempt the destruction of the book.
She was informed that portions of the diary would be read at the trial. And so the fateful day had arrived, and within the next hour throngs would be wending their way to the court-room to listen to one of the most sensational trials ever heard in Boston--a trial that was to dissipate the dark shadow of crime and disgrace from innocent lives, and fix it indelibly upon the real criminal.
Popular interest ran high, and the beautiful Mrs. Vale was regarded as a suffering angel. As for her daughter, brave Italy, she was the heroine of the hour. Had she not believed in her mother and done valiant battle with public opinion until she had unearthed the cunning, hidden criminal? Why, it was a deed worthy of all praise, all honor. At last she had made good her proud boast to the lawyer.
A few more hours or days and the hideous crime would be brought home to the criminal, and the world would be ringing with the story of the traitor’s deeds--the vile wretch whose murderous hand had struck down the friend he loved--and punishment would be meted out to him--such punishment as may dwell in a maniac’s horror-haunted cell.
Italy was thinking of all this as she sat alone in Mrs. Mays’ bright little parlor that morning just an hour before the trial--thinking of what she had accomplished by the force of an unbending will. There was a sad vein blending with the thoughts of her victory. Deep in her brave, true heart lay a love as strong and enduring as life itself, and this love was cruelly wounded and pained.
“Does he think that I am blind? Oh, why does he not speak?” she thought bitterly. “Ah, once I thought he loved me, but it was the maddest mistake of my whole life. Dear Heaven, how shall I bear it, this torturing pain of hopeless love?”
Burning tears sparkled into the beautiful, sad, dark eyes, and she murmured:
“I will call pride to my aid, and he shall never know the pain I suffer from his cold indifference!”
At that moment the door opened softly, and Emmett Harlow entered the parlor. His handsome boyish face was eager and agitated, and in his hand he carried a letter with a foreign postmark.
“Oh, Italy, such news!” he cried, and he was so excited he did not see her wipe the tears hastily away.
“I have a letter from Paris--from Percy Seabright’s bride--is not that a surprise?”
“Why should she write to you?” cried the girl, in wonder.
“She has just read in a paper the news about her husband’s arrest for murder, and far from being sorry over it, she seems to find in it a cause for exultation. She adds another item to the list of his crimes.”
“Another! Oh, Emmett!”
“Yes, Italy; you remember that day last summer when some one pushed you over the side of the yacht into the sea?”
“And Mrs. Dunn falsely declared that you had done it. Ah, yes, I can guess it all; Percy Seabright was the wretch!”
“Yes, she saw him do it, and would not betray him because she loved him. But her love seems to be turned into hate now, and she confesses all and implores my pardon for that false charge. But you may read it for yourself.”
When she had finished and handed the letter back to him, she saw a glad, loving light in his bonny blue eyes, and started nervously when he cried:
“Ah! Italy, I am so glad to be cleared at last of that cruel charge.”
“No one ever believed that falsehood, no one!” she asserted vehemently, and he thanked her with the greatest fervor.
“Ah! Italy, how this letter brings back last summer! I loved you so dearly, so dearly, and my heart is still the same. Can you give me no hope, dear one?”
She drew back in surprise and pain.
“Oh, Emmett, I thought you had forgotten. I quite believed----” she cried, then paused.
“Believed what?” he asked anxiously, and she faltered:
“I thought you were learning to love sweet Isabel Severn.”
“And did you care, Italy?”
“No, Emmett, I was glad, for I can never love you except as a friend, and I thought she would make you a charming wife, she is so sweet and good and lovely.”
“But she worships the memory of her dead husband; she will never love any one else!” he exclaimed, and Italy answered with a scorn he could not understand:
“Perhaps she will find out some day that he was not worthy such devotion, then her heart will turn to some better man.”
“And you can never, never love me as I wish, dear one?”
“Never, Emmett, although you are worthy any girl’s devotion. But love goes where it is sent, you know. Forgive me for paining you, and let us always be true friends,” she cried, holding out her hand to his responsive clasp.
So it was evident that it was not for Emmett Harlow’s love fair Italy was breaking her proud heart in secret.
