Dangerous Ground Part 21

But Papa makes a gesture to stay him.

"Hold on, Josef!" he cries; "wait Nance!"

He seizes the bag, hurries it away into an inner room, and returns panting for breath. Drawing a stool toward the table, he perches himself thereon and leers across at the two sneak thieves.

"So ye ain't had any luck, girl?" he says, in a wheedling tone, "and Josef, here, wants money. Do ye want more than ye've got Josef?"

"Ha ha! _Do_ I?" And Josef slaps his pockets suggestively.

"Now listen, both of you. Suppose, I could help you two to earn some money easy and honest, what then?"

"Easy and _honest_!" repeats Siebel, with a snort of derision; "Oh, Lord!"

But the girl leans forward with hungry eyes, saying eagerly: "How? tell us how."

"I'll tell you. Suppose, just suppose, a certain rich lady--_very_ rich, mind--being a little in my debt, should come here to-night to see me.

And suppose she is very anxious not to be seen by any body--on account of her high position, you know--"

"Oh, lip it livelier!" cries Siebel impatiently. "Stow yer swash."

"Well; suppose you and Nance, here, was to come in sudden and see the lady face to face, why, for fear she might be called on by--say by Nance, she might pay a little, don't you see--"

But Siebel breaks in impatiently:

"Oh, skip the rubbis.h.!.+ Is there any body to bleed?"

"Is it a safe lay?" queries Nance.

"Yes, yes; it's safe, of course," cries Papa, thus compelled to come down to plain facts.

"Then let's get down to business. Do you expect an angel's visit here to-night?"

"Yes."

"Well, what's yer plan? Out with it: Nance and I are with ye, if ye divvy fair."

Beckoning them to come closer, Papa Francoise leans across the table, and sinking his voice to a harsh whisper, unfolds the plan by which, without danger to themselves, they are to become richer.

It is a pretty plan but--"_Man sows; a whirlwind reaps._"

CHAPTER XV.

A COUNTERPLOT.

It is a half hour later. The light in the room is increased by a sputtering additional candle, and Papa Francoise, sitting by the deal table, is gazing toward the door, an eager expectant look upon his face.

"If that old woman were here!" he mutters, and then starts forward at the sound of a low hesitating tap.

Hurrying to the door he unbars it with eager haste, and a smile of blandest delight overspreads his yellow face as the new-comer enters.

It is a woman, slender and graceful; a _lady_, who holds up her trailing black garments daintily as she steps across the threshold, repulsing the proffered hand-clasp with a haughty gesture, and gliding away from him while she says in a tone of distressful remonstrance:

"Man, _why_ have you sent for me? Don't you know that there is such a thing as a last straw?"

"A last straw!" His voice is a doleful whine, his manner obsequious to servility. "Ah, my child, I wanted to see you so much; your poor mother wanted to see you so much!"

The woman throws back her veil with a gesture of fierce defiance, disclosing the face of Leslie Warburton pale and woe-stricken, but quite as lovely as when it shone upon Stanhope, surrounded by the halo of "Sunlight."

"You hypocrite!" she exclaims scornfully. "Parents do not persecute their children as you and the woman you call my mother have persecuted me. You gave me to the Ulimans when I was but an infant,--that I know,--but the papers signed by you do not speak of me as _your child_.

Besides, does human instinct go for nothing? If you were my father would I loathe these meetings? Would I shudder at your touch? Would my whole soul rise in rebellion against your persecutions?"

Her eyes flash upon him and the red blood mounts to her cheeks. In the excitement of the moment she has forgotten her fear. Her voice rises clear and ringing; and Papa Francoise, thinking of two possible listeners concealed not far away, utters a low "sh-h-h-h!"

"Not so loud, my child," he says in an undertone; "not so loud. Ah! you ungrateful girl, we wanted to see you rich and happy, and this is how you thank us," affecting profound grief. "These rich people have taught you to loathe your poor old father!"

He sinks upon the stool as if in utter dejection, wipes away an imaginary tear, and then resumes, in the same guarded tone:

"My dear child, when we gave you to the Ulimans we were very poor, and they were very rich,--a great deal richer than when they died, leaving you only a few thousands."

"Which _you_ have already extorted from me! I have given you every dollar I possess and yet you live like beggars."

"And we _are_ beggars, my child. Some unfortunate speculations have swept away all our little gains, and now--"

"And now you want more money,--the old story. Listen: you have called me to-night from my husband's home, forced me to steal away from my guests like the veriest criminal, threatening to appear among them if I failed to come. At this moment you, who call yourself my father, stand there gloating and triumphant because of the power you hold over me. I knew you were capable of keeping your word, and rather than have my husband's home desecrated by such presence as yours, I am here. But I have come for the last time--"

"No, my child, oh!--"

But she pays no heed to his expostulations.

"I have come _for the last time_!" she says with fierce decision. "I have come to tell you that from this moment I defy you!"

"Softly, my dear; sh-h-h!"

His face, in spite of his efforts to retain its benign expression, is growing vindictive and cruel. He comes toward her with slow cat-like movements.

But she glides backward as he advances, and, putting the table between herself and him, she hurries on, never heeding that she has, by this movement, increased the distance from the outer door--and safety.

"You have carried your game too far!" she says. "When you first appeared before me, so soon after the loss of my adopted parents that it would seem you were waiting for that event--"

"So we were, my child," he interrupts, "for we had promised not to come near you during their lifetime."

"You had promised _never_ to approach me, _never_ to claim me, as the doc.u.ments I found among my mother's--among Mrs. Uliman's papers prove.

Oh," she cries, wringing her hands and lifting her fair face heavenward; "oh, my mother! my dear, sweet, gentle mother! Oh, my father! the truest, the tenderest a wretched orphan ever had on earth! that Death should take _you_, and Life bring me such creatures to fill your places!

But they cannot, they never shall!"