The Yellow Holly. Hume Fergus

But you owe it to your dead mother and to yourself to show that you have the right to your father's name."

      "In that case I shall do what you advise," cried George, taking heart from her firm tone; "and the first thing I shall do will be to see Mr. Ireland.

      "Who is he, George?"

      "My guardian. He took charge of me after my grandfather Lockwood died, and it was by his advice that I changed my name to baffle the inquiries of Lord Derrington. He will know all about the marriage, and may be able to indicate where my parents went when they eloped. I have never asked him for a detailed statement, but I shall do so now. Once I find a clew, I shall not rest until I prove my legitimacy. For your sake, my dear-for your sake," and he kissed her.

      "And for your own," said Dorothy, as they rose. "I shall say nothing to my mother or to any one, George. But tell me all that you do."

      "I shall make a regular report," replied Brendon, "but we will probably have to meet elsewhere, as your mother has asked me to discontinue my visits here."

      "I shall speak to her," said Dorothy, angrily.

      "No. Do not do that. She will only grow angry and make things harder for you, my own heart. Good-by, and God bless you."

      They kissed and parted at the door. Brendon was just stepping out into the hall when a thought occurred to him. He re-entered and closed the door. "Dorothy," he asked, in a low whisper, "why did you give me the yellow holly on that night?"

      She looked surprised. "It was to please you," she said softly; "and to tell you the truth, George, I thought that the holly was a proof that my mother was relenting toward you."

      "How do you mean, Dorothy?"

      "It was my mother who gave me the holly," she explained. "I came from the Park and told her you were going to stop with Mr. Train, and that she could set her mind at rest, as I should not see you for a few days. She seemed pleased, and taking the yellow holly from a vase in her boudoir she gave me a sprig, saying that I could give it to you for consolation."

      "Did you tell her that you had fastened it in my coat?"

      "Yes. But she only laughed, and said it would please you. Why do you ask me this, George?"

      "There is no reason for my asking," he replied, suppressing the truth, "but yellow holly is rare."

      "Very rare. I don't know where my mother got the sprig."

      After this they parted, and Brendon walked thoughtfully away. Mrs. Jersey had been startled by the sight of the holly. Mrs. Ward had given the sprig to Dorothy, who had presented it to him. He asked himself if there was a reason for Mrs. Ward's action.

      CHAPTER VI

      WHAT MR. IRELAND KNEW

      After his disagreeable experience in the Bloomsbury district, Brendon was not very anxious to go there again, but it was necessary that he should do so if he wanted to see his guardian. From force of habit he still continued to call him so, although Mr. Ireland had long since ceased to act in that capacity. George had a sincere respect for him, and frequently paid him a visit. Usually it was one of ceremony or of enjoyment, but on this occasion the young man went in search of knowledge.

      Ireland was an eccentric character who collected (of all things) bill-posters. Most collectors turn their attention to stamps, to snuff-boxes, to autographs, and such-like trifles; but Mr. Ireland hunted for those gigantic and gaudy pictures which make gay the thoroughfares of the city. When George entered the dull old house, in an equally dull Bloomsbury street, he found the hall decorated with an immense advertisement of Bovril. Proceeding upstairs he was met on the landing by the famous cats who serve to draw attention to Nestle's Milk, and finally entered a large room on the first floor, where Mr. Ireland sat at his desk surrounded by a perfect art-gallery. Here was Fry's Chocolate; there the Magic Carpet of Cook, and the wall opposite to the three windows looking out onto the street was plastered with theatrical advertisements, more or less crude in color and out of drawing. These were not modern, but had been acquired by Ireland in the dark ages when street art was in its infancy. The effect of the whole was bizarre and striking, but George was too used to the spectacle to pay much attention to the gallery.

      The room was very bare, so as to give space for the collection. Mr. Ireland sat at a mahogany desk in the center, which was placed on a square of carpet. Beside this desk stood a chair, and in one corner of the room was a safe painted green. Other furniture there was none, and what with the huge pictures, the bare floor, and the want of curtains to the windows the effect was comfortless and dreary, but Mr. Ireland did not seem to mind in the least.

      He was a tall old man with rather long white hair and a clean-shaven, benign face. His unusual height did away with the impression of his excessive stoutness, for he appeared to be as fat as Daniel Lambert. George often wondered at his size, considering that the man ate comparatively little. Mr. Ireland was dressed in glossy broadcloth scrupulously brushed, and wore an old-fashioned Gladstone collar. He had mild blue eyes, rather watery, and a large mouth with full red lips. This hint of sensuality was contradicted by the serenity and pallor of his face, and by his life, which was as correct as his dress and as methodical as his hours.

      Never was there so methodical a man. He lived by the clock, and with him one day exactly resembled another. He rose at a certain hour and retired precisely when the hand on the clock indicated another. His meals were always regular, and he had stated hours for walking, when he went out, whether it was wet or fine, sunny or foggy. The man was like a machine, and George, when living with him in his early days, had often found these restrictions irksome. It was one o'clock when Brendon called, and Mr. Ireland had just finished his luncheon. At two precisely he would leave the house for his one hour's constitutional. Brendon was aware of this, and had timed his visit accordingly. Nevertheless, Ireland looked at his watch and mentioned the fact.

      "I can only give you an hour, George," he said. "You know my habits."

      "An hour will be sufficient," replied Brendon, taking the one chair. "You are not looking very well, sir," he added, noting the fagged air of the old man.

      "I have not been sleeping so soundly as usual," rejoined Ireland, producing a box of cigars and passing them. "At my age, and I am now seventy-five, I can't be expected to enjoy my bed so much as a young person. Take a cigar."

      "The old brand," said Brendon, selecting one.

      "I never vary," replied his guardian, gravely. "Pass that matchbox, George. Have you a light? Good. Now we can talk for the next fifty-five minutes. What is it?"

      As time was short, and Mr. Ireland would be sure to terminate the interview exactly at the stated hour, George plunged immediately into the business which had brought him hither. "I wish to hear the story of my parents," he said deliberately.

      The cigar fell from the fat fingers of Ireland, and he stared in amazement at the young man. "It is rather late in the day for that, is it not?" he asked, picking up the cigar and recovering himself.

      "Better late than never," quoted George, puffing a cloud of smoke.

      "A proverb is no answer," said Ireland, testily.

      "Then, if you wish to know, sir, I am in love."

      "That is no answer, either."

      "It will lead to a very explicit answer," rejoined the young man, coolly. "Love leads to marriage, and in my case marriage cannot take place unless I know that I am legitimate."

      "Of course you are. I have always maintained that you are."

      "What proof have you?" asked George, eagerly.

      Ireland hesitated and wiped his mouth in quite an unnecessary manner with a red silk handkerchief. "Your father always declared that Miss Lockwood was his lawful wife, and treated her with every respect."

      "Did my father ever tell you where the marriage was celebrated?"

      "No; I never asked, nor did your grandfather Lockwood. It was not till after your mother's death that Lord Derrington denied the marriage. Then Mr. Vane was in Italy and never troubled about the matter."

      "He should have done so, for my sake," said George, indignantly.

      "Certainly,