Slighted love or, At her heart's expense
Italy had no suspicion as to the cause of the wild alarm that had made
Mrs. Smith leave her so suddenly and lock her into the padded chamber.
But the woman was trembling with terror as she hurried down the stairs
to the front door. That clamorous peal of the door-bell had told her
more than Italy dreamed.
Mrs. Smith knew by the very sound that only the hand of her master,
Percy Seabright, had set that bell in motion. She had supposed him
safe upon the ocean, but here he was returning--why? Wild with alarm,
anxious for the safety of the girl up-stairs, the housekeeper presented
herself at the door and admitted her master.
“Oh, sir, why is this? I thought you had started on your
wedding-journey!” she cried.
“The steamer sailed without me, Elizabeth. I came on shore to speak
to a friend, and she started off without me. Ha, ha! isn’t it amusing
to think of my bride going off on her wedding-tour alone?” he laughed
wildly.
“Oh, it is dreadful! But you will follow on the next steamer, of
course?”
“No!” cried Percy Seabright, with a strange, hoarse laugh that almost
curdled her blood. “No, I came straight home again, for----Elizabeth,
my good old soul, I feel I’m going to be sick--to have one of my horrid
spells. And then no one could care for me but you.”
His dark eyes, that could be so soft and tender in expression, were
wild and glaring, his lips were twitching nervously, the whole
expression of his face filled her with dim alarm. She put out a hand to
stay him, but he pushed past her, exclaiming:
“I must go at once to my room.”
He rushed past her, pushing back her feeble, detaining hands, and
mounted the stairs, the woman following at his heels, wild with terror
at his furious mood.
“Oh, sir, wait--wait! You must not go into my room yet!” she cried
hoarsely, and plucked at the skirt of his coat to draw him back.
It was a fatal move on her part. He kicked back at her with furious
impatience. The blow struck her full in the breast. Never before had
he been unkind to the woman who was so devoted to his interests. A
frenzy must have possessed him. There was a moan of pain and terror,
then the woman reeled backward, throwing out her arms in a vain
attempt to clutch the balustrade, and fell headlong down the stairway,
striking the polished oaken floor with awful force. Then she lay there
motionless as a log.
The noise penetrated the parlor. There rushed out the lawyer and his
wife followed by two others--Professor Doepkin and Emmett Harlow. They
had followed the others by secret arrangement with Mr. Gardner, and
were impatiently awaiting the return of Italy.
They rushed out at sound of the heavy fall, and found the housekeeper
lying there like one dead. At the same moment the female servants
rushed into the hall.
“She has fallen down the stairs and killed herself!” shrieked both in
concert.
But when they turned her over she groaned heavily.
“No, she was only stunned. Bring water quickly,” cried Mr. Gardner.
They laved her face and hands, and presently her closed eyes opened,
and she moaned wildly:
“To my room, my own room!”
“She wants to be carried to her room. I’ll lead the way,” cried one of
the maids.
Professor Doepkin and Emmett Harlow carried the heavy woman up the
stairway to her room. As they laid her on her bed, she pointed, with
upraised hands, to the door across the room.
“In there! in there! Save--the--girl!” she gurgled, with a terrible
effort; then her head fell back, blood gushed from her mouth.
Professor Doepkin was the first to reach the closed door. He flung it
open, for Percy Seabright, in his surprise and fury, had forgotten to
lock it.
What a sight met his appalled gaze!
The padded cell of a dangerous lunatic, and upon the floor struggling
in the grasp of a murderous demon whose talonlike fingers clutched her
throat so that she could not utter a sound, lay Italy Vale!
With his knee on her breast and his hands on her throat, the demon’s
face was horrible in its savage fury. Low, hissing sounds of hate came
from his foam-flecked lips.
With a cry of horror, the German flung himself upon the maniac. Emmett
Harlow and Mr. Gardner also flew to the rescue, while the maids left
their task of wiping the blood from Mrs. Smith’s lips to shriek aloud
in consternation.
