Anger gave Mr. Leeson a false strength. He put the canvas bags of gold
into a large cupboard in the parlor; he locked the door and put the key
into his pocket. Then he went gingerly and on tiptoe to another
cupboard, and took down out of the midst of an array of dirty empty
bottles one which contained a very little brandy. He kept this brandy
here so that no one should guess at its existence. He poured himself out
about a thimbleful of the potent spirit and drank it off. He then
returned the bottle to its place, and fumbling in a lower shelf,
collected some implements together. With these he went out into the open
air.
He now approached the window where the light shone--the faint, dim light
which flickered against the blind and seemed almost to go out, and then
shone once more. Slowly and dexterously he cut, with a diamond which he
had brought for the purpose, a square of glass out of the lower pane. He
put the glass on the ground, and slipping in his hand, pushed back the
bolt. All his movements were quiet. He said "Ah!" once or twice under
his breath. When he had gently and very softly lifted the sash, he took
a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped away some drops which stood on
his forehead. Then he said "Ah!" once more, and slipped softly, deftly,
and quietly into the room. He had made no noise whatsoever. The young
sleepers never moved. He stood in the fire-lit, and in his opinion
lavishly furnished, room. Here was a small white bed and an occupant;
here a larger bed and another occupant. He crept on tiptoe towards the
two beds. He bent down over the little occupant of the smaller bed.
A girl--a stranger! A girl with long, fair hair, and light lashes lying
on a white cheek. A curious-looking girl! She moaned once or twice in
her sleep. He did not want to awaken her.
He looked towards the other bed, in which lay Sylvia, pretty, debonair,
rosy in her happy, warm slumber. She had flung one arm outside the
counterpane. Her lips parted; she uttered the words:
"Darling father! Poor, poor father!"
The man who listened started back as though something had struck him.
Sylvia in that bed--Sylvia who had spoken to him not two hours ago
up-stairs? What did it mean? What could it mean? And who was this
stranger? And what did the fire mean, and all the furniture? A carpet on
the floor, too! A carpet on his floor--his! And a fire which he had never
warranted in his grate, and beds which he had never ordered in his room!
Oh! was it not enough to strike a man mad with fury? And yet again! what
was this? A table and the remains of supper! Good living, warmth,
luxuries, under the roof of the man who was fireless and cold and, as he
himself fondly and foolishly believed, a beggar!
He stood absolutely dumb. He would not awaken the sleepers. A strange
sensation visited him. He was determined not to give way to his
passions; he was determined, before he said a word to Sylvia, to regain
his self-control.
"Once I said bitter things to her mother; I will not err in that
direction any more," he said to himself. "And in her sleep she called me
'Father' and 'Poor father.' But all the same I shall cast her away. She
is no longer my Sylvia. I disown her; I disinherit her. She goes out
into the cold. She is ruining her father. She has deceived me; she shall
never be anything to me again. Paw! how I hate her!"
He went to the window, got out just as he had got in, drew down the
sash, and stepped softly across the dark lawn.
He was very cold now, and he felt faint; the effect of the tiny supply
of brandy which he had administered to himself had worn off. He went
into his desolate parlor. How cold it was! He thought of the big fire in
the bedroom which he had left. How poor and desolate was this room by
contrast! What a miserable bed he reposed on at night--absolutely not
enough blankets--but Sylvia lay like a bird in its nest, so warm, so
snug! Oh! how bad she was!
"Her mother was never as bad as that," he muttered to himself. "She was
extravagant, but she was not like Sylvia. She never willingly deceived
me. Sylvia to have a strange and unknown girl--a stranger--in the house!
All my suspicions are verified. My doubts are certainties. God help me!
I am a miserable old man."
He cowered down, and the icy cold of the room struck through his bones.
He looked at the grate, and observed that a fire had been laid there.
"Sylvia did that," he said to himself. "The little minx did not like to
feel that she was so warm and I so cold, so she laid the fire; she
thought that I would indulge myself. I! But am I not suffering for her?
While she lies in the lap of luxury I die of cold and hunger, and all
for her. But I will do it no longer. I will light the fire; I will have
a feast; I will eat and drink and be merry, and forget that I had a
daughter."
So the unfortunate man, half-mad with bewilderment and the grief of his
recent losses, lit a blazing fire, and going to his cupboard, took out
his brandy and drank what was left in the bottle. He was warm now, and
his pulse beat more quickly. He remembered his six bags of gold, and the
other six bags in the garden, and he resolved that if necessary he would
fly without Sylvia. Sylvia could stay behind. If she managed to have
such luxuries without his aid, she could go on having them; he would
leave her a trifle--yes, a trifle--and save the rest for himself, and be
no longer tortured by an unworthy and deceitful daughter. But as he
thought these things he became more and more puzzled. The Sylvia lying
on that bed was undoubtedly his daughter; but his daughter had spoken to
him from her own room at a reasonable hour--between ten and eleven
o'clock--that same night. How could there be two Sylvias?
"The mystery thickens," he muttered to himself. "This is more than I can
stand. I will ferret the thing out--yes, and to the very bottom. Those
trunks in the attic! I suppose they belong to that ugly child. That
voice in Sylvia's room! Well, of course it was Sylvia's voice; but what
about the other Sylvia down-stairs? I must see into this matter without
delay."
