CHAPTER XXIV A STARTLING SURPRISE

Having thus settled matters in a satisfactory manner with Mrs. Ward and Dorothy, George sought out Ireland the next day. He passed a delicious hour with Dorothy, and they renewed the vows they had made when there was little chance of a bright future. Now the future was altogether bright, and the two built castles in the air. George was to marry Dorothy, they were to take up their residence with Lord Derrington, and George was to enter Parliament on the first opportunity.

"But you must not neglect your literary work," said Dorothy; "the novel must be finished."

"I hope that many novels will be finished," said George, laughing. "I will be like Beaconsfield, and write novels between whiles of politics--it will be an amusement."

"Which will be the amusement?" asked Dorothy.

"Both. Politics is an amusing game, and when one has time to write what one pleases, and at the pace one pleases, that is amusing also. You will be my inspiration--my Egeria."

"That is very like Beaconsfield," replied Miss Ward; "he always called some unknown woman his Egeria."

"I am more lucky. I know who my Egeria is."

More talk of this light and fanciful kind passed. It would have sounded foolish to sensible people, but George and his beloved were so happy that they talked nonsense out of sheer lightness of heart. At the end of the hour Mrs. Ward carried off Dorothy, and George took leave of his grandfather.

It was the next day that he went to see Ireland. At the door he was informed that Ireland had been very ill with his heart, and that the doctor had been called in. Nevertheless, Ireland would not obey the advice of his physician and stop in bed. He was up and dressed as usual and in his study.

George entered the large bare room, papered with the gaudy advertisements, and saw his former guardian seated at his desk as usual. The man looked very ill. His large, placid face was extremely pale, there were dark circles under his eyes, and he even seemed to have grown lean. His clothes hung loosely on him, and he did not rise when George entered. The young man knew that Ireland must be ill to fail in this courtesy, as he was extremely punctilious.

"Excuse me, George," he said, with an attempt at cheerfulness, "but I am not so well as I might be."

"You are looking ill--very ill," said George, taking his seat.

Ireland nodded. "I can't live long," he remarked in his heavy voice. "So the doctor informs me. My heart is extremely weak. I may die at any moment."

George was shocked. "It's not so bad as that, I hope," he said.

"It's as bad as it well can be. For the last few days I have deviated sadly from my usual habits. I have not taken a walk, and my system of life is quite upset. It's the beginning of the end." He paused and sighed. "You are looking well, George."

"I have every reason to. Mrs. Ward has consented to my marriage."

"With her daughter? How is that?"

"Well, the church where my parents were married has been discovered."

Ireland looked interested. "That is good news. Where were they married?"

"In Wargrove Church. It is a parish in Essex, an hour's journey from town. Quite a small place."

Ireland made the same remark that George himself had made. "Strange," he said, "that being so near town the place was not discovered before. I have no doubt that your advertisement set many people hunting. Well, I'm glad that the marriage has been proved at last, both for your sake and in justice to the woman I loved--to her dear memory. She was Rosina Vane after all."

"That has been proved beyond a doubt. My grandfather has seen the copy of the certificate and now holds it."

"Is he pleased?"

"Very pleased. He is now as friendly toward me as he has been hitherto hostile."

Ireland nodded, breathing heavily. "I thought he would be. He and I had a long talk about you on the day I called. That was when I saw Mrs. Ward and----"

"You can go on," said George, seeing his hesitation. "I know the whole story."

"What story?" asked Ireland, suspiciously.

"The story of what happened at San Remo. Mrs. Ward I know was Violet Howard, and her sister Jenny is Miss Bull."

"Yes. Poor Jenny, she was the better of the two, and now she drags out a miserable life in a London lodging-house. While Violet, who is a bad woman----"

"And the mother of Dorothy," interrupted George, imperiously. "Say no more, sir."

"You are quite right. As I can't say good of the woman let me say no bad. Well, you know how she loved your father."

"I think she flirted with him, but it was Jenny who really loved."

"And look at her reward!" said Ireland, with a deep sigh. "Those who try to do their best always come off worst. I loved your mother, George, and I have been a lonely man all my life."

It was a sad case. George wished to get at the truth, but he was so sorry for Ireland, who had passed so many miserable years, that he did not like to inflict more pain. Nevertheless, it was necessary to learn if Ireland had really visited Mrs. Jersey on that night, so as to set Bawdsey's mind at rest. If George did not learn the truth, Bawdsey might attempt the discovery, and he would handle the old man in a much worse manner than George was likely to do. While pondering how he could set about his unpleasant task, George was saved from making the first step, always the most difficult, by an observation from Ireland, which paved the way to an explanation.

