The Heart Line 4

The Heart Line 4

"No; it’s too late. Besides, there is Francis," said Madam Grant.

 

"Let Francis come, too. This is a terrible place for a child. Look at

this room—look at the filth and disorder!"

 

Madam Grant’s voice rose again. "Take her away, take her away!" she

cried raucously. "She’ll go to New York, she’ll go to Toledo—I don’t

want her in Toledo meddling! She’ll be in New Orleans the first thing

you know; there she goes now! Take her away, take her away!"

 

The door closed. Francis heard the key turn in the lock. Then there

was the jarring sound of a fall and finally all was still. He waited

for some moments, then he called out:

 

"Mamsy, let me out! let me out!"

 

There was no reply.

 

"Mamsy!" he called out again. "Where are you? Come and let me out,

_please_ let me out!"

 

There was still no answer to his pleadings. In terror now, he pounded

the panels, shook the handle of the door, and then began to cry.

Climbing upon the box again, he caught sight of Madam Grant’s skirt.

She was lying prone upon the floor. As he wept on, she moved and began

to crawl slowly toward him. At last her hand groped to the door and the

key was turned in the lock. He burst out into her arms.

 

The blood was gone from her tense, anguished face; one hand clutched at

her heart. She did not speak, but gasped horribly for breath. There

was no need now for her to direct him. He poured out a dose of medicine

and forced it between her lips. He gave her another spoonful; the drops

trickled from her mouth and stained the front of her crimson gown.

Then, with his assistance, she crept to his couch, pulled herself upon

it and lay down, groaning. He sat on the floor beside her, stroking her

hand.

 

For some time she was too weak to speak. Her black eyebrows were drawn

down, the cleft between them was deep, like the gash of a knife. Her

white hair fell about her head in disorder. She drew a ragged coverlid

over her chest, as if suffering from the cold, though the sun shone in

upon her as she lay and mercilessly illumined her desperate face. The

spasm of agony abated, and after some minutes she breathed more freely.

Then, with a sigh, her muscles relaxed and her voice came clear and

calm.

 

"You must be a good boy, Francis," she began, "for I am going away.

It’s all over now with the worry and the puzzle and the pain. What will

you do, I wonder? Oliver might help, perhaps. Oliver isn’t so bad,

down in his heart. He was fair enough. There’s money enough. Francis,

when I fall asleep, look in the trunk and hide the money, if you

can—don’t let them get it away from you! Wait till I’m asleep,

though—the key is in my bag. What a fool I was! I might have known.

There was my grandmother, she was mad, too. It may stop with me—oh, she

was a dear little thing, though!"

 

"Who was the little girl, Mamsy?" Francis inquired, his curiosity

overcoming his fear for her.

 

"Born with a veil, born with a veil! I was a seventh daughter, too—much

good it did me! I could tell others—who could tell me? Bosh! it’s all

rubbish—we’ll never know! fol-de-rol, Francis, it’s all gammon—all but

Weenie. Weenie knows. Yellow hair, too; it will grow gray soon

enough!" Then, as if she had just heard his question she broke our

querulously, "Where did _you_ see her?"

 

"I looked through a crack in the door, Mamsy."

 

She pulled herself up in a frenzy of anger and shook her finger at him.

"Oh, you did, did you? You snooping, sniping monkey! I’ll tell you

what you were looking at, you were watching the train to New York!

You’ll go to Toledo, will you? You won’t find anything there. Go to

New Orleans; there’s plenty to find out in New Orleans! In Denver, too,

and way stations, but be careful, be careful! I was born in Toledo."

She sank back exhausted.

 

"Don’t be worried, Mamsy," said Francis, attempting to calm her. "I

won’t never go to Toledo, Mamsy!"

 

"’Won’t never’!" She glared at him. "What did I say about double

negatives, boy? Two negatives make a positive, two pints make a quart,

two fools make a quarrel, two quarrels make a fool. What language! I

was at Vassar, too—I was secretary of my class! Oh, I want to see

Victoria! She would understand, I’m sure! Oh, Francis!" Her voice

dwindled away and her eyes closed.

 

For a moment she seemed to be asleep. Then a sudden convulsion

frightened him. She spoke again without raising her lids.