He went up-stairs and found himself outside Sylvia's door. He turned the
handle, but it was locked. There was a light in the room, doubtless
caused by another fire. He looked through the keyhole; the door was
locked from within, for the key was in the lock.
More and more remarkable! How could Sylvia lock the door from within if
she was not in the room? Really the matter was enough to daze any man.
Suddenly he made up his mind. It was now five o'clock in the morning; in
a short time the day would break. Sylvia was an early riser. If Sylvia
or any one else was in that room he would wait on the threshold to
confront that person. Oh, of course it was Sylvia; she had slipped back
again and was in bed, and thought he would never discover her. How
astonished she would be when she saw him seated outside her door!
So Mr. Leeson fetched a broken-down chair from his own bedroom, placed
it softly just outside the door of the room where Jasper was reposing,
and prepared himself to watch. He was far too excited to sleep, and the
hours dragged slowly on. There was an old eight-day clock in the hall,
and it struck solemnly hour after hour. Six o'clock--seven o'clock.
Sylvia rose soon after seven. He waited now impatiently. The days were
beginning to lengthen, and it was light--not full daylight, but nearly
so. He heard a stir in the room.
"Ha, ha, Miss Sylvia!" he said to himself, "I shall catch you, take you
by the hand, bring you down to my parlor, tell you exactly what I think
of----Hullo! she is making a good deal of noise. How strong she is! How
she bounded out of bed!"
He listened impatiently. His heart warmed now to the work which lay
before him. He was, on the whole, enjoying himself at the thought of
discovering to Sylvia how black he thought her iniquities.
"No child of my own any more!" he said to himself. "'Poor father,'
indeed! 'Darling father, forsooth!' No, no, Sylvia; acts speak louder
than words, and you were convicted out of your own mouth, my daughter."
Jasper dressed with despatch. She washed; she arranged her toilet. She
came to the door; she opened it. Mr. Leeson looked up.
Jasper fell back.
"Merciful heavens!" cried the woman; and then Mr. Leeson grasped her
hand and dragged her out of the room.
"Who are you, woman?" he said. "How dare you come into my house? What
are you doing in my daughter's room?"
"Ah, Mr. Leeson," said Jasper quietly, "discovered at last. Well, sir,
and I am not sorry."
"But who are you? What are you? What are you doing in my daughter's
room?"
"Will you come down to the parlor with me, Mr. Leeson, or shall I
explain here?"
"You do not stir a step from this place until you tell me."
"Then I will, sir--I will. I have been living in this house for the last
six weeks. During that time I have paid Miss Sylvia, and she has had
money enough to keep the breath of life within her. Be thankful that I
came, Mr. Leeson, for you owe me much, and I owe you nothing. Ah! do you
recognize me now? The gipsy--forsooth!--the gipsy who gave you a recipe
for making the old hen tender! Ha, ha! I laugh as I thought never to
laugh again when I recall that day."
Mr. Leeson stood cold and white, looking full at Jasper. Suddenly a
great dizziness took possession of him; he stretched out his hand
wildly.
"There is something wrong with me," he said. "I don't think I am well."
"Poor old gentleman!" said Jasper--"no wonder!" and her voice became
mild. "The shock of it all, and the confusion! Sakes alive! I am not
going to take you into that icy bedroom of yours. Lean on me. There now,
sir. You have not lost a penny by me; you have saved, on the contrary,
and I have kept your daughter alive, and I have given you the best food,
made out of the tenderest chickens, out of my own money, mark you--out of
my own money--for weeks and weeks. Come down-stairs, sir; come and I will
get you a bit of breakfast."
"I--cannot--see," muttered Mr. Leeson again.
"Well then, sir, I suppose you can feel. Anyhow, here is a good, strong
right arm. Lean on it--all your weight if you like. Now then, we will get
down-stairs."
Mr. Leeson was past resistance. Jasper pulled his shaky old hand through
her arm, and half-carried, half-dragged him down to the parlor. There
she put him in a big armchair near the fire, and was bustling out of the
room to get breakfast when he called her back.
"So you really are the woman who had the recipe for making old hens
tender?"
"Bless you, Mr. Leeson!--bless you!--yes, I am the woman."
"You will let me buy it from you?"
"Certainly--yes," replied Jasper, not quite knowing whether to laugh or
to cry. "But I am going to get you some breakfast now."
"And who is the other girl?"
"Does he know about her too?" thought Jasper. "What can have happened in
the night?"
"If you mean my dear little Miss Eve, why, no one has a better right to
be here, for she belongs to me and I pay for her--yes, every penny; and,
for the matter of that, she only came last night. But do not fash
yourself now, my good sir; you are past thought, I take it, and you want
a hearty meal."
Jasper bustled away; Mr. Leeson lay back in his chair. Was the world
turning upside down? What had happened? Oh, if only he could feel well!
If only that giddiness would leave him! What was the matter? He had been
so well and so fierce and so strong a few hours ago, and now--now even
his anger was slipping away from him. He had felt quite comforted when
he leaned on Jasper's strong arm; and when she pushed him into the
armchair and wrapped an old blanket round him, he had enjoyed it rather
than otherwise. Oh! he ought to be nearly mad with rage; and yet
somehow--somehow he was not.