Slighted love or, At her heart's expense
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.
CHAPTER XXX.
PERCY SEABRIGHT’S TRIAL.
There was silence in the thronged court-room--silence so deep it was
almost preternatural.
The lawyer was reading aloud some paragraphs here and there from Ronald
Vale’s diary.
No one seemed more interested than the handsome prisoner. Faultlessly
dressed, cool, nonchalant, even smiling, he leaned back in his chair,
the cynosure of curious eyes, seeming rather to enjoy his notoriety.
And certainly if there was any éclat in villainy, he was entitled to
the palm.
To be accused of murder and arson, and conspiracy against the good
name of the innocent, made very sensational reading in the newspapers,
and drew the attention of the world upon the criminal. Whatever might
be the outcome of it all, Percy Seabright seemed to enjoy the present
stage of the proceedings, and deported himself like a hero.
The lawyer read on from the diary in clear, bell-like tones:
“It seems strange that I have married the beautiful girl that always
detested my friend Percy. Naturally he is furious, but then he was
always jealous of every woman I spoke to, and he did not wish me to
marry at all. How strange he is at times! I wish most sincerely I
had never met him. He is not what my fancy painted him in our first
acquaintance. How dearly I loved him then, and how much I was deceived
in him. He is a consummate actor.
“My wife dislikes and dreads him. What if she knew that in a wild
spasm of jealous rage he once threatened to end my life and then his
own. Decidedly he is insane. I must write to his brother, I must
tell him it would be well to place poor Percy in confinement where
he cannot injure himself nor any one else. This morning we had a
stormy interview. I told him of certain malicious falsehoods he had
promulgated against my wife, and that only because he was mentally
unbalanced had I spared him the punishment that was his due. I told
him he was forgiven for the sake of our past dear friendship, but that
our further intimacy was obnoxious to my wife, and must come to an end.
“At first he was furious, and vowed revenge on us both. I soothed him
all I could, and he grew calmer, took an affecting leave of me, and
vowed he was going at once to New York, never to see me again. I am
more unnerved than I had thought possible by this affair. Poor boy, it
is a sudden ending to what once promised to be a beautiful, life-long
friendship. Only for that weak mind he would have been so noble. I am
in no mood to attend the reception to-night. If my darling will excuse
me I will remain at home. My thoughts follow poor Percy in his exile.
But surely he will soon forget and make new friends.”
The lawyer paused with his finger on the page, looked solemnly around
at the sea of eager, upturned faces, and said impressively:
“That is the last entry made in the diary of Ronald Vale, and it bears
date the day of the murder. But here, following, are pages written in
a different hand which we shall presently prove to be that of Percy
Seabright.”
The prisoner actually smiled complacently at this point, but ere Mr.
Gardner could go on, a low groan of anguish rose upon the air. The next
moment, Mrs. Vale sank fainting in her daughter’s arms.
Never before for years had Mrs. Vale looked on the face of the man who
had, with deadly malice, wrecked her whole life, and the sight of his
cool, complacent face was more than she could bear. Mrs. Mays and the
German professor kindly took her home, left her in Mrs. Severn’s care,
and went back to the trial.
When Mrs. Vale had gone, another lady took her place at Italy’s side.
It was Mrs. Murray, deeply veiled and very undemonstrative, but taking
an eager interest in the proceedings.
Under cover of the momentary confusion attending the exit of Mrs. Vale,
she found time to whisper nervously to Italy:
“Who is this man, this Professor Doepkin? The first sight of him
startled me, he is so like my son. Surely you have noticed it.”
“Yes, I saw it from the first. He is a German who came over with Emmett
Harlow.”
“I must know that man. Why, it gives me pleasure only to look at him.
The likeness is very striking.” Her voice sank in a smothered sob:
“Oh, Frank, Frank!”
Italy pressed her hand and answered huskily:
“Be patient, dear. He will surely return to you.”
But the sigh that breathed over her lips as she said it was torturing.
