In Friendship's Guise by Wm. Murray Graydon

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He had not long to wait--a glance at his watch told him that. Five
minutes later the rumble of an incoming train was heard, and presently
a double procession of passengers came up the steps to the street. Jack
had eyes for one only, a radiant vision of loveliness, as sweet and
fresh and blushing as a June rose. The vision was Madge Foster, her
graceful figure set off by a new spring gown from Regent street, and a
sailor hat perched on her golden curls. She stepped lightly into the
trap, and nestled down on the cushions.

"Oh, Jack, what _will_ you think of me after this," she cried, half
seriously.

"I think that the famed beauties of Hampton Court would turn green
in their frames with envy if they could see you now," Jack answered
evasively, as he flicked the horses with his whip. "Here we go for
a jolly day. It will come to an end all too soon."

CHAPTER VII.

LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM.

The trap rattled up crooked George street, and swung around and down
to classic-looking Richmond Bridge, with its gorgeous vistas of river
scenery right and left over the low parapets. Madge was very quiet for
a time, and it was evident that she felt some misgivings as to the
propriety of what she had consented to do at Jack's urgent request. She
had left home soon after her father's departure for town, and she must
be back before six o'clock to meet him on his return. Her secret was
shared with the old servant, Mrs. Sedgwick, who was foolishly fond of
the girl, and naturally well-disposed toward Jack because he had saved
Madge's life. This faithful creature, on the death of her young husband
twenty years before, had entered Mrs. Foster's service; she practically
managed Stephen Foster's establishment, assisted by a housemaid and by
the daily visits of a charwoman.

Until Richmond was left behind, Jack was as serious and thoughtful
as his companion. He had a high sense of honor, a hatred of anything
underhanded, and his conscience pricked him a little. However, it was
not his fault, he told himself. Stephen Foster had no business to be
churlish and ungrateful, and treat his daughter as though she were a
school miss still in her teens. And what wrong could there be about the
day's outing together, if no harm was intended? It would all come right
in the end, unless, unless--

He felt reassured as he stole a glance at Madge's face, and saw her quick
blush. She laughed merrily, and nestled a little closer to his side.

"You are not sorry?" he asked.

"Sorry? Oh, no. It is so good of you, Jack, and the weather is
perfect--we could not have had a better day."

Their depression vanished like a summer cloud, as they rode through
Twickenham and Teddington, under the shade of the great trees, enjoying
the occasional views of the shining river, and the peeps into the walled
gardens of the fine old houses.

"It is all new to me," said Madge, with a sigh. "I used to go to Hampton
Court with father on Sundays, but that was long ago; he doesn't take me
anywhere now, except to the theatre once or twice a year."

"It is a shame," Jack replied indignantly, "when you enjoy things so
much."

"Oh, but I dearly love Strand-on-the-Green. I am very happy there."

"And you never long for a wider life?"

"Yes--sometimes. I want to go abroad and travel. It must be delightful
to see the places and countries one has read about, to roam in foreign
picture galleries."

"I would like to show you the Continent," said Jack. "We have the same
tastes, and--"

A rapturous "Oh!" burst from Madge. They had turned suddenly in at
the gates of Bushey Park, and before them was the twenty-mile-long
perspective of the chestnut avenue, bounded by the white sunlit walls of
the hospitable Greyhound. The girl's eyes sparkled with pleasure, and in
her excitement, as some fresh bit of beauty was revealed, she rested a
tiny gloved hand on Jack's arm.

"I will take you out often, if you will let me," he said.

They drove out of the park, and swung around the weather-beaten wall of
Hampton Court. Red-coated soldiers were lounging by the barracks in the
palace yard, and the clear notes of a bugle rose from quarters; a tide
of people and vehicles was flowing in the sunlight over Molesey Bridge.
Jack turned off into the lower river road, and so on by shady and
picturesque ways to the ancient village of Hampton.

They put up the horse and trap at the Flower Pot, and lunched in the
coffee-room of that old-fashioned hostelry, at a little table laid in
the bow-window, looking out on the quaint high-street. It was a charming
repast, and both were hungry enough to do it justice. The Chambertin
sparkled like rubies as it flowed from the cobwebbed bottle, and Jack
needed little urging from Madge to light a fragrant Regalia.

Then they sauntered forth into the sunshine, down to the river shore,
and Jack chose a big roomy boat, fitted with the softest of red cushions.
He pulled for a mile or more up the rippling Thames, chatting gaily with
Madge, who sat opposite to him and deftly managed the rudder-ropes. A
little-known backwater was the goal, and suddenly he drove the boat under
a screen of low-drooping bushes and into a miniature lake set in a frame
of leafy trees that formed a canopy of dense foliage overhead.

"What do you think of it?" Jack asked, as he ran the bow gently ashore
and pulled in the oars.

"It is like fairyland. It is too beautiful for words."

Madge averted her eyes from his, and pushed back a tress of golden hair
that had strayed from under her hat; she took off one glove, and dipped
the tips of her fingers in the water.

"I wish I had brought a book," she said. "Why don't you smoke? You have
my permission, sir. But we must not stop long."

Jack felt for his cigar-case and dropped it again. The next instant he
was beside the girl, and one arm encircled her waist.

"Madge, my darling!" he cried. "Don't you know--can't you guess--why I
brought you here?"

Her silence, the droop of her blushing face, emboldened him. The old,
old story, the story that was born when the world began, fell from his
lips. They were honest, manly words, with a ring of heartfelt passion
and pleading.

