Kathleen's Diamonds; or, She Loved a Handsome Actor

"Why?" she gasped.

"We do not know. It was a profound mystery even to her husband. But it broke my grandfather's heart. He died in less than a week after the news came. Grandma came, then, to live with us at River Cottage. My mother died in a few years after, then my father. We two—grandma and I—are the last of the family unless my cousin, Kathleen Carew, Zaidee's child, is yet living. That we do not know. We wrote several times. No answer came, and we gave up the hope of ever knowing the daughter of the proud Vincent Carew."

"And she has never written to you?" asked the girl, in wonder.

"Never," he replied.

"There must be some mistake," she faltered.

"No, there is no mistake; but I fancy the proud Vincent Carew is at the bottom of it all. He would not care for his child to know her humble relatives on her mother's side. Why, he was governor of his state eight years, and was in Congress also. The Franklyns were plain simple people; my grandfather and my father were mechanics, although nobler hearts never beat in human breasts, and they were never rich. It is from the life-insurance money they left us that we are enabled to live in comparative comfort now."

Her eager, interested eyes made him go on rather diffidently:

"As for me, I have no taste that way. My desire is for a literary life. I have written some trifles that the critics praised."

"Your name?" the girl asked, curiously, gazing with interest at his handsome face.

"Chester Franklyn," he replied.

"Would you like to meet your unknown cousin—the daughter of the proud Vincent Carew?" she pursued.

His face grew grave.

"I do not know how to answer you," he replied. "She would not care for us. Perhaps her father has never told her about the Franklyns."

She looked at him with a strange expression, and held out to him her little white hand.

"I am your cousin—I am Kathleen Carew!" she said to him; and, while he stared in astonishment, she pointed at the picture of the beautiful girl.

"She was my mother!" she said.

CHAPTER LI.

A COUSIN FOR A LOVER

Ah! love was never yet withoutThe pang, the agony, the doubtWhich rends my heart with ceaseless sigh,While day and night roll darkling by.Byron.

What a day that was!

Kathleen seemed suddenly to grow well and strong at the wonderful discovery that it was her own cousin who had saved her life, and that the sweet, lovely woman who had cared for her so kindly was her own dear grandmother.

They had volumes to tell each other; and how Mrs. Franklyn was shocked when she heard that a decoy letter, pretending to be from herself, had at last brought Kathleen to Richmond.

She wept bitterly at the thought that her precious granddaughter had so nearly lost her life through this mysterious treachery.

"My dear, I never wrote you a line, nor did I ever hear from you. I thought you were too proud to care about us; so I let you alone, although it nearly broke my poor heart!"

She gazed with untiring love at the beautiful face, trying to trace in it every faint resemblance to her dead daughter.

"You are more like your father than your mother," she said, with vague disappointment. "Your eyes, your features are his; but there is an expression like Zaidee's, and your hair is gold like hers was, only a richer, deeper shade. You are more beautiful even than Zaidee was," she continued, fondly, as she stroked the bronze-gold curls.

Chester had little to say. He looked and listened eagerly, his heart thrilling at the thought that Kathleen was his cousin, and in a measure belonged to them.

"For her father has disinherited her; her step-mother cast her off. We are her nearest and dearest, and she will stay with us and share our lot," he said within himself.

Kathleen, while confiding very freely in them, had held back with a young girl's shyness the story of her love affair and her engagement of marriage. She did not suppose they would care for that, and she was so anxious to know what had befallen her uncle that she dwelt constantly on that subject.

"Perhaps they murdered him, too," she sobbed. "Oh, cousin! will you not telegraph at once to my friends in Boston, and let them know where I am? Perhaps in that way I may get news of him sooner. And they will be so uneasy over my fate."

"They?" the young man repeated, with his curious eyes upon her face.

"Mrs. Stone, my friend, and—Mr. Darrell—the man I am to marry," explained Kathleen, with a blush. Her eyes had dropped, so she did not see the ashen pallor that suddenly overspread Chester Franklyn's face. "You will telegraph at once, will you not, cousin?" she repeated, and hastily scribbled down the addresses upon a card.

