A NOISE IN THE NIGHT
Both Deborah and Sylvia were astonished that Aaron should be so
indifferent about their long concealment. They had expected and dreaded
a storm, yet when the secret was told Mr. Norman appeared to take it as
calmly as though he had known about the matter from the first. Indeed,
he seemed perfectly indifferent, and when he raised Sylvia and made her
sit beside him on the sofa he reverted to the brooch.
"I shall certainly see Mr. Beecot," he said in a dreamy way. "Charing
Cross Hospital--of course. I'll go to-morrow. I had intended to see
about selling the furniture then, but I'll wait till the next day. I
want the brooch first--yes--yes," and he opened and shut his hand in a
strangely restless manner.
The girl and the servant looked at one another in a perplexed way, for
it was odd Norman should take the secret wooing of his daughter so
quietly. He had never evinced much interest in Sylvia, who had been left
mainly to the rough attentions of Miss Junk, but sometimes he had
mentioned that Sylvia would be an heiress and fit to marry a poor peer.
The love of Paul Beecot overthrew this scheme, if the man intended to
carry it out, yet he did not seem to mind. Sylvia, thinking entirely of
Paul, was glad, and the tense expression of her face relaxed; but
Deborah sniffed, which was always an intimation that she intended to
unburden her mind on an unpleasant subject.
"Well, sir," she said, folding her arms and scratching her elbow, "I do
think as offspring ain't lumps of dirt to be trod on in this way. I
arsk"--she flung out her hand towards Sylvia--"Is she your own or is she
not?"
"She is my daughter," said Aaron, mildly. "Why do you ask?"
"'Cause you don't take interest you should take in her marriage, which
is made in heaven if ever marriage was."
Norman raised his head like a war-horse at the sound of a trumpet-call.
"Who talks of marriage?" he asked sharply.
"Dear father," said Sylvia, gently, "did you not hear? I love Paul, and
I want to marry him."
Aaron stared at her. "He is not a good match for you," was his reply.
"He is the man I love," cried Sylvia, tapping with her pretty foot.
"Love," said Norman, with a melancholy smile, "there is no such thing,
child. Talk of hate--for that exists," he clenched his hands again,
"hate that is as cruel as the grave."
"Well I'm sure, sir, and what 'ave hates to do with my beauty there? As
to love, exist it do, for Bart's bin talked into filling his 'eart with
the same, by me. I got it out of a _Family Herald_," explained Deborah,
incoherently, "where gentry throw themselves on their knees to arsk
'ands in marriage. Bart was down on his hunkers every night for two
weeks before he proposed proper, and I ses, ses I--"
"Will you hold your tongue?" interrupted Aaron, angrily; "you gabble
gabble till you make my head ache. You confuse me."
"I want to clear your 'ead," retorted Miss Junk, "seeing you take no
interest in my pretty's livings."
Norman placed his fingers under Sylvia's chin, and tipped it up so that
he could gaze into her eyes. "Child, do you love him?" he asked gravely.
"Oh, father!" whispered Sylvia, and said no more. The expression of her
eyes was enough for Aaron, and he turned away with a sigh.
"You know nothing about him," he said at length.
"Begging pardon, sir, for being a gabbler," said Deborah, witheringly,
"but know what he is we do--a fine young gent with long descents and
stone figgers in churches, as Bart knows. Beecot's his par's name, as is
fighting with Mr. Paul by reason of contrariness and 'igh living, him
being as stout as stout."
"Perhaps you will explain, Sylvia," said Aaron, turning impatiently from
the handmaiden.
"I should have explained before," said the girl, quietly and very
distinctly. "I loved Paul from the moment I saw him enter the shop six
months ago. He came again and again, and we often talked. Then he told
me of his love, and I confessed mine. Deborah wanted to know who he was,
and if he was a good man. From what I learned of Paul's people he seemed
to be all that was good and generous and high-minded and loving. Deborah
sent Bart one holiday to Wargrove in Essex, where Paul's parents live,
and Bart found that Paul had left home because he wanted to be an
author. Paul is very popular in Wargrove, and everyone speaks well of
him. So Deborah thought we might be engaged, and--"
"And have you a word to say against it, sir?" demanded Deborah,
bristling.
"No," said Aaron, after a pause, "but you should have told me."
"We should," admitted Sylvia, quickly, "but Paul and I feared lest you
should say 'No.'"
"My child," said the old man, gravely, "so long as you wed a kind and
good man I have nothing to say. Sylvia, I have worked hard these many
years and have made much money, which, by will, I have left to you. When
I die you will be rich. He is poor."
