The Yellow Holly

"Engaged!" she repeated with a flash of her wonderful eyes. "That is words for 'I don't want to come.'"

George laughed, shook his head, and changed the subject. Her remark about having a friend in San Remo ran in his mind. "Have you ever been there?" he asked, naming the town.

"Ah, bah! have I been anywhere? All Italy I know-all-all."

"You know it better than Spain. Yet you are Spanish."

"I am whatever you desire, my George. Yes, I am of Spain-of Cadiz, where my parents sold oil to their ruin. They came to Italy, to Milan and made money to live from wine. I was trained to the dance-they died, and I, my friend-"

"You told me all this before," interrupted Brendon, ruthlessly. "I ask if you have ever been to San Remo?"

"Why, yes, assuredly, and why not?" She looked at him with narrowing eyes as she put the question, blinking like a cat.

"There is no reason, only I was thinking-" He paused.

"Eh, you think-of what?"

"Oh, something which does not concern you, Lola."

"All that is of you is to me," she responded. "I love you."

"Lola, be reasonable."

"Pschutt! I mock myself of your reason," she cried, snapping her fingers and speaking in quite a French way. "I leave reasons to your chilly English ladies. I-eh, but you know I am of the South. To you-to you, my adored preserver, do I give myself."

George grew angry. "If you talk like this, Lola, I shall go away."

"Ah, then good-night to you. Let it be adieu and never come back."

"Not at all. Be a reasonable woman and sit down. Give me some more wine and a cigarette. I want to ask you a question."

Lola poured out the wine and tossed him a cigarette, but she refused to sit down or to compose herself. In a flaming temper she whirled about the room, talking all the time. "Ah, yes, but it is so always! I am a fool to love you, cold one-pig of an Englishman."

"That's grateful," said George, quietly, and she was at his feet.

"Ah, but no! I am a bad womans. I am entirely all wicked. You are an angel of the good God. Dearest-my own-" She stretched adoring hands, and her eyes glittered like stars.

George reasoned with her. "Lola, do you wish me to be pleased with you?"

"Assuredly, and why not?"

"Then sit down in your chair like a Christian and talk sensibly."

She sat down, or rather flung herself into the chair with a whirl of scarlet draperies. "Decidedly I am a Christian. I go to mass, I confess-yes, I confess to the priest how I love you."

"Do you really love me, Lola? I was told that you wished me harm."

She started from her chair with a passionate gesture.

"Who says it is liars of the worst. Tell me who speak, that I may tear and scratch."

"No! no! I don't want a scandal."

"For her sakes, oh, yes!" She subsided sulkily. "I am nothings."

"For whose sake?" asked Brendon, rather alarmed, for he did not wish this tigress to know about Dorothy.

"The other woman's. Oh, yes, there is some one else. I know. You are mine all, and would be but for the other womans. Imbecile that I am to think of you who kick me hard-hard. And I can learn nothing-nothing. If I did-if I knew, I-" She stopped and breathed hard.

"I wonder you don't have me watched," said George, thoroughly angry at her unreasonable attitude. Lola tossed her head, and her expression changed to one of alarm. Brendon saw the change and guessed its meaning. "You did have me watched."

"And what if I did?" she demanded defiantly. "You are mine."

"I am not yours," he retorted angrily. "I have given you no cause to think that I would marry you."

Lola burst into tears. "You took me from the stones and snows," she wept with extravagant grief. "Why did I not die? You fed me with foods and made me shine in this London; you win my heart, and then-then-pschutt!" she snapped her fingers, "you toss it aside."

"Why did you have me watched?" asked George, sternly.

"I want to know of the other woman," she replied sullenly.

"There is no-" He broke off. "It has nothing to do with you."

Lola sprang to her feet with fierce eyes. "Then there is another-another-oh, you cruel! Name of names, but I shall find her. I shall tell her-"

"You shall tell her nothing-you shall not see her."

"But I will. Eh; yes. You do not know me." This with a stamp.

"I know you cannot behave decently, Lola. If you have me watched again, if you dare to-to-bah!" George stamped in his turn. "I have had enough of this. Behave, or I go and will not return."

She flung herself at his feet with a wail. "Ah, but no," she sobbed, "I do love you so dearly-I will die if you love me not."

