THE PAWNBROKER'S SHOP.
Weeks had glided along. It was now late autumn; the gorgeous leaves lay
strewn along the ground, and the wind sighed up from the ocean chill and
bleak, scattering thoughts of decay with each gust. With that gathering
desolation, the coldness and the shadows had crept deeper and deeper
into Grantley Mellen's life.
He had accompanied Elizabeth to the city, one of these chilly autumn
days, and put her in a carriage at the ferry, that she might attend to
the purchases and calls which was her ostensible errand to town, while
he went about the business on hand, with an arrangement that they were
to meet in time for the afternoon boat.
Elsie had chosen to pass the day at home; indeed, the light-hearted girl
and Elizabeth were never together now when it could possibly be avoided.
Elsie seemed determined to keep aloof from the mystery of the unhappy
woman's life, lest its gloominess should cast some shadow over the
brightness of her own path.
While Elizabeth was absent on her mysterious visit, Mellen occupied
himself with a matter which would have added another trouble to the
anxiety of that bitter day, had she dreamed of it. From the first he had
determined that the disappearance of that gauntlet bracelet should be in
some way explained, if it lay in human power to discover the mystery.
What his precise motive was he could hardly have told. The trinket might
have been picked up by some vagabond who had wandered into the grounds;
if so there was little hope of ever gaining any tidings concerning it,
but Mellen could not satisfy himself that such was the case; he believed
the jewel would yet be found.
There was some mystery in Elizabeth's life--of that irksome suspicion he
could not divest himself. Twenty times each day he went over in his mind
every event that had occurred since his return, from the moment when he
came upon her wandering so wildly about on that stormy night.
Twenty times each day he convinced himself that there was nothing in the
whole catalogue to awaken the slightest doubt in any mind not given up
to self-torture and jealousy like his; yet, argue as he would, bring
conviction as closely home to his soul as he might, doubts rose up again
and haunted him like ghosts that had no power to speak, but pointed
always towards trouble and blackness which lay in the past.
If the bracelet had been given to a needy person for any reason, it
would undoubtedly find its way to the hands of some pawnbroker--that was
his thought. He reproached himself for indulging it--he called himself
unworthy the love of any woman while he could harbor such suspicions,
but they would not pass out of his mind--the treachery which had wrecked
his youth had sown the seeds of suspicion too deeply in his soul to be
easily eradicated.
Then he compounded with his conscience, and decided that he was right in
taking every step possible to solve these doubts, if only to prove the
innocence of his wife. He kept repeating to himself that this was the
reason which urged him on.
"I want to be convinced," he thought again and again, "of my own
injustice--it is right that I should endure this self-abasement as a
punishment for doubting a woman who is beyond suspicion."
Solacing his self-reproaches a little by such arguments and reflections,
he had gone to work in earnest to make such discoveries as would drive
these harassing doubts away forever.
Among other efforts, he had confided to a leading pawnbroker the details
of the affair, and it was in him that his hopes principally lay. If the
bracelet was not brought to this man's establishment he had means of
discovering if it was carried elsewhere.
That day Mr. Hollywell had news for him; a bracelet similar to the one
he had described, was in the possession of an old Chatham street Jew,
and they went together in search of this man.
The old Israelite was dreadfully afraid of getting himself into
difficulty, but Mr. Hollywell satisfied his fears in regard to that, and
assured him that the gentleman would reward him liberally for any
disclosures that he might make regarding this particular bracelet.
Then it came out that the bracelet had been disposed of for a
considerable sum--it was a sale rather than a deposit. The man who
brought it there had more than once come to the shop on similar errands;
and always pledged valuable ornaments or sold them recklessly for
whatever would satisfy the needs of the moment.
Mr. Mellen grew more interested when he described the man's appearance;
the keen eyes of the money-lender and the sharp sight of the old Jew,
accustomed to reading countenances, saw a singular expression of
uncertainty rested upon his face, which took a slow, deadly paleness as
the identity of this man seemed to strike him.
He walked several times up and down the little den where the aged
Israelite kept watch, like a bloated spider ready to pounce upon any
unwary fly that might venture into his mesh, and at last returned to the
place where the two men were standing.
"Have you any of that man's writing?" he asked. "Just a scrap--I don't
ask to see his name--only a few words in his writing."
The old Jew looked doubtful.
"Sometimes he has write me, my good sare, but not often, he ish very
careful--very careful."
"And have you nothing by you?"
The old Jew turned to a great desk that filled up one end of the dark
room, unlocked a variety of doors and drawers, turned over piles of
dirty notes, and at last selected a scrap of paper from among them.
"This is his writin'," he said, in a guttural whisper. "I'm taking great
trouble, great trouble," he whined; "de good gentleman ought to remember
that."
"You shall be well rewarded," said Mr. Mellen impatiently, snatching the
paper from his hand.
He glanced at the writing--the paleness of his face grew death-like--he
stood like a statue, with his eyes rivetted upon the page, while the two
men regarded him in silence.
The writing was peculiar. It had an individuality so marked and so
increased by practice, that any person who had seen a page of the
delicate characters, could have sworn to the writing among whole
volumes.
Mr. Mellen looked up--the astonishment in his companions' faces brought
him to himself.
"That is what I wanted," he said.
"I hopes it ish all right," urged the Jew. "The good gentleman is
satisfied!"
"Perfectly, perfectly! Now I want the bracelet! How much did you receive
on it?"
The old Jew's face changed at once.
"And I won't get my reward?" he faltered. "You will sheat a poor man's
out of his earnings."
"Who talks of cheating you," said Mr. Hollywell.
"I am ready to pay you," pursued Mr. Mellen; "I would rather give double
the price of the bracelet than not get it."
Mr. Hollywell made a sign of caution; such words would increase the old
rascal's cupidity to a height money could hardly satisfy, but they were
interrupted by a groan from the Jew.
"And it ish gone!" cried he; "and so leetle paid--so leetle paid. The
good gentleman would have given more."
"Gone!" repeated Mr. Mellen.
"Why didn't you say so?" asked Mr. Hollywell angrily. "It was only
yesterday you told me it was safe in your possession."
"Yes, yes, I knows, and so I had."
"Where is it, then?"
"The man came for it--he has brought his ticket, paid his money and took
the bracelet; I was out--my boy let him have it! Oh, my reward--my
reward!"
"Shut your foolish old mouth!" exclaimed Mr. Hollywell.
The old Jew sank into a chair, still groaning and lamenting, while the
money-lender turned to Mr. Mellen.
"What will you do now, sir?" he asked.
"Nothing."
He looked despondent now, though the fierce anger that had blazed in his
face at the first sight of the writing lighted it up still.
"I am perfectly satisfied," he continued. "I am much obliged to you for
your trouble."
"I am very sorry," Mr. Hollywell began, but Mellen checked him.
"It is just as well--don't be troubled."
He took out his pocket-book, laid down a bank note whose value made the
old Jew's eyes sparkle with avidity, and hurried out of the dark little
shop.