If Miss Bull wished to make Madame uncomfortable she certainly succeeded. From being voluble, Mrs. Jersey became silent, the fresh color died out of her face, and her lips moved nervously. Twice did she make an effort to overcome her emotion, but each time failed. Afterward she took a seat by the fire, and stared into the flames with an anxious look, as though she saw therein a fulfillment of the dismal prophecy. Her depression communicated itself to the rest of the company, and shortly before ten the friends took their departure. The idea of being alone seemed to cheer Mrs. Jersey, and she accompanied her departing guests to the front door.
It was a comparatively thick fog, yet not so bad but that the visitors might hope to reach their homes. For some time Mrs. Jersey stood in the doorway at the top of the steps, and shook hands with those who were going. The boarders, who were old and chilly, were too wise to venture outside on such a dreary night, so Mrs. Jersey had the door-step all to herself. "If you lose your ways," she called out to the visitors "come back. You can tell the house by the red light." She pointed to the fanlight Of crimson glass behind which gas was burning. "I will keep that alight for another hour."
The voices of thanks came back muffled by the fog, but Leonard and George waited to hear no more. They walked upstairs to Train's sitting-room, which was on the first floor. The windows looked out on to a back garden, wherein grew a few scrubby trees, so that the prospect was not cheering. But on this night the faded crimson curtains were drawn, the fire was lighted, and a round table in the middle of the apartment was spread for supper. On one side a door led to Leonard's bedroom, on the other side was the room wherein George was to sleep. As the fire-light played on the old-fashioned furniture and on the mellow colors of curtains and carpet, Leonard rubbed his hands. "It is rather quaint," he said cheerfully, and lighted the lamp.
"Not such a palace as your diggings in Duke Street," said Brendon, stretching his long legs on the chintz-covered sofa.
"One must suffer in the cause of art," said Train, putting the shade on the lamp. "I am picking up excellent types here. What do you think?"
"There's plenty of material," growled Brendon, getting out his pipe.
"Don't smoke yet, George," interposed Train, glancing at the clock. "We must have supper first. After that, we can smoke till eleven, and then we must go to bed."
"You keep early hours here, Leonard."
"I don't. Mrs. Jersey asked me particularly to be in bed at eleven."
"Why?" Brendon started, and looked hard at his friend.
"I don't know, but she did."
"Is it an understood thing that you retire at that hour?"
Train shook his head and drew in his chair. "By no means. I have sat up till two before now. But on this night Mrs. Jersey wants the house to be considered respectable, and therefore asked me to retire early. Perhaps it's on account of you, old man." Here he smiled in an amused manner. "She hopes to get you as a boarder."
"I wouldn't come here for the world," retorted Brendon, with quite unnecessary violence.
"Why not? Have some tongue!"
"Thanks," responded George, passing his plate. "Because I don't like the house, and I don't care for Mrs. Jersey."
"Why did you advise me to come here, then?" asked Train, pouring out a glass of claret.
"Well, you wanted something in the style of Dickens, and this was the only place I knew."
"How did you know about it?"
George deliberated for a moment, and then fastened his eyes on his plate. "I lived here once," he said in a low voice.
"Dear me," gasped Train, "what an extraordinary thing."
"Why so? One must live somewhere."
"But you didn't like Mrs. Jersey."
"She was not here then."
"Who was here?"
"My grandfather on the mother's side. That's fifteen years ago."
Leonard looked at the handsome, moody face of his friend, musingly. "I never knew you had a grandfather," he said at last.
"Do you know anything at all about me?" asked Brendon.
"No. Now I come to think of it, I don't. I met you three years ago at Mrs. Ward's house, and we have been friends ever since."
"Acquaintances, rather. Men are not friends until they become confidential with one another. Well, Train," George pushed back his chair and wiped his mouth, "to-night I intend to turn you from a mere acquaintance into a friend."
"I shall be delighted," said Train, rather bewildered. "Won't you have more supper?"
Brendon shook his head, lighted his pipe, and again stretched himself on the sofa. Train, being curious to know what he had to say, was on the point of joining him. But he was yet hungry, so could not bring himself to leave the table. He therefore continued his supper, and, as Brendon seemed disinclined to talk, held his peace.
Train's parents were dead, and had left him a snug little income of five thousand a year. Not being very strong-minded, and being more than a trifle conceited as to his literary abilities, his money speedily attracted round him a number of needy hangers-on, who flattered him to the top of his bent. They praised him to his face, sneered at him behind his back; ate his meat, borrowed his money, and kept him in a fools' paradise regarding human nature. Poor Leonard thought that all women were angels, and all men good fellows with a harmless tendency to borrow. Such a Simple Simon could not but be the prey of every scoundrel in London, and it said much for his moral nature that he touched all this pitch without being defiled. He was called a fool by those he fed, but none could call him a rogue.