George drew himself roughly away, and taking her by the hands placed her in a chair, where she hid her face and sobbed. "Who was it you got to watch me-you hired to watch me?" George advisedly used the word "hired" as he thought she might have engaged one of her friends to do the dirty work, instead of engaging a professional. Yet he knew she was quite capable of going to a private inquiry office.

"I shall not tell you," said Lola, sitting up with a hard expression on her mouth and in her eyes.

"Did you pay him much?" asked Brendon, dexterously.

"I paid him what I chose," retorted Lola, falling into the trap.

"Ah! Then it was a professional detective you engaged. You have been to one of those inquiry offices."

"That is my business," said Lola, who, seeing she had made a slip, became more obstinate than ever. More to show her calmness, she lighted a fresh cigarette and smoked it defiantly.

George shrugged his shoulders. He was not going to argue with her. Remembering that Bawdsey had mentioned her name, and that Bawdsey appeared to know all about himself, he began to put two and two together. Certainly he might be wrong, and Bawdsey might have nothing to do with the matter. Still it was worth while trying to startle Lola into a confession by the use of his name. His rescue of Bawdsey hinted that the long arm of coincidence might be at work. "Well, I don't know where he comes from-" began George.

Lola snapped him up. "Ah, yes, and you think it is a man. Bah! why not a woman, my dear?" she sneered.

"Oh, you may have half-a-dozen at work-male and female both," said George, taking his seat, "but I should have thought that the red man was clever enough to-"

She threw away her cigarette and rose to her feet with such manifest alarm that George knew his guess was correct. "You talk foolish."

George looked at her angry face serenely. "Did Bawdsey when he said you wished me harm?"

"What?" She flung up her hands, with blazing eyes. "Did he say I do wish you harm? Was it-that-that cow-pig-"

"Don't call names, Lola, and don't distress yourself. It was Bawdsey."

Lola saw that she had gone too far, and had, vulgarly speaking, given herself away. She tried to recover lost ground. "I do not know his names," she said sullenly; then burst out, "but I wish you no harm. Eh, will you believe that, my preserver?"

"I'll believe nothing if you will not tell me the truth," said Brendon, a little cruelly. "Come, Lola, admit that you paid Bawdsey to watch me."

"I did not pay-no, not one sou. He did it for love."

"Oh, indeed! So Bawdsey is in love with you?"

Lola threw back her head defiantly. "Yes, he is, and I care not one, two, three little trifles for him. Chup! He is old-he is red-he is one big fool, that I can twist and twist-"

"And you apparently have done so. Well, then, Lola, did you get him from a private inquiry office?"

"No, I did not so. He loved me, and sent me flowers-oh, many, many flowers-those roses." She pointed to the silver dish.

"So you can't tell the truth even in that," said George, deliberately. "What of the friend in San Remo?"

"It is his friend. He had flowers from his friend. He told that."

Brendon sat up with an eager look in his eyes. So Bawdsey knew some one in San Remo. Probably he had been there, and Bawdsey was acquainted with his name. Brendon began to think that there was some meaning in all these things and plied Lola with questions. She was sulky at first and would not answer. But Brendon knew how to manage her, and before the conclusion of the conversation he got the whole truth out of her. This was accomplished by using what the Americans call "bluff."

"So Bawdsey knows San Remo, and he is fifty, or over fifty, years of age. H'm! He knows all the history of the place, I suppose."

"I know not-nothing do I know."

"Ah, that's a pity! Bawdsey could tell you some nice tales." He fixed a keen glance on her. "About some yellow holly, for instance."

Lola winced, for the shot had gone home. But she still held to her declaration of ignorance. "I know nothings-absolutely."

"But apparently this man knows a great deal. He is in love with you, and must have told you much. Did he inform you of a certain murder which took place at San Remo?"

"Ah, bah! Why should he? I knew of all already."

"You! How did you know?"

"My father and my mothers, they lived in San Remo when-oh, they did tell me all of that Englishman."

"Did they know who murdered him?" asked George, marveling at this unexpected discovery.

"No. No one know anythings."

"Was there no suspicion?"

"Not one suspicions. I know nothings," she repeated doggedly.

"It strikes me that you do. How did you and Bawdsey come to be talking of this matter?"

"We did not talk." Lola looked down at her foot as she told the lie and moved it restlessly.

George rose and took up his hat. Throwing his coat over his arm, he moved toward the door. "Good-night, mademoiselle."

