The Yellow Holly

"Mrs. Ward? What have I to do with her?"

"A great deal, apparently. You told her my story, and as she does not want me to marry her daughter she will move heaven and earth to ruin me by using her knowledge."

"How can she ruin you?"

"I think you understand, sir. The story told by my friend Train-"

"Friend! Judas, rather."

"No. He is only a weak man who is as wax in the hands of a clever and pretty woman. But Mrs. Ward got sufficient out of him to place me in a somewhat perilous position."

"Were you in the room where the woman was murdered? Speak plainly."

"I came on here purposely to speak plainly," rejoined Brendon, dryly, "for your safety as well as for my own."

"Safety, sir!" Derrington grew crimson. "What the devil do you mean?"

"I mean that I can speak freely to you, as I know perfectly well that for the honor of our family-"

"Our family-confound you!"

"Our family," repeated George, "of which some day I hope to be the head. For its honor, I say, you will not take these matters into court. I was in the room of Mrs. Jersey. I saw her dead!"

"And you know who killed her?"

"No. I can't say that for certain." George looked keenly at his grandfather. The old man appeared uneasy. Suddenly Brendon spoke. "I should like to know what you were doing in Mrs. Jersey's house on the night she was murdered?"

Derrington dashed down his pen furiously and rose. "You go too far, sir; you go too far!" he roared.

"Not any further than you intended to go. If you threaten me I have a right to protect myself."

"In what way?"

"By telling you that if I am in a perilous position, you are also."

"Do you mean to say that I murdered the woman?"

"By no means," said Brendon, quickly. "I should not think of doing such a thing. But I do say you were in that house after eleven."

"I was not," panted the old nobleman, savagely, and glared at his grandson with bloodshot eyes.

"You were," insisted Brendon; "there is no need to tell you how I got out of my bedroom unbeknown to Train, but I did. I came downstairs to see Mrs. Jersey at half-past eleven or thereabouts. I crept down the stairs and saw you standing in the light of the hall lamp. You had on a fur coat, and I recognized you by your unusual height. Also by the color of your coat. Some months before you wore that coat-it is a claret-colored one trimmed with sable-at a race-meeting. You were pointed out to me, and it was the first time I had set eyes on you. It was you in the hall."

"Did you see my face?" asked Derrington.

"No. But the coat and the height, and my knowledge that you were connected with Mrs. Jersey-"

"I wasn't connected with the jade," flashed out Derrington. "She came to me years ago and said she could prove the marriage. I tried to get out of her the name of the church where it took place. She refused to give it, and said if I did not pension her off she would go to your guardian, Ireland, and get him to help her to prove that you were legitimate. I hated your father, sir, and as to your mother-"

"No," cried Brendon, rising, "not a word against my mother."

"Only this, that she was not well-born. The daughter of a music-master. Not the wife for my son."

"She was his wife, however. Leave my mother's name out of it and go on, sir. You say that Mrs. Jersey could have proved the marriage."

"Yes," growled Derrington, rather cowed by Brendon's manner. "I did not wish her to do so, for the reasons I have stated."

"Very unworthy reasons," said George, coldly.

"You know nothing about it, sir," flamed out the old man, slapping his hand on the table. "My family is as old as the Conquest."

"As the future head of it I am glad to hear that."

Derrington looked as though he could have struck George, who simply made the remark to punish him for his insolence. "Never mind that," said he, controlling his temper. "I bought that house from your mother's father-the music-master," he sneered, "and gave it to Mrs. Jersey rent free. I also allowed her an annuity. She held her tongue for many years. Then she saw that confounded advertisement in the papers and threatened to tell you the truth on the chance of getting more money out of you when I was dead. I refused, and she then told me that she had written out a confession-"

"I thought as much," interrupted George. "But that has been stolen."

"By whom?"

"By the assassin."

"And who is the assassin?"

"I can't say. But if use is made of that confession either you or I will learn who killed Mrs. Jersey."

"Why you or I?"

"Because we alone can make use of the confession and pay money for it. The thing would be no use to any one else. But I now understand Mrs. Jersey's possession of the house. Were you in it on that night?"

Derrington looked at Brendon and hesitated. Then in strange contradiction to his usual manner, he turned away his face. "I decline to answer that question," he growled.

"But I saw you," insisted George.

