CHAPTER IX.
UNCLE AND NEPHEW.
Victor Nevill was on his feet instantly, and by a quick move heintercepted Foster and clutched him by the arm. He repeated hisquestion: "What are you going to do?"
"Take your hand off me. I shall hear from Madge's own lips a denial ofyour words. How dare you accuse her of stooping to an intrigue?"
"I wouldn't call it that. Madge is young and innocent. She knows littleof the censorious world. She has been left pretty much to herself, andnaturally she sees no harm in meeting Vernon. As for denying mywords--she can't do that."
"I will call her to account, and make her confess everything."
"But not to-night," urged Nevill. "Come, sit down."
Stephen Foster yielded to the solicitation of his companion, and wentback to his chair. He mixed a whisky and soda, and drank half of it.
"I forget," he muttered, "that my little Madge has grown to womanhood.Her very innocence would make her an easy prey to some unscrupulousscoundrel. I must speak to her, Nevill."
"Yes, by all means."
"And why not to-night?"
"Need you ask? Would not Madge know at once that it was I who told you?And what, then, would be my chance of winning her?"
"It couldn't be any poorer than it is now," thought Stephen Foster."Did she see you yesterday?" he said aloud.
"No, by good luck she did not--at least I feel pretty sure of it. Ajolly good thing, too, for Vernon recognized me and nodded to me. Butwhether Madge saw me or not won't make much difference under presentcircumstances. If you go downstairs now and start a row with her, shewill be sure to suspect that you received your information from me."
"Quite likely. What do you want me to do?"
"Wait until to-morrow evening, when you return from town. Then tellher that some stock-broking friend of yours in the city saw her nearRichmond station."
"That is the best plan," assented Stephen Foster. "I will take youradvice."
"Of course you will forbid her to have anything more to do with Vernon,and will see that your wishes are enforced?"
"Decidedly. The man has behaved badly, and I can't believe that he hasany honorable intentions. He has been simply amusing himself with thegirl."
"That's like him," Nevill said carelessly. "Jack Vernon was always arake and a _roue_; though, as I am a friend of his, I ought not to tellyou this. But for your daughter's sake--"
"I understand. The warning is timely, and I will see that the girl'seyes are opened."
"And you will give Madge to me if I can win her consent."
"She shall marry the man she loves--the man of her choice," repliedStephen Foster, "provided he is worthy of her. But I won't compel herto do anything against her wishes."
"I am not asking you to do that. I have your permission, then, to visithere as a suitor?"
"Yes; I shall be glad to see you a couple of times a week."
Stephen Foster did not speak very cordially, and his expression was notthat of a father who has found a suitable husband for his daughter; butVictor Nevill had gained his point, and was satisfied with what he hadso far accomplished. He was a vain man, and possessed an overweeningamount of self-confidence, especially where women were concerned.
The two had other subjects to discuss. For a couple of hours--long afterMadge had forsaken the piano and gone to bed--a whispered conversationwas carried on that had no reference to the girl. It was nearly eleveno'clock when Nevill left the house, and bade Stephen Foster good-nighton the step. He knew the way in spite of the darkness and the paucityof street lamps. Having lighted a cigar, he walked briskly towardGunnersbury.
"It was a narrow squeak yesterday," he reflected. "Until I met the girlto-night, I was doubtful as to her having failed to see me on the coach.It would have been most unfortunate had both of them recognized me; theywould have compared notes in that case, and discovered that VictorNevill and Mr. Royle were one and the same. I must be more careful infuture. Foster was rather inclined to be ugly, but he promised certainthings, and he knows that he can't play fast and loose with me. I amafraid some harm has been done already, but it will blow over if hekeeps a tight rein on his daughter. As for Vernon, he must be forced todecamp. Curse the fate that brought him across my path! There's not muchI would stop at if he became a dangerous rival. But there is no dangerof that. I have the inner track, and by perseverance I will win thegirl in the end. She is not a bit like other women--that's hercharm--but it ought to count for something when she learns that I am SirLucius Chesney's heir. I've been going to the devil pretty fast, but Imeant what I told Foster. I love Madge with all my better nature, andfor her sake I would run as straight as a die. A look from her prettyeyes makes me feel like a blackguard."
Thus Nevill communed with himself until he neared Gunnersbury station,when the distant rumble of a train quickened his steps. He had just timeto buy his ticket, dash down the steps, and jump into a first-classcarriage. Getting out at Portland road, he took a cab to Regent street,and dropped in at the Cafe Royal for a few minutes. Then he startedtoward his lodgings on foot. It was that witching hour when West EndLondon, before it goes to sleep, foams and froths like a glass ofchampagne that will soon be flat and flavorless. Men and women, inclinedto be hilarious, thronged the pavements under the strong lights. Birdsof prey, male and female, prowled alertly.
