said Norman, crossly, "Sylvia, don't be afraid of me." He wiped his face nervously. "I only want to know of the brooch. I like the opals – I wanted to buy it from Mr. Beecot. He is poor – he wants money. I can give it to him, for – the – the brooch."
He brought out the last word with a gasp, and again glanced over his shoulder. Sylvia, not at all afraid, approached and took the old man's hand. The watchful Deborah moved her chair an inch nearer, so as to be ready for any emergency. "Dear father," said the girl, "Mr. Beecot doesn't know where the brooch is. It was stolen from him when the accident happened. If you will see him he can tell you – "
"Not where the brooch is," interrupted Aaron, trying to appear calm. "Well, well, it doesn't matter." He glanced anxiously at Sylvia. "You believe me, child, when I say it doesn't matter."
A snort from Deborah plainly said that she had her doubts. Sylvia cast a reproving glance in her direction, whereupon she rose and committed perjury. "Of course it don't matter, sir," she said in a loud, hearty voice which made Aaron wince. "My precious believes you, though lie it might be. But folk so good as you, sir, who go to church when there ain't anyone to see, wouldn't tell lies without them a-choking of them in their blessed throats."
"How do you know I go to church?" asked Norman, with the snarl of a trapped animal.
"Bless you, sir, I don't need glarses at my age, though not so young as I might be. Church you enjiy, say what you may, you being as regular as the taxes, which is saying much. Lor' save us all!"
Deborah might well exclaim this. Her master flung himself forward with outstretched hands clawing the air, and with his lips lifted like those of an enraged dog. "You she-cat," he said in a painfully hissing voice, "you're a spy, are you? They've set you to watch – to drag me to the gallows – " he broke off with a shiver. His rage cooled as suddenly as it had heated, and staggering to the sofa he sat down with his face hidden. "Not that – not that – oh, the years of pain and terror! To come to this – to this – Deborah – don't sell me. Don't. I'll give you money – I am rich. But if the opal serpent – if the opal – " He rose and began to beat the air with his hands.
Sylvia, who had never seen her father like this, shrank back in terror, but Deborah, with all her wits about her, though she was wildly astonished, seized a carafe of water from the table and dashed the contents in his face. The old man gasped, shuddered, and, dripping wet, sank again on the sofa. But the approaching fit was past, and when he looked up after a moment or so, his voice was as calm as his face. "What's all this?" he asked, feebly.
"Nothing, father," said Sylvia, kneeling beside him; "you must not doubt Debby, who is as true as steel."
"Are you, Deborah?" asked Aaron, weakly.
"I should think so," she declared, putting her arms round Sylvia, "so long, sir, as you don't hurt my flower."
"I don't want to hurt her …"
"There's feelings as well as bones," said Deborah, hugging Sylvia so as to keep her from speaking, "and love you can't squash, try as you may, though, bless you, I'm not given to keeping company myself."
"Love," said Aaron, vacantly. He seemed to think more of his troubles than of Sylvia going to visit a young man.
"Love and Mr. Beecot," said Deborah. "She wants to marry him."
"Why, then," said Aaron, calmly, "she shall marry him."
Sylvia fell at his feet. "Oh, father – father, and I have kept it from you all these months. Forgive me – forgive me," and she wept.
"My dear," he said, gently raising her, "there is nothing to forgive."
CHAPTER VI
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.
