CHAPTER II
DEBORAH JUNK, DUENNA
Number forty-five Gwynne Street was a second-hand bookshop, and much ofthe stock was almost as old as the building itself. A weather-stainedboard of faded blue bore in tarnished gold lettering the name of itsowner, and under this were two broad windows divided by a squat door,open on week-days from eight in the morning until eight at night. Withinthe shop was dark and had a musty odor.
On either side of the quaint old house was a butcher's and a baker's,flaunting places of business, raw in their newness. Between thefirst-named establishment and the bookshop a low, narrow passage led toa small backyard and to a flight of slimy steps, down which clients whodid not wish to be seen could arrive at a kind of cellar to transactbusiness with Mr. Norman.
This individual combined two distinct trades. On the ground floor hesold second-hand books; in the cellar he bought jewels and gave money onthe same to needy people. In the shop, pale youths, untidy, abstractedold men, spectacled girls, and all varieties of the pundit caste were tobe seen poring over ancient volumes or exchanging words with theproprietor. But to the cellar came fast young men, aged spendthrifts,women of no reputation and some who were very respectable indeed. Theseusually came at night, and in the cellar transactions would take placewhich involved much money exchanging hands. In the daytime Mr. Normanwas an innocent bookseller, but after seven he retired to the cellar andbecame as genuine a pawnbroker as could be found in London. Touchingbooks he was easy enough to deal with, but a Shylock as regards jewelsand money lent. With his bookish clients he passed for a dull shopkeeperwho knew little about literature; but in the underground establishmenthe was spoken of, by those who came to pawn, as a usurer of the worst.In an underhand way he did a deal of business.
Aaron Norman--such was the name over the shop--looked like a man with apast--a miserable past, for in his one melancholy eye and twitching,nervous mouth could be read sorrow and apprehension. His face was pale,and he had an odd habit of glancing over his left shoulder, as though heexpected to be tapped thereon by a police officer. Sixty years hadrounded his shoulders and weakened his back, so that his one eye wasalmost constantly on the ground. Suffering had scored marks on hisforehead and weary lines round his thin-lipped mouth. When he spoke hedid so in a low, hesitating voice, and when he looked up, which wasseldom, his eye revealed a hunted look like that of a wearied beastfearful lest it should be dragged from its lair.
It was this strange-looking man that Paul Beecot encountered in thedoorway of the Gwynne Street shop the day after his meeting with Hay.Many a visit had Paul paid to that shop, and not always to buy books.Norman knew him very well, and, recognizing him in a fleeting look as hepassed through the doorway, smiled weakly. Behind the counter stood BartTawsey, the lean underling, who was much sharper with buyers than washis master, but after a disappointed glance in his direction Pauladdressed himself to the bookseller. "I wish to see you particularly,"he said, with his eager air.
"I am going out on important business," said Norman, "but if you willnot be very long--"
"It's about a brooch I wish to pawn."
The old man's mouth became hard and his eyes sharper. "I can't attend tothat now, Mr. Beecot," he said, and his voice rang out louder thanusual. "After seven."
"It's only six now," said Paul, looking over his shoulder at a churchclock which could be seen clearly in the pale summer twilight. "I can'twait."
"Well, then, as you are an old customer--of books," said Aaron, withemphasis, "I'll stretch a point. You can go below at a quarter to seven,and I'll come round through the outside passage to see you. Meantime, Imust go about my business," and he went away with his head hanging andhis solitary eye searching the ground as usual.
Paul, in spite of his supposed hurry, was not ill-pleased that Aaron hadgone out and that there was an idle hour before him. He stepped lightlyinto the shop, and, under the flaring gas--which was lighted, so darkwas the interior of the shop in spite of the luminous gloaming--heencountered the smile of Barty. Paul, who was sensitive and proudlyreticent, grew red. He knew well enough that his apparent admiration ofSylvia Norman had attracted the notice of Bart and of the red-armedwench, Deborah Junk, who was the factotum of the household. Not that heminded, for both these servants were devoted to Sylvia, and knowing thatshe returned the feelings of Paul said nothing about the position toAaron. Beecot could not afford to make enemies of the pair, and had nowish to do so. They were coarse-grained and common, but loyal and kindlyof heart.
"Got any new books, Bart?" asked Beecot, coming forward with rovingeyes, for he hoped to see Sylvia glide out of the darkness to bless hishungry eyes.
"No, sir. We never get new books," replied Bart, smartly. "Leastwaysthere's a batch of second-hand novels published last year. But blessyou, Mr. Beecot, there ain't nothing new about them 'cept the bindings."
"You are severe, Bart. I hope to be a novelist myself."
"We need one, sir. For the most part them as write now ain't novelists,if that means telling anything as is new. But I must go upstairs, sir.Miss Sylvia said I was to tell her when you came."
