In Friendship's Guise by Wm. Murray Graydon

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"Thank you; I fear I must accept your offer," said Jack. "But I hope you
will attend to the young lady first. Your wife seemed to know her."

"Quite well, sir," was the reply. "Bless you, we all know Miss Madge
Foster 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 is
in 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 the
entrance passage of the inn. An authoritative voice opened a way between
them, and a man pushed through to the parlor. His face changed color at
the sight of Jack, who greeted him with a cry of astonishment.

CHAPTER III.

AN OLD FRIEND

There was gladness as well as surprise in Jack's hearty exclamation, for
the man who stood before him in the parlor of the Black Bull was his old
friend Victor Nevill, little altered in five years, except for a heavier
mustache that improved his dark and handsome face. To judge from
appearances, he had not run through with all his money. He was daintily
booted and gloved, and wore morning tweeds of perfect cut; a sprig of
violets was thrust in his button-hole. The two had not met since they
parted in Paris on that memorable night, nor had they known of each
other'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 on
this 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 would
have looked you up long ago, but I lost all trace of you."

"That's my case," said Jack. "I supposed you were still abroad. Been
back 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 came
for 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 you
she 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 was
a troubled look in his eyes. He spoke the girl's name carelessly, then
added 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 I
do 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 the
evenings, though."

A few more words, and Neville departed. Jack was prevailed upon by the
landlord to go to an upper room, where he stripped off his drenched
garments and rubbed himself dry, then putting on a suit of clothes
belonging to his host. The latter brought the cheering news that Miss
Foster had taken a hot draught and was sleeping peacefully, and that it
would be quite unnecessary to send for a doctor.

A little later Alphonse and a cab arrived at the rear of the Black
Bull, where there was a lane for vehicular traffic, and Jack once more
changed his attire. He left his card and a polite message for the girl,
pressed a substantial tip on the reluctant landlord, and was soon
rattling homeward up Chiswick high-road, feeling none the worse for his
wetting, but, on the contrary, gifted with a keen appetite. He had sent
his boat back to Maynard's.

"What a pretty girl that was!" he reflected. "It's the first time in
five years I've given a serious thought to a woman. But I shall forget
her 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 to
leave my card. I suppose I will get a fervid letter of gratitude from
the girl's father, or the two of them may even invade my studio. How
could I have been so stupid?"

He ate a hearty lunch, and set to work diligently. But he could not keep
his mind from the adventure of the morning, and he saw more frequently
the face of the lovely young English girl, than that of the swarthy
Moorish dancer he was doing in oils.

Those five years had made a different man of Jack Clare--had brought him
financial prosperity, success in his art, and contentment with life. He
was now twenty-seven, clean-shaven, and with the build of an athlete;
and his attractive, well-cut features had fulfilled the promise of
youth. But for six wretched months, after that bitter night when Diane
fled from him, he had suffered acutely. In vain his friends, none of
whom could give him any clew to his betrayer, sought to comfort him; in
vain he searched for trace of tidings of his wife, for her faithlessness
had not utterly crushed his love, and the recollections of the first
months of his marriage were very sweet to him. The chains with which the
dancer of the Folies Bergere bound him had been strong; his hot youth
had fallen victim to the charms of a face and figure that would have
enslaved more experienced men.

But the healing power of time works wonders, and in the spring of the
succeeding year, when Paris burst into leaf and blossom, Jack began to
take a fresh interest in life, and to realize with a feeling little
short of satisfaction that Diane's desertion was all for the best, and
that he was well rid of a woman who must ultimately have dragged him
down to her own level. The sale of his mother's London residence, a
narrow little house in Bayswater, put him in possession of a fairly
large sum of money. He left Paris with his friend Jimmie Drexell, and
the two spent a year in Italy, Holland and Algeria, doing pretty hard
work in the way of sketching. Jack returned to Paris quite cured, and
with a determination to win success in his calling. He saw Drexell off
for his home in New York, and then he packed up his belongings--they had
been under lock and key in a room of the house on the Boulevard St.
Germain--and emigrated to London. His great sorrow was only an
unpleasant memory to him now. He had friends in England, but no
relations there or anywhere, so far as he knew. His father, an artist
of unappreciated talent, had died twenty years before. It was after his
death that Jack's mother had come into some property from a distant
relative.

