The Opal Serpent Part 19

Paul looked hard at the boy, who met his gaze innocently enough.

Apparently he spoke in all seriousness, and really lamented the lost chance of gaining a piece of jewellery to make money out of. Moreover, had he stolen the brooch, he would hardly have talked so openly of the fence he alluded to. Hay the young man could not suspect, as there was positively no reason why he should steal so comparatively trifling an article. Sharper as he was, Hay flew at higher game, and certainly would not waste his time, or risk his liberty, in stealing what would bring him in only a few s.h.i.+llings.

"Why don't you ask the detectives to search for the brooch," said Hay, smiling.

"It is in the detective's possession," said Paul, sullenly; "but we want to know how it came to pin Norman's lips together."

"I can't imagine, unless he picked it up. If lost at all it must have been lost in the street the old man lived in, and you told me he wanted the brooch badly."

"But he wasn't on the spot?"

"Wot," cried Tray, suddenly, "the one-eyed cove? Ho, yuss, but warn't he? Why, when they was a-gitin' the ambulance, an' the peelers wos a-crowdin' round, he come dancing like billeo out of his shorp."

Beecot thought this was strange, as he understood from Deborah and Bart and Sylvia that Norman had known nothing of the accident at the time.

Then again Norman himself had not mentioned it when he paid that visit to the hospital within a few hours of his death. "I don't think that's true," he said to Tray sharply.

"Oh, cuss it," said that young gentleman, "wot d' I care. Th' ole cove come an' danced in the mud, and then he gits int' his shorp again. Trew is trew, saiy wot y' like, mister--ho."

Beecot turned his back on the boy. After all, he was not worth arguing with, and a liar by instinct. Still, in this case he might have spoken the truth. Norman might have appeared on the scene of the accident and have picked up the brooch. Paul thought he would tell Hurd this, and, meantime, held out his hand to Hay. In spite of the bad character he had heard of that young man, he saw no reason why he should not be civil to him, until he found him out. Meantime, he was on his guard.

"One moment," said Grexon, grasping the outstretched hand. "I have something to say to you," and he walked a little way with Paul. "I am going in to see Pash on business which means a little money to me. I was the unfortunate cause of your accident, Beecot, so I think you might accept twenty pounds or so from me."

"No, thank you all the same," said Paul gratefully, yet with a certain amount of caution. "I can struggle along. After all, it was an accident."

"A very unfortunate one," said Hay, more heartily than usual. "I shall never forgive myself. Is your arm all right?"

"Oh, much better. I'll be quite cured in a week or so."

"And meantime how do you live?"

"I manage to get along," replied Paul, reservedly. He did not wish to reveal the nakedness of the land to such a doubtful acquaintance.

"You are a hard-hearted sort of chap," said Hay coldly, but rather annoyed at his friendly advances being flouted. "Well, then, if you won't accept a loan, let me help you in another way. Come and dine at my rooms. I have a young publisher coming also, and if you meet him he will be able to do something for you. He's under obligations to me, and you may be certain I'll use all my influence in your favor. Come now--next Tuesday--that's a week off--you can't have any engagement at such a long notice."

Paul smiled. "I never do have any engagements," he said with his boyish smile, "thank you. I'll look in if I can. But I am in trouble, Grexon--very great trouble."

"You shouldn't be," said Hay, smiling. "I know well enough why you will not accept my loan. The papers say Sylvia, your Dulcinea, has inherited a million. You are to marry her. Unless," said Hay, suddenly, "this access of wealth has turned her head and she has thrown you over. Is she that sort of girl?"

"No," said Paul quietly, "she is as true to me as I am to her. But you are mistaken as to the million. It is five thousand a year, and she may not even inherit that."

"What do you mean?"

"I am not at liberty to say. But with regard to your dinner," added Paul, hastily changing the conversation, "I'll come if I can get my dress-suit out of p.a.w.n."

"Then I count on you," said Hay, blandly, "though you will not let me help you to obtain the suit. However, this publisher will do a lot for you. By Jove, what a good-looking girl."

He said this under his breath. Miss Maud Krill appeared on the doorstep where the two young men stood and stumbled against Grexon in pa.s.sing.

