Part 54 (2/2)

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 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 pa.s.sions; 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 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. G.o.d 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 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!

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 Mr. Leeson grasped her hand and dragged her out of the room.

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