To the guests of Mrs. Murray the news of Italy’s sudden departure had proved as great a surprise as her coming.
Mrs. Murray had simply announced that Italy Vale, after a misunderstanding with Francis, had left the house in a pet, going, no doubt, to Lawyer Gardner, her mother’s old friend, in Boston. Francis had gone to bring her back, but she supposed that the girl was too deeply offended to return.
The lady had frankly told all that she knew. Her son had withheld from her his suspicions of Italy and the sleep-walking incident. It seemed to him a disloyal thing to betray her, so he kept everything hidden in his own breast.
Mrs. Dunn and her niece, Alys, looked delighted at the news. Alexie and the two young men frankly expressed regret.
“I was beginning to love her,” said Alexie, unmindful of her sister’s frown.
“And so was Emmett, I think,” laughed Ralph Allen, with a twinkling glance of raillery at his friend Harlow.
“Useless to attempt a denial. Circumstantial evidence convicts me,” was the gay retort.
Mrs. Dunn looked disgusted.
“I do not admire your taste,” she said tartly. “That foreign creature never had any attractions for me!”
“Oh, Aunt Ione, she was very charming!” cried Alexie warmly, but her aunt silenced her with a scowl of displeasure, and Alys snapped rudely:
“I hope she will never come back!”
Mrs. Murray was too courteous to express her opinion aloud, but at heart she agreed with Alys Audenreid.
Mrs. Dunn presently discovered that she wished to go to Boston that evening, to remain until the next day.
“Some shopping,” she said carelessly, and declining the offered company of the girls, and promising to return the next afternoon, she made a smiling adieu and departed.
Francis Murray, too, remained in Boston until the next morning. At breakfast he showed a very pale and anxious face to all.
“I am very much troubled,” he said frankly. “Lawyer Gardner, I learn, has shut up his house and gone to Europe, so if Italy went to him she was disappointed. I have been the round of the hotels, but she is not at any of them, and I feel very uneasy over her fate.”
“You should not worry, for the girl is quite capable of taking care of herself. Remember, she came here alone from Europe,” said his mother, in a tone of slight impatience.
She felt sure herself that all was well with the wilful girl.
“You do not suppose that she can have--committed suicide?” queried tender-hearted Alexie anxiously.
“Certainly not!” he answered almost sharply, but his face grew paler still, and he wished to himself that Alexie had not put such an uncanny thought into words.
Alys had drawn the morning’s paper from her host’s plate, and was scanning it eagerly. She looked up, and said, with a malicious smile:
“Here is a young girl found wandering the streets of Boston in her night-dress at midnight. Perhaps that is your protegée, Mr. Murray.”
“Read it aloud, Alys!” cried her sister eagerly.
Alys smoothed out the paper with deliberate white fingers while they waited impatiently, then she said:
“I don’t like to read aloud, and this is such a long paragraph, so I’ll tell it in my own words. A beautiful young girl was found last night by a policeman walking along the street, clad only in a thin, white night-dress. She seemed to be in a somnambulistic sleep, and was frightened nearly to death when the policeman woke her. She would not or could not tell anything about herself, so they carried her to a police-station, and placed her in the matron’s care.”
No one was usually more calm and courteous than Francis Murray. But at this thrilling moment excitement overcame him. He took the newspaper hastily from Miss Audenreid’s hands, exclaiming hoarsely:
“Permit me!”
What he read there decided him. He rose hastily without finishing his breakfast.
“I will go and see this girl,” he said, and his mother cried out impatiently:
“Do finish your coffee, Francis, before you start on such a wild-goose chase, for I am sure the girl cannot be Italy Vale.”
He did not tell her what good grounds he had for supposing that the mysterious somnambulist was Italy. He only answered:
“Something tells me I had better go! Mother, I should like you to send your maid along with me, with some clothing for Miss Vale to wear home.”
“Certainly,” she answered, but her heart was at war with her promise. The eager interest he betrayed in Italy Vale troubled her mind.
“Surely the girl has some other friends in the world, and I hope she’s gone to them,” she thought. “I am frightened at the strange interest my son has suddenly displayed in this missing girl. Last night was spent in the search for her, and this morning he looks careworn and haggard. What if he is unconsciously falling in love with this beautiful creature whom no one would care to marry, on account of her mother’s deep disgrace?”
She sighed deeply. She was proud--very proud. She could not contemplate such a thing without horror.
“Yet what can I do?” she thought helplessly. “Francis will do as he pleases. There’s no fool like an old fool, they say, and my son is really getting on in years--thirty-two his next birthday. Italy is too young for him, but there’s Alys just of a suitable age, and a better match. She loves the ground he walks on, too, and if he would only marry her I would be quite happy.”
But it is not given to many people in this world to be “quite happy,” and the Fates we pursue elude us ever. What is to be, will be.
Francis Murray, with all his years and experience, was stumbling blindly forward on a road that he called Duty.
