Mamma warns Franz“Look here, Franz Francoise, ye don’t want to go too far!”—page 316.
“Look here, Franz Francoise, ye don’t want to go too far!”—page 316.
“Whack up with ye afterwards?” drawls Franz, all trace of anger having disappeared from his face and manner. “Oldwoman, I’ll put it in my pipe an’ smoke it. Ye kin consider this confab ended.”
Turning upon his heel he goes back to the couch, drops down upon it with a yawn, and composes himself to sleep.
When Alan Warburton reached the residence of Mr. Follingsbee, he found that legal gentleman sitting alone in his cosy library, very much, so Alan thought, as if expecting him. And the first words that the lawyer uttered confirmed this opinion.
Rising quickly, Mr. Follingsbee came forward to meet his guest, saying briskly:
“Ah, Warburton, good evening. I’ve been expecting you; sit down, sit down.”
As Alan placed his hat upon the table beside him, and took the seat indicated, he said, with a well-bred stare of surprise:
“You expected me, Mr. Follingsbee? Then possibly you know my errand?”
“Well, yes; in part, at least.” The lawyer took up a folded note, and passed it across the table to his visitor, saying: “It was left in my care about two hours ago.”
Alan glanced up at him quickly, and then turned his attention to the perusal of the note. It ran thus:
Alan Warburton:The time has come, or will soon come, when Mrs. W— will find it necessary to confide her troubles to Mr. Follingsbee. The time is alsonear when you will have to fight Van Vernet face to face. You will do well to trust your case to Mr. Follingsbee, relying upon him in every particular. You will have to meet strategy with strategy, if you would outwit Vernet.A Friend.
Alan Warburton:
The time has come, or will soon come, when Mrs. W— will find it necessary to confide her troubles to Mr. Follingsbee. The time is alsonear when you will have to fight Van Vernet face to face. You will do well to trust your case to Mr. Follingsbee, relying upon him in every particular. You will have to meet strategy with strategy, if you would outwit Vernet.
A Friend.
Alan perused this slowly, noting that the handwriting was identical with that of the scrap left by the “organ-grinder,” and then he refolded it, saying:
“I am the bearer of a missive for you, Mr. Follingsbee; but first, let me ask if I may know who sent me this message?”
“It was left in my hands,” replied the lawyer, smiling slightly, “by—by a person with ragged garments, and a dirty face. He appeared to be a deaf mute, and looked like—”
“Like an organ-grinder minus his organ?” finished Alan.
“Just so.”
“I trust thatthiswill explain itself,” said Alan, drawing forth from an inner pocket Leslie’s letter, and giving it into the lawyer’s hand. “Read it, Mr. Follingsbee. This day has been steeped in mystery; let us clear away such clouds as we can.”
“From Leslie!” Mr. Follingsbee said, elevating his eyebrows. “This is an unexpected part of the programme.”
“Indeed? And yet this,—” and Alan tapped the note he had just received, with one long, white forefinger,—“this foretells it.”
“Ah!” Only this monosyllable; then Mr. Follingsbee broke the seal of Leslie’s letter and began its perusal, his face growing graver and more troubled as he read.
It was a long letter, and he read it slowly, turning back a page sometimes to re-read a certain passage. Finally he laid the letter upon his knee, and sat quite still, with his handsworking together nervously and his brow wrinkled in thought. At last he lifted his eyes toward Alan.
“Do you know what this letter contains?” he asked slowly.
“I know that my sister-in-law has left her home,” Alan replied gravely; “nothing more.”
“Nothing more?”
“Nothing; really. She left three letters: one for Mrs. French, another for Miss French, and the third for yourself.”
“And you.... She left you some message?”
“Not a word, verbal or written.”
“Strange,” mused the lawyer, taking up his letter and again glancing through its pages. “I can’t understand it. Mr. Warburton—pardon the question—was there any difference, any misunderstanding, between you and Leslie?”
“Does not the letter itself explain?”
“That is what puzzles me. The letter tells her own story—a story that I knew before, in part at least; a sad story, proving to me that the girl has been made to suffer bitterly; but it does not, from first to last, mention your name.”
Alan sat silent for a moment. Then he turned his face toward the lawyer, as if acting upon some resolve.
“Yesterday,” he began quietly, “I held an interview with my sister-in-law. It was not an amicable interview; we have been on unfriendly terms since—since the night of the masquerade.”
“Since the masquerade?”
“During that interview,” continued Alan, “Mrs. Warburton gave me the brief outline of what seemed to me a very improbable story.”
“Ah!” There was a new shade in the lawyer’s voice.
“And I am wondering,” Alan goes on, “if your letter contains that same story.”
“Possibly,” said Mr. Follingsbee dryly.
“This note which you have given me, and which bears no signature, seems to indicate as much. Are you acquainted with its contents, sir?”
“I am not.” There is a growing crispness in the lawyer’s tone, which Alan is not slow to note.
“Then oblige me by reading it.”
Mr. Follingsbee took the note and read it slowly.
“Don’t you think,” he said, looking up from its perusal, “that we had better begin by understanding each other?”
“I do.”
“Very good: this note was left with me by—by such a man as I described to you.”
“By a man in disguise?”
“Just so. This—this man in disguise, came to me in your behalf.”
“In my behalf!” exclaimed Alan, in amazement.
“In your behalf. He told me you were in danger, and that the man you had most cause to fear was a certain detective: Van Vernet.”
Alan Warburton stirred uneasily in his chair, and the old haughty look came slowly into his face.
“He said,” went on the lawyer slowly, “that because of your pride, and your obstinacy, you were involving not only yourself but others, in a net that might, if your present course continued, ruin you utterly, and bring upon your cherished family honor a disagreeable blot, if not absolute disgrace. He did not give me an idea of the nature of the difference between yourself and this Vernet, but he laid out a very pretty planby which to baffle him. And he said, as he went away: ‘If Alan Warburton, under all his pride and obstinate clinging to a wrong idea, possesses the sound judgment that I believe him to have—and it’s a pity he has not made better use of it,—he will confide in you, and act upon your advice, if not upon mine. Let him do this and we will baffle Vernet, and his precious secret will not be dragged to the light. Let him continue in his present course, and Van Vernet will have his hand upon him within a week; the affair of this afternoon should convince him of this.’”
