The Yellow Holly

The old man looked down again and appeared to be in deep thought. He was turning over in his own mind how much or how little he should tell George. And the young man looked at him anxiously. Much depended upon the speech of Mr. Ireland. At last the silence was broken, and by a most unexpected remark. "I loved your mother," said Ireland.

"I never knew that," said Brendon, softly, for he saw that the man was moved at the recollection of some early romance.

"I never spoke of it before," was the reply, and Ireland laid down his cigar to speak the more freely. "Yes, I loved Rosina Lockwood with all my heart and soul. I was not bad-looking in those days, George, and I had a good income, but she preferred that scamp," and he struck his hand heavily on the table, with glowing eyes.

"You are talking of my father, sir," said Brendon, stiffly.

"I ask your pardon. But if you wish me to tell the story of that most unfortunate affair you cannot hope that I shall keep my temper. I was very badly treated by-well-" with a glance at George, Ireland nodded-"let the dead rest in peace."

"I think it will be as well," said Brendon, coldly.

Ireland again struck the table. His pallid skin became a deep crimson, and his eyes flashed. George rose in alarm, for the old man struggled to speak with such an obvious effort that he thought an apoplectic fit would end the conversation. He hastily poured out a glass of water and begged Ireland to loosen his neckcloth. But the man shook his head, and going to one of the windows opened it. For a few moments he inhaled the air, and returned to his seat more composed. "I beg your pardon, George," he gasped, when he recovered his voice, "but if you wish me to tell you anything you must not speak to me like that. I have a bad temper."

"I never knew that," said Brendon, in a soothing tone. "You were always kind to me."

"I have a superlatively bad temper," repeated Ireland, "but you were her child. How could I be angry with her child? Wait! Wait, I shall tell you all I can. Give me a few moments."

He was so moved with emotion, and with the recollection of the past, that he buried his head in his arms, which were resting on the table. Brendon, respecting this feeling, walked to the end of the room and stared at a picture which represented a star of the ballet. But he did not see the saucy face, the twirling skirts. He was thinking how strange it was that Ireland should never have confessed this love before. Certainly he had never displayed such emotion. A change had come over the man, whereby he more plainly revealed his feelings than he was wont to do. George put this down to old age, and to less self-control consequent on the same. Shortly he heard Ireland calling to him, and returned to his seat to find the old man smoking quietly and rather ashamed of his outbreak. "But you shall see no more of that," he said.

"I am sorry to be obliged to ask you for a story of the past," said Brendon, apologetically, "but it means so much to me."

"I'll tell you all I can," said Ireland, taking no notice of the apology, but looking at the ash on his cigar. He paused for a moment to collect his thoughts, and then began abruptly. "I first met your mother at her father's house in Amelia Square, where I went to take lessons in singing. Lockwood was famous for his method in those days, and his fame was increased by the appearance of your mother, Rosina, at many concerts. She was a most beautiful creature, and was as much admired for her beauty as for her voice. Ah! what a voice. It was like the trill of a lark, flexible and silvery, and with an immense range. She was quite the rage for a season, and was called the English Jenny Lind. Many offers were made to her for the operatic stage. I dare say she would have accepted in the end had she not met with Percy Vane, and he-" Ireland's hand clenched.

"My father," said George, willfully disregarding this sign of temper, "how did he meet her?"

"He saw her at a concert and fell in love with her. Then he came to take singing-lessons, with the voice of a frog. Bah! it was a mere blind. It was Rosina Lockwood he was after. I saw it-oh, yes! The eyes of love are keen, and, although Rosina would not waste a look on me, I watched her every action. Many a night have I paced Amelia Square watching her window. When she sang I was entranced, when she smiled-" Here the old man shook his head and made an effort to recover himself.

Brendon saw that the recital was painful to him, and but that he was so anxious to get at the proofs of his birth would have asked him to desist. But there was too much at stake for such consideration to be shown. "Go on," he said softly, and Ireland resumed.

"Percy Vane was a handsome man, and rich. I warned Lockwood that he was in love with Rosina, but the old man would not heed. He was flattered by the attention Rosina received. All through that season Vane was in attendance on Rosina. At the end of it he eloped with her-yes. He met her outside St. James's Hall and they eloped."

