CHAPTER IV
THE UNFORESEEN
Paul did not go near the Gwynne Street shop for the next few days, muchas he wanted to do so. Being deeply in love he could hardly bear to beaway from Sylvia even for a few hours: but in spite of this he remainedaway for two reasons. The first of these was that he awaited a reply tohis letter written to Mrs. Beecot, as he wished to be able to tell AaronNorman where the brooch had been obtained. He thought by doing this toingratiate himself with the old man, and perhaps, if thus confidential,might learn, for the satisfaction of his curiosity, why the sight of thebrooch had produced such an effect on the pawnbroker.
The other reason was that, not having been able to sell the brooch, orrather pawn it since he did not wish to lose it altogether, funds wererunning low, and now he had but a few shillings left. A call at theoffice of a penny weekly had resulted in the return of three stories asbeing too long and not the sort required. But the editor, in a hastyinterview, admitted that he liked Paul's work and would give him threepounds for a tale written on certain lines likely to be popular with thepublic. Paul did not care to set forth another person's ideas,especially as these were old and very sensational; but as he requiredmoney he set to work and labored to produce what would bring him in thecash. He made several attempts before he reached the editor's level,which was low rather than high, and succeeded in getting the taleaccepted. With three golden pounds in his pocket and exultation in hisheart--for every success seemed to bring him nearer to Sylvia--Paulreturned to his aerial castle and found waiting for him the expectedletter.
It was written in a low-spirited sort of way, characteristic of Mrs.Beecot, but with a true motherly heart. After two pages of lamentationover his absence, and a description of how the head of the householdmanaged to bear up against the affliction of his son's absence, Mrs.Beecot proceeded to explain about the brooch.
"Why do you ask me about the opal brooch, my dear boy?" wrote Mrs.Beecot in her scratchy handwriting. "All I know is that your fatherbought it out of a pawnbroker's shop in Stowley, which is some town inthe Midlands. Your father was travelling there and saw the brooch bychance. As I always thought opals unlucky he was anxious to make me seethe folly of such a superstition, so he bought the brooch and took itaway with him. Afterwards, I believe, he received a letter from thepawnbroker, saying that his assistant had sold the brooch by mistake,that the time for redeeming it had not run out when your father boughtit. The pawnbroker asked that the brooch might be returned, and wantedto pay back the money. But you know what your father is. He refused atonce to give back the brooch, and insisted on my wearing it. I had a badfall while wearing it, and then was thrown out of that high dog-cartyour father would insist on driving. I am sure the brooch or the stonesis unlucky, and, as after a time your father forgot all about it, I letit lie in my jewel-case. For years I had not worn it, and as I think itis unlucky, and as you need money, my darling boy, I hope you will sellit. There is no need to pawn it as you say. I never want to see thebrooch again. But regarding your health, etc., etc."
So Mrs. Beecot wrote in her verbose style, and with some errors ofgrammar. Paul saw in her simple tale fresh evidence of his father'styranny, since he made his wife wear gems she detested and wassuperstitiously set against possessing them. The dog-cart episode Paulremembered very well. Mr. Beecot, in his amiable way, had no patiencewith his wife's nerves, and never lost an opportunity of placing her inunpleasant positions, whereby she might be, what he called, hardened.Paul sighed to think of his mother's position as he folded up theletter. She had a bad time with the truculent husband she had married."And I can't believe she became his wife of her own free will," thoughtPaul; "probably the governor bullied her into it in his own sweet way."
However, there was nothing in the letter to explain Norman's faint. Itwas certainly strange that the pawnbroker, from whom the brooch had beenoriginally purchased, should have demanded it back; and the excuse givenseems rather a weak one. However, Paul did not waste time in thinkingover this, but resolved to tell Aaron what his mother had said.
He had received two letters from Sylvia, mentioning, amongst otherthings, that her father, now quite well, was asking after Paul, andurging him to come and see him. "My father appears to have a fancy foryou," wrote Sylvia, "so if you are very nice--as nice as you canbe--perhaps he won't be very angry if you tell him we are engaged."There was much more to the same effect, which Paul thought good advice,and he intended to adopt the same. It was necessary that he should tellAaron of his love if things were to be conducted in a straightforwardand honorable manner. And Paul had no desire to conduct them otherwise.
