THE UNFORESEEN
Paul did not go near the Gwynne Street shop for the next few days, much
as he wanted to do so. Being deeply in love he could hardly bear to be
away from Sylvia even for a few hours: but in spite of this he remained
away for two reasons. The first of these was that he awaited a reply to
his letter written to Mrs. Beecot, as he wished to be able to tell Aaron
Norman where the brooch had been obtained. He thought by doing this to
ingratiate himself with the old man, and perhaps, if thus confidential,
might learn, for the satisfaction of his curiosity, why the sight of the
brooch had produced such an effect on the pawnbroker.
The other reason was that, not having been able to sell the brooch, or
rather pawn it since he did not wish to lose it altogether, funds were
running low, and now he had but a few shillings left. A call at the
office of a penny weekly had resulted in the return of three stories as
being too long and not the sort required. But the editor, in a hasty
interview, admitted that he liked Paul's work and would give him three
pounds for a tale written on certain lines likely to be popular with the
public. Paul did not care to set forth another person's ideas,
especially as these were old and very sensational; but as he required
money he set to work and labored to produce what would bring him in the
cash. He made several attempts before he reached the editor's level,
which was low rather than high, and succeeded in getting the tale
accepted. With three golden pounds in his pocket and exultation in his
heart--for every success seemed to bring him nearer to Sylvia--Paul
returned to his aerial castle and found waiting for him the expected
letter.
It was written in a low-spirited sort of way, characteristic of Mrs.
Beecot, but with a true motherly heart. After two pages of lamentation
over his absence, and a description of how the head of the household
managed 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 father
bought it out of a pawnbroker's shop in Stowley, which is some town in
the Midlands. Your father was travelling there and saw the brooch by
chance. As I always thought opals unlucky he was anxious to make me see
the folly of such a superstition, so he bought the brooch and took it
away with him. Afterwards, I believe, he received a letter from the
pawnbroker, saying that his assistant had sold the brooch by mistake,
that the time for redeeming it had not run out when your father bought
it. The pawnbroker asked that the brooch might be returned, and wanted
to pay back the money. But you know what your father is. He refused at
once to give back the brooch, and insisted on my wearing it. I had a bad
fall while wearing it, and then was thrown out of that high dog-cart
your father would insist on driving. I am sure the brooch or the stones
is unlucky, and, as after a time your father forgot all about it, I let
it lie in my jewel-case. For years I had not worn it, and as I think it
is unlucky, and as you need money, my darling boy, I hope you will sell
it. There is no need to pawn it as you say. I never want to see the
brooch again. But regarding your health, etc., etc."
So Mrs. Beecot wrote in her verbose style, and with some errors of
grammar. Paul saw in her simple tale fresh evidence of his father's
tyranny, since he made his wife wear gems she detested and was
superstitiously set against possessing them. The dog-cart episode Paul
remembered very well. Mr. Beecot, in his amiable way, had no patience
with his wife's nerves, and never lost an opportunity of placing her in
unpleasant positions, whereby she might be, what he called, hardened.
Paul sighed to think of his mother's position as he folded up the
letter. 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," thought
Paul; "probably the governor bullied her into it in his own sweet way."
However, there was nothing in the letter to explain Norman's faint. It
was certainly strange that the pawnbroker, from whom the brooch had been
originally purchased, should have demanded it back; and the excuse given
seems rather a weak one. However, Paul did not waste time in thinking
over this, but resolved to tell Aaron what his mother had said.
He had received two letters from Sylvia, mentioning, amongst other
things, that her father, now quite well, was asking after Paul, and
urging him to come and see him. "My father appears to have a fancy for
you," wrote Sylvia, "so if you are very nice--as nice as you can
be--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 tell
Aaron of his love if things were to be conducted in a straightforward
and honorable manner. And Paul had no desire to conduct them otherwise.
Having made up his mind to see Aaron again, Paul bethought himself of
Grexon Hay. That gentleman had never appeared again at the Bloomsbury
garret, and had never even written. But Paul was anxious that Hay--whom
he 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 and
queer life puzzled Paul not a little, and not being very worldly himself
he was anxious to have the advice of his old school friend, who seemed
desirous of doing him a good turn, witness his desire to buy the brooch
so that Paul might be supplied with money. So Beecot wrote to Grexon Hay
at his Camden Hill chamber and told him he intended to go to Gwynne
Street on a certain day at a certain time. To this Grexon responded by
saying that he was at Paul's service and would come especially as he
wanted to see Dulcinea of Gwynne Street.