During this remarkable speech, Alan’s face had taken on a variety of expressions. At the closing sentence he gave a quick start, and then sat perfectly still, with his profile toward his companion. After a time he turned his face toward the lawyer; and that personage, looking anxiously for a reply or comment, could read upon the handsome countenance only calm resolve and perfect self-control.
“Mr. Follingsbee,” he began gravely, “do you understand this allusion to the events of the afternoon?”
“I do not.”
“And yet you have confidence in this disguised stranger?”
“Have I alluded to him as astranger, sir?”
Alan passed his hand across his brow, and said slowly:
“He is not a stranger to you and, evidently, he knows me remarkably well; I might say too well.”
“Ahem! You would be likely to recall your words, if you did.”
“Mr. Follingsbee,whois this man?”
“I am not at liberty to speak his name.”
“Whatis he, then?”
“First of all, a gentleman; a man whose championship doesyou honor, for it proves that he believes in you, in spite of this Van Vernet.”
“Was it not a strange freak for thisgentleman, disguised just as he afterward came to you, to enter my study window, and conceal himself in my cabinet?”
Mr. Follingsbee looked up with lively interest. “Did he do that?” he asked quickly.
“He did that.”
“Well,” said Mr. Follingsbee slowly, “I should say that it was quite like him. He did not talk of his own exploits when he came to me; I fancy his time was limited.”
“Probably; now, Mr. Follingsbee, I think I see things, some things, in a clearer light. This organ-grinder of mine, this gentleman of yours, this anonymous friend, is adetective!”
“Umph!” mutters the lawyer, half to himself, “we are beginning to use our wits.” Then in a louder tone: “Ah, so we are no longer lawyer and witness?”
“No,” with a quiet smile; “we are two lawyers. Let us remain such.”
“With all my heart,” cries Mr. Follingsbee, extending his hand; “let us remain such.”
Alan takes the proffered hand, and begins again.
“This champion of mine, then, is a detective; you admit that?”
“Well—yes.”
“In espousing my cause, he is making active war upon Van Vernet?”
“So it appears.”
“Then it is safe to say that aside from the interest he has seen fit to take in—in my family and family affairs, he has some personal issue with Mr. Vernet.”
“Possibly.”
“Then,—how fast we progress—our detective friend must be a remarkably clever fellow, or our chances are very slender. Mr. Vernet is called one of the ablest detectives on the city force.”
“True.”
“Mr. Follingsbee, have you faith in the ability of this champion-detective to cope with such a man as Vernet?”
“Well,” says the elder gentleman slowly, “if you play your part, I’ll vouch for my friend. He is at least a match for Vernet.”
“Then I think it would not be a difficult matter to identify him.”
“Don’t waste your time,” interrupts Mr. Follingsbee quickly; “I have told you all that I am at liberty to tell.”
“As you please; but before I begin my story, I must be sure that it isthestory. Yesterday, as I told you, I had an interview with my sister-in-law.”
“Yes.”
“I had observed some things that puzzled me, and—does that letter of Leslie’s contain any statements concerning her early life?” He breaks off abruptly.
“It does; many statements.”
“Do you know anything of her early history?”
“Yes.”
“Is she the daughter of Thomas Uliman?”
“His adopted daughter; yes.”
“And are her parents living?”
“Two people who claim to be her parents are in this city. I may as well say to you now, Mr. Warburton, that Leslie never knew herself to be an adopted child until shortly before her marriage; that she discovered it by accident, and camestraight to me with the news, which I had known all along. Then she told the truth to your brother, and knowing the height, depth, and absurdity of the Warburton pride, offered to release him from his engagement. He refused this release and bade her never mention the subject again.”
He paused a moment, and seeing that Alan was regarding him with steadfast earnestness, resumed:
“I supposed that the end of the affair, and from that day to this have never heard a word on the subject from Leslie, or from any one, until you brought me this letter. And now, as I have gone thus far into the matter, let me tell you what I have learned from this letter—not as Leslie has written it, but briefly as possible. Shortly before her marriage, two people, asserting themselves to be the two who gave Leslie to the Ulimans, came and claimed her as their child. They were so repulsive, clamorous, and so evidently greedy for money, that Leslie could not, would not, credit their story. Here she made her first mistake. She bribed these old wretches with a good slice of her little fortune, instead of turning them and their claim over to me. They promised to go away, of course, and never trouble her again, and also of course, they did not keep their word. As soon as she was married to your brother, they became bolder; and she was more than ever in their power. She dared not confide in her husband; first, because of his pride, which was only a little less than yours, and next, because she feared the effect of such a revelation upon a constitution so frail, and a mind so sensitive. It was too late, she thought, to come to me; and so it went on. They drained her private purse to the last dollar; they compelled her to come at their summons at any time, and she had to creep from her home like a guilty thing to carry hush-money to thesewretches. And so things continued until, in order to satisfy their greed, she must begin to fee them with her husband’s money. Think ofthat, sir,” casting an ironical glance at hisvis-a-vis; “feeing those common clods with the Warburton gold.”
But Alan never noted this home-thrust. He sat quite still, with a troubled look upon his face; seeing which, Mr. Follingsbee continued:
“This she firmly resolved that she would never do; and then came that masquerade.”
“Ah!” Alan starts as he involuntarily utters the ejaculation, but controls himself instantly, and says: “Go on, please.”
“That night they sent her a note,” continues Mr. Follingsbee. “It came when she was in the midst of her guests; and it was so urgent in its demands that she grew desperate, threw off her festive garments, and went, alone, in the night, to the hovel where these old impostors lived. She went to defy them, and she found herself entrapped.”
“Entrapped?”
“Yes; while she talked, she was seized by two persons who crept upon her from behind. She does not understand their actual object; they seemed trying to secure the jewels which she had forgotten to remove from her ears. Just here she is not very definite; I will read the passage to you.”
He takes up the letter, searches out the lines referred to, and reads:
I can scarcely describe the rest. It is sufficient that a brave man rescued me—at what a fearful cost to himself, I only learned afterward. I escaped from the hovel, and reached my home. You know the rest: how Daisy vanished, and all the sorrow since. And now I tell you that I believe these two have stolen Daisy.
