Italy’s sudden and terrible accident caused the wildest consternation to the gay pleasure-party on board the beautiful yacht, White Wings, and the shrieks of startled women filled the air. Above all rose the anguished voice of Alexie Audenreid:
“Save her! Oh, save her!”
“My God, I cannot swim!” exclaimed Emmett Harlow despairingly, but even while he spoke there was a splash in the water.
Ralph Allen had thrown off his coat and leaped boldly into the sea at the spot where Italy was sinking from view. He would have been anticipated by Francis Murray, but as he was about to spring over the rail, Alys and her aunt clutched him with all their strength and held him back.
“Oh, do not, do not risk your life for that creature!” shrieked Alys, in hysterical entreaty.
With gentle violence he pushed away their clinging hands.
“For God’s sake, let me go! She will perish!” he exclaimed, and flung off his coat to leap into the sea. But another detaining hand grasped his arm.
“Wait, Francis. Ralph will save her, and there is no need for you to venture.”
It was Percy Seabright. He was pale to ghastliness; his deep eyes glittered with a strange fire. With fierce but repressed anger, Francis Murray struggled out of his grasp.
“There’s no danger. I’m a splendid swimmer!” he cried, and sprang into the sea, mad with anxiety over Italy’s fate.
But Ralph was an athlete, too. He had made a magnificent spring into the water, diving deep down where Italy had sunk. He caught the skirt of her heavy serge gown, clutched it, and rose to the surface with her just as Francis Murray sprang over the rail.
By this time the yacht had been stopped, but there was still one great danger--those in the sea might be sucked down under the yacht by the swirling waters about her prow.
But a little sail-boat at some distance away, having seen the accident and the danger, now came rapidly nearer, and the occupants shouted to Ralph to approach with his burden.
Italy was not unconscious, only terribly alarmed and frightened. When her rescuer brought her up to the surface she caught him wildly about the neck with frantic arms that almost strangled him.
“Do not hold me so tightly; you’ll drown us both!” he cried, trying to unloose her clinging clasp.
But maddened with fear, and deafened by the ocean’s voice, she did not comprehend him; she only clung tighter, shrieking wildly in her terror and fear of death.
It was so terrible to be struggling there in the deep-blue waves, so beautiful, yet so deadly--to be struggling, drowning there beneath the bright, blue, sunny sky, while far away in beauteous Italy one whom she loved was waiting for news--news that would be so awful when it came, telling of the loved one drowned in the cruel sea!
Keen despair, maddening fear, thrilled the poor girl’s heart, and she clung, gasping, desperate, to Ralph Allen’s neck, her white face upturned to the sky, her rich dark tresses streaming on the water, while he, trying in vain to release himself from her frantic embrace, realized with despair keen as her own that death was imminent, inevitable. Both must sink unless she would release her strangling hold and permit him to swim to the approaching sail-boat.
Those who witnessed the struggle from the yacht said afterward that it was the most tragic scene ever witnessed, as Ralph fought wildly for relief from the desperate hold of the white arms of the girl he was trying to rescue.
It must have ended in the death of both, but at that perilous moment in which Ralph began to resign himself to certain death, Francis Murray, swimming like another Leander crossing the Hellespont, came to their assistance. With gentle force he released Ralph, and, taking Italy into his own charge, turned toward the sail-boat that now approached near enough to throw a rope.
The almost-exhausted Ralph clutched it, and strong hands drew him out of danger. In a few moments all three were aboard the sail-boat, and a husky cry of triumph arose from the watchers on the yacht. They were safe, safe!
Presently the sail-boat came alongside the yacht, and they were taken on again, wet and shivering, but not much the worse, after all, for their impromptu immersion.
Restoratives were brought, and the draft seemed to put new strength into the young girl. They were about to lead her into the cabin, but she drew back, and stood among them, pale as a ghost, her dark hair dripping, her face stern. She had heard them whispering whether it was an accident or attempted suicide.
She stood there among them, in her wet, clinging robes, and though she trembled with cold and excitement, her eyes were blazing with indignation.
“No, it was not an accident!” she cried, and her young voice rang sharp and clear, “and neither did I attempt to commit suicide. Why should I wish to die? I am young, and life is sweet. But though I have never harmed any one in my life, I have a secret, unknown enemy aboard, some one who wishes my death!”
Emmett Harlow was close to her side, watching her with eager, loving eyes. As she spoke he started violently, and, in spite of himself, his eyes fastened suspiciously on Mrs. Dunn, who stood a little apart, with her full lips curled into a disdainful sneer. She caught his mutely accusing glance, and answered it with one of venomous hatred.
Italy, without observing this little by-play, went on:
“I did not jump into the sea, nor fall by accident. As the crowd closed in about me, looking for the great fish, I leaned forward very far--and then--then--some one--oh, who could have been so cruel?--gave me an adroit push; I lost my balance, and was struggling in the water.”
A swelling murmur of surprise and incredulity arose from the dozen or so people on the yacht. Faces grew pale and horror-stricken. Surely nothing so horrible could have happened. Fear had turned the girl’s brain.