He had no difficulty in finding out the police-station where the beautiful somnambulist had been detained until she could give some account of herself or her friends.
The elderly matron was cheerful and polite. She told him that her charge had been very strange--like one dazed--and refused to tell her name, begging for clothes in which to go away.
“She is asleep on my little cot now, sir, but if you wish I will open the door and you may look in to see if it’s the one you’re looking for,” she said kindly.
He had told her simply that a young schoolgirl, an habitual sleep-walker, had wandered away from her home last night. Her friends had searched for her in vain, and were glad to find out her whereabouts from the morning papers, but thankful that she had declined to give her name. If it proved to be the girl he thought, he hoped no more facts might get into the papers. As he said this, the gentleman slipped the good soul a bank-bill, murmuring something about “a new bonnet.”
Her heart was instantly won, and, whispering back that she would see that his wishes were obeyed, she opened the door and beckoned him to approach.
He followed with a quickened heart-throb, and gazed eagerly into the tiny apartment where, on a narrow cot-bed lay the form of a young girl at rest, the white coverlet drawn up to her shoulders, a mass of tumbled, black silken curls straying over the pillow, her cheeks flushed with the warmth of slumber, her red lips parted a little with now and then a sobbing breath, as though she could not forget her sorrows, even in sleep--Italy!
“It is she!” he said, in a strange voice, and beckoned to the maid.
“Go in and awake her. Help her to dress, and tell her I am waiting to take her home,” he said.
He withdrew and closed the door. In a little while the maid came out again.
“Miss Vale is up and dressed, sir, and wishes to speak to you alone a few moments.”
The maid had brought Italy a dark summer silk figured with violets, and a dainty hat to match. She looked very lovely in them as Mr. Murray entered with a quiet:
“Good morning.”
“How did you find me?” she exclaimed abruptly, and when he told her she blushed deepest crimson.
“Walking again in your sleep,” he said. “Really, Miss Vale, I would advise you to lock your doors and hide the keys before retiring hereafter.”
“I will,” she replied earnestly, and he continued:
“I ought to scold you for running away like a naughty child, but I suppose you have been sufficiently punished by finding Mr. Gardner gone away.”
“Yes, oh, yes,” she sighed.
“Do you know that I was in Boston all night searching for you? I went the rounds of all the principal hotels, and I was surprised not to find you at any of them. Where did you stay last night?”
There was a moment’s blank silence. Italy’s slender gloved hands were writhing together nervously in her lap, and her face flamed burning red, then pale again. She faltered, with downcast eyes:
“I--I--did not go to a large hotel. It was a small house.”
“If you will give me the address, I will send the maid there to settle your bill and bring away your clothes.”
She lifted up wild, frightened eyes, and she gasped faintly:
“I--I--paid my bill in advance, and the clothes really do not matter--that old gray traveling-dress, you know. And, indeed I don’t think I can recall the address. I have forgotten the street.”
“Then are you ready to come home with me?”
The dark eyes looked up at him with strange, piteous doubt, the red lips faltered, as she asked:
“You cannot surely wish me to come--after yesterday?”
“Let us forget yesterday,” Francis Murray answered, with a constrained laugh. “Perhaps I was too harsh and you too hasty. At least, you were wrong to go away like that. Your proper home is with my mother, so you must come back with me to The Lodge.”
Her eyes kept searching his face. She was surprised that he was so much kinder now than in the weeks past.
“I ought not to go back again. You--you--hate me!” she cried, and he smiled at her vehemence, and answered coolly:
“No, not quite!”
She looked so frightened, so doubtful, he was moved to a little act of kindness. He put out his hand and took her cold, trembling one in a firm clasp.
“I am your friend, Italy--your true friend,” he said gently. “And for your father’s sake, I want to watch over you. Come with me now. The cab is waiting.”
She drew her hand quickly from his, startled by the thrill that stirred her heart at his warm, magnetic clasp. And to herself she cried shudderingly:
“My friend, no, no; I must not call him my friend. I ought to go back to Europe. What is the use staying here now? He suspects me--watches me. My hands are tied.”
“Come,” he repeated, with gentle impatience, and some compelling power in the clear voice, resistless as the tide of fate, made her rise and follow him.
On the way to Winthrop they said but little. The curious maid was close at hand always, but Italy did not care to talk. She was recalling with horror last night’s events--events that must remain forever locked in her own breast.
And Italy, who had gone away so angrily yesterday from Winthrop, was now secretly glad to get back; so glad of the peace and security to which she was going back that she could have fallen at Francis Murray’s feet in gratitude for the gentle force that had compelled her to return.
“Have I wronged him by my suspicions? Is he as good and true and noble as he seems?” she asked herself, with strangely softened feelings.
They were going up the walk to the house. A chattering group was on the broad porch, and suddenly Francis Murray exclaimed:
“There is our friend that we have been expecting for a week past. He must have arrived after I left this morning. You will like him, I am sure, Italy, for he is very pleasant, and, besides, he was your father’s dearest friend. Perhaps you have heard your mother speak of him. His name is Percy Seabright.”
