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, and I urged him to do so," said Mr. Ireland, heavily. "I
was in Italy at the time, and you were only an infant in arms."
"Who was my nurse then?"
"Jane Fraser--the Scotch nurse who afterward brought you to your
grandfather Lockwood when Mr. Vane was murdered."
"Do you remember the other nurse--the first one I had?"
Mr. Ireland grew indignant, and puffed angrily at his cigar. "I do,
indeed," he said wrathfully, "a vulgar, forward hussy. She was not
bad-looking, either, and set up for being a lady." Here he began to
laugh. "Would you believe it, George, my boy, she was in love with
your father, and showed it so plainly that he was obliged to get rid
of her?"
"What was her name?"
"Eliza Stokes. And she was handsome in a bouncing way."
"What became of her?"
"I can't tell you," said Ireland, with sudden reserve.
"Did you see her after she was dismissed?"
Ireland turned his cigar slowly and did not look at George when he
replied. "Yes, I did. When and where it does not matter."
"But it does matter--to me!" cried Brendon, anxiously. "It is to know
about her that I came here to see you to-day."
"I thought you came about your birth," said Ireland, sharply.
"That among other things."
The old man looked down again and appeared to be in deep thought. He
was turning over in his own mind how much or how little he should tell
George. And the young man looked at him anxiously. Much depended upon
the speech of Mr. Ireland. At last the silence was broken, and by a
most unexpected remark. "I loved your mother," said Ireland.
"I never knew that," said Brendon, softly, for he saw that the man was
moved at the recollection of some early romance.
"I never spoke of it before," was the reply, and Ireland laid down his
cigar to speak the more freely. "Yes, I loved Rosina Lockwood with all
my heart and soul. I was not bad-looking in those days, George, and I
had a good income, but she preferred that scamp," and he struck his
hand heavily on the table, with glowing eyes.
"You are talking of my father, sir," said Brendon, stiffly.
"I ask your pardon. But if you wish me to tell the story of that most
unfortunate affair you cannot hope that I shall keep my temper. I was
very badly treated by--well--" with a glance at George, Ireland
nodded--"let the dead rest in peace."
"I think it will be as well," said Brendon, coldly.
Ireland again struck the table. His pallid skin became a deep crimson,
and his eyes flashed. George rose in alarm, for the old man struggled
to speak with such an obvious effort that he thought an apoplectic fit
would end the conversation. He hastily poured out a glass of water and
begged Ireland to loosen his neckcloth. But the man shook his head,
and going to one of the windows opened it. For a few moments he
inhaled the air, and returned to his seat more composed. "I beg your
pardon, George," he gasped, when he recovered his voice, "but if you
wish me to tell you anything you must not speak to me like that. I
have a bad temper."
"I never knew that," said Brendon, in a soothing tone. "You were
always kind to me."
"I have a superlatively bad temper," repeated Ireland, "but you were
her child. How could I be angry with her child? Wait! Wait, I shall
tell you all I can. Give me a few moments."
He was so moved with emotion, and with the recollection of the past,
that he buried his head in his arms, which were resting on the table.
Brendon, respecting this feeling, walked to the end of the room and
stared at a picture which represented a star of the ballet. But he did
not see the saucy face, the twirling skirts. He was thinking how
strange it was that Ireland should never have confessed this love
before. Certainly he had never displayed such emotion. A change had
come over the man, whereby he more plainly revealed his feelings than
he was wont to do. George put this down to old age, and to less
self-control consequent on the same. Shortly he heard Ireland calling
to him, and returned to his seat to find the old man smoking quietly
and rather ashamed of his outbreak. "But you shall see no more of
that," he said.
"I am sorry to be obliged to ask you for a story of the past," said
Brendon, apologetically, "but it means so much to me."
"I'll tell you all I can," said Ireland, taking no notice of the
apology, but looking at the ash on his cigar. He paused for a moment
to collect his thoughts, and then began abruptly. "I first met your
mother at her father's house in Amelia Square, where I went to take
lessons in singing. Lockwood was famous for his method in those days,
and his fame was increased by the appearance of your mother, Rosina,
at many concerts. She was a most beautiful creature, and was as much
admired for her beauty as for her voice. Ah! what a voice. It was like
the trill of a lark, flexible and silvery, and with an immense range.
She was quite the rage for a season, and was called the English Jenny
Lind. Many offers were made to her for the operatic stage. I dare say
she would have accepted in the end had she not met with Percy Vane,
and he----" Ireland's hand clenched.
"My father," said George, willfully disregarding this sign of temper,
"how did he meet her?"
