by Fergus Hume
CHAPTER V
TROUBLE
"Oh, Debby," wept Sylvia, "he will die--he will die."
"Not he, my precious pet," said the handmaiden, fondling the girl's softhands within her own hard ones. "Them sort of young men have as manylives as tom cats. Bless you, my flower, he'll be up and ready, waitingat the altar, before the fashions change--and that's quick enough,"added Deborah, rubbing her snub nose. "For they're allays an-alteringand a-turning and a-changing of 'em."
The two were in the sitting-room over the bookshop. It was alow-ceilinged apartment, long and narrow, with windows back and front,as it extended the whole depth of the house. The back windows looked outon the dingy little yard, but these Norman had filled in with stainedglass of a dark color, so that no one could see clearly out of them. Whyhe had done so was a mystery to Sylvia, though Deborah suspected the oldman did not want anyone to see the many people who came to the backsteps after seven. From the front windows could be seen the street andthe opposite houses, and on the sills of the windows Sylvia cultivated afew cheap flowers, which were her delight. The room was furnished withall manner of odds and ends, flotsam and jetsam of innumerable salesattended by Aaron. There were Japanese screens, Empire sofas, mahoganychairs, Persian praying mats, Louis Quatorz tables, Arabic tiles,Worcester china, an antique piano that might have come out of the ark,and many other things of epochs which had passed away. Sylvia herselfbloomed like a fair flower amidst this wreckage of former times.
But the flower drooped at this moment and seemed in danger of dying forlack of sunshine. That, indeed, had been taken away by the removal ofthe young lover. Bart, who had witnessed the accident, returned hastilyto tell Sylvia, and so great had the shock of the dreadful news been,that she had fainted, whereupon the foolish shopman had been severelydealt with by Deborah. When Sylvia recovered, however, she insisted uponseeing Bart again, and then learned that Paul had been taken to CharingCross Hospital.
"They drawed him from under the wheels, miss, as white as a vellumbinding as ain't bin used. That gent as he was a-walking arm-in-armwith, slipped and knocked Mr. Beecot spinning under the steam engine."So did Bart describe the latest triumph of civilisation. "He was thatsorry, in a cold-blooded way, as I never saw. He helped to git Mr.Beecot into a cab and druve off. Then I come to tell you."
"And a nice way you've told it," grunted Deborah, driving him to thedoor. "Get back to the shop, you threadpaper of a man. My husband shallnever be such a fool. The engagement's off."
"Oh, Debby!" whimpered Bart, who, strange to say, was fondly attached tothe stout servant. But that may have been habit.
"Get along with you," she said, and banged the door in his face. "Anddon't tell master," she bawled after him, "else he'll be fainting again,drat him for a lily-livered duck!"
So Aaron never knew that the man who possessed the brooch had been runover by a motor or was in the hospital. Sylvia and Deborah both triedto look as cheerful as possible, and schemed how to see the lover whohad thus been laid low. Deborah boldly announced that she was takingSylvia to buy her a new dress--that is, to choose it, for the cost wasto be paid out of the servant's wages--and went with her one afternoonto the hospital. They heard that Paul's arm was broken, and that he hadbeen slightly hurt about the head. But there was no danger of his dying,and although they were not allowed to see him the two women returnedgreatly cheered. But Sylvia frequently gave way to low spirits, thinkingthat at any moment the good symptoms might give way to bad ones. Deborahalways cheered her, and went daily to get news. Always she returned tosay, "He's a-goin' on nicely, and has that color as he might be asunset." So Sylvia was bright until her next fit of low spirits came.
Meanwhile, their attention was taken up by the odd behavior of Aaron.The old man suddenly announced that he was about to sell the shop andretire, and displayed a feverish haste in getting rid of his stock, evenat a low price. Whether he sold the jewels so cheap as the books no oneever knew; but certainly the pundit caste did well out of the sale.Within the week the shop below was denuded, and there were nothing butbare shelves, much to the disgust of Bart, who, like Othello, found hisoccupation gone. The next day the furniture was to be sold, and whenDeborah was comforting Sylvia at the week's end the fiat had alreadygone forth. Whither he intended to transfer his household the old mandid not say, and this, in particular, was the cause of Sylvia's grief.She dreaded lest she should see her lover no more. This she said toDeborah.