"How did you discover the church?" he asked idly.

"In rather a queer way. Lola Velez----"

Ireland opened his eyes, which had been closed, and looked up. "Who is Lola Velez?" he asked anxiously.

"She is a dancer whom I helped--oh, quite in a proper way, Mr. Ireland. You know the name?"

Ireland, contrary to George's expectation, nodded. "There was a woman in San Remo about the time of your father's death. She was called Velez, and was in love with him."

"He seems to have been a fascinating man," said George, smiling, to set Ireland at his ease. "But this Lola is the daughter of the woman you mention. It was she who found the church."

By this time Ireland was quite awake, and keenly anxious for details. "How did she learn its name?" he demanded quickly.

"She found it in the confession of Mrs. Jersey."

Ireland snapped the paper-cutter he was holding, and, leaning back in his chair, looked anxiously at George. "What do you mean?"

"Well," replied the young man, keeping his eyes fixed on Ireland's face, "it seems that Mrs. Jersey left a confession behind her as to what took place at San Remo."

"Who has that confession?"

"I have! I got it from Lola!"

"And how did she manage to obtain it?"

For answer George related how Lola had called to see Mrs. Jersey, and how she had managed to steal the confession. "It was from reading it," finished George, "that she learned of the church in which my parents were married. Desiring that I should marry her, and thinking I would not do as were my birth proved, she went to the church to destroy the registers. She was caught with the torn leaves, and arrested."

"Arrested?"

"Yes. I wonder you did not see the case reported in the papers."

"I have been too ill to read the papers lately," said Ireland, looking round the room in rather a helpless way, "and none of my servants told me. What happened?"

"Oh, Lola was let off with a small fine. She is now back dancing at her music-hall. She gave the confession to me."

"Did any one else see it--the authorities?"

"No. You can set your mind at rest, Mr. Ireland. I got it from Lola before she was taken to prison. No one had seen it but myself and Lord Derrington."

Ireland drew a long breath of relief. "You made a strange remark just now, George," he said, not looking at the young man. "You told me to set my mind at rest. Why did you say that?"

"I have read the confession," said George, quietly.

Mr. Ireland rose from his chair and began to pace the room. He seemed so weak that George wished him to return, but the old man waved his hand impatiently. "It's all right--it's all right," he said, then stopped opposite to George. "Then you know?"

"I know that my father's death was due to an accident."

"What! Did that wretched woman tell the truth?"

"She told the truth."

"And she did not accuse me of having murdered your father?"

"No. She did not. I suppose she thought it was as well to go to her long home with as few sins as possible on her conscience. But she certainly exonerated you."

"Thank God for that," said Ireland, and returned to his seat. Then he looked at his visitor in a piteous manner. "George," he said in faltering tones, "I have suffered greatly on account of that most unhappy accident----"

"I am sure you must have, sir. But don't let it worry you any more. It was an accident, and both Lord Derrington and I heartily forgive you for having been the unconscious cause of my father's death."

Ireland nodded. "Thank God again," he said solemnly. "Your father and I were not very good friends, as I found it difficult to forgive him for having taken from me the woman I loved. But at San Remo we got on better together. I stifled my resentment so that I might see as much of you as possible, George. Knowing that I was not on good terms with Vane, I thought that Mrs. Jersey might have accused me of the crime. She did try to get money out of me."

"So Bawdsey told me."

"Bawdsey. Who is he?"

"I forget you don't know. He is a private-inquiry agent who has been looking after the case on behalf of Lord Derrington. I learn from the confession of Mrs. Jersey that he is her husband."

"George Rates. I remember. She told me she married him and went to America. It was after her return from America that she tried to get money out of me. I refused; not that I did not realize the danger to which she could expose me, but I knew that if I once yielded I would be in her power. Besides, I had a defense, as she got the stiletto from the woman Velez."

"And it was with that same stiletto that Mrs. Jersey was killed."

"By whom?" asked Ireland. "Did her husband----"

"No. We do not know who killed her. Perhaps you may know?"

"I!" Ireland looked genuinely surprised. "No; how should I know?"

"Well," said George, rather awkwardly, "it seems that Bawdsey has got it into his head that you knew about this confession."

"I did not!"

"That you were afraid it would be published after her death, and that you went to the house on that night to get it."

"I did not. How could I have entered the house?"

"Bawdsey thinks you had a latch-key."

"No. All the keys were handed to Lord Derrington's agent when the house was sold. In plain in words, George, this man Bawdsey--Rates--whatever he calls himself; accuses me of the murder."

