CLEVER MRS. WARD
"An invitation--an invitation to dinner. By Jove, I never thought I'd
get that far. The Honorable Mrs. Ward, too. Hurrah!"
Leonard Train made these remarks over a letter which had come by the
morning post. It was a delicate perfumed friendly note, begging dear
Mr. Train to come to dinner the next evening without ceremony. "I have
just learned that your dear mother was at school with me," wrote Mrs.
Ward in her most gushing style. "So you will see why I write
informally. Do come." The "Do" was underlined, and Leonard could
hardly contain himself for joy at this proof that a member of the
aristocracy was disposed to be friendly. "A woman of the highest
fashion, too," chuckled Leonard.
To account for Train's exuberant joy, which seemed out of all
proportion to its reason, it must be explained that, notwithstanding
his money, and what he regarded as his talents, he had never managed
to enter the fashionable world. As he was as vain as a peacock, and
anxious to shine and be admired among people worth knowing, this was a
great grief to him. George took him to several houses, but Leonard did
not seem to be a success, for after one visit he was never asked
again, although he left cards assiduously. This invitation of Mrs.
Ward's was purely voluntary, as she had met him only once and had
snubbed him when she did meet him. At the time he had thought her a
horrid woman, but now he was prepared to bow down and worship.
Leonard's father had been in trade, and the nice little income he
inherited had been made out of a patent medicine, most drastic in its
effects, that claimed to cure all diseases. Train senior, a shrewd
innkeeper, had bought it from one of his customers--a drunken doctor
meant for better things, but who had fallen on evil days. By judicious
advertisement, and with the aid of many bought testimonials from
penniless members of the aristocracy, Train managed to make the drug a
success. Train's Trump Pill was seen on every boarding, and Mr.
Ireland possessed one of the original posters.
Soon Train senior became rich, very rich, and, having improved his
manners and suppressed his parents, he was taken up by people of good
position who needed ready money. He bought his way into the fringe of
the fashionable world, and finally married a rather elderly lady, who
had blue blood, extravagant tastes, and no money. She presented him
with Leonard, and then, thinking she had done her duty, arranged to
enjoy herself. Mrs. Train spent the proceeds of the Trump Pill
recklessly, and before her husband died she managed to get through the
greater part of his wealth. Train settled an income of five thousand a
year on his son, and let Mrs. Train do what she liked with the rest.
Then he died, and Mrs. Train sent Leonard to Eton, afterward to
college. When he was thus off her hands she enjoyed herself amazingly,
and finally died in Paris, after spending every penny of the principal
and interest of the large fortune left by her husband. Leonard mourned
his mother, although he had seen very little of her. Then he settled
in London on his five thousand a year and posed as a literary man. But
the desire of his life was to be fashionable. Hence his delight at the
letter.
"Of course I'll go," soliloquized Leonard, when calmer. "I wonder if
George will be there. He loves that Ward girl, so he might. Mrs. Ward
does not approve of the match, so he might not. I wonder if there is a
regular engagement. If not, I might have a shot myself. The Honorable
Mrs. Train--no, that would be the mother."
It will be seen that Leonard was not very faithful to his absent
friend; but the fact is that Train was less devoted to Brendon than he
had been. The episode of Amelia Square made him fight rather shy of
George. The story of the marriage was shady, and in some way--Leonard
couldn't exactly explain how--seemed to be connected with the murder
of Mrs. Jersey. Moreover, Leonard knew something which he had not
mentioned to Brendon, and would not have mentioned it for the
fashionable world. However, he had said nothing about George's
history, and so far had kept faith. But Brendon saw that Leonard was
no longer so pleased to see him as formerly. He therefore avoided the
fat young man, and Leonard did not seem to mind the avoidance. Indeed,
he appeared to be rather relieved than otherwise. Brendon never asked
himself the reason of this behavior, as he thought it best to let
sleeping dogs lie. That Leonard would speak never entered his head.