She could offer comfort, but she could take none herself.
“He will never come back to me--that was all a blind mistake of mine,”
she thought. “Perhaps it will be Alys who will win him after all--Alys
Audenreid with her fair, blonde beauty.”
A sudden fear came to her, and she whispered agitatedly to Mrs. Murray:
“If he ever comes back to you, dear heart, mind that you never betray
to him the secret I once thoughtlessly confided to you--that I
thought--that I fancied I loved him!”
“Do you mean that you have changed, that Emmett has won you after all?”
returned Mrs. Murray, in a reproachful undertone.
“Emmett has not won me--we are only friends--but I--I made a mistake,
and--I do not want Mr. Murray ever to know,” the girl faltered, and
turned hastily toward Mr. Gardner, who was about to begin the reading
of Percy Seabright’s entries in the diary of his murdered friend.
The prisoner, who was sitting by the side of Mrs. Smith, gasped
slightly once or twice, turned a shade paler, and leaned forward to
listen to the reading.
The lawyer’s well-trained voice rang out clearly:
“The fatal deed is done. I have known for months that the goading devil
within me would make me kill Ronald Vale!
“Yet I shall be haunted till I die by the look in his eyes as my dagger
pierced his breast, and his dying moan: ‘How could you do it, Percy?’”
* * * * *
A groan of execration arose from the listeners, but it was quickly
hushed, and Mr. Gardner read on:
“It was _her_ fault--hers and that little dark-eyed child’s. They
stole his love from me. He belonged to me utterly until her blue eyes
and her golden hair wiled his heart away. For years they made me
wretched. To-day when he bade me leave his presence forever I swore
revenge for my slighted love.
“Ah! how dearly I loved him! I would have given my life for him! Alas!
he had to give his for me! But now he is mine, all mine--in death he
belongs to me! I did not plan to kill him--it all came suddenly on me!
“I started to New York, but I came back that night for one more look
at his beloved face. And while I hung around the window watching him
unseen, _she_ came in--his lovely wife that I hated with such jealous
hate!
“She had been to a reception and was glittering in diamonds and frosty
laces. She hung around his neck, and, weeping, told him of the wicked
falsehoods I had circulated about her. He kissed her tears away, and
told her I could never be his friend again, that his contempt would
bitterly punish my treachery.
“Those words of scorn for me, those caresses for her, drove me mad
with jealous rage. Once I had begged him to kiss _me_. He refused in
cold surprise, saying he did not like kisses between men, and he
should never kiss any one but the one beloved woman who should be his
wife. Those kisses awoke the sleeping devil in my nature! I had often
wanted to kill myself, but this was the first time I ever thirsted for
another’s life.
“There was a dagger on my person I had bought to kill myself. When
Mrs. Vale went weeping from the room I sprang through the low library
window; I flung myself on Ronald Vale like a tiger, and buried my
dagger in his false heart!”
“Ah-h!” suddenly groaned the prisoner; and for once he quailed before
the glances of hatred that fell on him, and put up his hand before his
face.
“Oh, Percy, my poor boy, you did not do it--tell me you did not do it!”
wailed an anguished voice, and Mrs. Smith, his faithful friend and
nurse, grasped his arm in a convulsive pressure.
A low, gurgling sound came from her white lips, and then a torrent of
blood flowed from them. In a moment she was dead--dead of the shock
and horror of knowing her beloved master a murderer; but happily dead
ere she knew the full extent of his wickedness, ere she heard of the
baseness with which he had persecuted the hapless widow and her only
child, his conspiracy against Francis Murray, and his crowning fiendish
act in trying to burn two sleeping women in their house, to gratify his
sleepless hatred, and in fear lest they should yet bring home to him
his awful crime.
The further hearing of the trial had to be postponed until the morrow.
The prisoner had quite broken down, and was weeping womanish tears over
the dead woman, who had been his friend from his unfortunate childhood.
He was remanded to prison, and the body of Mrs. Smith, after a quiet