Having made up his mind to see Aaron again, Paul bethought himself ofGrexon Hay. That gentleman had never appeared again at the Bloomsburygarret, and had never even written. But Paul was anxious that Hay--whomhe regarded as a clever man-of-the-world--should see the old man, and,as our trans-Atlantic cousins say, "size him up." Norman's manner andqueer life puzzled Paul not a little, and not being very worldly himselfhe was anxious to have the advice of his old school friend, who seemeddesirous of doing him a good turn, witness his desire to buy the broochso that Paul might be supplied with money. So Beecot wrote to Grexon Hayat his Camden Hill chamber and told him he intended to go to GwynneStreet on a certain day at a certain time. To this Grexon responded bysaying that he was at Paul's service and would come especially as hewanted to see Dulcinea of Gwynne Street.
Paul laughed at the phrase. "I suppose Grexon thinks I am veryQuixotic," he thought, "coming to London to tilt with the windmills ofthe Press. But Don Quixote was wise in spite of his apparent madness,and Grexon will recognize my wisdom when he sees my Dulcinea, bless her!Humph! I wonder if Hay could pacify my father and make him look morekindly on my ambitions. Grexon is a clever fellow, a thoroughly goodchap, so--"
Here Paul paused to think. The incident of the working man and thewarning he had given about Hay recurred to his mind. Also the phrase"Man on the Market" stuck in his memory. Why should Grexon Hay be calledso, and what did the phrase mean? Paul had never heard it before.Moreover, from certain indications Beecot did not think that theindividual with the bag of tools was a working man. He rather appearedto be a person got up to play the part. The fellow watching them bothand accosting Paul alone certainly seemed a doubtful character. Beecotregretted that he had been so short with the man, else he might havelearned why he had acted in this way. The story of the little bill wasabsurd, for if Grexon owed the man money the man himself would certainlyhave known the name and address of his creditor. Altogether, theincident puzzled Paul almost as much as that of Aaron's fainting, and heresolved to question Grexon. But it never crossed his mind that Hay wasanything else but what he appeared to be--a man-about-town with asufficient income to live upon comfortably. Had Paul doubted he wouldnever have asked Grexon to go with him to Gwynne Street. However, he haddone so, and the appointment was made, so there was no more to be said.
The man-about-town duly made his appearance to the very minute. "Ialways keep appointments," he explained when Paul congratulated him onhis punctuality; "there's nothing annoys me so much as to be keptwaiting, so I invariably practise what I preach. Well, Paul, and how isDulcinea of Gwynne Street?"
"She is very well," replied Paul, who was still a young enough lover toblush, "but I have not seen her since we last met. I waited for a letterfrom my mother about the brooch, so that I might explain to Aaron howshe got it. The old man has been asking after me."
"Oh, confound the brooch!" said Grexon in his cool manner. "I don't wantto hear about it. Let us talk of Dulcinea."
"Rather let us talk of yourself," said Paul.
"Not an interesting subject," replied Hay, rising as Paul opened hisgarret door for departure, "you know all about me."
"No! I don't know why you are called a man-on-the-market."
Hay flushed and turned sharply. "What do you mean?" he asked in aparticularly quiet tone.
"I don't know what I _do_ mean," said Paul. "Do you remember thatw
orking man with the bag of tools who was across the road when we lastconversed?"
"No," said Hay, staring, "I never notice creatures of that class. Why?"
"Because he asked me who you were and where you lived. It seems you owehim some money."
"That is very probable," said Hay, equably. "I owe most people money,and if this man has a debt against me he would certainly know all aboutme as to address and name."
"So I thought," replied Paul, "but the queer thing is that he told me totake care, and called you a man-on-the-market. What does it mean? Inever heard the phrase before."
"I have," said Hay, proceeding calmly down the somewhat steep stairs; "aman-on-the-market means one who wants to marry and is eligible for anyheiress who comes along with a sufficient rent-roll. But why should afellow like that talk the shibboleth of Society?"
Paul shrugged his shoulders. "I can't say. Perhaps the man guessed Iintended to take you to see Sylvia, and warned me against you, as itseems from his phrase that you wish to marry."
