CHAPTER IX.

ITALY VALE’S SONG.

As the carriage rolled away along the level beach Francis Murray said amusedly:

“I think you will find the gayest party you ever encountered, Italy. There are about a dozen of them, and they have taken possession of the hull of an old wreck washed up last spring upon the beach. The girls have brought several varieties of musical instruments, and when I came away they were all singing a glee song with the whole strength of their lungs. At a little distance away it sounded quite sweet.”

“I should fancy so,” she answered, in that quiet way she always had with Francis Murray. Sitting there close by his side, she was thrilling with a strange sense of utter content and peace. She did not feel the least eagerness to reach the party. She knew too well that no one would give her a welcome, except Alexie and Ralph.

But the two miles were quickly passed over, and they saw at a little distance ahead in the starlight the old black hulk of the wrecked ship and light figures moving about it. Blent with the voice of the sea came the soft notes of a guitar, and Ralph Allen’s rich tenor voice singing very sweetly a little song of love and sorrow.

The pathetic last words were dying on the air as Francis Murray gave Italy his hand to assist her from the carriage. But why did both their hearts sink so strangely as he released the little fingers? Why did both sigh in unison? The melody with its sweet refrain had touched them with audible sadness.

Italy went toward the party a little timidly, as one uncertain of a welcome, but Alexie had an eager embrace ready.

“You darling, I’m so glad Mr. Murray brought you! Come, I’ve saved you a seat. Miss Vale, ladies and gentlemen--but I think you’re all acquainted. The same crowd we had on the yacht, dear. You’re just in time; the moon will soon be up. You have missed some lovely singing by not getting here a little sooner. Can’t we have it all over again?”

“No, no!” vociferated all the singers. “It is our turn now. Let Miss Vale give us a song.”

“Let her rest first,” Francis Murray said, in a voice of quiet authority. Then he went and stooped over Alys, where she was sulking a little apart.

“You will give us that pretty little recitation of yours--‘A Portrait’--will you not?”

He knew that Alys loved him, and he guessed at his mother’s hopes and plans. He was sorry for the fair, blue-eyed girl who had set her heart on him only to be disappointed.

Perhaps--if Italy had never come, with her voice like music and her dusky Oriental eyes--he might in time have grown fond of pretty Alys, and if he had never discovered what a petty, ignoble soul she had, he might have married her, but--now all was changed. His heart had proved traitor to his will. He could never feel for the pretty blonde anything deeper than pity.

Alys was furious because he had gone back for Italy. She had, indeed, now given up all hope of winning him, and considered dissimulation no longer necessary, so she tossed her golden head angrily, and curtly refused his request.

He turned away from her, and asked her aunt for that sweet little song she had composed herself, and the lady very willingly complied, though her voice was too weak and thin to do justice to her little ballad of love and jealousy.

She had written it at a moment when her fiery heart was consumed with pain over her lover’s attentions to a beautiful, dark-eyed coquette in New Orleans, and it was quite meritorious. She did not dream that Percy Seabright, who listened with such sympathetic eyes, had often given his convulsed friends a ridiculous parody of her style of rendering the song.

But Mr. Seabright, although very fond of directing his wit against other people, was quite vain himself, and responded cordially to the call upon himself for a recitation, giving one of some length, with good effect, albeit with rather theatrical style. Then he sat down, and the girls began to tell ghost-stories and startling dreams.

“Make them stop it--oh, do, they frighten me!” Italy whispered nervously to Alexie.

“Hush, girls, I don’t like to hear such things!” cried the lovely blonde, who looked like a piece of Dresden china, so fair, so fragile was her bright, blonde beauty.

Never were two girls more different at heart than Alys and Alexie, in spite of their being twins. They looked alike, but there was more soul in Alexie’s face, and her heart was noble and true, while Alys was selfish and unprincipled. Neither was there between the two girls the affection usual between twins. Alexie was always chaffing Alys, and Alys was always sneering at Alexie. They could not harmonize.

“A song from Miss Vale,” cried several voices, but she drew back unwillingly.

“Do not refuse them. Every one is expected to contribute to the amusements of the night,” cried Ralph Allen, putting the guitar-ribbon over her head. “Please give us that sweet thing you sang for Alexie and me the other night in the garden among the roses.”

