by Fergus Hume
CHAPTER XII
THE NEW LIFE
For obvious reasons Beecot did not return to Gwynne Street. It wasdifficult to swallow this bitter pill which Providence had administered.In place of an assured future with Sylvia, he found himself confrontedwith his former poverty, with no chance of marrying the girl, and withthe obligation of telling her that she had no right to any name. Paulwas by no means a coward, and his first impulse was to go at once andinform Sylvia of her reverse of fortune. But it was already late, and hethought 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 hisgarret.
To the young man's credit it must be said that he cared very little forthe loss of the money, although he grieved on Sylvia's account. Had hebeen able to earn a small income, he would have married the girl andgiven her the protection of his name without the smallest hesitation.But he was yet unknown to fame; he was at variance with his father, andhe could scarcely bring Sylvia to share his bitter poverty--which mightgrow still more bitter in that cold and cheerless garret.
Then there was another thing to consider. Paul had written to his fatherexplaining the circumstances of his engagement to Sylvia, and askingfor the paternal blessing. To gain this, he mentioned that his promisedwife had five thousand a year. Bully and tyrant as Beecot senior was, heloved money, and although well off, was always on the alert to have morebrought into the family. With the bribe of a wealthy wife, Paul hadlittle doubt but what the breach would be healed, and Sylvia welcomed asthe sweetest and most desirable daughter-in-law in the world. Then Paulfancied the girl would be able to subdue with her gentle ways thestubborn heart of his father, and would also be able to make Mrs. Beecothappy. Indeed, he had received a letter from his mother congratulatinghim on his wealthy match, for the good lady wished to see Paulindependent of the domestic tyrant. Also Mrs. Beecot had made manyinquiries about Sylvia's goodness and beauty, and hoped that he hadchosen wisely, and hinted that no girl living was worthy of her son,after the fashion of mothers. Paul had replied to this letter settingforth his own unworthiness and Sylvia's perfections, and Mrs. Beecot hadaccepted the good news with joy. But the letter written to Beecot seniorwas yet unanswered, and Paul began to think that not even the chance ofhaving a rich daughter-in-law would prevail against the obstinacy of theold gentleman.
But when he reached his garret, after that lonely and tormenting walk onthe Embankment, he found a letter from his father, and opened it withsome trepidation. It proved to contain joyful news. Mr. Beecot thankedHeaven that Paul was not such a fool as he had been of yore, and hintedthat this sudden access of sense which had led him to engage himself toa wealthy girl had come from his father and not from his mother.He--Beecot senior--was aware that Paul had acted badly, and had notremembered what was due to the best of fathers; but since he wasprepared to settle down with a rich wife, Beecot senior nobly forgavethe past and Paul's many delinquences (mentioned in detail) and would beglad to welcome his daughter-in-law. Then Beecot, becoming the tyrantagain, insisted that the marriage should take place in Wargrove, andthat the fact of Sylvia's father being murdered should be suppressed. Infact, the old gentleman left nothing to the young couple, but arrangedeverything in his own selfish way, even to choosing, in Wargrove, thehouse they would inhabit. The house, he mentioned, was one of his ownwhich could not be let on account of some trivial tale of a ghost, andMr. Beecot would give this as a marriage gift to Paul, thus getting ridof an unprofitable property and playing the part of a generous father atone and the same time. In spite of his bucolic ways and pig-headedobstinacy and narrow views, Beecot senior possessed a certain amount ofcunning which Paul read in every line of the selfish letter before him.
