The Opal Serpent Part 14

Deborah, standing near, with her hands on her haunches, laughed heartily. "I think master believed he's spent enough money with you, sir. Lor' bless you, Mr. Pash, so long as the will's tight and fair what do it matter? Don't tell me as there's anything wrong and that my pretty won't come into her forting?"

"Oh, the will's right enough," said Pash, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up his cheeks; "let us go up to the sitting-room. Is Miss Sylvia there?"

"That she are, sir, and a-getting back her pretty color with Mr. Paul."

Pash looked suspiciously at the handmaiden. "Who is he?"

"n.o.body to be spoke of in that lump of dirt way," retorted Deborah.

"He's a gentleman who's going to marry my pretty."

"Oh, the one who had the accident! I met him, but forgot his name."

Miss Junk nodded vigorously. "And a mercy it was that he wasn't smashed to splinters, with spiled looks and half his limbses orf," she said.

"Why, bless you, Mr. Pash, could I let my sunbeam marry a man as wasn't all there, 'eart of gold though he may have? But the blessing of Providence kept him together," shouted Deborah in a burst of grat.i.tude, "and there he sits upstairs with arms to put about my lily-queen for the drying of her dear eyes."

Mr. Pash was not at all pleased at this news and rubbed his nose hard.

"If a proper will had only been made," he said aggressively, "a proper guardian might have been appointed, and this young lady would not have been permitted to throw herself away."

"Beggin' your parding, Mr. Pash," said Deborah, in an offended tone, "but this marriage is of my making, to say nothing of Heaven, which brought him and my pretty together. Mr. Beecot ain't got money, but his looks is takin', and his 'eart is all that an angel can want. My pretty's chice," added the maiden, shaking an admonitory finger, "and my pretty's happiness, so don't you go a-spilin' of it."

"I have nothing to say, save to regret that a young lady in possession of five thousand a year should make a hasty contract like this," said Mr. Pash, dryly, and hopping up the cellar stairs.

"It wasn't hasty," cried Deborah, following and talking all the time; "six months have them dears billed and cooed lovely, and if my queen wants to buy a husband, why not? Just you go up and read the will proper and without castin' cold water on my beauty's warm 'eart, or trouble will come of your talkin'. I'm mild," said Deborah, chasing the little lawyer up the stairs leading to the first floor, "mild as flat beer if not roused: but if you make me red, my 'and flies like a windmill, and--"

Mr. Jabez Pash heard no more. He stopped his legal ears and fled into the sitting-room, where he found the lovers seated on a sofa near the window. Sylvia was in Paul's embrace, and her head was on his shoulder.

Beecot had his arm in a sling, and looked pale, but his eyes were as bright as ever, and his face shone with happiness. Sylvia also looked happy. To know that she was rich, that Paul was to be her husband, filled the cup of her desires to the brim. Moreover, she was beginning to recover from the shock of her father's death, and was feverishly anxious to escape from Gwynne Street, and from the house where the tragedy had taken place.

"Well," said Mr. Pash, drawing a long breath and sucking in his cheeks, "you lose no time, young gentleman."

Paul laughed, but did not change his position. Sylvia indeed blushed and raised her head, but Paul still held her with his uninjured arm, defying Mr. Pash and all the world. "I am gathering rosebuds while I may, Mr.

Pash," said he, misquoting Herrick's charming line.

"You have plucked a very pretty one," grinned the monkey; "but may I request the rosebud's attention?"

Sylvia extricated herself from her lover's arm with a heightened color, and nodded gravely. Seeing it was business, she had to descend from heaven to earth, but she secretly hoped that this dull little lawyer, who was a bachelor and had never loved in his dry little life, would soon go away and leave her alone with Prince Charming. Deborah guessed these thoughts with the instinct of fidelity, and swooped down on her young mistress.

"It's the will, poppet," she whispered loudly, "but if it do make your dear head ache Mr. Beecot will listen."

"I wish Mr. Beecot to listen in any case," said Pash, dryly, "if he is to marry my young and esteemed client."

"We are engaged with the consent of my poor father," said Sylvia, taking Paul's hand. "I shall marry no one but Paul."

"And Paul will marry an angel," said that young man, with a tender squeeze, "although he can't keep her in bread-and-b.u.t.ter."

"Oh, I think there will be plenty of bread-and-b.u.t.ter," said the lawyer.

"Miss Norman, we have found the will if," added Mr. Pash, disdainfully, "this," he held out the doc.u.ment with a look of contempt, "can be called a will."

"It's all right, isn't it?" asked Sylvia, anxiously.

"I mean the form and the writing and the paper, young lady. It is a good will in law, and duly signed and witnessed."

"Me and Bart having written our names, lovey," put in Deborah.

Pash frowned her into silence. "The will," he said, looking at the writing, "consists of a few lines. It leaves all the property of the testator to 'my daughter.'"

"Your daughter!" screamed Deborah. "Why, you ain't married."

"I am reading from the will," snapped Pash, coloring, and read again: "I leave all the real and personal property of which I may die possessed of to my daughter."

"Sylvia Norman!" cried Deborah, hugging her darling.

"There you are wrong," corrected Pash, folding up the so-called will, "the name of Sylvia isn't mentioned."

"Does that make any difference?" asked Paul, quietly.

"No. Miss Norman is an only daughter, I believe."

"And an only child," said Deborah, "so that's all right. My pretty, you will have them jewels and five thousand a year."

"Oh, Paul, what a lot of money!" cried Sylvia, appalled. "Whatever will we do with it all?"

"Why, marry and be happy, of course," said Paul, rejoicing not so much on account of the money, although that was acceptable, but because this delightful girl was all his very--very own.

"The question is," said Mr. Pash, who had been reflecting, and now reproduced the will from his pocket, "as to the name?"

"What name?" asked Sylvia, and Deborah echoed the question.

"Your name." Pash addressed the girl direct. "Your father's real name was Krill--Lemuel Krill."

Sylvia looked amazed, Deborah uttered her usual e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n, "Lor'!" but Paul's expression did not change. He considered that this was all of a piece with the murder and the mystery of the opal brooch. Undoubtedly Mr. Lemuel Krill, _alias_ Aaron Norman, must have had good reason to change his name and to exhibit terror at the sight of the brooch. And the reason he dreaded, whatever it might be, had been the cause of his mysterious and tragic death. But Paul said nothing of these thoughts and there was silence for a few minutes.

"Lor,'" said Deborah again, "and I never knew. Do he put that name to that, mister?" she asked, pointing to the will.

"Yes! It is signed Lemuel Krill," said Pash. "I wonder you didn't notice it at the moment."

"Why, bless you, Mr. Pash, there weren't no moment," said Deborah, her hands on her hips as usual. "Master made that there will only a short time before he was killed."

Pash nodded. "I note the date," said he, "all in order--quite."

"Master," went on Deborah, looking at Paul, "never got over that there fainting fit you gave him with the serping brooch. And he writes out that will, and tells Bart and me to put our names to it. But he covered up his own name with a bit of red blotting-paper. I never thought but that he hadn't put Aaron Norman, which was his name."

"It was not his name," said Pash. "His real name I have told you, and for years I have known the truth."

"Do you know why he changed his name?" asked Beecot, quickly.

"No, sir, I don't. And if I did, I don't know if it would be legal etiquette to reveal the reason to a stranger."

"He's not a stranger," cried Sylvia, annoyed.