Francis Murray turned quickly. He had never heard Italy sing. He did not know that there was a little song-bird pent up in that graceful white throat, and yet he fancied that with those wondrous eyes she could sing well.

He saw the lovely white hands fluttering over the guitar-strings.

A strain of exquisite melody mingled with the ocean tone, then Italy’s face turned upward to the stars, and she sang a love-song.

Not a sound from any one broke upon the divine sweetness of the night and the song, but every eye lingered in almost wonder upon the lovely young girl singing to the stars of love in a voice as sweet and clear as the nightingale’s.

The song died into silence, the white fingers fell from the strings. There was tumultuous applause.

“Miss Vale, you are a born prima donna,” Percy Seabright said gallantly, unheeding Mrs. Dunn’s envious frown.

The young men began to crowd about Italy. Her beauty and her genius had charmed them. They pleaded for another song; Francis Murray, like one waking from a dream, added his entreaties. She smiled dreamily and sang again.

“I want you, my darling, my darling! I’m tired with care and with fret; I’d nestle in silence beside you, And all but your presence forget. I call you, my darling, my darling! My voice echoes back on the heart; I stretch my arms to you in longing, And, lo, they fall empty apart.

“I need you, my darling, my darling! With its yearnings my very heart aches; The load that divides us weighs harder, I shrink from the jar that it makes. Old sorrows rise up to beset me, Old doubts make my spirit their own; Oh, come through the darkness and save me, For I am alone!”

It was a heart’s cry. The girl was thinking sadly of her loved and lost mother, but the listeners believed that she was singing to some lover over the dark-blue sea.

“That is sweet, but too sad, Miss Vale,” said one of her admirers. “Please give us a happier strain.”

And Percy Seabright chimed in vivaciously:

“She seems to agree with the poet:

“‘Each note recalls some withered leaf; I’m saddest when I sing!’”

“Oh, see the moon!” cried Alexie suddenly, and they all started and turned to the sea, where the silver rim of the moon was just rising over the dark-purple line of water, building a silver bridge of resplendent beauty across the restless waves.

With cries of eager admiration they all scrambled out of the wreck and hastened down to the beach, where the rolling surf boomed in and kissed their feet, then receded with a hollow murmur.

Italy did not know how it happened, but she found Francis Murray by her side as she stood gazing delightedly at the full moon rising as if from a bed in the sea. In the silvery rays of light it seemed to her that his face was godlike in its manly beauty. She drew a long breath that was half-pain, half-pleasure, and exclaimed:

“Ah, if one could cross to the other shore on that silver bridge!”

“Are you home-sick?” he asked gently.

And she sighed:

“You know I have never really had a home. We were wanderers, mama and I. But yet I love the Old World, and, most of all, my birthplace, sunny Italy. I should like to be there to-night.”

“Would you like to have a moonlight sail? The wind is freshening nicely, and here is a little boat,” he said.

“Yes, I should like it,” she answered, and he helped her in, saying gaily:

“We will sail a little way on that bridge of moonlight.”

“Oh, how romantic!” cried several of the young people, as the white-sailed little dory skimmed lightly over the waves, right in the silver path of light, looking in the strange radiance like two glorified beings setting sail for Paradise.

“Come back soon. I want to take Alexie sailing!” called out Ralph Allen.

Alys Audenreid was close to her aunt’s side. She whispered vindictively:

“I hope they will both get drowned.”

“So do I,” was the instant reply, in a tone of sibilant hate and envy.

Then the little dory sailed away until it grew a mere speck on the water, and they ceased to watch it, the young people pairing off and walking up and down the sands.

“Let us go back to the wreck. I want to talk to you,” Mrs. Dunn said imperiously to her cavalier.

He gave her his arm, and they returned alone to the old hull and sat down side by side. Usually Percy Seabright was very gay and dashing in manner, and a great favorite with women for his courtliness, but at times he was a victim to the blues, and made himself a most unsocial companion to any one into whose company fate threw him.

