CHAPTER XVI
THE PIPE OF PEACE
Brendon was much astonished a day or two later to receive an invitation to dine with his grandfather. After the somewhat stormy interview he had participated in with the old tyrant, George certainly never expected to be treated well by the man whose path he had crossed. He had heard many tales of Derrington's pride, and of his relentless pursuit of those whom he conceived had done him wrong. As George had fought the old man with his own weapons, and had come off victor, he did not expect to be pardoned.
But in this he was wrong. Derrington, sickened with Walter's milk-and-water ways, saw in Brendon a worthy successor who would be able to hold his own in will and word, and would shed fresh luster on the house. Had George been polite, and what the old lord sneeringly called cringing, he would never have received the invitation. As it was, Derrington took him to his hard old heart. He chuckled to think of Walter's dismay when he heard that he had an elder cousin and would not be likely to inherit the title or the money.
However astonished, Brendon was too much a man-of-the-world to reveal his feelings. On the evening in question he presented himself at the mansion in St. Giles Square, scrupulously groomed and brushed. Derrington looked approvingly on his dress, which set off a handsome figure to advantage.
Also the haughty bearing of Brendon pleased him, and he unbent so far as to advance to George with outstretched hand.
"We had rather a rough interview, George," he said, "so I have invited you to smoke the pipe of peace."
Brendon shook the old man's hand quietly, but without much enthusiasm. He could not conjecture what Derrington meant by behaving in a way so different to that he usually adopted. His host felt the slack hand-clasp, and winced on seeing the want of response in Brendon's face. Queerly enough Derrington, contrary to accepted opinion, had a heart, and was so much taken with George that he wished to draw him to himself. Still, he could not but admit that seeing how he had treated the young fellow in the past it was not to be expected that Brendon would act the part of an affectionate relative immediately. Derrington rather admired George for his uncompromising attitude.
"Dinner will be ready soon," said the old lord, waving Brendon to a seat; "only our two selves. I wish to consult you."
"Consult me?" George could not keep the astonishment out of his face.
"It's rather late in the day, is it not?" remarked Derrington, dryly, "but you see I am old, George, and have not much time to spare. Yes, I wish you to consult with me after dinner about-but that can come in the course of our conversation. Meantime, let us talk of anything you like."
"The weather, sir?"
"No, confound you," snapped Derrington, with a flash of his old irritable self; "talk of wine, wit, and women if you like, but spare me platitudes."
Brendon stared at his shoes and smiled under his mustache. "I do not think I can say anything very original about the subjects you mention," he said quietly.
"Talk of Miss Ward, then. You can be original on that point."
Brendon would rather not have mentioned Dorothy, but he was quite determined to show his grandfather that he fully intended to marry his lady-love, and that he was not afraid to speak his mind. "I do not fancy that there is anything particularly original in a love-story. I met Miss Ward some three years before, I have loved her ever since, and we will marry when-"
"There, there," interrupted Derrington, waving his hand, "let us not get on to that subject as yet. We can talk of it after dinner. In fact, you may as well know that I asked you here to discuss your position. We must have an understanding."
"I think you must intend it to be a pleasant one," said Brendon, "as you have asked me to dinner."
"And to smoke the pipe of peace. There's the gong. Heigh-ho!" – he rose rather sluggishly-"gout is stiffening my limbs."
It struck Brendon that his grandfather looked old and very haggard. He had lost his fresh color, his eyes were sunken, and the defiant curl was out of his enormous mustache. He moved slowly toward the door, and George felt sorry to see him so lonely. He knew that Derrington hated all his relatives, and that his relatives cordially hated him, so there was none to comfort the old man in his declining years. Walter Vane was less than nothing, as his mere presence served to irritate his grandfather.
Moved by a sudden impulse, George made no remark, but moved to the elder man's side and offered his arm. The footman was holding the door open, and Derrington could not express, even by a look, the satisfaction he felt. With a surly grunt he took Brendon's arm, but George guessed by the warm pressure that Derrington was pleased. That simple, kindly movement served to draw the two men closer together, and they sat down to an excellent dinner in good spirits.