 

"Why, there’s mother! Come and kiss me, mother! Did Weenie send for

you, mother? Oh, Weenie! Who’s the old man? Father? I never saw

father on this side, did I, Weenie? He passed out when I was very

little, didn’t he? So many people! Why, the room is full of them!

Yes, I’m coming—"

 

The boy was tugging frantically at her hand, calling to her without

ceasing, sobbing in his fright. He succeeded at last in bringing her

out of her trance and she opened her eyes to stare at him. Her breath

was coming harder. With a great effort she reached for the boy’s head

and pulled it nearer, gazing into his frightened eyes.

 

"Poor Francis!" she gasped. "You’ve been so good, dear—you’ve been my

hope! Felicia Grant’s hope! You have no name, dear; take that one,

instead of mine—Francis Granthope—oh, this pain!"

 

"Shan’t I get you the medicine?" he asked, sobbing.

 

"No, it’s no use." She pushed him gently away. "I’m going—to

sleep—now— Don’t call me back, Francis; I want rest. Remember the

trunk—good-by!"

 

She closed her eyes and rolled over on her side, turning her face away

from him.

 

He waited half an hour in silence. Then he put his hands to her arms

softly.

 

"Mamsy!" he said quietly but insistently. "Are you asleep, Mamsy?"

There was no answer.

 

He arose and looked for her leather bag. He found it on the floor where

she had fallen. Opening it, he found inside a heterogeneous

collection—strings, hair-pins, peppermints, papers, a lock of hair in an

envelope, a photograph, several gold pieces, and the key—he took it and

tiptoed into the little side room with excited interest. He had never

looked inside the trunk before and his eagerness made his hands tremble

as he unlocked it.

 

On top was a tray filled with account-books and papers, letters, folded

newspapers and a mahogany box. It was all he could do to lift it to get

at what was beneath. He struggled with it until he had tilted it up and

slid it down to the floor.

 

Below was a mass of white satin and lace. He lifted this piece by

piece, disclosing a heavy wedding gown, silk-lined, wrapped in tissue

paper, and many accessories of an elaborate trousseau—a half-dozen pairs

of silk stockings, a pair of exquisite white satin slippers, a box of

long white gloves, another of lace handkerchiefs, dozens of mysterious

articles of lingerie, embroidered and lace-trimmed. In a lower corner

was a little, white vellum, gold-clasped prayer-book.

 

Lastly he found a package securely wrapped in brown paper; opening this,

he discovered six crisp, green packages of bank-notes. These he

rewrapped and slid them inside his full blue blouse. Then he put

everything back in order, replaced the tray and locked the trunk.

 

Finally he stole back to the form upon the couch. "Mamsy, are you

awake?" he whispered.

 

There was no answer, and he shook her shoulder slightly. Then, as she

made no reply, he leaned over and looked at her face. Her eyes were

open, fearfully open, but they did not turn to his. They were set and

glazed with film.

 

A horror came over him now, and he shook her with all his strength.

 

"Mamsy, Mamsy!" he cried. "Look at me, Mamsy! What’s the matter?"

 

Still she did not look at him, or speak, or move. He noticed that she

was not breathing, and his fear overcame him. He dropped her cold hand

and ran screaming out into the hall.

 

 

 

 

*CHAPTER I*

 

*THE PALMIST AND FANCY GRAY*

 

 

Fancy Gray was the lady’s name and the lady’s hair was red. Both were

characteristic of her daringly original character, for, as Fancy’s name

had once been Fanny, Fanny’s hair had once been brown. Further

indication of Miss Gray’s disposition was to be found in her eyebrows,

which were whimsically arched, and her mouth, which was scarlet-lipped

and tightly held. Another detail of significance was her green silk

stockings, rather artfully displayed to lend a harmony to her dark green

cloth tailor-made suit, which fitted like a kid glove over Miss Gray’s

cunningly rounded little body. Her eyes were brown and bright; they

were as quick as heliograph flashes, but could, when she willed, burn as

softly as glowing coals of fire. Her face seemed freshly washed, her

complexion was translucently clear, modified only by the violet shadows

under her eyes and an imperceptible tint of fine down on her upper lip.

Her hands, well beringed and well kept, were fully worth the admiration

which, by her willingness to display them to advantage, she seemed to expect on their account.