CHAPTER VIII.

A MOTHER’S HATE.

At breakfast the next morning Alexie said regretfully:

“Heigho! It is but a few days to the first of September, when we shall all have to go home.”

“We must get all the fun we can out of these last few days,” cried Percy Seabright, as gaily as a boy, and then Ralph Allen said:

“Yesterday, before Italy’s accident, the folks on the yacht were proposing a moonlight party, and wanted us to join them.”

“A moonlight party!” they all echoed.

“You see,” went on Ralph, “the idea is this: You pick out a picturesque place, and sit up to see the moon and sun rise. You have refreshments with plenty of hot tea and coffee; you walk on the beach, you tell stories, you sing, you recite, and perhaps go sailing. I am told that the chaperons frown on courting; but if we can get Mrs. Dunn to chaperon us I am sure she will be more lenient out of sympathy for us.”

“Splendid!” they all cried, for the plan was full of the romance and poetry so dear to youthful hearts.

Mrs. Murray alone tried to throw a damper over them.

“You will catch cold and be sick the next day.”

“We can dress warmly,” said Alys. “I am sure it will not hurt any of us who are used to the climate. But perhaps Miss Vale had better stay at home. She is not used to the raw, eastern winds of Massachusetts.”

“I am going, though. I wouldn’t miss it for anything!” declared Italy, with a spice of girlish diablerie, and thus it was settled.

But Alys was at the point of tears. She wanted to have Francis Murray all to herself on this moonlight party; but she foresaw that he would have to divide his attentions between herself and Italy. She wished now that Emmett Harlow had not gone away.

That night she talked alone with her aunt, complaining bitterly of Francis Murray’s indifference.

“He will never care for me. I have given up all hope of it. He has eyes only for that hateful foreign girl!”

“Indeed, you are mistaken, dear. Mrs. Murray thinks he was quite angry because Italy refused Emmett. That looks as if he was anxious to get rid of her, don’t it?” replied Mrs. Dunn soothingly.

“Oh, if I could only be sure of it,” Alys cried hopefully. “But if she goes on this moonlight party I shall give up all hope. Can’t you hint to Mrs. Murray to keep her at home?”

“I’ll try, dear, and you must keep up hope; she shall not take him from you. I am watching over your interests all the time,” said the scheming aunt, who was very fond of this niece who resembled her in her disposition.

Alys retired much consoled, for she knew that her aunt would stop at nothing to gain her ends.

She was gone, and Mrs. Dunn lay back at ease in her armchair, the loose folds of her gorgeous silk dressing-gown falling richly about her, her strange eyes gleaming with excitement. She mused softly:

“I have Percy Seabright in my power now, and he shall trifle with me no longer. Twice he has postponed our marriage for idle reasons, but I will bear it no longer, and when Alexie marries Ralph, in January, my own wedding shall come off, too, and Alys shall marry Francis Murray then, also, if I can manage it. And I will manage it, unless I have lost my cunning. Francis Murray is losing his head over that girl, I can see it plainly, but his mother will not permit him to marry her, even if he could so far forget himself. But she must be driven away from The Lodge soon, or she will outwit me.”

Then a softer light came into the large blue eyes.

“I feel happy to-night, knowing that Percy does not love Italy,” she thought. “Oh, I have been miserable believing that he did, but, of course, I know better now after what happened to-day. How cleverly I shielded his crime, and punished Emmett Harlow at the same time. And now Percy’s dangerous secret is mine, thank the Fates, but yet I wonder why he hates Miss Vale, and wants her dead?”

Mrs. Dunn thought she had the game in her own hands the next day, when Francis Murray announced at noon that he was compelled to go into Boston for the day, to meet some old friends who were passing through and had written for him to join them in their brief stay in the city.

“You will probably be off on your moonlight party before my return,” he said.

“But you will join us there--oh, do say you will join us there!” exclaimed Alys pleadingly.

“Thank you, I shall be very glad to come,” he answered; then he looked at his mother. “Do not look for me home this evening, for I shall probably be late, and I will go from the station to join the party,” he said.

