The Yellow Holly. Fergus Hume

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