It was quite a banquet, for Derrington lived in a most expensive manner, and in spite of a sadly diminished income he would never abate the splendor of the style in which he had lived all his life. The table was a round one, laid with exquisite taste, and was placed under a kind of velvet tent, which shut off the rest of the room and made the meal particularly cosy. George, who had a taste for art, admired the finish of the silver, the beauty of the Crown Derby service, the glitter of the cut glass, which was unusually massive, and the adornments of the table. It was a perfect little banquet, and after the somewhat stale food of his lodgings, George enjoyed the meal greatly. Derrington himself did not eat much, but he took great pleasure in seeing George enjoy his viands.
"I had a fine appetite myself once," he observed; "you have inherited it from me. Never be ashamed to eat, George-it means good work. The man who starves himself, starves his public."
"You mean in the quality of his work, sir?"
"Of course. Poor living means poor thoughts."
"Well," said Brendon, with a smile, "I don't think rich living means rich thoughts."
"Certainly not. Whoever said it did? Remember the saying of the Greeks, and, egad, they were the only people who ever knew how to live."
"What saying is that?" asked George.
"Moderation is the corner-stone of dissipation."
"Ah, that's good, sir. But were the Greeks ever dissipated?"
"No, because they followed the advice of that epigram. George, if you expect me to explain epigrams I shall lose my respect for you."
"Have you any, sir?"
"You wouldn't be here if I had not," said Derrington, pulling his huge mustache. "There's your Cousin Walter-"
"My cousin, sir?"
"Of course. You know that." George thought it wiser, to say nothing, although it was strange that Derrington should mention the relationship himself. The old man gave him a quick glance and continued: "As I say, there is your Cousin Walter. I wouldn't ask him to dinner on any account. He's a fool, sir."
"He means well."
"If there is one class of people I hate more than another it is that Pharisaic lot who mean well. They make all the mischief."
"With the best intentions," put in Brendon, taking some wine.
"Best intentions are fatal. How many plans have come to naught because of best intentions? Take some of that port."
"No more, thank you, sir."
"I insist. There are walnuts."
"I don't mind the nuts, but the port-" George shook his head.
Derrington, at his own table, was too polite to press the matter, but he scored up another victory to Brendon's strong will. More, he passed off the matter with a laugh. "You have the hereditary gout, I see, George, when you are afraid of a glass of port."
"It's not that, sir, but I drink very little. I work on milk."
"Bah!" Derrington made a wry face. "Then your work-"
"Is all the better for it. Those who drink beer think beer."
"And those who drink milk think cows, I should say."
"Your knowledge on that point prevents contradiction on mine."
Derrington chuckled. This was just the kind of epigrammatic reply he relished. "You must enter the Diplomatic Service sir," said he, looking approvingly from under his bushy brows.
"Don't you think I'm rather old?"
"Brains are never old, sir. And you have 'em. It's what the Diplomatic Service in this country requires and what it never gets. I was in the Service myself at one time."
"So I have heard," said Brendon, cracking nuts composedly.
"Eh! What did you hear?"
"You must excuse me at your own table, sir."
"Pooh, if you want to say anything disagreeable my own table is the safest place you can say it at. I can't throw things at you."
"Still, a guest must be polite," argued George.
"I like my guests to be truthful."
"Very well, sir, if you will have it-and I feel that it would be bad manners to refuse your request-it is said that you nearly set Europe by the ears when you were ambassador."
Derrington roared. "I did-I did, and I wish I had brought about the war I wanted. It would have done no end of good."
"Does war ever do good?" asked Brendon, doubtfully.
"Certainly. It stirs up things, and teaches men how to use their hands and brains. Without war there is too much wrapping up in cotton-wool. Don't tell me, George, that you aren't a soldier at heart, for nearly all your ancestors fought for their country.
"And fought their country also, I believe."
"When they didn't get their rights," said Derrington, grimly. "I have been a fighter myself all my life, and I've held my own."
"So they say, sir, and I admire you for it."
"Hah! Very good of you, I'm sure," said Derrington, ironically, "but in my old age I can't hold my own, so I have to call in you."
George looked surprised. "Do you intend to do me the honor to ask for my advice, sir?"
"Bless my soul, are you also without understanding, sir? Didn't I say so when you first came?"
"Of course. I forgot."
"You shouldn't forget, though it's useful at times to do so."
"In what cases, sir?"
