Confounded by her coolness, the man snatched up the pawn-ticket, and stamped out of the shop in a rage. Hagar took down the Dante, looked at it carefully, and considered the position. Clearly there was something wrong, and Eustace was in trouble, else why should he send a stranger to redeem the book upon which he set such store? In an ordinary case, Hagar might have received the ticket and money without a qualm, so long as she was acting rightly in a legal sense; but Eustace Lorn interested her strangely—why, she could not guess—and she was anxious to guard his interests. Moreover, the emissary possessed an untrustworthy face, and looked a man capable, if not of crime, at least of treachery. How he had obtained the ticket could only be explained by its owner; so, after some cogitation, Hagar sent a message to Lorn. The gist of this was, that he should come to the pawn-shop after closing time.
All the evening Hagar anxiously waited for her visitor, and—such is the inconsequence of maids—she was angered with herself for this very anxiety. She tried to think that it was sheer curiosity to know the truth of the matter that made her impatient for the arrival of Lorn; but deep in her heart there lurked a perception of the actual state of things. It was not curiosity so much as a wish to see the young man’s face again, to hear him speak, and feel that he was beside her. Though without a chaperon, though not brought up under parental government, Hagar had her own social code, and that a strict one. In this instance, she thought that her mental attitude was unmaidenly and unworthy of an unmarried girl. Hence, when Eustace made his appearance at nine o’clock, she was brusque to the verge of rudeness.
“Who was that man you sent for your book?” she demanded, abruptly, when Lorn was seated in the back-parlor.
“Jabez Treadle. I could not come myself, so I sent him with the ticket. Why did you not give him the Dante?”
“Because I did not like his face, and I thought he might have stolen the ticket from you. Besides, I”—here Hagar hesitated, for she was not anxious to admit that her real reason had been a desire to see him again—“besides, I don’t think he is your friend,” she finished, lamely.
“Very probably he is not,” replied Lorn, shrugging his shoulders. “I have no friends.”
“That is a pity,” said Hagar, casting a searching glance at his irresolute face. “I think you need friends—or, at all events, one staunch one.”
“May that staunch one be of your own sex,” said Lorn, rather surprised at the interest this strange girl displayed in his welfare—“yourself, for instance?”
“If that could be so, I might give you unpalatable advice, Mr. Lorn.”
“Such as—what?”
“Don’t trust the man you sent here—Mr. Treadle. See, here is your Dante, young man. Pay me the money, and take it away.”
“I can’t pay you the money, as I have none. I am as poor as Job, but hardly so patient.”
“But you offered the money through that Treadle creature.”
“Indeed no!” explained Eustace, frankly. “I gave him the ticket, and he wished to redeem the book with his own money.”
“Did he really?” said Hagar, thoughtfully. “He does not look like a student—as you do. Why did he want this book?”
“To find out a secret.”
“A secret, young man—contained in the Dante?”
“Yes. There is a secret in the book which means money.”
“To you or Mr. Treadle?” demanded Hagar.
Eustace shrugged his shoulders. “To either one of us who finds out the secret,” he said, carelessly. “But indeed I don’t think it will ever be discovered—at all events by me. Treadle may be more fortunate.”
“If crafty ways can bring fortune, your man will succeed,” said Hagar, calmly. “He is a dangerous friend for you, that Treadle. There is evidently some story about this Dante of yours which he knows, and which he desires to turn to his own advantage. If the story means money, tell it to me, and I may be able to help you to the wealth. I am only a young girl, it is true, Mr. Lorn; still, I am old in experience, and I may succeed where you fail.”
“I doubt it,” replied Lorn, gloomily; “still, it is kind of you to take this interest in a stranger. I am much obliged to you, Miss—?”
“Call me Hagar,” she interrupted, hastily. “I am not used to fine titles.”
“Well, then, Hagar,” said he, with a kindly glance, “I’ll tell you the story of my Uncle Ben and his strange will.”