"Ah! Then your Dulcinea is an heiress?" said Hay, fixing his eye-glasscarefully; "if so, you needn't fear me. I am almost engaged and won't beon the market any longer. What confounded cheek this fellow addressingyou in that way and talking of me as he did. I suppose," he added witha cold laugh, "it is not necessary for me to defend myself."
"What rubbish," replied Beecot, good-naturedly. "All the same, it isstrange the man should have spoken to me as he did. I told him to go tothe devil."
"And go to the devil he assuredly will if I meet him," was the dryreply. "I'll break his head for not minding his own business. I think Ican explain, and will do so as soon as you take that telegram the lad isholding out for you."
Grexon was quicker-sighted than Paul, for the moment they arrived at thebottom of the stairs and were about to emerge into the street he saw themessenger. "Do you know if any gent of that name lives here, guvnor?"asked the boy, holding out the buff-colored envelope.
Beecot, to his surprise, saw his own name. "Who can be wiring to me?" hesaid, taking the telegram. "Wait, boy, there may be an answer," and heskimmed through the lines. "Don't sell the brooch, but send it back,"read Paul, puzzled, "your father angry.--MOTHER." He paused, and lookedat the boy. "Got a form?" he asked.
The lad produced one and a stumpy pencil. With these materials Beecotwrote a reply saying the brooch would be returned on the morrow. Whenthe boy went away with the answer Paul felt in his breast pocket andtook out the old blue case. "I've a good mind to send it now," he saidaloud.
"What's that?" asked Hay, who was yawning at the door. "No bad news Ihope?"
"It's about that brooch again."
Hay laughed. "Upon my word it seems to you what the Monster was toFrankenstein," said he. "Send it back--to Mrs. Beecot, I presume--andhave done with it." He cast a glance at the case. "I see you have itwith you," he ended, lightly.
"Yes," said Paul, and replacing the case in his pocket went down thestreet with his friend. Then he determined to ask his opinion, andrelated the gist of Mrs. Beecot's letter. "And now the mater wires tohave it back," he said. "I expect my father has found out that she hassent it to me, and is furious."
"Well, send it back and have done with it," said Hay, impatiently; "youare in danger of becoming a bore with that brooch, Beecot. I'll lend youmoney if you like."
"No, thanks, I have three pounds honestly earned. However, we'll speakno more of the brooch. I'll send it back this very day. Tell me," helinked his arm within that of his friend, "tell me of that man."
"That man--of the working creature," said Hay, absently. "Pooh, the manwas no more a working man than I am."
"Well, I thought myself he was a bit of a fraud."
"Detectives never do make up well," said Grexon, calmly.
Paul stopped as they turned into Oxford Street. "What? Was the man adetective?"
"I think so, from your description of his conversation. The fact is I'min love with a lady who is married. We have behaved quite well, and noone can say a word against us. But her husband is a beast and wants adivorce. I have suspected for some time that he is having mewatched. Thanks to you, Paul, I am now sure. So perhaps you willunderstand why the man warned you against me and talked of my being aman-on-the-market."
"I see," said Paul, hesitating; "but don't get into trouble, Hay."
"Oh, I'm all right. And I don't intend to do anything dishonorable, ifthat is what you mean. It's the husband's fault, not mine. By the way,can you describe the fellow?"
"Yes. He had red hair and a red beard--rather a ruddy face, and walkedwith a limp."
"All put on," said Hay, contemptuously; "probably the limp was affected,the beard false, the hair a wig, and the face rouged--very clumsyindeed. I daresay he'll appear pale and gentlemanly the next time hewatches me. I know the tricks of these fellows."
The two friends talked for some time about this episode, and thenbranched off into other subjects. Hay described the married lady headored, and Paul rebuked him for entertaining such a passion. "It's notright, Hay," said he, positively; "you can't respect a woman who runsaway from her husband."
"She hasn't run away yet, Sir Galahad," laughed Grexon. "By Jove, youare an innocent!"
"If that means respecting the institution of marriage and adoring womenas angels I hope I'll remain an innocent."