"Forget a woman's age, forget to talk about yourself, and forget your relations if you can. Come," he added, seeing George laughing, "the wine and food have thawed you. There's coffee in the library, and we can talk over our cigars. Up I get. George, your arm."
He not only asked for it, but took it with marked pleasure. The footman in attendance returned to the servants' hall to state that the Old Devil (the domestic name for Derrington) had quite taken to the new young gentleman. Had the servants known who George was, they would have had a long gossip. As it was, they simply said that the Old Devil was always taking fancies and soon grew tired.
Meanwhile, Brendon was seated in a comfortable chair, enjoying one of the best cigars he had ever placed between his lips. At his elbow smoked a cup of Mocha, and in the chair on the other side of a roaring fire of sea-timber smiled Lord Derrington. He looked a grim and determined old gentleman as he bent his shaggy brows on his grandson. He was becoming more and more delighted with the young man. "I shall have a prop for my old age at last," he thought. "Damme, he's a fine fellow! Ah, youth! youth!"
George was very comfortable, and also felt grateful for the kindness which his grandfather was showing him. At the same time he felt as though he were acting wrongly in hobnobbing with a man who persistently blackened his mother's memory. But Brendon thought he saw signs of repentance in Derrington, and wished to improve the situation if he could. It was difficult for him to quite forgive the old rascal, but he was sorry for his loneliness and haggard looks. Besides, George was a Christian in more than merely going to church on Sunday.
"I suppose you wondered when you received my invitation," said Derrington, in his hardest tone.
"I did, sir. I wondered very much."
"And you felt inclined to refuse."
"I had almost made up my mind to."
"Why did you change your mind?"
George pondered, and looked again at his neat shoes. "Well, sir," said he, after a pause, "I thought that after a dinner we might come to understand each other better, and I am anxious for peace."
"And for recognition of your birth."
"Naturally. The one included the other."
"Does that mean you will fight till you get what you want?"
"Yes," said George curtly, and then closed his lips with a firm determination to give battle if necessary. At the same time he felt it was rather awkward after eating Derrington's food. A sudden impulse made him rise.
"What's the matter now?" asked Derrington, not moving.
"Well, sir," burst out Brendon with a candor unusual in him, "I have a feeling that we are going to quarrel, and in your own house, and after that very excellent dinner I don't want to behave rudely. It will be better to postpone this talk to some other time."
"Not a bit of it," said Derrington, quietly; "we are relatives, and quarrels between relatives do not count. Sit down. I have something important to say to you."
George sat down and prepared for the worst. "We'll leave the question of your birth alone for the present," said the elder in a hard tone. "At this moment I wish to talk of Mrs. Jersey's death."
"Yes;" said Brendon, looking down.
"Also about your father's death."
"What has that to do with this, sir?"
"I believe the one is connected with the other."
George remembered what Bawdsey had said. "I've heard that remark before," he observed.
"Of course. That detective I employed to watch you made it."
"He did. I think you trust that man too much, sir," said Brendon, after a pause.
"Do you? I thought he was a friend of yours?"
"Oh-" George shrugged his shoulders-"I saved his life, but that does not constitute friendship."
"I would fight a man who saved my life," said Derrington, grimly.
"Well, sir, I don't think Bawdsey is worthy of your confidence."
"I know he isn't. But you see I can't help myself."
George looked up quickly. "Blackmail?"
"Something of that sort. I intend to trust my own flesh and blood-that is, I intend to tell you all I know connected with the Jersey case, and ask you to help me to get the better of Bawdsey."
"I shall do my best, sir."
"Willingly?"
"Assuredly, sir."
Derrington was rather moved. "I have not behaved well, George."
"That's true enough, sir," said George, who was not going to be weak, "but you can make amends by acknowledging that my mother was an honest woman."
"I believe she was, George, for none but an honest woman could have borne a son like you. But you see I know no more than you do where the marriage took place."
"Do you acknowledge that there was a marriage?" said George, starting to his feet. Derrington rose also, and the tall men faced one another. Then the elder placed his hands on the shoulders of the younger, with a look on his face which Brendon had never seen before. And certainly the look was new to Derrington.
"My boy," said he, "I am sure there was a marriage. I am sure that you are my legitimate heir, and, by Heavens! I intend to acknowledge you as such before the week's out."