I can scarcely describe the rest. It is sufficient that a brave man rescued me—at what a fearful cost to himself, I only learned afterward. I escaped from the hovel, and reached my home. You know the rest: how Daisy vanished, and all the sorrow since. And now I tell you that I believe these two have stolen Daisy.
Here he breaks off abruptly. “The rest is a mixture of business affairs and hurried directions how to dispose of her property should she be long absent, or should she never return, etc. At the close she says, that on the night of her adventure at the hovel, and during the affray, a man was killed; and that either herself or her brave rescuer, she is informed, is likely to be arrested for that crime; and in case of the arrest of either, the other will be compelled to testifyfor or against.”
“And her motive for now quitting her home so suddenly?”
“Of that she says very little; merely that she is leaving, and that she hopes I will continue my confidence in her.”
“Which you do?”
“Which I do.”
For many moments Alan Warburton sat with his head bowed, and his face pale and troubled, saying nothing. Then he roused himself, and turned towards his companion.
“Mr. Follingsbee,” he said, very gravely, “if this story—a part of which you have told me, the rest being contained in that letter—is true; if Leslie Warburton has been a martyr throughout this affair, then I am a most contemptible scoundrel!”
“You!” ejaculated the old gentleman testily; “you a scoundrel! Good heavens, has everybody gone into high dramatics? What have you done?”
“I have accused Leslie of receiving a lover in her own house; of going from her home to meet him; I have heaped upon her insult after insult; I have driven her from her home by my cruel accusations!”
A moment Mr. Follingsbee sat looking as if about to pour forth a volume of wrath, upon the head of his self-accusing visitor; then he said, as if controlling himself by an effort:
“You had better tell the whole story, young man, having begun it.”
And Alan did tell the whole story; honestly, frankly and without sparing himself. He began at the beginning, telling how, at the first, Leslie’s youth, beauty and vivacity, together with a certain disparity of years between herself and husband, had caused him to doubt her affection for his brother, and to suspect a mercenary marriage; how he had discovered her sending away notes by stealth; how his suspicions had grown and strengthened until, on the night of the masquerade, he had set Van Vernet to watch her movements; and how Vernet had discovered, or claimed to discover, a lover in the person of a certain Goddess of Liberty.
At this point in his narrative, Alan was surprised to note certain unmistakable signs of levity in the face and manner of Mr. Follingsbee; and presently that gentleman broke in:
“Wait; just wait. Let’s clear up that point, once and for all. That ‘Goddess’ was introduced into your house by me, and for a purpose which, to me, seemed good. Until that night he had never seen Leslie Warburton.”
“He! then it was a man?”
“It was; and Van Vernet, as I have since learned, knew him and laid a trap for him. Their feud dates from that night.”
“Ah, then our detective and the ‘Goddess of Liberty’—”
“Are the same. Now resume, please.”
Going back to his story, Alan tells how he had followed Leslie; how he had rushed in, in answer to her cry for aid; how he had rescued her, and had himself been rescued in turn by a pretended idiot. He told of his return home; his interview with Leslie after the masquerade, and their last interview;ending with the scene with Vernet and the organ-grinder.
“That fellow is the mischief!” said Mr. Follingsbee, rubbing his palms softly together. “He’s the very mischief!”
“By which I infer that my ‘Organ-grinder,’ my ‘Idiot,’ and the ‘Goddess of Liberty,’ are one and the same?”
“Precisely; I haven’t a doubt of it.”
“And that the three are identical with this ‘gentleman detective,’ who, in making war upon Van Vernet, has espoused my cause, or rather that of my sister-in-law.”
“Just so.”
Alan leans back in his chair, and clutches his two hands upon its either arm, fixing his eyes on vacancy. Seeming to forget the presence of hisvis-a-vis, he loses himself in a maze of thoughts. Evidently they are not pleasant thoughts, for his face expresses much of perplexity, doubt and disgust, finally settling into a look of stern resolve.
He is silent so long that Mr. Follingsbee grows impatient, and by and by this uneasiness manifests itself in a series of restless movements. At last Alan turns his face toward the lawyer, and then that gentleman bursts out:
“Well, are you going to sit there all night? What shall you do next?”
Alan Warburton rises from his chair and faces his questioner. “First,” he says slowly, “I am going to find Leslie, and bring her back.”
“Oh!”
“You look incredulous; very well. Still, I intend, from this moment, to take an active part in this mysterious complication which has woven itself about me.”
“Have you forgotten Vernet?”
“Not at all; yet it is my duty to make active search for Leslie. Be the consequences to myself what they may, I can remain passive no longer.”
“Alan, you are talking nonsense. Do you suppose Vernet will let you slip now? Don’t you realize that if you are to be found twenty-four hours from this moment, you will be under arrest.”
“Nevertheless—”
“Nevertheless, you will persist in being a fool! Sit down there, young man, and tell me, haven’t you been playing thatrolelong enough?”
A hot flush rises to Alan’s brow, and an angry light leaps for a moment to his eyes; but he resumes his seat in silence, and turns an expectant gaze upon Mr. Follingsbee.
“Now, Warburton,” resumes the little lawyer in a more kindly tone, “listen to reason. I had a long talk with our unknown friend to-day; not so long as I could have wished, but enough to convince me that he knows what he is about, and that if you follow his advice, he will pull you through. Twice he has saved you from the clutches of this Vernet; leave all to him, and he will rescue you again, and finally.”
“He has, then, mapped out my course for me?” queries Alan haughtily.
“He has, if it suits you to put it so. Good heavens! man, it needed somebody to plan for you.Youhave done nothing but blunder, blunder, blunder. And your stupid mistakes have recoiled upon others. I tell you, sir—” bringing his fist down upon the table with noisy emphasis—“that unless you accept the advice and assistance of this man, whom you seem to dislike without cause, you are lost, ruined, at least inyour own estimation. Confound your Warburton pride! It has brought you into a pretty scrape; and all your Warburton wit won’t extricate you from it. Confoundyou!I’m sick of you, sir! If it were not for Leslie, and little Daisy, Van Vernet might have you, and the Warburton honor might go to the dogs, for all my interference!”
The mention of little Daisy had its effect upon Alan. As his companion waxed wrathful, his own mind became calmer; for a moment he seemed to see himself through Mr. Follingsbee’s spectacles. And then he said:
“I accept your rebuke, for I may have deserved it; certainly I have sufficient reason to feel humble. My unknown champion took pains to inform me that he did not serve me for my own sake; and now you proffer me the same assurance. I have blundered fearfully, but I fail to see what influence my conduct could have upon poor Daisy’s fate.”
