With a cry, Parsons dropped the knife and wheeled round at that imperious command. At the further end of the room, candle in hand, stood the tall form of a woman. She wore a dressing-gown hastily thrown over her shoulders; her hair was loose, her feet were bare; and she approached the steward noiselessly and swiftly. It was Marion Danetree, and her eyes were full of anger.
"What are you doing here at this time of night?" she demanded haughtily of the sullen old man. "I heard a cry and the noise of a fall, and I came down."
"I want to spoil that picture," said Parsons between his teeth.
"Destroy Castagno's 'Nativity'? Take away my only chance of restoring the family fortunes? You are mad."
"No; I am Frank's father. You despise him; you hate him. Through him you have found the picture; but now---" He picked up the knife again.
"Wait a moment!" said Marion, comprehending Parsons's motive; "if you destroy that picture, you prevent my marriage with Frank."
"What?"--the knife crashed on the floor--"are you going to marry my boy?"
"Yes. Did not Frank tell you? When we discovered the picture together this afternoon, he asked me to be his wife. I consented only too gladly."
"But--but I thought you despised him!"
"Despise him? I love him better than all the world! Go away, Mr. Parsons, and thank God that He sent me to prevent you committing a crime. I shall bring that picture to Frank as my dowry. He shall take my name, and there will once more be a Squire Danetree at the Hall."
"O Miss Danetree--Marion--forgive me!" cried Parsons, quite broken down.
"I forgive you; it was love for Frank made you think of this folly. But go--go! it is not seemly that you should be here at this hour of the night."
Parsons closed up the panel in silence, locked it, and turned to go. But as he passed her he held out his hand.
"What is this?" asked Marion, smiling.
"My gift to you--my marriage gift--the copper key which has brought you a husband and a fortune."
Chapter VII.
The Sixth Customer and the Silver Teapot
Of all the people with whom Hagar had to do while managing the Lambeth pawn-shop, she liked always to remember Margaret Snow. The memory of that pale, blind old maid, with her sorrowful story and her patient endurance, never died out of the girl's heart. The pitiful little episode of the silver teapot, which she pawned so unwillingly, and only out of sheer necessity; the sad tale recounted by the crushed creature, and the unexpected part which she took herself in the conclusion of such tale: all these things served to keep green the memory of the sad woman whom Hagar called her sixth customer. There was even something ludicrous in parts of the affair; something naive and childlike in the absolute simplicity of the romance; but Hagar never saw its humor. All she knew was that Margaret was a martyr and a saint, and that the world was the loser for not knowing her story. Such as it is, the tale runs thus:
It was dusk one November evening when Margaret entered the shop, with a parcel tied up in an old towel. Hagar knew her well by sight as a blind woman who lived in an attic at the top of the end house in Carby's Crescent, and as one who earned a hard and penurious living by weaving hand-baskets of straw for a great emporium at the corner of the outside street. These baskets--a speciality of the great shop--were given to customers in which to carry away small parcels; and as the demand was constant, the supply was the same. Margaret could always sell as many of these baskets as she could weave; but, although skilful and nimble with her long fingers, she could rarely earn more than ten shillings a week. On this she had to live, and dress, and buy food, so her existence was really a kind of miracle. Still, she had never asked charity of a single soul, being proud and reserved: and in all the years she had dwelt in Carby's Crescent she had never entered the pawn-shop. Knowing this, Hagar was astonished to see her standing in one of the sentry-boxes, with the bundle placed on the counter before her.
"Miss Snow!" cried Hagar, in sheer surprise. "What is the matter? Is there anything that I can do for you?"
The thin pale face of the woman flushed as she heard herself called by her name; and her voice was hesitating and low as she laid one slender finger on the bundle, before making reply.
"I have been ill, Miss Stanley," she explained, softly, "so I have not done much work lately. Very little money has come in. I--I am obliged to--to pay my rent and--and---" She broke down altogether, and added desperately: "Please lend me something on this."
Hagar became a business woman at once "What is it?" she said, undoing the bundle deftly.
"It is--it is--a silver teapot," faltered Miss Snow; "the only valuable I possess. I wish to pawn it for three months, until I can redeem it. I--I--hope to repay the money by then. Three--three pounds will be---" Her voice died away in her throat: and Hagar saw her poor thin hand steal up to her averted face to brush away a tear.
The teapot was a square one of Georgian design, with fluted sides, an elegantly-curved spout, and a smooth handle of ivory. Hagar was quite willing to lend on it the required three pounds, as the silver was worth more, until she made a curious discovery. The lid of the pot was closed tightly, and soldered all round, in a manner which made it quite impossible to be opened. This odd circumstance rendered the teapot for all practical purposes entirely useless; no one could use an hermetically sealed vessel.
"Why is this teapot closed?" asked Hagar in surprise.
"It was done thirty years ago by my order," replied the blind woman, in a calm voice; then, after a pause, she added in faint and hestitating tones: "There are letters in it."
"Letters? Whose letters?"
"Mine and--a person's with whom you have no concern. Please do not ask any more questions, Miss Stanley. Give me the money and let me go. I hope to redeem the teapot in three months."
Hagar hesitated and looked doubtful. "As it is sealed up, the teapot is hardly of much use," she said, after a pause. "Take it back, my dear Miss Snow, and I'll lend you the three pounds."
"Thank you, no," replied the old maid, coldly. "I take charity from no one. If you can't lend the money on the teapot, give me back my property."
"Oh, well, I'll take it in pawn if you like," rejoined Hagar, with a shrug. "Here are three sovereigns, and I'll make out the ticket at once."
The hand of the blind woman closed on the money with a sigh of mingled regret and relief. When Hagar returned with the ticket she saw that Margaret was fondling the piece of silver as though unwilling to part with it. She drew back, flushing, on hearing the approaching foot-steps of Hagar, and taking the ticket in silence, moved away with tears running down her withered cheeks. Hagar was touched by this mute misery.
"Can you find your way back home in the darkness?" she called out.
"My dear," said the elder woman with dignity, "day and night are the same to me. You forget that I am blind. Also," she added, with an attempt at lightness, "I know every inch of this neighborhood."
When she departed