And Leonard never intended to speak, being weak, but honorable in his
own foolish way. But when Mrs. Ward's invitation came he walked
blindfolded into a trap set by that clever little woman. She asked
Train to dinner, not because she had known his mother--although that
was true enough--but for the simple reason that she wished to hear
what he knew about the Amelia Square tragedy. Brendon had told her
much, but it was probable that Train, being a weak idiot in the hands
of a pretty woman like herself, would tell her more. Mrs. Ward was by
no means reconciled to the possibility of Brendon marrying her
daughter, and wished to find some scandal smirching George, that she
might induce Dorothy to break the engagement. She would have utilized
the tales about Lola and Brendon, but that she was not sure of her
ground in this particular direction, and, moreover, having seen the
Spanish dancer, feared lest so passionate a woman should make an open
scandal. It was the aim of Mrs. Ward's life to do wrong things, and to
avoid troubles arising from them. Therefore, she, for the time being,
put Lola on the shelf and arranged in her own scheming mind to make
use of Leonard. "I can work him like a lump of putty," said Mrs. Ward,
contemptuously. A vulgar illustration, but a true one. Besides, she
said it in the solitude of her own room when she was dressing for
dinner, so no one heard its vulgarity or its truth.
When Leonard entered the drawing-room he was welcomed by Dorothy, who
told him that Mrs. Ward would be down shortly. "It is only a small
dinner, Mr. Train," she said. "Mr. Vane is coming; no one else."
"I expected to find my friend Brendon here," said Leonard, thinking
how beautiful she looked.
"No! Mr. Brendon is very busy at the present time with his book. He
would have come otherwise."
"All things should give way where a lady is concerned," said Train,
gallantly.
Miss Ward laughed. She had heard much of Train from Brendon, and
thought him a kindly, but foolish young man. "I am not a woman of that
sort, Mr. Train. I have no desire that a man should neglect his work
for frivolity. You are a great friend of Mr. Brendon?"
"The greatest he has."
"And he was stopping with you in the house where that tragedy took
place. He told me about it."
Train secretly wished that George had held his tongue on this
particular point, as he had his own reasons for not wishing to be
questioned. With the very best intentions as to holding his tongue, he
knew his weakness for babbling well enough, and found it easier to
abstain from talking altogether than to be temperate in speech.
"Brendon certainly stopped with me," he said reservedly, "but we were
sound asleep when the murder took place. Neither of us heard anything.
After the inquest we both returned to the West End."
"It was a most unpleasant experience," said Dorothy, thoughtfully.
"Very," assented Train, wiping his face. "I shall never go in search
of types again."
"You can find amusing types in the West End," remarked Dorothy, in a
low voice. "Here is one."
The young man who entered the room was a small, attenuated, precise
atom of a creature, immaculately dressed and with a rather shrill
voice. He answered to the name of the Hon. Walter Vane, and was the
cousin of Brendon, although he did not know of the relationship. But
Dorothy and Train both knew, and compared Vane's physique
disadvantageously with that of Brendon. The one man was a splendid
specimen of humanity, the other a peevish hypochondriac. Walter Vane
had been "fast" in his time, and although he was not yet thirty he was
now suffering from the consequences of his rapid ways. He was in the
twenties, yet he was bald. He was as nervous as an old woman and
finicky as an elderly spinster. Lord Derrington, who was a bluff old
giant of the country squire type, sneered at his degenerate
descendant. All the same, he would not replace him by George, who was
a man in looks and tastes after the old lord's own heart.
"Beastly night," lisped Vane, greeting Dorothy and taking no notice of
Leonard. "I think there will be snow. I hope I won't get a bad cold. I
am so subject to cold."
"Mr. Train--Mr. Vane," said Dorothy, introducing the two.
Vane stared and muttered something about "pleasure." Leonard caught no
other word. He then continued his conversation with Miss Ward. "I
sneezed twice at the Merry Music Hall the other night."
"That is where Velez dances," said Leonard, determined to speak.
Vane stared again, and it was Dorothy who answered. "My mother went to
see her, and says she is a most extraordinary dancer."
"Oh, clever in a sort of mad way, and a regular bad one," chuckled the
little man. Dorothy turned away. She did not like this conversation,
as it offended her taste. But the next words of Vane made her pause.