One of these moods had suddenly overtaken the dashing bachelor to-night. He lounged at Mrs. Dunn’s side, in gloomy silence until she began to rally him upon his depression. He turned his strange, glittering eyes upon her smiling face, and said abruptly:

“Don’t jest with me, Ione. I am wretched. I can scarcely restrain myself from leaping into the sea and so ending the misery of my life!”

His look was wild, his voice tragic, but Mrs. Dunn did not know that the woman who wants to be charming to a man must fall in with his moods--“from grave to gay, from lively to severe.”

She pouted prettily.

“You pay a poor compliment to me, permitting yourself to be unhappy in my presence,” she exclaimed, dropping her chin into two jeweled hands that held a tiny lace handkerchief, and looking up at him with arch reproach.

But the coquetry was wasted on Percy Seabright. He sighed wearily, and looked away from her at the moonlit sea.

“Can’t you see that I am troubled, Ione?” he said fretfully. “You know I have these fitful moods and that nothing can charm me out of them.”

“But what is the cause of them, Percy?” she asked curiously.

He looked back at her, and answered restlessly:

“I will tell you what has caused these moods since I came back to The Lodge. It is the look of Ronald Vale in his daughter’s face.”

“Italy Vale--so she resembles her father? But what is that to you, Percy?”

“Everything, for it gives me the heartache. Ione, you know Ronald Vale was my dearest friend. I loved him with all the devotion of a boy’s warm heart. I have never known one happy hour since his tragic death, and that girl’s eyes--so dark, so glorious, so like her father’s--they break my heart.”

“Is that the reason you hate the girl so bitterly?” she asked, with veiled malice.

“Hate her?” he exclaimed.

“Yes, you hate her and wish her dead,” was the strange reply.

He started and gazed at her wildly, and she said significantly:

“Italy Vale spoke the truth the day she said that some enemy had pushed her into the water. I lied when I said that I saw Emmett Harlow do the dastardly deed. It was your arm, Percy, but--I love you, and I know how to shield those that I love.”

Even in the moonlight she could see his face whiten with awful terror. She laughed low and harshly.

“Do not be frightened. I am not going to betray you--that is, unless you play me false. A woman whose trust is betrayed is usually capable of doing anything for revenge,” she said. “But I am sure you will not give me any cause for anger. We will be married soon, you know, and I should have no cause to betray your crime.”

He stared blankly at her, and she heard his writhing lips repeat faintly:

“‘Soon’?”

She smiled at him with cool assurance.

“Yes,” she replied. “You know my niece, Alexie, is to be married in January. I have decided that you and I will be married at the same time.”

“Yes,” he replied, without remonstrance, but it piqued her that he received the communication without any sign of pleasure.

“We will go abroad on our bridal tour,” she continued. “You know it is the great hope of my life to visit Europe.”

“Yes,” he said again passively, as if she were making plans for another.

But suddenly his dark eyes beamed, and he cried feverishly:

“I have been abroad many times, but I remember my first trip with the keenest pleasure. Ronald Vale and I went together. We were chums--brothers. No woman had then come between us. It was the happiest time of my whole life.”

* * * * *

“Isn’t it really time for Italy and Mr. Murray to be getting back?” inquired Alexie, at length, as she and Ralph walked, arm in arm, upon the sands, happy lovers that they were.

He looked at his watch in the clear rays of the moonlight, and exclaimed:

“Positively, my darling, it is close upon midnight. I had no idea the time was going so fast.”

“A tribute to my charms--thank you,” replied his pretty sweetheart vivaciously. “But, really, they have been gone two hours, have they not?”

“It is nearer three hours. It was only nine o’clock when they started, and I’m sure they only meant it for a short sail. I hope nothing has happened them----” began Ralph anxiously. Then he stopped short and laughed. “Oh, what a joke! Feel the air, dear, how calm and still, almost sultry--not a breath of wind stirring. As sure as you live, they are becalmed, Alexie. There is not enough wind to fill their sail.”

Some others of the party came up just then, and they all agreed that Ralph’s idea was the correct one, and that there was no cause for anxiety.

“They are becalmed, and will have to wait for wind and tide, that is all,” said one vivacious young man; “but I am tremendously hungry, and don’t want to wait any longer for my lunch.”

