CHAPTER XXVIII.

MRS. VALE IS VINDICATED.

The housekeeper’s face grew lividly pale at these words.

“Oh, miss, you don’t know what you’re asking. Mr. Seabright would kill me!”

“Your master is on the sea now, and will not return for many months. He need never know.”

“But indeed, miss, there’s nothing of interest in the room--only rubbish. Please ask me something else to do for you.”

“It is this, or nothing. And if you refuse, this house will be reported to the police as a gambling-den. It will be raided and searched!”

Mrs. Smith read deadly earnest in the pale, stern young face. She rose up, shuddering:

“Will you promise me one thing if I let you have the key?” she asked wildly. “You will go in alone, and never tell what you saw in there? Oh, heavens, it would ruin my poor master! And I promised his mother on her dying bed to look after her son, to shield his secret from the world!”

The woman wrung her hands in a sort of impotent despair. Her terror only made Italy more anxious.

“Yes, I will go in alone, and I will promise not to reveal anything you don’t wish me to,” she cried. “I will tell you the truth, Mrs. Smith. I simply want to find a little book that I believe Mr. Seabright has hidden away. It belongs to my mother, and she wants it very much.”

“Oh, if that is all,” began the woman, “perhaps I can find it for you. What is the title?”

“I must search for it myself,” the girl answered resolutely, and, with a long-drawn sigh, the woman yielded the point.

“Come, then,” she said abruptly, and, after returning a moment to her friends in the parlor, Italy followed her up-stairs to her own room. She was trembling with excitement. She felt herself on the eve of a terrible discovery of some sort.

Mrs. Smith went to a secrétaire in her room, pushed back what seemed to be a hidden or secret drawer, and took out a brass key. With this she unlocked a door across the room and left Italy a moment, saying:

“Wait till I light the gas.”

She carried in a step-ladder and lighted a gas-jet near up to the ceiling, then came back and said with sullen acquiescence:

“You may come in now.”

And with a wildly throbbing heart Italy stepped over the threshold of the mysterious chamber.

Mrs. Smith quickly closed the door, and they were alone together.

Italy raised her eyes and gazed curiously around her. The next moment a cry of startled comprehension escaped her lips:

“I was right. Percy Seabright is a maniac!”

The room in which she stood was one of those small padded chambers used to imprison the violently insane to prevent them from injuring themselves in their paroxysms of madness. It was devoid of furniture with the exception of a large cushioned chair that stood before a small secrétaire similar to the one in Mrs. Smith’s room. This was piled with a quantity of dilapidated-looking books, from all of which the backs had been stripped.

“Percy Seabright is a maniac!” repeated Italy, and Mrs. Smith cried out remonstratingly:

“Oh, no, Miss Vale, you’re quite mistaken. The room was like this when he bought the house. The former owner had an insane wife that he kept in here.”

Italy did not take the trouble to tell the woman that she was speaking falsely. She was eagerly turning over the books, and pulling open the little drawers in search of the diary. She looked around at the woman.

“There must be a secret drawer in this secrétaire, the same as in yours. Open it,” she commanded.

Mrs. Smith touched a hidden spring, and a little drawer shot out instantly. Lying in it was a small book bound in dark velvet, clasped in gold, and lettered in gilt: “Diary.”

At that moment the peal of the door-bell resounded loudly through the house. Mrs. Smith gave a violent start.

“Heavens, what does that mean? I must go instantly. Miss Vale, you cannot leave for a moment or two until I return. Will you have the goodness to lock yourself into this room until I return?”

“I warn you not to attempt any treachery toward me, madam. My friends are here, remember,” Italy said warningly.

“I swear I mean you no harm. I am frightened for your safety, that is all. But I must go and see about that new arrival,” and she darted out, leaving the girl alone. Italy sprang to follow, but Mrs. Smith was too quick. The door slammed, the key clicked in the lock on the other side. She was a prisoner. For a moment her heart stood still with terror. Then reason came to her aid.

“She will have to release me presently. My friends will not leave the house without me.”

She flew back to the open drawer of the secrétaire, snatched up the diary, and sank tremblingly into the cushioned chair. Alas! the golden clasp of the book was locked, and the key missing.

She remembered with a thrill of horror that she had seen among the trinkets on Percy Seabright’s watch-chain a tiny golden key. He had laughingly told Alys Audenreid, when she asked about it, that it was the key to a mystery.

“It is the key to Aunt Ione’s locked bracelet, I think,” returned Alys, and though he had denied it no one believed it.

But now Italy guessed at the fatal truth. It was the key to the diary, and he had carried it away with him across the ocean. Desperate with impatience, she tugged at the lock, pulling with all the strength of her little hands. The rivets on one side of the clasp yielded, the side of it flew loose, the book opened its closely written pages to her eager eyes.

On the flyleaf she read, in her father’s writing, his name, Ronald Vale. And then a low groan of horror came from her livid lips.

She had identified the missing diary not only by her father’s name, but by gruesome spots here and there on the pages--spots that looked like red rust, but that she guessed too truly were her father’s blood.

“The diary was lying by your father’s elbow when I parted from him. It must have been there when he was murdered,” her mother had said to her more than once.

She shuddered all over and looked at her white fingers as though she expected to see stains of blood on their fairness, then she opened the book and began to read at random the paragraphs that caught her eyes.

Among the first entries, mention was made of Ronald Vale’s first meeting with, and growing friendship for, the man who had proved his fate.

“We are congenial souls--brothers,” wrote Ronald Vale. “I did not believe it was possible to love a man as fondly as I love Percy Seabright. He is a most charming companion, bright, witty, intellectual. He has been everywhere, although still so very young; he has read everything; he is a poet in feeling, and a gifted amateur actor. But I own he has one fault: He is continually boasting of his conquests over women, and to listen to Percy, one might believe that every woman of his acquaintance, married and single, is in love with him.

“He is fascinating, I know, but I think his vanity misleads him. He mistakes kindness for love. In fact, a very beautiful young girl told me recently that she detested Mr. Seabright from the first minute she saw him, and that he made her think of a serpent. I would not tell him this for anything, for I can fancy how those bright, dark eyes would flash with anger at the thought that any woman did not admire him.

“We are planning a tour of Europe together, and sail next week. I am quite sure that my dear brother, as Percy makes me call him, will be a very charming traveling-companion.”

Italy was trembling so violently that the pages slipped from under the little finger that held them down and she lost the place where she was reading.

She opened it again farther on, and at the very top of the page this entry stared her in the face:

“London, Eng., Aug. 25th, 18--. I have made a shocking discovery that has almost prostrated me. My dear friend Percy is mentally unbalanced.”

A cry of wonder came from Italy’s lips:

“So papa really knew it, then! Yet all this time the world has been in ignorance of this secret!”

She read on with eager eyes the continuation of the diary:

“It is dreadful, dreadful! Percy is possessed of a suicidal mania. Three times since we came abroad he has attempted to end his own life, and but for my vigilance would now be dead. I am miserable over him. The story of this trip abroad is as weird and strange as a romance. The doctors tell me I must take him home, and----”

“Oh,” cried Italy, looking up, with a start, from her reading, for the key had clicked in the lock, and the door opened.

She looked up, expecting to see Mrs. Smith, but the next moment she sprang from her seat with an uncontrollable shriek of fear. It was not the housekeeper, it was her master, Percy Seabright, and when he saw Italy Vale sitting there reading her father’s diary, a shriek of maniacal fury burst from his lips, and he sprang forward, clutching her throat in a grasp of steel.

* * * * *

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!”