The Yellow Holly. Fergus Hume

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       Fergus Hume

      The Yellow Holly

      Published by Good Press, 2019

       [email protected]

      EAN 4064066215644

Table of Contents

       CHAPTER I

       CHAPTER II

       CHAPTER III

       CHAPTER IV

       CHAPTER V

       CHAPTER VI

       CHAPTER VII

       CHAPTER VIII

       CHAPTER IX

       CHAPTER X

       CHAPTER XI

       CHAPTER XII

       CHAPTER XIII

       CHAPTER XIV

       CHAPTER XV

       CHAPTER XVI

       CHAPTER XVII

       CHAPTER XVIII

       CHAPTER XIX

       CHAPTER XX

       CHAPTER XXI

       CHAPTER XXII

       CHAPTER XXIII

       CHAPTER XXIV

       CHAPTER XXV

       THE END

CHAPTER I

       Table of Contents

       "MRS. JERSEY RECEIVES"

      She did not put the sacramental phrase on her cards, as no invitations were sent out. These were delivered verbally by boarders desirous of seeing their friends present on Friday evening. Mrs. Jersey dignified her gatherings with the name of "At Homes," but in truth the term was too majestic for the very mild entertainment she provided weekly.

      It was really a scratch party of nobodies, and they assembled as usual in the drawing-room on this especial evening, to play and not to work. Mrs. Taine laid aside her eternal knitting; Miss Bull dispensed with her game of "Patience;" Mr. Granger sang his one song of the early Victorian Epoch--sometimes twice when singers were scarce; and Mr. Harmer wore his antiquated dress-suit. On these festive occasions it was tacitly understood that all were to be more or less "dressy," as Mrs. Jersey put it, and her appearance in "the diamonds" signalized the need of unusual adornment. These jewels were the smallest and most inferior of stones; but diamonds they undeniably were, and the boarders alluded to them as they would have done to the Kohinoor.

      In her black silk gown, her lace cap, and "the diamonds" Mrs. Jersey looked--so they assured her--quite the lady.

      Was she a lady? No one ever asked that leading question, as it would have provoked an untruth or a most unpleasant reply. She admitted in expansive moments to having seen "better days," but what her actual past had been--and from her looks she had one--none ever discovered. The usual story, produced by an extra glass of negus, varied so greatly in the telling that the most innocent boarder doubted. But Mrs. Jersey was always treated with respect, and the boarders called her "Madame" in quite a French way. Why they should do so, no one ever knew, and Mrs. Jersey herself could not have explained. But the term had become traditional, and in that conservative mansion tradition was all-powerful.

      Few friends presented themselves on this particular Friday evening, for it the wind was extremely foggy, and none of them could afford cabs. Even those who patronized the nearest bus line, had some distance to walk before they knocked at the Jersey door, and thus ran a chance of losing their way. Either in light or darkness the house was hard to find, for it occupied the corner of a particularly private square far removed from the Oxford Street traffic. As a kind of haven or back-water, it received into its peace those who found the current of the River of Life running too strong. Decayed ladies, disappointed spinsters, superannuated clerks, retired army officers, bankrupt dreamers--these were the derelicts which had drifted hither. Mrs. Jersey called these social and commercial failures "paying guests," which flattered their pride and cost nothing. She was something of a humbug, and always ready with the small change of politeness.

      It was quite an asylum for old age. None of the guests were under fifty, save a newcomer who had arrived the previous week, and they wondered why he came amongst them. He was young, though plain-looking; he was fashionably dressed, though stout, and he chatted a West-End jargon, curiously flippant when contrasted with their prim conversation. This was the first time he had been present at Madame's reception, and he was explaining his reasons for coming to Bloomsbury. Mrs. Jersey introduced him as "Leonard Train, the distinguished novelist," although he had published only one book at his own cost, and even that production was unknown to the boarders. They read Thackeray and his contemporaries, and manifested a proper scorn for the up-to-date novelist and his analytical methods.

      Mr. Train, with a complacency which showed that he entertained the highest opinion of his own powers, stood on the hearth-rug, and delivered himself of his errand to Bloomsbury.

      "Fashionable novelists," said he, in a still, small voice, which contrasted curiously with his massive proportions, "have overdone the business of society and epigrams. We must revert to the Dickens