"Oh, women are angels, of course," said Hay as they walked down GwynneStreet; "it's a stock phrase in love-making. But there are angels of twosorts. Dulcinea is--"
"Here we are," interrupted Paul, quickly. Somehow it irritated him tohear this hardened sinner speak of Sylvia, and he began to think thatGrexon Hay had deteriorated. Not that he was considered to beparticularly good at Torrington school. In fact, Paul remembered that hehad been thoroughly disliked. However, he had no time to go into thematter, for at this moment Aaron appeared at the door of the shop. Hestepped out on to the pavement as Paul approached. "Come in," he said,"I want to see you--privately," he added, casting a frightened look atHay.
"In that case I'll leave you," said Grexon, disengaging his arm fromPaul. "Dulcinea must wait for another occasion. Go in and do yourbusiness. I'll wait without."
Paul thanked his friend by a look and went into the shop with the oldman. "That brooch," said Aaron, in a timid whisper, "have you got it?Give it to me--quick--quick."
There was no one in the shop as Bart had apparently gone out on anerrand. The door leading to the stairs, down which Sylvia had so oftendescended, was closed, and no one was about to overhear theirconversation. "I have the brooch," said Paul, "but--"
"Give it to me--give it," panted Aaron. "I'll buy it--at a large price.Ask what you want."
"Why are you so eager to get it?" demanded Beecot, astonished.
"That's my business," said Norman, in a suddenly imperious manner. "Iwant it. The stones take my fancy," he ended weakly.
"Was that why you fainted?" asked Paul, suspiciously.
"No." The man grew white and leaned against the counter, breathingheavily. "Where did you get the brooch?" he asked, trying to keephimself calm, but with a visible effort.
"I got it from my mother, and she received it from my father--"
"Beecot--Beecot," said the old man, fingering his lips, much agitated."I know no one of that name save yourself, and you are not a spy--ascoundrel--a--a--" He caught the eyes of Paul fixed on him in amazement,and suddenly changed his tone. "Excuse me, but the brooch reminds me oftrouble."
"You have seen it before?"
"Yes--that is no--don't ask me." He clutched at his throat as though hefelt choked. "I can't talk of it. I daren't. How did your father getit?"
More and more astonished, Paul explained. Aaron listened with his oneeye very bright, and made uneasy motions with his lean hands as theyoung man spoke. When Beecot ended he bit his nails. "Yes, yes," hemurmured to himself, "it would be asked for back. But it sha'n't goback. I want it. Sell it to me, Mr. Beecot."
"I'm sorry I can't," replied Paul, good-naturedly. "But my mother
wiredthat it was to be returned. My father has discovered that she sent it tome and is not pleased."
"Did you tell your mother you had shown it to me?"
"No. There was no need."
"God bless you!" breathed the man, pulling out a crimson handkerchief."Of course there was no need," he tittered nervously. "It doesn't do totalk of pawning things--not respectable, eh--eh." He wiped his face andpassed his tongue over his white lips. "Well, you won't sell it to me?"
"I can't. But I'll ask my mother if she will."
"No, no! Don't do that--say nothing--say nothing. I don't want thebrooch. I never saw the brooch--what brooch--pooh--pooh, don't talk tome of the brooch," and so he babbled on.
"Mr. Norman," said Beecot, gravely, "what is the story connected withthe brooch?"
Aaron flung up his hands and backed towards the counter. "No, no. Don'task me. What do you mean? I know no story of a brooch--what brooch--Inever saw one--I never--ah"--he broke off in relief as two pale-faced,spectacled girls entered the shop--"customers. What is it, ladies? Howcan I serve you?" And he bustled away behind the counter, giving all hisattention to the customers, yet not without a sidelong look in thedirection of the perplexed Paul.
That young gentleman, finding it impossible to get further speech withAaron, and suspecting from his manner that all was not right, left theshop. He determined to take the brooch to Wargrove himself, and to askhis mother about it. Then he could learn why she wanted it back--if notfrom her, then from his father. This knowledge might explain themystery.
"Did you sell the brooch?" asked Grexon as they walked up Gwynne Street.
"No. I have to send it back to my mother, and--"
"Hold on!" cried Hay, stumbling. "Orange-peel--ah--"
His stumble knocked Paul into the middle of the road. A motor car wascoming down swiftly. Before Hay could realize what had taken place Paulwas under the wheels of the machine.