not modern, but had been acquired by Ireland in the dark ages when street art was in its infancy. The effect of the whole was bizarre and striking, but George was too used to the spectacle to pay much attention to the gallery.
The room was very bare, so as to give space for the collection. Mr. Ireland sat at a mahogany desk in the center, which was placed on a square of carpet. Beside this desk stood a chair, and in one corner of the room was a safe painted green. Other furniture there was none, and what with the huge pictures, the bare floor, and the want of curtains to the windows the effect was comfortless and dreary, but Mr. Ireland did not seem to mind in the least.
He was a tall old man with rather long white hair and a clean-shaven, benign face. His unusual height did away with the impression of his excessive stoutness, for he appeared to be as fat as Daniel Lambert. George often wondered at his size, considering that the man ate comparatively little. Mr. Ireland was dressed in glossy broadcloth scrupulously brushed, and wore an old-fashioned Gladstone collar. He had mild blue eyes, rather watery, and a large mouth with full red lips. This hint of sensuality was contradicted by the serenity and pallor of his face, and by his life, which was as correct as his dress and as methodical as his hours.
Never was there so methodical a man. He lived by the clock, and with him one day exactly resembled another. He rose at a certain hour and retired precisely when the hand on the clock indicated another. His meals were always regular, and he had stated hours for walking, when he went out, whether it was wet or fine, sunny or foggy. The man was like a machine, and George, when living with him in his early days, had often found these restrictions irksome. It was one o'clock when Brendon called, and Mr. Ireland had just finished his luncheon. At two precisely he would leave the house for his one hour's constitutional. Brendon was aware of this, and had timed his visit accordingly. Nevertheless, Ireland looked at his watch and mentioned the fact.
"I can only give you an hour, George," he said. "You know my habits."
"An hour will be sufficient," replied Brendon, taking the one chair. "You are not looking very well, sir," he added, noting the fagged air of the old man.
"I have not been sleeping so soundly as usual," rejoined Ireland, producing a box of cigars and passing them. "At my age, and I am now seventy-five, I can't be expected to enjoy my bed so much as a young person. Take a cigar."
"The old brand," said Brendon, selecting one.
"I never vary," replied his guardian, gravely. "Pass that matchbox, George. Have you a light? Good. Now we can talk for the next fifty-five minutes. What is it?"
As time was short, and Mr. Ireland would be sure to terminate the interview exactly at the stated hour, George plunged immediately into the business which had brought him hither. "I wish to hear the story of my parents," he said deliberately.
The cigar fell from the fat fingers of Ireland, and he stared in amazement at the young man. "It is rather late in the day for that, is it not?" he asked, picking up the cigar and recovering himself.
"Better late than never," quoted George, puffing a cloud of smoke.
"A proverb is no answer," said Ireland, testily.
"Then, if you wish to know, sir, I am in love."
"That is no answer, either."
"It will lead to a very explicit answer," rejoined the young man, coolly. "Love leads to marriage, and in my case marriage cannot take place unless I know that I am legitimate."
"Of course you are. I have always maintained that you are."
"What proof have you?" asked George, eagerly.
Ireland hesitated and wiped his mouth in quite an unnecessary manner with a red silk handkerchief. "Your father always declared that Miss Lockwood was his lawful wife, and treated her with every respect."
"Did my father ever tell you where the marriage was celebrated?"
"No; I never asked, nor did your grandfather Lockwood. It was not till after your mother's death that Lord Derrington denied the marriage. Then Mr. Vane was in Italy and never troubled about the matter."
"He should have done so, for my sake," said George, indignantly.
"Certainly, and I urged him to do so," said Mr. Ireland, heavily. "I was in Italy at the time, and you were only an infant in arms."
"Who was my nurse then?"
"Jane Fraser-the Scotch nurse who afterward brought you to your grandfather Lockwood when Mr. Vane was murdered."
"Do you remember the other nurse-the first one I had?"
Mr. Ireland grew indignant, and puffed angrily at his cigar. "I do, indeed," he said wrathfully, "a vulgar, forward hussy. She was not bad-looking, either, and set up for being a lady." Here he began to laugh. "Would you believe it, George, my boy, she was in love with your father, and showed it so plainly that he was obliged to get rid of her?"
"What was her name?"
"Eliza Stokes. And she was handsome in a bouncing way."
"What became of her?"
"I can't tell you," said Ireland, with sudden reserve.
"Did you see her after she was dismissed?"
Ireland turned his cigar slowly and did not look at George when he replied. "Yes, I did. When and where it does not matter."
"But it does matter-to me!" cried Brendon, anxiously. "It is to know about her that I came here to see you to-day."
"I thought you came about your birth," said Ireland, sharply.
"That among other things."
The old man looked down again and appeared to be in deep thought. He was turning over in his own mind how much or how little he should tell George. And the young man looked at him anxiously. Much depended upon the speech of Mr. Ireland. At last the silence was broken, and by a most unexpected remark. "I loved your mother," said Ireland.
"I never knew that," said Brendon, softly, for he saw that the man was moved at the recollection of some early romance.
"I never spoke of it before," was the reply, and Ireland laid down his cigar to speak the more freely. "Yes, I loved Rosina Lockwood with all my heart and soul. I was not bad-looking in those days, George, and I had a good income, but she preferred that scamp," and he struck his hand heavily on the table, with glowing eyes.
"You are talking of my father, sir," said Brendon, stiffly.
"I ask your pardon. But if you wish me to tell the story of that most unfortunate affair you cannot hope that I shall keep my temper. I was very badly treated by-well-" with a glance at George, Ireland nodded-"let the dead rest in peace."
"I think it will be as well," said Brendon, coldly.
Ireland again struck the table. His pallid skin became a deep crimson, and his eyes flashed. George rose in alarm, for the old man struggled to speak with such an obvious effort that he thought an apoplectic fit would end the conversation. He hastily poured out a glass of water and begged Ireland to loosen his neckcloth. But the man shook his head, and going to one of the windows opened it. For a few moments he inhaled the air, and returned to his seat more composed. "I beg your pardon, George," he gasped, when he recovered his voice, "but if you wish me to tell you anything you must not speak to me like that. I have a bad temper."
"I
