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 assured 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 circumstances 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 fashion 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 nobly 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 passed 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 circumstances 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 moonshine, 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, assumed 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.

"Deborah," he said, in a quiet voice, releasing himself, "I love Sylvia for herself and not for her money."

Deborah threw her brawny arms in the air and her apron over her red head. "I knowed it—oh, yuss, indeed," she sobbed in muffled tones. "Ses I, I ses, Mr. Paul's a gentleman whatever his frantic par may be and marry you, my own lovey, he will, though not able to afford the marriage fees, the same as will come out of Debby's pocket, though the laundry go by the board. 'Eaven knows what we'll live on all the same, pore wurkhus ijets 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, drat her 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 revealing flashing eyes, "and it's a mussy I ain't in Old Bailey this very day for scratching that monkey of a Pash. Oh, if I'd known wot he wos never should he 'ave got me the laundry, though the same may have to go, worse luck. Ho, yuss! he come, and she come with her kitting, as is almost as big a cat as she is. Mrs. Krill, bless her, oh, yuss, Mrs. Krill, the sneakin', smiling Jezebel."

"Did she see Sylvia?" asked Beecot, sharply.

"Yuss, she did," admitted Deborah, "me lettin' her in not knowin' her scratchin's. An' the monkey an' the kitting come too—a-spyin' out the land as you may say. W'en I 'eard the noos I 'owled Mr. Paul, but my pretty she turned white like one of them plaster stateys as boys sell cheap in the streets, and ses she, she ses, 'Oh Paul'—if you'll forgive me 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 in her pocket by means of that Old Bailey woman as is a good match fur my Old Bailey master. Ho! he wos a bad 'un, and 'ow Miss Sylvia ever come to 'ave sich a par beats me. But I thank 'eaven the cat ain't my pretty'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 and has gone over to the enemy"—here Deborah clenched her mighty fists and gasped. "Sylvia's mother was married later, and as the former wife is alive 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 to say, Deborah?"

"What that cat said, insulting of my pretty. But I shoved her out of the door, tellin' her what she were. She guv me and Bart and my own sunbeam notice to quit," gasped Deborah, almost weeping, "an' quit we will this very day, Bart bein' a-packin' at this momingt. 'Ear 'im knocking, and I wish 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 few minutes. 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, her face buried in her hands. She looked up when she recognized the beloved footsteps and sprang to her feet. The next moment she was sobbing her heart out on Paul's faithful breast, and he was comforting her with all the endearing names he could think of.

"My own, my sweet, my dearest darling," whispered Paul, smoothing the pretty 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 a friend 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. Your father 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, the money was left in that loosely-worded will to 'my daughter.' We all thought it was you, but now this legal wife has come on the scene, the money must go to her daughter. Oh, Sylvia," cried Paul, straining her to his breast, "how foolish your father was not to say the money was left to 'my daughter Sylvia.' Then everything would have been right. But the absence of the name is fatal. The law will assume that the testator meant 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 I fear 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, Pash would 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 could have kept the five thousand a year. But I have you, and you have me, and although 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 round the room. "Nothing here is mine. I have only a few clothes. Mr. Pash said that Mrs. Krill would take everything. Let me marry you, darling," she whispered coaxingly, "and we can live in your garret. I will cook and mend, and be your own little wife."

Beecot groaned. "Don't tempt me, Sylvia," he said, putting her away, "I dare 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 to make 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, I believe, because he thought you were rich. Now, when he knows you are poor—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 fathers would make me give you up? No, my love of loves—my soul, my heart of hearts—come good, come ill, we will be together. You can stay with Debby at Jubileetown until I make enough to welcome you to a home, however humble. Dear, be hopeful, and trust in the God who brought us together. 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 his breast 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 am poor—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 a bad woman. I can see badness written all over her smiling face. We won't think of her. When you leave here you won't see her again. My own dear little sweetheart," whispered Paul, tenderly, "when you leave this unhappy 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 queen of 'oney bees, of course he have you in his 'eart. You'll be bride and I'll be bridesmaid, though not a pretty one, and all will be 'oney and sunshine 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 ever come to you two while silly old Debby have a leg to stan' on an' arms to wash. Though the laundry—oh, lor'!" and she rubbed her nose till it grew 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 furniture and taxes can come out of it, sure. And my washin's what I call washin'," said Deborah, emphatically; "no lost buttings and tored sheets and ragged collars. I'd wash ag'in the queen 'erself, tho' I ses it as shouldn'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 her to stop with you till I can make a home 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," retorted Debby, sniffing; "me an' Bart 'ull do all. An' this blessed day we'll go to Jubileetown with our belongings. And you, Mr. Beecot?"

"I'll come and see you settled, Deborah, and then I return to earn an income for Sylvia. I won't let you keep her long."

"She'll stop as long as she have the will," shouted Debby, hugging Sylvia; "as to that Krill cat—"

"She can take possession as soon as she likes. And, Deborah," added Paul, significantly, "for all that has happened, I don't intend to drop the search for your late master's murderer."

"It's the Krill cat as done it," said Debby, "though I ain't got no reason for a-sayin' of such a think."

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