FRANCIS MURRAY RECOVERS.
Alone in her room at night Italy Vale wrote long, long letters that
were always blotted by her tears. And when she had sealed and addressed
them to a certain sister of charity in a French convent she would kiss
the picture in her pocket and whisper thrillingly:
“My dearest one, my heart’s darling--oh, will you understand? Will you
believe as I do? Can you be patient and wait a little longer?”
When she had written one of those letters to the sister of charity,
Italy always tossed a long time on her pillow before she could go to
sleep. Then her lashes would glitter with the dew of tears, and her
bosom heave even in its sleep with sobs.
Once when she first came to The Lodge she had seen Mrs. Murray glance
curiously at her letter as it lay with the other mail, and had
explained carelessly:
“It is Sister Mary at the convent where I went to school, you know.”
Many long letters came to her, too, from the French convent. She always
took them to her room to read alone, always kissed them and carried
them in her bosom until another one came.
If any one had seen her it would have been thought that the letters
came from a lover. Girls did not kiss letters from any but a
sweetheart. But the solution of the mystery was close at hand.
One day there came to Italy a cablegram from France. When she had
read it her face flushed, then grew deadly pale; she trembled like a
wind-blown leaf.
Mrs. Murray was regarding her intently. She asked anxiously:
“Have you bad news, my dear?”
Italy crushed the cablegram into her pocket, and answered unsteadily:
“Come with me to my room. I have to tell you something.”
“You have news of Francis!” cried the mother wildly.
“Not of him,” Italy answered, and spoke no more until they were alone,
out of hearing of the servants.
Then she placed a chair for the lady, and knelt humbly at her feet.
“Mrs. Murray, I have to make a confession to you, and to crave your
pardon. I have deceived you,” she faltered.
“My child!”
“I have deceived you,” repeated the girl sadly. “When I came to
Winthrop I told you I had lost my mother. It was not true.”
“Italy!”
“My mother _lives_!” said the girl. She waited a moment, but there was
no reply, and she continued:
“You will hate me for deceiving you, I know, but I must tell you all
the truth. When I heard my mother’s sad story my suspicions fell on
your son. We talked it over, and she agreed with me that the suspicion
was plausible. I conceived the plan of coming here, gaining the shelter
of this roof, and trying to bring home his crime to your son. You
shrink from me. Ah, I do not blame you, for when I knew him well I
grew ashamed of my suspicions. But then I hated him, and I persuaded
mother against her will to let me come. She went into a convent to
stay--Sister Mary to whom I write, you know--and I came here as you
know, with my poor little story and my hidden scheme for finding my
father’s murderer. You know how I have failed, and--she has grown
impatient, missing me so much--she has been begging me to come home;”
she paused and looked at Mrs. Murray’s face, so white and rigid as if
carved from marble.
“Oh, Mrs. Murray, can you not guess?” she wailed, “I wrote to her of
this horrible thing that has happened, but I told her our suspicions
were all wrong, that it could not be true. But my letter--she has never
received it, for--this cablegram from her, from my dear mother--tells
me she has seen it in the papers, that awful story, and believing it
all, glad of her vindication, impatient to see me again, and yearning
for her native land, she sailed for America to-day!”
Italy gazed almost imploringly into Mrs. Murray’s face, for she feared
that her deception would never be forgiven.
Mrs. Murray’s face had indeed grown almost as rigid as marble. She
realized, as Italy did, the terrible embarrassment that must ensue
from Mrs. Vale’s return to her native land.
It would not be easy to convince the wronged woman of Francis Murray’s
innocence. The world would side with her and declare that his dying
confession must be true. There would be no one but his mother and Italy
to take his part. They looked into each other’s eyes a moment in blank
despair, those two who loved Francis Murray so devotedly, and his
mother answered through raining tears:
“How can I help but forgive you, dear? You were wrong at first, but you
have nobly atoned for your girlish folly.”
Sorrow had softened her heart, or she would have been bitterly
indignant at learning why Italy had come to Winthrop; but the young
girl’s noble defense of her son had made her heart very tender.
They both knew that they must bear whatever was coming to them as
bravely as possible, for there yet remained one hope. Mr. Gardner, now
that he had taken up the case, might find out the truth that had been
hidden so long, might vindicate Mrs. Vale and Francis Murray both.
The slow days slipped away, and while they waited in weary
suspense, hope was dawning again for Francis Murray in the foreign
hospital across the sea. The operation had been performed--was
successful--memory had returned at the very moment that the pressure
was removed from the brain, and, looking up into the faces around him,
he had exclaimed wonderingly:
“Emmett Harlow!”
Tears of joy sprang into the young man’s eyes as he found himself so
quickly recognized. Earnestly he pressed his friend’s hand, vowing to
himself that he would soon restore him to home and friends.
He found himself glad of an excuse for returning home, glad that he
should see _her_ face again. He made arrangements to sail at once with
his friend for America.
Mr. Murray decided that it was best to go without first writing to
apprise his mother. But on the very day before they sailed some
American papers fell into their hands. And to the last day of life they
would never forget the shock of that moment.
In those columns was sensationally told the romantic story that had
already startled Boston, with the additional news of the return of Mrs.
Vale to the city where she had been so cruelly ill-judged.
The fickle public that once had hated her had given her a perfect
ovation, but repentance and atonement came too late, for on the still
beautiful face of the martyred woman was written the record of a
sorrow too deep to be consoled. Glad as she must be that the shadow of
disgrace and crime was lifted from her life, there could never be any
more happiness for her widowed heart.
Francis Murray and Emmett Harlow looked at each other with pale faces
and startled eyes.
“Who has done this thing?” they cried in wonder.
And there came suddenly to the older man a remembrance of what Italy
Vale had told him of the hidden enemy whose venom had poisoned her
mother’s life.
“Can it be the trail of the same hidden serpent?” he pondered.
But suddenly Emmett said thoughtfully:
“It must be some person who is friendly to Mrs. Vale who has done this
thing, for she alone reaps the advantage of it.”
“That is true,” said his friend.
And there came to him a suspicion so dark that he would not breathe it
aloud. What if Mrs. Vale herself had concocted this scheme to clear
herself from obloquy?
“Well, you will soon be at home to deny the confession and confound the
schemer,” cried Emmett exultantly.
There was a moment’s silence, then Francis Murray said:
“No, they believe me dead. Let them still think so.”
“What! you will blot yourself out of existence and let your enemies
triumph?”
“Yes.”
“But think what you are doing. The world execrates your memory and your
mother’s heart is breaking. How can you bear this?”
“My poor mother!” groaned Francis. “But, Emmett, if I go home now, I
shall be arrested for Ronald Vale’s murder on the strength of that
forged confession.”
“You have nothing to do but deny it.”
“True! but what if the world refuses to believe me? They might say I
made the confession while I believed myself dying, but on recovering am
trying to skulk out of it.”
“They would have to prove that you made the confession, and the paper
says that the sailor cannot be found, although detectives have been
placed on his track.”
Francis Murray remained gravely thoughtful for some time, then said,
with a deep sigh:
“Things look very black against me now, and the mystery of Ronald
Vale’s murder is enveloped in a network more puzzling than ever.
I begin to see dimly that Italy was right in believing her mother
innocent, although I, too--Heaven pardon me!--scarcely doubted her
guilt. But I was wrong, all wrong, and I must undo the past by the
future. Yes, I will track down the villain and forger who has laid this
guilt upon me, and while working to clear myself, I will strike a blow
in Mrs. Vale’s defense, too. I have a plan, Emmett, and I know you will
help me to carry it out.”