"He doesn't exactly accuse you, but----"

"I don't know what else you would call his statements but accusations," retorted Ireland with some heat, "but I never was near the house. I certainly thought that Mrs. Jersey might leave some such confession, but I never asked her about it. I never thought that such a healthy woman would die before me, and I knew that sooner or later my bad heart would carry me off in spite of the regularity of my life."

"Then you cannot guess who killed her?"

"No. I was never near the house. I was in bed and asleep. My servants will tell you so."

"I need not ask them," said George, quickly. "I never thought you were guilty, and I only came to receive your assurance, so that I might tell Bawdsey and prevent him troubling you."

"If Bawdsey comes here I'll soon make short work of him," said Ireland, sharply. "I am not afraid."

"You need not be. Mrs. Jersey's own confession exonerates you."

"I don't mind even that. I would have faced the worst had it to be faced. I never was a coward--except in one thing." He paused and looked timidly at George. "I shrank from telling you how I was the unhappy cause of your father's death."

"You were not the cause, in my opinion. Mrs. Jersey was the cause."

"Well, I thought you would shrink from me did you know all."

"I do know all, and I do not shrink from you," replied George, leaning across the desk to shake Ireland's hand. "It was a pure accident, and has been related by your enemy."

"I am so glad the truth is known to you at last," faltered the old man, "and that you see how unconsciously I caused the death. You are her son, George, the son of the only woman I ever loved--of the woman for whose sake I have remained lonely all these years. Had you condemned me----" His emotion prevented him from saying more.

George grew alarmed by his pallor. "Please think no more of the matter, Mr. Ireland," he said; "you are ill. Go and lie down!"

"Yes, I'll lie down." Ireland leaned heavily, on George's arm. "I shall lie down for ever. But I am glad you know. I am glad you are not angered."

"We are the best of friends, Mr. Ireland. You have always been kind to me. And I am sure my dead mother blesses you for all your goodness to her orphan boy."

"Rosina! Rosina!" murmured Ireland, "how I loved her. You have her eyes, George, and her kind nature. Come, let me get to bed. Soon the curtain will drop."

"I am afraid my visit has been too much for you."

"No. I am glad you came. I am glad you spoke out. I always intended to do so, but I feared lest you should blame me."

By this time they were ascending the stairs. George conducted the old man to his room and sent for the doctor. Ireland undressed and got to bed. Then he insisted on George leaving him.

"But you are ill," protested the young man.

"I am dying, but what of that? I am glad to die. I shall meet Rosina again after long, long years of sorrow. Go, George. We understand one another, and you have forgiven me. There is no more to be said."

"There is nothing to forgive," replied George, softly; then, to humor his old guardian, he departed. A strong grip of the hand was exchanged between them. George left the room and saw Ireland lying as still as any corpse. Only his lips moved, and they murmured continuously, "Rosina! Rosina!" He was true to the woman he loved to the very end.

George left the house, as there was nothing he could do, but he intended to call in again. Meanwhile he repaired to Amelia Square to see Bawdsey. Derrington wished him to tell the detective to stop looking after the case and discharge him from his employment. In his pocket George had a check for one thousand pounds, and when this was paid the whole case was to be relegated to obscurity. Now that Derrington was reconciled to his grandson he was anxious, for obvious reasons, that the sordid tragedy of Mrs. Jersey's death should not come to light. He had not played a very respectable part in it himself, and, moreover, he did not wish that confession published. It would only be a case of washing the family linen in public, and both George and he agreed that this was undesirable. The sooner Bawdsey married Lola and went to America the better, Derrington thought. And for his own sake Bawdsey would hold his tongue, seeing what a close connection he was of the dead woman.

Bawdsey was at home and saw George at once. He looked rather excited, and could hardly keep his seat. "Well, Mr. Brendon," he asked, "what is it?"

"I should rather ask you that;" said George; "you seem excited."

"Not very. Only I have been fortunate in some business, and----"

"What is the business?"

"I'll tell you that later. What is yours?"

"A pleasant one," rejoined George. "Here is the check for one thousand pounds which my grandfather promised you. Marry Lola and go to the States, and stop searching for the assassin of Mrs. Jersey."

"Thank you," replied Bawdsey, taking the check eagerly, "your grandfather is a prince, Mr. Brendon. As to the case, why should I stop searching?"

"You will never find the assassin."

"Pardon me," said Bawdsey, in high glee. "I have found the assassin. Yes!" as George uttered an ejaculation. "Miss Bull killed Mrs. Jersey."