In Friendship's Guise by Wm. Murray Graydon

W >> Wm. Murray Graydon >> In Friendship\'s Guise

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16

Presently a light gleamed from the window of the first floor back, which
overlooked, at a distance of six feet, a high, blank wall. Noah Hawker
put the candle on a shelf, locked the door noiselessly, and glanced
about the well-remembered room, with its dirty paper, frayed carpet and
scanty furniture. A little later, after listening to make sure that he
was not being spied upon, he blew out the candle and opened the window.
He fumbled for a minute, then closed the window and drew down the blind.
When he relighted the candle he held in one hand a packet wrapped in a
piece of mildewed leather.

Seating himself in a rickety chair he lighted his pipe and opened the
packet, which contained several papers in a good state of preservation.
He read them carefully and thoughtfully, and the task occupied him for
half an hour or more.

"Whew! It's a heap better than I counted on--I didn't have the time to
examine them right before," he muttered. "There may be a tidy little
fortune in it. I'll make something out of this, or my name ain't Noah
Hawker. The old chap is out of the running, to start with, so I must
hunt up the others. And that won't be easy, perhaps."

CHAPTER XVIII.

HOME AGAIN.

By an odd coincidence, on the same day that Sir Lucius Chesney and Noah
Hawker crossed over from Calais, a P. and O. steamship, Calcutta for
London, landed Jack Vernon at the Royal Albert Docks. He had expected to
be met there by Mr. Hunston, the editor of the _Illustrated Universe_,
or by one of the staff; yet he seemed rather relieved than otherwise
when he failed to pick out a single familiar face in the crowd. He was
fortunate in having his luggage attended to quickly, and, that formality
done with, he walked to the dock station.

The four or five intervening months, commencing with that tragic night
in the Ravenscourt Park studio, had wrought a great change in Jack;
though it was more internal, perhaps, than external. His old friends
would promptly have recognized the returned war-artist, laden with
honors that he did not care a jot for. He looked fit, and his step was
firm and elastic. His cheeks were deeply bronzed and well filled out. A
severe bullet wound and a sharp attack of fever had led to his being
peremptorily ordered home as soon as he was convalescent, and the sea
voyage had worked wonders and built up his weakened constitution. But he
was altered, none the less. There were hard lines about his mouth and
forehead, and in his eyes was a listless, weary, cynical look--the look
of a man who finds life a care and a burden almost beyond endurance.

The train was waiting, and Jack settled himself in a second-class
compartment. He tossed his traveling-bag on the opposite seat, lighted
a cigar, and let his thoughts wander at will. At the beginning of his
great grief, when nothing could console him for the loss of Madge, the
_Illustrated Universe_, a weekly journal, had asked him to go out to
India and represent them pictorially in the Afridi campaign on the
Northwest frontier. He accepted readily, with a desperate hope in his
heart that he did not confide to his friends. He wasted no time in
leaving London, which had become intensely hateful to him. He joined the
British forces, and performed his duty faithfully, sending home sketches
that immensely increased the circulation of the _Universe_. And he did
more. At every opportunity he was in the thick of the fighting. Time and
again, when he found himself with some little detachment that was cut
off from the main column and harassed by the enemy, he distinguished
himself for valor. He risked his life recklessly, with an unconcern that
surprised his soldier comrades. But the Afridis could not kill him. He
recovered from a bullet wound in the shoulder and from fever, and now he
was back in England again.

It was a dreary home-coming, without pleasure or anticipation. The sense
of his loss--the hopeless yearning for Madge--was but little dulled. He
felt that he could never take up the threads of his old life again; he
wished to avoid all who knew him. He had no plans for the future. His
studio was let, and the new tenant had engaged Alphonse--Nevill had
arranged this for him. He had received several letters from Jimmie, and
had answered them; but neither referred to Madge in the correspondence.
She was dead to him forever, he reflected with savage resentment of his
cruel fate. As for Diane, she had taken his three hundred pounds--it was
arranged through Nevill--and returned to the Continent. She had vowed
solemnly that he should never see or hear of her again.

The train rolled into Fenchurch street. Jack took his bag and got out, a
little dazed by the unaccustomed hubbub and din, by the jostling throng
on the platform. Here, again, there was no one to meet him. He passed
out of the station--it was just four o'clock--into the clammy November
mist. He shivered, and pulled up his coat collar. He was standing on the
pavement, undecided where to go, when a cab drew alongside the curb. A
corpulent young gentleman jumped out, and immediately uttered an eager
shout.

"Jack!" he cried. "So glad to see you! Welcome home!"