“Impossible!” cried a shocked voice, but Italy answered fearfully:
“It is true. In this crowd about me there is some one guilty of attempted murder--some one who hates me and wishes me dead.”
“She speaks the truth,” cried a mocking voice. “I saw the cowardly wretch push her over the rail! Ah, rejected love can sometimes turn a man into a fiend.”
It was Mrs. Dunn. Her glance fixed itself boldly on Emmett Harlow, and every eye followed her look. Their glances seemed to transfix him with a basilisk stare. Was it true? Could he be such a monster?
He turned burning red, then ghastly pale beneath their eyes, and cried out wildly:
“Do you suspect me, friends, of so terrible a deed?”
Italy cried out quickly:
“It is not true. Emmett is my true friend. He would not harm one hair of my head.”
Mrs. Dunn’s mocking laughter rose up over the shocked silence of the others.
“No, not your friend--your rejected lover!” she exclaimed. “Your rejected lover maddened by despair, and so jealous that he would rather see you dead than won by another!”
A hand fell suddenly on her arm, and the splendid eyes of Francis Murray looked sternly, rebukingly, into her own. He said earnestly:
“Do not make this awful accusation against our young friend unless you are quite sure of your facts. Perhaps you have made a mistake.”
Under his searching gaze she cowered and crimsoned.
“I--I am certain I saw some one push Miss Vale,” she stammered. “Mr. Harlow was close by her side, and it looked like his arm that gave the push. But--there was such a crowd about them, and, of course, I might have been mistaken. Miss Vale ought to know best. If she thinks I am wrong, I do not wish to press the charge.”
Her eyes fell, but under the lowered lids there was a greenish glitter of gratified hate, and beneath her demure look she was saying to herself:
“I have punished Emmett Harlow. He has always despised me, in spite of his courteous manners. Now I have my revenge.”
A bright glance of thanks flashed from Emmett’s boyish blue eyes upon Francis Murray.
“I thank you, my friend, for your faith in me,” he cried, and they clasped hands.
Then the older man looked confidently around him, saying cordially:
“I believe Mrs. Dunn and Miss Vale were both mistaken in believing the accident was the result of murderous intention. Some one may have jostled Miss Vale, but I feel sure it was accidental.”
Every one took his cue from him, and declared that it was certainly accidental; but Mrs. Dunn, when his back was turned, shrugged her plump shoulders and looked knowing.
The excursion came to a premature end, for Italy had to be taken back at once to change her wet clothes.
When back at The Lodge they all made light of the affair that had been for a few moments so terribly serious.
Ralph would not discuss in earnest his sensations when Italy’s frantic clutch was dragging him down into deadly peril. He declared lightly that his chief anxiety was lest Alexie should be jealous of Italy’s frantic embrace.
But Emmett Harlow felt that he could not remain beneath the same roof with Mrs. Dunn an hour longer. Her deliberate malice had cut him to the heart. He bade a dejected farewell to them all, except the wicked woman who had wronged him so deeply. Her he passed without notice, save one slight glance of withering contempt.
The dew of tears was in Italy’s somber dark eyes as the door closed upon her rejected lover, going away so sadly to forget his brief love-dream. She felt more alone than before, as if some strong, true, protecting influence had gone forever out of her life.
Pale and troubled, she leaned back in the large armchair where Alexie had installed her as a semi-invalid. The others were grouped in careless attitudes about the airy drawing-room, into whose open windows came the strong, sweet scent of the sea, mixed with the odor of flowers in the garden. The ladies were still in their yachting-suits, all but Italy, who wore a half-loose robe of soft white cashmere, with gold embroidery.
Alys Audenreid drew a long breath, and exclaimed:
“I should not look sad over the going of such a cowardly lover as that, Miss Vale. For all he has hung about you and pretended to adore you, he would not risk his life to save you to-day, but left that task to other people’s lovers.”
Alys was almost bursting with jealous anger and resentment, and as Mrs. Murray and Francis had courteously followed Emmett Harlow from the room, she took that opportunity to vent her anger on Italy.
But good-natured Alexie quickly interposed:
“For shame, Alys, when you know Emmett could not swim. He said so.”
Mrs. Dunn, who was sitting at the window, with her betrothed, gave a short laugh.
“That was not true,” she said. “I saw Emmett Harlow at Virginia Beach last summer. He swam splendidly every day there. You were there, Mr. Seabright. Do you not remember it also?”
“Yes,” he replied; adding, “although I do not like to betray Emmett after his singular behavior to-day.”
“Then I am sure he was not feeling well, for I don’t like to believe harm of Emmett. I always liked the boy,” declared Alexie generously, and Italy thanked her by a grateful look. She, too, hated to believe harm of her frank, ingenuous young lover.
“But really, there was no use in Emmett’s risking his life, since Ralph had already jumped. I myself would have sprung to her assistance, only that I saw it was not necessary,” said Percy Seabright.
“I thank you for your kind intentions,” Italy said, giving him a half-sarcastic little nod.
