The Yellow Holly

Title: The Yellow Holly

Author: Fergus Hume

Release date: June 25, 2017 [eBook #54979] Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/54979

Credits: Produced by Charles Bowen from page images provided by Google Books (the University of Wisconsin-Madison)

Transcriber's Notes: 1. Page Scan Source: Google Books https://books.google.com/books?id=oILQAAAAMAAJ (the University of Wisconsin-Madison)

POPULAR NOVELS BY FERGUS HUME

A COIN OF EDWARD VII.

The Philadelphia Item says: "This book is quite up to the level of the high standard which Mr. Hume has set for himself in 'The Mystery of a Hansom Cab' and 'The Rainbow Feather.' It is a brilliant, stirring adventure, showing the author's prodigious inventiveness, his well of imagination never running dry."

12mo, Cloth bound, $1.25

THE PAGAN'S CUP

The Nashville American says: "The plot is intricate with mystery and probability neatly dovetailed and the solution is a series of surprises skillfully retarded to whet the interest of the reader. It is excellently written and the denouement so skillfully concealed that one's interest and curiosity are kept on edge till the very last. It will certainly be a popular book with a very large class of readers."

12mo, Cloth bound, $1.25 Paper covers, 50cts.

THE RAINBOW FEATHER

The Boston Ideas says "The plot is worked out very effectively and each character serves the author's purpose very forcibly. The narration is brisk and experienceful, and renders the tale thoroughly enjoyable. It is strongly written, and excellently colored in all its features."

12mo, Cloth bound, $1.25 Paper covers, 50cts.

CLAUDE DUVAL OF NINETY-FIVE

The Philadelphia Item says: "It is a very clever story, which runs on smoothly from start to finish, holding the reader's interest—as do every solitary one of the Hume stories, to the very last sentence. Everybody who likes good detective fiction or who has read Mr. Hume before should not miss this excellent story."

Paper cover, 50cts.

G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK

Lola pulled a white packet from her breast and ran with it to the fire. George shot past her, snatched them out before they could catch alight, and thrust them into his pocket.—(Page 296.

THE

YELLOW HOLLY

BY

FERGUS HUME

AUTHOR OF "THE MYSTERY OF A HANSOM CAB," "THE RAINBOW FEATHER," "A COIN OF EDWARD VII.," "THE PAGAN'S CUP," "CLAUDE DUVAL OF NINETY-FIVE," ETC.

G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK

Copyright, 1903, BY G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY

Issued October 1, 1908

CONTENTS

THE YELLOW HOLLY

CHAPTER I

"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 style. I have therefore taken up my residence here for a brief period to study Old-World types." Here he looked round with a beaming smile. "I am glad to find so rich a field to glean."

This doubtful compliment provoked weak smiles. The boarders did not wish to be rude, but they felt it was impossible to approve of the young man. Not being sufficiently modern to court notoriety, one and all disliked the idea of being "put in a book." Mrs. Taine, conscious of her weak grammar, looked uneasily at Miss Bull, who smiled grimly and then glared at Train. Granger drew himself up and pulled his gray mustache; he was the buck of the establishment, and Harmer nodded, saying, "Well, well!" his usual remark when he did not understand what was going on. Only Madame spoke. Train had taken a sitting-room as well as a bedroom, therefore he must be rich, and as he had not haggled over terms it was necessary that he should be flattered. Mrs. Jersey saw a chance of making money out of him.

"How delightful," she said in her motherly manner; "I hope you will say nice things about us, Mr. Train."

"I shall tell the truth, Madame. The truth does not flatter."

Mrs. Jersey became still more motherly and paid a compliment. "That depends, Mr. Train. If the truth were spoken about you, for instance."

It was really a very nice compliment; but Miss Bull, with malice aforethought, spoilt it in the utterance by laughing pointedly. Train, who had already set his face for a smile, grew red, and Madame darted a look at Miss Bull quite out of keeping with her motherly manner. More than this, she spoke her mind. "I hope, Mr. Train, that you will speak the whole truth of some of us."

Miss Bull shrugged her thin shoulders, and in direct contradiction to the traditions of the evening produced her pack of cards. She played a complicated game called "The Demon," and never went to bed until she had achieved success at least thrice. Even when driven from the drawing-room she would finish the game in her bedroom, and sometimes sat up half the night when her luck was bad. To abstain on this society evening always annoyed her, and since Madame had been rude Miss Bull seized the opportunity to show her indifference, and enjoy, by doing so, her favorite pastime. She was a small, thin, dry old maid, with a pallid face and bright black eyes. Her mouth was hard, and smiled treacherously. No one liked her save Margery, the niece of Mrs. Jersey. But Margery was supposed to be queer, so her approval of Miss Bull mattered little.

