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 369 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 370 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 371 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 372 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! 373
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 374 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 375 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 376 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.