“Oh, you do!” Mr. Follingsbee is not quite mollified. “Then you don’t see that Leslie was sorely in need of a friend in whom she could confide—just such a friend as she might have found in you, had you been, or tried to be, a brother to her, instead of a suspicious, egotistical enemy. She could not take her troubles to Archibald, but she might have trusted you—she would have trusted you, had your conduct been what it should.”
“I had not thought of that.” Alan becomes more humble as his accuser continues to ply the lash. “What you say may be true. Be sure, sir, if we ever find Daisy and Leslie, I shall try to make amends.”
“Umph! Then you had better begin now, by taking good advice when it is offered.”
“What do you advise, then?”
“I? nothing, except at second hand. It is this champion of yours who advises.”
“Then what is his advice?”
“He says that you must quit the country at once.”
“Impossible!”
“Nothing of the sort. TheClytiesails for Liverpool to-morrow. You and Leslie have taken passage—”
“Taken passage! Leslie!”
“Just so; everything has been arranged by—” He pauses, then says: “The ‘Organ-grinder.’”
“I repeat, it is impossible. Do you think I will leave the country while little Daisy’s fate remains—”
“Oh, stop!stop!stop!Man, are you determined to be an idiot? Will you hold your tongue and listen?”
“I will listen, yes; but—”
“But—bosh! Listen, then, and don’t interrupt.”
He lowers his voice, not from fear of an eavesdropper but because, having gained this point, his impatience begins to subside. And Alan listens, while for more than an hour the little lawyer talks and gesticulates, smiles and frowns. He listens intently, with growing interest, until at last Mr. Follingsbee leans back in his chair, seeming to relax every muscle in so doing, and says:
“Well, what do you think of it?”
Then Alan Warburton rises and extends his hand impulsively.
“I thank you with all my heart, sir, and I will be guided by you, and by our unknown friend. From this moment, I am at your disposal.”
“Umph!” grunts the lawyer, as he grasps the proffered hand, “I thought your senses would come back.”
While Alan Warburton, closeted with Mr. Follingsbee, was slowly lowering the crest of the Warburton pride, and reluctantly submitting himself to the mysterious guidance of an unseen hand,—Winnie French, sitting beside her mother, was perusing Leslie’s note.
It was brief and pathetic, beseeching Mrs. French to go at once to Warburton Place; to dwell there as its mistress; to look upon it as her home, and Winnie’s, until such time as Leslie should return, or Mr. Follingsbee should indicate to her a change of plan. Would Mrs. French forgive this appearance of mystery, and believe and trust in her still? Would she keep her home open for Alan, and a welcome ever ready for the lost Daisy, who must surely return some day? Everything could be arranged with Mr. Follingsbee; and Leslie’s love and gratitude would be always hers.
This note was somewhat incoherent, for it was the last written by Leslie, and her nerves had been taxed, perhaps, in the writing of the longer epistle to Mr. Follingsbee.
Brief and fragmentary as it was, it furnished to Winnie and her mother food for much wonderment, long discussion, and sincere sorrow.
“Oh, Mamma!” cried Winnie, choking back a sob, “some terrible trouble has come upon Leslie; and Alan Warburton is at the bottom of it!”
“My child!”
“I tell you heis!” vehemently. “And only yesterday Leslie would have told me all, but for him.”
“Winnie, compose yourself; try and be calm,” said Mrs. French soothingly.
“Ican’tcompose myself! Iwon’tbe calm! Iwantto be so angry when Alan Warburton returns for me, that I can fairly scorch him with my contempt! I want toannihilatehim!” And Winnie flung herself upon her mother’s breast, and burst into a fit of hysterical sobbing.
Sorely puzzled, and very anxious, Mrs. French soothed her daughter with gentle, motherly words, and gradually drew from her an account of the events of the past two days, as they were known to Winnie.
“And so, between his interruption and your refusal to listen to him afterward, you are quite in the dark as to this strange misunderstanding between Leslie and Mr. Warburton?” said Mrs. French musingly.
“Misunderstanding! You give it a mild name, Mamma. Would a mere misunderstanding with any one, bring such a look to Leslie’s face as I saw there when I left her alone with him? Would it leave her in a deathly faint at its close? Would it drive her from her home, secretly, like a fugitive? Would it cause Alan Warburton to address such words to me as those he uttered in his study? Because of a simple misunderstanding, would he implore me to judge between them? Mamma, there is more than amisunderstandingat the bottom of all this mystery. Somewhere, there is a monstrouswrong!”
But discuss the mystery as they would, there seemed no satisfactory, no rational explanation. The evening wore on, and the ringing of the door-bell suddenly apprised them of the lateness of the hour.
“It’s Alan!” exclaimed Winnie, starting nervously. “Mamma, we can’t, we won’t, go with him.”
But it was not Alan. It was a servant, bearing a message from Mr. Follingsbee. A matter of importance had suddenly called Mr. Warburton away. Mr. Follingsbee would wait upon the ladies in the morning.
It was very unsatisfactory, but it was all. And Winnie and her mother, after exhausting for a second time their stock of conjectures, were constrained to lay their puzzled heads upon their pillows, and to await in restlessness and sleepless anxiety the coming of morning and Mr. Follingsbee.
It comes at last, the morning, as morning in this world or another surely will come to all weary, restless watchers. And just as it is approaching that point of time when we cease to say “this morning,” and supply its place with “to-day,” Mr. Follingsbee comes also.
He comes looking demure, unhurried, without anxiety; just as he always does look whenever he has occasion to withhold more than he chooses to tell.
“I hope you have not been anxious, ladies,” he says, serenely, as he deposits his hat upon a table and extends a hand to each in turn.
But Winnie’s impatience can no longer be held in check. “Oh, Mr. Follingsbee!” she cries, seizing his hand in both her own, “where is Leslie?”
Mr. Follingsbee smiles reassuringly, places a chair for Mrs. French with old-time gallantry, leads Winnie to a sofa, and seating himself beside her, says his say.
