Slighted love or, At her heart's expense
and fragrance, and was always cozy and cheerful.
A servant entered quietly, placed the morning’s mail on a table by Mrs.
Murray, and withdrew.
Mrs. Murray began to open her letters and Italy took up one of the
morning papers, a leading daily.
Each began to read, and for some little time unbroken silence reigned.
Suddenly a sharp, gasping cry came from Italy’s lips, the paper rustled
in her hands and slipped down upon the floor, her head fell back
inertly against the chair, her face looking like ivory against the
rich-hued silken draperies.
Mrs. Murray sprang toward her with a cry of alarm, thinking from the
inert pose and closed eyes that she had fainted. But as she touched the
cold little hand she perceived that it was trembling, and then Italy
moaned almost inaudibly:
“Oh, this is terrible! terrible!”
“What is it, my dear? Speak! You frighten me!” cried Mrs. Murray,
pressing her hand eagerly. “Are you ill?”
“No, no,” and the heavy eyes unclosed, and Italy feebly lifted her head.
Her glance fell on the paper, and she murmured:
“It is there!”
“Something that you read, my child?” and Mrs. Murray picked up the
paper and ran her eyes over the columns.
She did not have to seek long. There it was in black headlines and
blasting words:
“At Last!--The Mystery of Ronald Vale’s Murder Solved at Last!--A
Well-remembered Criminal Case Recalled to the Public Mind--Mrs.
Vale Nobly Vindicated After a Martyrdom of Almost Fifteen
Years--Confession of the Murderer, a Man Whose Life was Believed
to be Spotless--He Lived Among us Fifteen Years, and Enjoyed the
Confidence and Esteem of All.
“This paper is the first, as always, to print the first statement
regarding the new developments in a case that had in it all the
elements of mystery, tragedy, and crime. One of our clever reporters,
while strolling through the great, wicked city last night, gathered
from the lips of a half-intoxicated sailor in a low saloon a startling
story, whose truth he vouched for in the strongest terms.”
There followed substantially the same story the sailor had told Mrs.
Murray, with the addition that the sailor knew the contents of the
letter, having heard it dictated to the surgeon by the dying lips of
the murderer. Francis Murray was here held up to the execration of all,
and the highly colored, sensational article expatiated glibly on the
whole affair, and closed by tendering its sincerest sympathies to the
shade of the departed Mrs. Vale, who was believed to have died abroad
of a broken heart, leaving her young daughter to the guardianship of
the wicked kinsman, in whom she had placed the most implicit faith.
Oh, the agony of the mother’s heart as she read those words and
realized that her beloved son, her idol, was thus held up to the
execration of the whole world!
“Let us bear it together!” moaned Italy, creeping into her arms with a
desolate sob, and their tears mingled.
The first passion of grief exhausted, Italy lifted her head, her eyes
gleaming through tears like purple-dark pansies wet with rain, and
cried indignantly:
“Let us go at once to the editor of that paper--let us make him deny it
all to-morrow!”
The two fond, foolish creatures went at once into Boston on this
mission. But if there is one thing under heaven that the editor of a
great daily paper abhors, it is to own himself in the wrong--to publish
one day a startling, sensational story, and to announce on the next
that it was all a mistake, that he had been victimized.
And to do this special editor justice, it could not be said that he
was mistaken, for Mrs. Murray, on his rigid cross-examination, could
deny nothing, the sailor’s visit, nor the written confession, signed
in Francis Murray’s hand. She could only assert, with passionate
vehemence, her disbelief of the whole story, declaring it a plot to
ruin her son.
The editor blandly promised to give publicity to her opinion to-morrow,
and expressed himself as sorry that the sailor’s story had gotten into
print, since there were grave doubts as to its credibility. Since Miss
Vale herself, and here he bowed admiringly to the beautiful, dark-eyed
girl, took Mr. Murray’s part, of course the sailor’s statements could
not be reliable.
They returned sadly enough to Winthrop, and waited eagerly for the next
day’s paper with its promised vindication of their beloved one. But it
was very disappointing.
The wary editor was not going to spoil his sensation or weaken its
effect by casting doubts on the sailor’s credibility. It was quite in
the light of another sensation that it chronicled interviews with the
mother and ward of Francis Murray. Naturally, it said, Mrs. Murray was
unwilling to believe in her son’s guilt, and Miss Vale, who had been,
it was said, his affianced, also believed he was innocent. It was quite
true that the blameless life of the accused went a long way toward
proving him guiltless, yet Mrs. Vale’s life had been fair, too--so
fair that the jury had pronounced her not guilty, although the world
had held quite a different opinion.