Paul laughed at the phrase. "I suppose Grexon thinks I am very
Quixotic," he thought, "coming to London to tilt with the windmills of
the 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 more
kindly on my ambitions. Grexon is a clever fellow, a thoroughly good
chap, so--"
Here Paul paused to think. The incident of the working man and the
warning 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 called
so, and what did the phrase mean? Paul had never heard it before.
Moreover, from certain indications Beecot did not think that the
individual with the bag of tools was a working man. He rather appeared
to be a person got up to play the part. The fellow watching them both
and accosting Paul alone certainly seemed a doubtful character. Beecot
regretted that he had been so short with the man, else he might have
learned why he had acted in this way. The story of the little bill was
absurd, for if Grexon owed the man money the man himself would certainly
have known the name and address of his creditor. Altogether, the
incident puzzled Paul almost as much as that of Aaron's fainting, and he
resolved to question Grexon. But it never crossed his mind that Hay was
anything else but what he appeared to be--a man-about-town with a
sufficient income to live upon comfortably. Had Paul doubted he would
never have asked Grexon to go with him to Gwynne Street. However, he had
done 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. "I
always keep appointments," he explained when Paul congratulated him on
his punctuality; "there's nothing annoys me so much as to be kept
waiting, so I invariably practise what I preach. Well, Paul, and how is
Dulcinea of Gwynne Street?"
"She is very well," replied Paul, who was still a young enough lover to
blush, "but I have not seen her since we last met. I waited for a letter
from my mother about the brooch, so that I might explain to Aaron how
she got it. The old man has been asking after me."
"Oh, confound the brooch!" said Grexon in his cool manner. "I don't want
to 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 his
garret 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 a
particularly quiet tone.
"I don't know what I _do_ mean," said Paul. "Do you remember that
working man with the bag of tools who was across the road when we last
conversed?"
"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 owe
him 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 about
me as to address and name."
"So I thought," replied Paul, "but the queer thing is that he told me to
take care, and called you a man-on-the-market. What does it mean? I
never heard the phrase before."
"I have," said Hay, proceeding calmly down the somewhat steep stairs; "a
man-on-the-market means one who wants to marry and is eligible for any
heiress who comes along with a sufficient rent-roll. But why should a
fellow like that talk the shibboleth of Society?"
Paul shrugged his shoulders. "I can't say. Perhaps the man guessed I
intended to take you to see Sylvia, and warned me against you, as it
seems from his phrase that you wish to marry."
"Ah! Then your Dulcinea is an heiress?" said Hay, fixing his eye-glass
carefully; "if so, you needn't fear me. I am almost engaged and won't be
on the market any longer. What confounded cheek this fellow addressing
you in that way and talking of me as he did. I suppose," he added with
a cold laugh, "it is not necessary for me to defend myself."
"What rubbish," replied Beecot, good-naturedly. "All the same, it is
strange the man should have spoken to me as he did. I told him to go to
the devil."
"And go to the devil he assuredly will if I meet him," was the dry
reply. "I'll break his head for not minding his own business. I think I
can explain, and will do so as soon as you take that telegram the lad is
holding out for you."
Grexon was quicker-sighted than Paul, for the moment they arrived at the
bottom of the stairs and were about to emerge into the street he saw the
messenger. "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?" he
said, taking the telegram. "Wait, boy, there may be an answer," and he
skimmed through the lines. "Don't sell the brooch, but send it back,"
read Paul, puzzled, "your father angry.--MOTHER." He paused, and looked
at the boy. "Got a form?" he asked.
The lad produced one and a stumpy pencil. With these materials Beecot
wrote a reply saying the brooch would be returned on the morrow. When
the boy went away with the answer Paul felt in his breast pocket and
took out the old blue case. "I've a good mind to send it now," he said
aloud.
"What's that?" asked Hay, who was yawning at the door. "No bad news I
hope?"
"It's about that brooch again."
Hay laughed. "Upon my word it seems to you what the Monster was to
Frankenstein," said he. "Send it back--to Mrs. Beecot, I presume--and
have done with it." He cast a glance at the case. "I see you have it
with you," he ended, lightly.
"Yes," said Paul, and replacing the case in his pocket went down the
street with his friend. Then he determined to ask his opinion, and
related the gist of Mrs. Beecot's letter. "And now the mater wires to
have it back," he said. "I expect my father has found out that she has
sent it to me, and is furious."