“No,” she answered, in surprise, and then she saw that the subject of their talk was running down the steps to greet them. He was tall, slender, elegant, and Italy looked up eagerly to meet her father’s dearest friend. That face! She gave one look and fainted at his feet.
It was no wonder that Italy’s senses had failed her, for at the first glance at Percy Seabright she had recognized in him the original of the fascinating portrait she had seen over the mantel in the parlor of that horror-haunted house last night--the same face exactly, although older by at least five years, but carrying the marks of age so lightly that at five-and-thirty the handsome, Jewish-looking face still bore an expression of debonair youth and almost boyish beauty.
Italy had fallen on her face, and both men stooped quickly to raise her up.
Francis Murray was first, and slipping his arm beneath her shoulder he lifted the death-white face. The girl’s eyes were closed, and her head fell heavily back against him. He took her into his arms and carried her into the porch, followed by Mr. Seabright, who exclaimed ruefully:
“I must be turning into an ogre, the way I am frightening ladies to-day! First there was Mrs. Dunn, who shrieked and fainted when I made my bow to her this morning, and now here is Miss Vale frightened at the first sight of me! Do you see anything alarming about me, Mr. Murray?”
“Nothing!” answered Francis Murray, almost curtly, as he laid Italy upon a couch where the wind could blow over her pale face revivingly, but Ralph Allen exclaimed banteringly:
“You strike them all senseless by the power of your fascinations, Mr. Seabright. I am surprised that Alexie and Miss Alys did not fall unconscious, too, before your dazzling glance!”
The ladies, with the exception of Mrs. Dunn, all crowded round Italy, but the more skilful maid motioned them away.
“I think Mr. Murray had better carry her to her room. I want to loosen her clothes, for this is no common faint,” she said gravely.
So once again Francis Murray took Italy up like a child in his arms, and carried her to the room she had left in bitter anger yesterday. She lay still as death against his breast, but his face looked calm and quiet as usual. Who was to tell that his heart was beating violently against its precious burden? Who could guess that a mad longing overcame him to strain her close and kiss the white cheek lying on his shoulder so near to his lips? It wrenched his heart to put her out of his arms and leave her there to the care of the maid and his cold-faced mother, just now entering.
“Shall I call a physician?” he asked anxiously.
“It is not necessary,” she replied indifferently, and closed the door on his troubled face.
He could not return to the guests below just yet. He walked the length of the hall and paused a while in the embrasure of the window, looking out at the restless sea.
There had been a high wind last night, and in the storm a pretty little sloop had gone to pieces. The wreck had washed up on Winthrop beach, and lay there now idly in the full sunlight of the day, while the waves, still a little rough and heady, came breaking against the ruined hull with sharp reports, spattering the powdery spray high in the air. Some heaps of drift dotted the sands, and the glancing wings of sea-gulls flashed over the waters here and there. Francis Murray seemed to be looking at these things, but in reality it was a vacant stare. He was looking into his own heart.
He was startled at the violence of his own emotions now and while he had carried helpless Italy close in his strong arms.
Since the day when she had come first to The Lodge, and he had received her unwillingly as a guest, his life had been altered--into its calm, scholarly quiet had crept a strange and subtile unrest.
He had begun by disliking Italy Vale for her mother’s sake, and this very dislike created a strange tumult within him. He had watched her closely, and yesterday, when he had spoken to her so harshly it had seemed to him that dislike had turned into actual hate.
What had happened to him since yesterday? Was his heart in revolt against his judgment and his reason? Was it a boy’s heart, still to be thrilled by somber dark eyes, a red mouth like a flower, and the warmth of a little helpless form carried tenderly in his arms?
“I cannot help but pity her,” he murmured, as if that accounted for all.
He was startled from his musings presently by the voice of his mother.
“After all, Frank, I believe you had better call in Doctor Barksdale. Italy’s swoon is so heavy that we do not know what to do.”
Doctor Barksdale came promptly, but it required all the skill he was possessed of to restore the young girl to consciousness.
Then a week passed before she came out of her own room again.
A light attack of brain-fever had followed her swoon. Fortunately, it was very mild and soon subdued.
In the meantime the Boston papers had duly chronicled the mysterious disappearance of Craig Severn, a young lawyer, who had been in charge of Lawyer Gardner’s office while the latter was abroad resting from overwork. The young wife of Mr. Severn, it was said, was almost frantic with grief, and feared foul play.
Uncharitable people declared that Severn had led a fast life, and had, perhaps, disappeared with his employer’s funds. Mr. Gardner had been advised by cable of the facts.
On the very day that Italy arose from her sick-bed, the newspapers announced the finding of Craig Severn’s body in the river, badly decomposed, and with a bullet-wound in the breast, showing that he had been murdered.
