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.
“Merciful heavens!” cried the woman; and then 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.”