Hagar smiled to herself. It seemed to be her fate to have dealings with wills—first that of Jacob; now this of Lorn’s uncle. However, she knew when to hold her tongue, and saying nothing, she waited for Eustace to explain. This he did at once.
“My uncle, Benjamin Gurth, died six months ago at the age of fifty-eight,” said he, slowly. “In his early days he had lived a roving life, and ten years ago he came home with a fortune from the West Indies.”
“How much fortune?” demanded Hagar, always interested in financial matters.
“That is the odd part about it,” continued Eustace; “nobody ever knew the amount of his wealth, for he was a grumpy old curmudgeon, who confided in no one. He bought a little house and garden at Woking, and there lived for the ten years he was in England. His great luxury was books, and as he knew many languages—Italian among others—he collected quite a polyglot library.”
“Where is it now?”
“It was sold after his death along with the house and land. A man in the city claimed the money and obtained it.”
“A creditor. What about the fortune?”
“I’m telling you, Hagar, if you’ll only listen,” said Eustace, impatiently. “Well, Uncle Ben, as I have said, was a miser. He hoarded up all his moneys and kept them in the house, trusting neither to banks nor investments. My mother was his sister, and very poor; but he never gave her a penny, and to me nothing but the Dante, which he presented in an unusual fit of generosity.”
“But from what you said before,” remarked Hagar, shrewdly, “it seemed to me that he had some motive in giving you the Dante.”
“No doubt,” assented Eustace, admiring her sharpness. “The secret of where his money is hidden is contained in that Dante.”
“Then you may be sure, Mr. Lorn, that he intended to make you his heir. But what has your friend Treadle to do with the matter?”
“Oh, Treadle is a grocer in Woking,” responded Lorn. “He is greedy for money, and knowing that Uncle Ben was rich, he tried to get the cash left to him. He wheedled and flattered the old man; he made him presents, and always tried to set him against me as his only relative.”
“Didn’t I say the man was your enemy? Well, go on.”
“There is little more to tell, Hagar. Uncle Ben hid his money away, and left a will which gave it all to the person who should find out where it was concealed. The testament said the secret was contained in the Dante. You may be sure that Treadle visited me at once and asked to see the book. I showed it to him, but neither of us could find any sign in its pages likely to lead us to discover the hidden treasure. The other day Treadle came to see the Dante again. I told him that I had pawned it, so he volunteered to redeem it if I gave him the ticket. I did so, and he called on you. The result you know.”
“Yes; I refused to give it to him,” said Hagar, “and I see now that I was quite right to do so, as the man is your enemy. Well, Mr. Lorn, it seems from your story that a fortune is waiting for you, if you can find it.”
“Very true; but I can’t find it. There isn’t a single sign in the Dante by which I can trace the hiding-place.”
“Do you know Italian?”
“Very well. Uncle Ben taught it to me.”
“That’s one point gained,” said Hagar, placing the Dante on the table and lighting another candle. “The secret may be contained in the poem itself. However, we shall see. Is there any mark in the b
ook—a marginal mark, I mean?”
“Not one. Look for yourself.”
The two comely young heads, one so fair, the other so dark, were bent over the book in that dismal and tenebrous atmosphere. Eustace, the weaker character of the twain, yielded in all things to Hagar. She turned over page after page of the old Florentine edition, but not one pencil or pen-mark marred its pure white surface from beginning to end. From “L’Inferno” to “Il Paradiso” no hint betrayed the secret of the hidden money. At the last page, Eustace, with a sigh, threw himself back in his chair.
“You see, Hagar, there is nothing. What are you frowning at?”
“I am not frowning, but thinking, young man,” was her reply. “If the secret is in this book, there must be some trace of it. Now, nothing appears at present, but later on—”
“Well,” said Eustace, impatiently, “later on?”
“Invisible ink.”
“Invisible ink!” he repeated, vaguely. “I don’t quite understand.”
“My late master,” said Hagar, without emotion, “was accustomed to deal with thieves, rogues, and vagabonds. Naturally, he had many secrets, and sometimes by force of circumstances, he had to trust these secrets to the post. Naturally, also, he did not wish to risk discovery, so when he sent a letter, about stolen goods for instance, he always wrote it in lemon-juice.”