"I saw your friend Brendon at the hall, Miss Ward--the writing man,
you know. A fine-looking chap, but sulky."
"The best man in the world," said Leonard, whereupon Dorothy gave him
an approving look. She wondered what Vane would say did he know that
the man he criticised so freely was his cousin and the legitimate heir
to the Derrington title if he had his rights.
"Well, he has his larks like every one else. They say he is sweet on
the dancer."
"Mr. Vane!" cried Dorothy, the blood rushing to her face.
The little man became confused, conscious that he had transgressed the
bounds of good breeding. He knew that Brendon admired Dorothy, and
that Dorothy took pleasure in his society, but he was unaware that any
deeper feeling existed. Mrs. Ward had kept that sort of thing from
him, as she did not want Vane to leave the coast clear for Brendon.
And Vane was so egotistical that he never for one moment dreamed that
George was his rival. Even if he had, he would have laughed the idea
to scorn. In his eyes Brendon was merely a writing fellow and not to
be named in the same breath with his noble, attenuated, rickety self.
"Well, good people," cried Mrs. Ward, entering the room at this very
opportune moment, "are you all here? Mr. Vane, I am pleased. Mr.
Train, how good of you to come. Ah," Mrs. Ward sighed, "you have your
dear mother's eyes, and lovely eyes they were."
Having slipped in this compliment to put Leonard at his ease and throw
him off his guard, Mrs. Ward delivered him to Dorothy and took Vane
into a shady corner. "Dinner will be ready soon," she said, fanning
herself although it was a cold winter's night. "I hope you are hungry,
Mr. Vane."
"I was," admitted her guest, "but I have to nurse my appetite
carefully, you know, Mrs. Ward, and I am rather put out."
"Not by Mr. Train, I hope. He is a nice fellow, really, very nice,
with money made out of pigs or whisky or something," said Mrs. Ward,
vaguely, for she was not certain. "What did he say?"
"He said nothing, but Miss Ward did."
Mrs. Ward shrugged. "Oh, well, you know, dear Dorothy has such odd
ideas, and all that sort of thing. I suppose it was something about
books, or philosophies, or grammar, or something. Enough to spoil any
one's appetite, I'm sure."
"No. But I mentioned that Brendon--you know the writing
fellow----"
"Yes, I know," said Mrs. Ward, viciously, and at once on the alert.
"Well, I said that it was rumored he was sweet on Lola Velez, and Miss
Ward fired up. Is she so great a friend of his as all that?"
"Oh, by no means," responded Mrs. Ward, vivaciously. "A mere
acquaintance, you know. They talk books, I believe, and how moths
get wings like those animals before the flood. She thinks he is
goody-goody. I'm sure he's dull enough. Lola Velez! oh, a perfect
dear. How she can kick! So Mr. Brendon is in--well, I never should
have thought it of him; but these quiet men are always the worst."
So Mrs. Ward rattled on in her incoherent manner, but perfectly clear
in her own mind as to the good Vane's injudicious observation would
do. If Dorothy once got it into her brain that George was an admirer
of Lola, then there would be a chance of breaking the engagement.
Before Vane could make any more remarks the gong thundered. Mrs. Ward
rose at once, rather glad of the stoppage of conversation. She liked a
lively man, and Vane was a fool. But for all that she was quite
prepared to give him Dorothy, as she would have given her to a prize
idiot provided the idiot was sufficiently rich. "You take in Dorothy,"
she said to Vane, thus getting him off her shoulders, but not hoping
to find Leonard a pleasant change. "I will take Mr. Train under my
wing."
In this order they entered the dining-room, Mrs. Ward trying to stifle
a yawn and wondering how she would get through such a dull evening.
Luckily, Vane mentioned that his grandfather had expressed his
intention of looking in during the course of the evening, "If you will
not mind, Mrs. Ward," he said politely.
"Oh, I'm rather glad," replied the little woman, drawing off her
gloves. "Such a delightful old gentleman! His anecdotes are quite in
the best style."
"He told one to a bishop the other day," said Vane, laughing.
"Really, how amusing! And what did the bishop say?"