"Dear old Jimmie! This is like you!" Jack exclaimed. As he spoke he
gripped his friend's hand, and for a brief instant his face lighted up
with something of its old winning expression, then lost all animation.
"How did you know I was coming?" he added.

"Heard it at the office of the _Universe_. Did you miss Hunston?"

"I didn't see him."

"Then he got there too late--he said he was going to drive to the docks.
I'm not surprised. It's Lord Mayor's Day, you know, and the streets are
still badly blocked. I had a jolly close shave of it myself. How does it
feel to be back in dear old London?"

"I think I prefer Calcutta," Jack replied, stolidly. "I'm not used to
fogs."

Jimmie regarded him with a critical glance, with a stifled sigh of
disappointment. He saw clearly that strange scenes and stirring
adventures had failed to work a cure. He expected better things--quite
a different result.

"Yes, it's beastly weather," he said; "but you'll stand it all right.
You are in uncommonly good condition for a chap who has just pulled
through fever and a bullet hole. By Jove! I wish I could have seen you
tackling the Afridis--you were mentioned in the papers after that last
scrimmage, and they gave you a rousing send-off. You deserve the
Victoria Cross, and you would get it if you were a soldier."

"I didn't fight for glory," Jack muttered, bitterly. "I'm the most
unlucky beggar alive."

Jimmie looked at him curiously.

"You don't mean to say," he asked, "that you were hankering for an
Afridi bullet or spear in your heart?"

"It's the best thing that could have happened. They tell me I bear a
charmed life, and I believe it's true. I never expected to come back,
if you want to know."

"I'm sorry to hear you say that, old man. You need cheering up. Have you
any luggage besides that bag?"

"I sent the rest on to the _Universe_ office."

"Then come to my rooms--you know you left a lot of clothes and other
stuff there. You can fix up a bit, and then we'll go out and have a good
feed."

"As you like," Jack assented, indifferently. "But I must see Hunston
first--he will go from the docks to the office, and expect to find me
there."

They entered a cab and drove westward, through the decorated streets and
surging crowds of the city, down Ludgate Hill and up the slope of Fleet
street. Jack left his friend in the Strand, before the _Illustrated
Universe_ building, with its windows placarded with the paper's original
sketches and sheets from the current issue, and it was more than an
hour later when he turned up at Jimmie's luxurious chambers in the
Albany. He was in slightly better spirits, and he exhaled an odor of
brandy. He had a check for five hundred pounds in his pocket, and there
was more money due him.

"Where's my war-paint?" he demanded.

That meant, in plain English, Jack's dress clothes, and they were soon
produced from a trunk he had left in Jimmie's care. He made a careful
toilet, and then the two sallied forth into the blazing streets and
pleasure-seeking throngs.

They went to the Continental, above Waterloo Place, and Jack ordered
the dinner lavishly--he insisted on playing the host. He chatted in
his old light-hearted manner during the courses, occasionally laughing
boisterously, but with an artificial ring that was perceptible to his
companion. His eyes sparkled, and his brown cheeks flushed under the
glow of the red-shaded lamps.

"This is a rotten world, Jimmie," he said. "You know that, don't you?
But I've come home to have a good time, and I'm going to have it--I
don't care how."

"I wouldn't drink any more," Jimmie urged.

"Another bottle, old chap," Jack cried, thickly, as he lighted a fresh
cigar; "and then we'll wind up at the Empire."

"None for me, thank you."

"Then I'll drink it myself," vowed Jack. "Do you hear, _garcon_--'nother
bottle!'"

Jimmie looked at him gravely. He had serious misgivings about the
future.

* * * * *

Many of London's spacious suburbs have the advantage of lying beyond the
scope of the fog-breeding smoke which hangs over the great city, and at
Strand-on-the-Green, on that 9th of November, the weather was less
disagreeable.

A man and a woman came slowly from the direction of Kew Bridge,
sauntering along the wet flagstones of the winding old quay, which
was almost as lonely as a rustic lane. Victor Nevill looked very
aristocratic and handsome in his long Chesterfield coat and top hat; in
one gray-gloved hand he swung a silver-headed stick. Madge Foster walked
quietly by his side, a dainty picture in furs. She was as lovely as
ever, if not more so, but it was a pale, fragile sort of beauty. She had
spent the summer in Scotland and the month of September in Devonshire,
and had returned to town at the beginning of October. Change of air and
scenery had worked a partial cure, but had not brought back her merry,
light-hearted disposition. She secretly nursed her grief--the sorrow
that had fallen on her happy young life--and tried hard not to show it.
There was a wistful, far-away expression in her eyes, and she seemed
unconscious of the presence of her companion.

