A CUCKOO IN THE NEST
Paul looked from the fresh-colored woman who spoke so smoothly and so
firmly to the apish lawyer hunched in his chair with a sphinx-like look
on his wrinkled face. For the moment, so taken aback was he by this
astounding announcement, that he could not speak. The younger woman
stared at him with her hard blue eyes, and a smile played round her full
lips. The mother also looked at him in an engaging way, as though she
rather admired his youthful comeliness in spite of his well-brushed,
shabby apparel.
"I don't know what you mean," said Beecot at length, "Mr. Pash?"
The lawyer aroused himself to make a concise statement of the case. "So
far as I understand," he said in his nervous, irritable way, "these
ladies claim to be the wife and daughter of Lemuel Krill, whom we knew
as Aaron Norman."
"And I think by his real name also," said the elder woman in her deep,
smooth contralto voice, and with the display of an admirable set of
teeth. "The bills advertising the reward, and stating the fact of the
murder, bore my late husband's real name."
"Norman was not your husband, madam," cried Paul, indignantly.
"I agree with you, sir. Lemuel Krill was my husband. I saw in the
newspapers, which penetrate even into the quiet little Hants village I
live in, that Aaron Norman had been murdered. I never thought he was
the man who had left me more than twenty years ago with an only child to
bring up. But the bills offering the reward assured me that Norman and
Krill are one and the same man. Therefore," she drew herself up and
looked piercingly at the young man, "I have come to see after the
property. I understand from the papers that my daughter is an heiress to
millions."
"Not millions," said Pash, hastily. "The newspapers have exaggerated the
amount. Five thousand a year, madam, and it is left to Sylvia."
"Who is Sylvia?" asked Mrs. Krill, in the words of Shakespeare's song.
"She is the daughter of Mr. Norman," said Paul, quickly, "and is engaged
to marry me."
Mrs. Krill's eyes travelled over his shabby suit from head to foot, and
then back again from foot to head. She glanced sideways at her
companion, and the girl laughed in a hard, contemptuous manner. "I fear
you will be disappointed in losing a rich wife, sir," said the elder
woman, sweetly.
"I have not lost the money yet," replied Paul, hotly. "Not that I care
for the money."
"Of course not," put in Mrs. Krill, ironically, with another look at his
dress.
"But I _do_ care for Sylvia Norman--"
"With whom I have nothing to do."
"She is your husband's daughter."
"But not mine. This is my daughter, Maud--the legal daughter of Lemuel
and myself," she added meaningly.
"Good heavens, madam," cried Beecot, his face turning white, "what do
you mean?"
Mrs. Krill raised her thick white eyebrows, and shrugged her plump
shoulders, and made a graceful motion with her white, be-ringed hand.
"Is there any need for me to explain?" she said calmly.
"I think there is every need," cried Beecot, sharply. "I shall not allow
Miss Norman to lose her fortune or--"
"Or lose it yourself, sir. I quite understand. Nevertheless, I am
assured that the law of the land will protect, through me, my daughter's
rights. She leaves it in my hands."
"Yes," said the girl, in a voice as full and rich and soft as her
smooth-faced mother, "I leave it in her hands."
Paul sat down and concealed his face with a groan. He was thinking not
so much of the loss of the money, although that was a consideration, as
of the shame Sylvia would feel at her position. Then a gleam of hope
darted into his mind. "Mr. Norman was married to Sylvia's mother under
his own name. You can't prove the marriage void."
"I have no wish to. When did this marriage take place?"
Beecot looked at the lawyer, who replied. "Twenty-two years ago," and he
gave the date.
Mrs. Krill fished in a black morocco bag she carried and brought out a
shabby blue envelope. "I thought this might be needed," she said,
passing it to Pash. "You will find there my marriage certificate. I
became the wife of Lemuel Krill thirty years ago. And, as I am still
living, I fear the later marriage--" She smiled blandly and shrugged her
shoulders again. "Poor girl!" she said with covert insolence.
