CHAPTER LV.
THE LAST MOMENT.
At two P. M. of the same day, the day that witnessed Alan Warburton'sreturn to his own, and the Chief's perplexity, there is an ominousstillness brooding about the Francoise dwelling.
In the outer room, Papa Francoise is alone, and, if one may judge fromhis restlessness, not much relishing his solitude.
The room is cleaner than usual. All about it an awkward attempt attidiness is visible. Papa, too, is less unkempt than common, seeming tohave made a stout effort at old-time respectability. But he cannotassume a virtuous and respectable calm, a comfortable repose.
He goes to the window and peers anxiously into the street. Sometimes heopens the outer door, and thrusts his head half out to gaze along thethoroughfare cityward. And then he goes across the room, and opens thedoor of a big dingy closet: looks within, closes the door quietly, andtiptoes back to the window.
There is nothing remarkable in that closet. It is dark and dirty. A fewshabby garments are hanging on the wall, and a pallet occupies thefloor, looking as if it had been carelessly flung there and not yetprepared for its occupant.
Papa seems to note this. Stooping down, he smoothens out the raggedblanket and straightens the dirty mattress, cocking his head on one sideto note the improvement thus made. Then he goes back to the window, andagain looks out. With every passing moment he grows more and moredisquieted.
* * * * *
In the inner room, Leslie Warburton sits alone. Her arms are crossedupon the rough table beside her; her head is bowed upon her arms; herattitude betokens weariness and dejection. By and by she lifts her face,and it is very pale, very sad, very weary. But above all, it is verycalm.
Since the day when Stanhope's message brought her new hope, she hasplayed her part bravely. Weak in body, harassed in mind, filled withconstantly-increasing loathing for the people who are her onlycompanions, utterly unable to guess at the meaning of Stanhope'smessage--she has battled with illness, and fought off despair, fullyrealizing that in him was her last hope, her only chance for succor; andfully resolved to cling to this last hope, and to aid her helper in theonly way she could--by doing his bidding.
"Seem to submit," he said. She had submitted. "Let them play their gameto the very last." She had made no resistance.
And now the end had come. She had obeyed in all things. And to-day theFrancoises were jubilant. To-day Leslie Warburton, by her own consent,was to marry Franz Francoise.
It was the last day, the last hour; and Leslie's strength and courageare sorely tried.
"Trust all to me," he had said. "When the right time comes, I will be athand."
Leslie arose, and paced slowly up and down her narrow room, feeling herheart almost stop its beating. Had she not trusted to him? trustedblindly; and now--had not the right time come? Was it not the only time?And where was Stanhope? "If he should fail me!" she moaned, "if heshould fail me after all!"
And her heart leaps suddenly; its tumultuous throbbings nearly suffocateher. She sits down again and her breath comes hard and fast.
"If he should fail me," she says again, "then--that would be the end."
For she has made a fearful resolve. She would play her part, as it wasthe only way. _She_ would not fail in the task he had assigned her, andif, at the last, _he_ failed, then--before she became the wife of FranzFrancoise, she would die!
And Daisy--what, then, would become of her?
Leslie puts back the thought with a passionate moan. She must not thinknow.
Mamma has sworn to produce the child within the hour that sees Lesliethe wife of Franz. And Leslie has vowed, when the child's hand is inhers, to sign a paper which Mamma shall place before her--anything; shecares not what.
She has agreed to all this, suffered her martyrdom, sustained by thepromise: "At the right time I shall be at hand. I will not fail you."
And the last moments are passing.
She can hear Papa shuffling about the outer room, and she knows thatFranz has gone to bring the Priest. The right time is very near; butStanhope--
She has not seen Mamma since morning. She has not heard her raspingvoice, nor her heavy step in the outer room. But the minutes are goingfast; Franz will be back soon.
And Stanhope--O, God, _where_ is Stanhope?
Again she bows her head upon her arms and utters a low moan.
"Oh, if he should fail me! If he _should_ fail me!"
In the outer room, Papa's restlessness increases. He vibrates constantlynow between the window and the door.
The curtain is drawn up to the low ceiling; the entire window is bareand stares out upon the street like a watchful eye.
And now Papa turns suddenly from the door, closes it, and hastens to thewindow; looks out once again to reassure himself, and then, rising ontiptoe, draws down the dark curtain. He measures the window with aglance, lowering the curtain slowly and stopping it half way down.
It is a signal, prearranged by Mamma, and it tells that approachingpersonage that the way is clear, that Franz is absent.
"Again she bows her head upon her arms and utters a lowmoan."--page 398.]
Another moment of waiting and he hears shuffling footsteps, and thesound of receding wheels. Then he opens the door, opens it wide thistime, and admits Mamma.
Mamma, and something else. This something she carries in her arms. It iscarefully wrapped in a huge shawl, and is quite silent and moveless.
"You are sure it's all right?" whispers Papa nervously, as in obedienceto a movement of Mamma's head he opens the closet-door.
Mamma lays down her still burden, covers it carefully with the raggedblanket, closes the door of the closet, and then turns to face Papa.
