CHAPTER XLVIII.
A PROMISE RETRACTED.
Left alone, Leslie Warburton faced her problem, and found herself mastered by it. She had believed herself already overwhelmed with misery—had fancied that in coming among these people who claimed her, she had taken the last step down into the valley of humiliation, of shame, of utter wretchedness. But they had shown her a lower depth still, and bidden her descend into it.
Should she obey them? Her pulses were throbbing violently, a fierce flame burned in either cheek, a shade of the old delirium lurked in her eye. Should she crown her list of miseries with this culminating horror? Why should she not? What had she to lose? She, who had already lost husband, home and happiness; she, who was already an outcast, accused of treachery, of child-stealing, of murder; she, who was only a waif at best, and who could claim no kindred unless she accepted those whose roof then sheltered her? What had she to lose? Only her life, and that must end soon. Why not make this last sacrifice, then let it end.
Her calmness, that before had been at best but the calmness of despair, had forsaken her; had changed to the recklessness of desperation. Faster and faster throbbed her pulses, hotter surged the blood through her fevered veins, wilder gleamed the light of her eyes.
Born of her weakness, her misery, her growing delirium, came a fierce, unreasoning rebellion; a longing to thrust upon the shoulders of Alan Warburton, who, more than any other, had been the cause of her present woe, a portion of this weight that dragged her down. Had she not suffered enough for the “Warburton honor?” Why not force him to tread with her this valley of humiliation?
Then followed other thoughts—better thoughts, humbler thoughts, but all morbid, all tinged by her half delirious fancy, all reckless of self.
And now every moment adds to her torture, increases the fever in her blood, the frenzy of her brain.
“I must end it!” she cries wildly. “I must save Daisy! And after that what matter how my day goes out?”
She walks swiftly to the door and attempts to open it. Useless; it is fastened from the outer side. She seizes the handle and shakes it fiercely. It seems an hour, it is really a moment, when Mamma unlocks the door and appears before her.
“You—”
“I have decided,” breaks in Leslie. “I shall make the sacrifice.”
“You will marry this worthy man?”
“I will save Daisy from your clutches, and his.”
“In his own way?”
“In his own way, and yours. Let it be over as soon as possible. Where is this man?”
“Gently, gently; he is not far away.”
“So much the better. I cannot rest now till all is done. I must take Daisy back to her home; the rest is nothing.”
Mamma looks at her craftily.
“You agree to all the terms?” she asks. “Will you swear to keep your word?”
“I will do anything, when I am assured that I shall have Daisy safely back.”
“Ah!” ejaculates Mamma, indulging in a long sigh of relieved anxiety, “I will go tell Franz. He is as anxious to have the business settled as you are.”
“Franz!”
“Yes; it is Franz that you will marry.”
“Franz!” the word comes in a breathless whisper. “Your son—the convict?”
“You needn’t put so much force upon that. Yes; Franzy’s the man.”
A new look dawns upon Leslie’s face. A new light gleams from her eyes. She presses her palms to her forehead, then slowly approaches Mamma, with the uncertain movements of one groping in the dark.
“You told—” she articulates, as if struggling for self-mastery. “Woman, you told me that Franz Francoise was your son.”
“So he is. I ain’t ashamed of him,” Mamma answers sullenly.
“Then,”—Leslie clutches at the nearest support and fairly gasps the words—“then—who am I?”
“Well, it can’t be kept back any longer, it seems. You are—”
“Not your child?” cries Leslie. “Not yours?”
“No; you ain’t ours by birth, but you’re ours by adoption. We’ve reared ye, and we’ve made ye what ye are.”
But Leslie pays no heed to this latter statement. She has fallen upon her knees with hands uplifted, and streaming eyes.
“Not her child; not hers! Oh, God, I thank thee! Oh, God, forgive me for what I was about to do!”
Long, shivering sighs follow this outburst; then moments of silence, during which Mamma stands irresolute, puzzled as to Leslie’s manner, uncertain how to act.
A sound behind her breaks the uncomfortable stillness, and Mamma turns quickly, to see Franz standing in the open doorway.
“Franz,—” begins the old woman.
The word arouses Leslie, she rises to her feet so swiftly, with such sudden strength of movement, and such a new light upon her face, that Mamma breaks off abruptly and stands staring from one to the other.
“Woman,” says Leslie slowly and with strange calm, “those are the first welcome words you ever uttered for my hearing. Say them again. Say that I am not your child.”