"Sylvia does not need your pity," cried Beecot, stung by the
insinuation.
"Indeed, sir," said Mrs. Krill, sadly, and with the look of a
treacherous cat, "I fear she needs the pity of all right-thinking
people. Many would speak harshly of her, seeing what she is, but my
troubles have taught me charity. I repeat that I am sorry for the girl."
"And again I say there is no need," rejoined Paul, throwing back his
head; "and you forget, madam, there is a will."
Mrs. Krill's fresh color turned to a dull white, and her hard eyes shot
fire. "A will," she said slowly. "I shall dispute the will if it is not
in my favor. I am the widow of this man and I claim full justice.
Besides," she went on, wetting her full lips with her tongue, "I
understood from the newspapers that the money was left to Mr. Krill's
daughter."
"Certainly. To Sylvia Krill."
"Norman, sir. She has no right to any other name. But I really do not
see why I should explain myself to you, sir. If you choose to give this
girl your name you will be doing a good act. At present the poor
creature is--nobody." She let the last word drop from her lips slowly,
so as to give Paul its full sting.
Beecot said nothing. He could not dispute what she said. If this woman
could prove the marriage of thirty years ago, then Krill, or Norman as
he called himself, had committed bigamy, and, in the hard eyes of the
law, Sylvia was nobody's child. And that the marriage could be proved
Paul saw well enough from the looks of the lawyer, who was studying the
certificate which he had drawn from the shabby blue envelope. "Then the
will--the money is left to Sylvia," he said with obstinacy. "I shall
defend her rights."
"Of course," said Mrs. Krill, significantly. "I understand that a wife
with five thousand--"
"I would marry Sylvia without a penny."
"Indeed, sir, that is the only way in which you can marry her. If you
like I shall allow her twenty pounds for a trousseau."
Paul rose and flung back his head again. "You have not got the money
yet, madam," he said defiantly.
Not at all disturbed, Mrs. Krill smiled her eternal smile. "I am here
to get it. There is a will, you say," she added, turning to Pash. "And I
understand from this gentleman," she indicated Beecot slightly, "that
the money is left to Mr. Krill's daughter. Does he name Maud or Sylvia?"
Pash slapped down the certificate irritably. "He names no one. The will
is a hasty document badly worded, and simply leaves all the testator
died possessed of to--my daughter."
"Which of course means Maud here. I congratulate you, dear," she said,
turning to the girl, who looked happy and flushed. "Your father has made
up to us both for his cruelty and desertion."
Seeing that there was nothing to be said, Paul went to the door. But
there his common sense left him and he made a valedictory speech. "I
know that Mr. Krill left the money to Sylvia."
"Oh, no," said the widow, "to his daughter, as I understand the wording
of the will runs. In that case this nameless girl has nothing."
"Pash!" cried Beecot, turning despairingly to the little solicitor.
The old man shook his head and sucked in his cheeks. "I am sorry, Mr.
Beecot," said he, in a pitying tone, "but as the will stands the money
must certainly go to the child born in wedlock. I have the certificate
here," he laid his monkey paw on it, "but of course I shall make
inquiries."
"By all means," said Mrs. Krill, graciously. "My daughter and myself
have lived for many years in Christchurch, Hants. We keep the inn
there--not the principal inn, but a small public-house on the outskirts
of the village. It will be a change for us both to come into five
thousand a year after such penury. Of course, Mr. Pash, you will act for
my daughter and myself."
"Mr. Pash acts for Sylvia," cried Paul, still lingering at the door. The
lawyer was on the horns of a dilemma. "If what Mrs. Krill says is true
I can't dispute the facts," he said irritably, "and I am unwilling to
give up the business. Prove to me, ma'am, that you are the lawful widow
of my late client, and that this is my late esteemed client's lawful
daughter, and I will act for you."
Mrs. Krill's ample bosom rose and fell and her eyes glittered
triumphantly. She cast a victorious glance at Beecot. But that young man
was looking at the solicitor. "Rats leave the sinking ship," said he,
bitterly; "you will not prosper, Pash."