"Where did they go to?" asked Brendan, eagerly.

"That I cannot say. Rosina wrote three weeks afterward from Paris, signing herself Vane, and stating that she was the wife of Percy."

"Was my grandfather angry?"

"Yes and no. He was angry that he should have lost her, for she was of use to him as an advertisement of his method of singing, and also she earned a great deal of money. The house in Amelia Square was large and required a good deal to keep it up. Besides, Anthony Lockwood was extravagant. That was why you were left so badly off."

Brendon shrugged his shoulders. "It was good of my grandfather to leave me anything," he said, "but in what way was my-Mr. Lockwood, pleased? You hinted that he was not quite angry."

"Well," said Ireland, slowly twirling the cigar in his fingers, "you see he was flattered that his daughter should have married into the aristocracy."

"Then there was no question of the marriage, then?"

"No. Lord Derrington said nothing till your mother was dead, and even then he said very little. It was when Vane was murdered at San Remo that he first decisively asserted that no marriage had taken place. He did so because Lockwood insisted that Derrington should acknowledge you as the heir. He refused to do so, and said that his second son was the heir."

"That is Walter Vane's father?"

"Exactly. And now the father is dead, Walter Vane stands in your shoes. I wish you could prove the marriage, my boy," said Ireland, shaking his head, "but it will be a difficult task."

"I don't care how difficult it is," replied Brendon, resolutely. "I am determined to learn the truth."

"Who is the lady?" asked Ireland.

"Miss Dorothy Ward. You don't know anything of her."

Ireland shook his head. "I left the adoration of the aristocracy to Lockwood," he said, with something like a sneer, "but that's neither here nor there, my boy. To make a long story short, I met your mother in Paris, and shortly afterward she died, giving birth to you. Eliza Stokes was with her when she died, and you were given into the charge of that woman. Your mother was buried in Père la Chaise. Vane put up a stone to her-oh! he behaved very well, I don't deny that," added Ireland, but with a dark face; "he was really fond of her. And I suppose there was a marriage."

"Did my mother ever say anything about it?"

"Never. You asked me that before. It was an accepted fact. After the death of Rosina her husband went to Italy. I was there, too, and it was at Milan that the episode occurred which led to the dismissal of Eliza Stokes."

"What was that?"

"Why, there was a young English waiter, quite a boy he was, who fell in love with Eliza when she was taking charge of you at the Hôtel de Ville. She refused to marry him and hinted that she loved your father. Vane heard of this and taxed her with impertinence. The end of it was that Eliza said too much and was dismissed. And Jane Fraser was sent from England by Vane's mother to nurse you. That looks as though Lady Derrington believed in the marriage."

"It does," admitted Brendon, hopefully. "She would not have sent a nurse had anything been wrong. On the other hand, if she had been quite certain about the marriage she might have offered to take charge of me."

"She did, I believe, but your father was so fond of you-for your mother's sake-that he could scarcely bear you out of his sight. However, Eliza went, and Jane came, and then your father went to San Remo. You were then two years of age."

"Did not my father return to England during all that time?"

"No. When he left England with your mother he never returned. She died in Paris, and, with you in charge of a nurse, Vane wandered about the Continent. I was twice in Italy and saw him-the second time it was at San Remo."

"If you disliked my father so much, why did you seek him out?"

"To see you, George. You were her child, and I loved Rosina so dearly." Ireland stopped, gulped down his emotion, and proceeded more calmly: "Yes, I was at San Remo when your father was murdered."

"You never told me that before," said Brendon.

"I never told you anything before," replied Ireland, dryly. "And I should not tell you now, but that my health is getting so bad that I may not live long. I have an incurable disease, which will sooner or later carry me off-no, I don't want sympathy. Let me finish the story and then we need not refer to it again. I had intended to leave a written statement behind me for you, George, but this is better, as you can ask me questions about what you do not understand."

"I understand all so far," said George, thoughtfully. "But about this murder, Mr. Ireland? Who killed my father?"

"That was never discovered. He went to a masked ball and was seen leaving the room in the company of a blue domino. His body was found on the stones of the beach early next morning. He had been stabbed to the heart."

"With a stiletto?" asked Brendon, recollecting the manner of Mrs. Jersey's death.