She sprang to her feet and flew after him. "No! no!" she cried in lively alarm. "You must not go, my dearest dear."

"What is the use of my stopping when you will not show your gratitude toward me by telling the truth?" George hated to make such a speech as this, but it was the only way in which he could move her.

"I will tell! I will tell. Sit down. The coat-you shall not go. I will say all. Ask what you will. Sit, my little cabbage-a wine in the glass-ah, yes! – and a cigarette. Come, be good. Am I mademoiselle?"

"No," said George, smiling on her pleading face, "you are my friend Lola now that you are sensible."

"Ah, only friend!" she said sadly. "But I speak. Yes?"

George began at once to question her, lest the yielding mood should pass away. "You made the acquaintance of Bawdsey at the hall?"

Lola nodded. "He loved me; he sent me flowers; he was made a presentation to me by Kowlaski. I learn that he looks after people, what you call a-a- un mouchard-"

"A spy-yes, go on."

"And I made him watch you. I told him your name."

"Did he know my name?" asked Brendon, quickly.

"He knew everything-oh, yes-all-all!"

Brendon was taken aback. "All-all what?" he asked amazed.

"Why-" Lola twirled her fingers-"all what you would not tell to me, my dear. That your names is Vane, and milor-"

"Derrington! Did Bawdsey mention Lord Derrington?"

"Yes. Oh, many times he speaks of milor. I speaks of San Remo. This-this Bawdsey ask me of the blue domino-of the holly-"

"Of the murder, in fact."

"It is quite so, my friend. Of the murder of your father."

"What?" George started from his seat. "Did he know that the man who was murdered at San Remo was my father?"

"Yes, and that it was difficult about the marriages."

"That also. He appears to know the whole story. And he mentioned Lord Derrington. That is how he comes to be acquainted with these facts. A spy-Derrington is employing him. And the man is boarding in Amelia Square." George struck his hands together. "By Jove, it's a conspiracy, and I never knew anything!"

"I do not wish you to have the marriages right, George," said Lola, with a pout. "If you are as what you are, then you will marry me. She will not be madame."

"She? Who?"

"The woman you-you-love." Lola got out the word with difficulty and burst into extravagant rage. "But she will not have you. No, you are mine. You will be Brendons-as I know you, and not Vane-never milor. I will not let it. If you are milor you marry her."

"Did Bawdsey tell you the name of the lady?"

"No. But he will tell. But she is a well-born one, and I am of the gutter. But I love you-ah, yes I love you!" She threw her arms round him. "Be still Brendons, and not milor, and I am yours."

"No! no!" George took her arms from his neck and spoke more soberly. "Lola, hold your tongue about what you have told me, and I'll see you again. If you speak, I see you no more."

"I will be silent," she said as Brendon put on his coat. "But you are cruel, wicked. You shall never be milor, never!"

"How do you know?" asked George, contemptuously.

Lola's eyes blazed. "I know. I know. You will never be milor."

CHAPTER IX

CLEVER MRS. WARD

"An invitation-an invitation to dinner. By Jove, I never thought I'd get that far. The Honorable Mrs. Ward, too. Hurrah!"

Leonard Train made these remarks over a letter which had come by the morning post. It was a delicate perfumed friendly note, begging dear Mr. Train to come to dinner the next evening without ceremony. "I have just learned that your dear mother was at school with me," wrote Mrs. Ward in her most gushing style. "So you will see why I write informally. Do come." The "Do" was underlined, and Leonard could hardly contain himself for joy at this proof that a member of the aristocracy was disposed to be friendly. "A woman of the highest fashion, too," chuckled Leonard.

To account for Train's exuberant joy, which seemed out of all proportion to its reason, it must be explained that, notwithstanding his money, and what he regarded as his talents, he had never managed to enter the fashionable world. As he was as vain as a peacock, and anxious to shine and be admired among people worth knowing, this was a great grief to him. George took him to several houses, but Leonard did not seem to be a success, for after one visit he was never asked again, although he left cards assiduously. This invitation of Mrs. Ward's was purely voluntary, as she had met him only once and had snubbed him when she did meet him. At the time he had thought her a horrid woman, but now he was prepared to bow down and worship.