"He said nothing, but he looked sermons."
"Ah," sighed Mrs. Ward, "bishops are so particular."
"I find them delightful," said Dorothy, filling in the pause.
"Of course, my dear, because they talk of Renan and missionaries and
those sort of dry things. I remember the Bishop of Timbuctoo, or
Central Africa, or some of those places one never heard of, telling me
how his old curate was eaten alive by blacks and mosquitoes. I quite
forget which; but he was eaten."
"I trust the blacks and mosquitoes didn't find the curate tough."
"I'm sure I don't know. He was just thirty, I believe, and bald."
"You said he was an old curate."
"Oh, dear me, Dorothy how can you expect me to explain what I
mean?--at dinner, too. I mean he was young in years and old in
saintliness. Do try this dish, Mr. Train? It is so good."
Leonard did try it, and did full justice to the merits of Mrs. Ward's
cook. She kept a particularly good chef, as she knew the value of good
cooking. "People like nice things to eat," she explained to Leonard,
while Dorothy labored to entertain Vane. "It makes one so popular if
one's chef can always be relied upon. I have known a woman's position
ruined by inattention to the kitchen. One can break all the ten
commandments if only one feeds the men." Then, thinking she had said
too much, she added sweetly, "But of course I am only joking, Mr.
Train, as one must be good and all that sort of thing."
"I'm sure you are all that is good and kind, Mrs. Ward."
"Now, that's really very nice of you. Mr. Brendon would never say a
really nice thing like that. Of course he's a great friend of yours,
isn't he? and he stopped with you when that poor woman----"
Leonard uttered an ejaculation. It seemed to him that he was pursued
by the Amelia Square tragedy. First Dorothy, and now her mother. Was
there no other topic of conversation? He would have answered an
ordinary person rudely, being wearied of being questioned, but Mrs.
Ward, having the key of the door which led into the fashionable world,
was to be conciliated. He replied to her almost in the same words as
he had used to Dorothy. "Mr. Brendon did stop with me," he said, "but
we were asleep when the murder took place."
"How extraordinary!" said Mrs. Ward, languidly, yet with a keen eye on
the change in Leonard's face. "I wonder who killed her?"
"No one knows," replied Train, shortly.
"Does no one suspect any one?"
"I believe not. The police are quite at fault."
"Oh, the police!" said Mrs. Ward, in a proper tone of contempt. "They
never do anything except make love to cooks. Do you suspect any one?"
Leonard flushed. "I, Mrs. Ward? Why should I suspect any one?"
"Oh, I don't know. You have a clever face. Just the kind of a face
that one would think a brilliant detective would have. You must have
some suspicions?" Again her eyes searched his face.
"No," he protested. "I was asleep. I know nothing about the matter."
"How stupid of you!" said Mrs. Ward, beginning to think that her
condescension in asking Leonard to dinner was wasted. "But you men are
always so blind, poor dears! What kind of a woman was Mrs. Jersey?"
"A nice motherly old creature."
"I know--like a monthly nurse. Was Mr. Brendon introduced to her?"
"Yes. I took him into the drawing-room."
"Really. Have they drawing-rooms in Bloomsbury? How nice and
civilized! Well, did Mrs. Jersey and Mr. Brendon get on well together?
I want to know because you see, Mr. Train, he admires Dorothy, and it
is such a sign of a man's good-nature if he gets on well with
strangers. I suppose Mrs. Jersey liked him?"
"I think she did," replied Leonard, on whose weak head the claret was
beginning to take effect, "but she was rather startled when she saw
him first."
Mrs. Ward's eyes flashed so brightly that Leonard would have been
warned of his indiscretion had he not been looking at his plate. "Oh,
how very interesting! But she never saw him before. Why should she be
startled?"
"It wasn't at him exactly," said Leonard, "but at a piece of yellow
holly he wore in his coat."
"Yellow holly," repeated Mrs. Ward, with feigned surprise. "Why, of
course Mr. Brendon wore a sprig. My daughter gave it to him."
"So he told me, Mrs. Ward."