"Yes. Hence it was supposed that he had been stabbed by some jealous Italian, who had followed him and the lady. But the truth was never known. I think myself that Vane was murdered on the parade and that his body was thrown over onto the beach. The man who killed him must then have taken away the lady."

"Who was the lady-the blue domino?"

"No one ever learned. She was cloaked and masked. Your father was a gay man, George, and it was rumored that he was in love with the wife of a certain officer. It might be that the husband-but of course I cannot say. The blue domino may not have been the woman in question. The whole thing is a mystery. Your father's body was taken to England, and as Lord Derrington refused to acknowledge the marriage, Lockwood took charge of you."

"I remember, and Jane Fraser was my nurse for many years. She was at San Remo when the murder took place?"

"Yes, and so was Eliza Stokes."

"What was she doing there?"

"Well, this waiter-by the way, his name was George also, although you were called after Lockwood's father-well, George Rates, seeing that Eliza was dismissed, got her a situation at a hotel in San Remo. He came there also during the season, and I believe the two married. But Eliza Stokes never came near your father."

"What became of her afterward?"

Ireland hesitated. "I can't say," he said.

"But I can," observed George, coolly. "She was murdered the other day at the Amelia Square house as Mrs. Jersey."

"I heard of that crime. But how do you identify Eliza Stokes with Mrs. Jersey?"

"My old nurse, Jane Fraser, told me. When I began these inquiries I looked up Jane, who now lives in a little Essex village. She told me all she could, which was not much. But she stated that when here one day, on a visit to you, she had met Eliza Stokes and in spite of her age and gray hairs she had recognized her. Eliza told her that she was called Mrs. Jersey and had taken a boarding-house in Amelia Square. I then determined to speak to Mrs. Jersey, whom I thought might have been present at the marriage, or at all events might know where it had been celebrated."

"It is probable she did," said Ireland, "as she was with your mother as maid when the elopement took place. Did you see Mrs. Jersey, or Eliza Stokes as I still regard her?"

"I saw her, but she was murdered before I could manage to speak to her on the subject. Did you know-"

"I know that Eliza Stokes had changed her name to Mrs. Jersey and was in Amelia Square," said Ireland, "but I only learned this the other day."

"Who told you?"

"A woman called Miss Bull," said Ireland.

"Miss Bull," repeated George. "I remember, that was the boarder who foretold a violent death to Mrs. Jersey. But you read about that in the papers."

Ireland nodded. "I did," he said; "and I also saw that you were in the house when Mrs. Jersey was murdered. You were a witness."

"I can tell you about that. I-"

"There is no need to tell me. I have not the time." Ireland looked at his watch. "In ten minutes I leave for my walk."

George remonstrated. "But this is so important."

"Not so important as my health. I can give you only the ten minutes, George. This Miss Bull called to ask me about the lease of the house to Mrs. Jersey. I knew nothing about that. When Lockwood died I sold the house to Lord Derrington-"

"What-to my grandfather?"

"Yes. But had I known he was the purchaser I should not have let him have it. He bought it through an agent. Since then I heard nothing more about the house. I did not even know it was a boarding-establishment until it appeared as such in the papers the other day. I wondered what you were doing at the inquest-"

"I can explain."

Ireland held up his hand. "I need no explanation. I know that Mrs. Jersey was really Eliza Stokes. I gathered that from the description given by Miss Bull in the course of our conversation. My suspicions were aroused by the fact that Lord Derrington had leased the Amelia Square house to Mrs. Jersey."

"Why did he do that?" George spoke more to himself than to Ireland.

"Well," said the old man rising, "it is my belief that Lord Derrington knows there was a marriage, and assisted Mrs. Jersey so that she should hold her tongue. Now there is no more time. I must go out," and Ireland walked to the door.

George followed, knowing it was vain to attempt to turn him from his purpose, as the old man was most obstinate. "One moment," he said, on the door-step; "this blue domino connected with my father's murder-was she never traced?"

"No. There was no means of tracing her. Except that she wore a piece of holly she carried no distinguishing mark."

"Holly!" cried George, astounded. "Yellow holly?"

