And her heart leaps suddenly; its tumultuous throbbings nearly suffocate her. She sits down again and her breath comes hard and fast.

"If he should fail me," she says again, "then--that would be the end."

For she has made a fearful resolve. She would play her part, as it was the only way. _She_ would not fail in the task he had a.s.signed her, and if, at the last, _he_ failed, then--before she became the wife of Franz Francoise, she would die!

And Daisy--what, then, would become of her?

Leslie puts back the thought with a pa.s.sionate moan. She must not think now.

Mamma has sworn to produce the child within the hour that sees Leslie the wife of Franz. And Leslie has vowed, when the child's hand is in hers, to sign a paper which Mamma shall place before her--anything; she cares not what.

She has agreed to all this, suffered her martyrdom, sustained by the promise: "At the right time I shall be at hand. I will not fail you."

And the last moments are pa.s.sing.

She can hear Papa shuffling about the outer room, and she knows that Franz has gone to bring the Priest. The right time is very near; but Stanhope--

She has not seen Mamma since morning. She has not heard her rasping voice, nor her heavy step in the outer room. But the minutes are going fast; Franz will be back soon.

And Stanhope--O, G.o.d, _where_ is Stanhope?

Again she bows her head upon her arms and utters a low moan.

"Oh, if he should fail me! If he _should_ fail me!"

In the outer room, Papa's restlessness increases. He vibrates constantly now between the window and the door.

The curtain is drawn up to the low ceiling; the entire window is bare and stares out upon the street like a watchful eye.

And now Papa turns suddenly from the door, closes it, and hastens to the window; looks out once again to rea.s.sure himself, and then, rising on tiptoe, draws down the dark curtain. He measures the window with a glance, lowering the curtain slowly and stopping it half way down.

It is a signal, prearranged by Mamma, and it tells that approaching personage that the way is clear, that Franz is absent.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Again she bows her head upon her arms and utters a low moan."--page 398.]

Another moment of waiting and he hears shuffling footsteps, and the sound of receding wheels. Then he opens the door, opens it wide this time, and admits Mamma.

Mamma, and something else. This something she carries in her arms. It is carefully wrapped in a huge shawl, and is quite silent and moveless.

"You are sure it's all right?" whispers Papa nervously, as in obedience to a movement of Mamma's head he opens the closet-door.

Mamma lays down her still burden, covers it carefully with the ragged blanket, closes the door of the closet, and then turns to face Papa.

"Yes," she says, in a hoa.r.s.e whisper; "my part of the business is right enough. Ye needn't be uneasy about that. I told ye I wouldn't bring her into the house while Franz was here; and as for my being followed, I ain't afraid; I've doubled on my track too often. If any one started to follow me, they're watching the wrong door this minute. How long has Franz been away?"

"Not half an hour."

"How's _she_ been behaving?"

"Quiet; very quiet."

Mamma seats herself, removes her hideous bonnet, and draws a heavy breath.

"Well, I've done my part," she says grimly. "Now, let Franzy do his'n."

She goes to a shelf, takes therefrom a bottle of ink and a rusty pen.

"I wish,"--she begins, then pauses and slowly draws a folded paper from her pocket; "I wish we could git this signed _first_."

Papa coughs slightly, and turns an anxious look toward the door.

"I'm afraid it wouldn't be safe," he says. Then he starts and turns toward the closet. "You're sure she won't wake up?" he whispers.

Mamma turns upon him angrily.

"D'ye s'pose I'd run any risk now?" she hisses. "She's got a powerful dose of Nance's quietin' stuff. Don't you be afeared about _her_. All we want is to git this business over, and that little paper signed."

"I'm dreadful uneasy," sighs Papa. "I wish I was sure how this thing would come out."

"Wall, I kin tell ye. When the gal gits hold of her little one, she'll turn her back on us all. Married or not, she'll never own Franzy. And I don't s'pose the boy'll care much; it's the money he's after. She'll give him _that_ fast enough, and he'll always know where to look for more. As for us, this marrying makes us safe. She'd die before she'd have it known, and she can't make us any trouble without its coming out.

She'll be glad to take her young un, and let us alone. Don't you see that even after she's got the young un, we shall have her in a tighter grip than ever, once she's married to Franzy? As fer the paper she's to sign, it won't hold good in law, but it will hold with _her_. And she won't go to a lawyer with it; be sure of that."

"Hark!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.es Papa.

And in another instant, there is a stumbling step outside, and a heavy thump upon the door.

"It's Franz," whispers Mamma. And she hastens to admit her Prodigal.

As he enters, Mamma's sharp eye notes his flushed face and exaggerated swagger, and she greets him with an indignant sniff.

"Couldn't ye keep sober jist once?" she grumbles, as he pauses before her. "Where's the Preach?"

"Oh, I'm sober enough," grins Franz. "And the Preach is coming. He's bringin' a witness."

Papa and Mamma exchange swift glances. Franz, sober, is not the most agreeable and dutiful of sons; Franz, in liquor, is liable to sudden violent outbreaks, if not delicately handled.

Papa makes a signal which Mamma interprets: "Don't irritate him." And the two continue to eye him anxiously as he crosses the room and attempts to open the door of the inner apartment.

"Locked!" he mutters, and turns toward Mamma. "Out with your key, old un," he says quite amiably; "the Preach 'ull be here in five minutes, and what ye've got to say, all round, had better be said afore he comes.

Open this."

"The boy's right enough," mutters Papa. "Open the door, old woman."

Silently Mamma obeys, and Franz is the first to enter the room. He goes straight over to the table where Leslie sits, scarcely stirring at their entrance, and he looks down at her intently.

"See here, Leschen," he says, "don't think that this lockin' ye in is my doin's, or that it's goin' to be continued. It's the old woman as is takin' such precious care of ye."

Mamma is at his elbow, glancing sharply at him, while she places upon the table pen, ink, and a folded paper.