It was this simplicity which inspired Brendon with a pitying friendship; and Brendon had done much to save him from the harpies who preyed on this innocent. In several cases he had opened Train's eyes, at the cost of quarreling with those who lost by the opening. But George was well able to hold his own, and none could say that he benefited pecuniarily by the trust and confidence which Leonard reposed in him. To avert all suspicion of this sort he had refused to become Train's secretary and companion at an excellent salary. Brendon was poor and wanted that salary; but he valued his independence, and so preferred to fight for his own hand. However, he continued his services to Leonard as a kind of unofficial mentor.
Now that Train came to think of it, Brendon was rather a mysterious person. He lived by writing articles for the papers, and was always well dressed. His rooms were in Kensington, and he seemed to know many people whom he did not cultivate. Train would have given his ears to enter the houses at which Brendon was a welcome guest. But for the most part George preferred to live alone with his pipe and his books. He was writing a novel, and hoped to make a successful career as a literary man. But as he was barely thirty years of age, and had been settled only five years in London, his scheme of life was rather in embryo. He appeared to have some secret trouble, but what it was Train never knew, as Brendon was a particularly reticent man. Why he should propose to be frank on this especial night Leonard could not understand. After supper he put the question to him.
"Well," said Brendon, without moving or taking his eyes from the fire, "it's this way, Train. I know you are a kind-hearted man, and although you talk very freely about your own affairs, yet I know you can keep the secret of a friend."
"You can depend upon that, George. Anything you tell me will never be repeated."
Brendon nodded his thanks. "Also," he continued, "I wish you to lend me three hundred pounds."
"A thousand if you will."
"Three hundred will be sufficient. I'll repay you when I come into my property."
Train opened his eyes. "Are you coming into money?" he asked.
"That I can't say. It all depends! Do you know why I suggested this house to you, Leonard?" he asked suddenly.
"To help me in my literary work."
"That was one reason certainly, but I had another and more selfish one, connected--" George sat up to finish the sentence--"connected with Mrs. Jersey," he said quietly.
This remark was so unexpected that Leonard did not know what to say for the moment. "I thought you did not know her," he gasped out.
"Nor do I."
"Does she know you?"
"Not as George Brendon, or as I am now."
"What do you mean?" Train was more puzzled than ever.
"It's a long story. I don't know that I can tell you the whole."
Train looked annoyed. "Trust me----"
"All in all, or not at all," finished Brendon; "quite so." He paused and drew hard at his pipe. "Since I want money I must trust you."
"Is it only for that reason that you consider me worthy of your confidence?" asked Leonard, much mortified.
George leaned forward and patted him on the knee. "No, old man. I wish you to help me also."
"In what way?"
"With Dorothy Ward," replied George, looking closely at his pipe.
"Was she in your mind to-night when that old maid was telling the cards?" asked Train, sitting up with a look of interest.
Brendon nodded. "But I do not wish you to mention her name. That was why----"
"I know. I was foolish. Well, she's a pretty girl, and as good as she is pretty."
"Which is marvelous," said Brendon, "considering the fashionable mother she has."
Train smiled. "Mrs. Ward is certainly a leader of fashion."
"And as heartless as any woman I know," observed Brendon. He glanced affectionately at the yellow holly. "Dorothy gave me this to-night."
"Did you see her before you came here?"
"Yes. I went to afternoon tea. We--" Brendon examined his pipe again--"we understand one another," he said.
Leonard sprang to his feet. "My dear chap, I congratulate you."
"Thanks! but it's too early for congratulation as yet. Mrs. Ward wants her daughter to make a good marriage. George Brendon will not be the husband of her choice, but Lord Derrington!"
"Does she want her daughter to marry that old thing?"
"You don't understand, Leonard. I mean that if I become Lord Derrington when the old man dies Mrs. Ward will consent."
Train sat down helplessly and stared. "I don't understand," he said.
"I'll put the thing in a nutshell," explained Brendon. "Lord Derrington is my grandfather."
"Your--but he never lived here?"
"No. The grandfather who lived here, and with whom I stayed, was my mother's father. He was called Lockwood. Derrington is my father's father. Now do you understand?"
"Not quite! How can you become Lord Derrington when he has a grandson--that young rip Walter Vane!"
"Walter Vane is the son of my father's brother, and my father was the elder and the heir to the title."