"Yes. I don't know how you come to mention it, but the holly worn by the blue domino with whom your father went away had yellow berries."

CHAPTER VII

THE RED MAN

As Brendon was in the neighborhood of Amelia Square he paid a visit to the boarding-house. Having learned from Ireland that Miss Bull had informed him how Lord Derrington was connected with the late Mrs. Jersey, George thought it just as well that she should be questioned. Certainly Miss Bull, who appeared to be a dour and secretive sort of person, might not speak. On the other hand, if he could induce her to be frank he might learn from her-presuming she knew-the reason why Lord Derrington had leased the Amelia Square house to Mrs. Jersey. It was a forlorn hope, but Brendon was so eager to learn the truth that he clutched even at this straw. Therefore, on leaving Ireland, he turned his steps in the direction of the boarding-house. Much as he disliked entering it again, it was necessary that he should do so.

On his way Brendon meditated on Ireland's remarks about the holly. He remembered the agitation of Mrs. Jersey when she saw the sprig in his coat. She had been at San Remo when his father was stabbed, and Ireland had mentioned that the woman with whom the deceased man had left the ballroom wore a sprig of yellow holly. Had the berries been red, George might not have thought so much of the matter; but yellow holly is comparatively rare, and evidently Mrs. Jersey's alarm had been caused by her recollection of the murder. The sight of the holly had revived her memory.

"I wonder if she had anything to do with the murder," mused George as he turned into Amelia Square. "Could she have been the woman in the blue domino? Certainly she was a servant and my father would have had nothing to do with her. But at the ball she would wear a domino and be closely masked. But even so, by what means could she have induced my father to leave the room with her? I don't suppose she murdered him herself, for she had no reason to do so, unless it was jealousy, which for a woman in her position was absurd. Bah! I am making a mountain out of a mole-hill. Eliza Stokes probably never went to the ball and had nothing to do with the blue domino or with the matter of the crime. From what Ireland says, however, a piece of yellow holly was mentioned in connection with the murder, and Mrs. Jersey, then Eliza Stokes, probably heard of it. That was why she shivered and turned pale when she saw the sprig in my coat."

Having thus decided the question, though not in a very satisfactory way, George rang the bell and was admitted into the house by Jarvey. The boy welcomed him with a grin, as George had given him half-a-crown when he left the mansion after the inquest. "Miss Bull, sir, yes, sir," said Jarvey, "step this way," and he introduced Mr. Brendon into the sitting-room in which the murder had taken place. It was empty, but Jarvey departed immediately to fetch Miss Bull.

George knew the room well. It had been used by his grandfather as a breakfast-room, and many a meal had he enjoyed at that very table. As the furniture had been sold to Lord Derrington, together with the house, the table was the very article of furniture at which Mrs. Jersey had been stabbed when seated. Brendon looked from the table to the door, and wondered if the assassin had entered stealthily, with a bared weapon, and had stabbed the wretched woman before she had time to turn her head. But on second thoughts he was inclined to think that the assassin had been in friendly conversation with Mrs. Jersey before inflicting the fatal stroke. Even in the short distance between table and door Mrs. Jersey would have had time to spring to her feet and give the alarm. "No," thought George, as he seated himself, "what I said to Train is correct. The assassin engaged Mrs. Jersey in friendly conversation, and then watched for an opportunity to strike from behind."

He would have continued trying to puzzle out the circumstances of the crime but that Miss Bull entered, accompanied by Margery. The little old maid looked whiter and more haggard than ever, but her eyes gleamed brightly, and she seemed to be in perfect health. Margery, now being the nominal head of the house, appeared more important, but she kept her eyes on Miss Bull's face, and in all things took her orders from this superior being. Miss Bull was a despot, although kindly enough, and Margery was her slave.

"How are you, Mr. Brendon?" said Miss Bull, smiling in her prim way, but without offering her hand. "I did not expect to see you again."

"Why not?" asked George, quickly.

Miss Bull shrugged her thin shoulders and fastened her beady eyes on his face. "Many of the boarders left on account of Madame's murder, so I thought you had done the same."

"I was only a visitor, Miss Bull. Had I been a boarder I should not have left. The murder did not scare me."

"No," replied Miss Bull, indifferently, "I don't suppose it did. I only talked for the sake of talking."