"You saw-there is nothing more to be said. Hold your tongue."

"Willingly," said George, politely, "if you will silence Mrs. Ward."

"I have no influence with the woman."

"Oh, I think so. She wishes Dorothy to marry my cousin."

"Your cousin!"

"Can you deny the relationship?"

Derrington shirked the question by assenting to Brendon's request. "I may be able to make Mrs. Ward hold her tongue," he growled.

"I am quite sure she will do anything you tell her, in the hope that you will approve of a match between my cousin and her daughter."

"And you wish me to approve?" sneered the old man.

"As to that, it matters little. Mrs. Ward wishes Dorothy to be Lady Derrington and to have your very excellent income. Whether she marries me or Vane it comes to the same thing. I can't understand Mrs. Ward's dislike and mischief-making since that is the case."

"I can," snapped Derrington. "You are too clever for her, and Walter is a fool."

"Perhaps so. However, as I shall marry Dorothy it doesn't much matter."

"How can you marry her situated as you are?"

"I shall be George Vane some day, sir, and then Dorothy will be my wife."

"I believe she will," muttered Derrington, looking at the firm face of the young man. "Humph! So you intend to look for the certificate of marriage?"

"No, for the confession of Mrs. Jersey; afterward for the church which will be mentioned in that confession. The register will prove the marriage without the necessity of the certificate. I shouldn't wonder, though," added Brendon, "if Mrs. Jersey had stolen that from my mother when she died."

"Mrs. Jersey was jade enough for anything," said Derrington.

"Well, she is dead, and there is no use saying bad about her."

"How will you set to work to get that certificate?"

George wrinkled his brows. "There is only one way, sir. I must find out who killed Mrs. Jersey. If you can help me-"

"I can't. I know no more who murdered the woman than you do."

"Yet you were in the house on that night."

Derrington grew wrathful. "Don't talk rubbish, sir. If I was, I should not mind admitting the fact. As it is-" He broke off, gnawing his lip and avoiding Brendon's eyes.

That the old man knew something vital to the case Brendon was certain; that he would never confess what it was George felt perfectly sure. He abandoned the point, as he did not wish to make Lord Derrington incriminate himself, and he might do so. Brendon was satisfied that he had seen him in the house on the night when Mrs. Jersey was murdered.

"There is no more to be said," he remarked, taking up his hat.

"No. Except that I'll give you a fair chance of finding the church. Bawdsey shall watch you no more."

"Thank you. And Mrs. Ward?"

"She shall be made to hold her tongue."

George bowed. "I am obliged to you, sir. I now see that you intend to fight fairly. Good-day," and he departed.

Derrington stood where he was, in deep thought. Suddenly he struck a mighty blow on the desk. "By Heaven, he's a man after my own heart!" said the old scamp. "He shall be my heir, he shall marry that girl; but to exercise his wits he shall fight every inch of the way to attain his ambition."

CHAPTER XIII

A WOMAN SCORNED

Dorothy was by no means of a jealous disposition. Moreover, her love for George was so deep and pure that she trusted him entirely. Nevertheless, having learned from the few words dropped by Vane, that Brendon knew Lola, she felt desirous of seeing the woman. That Lola was her rival she never for one moment believed, as she knew Vane's malicious nature and evil tongue. But the fact remained that Brendon's name was coupled with that of the dancer, and this incipient scandal annoyed Miss Ward.

There was no need for her to ask George why such a report should prevail, for she knew that he would be able to explain in a satisfactory manner, and, trusting him already, it was useless to demand details. Her feelings would remain the same after the telling of his story as they were now, therefore she avoided the disagreeable subject. Nevertheless, she was woman enough to desire a sight of Lola, and induced her mother to take her to the music-hall. Mrs. Ward was very pleased to do so, but she was too clever to hint that she guessed Dorothy's reason for making this request.

"Certainly, my dear," she said briskly. "I am very glad that you are coming out of your shell. Men hate a woman who can't talk of everything, and nothing is talked about but Lola."

"I must educate myself to please men, then," said Dorothy, dryly, "so I may as well begin with the dancer. On what night can we go?"

"Oh, Friday will do. Mr. Vane has invited us to dine at the Cecil, so I'll ask him to get us a box."

