LESLIE GOES "HOME."
While Alan and Winnie, protected by their temporary armistice, were
hurrying toward the modest abode of Mrs. French, each intent upon
solving as soon as possible the riddle of Leslie's flight, the
Francoises were holding high council in the kitchen of their most recent
habitation.
In all the lists of professional criminals, there were not two who had
been, from their very earliest adventure, more successful in evading the
police than Papa and Mamma Francoise.
Papa, although in the face of actual, present danger he was the greater
coward of the two, possessed a rare talent for scheming, and laying
cunning plans to baffle the too curious. And Mamma's executive ability
was very strong, of its kind. In the face of danger, Mamma's furious
temper and animal courage stood them in good stead. When a new scheme
was on foot, Papa took the lead.
As for Franz, he, as we have seen, had not been so successful in evading
the representatives of law and order. And he had returned, having
escaped from durance vile, bringing with him a strangely developed stock
of his Mother's fierceness and his Father's cunning.
It was a part of Papa's policy to be, at all times, provided with a
"retreat." Not content with an abiding-place for the present, the pair
had always, somewhere within an easy distance from their present abode,
a second haven, fitted with the commonest necessaries of life, but
seldom anything more, and always ready to receive them. Hence, in
fleeing from the scene of the Siebel affray, they had gone to the attic
which stood ready to shelter them, where they had been traced by Vernet,
and followed by Franz. And on the night when they had left Van Vernet to
a fiery death, they had flown straight to another ready refuge.
This time it was a cottage, old and shabby, but in a respectable quarter
on the remotest outskirts of the city. This cottage, like the B--street
tenement, stood quite isolated from its neighbors, for it was one of
Papa's fine points to choose ever a solitary location, or else lose
himself in a locality where humanity swarmed thickest, and where each
was too eager in his own struggle for existence to be anxious or curious
about the affairs of his neighbors.
This cottage, then, was shabby enough, but not so shabby as their
former dwelling, either within or without. Neither did Papa and Mamma
present quite so uncanny an appearance as before. They were somewhat
cleaner, a trifle better clad, and somewhat changed in their general
aspect, for here they were presuming themselves to be "poor but honest"
working people, like their neighbors.
In this pretence they were ably supported by Franz, when he was sober.
And drunkenness not being strictly confined to the wealthier classes, he
cast no discredit upon the honesty of his parents by being frequently
drunk.
Papa and Mamma were regaling themselves with a late supper, consisting
principally of beer and "Dutch bread," and as usual, when _tête-à-tête_,
they were engaged in a lively discussion.
"I don't like the way that boy goes on," remarks Mamma, as she cuts for
herself a slice of the bread.
Papa sets down his empty beer glass, and tilts back his chair.
"Don't ye?" he queries carelessly.
"No, I don't," retorts Mamma with increasing energy. "He's getting too
reckless, and he swigs too much."
"_That's_ a fact," murmurs Papa, glancing affectionately at the beer
pitcher.
"He'd ought ter lay low for a good while yet," goes on Mamma, "instead
of prowling off at all hours of the day and night. Why, he's gone more'n
he's here."
Papa Francoise brought his chair back into regular position with a slow
movement, and leaning his two elbows upon the table, leered across at
Mamma.
"Look here, old un," he said slowly, "that fellow's just knocked off
eight or ten years in limbo, and don't you s'pose he prizes his
liberty? If he can't keep clear o' cops and beaks after _his_
experience, he ain't no son of mine. Don't you worry about our Franzy;
he's got more brains than you an' me put together. I'm blest if I know
how he come by such a stock. I'm beginning to take pride in the lad."
"Well," rejoins Mamma viciously, "he ain't much like _you_; if he was,
there wouldn't be so much to be proud of."
"That's a fact," assented Papa cheerfully. "He ain't like me; he sort o'
generally resembles both of us. And I'm blest if he ain't better lookin'
than we two together."
"Franzy's changed," sighs Mamma; "he ain't the same boy he uste to be.
If it wa'n't fer his drinkin' and swearin', I wouldn't hardly know him."
"Course not; nor ye didn't know him till he interduced himself. No more
did I. When a feller gets sent up fer fifteen years, and spends ten out
of the fifteen tryin' to contrive a way to get back to his old Pappy and
Mammy, it's apt to change him some. Franzy's improved, he is. He's cut
some eye-teeth. Ah, what a help he'd be, if I could only git past these
snags and back to my old business!"
"Yes," sighed Mamma, and then suddenly suspended her speech as a lively,
and not unmusical, whistle sounded near at hand.
"That's him," she said, pushing back her chair and rising. "He seems to
be comin' good-natured." And she hastened to admit the Prodigal, who, if
he had returned in good spirits, had not brought them all on the
outside, for as he entered the room with a cheerful smirk and unsteady
step, Papa murmured aside:
"Our dear boy's drunk agin."
Unmindful of Mamma's anxious questions concerning his whereabouts,
Franzy took the chair she had just vacated, and began a survey of the
table.
"Beer!" he said contemptuously. "I wouldn't drink beer, not--"
"Not when you have drank too much fire-water already, Franzy,"
supplemented Papa, with a grin, at the same time drawing the pitcher
nearer to himself. "No, my boy, I wouldn't if--if I were you."
Franz utters a half maudlin laugh, and turns to the old woman.
"Is this all yer eatables?" he asks thickly. "Bring us somethin' else."
"Yes," chimes in Papa, "Franzy's used ter first-class fare, old un;
bring him something good."
Mamma moves about, placing before her Prodigal the best food at hand,
and presently the three are gathered about the table again, a very
social family group.
But by-and-by Mamma's quick ear catches a sound outside.
"Some one's coming," she says in a sharp whisper. "I wonder--"
She stops short and goes to a window, followed by Franz, who peers
curiously over her shoulder.
"It's a woman," he says, a moment later.
"Hush, Franzy," says Mamma sharply. And then she goes quickly to the
door.
It is a woman who enters; a woman draped in black. She throws back her
shrouding veil and the pure pale face of Leslie Warburton is revealed.
Franz Francoise utters a sharp ejaculation, and then as Papa's hand
presses upon his arm, he relapses into silence and draws back step by
step.
"Ah!" cries Mamma, starting with extended hands to seize upon the
new-comer; "ah! it's our own dear girl!"
But Leslie repulses the proffered embrace, and moves aside.
"Wait," she says coldly; "wait." And she looks inquiringly at Franz.
"You do not know how and why I come."
"No matter why you come, dear child,"--it is Papa, speaking in his
oiliest accents--"we are glad to see you; very glad."
Again Leslie's eyes rest upon Franz, and Mamma says:
"Oh, speak out, my dear. This is our boy, Franz; your brother, my
child."
"Yes," Papa chimes in blithely, "how beautiful this is; how delightful!"
Leslie favors Franz with a steady look, and turns to Mamma.
"Then I am not your only child," she says, with a proud curl of the lip.
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," assents 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."
"Reassure 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 God 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."