Slighted love or, At her heart's expense
“And your dreams were sad, for you sighed often in your sleep,” he
said. “Forgive me for watching you so closely, dear little friend, but
my heart ached for you. I saw that you had been weeping before you came
here. Ah, Italy, how can I help you?”
His voice was divinely sympathetic, his bright, dark eyes softened with
tender regard. It won upon her insensibly, this unobtrusive tenderness.
“You are so good to me,” she sighed gratefully, and whispered: “I had a
very unhappy interview with Mr. Gardner this morning. I wanted him to
search for new evidence against my father’s murderer, and he wished to
refuse, but I would not permit him to say no.”
“He accepted the case?” Percy Seabright’s voice trembled over the
question, and his face paled to an ashy tint.
“No, he did not accept. I gave him two days to consider the
proposition, and I told him if he refused I would place the case in
the hands of some other good lawyer. I think I shall employ some clever
detective to follow up the clues in my possession.”
“And so you will follow up the clues and blacken Francis Murray’s
memory and break his mother’s heart? Miss Vale, you surprise me,” he
breathed reproachfully.
“And why?” she murmured defiantly. “My mother’s name was blackened, and
her heart broken. If there are any who should stand in her stead and
bear all that she bore let the blow fall upon them. There is no pity in
my heart for the criminal. And yet--yet I do not believe that Francis
Murray was guilty; no, no, no!”
A sullen light gleamed in Percy Seabright’s eyes as he said:
“I hoped you would be willing to forego this matter, but since you
persist in pushing the search, remember that I can prove my assertion
that Mr. Murray was at The Lodge secretly the night of the murder.”
“I will remember it,” she answered; then her eyes grew soft as she
added: “But I believe in his innocence as I do in my angel mother’s.”
She glanced at him gravely as she spoke, and was startled to see his
lips curl and his brows lift at the corners in that diabolical sneer of
his that had frightened her once before, and that transformed him all
in a moment from a Doctor Jekyll to a Mr. Hyde.
“Oh, don’t,” she cried, in a voice of pain, and the ugly scowl faded
into sullen gravity.
He said quickly:
“I am glad of your absolute faith in Francis Murray, and I will help
you in your researches all that I can, if you will keep me advised of
your progress, and tell me what to do.”
“Thank you,” she answered gratefully, and just then Ralph released his
pretty model for that day, and the conversation became general.
A little later they all took leave of the artist, Percy Seabright
claiming that he had to go out to his country house that day on
business. His smile was very bright as he said adieu, but when he
turned away the malignant scowls returned and lingered.
* * * * *
At Winthrop, in the beautiful villa by the sea, the days and weeks
dragged by, leaden-footed in their torturing anxiety and deadly
suspense.
The lonely mistress of The Lodge had at length given up all hope, and
wore mourning for the son she believed to be dead. She had aged years
and years in those weeks of anguish. Her iron-gray locks had whitened
to snow, her eyes were dim with weeping, her face and form were thin
and wasted. Grief had wrought a deadly work. But if there was one
emotion stronger in her heart than sorrow for the dead it was hatred
for the living--resentful hatred of Italy Vale.
All the loss and sorrow that was weighing her down she dated from the
hour when that dark-eyed beauty had crossed the threshold of this
peaceful home and bewitched her proud, handsome son--led him like a
will-o’-the-wisp on to his dread fate.
“Why did I ever counsel him to receive her into this peaceful home? He
was reluctant enough at first, but I told him it was our duty to our
kinsman’s daughter. Alas! how miserably I am punished for my kindness!
I might have known that her mother’s child would bring woe and
desolation under any roof where she dwelt. Those great dark eyes, that
flowerlike face, how soon they wiled Francis from his first shuddering
dislike, until, in spite of himself, he grew to love her! If he had
lived he would have married her, I know. Perhaps it is better he died
than to have wedded one with that dark brand of a mother’s sin upon her
head! But, ah! I must go down to my grave a lonely old woman, and never
fondle my son’s children upon my knees.”
She wept hot, scalding tears, for she had a true, womanly heart, and
the dream of her life had been to see her grave, intellectual son
wedded to a fair and loving wife, and hear his little children’s voices
making music in the quiet, aristocratic halls of the stately home.
But all was ended now, the hopes, the plans, the longings. All those
future lives, the beloved daughter-in-law, the children that were
to call her grandmother, were buried with Francis in his vast and
wandering grave in old ocean’s deeps. The winds and the waves as they
sounded ceaselessly in her ears seemed to moan their requiem.
Then one day there came shambling up the steps at The Lodge a
rollicking-looking fellow in sailor garb, not too clean or tidy, and
with a rough, hairy face, not too frank or honest in expression. He put
out a grimy paw and rang the door-bell as loudly as though he were the
bearer of good news instead of a vulture of fate.
It was the same day on which Italy Vale sat waiting impatiently for her
answer from Mr. Gardner. The early autumn twilight was hurrying on,
and the sea was veiled in rising white mists. Lights already glimmered
through the windows of The Lodge, for the desolate mistress could not
bear the darkness and her own sad thoughts.
The loud bell-pull resounded through the quiet house, and presently
there appeared before Mrs. Murray a respectful servant announcing that
a sailor-man was waiting in the little reception-room to see her on
important business.
