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"Well, Deborah," said Beecot, "we have much to be thankful for, all of us. Let us try and show our gratitude in our lives." "Ah, well, you may say that," sighed Mrs. Tawsey, in a devout manner. "Who'd ha' thought things would have turned out so 'appy-like indeed.
"I am so glad, darling," she said, holding Paul's hand in her thin ones. "I should not have liked our marriage to have kept you from your father." Mrs. Tawsey snorted. "His frantic par," she said, "ah, well, when I meet 'im, if he dares to say a word agin my pretty " "My father is quite ready to welcome her as a daughter," said Paul, quickly. "An' no poor one either," cried Deborah, triumphantly.
Tawsey had no relatives, but Bart produced a snuffy old grandmother from some London slum who drank gin during the wedding-feast, much to the scandal of the bride. Paul acted as best man to Bart, and Sylvia, in her plain black dress, was bridesmaid. Mrs.
"I'll look after those four women in the wash-house, and read this new book I have. Then I must get tea ready for Paul, who comes at four. The afternoon will pass quite quickly." "I'll be back at five if I can, and earlier if Matilder ain't what she oughter be," said Mrs. Tawsey, yielding. "So make yourself 'appy, honey, till you sees me smilin' again." In another quarter of an hour Mrs.
Tawsey, in her own vigorous, ungrammatical way, related what she had heard from Sylvia. Paul was struck with horror and wanted to see Sylvia. But this Deborah would not allow. "She's sleepin' like a pretty daisy," said Mrs. Tawsey, "so don't you go a-disturbin' of her nohow, though acrost my corp you may make a try, say what you like."
Purr toasted them in gin, and wept as she did so. A dismal, tearful old woman was Mrs. Purr, and she was about to open her mouth, in order to explain what she thought would come of the marriage, when Mrs. Tawsey stopped her. "None of them groans," cried Deborah, with vigor. "I won't have my weddings made funerals. 'Old your tongue, Mrs.
Then Deborah demanded that the banns should be put up, and arranged that Bart should take up his abode in the parish for the necessary time. This was done, and for three Sundays Deborah had the pleasure of hearing the banns announced which foretold that Bart Tawsey and herself would soon be man and wife. Then the marriage took place. The future Mrs.
Paul threw himself on his knees beside the insensible form of Sylvia and left Deborah to deal with Maud. That creature was gasping as Mrs. Tawsey swung her to and fro. Then she began to fight, and the two women crashed round the little room, upsetting the furniture. Paul took Sylvia in his arms, and shrank against the wall to protect her. A new person suddenly appeared.
Quite a Dickens inn of the old coaching days was "The Red Pig." But Hurd gave the pretty, quaint hostel only a passing glance. He was staring at a woman who stood in the doorway shading her eyes with the palm of her hand from the setting sun. In her the detective saw the image of Deborah Junk, now Tawsey.
"As soon as I can stand at the altar," she replied, blushing, whereat Deborah clapped her hands. "Weddin's an' weddin's an' weddin's agin," cried Mrs. Tawsey, "which my sister Matilder being weary of 'er spinstering 'ome 'ave made up 'er mind to marry the fust as offers. An' won't she lead 'im a dance neither oh, no, not at all."
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