Brendon was so moved by this sudden recognition of all he longed for that a sudden weakness seized him, and he sat down, covering his face with his hand. Derrington thought the young man did so to conceal his tears, but in reality George was putting up a short thanksgiving for this wonderful and bloodless victory. His grandfather again touched his shoulder. "My boy," he said again, and his voice was broken with emotion, "I have behaved badly. I ask your pardon."
George put out his hand blindly and grasped that of his grandfather. When it was once in the old man's grip he raised his grandson with a jerk and made him look him in the face. "You forgive me?" he asked.
"With all my heart and soul," said Brendon, quietly, and after another handshake they resumed their seats. The scene which both had dreaded was over, and now they sat like two friends who had known each other for years. George felt that as Derrington had done justice to the memory of his mother, and Derrington was pleased to feel that he now had a grandson and heir worthy of his name.
"I can marry Dorothy now," said Brendon, with a contented sigh.
"If my influence can help you-yes." Derrington paused and shook his head. "But there is a lioness in the path, George."
"Mrs. Ward?"
"Exactly. She will move heaven and earth to prevent the marriage."
George looked puzzled. "I see no reason why she should oppose it, if I am acknowledged as your heir."
"Nor do I. I thought myself that it was simply the money she wanted, and if you were the son-in-law she would not get her claws on the gold. But there is more in it than that. She seeks revenge."
"On me? I have never harmed her."
"It's a vicarious revenge. I believed that woman loved your father, George, and that he slighted her; that is why she wants to visit his sin-as with a vindictive spirit she may regard it-on you."
"Did Mrs. Ward know my father, sir?" asked George, quickly.
"Yes. She met him at San Remo."
"Then she knew he was murdered?"
"Of course. I saw Mrs. Ward the other day, George. She came here to force me to harm you and to consent to Walter marrying Dorothy."
"Oh! You never agreed to that."
"I have answered her challenge by asking you to dinner and will acknowledge you my heir. Mrs. Ward will then try and make mischief."
"Can she do so?"
"Yes. She knows that I was in Mrs. Jersey's house on that night."
"And you were, sir?"
Derrington made a most unexpected reply. "No, I was not."
CHAPTER XVII
LORD DERRINGTON EXPLAINS
George was rather puzzled to reconcile the apparent contradiction in Derrington's speech. The old gentleman saw his bewilderment, and before the young man could speak he anticipated his question.
"You are perplexed," he said quietly. "I thought you would be. To explain myself clearly it will be better to tell you the whole story from the beginning."
"What story?"
"The story of your mother's marriage and of my quarrel with your father. Do not be afraid, I shall say nothing to hurt your pride."
George nodded. "I am sure of that. We are friends now."
Derrington was much gratified by this speech. But he merely acknowledged it with a grunt and began his family history at once.
"Your father and I never got on well," he said frankly, "and I fear it was my fault. I wanted Percy to obey me implicitly, and as he was of an age to judge for himself he objected. You would have done the like in his case."
"I certainly should, sir. Every man should judge for himself."
"If he has brains to do so. But I fear Percy was not overburdened with brains. He was gay and thoughtless and thriftless. Your talents, George, come from your mother. She must have been a remarkable woman."
"So Mr. Ireland says."
"Pooh! he was in love with her, and a man in love is incapable of giving an opinion. However, I saw your mother several times when she sang, although I never met her to speak to. She was very beautiful and had an intellectual face. Yes, George, it is from her that you inherit your brain. From my side of the family you inherit a strong will and a propensity to fight. There is Irish blood in our veins," said Derrington, grimly.
"Was my father a fighter?"
"In a way, yes. But he had not a strong will, save in resisting me."
George smiled and said nothing, but he privately thought that if Mr. Percy Vane could hold his own against Derrington he must have had a stronger will than the old gentleman gave him credit for.
"However, to continue," pursued Derrington, pushing away his empty cup. "Percy saw Miss Lockwood, he fell in love with her, and finally he eloped. I wrote him a letter saying he was to return or I would never see him again. He declined to return, and remained on the Continent with his wife. I never did see him again," added Derrington, quietly, "for three years later he was murdered at San Remo."
"In his letter to you did my father say he was married?"
"He did; but at the time, as he did not say where the marriage was celebrated, I thought he mentioned it out of obstinacy."
