"And have you a word to say against it, sir?" demanded Deborah, bristling.
"No," said Aaron, after a pause, "but you should have told me."
"We should," admitted Sylvia, quickly, "but Paul and I feared lest you should say 'No.'"
"My child," said the old man, gravely, "so long as you wed a kind and good man I have nothing to say. Sylvia, I have worked hard these many years and have made much money, which, by will, I have left to you. When I die you will be rich. He is poor."
"Paul – yes, he is poor. But what of that?"
"Many fathers might think that an objection," went on Aaron without noticing her remark. "But I do not. You shall marry Paul before I go to America."
"Lor'!" cried Deborah, "whatever are you a-goin' there for, sir?"
"That's my business," said Aaron, dryly, "but I go as soon as I can. I have sold the books; and the furniture of these rooms shall be disposed of before the end of the week. My gems I take to Amsterdam for sale, and I go abroad next week. When I return in a fortnight you can marry Mr. Beecot. He is a good young man. I quite approve of him."
Deborah snorted. "Seems to me as though you was glad to get quit of my pretty," she murmured, but too low to be overheard.
"Oh, father," cried Sylvia, putting her arms round Norman's neck, "how good you are! I do love him so."
"I hope the love will continue," said her father, cynically, and removing the girl's arms, to the secret indignation of Deborah. "I shall call on Mr. Beecot to-morrow and speak to him myself about the matter. If we come to an arrangement, for I have a condition to make before I give my entire consent, I shall allow you a certain sum to live on. Then I shall go to America, and when I die you will inherit all my money – when I die," he added, casting the usual look over his shoulders. "But I won't die for many a long day," he said, with a determined air. "At least, I hope not."
"You are healthy enough, father."
"Yes! Yes – but healthy people die in queer ways."
Deborah intervened impatiently. "I'm glad you wish to make my lily-queen happy, sir," said she, nodding, "but change your mind you may if Mr. Beecot don't fall in."
"Fall in?" queried Aaron.
"With this arrangements – what is they?"
Aaron looked undecided, then spoke impulsively, walking towards the door as he did so. "Let Mr. Beecot give me that opal serpent," he said, "and he shall have Sylvia and enough to live on."
"But, father, it is lost," cried Sylvia, in dismay.
She spoke to the empty air. Norman had hastily passed through the door and was descending the stairs quicker than usual. Sylvia, in her eagerness to explain, would have followed, but Deborah drew her back with rough gentleness. "Let him go, lily-queen," she said; "let sleeping dogs lie if you love me."
"Deborah, what do you mean?" asked Sylvia, breathlessly.
"I don't mean anything that have a meaning," said Miss Junk, enigmatically, "but your par's willing to sell you for that dratted brooch, whatever he wants it for. And you to be put against a brooch my honey-pot. I'm biling – yes, biling hard," and Deborah snorted in proof of the extremity of her rage.
"Never mind, Debby. Father consents that I shall marry Paul, and will give us enough to live on. Then Paul will write great books, and his father will ask him home again. Oh – oh!" Sylvia danced round the room gaily, "how happy I am."
"And happy you shall be if I die for it," shouted Deborah, screwing up her face, for she was not altogether satisfied, "though mysteries I don't hold with, are about. America – what's he going to America for? and with that brooch, and him locking us up every night to sleep in cellars. Police-courts and Old Baileys," said Miss Junk, frowning. "I don't like it, Sunbeam, and when you're married to Mr. Beecot I'll be that happy as never was."
Sylvia opened her grey eyes in wide surprise and a little alarm. "Oh, Debby, you don't think there's anything wrong with father?"
Miss Junk privately thought there was a good deal wrong, but she folded Sylvia in her stout arms and dismissed the question with a snort. "No, lovey, my own, there ain't. It's just my silly way of going on. Orange buds and brides the sun shines on, is your fortunes, Miss Sylvia, though how I'm going to call you Mrs. Beecot beats me," and Deborah rubbed her nose.
"I shall always be Sylvia to you."
"Bless you, lady-bird, but don't ask me to live with Mr. Beecot's frantic par, else there'll be scratchings if he don't do proper what he should do and don't. So there." Deborah swung her arms like a windmill. "My mind's easy and dinner's waiting, for, love or no love, eat you must, to keep your insides' clockwork."
When Bart heard the joyful news he was glad, but expressed regret that Norman should go to America. He did not wish to lose his situation, and never thought the old man would take him to the States also. Deborah vowed that if Aaron did want to transport Bart – so she put it – she would object. Then she unfolded a scheme by which, with Bart's savings and her own, they could start a laundry. "And I knows a drying ground," said Deborah, while talking at supper to her proposed husband, "as is lovely and cheap. One of them suburbs on the line to Essex, where my pretty will live when her husband's frantic par makes it up. Jubileetown's the place, and Victoria Avenue the street. The sweetest cottage at twenty pun' a year as I ever set eyes on. And m'sister as is married to a bricklayer is near to help with the family."
"The family?" echoed Bart, looking scared.
"In course – they will come, though it's early to be thinking of names for 'em. I'll do the washing, Bart, and you'll take round the cart, so don't you think things 'ull be otherwise."
"I don't want 'em to," said Bart, affectionately. "I always loved you, Debby darling."
"Ah," said Miss Junk, luxuriously, "I've taught you to, in quite a genteel way. What a scrubby little brat you were, Bart!"
"Yuss," said Mr. Tawsey, eating rapidly. "I saw myself to-day."
"In a looking-glarse?"
"Lor', Debby – no. But there wos a brat all rags and dirty face and sauce as I was when you saw me fust. He come into the shop as bold as brass and arsked fur a book. I ses, 'What do you want with a book?' and he ses, looking at the shelves so empty, 'I sees your sellin' off,' he ses, so I jumped up to clip him over the 'ead, when he cut. Tray's his name, Debby, and he's the kid as talked to that cold gent Mr. Beecot brought along with him when he got smashed."
"Tray – that's a dog's name," said Deborah, "old dog Tray, and quite good enough for guttersnipes. As to Mr. Hay, don't arsk me to say he's good, for that he ain't. What's he want talking with gutter Trays?"
"And what do gutter Trays want with books?" asked Bart, "though to be sure 'twas impertinence maybe."
Deborah nodded. "That it was, and what you'd have done when you was a scrubby thing. Don't bolt your food, but make every bit 'elp you to 'ealth and long living. You won't 'ave gormandising when we've got the laundry, I can tell you."
Next day Aaron went off in the afternoon to Charing Cross Hospital, after holding a conversation with a broker who had agreed to buy the derelict furniture. The shop, being empty, was supposed to be closed, but from force of habit Bart took down the shutters and lurked disconsolately behind the bare counter. Several old customers who had not heard of the sale entered, and were disappointed when they learned that Aaron was leaving. Their lamentations made Bart quite low-spirited. However, he was polite to all, but his manners broke down when a Hindoo entered to sell boot-laces. "I ain't got nothing to sell, and don't want to buy nohow," said Bart, violently.
The man did not move, but stood impassively in the doorway like a bronze statue. He wore a dirty red turban carelessly wound round his small head, an unclean blouse which had once been white, circled by a yellow handkerchief of some coarse stuff,