However, the main point was, that the old gentleman seemed ready tooverlook the past and to receive Sylvia. Paul wanted to return to hishome, not so much on account of his father, as because he wished tosmooth the remaining years of his mother, and he knew well that Sylviawith her gentle ways and heart of gold would make Mrs. Beecot happy. Solong 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 bebribed into forgiveness and decent behavior. Now all this was altered.From the tone of the letter, Paul knew his father would never consent tohis marrying a girl not only without a name, but lacking the fortunewhich alone rendered her desirable in his eyes. Still, the truth wouldhave to be told, and if Beecot senior refused to approve of themarriage, the young couple would have to do without his sanction. Theposition, thought Paul, would only make him work the harder, so thatwithin 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 andexplained how the fortune had passed from Sylvia, but declared, with allthe romance of youth, that he intended to marry the girl all the same.If Beecot senior, said Paul, would permit the marriage, and allow thecouple a small income until the husband could earn enough to keep thepot boiling, the writer would be grateful. If not, Paul declared firmlythat he would work like a slave to make a home for his darling. Butnothing in the world would make him give up Sylvia. This was the letterto his father, and then Paul wrote one to his mother, detailing thecircumstances and imploring her to stand by him, although in his ownsinking heart he felt that Mrs. Beecot was but a frail reed on which tolean. He finished these letters and posted them before midnight. Then hewent to bed and dreamed that the bad news was all moonshine, and thatSylvia and he were a happy rich married pair.
But the cold grey searching light of dawn brought the actual state ofthings again to his mind and so worried him that he could hardly eat anybreakfast. He spent the morning in writing a short tale, for which hehad been promised a couple of sovereigns, and took it to the office ofthe 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 notintend to let Sylvia see that he was despondent. On turning down thestreet he raised his head, assumed a smile and walked with a confidentstep into the shop.
As he entered he heard a heavy woman plunge down the stairs, and foundhis arm grasped by Deborah, very red-faced and very furious, the momenthe crossed the threshold. Bart could be heard knocking boxes together inthe cellar, as he was getting Deborah's belongings ready for removal toJubileetown, where the cottage, and the drying ground for the laundry,had already been secured through Pash. But Paul had no time to ask whatwas going on. A glance at the hand-maiden's tearful face revealed thatshe knew the worst, in which case Sylvia must also have heard the news.
"Yes," cried Deborah, seeing the sudden whiteness of Paul's cheeks, andshaking 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 yourthrowin' 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 presingtstate. Seein' you from the winder I made bold to come down and arsk yourintentings; for if them do mean no marriage and the breaking of mypretty's 'eart, never shall she set eyes agin on a double-faced Jonah,and--and--" Here Deborah gasped for breath and again shook Paul.
"Deborah," he said, in a quiet voice, releasing himself, "I love Sylviafor herself and not for her money."
Deborah threw her brawny arms in the air and her apron over her redhead. "I knowed it--oh, yuss, indeed," she sobbed in muffled tones. "SesI, I ses, Mr. Paul's a gentleman whatever his frantic par may be andmarry you, my own lovey, he will, though not able to afford the marriagefees, the same as will come out of Debby's pocket, though the laundry goby the board. 'Eaven knows what we'll live on all the same, pore wurkhusijets as me an' Bart are, not bein' able to make you an' Miss Sylvia'appy. Miss Sylvia Krill an' Norman both," ended Deborah with emphasis,"whatever that smooth cat with the grin and the clawses may say, drather fur a slimy tabby--yah!"
"I see you know all," said Paul, as soon as he could slip in a word.
"Know all," almost yelled Deborah, dragging down the apron and revealingflashing eyes, "and it's a mussy I ain't in Old Bailey this very day forscratching that monkey of a Pash. Oh, if I'd known wot he wos nevershould he 'ave got me the laundry, though the same may have to go, worseluck. Ho, yuss! he come, and she come with her kitting, as is almost asbig a cat as she is. Mrs. Krill, bless her, oh, yuss, Mrs. Krill, thesneakin', smiling Jezebel."
"Did she see Sylvia?" asked Beecot, sharply.
"Yuss, she did," admitted Deborah, "me lettin' her in not knowin' herscratchin's. An' the monkey an' the kitting come too--a-spyin' out theland as you may say. W'en I 'eard the noos I 'owled Mr. Paul, but mypretty she turned white like one of them plaster stateys as boys sellcheap in the streets, and ses she, she ses, 'Oh Paul'--if you'll forgiveme mentioning your name, sir, without perliteness."
