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 to that August night upon the sea when, in the windless fog, the small dory had been cleft asunder by the prow of a steamer that, unable to rescue them in the dense mist that prevailed, had gone on her majestic way, leaving them to their threatening fate.

We have seen how Italy, clinging to a fragment of the boat, had drifted in to the shore; we must now follow the fortunes of our noble Francis Murray for a little space.

The shock of the accident had thrust him apart from Italy, and also given him a smart blow upon the head that made his senses reel. When he came to himself he was lying on his back in a portion of the wreck, his face upturned to the moonlit sky, and his only sensation one of burning pain in the head. The fog had passed away, so he must have been a long time adrift, but thought and memory were gone. The blow on his head had destroyed all sentient consciousness save the animal one of pain.

In this condition he was rescued by a smart sailing-vessel bound for the south of France. The vessel had a most humane captain and crew. They vied with each other in kindly attentions to the handsome stranger they had saved from a watery grave. But it soon became evident that he was suffering so much that he was conscious of nothing but his own pain. There was nothing on his person to indicate who he was, and when interrogated as to his own identity, he answered feebly that his head pained him so he could not remember.

There was not a woman on board, but there was a very kindly disposed young physician who had undertaken this sea-voyage for the benefit of his weak lungs. From the young doctor and the kindly crew Francis Murray received the best care. His beautiful, manly face was a passport to their hearts. They felt very sure that he was a person of importance, and did all that they could to arouse his slumbering intellect.

But all in vain, for, though after a while he improved and ceased to complain of the pain in his head, his memory remained a complete blank. Life dated for him from the moment he had come to himself like a new-born babe out there on the illimitable sea with the August moon shining in his pallid, wondering face, and only a few frail planks between him and eternity.

They could guess with almost certainty from the wreck of the accident that had befallen him, and Doctor Loring talked of a probable pressure on the brain of some small bit of bone, no doubt fractured by a blow.

“If we can only get him to France it will be a beautiful operation for one of those clever French surgeons to remove the little bone and restore to him his memory. Why, it will come back like a flash!” cried the doctor enthusiastically, and he took the most wonderful interest in his handsome patient.

Captain McVey was quite anxious for Doctor Loring to perform the operation himself, but he declined.

“I have not the proper instruments for the surgical operation required--no, nor the steady nerve. We must trust our patient to one of those skilful French fellows!” he replied, and looked forward ardently to the day.

But in the necessarily slow progress of a sailing-vessel many weeks must go by before they landed, and in the long, long silence the hearts at home were breaking in the belief that he was dead, while fiendish malice was plotting to lay upon the memory of the supposed-to-be-dead man the burden of a black and bitter crime.

* * * * *

We must not forget, either, another favorite of ours--Emmett Harlow.

Emmett had a cultured, intelligent mind, and, being very well read, was exceedingly fond of travel. He was enjoying his tour as much as any one could do with a sore and aching heart. But there is a wonderful balm for grief in change of scene, and he was, unconsciously to himself as yet, proving this truth.

At times, when brooding over Italy’s wondrous beauty and charm, he was bitterly unhappy, and it seemed to him that he could not bear his life without the hope of some day calling her his own. Again he would feel more cheerful and try to throw off the spell of his hapless love.

While journeying on the storied Rhine he met up with some American friends, a gay party, from whom he gleaned all the news from Boston, and heard for the first time of the supposed death of Francis Murray. It was a severe shock to Emmett, for he had been cordially attached to this noble friend.

“_She_ will miss him, too, for he stood toward her in the light of a guardian, and he watched over her so kindly and carefully,” he thought, then his mind reverted to Alys Audenreid.

“Alys has lost him, after all--that is, I never thought she had the least chance at him, anyway, but she and that scheming aunt of hers were doing all in their power to slip the matrimonial knot over his neck,” thought the astute young man, who was a keen student of character and had long ago seen through the shallow motives of the woman who had uttered that cruel falsehood against him on the yacht.

He wrote immediately to Mrs. Murray a long letter of sympathy and condolence on the death of her son, and sent a message of regard to Italy, whom he supposed to be still at The Lodge.

But for a while his thoughts clung to her more persistently than ever. He thought of her sad and sorrowful over the death of her guardian, and it touched his heart.

There were several beautiful young girls in the American party, but even their blandishments had no power over his fancy.

It returned always to the lovely girl whom he had both admired and pitied at Winthrop; she was so beautiful, yet she had seemed so friendless among all those alien hearts.

He hoped she was happier now, and that she had won her way to Mrs. Murray’s proud heart.