Dorothy would rather have gone with any one than with Mr. Vane, as she disliked his feeble attempts at lovemaking. However, there was nothing for it but to accept, since she had brought it on herself. With a smile which encouraged her mother to think she would behave sensibly toward Vane, she agreed to the proposed dinner-party and companionship, and Mrs. Ward wrote a note at once.

"I hope when she sees Lola, and hears the stories about that Brendon man, that she may refuse to have anything more to do with him," was Mrs. Ward's remark as she sealed her note. "I don't want to get the Brendon man into trouble by having him arrested for the murder. And I don't think Derrington would let me if I did wish it."

Her last speech was prophetic, for the next day Lord Derrington paid a visit to Curzon Street and had a short interview with Mrs. Ward, the gist of which was that she must hold her tongue.

"Brendon called to see me the other day," explained Derrington, looking grim, "and he showed me plainly that he had nothing to do with the matter."

"But how about the holly berry?"

"That is easily explained," replied Derrington, who, anticipating the question, had prepared an answer. "Brendon was one of the first to see the body, and in touching it the berry fell from the sprig. Afterward-mind you, afterward-Mr. Train found the berry, and, not knowing that Brendon had seen the body that morning, thought he had been in the room on the previous night."

"I'm sure he was," insisted Mrs. Ward.

"You are sure of nothing of the sort. Brendon could not have got downstairs without the connivance of Train, and you heard what Train said."

"He is such a fool!"

"The more likely to tell the truth," said Derrington. Then he asked, after a pause, "Why did you tell Dorothy to give the sprig of holly to Brendon on that night?"

Mrs. Ward shrugged her shoulders and looked down nervously. "Oh, it was the merest kindness on my part," she said, trying to speak quietly. Derrington contradicted her at once.

"It was nothing of the sort," he declared with roughness. "You wished him to have the yellow holly in his coat when he saw Mrs. Jersey, so that the woman might betray herself."

"I knew nothing about Mrs. Jersey at the time."

"Oh, but you did! With regard to the holly, you knew from me how it was used in connection with the death of my son at San Remo; and what I did not tell you, you learned from other people."

Mrs. Ward looked defiant. "Well, I did. I am sure every one knew about the murder at the time," she said, "and I met some old frumps who gave me all details."

"I quite understand that; but how did you know about Mrs. Jersey?"

"That's my business," cried Mrs. Ward, becoming imprudent. "You are right about the holly; I sent to Devonshire expressly to get some. It was my intention to inclose a sprig in a letter to Mrs. Jersey so as to frighten her-"

"What good would that have done?"

"My business again," snapped Mrs. Ward, becoming bolder. "I had my reason for wishing to recall your son's death to her mind, and I knew that the yellow holly would do so most successfully. When Dorothy came from the Park and told me that Brendon was to stop with his friend at Mrs. Jersey's boarding-house, I thought that it would be better to let George wear the sprig. And I managed it in such a way that neither Dorothy nor George guessed how I planned the business. And I succeeded. Mrs. Jersey saw the sprig and nearly fainted. I knew then that-" Here she stopped.

Derrington saw that it was useless to question her further. She would only lie, and had been telling lies, for all he knew. Moreover, he did not think she could tell him anything pertinent to the case.

"I shall ask you nothing more," he said, rising to take his leave. "You have some reason for all this intrigue, I have no doubt. What your intentions are, matters little to me. I came merely to warn you that Brendon is to be left alone."

"You won't have him arrested?"

"No. And what is more, I won't have him spoken about in connection with that crime."

Mrs. Ward forgot her desire to conciliate Derrington, forgot her desire to marry Vane to Dorothy, forgot everything in a sudden access of rage. "I shall do what I choose!" she cried.

"No," said Derrington, quietly, and looking her full in the face, "you will obey me."

"Obey you, Lord Derrington?"

"Yes. I have tried to conduct this interview quietly, Mrs. Ward, and to hint that your wiser plan is to be silent, but-"

"I don't want hints. I wish for plain speaking," raged the little woman. "How dare you address me like this?"

The old gentleman leaned forward suddenly and whispered a short sentence in her ear. Mrs. Ward's face turned pearly white and she tottered to a chair, closing her eyes as she fell into it. Derrington surveyed her with a pitiless expression.

"You will be silent about Brendon?" he asked.

"Yes," moaned Mrs. Ward. "I will say nothing."