"Bless her, my darling. Did she think of me," said Beecot, tenderly.
"Ah, when do she not think of you, sir? 'Eart of gold, though none inher pocket by means of that Old Bailey woman as is a good match fur myOld Bailey master. Ho! he wos a bad 'un, and 'ow Miss Sylvia ever cometo 'ave sich a par beats me. But I thank 'eaven the cat ain't mypretty's mar, though she do 'ave a daughter of her own, the painted,stuck-up parcel of bad bargains."
Paul nodded. "Calling names won't do any good, Deborah," he said sadly;"we must do the best we can."
"There ain't no chance of the lawr gettin' that woman to the gallers I'spose, sir?"
"The woman is your late master's lawful wife. Pash seems to think so andhas gone over to the enemy"--here Deborah clenched her mighty fists andgasped. "Sylvia's mother was married later, and as the former wife isalive Sylvia is--"
"No," shouted Deborah, flinging out her hand, "don't say it."
"Sylvia is poor," ended Paul, calmly. "What did you think I was about tosay, Deborah?"
"What that cat said, insulting of my pretty. But I shoved her out of thedoor, tellin' her what she were. She guv me and Bart and my own sunbeamnotice to quit," gasped Deborah, almost weeping, "an' quit we will thisvery day, Bart bein' a-packin' at this momingt. 'Ear 'im knocking, and Iwish he wos a-knockin' at Mrs. Krill's 'ead, that I do, the flauntin'hussy as she is, drat her."
"I'll go up and see Sylvia. No, Deborah, don't you come for a fewminutes. When you do come we'll arrange what is to be done."
Deborah nodded acquiescence. "Take my lovely flower in your arms, sir,"she said, following him to the foot of the stairs, "and tell her as your'eart is true, which true I knowed it would be."
Beecot was soon in the sitting-room and found Sylvia on the sofa, herface buried in her hands. She looked up when she recognized the belovedfootsteps and sprang to her feet. The next moment she was sobbing herheart out on Paul's faithful breast, and he was comforting her with allthe endearing names he could think of.
"My own, my sweet, my dearest darling," whispered Paul, smoothing thepretty brown hair, "don't weep. You have lost much, but you have me."
"Dear," she wept, "do you think it is true?"
"I am afraid it is, Sylvia. However, I know a young lawyer, who is afriend of mine, and I'll speak to him."
"But Paul, though my mother may not have been married to my father--"
"She _was_, Sylvia, but Mrs. Krill was married to him earlier. Yourfather committed bigamy, and you, poor child, have to pay the penalty."
"Well, even if the marriage is wrong, the money was left to us."
"To you, dear," said Beecot, leading her to the sofa, "that is, themoney was left in that loosely-worded will to 'my daughter.' We allthought it was you, but now this legal wife has come on the scene, themoney must go to her daughter. Oh, Sylvia," cried Paul, straining her tohis breast, "how foolish your father was not to say the money was leftto 'my daughter Sylvia.' Then everything would have been right. But theabsence of the name is fatal. The law will assume that the testatormeant his true daughter."
"And am I not his true daughter?" she asked, her lips quivering.
"You are my own darling, Sylvia," murmured Paul, kissing her hair;"don't let us talk of the matter. I'll speak to my lawyer friend, but Ifear from the attitude of Pash that Mrs. Krill will make good her claim.Were there a chance of keeping you in possession of the money, Pashwould never have left you so easily."
"I am so sorry about the money on your account, Paul."
"My own," he said cheerily, "money is a good thing, and I wish we couldhave kept the five thousand a year. But I have you, and you have me, andalthough we cannot marry for a long time yet--"
"Not marry, Paul! Oh, why not?"
"Dearest, I am poor, I cannot drag you down to poverty."
Sylvia looked at him wide-eyed. "I am poor already." She looked roundthe room. "Nothing here is mine. I have only a few clothes. Mr. Pashsaid that Mrs. Krill would take everything. Let me marry you, darling,"she whispered coaxingly, "and we can live in your garret. I will cookand mend, and be your own little wife."