"Perhaps Mr. Granger will oblige us with a song," suggested Madame, smoothing her face, but still inwardly furious.

Mr. Granger, who had been waiting for this moment, was only too happy. He knew but one song, and had sung it dozens of times in that very room. It was natural to suppose that he knew it by heart. All the same he produced his music, and read the words as he sang. Margery played his accompaniment without looking at the notes. She was as familiar with them as she was with the moment when Mr. Granger's voice would crack. This night he cracked as usual, apologized as usual, and his hearers accepted the apology as usual, so it was all very pleasant. "'The Death of Nelson,'" said Granger, "is a difficult song to sing when the singer is not in voice. The fog, you know—"

"Quite so," murmured Train, politely. "Do you know 'Will-o-the-Wisp,' Mr. Granger?"

Mr. Granger did not, much to his regret, and Mr. Harmer joined in the conversation. "Now there's a song," said he—"'Will-o-the-Wisp.' I knew a man who could bring the roof down with that song. Such lungs!"

"I don't love that loud shouting, myself," said Mrs. Taine in her fat voice. "Give me something soft and low, like 'My Pretty Jane!'"

"Ah! you should have heard Sims Reeves sing it," said Harmer.

"I have heard him," said Leonard, to whom the remark was addressed.

Harmer was annoyed. "Perhaps you have heard Grisi and Mario also?"

"No, sir. But my grandfather did."

"Probably," said Harmer, glancing at his fresh face and bald head in a near mirror. "I was a mere child myself when I heard them. Do you know much about music, Mr. Train?"

"I have heard it a good deal talked about," replied Leonard, with the air of saying something clever.

"And great rubbish they talk," put in Mrs. Taine, smoothing one hand over the other. "In my young days we talked of Wagner and Weber. Now it is all Vagner and Veber—such affectation."

"Ah! manners are not what they used to be," sighed another old lady, who prided herself on her straight back and clear eyesight.

"Nor singers," said Mr. Granger. "There are no voices nowadays, none."

"What about Calve and Melba?" asked Leonard.

"Those are foreigners," said Mr. Granger, getting out of the difficulty. "I speak of our native talent, sir."

"Melba comes from Australia."

"She is not English—a foreigner, I tell you. Don't talk to me, sir."

Mr. Granger was becoming restive at being thus contradicted, and privately thought Leonard an impertinent young man. Madame, seeing that the old gentleman was ruffled, hastily intervened. "If Mrs. Taine will play us the 'Canary Bird Quadrilles' how pleased we shall be."

Mrs. Taine obliged, and Harmer hung over the piano, quite enraptured at these airs which recalled his hot youth. Afterward he begged for the "Mabel Waltz." Meantime Margery was sitting in the corner with Miss Bull, and both were engrossed with "Patience." Madame, under cover of the music, talked with Train.

"You mustn't mind the guests," she said; "they are old and require to be humored."

"It's most amusing, Madame. I shall stop here three weeks to pick up types."

"Oh! you must stay longer than that," said Madame, smiling and patting his hand, still in a motherly way; "now, that you have found us out, we cannot lose you. By the way—" here Mrs. Jersey's eyes became very searching—"how did you find us out?"

"It was a friend of mine, Madame. He knew that I wanted to get into the Dickens world, and suggested this house. I am not disappointed—oh, not at all—" and Leonard glanced at Margery, who was fat, dull and stupid in her looks. She certainly resembled one of Dickens's characters, but he could not recollect which at the moment.

"Do I know the gentleman?" asked Madame, who seemed anxious.

"I don't think so. But he is coming to see me to-night."

"You must ask him in here and introduce him. I should like to thank him for having recommended my house."

"We were going to have a conversation in my room," said Train, dubiously; "he's such a shy fellow that I don't think he'll come in."

"Oh! but, he must; I love young people." Madame looked round and shrugged. "It is rather dreary here at times, Mr. Train."

"I can quite believe that," replied Leonard, who already was beginning to find the Dickens types rather boring. "Who is that tall old man with the long hair?"

"Hush! He may hear you. His name is Rasper. A great inventor, a most distinguished man."

"What has he invented?"

"Oh, all sorts of things," replied Mrs. Jersey, vaguely. "His name is quite a household word in Clapham. See, he's inventing something now." Mr. Rasper, who had rather a haggard appearance, as though he used his brains too much, was glooming over the back of an envelope and the stump of a pencil. He frowned as he chewed this latter, and seemed bent upon working out an abstruse problem. "But it will really will not do, Mr. Train," said Madame, shaking her head till "the diamonds" twinkled; "this is our evening of relaxation. But Miss Bull, against all precedent, is playing 'Patience,' and here is Mr. Rasper inventing." She rose to interrupt Mr. Rasper, but remained to ask Leonard if his friend was stopping the night.

