FRANCIS MURRAY FOUND.
She looked anxiously into the beautiful, excited face, and Italy
answered solemnly:
“Before I answer your question, Mrs. Murray, will you let me tell you
the story of my mother’s life since my father’s death? I know you
believed her guilty, but let us waive that now, and deal with the
probabilities of her innocence. Will you listen while I take her part?”
“Dear child, you are always taking some one’s part. It seems to be a
divine attribute of your sweet nature, and who could blame a loving
child for believing in her mother? Go on, Italy, and I will listen
patiently as long as you wish.”
“Thank you, bless you!” cried the grateful girl.
And while the storm raged on outside with equinoctial fury, Italy,
sitting humbly at the elder lady’s feet, poured forth the pathetic
story of her mother’s sad and blameless life, and dwelt strongly on
the mysterious foe who had pursued her with relentless hate, sending
anonymous letters about her to every town where she took refuge, and
inspiring even strangers with such horror of the murderess that they
regarded her with hatred and fear combined, and so made of her a
lonely, wandering exile with no friend on earth but her little child.
Mrs. Murray was startled, surprised. She had never heard before of this
mysterious persecution of Ronald Vale’s widow.
“Mrs. Murray,” said the girl resolutely, “I have a theory of my own. It
was not mama who killed her husband, it was not your son who killed his
kinsman. The murderer was the man who has pursued my mother with such
fiendish malignity.”
“It must be true--it must be true!” Mrs. Murray cried eagerly.
“It is true,” Italy answered solemnly. “Oh, Mrs. Murray, look at the
facts. This hidden foe, not content with his poisonous anonymous
letters, whispered to Francis Murray and Mr. Gardner a slanderous story
involving mama’s honor and making her guilt plausible. At length I
grew up, and learning all the bitter truth, vowed to give my life to
the vindication of my mother’s name. And he, this hidden assassin, who
struck in the dark at my father’s life and my mother’s honor, finding
out, no doubt, that the avenger was on his track, and frightened lest
he be found--this assassin, this fiend--plots cunningly to lay the
crime on a man believed to be dead, and thus incapable of striking
back. So there is my answer to your question.”
“And before Heaven, I believe that your theory is correct all through.
We will join hands, Italy, and hunt the villain down.”
“You sympathize with my hopes and aims?” cried Italy, in wonder.
“Yes, dear, and will aid you all that I can. I would give much to have
your mother’s innocence proved, and the dark shadow lifted from her
name.”
“Bless you, bless you,” wept Italy, in boundless gratitude. “You are
the first one to give me a word of hope and encouragement. They have
all said:
“‘Leave the case alone, she was guilty, she was guilty!’”
“She was innocent! I firmly believe it now,” cried Mrs. Murray warmly,
and her tears flowed at the thought of Mrs. Vale lying in her lonely
foreign grave, dead of a broken heart.
They talked a long time together, and when they parted tenderly to
retire for the night, Italy said:
“Perhaps that sailor was the murderer himself in disguise. He has
gone away triumphant, believing that I will seize eagerly on that
confession, blazon it to the eager world, and give up the search for
the real criminal. But we will thwart him there. The forged letter lies
there on the floor in a hundred fragments. Let us keep silent over that
stupendous falsehood. He will know then that we did not believe it, and
our silence will be a menace to his safety.”
“But, oh, Italy, who can the guilty one be?”
“The white light of Heaven will show us some time, Mrs. Murray. Now,
good night,” and they parted, each solemnly vowed to keep the secret of
the forged confession, and little dreaming of the awful blow that would
fall on both to-morrow.
Leaving Mrs. Murray and our sweet Italy at Winthrop, we will go back
to that August night upon the sea when, in the windless fog, the small
dory had been cleft asunder by the prow of a steamer that, unable to
rescue them in the dense mist that prevailed, had gone on her majestic
way, leaving them to their threatening fate.
We have seen how Italy, clinging to a fragment of the boat, had drifted
in to the shore; we must now follow the fortunes of our noble Francis
Murray for a little space.
The shock of the accident had thrust him apart from Italy, and also
given him a smart blow upon the head that made his senses reel. When he
came to himself he was lying on his back in a portion of the wreck, his
face upturned to the moonlit sky, and his only sensation one of burning
pain in the head. The fog had passed away, so he must have been a long
time adrift, but thought and memory were gone. The blow on his head had
destroyed all sentient consciousness save the animal one of pain.
