Slighted love or, At her heart's expense

“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.” CHAPTER XXII. MRS. VALE SHOCKS HER DAUGHTER. December snows lay deep and white all over Boston, but the sky was deeply blue, the sun was shining bright, and the merry jingle of the Christmas sleigh-bells filled the air with music. In the small but dainty drawing-room of a pretty house on one of Boston’s principal avenues, a mother and daughter sat at the lace-draped window watching the gay vehicles flashing past. Mrs. Vale had coldly declined Mrs. Murray’s invitation to Winthrop, and had made a home for herself and Italy in an aristocratic neighborhood in Boston. Here they had become the recipients of social attentions from the élite of the city. Friends of old flocked around the returned exile, trying to atone for the cruelty of the past. And on this beautiful Christmas morn the drawing-room was littered with elegant gifts and fragrant flowers, kindly tokens from loving hearts of friends. Mrs. Vale was not yet forty, and looked much younger in spite of the trials she had borne. Her rich, golden hair showed no trace of silver, and there were few lines of age on her delicate face, only an expression that somehow showed that, for her, the fulness of life was over. The settled sadness of her pale, clear face was in deep contrast to the subtile unrest of her daughter’s, with its deep, passionate eyes and proud, red lips. Between the mother and daughter there was one tabooed subject. It was Francis Murray. Italy firmly believed in his innocence, and her mother just as firmly believed in his guilt. Who could blame her? for had not Francis Murray and his mother turned the cold shoulder to her with the rest of the world? “And all the while he was guilty, the dastard!” she cried loathingly, and shrank with abhorrence from meeting his mother. It was cruelly hard for Italy. She loved them both, these two saddened women, and she would fain have brought them together. But Mrs. Murray, as well as Mrs. Vale, realized the impossibility of this union. “No, she believes my son guilty, I should suffocate in her presence,” cried Mrs. Murray. “Her son killed my husband. I could not breathe the same air with that woman!” cried Mrs. Vale. So they had never met, and it was but rarely Italy could gain her mother’s consent to go to Winthrop. Mrs. Murray’s life at The Lodge was now inexpressibly lonely, and worn with keen suspense, for the clever detectives had failed entirely to trace the mysterious sailor. It was believed that he must have shipped the same night upon another vessel, for he had never been seen again after he staggered out of the low saloon where, in a half-maudlin condition, he had related to a reporter and a score of other listeners, the thrilling story of Francis Murray’s confession of Ronald Vale’s murder. In addition to the search that was going on privately, there were advertisements inserted in all the leading newspapers offering inducements to the sailor to return. Mr. Gardner was secretly much discouraged at all these failures. He began to dread that there was nothing more to discover. “And yet poor Francis Murray was my true friend. How can I believe him guilty?” he would ask himself reproachfully. As Mrs. Vale and Italy sat together at the window this Christmas morning, an obsequious servant entered and presented a card to the former. Mrs. Vale’s pale, beautiful face became, if possible, paler, and her voice was imperious, as she said: “Tell the gentleman we are not at home.” The trim, becapped maid glided out, and Italy somewhat curiously took up the card that her mother had thrown carelessly down upon the floor. She read on the bit of cardboard the name: “Percy Seabright.” Italy had not seen Mr. Seabright since that day in October at Ralph Allen’s studio, but knowing his wandering, Bohemian habits, she had felt no surprise. Alexie Audenreid had told her only a week previous that he was in New York, and that Aunt Ione was furious because one of her friends there had written her he was dancing attendance on an actress there, a married woman at that, and that a divorce would very likely come of the flirtation. “Aunt Ione will make him walk straight once they are married,” added Alexie, “but he is a sad flirt, and she is jealous of everybody he looks at now--married women and widows especially. She says they are all designing creatures, and just as anxious for beaus as the single girls. She says I am a fool to let Ralph get so interested in his