"Oh, yes--er--er--that is--she wants to see a photograph of my old home.I promised to show it to her." Paul took a parcel out of his pocket."Can't I go up?"
"No, sir. 'Twouldn't be wise. The old man may come back, and if he knewas you'd been in his house," Bart jerked his head towards the ceiling,"he'd take a fit."
"Why? He doesn't think I'm after the silver?"
"Lor' bless you no, sir. It ain't that. What's valuable--silver and goldand jewels and such like--is down there." Bart nodded towards the floor."But Mr. Norman don't like people coming into his private rooms. He'snever let in anyone for years."
"Perhaps he fears to lose the fairest jewel he has."
Bart was what the Scotch call "quick in the uptake." "He don't think somuch of her as he ought to, sir," said he, gloomily. "But I know heloves her, and wants to make her a great heiress. When he goes to theworms Miss Sylvia will have a pretty penny. I only hope," added Bart,looking slyly at Paul, "that he who has her to wife won't squander whatthe old man has worked for."
Beecot colored still more at this direct hint, and would have replied,but at this moment a large, red-faced, ponderous woman dashed into theshop from a side door. "There," said she, clapping her hands in achildish way, "I know'd his vice, an' I ses to Miss Sylvia, as issittin' doing needlework, which she do do lovely, I ses 'That's him,'and she ses, with a lovely color, 'Oh, Deborah, jus' see, fur m'eart'sabeating too loud for me t'ear 'is vice.' So I ses--"
Here she became breathless and clapped her hands again, so as to preventinterruption. But Paul did interrupt her, knowing from experience thatwhen once set going Deborah would go on until pulled up. "Can't I go upto Miss Norman?" he asked.
"You may murder me, and slay me, and trample on my corp," said Deborah,solemnly, "but go up you can't. Master would send me to walk the streetsif I dared to let you, innocent as you are, go up them stairs."
Paul knew long ago how prejudiced the old man was in this respect.During all the six months he had known Sylvia he had never beenpermitted to mount the stairs in question. It was strange that Aaronshould be so particular on this point, but connecting it with hisdowncast eye and frightened air, Paul concluded, though without muchreason, that the old man had something to conceal. More, that he wasfrightened of someone. However, he did not argue the point, butsuggested a meeting-place. "Can't I see her in the cellar?" he asked."Mr. Norman said I could go down to wait for him."
"Sir," said Deborah, plunging forward a step, like a stumbling 'bushorse, "don't tell me as you want to pawn."
"Well, I do," replied Paul, softly, "but you needn't tell everyone."
"It's only Bart," cried Deborah, casting a fierce look in the directionof the slim, sharp-faced young man, "and if he was to talk I'd take histongue out. That I would. I'm a-training him to be my husband, as Idon't hold with the ready-made article, and married he shall be, byparsing and clark if he's a
good boy and don't talk of what don't matterto him."
"I ain't goin' to chatter," said Bart, with a wink. "Lor' bless you,sir, I've seen gentlemen as noble as yourself pawning things downthere"--he nodded again towards the floor--"ah, and ladies too, but--"
"Hold your tongue," cried Deborah, pitching herself across the floorlike a ship in distress. "Your a-talking now of what you ain't a rightto be a-talkin' of, drat you. Come this way, Mr. Beecot, to the placewhere old Nick have his home, for that he is when seven strikes."
"You shouldn't speak of your master in that way," protested Paul.
"Oh, shouldn't I," snorted the maid, with a snort surprisingly loud."And who have a better right, sir? I've been here twenty year as servantand nuss and friend and 'umble well-wisher to Miss Sylvia, coming a slipof a girl at ten, which makes me thirty, I don't deny; not that it's tooold to marry Bart, though he's but twenty, and makes up in wickednessfor twice that age. I know master, and when the sun's up there ain't abetter man living, but turn on the gas and he's an old Nick. Bart,attend to your business and don't open them long ears of yours too wide.I won't have a listening husband, I can tell you. This way, sir. Mindthe steps."
By this time Deborah had convoyed Paul to a dark corner behind thecounter and jerked back a trap door. Here he saw a flight of woodensteps which led downwards into darkness. But Miss Junk snatched up alantern on the top step, and having lighted it dropped down, holding itabove her red and touzelled head. Far below her voice was heard cryingto Beecot to "Come on"; therefore he followed as quickly as he could,and soon found himself in the cellar. All around was dark, but Deborahlighted a couple of flaring gas-jets, and then turned, with her armsakimbo, on the visitor.
"Now then, sir, you and me must have a talk, confidential like," saidshe in her breathless way. "It's pawning is it? By which I knows thatyou ain't brought that overbearing pa of yours to his knees."
Paul sat down in a clumsy mahogany chair, which stood near a plain dealtable, and stared at the handmaiden. "I never told you about my father,"he said, exhibiting surprise.
