The Yellow Holly

Before the astonished George knew what she was about, he felt a pair of cold lips pressed to his own. The next moment she had pushed him out of the room and had locked the door. That was the last George saw of her.

Whether Margery had agreed to die with her, or whether Miss Bull, knowing what a miserable life the girl would lead after her death, compelled her to take the poison, it will never be known. But when the door was burst open the two women were found on the floor in one another's arms. On the table was an empty glass, and it was ascertained that Miss Bull and Margery had taken prussic acid. Bawdsey entered the room an hour after the death, alarmed by the silence. He found that his prey had escaped. Miss Bull was buried under her false name, and Margery was buried with her. Nothing of Miss Bull's sad past or of her killing of Mrs. Jersey came to light. She passed away with her only friend, and her story was told.

Six months later George Vane was seated in the library of the mansion in St. Giles Square. It was after dinner, and Lord Derrington occupied his usual chair. The old man looked brighter and happier than he had looked for many years. Daily George grew a greater favorite with him, and on the morrow George was to be married. Lord Derrington had insisted that as it was his last night as a bachelor George should dine alone with him, and would not admit even Walter. "It's the last time I'll have you all to myself, George," said the old man, piteously; "after to-morrow Dorothy will possess you."

"Not at all," replied George, "you will have us both. We will come back from the honeymoon in a month, and then we will live here."

"That's all been arranged," said Derrington, testily, "but we won't be two independent bachelors."

"All the better," replied his grandson, cheerily; "a lady in the house will make a lot of difference. You won't know this place when Dorothy is flitting about."

"Don't! Her mother is the kind of woman who flits, and I won't have her doing the butterfly business in that way."

"Oh, I don't think we'll be troubled much with Mrs. Ward. Since the shock inflicted by her sister's sad death she has become religious."

"Bah! That's only a phrase. Poor Miss Bull," said Derrington. "I like to think of her under that name. She had a sad life. I don't wonder she killed herself. Do you think she was mad, George?"

"No. But I think the memory of her wrongs, which were all caused by Mrs. Jersey, was too much for her. She was mad for the moment, but she told me the terrible story in the calmest manner."

"And who came in at the front door that night?" asked Derrington.

"No one. After the murder Miss Bull opened it to fly-panic-struck, I expect-but Margery came downstairs and stopped her. Miss Bull closed the door and remained to face the worst."

"Well, she is dead and buried, and the scandal is laid at rest. Unless that Bawdsey revives it."

"Oh, you can trust Bawdsey," said George, smiling; "he and Lola are quite happy, and she has almost forgotten me. I got a letter from Bawdsey the other day. He is acting as his wife's agent, and they are making a lot of money."

"All the better. He won't talk about that business. By the way, I forgot to ask you about Ireland's money?"

"The money he left to me? I have settled that on Dorothy. How suddenly he died," said George, reflectively; "just an hour after I left the house. I hope his end was peace. I think it was, as he felt relieved that you and I had forgiven him."

"There was nothing to forgive. It was an accident, and if any blame is due it is to that Jersey woman."

"Well, she is dead, and the woman who killed her is dead, so let them all rest in peace. But it was good of Ireland leaving me his money."

"I don't see who else he had to leave it to. And five thousand a year is not to be despised. Have you settled it all on Dorothy?"

"Every penny. Don't you approve?"

"Oh, yes, so long as Mrs. Ward doesn't get it."

"She's a reformed character. Why, the other day she told me that she considered Dorothy irreligious."

"Pah! New brooms. She'll soon grow weary of that pose. When the effect of poor Jenny Howard's death wears off she will be as gay and silly as before. Don't have her in this house, that's all."

"You can depend upon that, sir. But Dorothy will be here-Dorothy, whom I shall see to-morrow crowned with orange-blossoms, and-"

Derrington laughed, but not unkindly. "Well, well. Better orange-blossoms than yellow holly."

George nodded. "I hope never to see yellow holly again," he said, and Derrington agreed. So their conversation ended on the threshold of George's new life with that last reference to the old.