“For she must be very lonely now that Francis is dead, and it ought to make her heart warmer to that poor, friendless orphan girl,” he thought, little dreaming how cruelly Mrs. Murray had visited her son’s death on Italy’s head.

“Poor girl! if she could but have loved me I would have lavished gold in the effort to make her happy,” he sighed over and over.

And it seemed to him that all his wealth availed nothing since he could not spend it for Italy. He spent long hours dreaming over her beauty, and longing for even one glimpse of her, although he knew that it was best that he should not see her until he had conquered his heart’s longing.

It was in August that he went abroad. In October he found himself in a quaint little French town on the coast, and something quite startling happened. He was still with the American party, drifting idly whither they went, and one day the papa of one of the charming girls came in from a stroll, and said:

“I met up with a friend from Boston to-day, young Doctor Loring. Perhaps you know him?”

“Heard of him at home--but not acquainted,” Emmett Harlow answered carelessly.

“Doctor Loring--oh, my! That charming fellow! Papa, I hope you invited him to call,” chirped his vivacious daughter.

“Of course, and he said he would come this evening, Maud,” replied paterfamilias, whereat all the pretty girls applauded, openly, for two reasons:

One was that they all knew the young physician and liked him very much, and the other was that they wished to pique Emmett, who was so placidly indifferent to all their charms.

They would not have felt so much slighted had they known that he was the suffering victim of a hopeless love, that must have time to wear off the keen edge of its despair, but Emmett was too proud to confess his trouble when they rallied him on his dejection. He courted no sympathy, he knew that silence was best. No true man can tamely bear pity.

Doctor Loring came promptly that evening, glad of an opportunity to meet American friends on this foreign shore. He was bright and vivacious, and soon told the story of his trip on the sailing-vessel that the balmy air of the sea might heal his ailing lungs.

With the story of the trip came also the story of the mysterious patient picked up at sea and now waiting in a French hospital for the operation that was to restore his memory. As he finished the recital his eye chanced to fall on Emmett Harlow. He was startled at the eagerness of the young man’s look.

“What is it, Mr. Harlow? You seem agitated!” exclaimed the doctor.

“I am deeply interested in your story, deeply anxious to see your mysterious patient. If you will permit me, Doctor Loring, I will return with you to the hospital this evening,” replied Emmett earnestly; and the physician protested that he would be very glad of his company.

In a little while he saw in the young man such signs of veiled impatience that he made his visit shorter than he had intended; and soon led the eager Emmett into the French hospital, and to the presence of the man he had half-expected to find--Francis Murray; Francis Murray, the man from whom he had parted in Winthrop with a friendly handclasp, but who now met him with the careless glance of the stranger.

For the familiar face of the youth he had known and loved for years made no impression on the dulled mind. Friend or stranger, it was all one to Francis Murray. He knew no voice nor face. It was a dreary, hopeless blank, the past.

If Emmett Harlow had known that Italy Vale’s whole heart was given to this man, would he have rejoiced in finding him like this--mind seemingly wrecked, memory gone, nothing remaining of all his splendid gifts except his manly beauty; would he have exulted in the mental overthrow of his successful rival?

No! for Emmett Harlow had a heart of gold, and was incapable of an ignoble thought or deed.

In a voice husky with emotion he revealed to Doctor Loring the identity of the stranger for whom he was so kindly caring, and the young man’s eyes beamed with delight.

“Francis Murray! The author, whose few but splendid scientific works I have read with keen delight--is it possible?” he cried eagerly, and his anxiety for the stranger’s restoration grew more keen than ever.

“But the surgeon is very busy; he cannot operate on his head for a week yet,” he said regretfully.

“If a handsome fee would be any inducement,” began Emmett; but Doctor Loring answered quickly:

“It would not move Doctor Chastain if you offered him a fortune. His engagements are many, and he cannot come to the hospital until the day of his regular appointment here.”

“And, in the meantime, I ought to write to his poor mother and tell her that her son is alive,” exclaimed Emmett.

“I would advise you not to do so yet,” the physician replied, with sudden gravity.

“But why?”

“Because, my friend,” said Doctor Loring impressively, “all surgical operations are attended with some degree of risk. I hope this one will be successful, and I believe it will be, but as I said just now, it will be better to wait a little while that you may know definitely what news you have to write to Mrs. Murray.”

“I will wait,” Emmett answered, with a heavy sigh, and his blue eyes grew dim as he looked at Francis Murray’s unconscious face. “I will stay by him whatever happens!” he vowed generously, and so the bright October days slipped into bleak November.