She was watching him under her lowered lids, as he hung around Mrs. Dunn with that air of deep devotion, wondering if it could be true, all that Emmett had told her about this man and woman. Seabright had the courteous manner and airy persiflage of a Frenchman. Was he insincere, as Emmett said? Did he invite and accept the devotion of this woman’s heart, only to laugh at her behind her back with other friends?
She longed to know the truth, for she had promised him her friendship for her father’s sake; she had asked him to help her to trace her father’s murderer. Then, too, she felt inclined to like him. The fascination she had felt for the portrait extended itself to the man.
“But what was it doing there in that dreadful house?” she asked herself shudderingly, “that house of horror and mystery?”
And again that night of horror rushed over her mind--that night of horror, and the woman’s face at the window. She shivered and closed her eyes.
She opened them again and looked at Mrs. Dunn, with her smiling face uplifted to her lover’s gaze. Her very ordinary face was looking its best now; and her peculiar, restless eyes, the only striking feature she had, gleamed with the fires of love. And certainly those glittering dark eyes looking into hers spoke devotion.
Italy gasped and sighed. Could that smiling woman’s face be the same that she had seen convulsed with anguish and horror, those white hands toying idly now with her many rings be the same that were tossed up so desperately into the night and the gloom? Oh, it was like some terrible dream!
“And what was she doing there, watching Craig Severn? Why did she kill him? Was it for my sake, or does she know even that that frantic girl was I? I do not believe that she does,” she decided.
Italy had read the paragraphs in the papers relating to Craig Severn’s mysterious death; she wondered, like every one else, how the body had come to be in the river.
For all of that night was blank to her from the moment when she had fallen senseless in a pool of Craig Severn’s spurting life-blood.
She had read about the lovely young widow who, believing her husband true to her and bitterly lamenting his death, had offered, out of her small fortune, a reward for the apprehension of his murderer.
“How can men be such fiends as that man was while his wife believed him so true and fond?” she thought, with a shudder; and just then a voice sounded in her ear--a very low and gentle voice.
“You look deathly pale and ill, child; you ought to lie down. Permit me to assist you to your room.”
She was glad of the offer, and quickly put her small hand on the offered arm, going out with a small bend of the head to the others, and followed by a glance of jealous hate from Alys Audenreid.
Francis Murray bent his tall head gently to his trembling companion.
“I did not mean to deceive you,” he said gently, “but--before I take you to your room--may I speak to you a few minutes in the library?”
She bowed in silent surprise. What was it now? Was he going to scold her for something?
Opening the door, he led her to a luxurious sofa.
“Rest there while I talk to you,” he said kindly, and the tired head dropped wearily on the silken pillow.
“Emmett has told me everything,” he said. “I am sorry you could not make him happy as he wished. He is good and true. You need not believe what Mrs. Dunn said on the yacht.”
“Yet she is your friend,” the girl returned pointedly.
“Yes--a friend of the family--Percy Seabright introduced her to us, and we made friends with her for his sake. Yet she is in some ways not quite admirable--a strong nature, full of prejudices, and--but we will not discuss the guest beneath our roof--that would be ungenerous. Suffice it to say, she and Emmett Harlow disliked each other, and she--made a mistake. She as much as acknowledged she was wrong, remember.”
“Yes,” she faltered.
“And so I want you to believe in Emmett Harlow, child. He is good and noble. If you could have married him, it would have been a good match.”
“I am not looking for a match of any sort, Mr. Murray.”
“Perhaps not; you are such a child. Yet Emmett could have made a new world for you. He is rich, you know.”
“What does that matter? I should never marry a man for his money!”
He gave a short laugh of veiled approval.
“For what, then--love?”
“No, nor even love while this dark shadow of a mother’s disgrace rests on my name. Do you think I could drag down a man to my level, and through his love for me bring shame upon him? No; but if I loved a man and he loved me, I should say to him: ‘If you indeed love me, help me to clear my mother’s memory from the tragic shadow resting on it, and then I will marry you.’”
Her white arm supported her dark head, and her eyes flashed with intense fire. The loose, curling tresses fell away from her brow and made a rich frame for the small, pale face and exquisite white throat. It flashed over him how maddeningly beautiful she was--beautiful beyond all other women.
“No man can ever help you to do that, Italy, for, alas! it is beyond mortal power,” he sighed.
“I do not believe you!” she flashed wilfully.
But he regarded her with intense pity.
“You are like a helpless little canary beating its wings against its prison-bars,” he said.
“And I will beat my wings until I am free--until my mother’s name is vindicated!” she exclaimed, and again the grave eyes surveyed her in pain and pity, and he breathed:
“God help you, poor child!”
It made her angry. She rose to go.
“One word!” he exclaimed, barring her way. “Italy, I think my mother has told you that I was selfish about the library--that I liked no one to come here. She made a mistake. Will you consider yourself free to come when you choose, to use my books, anything you like, feeling yourself fully welcome?”
His face was flushed--eager. She colored suddenly, too.
“Thank you. Yes, I will come,” she said, moving to the door.
And as he again gave her his arm she murmured very low:
“Do not think me ungrateful to you for helping to save my life because I have not thanked you yet. Believe me----”
“Do not mention it,” he said abruptly and led her in a strange, embarrassed silence to her own door.