"I will go at once," he answered, taking the slip of paper and leaving the room. But a terrible temptation had assailed him. "Why not wait a little before I send the telegrams!" he thought. "I can not give her up just yet to the proud, rich man she is going to marry. If she stays with us a little longer, I may, perhaps, win beautiful Kathleen from him. It ought to be so. Grandma and I ought to have Zaidee's child for our own because we have been cheated of her sweetness all our lives. I—will—not—send the telegrams just yet. She will never know."

He had often read the saying that "all is fair in love and war," and it seemed to him that there could be nothing unfair in this. But yet his heart smote him when he went back and met the eager light in the dark eyes he loved so well.

"They will be so much relieved when they know that I am safe and well," she exclaimed. "And as soon as they can they will come for me."

"You are in a great hurry to leave us!" Chester cried, reproachfully.

"No, indeed, for I love you both dearly," the girl replied, not dreaming how his heart leaped at the words. "But I am so anxious over the fate of my uncle. Only think, cousin, I do not know if he is dead or alive. Perhaps they drowned him, too;" and her eyes filled with tears.

"Try and bear the suspense as well as you can. I will try to amuse you," and he kept his word as far as lay in his power. He read to her, sung to her, played games, talked, and Kathleen would have really enjoyed his company only for the cruel suspense of her waiting.

"It is strange they do not come. It almost seems as if they did not care for me," she said, wistfully, on the third day.

"They will come to-morrow. Do not think about them now. I want to sing you this sweet little song," he said, going over to the piano and seating himself.

He had found out that the best way to amuse or interest Kathleen was to read or sing to her while she lay quietly on the sofa, her arms over her head, her dark, curly lashes drooping over her sad, dreamy eyes. Many a time when he was not looking, the burning tears ran down her cheeks as she thought of Ralph, her dear, lost lover, who was brought so vividly to mind by Chester's poetry and songs.

So she lay very still now while Chester, who really played and sung very well, poured out in the sweet love-song the passion that filled his heart.

"When nightly my wild harp I bringTo wake all its music for thee,So sweet looks that face while I sing,To reason no longer I'm free.I forget thou art queen of the land,'Tis thy beauty alone that I see!And trembling at touch of thy hand,All else is forgotten by me."The spell is upon me asleep,In the region of dreams thou art mine—I wake, but, ah! 'tis to weep,And the hope of my slumbers resign.Ah, hadst thou been less than thou art,Or I more deserving of thee,Thou mightst have been queen of my heart,Thou mightst have been all things to me."

Tears came to the singer's eyes and tears to the listener's, the words were so wildly sad. Chester thought of her, she of Ralph, so strange are love's entanglements.

"Go on," she murmured, unwilling that he should turn and see the burning tear-drops in her eyes, so Chester selected another song:

I've something to ask you to-night, Kathleen,A secret I fain would know,Oh, why do you seem so strange, Kathleen,And why do you shun me so?Come out on the porch in the starlight, sweet,And tell me my joy or woe—Your coldness is breaking my heart, Kathleen,For, darling, I love you so!You were never in earnest—were those your words?Was that what you meant to say?Your tones were so strangely low, Kathleen,Yet I fancied I heard you say:"I never loved you." Was that your voice,Or the south wind's dreamy sigh?Kathleen, Kathleen, you are dreaming, love,Or perhaps it is only I!Go and forget you? Kathleen, Kathleen,Your light words were spoken in vain,The revel was wild, and the wine flowed red,But it never drowned his pain,Till under the sod in the autumn daysHe pillowed his dreamless head,With "Twenty" carved on the marble slabFor he was but a boy, she said.And Kathleen goes on her lightsome way,And smiles at his simple heart,And dazzles and lures as she dazzled himWith the coquette's Circean art,While under the daisy-dimpled turf,A-sleeping light and low,Heart-broken molder the lips that sighedKathleen, I love you so!

He turned around on the piano-stool and looked at her. She was sitting upright, her dark eyes wide and startled.

"Forgive me," he said, gently. "The name was Irene, but I put in yours because it rhymed so well."

"But why do you choose such sad songs?" she said. "They make my heart ache."

"Because mine aches already," he answered, impulsively; and, seating himself by her side, he continued, passionately: "Darling Kathleen, I love you, and, unless you will give me your love in return, I shall die of heartbreak, like that poor lad in the song."

She remained perfectly silent a moment, then answered, rebukingly:

"But you are my cousin."

"Cousins often marry," he replied, eagerly.