"Then, if Lord Derrington dies you become----"
"Exactly. But the difficulty is that I have to establish my birth."
Leonard jumped up and clutched his hair. "Here's a mystery," he said, staring at his friend. "What does it all mean?"
"Sit down and I'll tell you!"
Leonard resumed his seat and glanced at the clock. "We have a quarter of an hour," he said, "but I think we'll defy Mrs. Jersey and sit up this night."
"No," said Brendon, hastily; "we may as well do what she wants. I wish to conciliate her. She is the only person who can help to prove my mother's marriage."
"Humph! I thought there was something queer about her. Who was she?"
"My mother's maid! But I had better tell you from the beginning."
Train sat down and produced a cigarette. "Go on," he said; "no, wait! I want to know before you begin why Mrs. Jersey was so struck with that yellow holly?"
This time it was Brendon who looked puzzled. "I can't say, Leonard."
"Do you think she connected it with some disaster?" asked Train.
"From her looks, when she set eyes on it, I should think so!"
"Does Miss Ward know Mrs. Jersey?"
"No. She knows nothing about her."
"And it was Miss Ward who gave you the yellow holly?"
"Yes. When I was at afternoon tea."
"Then I can't see why Mrs. Jersey should have made such a spectacle of herself," said Leonard, lighting his cigarette. "Tell your story."
"I'll do so as concisely as possible," said Brendon, staring into the fire. "My mother was the daughter of Anthony Lockwood, who was a teacher of singing, and lived here. She--I am talking of my mother--was very beautiful, and also became famous as a singer at concerts. The son of Lord Derrington, Percy Vane, saw her and loved her. He subsequently eloped with her. She died in Paris two years later, shortly after I was born."
"And you came to live here?"
"Not immediately. I was but an infant in arms, but my father would not part with me. He kept Mrs. Jersey--she was my mother's maid, remember--as my nurse, and we went to Monte Carlo. I am afraid my poor father was a bit of a scamp. He was at all events a gambler, and lost all his money at the tables. He became poor, and his father, Lord Derrington, refused to help him."
"He was angry at the marriage, I suppose?"
"That's the point. Was there a marriage? But to make things clear I had better go on as I started. My father went to San Remo, and from that place he sent me home to my grandfather Lockwood."
"With Mrs. Jersey?"
"No. By that time Mrs. Jersey had left; I had another nurse, and it was she who took me to this house. My grandfather was delighted to have me, as he always insisted that there was a marriage. I grew up here, and went to school, afterward to college. My grandfather died, but there was just enough money to finish my education. The house was sold, and by a curious coincidence Mrs. Jersey took it as a boarding establishment. Where she got the money I don't know. But I passed out of her life as a mere infant, and I don't suppose she thought anything more about me. Perhaps she recognized me to-night from my likeness to my father, as she mentioned that she had seen my face before. But I can't say."
"What became of your father?"
"That is the tragic part of the story. He was murdered at a masked ball at San Remo. The assassin was never discovered, but it was supposed to be some passionate Italian lover. My grandfather Lockwood was so angry at the way in which his daughter had been treated that he never stood up for my rights. I would not do so, either, but that I love Miss Ward. Now, it is my intention to see Mrs. Jersey to-morrow and get the truth out of her."
"What does she know?"
"She knows where the marriage was celebrated, and can prove that my birth is legitimate. That is why I came here, Leonard."
"Why did you not speak to her to-night?"
"I think it is better she should be in a quieter frame of mind," said Brendon. "She has never seen me since I was a small child, and my name of Brendon is quite unknown to her."
"Why do you call yourself Brendon?" asked Train.
George began to pace up and down the room. "Pride made me do that," he declared. "When my father was murdered at San Remo, Lord Derrington denied the marriage, and refused to do anything for me. My grandfather Lockwood gave me his own name, and I was called George Lockwood for many a long day. At the age of fifteen Mr. Lockwood died, and then a note came to my guardian saying that Lord Derrington proposed to allow me a small income."
"For what reason?"
"I can't say. Perhaps it was remorse."
Train shook his head. "I have met Lord Derrington, and if such an old Tartar feels remorse, then there is a chance that pigs may fly."
"That's an elegant illustration, Leonard," observed George, with a smile; "but to continue (as I see it is nearly eleven), even as a boy I felt the indignity put upon me. I refused, with the permission of my guardian, the offered sum, and continued at school. When I left to go to college I changed my name so that Lord Derrington should not have the chance of insulting me further or of knowing who I was. My guardian suggested Brendon, so as that was as good a name as another I took it. Hence Mrs. Jersey can't possibly know me, or why I came to see her. She will be wiser in the morning," added Brendon grimly.