Every one else was of the same mind; so, while they discuss their dainty midnight supper, let us take a bird’s-eye view of the wide waste of moonlit waters in search of the truants.

At first the dainty little dory sailed blithely before the freshening breeze, and the two occupants reveled in the beauty and sweetness of the summer night.

Francis Murray, as if tempted for once to show his latent powers, bent his energies to the task of entertaining his lovely companion.

He threw aside his usual air of hauteur, and showed himself brilliant, witty, and interesting, keeping through it all a dangerous softness of manner, an empressement that would have made the most finished coquette believe that he was about to throw himself at her feet and declare his love.

Italy was no coquette, however, and was not well versed in the signs of love, so she could by no means read her companion’s mood.

But she thought him kind, very kind, and she had a struggling consciousness that she had done wrong in coming. Yet she could not resist the charm of his manner. It inspired in her an irresistible joyousness. She, too, threw off the diffident manner that had dominated her in his presence until now, and replied to him freely and vivaciously. Her soft laugh, as it echoed over the rippling waves sounded to him like sweetest music.

Time flew fast, and suddenly he observed that the boat was going slower and slower, and the wind dying away.

“I could stay out here on this beautiful sea for hours with you, Italy, but yet I think we must be going back, or we shall have no wind,” he exclaimed, and turned about to return.

Slowly, more slowly than they knew, absorbed in their own thoughts, the dory moved through the small, crisp wavelets. The wind that had fanned their faces so joyously a little while ago lulled and stopped, the sail drooped dismally, they came to a dead pause out there in the open sea under the starry sky.

“Do not be frightened, Italy,” he said to her anxiously. “We are becalmed and must wait till the wind rises before we can get back to shore.”

Her face grew pale, and she asked:

“How long?”

“I cannot tell you, but I hope not long. The wind will be almost sure to rise at midnight, if not before, but it is more than an hour off yet. Can you be patient, and wait, or will you scold me for bringing you into such a predicament?”

“Is there any danger?” she asked, in a subdued tone.

“None, unless a heavy fog comes up. But it is very clear now. We are not more than two miles from shore. See, there is Great Head in the distance and the lights of Winthrop. You need not be alarmed. It is only a vexatious delay, and I will try to amuse you so that the time will go fast.”

“Thank you,” she said very low, and both were quite silent for a few moments. Italy was looking down at the rippling waves with a solemn face.

“Are you frightened, or are you angry?” her companion asked gently.

“I am neither,” she answered. “But I am suddenly sad. There came into my mind this moment a picture of my mother.”

“Your mother was a most unhappy woman,” he said half-inquiringly.

“Oh, Heaven, how unhappy!” sighed the girl; some impulse of confidence seized her, and while they waited there becalmed on the wide ocean, seemingly alone in the world, she told him something of the lonely life she had led, hounded through the world by a foe in ambush.

“Oh, Mr. Murray, tell me if you have any suspicion who that enemy could be?” she cried imploringly.

But he was honestly surprised and startled.

“I have not the least idea. I did not know your mother had an enemy in the world. I heard that she had placed you in a convent to be educated, and was living there herself in quiet comfort.”

“We were only two years at the convent. My mother’s health could not bear the sedentary life, and----” But suddenly she looked up and cried in a startled voice:

“Why, how strange! I cannot see Great Head and the lights of Winthrop now. It seems misty.”

“There is a fog, and it is growing quite thick, but I hope the wind will rise presently and blow it away,” he answered in a troubled tone.

He had been watching the creeping mist with startled eyes while she talked to him. It had stolen on them like a thief in the night. They could not see the sky nor the stars now, and scarcely each other’s faces for the insidious white fog.

Suddenly there came a sound that struck terror to their hearts.

“A steamer is approaching us!” cried Francis Murray wildly. He leaned forward and caught her cold little hand.

“Italy, my love, my darling, say that you forgive me for bringing you into this deadly peril, and let us pray God that we be not in the track of the coming horror!”

She could not answer. Her lips seemed frozen, but Francis Murray lifted up his voice and shrieked a warning to the steamer. Too late! She bore down swiftly upon them, cutting the little dory in twain.