"But I can not marry you, Chester; I am engaged to marry a young man in Boston. Besides, I don't love you," she replied.

"Do you love him?"

"Of—course," she replied; but her voice faltered as she thought how impossible it was for her to love Teddy, because of that other passion in her heart.

"Oh, Chester, please let me alone!" she cried, with sudden petulance. "You have not known me two weeks, and I don't want your love! I do not want anybody's love!"

Suddenly she burst into hysterical tears.

CHAPTER LII.

THE SEARCH FOR KATHLEEN

Oh! when shall the grave hide forever my sorrow?Oh! when shall the soul wing her flight from this clay?The present is hell, and the coming to-morrowBut brings with new torture the curse of to-day.Byron.

On the night when Kathleen was so strangely rescued from the river a man and woman left Richmond by a midnight train for New York.

They were Ivan Belmont and Fedora, the woman who had played such a cruel part in the life of Ralph Chainey.

Whatever their mission in Richmond, it could not have been an honest one, since they were leaving the city in partial disguise—Ivan with a luxuriant blonde beard, and his companion with a curly brown wig over her flaxen hair, and a dotted veil drawn over her bold, handsome face.

They traveled second class, and seemed to shun observation, conversing with each other in low whispers.

"It was a very ugly thing for us that the old man got away," he observed.

She shrugged her shoulders, and replied:

"Oh, pshaw! I don't think it matters. He can never catch up with us. Who would suspect you of being the old negro hack-driver, or me of being that old witch, Grandmother Franklyn? Ha! ha!"

"True!" he replied; and echoed her laugh of security, forgetting that "he laughs best who laughs last."

They thought that Uncle Ben Carew, the old, downcast farmer, was a simple old fool; but they were doomed to find themselves mistaken. He had his wits about him, as he proved afterward; for as soon as he found that the old house was deserted, he made his way from the gloomy neighborhood into the busiest portion of the city. Within an hour the police were notified of what had occurred, and were organized to search for the missing girl.

They visited the old house, and some one who knew all about it declared that the place had not been tenanted for a year. The owners had died, and the property had fallen to their daughter, who was an actress somewhere, and had never come to claim her inheritance. The conspirators, whoever they were, had probably taken unlawful possession of the place just long enough to carry out their evil purposes, and then fled from the scene.

The weary night passed away, but there was no sign of the missing girl, and at the police headquarters the old man was advised to secure the aid of a detective in the search for Kathleen.

When he agreed to take their advice, and inquired who was the best man for the purpose, they all vied with each other in recommending handsome, dashing Jack Wren, the finest detective in the whole South.

Uncle Ben, who up in Boston had pretended to be such a poor man, had a fat wallet in his breast pocket. He sent for Jack Wren, and, giving him a princely retainer, placed the case in his hands.

"Now, tell me everything bearing on the case," said the detective.

Uncle Ben did so, and when dashing Jack heard the story of Ivan Belmont and the diamonds, he started up excitedly.

"That's your man!" he exclaimed. "Poor little Miss Carew! things look dark for her. That miscreant has doubtless made way with his step-sister, rather than restore the diamonds or their value."

Uncle Ben fell back, white and trembling.

"Kathleen murdered! Oh, God! do not hint at anything so horrible!" he gasped. "You must search for her everywhere. It may be he has only made her a prisoner."

CHAPTER LIII.

"OH, SIR, HAVE PITY ON ME!" PRAYED DAISY LYNN

Misery! we have known each otherLike a sister and a brother,Dwelling in the same lone homeMany years . . . . . . . .Shelley.

It seemed almost as if there was a fate in it that poor Daisy Lynn, whose life-path had so strangely crossed Kathleen's, should again become a figure on the scene of her destiny.

Jack Wren having been furnished by Uncle Ben with a photograph of Kathleen, suddenly chanced upon a face that made him think he had found the missing girl.

It was a face at the window of a little cottage in the suburbs of the city—a beautiful face, dark-eyed, golden-haired, with piquant features, so close a copy of Kathleen's that the detective was startled. He consulted the photograph closely, and it seemed to him that the description answered in every particular. So he congratulated himself that he had been mistaken in his theory that Kathleen was dead.

"But why did they leave her alive, and what is she doing here?" he asked himself in wonder.

