Slighted love or, At her heart's expense
“It would--unless the real murderer could be unmasked--again throw
upon Mrs. Vale the blight of that dark suspicion, again darken the
brightness of her life. There might even be people cruel enough to
believe that the woman herself had originated the scheme to blacken
Francis Murray’s memory.
“No, Francis Murray could not risk these disasters even for the sake
of returning to his widowed mother’s arms. He must sacrifice her and
himself to the good of another--to the woman whose life, so long a
martyrdom, had just blossomed into peace and pleasure--Mrs. Vale’s
equanimity must not be disturbed.
“Francis Murray remained abroad several months. He grew a luxuriant
blond beard and long hair. He donned blue glasses, a slouching gait,
and careless costume. He returned with Emmett Harlow to his native
land; but he came as a stranger--a German student, Professor Doepkin.”
It was dramatic--that swelling hum of surprise and delight that
followed his words. Over it all rose a wild cry of joy--the outburst of
a mother’s heart.
Professor Doepkin had been sitting very close to Mrs. Murray--perhaps
by design--and he turned very quietly and took her in his arms. The
proud, stately woman broke down utterly, and sobbed joyfully:
“Frank, Frank, my son!”
It was a touch of nature that went home to every heart.
Women were sobbing all over the house, and men were moved beyond
expression. The prisoner, as much surprised as any one, looked on with
a smile like one at a play. He knew now that everything had failed,
that his clever game was up, the play played out. Yet he could _smile_!
To his bizarre nature, full of paradoxical moods, perhaps it seemed
gratifying to know that he had played so well the villain’s part.
The confusion in the court-room could not be quelled for some moments,
but the old judge, who had tears in his own eyes, was very lenient.
At length Mrs. Murray, suddenly becoming conscious that she was the
cynosure of all eyes, drew back from her son’s clasp and pulled her
veil over her tearful face. Then Francis Murray leaned across her and
held out his hand to Italy, who was very pale and quiet.
“Have you no word of welcome for me?” he whispered pleadingly.
She gave him her hand with a very pensive smile, and said:
“I thank Heaven that you are restored to your mother, but I am not
surprised. I knew you all the while.”
Mrs. Vale interrupted them at this point, and he could not reply. Her
mother’s heart was overflowing with gratitude to the man she had so
cruelly misjudged.
“How can I thank you?” she whispered fervently.
“I will tell you some day,” he replied, with a kindly glance at her
daughter that told her his whole story.
The trial ended the next day, and no one was surprised at the verdict
of insanity. The public had confidently expected it, for the story
of the padded chamber and Mrs. Smith’s confession of her master’s
insanity had been published in all the newspapers.
Percy Seabright received sentence of confinement for life with the
unvarying smile he had worn through the whole trial. He made one single
request. It was that he might be permitted to pay a farewell visit
to the grave of Ronald Vale, whom he had murdered in revenge for his
slighted love.
The wish was granted. By that quiet grave his bright smile faded, his
dazzling dark eyes grew dim, and he wept bitterly for the friend whom
he had loved with that strange, morbid passion. It was the only touch
of feeling he had betrayed.
CHAPTER XXXII.
IN THE SUNSET’S GLOW.
The morning after the end of the famous trial Mrs. Murray came with her
son to call on the Vales.
Francis Murray’s luxuriant beard had been all shaved off and his fair
clustering locks carefully trimmed to his well-shaped head.
The blue glasses had been laid aside with the German professor’s
slouching gait and careless clothes. He was dressed in the extreme of
fashion, and appeared handsomer than ever to Italy’s admiring eyes. But
she greeted him with a very quiet, constrained air.
She was afraid, horribly afraid, that Mrs. Murray had confided to her
son the story of that night when she had owned her love for him.
Mrs. Murray had come to carry off the Vales to The Lodge. They must be
her guests this winter, she declared! Her heart yearned over the pale,
sad, golden-haired woman who had borne such a heavy cross of sorrow.
She longed to make amends to her for all the grievous past.
“Come back to us, my dear, in your own old home, and let us love you as
we want to and try to make you happy,” she said lovingly, as she put
her arms about the graceful drooping form.
If there was one wish in the world that Mrs. Vale cherished it was
to return to the old home where she had been so happy with her lost
Ronald. Tears of joy sparkled in her dark-blue eyes, as she answered:
“We will be glad to come to you until we make arrangements for another
home.”
Whatever Italy felt, she could not gainsay the wishes of that beloved
mother, so she became Mrs. Murray’s guest at The Lodge, exposed to all
the dangerous fascinations of its magnificent master.
And certainly he did not spare any effort to wound that girlish heart
with the shaft of Cupid. He could be dangerously fascinating when he
chose to exert himself, and he chose to do it now. Without the least
obtrusiveness he surrounded her life with the most delicate attentions.
But there are none so blind as those who will not see.
Italy saw in her host’s tenderness only the rites of a courteous
hospitality. A little thorn of jealousy was rankling deep in her heart.
She knew that he had been to call on Alys Audenreid, for he had spoken
of it frankly one day, but she did not know that Alys was in the habit
of writing him tender little notes begging for these visits. The girl
was playing her last desperate card to win him.
