In Friendship's Guise Part 8

"So do I. But father has not been quite himself lately--I think something troubles him."

"Does he want to marry you to any one else?" Jack asked, jealously. "Is there anything of the sort between him and that young chap who comes to the house?"

"I can't be certain, Jack, but sometimes I imagine so, though father has never spoken to me about it. I dislike Mr. Royle, and discourage his attentions."

"His attentions?"

"Oh, Jack, don't look at me in that way--you make me feel wretched.

Won't you trust me and believe me? I love you with all my heart, and I am as really yours as if I were married to you."

"My darling, I _do_ trust you," he said contritely. "Forgive me--I was very foolish. I know that nothing can separate us, and I will await your own time in patience. And when you are willing to have me speak to your father--"

"It shall be very soon, dear," whispered Madge, looking up at him with a soft light in her eyes. "If I find him in a good humor I will tell him myself. We are great chums, you know."

Jack kissed her, and then glanced at his watch.

"Four o'clock," he said, regretfully. "We must be off."

He pulled the boat back to Hampton, and ordered the hostler at the Flower Pot to get the trap ready. The world looked different, somehow, to the happy couple, as they drove Londonwards. Love's young dream had been realized, and they saw no shadow in the future.

The ride home was uneventful until they reached Richmond. Then, on the slope of the hill in front of the Talbot, where the traffic was thick and noisy, a coach with half a dozen young men on top was encountered, evidently bound for a convivial dinner at the Star and Garter or the Roebuck. A well-known young lord was driving, and beside him sat Victor Nevill. He smiled and nodded at Jack, and turned to gaze after his fair companion.

"That was an old friend of mine," remarked Jack, as the trap pa.s.sed on.

"A jolly good fellow, too."

"Drive faster, please," Madge said, abruptly. "I am afraid it is late."

There was a troubled, half-frightened look on her face, and she was very quiet until the station was reached, where she was sure to get a train to Gunnersbury within a few minutes. She sprang lightly to the pavement, and let her hand rest in Jack's for a moment, while her eyes, full of unspeakable affection, gazed into his. Then, with a brief farewell, she had vanished down the steps.

"She is mine," thought Jack, as he drove on toward Kew and Chiswick. "I have won a pearl among women. I think I should kill any man who came between us."

CHAPTER VIII.

AN ATTRACTION IN PALL MALL.

There was a counter-attraction in Pall Mall--a rival to Marlborough House, opposite which, ranged along the curb, a number of persons are usually waiting on the chance of seeing the Prince drive out. The rival establishment was the shop of Lamb and Drummond, picture dealers and engravers to Her Majesty. Since nine o'clock that morning, in the blazing May sunshine, there had been a little crowd before the plate gla.s.s window, behind which the firm had kindly exposed their latest prize to the public gaze. Newspaper men had been admitted to a private view of the picture, and for a couple of days previous the papers had contained paragraphs in reference to the coming exhibition. Rembrandts are by no means uncommon, nor do all command high prices; but this particular one, which Martin Von Whele had unearthed in Paris, was conceded to be the finest canvas that the master-artist's brush had produced.

It was the typical London crowd, very much mixed. Some regarded the picture with contemptuous indifference and walked away. Others admired the rich, strong coloring, the permanency of the pigments, and the powerful, ferocious head, either Russian or Polish, that seemed to fairly stand out from the old canvas. A few persons, who were keener critics, envied Lamb and Drummond for the bargain they had obtained at such a small figure.

Early in the afternoon Jack Vernon joined the group before the shop window; an interview with the editor of the _Piccadilly Magazine_ had brought him to town, and, having read the papers, he had walked from the Strand over to Pall Mall. Memories of his Paris life, of the morning when he had trudged home in bitter disappointment to the Boulevard St.

Germain and Diane, surged into his mind.

"It is the same picture that I copied at the Hotel Netherlands," he said to himself, "and it ought to sell for a lot of money. How well I recall those hours of drudgery, with old Von Whele looking over my shoulder and puffing the smoke of Dutch tobacco into my eyes! I was sorry to read of his death, and the sale of his collection. He was a good sort, if he _was_ forgetful. By Jove, I've half a mind to box up my duplicate and send it to his executors. I wonder if they would settle the long-standing account."

