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 passionately, "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, nobody,
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.
"Partner, shake!" he says in tones of marked admiration. "Ye're clean
grit! If ye're my sister, I'm proud of ye. If ye ain't, and ye 'pear to
think ye ain't, then it's my loss, an'," with a leer at the old pair,
"yer gain. Anyhow, I'm yer second in this young-un business. Ye kin stay
right here, ef ye want ter, and, by thunder, ef the old uns have got yer
little gal, ye shall have her back agin--ye hear me! Ain't ye goin' ter
shake? I wish yer would. I'm a rough feller, Missy; I've allers been a
hard case, and I've just got over a penitentiary stretch--ye'll hear o'
that soon enough, ef ye stay here. The old un likes to remind me of it
when she ain't amiable. Never mind that; maybe I ain't all bad. Anyway,
I'm goin' to stand by ye, and don't ye feel oneasy."
Again he extends his hand, and Leslie looks at it, and then up into his
face.
"Oh, if I could trust you!" she murmurs. "If you would help me!"
"I _kin_;" says Franz promptly, "an' I _will_!"
Again she hesitates, looking upon the uncouth figure and the unwashed
hand. Then she lifts her eyes to his face.
Two eyes are looking into her own, eagerly, intently, full of pitying
anxiety.
She rises slowly, looks again into the eager eyes, and extends her hand.
"Gracious!" he exclaims, as he releases it, "how nervous yer are: must
be awful tired."
"Tired, yes. I have walked all the way."
"An' say, no jokin' now, _have_ ye come ter live with us?"
[Illustration: "Partner, shake. Ye're clean grit!"--page 304.]
"I have," she replies firmly; "unless," turning a contemptuous glance
toward Mamma and Papa, "my _parents_ refuse me a shelter."
It is probable that these overtures from Franz would have been promptly
interrupted, had not Papa and Mamma, seeing the necessity of exchanging
a few words, improved this opportunity to understand each other, and as
they exchanged hasty whispers, any vagueness or hiatus in their speech
was fully supplied by meaning glances. And now quite up in her role,
Mamma again advances.
"My child," she begins, in a dolorous voice, "when ye know us better,
ye'll think better of yer poor old folks. As fer Franz here, he's been
drinkin' a little to-night, but he's a good-hearted boy; don't mind
him."
"No," interrupts Franz, with a maudlin chuckle; "don't mind _me_."
"It's a poor home yer come to, Leschen," continues Mamma, "and a poor
bed I can give ye. But we want to be good to ye, dear, an' if ye're
really goin' to stay with us, we'll try an' make ye as comfortable as we
can."
Leslie's head droops lower and lower; she pays no heed to the old
woman's words.
"Poor child, she is tired out."
Saying this, Mamma takes the candle from the table, and goes from the
room quickly, thus leaving the three in darkness.
In another moment, the voice of Franz breaks out:
"Ain't there another glim somewhere?"
By the time Mamma returns, a feeble light is sputtering upon the table,
and Franz is awkwardly trying to force upon Leslie some refreshments
from the choice supply left from their late repast. But she refuses
all, and wearily follows Mamma from the room.
"Git yer rest now," says Franz as she goes; "to-morrow we'll talk over
this young-un business."
But when the morrow comes, and for many days after, Leslie Warburton is
oblivious to all things earthly.