Slighted love or, At her heart's expense
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