George colored. "I don't see why you should have so misjudged my mother," he said hotly. "Admitting that she was not born in the purple, she was in a good position and had no reason to run away with my father."
"She was in love with him, I believe."
"Even then she would not have eloped, unless it was to be married."
Derrington nodded. "You are perfectly right," he said; "I tried to disbelieve in the marriage, but in my own heart I knew there was one. I have behaved very badly, George."
"You have, sir. But as we are now reconciled the less said about the thing the better. You are quite sure you do not know where the marriage was celebrated?"
"No, George, I do not. After the death of your father I tried to find out, but it was impossible. Had I really seen the register of the marriage I should have acknowledged you as my heir. As a matter of fact," added Derrington, with a burst of candor, "I did not trouble much to search, as I feared lest the marriage should be verified."
George wriggled in his seat. "Let us say no more," he said.
"Very good. I have confessed my sins and I have received absolution from you. At the present moment we will leave the murder of your father at San Remo alone, and come to the appearance of Mrs. Jersey in my life. You were with your grandfather Lockwood in Amelia Square. I had constituted my second son my heir, and I had relegated to obscurity the escapade of my son Percy. All was nicely settled, in my humble opinion, when Mrs. Jersey appeared to make trouble. That was eight years after your father's death."
"Where was she in the mean time?"
"I cannot say. She told me nothing of her history, but from a word or two which she let slip I believe she must have been in the United States. Why she went there from San Remo, or for what reason, I cannot say. She came here to see me-we had an interview in this very room-to demand money."
"What threat did she make?"
"That she would tell where the marriage took place,"
"And you bribed her to keep silence?"
Derrington winced at the scorn in his grandson's voice and took a turn up and down the room. "I am no saint, I admit," he said, "and at the time, George, I did not know that you would turn out such a fine fellow. I dreaded a scandal, and there was your uncle to be considered. I had made him my heir."
"And what about me, sir? Were the sins of my father to be placed on my shoulders?"
"I have admitted that I was in the wrong," said Derrington, impatiently, "spare me further sermons."
"I beg your pardon," said George, quietly. "But please touch as lightly as possible on these matters. We will admit that you acted according to your lights."
"False lights," said his grandfather, sadly. "However, we need speak no more on that particular point. Mrs. Jersey said that she knew where the marriage was celebrated, adding that if I did not give her an annuity she would go to Lockwood and help him to prove that you were my legitimate grandson and heir."
"Did she say if the marriage was celebrated in England or abroad?"
"No, sir; Mrs. Jersey was a remarkably clever woman, and if my son Percy had married her she would have made a man of him."
"Then she really was in love with my father?"
"Very deeply in love-as she told me herself. But she did not regard his memory with such veneration as to desire to aid his son. She was content that you should lose your rights, provided that I paid her an annuity. I tried in vain to learn from her where the marriage had been celebrated. She refused to open her mouth, so I allowed her an annuity of five hundred a year-"
"That was a large sum," interposed George.
Derrington shrugged his shoulders. "Much larger than I could afford, my good sir," he said, "but Mrs. Jersey dictated her own terms. I arranged that the money should be paid through my lawyers, and she vanished."
"Where to?"
"I can't say. She might have gone to rejoin Mr. Jersey if there ever was such a person. She sent a messenger regularly to the office of my lawyers for the money, but did not trouble me in any way. Her next appearance was shortly after the death of your grandfather."
"What did she want this time?"
"To set up a boarding-house in Amelia Square. She said that her life was lonely-a remark which made me think Mr. Jersey was a myth-and that she wanted company. I expect she learned in some way that I was buying old Lockwood's house."
"Why did you buy it?"
"I have a lot of property in that district, and I wanted to round it off with this house. Ireland, in his rage at me for my treatment of your mother, would not have sold it to me. I bought the house through an agent; Mrs. Jersey must have heard of the purchase, for it was then that she came to me and asked me to set her up in the house as a landlady."
"I wonder why she did that," said George, thoughtfully.
"She was lonely, I understand."
George looked at his shoes. "As Eliza Stokes she lived in that house along with my mother previous to the elopement. I expect she had a kind a affection for it."