To begin with, the ladies must not expect a revelation; not yet. It will come, of course; but Mrs. Warburton, for reasons that seemed to her good, and that he therefore accepted,desired to keep her movements, for a time, a secret. There had been a slight misunderstanding between Mrs. Warburton and her brother-in-law; but, fortunately, that was now, in a measure at least, adjusted. It was, in part, this misunderstanding, and in part, some facts which Mrs. Warburton thought she had discovered concerning the unaccountable absence of Daisy Warburton, that had caused her to adopt her present seemingly strange course. It was owing to these same causes that Mr. Warburton had suddenly determined to absent himself from the city—in fact from the country. Mr. Warburton had taken passage in the SteamerClytie, for Europe. This movement might seem abrupt, even out of place at this particular time, but it was not an unwarrantable action; indeed, it was a thing of necessity.
Mr. Follingsbee said much more than this, and ended his discourse thus:
“And now, ladies, I solicit, on behalf of my clients, your friendship, your aid, and your confidence. While I am not at liberty to explain matters fully, I promise you that you will not regret having given your confidence blindly. I, who know whereof I speak, assure you of this. Alan Warburton, while at this moment he is an innocent man, is menaced by serious danger. Leslie has gone on a Quixotic mission. The trouble will soon end, I trust, and we shall all rejoice together. In the meantime—” He paused abruptly and turned an enquiring gaze upon Mrs. French.
“In the meantime, sir,” said that lady, with quiet decision, “you desire our passive coöperation. You have it.”
“Oh, Mamma!” cried Winnie exultantly, “I was sure you would say that. I was sure you would not desert poor Leslie!”
“It will be an equal favor to Mr. Warburton,” interposedthe lawyer, with the shadow of a twinkle in his grey eye.
To which Winnie responded only by her heightened color, and a half perceptible shrug.
And so Mrs. French and Winnie were escorted by Mr. Follingsbee to the bereaved and deserted mansion: were fully instructed in the small part they were to play; and were left there in possession,—knowing only that Leslie and Alan were both in danger, and menaced by enemies, that their absence was necessary to their safety, and might also result in the restoration of little Daisy.
In the face of this mystery their faith remained unshaken. They accepted Mr. Follingsbee’s assurances, and also the part allotted to them, the part which so commonly falls to women, of inactive waiting.
Meantime, Van Vernet, in a state of exceeding self-content, was perfecting his latest plan.
He had failed in overtaking and identifying the troublesome Organ-grinder, who, he was more than ever convinced, was a spy, though in what interest, or in whose behalf, he could not even guess. But he had failed in nothing else. His ruse had been most successful. He had been admitted to the sanctum of Alan Warburton; had seen his face, heard his voice, noted his movements. And his last doubt was removed; rather, the last shade of uncertainty, for he could scarcely be said to have been in doubt at any time.
Alan Warburton, and not Archibald, had been his patron on the night of the masquerade. It was Alan Warburton who, in the guise of a Sailor, had killed Josef Siebel on that selfsame night. There was much that was still a mystery, but that could now be sifted out.
Why had Alan Warburton secured his services to shadow his sister-in-law? He could not answer this question; but it was now plain to him that he had been summarily dismissed from the case, on the following morning, because Alan Warburton, having recognized him in the hovel, had feared to meet him again.
Why had he sought the Francoise abode on that especial night? And why had he killed Josef Siebel? These were problems to the solution of which he could now turn his attention—after he had secured his prisoner.
He had consumed some time in his hot chase after the Organ-grinder, and then he had hastened to set a fresh guard upon the Warburton house. And this guard had just reported.
No one had left, no one had arrived, until this morning, when two ladies, escorted by an elderly gentleman, had driven to the door. The ladies had remained; the gentleman had departed almost immediately.
Vernet was more than satisfied. He sent a messenger to summon to his aid his favorite assistants, made some other necessary preparations, and sat down to scan the morning paper while he waited.
His quick eye noted everything of a personal nature, births, deaths, marriages, arrivals, departures, social items. Suddenly he flung the paper from him and bounded to his feet, uttering a passionate imprecation.
Then he snatched up the paper, and, as if for once he doubted his own eyes, reperused the startling paragraph. Yes, it was there; it was no optical illusion.
Alan Warburton, and his sister-in-law, Mrs. Archibald Warburton had taken passage for Liverpool, on board theClytie. And theClytiewas to sail that morning!
In one moment, Vernet was in the street. In five, he was driving furiously through the city. In half an hour, he had reached his destination.
Too late! TheClytiehad cleared the harbor, and was already a mere speck in the distance.
“So,” he muttered, turning sullenly away, “he thinks he has outwitted me. God bless the Atlantic cable! When my aristocratic friend arrives in Liverpool, he shall receive an ovation—from Scotland Yards!”
While Vernet thus comforted himself, Mr. Follingsbee, seated in a cosy upper room of his own dwelling, addressed himself to a gentleman very closely resembling Mr. Alan Warburton.
“So here we are,” he said, with a chuckle. “TheClytiehas sailed before now; you are on your way to Europe. Mr. Vernet will head you off, of course. In the meantime, we gain all that we wanted,time.”
All the long night that followed Leslie’s appearance among the Francoises, Mamma was alert and watchful.
Often she crept to the door of the inner room, where Leslie slumbered heavily. Often she glanced, with a grin of satisfaction, toward the couch where Franz lay breathing regularly, and scarcely stirring the whole night through. Often she turned her face, with varying expressions, toward the cornerwhere Papa slumbered uneasily, muttering vaguely from time to time. But never once did her eyes close. All the night she watched and listened, pondered and planned.
As morning dawned, the stillness of the inner room was pierced by a burst of shrill laughter, followed by words swiftly uttered but indistinct. Mamma hastened at once to the bedside of her new charge.
Leslie had broken her heavy slumber, but the fire of fever burned in her cheeks, the light of insanity blazed from her eyes; and for many days it mattered little to her that she was a fugitive from home, a woman under suspicion, and helpless in the hands of her enemies. Nature, indulging in a kindly freak, had taken her back to her girlhood’s days, before her first trouble came. She was Leslie Uliman again; watched over by loving parents, care-free and happy.
It was a crushing blow to Mamma’s hopes and ambitions, and she faced a difficult problem, there by that couch in the grey of morning. Leslie was very ill. This she saw at a glance, and then came the thought: What if she were to die, and just at a time when so much depended upon her? It roused Mamma to instant action. Leslie must not die—not yet.
