CHAPTER III.
AN OLD FRIEND
There was gladness as well as surprise in Jack's hearty exclamation, forthe man who stood before him in the parlor of the Black Bull was his oldfriend Victor Nevill, little altered in five years, except for a heaviermustache that improved his dark and handsome face. To judge fromappearances, he had not run through with all his money. He was daintilybooted and gloved, and wore morning tweeds of perfect cut; a sprig ofviolets was thrust in his button-hole. The two had not met since theyparted in Paris on that memorable night, nor had they known of eachother's whereabouts.
"Nevill, old chap!" cried Jack, holding out a hand.
Nevill clasped it warmly; his momentary confusion had vanished.
"My dear Clare--" he began.
"Not that name," Jack interrupted, laughingly. "I'm called Vernon onthis side of the Channel."
"What, John Vernon, the rising artist?"
"The same."
"It's news to me. I congratulate you, old man. If I had known I wouldhave looked you up long ago, but I lost all trace of you."
"That's my case," said Jack. "I supposed you were still abroad. Beenback long?"
"Yes, a couple of years."
"By Jove, it's queer we didn't meet before. Fancy you turning up here!"
"I stopped last night with a friend in Grove Park," Nevill answered,after a brief hesitation, "and feeling a bit seedy this morning, I camefor a stroll along the river. I hear of a gallant rescue from the water,and, of course, you are the hero, Jack. Is the young lady all right?"
"I believe so."
"Do you know who she is?"
"Miss Madge Poster, sir," spoke up the landlord, "and I can assure youshe was very nearly drowned--"
"Not so bad as that," modestly protested Jack.
Victor Nevill's face had changed color again, and for a second there wasa troubled look in his eyes. He spoke the girl's name carelessly, thenadded in hurried tones:
"You must get into dry clothes at once, Jack, or you will be ill--"
"Just what I told him, sir," interrupted the landlord. "Young men _will_be reckless."
"I am going back to town to keep an engagement," Nevill resumed. "Can Ido anything for you?"
"If you will, old chap," Jack said gratefully. "Stop at my studio,"giving him the address, "and send my man Alphonse here with a dry rig."
"I'll go right away," replied Neville. "I can get a cab at Kew Bridge.Come and see me, Jack. Here is my card. I put up in Jermyn street."
"And you know where to find me," said Jack. "I am seldom at home in theevenings, though."
A few more words, and Neville departed. Jack was prevailed upon by thelandlord to go to an upper room, where he stripped off his drenchedgarments and rubbed himself dry, then putting on a suit of clothesbelonging to his host. The latter brought the cheering news that MissFoster had taken a hot draught and was sleeping peacefully, and that itwould be quite unnecessary to send for a doctor.
A little later Alphonse and a cab arrived at the rear of the BlackBull, where there was a lane for vehicular traffic, and Jack once morechanged his attire. He left his card and a polite message for the girl,pressed a substantial tip on the reluctant landlord, and was soonrattling homeward up Chiswick high-road, feeling none the worse for hiswetting, but, on the contrary, gifted with a keen appetite. He had senthis boat back to Maynard's.
"What a pretty girl that was!" he reflected. "It's the first time infive years I've given a serious thought to a woman. But I shall forgether as quickly--I am wedded to my art. It's rather a fetching name,Madge Foster. Come to think of it, it was hardly the proper thing toleave my card. I suppose I will get a fervid letter of gratitude fromthe girl's father, or the two of them may even invade my studio. Howcould I have been so stupid?"
He ate a hearty lunch, and set to work diligently. But he could not keephis mind from the adventure of the morning, and he saw more frequentlythe face of the lovely young English girl, than that of the swarthyMoorish dancer he was doing in oils.
