In Friendship's Guise

by William Murray Graydon

  CHAPTER VIII.

  AN ATTRACTION IN PALL MALL.

  There was a counter-attraction in Pall Mall--a rival to MarlboroughHouse, opposite which, ranged along the curb, a number of persons areusually waiting on the chance of seeing the Prince drive out. The rivalestablishment was the shop of Lamb and Drummond, picture dealers andengravers to Her Majesty. Since nine o'clock that morning, in theblazing May sunshine, there had been a little crowd before the plateglass window, behind which the firm had kindly exposed their latestprize to the public gaze. Newspaper men had been admitted to a privateview of the picture, and for a couple of days previous the papers hadcontained paragraphs in reference to the coming exhibition. Rembrandtsare by no means uncommon, nor do all command high prices; but thisparticular one, which Martin Von Whele had unearthed in Paris, wasconceded to be the finest canvas that the master-artist's brush hadproduced.

  It was the typical London crowd, very much mixed. Some regarded thepicture with contemptuous indifference and walked away. Others admiredthe rich, strong coloring, the permanency of the pigments, and thepowerful, ferocious head, either Russian or Polish, that seemed tofairly stand out from the old canvas. A few persons, who were keenercritics, envied Lamb and Drummond for the bargain they had obtained atsuch a small figure.

  Early in the afternoon Jack Vernon joined the group before the shopwindow; an interview with the editor of the _Piccadilly Magazine_ hadbrought him to town, and, having read the papers, he had walked from theStrand over to Pall Mall. Memories of his Paris life, of the morningwhen 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 saidto himself, "and it ought to sell for a lot of money. How well I recallthose hours of drudgery, with old Von Whele looking over my shoulder andpuffing the smoke of Dutch tobacco into my eyes! I was sorry to read ofhis 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 andsend it to his executors. I wonder if they would settle the long-standingaccount."

  Several hours later, when Jack had gone home and was hard at work in hisstudio, Victor Nevill sauntered down St. James street. He wore eveningdress, and carried a light overcoat on his arm. He stopped at Lamb andDrummond's window for a few moments, and scrutinized the Rembrandtcarelessly, but with a rather curious expression on his face. Then helooked at his watch--the time was half-past five--and cutting acrossinto the park he walked briskly to St. James' Park station. The trainthat he wanted was announced, and when it came in he watched the row ofcarriages as they flashed by him. He entered a first-class smoker, andnodded to Stephen Foster. The two were not alone in the compartment, andduring the ride of half an hour they exchanged only a few words, andgave close attention to their papers. But they had plenty to talk aboutafter they got out at Gunnersbury, and their conversation was grave andserious as they walked slowly toward the river, by the long shadystreets lined with villas.

  Stephen Foster's house stood close to the lower end ofStrand-on-the-Green. It was more than a century old, and was largerthan it looked from the outside. It had the staid and comfortable stampof the Georgian period, with its big square windows, and the uniquefanlight over the door. Directly opposite the entrance, across the stripof paved quay, was a sort of a water-gate leading down to the sedgyshore 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 therear 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 thedrawing-room, where Madge was sitting with a book. She kissed herfather, and gave a hand reluctantly to Nevill, whom she addressed as Mr.Royle. She resumed her reading, perched on a couch by the window, andNevill stole numerous glances at her while he chatted with his host.

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

  "Will you and Mr. Royle excuse me, father?" she said. "I know you wantto 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; mydaughter would rather play the piano."

  The library, whither Nevill accompanied his host, was on the secondfloor front. It was a cozy room, trimmed with old oak, with furniture tomatch, lined with books and furnished with rare engravings and Persianrugs. Stephen Foster lighted the incandescent gas-lamp on the big table,drew the window curtains together, and closed the door. Then he unlockeda cabinet and brought out a box of Havanas, a siphon, a couple ofglasses, and a bottle of whisky and one of Maraschino.