A jingling hansom swung from Piccadilly Circus into the Quadrant. Itsoccupants were a short, Jewish-looking man with a big diamond in hisshirt-front, and a woman who leaned forward more prominently than hercompanion. She was richly dressed, and--at least by gaslight--strikinglybeautiful, with great eyes of a purplish hue, and a mass of golden-redhair that might or might not have been natural; only at close rangecould one have detected the ravages of an unfortunate and unbridledlife--the tell-tale marks that the lavish use of powder and rouge couldnot utterly hide.
The vehicle very nearly ran Victor Nevill down--he had been about tocross the street--and as he dodged back to the sidewalk his face wasfor an instant close to the woman's, and he saw her distinctly. Heuttered an exclamation of surprise, and started as though an unseen handhad dealt him a blow. He hesitated briefly, seemingly dazed, and thenstarted in pursuit. But he ran into a couple of men at the outset, andby the time he had stammered an apology, and was free to look about himagain, the swift-moving hansom was lost to sight in a maze of similarvehicles.
"It's no use to follow in a cab," muttered Nevill. "And I must bemistaken, anyway. It can't be she whom I saw--she is dead."
He stood at the edge of the pavement, staring undecidedly up the curveof the street. When a brace of painted women, emboldened by hisattitude, shot covert remarks at him, he turned on them sharply. But,seeing a policeman approaching, he walked on.
"By heavens, I was _not_ mistaken!" he said to himself. "The papers musthave blundered--such things often happen. She is much altered, but theywere her eyes, her lips. To think that her peerless beauty should havebrought her so low! She is nothing to me now, though I nearly broke myheart over her once. But she may serve as a useful tool. She will be atrump card to play, if need be. She has probably come to London recently,and if she stays any time it would not be a difficult matter for me tofind her. I daresay she drained the Russian's purse, and then servedhim as she served me. The heartless vampire! But I am glad I saw herto-night. With her aid it will be easier than I hoped, perhaps, to winMadge."
* * * * *
Since ten o'clock an unexpected visitor had been waiting in VictorNevill's rooms on Jermyn street. In a big basket-chair, drawn close tothe light, sat Sir Lucius Chesney. He had helped himself to cigars andbrandy-and-soda, and had dipped into half a dozen late novels that werescattered about the table, but without finding any to interest him. Itwas long past twelve now, and he was beginning to feel drowsy and out oftemper. He wished he had remained in the smoking-room of his hotel, orhunted up some old acquaintances at the Country Club.
Sir Lucius was a medium-sized, slightly portl
y gentleman of fifty-eight,though he did not look his age, thanks to the correct life he led. Hehad a military carriage, a rubicund face, a heavy mustache, keen,twinkling eyes, and a head of iron-gray hair. He was a childlesswidower, and Victor Nevill, the son of his dead sister Elizabeth, washis nephew, and presumably his heir. He had had another sister--hisfavorite one--but many years ago he had cast her out of his life. Helived alone at his fine old place in Sussex, Priory Court, near to thesea and the downs. When he was at home he found occupation in shootingand fishing, riding, cultivating hot-house fruits, and breeding horsesand cattle. These things he did to perfection, but his knowledge of artwas not beyond criticism. He was particularly fond of old masters, buthe bought all sorts of pictures, and had a gallery full of them. He madebad bargains sometimes, and was imposed upon by unscrupulous dealers.That, however, was nobody's business, as long as he himself wassatisfied.
He cared nothing for London or for society, and seldom came up to town;but he liked to travel, and a portion of each year he invariably spenton the Continent or in more remote places. He smoked Indian cherootsfrom choice--he had once filled a civil position in Bombay for eighteenmonths--and his favorite wine was port. He was generous andkind-hearted, and believed that every young man must sow his crop ofwild oats, and that he would be the better for it. But there was anotherand a deeper side to his character. In his sense of honor he was acounterpart of Colonel Newcome, and he had a vast amount of familypride; a sin against that he could neither forget nor forgive, and hewas relentless to the offender.
It was twenty minutes to one when Victor Nevill mounted the stairs andopened his door, surprised to see that the gas was lighted in his rooms.If he was unpleasantly startled by the sight of his visitor, he maskedhis feelings successfully.