"It's a beastly day," remarked Nevill. "I shouldn't like to live by the
river in winter. You need cheering up. What do you say to a box at the
Savoy to-night? There is plenty of time to arrange--"

"I don't care to go, thank you," was the indifferent reply.

The girl drew her furs closer about her throat, and watched a grimy
barge that was creeping up stream. She had become resigned to seeing a
good deal of Victor Nevill lately, but her treatment of him was little
altered. She knew his real name now, and that he was the heir of Sir
Lucius Chesney. She had accepted his excuses--listened to him with
resentment and indignation when he explained that he had assumed the
name of Royle because he wanted to win her for himself alone, and not
for the sake of his prospects. She realized whither she was trending,
but she felt powerless to resist her fate.

They paused a short distance beyond the Black Bull, where the quay
jutted out a little like a pier. It was guarded by a railing, and Madge
leaned on this and looked down at the black, incoming tide lapping below
her. No other person was in sight, and the white mist seemed suddenly to
close around the couple. The paddles of a receding steamer churned and
splashed monotonously. From Kew Bridge floated a faint murmur of
rumbling traffic. It was four o'clock, and the sun was hidden.

"You are shivering," said Nevill.

"It is very cold. Will you take me home, please?"

As she spoke, the girl turned toward him, and he moved impulsively
nearer.

"I will take you home," he said; "but first I want to ask you a
question--you _must_ hear me. Madge, are you utterly heartless? Twice,
when I told you of my love, you rejected it. But I persevered--I did not
lose hope. And now I ask you again, for the third time, will you be my
wife? Do I not deserve my reward?"

The girl did not answer. Her eyes were downcast, and one little foot
tapped the flagstone nervously.

"I love you with all my heart, Madge," he went on, with deep and sincere
passion in his voice. "You cannot doubt that, whatever you may think of
me. You are the best and sweetest of women--the only one in the world
for me. I will make your life happy. You shall want for nothing."

"Mr. Nevill, you know that I do not love you."

"But you will learn to in time."

"I fear not. No, I am sure of it."

"I will take the risk. I will hope that love will come."

"And you would marry me, knowing that I do not care for you in that way?"

"Yes, gladly. I cannot live without you. Say yes, Madge, and make me the
happiest of men."

"I suppose I must," she replied. She did not look him in the face. "My
father wishes it, and has urged me to consent. It will please him."

"Then you will be my wife, Madge?"

"Some day, if you still desire it."

"I will never change," he said, fervently.

It was a strange, ill-omened promise of marriage, and a bitter
realization of how little it meant was suddenly borne home to Nevill.
He touched the girl's hand--more he dared not do, though he longed to
take her in his arms and kiss her red lips. The coldness of her manner
repelled him. They turned and walked slowly along the river, while the
shadows deepened around them.

CHAPTER XIX.

A SHOCK FOR SIR LUCIUS.

They lingered but a moment at the house, standing irresolutely by the
steps. Madge did not invite Nevill to stop, which suited him in his
present mood. He pressed the girl's cold hand and strode away into the
darkness. His thoughts were not pleasant, and there was a sneering smile
on his face.

"I have won her," he reflected. "Won her at last! She will be my wife.
But it is not a victory to be proud of--not worth the infamy I've waded
through. She consented because she has been hard driven--because I
compelled her father to put the screws on. How calmly she told me that
she did not love me! I can read her like a book. I hoped she had
forgotten Jack, but I see now that she cares for him as much as ever.
Oh, how I hate him! Is his influence to ruin my life? I ought to be
satisfied with the blow I have dealt him, but if I get a chance to
strike another--"

A harsh laugh finished the sentence, and he hit out viciously with his
stick at a cat perched on a garden wall.

A Waterloo train conveyed him cityward, and, avoiding the haunts of his
associates, he dined at a restaurant in the Strand. It was eight o'clock
when he went to his rooms in Jermyn street, intending to change his
clothes and go to a theatre. A card lay inside the door. It bore Sir
Lucius Chesney's name, and Morley's Hotel was scribbled on the corner of
it. Nevill scowled, and a look that was closely akin to fear came into
his eyes.

"So my uncle is back!" he muttered. "I knew he would be turning up some
time, but it's rather a surprise all the same. He wants to see me, of
course, and I don't fancy the interview will be a very pleasant one.
Well, the sooner it is over the better. It will spoil my sleep to-night
if I put it off till to-morrow."