"Well, send it back and have done with it," said Hay, impatiently; "you
are in danger of becoming a bore with that brooch, Beecot. I'll lend you
money if you like."
"No, thanks, I have three pounds honestly earned. However, we'll speak
no more of the brooch. I'll send it back this very day. Tell me," he
linked his arm within that of his friend, "tell me of that man."
"That man--of the working creature," said Hay, absently. "Pooh, the man
was 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 a
detective?"
"I think so, from your description of his conversation. The fact is I'm
in love with a lady who is married. We have behaved quite well, and no
one can say a word against us. But her husband is a beast and wants a
divorce. I have suspected for some time that he is having me
watched. Thanks to you, Paul, I am now sure. So perhaps you will
understand why the man warned you against me and talked of my being a
man-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, if
that 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 walked
with 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 clumsy
indeed. I daresay he'll appear pale and gentlemanly the next time he
watches me. I know the tricks of these fellows."
The two friends talked for some time about this episode, and then
branched off into other subjects. Hay described the married lady he
adored, and Paul rebuked him for entertaining such a passion. "It's not
right, Hay," said he, positively; "you can't respect a woman who runs
away from her husband."
"She hasn't run away yet, Sir Galahad," laughed Grexon. "By Jove, you
are an innocent!"
"If that means respecting the institution of marriage and adoring women
as angels I hope I'll remain an innocent."
"Oh, women are angels, of course," said Hay as they walked down Gwynne
Street; "it's a stock phrase in love-making. But there are angels of two
sorts. Dulcinea is--"
"Here we are," interrupted Paul, quickly. Somehow it irritated him to
hear this hardened sinner speak of Sylvia, and he began to think that
Grexon Hay had deteriorated. Not that he was considered to be
particularly good at Torrington school. In fact, Paul remembered that he
had been thoroughly disliked. However, he had no time to go into the
matter, for at this moment Aaron appeared at the door of the shop. He
stepped out on to the pavement as Paul approached. "Come in," he said,
"I want to see you--privately," he added, casting a frightened look at
Hay.
"In that case I'll leave you," said Grexon, disengaging his arm from
Paul. "Dulcinea must wait for another occasion. Go in and do your
business. I'll wait without."
Paul thanked his friend by a look and went into the shop with the old
man. "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 an
errand. The door leading to the stairs, down which Sylvia had so often
descended, was closed, and no one was about to overhear their
conversation. "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. "I
want 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, breathing
heavily. "Where did you get the brooch?" he asked, trying to keep
himself 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--a
scoundrel--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 of
trouble."
"You have seen it before?"
"Yes--that is no--don't ask me." He clutched at his throat as though he
felt choked. "I can't talk of it. I daren't. How did your father get
it?"
More and more astonished, Paul explained. Aaron listened with his one
eye very bright, and made uneasy motions with his lean hands as the
young man spoke. When Beecot ended he bit his nails. "Yes, yes," he
murmured to himself, "it would be asked for back. But it sha'n't go
back. I want it. Sell it to me, Mr. Beecot."
"I'm sorry I can't," replied Paul, good-naturedly. "But my mother wired
that it was to be returned. My father has discovered that she sent it to
me 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 to
talk of pawning things--not respectable, eh--eh." He wiped his face and
passed 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 the
brooch. I never saw the brooch--what brooch--pooh--pooh, don't talk to
me of the brooch," and so he babbled on.
"Mr. Norman," said Beecot, gravely, "what is the story connected with
the brooch?"
Aaron flung up his hands and backed towards the counter. "No, no. Don't
ask me. What do you mean? I know no story of a brooch--what brooch--I
never saw one--I never--ah"--he broke off in relief as two pale-faced,
spectacled girls entered the shop--"customers. What is it, ladies? How
can I serve you?" And he bustled away behind the counter, giving all his
attention to the customers, yet not without a sidelong look in the
direction of the perplexed Paul.
That young gentleman, finding it impossible to get further speech with
Aaron, and suspecting from his manner that all was not right, left the
shop. He determined to take the brooch to Wargrove himself, and to ask
his mother about it. Then he could learn why she wanted it back--if not
from her, then from his father. This knowledge might explain the
mystery.
"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 was
coming down swiftly. Before Hay could realize what had taken place Paul
was under the wheels of the machine.