He made some cautious inquiries among the neighbors, and he found that the beautiful young girl was a governess in the family of a young lawyer who occupied the cottage. His wife was an invalid, and had employed the young girl to fill the position of nursery governess to her five tow-headed boys, "the worst limbs in the whole neighborhood," averred the gossiping neighbors.

The new governess Daisy Lynn, as she called herself, had only been there three weeks, they said, and they were sure she would not stay the month out. No one could endure that Perkins tribe more than a month. The oldest boy was twelve, the youngest only four. "But," said the grocery man at the corner, "from the biggest to the littlest, they are all imps of Satan!"

"But why did the girl come here? why does she stay? Evidently she is here of her own free will," thought the puzzled detective.

He made up his mind to a bold procedure: he would go and see the girl.

He rang the bell at the door, and a slatternly negro girl opened it and started at the elegant-looking caller with his shiny hat.

"I want to see Miss Lynn," he said; and she showed him into the little parlor, and went to call the governess.

He did not have to wait long before the face he had seen at the window appeared within the room—such a beautiful face, but, oh! so pale and frightened, the sweet lips trembling as she said, nervously:

"I—I don't know you, sir."

"But I know you, Miss Carew," he replied, as he rose and bowed.

"Miss Carew!" She caught eagerly at the words. "Oh, I knew you were mistaken! That is not my name, sir."

Jack Wren laughed lightly and drew the photograph from his pocket.

"Is not that your face?" he asked.

The lovely girl started with surprise.

"Oh, dear! it does look like me; but I never had my photograph taken in my life!" she exclaimed.

The detective smiled unbelievingly.

"You are a very clever young girl, but I do not understand your game," he said, bluntly. "Why have you run away from your friends and your bright prospects, Miss Carew, to masquerade under a false name and wear out your life teaching the rough Perkins cubs?"

She trembled and grew deathly pale as she faltered:

"There is—there must be—some mistake. My name is really Daisy Lynn, and I—I have not—I have no friends and no bright prospects, except to earn my own living by unremitting toil."

Tears came into the dark eyes as she spoke. The great Southern detective looked at her with puzzled eyes. "What superb acting!" he thought, admiringly. "But, what the deuce is the matter with the girl, to make her hide herself in this way from her friends?"

"Perhaps you do not know who I am?" he said; and he held before her eyes a card on which was neatly engraved his name and profession.

"I—I have heard of you, Mr. Wren!" gasped Daisy Lynn.

She sunk into a chair, and put her small white hand before her eyes, as if to shut out some dreadful sight, her bosom heaving with frightened sobs.

He remained perfectly silent, and all at once Daisy Lynn slid out of her chair and knelt in child-like humility at his feet.

"Oh, sir, have pity on me!" she prayed. "Go away, and leave me in peace! I am not insane, whatever any one may say. That was but a temporary spell, and, under the care of the kind friend to whom Heaven directed me that awful night, I soon recovered my reason. A wrecked love had made me mad, but that is all over now. Only—only you would not be able to convince them of it. So I—I do not want to go back. Oh, God! I shall go mad, indeed, if I am sent again to that dreadful place! Mr. Wren, perhaps you have a sister of your own. Think of her, and, for sweet pity's sake, do not betray me to my enemies, who, under the guise of friends, would work me the bitterest woe!"

A light broke in upon his mind.

"The girl is insane. That explains everything."

He was a stern man, inured to trying scenes, but his heart stirred with pity for her, so young, so beautiful, and—insane.

He went up to her as she rose and sunk feebly into her chair. Touching her kindly on the shoulder, he said:

"I am very, very sorry for you, but it is better that you should return to your friends. They are almost broken-hearted over your disappearance, and have sent me here for you. Now, get your bonnet, like a good girl, and come with me."

"I can not go back to them. I would rather die," sobbed Daisy Lynn; and when he insisted, she grew frantic and rebellious. "I—will—not—go!" she cried. "They will put me in a horrible lunatic asylum, although I am not mad. Oh, Mr. Wren, have pity on a most unfortunate young girl! Go away and tell them you could not find me. Heaven will bless you for your goodness."

He thought it was a very good proof of her insanity that she expected Heaven to bless him for telling a falsehood for her sake, and smiled indulgently as he said:

"My dear young lady, think of the distress of your lover if I go back without you—the rich, handsome young man you have promised to marry."

