CHAPTER IX 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.