Taking his middle name of Vernon, Jack settled in Fitzroy Square. A
couple of hundred pounds constituted his worldly wealth. His ambition
was to be a great painter, but he had other tastes as well, and his
talent lay in more than one channel. Within a year, by dint of hard
work, he obtained more than a foothold. He had sold a couple of pictures
to dealers; his black-and-white drawings were in demand with a couple of
good magazines, and a clever poster, bearing his name, and advertising
a popular whisky was displayed all over London. Then, picking up a
French paper in the Monico one morning, he experienced a shock. The body
of a woman had been found in the Seine and taken to the Morgue, where
several persons unhesitatingly identified her as Diane Merode, the
one-time fascinating dancer of the Folies Bergere.

Jack turned pale, and crushed the paper in his hand. Evening found him
wandering on the heights of Hampstead, but the next morning he was at
his easel. He was a free man now in every sense, and the world looked
brighter 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, with
whom he was immensely popular. He was indifferent to women, however, and
they did not enter into his life.

But a few months before the opening of this story Jack had taken his new
studio 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 all
parts of town; in that respect he was better off than artists living in
Hampstead or St. John's Wood. He had a couple of small furnished rooms
at one end of the studio, in one of which he slept. He usually dined in
town, Paris fashion, but his breakfast and lunch were served by his
French servant, Alphonse, an admirable fellow, who had lodgings close by
the studio; he could turn his hand to anything, and was devoted to his
master.

Jack had achieved success, and he deserved it. His name was well known,
and better things were predicted of him. The leading magazines displayed
his black-and-white drawings monthly, and publishers begged him to
illustrate books. He was making a large income, and saving the half of
it. Nor did he lose sight of his loftier goal. His picture of last year
had been accepted by the Academy, hung well, and sold, and he had just
been 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 or
dim 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 possible
points for illustration, when Alphonse handed him a letter. It was
directed 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 and
timely service he had rendered his daughter. That was all. There was no
invitation to the house at Strand-on-the-Green--no hope or desire for a
personal acquaintance.

Jack resented the bald, stereotyped communication. He felt
piqued--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 her
again.

"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 with
contempt. If I had a daughter like that, and a man saved her life, I
should be properly grateful. Poor girl, she can't lead a very happy
life."

He lighted a pipe, read a little further, and then tossed the sheaf of
manuscript aside. He rose and put on a hat and a black coat--he wore
evening dress as little as possible.

"Will you dine in town to-night, sir?" asked Alphonse, who was cleaning
a 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 did
not cross the park toward the District Railway station. He walked slowly
to the high-road, and then westward with brisker step. He struck down
through Gunnersbury, by way of Sutton Court, and came out at the river
close to the lower end of Strand-on-the-Green.

A girl was sitting on a bench near the shore, pensively watching the sun
drooping over the misty ramparts of Kew Bridge; she held a closed book
in 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 blush
suffused her countenance, and for an instant she was speechless. Then,
with less confusion, with the candor of an innocent and unconventional
nature, 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 that
the 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 good
swimmer, but that morning my clothes seemed to drag me down."

"I am glad that I happened to be near at the time," Jack replied, as
he seated himself without invitation on the bench. "But it is not a
pleasant topic--let us not talk about it."

"I shall never forget it," the girl answered softly. She was silent for
a moment, and then added gravely: "It is so strange to know you. I
admire 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 the
portfolio attached to it he found several sketches that showed real
promise. He frankly said as much, to his companion's delight, and then
the conversation turned on the quaintness of Strand-on-the-Green, and
the constant and varied beauty of the river at this point--a subject
that was full of genuine interest to both. When the sun passed below the
bridge 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 lovely
face. Jack understood the meaning of it, and hated Stephen Foster in his
heart.

"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. She
called a word of farewell over her shoulder, and Jack moodily watched
her slim and graceful figure vanish between the great elm trees that
guard the lower entrance to Strand-on-the-Green.

"John Vernon, you are a fool," he said to himself. "The best thing for
you is to pack up your traps and be off to-morrow morning for a couple
of months' sketching in Devonshire. You've been bitten once--look out!"

He took a shilling from his pocket, and muttered, as he flipped it in
the air: "Tail, Richmond--head, town."

The coin fell tail upward, and Jack went off to dine at the Roebuck on
the hill, beloved of artists, where he met some boon companions and
argued about Whistler until a late hour.

CHAPTER IV.

NUMBER 320 WARDOUR STREET.

