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:
“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.”