"Everyone prospers who protects the widow and the orphan," said Pash, in
a pious tone, and so disgusted Paul that he closed the door with a bang
and went out. Tray was playing chuck-farthing at the door and keeping
Mr. Grexon Hay from coming in.
"You there, Beecot?" said this gentleman, coldly. "I wish you would tell
this brat to let me enter."
"Brat yourself y' toff," cried Tray, pocketing his money. "Ain't I
a-doin' as my master tells me? He's engaged with two pretty women"--he
leered in a way which made Paul long to box his ears--"so I don't spile
sport. You've got tired of them, Mr. Beecot?"
"How do you know Mr. Beecot's name?" asked Hay, calmly.
"Lor', sir. Didn't you and me pull him from under the wheels?"
"Oh," said Grexon, suddenly enlightened, "were you the boy? Since you
have washed your face I didn't recognize you. Well, Beecot, you look
disturbed."
"I have reason to. And since you and this boy pulled me from under the
wheels of the motor," said Paul, glancing from one to the other, "I
should like to know what became of the brooch."
"I'm sure I don't know," said Grexon, quietly. "We talked of this
before. I gave it as my opinion, if you remember, that it was picked up
in the street by the late Aaron Norman and was used to seal his mouth.
At least that is the only way in which I can conjecture you lost it."
"You never saw it drop from my pocket?"
"I should have picked it up and returned it had I seen it," said Hay,
fixing his eye-glass. "Perhaps this boy saw it."
"Saw what?" asked Tray, who was listening with both his large ears.
"An old blue-velvet case with a brooch inside," said Beecot, quickly.
Tray shook his head vigorously. "If I'd seen it I' ha' nicked it," he
said impudently; "catch me givin' it back t' y', Mr. Beecot. There's a
cove I knows--a fence that is--as 'ud give me lots fur it. Lor'," said
Tray, with deep disappointment, "to think as that dropped out of your
pocket and I never grabbed it. Wot crewel luck--ho!" and he spat.
Paul looked hard at the boy, who met his gaze innocently enough.
Apparently he spoke in all seriousness, and really lamented the lost
chance of gaining a piece of jewellery to make money out of. Moreover,
had he stolen the brooch, he would hardly have talked so openly of the
fence he alluded to. Hay the young man could not suspect, as there was
positively no reason why he should steal so comparatively trifling an
article. Sharper as he was, Hay flew at higher game, and certainly would
not waste his time, or risk his liberty, in stealing what would bring
him in only a few shillings.
"Why don't you ask the detectives to search for the brooch," said Hay,
smiling.
"It is in the detective's possession," said Paul, sullenly; "but we want
to know how it came to pin Norman's lips together."
"I can't imagine, unless he picked it up. If lost at all it must have
been lost in the street the old man lived in, and you told me he wanted
the brooch badly."
"But he wasn't on the spot?"
"Wot," cried Tray, suddenly, "the one-eyed cove? Ho, yuss, but warn't
he? Why, when they was a-gitin' the ambulance, an' the peelers wos
a-crowdin' round, he come dancing like billeo out of his shorp."
Beecot thought this was strange, as he understood from Deborah and Bart
and Sylvia that Norman had known nothing of the accident at the time.
Then again Norman himself had not mentioned it when he paid that visit
to the hospital within a few hours of his death. "I don't think that's
true," he said to Tray sharply.
"Oh, cuss it," said that young gentleman, "wot d' I care. Th' ole cove
come an' danced in the mud, and then he gits int' his shorp again. Trew
is trew, saiy wot y' like, mister--ho."
Beecot turned his back on the boy. After all, he was not worth arguing
with, and a liar by instinct. Still, in this case he might have spoken
the truth. Norman might have appeared on the scene of the accident and
have picked up the brooch. Paul thought he would tell Hurd this, and,
meantime, held out his hand to Hay. In spite of the bad character he had
heard of that young man, he saw no reason why he should not be civil to
him, until he found him out. Meantime, he was on his guard.