When Derrington departed Mrs. Ward retired to bed after canceling her engagements for the evening. For twenty-four hours she stopped there, explaining to Dorothy that she was taking a rest cure. It apparently did her good, for on the evening of the day appointed for the meeting at the Cecil she arose looking bright and quite herself again. She had quite got over the fright given to her by Derrington, and, when she saw him later, treated him quite in her old manner. On his side the old gentleman made no difference, but he wondered how she was carrying herself so boldly. At once it occurred to his suspicious mind that there was some reason for this defiant behavior, and he determined to watch her. For this purpose he joined the party.

"It is the first time I have been to a music-hall for years," he explained to Dorothy; "but Walter has been talking so much about this new dancer that I felt I must see her."

"Why did you not dine with us at the Cecil?" asked Dorothy.

"I always prefer to dine at home, my dear young lady. Besides, it does not do for an old man to wag his gray beard uninvited among the young."

Meantime Mrs. Ward was chatting amicably to Vane and to a vapid War-Office clerk, who had formed a fourth at the Cecil dinner-party. He was a titled clerk, and heir to great estates, so Mrs. Ward made much of him. She was very diplomatic, and never neglected younger sons. "One never knows but what they may be rich some day," said Mrs. Ward in explanation of her wisdom.

The box was large and easily held the party. Mrs. Ward had a position directly in front, where she could see and be seen; but Dorothy kept herself behind the curtains. She could see the stage excellently, but did not wish to be recognized by any chance acquaintance. In an opposite box sat a red-haired man in immaculate evening-dress. Derrington recognized him as Bawdsey, but did not think it necessary to show his recognition. He sat at the back of the box between Vane and the War-Office clerk, and kept a watchful eye on Mrs. Ward.

That little woman sparkled like a diamond. She criticised the house, admired the decorations, and applauded the comic songs. It might have been that this indifferent attitude was one of defiance, as she must have known that Derrington was watching her. But she acted her part consummately, and he could not help admiring her coolness. "What an admirable actress," thought the old lord, "and what a dangerous woman!"

The ballet of "The Bacchanals" came at the end of the first part of the programme. When the curtain rose Dorothy was so anxious to behold Lola that she leaned forward so as to show her face to the whole house. Bawdsey saw her and put his glass to his eyes. He smiled slightly, and Derrington wondered why he did so. But at that moment, and while the stage was filling with dancers, he arose to receive some newcomers. These were none other than Miss Bull and Margery, for whom Bawdsey had procured the box. The little old maid was whiter than ever and wore her usual gray dress. Margery was smartly gowned in green, and with her light hair and stupid red face looked anything but beautiful. She placed herself in the best position, being evidently directed to do so by Miss Bull, for that lady preferred the shade. At all events, she secluded herself behind a curtain and kept her beady black eyes persistently on the stage. On seeing that the two were comfortable, Bawdsey disappeared, and did not return till the end of the ballet. Derrington saw all this, but no one else in Mrs. Ward's box took any notice. And why should they? Bawdsey and his party were quite unknown to them.

The ballet was modeled closely on the lines laid down by Euripides in his tragedy. The opening scene was the market-place of Thebes, and the stage was filled mostly with men. Pentheus, the King, is informed that the whole female population of the city, together with his mother, Agave, have gone to the mountains to worship a stranger. The seer, Tiresias, knows by his psychic powers that the stranger is none other than Bacchus, the god of wine, and implores Pentheus not to provoke his enmity. The King spurns this advice and gives orders that the so-called god shall be arrested. It was at this moment that Agavé appears. Dorothy looked at her eagerly.

Agavé has not yet assumed her Bacchanalian garb. She is still in the quiet dress of a Grecian matron, but her gestures are wild, and she is rapid in her movements. In the dance which followed she is interrupted by Pentheus, who strives to calm her frenzy. But Agavé, knowing the god of wine is at hand, becomes as one possessed. Bacchus appears and is arrested by Pentheus. He is chained and hurried into the palace. Agavé warns the King against the impiety he is committing. Pentheus defies the gods. There is a peal of thunder, and the palace of Pentheus sinks into ruins. At the back appears the ruins of the city walls, which have also fallen, and on the summit of the heaped stones stands Bacchus, the god confest. At a wave of his wand vines begin to clamber over the ruins, and the cries of the Bacchanalians are heard. Pentheus tries to seize the god again, and darkness covers the stage. The last thing seen was Lola dancing in a wild red light, with extravagant gestures.

