GRANDMOTHER FRANKLYN.
I dreamed that the moon looked sadly down,
And the stars with a troubled ray;
I went to my darling's home--the town
Lies many a league away.
H. HEINE.
Kathleen's awed voice died away in a hushed sob, and in the grand
parlor car there was a dead silence, broken only by the clatter of the
car-wheels as they rushed over the glistening steel rails.
Old Benjamin Carew crouched silently in his seat, with clinched hands
and half-averted face, but Kathleen could see that he was pale as
death, and beads of dew stood on his forehead and around his pain-drawn
lips.
"How dearly he must have loved his sister-in-law--my unhappy young
mother!" she thought, tenderly; and just then his hand moved and sought
hers, clasping it fondly, but with a grasp as cold as ice.
"Oh, Uncle Ben, I ought not to have told you this distressing story!"
she exclaimed, remorsefully. "I am so glad to think that I never told
papa the story I had from the dying housekeeper. It would have been
so cruel for him to know that the woman he had loved and trusted had
plotted away the life of my mother."
"Hush, child! you drive me mad! This is too cruel!" groaned the old man.
He leaned his gray head forward on the seat, and sobs, all the fiercer
for being suppressed, shook his slight frame. Kathleen wept, too, and
altogether it was a sorrowful journey they had to the home from which
Vincent Carew had carried Zaidee, his fair young bride, to meet so dark
a fate. They talked but little, for a heavy cloud of trouble hung over
their spirits and shadowed the future, and the young girl at length
became conscious of a strange dread of arriving at the end of the
journey so long ardently desired. She ascribed it to sudden timidity at
meeting strangers. She did not dream it was a warning presentiment.
She was glad that the cars went straight through Lincoln Station
without changing. She could not bear to be reminded of that terrible
night when the talon-like fingers of her unknown assailant had closed
stranglingly about her white throat, and of all the sorrows that had
followed after. The girl, so young and tender, shuddered as with an
ague chill, wondering how she had lived through it all.
"And poor Daisy Lynn! poor Daisy Lynn! what ever became of that unhappy
girl?" she wondered, pitifully, and her thoughts wandered to the
girl's sad love story. "How sorrowful it is to go mad for love!" she
sighed. "And yet, how sad it is to lose one's love and remain sane
and conscious in the midst of all the cruel pain. Oh, God! am I fated
to lose Ralph, my own true lover? How shall I bear to give my hand to
another man while I love Ralph so dearly?" And when the train ran into
the station at Richmond she was weeping bitter, burning tears for her
love, Ralph, from whom she was so cruelly parted. "Oh, the pity of it
that I did not believe in him that day that I sent him away from me in
scorn, when he was already so sorrowful! Oh, Ralph, my darling! I did
not think then that I should ever be suing for your forgiveness for
my cruel words; but now--now I could fall at your feet for pity and
pardon!" sobbed the unhappy young girl; and there came to her a memory
of some verses she had read in the poems of Mittie Point Davis--sweet,
sad verses from a loving heart:
"I did not think that I should say it first,
That summer evening when we quarreled so
About some trifle you had magnified--
Men are so harsh, you know.
I said some bitter words of hate and scorn;
My pride was up, my temper too, indeed--
But now I know that I perhaps was wrong,
And, dearest, I am brave enough to plead:
Forgive me!
"I did not think that I should say it first,
Not even when you stayed away so long;
I thought I could be proud and stubborn, too,
I did not know that love could be so strong.
I did not think that life could seem so long
Without the love I reckless cast away;
But now I know that I perhaps was wrong,
And, dearest, I am brave enough to say:
Forgive me!
"I did not think that I should say it first,
That summer evening when we quarreled so--
I hated you, I know you hated me;
But, darling, that seems long and long ago--
So long, and I, oh! I have missed you so!
While you, perchance, have shared my silent pain.
We both were wrong, but love has conquered pride,
Forget the past; let us be friends again--
Forgive me!"
"Richmond!" shouted the conductor, and Kathleen roused with a start
from her sad musings, and drew her heavy wraps about her, for the
opening of the car door had let in a blast of inclement air. It was
late in the afternoon--almost twilight--and a long carriage ride was
before them; for the Franklyns had written that they lived on the
suburbs of Richmond, but would send a carriage to meet Kathleen.
Sure enough, a close carriage was in waiting, the driver an old darky
who seemed surprised and even displeased that he had two passengers
instead of one.
"Mistis was only 'specting a lady," he observed.
"This is my uncle, who came along to take care of me," Kathleen
answered, with assumed cheerfulness, for her heart was beating with a
strange suspense and dread. The old negro put her trunk up, and they
entered the carriage, and set out on a long ride that did not end until
night had wrapped its sable pall of gloom around the earth.
"Oh, uncle, how glad I am that you came with me! I should have felt
so frightened all alone!" whispered the girl, nestling close to her
relative's side.
He answered only by a silent pressure of her little hand. He had been
strangely moody and silent ever since she had told him the story of her
mother's tragic death.
The dark, gloomy exterior of the old brick house standing alone in
thick, shrubberied grounds was not inviting, but presently the front
door opened and a gleam of light stole forth. In its ray there appeared
a witch-like old woman huddled in a gray blanket shawl, who stood
shivering in the hall while they alighted.
"Howdy, granddaughter? Glad to see you!" She gave Kathleen a cold peck
on the cheek and peered curiously at her companion. "Who's this? I
warn't expecting anybody but you, my dear. Oh, your uncle! Howdy-do,
sir? Walk right in, both of you, to the parlor. Folks all out at a
party but me. You'll see them in the morning."
She ushered them into a prim, old-fashioned sitting-room that did not
show much pretension to the wealth the Franklyns had written they were
possessed of; but Kathleen was so glad of the great glowing fire that
she ran to it and held her numb fingers to the blaze, with scarcely
a glance at her surroundings. Uncle Ben followed her with a strange
sinking at the heart.
His impressions of Mrs. Franklyn--Kathleen's grandmother--were not
favorable, it seemed.
She was unprepossessing in her looks and manners, and she certainly
regarded him in the light of an interloper. She had not extended
to him the warm welcome that Northern people are led to believe is
characteristic of Southern hospitality.
Mrs. Franklyn pulled out a little table on which was arranged a
tempting little supper.
"I kept oysters and coffee warm for you," she said beamingly. "Now lay
off your things, both of you, and eat before they get cold, won't you?"
"I am so tired--my head aches--I don't think I can swallow a mouthful!"
pleaded Kathleen, on the point of hysterical tears.
Oh; why had she come? She was alarmed, somehow, and she wondered why
her heart had failed to go out warmly to this new-found relative, as
she had expected. Instead, she experienced fear and repulsion.
But the old woman was not to be denied. She almost forced her reluctant
guests to swallow some of the food, and then she bundled them off to
their rooms with an alacrity that savored of anxiety to be rid of their
company.
"You must be dead tired and wanting to rest, and I'm free to confess
that it's long past my usual bed-time," she declared.
"Good-night, Uncle Ben. I hope you will rest well," Kathleen said,
kissing the old man with quivering lips. Then they parted, each to
their separate rooms.
But there was no rest for Uncle Ben; his pillow was one of thorns, and
he rose and paced the floor at midnight, restless and unhappy.
"My heart is on fire! Oh, God, I can not bear this pain! Let me go out
into the cold, dark streets and walk it off!" he muttered, restlessly,
and hurried into his clothes. "I suppose I can easily slip out of this
old, ramshackle house without arousing any one," he thought as he
proceeded to open the door.
But he recoiled with a start, for the door was locked on the outside!
He was a prisoner in this strange house!