Beecot groaned. "Don't tempt me, Sylvia," he said, putting her away, "Idare not marry you. Why, I have hardly enough to pay the fees. No, dear,you must go with Debby to her laundry, and I'll work night and day tomake enough for us to live on. Then we'll marry, and--"
"But your father, Paul?"
"He won't do anything. He consented to our engagement, but solely, Ibelieve, because he thought you were rich. Now, when he knows you arepoor--and I wrote to tell him last night--he will forbid the match."
"Paul!" She clung to him in sick terror.
"My sweetest"--he caught her in his arms--"do you think a dozen fatherswould make me give you up? No, my love of loves--my soul, my heart ofhearts--come good, come ill, we will be together. You can stay withDebby at Jubileetown until I make enough to welcome you to a home,however humble. Dear, be hopeful, and trust in the God who brought ustogether. He is watching over us, and, knowing that, why need we fear?Don't cry, darling heart."
"I'm not crying for crying," sobbed Sylvia, hiding her face on hisbreast and speaking incoherently; "but I'm so happy--"
"In spite of the bad news?" asked Paul, laughing gently.
"Yes--yes--to think that you should still wish to marry me. I ampoor--I--I--have--no name, and--"
"Dearest, you will soon have my name."
"But Mrs. Krill said--"
"I don't want to hear what she said," cried Paul, impetuously; "she is abad woman. I can see badness written all over her smiling face. Wewon't think of her. When you leave here you won't see her again. My owndear little sweetheart," whispered Paul, tenderly, "when you leave thisunhappy house, let the bad past go. You and I will begin a new life.Come, don't cry, my pet. Here's Debby."
Sylvia looked up, and threw herself into the faithful servant's arms."Oh, Debby, he loves me still; he's going to marry me whenever he can."
Deborah laughed and wiped Sylvia's tears away with her coarse apron,tenderly. "You silly flower," she cried caressingly; "you foolish queenof 'oney bees, of course he have you in his 'eart. You'll be bride andI'll be bridesmaid, though not a pretty one, and all will be 'oney andsunshine and gates of pearl, my beauty."
"Debby--I'm--I'm--so happy!"
Deborah placed her young mistress in Paul's arms. "Then let 'im make you'appier, pretty lily of the valley. Lor', as if anything bad 'ud evercome to you two while silly old Debby have a leg to stan' on an' arms towash. Though the laundry--oh, lor'!" and she rubbed her nose till itgrew scarlet, "what of it, Mr. Beecot, I do ask?"
"Have you enough money to pay a year's rent?"
"Yes, me and Bart have saved one 'undred between us. Rent and furnitureand taxes can come out of it, sure. And my washin's what I callwashin'," said Deborah, emphatically; "no lost buttings and tored sheetsand ragged collars. I'd wash ag'in the queen 'erself, tho' I ses it asshouldn't. Give me a tub, and you'll see if the money don't come in."
"Well, then, Deborah, as I am too poor to marry Sylvia now, I want herto stop with you till I can make a h
ome for her."
"An' where else should she stop but with her own silly, foolish Debby,I'd like to know? My flower, you come an' be queen of the laundry."
"I'll keep the accounts, Debby," said Sylvia, now all smiling.
"You'll keep nothin' but your color an' your dear 'eart up," retortedDebby, sniffing; "me an' Bart 'ull do all. An' this blessed day we'll goto Jubileetown with our belongings. And you, Mr. Beecot?"
"I'll come and see you settled, Deborah, and then I return to earn anincome for Sylvia. I won't let you keep her long."
"She'll stop as long as she have the will," shouted Debby, huggingSylvia; "as to that Krill cat--"
"She can take possession as soon as she likes. And, Deborah," addedPaul, significantly, "for all that has happened, I don't intend to dropthe search for your late master's murderer."
"It's the Krill cat as done it," said Debby, "though I ain't got noreason for a-sayin' of such a think."