"Yes," she says, in a hoarse whisper; "my part of the business is rightenough. Ye needn't be uneasy about that. I told ye I wouldn't bring herinto the house while Franz was here; and as for my being followed, Iain't afraid; I've doubled on my track too often. If any one started tofollow me, they're watching the wrong door this minute. How long hasFranz been away?"
"Not half an hour."
"How's _she_ been behaving?"
"Quiet; very quiet."
Mamma seats herself, removes her hideous bonnet, and draws a heavybreath.
"Well, I've done my part," she says grimly. "Now, let Franzy do his'n."
She goes to a shelf, takes therefrom a bottle of ink and a rusty pen.
"I wish,"--she begins, then pauses and slowly draws a folded paper fromher pocket; "I wish we could git this signed _first_."
Papa coughs slightly, and turns an anxious look toward the door.
"I'm afraid it wouldn't be safe," he says. Then he starts and turnstoward the closet. "You're sure she won't wake up?" he whispers.
Mamma turns upon him angrily.
"D'ye s'pose I'd run any risk now?" she hisses. "She's got a powerfuldose of Nance's quietin' stuff. Don't you be afeared about _her_. All wewant is to git this business over, and that little paper signed."
"I'm dreadful uneasy," sighs Papa. "I wish I was sure how this thingwould come out."
"Wall, I kin tell ye. When the gal gits hold of her little one, she'llturn her back on us all. Married or not, she'll never own Franzy. And Idon't s'pose the boy'll care much; it's the money he's after. She'llgive him _that_ fast enough, and he'll always know where to look formore. As for us, this marrying makes us safe. She'd die before she'dhave it known, and she can't make us any trouble without its coming out.She'll be glad to take her young un, and let us alone. Don't you seethat even after she's got the young un, we shall have her in a tightergrip than ever, once she's married to Franzy? As fer the paper she's tosign, it won't hold good in law, but it will hold with _her_. And shewon't go to a lawyer with it; be sure of that."
"Hark!" ejaculates Papa.
And in another instant, there is a stumbling step outside, and a heavythump upon the door.
"It's Franz," whispers Mamma. And she hastens to admit her Prodigal.
&n
bsp; As he enters, Mamma's sharp eye notes his flushed face and exaggeratedswagger, and she greets him with an indignant sniff.
"Couldn't ye keep sober jist once?" she grumbles, as he pauses beforeher. "Where's the Preach?"
"Oh, I'm sober enough," grins Franz. "And the Preach is coming. He'sbringin' a witness."
Papa and Mamma exchange swift glances. Franz, sober, is not the mostagreeable and dutiful of sons; Franz, in liquor, is liable to suddenviolent outbreaks, if not delicately handled.
Papa makes a signal which Mamma interprets: "Don't irritate him." Andthe two continue to eye him anxiously as he crosses the room andattempts to open the door of the inner apartment.
"Locked!" he mutters, and turns toward Mamma. "Out with your key, oldun," he says quite amiably; "the Preach 'ull be here in five minutes,and what ye've got to say, all round, had better be said afore he comes.Open this."
"The boy's right enough," mutters Papa. "Open the door, old woman."
Silently Mamma obeys, and Franz is the first to enter the room. He goesstraight over to the table where Leslie sits, scarcely stirring at theirentrance, and he looks down at her intently.
"See here, Leschen," he says, "don't think that this lockin' ye in is mydoin's, or that it's goin' to be continued. It's the old woman as istakin' such precious care of ye."
Mamma is at his elbow, glancing sharply at him, while she places uponthe table pen, ink, and a folded paper.
"We've kept our word, gal," she says harshly, "and we know that afterto-day ye may take some queer fancies. Now, this paper is ter signifythat we have acted fairly by ye, and ter bind ye not ter make us anytrouble hereafter."
Leslie's eyes rove slowly from one to the other. She feels that the endhas come, and with the last remnant of her courage she keeps back thedespairing cry that rises to her lips.
As she gazes, Franz Francoise makes a sudden movement as if to snatch upthe paper, then as suddenly withdraws his hand.
"Wot's in that paper?" he asks, turning to Mamma.
"Ye know well enough," retorts the old woman tartly. "We've promised herthe gal, and she's promised not to inform agin us. We're goin' to stickto our bargain, and we want her to stick to hers."
And she pushes the pen and ink toward Leslie. But the latter does notheed the motion.
"Oh," she cries, half rising and clasping her hands in intense appeal,"is it true? Is she indeed so near me? Shall I have her back?"
"Yes, yes." Mamma grows impatient, "Sign this and then--"
Franz leans forward and puts one finger upon the folded paper.
"Once agin," says he sharply, "what's that?"
"It's a simple little paper, Franzy," breaks in Papa reassuringly, "jestto 'stablish our innocence, in case your new wife should happen toforgit her promise. It's nothing that'll affect you."
"Umph," grunts Franz, eyeing the pair suspiciously, "that's it, is it."Then, turning to Leslie: "Read that paper, gal."
But Papa puts out his hand.
"It's only a little form, my dear boy."
"Wal," with growing aggressiveness, "let her read the little form."