"He will if he comes at all," replied Leonard, looking at his watch; "but if the fog is very thick I don't know if he'll turn up. It is now nine o'clock."

"We usually disperse at eleven," said Madame, "but on this night I must break up at ten, as I have—" she hesitated—"I have business to do."

"I won't trouble you, Madame," said Train; "my friend and I can have supper in my room."

"That's just it," said Madame, and her voice became rather hard. "I beg, Mr. Train, that you and your friend will not sit up late."

"Why not? We both wish to smoke and talk."

"You can do that in the daytime, Mr. Train. But my house is most respectable, and I hope you will be in bed before eleven."

Leonard would have protested, as he objected to this sort of maternal government, but Mrs. Jersey rustled away, and he was left to make the best of it. Before he could collect his wits a message came that he was wanted. "By Jove! it's George," he said and hurried out of the room. Mrs. Jersey overheard the name.

"I suppose his friend is called George," she thought, and frowned. Her recollections of that name were not pleasant. However, she thought no more about the matter, but rebuked Mr. Rasper for his inattention to the 'Mabel Waltz.' "It is so sweet of Mrs. Taine to play it."

"I beg pardon—beg pardon," stuttered Rasper, putting away his envelope and looking up with a dreamy eye. "I was inventing a new bootjack. I hope to make my fortune out of it."

Madame smiled pityingly. She had heard that prophecy before, but poor Rasper's inventions had never succeeded in getting him the house in Park Lane he was always dreaming about. But she patted his shoulder and then sailed across to Miss Bull. "The music doesn't please you, Miss Bull," she said in rather an acid tone.

"It's very nice," replied the old maid, dealing the cards, "but I have heard the 'Mabel Waltz' before."

"You may not have the chance of hearing it again," said Madame.

Miss Bull shrugged her shoulders to signify that it did not matter.

"I suppose that means Mrs. Taine is about to leave us, she said.

"There may be changes in the establishment soon, Miss Bull."

"It's a world of change," replied Miss Bull, in her sharp voice. "Margery, was that a heart?"

Margery pointed a fat finger to the card in question, and Miss Bull muttered something about her eyesight getting worse. Madame knew that this was just done to annoy her, as Miss Bull's sight was excellent. To revenge herself she took Margery away. "Go and tell the servants to send up the negus and sandwiches," she said sharply.

Margery rose heavily. She was a huge girl of twenty years of age, and apparently very stupid. Why sharp little Miss Bull, who loved no one, had taken to her no one knew; but the two were inseparable. Seeing this, Madame usually kept Margery hard at work in other quarters so as to part her from the old maid. But with the cunning of an animal—and Margery was very much of that type—the girl managed to see a great deal of her one friend. Madame had an idea of the reason for this, but at the present moment did not think it was necessary to interfere. She was quite capable of crushing Miss Bull when the need arose. Meantime she vented her temper by sending Margery away. The girl departed with a scowl and an angry look at her aunt. But Miss Bull never raised her eyes, though she was well aware of what was going on.

Madame was not to be beaten. "I tell you what, dear Miss Bull," she said, smiling graciously, "since you have broken through our rule, and have produced the cards, you shall tell all our fortunes."

"Yours?" asked Miss Bull, looking up for the first time.

Madame shook her head. "I know mine. Tell Mr. Rasper if his invention will succeed. Or, perhaps, Mr. Granger?"

"I am at Miss Bull's service," said the polite old gentleman bowing.

Miss Bull swept the cards into a heap. "I'm quite willing," she said in a voice almost pleasant for her. "Anything to oblige dear Madame."

Mrs. Jersey smiled still more graciously and sailed away to send Mr. Harmer to the cards. But she wondered inwardly why Miss Bull had given way so suddenly. There was some reason for it, as Miss Bull never did anything without a reason. But Mrs. Jersey kept her own counsel, and still continued to smile. She had quite made up her mind how to act.

"Ladies and gentlemen," she said, standing in the middle of the drawing-room, "we must disperse to-night at ten. I have some business to attend to, so I request you will all retire at that hour. In the mean time, Miss Bull has kindly consented to tell your fortunes."

It was extraordinary to see how those withered old people crowded round the table. Their several fates had long since been settled, so what they could expect the cards to tell them, save that they would one and all die soon, it is difficult to say. Yet so ineradicable is the wish to know the future in the human breast that they were as eager as youth to hear what would befall them. And Miss Bull, wholly unmoved by their senile excitement, dealt the cards with the air of a sphinx.