Dangerous Ground Part 56

And Mamma, seeing the look on her face, regrets, for the once, the presence of her beloved Prodigal.

But Franz has quite recovered himself, and moving a trifle nearer the group by the door, he mutters, seemingly for his own benefit, "well, this let's me out!"

Hearing which, Mamma glances from Franz to Leslie, and spreading out her two bony palms in a sort of "bless-you-my-children" gesture, says theatrically:

"Ah-h, you were too young to remember each other; at least _you_ were too young to remember Franzy. But _he_ don't forget you; do you, Franzy, my boy? You don't forget Leschen--little Leschen?"

"Don't I though?" mutters Franz under his breath, and then he moves forward with an unsteady lurch, saying aloud: "Eh? oh, Leschen: little Leschen. Why in course I--I remember."

"Ah!" cries Mamma with enthusiasm, "many's the time you've rocked her, when she wasn't two years old."

"Franzy was allers good 'bout sech things," chimes in Papa.

"Umph!" grunts Franz, turning to Papa, "where's she been?"

"My boy," replies Papa impressively, "Leschen's been living like a lady ever since she was adopted away from us. Of course you can't remember each other much, but ye ort to be civil to yer sister."

"That's a fact," a.s.sents Franz, coming quite close to Leslie. "Say, Leschen, don't ye be afraid o' me; I kin see that ye don't like my looks much. Say, can't ye remember me at all?"

A full moment Leslie scans him from head to foot, with a look of proud disdain. Then turning towards Mamma, she says bitterly:

"I am more fortunate than I hoped to be."

"Ain't ye, now?" chimes in Franz cheerfully. "Say, ye look awful peaked." And he hastens to fetch a chair, his feet almost tripping in the act. "There," he says, placing it beside her, "sit down, do, an'

tell us the news."

She sinks wearily upon the proffered seat, and again turns her face toward Mamma.

"Yes," she says coldly, "let me tell my news, since this is a _family_ gathering. You have deplored my loss so often that I have returned. I have come to live with you."

The consternation that sits upon two of three faces turned toward her, is indeed ludicrous, and Franz Francoise utters an audible chuckle. Then the elders find their tongues.

"Ah," groans Papa, "she's jokin' at the poor old folks."

"Ah," sighs Mamma, "there's no such luck for poor people."

"Rea.s.sure yourselves," says Leslie calmly. "I have given you all my money; my husband is dead; my little step-daughter has been stolen, or worse, and I have been accused of the crime."

She pauses to note the effect of her words, but strangely enough, Franz Francoise is the only one who gives the least sign of surprise.

"I am disinherited," continues Leslie, "cast out from my home, friendless and penniless. You have claimed me as your child, and I have come to you."

Still she is closely studying the faces of the elder Francoises, and she does not note the intent eyes that are, in turn, studying her own countenance: the eyes of Franz Francoise.

The two old plotters look at each other, and then turn away. Rage, chagrin, baffled expectation, speak in the looks they interchange. Franz is the first to relapse into indifference and stolidity.

"But, my girl," Papa begins, excitedly, "this can't be! You are a widow--ah, yes, poor child, we know that. But, my dear, a widow has rights. The law, my child, the law--"

"You mistake," says Leslie coldly, "the law will do nothing for me."

"But it must," argues Papa. "They can't keep you out o' your rights. The law--"

Leslie rises and turns to face him, cutting short his speech by a gesture.

"There is a higher law than that made by man," she says sternly; "the law that G.o.d has implanted in heart and conscience. That law bids me renounce all claims to my husband's wealth. Understand this: I am penniless. There is but one thing that could induce me to claim and use what the law will give me."

"And what is that?" asks Papa, in a wheedling tone, while Mamma catches her breath to listen.

"That," says Leslie slowly, "is the restoration of little Daisy Warburton."

CHAPTER XLII.

AN AFFECTIONATE FAMILY.

A sudden silence has fallen upon the group, and as Leslie's clear, sad eyes rest upon first one face and then the other, Papa begins to fidget nervously.

"Oh, yes," he sighs, "we heard about that."

And then Mamma comes nearer, saying in a cat-like, purring tone: "The poor little dear! And you can't find her?"

As she speaks, Franz Francoise shifts his position carelessly, placing himself where he can note the expressions of the two old faces.

But Leslie's enforced calmness is fast deserting her.

"Woman!" she cries pa.s.sionately, "drop your mask of hypocrisy! Let us understand each other. I believe that you were in my house on the night of that wretched masquerade. I have reasons for so believing. Ah, I recall many words that have fallen from your lips, now that it is too late; words that condemn you. You believed that with Daisy removed, I would become my husband's sole heiress; and you knew that at best his life would be short. The more the money in my possession, the more you could extort from me. But I can thwart you here, and I will. You never reckoned upon my throwing away my claim to wealth, for you were never human; you never loved anything but money, or you would have pity on that poor little child. Give me back little Daisy, and every dollar I can claim shall become yours!"

Oh, the greed, the avarice, that shines from Mamma's eyes! But Papa makes her a sign, and she remains silent, while he says, with his best imitation of gentleness:

"But, my child; but, Leschen, how can _we_ find the little girl?"

Leslie turns upon him a look of contempt, and then a swift spasm of fear crosses her face.

"Oh," she cries, clasping her hands wildly, "surely, _surely_ you have not killed her!"

And now Mamma has resumed her mask. "My child," she says, coming close to Leslie, "you're excited. We don't know where to find that child. What can _we_ do?"

Back to Leslie's face comes that look of set calm, and she sinks upon the chair she had lately occupied.

"Do your worst!" she says between tightly clenched teeth. "You know that I do not, that I never shall, believe you. You say you are my mother,"

flashing two blazing eyes upon Mamma, "take care of your child, then.

Make of me a rag-picker, if you like. Henceforth I am nothing, n.o.body, save the daughter of the Francoises!"

Again, for a moment, the faces that regard her present a study. And this time it is Franz who is the first to speak, Coming forward somewhat unsteadily, he doffs his ragged old cap, and extends to her a hand not overclean.