by Fergus Hume
CHAPTER III
DULCINEA OF GWYNNE STREET
Near the Temple Station of the Metropolitan Railway is a small gardenwhich contains a certain number of fairly-sized trees, a roundband-stand, and a few flower-beds intersected by asphalt paths. Herethose who are engaged in various offices round about come to enjoy _rusin urbes_, to listen to the gay music, and, in many cases, to eat ascanty mid-day meal. Old women come to sun themselves, loafers sit onthe seats to rest, workmen smoke and children play. On a bright day theplace is pretty, and those who frequent it feel as though they wereenjoying a country holiday though but a stone's throw from the Thames.And lovers meet here also, so it was quite in keeping that Paul Beecotshould wait by the bronze statues of the Herculaneum wrestlers for thecoming of Sylvia.
On the previous day he had departed hastily, after committing the oldman to Deborah's care. At first he had lingered to see Aaron revive, butwhen the unconscious man came to his senses and opened his eyes hefainted again when his gaze fell on Paul. Deborah, therefore, in herrough, practical way, suggested that as Beecot was "upsetting him" hehad better go. It was in a state of perplexity that Paul had gone away,but he was cheered on his homeward way by a hasty assurance given byMiss Junk that Sylvia would meet him in the gardens, "near them niggerswithout clothes," said Deborah.
It was strange that the sight of the brooch should have produced such aneffect on Aaron, and his fainting confirmed Paul's suspicions that theold man had not a clean conscience. But what the serpent brooch had todo with the matter Beecot could not conjecture. It was certainly an oddpiece of jewellery, and not particularly pretty, but that the merestglimpse of it should make Norman faint was puzzling in the extreme.
"Apparently it is associated with something disagreeable in the man'smind," soliloquised Paul, pacing the pavement and keeping a sharplook-out for Sylvia, "perhaps with death, else the effect would scarcelyhave been so powerful as to produce a fainting fit. Yet Aaron can't knowmy mother. Hum! I wonder what it means."
While he was trying to solve the mystery a light touch on his arm madehim wheel round, and he beheld Sylvia smiling at him. While he waslooking along the Embankment for her coming she had slipped down NorfolkStreet and through the gardens, to where the wrestlers clutched at emptyair. In her low voice, which was the sweetest of all sounds to Paul, sheexplained this, looking into his dark eyes meanwhile. "But I can't staylong," finished Sylvia. "My father is still ill, and he wants me toreturn and nurse him."
"Has he explained why he fainted?" asked Paul, anxiously.
"No; he refuses to speak on the matter. Why did he faint, Paul?"
The young man looked puzzled. "Upon my word I don't know," he said."Just as I was showing him a brooch I wished to pawn he went off."
"What kind of a brooch?" asked the girl, also perplexed.
Paul took the case out of his breast pocket, where it had been since theprevious day. "My mother sent it to me," he explained; "you see sheguesses that I am hard up, and, thanks to my father, she can't send memoney. This piece of jewellery she has had for many years, but as it israther old-fashioned she never wears it. So she sent it to me, hopingthat I might get ten pounds or so on it. A friend of mine wished to buyit, but I was anxious to get it back again, so that I might return it tomy mother. Therefore I thought your father might lend me money on it."
Sylvia examined the brooch with great attention. It was evidently ofIndian workmanship, delicately chased, and thickly set with jewels. Theserpent, which was apparently wriggling across the stout gold pin of thebrooch, had its broad back studded with opals, large in the centre ofthe body and small at head and tail. These were set round with tinydiamonds, and the head was of chased gold with a ruby tongue. Sylviaadmired the workmanship and the jewels, and turned the brooch over. Onthe flat smooth gold underneath she found the initial "R" scratched witha pin. This she showed to Paul. "I expect your mother made this mark toidentify the brooch," she said.
"My mother's name is Anne," replied Paul, looking more puzzled thanever, "Anne Beecot. Why should she mark this with an initial which hasnothing to do with her name?"
"Perhaps it is a present," suggested Sylvia.
Paul snapped the case to, and replaced it in his pocket. "Perhaps itis," he said. "However, when I next write to my mother I'll ask herwhere she got the brooch. She has had it for many years," he addedmusingly, "for I remember playing with it when a small boy."
"Don't tell your mother that my father fainted."