"My dear uncle," he cried, "I am delighted to see you!"
"You dog!" exclaimed Sir Lucius, with a beaming countenance. "Younight-bird! Do you know that I have been here since ten o'clock?"
"I am awfully sorry, I assure you, sir. If you had only dropped me aline or wired. I have been dining with a friend in the suburbs, and thebest train I could catch took me to Portland road."
Possibly Sir Lucius did not believe this explanation. He glanced keenlyat his nephew, noting his flushed face and rumpled shirt-bosom, and ashadow of displeasure crossed his features.
"I hoped to spend a few quiet hours with you," he said. "I came to townthis evening, and put up at Morley's. I am off to Norway in the morning,by a steamer that sails from the Thames, and from there I shall probablygo to the Continent. I have been feeling a little run down--livery--andmy physician has advised a complete change of air."
"You are a regular globe-trotter," replied Victor, laughing to hide hissudden look of relief. "I wish I could induce you to spend the season inLondon."
"That's well enough for an idle young dog like yourself--you can't existout of London. What are you doing?"
"Nothing in particular. I read a good bit--"
"Yes, trashy novels. Does your income hold out?"
"I manage to get along, with economy."
"Economy? Humph! I have taken the liberty to look about your rooms.The landlady remembered me and let me in. You have a snug nest--moreluxurious than the last time I was here. It is fit for a Sybarite. Yourbrandy is old liquor, and must have cost you a pretty penny. Your cigarsare too good for _me_, sir, and I'll warrant you don't pay less than tenpounds a hundred for them. As for your clothing, you have enough tostart a shop."
"I must keep up appearances, my dear uncle."
"Yes, I suppose so. I don't blame you for wanting to stand well withyour friends, if you can afford it. Your father and mother spoiled you.You should have gone to the bar, or into the army or the church.However, it is too late to talk about that now. But, to be frank withyou, my boy, it has come to my ears that you are leading a fast life."
"It is false!" Victor cried, indignantly.
"I sincerely trust so. I have heard only rumors, and I do not care toattach any credence to them. But a word of warning--of advice--may notbe out of place. Young men must have their fling, and I think none theworse of them for it. But you are not young, in your knowledge of theworld. It is six or seven years since you were thrown on the Continentwith a full purse. You have been able to indulge every whim and fancy.You have had enough of wild oats. Fill your niche in Society andClubdom, if you like. Be a butterfly and an ornament, if you feel noinclination for anything better. But be a gentleman--be honorable. Ifyou ever forget yourself, and bring a shadow of shame upon the unsulliednames of Chesney or Nevill, by gad, sir, you shall never touch a pennyof my money. I will leave it all to charities, and turn Priory Courtinto a hospital. Mark that! If you go wrong, I'll hear of it. I'm goodfor twenty years yet, if I'm good for a day."
"You seem to have a very bad opinion of me, Uncle Lucius. I never giveyour fortune a thought. As for the honor of the family, it is as dear tome as it is to you."
"Glad to hear you say it, my boy," replied Sir Lucius, breathlessly. "Itshows spirit. Well, I hope you'll overlook my sharp words. I meant themfor your good. And if you want a check--"
"Thanks, awfully, but I don't need it," Victor interrupted, with astroke of inspiration. "My income keeps me going all right. It is onlyin trifles that I am extravagant. I have inherited a taste, sir, forgood cigars and old brandy."
"You dog, of course you have. Your maternal grandfather was noted forhis wine cellar, and he bought his Havanas by the thousand from Fribourgand Treyer. That I should prefer cheroots is rank degeneracy. But I mustbe off, or I shall get no sleep. I won't ask you to come down to thedock in the morning--"
"But I insist upon coming, sir."
"Then breakfast with me at Morley's--nine o'clock sharp."
Uncle and nephew parted on the best of terms, but Sir Lucius was notaltogether easy in mind as he walked down Regent street, tapping thenow deserted pavement with his stick.
"I hope the boy is trustworthy," he thought. "He has some excuse forrecklessness and extravagance, but none for dishonor. I told him thename of Chesney was unsullied--I forgot for a moment. It is strange thatMary should be so much in my mind lately. Poor girl! Perhaps I was tooharsh with her. I wonder if she is still alive--if she has a son. But ifshe came to me this moment, I could not forgive her. Nearly thirty yearshave not softened me."
He sighed heavily as he entered Trafalgar Square, and to a wretchedwoman with an infant in her arms, crouching under the shadow of theNelson Column, he tossed a silver piece.
In Friendship's Guise Page 9