"Well, whatever her reason was, I did what she asked. She agreed to pay me a rent, and her money was as good as any one else's. Besides, I felt that as my tenant I could keep her under my own eye. When she was away I never knew but what she might die and part with the secret to some one else, who might come on me for blackmail, also. I thought it best Mrs. Jersey should have the house so she went into it and used the old furniture. I don't deny but what she was a good business woman and made the house pay. At all events she was never behindhand with her rent."
"I wonder she paid you any at all."
"Oh, she had her annuity and was afraid of pressing me too hard. I refused to let her the house on a seven years' lease. She only had it from year to year, and in that way I kept a check on her. She knew if I once lost my temper that I would throw her over and acknowledge you as my heir."
"I wish you had done so," said Brendon, moodily; "it would have saved a lot of trouble."
"I do so now," replied Derrington, testily; "better late than never. Well, Mrs. Jersey lived and flourished for fifteen years. I tried to find you out, George, lest she should get at you-"
"Oh, was that why you offered to make me an allowance?"
"It was. I intended to give you a yearly income on condition that you went to Australia; then I could be sure that Mrs. Jersey would not seek you out. But you refused my offer and disappeared."
"I went to college under the name of Brendon," observed George.
"And that is why Mrs. Jersey never found you, and why I could not come across you until you put those advertisements about the marriage into the papers. It was that which-"
"Yes, so Bawdsey told me. You had me watched."
"I did," said Derrington, "and in that way I found out that you were going to stop in Mrs. Jersey's house."
"How did you learn that, sir?" asked George in surprise. "I never told any one."
"Oh, yes, you told Lola."
"So I did," said Brendon, quickly; "she bothered me to come and see her, and I said that I was going to stop in the neighborhood of Amelia Square with a friend and would call on her the next day. I expect she told this to Bawdsey.
"Exactly, and Bawdsey told me. I was afraid lest you should make Mrs. Jersey confess. I wrote to her and asked her to see me. She refused to come to my house, so I made up my mind to seek her out in Amelia Square. I arranged by letter with her to call about eleven o'clock at her place and see her secretly."
"Why secretly, and why at night?"
"Can't you see, George? My height and figure make me so conspicuous that I knew I would be recognized if I went in the daytime, and then people would ask themselves why Lord Derrington went to see a lodging-house keeper."
"You could have put it down to her being a tenant."
"Ah," said Derrington, grimly, "I never thought of that. I received a note from Mrs. Jersey saying she would wait for me on Friday evening at eleven o'clock in her sitting-room; it was a foggy night, if you remember."
"Very foggy. I suppose you traced the house by means of the red light over the door."
"I did not trace the house at all," said Derrington, quietly. "I did not go near the house."
"But I saw you," insisted George.
"You saw my coat and a man with my tall figure, and having my association with yourself in your head you jumped to the conclusion that the figure was me."
"Then if not you, who was the man?"
"Bawdsey!" said Derrington, curtly.
George stared. "In your coat?" he said incredulously.
"It seems strange," said Derrington, "but the fact is that Bawdsey is one of the few who have got the better of me in my life. It was in this way that he prevented me from seeing Mrs. Jersey. On that night I visited him at his rooms, which then were in Bloomsbury. I desired to tell him that I intended to see Mrs. Jersey and to warn her against revealing anything. I don't suppose the warning was needed, as she knew when she was well off. But the fact is, Mrs. Jersey was not in good health and was feeling compunction about keeping you out of your rights. I learned from Bawdsey that Mrs. Jersey had written out a confession of the whole matter and that she intended to leave this to her niece, Margery Watson, so that I might be forced to continue the lease of the house."
George uttered an ejaculation. "I thought from what Margery said that there was some such confession," he remarked, "but it is missing; it was not found among her papers after her death. Unless Miss Bull took it and forced you to-"
"No," interrupted Derrington, vigorously, "she came here quietly and put the case of the poor girl to me. She also undertook that the rent would be paid regularly, and that through Miss Watson she would manage the house. I was quite satisfied with the existing arrangements, and, moreover, thought that, if such a confession were found, out of gratitude Miss Watson might bring it to me."
"If Miss Bull had told her to she would have done so but not otherwise," said George; "she is under Miss Bull's thumb."
"The best place she could be, George. The girl is a born idiot from what I saw of her. However, you know why I renewed the year-by-year lease. Where the confession is I have no idea; but the person who holds it will certainly make use of it some day to extort money, and then we will learn who killed Mrs. Jersey."