"Why not? Does it matter?"
Sylvia folded her slender hands and looked straight in front of her.For some time they had been seated on a bench in a retired part of thegardens, and the laughter of playing children, the music of the bandplaying the merriest airs from the last musical comedy, came faintly totheir ears. "I think it does matter," said the girl, seriously; "forsome reason my father wants to keep himself as quiet as possible. Hetalks of going away."
"Going away. Oh, Sylvia, and you never told me."
"He only spoke of going away when I came to see how he was thismorning," she replied. "I wonder if his fainting has anything to do withthis determination. He never talked of going away before."
Paul wondered also. It seemed strange that after so unusual an event theold man should turn restless and wish to leave a place where he hadlived for over twenty years. "I'll come and have an explanation," saidPaul, after a pause.
"I think that will be best, dear. Father said that he would like to seeyou again, and told Bart to bring you in if he saw you."
"I'll call to-day--this afternoon, and perhaps your father will explain.And now, Sylvia, that is enough about other people and other things. Letus talk of ourselves."
Sylvia turned her face with a fond smile. She was a delicate and daintylittle lady, with large grey eyes and soft brown hair. Her complexionwas transparent, and she had little color in her cheeks. With her ovalface, her thin nose and charming mouth she looked very pretty and sweet.But it was her expression that Paul loved. That was a trifle sad, butwhen she smiled her looks changed as an overcast sky changes when thesun bursts through the clouds. Her figure was perfect, her hands andfeet showed marks of breeding, and although her grey dress was asdemure as any worn by a Quakeress, she looked bright and merry in thesunshine of her lover's presence. Everything about Sylvia was dainty andneat and exquisitely clean: but she was hopelessly out of the fashion.It was this odd independence in her dress which constituted anothercharm in Paul's eyes.
The place was too public to indulge in love-making, and it was verytantalising to sit near this vision of beauty without gaining thedelight of a kiss. Paul feasted his eyes, and held Sylvia's grey-glovedhand under cover of her dress. Further he could not go.
"But if you put up your sunshade," he suggested artfully.
"Paul!" That was all Sylvia said, but it suggested a whole volume ofrebuke. Brought up in seclusion, like the princess in an enchantedcastle, the girl was exceedingly shy. Paul's ardent looks and eagerwooing startled her at times, and he thought disconsolately that hischivalrous love-making was coarse and common when he gazed on thedelicate, dainty, shrinking maid he adored.
"You should not have stepped out of your missal, Sylvia," he said sadly.
"Whatever do you mean, dearest?"
"I mean that you are a saint--an angel--a thing to be adored andworshipped. You are exactly like one of those lovely creations one seesin mass-books of the Middle Ages. I fear, Sylvia," Paul sighed, "thatyou are too dainty and holy for this work-a-day world."
"What nonsense, Paul! I'm a poor girl without position or friends,living in a poor street. You are the first person who ever thought mepretty."
"You are not pretty," said the ardent Beecot, "you are divine--you areBeatrice--you are Elizabeth of Thuringia--you are everything that islovely and adorable."
"And you are a silly boy," replied Sylvia, blushing, but loving thispoetic talk all the same. "Do you want to put me in a glass case when wemarry? If you do, I sha'n't become Mrs. Beecot. I want to
see the worldand to enjoy myself."
"Then other men will admire you and I shall grow jealous."
"Can you be jealous--Paul?"
"Horribly! You don't know half my bad qualities. I am poor and needy,and ambitious and jealous, and--"
"There--there. I won't hear you run yourself down. You are the best boyin the world."
"Poor world, if I am that," he laughed, and squeezed the little hand."Oh, my love, do you really think of me?"
"Always! Always! You know I do. Why, ever since I saw you enter the shopsix months ago I have always loved you. I told Debby, and Debby saidthat I could."
"Supposing Debby had said that you couldn't."
"Oh, she would never have said that. Why, Paul, she saw you."
The young man laughed and colored. "Do I carry my character in my face?"he asked. "Sylvia, don't think too well of me."
"That is impossible," she declared. "You are my fairy prince."
"Well, I certainly have found an enchanted princess sleeping in ajealously-guarded castle. What would your father say did he know?"