He dressed hurriedly and went down to Trafalgar Square. Sir Lucius had
just finished dinner, and uncle and nephew met near the hotel office.
They greeted each other heartily, and Sir Lucius invited the young man
upstairs to his room. He was in a good humor, and expressed his
gratification that Nevill had come so promptly.

"I want a long chat with you, my boy," he said. "Have you dined?"

"Yes."

Sir Lucius lighted a cigar, and handed his case to Nevill.

"Been out of town this summer?" he asked.

"The usual thing, that's all--an occasional run down to Brighton, a
month at country houses, and a week's shooting on the Earl of Runnymede's
Scotch moor."

"London agrees with you. I believe you are a little stouter."

"And you are looking half a dozen years younger, my dear uncle. How is
the liver?"

"It ought to be pretty well shaken to pieces, from the way I've trotted
it about. It hasn't troubled me for months, I am glad to say. I've had
a most enjoyable holiday, and a longer one than I intended to take. I
stopped in Norway seven weeks, and then went to the Continent. I did the
German baths, Vienna and a lot of other big cities, and came to Paris.
There I met an old Anglo-Indian friend, and he dragged me down to the
Riviera for a month. But there is no place like home. I've been in town
only a couple of hours--crossed this morning. And to-morrow I'm off to
Priory Court."

"So soon?"

"Yes; I can't endure your fogs."

There was an awkward pause. Nevill struck a match and put it to his
cigar, though it did not need relighting. Sir Lucius coughed, and
stirred nervously in his chair.

"You remember that little matter I wrote you about," he began. "Have you
done anything?"

"My dear uncle, I have left nothing undone that I could think of,"
Nevill replied; "but I am sorry to say that I have met with no success
whatever. It was a most difficult undertaking, after so many years."

"I feared it would be. You didn't advertise?"

"No; you told me not to do that."

"Quite right. I wished to avoid all publicity. But what steps did you
take?"

"I made careful inquiries, interviewed some of the older school of
artists, and searched London and provincial directories for some years
back. Then I consulted a private detective. I put the matter in his
hands. He worked on it for a couple of months, and finally said that
it was too much for him. He could not discover a trace of either your
sister or her husband, and he suggested that they probably emigrated
to America or Australia years ago."

"That is more than possible," assented Sir Lucius; "and it is likely
that they are both dead. But they may have left children, and for their
sakes--". He broke off abruptly, and sighed. "I should like to have a
talk with your private detective, if he is a clever fellow," he added.

"He is clever enough," Nevill replied slowly, "but I am afraid you
would have to go a long distance to find him. He went to America a week
ago to collect evidence for a divorce case in one of the Western States."

"Then he will hardly be back for months," said Sir Lucius. "No matter.
I think sometimes that it is foolish of me to take the thing up. But when
a man gets to my age, my boy, he is apt to regret many episodes in his
past life that seemed proper and well-advised at the time. I am convinced
that I was too harsh with your aunt. Poor Mary, she was my favorite
sister until--"

He stopped, and his face hardened a little at the recollection.

"I wish I could find her," said Nevill.

"I am sure you do, my boy. I am undecided what steps to take next. It
would be a good idea to stop in town for a couple of days and consult
a private inquiry bureau. But no, not in this weather. I will let the
matter rest for the present, and run up later on, when we get a spell
of sunshine and cold."

"I think that is wise. Meanwhile I am at your service."

"Thank you. Oh, by the way, Victor, you must have incurred some
considerable expense in my behalf. Let me write you a check."

"There is no hurry--I don't need the money," Nevill answered,
carelessly. "I will look up the account and send it to you."

"Or bring it with you when you come down to Priory Court for Christmas,
if I can induce you to leave town."

"I shall be delighted to come, I assure you."

"Then we'll consider it settled."

Sir Lucius lighted a fresh cigar and rose. His whole manner had changed;
he chuckled softly, and his smile was pleasant to see.

"I have something to show you, my boy," he said. "It is the richest
find that ever came my way. Ha, ha! not many collectors have ever been
so fortunate. I know where to pry about on the Continent, and I have
made good use of my holidays. I sent home a couple of boxes filled with
rare bargains; but this one--"

"You will be rousing the envy of the South Kensington Museum if you
keep on," Nevill interrupted, gaily; he was in high spirits because the
recent disagreeable topic had been shelved indefinitely. "What is it?"
he added.

"I'll show you in a moment, my boy. It will open your eyes when you see
it. You will agree that I am a lucky dog. By gad, what a stir it will
cause in art circles!"