His hat was off at once, and he apologized profusely. Miss Krill, who seemed a young woman of few words, as Paul thought from her silence in the office, smiled and bowed, but pa.s.sed on, without saying a "thank you." Mrs. Krill followed, escorted by the treacherous Pash who was all smiles and hand-was.h.i.+ngs and bows. Apparently he was quite convinced that the widow's story was true, and Paul felt sick at the news he would have to tell Sylvia. Pash saw the young man, and meeting his indignant eyes darted back into his office like a rabbit into its burrow. The widow sailed out in her calm, serene way, without a look at either Paul or his companion. Yet the young man had an instinct that she saw them both.

"That's the mother I expect," said Hay, putting his gla.s.s firmly into his eye; "a handsome pair. Gad, Paul, that young woman--eh?"

"Perhaps you'd like to marry her," said Paul, bitterly.

Hay drew himself up stiffly. "I don't marry stray young women I see on the street, however attractive," he said in his cold voice. "I don't know either of these ladies."

"Pash will introduce you if you make it worth his while."

"Why the deuce should I," retorted Hay, staring.

"Well," said Beecot, impulsively telling the whole of the misfortune that had befallen him, "that is the wife and that is the daughter of Aaron Norman, _alias_ Krill. The daughter inherits five thousand a year, so marry her and be happy."

"But your Dulcinea?" asked Grexon, dropping his eye-gla.s.s in amazement.

"She has me and poverty," said Paul, turning away. Nor could the quiet call of Hay make him stop. But at the end of the street he looked back, and saw Grexon entering the office of the lawyer. If Hay was the man Hurd said he was, Paul guessed that he would inquire about the heiress and marry her too, if her banking account was large and safe.

CHAPTER XII

THE NEW LIFE

For obvious reasons Beecot did not return to Gwynne Street. It was difficult to swallow this bitter pill which Providence had administered.

In place of an a.s.sured future with Sylvia, he found himself confronted with his former poverty, with no chance of marrying the girl, and with the obligation of telling her that she had no right to any name. Paul was by no means a coward, and his first impulse was to go at once and inform Sylvia of her reverse of fortune. But it was already late, and he thought it would be only kind to withhold the bad news till the morrow, and thus avoid giving the disinherited girl a tearful and wakeful night.

Therefore, after walking the Embankment till late, Paul went to his garret.

To the young man's credit it must be said that he cared very little for the loss of the money, although he grieved on Sylvia's account. Had he been able to earn a small income, he would have married the girl and given her the protection of his name without the smallest hesitation.

But he was yet unknown to fame; he was at variance with his father, and he could scarcely bring Sylvia to share his bitter poverty--which might grow still more bitter in that cold and cheerless garret.

Then there was another thing to consider. Paul had written to his father explaining the circ.u.mstances of his engagement to Sylvia, and asking for the paternal blessing. To gain this, he mentioned that his promised wife had five thousand a year. Bully and tyrant as Beecot senior was, he loved money, and although well off, was always on the alert to have more brought into the family. With the bribe of a wealthy wife, Paul had little doubt but what the breach would be healed, and Sylvia welcomed as the sweetest and most desirable daughter-in-law in the world. Then Paul fancied the girl would be able to subdue with her gentle ways the stubborn heart of his father, and would also be able to make Mrs. Beecot happy. Indeed, he had received a letter from his mother congratulating him on his wealthy match, for the good lady wished to see Paul independent of the domestic tyrant. Also Mrs. Beecot had made many inquiries about Sylvia's goodness and beauty, and hoped that he had chosen wisely, and hinted that no girl living was worthy of her son, after the fas.h.i.+on of mothers. Paul had replied to this letter setting forth his own unworthiness and Sylvia's perfections, and Mrs. Beecot had accepted the good news with joy. But the letter written to Beecot senior was yet unanswered, and Paul began to think that not even the chance of having a rich daughter-in-law would prevail against the obstinacy of the old gentleman.

But when he reached his garret, after that lonely and tormenting walk on the Embankment, he found a letter from his father, and opened it with some trepidation. It proved to contain joyful news. Mr. Beecot thanked Heaven that Paul was not such a fool as he had been of yore, and hinted that this sudden access of sense which had led him to engage himself to a wealthy girl had come from his father and not from his mother.