The rear-guard of London's great army of clerks had already vanished in
the city, and the hour was drawing near to eleven, when Victor Nevill
shook off his lassitude sufficiently to get out of bed. A cold tub
freshened him, and as he dressed with scrupulous care, choosing his
clothes from a well-filled wardrobe, he occasionally walked to the
window of his sitting-room and looked down on the narrow but lively
thoroughfare of Jermyn street. It was a fine morning, with the scent of
spring in the air, and the many colors of the rumbling 'busses glistened
like fresh paint in the sunlight.

His toilet completed, Victor Nevill pressed an electric bell, in answer
to which there presently appeared, from some mysterious source
downstairs, a boy in buttons carrying a tray on which reposed a small
pot of coffee, one of cream, a pat of butter, and a couple of crisp
rolls. Nevill ate his breakfast with the mechanical air of one who is
doing a tiresome but necessary thing, meanwhile consulting a tiny
memorandum-book, and counting over a handful of loose gold and silver.
Then he put on his hat and gloves, looked at the fit of his gray
frock-coat in the glass, and went into the street. At Piccadilly Circus
he bought a _boutonniere_, and as he was feeling slightly rocky after a
late night at card-playing, he dropped into the St. James. He emerged
shortly, fortified by a brandy-and-soda, and sauntered westward along
the Piccadilly pavement.

A typical young-man-about-town, an indolent pleasure-lover, always
dressed to perfection and flush with money--such was Victor Nevill in
the opinion of the world. For aught men knew to the contrary, he thrived
like the proverbial lily of the field, without the need of toiling or
spinning. He lived in expensive rooms, dined at the best restaurants,
and belonged to a couple of good clubs. To his friends this was no
matter of surprise or conjecture. They were aware that he was
well-connected, and that years before he had come into a fortune; they
naturally supposed that enough of it remained to yield him a comfortable
income, in spite of the follies and extravagances that rumor attributed
to him in the past, while he was abroad.

But Nevill himself, and one other individual, knew better. The bulk of
his fortune exhausted by reckless living on the Continent, he had
returned to London with a thousand pounds in cash, and a secured annuity
of two hundred pounds, which he was too prudent to try to negotiate. The
thousand pounds did not last long, but by the time they were spent he
had drifted into degraded and evil ways. None had ever dared to
whisper--none had ever suspected--that Victor Nevill was a rook for
money-lenders and a dangerous friend for young men. He knew what a
perilous game he was playing, but he studied every move and guarded
shrewdly against discovery. There were many reasons, and one in
particular, for keeping his reputation clean and untarnished. It was
a matter of the utmost satisfaction to him that his uncle, Sir Lucius
Chesney, of Priory Court in Sussex, cared but little for London, and
seldom came up to town. For Sir Lucius was childless, elderly, and
possessed of fifteen thousand pounds a year.

Victor Nevill's progress along Piccadilly was frequently interrupted by
friends, fashionably dressed young men like himself, whose invitations
to come and have a drink he declined on the plea of an engagement. Just
beyond Devonshire House he was accosted eagerly by a fresh-faced,
blond-haired boy--he was no more than twenty-two--who was coming from
the opposite direction.

"Hullo, Bertie," Nevill said carelessly, as he shook hands. "I was on my
way to the club."

"I got tired of waiting. You are half an hour over the time, Vic. I
thought of going to your rooms."

"I slept later than I intended," Nevill replied. "I had a night of it."

"So had I--a night of sleeplessness."

The Honorable Bertie Raven, second son of the Earl of Runnymede, might
have stepped out of one of Poole's fashion-plates, so far as dress was
concerned. But there was a strained look on his handsome, patrician
face, and in his blue eyes, that told of a gnawing mental anxiety. He
linked arms with his companion, and drew him to the edge of the
pavement.

"Is it all right?" he asked, pleadingly and hurriedly. "Were you able to
fix the thing up for me?"

"You are sure there is no other way, Bertie?"

"None, Vic. I have until this evening, and then--"

"Don't worry. I saw Benjamin and Company yesterday."

"And they will accommodate me?"

"Yes, at my request."

"You mean for your indorsement on the bill?" the lad exclaimed,
blushing. "Vic, you're a trump. You're the best fellow that ever lived,
and I can't tell you how grateful I am. God only knows what a weight
you've lifted from my mind. I'm going to run steady after this, and with
economy I can save enough out of my allowance--"

"My dear boy, you are wasting your gratitude over a trifle. Could I
refuse so simple a favor to a friend?"

"I don't know any one else who would have done as much, Vic. I was in an
awful hole. Will--will they give me plenty of time?"