In this condition he was rescued by a smart sailing-vessel bound for
the south of France. The vessel had a most humane captain and crew.
They vied with each other in kindly attentions to the handsome stranger
they had saved from a watery grave. But it soon became evident that
he was suffering so much that he was conscious of nothing but his own
pain. There was nothing on his person to indicate who he was, and when
interrogated as to his own identity, he answered feebly that his head
pained him so he could not remember.
There was not a woman on board, but there was a very kindly disposed
young physician who had undertaken this sea-voyage for the benefit
of his weak lungs. From the young doctor and the kindly crew Francis
Murray received the best care. His beautiful, manly face was a
passport to their hearts. They felt very sure that he was a person
of importance, and did all that they could to arouse his slumbering
intellect.
But all in vain, for, though after a while he improved and ceased
to complain of the pain in his head, his memory remained a complete
blank. Life dated for him from the moment he had come to himself like
a new-born babe out there on the illimitable sea with the August moon
shining in his pallid, wondering face, and only a few frail planks
between him and eternity.
They could guess with almost certainty from the wreck of the accident
that had befallen him, and Doctor Loring talked of a probable pressure
on the brain of some small bit of bone, no doubt fractured by a blow.
“If we can only get him to France it will be a beautiful operation
for one of those clever French surgeons to remove the little bone and
restore to him his memory. Why, it will come back like a flash!” cried
the doctor enthusiastically, and he took the most wonderful interest in
his handsome patient.
Captain McVey was quite anxious for Doctor Loring to perform the
operation himself, but he declined.
“I have not the proper instruments for the surgical operation
required--no, nor the steady nerve. We must trust our patient to one of
those skilful French fellows!” he replied, and looked forward ardently
to the day.
But in the necessarily slow progress of a sailing-vessel many weeks
must go by before they landed, and in the long, long silence the hearts
at home were breaking in the belief that he was dead, while fiendish
malice was plotting to lay upon the memory of the supposed-to-be-dead
man the burden of a black and bitter crime.
* * * * *
We must not forget, either, another favorite of ours--Emmett Harlow.
Emmett had a cultured, intelligent mind, and, being very well read, was
exceedingly fond of travel. He was enjoying his tour as much as any one
could do with a sore and aching heart. But there is a wonderful balm
for grief in change of scene, and he was, unconsciously to himself as
yet, proving this truth.
At times, when brooding over Italy’s wondrous beauty and charm, he was
bitterly unhappy, and it seemed to him that he could not bear his life
without the hope of some day calling her his own. Again he would feel
more cheerful and try to throw off the spell of his hapless love.
While journeying on the storied Rhine he met up with some American
friends, a gay party, from whom he gleaned all the news from Boston,
and heard for the first time of the supposed death of Francis Murray.
It was a severe shock to Emmett, for he had been cordially attached to
this noble friend.
“_She_ will miss him, too, for he stood toward her in the light of a
guardian, and he watched over her so kindly and carefully,” he thought,
then his mind reverted to Alys Audenreid.
“Alys has lost him, after all--that is, I never thought she had the
least chance at him, anyway, but she and that scheming aunt of hers
were doing all in their power to slip the matrimonial knot over
his neck,” thought the astute young man, who was a keen student of
character and had long ago seen through the shallow motives of the
woman who had uttered that cruel falsehood against him on the yacht.
He wrote immediately to Mrs. Murray a long letter of sympathy and
condolence on the death of her son, and sent a message of regard to
Italy, whom he supposed to be still at The Lodge.
But for a while his thoughts clung to her more persistently than ever.
He thought of her sad and sorrowful over the death of her guardian, and
it touched his heart.
There were several beautiful young girls in the American party, but
even their blandishments had no power over his fancy.
It returned always to the lovely girl whom he had both admired and
pitied at Winthrop; she was so beautiful, yet she had seemed so
friendless among all those alien hearts.
He hoped she was happier now, and that she had won her way to Mrs.
Murray’s proud heart.
“For she must be very lonely now that Francis is dead, and it ought
to make her heart warmer to that poor, friendless orphan girl,” he
thought, little dreaming how cruelly Mrs. Murray had visited her son’s
death on Italy’s head.
“Poor girl! if she could but have loved me I would have lavished gold
in the effort to make her happy,” he sighed over and over.