"See him you shall, and this very day," cried the maiden, cheerfully."Why, there's that dress. I can't make up my mind whether to havemagenter or liliac, both being suited to my complexion. Not that it'scream of the valley smother in rosebuds as yours is, my angel, but adress I must have, and your pa can't deny my taking you to choose."
"But, Debby, it seems wrong to deceive father in this way."
"It do," admitted Debby, "and it is. We'll speak this very night--youand me in duets, as you might say, my pretty. He sha'n't say as we'vegone to hide behind a hedge."
"But we have, Debby, for six months," said Sylvia.
"Because I'm a hardened and bold creature," said Deborah, fiercely, "sodon't say it's you as held your tongue, for that you didn't, myhoneycomb. Many and many a time have you said to me, ses you, 'Oh, dotell my par,' and many a time have I said to you, ses I, 'No, myprecious, not for Joseph,' whoever he may be, drat him!"
"Now, Debby, you're taking all the blame on yourself!"
"And who have the broader shoulders, you or me, my flower?" asked Debby,fondly. "I'm as wicked as Bart, and that's saying much, for the way hebolts his food is dreadful to think of. Never will I have a corkidilefor a husband. But here," cried Deborah, beginning to bustle, "it's thedress I'm thinking of. Magenter or lilacs in full boom. What do youthink, my honey-pot?"
So the end of Deborah's shameless diplomacy was, that the two went, notto the inferior draper's where Debby bought her extraordinarygarments--though they went there later in a Jesuitical manner--but tothe hospital, where to her joy Sylvia was allowed to see Paul. He lookedthin and pale, but was quite himself and very cheerful. "My darling," hesaid, kissing Sylvia's hand, while Debby sat bolt upright near the bed,with a large handbag, and played propriety by glaring. "Now I shall getwell quickly. The sight of you is better than all medicine."
"I should think so," sniffed Debby, graciously. "Where's your orchards,with sich a color."
"You mean orchids, Debby," laughed Sylvia, who blushed a rosy red.
"It's them things with lady slippers a size too large for your foot I'ma-thinking of, pet, and small it is enough for glarse boots as the fairystory do tell. But I'm a-taking up the precious time of billing andcooing, so I'll shut my mouth and my ears while you let loose youraffections, my sweet ones, if you'll excuse the liberty, sir, me beingas fond of my lovey there as you is your own self."
"No, I can't admit that," said Paul, kissing Sylvia's hand again andholding it while he talked. "Darling, how good of you to come and seeme."
"It may be for the last time, Paul," said Sylvia, trying to keep backher tears, "but you'll give me your address, and I'll write."
"Oh, Sylvia, what is it?"
"My father has sold the books and is selling the house. We are goingaway. Where to I don't know."
"Tumbucktook would suit him," snapped Debby, suddenly; "he's trying toget into some rabbit-hole. Why, I don't know."
"I do," said Paul, lying back thoughtfully. He guessed that Aaron wasmoving because of the brooch, though why he should do so was a mystery."Sylvia," he asked, "did your father see my accident?"
"No, Paul. He was busy in the shop. Bart saw it, but Debby said hewasn't to tell father."
"Because of the fainting," explained Debby; "the man ain't strong,though Sampson he may think himself--ah, and Goliath, too, for all Icare. But why ask, Mr. Beecot?"
Paul did not reply to her, but asked Sylvia another question. "Do youremember that opal brooch I showed you?"
"The serpent. Yes?"
"Well, it's lost."
The young man nodded mournfully. "I'm very vexed about it," he said in alow tone; "my mother wanted it back. I was going to send it that veryday, but when I met with the accident it got lost somehow. It wasn't inmy pocket when my clothes were examined, though I asked for it as soonas I became conscious. My friend also couldn't tell me."
"Him as caused the smashes," said Deborah, with several sniffs. "A nicepretty friend, I do say, sir."
"It wasn't his fault, Deborah. Mr. Hay stumbled on a piece of orangepeel and jostled against me. I was taken by surprise, and fell into themiddle of the road just as the motor came along. Mr. Hay was more thansorry and has come to see me every day with books and fruit and allmanner of things."
"The least he could do," snapped the servant, "knocking folks intoorspitals with his fine gent airs. I sawr him out of the winder whileyou was in the shop, and there he spoke law-de-daw to a brat of a boy asought to be in gaol, seeing he smoked a cigar stump an' him but aten-year-old guttersnipe. Ses I, oh, a painted maypole you is, I ses,with a face as hard as bath bricks. A bad un you are, ses I."