"One moment," said Grexon, grasping the outstretched hand. "I have
something to say to you," and he walked a little way with Paul. "I am
going in to see Pash on business which means a little money to me. I was
the unfortunate cause of your accident, Beecot, so I think you might
accept twenty pounds or so from me."
"No, thank you all the same," said Paul gratefully, yet with a certain
amount of caution. "I can struggle along. After all, it was an
accident."
"A very unfortunate one," said Hay, more heartily than usual. "I shall
never forgive myself. Is your arm all right?"
"Oh, much better. I'll be quite cured in a week or so."
"And meantime how do you live?"
"I manage to get along," replied Paul, reservedly. He did not wish to
reveal the nakedness of the land to such a doubtful acquaintance.
"You are a hard-hearted sort of chap," said Hay coldly, but rather
annoyed at his friendly advances being flouted. "Well, then, if you
won't accept a loan, let me help you in another way. Come and dine at my
rooms. I have a young publisher coming also, and if you meet him he will
be able to do something for you. He's under obligations to me, and you
may be certain I'll use all my influence in your favor. Come now--next
Tuesday--that's a week off--you can't have any engagement at such a long
notice."
Paul smiled. "I never do have any engagements," he said with his boyish
smile, "thank you. I'll look in if I can. But I am in trouble,
Grexon--very great trouble."
"You shouldn't be," said Hay, smiling. "I know well enough why you will
not accept my loan. The papers say Sylvia, your Dulcinea, has inherited
a million. You are to marry her. Unless," said Hay, suddenly, "this
access of wealth has turned her head and she has thrown you over. Is she
that sort of girl?"
"No," said Paul quietly, "she is as true to me as I am to her. But you
are mistaken as to the million. It is five thousand a year, and she may
not even inherit that."
"What do you mean?"
"I am not at liberty to say. But with regard to your dinner," added
Paul, hastily changing the conversation, "I'll come if I can get my
dress-suit out of pawn."
"Then I count on you," said Hay, blandly, "though you will not let me
help you to obtain the suit. However, this publisher will do a lot for
you. By Jove, what a good-looking girl."
He said this under his breath. Miss Maud Krill appeared on the doorstep
where the two young men stood and stumbled against Grexon in passing.
His hat was off at once, and he apologized profusely. Miss Krill, who
seemed a young woman of few words, as Paul thought from her silence in
the office, smiled and bowed, but passed on, without saying a "thank
you." Mrs. Krill followed, escorted by the treacherous Pash who was all
smiles and hand-washings and bows. Apparently he was quite convinced
that the widow's story was true, and Paul felt sick at the news he would
have to tell Sylvia. Pash saw the young man, and meeting his indignant
eyes darted back into his office like a rabbit into its burrow. The
widow sailed out in her calm, serene way, without a look at either Paul
or his companion. Yet the young man had an instinct that she saw them
both.
"That's the mother I expect," said Hay, putting his glass firmly into
his eye; "a handsome pair. Gad, Paul, that young woman--eh?"
"Perhaps you'd like to marry her," said Paul, bitterly.
Hay drew himself up stiffly. "I don't marry stray young women I see on
the street, however attractive," he said in his cold voice. "I don't
know either of these ladies."
"Pash will introduce you if you make it worth his while."
"Why the deuce should I," retorted Hay, staring.
"Well," said Beecot, impulsively telling the whole of the misfortune
that had befallen him, "that is the wife and that is the daughter of
Aaron Norman, _alias_ Krill. The daughter inherits five thousand a year,
so marry her and be happy."
"But your Dulcinea?" asked Grexon, dropping his eye-glass in amazement.
"She has me and poverty," said Paul, turning away. Nor could the quiet
call of Hay make him stop. But at the end of the street he looked back,
and saw Grexon entering the office of the lawyer. If Hay was the man
Hurd said he was, Paul guessed that he would inquire about the heiress
and marry her too, if her banking account was large and safe.