"Have I surprised you, Madge?" he went on. "Have I spoken too soon? We
have known each other only a short time, it is true, but I could not
care more for you had we been acquainted for months or years. I am not
an impulsive boy--I know my own heart. I loved you from the day you came
into my life. I love you now, and will always love you. I will be a good
and true husband. Have you no answer for me, dear?"

The girl suddenly raised her face to his. Half-shed tears glistened in
her eyes, but there was also a radiant look there which trilled his
heart with unspeakable joy. He knew that he had won her.

"Madge, my sweet Madge!" he whispered.

She trembled as his arm tightened about her waist.

"Jack, do you really, really love me?"

"More than I can tell you, dear. Can you doubt me? Have you nothing to
say? Do you think it so strange--"

"Strange? Yes, it is more than I dared to hope for. Don't think me
unwomanly, Jack, for telling the truth, but--but I do love you with all
my heart."

"Madge! You have made me the happiest man alive! God grant that I be
always worthy of your affection!"

A bird began to sing overhead, and Jack thought it was the sweetest
music he had ever heard, as he drew Madge to him and pressed a lover's
first kiss on her lips. Side by side they sat there in the leafy
retreat, heedless of time, while the afternoon sun drooped lower in the
sky. They had much to talk of--many little confidences to exchange. They
lived over again the events of that brief period in which they had known
each other.

"You have upset all my plans," said Madge, with a pretty pout. "I was
going to devote my life to art, and become a second Rosa Bonheur or Lady
Butler."

"One artist in the family will be enough," her lover answered,
laughingly. "But you shall continue to paint, dearest. We will roam
over Europe with our sketch-books."

"Oh, how delightful! To think of it--my dreams will be realized! I
knew your work, Jack, before I knew you. But I am so ignorant of the
world--even of the little world of London."

"Madge, you are talking nonsense. You are my queen--you are the dearest,
sweetest little woman that ever man won. And I love you the better
because you are as fresh and pure as a flower, untainted by the wicked
world, where innocence rubs off her bloom on vice's shoulders. I am not
old, dear, but I have lived long enough to appreciate the value of--"

"Hush, or I shall think you do not mean all you say. Oh, Jack, promise
me that you will never repent of your bargain. I wonder that some woman
did not enslave you long ago."

A shadow crossed Jack's face, and he was silent for a moment.

"Madge," he said, hesitatingly, "I have not been a bad man in my time,
nor have I been a particularly good one. I was an art student in Paris
for years, and Paris is a city of dissipation, full of pitfalls and
temptations to young fellows like myself. There is something connected
with my past, which I feel it is my duty to--"

"Don't tell me, Jack--please don't. I might not like to hear it. I will
try to forget that you had a past, and I will never ask you about it.
You are mine now, and we will think only of the present and the future.
I trust you, dear, and I know that you are good and true. You will
always love me, won't you?"

"Always, my darling," Jack replied in a tone of relief. He told himself,
as he kissed the troubled look from the girl's eyes, that it was better
to keep silence. What could he gain by dragging up the black skeleton of
the past? He was a free man now, and the withholding of that bitter
chapter of his life would be the wisest course. If the future ever
brought it to light, Madge would remember that she herself had checked
the story on his lips.

"Jack, you are looking awfully serious."

"Am I? Well, I won't any more. But, I say, Madge, when will you be my
wife? And how about speaking to your father? You know--"

"I can't tell him yet, Jack, really--you must wait a while. You won't
mind, will you?"

"I hate this deception."

"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 passed 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
glass 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-class 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
shore 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
glasses, 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 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 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 God 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.

"How will you explain the deception--the fact that you have been coming
here 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, I
know there is some reason in what you say--I respect your motives. But
you 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 higher
places, but Madge has enslaved me with her sweet face and charming
disposition. As for our relations--you know what poverty drove me to.
Given a secure income, and I should never have stooped to dishonor. The
need of money stifled the best that was in my nature. It is not too late
to reform, though. I don't mean now, but when I come into my uncle's
fortune, which is a sure thing. Then, I promise you, I will be as
straight 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 his
life; he loved Madge with a passion that dominated him, and he knew his
own 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 married
to 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 hidden
menace 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 a
step against her wishes. If she marries you, it will be of her own free
will."

"That's fair enough. But I want an open field. You must keep other
admirers 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 who
pulled 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 other
than 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--I
did not know it myself, else--"

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

"It was like your cursed cunning," exclaimed Stephen Foster. "Yes,
I should have hesitated. But are you certain that Madge has seen the
fellow 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 you
to-night."

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

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

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

CHAPTER IX.

UNCLE AND NEPHEW.

Victor Nevill was on his feet instantly, and by a quick move he
intercepted Foster and clutched him by the arm. He repeated his
question: "What are you going to do?"

"Take your hand off me. I shall hear from Madge's own lips a denial of
your words. How dare you accuse her of stooping to an intrigue?"

"I wouldn't call it that. Madge is young and innocent. She knows little
of the censorious world. She has been left pretty much to herself, and
naturally she sees no harm in meeting Vernon. As for denying my
words--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 went
back 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 unscrupulous
scoundrel. 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. A
jolly good thing, too, for Vernon recognized me and nodded to me. But
whether Madge saw me or not won't make much difference under present
circumstances. If you go downstairs now and start a row with her, she
will be sure to suspect that you received your information from me."

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