"Paul--yes, he is poor. But what of that?"
"Many fathers might think that an objection," went on Aaron without
noticing her remark. "But I do not. You shall marry Paul before I go to
America."
"Lor'!" cried Deborah, "whatever are you a-goin' there for, sir?"
"That's my business," said Aaron, dryly, "but I go as soon as I can. I
have sold the books; and the furniture of these rooms shall be disposed
of before the end of the week. My gems I take to Amsterdam for sale, and
I go abroad next week. When I return in a fortnight you can marry Mr.
Beecot. He is a good young man. I quite approve of him."
Deborah snorted. "Seems to me as though you was glad to get quit of my
pretty," she murmured, but too low to be overheard.
"Oh, father," cried Sylvia, putting her arms round Norman's neck, "how
good you are! I _do_ love him so."
"I hope the love will continue," said her father, cynically, and
removing the girl's arms, to the secret indignation of Deborah. "I shall
call on Mr. Beecot to-morrow and speak to him myself about the matter.
If we come to an arrangement, for I have a condition to make before I
give my entire consent, I shall allow you a certain sum to live on. Then
I shall go to America, and when I die you will inherit all my
money--when I die," he added, casting the usual look over his shoulders.
"But I won't die for many a long day," he said, with a determined air.
"At least, I hope not."
"You are healthy enough, father."
"Yes! Yes--but healthy people die in queer ways."
Deborah intervened impatiently. "I'm glad you wish to make my lily-queen
happy, sir," said she, nodding, "but change your mind you may if Mr.
Beecot don't fall in."
"Fall in?" queried Aaron.
"With this arrangements--what is they?"
Aaron looked undecided, then spoke impulsively, walking towards the door
as he did so. "Let Mr. Beecot give me that opal serpent," he said, "and
he shall have Sylvia and enough to live on."
"But, father, it is lost," cried Sylvia, in dismay.
She spoke to the empty air. Norman had hastily passed through the door
and was descending the stairs quicker than usual. Sylvia, in her
eagerness to explain, would have followed, but Deborah drew her back
with rough gentleness. "Let him go, lily-queen," she said; "let sleeping
dogs lie if you love me."
"Deborah, what do you mean?" asked Sylvia, breathlessly.
"I don't mean anything that have a meaning," said Miss Junk,
enigmatically, "but your par's willing to sell you for that dratted
brooch, whatever he wants it for. And you to be put against a brooch my
honey-pot. I'm biling--yes, biling hard," and Deborah snorted in proof
of the extremity of her rage.
"Never mind, Debby. Father consents that I shall marry Paul, and will
give us enough to live on. Then Paul will write great books, and his
father will ask him home again. Oh--oh!" Sylvia danced round the room
gaily, "how happy I am."
"And happy you shall be if I die for it," shouted Deborah, screwing up
her face, for she was not altogether satisfied, "though mysteries I
don't hold with, are about. America--what's he going to America for? and
with that brooch, and him locking us up every night to sleep in cellars.
Police-courts and Old Baileys," said Miss Junk, frowning. "I don't like
it, Sunbeam, and when you're married to Mr. Beecot I'll be that happy as
never was."
Sylvia opened her grey eyes in wide surprise and a little alarm. "Oh,
Debby, you don't think there's anything wrong with father?"
Miss Junk privately thought there was a good deal wrong, but she folded
Sylvia in her stout arms and dismissed the question with a snort. "No,
lovey, my own, there ain't. It's just my silly way of going on. Orange
buds and brides the sun shines on, is your fortunes, Miss Sylvia, though
how I'm going to call you Mrs. Beecot beats me," and Deborah rubbed her
nose.
"I shall always be Sylvia to you."
"Bless you, lady-bird, but don't ask me to live with Mr. Beecot's
frantic par, else there'll be scratchings if he don't do proper what he
should do and don't. So there." Deborah swung her arms like a windmill.
"My mind's easy and dinner's waiting, for, love or no love, eat you
must, to keep your insides' clockwork."
When Bart heard the joyful news he was glad, but expressed regret that
Norman should go to America. He did not wish to lose his situation, and
never thought the old man would take him to the States also. Deborah
vowed that if Aaron did want to transport Bart--so she put it--she would
object. Then she unfolded a scheme by which, with Bart's savings and her
own, they could start a laundry. "And I knows a drying ground," said
Deborah, while talking at supper to her proposed husband, "as is lovely
and cheap. One of them suburbs on the line to Essex, where my pretty
will live when her husband's frantic par makes it up. Jubileetown's the
place, and Victoria Avenue the street. The sweetest cottage at twenty
pun' a year as I ever set eyes on. And m'sister as is married to a
bricklayer is near to help with the family."