But when he spoke of her one day before his mother, she said curtly:
“Only for the sake of our sweet Alexie I could not tolerate Alys and
her aunt. They are both scheming and deceitful creatures for whom I
have neither liking nor respect.”
She could not forget that they had both pretended to believe in her
son’s guilt, and she thought it was now too late for repentance. She
was not uneasy on the score of Alys, however, for she knew well where
her son’s heart was fixed. All that troubled her was Italy’s fixed
coldness. Why had the girl’s heart turned from her son?
She knew that she cared for no one else, although she had so many
admirers. But while she doubted, the pretty little play went on before
her eyes, the devotion of Francis to the shy girl who accepted his
attentions so coyly, sometimes even with studied indifference.
“He is not bold enough. He ought to speak to her and press his suit,”
she thought impatiently, but she did not know that he feared his fate
too much.
He thought himself unworthy of the beautiful, brave girl who was the
heroine of the hour, who had fought such a valiant battle for her
mother’s good name and peace of mind when strong men had tried to
strike down her little, aggressive sword.
* * * * *
A month had passed away, and March was coming in. Soon the long and
weary winter would be over.
Ralph Allen and his bride were coming home from their charming Southern
tour. The Breakers, their beautiful new home in Winthrop close to The
Lodge, was all ready for their reception.
Emmett Harlow, too, was building a beautiful home in Winthrop, and
Madam Rumor hinted that it was for a bride. Certainly Emmett began to
wear a happier look, and could meet Italy more cordially than of yore.
She knew that he admired Mrs. Severn very much. He had brought her to
The Lodge twice to see them all, and it was noticed that the young
widow began to wear a brighter, happier look. Perhaps the knowledge of
her husband’s treachery had proved an antidote to her sorrow. Italy
cherished a secret, happy consciousness that dark-eyed Isabel would
soon supplant her in Emmett’s heart.
The Gardners were frequent visitors. They adored Italy, and thought her
the greatest heroine in the world. To Mr. Gardner, Mrs. Vale confided
her desire to purchase a home for herself in Winthrop.
“I love the sea and want my home beside it. Ronald loved it, too,” she
said, in that plaintive voice like saddest music.
“There are plenty of charming sites in Winthrop,” said the lawyer.
“But, my dear madam, why not wait a while before you settle on
anything? Are you not very pleasantly situated here?”
“I love Winthrop and The Lodge, but Italy thinks we ought to be settled
in a home of our own,” she answered gently.
“So then it is you, Italy, who are trying to break up our happy little
party,” cried Mrs. Murray, shaking a reproachful finger at the girl.
“We cannot stay here forever!” Italy answered, a little abruptly, but
there was a curious break in her voice, and presently she slipped away
from them all and went away to walk alone by the wild, March sea.
A lurid, crimson sunset was straining through low-lying snow-clouds
that banked the horizon, and the red glow burned on the dull-gray sea
with its long swelling white breakers.
Soon it would be dull-gray twilight, but now the warm glow bathed the
girl’s figure in rich light, bringing out the brown hue of her sealskin
cap and jacket, the purplish bloom on her waving hair and the golden
light in the pansy-dark eyes.
The nipping wind blew the pink petals from the hothouse roses on her
breast and scattered them as she walked along the level sands, while
the voice of the sea, sullen, hollow, mournful, seemed like the voice
of her heart, lonely, desolate.
Her mind went back to her first coming to Winthrop last summer--so
long ago now it seemed--and all that had followed after. She had come
with a heart full of resentment and suspicion, hating Francis Murray,
determined to drag him down and bring home to him her father’s murder.
That was barely eight months ago. Now she knew that Francis Murray was
her fate.
“And he cares naught for me. Oh, how hard it is to lose him!” she
thought with passionate despair.
There was a step on the sands behind her, and she turned with a start
of fear.
“I have followed you, traced you by the rose-petals on the sands. Are
you angry?” said a musical voice.
It was Francis Murray, handsome as a god in the lurid sunset light. He
smiled as she turned and faced him--that wondrous smile so dangerous to
her peace of mind.
“Are you angry?” he asked again anxiously.
“Why should I be angry?” she faltered. “But--you have taken unnecessary
trouble. It is early yet, and I am not afraid.”
“I came to scold you,” he replied.
“What have I done?” she asked proudly, though her lips quivered.
“You have been spoiling your mother’s peace, trying to drag her from
The Lodge to a new home.”
“Our visit has extended over a month already. We must not trespass too
long on your hospitality.”
“Italy, how coldly you speak to me. Ah! child, will you never forgive
my fault?”
“I do not understand you, Mr. Murray.”
“No? That is very strange, for all my thoughts dwell upon it, and I
can never forgive myself. How you must have hated me when I would not
help you track down the murderer of your father, when I sneered at your
faith in your mother!”
His voice was earnest and intense. It thrilled her with its pathetic
music, and her heart leaped wildly. She cried out impulsively:
“Oh, how could you think me anything but grateful to you? You were
blind then, but so was all the world. It was only my love for my mother
that kept my faith so strong, that made me triumph in the end. But
you--you saved my mother’s life and mine at deadly peril of your own.
We can never be grateful enough to you.”
“If you think you owe me any gratitude, child, it is easy to pay the