A sailor-man! Who could it be? Perhaps--oh, could it be? he might
bring--_news_? Her heart throbbed almost to suffocation. She staggered
in her wild haste to reach the man’s presence. He rose up before the
stately pale-faced lady, and bowed awkwardly.
“You--you--bring me news--perhaps?” she faltered tremulously.
“Yes, of your son, lady. On the night of the twenty-fourth of August
I was on board a sailing craft hereabouts, and in a fog we ran into a
little dory and cut it in half. Directly afterward we picked up a man
in the water with his head cut very bad. Oh, lady, I’m sorry to pain
you, but he died in a few hours later.”
“My son!” she cried in a voice of mortal agony, and seemed to collapse
in her chair, a white senseless heap.
The sailor went closer, and shook her rudely.
“Please, lady, don’t go off like that till I’m done my story. I’m in a
hurry to go.”
Her eyes opened and stared at him blankly, as he continued:
“The man said as how his name was Francis Murray, and he offered us big
money to put him ashore here, but we was bound for Buenos Ayres with a
cargo, and didn’t want to put back; besides we didn’t know as he could
pay us like he said or not. So we told him no, and our surgeon told him
he had to die, so if he wanted to leave any message for his friends
he’d better. Then he got the surgeon to write a letter to his mother,
and he signed it. He was too far gone to do much, but then he wrote
the address, and I promised that when we came back from the voyage I’d
bring you the letter, that’s all, and we buried him the same night at
sea.”
He pushed the letter hurriedly into her trembling hand, and before she
could speak hurried from the room, leaving her alone to read the last
dying message of her son--the message and the confession that was to
deal the most crushing blow that ever fell with the suddenness of a
lightning bolt on a loving mother’s heart.
CHAPTER XVII.
MRS. MURRAY’S ANGUISH.
Italy Vale waited with burning impatience for Mr. Gardner’s decision.
The day waned to its close, the purple shades of early twilight
darkened, and the silver sickle of a new moon rose in the opal sky,
still no word, no answer. She had been pacing the floor of her room for
hours with a pale face and a wildly throbbing heart.
“Why does he delay like this when he knows how impatient I am? Is it
possible he can have forgotten?” she cried resentfully, pushing back
the dark curls from her brow that burned with a feverish heat.
At that moment Mrs. Mays tapped lightly on the door.
“He is come,” she thought gladly, and sprang to open it.
“Miss Vale,” said the kindly landlady, “there is a messenger-boy below
from a law-office wishing to see you.”
With a low cry of something like terror, Italy started back, her face
paling to a ghastly hue.
She thought of what Isabel Severn had told her about the office-boy at
Mr. Gardner’s, who was watching for her face and would know it anywhere
again.
“I must not let him see me,” she told herself wildly.
“Why, what is the matter, my dear young lady? You seem to be
frightened!” exclaimed Mrs. Mays, in a tone of surprise that put Italy
quickly upon her guard. She exclaimed with a groan:
“Oh, no, Mrs. Mays, I am not frightened, but I have a severe attack of
facial neuralgia, and am suffering too much to see any one, or at least
a stranger. Will you not do me the kindness to go down and tell the boy
that if he has a letter or message for me he must deliver it to you?”
“Certainly, my dear,” and she bustled away, while Italy murmured
bitterly:
“Mr. Gardner refuses my prayer. That is why he sends a message instead
of coming himself. He cannot meet my reproaches.”
She was right, for presently Mrs. Mays returned with a letter, saying:
“The boy went away without waiting for an answer.”
Then, seeing that the young girl preferred to be alone, she withdrew,
after saying kindly:
“If there is anything I can do for your dreadful neuralgia, ring
your bell, and I will come at once.” Italy thanked her, with a blush
stealing over her face at the falsehood she had uttered.
“To what depths I have fallen in this cruel necessity for caution,” she
thought sadly, and tore open her note. She read:
“MY DEAR MISS VALE: After a careful review in my mind of all that I
know and all that you said to me yesterday morning, my opinion of the
case remains unchanged.
“I believe that the wisest plan for you is to remain satisfied
with the jury’s verdict given long ago in your mother’s case. That
verdict declared her innocent, or, at least, gave her the benefit
of a doubt. But should you investigate too closely it might result
in her conviction. She is dead, so it cannot harm her, only to
blacken her memory still deeper. All the obloquy would fall on you,
her helpless orphan child. Knowing this to be true, and feeling the
sincerest friendship for you, I must refuse to assist you in your own
destruction.
“I advise you earnestly to let the whole matter drop, and devote your
mind to other things more suitable and natural to a young girl than
this morbid state of feeling.
“I have spoken to my wife about you. She is deeply interested, and
will call upon you to-morrow to request you to become our guest for a
while. I hope that you will consent to do so. We will do all in our
power to further your comfort and your pleasure.
“Cordially your friend, MARK L. GARDNER.”
A moan of the cruelest disappointment came from Italy’s pale lips, and
she tore the lawyer’s letter into fragments and trampled it beneath her
feet.
“Thus do I scorn his advice,” she thought bitterly, and she resolved
that on the morrow she would seek a good lawyer and employ his services.