Several hours later, when Jack had gone home and was hard at work in his studio, Victor Nevill sauntered down St. James street. He wore evening dress, and carried a light overcoat on his arm. He stopped at Lamb and Drummond's window for a few moments, and scrutinized the Rembrandt carelessly, but with a rather curious expression on his face. Then he looked at his watch--the time was half-past five--and cutting across into the park he walked briskly to St. James' Park station. The train that he wanted was announced, and when it came in he watched the row of carriages as they flashed by him. He entered a first-cla.s.s smoker, and nodded to Stephen Foster. The two were not alone in the compartment, and during the ride of half an hour they exchanged only a few words, and gave close attention to their papers. But they had plenty to talk about after they got out at Gunnersbury, and their conversation was grave and serious as they walked slowly toward the river, by the long shady streets lined with villas.

Stephen Foster's house stood close to the lower end of Strand-on-the-Green. It was more than a century old, and was larger than it looked from the outside. It had the staid and comfortable stamp of the Georgian period, with its big square windows, and the unique fanlight over the door. Directly opposite the entrance, across the strip of paved quay, was a sort of a water-gate leading down to the sedgy sh.o.r.e of the Thames--a flight of stone steps, cut out of the masonry, from the foot of which it was possible to take boat at high tide. In the rear of the house was a walled garden, filled with flowers, shrubbery, and fruit trees.

Opening the door with his key, Stephen Foster led his guest into the drawing-room, where Madge was sitting with a book. She kissed her father, and gave a hand reluctantly to Nevill, whom she addressed as Mr.

Royle. She resumed her reading, perched on a couch by the window, and Nevill stole numerous glances at her while he chatted with his host.

The curio-dealer dined early--he was always hungry when he came back from town--and dinner was announced at seven o'clock. It was a protracted ceremony, and the courses were well served and admirably cooked; the wine came from a carefully selected cellar, and was beyond reproach. Madge presided at the table, and joined in the conversation; but it evidently cost her an effort to be cheerful. After the dessert she rose.

"Will you and Mr. Royle excuse me, father?" she said. "I know you want to smoke."

"I hope you are not going to desert us, Miss Foster," Nevill replied.

"Your company is preferable to the best cigar."

"We will go up stairs and smoke," said Stephen Foster. "Come, Royle; my daughter would rather play the piano."

The library, whither Nevill accompanied his host, was on the second floor front. It was a cozy room, trimmed with old oak, with furniture to match, lined with books and furnished with rare engravings and Persian rugs. Stephen Foster lighted the incandescent gas-lamp on the big table, drew the window curtains together, and closed the door. Then he unlocked a cabinet and brought out a box of Havanas, a siphon, a couple of gla.s.ses, and a bottle of whisky and one of Maraschino.

"Sit down, and help yourself," he said. "Or is it too early for a stimulant?"

Nevill did not reply; he was listening to the low strains of music from the floor beneath, where Madge was at the piano, singing an old English ballad. He hesitated for a moment, and dropped into an easy chair.

Stephen Foster drew his own chair closer and leaned forward.

"We are quite alone," he said, "and there is no danger of being overheard or disturbed. You intimated that you had something particular to say to me. What is it? Does it concern our little--"

"No; we discussed that after we left the train. It is quite a different matter."

Nevill's usual self-possession seemed to have deserted him, and as he went on with his revelation he spoke in jerky sentences, with some confusion and embarra.s.sment.

"That's all there is about it," he wound up, aggressively.

"All?" cried Stephen Foster.

He got up and walked nervously to the window. Then he turned back and confronted Nevill; there was a look on his face that was not pleasant to see, as if he had aged suddenly.

"Is this a jest, or are you serious?" he demanded, coldly. "Do I understand that you love my daughter?--that you wish to marry her?"

"I have told you so plainly. You must have known that I loved her--you cannot have been blind to that fact all this time."

"I have been worse than blind, Nevill, I fear. Have you spoken to Madge?"

"No; I never had a chance."

"Do you consider yourself a suitable husband for her?"

"Why not?" Nevill asked; he was cool and composed now. "If you are good enough to be her father, am I not worthy to be her husband?"

"Don't say that," Stephen Foster answered. "You are insolent--you forget to whom you are speaking. Whatever our relations have been and are, whatever sort of man I am at my desk or my ledgers, I am another person at home. Sneer if you like, it is true. I love my daughter--the child of my dead wife. She does not know what I do in town--you are aware of that--and G.o.d forbid that she ever does learn. I want to keep her in ignorance--to guard her young life and secure her future happiness. And _you_ want to marry her!"

"I do," replied Nevill, trying to speak pleasantly.