Those five years had made a different man of Jack Clare--had brought himfinancial prosperity, success in his art, and contentment with life. Hewas now twenty-seven, clean-shaven, and with the build of an athlete;and his attractive, well-cut features had fulfilled the promise ofyouth. But for six wretched months, after that bitter night when Dianefled from him, he had suffered acutely. In vain his friends, none ofwhom could give him any clew to his betrayer, sought to comfort him; invain he searched for trace of tidings of his wife, for her faithlessnesshad not utterly crushed his love, and the recollections of the firstmonths of his marriage were very sweet to him. The chains with which thedancer of the Folies Bergere bound him had been strong; his hot youthhad fallen victim to the charms of a face and figure that would haveenslaved more experienced men.
But the healing power of time works wonders, and in the spring of thesucceeding year, when Paris burst into leaf and blossom, Jack began totake a fresh interest in life, and to realize with a feeling littleshort of satisfaction that Diane's desertion was all for the best, andthat he was well rid of a woman who must ultimately have dragged himdown to her own level. The sale of his mother's London residence, anarrow little house in Bayswater, put him in possession of a fairlylarge sum of money. He left Paris with his friend Jimmie Drexell, andthe two spent a year in Italy, Holland and Algeria, doing pretty hardwork in the way of sketching. Jack returned to Paris quite cured, andwith a determination to win success in his calling. He saw Drexell offfor his home in New York, and then he packed up his belongings--they hadbeen under lock and key in a room of the house on the Boulevard St.Germain--and emigrated to London. His great sorrow was only anunpleasant memory to him now. He had friends in England, but norelations there or anywhere, so far as he knew. His father, an artistof unappreciated talent, had died twenty years before. It was after hisdeath that Jack's mother had come into some property from a distantrelative.
Taking his middle name of Vernon, Jack settled in Fitzroy Square. Acouple of hundred pounds constituted his worldly wealth. His ambitionwas to be a great painter, but he had other tastes as well, and histalent lay in more than one channel. Within a year, by dint of hardwork, he obtained more than a foothold. He had sold a couple of picturesto dealers; his black-and-white drawings were in demand with a couple ofgood magazines, and a clever poster, bearing his name, and advertisinga popular whisky was displayed all over London. Then, picking up aFrench paper in the Monico one morning, he experienced a shock. The bodyof a woman had been found in the Seine and taken to the Morgue, whereseveral persons unhesitatingly identified her as Diane Merode, theone-time fascinating dancer of the Folies Bergere.
Jack turned pale, and crushed the paper in his hand. Evening found himwandering on the heights of Hampstead, but the next morning he was athis easel. He was a free man now in every sense, and the world lookedbrighter to him. He worked as hard as ever, and with increasing success,but he spent most of his evenings with his comrades of the brush, withwhom he was immensely popular. He was indifferent to women, however, andthey did not enter into his life.
But a few months before the opening of this story Jack had taken his newstudio at Ravenscourt Park, in the west of London. It was a big place,with a splendid north light, and with an admirable train service to allparts of town; in that respect he was better off than artists living inHampstead or St. John's Wood. He had a couple of small furnished roomsat one end of the studio, in one of which he slept. He usually dined intown, Paris fashion, but his breakfast and lunch were served by hisFrench servant, Alphonse, an admirable fellow, who had lodgings close bythe studio; he could turn his hand to anything, and was devoted to hismaster.
Jack had achieved success, and he deserved it. His name was well known,and better things were predicted of him. The leading magazines displayedhis black-and-white drawings monthly, and publishers begged him toillustrate books. He was making a large income, and saving the half ofit. Nor did he lose sight of his loftier goal. His picture of last yearhad
been accepted by the Academy, hung well, and sold, and he had justbeen notified that he was in again this spring. Fortune smiled on him,and the folly of his youth was a fading memory that could never cloud ordim his future.
* * * * *
It was two days after the adventure on the river, late in the afternoon.Jack was reading over the manuscript of a book, and penciling possiblepoints for illustration, when Alphonse handed him a letter. It wasdirected in a feminine hand, but a man had clearly penned the inclosure.The writer signed himself Stephen Foster, and in a few brief sentences,coldly and curtly expressed, he thanked Mr. Vernon for the great andtimely service he had rendered his daughter. That was all. There was noinvitation to the house at Strand-on-the-Green--no hope or desire for apersonal acquaintance.