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

  Nevill did not reply; he was listening to the low strains of music fromthe floor beneath, where Madge was at the piano, singing an old Englishballad. 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 beingoverheard or disturbed. You intimated that you had something particularto say to me. What is it? Does it concern our little--"

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

  Nevill's usual self-possession seemed to have deserted him, and as hewent on with his revelation he spoke in jerky sentences, with someconfusion and embarrassment.

  "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 andconfronted Nevill; there was a look on his face that was not pleasant tosee, as if he had aged suddenly.

  "Is this a jest, or are you serious?" he demanded, coldly. "Do Iunderstand 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--youcannot 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 goodenough to be her father, am I not worthy to be her husband?"

  "Don't say that," Stephen Foster answered. "You are insolent--you forgetto 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 personat home. Sneer if you like, it is true. I love my daughter--the child ofmy dead wife. She does not know what I do in town--you are aware ofthat--and God forbid that she ever does learn. I want to keep her inignorance--to guard her young life and secure her future happiness. And_you_ want to marry her!"

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

  "How will you explain the deception--the fact that you have been cominghere under a false name?"

  "I will get around that all right. It was your suggestion, you remember,not mine, that I should take the name of Royle. Look here, Foster, Iknow there is some reason in what you say--I respect your motives. Butyou misunderstand and misjudge me. I love the girl with all my heart,with a true, pure and lasting affection. I might choose a wife in higherplaces, but Madge has enslaved me with her sweet face and charmingdisposition. As for our relations--you know what poverty drove me to.Given a secure income, and I should never have stooped to dishonor. Theneed of money stifled the best that was in my nature. It is not too lateto reform, though. I don't mean now, but when I come into my uncle'sfortune, which is a sure
thing. Then, I promise you, I will be asstraight as you could wish your daughter's husband to be. Believe me,I am sincere. No man could offer Madge a deeper affection."

  There was no doubt that Victor Nevill spoke the truth, for once in hislife; he loved Madge with a passion that dominated him, and he knew hisown unworthiness. Stephen Foster paced the floor with a haggard face,with knitted brows.

  "It is impossible," he said to himself. "I would rather see her marriedto some poor but honest clerk." He lighted a cigar and bit it savagely."What if I refuse?" he added aloud.

  A dangerous light flashed in Nevill's eyes.

  "I won't give her up," he replied; and in the words there was a hiddenmenace which Stephen Foster understood.

  "Give her up?" he echoed. "You have not won her yet."

  "I know that, but I hope to succeed."

  "What do you expect me to do?"

  "All in your power. Give me a fair show."

  "The girl shan't be bullied or browbeaten--I won't force her into such astep against her wishes. If she marries you, it will be of her own freewill."

  "That's fair enough. But I want an open field. You must keep otheradmirers away from the girl, and there isn't any time to lose about it.It may be too late now--"

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean that Madge has improved her acquaintance with the chap whopulled her out of the river a couple of weeks ago."

  "Impossible, Nevill!"

  "It is perfectly true. And do you know who the man is? It is none otherthan Jack Vernon, the artist."

  "By heavens, Jack Vernon! The same who--"

  "Yes, the same. I did not tell you before."

  "And I did not dream of it. I wrote a letter of gratitude to the fellow,and told Madge to get his address from the landlord of the Black Bull--Idid not know it myself, else--"

  "I was afraid you might have some scruples. It is too late for thatnow."

  "It was like your cursed cunning," exclaimed Stephen Foster. "Yes,I should have hesitated. But are you certain that Madge has seen thefellow since?"

  "Certain? Why, I passed them in George street, Richmond, last evening,as I was driving to the Star and Garter. They were together in a trap,going toward Kew. That is the reason I determined to speak to youto-night."

  Stephen Foster rose and hurried toward the door; his face was pale withanger and alarm.

  "Stop!" cried Nevill. "What are you going to do?"

  "Sit still," was the hoarse reply. "I'll tell you when I return."