"Oh, no, of course not"--Miss Junk tossed her head--"me being a babe an'a suckling, not fit to be told anything. But you told Miss Sylvia andshe told me, as she tells everything to her Debby, God bless her for apretty flower!" She pointed a coarse, red finger at Paul. "If you were agay deceiver, Mr. Beecot, I'd trample on your corp this very minute if Iwas to die at Old Bailey for the doing of it."
Seeing Deborah was breathless again, Paul seized his chance. "There isno reason you shouldn't know all about me, and--"
"No, indeed, I should think not, begging your pardon, sir. But when youcomes here six months back, I ses to Miss Sylvia, I ses, 'He's makingeyes at you, my lily,' and she ses to me, she says, 'Oh, Debby, I lovehim, that I do.' And then I ses, ses I, 'My pretty, he looks a gent bornand bred, but that's the wust kind, so we'll find out if he's a liarbefore you loses your dear heart to him.'"
"But I'm not a liar--" began Paul, only to be cut short again.
"As well I knows," burst out Miss Junk, her arms akimbo again. "Do youthink, sir, as I'd ha' let you come loving my pretty one and me notknowing if you was Judas or Jezebel? Not me, if I never drank my nightlydrop of beer again. What you told Miss Sylvia of your frantic pa andyour loving ma she told me. Pumping _you_ may call it," shouted Deborah,emphasising again with the red finger, "but everything you told in yourlover way she told her old silly Debby. I ses to Bart, if you loves me,Bart, go down to Wargrove, wherever it may be--if in England, which Idoubt--and if he--meaning you--don't tell the truth, out he goes if Ihave the chucking of him myself and a police-court summings over it. SoBart goes to Wargrove, and he find out that you speaks true, which meansthat you're a gent, sir, if ever there was one, in spite of your franticpa, so I hopes as you'll marry my flower, and make her happy--blessyou," and Deborah spread a large pair of mottled arms over Paul's head.
"It's all true," said he, good-naturedly; "my father and I don't get onwell together, and I came to make a name in London. But for all youknow, Deborah, I may be a scamp."
"That you are not," she burst out. "Why, Bart's been follerin' youeverywhere, and he and me, which is to be his lawful wife and master,knows all about you and that there place in Bloomsbury, and where you goand where you don't go. And let me tell you, sir," again she lifted herfinger threateningly, "if you wasn't what you oughter be, never wouldyou see my pretty one again. No, not if I had to wash the floor in yourblue blood--for blue it is, if what Bart learned was true of them stonefiggers in the church," and she gasped.
Paul was silent for a few minutes, looking at the floor. He wonderedthat he had not guessed all this. Often it had seemed strange to himthat so faithful and devoted a couple of retainers as Bart and DeborahJunk should favor his wooing of Sylvia and keep it from their master,seeing that they knew nothing about him. But from the woman'sstory--which he saw no reason to disbelieve--the two had not resteduntil they had been convinced of his respectability and of the truth ofhis story. Thus they had permitted the wooing to continue, and Paulprivately applauded them for their tact in so making sure of him withoutcommitting themselves to open speech. "All the same," he said aloud, andfollowing his own thoughts, "it's strange that you should wish her tomarry me."
Miss Junk made a queer answer. "I'm glad enough to see her marry anyonerespectable, let alone a gent, as you truly are, with stone figgers inchurches and a handsome face, though rather dark for my liking. Mr.Beecot, twenty year ago, a slip of ten, I come to nuss the baby as wasmy loving angel upstairs, and her ma had just passed away to jine themas lives overhead playing harps. All these years I've never heard ayoung step on them stairs, save Miss Sylvia's and Bart's, him havingcome five years ago, and a brat he was. And would you believe it, Mr.Beecot, I know no more of the old man than you do. He's queer, and he'swrong altogether, and that frightened of being alone in the dark as youcould make him a corp with a turnip lantern."
"What is he afraid of?"
"Ah," said Deborah, significantly, "what indeed? It may be police and itmay be ghosts, but, ghosts or police, he never ses what he oughter sayif he's a respectable man, which I sadly fear he ain't."
"He may have his reasons to--"
Miss Junk tossed her head and snorted again loudly. "Oh, yes--he has hisreasons," she admitted, "and Old Bailey ones they are, I dessay. Butthere's somethin' 'anging over his head. Don't ask me what it is, furnever shall you know, by reason of my being ignorant. But whatever itis, Mr. Beecot, it's something wicked, and shall I see my own pretty introuble?"
"How do you know there will be trouble?" interrupted Paul, anxiously.
"I've heard him pray," said Miss Junk, mysteriously--"yes, you may look,for there ain't no prayer in the crafty eye of him--but pray he do, andasks to be kept from danger--"
"Danger?"