Papa and Franz were at once awakened, and the situation made known to them. Whereupon Papa fell into a state of helpless, hopeless dejection, and Franz flew into a fury.
“It’s all up with us now,” moaned Papa. “Luck’s turned aginst us.”
“It’s up, sure enough, with your fine plans,” sneered Franz. “I’mgoin’ ter take myself out of yer muddle, while my way’s clear.”
“If I wasn’t dealin’ with a pair of fools,” snappedMamma, “I’d come out all right. The gal ain’t dead yet, is she?”
And then, while Leslie laughed and chattered, alone in the inner room, the three resolved themselves into a council, wrangled and disputed, and at last compromised and settled upon a plan—Papa yielding sullenly, Franz protesting to the last and making sundry reservations, and Mamma carrying the day.
Leslie must have a physician; it would never do to trust her fever to unskilled hands; she must have a physician, and a good one. So said Mamma.
“It ain’t so risky as you might think,” she argued. “A good doctor’s what we want—one whose time’s valuable. Then he won’t be running here when he ain’t wanted. He’ll come an’ see the gal, an’ then he’ll be satisfied to take my reports and send her the medicine. Oh, I know these city doctors. They come every day if you’ve got a marble door-step, but they won’t be any too anxious about poor folks. A doctor can’t make nothin’ out of the kind of talk she is at now, and by the time she gits her senses, we’ll hit on somethin’ new.”
This plan was opposed stoutly by Franz, feebly by Papa; but the old woman carried the point at last.
“I know who we want,” said Mamma confidently. “It’s Doctor Bayless. He’s a good doctor, an’ he don’t live any too near.”
At the mention of Doctor Bayless, Papa’s countenance took on an expression of relief, which was noted by Franz, who turned away, saying:
“Wal, git your doctor, then, an’ the quicker the better. But mind this:Idon’t appear till I’m sure it’s safe. Ye kingit yer doctor, but when he’s here, I’ll happen ter be out.”
It was Mamma who summoned Doctor Bayless, and he came once, twice, and again.
His patient passed, under his care, from delirium to stupor, from fever to coolness and calm, and then to returning consciousness. As he turned from her bedside, at the termination of his third visit, he said:
“I think she will get on, now. Keep her quiet, avoid excitement, and if she does not improve steadily, let me know.”
He had verified Mamma’s good opinion of him by manifesting not the slightest concern in the personality of his patient. If he were, for the moment, interested in Leslie, it was as a fever patient, not as a woman strangely superior to her surroundings. And on this occasion he dropped his interest in her case at the very door of the sick-room.
At the corner of the dingy street, a voice close behind him arrested his footsteps: “Doctor Bayless.”
The man of medicine turned quickly to face the speaker.
“This is Doctor Bayless?” the owner of the intrusive voice queried.
Doctor Bayless bowed stiffly.
“Bayless, formerly of the R—— street Insane Asylum?” persisted the questioner.
The doctor reddened and a startled look crossed his face, but he said, after a moment’s silence: “The same.”
“I want a few words with you, sir.”
“Excuse me;”—the doctor was growing haughty;—“my time is not my own.”
“Neither is mine, sir. I am a public benefactor, same as yourself.”
“Ah, a physician?”
“Oh, not at all; a detective.”
“A detective!” Doctor Bayless did not look reassured. He glanced at the detective, and then up and down the street, his uneasiness evident.
“I am a detective; yes, sir,” said the stranger cheerily, “and you are in a position to do me a favor without in any way discommoding yourself. Don’t be alarmed, sir; its nothing that affects you or touches upon that asylum business. You are safe with me, my word for it, and here’s my card. Now, sir, just take my arm and come this way.”
Doctor Bayless glanced down at the card, and then up at the speaker; and a look of relief crossed his face as he accepted the proffered arm, and walked slowly along at the side of his new acquaintance.
Doctor Bayless had predicted aright. Leslie continued to gain slowly, and in the third week of her illness, she could sit erect in her bed for an hour or two each day, listening to Mamma’s congratulations, and recalling, one by one, her woes of the past. Not recalling them poignantly, with the sharp pain that would torture her when she should have gained fuller strength, but vaguely, with a haunting pang, as one remembers an unhappy dream.
Day by day, as strength came back, her listlessness gave place to painful thought. One day, sitting for the first time in a lounging-chair, procured at second-hand for her comfort, she felt that the time had come to break the silence which,since her first full awakening to consciousness, she had imposed upon herself.
Mamma was bustling about the room, inwardly longing to begin the passage-at-arms which she knew must soon ensue, and outwardly seeming solicitous for nothing save the comfort of her “dear girl.” As Leslie’s eyes followed her about, each seemed suddenly to have formed a like resolve.
“How many days have I been ill?” asked Leslie slowly, and languidly resting her head upon her hand.
Mamma turned toward her and seemed to meditate.
“How many days, my child? Ah, let us see. Why, it’s weeks since you came to us—two, yes, three weeks; three weeks and a day.”
Leslie was silent for a moment. Then she asked:
“And you have nursed me through my illness; you alone?”
“Surely; who else would there be?” replied Mamma in an injured tone.
“Who, indeed!” repeated Leslie bitterly. “Sit down, Madam; I want to talk with you.”
Mamma drew forward a chair, and sank upon it with a gratified sigh. It had come at last, the opportunity for which she had planned and waited. She could scarcely conceal her satisfaction.
“You have nursed me,” began Leslie slowly, “through a tedious illness, and I have learned that you do nothing gratuitously. What do you expect of me?”
“Oh, my child—”
“Stop!” lifting her head, and fixing her eyes upon the old woman; “no evasions; I want the plain truth. I have no money. My husband’s fortune I will never claim. I havetold you this; I repeat it. Sowhatdo you expect of me? Why was I not permitted to die in my delirium?”
Among her other talents, Mamma Francoise numbered that power, as useful off the stage as it is profitable behind the footlights—the power to play a part. And now, bringing this power into active use, she bowed her head upon her breast and sighed heavily.
“Ah, Leschen, you break my heart. We wanted you to live; we thought you had something to live for.”
The acting was excellent, but the words were ill-chosen.