Sir Lucius crossed the room, and from behind a trunk he took a flat
leather case. He unlocked and opened it, his back screening the
operation, and when he turned around he held in one hand a canvas,
unframed, about twenty inches square; the rich coloring and the outlines
of a massive head were brought out by the gaslight.

"What do you think of that?" he cried.

Nevill approached and stared at it. His eyes were dilated, his lips
parted, and the color was half-driven from his cheeks, as if by a sudden
shock. He had expected to see a bit of Saracenic armor, made in
Birmingham, or a cleverly forged Corot. But this--

"I don't wonder you are surprised," exclaimed Sir Lucius. "Congratulate
me, my dear boy."

"Where did you get it?" Nevill asked, sharply.

"In Munich--in a wretched, squalid by-street of the town, with as many
smells as Cologne. I found the place when I was poking about one
afternoon--a dingy little shop kept by a Jew who marvelously resembled
Cruikshank's Fagin. He resurrected this picture from a rusty old safe,
and I saw its value at once. It had been in his possession for several
years, he told me; he had taken it in payment of a debt. The Jew was
pretty keen on it--he knew whose work it was--but in the end I got it
for eleven hundred pounds. You know what it is?"

"An undoubted Rembrandt!"

"Yes, the finest Rembrandt in existence. No others can compare with it.
Look at the brilliancy of the pigments. Observe the masterful drawing.
See how well it is preserved. It is a prize, indeed, my boy, and worth
double what I paid for it. It will make a sensation, and the National
Gallery will want to buy it. But I wouldn't accept five thousand pounds
for it. I shall give it the place of honor in my collection."

Sir Lucius paused to get his breath.

"You don't seem to appreciate it," he added. "Remember, it is absolutely
unknown. Victor, what is the matter with you? Your actions are very
strange, and the expression of your face is almost insulting. Do you
dare to insinuate--"

"My dear uncle, will you listen to me for a moment?" said Nevill.
"Prepare yourself for a shock. I fear that the picture is far better
known than you think. Indeed, it is notorious."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that this Rembrandt, which you purchased in Munich, is the
identical one that was stolen some months ago from Lamb and Drummond,
the Pall Mall dealers. The affair made a big stir."

"Impossible!"

"It is only too true. Did you read the papers while you were away?"

"No; I scarcely glanced at them. But I can't believe--"

"Wait," said Nevill. From a pocket-book he produced a newspaper
clipping, which he handed silently to his uncle. It contained an account
of the robbery.

Sir Lucius read to the end. Then his cheeks swelled out, and turned from
red to purple; his eyes blazed with a hot anger.

"Good God!" he exclaimed, "was ever a man so cruelly imposed upon? It is
a d--nable shame! You are right, Victor. This is the stolen Rembrandt!"

"Undoubtedly. I can't tell you how sorry I feel for you." Nevill's
expression was most peculiar as he spoke, and the semblance of a smile
hovered about his lips.

"What is to be done?" gasped his uncle, who had flung the canvas on
a chair, and was stamping savagely about the room. "It is clear as
daylight. The thieves disposed of the painting in Munich, to my lying
rascal of a Jew. Damn him, I wish I had him here!"

"Under the peculiar circumstances, my dear uncle, I should venture to
suggest--"

"There is only one course open. This very night--no, the first thing
to-morrow morning--I will take the picture to Lamb and Drummond's and
tell them the whole story. I can't honorably do less."

"Certainly not," assented Nevill; it was not exactly what he had been
on the point of proposing, but he was glad that he had not spoken.

"I won't feel easy until it is out of my hands," cried Sir Lucius. "Good
heavens, suppose I should be suspected of the theft! Ah, that infamous
scoundrel of a Jew! The law shall punish him as he deserves!"

Rage overpowered him, and he seemed in danger of apoplexy. There was
brandy on the table, and he poured out a glass with a shaking hand.
Nevill watched him anxiously.

CHAPTER XX.

AT A NIGHT CLUB.

Victor Nevill called for his uncle at nine o'clock the next morning--it
was not often he rose so early--and after breakfasting together the two
went on to Lamb and Drummond's. Sir Lucius carried the unlucky picture
under his arm, and he thumped the Pall Mall flagstones viciously with
his stick; he walked like a reluctant martyr going to the stake.

Mr. Lamb had just arrived, and he led his visitors to his private
office. He listened with amazement and rapt interest to the story they
had come to tell him, which he did not once interrupt. When the canvas
was unrolled and spread on the table he bent over it eagerly, then drew
back and shook his head slightly.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16