"It's only a waste o' time," breaks in Mamma impatiently, "an' thesooner it's signed, the sooner she'll--"
"Only a waste of time." The words awaken Leslie's almost benumbedsenses. Time; that is just what this discussion is gaining for her, forStanhope! Since their entrance, she has not opened her lips; now sheinterrupts Mamma's discourse.
"Let me read the paper," she says.
By a quick movement, Papa extracts the paper from beneath the finger ofhis Prodigal, and holding it tightly, steps back from the table.
"It's wasting time," he says, "an' it's only a little form."
Then Leslie draws herself up to her fullest height, and stepping backfrom the table says:
"I will sign no paper that I have not read."
With a sudden movement Franz springs upon Papa, wrests the paper fromhis grasp, and passes it over Mamma's shoulder to Leslie. Then he turnsfiercely upon the pair.
"If ye could read, Franz Francoise," shrieks Mamma, in a burst ofincautious rage, "ye'd never a-done that thing!"
"Kerrect!" retorts Franz, with a malicious grin, "I'd a-read it myself.Not bein' able to do that, I'd sooner take her word fer it than your'n."
Again Papa comes forward and lays a hand upon the arm of his son.
"Franzy," he says deprecatingly, "ye don't know what ye are doin'."
"Don't I?" sneers Franz. "Wal I'm goin' ter find out shortly."
A sudden exclamation from Leslie causes him to turn quickly. She isgazing at the paper with a bewildered face.
"What is it?" he asked peremptorily.
"This paper," exclaims Leslie, "would bind me to make over one third ofany property I am or may become possessed of to those two and--"
"What!" Again Franz makes a movement as if about to seize the paper,then, dropping his hand, he repeats: "To those two?" pointing to Papaand Mamma; "and don't it make no mention o' _me_?"
"Now Franz--" remonstrates Mamma.
"You shut up! Say, gal, does that document leave _me_ out?"
Leslie's eyes scan the page. "It does not name you," she falters.
"Oh, it don't! Wal," stepping to her side and taking the paper from her,"wal, then, we won't sign it."
As he crumples it in his hand, Leslie moves toward Mamma Francoise,seeming in one moment to have mastered all her fears.
"This paper," she says, turning her clear eyes upon Mamma, "confirmswhat I have suspected, ever since you proposed this marriage with yourson, as the price of little Daisy's deliverance. You know the secret ofmy birth and believe me to be an heiress. You stole little Daisy tocompel me to _this_,"--pointing at the paper in the hand of Franz--"andsince your son has returned, you would strengthen your own positionwhile you enrich him. It was a clever plot, but overdone. Give me thepen, give me the paper. Rather than leave little Daisy longer at yourmercy, I would resign to you an hundred fortunes were they mine."
She moves toward the table, but Franz is before her.
"Oh, no!" he says, quietly; "I guess not! I don't seem to cut much of afigure in that little transaction on paper, but I'm blessed if I don'thold my own in this business. Ye can't sign that paper; not yet."
Leslie turns from him and again addresses Mamma.
"Listen to me," she says. "I know your scheme now, and I know how todeal with you. I never meant to marry this man. I never will. You wantmoney; give me back little Daisy, and I will sign this paper, or anyother you may frame. And I will swear never to complain against you,never to molest you, never to reveal the secret of these awful weeks.There let it end: I will _never_ marry your son!"
With a sudden motion, Mamma turns upon Franz, and attempts to snatch thepaper from his hand.
"Give me that paper, boy!" she fairly hisses.
But he repulses her savagely, and thrusts the paper into his breast.
"Take care, old woman!" he exclaims hotly. "I ain't your son fornothing; what do ye take me for?"
His words are interrupted by a loud knock on the door.
"Do ye hear that?" he hisses. "Now, that parson's coming in to finishthis marryin' business, or I'm goin' right out of here, and the galalong with me, if I have to cut my way straight through ye! The gal cansign the paper if she likes, but she'll sign it Leschen Francoise, orshe'll never sign it at all!"
And before they can guess his intentions, he has caught Leslie up andfairly carried her to the outer room. In a flutter of fear and rage,Mamma follows, and Papa hovers in the open doorway.
"Franz Francoise!" shrieks Mamma, the tiger now fairly awake in hereyes.
"Give me that paper, boy!" she fairly hisses.--page406.]
But he pays no heed to her rage. He releases his hold upon Leslie, andflings open the door.
"I don't know as we will have any funeral, after all," he sayscheerfully, to the two who enter. "There's a kind of a hitch in thearrangements."
The new-comers, the foremost in the
garb of a Priest, and the otherevidently a very humble citizen, stop near the open door and glancecuriously around. And then a third citizen appears, and fairly fills upthe doorway.
Even as they enter, Mamma, stealing close to Leslie, whispers in herear:
"If ye ever want to see yer gal agin, _marry him_."
Leslie Warburton looks into the wolfish face beside her; looks across atFranz, and then at the three new-comers. What stolid faces! She sees nohope there. And then, as Mamma's words repeat themselves in her ear, sheleans against the rickety closet-door and utters a despairing moan.
"Quick!" whispers Mamma, "it's yer last chance!"