"As much as you like. And, I say, Bertie, this affair must be quite
_entre nous_. There are plenty of chaps--good fellows, too--who would
like to use my name occasionally. But one must draw the line--"

"I understand, Vic. I'll be mum as an oyster."

"Well, suppose we go and have the thing over," said Nevill, "and then
we'll lunch together."

They turned eastward, walking briskly, and a few minutes later they
entered a narrow court off Duke street, St. James. Through a dingy and
unpretentious doorway, unmarked by sign or plate, they passed into the
premises of Benjamin and Company. In a dark, cramped office, scantily
furnished, they found an elderly Jewish gentleman seated at a desk.

Without delay, with a smoothness that spoke well for the weight and
influence of Victor Nevill's name, the little matter of business, as the
Jew smilingly called it, was transacted. A three-months' bill for five
hundred pounds was drawn up for Bertie's signature and Nevill's
indorsement. The lad hesitated briefly, then wrote his name in a bold
hand. He resisted the allurements of some jewelry, offered him in part
payment, and received the amount of the bill, less a prodigious discount
for interest. The Jew servilely bowed his customers out.

The Honorable Bertie's face was grave and serious as he walked toward
Piccadilly with his friend; he vaguely realized that he had taken the
first step on a road that too frequently ends in disgrace and ruin. But
this mood changed as he felt the rustling bank notes in his pocket. The
world had not looked so bright for many a day.

"I never knew the thing was so easy," he said. "What a good fellow you
are, Vic! You've made a new man of me. I can pay off those cursed
gambling losses, and a couple of the most pressing debts, and have
nearly a hundred pounds over. But I wish I had taken that ruby bracelet
for Flora--it would have pleased her."

"Cut Flora--that's my advice," replied Nevill.

"And jolly good advice, too, Vic. I'll think about it seriously. But
where will you lunch with me?"

"You are going to lunch with _me_," said Nevill, "at the Arlington."

* * * * *

In Wardour street, Soho, as many an enthusiastic collector has found out
to the depletion of his pocket-book, there are sufficient antique
treasures of every variety stored away in dingy shop windows and dingier
rooms to furnish a small town. Number 320, which by chance or design
failed to display the name of its proprietor, differed from its
neighbors in one marked respect. Instead of the usual conglomerate mass,
articles of value cheek by jowl with worthless rubbish, the long window
contained some rare pieces of china and silver, an Italian hall-seat of
richly carved oak, and half a dozen paintings by well-known artists of
the past century, the authenticity of which was an excuse for the amount
at which they were priced.

Behind the window was a deep and narrow room, lined on both sides with
cabinets of great age and curious workmanship, oaken furniture belonging
to various periods, pictures restored and pictures cracked and faded,
cases filled with dainty objects of gold and silver, brass work from
Moorish and Saracenic craftsmen, tall suits of armor, helmets and
weapons that had clashed in battle hundreds of years before, and other
things too numerous to mention, all of a genuine value that put them
beyond the reach of a slim purse.

In the rear of the shop--which was looked after by a salesman--was a
small office almost opulent in its appearance. Soft rugs covered the
floor, and costly paintings hung on the walls. The chairs and desk, the
huge couch, would have graced a palace, and a piece of priceless
tapestry partly overhung the big safe at one end. An incandescent lamp
was burning brightly, for very little light entered from the dreary
court on which a single window opened.

Here, at 3 o'clock in the afternoon, Stephen Foster sat poring over a
sheaf of papers. He was a man of fifty-two, nearly six feet tall and
correspondingly built--a man with a fine head and handsome features, a
man to attract more than ordinary attention. His hands were white, slim
and long. His eyes were deep brown, and his mustache and beard--the
latter cut to a point--were of a tawny yellowish-brown color, mixed with
gray to a slight degree. It would be difficult to analyze his character,
for in many ways he was a contradiction. He was not miserly, but his
besetting evil was the love of accumulating money--the lever that had
made him thoroughly unscrupulous. He was rich, or reputed so, but in
amassing gold, by fair means or foul, lay the keynote to his life. And
it was a dual life. He had chosen the old mansion at Strand-on-the-Green
to be out of the roar and turmoil of London life, and yet within touch
of it. Here, where his evenings were mostly spent, he was a different
man. He derived his chief pleasures from his daughter's society, from a
table filled with current literature, from a box of choice Havanas. In
town he was a sordid man of business, clever at buying and selling to
the best advantage. He had loved his wife, the daughter of a city
alderman and a friend of his father's, and her death twelve years before
had been a great blow to him. Madge resembled her, and he gave the girl
a father's sincere devotion.

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