“I don’t see what it matters,” mutters Mamma sullenly. “You will be our’n fast enough when you’re married to Franz.”
“Eh!” Franz utters only this syllable, and advances step by step into the room.
A moment Leslie stands gazing from one to the other. Then her form grows more erect, the new hope brighter in her eyes, she seems growing stronger each moment.
“Half an hour ago,” she says, “I had not one thing to hope for, or to live for, save the restoration of Daisy Warburton, for I believed myself accursed. Rebel as my soul would, while your lips repeated your claim upon me I could not escape you. While you persisted in your lies, I was helpless. Now—”
Mamma’s hands work convulsively; her eyes glitter dangerously; she looks like a cat about to spring upon its prey. As Leslie pauses thus abruptly, her lips emit a sharp hiss, but before words can follow, a heavy hand grasps her arm.
“Go on,” says Franz coolly; “now?”
“Do you know the proposition that woman has just made me?” asks Leslie abruptly.
“‘Twon’t be good for her, if she has made ye a proposition I don’t know on,” says Franz grimly, and tightening his clutch upon Mamma’s arm. “An’ fer fear of any hocus-pocus, suppose you jest go over it fer my benefit.”
“She has told me that you can, if you will, restore Daisy Warburton to her home.”
“No? has she?”
“That you, and you only, know where to look for the child.”
“Umph!”
“And that you will restore the child only on one condition.”
“And wot’s that?”
“That I consent to marry you.”
“Wal,” says Franz, turning a facetious look upon Mamma, and giving her arm a gentle shake; “the old un may have trifled with the truth, here and there, but she’s right in the main. How did the proposition strike ye?”
Leslie turns from him and fixes her gaze upon the old woman.
“And this,” she says, “is the man you would mate me with! Woman, you have overreached yourself. Believing, or fearing, myself to be your child, I might have been driven to any act of desperation. You have lifted that burden of horror from off my heart. I am not your child! No blood of yours poisons my veins! Do you think in the moment when I find the taint removed, I would doubly defile myself by taking the step you have proposed? Never! Your power over me is gone!”
“Do ye mean,” queries Franz quite coolly, “that you won’t take up with the old woman’s bargain?”
“She has done it!” cries Mamma fiercely. “She’s given her promise!”
“And I now retract it!”
“What!” Mamma suddenly wrenches herself free and springs toward Leslie. “You won’t marry Franz?”
“Never! The fear which has made me a coward is gone. I shall go back to my own. I will tell my story far and wide. I feared nothing so much as the shame of being pointed out as the child of such parents. You will not dare repeat that imposture; I defy you. As for little Daisy, I will find her; I will punish you—”
“You will find her!” Mamma’s voice is horrible in its hoarse rage. “Now mark my words: You will never find her. She will never see daylight again. As for you, you will marry Franz Francoise to-morrow, or you will go out of this place between two officers, arrested as the murderess of Josef Siebel!”
It is more than she can bear. The strength born of her strong excitement deserts her. Mamma’s eyes burn into her own; she feels her hot, baleful breath upon her cheek; hears the horrible words hissed so close to her ear; and with a low moan falls forward, to be caught in the arms of Franz Francoise, where she lies pallid and senseless.
“Git out!” says Franz, as he lifts her and turns toward Mamma. “You’ve done it now, you old cat. Let me lay her down.”
He carries Leslie to the bed, and places her upon it so gently that Mamma sneers and glares upon him scornfully.
“Ye’re a fool, Franz Francoise.”
“Now mark my words: You will never find her. She will never see daylight again.”—[page 354].
“Shet up, you! Ye’ve got somethin’ to do besides talk. D’ye mean to have her die on our hands?”
“‘Twon’t matter much, it seems.”
“I tell ye ’twill matter. Do ye think this thing’s settled? Not much. We’re goin’ ter bring her to terms yet, but she’s got ter be alive first.”
She turns upon him a look in which anger and admiration are curiously mingled.
“‘Tain’t no use, Franzy; that gal won’t give in now.”
“I tell ye she will. You’ve tried your hand; now I’ll try mine. Bring the girl out o’ this faint, an’ I’ll manage her. Do what ye can, then git yer doctor. Ye’d better not have him come here ef ye kin manage without him; but go see him, git what she needs, an’,” with a significant wink, “ye might say that she don’t rest well and git a few sleepin’ powders.”
“Franz,” chuckles Mamma, beginning her work of restoration with bustling activity, “ye ought to be a general. I’m proud of ye.”