“In lemon-juice! And what good was that?”
“It was good for invisible writing. When the letter was written, it looked like a blank page. No one, you understand, could read what was set out, for to the ordinary eye there was no writing at all.”
“And to the cultured eye?” asked Eustace, in ironical tones.
“It appeared the same—a blank sheet,” retorted Hagar. “But then the cultured mind came in, young man. The person to whom the letter was sent warmed the seeming blank page over the fire, when at once the writing appeared, black and legible.”
“The deuce!” Eustace jumped up in his excitement. “And you think—”
“I think that your late uncle may have adopted the same plan,” interrupted Hagar, coolly, “but I am not sure. However, we shall soon see.” She turned over a page or two of the Dante. “It is impossible to heat these over the fire,” she added, “as the book is valuable, and we must not spoil it; but I know of a plan.”
With a confident smile she left the room and returned with a flat iron, which she placed on the fire. While it was heating Eustace looked at this quick-witted woman with admiration. Not only had she brains, but beauty also; and, man-like, he was attracted by this last in no small degree. Shortly he began to think that this strange and unexpected friendship between himself and the pawnbroking gipsy beauty might develop into something stronger and warmer. But here he sighed; both of them were poor, so it would be impossible to—
“We will not begin at the beginning of the book,” said Hagar, taking the iron off the fire, and thereby interrupting his thoughts, “but at the end.”
“Why?” asked Eustace, who could see no good reason for this decision.
“Well,” said Hagar, poising the heated iron over the book, “when I search for an article I find it always at the bottom of a heap of things I don’t want. As we began with the first page of this book and found nothing, let us start this time from the end, and perhaps we shall learn your uncle’s secret the sooner. It is only a whim of mine, but I should like to satisfy it by way of experiment.”
Eustace nodded and laughed, while Hagar placed a sheet of brown paper over the last page of the Dante to preserve the book from being scorched. In a minute she lifted the iron and paper, but the page still showed no mark. With a cheerful air the girl shook her head, and repeated the operation on the second page from the end. This time, when she took away the brown paper, Eustace, who had been watching her actions with much interest, bent forward with an ejaculation of surprise. Hagar echoed it with one of delight; for there was a mark and date on the page, half-way down, as thus:
Oh, abbondante grazia ond’ io presumi
Ficcar lo viso per la luce eterna 27.12. 38.
Tanto, che la veduta vi consumi!
“There, Mr. Lorn!” cried Hagar, joyously—“there is the secret! My fancy for beginning at the end was right. I was right also about the invisible ink.”
“You are a wonder!” said Eustace, with sincere admiration; “but I am as much in the dark as ever. I see a marked line, and a date, the twenty-seventh of December, in the year, I presume, one thousand eight hundred and thirty-eight. We can’t make any sense out of that simplicity.”
“Don’t be in a hurry,” said Hagar, soothingly; “we have found out so much, we may learn more. First of all, please to translate those three lines.”
“Roughly,” said Eustace, reading them, “they run thus: ‘O abundant grace, with whom I tried to look through the eternal light so much that I lost my sight.’ ” He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t see how that transcendentalism can help us.”
“What about the date?”
“One thousand eight hundred and thirty-eight,” said Lorn, thoughtfully; “and this is ninety-six. Take one from the other, it leaves fifty-eight, the age at which, as I told you before, my uncle died. Evidently this is the date of his birth.”
“A date of birth—a line of Dante!” muttered Hagar. “I must say that it is difficult to make sense out of it. Yet, in figures and letters, I am sure the place where the money is concealed is told.”
“Well,” remarked Eustace, giving up the solution of this problem in despair, “if you can make out the riddle it is more than I can.”
“Patience, patience!” replied Hagar, with a nod. “Sooner or later we shall find out the meaning. Could you take me to see your uncle’s house at Woking?”
“Oh, yes; it is not yet let, so we can easily go over it. But will you trouble about coming all that way with me?”