Jack resented the bald, stereotyped communication. He feltpiqued--slightly hurt. He had been trying to forget the girl, but now,thinking of her as something out of his reach, he wanted to see heragain.
"A conceited, crusty old chap--this Stephen Foster," he said to himself."No doubt he is a money-grubber in the city, and regards artists withcontempt. If I had a daughter like that, and a man saved her life, Ishould be properly grateful. Poor girl, she can't lead a very happylife."
He lighted a pipe, read a little further, and then tossed the sheaf ofmanuscript aside. He rose and put on a hat and a black coat--he woreevening dress as little as possible.
"Will you dine in town to-night, sir?" asked Alphonse, who was cleaninga stack of brushes.
"Yes, oh, yes," Jack answered. "You can go when you have finished."
Whatever may have been his intention when he left the studio, Jack didnot cross the park toward the District Railway station. He walked slowlyto the high-road, and then westward with brisker step. He struck downthrough Gunnersbury, by way of Sutton Court, and came out at the riverclose to the lower end of Strand-on-the-Green.
A girl was sitting on a bench near the shore, pensively watching the sundrooping over the misty ramparts of Kew Bridge; she held a closed bookin one hand, and by her side lay a sketching-block and a box of colors.She heard the young artist's footsteps, and glanced up. A lovely blushsuffused her countenance, and for an instant she was speechless. Then,with less confusion, with the candor of an innocent and unconventionalnature, she said:
"I am so glad to see you, Mr. Vernon."
"That is kind of you," Jack replied, with a smile.
"Yes, I wanted to thank you--"
"Your father has written to me."
"But that is different. I wanted to thank you for myself."
"I wish I were deserving of such gratitude," said Jack, thinking thatthe girl looked far more charming than when he had first seen her.
"Ah, don't say that. You know that you saved my life. I am a goodswimmer, but that morning my clothes seemed to drag me down."
"I am glad that I happened to be near at the time," Jack replied, ashe seated himself without invitation on the bench. "But it is not apleasant topic--let us not talk about it."
"I shall never forget it," the girl answered softly. She was silent fora moment, and then added gravely: "It is so strange to know you. Iadmire artists so much, and I saw your picture in last year's Academy.How surprised I was when I read your card!"
"You paint, yourself, Miss Foster?"
"No, I only try to. I wish I could."
She reluctantly yielded her block of Whatman's paper to Jack, and in theportfolio attached to it he found several sketches that showed realpromise. He frankly said as much, to his companion's delight, and thenthe conversation turned on the quaintness of Strand-on-the-Green, andthe constant and varied beauty of the river at this point--a subjectthat was full of genuine interest to both. When the sun passed below thebridge the girl suddenly rose and gathered her things.
"I must go," she said. "My father is coming home early to-day. Good-by,Mr. Vernon."
"Not really good-by. I hope?"
An expression of sorrow and pain, almost pitiful, clouded her lovelyface. Jack understood the meaning of it, and hated Stephen Foster in hisheart.
"I shall see you here sometimes?" he added.
"Perhaps."
"Then you do not forbid me to come again?"
"How can I do that? This river walk is quite free, Mr. Vernon. Oh,please don't think me ungrateful, but--but--"
She turned her head quickly away, and did not finish the sentence. Shecalled a word of farewell over her shoulder, and Jack moodily watchedher slim and graceful figure vanish between the great elm trees thatguard the lower entrance to Strand-on-the-Green.
"John Vernon, you are a fool," he said to himself. "The best thing foryou is to pack up your traps and be off to-morrow morning for a coupleof months' sketching in Devonshire. You've been bitten once--look out!"
He took a shilling from his pocket, and muttered, as he flipped it inthe air: "Tail, Richmond--head, town."
The coin fell tail upward, and Jack went off to dine at the Roebuck onthe hill, beloved of artists, where he met some boon companions andargued about Whistler until a late hour.