An expression of blended pain and scorn crossed the lovely face.

"Do not speak to me of him," she cried, passionately. "It was his falsity that wrecked my life. But that brief madness has passed. I am sane now, and I scorn him as much as I once loved him."

Oh, the imperial scorn with which she drew her graceful form erect, the fire that flashed from her lovely eyes! He said to himself that she was the most beautiful girl he had ever beheld.

"It is not he, my false lover, that wants me; I am sure of that. It is my aunt that has sent you," she continued.

"No, it is your uncle, Mr. Carew," he replied.

"But I have no uncle," she replied, in surprise.

He was nonplused at her persistence in deception, and said, with rising impatience:

"You must really go with me and see Mr. Carew. If there is any mistake he will detain you but a few minutes."

"Will you not go and bring him here?" she asked, beseechingly.

"And give you a chance to escape while I am away? No; I am too sharp for that. Get your bonnet and come with me to the hotel where your uncle is staying," replied Mr. Wren, firmly.

With a stifled sob she rose to obey, although she said:

"You are very cruel, and I warn you that if I am sent to the lunatic asylum I shall kill myself."

"They will not send you there," he replied, soothingly.

In a few minutes she joined him in the hall, heavily veiled, and they set forth on their trip to the Broad Street Hotel, where Uncle Ben and Teddy Darrell were staying. He called a hack and assisted her into it, and in a very few minutes they arrived at their destination.

Uncle Ben was so prostrated with grief that he had been unable to leave his room for days. He was now in his private parlor, and Teddy was sitting with him, both men looking very sad and dejected, when the door suddenly opened and Jack Wren entered, the picture of triumph, leading a beautiful, weeping, dark-eyed girl.

"Kathleen, my darling!" cried Teddy, springing to meet her; but she shrieked, in dismay:

"I do not know you!"

CHAPTER LIV.

"IS THIS YOUR NIECE?"

My head is wild with weeping for a griefWhich is the shadow of a gentle mind.I walk into the air; but no reliefTo seek—or, haply, if I sought, to find.Shelley.

Teddy Darrell was about to clasp the beautiful, weeping girl in his arms; but at her quick cry of alarm, he recoiled in amazement—not alone at her remonstrance, but because her voice was unlike that of Kathleen Carew.

Uncle Ben, who had also started forward in eager joy, drew back at the sound of the girl's voice, and the great detective looked from one face to the other in astonishment.

"Mr. Carew," he said at last, "is this your niece?"

"No," replied Uncle Ben.

"No," echoed Teddy Darrell.

"I told you so!" cried Daisy Lynn, with a radiant face; and Mr. Wren brought out the photograph.

"But this is her very face!" he exclaimed.

They agreed with him that it was wonderful—the likeness that existed between the girl and the picture—but they assured him that there were subtle differences in the features, and that the voices were quite unlike.

"Then I have to beg this young lady's pardon," said the great detective, rather crestfallen at his mistake; but he added, airily: "There's no harm done, anyhow."

"I beg your pardon, but there is," answered Daisy Lynn, her great, eager eyes brimming over with tears. "I have lost my situation with Mrs. Perkins through your mistake."

"Impossible!" he cried.

"It is, alas! too true," she answered, sadly. "Mrs. Perkins is a very high-tempered woman, and when I attempted to explain to her why I was going out so suddenly, she became terribly alarmed at the idea of my being carried off by a detective. She hinted broadly that I must have committed some dreadful crime, and discharged me on the spot."

"The wretch!" cried all three of the gentlemen in chorus, and Teddy, recalling his native gallantry, hastened to place a chair for the young girl.

"Pray sit down, miss," he began.

"Miss Daisy Lynn, permit me to present to you Mr. Carew and Mr. Darrell," said the detective.

Daisy bowed as she sunk into the chair; but Teddy Darrell stopped and stared as if he had seen a ghost.

"Daisy Lynn!" he echoed.

"Daisy Lynn!" cried Uncle Ben.

Both had heard the story of unfortunate Daisy Lynn, and explanations followed all around. The tender-hearted girl ceased weeping for herself to pity the fair young girl who had suffered so bitterly in her stead.

Then Jack Wren, who, now that everything was explained, no longer suspected Daisy of insanity, spoke his mind.