Sylvia looked startled. "I am afraid of my father," she replied,indirectly. "Yes--he is so strange. Sometimes he seems to love me, andat other times to hate me. We have nothing in common. I love books andart, and gaiety and dresses. But father only cares for jewels. He has alot down in the cellar. I have never seen them, you know," added Sylvia,looking at her lover, "nor have Deborah or Bart. But they are there.Bart and Deborah say so."
"Has your father ever said so?"
"No. He won't speak of his business in the cellar. When the shop isclosed at seven he sends Bart away home and locks Deborah and I in thehouse. That is," she explained anxiously, lest Paul should think herfather a tyrant, "he locks the door which leads to the shop. We can walkover all the house. But there we stop till next morning, when fatherunlocks the door at seven and Bart takes down the shutters. We havelived like that for years. On Sunday evenings, however, father does notgo to the cellar, but takes me to church. He has supper with meupstairs, and then locks the door at ten."
"But he sleeps upstairs?"
"No. He sleeps in the cellar."
"Impossible. There is no accommodation for sleeping there."
Sylvia explained. "There is another cellar--a smaller one--off the largeplace he has the safes in. The door is in a dark corner almost under thestreet line. This smaller cellar is fitted up as a bedroom, and myfather has slept there all his life. I suppose he is afraid of hisjewels being stolen. I don't think it is good for his health," added thegirl, wisely, "for often in the morning he looks ill and his handsshake."
"Sylvia, does your father drink alcohol?"
"Oh, no, Paul! He is a teetotaller, and is very angry at those who drinkto excess. Why, once Bart came to the shop a little drunk, and fatherwould have discharged him but for Deborah."
Paul said nothing, but thought the more. Often it had struck him thatNorman was a drunkard, though his face showed no signs of indulgence,for it always preserved its paleness. But the man's hands shook, and hisskin often was drawn and tight, with that shiny look suggestive ofindulgence. "He either drinks or smokes opium," thought Paul on hearingSylvia's denial. But he said nothing to her of this.
"I must go home now," she said, rising.
"Oh, no, not yet," he implored.
"Well, then, I'll stay for a few minutes longer, because I havesomething to say," she remarked, and sat down again. "Paul, do you thinkit is quite honorable for you and I to be engaged without the consent ofmy father?"
"Well," hesitated Beecot, "I don't think it is as it should be. Were Iwell off I should not fear to tell your father everything; but as I am apauper he would forbid my seeing you did he learn that I had raised myeyes to you. But if you like I'll speak, though it may mean our partingfor ever."
"Paul," she laid a firm, small hand on his arm, "not all the fathers inthe world will keep me from you. Often I have intended to tell all, butmy father is so strange. Sometimes he goes whole days without speakingto me, and at times he speaks harshly, though I do nothing to deserverebuke. I am afraid of my father," said the girl, with a shiver. "I saidso before, and I say so again. He is a strange man, and I don'tunderstand him at all. I wish I could marry you and go away altogether."
"Well, let us marry if you like, though we will be poor."
"No," said Sylvia, sorrowfully; "after all, strange and harsh though myfather is, he is still my father, and at times he is kind. I must staywith him to the end."
"What end?"
Sylvia shook her head still more sorrowfully. "Who knows? Paul, myfather is afraid of dying suddenly."
"By violence?" asked Beecot, thinking of Deborah's talk.
"I can't say. But every day after six he goes to church and prays allalone. Deborah told me, as often she has seen him leave the church. Thenhe is afraid of every stranger who enters the shop. I don't understandit," cried the girl, passionately. "I don't like it. I wish you wouldmarry me and take me away, Paul; but, oh, how selfish I am!"
"My own, I wish I could. But the money--"
"Oh, never mind the money. I must get away from that house. If it wasnot for Deborah I would be still more afraid. I often think my father ismad. But there," Sylvia rose and shook out her skirts, "I have no rightto talk so, and only do so to you, that you may know what I feel. I'llspeak to my father myself and say we are engaged. If he forbids ourmarriage I shall run away with you, Paul," said poor Sylvia, the tearsin her eyes. "I am a bad girl to talk in this way. After all, he is myfather."
Beecot had an ardent desire to take her in his arms and kiss away thosetears, but the publicity of the meeting-place denied him the power toconsole her in that efficacious fashion. All he could do was to assureher of his love, and then they walked out of the gardens towards theStrand. "I'll speak to your father myself," said Paul; "we must end thisnecessary silence. After all, I am a gentleman, and I see no reason whyyour father should object."
