Slighted love or, At her heart's expense

with his hideous crime unsuspected and the finger of suspicion pointing at his victim’s beautiful young wife. It was a story to make the angels weep, the story of that young wife’s martyrdom, and briefly told as it was by the dying criminal, it moved the heart to alternate horror and pity--horror for the man, pity for the woman robbed at one fell stroke of all life’s joys except her dark-eyed child. And at the end of this dark confession of sin ran the closing sentence: “Mother, I send this to you because I know not if Italy Vale was saved or not from the wreck that caused my death. If she be alive send for her and let her read this letter and clear her mother’s memory from all stain. If she be dead this duty falls on you. Fail not to perform it under penalty of the solemn curse of your erring son, now passing to his last dread account with Heaven. FRANCIS MURRAY.” She sat like one turned to stone with her staring eyes fixed on that name--that name written with a trembling, dying hand, yet unmistakably the chirography of Francis Murray. Oh, fiend, fiend! And there lay his proud mother dying of horror at the revelation of his monstrous crime! The war of the elements outside increased in demoniac fury. The lightning flashed, the thunder pealed, the rain drove in torrents against the walls, but blind and deaf to it all the one woman lay shuddering with her face in the pillows, the other sat in her chair, her eyes agleam with somber light, her face pallid, her lips curled with some strange, overmastering emotion. Suddenly she leaned forward, and almost rudely shook the woman among the pillows. Fire flashed from her splendid Oriental eyes, burning words leaped to her lips: “Mrs. Murray, I am ashamed of you!” she cried angrily. “You are his mother, yet you can believe this cruel thing of your noble son! Then you never loved him, never! But I--I loved him, and I denounce this letter as a forgery, a black and cruel falsehood!” Those passionate reproaches broke upon the elder woman’s senses with the force of an electric shock. Wildly she sprang upright, wildly she looked at the beautiful young creature who had torn in a hundred pieces that fatal letter, and flung them in a fury of scorn upon the velvet carpet. Italy had sprung from her chair and was standing over her, her lips quivering with feeling, her eyes flashing. “I had not believed this of you, Mrs. Murray,” she repeated reproachfully. “Did you not know him as the soul of kindliness, truth, and honor? Was he not your boy, your Frank, whose sunny curls lay on your breast in infancy, your son, whose strong arms supported your declining years so gently? Tell me--did you ever know Francis Murray to be guilty of one unworthy or ignoble action?” “No, oh, no, no!” cried out the startled woman eagerly. “You did not? In all his thirty-three years of life? Yet you could listen to the slanderer’s tale; you could credit this cruel forgery! Oh, Mrs. Murray! I am ashamed of your credulity!” flashed out Italy, with stormy emotion. The elder woman caught her breath pantingly, and a gleam of light flashed into her sunken, hopeless eyes. “Get up from that bed, Mrs. Murray, for you must not die yet; you must live! live to hunt down the black-hearted schemer who plotted this vile deed! live to welcome your son back when he returns to brand this falsehood as a device of Satan!” Oh! the light of hope that flashed into the hopeless eyes, the color that flushed the frozen cheek of the woman who had been dying one moment before of sheer despair and shame! She rose from the bed unaided--she who just now felt too weak to raise her hands--she fell on her knees and clasped Italy Vale with adoring arms, lifting to her a face radiant with joy. She cried eagerly: “You _believe_ in him? you take his part! _you_, whom I expected to denounce him, and to rejoice that he was proved guilty that your mother’s memory might be cleared! Girl, girl! you are an angel!” And Italy, stooping, pressed a reverent kiss on the gray hair of the woman kneeling in humble gratitude at her feet. “No, madam; not an angel, but a very faulty human being,” she answered gently. “And one of my faults, if fault it be, is never to believe harm of one I love. And I--I loved Mr. Murray, although I did not realize it until he was dead, as I feared. Oh, do not think me bold for confessing this secret to you, his mother.” “God bless you!” sobbed the woman who had once hated her so bitterly; and as Italy placed her gently in a chair, she added: “Your faith in him makes me live again, drags me away from the dark shores of death, and the star of hope shines again for me. Oh, my noble, true-hearted girl, teach me some of your faith and confidence! That man--that sailor--how could he come to me with that story and that letter, signed by my son, if it was all a falsehood?” Italy had drawn forward a low ottoman, and was sitting like a child at the lady’s feet. She answered with a question: “Mrs. Murray, what were the names of the sailor and his vessel?” “He did not tell me either.” “Nor where to find him when you wanted his evidence to prove his story?” “No, he simply gabbled over the tale like one reciting a lesson, and as I sank back, half-fainting, at the news of my son’s death, he thrust the letter rudely into my hand and hastened away.” “And that letter, Mrs. Murray, did not contain the name of the vessel, nor of her captain, nor of the surgeon who wrote at your son’s dictation, nor of the sailor who was to bring it to you? Do you remember all these omissions?” “Perfectly, now that you recall them to me, Italy, although I was so agitated by it all at first that I believed it blindly, and took no note of the suspicious omissions you have recalled to me. Dear child! how bright and clever you are! But, alas! how can you account for my son’s signature to the confession, and his hand again in the address upon the back?” “Clever forgeries, dear madam, and perhaps we may some day unmask the wicked schemer who plotted this dastardly thing.” “Oh, my darling girl, how good and noble you are! Can you ever forgive me for my cruelty and unkindness? Although it would never have happened but for the evil counsels of selfish friends,” sighed the lady remorsefully. “Dear madam, I can well understand that, and there is no resentment in my heart. I wish only to be your friend!” “My daughter!” cried Mrs. Murray tenderly, and pressed an impulsive kiss on the upraised white brow of the girl, casting aside forever all her unjust prejudices in her overflowing gratitude for her noble faith in Francis. “Oh, my child, I should surely have died of this horror if you had not put new hope into my heart!” she cried. “Oh, Heaven, send me back my son that he may be happy with his mother and his wife! For he loved you, dear--he loved you well. I read his secret plainly.” A flash of happy light gleamed in the girl’s eyes, but she said simply: “I have the greatest faith that he will return to us some time. He may indeed have been saved by some outward-bound vessel, and in course of time may come back to us. Let us try to believe this, and never give up hope.” “Then you must stay here with me, Italy, and keep the spark of hope alive in my despondent breast.” “I will stay gladly if you wish me, for your friendship will be very precious to me, dear Mrs. Murray. And as for that forged confession, let us never speak of it to any one. Then the villain will know that his scheme has failed.” “But, Italy, who could have hated my Frank so badly as to wish to blacken his memory with the foul stain of that awful crime?” CHAPTER XIX. 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