CHAPTER XXXV.
FURTHER DISCLOSURES.
When their boisterous joy had subsided a little, Alfred Ellerton turned again to his wife and said:
“My love, your story was rather unceremoniously interrupted. If you feel equal to it, I would like to hear how you spent all those long years, after you gave up our boy.”
There was a tenderness in his voice, as he pronounced the words “our boy,” that brought the tears to Ralph’s eyes, and, seeking his mother’s side again, he remained a rapt listener while she continued her tale.
“I lived,” she said, “most of the time quite comfortably by the effort of my needle. But sometimes, when too ill to work, I was very destitute. I left Naples and went into a quiet village, where the people were kind and friendly, and after a while my life became quite peaceful, but, oh, so lonely.
“Finally a long and weary sickness unfitted me for labor of any kind, and I resolved to return to my native land and make one last appeal to Ralph.
“I had not quite money enough to defray my expenses, so I pawned everything but a few necessary articles and the precious brooch.
“I went to him, and the result you know, as you say you heard all that passed between us. When I fled from him that day, I thought my heart was breaking. I felt so friendless, homeless, and so weary of life, that I longed to die and be at rest. The last I remembered, as I wandered through the streets of the city, was falling heavily upon the pavement, believing that I was dying. When I again recovered consciousness it was far into the night, and the woman in whose care you say you had left me was bending kindly over me. I asked her where I was and what was the matter. She told me that I had fainted in the street, and a gentleman had brought me there in a cab.
“I remembered all then, and somewhat anxiously felt in my bosom for my treasured pictures. Imagine my grief and indignation when I found they were gone. All I possessed on earth to link me to the joys of the past taken by a cruel, relentless hand from me, for I felt convinced that I had been robbed by my brother. All hope was crushed out of my heart, for now I had nothing with which to prove my identity. Once again I thrust my hand in my bosom, hoping that I had missed my treasure in my search. I only found the paper containing the fifty-dollar bill, and upon which were the words bidding me go to the post-office in a fortnight.
“Then I was convinced that my brother was the robber, and perhaps, feeling a touch of remorse, had left the money in its place. I could not do otherwise than accept my fate, cruel though it was, and at the end of that fortnight I went as directed to the office. I found an envelope directed to ‘Rose Moulton’ awaiting me. It contained another fifty dollars, with instructions to go for the same every fortnight.