"I know you are everything that is good and true," said Sylvia, dryingher eyes. "If you were not Debby would not have let me become engaged toyou," she finished childishly.
"Debby made inquiries about me," said Paul, laughing, to cheer her."Yes! she sent Bart to Wargrove and found out all about me and myfamily and my respected father. She wished to be certain that I was aproper lover for her darling."
"I am your darling now," whispered Sylvia, squeezing his arm, "and youare the most charming lover in the world."
Paul was so enchanted with this speech that he would have defied publicopinion by embracing her there and then, but Sylvia walked away rapidlydown Gwynne Street and shook her head with a pursed-up mouth when Paultook a few steps after her. Recognizing that it would be wise not tofollow her to the shop lest the suspicious old man should be lookingout, Beecot went on his homeward way.
When he drew near his Bloomsbury garret he met Grexon Hay, who wassauntering along swinging his cane. "I was just looking for you," hesaid, greeting Paul in his usual self-contained manner; "it worries meto think you are so hard-up, though I'm not a fellow given to sentimentas a rule. Let me lend you a fiver."
Paul shook his head. "Thank you all the same."
"Well, then, sell me the brooch."
Beecot suddenly looked squarely at Hay, who met his gaze calmly. "Do youknow anything of that brooch?" he asked.
"What do you mean? It is a brooch of Indian workmanship. That is all Iknow. I want to give a lady a present, and if you will sell it to meI'll take it, to help you, thus killing two birds at one shot."
"I don't want to sell it," said Paul, looking round. His eyes fell on arespectable man across the road, who appeared to be a workman, as he hada bag of tools on his shoulder. He was looking into a shop window, butalso--as Paul suddenly thought--seemed to be observing him and Hay.However, the incident was not worth noticing, so he continued hisspeech to Grexon. "I tried to pawn it with Aaron Norman," he said.
"Well, what did you get on it?" asked Hay, with a yawn.
"N
othing. The old man fainted when I showed him the brooch. That is whyI asked you if you know anything strange about the article."
Hay shook his head, but looked curiously at Beecot. "Do you knowanything yourself?" he asked; "you seem to have something on your mindabout that brooch."
"There is something queer about it," said Paul. "Why should Aaron Normanfaint when he saw it?"
Hay yawned again. "You had better ask your one-eyed friend--I think yousaid he was one-eyed."
"He is, and a frightened sort of man. But there's nothing about thatopal serpent to make him faint."
"Perhaps he did so because it is in the shape of a serpent," suggestedGrexon; "a constitutional failing, perhaps. Some people hate cats andother fluttering birds. Your one-eyed friend may have a loathing ofsnakes and can't bear to see the representation of one."
"It might be that," said Beecot, after a pause. "Aaron is a strange sortof chap. A man with a past, I should say."
"You make me curious," said Grexon, laughing in a bored manner. "I thinkI'll go to the shop myself and have a look at him."
"Come with me when I next go," said Paul. "I had intended to call thisafternoon; but I won't, until I hear from my mother."
"What about?"
"I want to learn how she came into possession of the brooch."
"Pooh, nonsense," said Hay, contemptuously, "you think too much aboutthe thing. Who cares if a pawnbroker faints? Why I wish to go to theshop, is, because I am anxious to see your lady-love. Well, when you dowant me to go, send for me; you have my address. 'Day, old man," and thegorgeous being sauntered away, with apparently not a care in the worldto render him anxious.
Paul was anxious, however. The more he thought of the episode of thebrooch the stranger it seemed, and Sylvia's talk of her father's queerhabits did not make Paul wonder the less. However, he resolved to writeto his mother, and was just mounting his stairs to do so when he heard a"Beg pardon, sir," and beheld the working man, bag of tools, pipe andall.
"Beg pardon, sir," said the man, civilly, "but that gentleman you wasa-talking to. Know his name, sir?"
"What the devil's that to you?" asked Paul, angrily.
"Nothing, sir, only he owes me a little bill."
"Go and ask him for it then."
"I don't know his address, sir."
"Oh, be hanged!" Paul went on, when the man spoke again.
"He's what I call a man on the market, sir. Have a care," and hedeparted quickly.
Paul stared. What did the working man mean, and was he a working man?