Leonard's father had been in trade, and the nice little income he inherited had been made out of a patent medicine, most drastic in its effects, that claimed to cure all diseases. Train senior, a shrewd innkeeper, had bought it from one of his customers-a drunken doctor meant for better things, but who had fallen on evil days. By judicious advertisement, and with the aid of many bought testimonials from penniless members of the aristocracy, Train managed to make the drug a success. Train's Trump Pill was seen on every boarding, and Mr. Ireland possessed one of the original posters.

Soon Train senior became rich, very rich, and, having improved his manners and suppressed his parents, he was taken up by people of good position who needed ready money. He bought his way into the fringe of the fashionable world, and finally married a rather elderly lady, who had blue blood, extravagant tastes, and no money. She presented him with Leonard, and then, thinking she had done her duty, arranged to enjoy herself. Mrs. Train spent the proceeds of the Trump Pill recklessly, and before her husband died she managed to get through the greater part of his wealth. Train settled an income of five thousand a year on his son, and let Mrs. Train do what she liked with the rest. Then he died, and Mrs. Train sent Leonard to Eton, afterward to college. When he was thus off her hands she enjoyed herself amazingly, and finally died in Paris, after spending every penny of the principal and interest of the large fortune left by her husband. Leonard mourned his mother, although he had seen very little of her. Then he settled in London on his five thousand a year and posed as a literary man. But the desire of his life was to be fashionable. Hence his delight at the letter.

"Of course I'll go," soliloquized Leonard, when calmer. "I wonder if George will be there. He loves that Ward girl, so he might. Mrs. Ward does not approve of the match, so he might not. I wonder if there is a regular engagement. If not, I might have a shot myself. The Honorable Mrs. Train-no, that would be the mother."

It will be seen that Leonard was not very faithful to his absent friend; but the fact is that Train was less devoted to Brendon than he had been. The episode of Amelia Square made him fight rather shy of George. The story of the marriage was shady, and in some way-Leonard couldn't exactly explain how-seemed to be connected with the murder of Mrs. Jersey. Moreover, Leonard knew something which he had not mentioned to Brendon, and would not have mentioned it for the fashionable world. However, he had said nothing about George's history, and so far had kept faith. But Brendon saw that Leonard was no longer so pleased to see him as formerly. He therefore avoided the fat young man, and Leonard did not seem to mind the avoidance. Indeed, he appeared to be rather relieved than otherwise. Brendon never asked himself the reason of this behavior, as he thought it best to let sleeping dogs lie. That Leonard would speak never entered his head.

And Leonard never intended to speak, being weak, but honorable in his own foolish way. But when Mrs. Ward's invitation came he walked blindfolded into a trap set by that clever little woman. She asked Train to dinner, not because she had known his mother-although that was true enough-but for the simple reason that she wished to hear what he knew about the Amelia Square tragedy. Brendon had told her much, but it was probable that Train, being a weak idiot in the hands of a pretty woman like herself, would tell her more. Mrs. Ward was by no means reconciled to the possibility of Brendon marrying her daughter, and wished to find some scandal smirching George, that she might induce Dorothy to break the engagement. She would have utilized the tales about Lola and Brendon, but that she was not sure of her ground in this particular direction, and, moreover, having seen the Spanish dancer, feared lest so passionate a woman should make an open scandal. It was the aim of Mrs. Ward's life to do wrong things, and to avoid troubles arising from them. Therefore, she, for the time being, put Lola on the shelf and arranged in her own scheming mind to make use of Leonard. "I can work him like a lump of putty," said Mrs. Ward, contemptuously. A vulgar illustration, but a true one. Besides, she said it in the solitude of her own room when she was dressing for dinner, so no one heard its vulgarity or its truth.

When Leonard entered the drawing-room he was welcomed by Dorothy, who told him that Mrs. Ward would be down shortly. "It is only a small dinner, Mr. Train," she said. "Mr. Vane is coming; no one else."

"I expected to find my friend Brendon here," said Leonard, thinking how beautiful she looked.

"No! Mr. Brendon is very busy at the present time with his book. He would have come otherwise."

"All things should give way where a lady is concerned," said Train, gallantly.

Miss Ward laughed. She had heard much of Train from Brendon, and thought him a kindly, but foolish young man. "I am not a woman of that sort, Mr. Train. I have no desire that a man should neglect his work for frivolity. You are a great friend of Mr. Brendon?"

"The greatest he has."

"And he was stopping with you in the house where that tragedy took place. He told me about it."