“Something to live for!” Leslie’s hands met in a passionate clasp. “Something to live for! Right, woman; I have. Tell me, since you have brought me back to myself, how,howcan I ransom Daisy Warburton?”
Mamma’s time has come. Slowly she wipes away an imaginary tear, softly she draws her chair yet nearer Leslie, gently she begins.
“Leschen, my poor girl, don’t thinkusguilty of stealing your little one; don’t. When you came here that night, I thought you were wild. But now,—since you have been sick—something has happened.”
She paused to note the effect of her words, but Leslie sat quite still, with her hands tightly locked together.
“Something has happened?” she echoed coldly. “I felt sure it would; go on.”
“It isn’t what you think, my girl. We haven’t found your little dear; but there is a person—”
“Go on,” commanded Leslie: “straight to the point.Go on!”
“A person whomightfind the child, if—”
“If he or she were sufficiently rewarded,” supplied Leslie. “Quick; tell me, what must Daisy’s ransom be?”
Mamma’s pulse beats high, her breath comes fast and loud. It is not in her nature to trifle with words now. She leans forward and breathes one word into Leslie’s ear.
“Yourself.”
“Myself!” Leslie gasps and her brain reels. “Myself!” she controls her agitation, and asks fiercely: “Woman, what do you dare to say?”
“Only this,” Mamma continues, very firmly and with the tiger look dawning in her eye. “You have no money, but you have beauty, and that is much to a man. Will you marry the man who will find your little girl?”
In spite of her weakness, Leslie springs up and stands above Mamma, a fierce light blazing in her eyes.
“Woman,answer me!” she cries fiercely; “do you know where that child is?”
“I? Oh, no, my dear.”
“Is there another, a man, who knows?”
Slowly Mamma rises, and the two face each other with set features.
“There is a man,” says Mamma, swaying her body slightly as she speaks, and almost intoning her words—“There is a man who swears he can find the child, but he will not make any other terms than these. He will not see you at all until you have agreed to his demands. You will marry him, and sign a paper giving him a right to a portion of your fortune, in case you should make up your mind to claim it. You may leave him after the ceremony, if you will; you need not see him again; but you must swear never to betray him or us, and never to tell how you found the child.”
Into Leslie’s face creeps a look of intense loathing. All her courageous soul seems aroused into fearless action. Her scornful eyes fairly burn into the old woman’s face.
“So,” she says, low and slowly, “I have found you out at last.” And then the weak body refuses to support the dauntless spirit.
She sinks back upon her chair, her form shaking, her face ghastly, her hands falling weakly as they will. But as Mamma comes forward, the strong spirit for a moment masters the weak body.
“Don’t touch me,” she almost hisses, “or, weak as I am, I might murder you! wait.”
And Mamma stands aloof, waiting. Not while Leslie thinks—there is no confusion of mind—only until the bodily tremor ceases, until the nerves grow calmer, until she has herself once more under control. She does not attempt to rise again. She reclines in her easy chair, and looks at her adversary unflinchingly.
“At last,” she says, after favoring Mamma with a long look of scorn; “at last you show yourself in your true character. Your own hand pulls off your hypocrite’s mask. Woman, you were never so acceptable to me as at this moment. It simplifies everything.”
“You must not think—” begins Mamma. But Leslie checks her.
“Stop!” she says imperiously. “Don’t waste words. We have wasted too many, and too much time. I desire you to repeat your proposition, to name your terms again. No more whining, no more lies, if you want me to listen. You are my enemy; speak as my enemy. Once more, your terms for Daisy’s ransom.”
And Mamma, too wise to err in this particular, abandons herroleof injured affection. Dropping her mantle of hypocrisy, not without a sense of relief, she repeats her former proposal, clearly, curtly, brutally, leaving no room for doubt as to her precise meaning.
Leslie listens in cold silence and desperate calm. Then, as Mamma ceases, she sits, still calm, cold and silent, looking straight before her. At last she speaks.
“This person,” she says slowly; “this man who can find Daisy if he will—may I not see him?”
“When you have given your promise; not before.”
“He will accept no other terms?”
“Never.”
“And this transaction, this infamy—he leaves all details to you?”
“Just so.”
“Then there is no more to be said. I might hope for mercy from the beasts of the field, but not from you.”
“You consent?”
“If I refuse, what will be the consequences to Daisy?”
“You had better not refuse!” retorts Mamma, with a glare of rage.
Before Leslie’s mind comes the picture of little Daisy, and following it a panorama of horrors. Again she feels her strength deserting her.
“Wait,” she whispers with her last fragment of self-command. “Leave me to myself. Before sunset you shall have my answer.”
Further words are useless. Mamma, seeing this, turns slowly away, saying only, as she pauses at the door:
“Don’t waste your time;delays are dangerous.”
Left alone, Leslie Warburton faced her problem, and found herself mastered by it. She had believed herself already overwhelmed with misery—had fancied that in coming among these people who claimed her, she had taken the last step down into the valley of humiliation, of shame, of utter wretchedness. But they had shown her a lower depth still, and bidden her descend into it.
Should she obey them? Her pulses were throbbing violently, a fierce flame burned in either cheek, a shade of the old delirium lurked in her eye. Should she crown her list of miseries with this culminating horror? Why should she not? What had she to lose? She, who had already lost husband, home and happiness; she, who was already an outcast, accused of treachery, of child-stealing, of murder; she, who was only a waif at best, and who could claim no kindred unless she accepted those whose roof then sheltered her? What had she to lose? Only her life, and that must end soon. Why not make this last sacrifice, then let it end.
Her calmness, that before had been at best but the calmness of despair, had forsaken her; had changed to the recklessness of desperation. Faster and faster throbbed her pulses, hotter surged the blood through her fevered veins, wilder gleamed the light of her eyes.
Born of her weakness, her misery, her growing delirium,came a fierce, unreasoning rebellion; a longing to thrust upon the shoulders of Alan Warburton, who, more than any other, had been the cause of her present woe, a portion of this weight that dragged her down. Had she not suffered enough for the “Warburton honor?” Why not force him to tread with her this valley of humiliation?
Then followed other thoughts—better thoughts, humbler thoughts, but all morbid, all tinged by her half delirious fancy, all reckless of self.
And now every moment adds to her torture, increases the fever in her blood, the frenzy of her brain.