"The family?" echoed Bart, looking scared.
"In course--they will come, though it's early to be thinking of names
for 'em. I'll do the washing, Bart, and you'll take round the cart, so
don't you think things 'ull be otherwise."
"I don't want 'em to," said Bart, affectionately. "I always loved you,
Debby darling."
"Ah," said Miss Junk, luxuriously, "I've taught you to, in quite a
genteel way. What a scrubby little brat you were, Bart!"
"Yuss," said Mr. Tawsey, eating rapidly. "I saw myself to-day."
"In a looking-glarse?"
"Lor', Debby--no. But there wos a brat all rags and dirty face and sauce
as I was when you saw me fust. He come into the shop as bold as brass
and arsked fur a book. I ses, 'What do you want with a book?' and he
ses, looking at the shelves so empty, 'I sees your sellin' off,' he ses,
so I jumped up to clip him over the 'ead, when he cut. Tray's his name,
Debby, and he's the kid as talked to that cold gent Mr. Beecot brought
along with him when he got smashed."
"Tray--that's a dog's name," said Deborah, "old dog Tray, and quite good
enough for guttersnipes. As to Mr. Hay, don't arsk me to say he's good,
for that he ain't. What's he want talking with gutter Trays?"
"And what do gutter Trays want with books?" asked Bart, "though to be
sure 'twas impertinence maybe."
Deborah nodded. "That it was, and what you'd have done when you was a
scrubby thing. Don't bolt your food, but make every bit 'elp you to
'ealth and long living. You won't 'ave gormandising when we've got the
laundry, I can tell you."
Next day Aaron went off in the afternoon to Charing Cross Hospital,
after holding a conversation with a broker who had agreed to buy the
derelict furniture. The shop, being empty, was supposed to be closed,
but from force of habit Bart took down the shutters and lurked
disconsolately behind the bare counter. Several old customers who had
not heard of the sale entered, and were disappointed when they learned
that Aaron was leaving. Their lamentations made Bart quite low-spirited.
However, he was polite to all, but his manners broke down when a Hindoo
entered to sell boot-laces. "I ain't got nothing to sell, and don't want
to buy nohow," said Bart, violently.
The man did not move, but stood impassively in the doorway like a bronze
statue. He wore a dirty red turban carelessly wound round his small
head, an unclean blouse which had once been white, circled by a yellow
handkerchief of some coarse stuff, dark blue trousers and slippers with
curled-up toes on naked feet. His eyes were black and sparkling and he
had a well-trimmed moustache which contrasted oddly with his shabby
attire. "Hokar is poor: Hokar need money," he whined in a monotone, but
with his eyes glancing restlessly round the shop. "Give Hokar--give,"
and he held out the laces.
"Don't want any, I tell you," shouted Bart, tartly. "I'll call a peeler
if you don't git."
"Ho! ho! who stole the donkey?" cried a shrill voice at the door, and
from behind the hawker was poked a touzelled curly head, and a grinning
face which sadly needed washing. "You leave this cove alone, won't y?
He's a pal o' mine. D'y see?"
"You git along with your pal then," cried Bart, indignantly. "If he
don't understand King's English, you do, Tray."
Tray darted into the middle of the shop and made a face at the indignant
shopman by putting his fingers in his mouth to widen it, and pulling
down his eyes. Hokar never smiled, but showed no disposition to move.
Bart, angered at this blocking up the doorway, and by Tray's war dance,
jumped the counter. He aimed a blow at the guttersnipe's head, but
missed it and fell full length. The next moment Tray was dancing on his
body with his tongue out derisively. Then Hokar gave a weird smile.
"Kalee!" he said to himself. "Kalee!"
How the scene would have ended it is impossible to say, but while Bart
strove to rise and overturn Tray, Aaron walked in past the Indian.
"What's this?" he asked sharply. Tray stopped his dancing on Bart's
prostrate body and gave a shrill whistle by placing two dirty fingers in
his mouth. Then he darted between Norman's legs and made off. Hokar
stood staring at the bookseller, and after a pause pointed with his
finger. "One--eye," he said calmly, "no good!"
Aaron was about to inquire what he meant by this insult, when the Indian
walked to the counter and placed something thereon, after which he moved
away, and his voice was heard dying away down the street. "Hokar is
poor--Hokar need money. Hokar, Christian."
"What's this?" demanded Norman, again assisting Bart roughly to his
feet.