"He saw her at a concert and fell in love with her. Then he came to
take singing-lessons, with the voice of a frog. Bah! it was a mere
blind. It was Rosina Lockwood he was after. I saw it--oh, yes! The
eyes of love are keen, and, although Rosina would not waste a look on
me, I watched her every action. Many a night have I paced Amelia
Square watching her window. When she sang I was entranced, when she
smiled----" Here the old man shook his head and made an effort to
recover himself.
Brendon saw that the recital was painful to him, and but that he was
so anxious to get at the proofs of his birth would have asked him to
desist. But there was too much at stake for such consideration to be
shown. "Go on," he said softly, and Ireland resumed.
"Percy Vane was a handsome man, and rich. I warned Lockwood that he
was in love with Rosina, but the old man would not heed. He was
flattered by the attention Rosina received. All through that season
Vane was in attendance on Rosina. At the end of it he eloped with
her--yes. He met her outside St. James's Hall and they eloped."
"Where did they go to?" asked Brendan, eagerly.
"That I cannot say. Rosina wrote three weeks afterward from Paris,
signing herself Vane, and stating that she was the wife of Percy."
"Was my grandfather angry?"
"Yes and no. He was angry that he should have lost her, for she was of
use to him as an advertisement of his method of singing, and also she
earned a great deal of money. The house in Amelia Square was large and
required a good deal to keep it up. Besides, Anthony Lockwood was
extravagant. That was why you were left so badly off."
Brendon shrugged his shoulders. "It was good of my grandfather to
leave me anything," he said, "but in what way was my--Mr. Lockwood,
pleased? You hinted that he was not quite angry."
"Well," said Ireland, slowly twirling the cigar in his fingers, "you
see he was flattered that his daughter should have married into the
aristocracy."
"Then there was no question of the marriage, then?"
"No. Lord Derrington said nothing till your mother was dead, and even
then he said very little. It was when Vane was murdered at San Remo
that he first decisively asserted that no marriage had taken place. He
did so because Lockwood insisted that Derrington should acknowledge
you as the heir. He refused to do so, and said that his second son was
the heir."
"That is Walter Vane's father?"
"Exactly. And now the father is dead, Walter Vane stands in your
shoes. I wish you could prove the marriage, my boy," said Ireland,
shaking his head, "but it will be a difficult task."
"I don't care how difficult it is," replied Brendon, resolutely. "I am
determined to learn the truth."
"Who is the lady?" asked Ireland.
"Miss Dorothy Ward. You don't know anything of her."
Ireland shook his head. "I left the adoration of the aristocracy to
Lockwood," he said, with something like a sneer, "but that's neither
here nor there, my boy. To make a long story short, I met your mother
in Paris, and shortly afterward she died, giving birth to you. Eliza
Stokes was with her when she died, and you were given into the charge
of that woman. Your mother was buried in Père la Chaise. Vane put up a
stone to her--oh! he behaved very well, I don't deny that," added
Ireland, but with a dark face; "he was really fond of her. And I
suppose there was a marriage."
"Did my mother ever say anything about it?"
"Never. You asked me that before. It was an accepted fact. After the
death of Rosina her husband went to Italy. I was there, too, and it
was at Milan that the episode occurred which led to the dismissal of
Eliza Stokes."
"What was that?"
"Why, there was a young English waiter, quite a boy he was, who fell
in love with Eliza when she was taking charge of you at the Hôtel de
Ville. She refused to marry him and hinted that she loved your father.
Vane heard of this and taxed her with impertinence. The end of it was
that Eliza said too much and was dismissed. And Jane Fraser was sent
from England by Vane's mother to nurse you. That looks as though Lady
Derrington believed in the marriage."
"It does," admitted Brendon, hopefully. "She would not have sent a
nurse had anything been wrong. On the other hand, if she had been
quite certain about the marriage she might have offered to take charge
of me."
"She did, I believe, but your father was so fond of you--for your
mother's sake--that he could scarcely bear you out of his sight.
However, Eliza went, and Jane came, and then your father went to San
Remo. You were then two years of age."
"Did not my father return to England during all that time?"
"No. When he left England with your mother he never returned. She died
in Paris, and, with you in charge of a nurse, Vane wandered about the
Continent. I was twice in Italy and saw him--the second time it was at
San Remo."
"If you disliked my father so much, why did you seek him out?"
"To see you, George. You were her child, and I loved Rosina so
dearly." Ireland stopped, gulped down his emotion, and proceeded more
calmly: "Yes, I was at San Remo when your father was murdered."
"You never told me that before," said Brendon.
"I never told you anything before," replied Ireland, dryly. "And I
should not tell you now, but that my health is getting so bad that I
may not live long. I have an incurable disease, which will sooner or
later carry me off--no, I don't want sympathy. Let me finish the story
and then we need not refer to it again. I had intended to leave a
written statement behind me for you, George, but this is better, as
you can ask me questions about what you do not understand."