"No, Deborah, you are wrong. Mr. Hay is my friend."
"Never shall he be my pretty's friend," declared Debby, obstinately,"for if all the wickedness in him 'ud come out in his face, pimpleswould be as thick as smuts in a London fog. No, Mr. Beecot, call him notwhat you do call him, meaning friend, for Judas and Julius Cezar ain'tin it with his Belzebubness."
Beecot saw it was vain to stop this chatterer, so he turned to talk inwhispers to Sylvia, while Debby murmured on like a brook, only shespoke loud enough at times to drown the whispering of the lovers.
"Sylvia," said Paul, softly, "I want you to send your father to me."
"Yes, Paul. Why do you wish to see him?"
"Because he must be told of our love. I don't think he will be so hardas you think, and I am ashamed of not having told him before. I like toact honorably, and I fear, Sylvia darling, we have not been quite fairto your father."
"I think so, too, Paul, and I intended to speak when we went home. Butgive me your address, so that if we go away unexpectedly I'll be able towrite to you."
Beecot gave her his Bloomsbury address, and also that of his old home atWargrove in Essex. "Write care of my mother," he said, "and then myfather won't get the letter."
"Would he be angry if he knew?" asked the girl, timidly.
Paul laughed to himself at the thought of the turkey-cock's rage. "Ithink he would, dearest," said he, "but that does not matter. Be true tome and I'll be true to you."
Here the nurse came to turn the visitors away on the plea that Paul hadtalked quite enough. Debby flared up, but became meek when Sylvia lifteda reproving finger. Then Paul asked Debby to seek his Bloomsburylodgings and bring to him any letters that might be waiting for him. "Iexpect to hear from my mother, and must write and tell her of myaccident," said he. "I don't want to trouble Mr. Hay, but you, Debby--"
"Bless you, Mr. Beecot, it ain't no trouble," said the servant,cheerfully, "and better me nor that 'aughty peacock, as ain't to betrusted, say what you will, seeing criminals is a-looking out of hiseyes, hide one though he may with a piece of glarse, and I ses--"
"You must go now, please," interposed the nurse.
"Oh, thank you, ma'am, but my own mistress, as is a lady, do I obeyonly."
"Debby, Debby," murmured Sylvia, and after kissing Paul, a farewellwhich Debby strove to hide from the nurse by getting in front of her andblocking the view, the two departed. The nurse laughed as she arrangedPaul's pillows.
"What a strange woman, Mr. Beecot."
"Very," assented Paul, "quite a character, and as true as the needle ofthe compass."
Meanwhile, Debby, ignorant of this flattering description, conductedSylvia to the draper's shop, and finally fixed on a hideous magentagown, which she ordered to be made quite plain. "With none of yourfal-de-lals," commanded Miss Junk, snorting. "Plain sewing and goodstuff is all I arsk for. And if there's any left over you can send homea 'at of the same, which I can brighten with a cockes feather as my marwore at her wedding. There, my own," added Debby, as they emerged fromthe shop and took a 'bus to Gwynne Street, "that's as you'll allways seeme dressed--plain and 'omely, with no more trimmings than you'll see ona washing-day jint, as I know to my cost from my mar's ecomicals."
"Economy, Debby."
"It ain't fur me to be using fine words, Miss Sylvia; cockatoos'feathers on a goose they'd be in my mouth. The 'ole dixionary kin do foryou my flower, but pothooks and 'angers never was my loves, me havingbeen at the wash-tub when rising eight, and stout at that."
In this way Debby discoursed all the way home. On arriving in the roomover the shop they found themselves confronted by Aaron, who lookedless timid than usual, and glowered at the pair angrily. "Where haveyou been, Sylvia?" he asked.
The girl could not tell a direct lie, and looked at Debby. Thathandmaiden, less scrupulous, was about to blurt forth a garbled account,when Sylvia stopped her with a resolute expression on her pretty face."No, Debby," she commanded, "let me speak. Father, I have been to seeMr. Beecot at the Charing Cross Hospital."
"And you couldn't have my flower do less as a good Smart 'un," put inDebby, anxiously, so as to avert the storm. "Girls is girls whatever youmay think, sir, of them being dolls and dummies and--"
"Hold your tongue, woman," cried Norman, fiercely, "let me talk. Why isMr. Beecot in the hospital?"