He--Beecot senior--was aware that Paul had acted badly, and had not remembered what was due to the best of fathers; but since he was prepared to settle down with a rich wife, Beecot senior n.o.bly forgave the past and Paul's many delinquences (mentioned in detail) and would be glad to welcome his daughter-in-law. Then Beecot, becoming the tyrant again, insisted that the marriage should take place in Wargrove, and that the fact of Sylvia's father being murdered should be suppressed. In fact, the old gentleman left nothing to the young couple, but arranged everything in his own selfish way, even to choosing, in Wargrove, the house they would inhabit. The house, he mentioned, was one of his own which could not be let on account of some trivial tale of a ghost, and Mr. Beecot would give this as a marriage gift to Paul, thus getting rid of an unprofitable property and playing the part of a generous father at one and the same time. In spite of his bucolic ways and pig-headed obstinacy and narrow views, Beecot senior possessed a certain amount of cunning which Paul read in every line of the selfish letter before him.

However, the main point was, that the old gentleman seemed ready to overlook the past and to receive Sylvia. Paul wanted to return to his home, not so much on account of his father, as because he wished to smooth the remaining years of his mother, and he knew well that Sylvia with her gentle ways and heart of gold would make Mrs. Beecot happy. So long as Paul loved the girl he wished to marry, the mother was happy; but Beecot senior had an eye to the money, and thus was ready to be bribed into forgiveness and decent behavior. Now all this was altered.

From the tone of the letter, Paul knew his father would never consent to his marrying a girl not only without a name, but lacking the fortune which alone rendered her desirable in his eyes. Still, the truth would have to be told, and if Beecot senior refused to approve of the marriage, the young couple would have to do without his sanction. The position, thought Paul, would only make him work the harder, so that within a reasonable time he might be able to provide a home for Sylvia.

So, the young man facing the situation, bravely wrote to his father and explained how the fortune had pa.s.sed from Sylvia, but declared, with all the romance of youth, that he intended to marry the girl all the same.

If Beecot senior, said Paul, would permit the marriage, and allow the couple a small income until the husband could earn enough to keep the pot boiling, the writer would be grateful. If not, Paul declared firmly that he would work like a slave to make a home for his darling. But nothing in the world would make him give up Sylvia. This was the letter to his father, and then Paul wrote one to his mother, detailing the circ.u.mstances and imploring her to stand by him, although in his own sinking heart he felt that Mrs. Beecot was but a frail reed on which to lean. He finished these letters and posted them before midnight. Then he went to bed and dreamed that the bad news was all moons.h.i.+ne, and that Sylvia and he were a happy rich married pair.

But the cold grey searching light of dawn brought the actual state of things again to his mind and so worried him that he could hardly eat any breakfast. He spent the morning in writing a short tale, for which he had been promised a couple of sovereigns, and took it to the office of the weekly paper which had accepted it, on his way to Gwynne Street.

Paul's heart was heavy, thinking of what he had to tell, but he did not intend to let Sylvia see that he was despondent. On turning down the street he raised his head, a.s.sumed a smile and walked with a confident step into the shop.

As he entered he heard a heavy woman plunge down the stairs, and found his arm grasped by Deborah, very red-faced and very furious, the moment he crossed the threshold. Bart could be heard knocking boxes together in the cellar, as he was getting Deborah's belongings ready for removal to Jubileetown, where the cottage, and the drying ground for the laundry, had already been secured through Pash. But Paul had no time to ask what was going on. A glance at the hand-maiden's tearful face revealed that she knew the worst, in which case Sylvia must also have heard the news.

"Yes," cried Deborah, seeing the sudden whiteness of Paul's cheeks, and shaking him so much as to hurt his injured arm, "she knows, she do--oh, lor', bless us that things should come to this--and there she's settin'

a-crying out her beautiful eyes for you, Mr. Beecot. Thinking of your throwin' her over, and if you do," shouted Deborah, with another shake, "you'd better ha' bin smashed to a jelly than face me in my presingt state. Seein' you from the winder I made bold to come down and arsk your intentings; for if them do mean no marriage and the breaking of my pretty's 'eart, never shall she set eyes agin on a double-faced Jonah, and--and--" Here Deborah gasped for breath and again shook Paul.