"And
would you follow me to a prison, Franconia?" he enquires, throwing
his arms about her neck, kissing her pure cheek with the fondness of
a father.
"Yea, and share your sorrows within its cold walls. Do not yield to
melancholy, uncle,--you have friends left: if not, heaven will
prepare a place of rest for you; heaven shields the unfortunate at
last," rejoins the good woman, the pearly tears brightening in
mutual sympathy.
"To-morrow, my child, you will find me the unhappy tenant of those
walls where man's discomfiture is complete."
"Nay, uncle, nay! you are only allowing your melancholy forebodings
to get the better of you. Such men as Graspum-men who have stripped
families of their all-might take away your property, and leave you
as they have left my poor parents; but no one would be so heartless
as to drive you to the extreme of imprisonment. It is a foolish
result at best." Franconia's voice falters; she looks more and more
intently in her uncle's face, struggles to suppress her rising
emotions. She knows his frankness, she feels the pain of his
position; but, though the dreadful extreme seems scarcely possible,
there is that in his face conveying strong evidence of the truth of
his remark.
"Do not weep, Franconia; spare your tears for a more worthy object:
such trials have been borne by better men than I. I am but the
merchandise of my creditors. There is, however, one thing which
haunts me to grief; could I have saved my children, the pain of my
position had been slight indeed.
Pages:
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520