"He was knocked down," said Sylvia, quietly, "and his arm is broken. Amotor car ran over him in Gwynne Street. He wants to see you, to tellyou that he lost something."
Norman turned even whiter than he was by nature, and the perspirationsuddenly beaded his bald forehead. "The opal serpent!" he cried.
"Yes--the brooch he showed me."
"He showed you!" cried Aaron, with a groan. "And what did he tell youabout it?--what--what--what--the truth or--" He became passionate.
Debby grasped Aaron's arm and whirled him into the middle of the roomlike a feather. Then she planted herself before Sylvia, with her armsakimbo, and glared like a lioness. "You can pinch me, sir, or gives meblack eyes and red noses if you like, but no finger on my precious, if Idie for it."
Aaron was staggered by this defiance, and looked fierce for the moment.Then he became timid again and cast the odd, anxious look over hisshoulder. "Leave the room, Deborah," he said in a mild voice.
The faithful maid replied by sitting down and folding her arms. "Getyour wild horses, sir," she said, breathing heavily, "for only by themwill I be tugged away." And she snorted so loudly that the room shook.
"Pshaw," said Norman, crossly, "Sylvia, don't be afraid of me." He wipedhis face nervously. "I only want to know of the brooch. I like theopals--I wanted to buy it from Mr. Beecot. He is poor--he wants money. Ican give it to him, for--the--the brooch."
He brought out the last word with a gasp, and again glanced over hisshoulder. Sylvia, not at all afraid, approached and took the old man'shand. The watchful Deborah moved her chair an inch nearer, so as to beready for any emergency. "Dear father," said the girl, "Mr. Beecotdoesn't know where the brooch is. It was stolen from him when theaccident happened. If you will see him he can tell you--"
"Not where the brooch is," interrupted Aaron, trying to appear calm."Well, well, it doesn't matter." He glanced anxiously at Sylvia. "Youbelieve me, child, when I say it doesn't matter."
A snort from Deborah plainly said that she had her doubts. Sylvia cast areproving glance in her direction, whereupon she rose and committedperjury. "Of course it don't matter, sir," she said in a loud, heartyvoice which made Aaron wince. "My precious believes you, though lie itmight be. But folk so good as you, sir, who go to church when thereain't anyone to see, wouldn't tell lies without them a-choking of themin their blessed throats."
"How do you know I go to church?" asked Norman, with the snarl of atrapped animal.
"Bless you, sir, I don't need glarses at my age, though not so young asI might be. Church you enjiy, say
what you may, you being as regular asthe taxes, which is saying much. Lor' save us all!"
Deborah might well exclaim this. Her master flung himself forward withoutstretched hands clawing the air, and with his lips lifted like thoseof an enraged dog. "You she-cat," he said in a painfully hissing voice,"you're a spy, are you? They've set you to watch--to drag me to thegallows--" he broke off with a shiver. His rage cooled as suddenly as ithad heated, and staggering to the sofa he sat down with his face hidden."Not that--not that--oh, the years of pain and terror! To come tothis--to this--Deborah--don't sell me. Don't. I'll give you money--I amrich. But if the opal serpent--if the opal--" He rose and began to beatthe air with his hands.
Sylvia, who had never seen her father like this, shrank back in terror,but Deborah, with all her wits about her, though she was wildlyastonished, seized a carafe of water from the table and dashed thecontents in his face. The old man gasped, shuddered, and, dripping wet,sank again on the sofa. But the approaching fit was past, and when helooked up after a moment or so, his voice was as calm as his face."What's all this?" he asked, feebly.
"Nothing, father," said Sylvia, kneeling beside him; "you must not doubtDebby, who is as true as steel."
"Are you, Deborah?" asked Aaron, weakly.
"I should think so," she declared, putting her arms round Sylvia, "solong, sir, as you don't hurt my flower."
"I don't want to hurt her ..."
"There's feelings as well as bones," said Deborah, hugging Sylvia so asto keep her from speaking, "and love you can't squash, try as you may,though, bless you, I'm not given to keeping company myself."
"Love," said Aaron, vacantly. He seemed to think more of his troublesthan of Sylvia going to visit a young man.
"Love and Mr. Beecot," said Deborah. "She wants to marry him."
"Why, then," said Aaron, calmly, "she shall marry him."
Sylvia fell at his feet. "Oh, father--father, and I have kept it fromyou all these months. Forgive me--forgive me," and she wept.
"My dear," he said, gently raising her, "there is nothing to forgive."