“Imustend it!” she cries wildly. “Imustsave Daisy! And after that what matter how my day goes out?”
She walks swiftly to the door and attempts to open it. Useless; it is fastened from the outer side. She seizes the handle and shakes it fiercely. It seems an hour, it is really a moment, when Mamma unlocks the door and appears before her.
“You—”
“I have decided,” breaks in Leslie. “I shall make the sacrifice.”
“You will marry this worthy man?”
“I will save Daisy from your clutches, and his.”
“In his own way?”
“In his own way, and yours. Let it be over as soon as possible. Where is this man?”
“Gently, gently; he is not far away.”
“So much the better. I cannot rest now till all is done. I must take Daisy back to her home; the rest is nothing.”
Mamma looks at her craftily.
“You agree toallthe terms?” she asks. “Will you swear to keep your word?”
“I will do anything, when I am assured that I shall have Daisy safely back.”
“Ah!” ejaculates Mamma, indulging in a long sigh of relieved anxiety, “I will go tell Franz. He is as anxious to have the business settled as you are.”
“Franz!”
“Yes; it is Franz that you will marry.”
“Franz!” the word comes in a breathless whisper. “Your son—the convict?”
“You needn’t put so much force upon that. Yes; Franzy’s the man.”
A new look dawns upon Leslie’s face. A new light gleams from her eyes. She presses her palms to her forehead, then slowly approaches Mamma, with the uncertain movements of one groping in the dark.
“You told—” she articulates, as if struggling for self-mastery. “Woman, you told me that Franz Francoise wasyourson.”
“So he is.Iain’t ashamed of him,” Mamma answers sullenly.
“Then,”—Leslie clutches at the nearest support and fairly gasps the words—“then—who am I?”
“Well, it can’t be kept back any longer, it seems. You are—”
“Not your child?” cries Leslie. “Not yours?”
“No; you ain’t ours by birth, but you’re ours by adoption. We’ve reared ye, and we’ve made ye what ye are.”
But Leslie pays no heed to this latter statement. She has fallen upon her knees with hands uplifted, and streaming eyes.
“Not her child; not hers! Oh, God, I thank thee! Oh, God, forgive me for what I was about to do!”
Long, shivering sighs follow this outburst; then moments of silence, during which Mamma stands irresolute, puzzled as to Leslie’s manner, uncertain how to act.
A sound behind her breaks the uncomfortable stillness, and Mamma turns quickly, to see Franz standing in the open doorway.
“Franz,—” begins the old woman.
The word arouses Leslie, she rises to her feet so swiftly, with such sudden strength of movement, and such a new light upon her face, that Mamma breaks off abruptly and stands staring from one to the other.
“Woman,” says Leslie slowly and with strange calm, “those are the first welcome words you ever uttered for my hearing. Say them again. Say that I am not your child.”
“I don’t see what it matters,” mutters Mamma sullenly. “You will be our’n fast enough when you’re married to Franz.”
“Eh!” Franz utters only this syllable, and advances step by step into the room.
A moment Leslie stands gazing from one to the other. Then her form grows more erect, the new hope brighter in her eyes, she seems growing stronger each moment.
“Half an hour ago,” she says, “I had not one thing to hope for, or to live for, save the restoration of Daisy Warburton, for I believed myself accursed. Rebel as my soul would, while your lips repeated your claim upon me I could not escape you. While you persisted in your lies, I was helpless. Now—”
Mamma’s hands work convulsively; her eyes glitter dangerously; she looks like a cat about to spring upon its prey. As Leslie pauses thus abruptly, her lips emit a sharp hiss,but before words can follow, a heavy hand grasps her arm.
“Go on,” says Franz coolly; “now?”
“Do you know the proposition that woman has just made me?” asks Leslie abruptly.
“‘Twon’t be good for her, if she has made ye a proposition I don’t know on,” says Franz grimly, and tightening his clutch upon Mamma’s arm. “An’ fer fear of any hocus-pocus, suppose you jest go over it fer my benefit.”
“She has told me that you can, if you will, restore Daisy Warburton to her home.”
“No? has she?”
“That you, and you only, know where to look for the child.”
“Umph!”
“And that you will restore the child only on one condition.”
“And wot’s that?”
“That I consent to marry you.”
“Wal,” says Franz, turning a facetious look upon Mamma, and giving her arm a gentle shake; “the old un may have trifled with the truth, here and there, but she’s right in the main. How did the proposition strike ye?”
Leslie turns from him and fixes her gaze upon the old woman.
“And this,” she says, “is the man you would mate me with! Woman, you have overreached yourself. Believing, or fearing, myself to beyourchild, I might have been driven to any act of desperation. You have lifted that burden of horror from off my heart. I amnotyour child! No blood of yours poisons my veins! Do you think in the moment when I find the taint removed, I would doubly defile myself by taking the step you have proposed? Never! Your power over me is gone!”
“Do ye mean,” queries Franz quite coolly, “that you won’t take up with the old woman’s bargain?”
“Shehasdone it!” cries Mamma fiercely. “She’s given her promise!”
“And I now retract it!”
“What!” Mamma suddenly wrenches herself free and springs toward Leslie. “You won’t marry Franz?”
“Never! The fear which has made me a coward is gone. I shall go back to my own. I will tell my story far and wide. I feared nothing so much as the shame of being pointed out as the child of such parents. You will not dare repeat that imposture; I defy you. As for little Daisy, I will find her; I will punish you—”
“You will find her!” Mamma’s voice is horrible in its hoarse rage. “Now mark my words: You willneverfind her. She will never see daylight again. As foryou, you will marry Franz Francoise to-morrow, or you will go out of this place between two officers, arrested as the murderess of Josef Siebel!”
It is more than she can bear. The strength born of her strong excitement deserts her. Mamma’s eyes burn into her own; she feels her hot, baleful breath upon her cheek; hears the horrible words hissed so close to her ear; and with a low moan falls forward, to be caught in the arms of Franz Francoise, where she lies pallid and senseless.
“Git out!” says Franz, as he lifts her and turns toward Mamma. “You’ve done it now, you old cat. Let me lay her down.”
He carries Leslie to the bed, and places her upon it so gently that Mamma sneers and glares upon him scornfully.
“Ye’re a fool, Franz Francoise.”