Percy Seabright, in his paroxysm of madness, seemed endowed with
the strength of a dozen men. But after a violent struggle he was
overpowered and bound securely, for his ungovernable fury could be
restrained in no other way. Then Italy was lifted up and carried
tenderly into the next room.
“She is dead! That devil has killed her!” shrieked Mrs. Gardner, as she
beheld Italy’s face and throat all crimson and purple from the pressure
of Percy Seabright’s cruel hands.
The girl lay without breath or motion, and a horrible fear seized upon
all that she was indeed dead. Mrs. Gardner’s sobs filled the room.
A physician was hastily summoned; then Mrs. Smith, who looked like one
dying, moaned feebly:
“My master’s dread secret is known to the world at last! Oh, my poor
boy, let me go to him! Those cruel ropes are cutting his flesh.”
Through the open door she could see him lying on the floor bound hand
and foot and raving wildly. Though he had injured her so cruelly, her
heart yearned over him, and she held out her arms.
“Oh, let me go to him, poor boy, for he has never been so bad as this
before. He pushed me down the stairs when I tried to hold him back,
but it is the first time he ever was cruel to me! He did not know what
he was doing, my poor Percy! Oh, gentlemen, don’t be hard on him. I
was his mother’s servant, and I’ve known him since he was a little
boy. He was a sweet child, little Percy, only when those dreadful
temper-fits came on. And they grew worse and worse as he grew older.
Then, in his bright youth, when the girl he loved jilted him, he went
melancholy-mad and tried to kill himself.
“That was the beginning of those awful spells, and they thought it was
from the drugs. And we tended him so carefully that no one ever knew
anything. His mother bought this house and had that room prepared. He
could always tell when these strange fits were coming on. His head
would hurt and he would have fainting spells. Then he would come to us
and we would fasten him in there and keep him from suicide until he got
well again. For he always wanted to kill himself, though the doctor
said his mood might change, and it would be some one else he wanted to
kill. Oh, his dying mother left him to me. I promised--promised----”
She choked again with blood, and fell back, struggling for breath.
“Elizabeth!” came faintly from the other room. Her voice had penetrated
his heart. It was a maniacal moan, infinitely pathetic.
They wiped the blood from her mouth, and she raised herself up in bed.
“I’m better,” she moaned, slipping out to the floor. “He wants me to
put his strait-jacket on, and lock him in there alone. Then he will get
over it in a day or two. He always does.”
They were surprised, but they let her have her way. All their thoughts
were for Italy, lying there like one dead, with the edge of the fatal
diary peeping from her corsage, where she had hastily thrust it when
confronted by Percy Seabright.
Professor Doepkin and the others hung over her in yearning devotion,
laving her face and hands with cooling waters, and at last a faint
heave of her breast betrayed the joyful fact that life was returning.
They knew that consciousness was returning when she moved one weak
little hand and pressed it on her breast, where the diary lay under her
corsage.
“She remembers it first, and no wonder. She has almost lost her life to
secure it,” sobbed Mrs. Gardner.
The physician came presently, and soon afterward Italy was removed to
her home. He said it was best for her to be taken away from the scene.
Mrs. Gardner and her husband went with her, and Emmett Harlow and the
German remained to guard as a prisoner the man who was at that moment
raving with maniacal fury in his bonds. He would never go free again to
menace humanity with his dangerous liberty. He was detected now, and
when Italy grew better in the next few days she resumed the reading
of the diary that was destined to throw such clear light on the awful
tragedy of her father’s death. And when she had finished the reading
she flung herself, in a burst of anguish, at her mother’s feet.
“Oh, mama, mama, that fiend, that demon killed my father for a jealous
fancy--a slighted love! Oh, how horrible it is! how horrible! But you
are cleared, my dearest one, my martyred angel!”
CHAPTER XXIX.
LOVE TURNED TO HATE.
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?”