"I understand all so far," said George, thoughtfully. "But about this
murder, Mr. Ireland? Who killed my father?"
"That was never discovered. He went to a masked ball and was seen
leaving the room in the company of a blue domino. His body was found
on the stones of the beach early next morning. He had been stabbed to
the heart."
"With a stiletto?" asked Brendon, recollecting the manner of Mrs.
Jersey's death.
"Yes. Hence it was supposed that he had been stabbed by some jealous
Italian, who had followed him and the lady. But the truth was never
known. I think myself that Vane was murdered on the parade and that
his body was thrown over onto the beach. The man who killed him must
then have taken away the lady."
"Who was the lady--the blue domino?"
"No one ever learned. She was cloaked and masked. Your father was a
gay man, George, and it was rumored that he was in love with the wife
of a certain officer. It might be that the husband--but of course I
cannot say. The blue domino may not have been the woman in question.
The whole thing is a mystery. Your father's body was taken to England,
and as Lord Derrington refused to acknowledge the marriage, Lockwood
took charge of you."
"I remember, and Jane Fraser was my nurse for many years. She was at
San Remo when the murder took place?"
"Yes, and so was Eliza Stokes."
"What was she doing there?"
"Well, this waiter--by the way, his name was George also, although you
were called after Lockwood's father--well, George Rates, seeing that
Eliza was dismissed, got her a situation at a hotel in San Remo. He
came there also during the season, and I believe the two married. But
Eliza Stokes never came near your father."
"What became of her afterward?"
Ireland hesitated. "I can't say," he said.
"But I can," observed George, coolly. "She was murdered the other day
at the Amelia Square house as Mrs. Jersey."
"I heard of that crime. But how do you identify Eliza Stokes with Mrs.
Jersey?"
"My old nurse, Jane Fraser, told me. When I began these inquiries I
looked up Jane, who now lives in a little Essex village. She told me
all she could, which was not much. But she stated that when here one
day, on a visit to you, she had met Eliza Stokes and in spite of her
age and gray hairs she had recognized her. Eliza told her that she was
called Mrs. Jersey and had taken a boarding-house in Amelia Square. I
then determined to speak to Mrs. Jersey, whom I thought might have
been present at the marriage, or at all events might know where it had
been celebrated."
"It is probable she did," said Ireland, "as she was with your mother
as maid when the elopement took place. Did you see Mrs. Jersey, or
Eliza Stokes as I still regard her?"
"I saw her, but she was murdered before I could manage to speak to her
on the subject. Did you know----"
"I know that Eliza Stokes had changed her name to Mrs. Jersey and was
in Amelia Square," said Ireland, "but I only learned this the other
day."
"Who told you?"
"A woman called Miss Bull," said Ireland.
"Miss Bull," repeated George. "I remember, that was the boarder who
foretold a violent death to Mrs. Jersey. But you read about that in
the papers."
Ireland nodded. "I did," he said; "and I also saw that you were in the
house when Mrs. Jersey was murdered. You were a witness."
"I can tell you about that. I----"
"There is no need to tell me. I have not the time." Ireland looked at
his watch. "In ten minutes I leave for my walk."
George remonstrated. "But this is so important."
"Not so important as my health. I can give you only the ten minutes,
George. This Miss Bull called to ask me about the lease of the house
to Mrs. Jersey. I knew nothing about that. When Lockwood died I sold
the house to Lord Derrington----"
"What--to my grandfather?"
"Yes. But had I known he was the purchaser I should not have let
him have it. He bought it through an agent. Since then I heard
nothing more about the house. I did not even know it was a
boarding-establishment until it appeared as such in the papers the
other day. I wondered what you were doing at the inquest----"
"I can explain."
Ireland held up his hand. "I need no explanation. I know that Mrs.
Jersey was really Eliza Stokes. I gathered that from the description
given by Miss Bull in the course of our conversation. My suspicions
were aroused by the fact that Lord Derrington had leased the Amelia
Square house to Mrs. Jersey."
"Why did he do that?" George spoke more to himself than to Ireland.
"Well," said the old man rising, "it is my belief that Lord Derrington
knows there was a marriage, and assisted Mrs. Jersey so that she
should hold her tongue. Now there is no more time. I must go out," and
Ireland walked to the door.
George followed, knowing it was vain to attempt to turn him from his
purpose, as the old man was most obstinate. "One moment," he said, on
the door-step; "this blue domino connected with my father's
murder--was she never traced?"
"No. There was no means of tracing her. Except that she wore a piece
of holly she carried no distinguishing mark."
"Holly!" cried George, astounded. "Yellow holly?"
"Yes. I don't know how you come to mention it, but the holly worn by
the blue domino with whom your father went away had yellow berries."