CHAPTER II.
FIVE YEARS AFTERWARDS.
Jack Vernon looked discontentedly at the big canvas on the easel, andwith a shrug of the shoulders he turned his back on it. He dropped hispalette and flung his sheaf of brushes into an open drawer.
"I am not fit for anything to-day," he said petulantly. "I was up toolate last night. No, most decidedly, I am not in the mood for work."
He sauntered to the huge end window of the studio, and looked out overthe charming stretch of Ravenscourt Park. It was an ideal morning towardthe close of April, 1897--such a morning as one finds at its best in thewestern suburbs of mighty London. The trees were in fresh leaf and bud,the crocuses were blooming in the well-kept beds, and the grass was asheet of glittering emeralds. The singing of birds vied with the jangleof tram-bells out on the high-road.
"A pull on the river will take the laziness out of me," thought Jack, ashe yawned and extended his arms. "What glorious weather! It would be ashame to stop indoors."
A mental picture of the silvery Thames, green-wooded and sunny, provedtoo strong an allurement to resist. Jack did not know that Destiny,watchful of opportunity, had taken this beguiling shape to lead him toa turning-point of his life--to steer him into the thick of troubled andrestless waters, of gray clouds and threatening storms. He discardedhis paint-smeared blouse--he had worn one since his Paris days--and,getting quickly into white flannel and a river hat, he lit a briar pipeand went forth whistling to meet his fate.
He was fond of walking, and he knew every foot of old Chiswick by heart.He struck across the high-road, down a street of trim villas to a moresqualid neighborhood, and came out by the lower end of Chiswick Mall,sacred to memories of the past. He lingered for a moment by the statelyhouse immortalized by Thackeray in Vanity Fair, and pictured AmeliaSedley rolling out of the gates in her father's carriage, while BeckySharpe hurled the offending dictionary at the scandalized MissPinkerton. Tempted by the signboard of the Red Lion, and by thered-sailed wherries clustered between the dock and the eyot, he stoppedto quaff a foaming pewter on a bench outside the old inn.
A little later he had threaded the quaint passage behind ChiswickChurch, left the sonorous hammering of Thorneycroft's behind him, andwas stepping briskly along Burlington Lane, with the high wall ofDevonshire House on his right, and on his left, far over hedges andorchards, the riverside houses of Barnes. He was almost sorry when hereached Maynard's boat-house, where he kept a couple of light andserviceable craft; but the dimpled bosom of the Thames, sparkling in thesunlight, woke a fresh enthusiasm in his heart, and made him long totransfer the picture to canvas.
"Even a Turner could not do it half justice," he reflected.
It was indeed a scene to defy any artist, but there were some bold enoughto attempt it. As Jack pulled up the river he saw, here and there, afellow-craftsman ensconced in a shady nook with easel and camp-chair. Hisvigorous strokes sent him rapidly by Strand-on-the-Green, that secludedbit of a village which so few Londoners have taken the trouble to searchout. A narrow paved quay, fringed with stately elm trees, separated theold-fashioned, many-colored houses from the reedy shore, where at hightide low great black barges, which apparently go nowhere, lie moored inpicturesque array.
It was all familiar to Jack, but he never tired of this stretch of theThames. He dived under Kew Bridge, shot by Kew Gardens and ancientBrentford, and turned around off Isleworth. He rowed leisurely back,dropping the oars now and again to light his pipe.
"There's nothing like this to brace a fellow up," he said to himself, ashe drew near Maynard's. "I should miss the river if I took a studio intown. I'll have a bit of lunch at the Red Lion, and then go home and doan afternoon's work."
A churning, thumping noise, which he had disregarded before, suddenlyswelled louder and warned him of possible danger. He was about off themiddle of Strand-on-the-Green, and, glancing around, he saw one of thebig Thames excursion steamers, laden with passengers, ploughingup-stream within fifty yards of him, but at a safe distance to hisright. The same glimpse revealed a pretty picture midway between himselfand the vessel--a young girl approaching in a light Canadian canoe. Shecould not have been more than twenty, and the striking beauty of herface was due to those charms of expression and feature which areindefinable. A crimson Tam-o'-Shanter was perched jauntily on her goldenhair, and a blue Zouave jacket, fitting loosely over her blouse, gavefull play to the grace and skill with which she handled the paddle.
Jack was indifferent to women, and wont to boast that none couldenslave him, but the sight of this fair young English maiden, if it didnot weaken the citadel of his heart, at least made that organ beat atrifle faster. He shot one look of bold admiration, then turned and bentto the oars.
"I don't know when I have seen so lovely a face," he thought. "I wonderwho she is."
The steamer glided by, and the next moment Jack was nearly opposite tothe canoe. What happened then was swift and unexpected. Above the splashof the revolving paddles he heard hoarse shouts and warning cries. Hesaw green waves approaching, flung up in the wake of the passing vessel.As he dropped the oars and leapt anxiously to his feet the frail canoe,unfitted to encounter such a peril, was clutched and lifted broadside bythe foaming swell. Over it went instantly, and there was a flash of redand blue as the girl was flung headfirst into the river.
As quickly Jack clasped his hands and dived from his boat. He came tothe top and swam forward with desperate strokes. He saw the upturnedcanoe, the floating paddle, the half-submerged Tam-o'-Shanter. Then amass of dripping golden hair cleft the surface, only to sink at once.
But Jack had marked the spot, and, taking a full breath, he dived. Tothe onlookers the interval seemed painfully long, and a hundred cheeringvoices rent the air as the young artist rose to view, keeping himselfafloat with one arm, while the other supported the girl. She wasconscious, but badly scared and disposed to struggle.
"Be quite still," Jack said, sharply. "You are in no danger--I will saveyou if you trust me."
The girl obeyed, looking into Jack's eyes with a calmer expression. Thesteamer had stopped, and half a dozen row-boats were approaching fromdifferent directions. A grizzled waterman and his companion picked upthe two and pulled them across to Strand-on-the-Green. Others followedtowing Jack's boat and the canoe, and the big steamer proceeded on herway to Kew Pier.
The Black Bull, close by the railway bridge, received the drenchedcouple, and the watermen were delighted by the gift of a sovereign. Amotherly woman took the half-dazed girl upstairs, and Jack was led intothe oak-panelled parlor of the old inn by the landlord, who promptlypoured him out a little brandy, and then insisted on his having a changeof clothing.
"Thank you; I fear I must accept your offer," said Jack. "But I hope youwill attend to the young lady first. Your wife seemed to know her."
"Quite well, sir," was the reply. "Bless you, we all know Miss MadgeFoster hereabouts. She lives yonder at the lower end of the Green--"
"Then she had better be taken home."
"I think this is the best place for her at present, sir. Her father isin town, and there is only an old servant."
"You are quite right," said Jack. "I suppose there is a doctor near by."
"There is, sir, and I will send for him at once," the landlord promised."If you will kindly step this way--"
At that moment there was a stir among the curious idlers who filled theentrance passage of the inn. An authoritative voice opened a way betweenthem, and a man pushed through to the parlor. His face changed color atthe sight of Jack, who greeted him with a cry of astonishment.
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