He went away, and soon Mrs. Dunn found an opportunity to speak alone with her hostess.

“Mrs. Murray, you look unhappy,” she purred sympathetically.

“Oh, no, I am not feeling well to-day, that is all, Mrs. Dunn.”

“My dear friend, you cannot deceive me like that. I am such a true friend to you and yours that I take the privilege of offering you my sympathy. You _are_ unhappy, and it is because you see the growing infatuation of your proud son with this girl, this Italy Vale, whom no man ought to marry because of the stain she will bring upon his name. Oh, it is terrible, the daughter of a vile murderess aspiring to wed one so proud and noble as Mr. Murray!”

Mrs. Murray’s cold, proud face was bitterly troubled.

“I do not want to be unkind to Italy Vale,” she said. “She has a claim on us, and she needs a home, so I cannot conscientiously send her away, and yet I own I am troubled as you describe. Francis has shown strange interest in her, and--and it would break my heart for my son to ally himself to the daughter of a wicked murderess. I will try to keep them apart.”

“That is right. No one could blame you,” cried the wily adviser, and Mrs. Murray, taking courage from her sympathy, declared decidedly:

“She shall not go to-night. Francis will not be here to contradict my authority, and I am determined she shall stay at home.”

And that very hour she said to Italy:

“You look quite pale and ill from your dreadful experience yesterday, and you must not think of going out on the beach with the party to-night.”

“Dear Mrs. Murray, I would not miss it for anything! The very idea has a fascination for me. Please do not oppose my going. I will wrap up warmly, and not take cold,” pleaded Italy.

“I am very sorry to disappoint you, but I am sure you are not well enough, and I distinctly forbid your going,” was the calm reply, in a tone of assured authority that forbade remonstrance.

Italy’s heart sank with disappointment at the arbitrary command, but she offered no rebellion, and saw the gay party leaving for the tryst with unshed tears in her proud dark eyes. She was young, and in spite of her sorrows, had looked forward with eagerness to the moonlight party, which, to her girlish fancy, seemed full of romantic promise. Mrs. Murray’s cold refusal seemed unjust, cruel.

“And,” she said to herself bitterly, “she has no good reason for it. It is only an exhibition of despotic power. She secretly hates me, and likes to make me unhappy.”

With a cold excuse, she left the triumphant woman and retired to her own room, to sit alone by the window and watch the sea and muse upon her own loneliness.

The weather was very warm for the raw climate of Massachusetts. The last days of summer were most balmy and beautiful. It was an ideal night for the moonlight party. The night was calm and clear, and the stars were already sparkling through the purple twilight haze, and beginning to mirror themselves in the heavy sea, but it lacked two hours yet to moonrise.

A sob rose in Italy’s throat as she pictured the gay party on the beach just two miles away, enjoying themselves, while she was so sad and lonely here in the window.

She wondered if Mr. Murray was there yet, and what he would say to her absence. Would he approve of his mother’s arbitrary decision?

As she pictured him by the side of Alys Audenreid, laughing and talking, a strange sense of loss and desolation swelled her heart. She bent her head on her hand and wept wildly.

A quick step came along the hall to her door, paused, and then there was a rap twice repeated, for Italy’s bursting sobs drowned it.

A voice spoke clearly outside:

“Italy, will you please come to the door? I wish to speak to you.”

She caught the voice, the words, and with a joyful heart-throb sprang to open the door.

When Francis Murray spoke, Italy forgot her tears and her sorrow--forgot that she was sitting in the dark, forlorn and wretched.

The light from the hall streamed in upon her pale, tear-wet cheeks and quivering red mouth, and touched him with keenest pain, for before he opened the door he had caught the sound of her bursting sobs. Involuntarily he caught her hand and drew her up close to him, looking at her in deep distress.

“In tears, my--child!” he exclaimed huskily. “Are you ill, or--only sad?”

She drew back quickly from him, ashamed of the tears she had forgotten in the joy of his coming.

“It’s nothing, nothing!” she answered. “You--you--think me a great baby, sitting up here in the dark crying over a little disappointment,” and she brushed away the tears with a furtive hand.