"Danger's the word, for I won't deceive you, no, not if you paid mebetter wages than the old man do give and he's as near as the paring ofan inion. So I ses to Bart, if there's danger and trouble and OldBaileys about, the sooner Miss Sylvia have some dear man to give her adecent name and pertect her the more happy old Deborah will be. So Ilooked and looked for what you might call a fairy prince as I've heardtell of in pantomimes, and when you comes she loses her heart to you. SoI ses, find out, Bart, what he is, and--"
"Yes, yes, I see. Well, Deborah, you can depend upon my looking afteryour pretty mistress. If I were only reconciled with my father I wouldspeak to Mr. Norman."
"Don't, sir--don't!" cried the woman, fiercely, and making a clutch atPaul's arm; "he'll turn you out, he will, not being anxious fur anyoneto have my flower, though love her as he oughter do, he don't, no,"cried Deborah, "nor her ma before her, who died with a starvin' 'eart.But you run away with my sweetest and make her your own, though her paswears thunderbolts as you may say. Take her from this place ofwickedness and police-courts." And Deborah looked round the cellar witha shudder. Suddenly she started and held up her finger, nodding towardsa narrow door at the side of the cellar. "Master's
footstep," she saidin a harsh whisper. "I'd know it in a thousand--just like a thief's,ain't it?--stealing as you might say. Don't tell him you've seen me."
"But Sylvia," cried Paul, catching her dress as she passed him.
"Her you'll see, if I die for it," said Deborah, and whirled up thewooden steps in a silent manner surprising in so noisy a woman. Paulheard the trap-door drop with a stealthy creak.
As a key grated in the lock of the outside door he glanced round theplace to which he had penetrated for the first time. It was of the samesize as the shop overhead, but the walls were of stone, green with slimeand feathery with a kind of ghastly white fungus. Overhead, from thewooden roof, which formed the floor of the shop, hung innumerablespider's webs thick with dust. The floor was of large flags cracked inmany places, and between the chinks in moist corners sprouted sparse,colorless grass. In the centre was a deal table, scored with queer marksand splotched with ink. Over this flared two gas-jets, which whistledshrilly. Against the wall, which was below the street, were three greenpainted safes fast locked: but the opposite wall had in it the narrowdoor aforesaid, and a wide grated window, the bars of which were rusty,though strong. The atmosphere of the place was cold and musty andsuggestive of a charnel house. Certainly a strange place in which totransact business, but everything about Aaron Norman was strange.
And he looked strange himself as he stepped in at the open door. Beyond,Paul could see the shallow flight of damp steps leading to the yard andthe passage which gave admission from the street. Norman locked the doorand came forward. He was as white as a sheet, and his face was thicklybeaded with perspiration. His mouth twitched more than usual, and hishands moved nervously. Twice as he advanced towards Paul, who rose toreceive him, did he cast the odd look over his shoulder. Beecotfancifully saw in him a man who had committed some crime and was fearfullest it should be discovered, or lest the avenger should suddenlyappear. Deborah's confidential talk had not been without its effects onthe young man, and Paul beheld in Aaron a being of mystery. How such aman came to have such a daughter as Sylvia, Paul could not guess.
"Here you are, Mr. Beecot," said Aaron, rubbing his hands as though thecold of the cellar struck to his bones. "Well?"
"I want to pawn a brooch," said Beecot, slipping his hand into hisbreast pocket.
"Wait," said Norman, throwing up his lean hand. "Let me tell you that Ihave taken a fancy to you, and I have watched you all the many times youhave been here. Didn't you guess?"
"No," said Paul, wondering if he was about to speak of Sylvia, andconcluding that he guessed what was in the wind.
"Well then, I have," said the pawnbroker, "and I think it's a pity ayoung man should pawn anything. Have you no money?" he asked.
Paul reddened. "Very little," he said.
"Little as it may be, live on that and don't pawn," said Aaron. "I speakagainst my own interests, but I like you, and perhaps I can lend you afew shillings."
"I take money from no one, thank you all the same," said Beecot,throwing back his head, "but if you can lend me something on thisbrooch," and he pulled out the case from his pocket. "A friend of minewould have bought it, but as it belongs to my mother I prefer to pawn itso that I may get it again when I am rich."
"Well, well," said Aaron, abruptly, and resuming his downcast looks, "Ishall do what I can. Let me see it."
He stretched out his hand and took the case. Slowly opening it under thegas, he inspected its contents. Suddenly he gave a cry of alarm, and thecase fell to the floor. "The Opal Serpent!--The Opal Serpent!" he cried,growing purple in the face, "keep off!--keep off!" He beat the air withhis lean hands. "Oh--the Opal!" and he fell face downward on the slimyfloor in a fit or a faint, but certainly unconscious.