Train secretly wished that George had held his tongue on this particular point, as he had his own reasons for not wishing to be questioned. With the very best intentions as to holding his tongue, he knew his weakness for babbling well enough, and found it easier to abstain from talking altogether than to be temperate in speech. "Brendon certainly stopped with me," he said reservedly, "but we were sound asleep when the murder took place. Neither of us heard anything. After the inquest we both returned to the West End."

"It was a most unpleasant experience," said Dorothy, thoughtfully.

"Very," assented Train, wiping his face. "I shall never go in search of types again."

"You can find amusing types in the West End," remarked Dorothy, in a low voice. "Here is one."

The young man who entered the room was a small, attenuated, precise atom of a creature, immaculately dressed and with a rather shrill voice. He answered to the name of the Hon. Walter Vane, and was the cousin of Brendon, although he did not know of the relationship. But Dorothy and Train both knew, and compared Vane's physique disadvantageously with that of Brendon. The one man was a splendid specimen of humanity, the other a peevish hypochondriac. Walter Vane had been "fast" in his time, and although he was not yet thirty he was now suffering from the consequences of his rapid ways. He was in the twenties, yet he was bald. He was as nervous as an old woman and finicky as an elderly spinster. Lord Derrington, who was a bluff old giant of the country squire type, sneered at his degenerate descendant. All the same, he would not replace him by George, who was a man in looks and tastes after the old lord's own heart.

"Beastly night," lisped Vane, greeting Dorothy and taking no notice of Leonard. "I think there will be snow. I hope I won't get a bad cold. I am so subject to cold."

"Mr. Train-Mr. Vane," said Dorothy, introducing the two.

Vane stared and muttered something about "pleasure." Leonard caught no other word. He then continued his conversation with Miss Ward. "I sneezed twice at the Merry Music Hall the other night."

"That is where Velez dances," said Leonard, determined to speak.

Vane stared again, and it was Dorothy who answered. "My mother went to see her, and says she is a most extraordinary dancer."

"Oh, clever in a sort of mad way, and a regular bad one," chuckled the little man. Dorothy turned away. She did not like this conversation, as it offended her taste. But the next words of Vane made her pause. "I saw your friend Brendon at the hall, Miss Ward-the writing man, you know. A fine-looking chap, but sulky."

"The best man in the world," said Leonard, whereupon Dorothy gave him an approving look. She wondered what Vane would say did he know that the man he criticised so freely was his cousin and the legitimate heir to the Derrington title if he had his rights.

"Well, he has his larks like every one else. They say he is sweet on the dancer."

"Mr. Vane!" cried Dorothy, the blood rushing to her face.

The little man became confused, conscious that he had transgressed the bounds of good breeding. He knew that Brendon admired Dorothy, and that Dorothy took pleasure in his society, but he was unaware that any deeper feeling existed. Mrs. Ward had kept that sort of thing from him, as she did not want Vane to leave the coast clear for Brendon. And Vane was so egotistical that he never for one moment dreamed that George was his rival. Even if he had, he would have laughed the idea to scorn. In his eyes Brendon was merely a writing fellow and not to be named in the same breath with his noble, attenuated, rickety self.

"Well, good people," cried Mrs. Ward, entering the room at this very opportune moment, "are you all here? Mr. Vane, I am pleased. Mr. Train, how good of you to come. Ah," Mrs. Ward sighed, "you have your dear mother's eyes, and lovely eyes they were."

Having slipped in this compliment to put Leonard at his ease and throw him off his guard, Mrs. Ward delivered him to Dorothy and took Vane into a shady corner. "Dinner will be ready soon," she said, fanning herself although it was a cold winter's night. "I hope you are hungry, Mr. Vane."

"I was," admitted her guest, "but I have to nurse my appetite carefully, you know, Mrs. Ward, and I am rather put out."

"Not by Mr. Train, I hope. He is a nice fellow, really, very nice, with money made out of pigs or whisky or something," said Mrs. Ward, vaguely, for she was not certain. "What did he say?"

"He said nothing, but Miss Ward did."

Mrs. Ward shrugged. "Oh, well, you know, dear Dorothy has such odd ideas, and all that sort of thing. I suppose it was something about books, or philosophies, or grammar, or something. Enough to spoil any one's appetite, I'm sure."

"No. But I mentioned that Brendon-you know the writing fellow-"