But something in his deep glance made her feel that he had a silent sympathy for her grief.

“Poor little one! Yes, I know how you feel,” he said warmly. “But I have come to take you to the party. As soon as I joined them and found you were not there, I came away to bring you.”

“Oh, how good you are!” she cried gratefully, then thrilled with a guilty pang. _She_ to call Francis Murray good! Was she turning traitor to that dear, loved mother who had sobbed beneath the blossoming lime-trees:

“Oh, my love, my love, how cruel Fate has been to us!”

He could not tell what she was thinking; he only heard her gracious words, and thrilled with a painful delight.

“I am fully repaid for coming now; so get ready, and I will be waiting for you down-stairs,” he said kindly, moving a little away and fighting down an impulse almost stronger than his will to catch the slender form in his arms and press the lovely, grieved face against his heart.

“Oh, I must not go. Your mother----” she began falteringly.

“Yes, I know; Alexie told me that my mother had taken a notion it was not prudent for you to go out. But take some wraps with you, and you’ll be all right. I will be fixing it up with my mother while you are dressing.”

He smiled at her--a smile so deep, so kind, it seemed to draw the heart from her breast. Then he turned away, and Italy closed the door and turned up the light--her brain whirling.

“What is this? What has come to me?” she whispered to herself, in a sort of rapturous terror. She sank on her knees and hid her burning face against the bed, whispering painfully:

“I--I--am getting to like him very much. I was so glad when he came, so glad that he thought of me, wished for me! And how strange that he should be kind to me, knowing what he does, suspecting what he does. He has a noble nature, to be so kind to me when he must despise me in his heart! But no, it was not hatred that looked out of his beautiful eyes. Does he ever look at Alys like that, I wonder? Ah, Heaven, what am I dreaming? I must not, must not go mad! For this is _madness_! Heaven help me, help me!”

She rose up and began to make her toilet for the moonlight party. Some reckless mood overcame her, a longing to look fair in the eyes of this man she ought to hate--to eclipse blue-eyed Alys, who had wished her not to come. She chose an exquisite dress--warm, yet elegant--a light-blue broadcloth embroidered in silver, and clasped at the throat by the pure fire of a twinkling diamond star. She pinned back her dark curls with a silver butterfly, with diamond eyes, and placed on her head a bewitching cap, all blue and silver. Then she smiled at herself in the mirror.

“This dress will be very pretty in the moonlight,” she said, and ran down to Mr. Murray.

He was waiting for her in the drawing-room--alone.

“Mother felt indisposed--so she has retired,” he said, not choosing to mention that there had been a scene, Mrs. Murray fighting bitterly for her own way, and--getting vanquished by her son’s calm determination.

He loved his mother, he yielded to her in many things, but while she argued there was one thing that haunted him--the grieving face of Italy, with its tearful eyes and quivering red lips, as it had appeared on the threshold of the dark room where she had been weeping alone.

“Poor little one, breaking her heart all alone without a friend,” he thought indignantly, and stood firm to his determination.

Nay, more, when she had retired in bitter anger he went out and gathered some flowers for Italy--fragrant white carnations--and gave them to her when she appeared, radiant in her beauty, but with her brilliant eyes a little misty still with the tears that she had shed.

“All ready?”--smiling.

“Oh, yes.”

“Come, then; the carriage is waiting.”

And he drew her hand through his arm and led her out.

The wheels seemed grinding Mrs. Murray’s heart as they crunched on the gravel, bearing her son away with the beautiful girl who had triumphed for this time over her foes.

A proud woman seldom forgives a defeat. Mrs. Murray had pitied and tolerated Italy before, but from this hour she hated her with resentful rancor.

“She has outwitted me, turned my son’s heart against me, and I will never forgive her--never!” she muttered. “And what will Mrs. Dunn say when she sees how the girl sets at naught my authority? She will think me weak as water. But I will show her, show her yet that though the girl is related to me, I will cast her off. She shall not disgrace the name of Murray by bearing it as my son’s wife!”