Dorothy could not say that Lola was handsome, but she had about her a wild grace which was very fascinating. When dancing she seemed to think of nothing but the revels in which she was engaged. She never cast a look at the house, and Dorothy noticed this. She was therefore somewhat surprised when, during the second scene, she saw Lola deliberately look in the direction of the box and stare at her piercingly for quite a moment or two. Rather confused by this sudden regard, the girl drew back. Lola noticed her no more, but continued to dance.

The second scene was the camp of the Bacchanals, where Pentheus, as a follower of the god, comes to see the orgies. It was a mountainous scene with a lurid red sky broken by masses of black clouds. There is no need to describe the ballet in detail. The frenzied dancers of the Bacchanals seemed to send the audience wild. There was something fierce and murderous about these orgiastic movements. And through the wild throng darted Lola, in leopard-skin and garlands, bearing a cup of wine, and flinging herself about in wild madness. She appeared to be a devil, and Dorothy shrank back at the sight of her wild face. The music also was terrible, and excited the dancers to further efforts of madness. It was a feast of witches, a Walpurgis night, a revel of the earth-powers. There was nothing spiritual about this riot of the flesh; the audience shuddered at the fierce rapture of the dancers, at the alluring pain of the music, at the reckless abandon of Lola Velez.

"It's too awful!" murmured Dorothy, moving to the back of the box, beside Derrington; "that woman is a demon."

"Yet your friend Mr. Brendon helped her to this, position," said the old man, grimly.

"I am sure he cannot approve of this dancing," shuddered the girl, who was very pale.

"There is nothing improper about it," said Derrington.

"No. Everything is right in that way; but it is maddening, and unholy, and altogether terrible. The music is something like that in Tannhäuser-cruel, evil, voluptuous."

"Ah, your poor spiritual nature shrinks from that sort of thing! But Mrs. Ward seems to enjoy it."

She certainly did. Craning forward so as to get a full view of the stage, Mrs. Ward's eyes were alight. She would have enjoyed being in the throng herself, and would have danced as madly as the worst of them. And queerly enough Miss Bull appeared also spellbound. Her face was flushed, her eyes glittered, and her breath came and went in quick pants. "It's wonderful, Margery," she said, leaning out of the box and fixing her eyes intently on the whirling mass.

"It's very pretty," said Margery, stupidly. Her dull brain could not understand the wild madness of the scene, and she was as unmoved as though she had been listening to a sermon.

"Dorothy! Dorothy!" whispered Mrs. Ward, "come back to your seat. Lola juggles the head of Pentheus. It is the great dance."

"No," answered Dorothy, and clung to Derrington's arm. "I will stop here. It is too terrible."

The old man understood, and in the darkness of the box he slipped his arm round her. In that kind embrace Dorothy felt safe. If she looked upon that madness again she felt that she must cry out. Derrington quite appreciated her feelings. It was the repulsion experienced by the spiritual against the material.

The action of the ballet proceeded rapidly. Pentheus climbed a tree, the Bacchanalians surrounded it and dragged him down. Lola emerged from a frantic crowd bearing his head. Then began the dance, slowly at first with solemn pacings and stately gestures. The limelights, red and blue and green and yellow, were flashed on the swaying form of Lola as she eyed the head with terrible glances. Then the music flashed out into a wild galop. The scene became pandemonium. Lightning flashed, thunder rolled, the violins shrieked in the orchestra, the dancers spun, whirled, plunged, and sprang and bounded, and frantically rushed about the stage. Everywhere at unexpected moments Lola appeared, tossing, smiting, and caressing the head of Pentheus, whirling out and in as the rainbow lights played upon her restless figure. Finally, when the orgy was at its height, came a flash of lightning, a crash of thunder, the riot died away, the Bacchanalians sprang from the stage. Darkness descended, the music sank to lulling tones, and quiet, silvery moonlight flooded the stage. There alone, in the center, sat Agavé, restored to her right mind, weeping over the head of her son. And on this scene of sorrow the curtain fell slowly to the strains of sweet music. The audience drew long breaths and felt as though a nightmare were at an end.