"And I gave it to Dorothy," continued Mrs. Ward, who for some reason
wished to make an explicit statement. "It is very rare, you know, and
a man who lives in Devonshire sent me a bunch. Dorothy mentioned that
Mr. Brendon had begged for a piece. Yes! he would naturally wear it on
that night, as he had just left my house. But why was this unfortunate
woman surprised?"
"I can't say; but she was," answered Train; "she turned white, and we
all thought she was about to faint."
"Did she give any explanation?"
"No. In a few moments she recovered, and nothing more was said."
"Oh!" Mrs. Ward seemed disappointed. "Was that all?"
"Why--" Leonard turned his dull eyes on her flushed face--"what else
did you expect to hear, Mrs. Ward?"
"Nothing! Nothing," she said hurriedly, for she did not wish to make
him suspicious, "but it seems so odd. Dorothy giving the holly, you
know, and that Mrs. Jersey should be upset. We must continue this
conversation, Mr. Train. It is really most interesting. But you
literary men are quite fascinating. After dinner in the drawing-room,
Mr. Train. Dorothy!" She signaled with her fan, and her daughter
arose. "Don't be too long over your wine," said Mrs. Ward, as she left
the room. "We can't spare you, Mr. Train."
Leonard believed that all this attention was due to his own
fascinations. His head was still heated with the wine he had drunk,
yet he began to regret that he had said anything about the yellow
holly. Certainly he had not promised George to be silent on this
especial point; but he nevertheless thought it wiser to hold his
tongue about all that had taken place in Amelia Square on the night of
the murder. Warned in this way by his mother sense, Train took no more
wine, but after a rather dull conversation with Vane he went into the
drawing-room. Dorothy was at the piano and thither repaired Vane; but
Mrs. Ward, seated near the fire, called Leonard to her side. "I must
introduce you: Lord Derrington--Mr. Train."
The grandfather of George was a huge man, burly, red-faced,
white-haired, and with a rather truculent expression. He was over
seventy, yet carried his years like a boy. Under his bushy white
eyebrows he shot a quick glance at Leonard from a pair of keen gray
eyes and summed him up at once as a fool. But Lord Derrington had been
a diplomatist many years before, and knew that even fools are
sometimes useful. Moreover, he had learned from Mrs. Ward's aimless
chatter that Train was a great friend of Brendon's, and he knew more
about George than George thought. However, Derrington, after that one
glance of contempt, was very civil to Leonard.
"I am glad to meet you," he said, with a nod. "You go in for books, I
understand from Mrs. Ward."
He had a deep, raucous voice like that of an early starling, and spoke
in an abrupt staccato kind of way. Train, who stood before him like a
rabbit before a snake, compared him in his own mind with Becky Sharp's
friend, the Marquis of Steyne. Derrington was quite as wicked and
savage and unscrupulous as that celebrated nobleman.
"I do write a little," said Leonard, nervously.
"I believe in action rather than in writing," said Derrington. "There
are far too many books written. Dreamers, all of you."
"Dreams may come true."
"And when they do come true, what is the use of them? Bah! In my young
days we lived. Now people dream."
"I'm sure there's no dreaming about society nowadays," said Mrs. Ward,
laughing. "Every one is as sharp as a needle to get the better of his
or her neighbor."
"Mutual Deception Society," said Derrington.
"You-give-me-so-much-and-I'll-let-you-go-so-far. That's the sort of
thing."
"But there is a great deal of philanthropy nowadays."
"And what good does philanthropy do, Mr. Train?" said Derrington;
"only makes people lazy. People are too sentimental. I would give half
these paupers the cat if I had my way."
Train was quite sure that he would, for, with his red face and heavy
jowl and savage air of command, he looked the picture of a Roman
emperor. Derrington had the instincts of a despot, and Leonard could
imagine him slaying and burning and doing all manner of evil things.
He wondered how Brendon ever came to have such a villainous
grandfather. It was on the tip of his tongue to say something about
Brendon, just to observe the effect on Derrington. But his courage
failed him and he held his peace. And at that moment Fate intervened.
The drawing-room door opened, and a servant announced, "Mr. Brendon!"
The next moment George came face to face with his grandfather.