"Blest if I know," replied Tawsey, staring; "they're mad, I think," and
he related the incoming of the Indian and the street arab. "As for that
Tray," said he, growling, "I'll punch his blooming 'ead when I meets him
agin, dancing on me--yah. Allays meddlin' that brat, jus' as he wos
when Mr. Beecot was smashed."
"You saw that accident?" asked his master, fixing his one eye on him.
"Yuss," said Bart, slowly, "I did, but Deborah she told me to say
nothink. Mr. Beecot was smashed, and his friend, the cold eye-glarsed
gent, pulled him from under the wheels of that there machine with Tray
to help him, and between 'em they carried him to the pavement."
"Humph!" said Aaron, resting his chin on his hand and speaking more to
himself than to his assistant, "so Tray was on the spot. Humph!" Bart,
having brushed himself, moved behind the counter and took up what Hokar
had left. "Why, it's brown sugar!" he exclaimed, touching it with his
tongue, "coarse brown sugar--a handful." He stretched out his palm
heaped with the sugar to his master. "What do that furrein pusson mean
by leaving dirt about?"
"I don't know, nor do I care," snapped Aaron, who appeared to be out of
temper. "Throw it away!" which Bart did, after grumbling again at the
impudence of the street hawker.
Norman did not go upstairs, but descended to the cellar, where he busied
himself in looking over the contents of the three safes. In these, were
many small boxes filled with gems of all kind, cut and uncut: also
articles of jewellery consisting of necklaces, bracelets, stars for the
hair, brooches, and tiaras. The jewels glittered in the flaring
gaslight, and Aaron fondled them as though they were living things. "You
beauties," he whispered to himself, with his one eye gloating over his
hoard. "I'll sell you, though it goes to my heart to part with lovely
things. But I must--I must--and then I'll go--not to America--oh, dear
no! but to the South Seas. They won't find me there--no--no! I'll be
rich, and happy, and free. Sylvia can marry and live happy. But the
serpent," he said in a harsh tone, "oh, the opal serpent! The
pawnbroker's shop. Stowley--yes--I know it. I know it. Stowley. They
want it back; but they sha'n't. I'll buy it from Beecot by giving him
Sylvia. It's lost--lost." He looked over his shoulder as he spoke in a
terrified whisper. "Perhaps they have it, and then--then," he leaped up
and flung the armful of baubles he held on to the deal table, "and
then--I must get away--away."
He pulled out three or four coarse sacks of a small size and filled
these with the jewellery. Then he tied a cord round the neck of each
sack and sealed it. Afterwards, with a sigh, he closed the safe and
turned down the gas. He did not leave by the trap, which led through the
shop, but opened and locked the back door of the cellar, ascended the
steps and went out into the street through the side passage. "If they
come," he thought as he walked into the gathering night, "they won't
find these. No! no!" and he hugged the bags closely.
Sylvia upstairs waited anxiously for the return of her father from the
hospital, as she both wanted to hear how her lover was progressing and
what he said about the permission to marry being given. But Aaron did
not come to supper, as was his usual custom. Bart said, when inquiries
were made, that the master had gone down into the cellar and was
probably there. Meanwhile, according to his usual habit, he put up the
shutters and departed. Sylvia and Deborah ate their frugal meal and
retired to bed, the girl much disturbed at the absence of her father.
Outside, in the street, the passers-by diminished in number, and as the
night grew darker and the lamps were lighted hardly a person remained in
Gwynne Street. It was not a fashionable thoroughfare, and after
nightfall few people came that way. By eleven o'clock there was not a
soul about. Even the one policeman who usually perambulated the street
was conspicuous by his absence.
Sylvia, in her bed, had fallen into a troubled sleep, and was dreaming
of Paul, but not happily. She seemed to see him in trouble. Then she
woke suddenly, with all her senses alert, and sat up. Faintly she heard
a wild cry, and then came the twelve strokes of the church bells
announcing midnight. Breathlessly she waited, but the cry was not
repeated. In the darkness she sat up listening until the quarter chimed.
Then the measured footsteps of a policeman were heard passing down the
street and dying away. Sylvia was terrified. Why, she hardly knew: but
she sprang from her bed and hurried into Deborah's room. "Wake up," she
said, "there's something wrong."
Deborah was awake in a moment and lighted the lamp. On hearing Sylvia's
story she went down the stairs followed by the girl. The door at the
bottom, strange to say, was not locked. Deborah opened this, and peering
into the shop gave a cry of alarm and horror.
Lying on the floor was Aaron, bound hand and foot.