“Certainly! I am anxious to know the meaning of this line and date. There may be something about your uncle’s house likely to give a clue to its reading. I shall keep the Dante, and puzzle over the riddle; you can call for me on Sunday, when the shop is closed, and we shall go to Woking together.”
“O Hagar! how can I ever thank—”
“Thank me when you get the money, and rid yourself of Mr. Treadle!” said Hagar, cutting him short. “Besides, I am only doing this to satisfy my own curiosity.”
“You are an angel!”
“And you a fool, who talks nonsense!” said Hagar, sharply. “Here is your hat and cane. Come out this way by the back. I have an ill enough name already, without desiring a fresh scandal. Good night.”
“But may I say—”
“Nothing, nothing!” retorted Hagar, pushing him out of the door. “Good night.”
The door snapped to sharply, and Lorn went out into the hot July night with his heart beating and his blood aflame. He had seen this girl only twice, yet, with the inconsiderate rashness of youth, he was already in love with her. The beauty and kindness and brilliant mind of Hagar attracted him strongly; and she had shown him such favor that he felt certain she loved him in return. But a girl out of a pawn-shop! He had neither birth nor money, yet he drew back from mating himself with such a one. True, his mother was dead, and he was quite alone in the world—alone and poor. Still, if he found his uncle’s fortune, he would be rich enough to marry. Hagar, did she aid him to get the money, might expect reward in the shape of marriage. And she was so beautiful, so clever! By the time he reached his poor lodging Eustace had put all scruples out of his head, and had settled to marry the gipsy as soon as the lost treasure came into his possession. In no other way could he thank her for the interest she was taking in him. This may seem a hasty decision; but young blood is soon heated; young hearts are soon filled with love. Youth and beauty drawn together are as flint and tinder to light the torch
of Hymen.
Punctual to the appointed hour, Eustace, as smart as he could make himself with the poor means at his command, appeared at the door of the pawn-shop. Hagar was already waiting for him, with the Dante in her hand. She wore a black dress, a black cloak, and a hat of the same somber hue—such clothes being the mourning she had worn, and was wearing, for Jacob. Averse as she was to using Goliath’s money, she thought he would hardly grudge her these garments of woe for his father. Besides, as manageress of the shop, she deserved some salary.
“Why are you taking the Dante?” asked Eustace, when they set out for Waterloo Station.
“It may be useful to read the riddle,” said Hagar.
“Have you solved it?”
“I don’t know; I am not sure,” she said, meditatively. “I tried by counting the lines on that page up and down. You understand—twenty-seven, twelve, thirty-eight; but the lines I lighted on gave me no clue.”
“You didn’t understand them?”
“Yes I did,” replied Hagar, coolly. “I got a second-hand copy of a translation from the old bookseller in Carby’s Crescent, and by counting the lines to correspond with those in the Florentine edition I arrived at the sense.”
“And none of them point to the solution of the problem?”
“Not one. Then I tried by pages. I counted twenty-seven pages, but could find no clue; I reckoned twelve pages; also thirty-eight; still the same result. Then I took the twelfth, the twenty-seventh, and the thirty-eighth page by numbers, but found nothing. The riddle is hard to read.”
“Impossible, I should say,” said Eustace, in despair.
“No; I think I have found out the meaning.”
“How? how? Tell me quick!”
“Not now. I found a word, but it seems nonsense, as I could not find it in the Italian dictionary which I borrowed.”
“What is the word?”
“I’ll tell you when I have seen the house.”
In vain Eustace tried to move her from this determination. Hagar was stubborn when she took an idea into her strong brain; so she simply declined to explain until she arrived at Woking—at the house of Uncle Ben. Weak himself, Eustace could not understand how she could hold out so long against his persuasions. Finally he decided in his own mind that she did not care about him. In this he was wrong. Hagar liked him—loved him; but she deemed it her duty to teach him patience—a quality he lacked sadly. Hence her closed mouth.
The Big Book of Victorian Mysteries Page 39