And it seemed to him that all his wealth availed nothing since he could
not spend it for Italy. He spent long hours dreaming over her beauty,
and longing for even one glimpse of her, although he knew that it was
best that he should not see her until he had conquered his heart’s
longing.
It was in August that he went abroad. In October he found himself in a
quaint little French town on the coast, and something quite startling
happened. He was still with the American party, drifting idly whither
they went, and one day the papa of one of the charming girls came in
from a stroll, and said:
“I met up with a friend from Boston to-day, young Doctor Loring.
Perhaps you know him?”
“Heard of him at home--but not acquainted,” Emmett Harlow answered
carelessly.
“Doctor Loring--oh, my! That charming fellow! Papa, I hope you invited
him to call,” chirped his vivacious daughter.
“Of course, and he said he would come this evening, Maud,” replied
paterfamilias, whereat all the pretty girls applauded, openly, for two
reasons:
One was that they all knew the young physician and liked him very much,
and the other was that they wished to pique Emmett, who was so placidly
indifferent to all their charms.
They would not have felt so much slighted had they known that he was
the suffering victim of a hopeless love, that must have time to wear
off the keen edge of its despair, but Emmett was too proud to confess
his trouble when they rallied him on his dejection. He courted no
sympathy, he knew that silence was best. No true man can tamely bear
pity.
Doctor Loring came promptly that evening, glad of an opportunity
to meet American friends on this foreign shore. He was bright and
vivacious, and soon told the story of his trip on the sailing-vessel
that the balmy air of the sea might heal his ailing lungs.
With the story of the trip came also the story of the mysterious
patient picked up at sea and now waiting in a French hospital for the
operation that was to restore his memory. As he finished the recital
his eye chanced to fall on Emmett Harlow. He was startled at the
eagerness of the young man’s look.
“What is it, Mr. Harlow? You seem agitated!” exclaimed the doctor.
“I am deeply interested in your story, deeply anxious to see your
mysterious patient. If you will permit me, Doctor Loring, I will return
with you to the hospital this evening,” replied Emmett earnestly; and
the physician protested that he would be very glad of his company.
In a little while he saw in the young man such signs of veiled
impatience that he made his visit shorter than he had intended; and
soon led the eager Emmett into the French hospital, and to the presence
of the man he had half-expected to find--Francis Murray; Francis
Murray, the man from whom he had parted in Winthrop with a friendly
handclasp, but who now met him with the careless glance of the stranger.
For the familiar face of the youth he had known and loved for years
made no impression on the dulled mind. Friend or stranger, it was all
one to Francis Murray. He knew no voice nor face. It was a dreary,
hopeless blank, the past.
If Emmett Harlow had known that Italy Vale’s whole heart was given
to this man, would he have rejoiced in finding him like this--mind
seemingly wrecked, memory gone, nothing remaining of all his splendid
gifts except his manly beauty; would he have exulted in the mental
overthrow of his successful rival?
No! for Emmett Harlow had a heart of gold, and was incapable of an
ignoble thought or deed.
In a voice husky with emotion he revealed to Doctor Loring the identity
of the stranger for whom he was so kindly caring, and the young man’s
eyes beamed with delight.
“Francis Murray! The author, whose few but splendid scientific works I
have read with keen delight--is it possible?” he cried eagerly, and
his anxiety for the stranger’s restoration grew more keen than ever.
“But the surgeon is very busy; he cannot operate on his head for a week
yet,” he said regretfully.
“If a handsome fee would be any inducement,” began Emmett; but Doctor
Loring answered quickly:
“It would not move Doctor Chastain if you offered him a fortune. His
engagements are many, and he cannot come to the hospital until the day
of his regular appointment here.”
“And, in the meantime, I ought to write to his poor mother and tell her
that her son is alive,” exclaimed Emmett.
“I would advise you not to do so yet,” the physician replied, with
sudden gravity.
“But why?”
“Because, my friend,” said Doctor Loring impressively, “all surgical
operations are attended with some degree of risk. I hope this one will
be successful, and I believe it will be, but as I said just now, it
will be better to wait a little while that you may know definitely what
news you have to write to Mrs. Murray.”
“I will wait,” Emmett answered, with a heavy sigh, and his blue eyes
grew dim as he looked at Francis Murray’s unconscious face. “I will
stay by him whatever happens!” he vowed generously, and so the bright
October days slipped into bleak November.