Brendon knew this was untrue, as Miss Bull was not a woman to waste words. Besides, the old maid's eyes were fixed with a certain amount of curiosity on his face, and he could not conceive why this was so. He was rather embarrassed how to begin the conversation, especially as Margery was present. Something of this showed itself in his manner, for Miss Bull drew Margery's hand within her own and nodded affably. "Miss Watson is the head of the house," she said. "Do you come to see her or me, Mr. Brendon?"

"I come to see you," said George, hoping she would send the inconvenient third away. But she did nothing of the sort.

"In that case Margery can stop as my friend, Mr. Brendon. Anything you say before her will go no further. She keeps my secrets."

"Always! always!" cried Margery, her eyes on the old maid. "I would rather die than reveal your secrets, Miss Bull."

"Rather tragic, my dear, rather tragic," replied the elder, patting the hand she held. "I have really no secrets worth revealing. A lonely old woman, Mr. Brendon, solaced by the friendship and devotion of this lonely girl."

Margery, who had flushed at the rebuke, stopped and kissed the old maid's hand. Miss Bull patted her head and turned cheerfully to her visitor. "Yes, Mr. Brendon?" she said in an interrogative manner. Again George felt awkward, but judged it best to plunge into the middle of the matter and get it over as soon as possible. "You called to see a certain Mr. Ireland," he said, "about the lease of this house. I have to come to ask you why you did so."

Miss Bull stopped patting Margery's hand and her lips tightened. "I don't see what business that is of yours," she said tartly.

"On the face of it, Miss Bull, I admit that the question sounds impertinent. But I am anxious to learn something about Mrs. Jersey's early life, and since you know something-"

"I know nothing," interrupted Miss Bull, quickly, "absolutely nothing. I came here as a boarder many years ago, and, as is my custom, I kept myself to myself. Madame and I did not get on well together. She was not a lady."

"Do you know what she was?" asked Brendon, shrewdly.

"I have already said that I know nothing," replied Miss Bull, coldly.

Evidently it was impossible to learn anything from so secretive a woman. Nevertheless, George tried another tack. "Do you know if Mrs. Jersey left any writings behind her?"

He asked this because it struck him that Mrs. Jersey might have been tempted to write out her relations with the Vane family. It was apparent that Lord Derrington had given her a lease of the house to silence her about the possible marriage, so for the sake of her niece Mrs. Jersey might have left some confession which would secure its renewal. And that the lease had been renewed was evident from the fact that the boarding-house was still being carried on in the old way, and by the niece.

Miss Bull did not reply to this question herself. "That is not my business," she said; "Miss Watson took possession of her aunt's papers."

"They were in a green box," said Margery, artlessly.

"What did they consist of?" asked Brendon.

"You need not answer that question, Margery," said Miss Bull, quickly, and from that moment, Margery preserved a lumpish silence. George rose in despair.

"You will not help me," he said, taking up his hat.

"So far as I can see there is no reason why we should help you," was Miss Bull's reply, and she rose in her turn.

Brendon saw nothing for it but to go, yet he hesitated to abandon the chance of learning something from Miss Bull. He stared at her pinched, white face and wondered if it would be any good appealing to that love of romance which is inherent in the heart of every woman. Old and withered as Miss Bull was, she might soften under the influence of a love-tale. Brendon disliked telling his business to strangers, especially anything regarding Dorothy, whom he looked upon as a sacred vestal not to be lightly mentioned. However, so much was at stake that he determined to speak openly, on the bare chance of Miss Bull yielding. But he could not speak in the presence of the girl Margery. She was such a sullen animal that to mention his love in her presence would be like casting pearls before swine. He therefore turned to Miss Bull, who stood with folded hands, eyeing him frigidly. "If I could see you alone," said Brendon.

Miss Bull cast a shrewd glance at him, rapidly made up her mind and told Margery to go. The girl looked at him tigerishly, as she was evidently jealous, and sulkily withdrew. When the door was closed Brendon resumed his seat, but Miss Bull remained standing. This was not a good sign; but George was now committed to a certain course and had to follow it.

"Miss Bull," he said deliberately, "what I am about to tell you, being my own private business, I must ask you to keep to yourself."