"But she evidently saw in you some likeness to your father."
"Evidently. From all I have heard Mrs. Jersey was in love with my father, even though she was only a lady's maid. But I know very little about her. My business here is to learn.
"But why has she kept silent all these years?"
Brendon shrugged his shoulders. "She has had no inducement to speak out," he said; "that is why I wish you to lend me three hundred pounds, Leonard. She will require a bribe."
"And a larger one than that, George. A woman like Mrs. Jersey would not part with such a secret for so small a sum."
"Oh, I can pay her what she demands when in possession of the estates. But at present she will want to see the color of my money."
Train stared into the fire meditating on this queer story, which was quite a romance. Then he saw an obstacle. "George," he said, "even if you prove that you are the heir you won't get any money. Lord Derrington is still living."
"Yes, and from all accounts he means to go on living like the truculent old tyrant he is. But the estates are entailed, and must come to me when he dies, and, of course, the title is mine, too, when he is done with it. If Mrs. Jersey learns these facts, she will come to terms, on a promise of money when I inherit."
"Then you will speak to her in the morning?"
"Yes. She is the only person who can right me. But I mean to be the husband of Dorothy Ward, and my only chance to get round the mother is to prove my legitimacy."
"I don't think Miss Ward cares much for her mother."
"Who could?" asked Brendon, cynically. "She is a worthless little canary-bird. But I tell you, Leonard, that frivolous as Mrs. Ward appears to be, she is a most determined woman, with an iron will. She will make her daughter do as she is bid, and will sell her to the highest bidder. As Lord Derrington's grandson and acknowledged heir, I have a good chance. As George Brendon--" he stopped as the clock struck eleven--"as George Brendon I am going to bed."
Train rose to light the candles which stood on a side-table, yawning as he did so. He was much interested in Brendon's story, but the telling of it had tired him. "I shall sleep like a top to-night."
"Well, get to bed. I'll put out the lamp," said George, and did so.
"No," said Leonard, taking a candlestick in either hand. "I'll see you to your virtuous couch," and he preceded him into the bedroom.
It was a quaint apartment, with heavy mahogany furniture and a Turkey carpet. Entering from the sitting-room, George saw that the bed was directly opposite the door. "It's been moved since my time."
"What?" cried Leonard, setting down the candles, "Is the furniture the same your grandfather had?"
"Yes. Mrs. Jersey bought the house and its contents. They are old-fashioned enough in all conscience. Look at that ugly wardrobe." He pointed to one against the inner wall and opposite the window. "The mirror in that used to frighten me as a little chap. It looked so ghostly in the moonlight. Humph! it's years and years since I slept in my old bed," said Brendon, taking off his coat. "I should dream the dreams of childhood now that I am back again. But you needn't say anything of this, Leonard."
"Of course not," replied the other. "And you need not smash your yellow holly by leaving it in your coat all night. Put it in water."
"No." George stopped the too officious Leonard. "Dorothy put it into my coat, and there it shall remain. The berries are firm and won't fall. I'll see to that. Hush!"
"What's the matter?" asked Train, startled.
For answer, Brendon quickly extinguished both candles, and pointed to the door of the sitting-room, which stood half open. "Not a word," he murmured to Train, grasping his wrist to enforce attention. "I heard a footstep."
The two men stood in the darkness, silent and with beating hearts. A glimmer of light came from the fire and struck across into the bedroom. Leonard listened with all his ears. He distinctly heard stealthy footsteps coming along the passage, which was on the other side of the wall against which stood the wardrobe. The footsteps paused at the sitting-room door. They heard this open, and scarcely dared to breathe. Some one entered the room, and waited for a moment or so, evidently listening, Then the door was opened and closed again, and the footsteps died away. Even then Brendon stopped Leonard from lighting the candles.
"Go to bed in the dark," he said softly.
"Was it Mrs. Jersey?" asked Leonard.
"Of course it was. She came to see if you were in bed."
"But why should she?"
"I can't say. There's something queer about that old woman. Get to bed, Leonard. You can light your candle in your own room. I shall not light mine."
Train was bursting with indignation. "But it's absurd to be treated like a couple of schoolboys," he said, taking his candlestick.
"There's more in it than that," said Brendon, pushing him to the door. "Get to bed, and make no noise. We can talk in the morning."
Train darted across the sitting-room, and retired. Brendon closed his door softly, and listened again. There was no return of the footsteps, so he slipped into bed without relighting the candle. The clock in the sitting-room chimed a quarter past eleven.