Well, both were dead now--Ronald Vale’s wife and kinsman--and the world
would have to decide which was guilty, the woman who had denied it,
or--the man who had confessed it with his dying lips.
And so the clever editor, pretending to keep his promise to the two
women, only got in another sensational article, and managed to leave on
the public mind his own conviction that Mrs. Murray and Italy were very
weak and silly, and that there could not be any reasonable doubt of
Francis Murray’s guilt.
The morning’s mail brought to Mrs. Murray letters from Ralph Allen and
his sweetheart, Alexie, both breathing profoundest sympathy and undying
belief in her son’s innocence.
“And I wanted to come to you yesterday as soon as I read that dreadful
piece in the paper,” went on Alexie. “But Aunt Ione would not let me.
Oh, I am dreadfully afraid she believes that sailor, she and Alys both,
but I am going to steal away soon and get Ralph to bring me over to
Winthrop to see you and Italy. Keep up heart, my dear friend, for I
believe Mr. Murray may be yet alive, and that he will return to you
some day and prove all those charges false.”
While they were yet lingering over those kindly letters a card was
brought in for Italy. It bore Mr. Gardner’s name.
She went to him at once where he was waiting in the library, and he
rose with a face full of sympathy.
“I read the papers yesterday and to-day,” he said. “Ah, Italy, it is
noble in you, this loyal faith in Francis Murray.”
She looked him keenly in the face.
“And you?”--she asked. “Is your confidence unchanged?”
“My God, yes, my trust is shaken,” he answered, with an agitated face.
“Look, Italy, what if it be true? Remember he was the man that told me
the story defaming your mother! What if he invented it himself to throw
suspicion on her? What if he was the sole author of the slander?”
He was wildly agitated, his nerves shaken, his suspicions awakened
against the man he had once believed so noble. But her eyes flashed
indignantly at his words.
“You are wrong, all wrong! You shall not lay that sin on Francis
Murray! He is not here to defend himself, so I must speak for him! And
listen, Mr. Gardner; I hurl back in your teeth the suspicion of his
guilt! How dare you be so untrue to him?” she panted angrily.
He gazed at her with kindling admiration, and answered earnestly:
“I thought you would be glad to have your mother proved innocent!”
“Glad! Why, I would give my life!” she answered in a voice of
heart-piercing eagerness, and again he thought, admiringly, that her
loyal faith in Francis Murray was admirable. Before he could reply she
spoke again, impulsively:
“I tell you now, Mr. Gardner, as I told you before, that there is
a hidden foe behind all this. The sailor was a hired agent, the
confession was a forgery. Come, you have pretended to be Francis
Murray’s friend. Lend yourself to the task of clearing his name. You
know the best detectives in the city. Employ the best one. Set him on
the track of this unknown sailor, and, perhaps, we may at last unearth
the most cunning and deep-dyed criminal the world ever knew! Ah, help
me, help me,” and she held out her white, helpless little hands to him
with an imploring sob.
He could not resist her prayer. He took the outstretched hands and
clasped them with fatherly tenderness.
“I will do what I can, Italy,” he answered, and she thanked him with a
burst of grateful tears.
“Heaven has begun to take pity on me at last!” she cried, and implored
him not to lose faith in Francis Murray.
“Above all, do not let his mother know that you have had your faith
shaken for an instant,” she added, and he promised that he would not.
He left her and she returned to Mrs. Murray with the glad tidings that
the most eminent lawyer in Boston was going to help them to unearth the
cunning criminal who had broken so many hearts.
The slow days freighted with sorrow came and went drearily until ten
days had passed, but nothing else happened to disturb the dreary tenor
of life at The Lodge. Alexie Audenreid came with Ralph for the promised
visit, and made a flitting gleam of brightness in the gloom, but Ralph
gave Italy the sad news that little Mabel Severn, the baby she had
named, had died the day before, fading out of life like the frailest
summer flower. The young mother, he said, was almost frantic with grief.
Italy’s heart ached for the mother’s grief, yet she could feel no
regret for the little one removed so early from life’s troublous scene.
“For what if little Mabel had lived like me to pledge her life to
tracking down her father’s murderer? what heartache and sorrow must
have been hers!” she thought.
She longed to go to the unhappy young widow and condole with her in her
sorrow, but there was an awful barrier between her and Isabel Severn
that held her back. The sight of that pale, suffering face always
brought back that night of horror when the false husband had met his
doom, and she shuddered at the thought of how she had fallen fainting
in that pool of the traitor’s blood.
CHAPTER XXI.
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: