FIVE YEARS AFTERWARDS.
Jack Vernon looked discontentedly at the big canvas on the easel, and
with a shrug of the shoulders he turned his back on it. He dropped his
palette and flung his sheaf of brushes into an open drawer.
"I am not fit for anything to-day," he said petulantly. "I was up too
late last night. No, most decidedly, I am not in the mood for work."
He sauntered to the huge end window of the studio, and looked out over
the charming stretch of Ravenscourt Park. It was an ideal morning toward
the close of April, 1897--such a morning as one finds at its best in the
western suburbs of mighty London. The trees were in fresh leaf and bud,
the crocuses were blooming in the well-kept beds, and the grass was a
sheet of glittering emeralds. The singing of birds vied with the jangle
of tram-bells out on the high-road.
"A pull on the river will take the laziness out of me," thought Jack, as
he yawned and extended his arms. "What glorious weather! It would be a
shame to stop indoors."
A mental picture of the silvery Thames, green-wooded and sunny, proved
too strong an allurement to resist. Jack did not know that Destiny,
watchful of opportunity, had taken this beguiling shape to lead him to
a turning-point of his life--to steer him into the thick of troubled and
restless waters, of gray clouds and threatening storms. He discarded
his paint-smeared blouse--he had worn one since his Paris days--and,
getting quickly into white flannel and a river hat, he lit a briar pipe
and went forth whistling to meet his fate.
He was fond of walking, and he knew every foot of old Chiswick by heart.
He struck across the high-road, down a street of trim villas to a more
squalid neighborhood, and came out by the lower end of Chiswick Mall,
sacred to memories of the past. He lingered for a moment by the stately
house immortalized by Thackeray in Vanity Fair, and pictured Amelia
Sedley rolling out of the gates in her father's carriage, while Becky
Sharpe hurled the offending dictionary at the scandalized Miss
Pinkerton. Tempted by the signboard of the Red Lion, and by the
red-sailed wherries clustered between the dock and the eyot, he stopped
to quaff a foaming pewter on a bench outside the old inn.
A little later he had threaded the quaint passage behind Chiswick
Church, left the sonorous hammering of Thorneycroft's behind him, and
was stepping briskly along Burlington Lane, with the high wall of
Devonshire House on his right, and on his left, far over hedges and
orchards, the riverside houses of Barnes. He was almost sorry when he
reached Maynard's boat-house, where he kept a couple of light and
serviceable craft; but the dimpled bosom of the Thames, sparkling in the
sunlight, woke a fresh enthusiasm in his heart, and made him long to
transfer the picture to canvas.
"Even a Turner could not do it half justice," he reflected.
It was indeed a scene to defy any artist, but there were some bold enough
to attempt it. As Jack pulled up the river he saw, here and there, a
fellow-craftsman ensconced in a shady nook with easel and camp-chair. His
vigorous strokes sent him rapidly by Strand-on-the-Green, that secluded
bit of a village which so few Londoners have taken the trouble to search
out. A narrow paved quay, fringed with stately elm trees, separated the
old-fashioned, many-colored houses from the reedy shore, where at high
tide low great black barges, which apparently go nowhere, lie moored in
picturesque array.
It was all familiar to Jack, but he never tired of this stretch of the
Thames. He dived under Kew Bridge, shot by Kew Gardens and ancient
Brentford, and turned around off Isleworth. He rowed leisurely back,
dropping the oars now and again to light his pipe.
"There's nothing like this to brace a fellow up," he said to himself, as
he drew near Maynard's. "I should miss the river if I took a studio in
town. I'll have a bit of lunch at the Red Lion, and then go home and do
an afternoon's work."
A churning, thumping noise, which he had disregarded before, suddenly
swelled louder and warned him of possible danger. He was about off the
middle of Strand-on-the-Green, and, glancing around, he saw one of the
big Thames excursion steamers, laden with passengers, ploughing
up-stream within fifty yards of him, but at a safe distance to his
right. The same glimpse revealed a pretty picture midway between himself
and the vessel--a young girl approaching in a light Canadian canoe. She
could not have been more than twenty, and the striking beauty of her
face was due to those charms of expression and feature which are
indefinable. A crimson Tam-o'-Shanter was perched jauntily on her golden
hair, and a blue Zouave jacket, fitting loosely over her blouse, gave
full play to the grace and skill with which she handled the paddle.
Jack was indifferent to women, and wont to boast that none could
enslave him, but the sight of this fair young English maiden, if it did
not weaken the citadel of his heart, at least made that organ beat a
trifle faster. He shot one look of bold admiration, then turned and bent
to the oars.
"I don't know when I have seen so lovely a face," he thought. "I wonder
who she is."
The steamer glided by, and the next moment Jack was nearly opposite to
the canoe. What happened then was swift and unexpected. Above the splash
of the revolving paddles he heard hoarse shouts and warning cries. He
saw green waves approaching, flung up in the wake of the passing vessel.
As he dropped the oars and leapt anxiously to his feet the frail canoe,
unfitted to encounter such a peril, was clutched and lifted broadside by
the foaming swell. Over it went instantly, and there was a flash of red
and blue as the girl was flung headfirst into the river.
As quickly Jack clasped his hands and dived from his boat. He came to
the top and swam forward with desperate strokes. He saw the upturned
canoe, the floating paddle, the half-submerged Tam-o'-Shanter. Then a
mass of dripping golden hair cleft the surface, only to sink at once.
But Jack had marked the spot, and, taking a full breath, he dived. To
the onlookers the interval seemed painfully long, and a hundred cheering
voices rent the air as the young artist rose to view, keeping himself
afloat with one arm, while the other supported the girl. She was
conscious, but badly scared and disposed to struggle.
"Be quite still," Jack said, sharply. "You are in no danger--I will save
you if you trust me."
The girl obeyed, looking into Jack's eyes with a calmer expression. The
steamer had stopped, and half a dozen row-boats were approaching from
different directions. A grizzled waterman and his companion picked up
the two and pulled them across to Strand-on-the-Green. Others followed
towing Jack's boat and the canoe, and the big steamer proceeded on her
way to Kew Pier.
The Black Bull, close by the railway bridge, received the drenched
couple, and the watermen were delighted by the gift of a sovereign. A
motherly woman took the half-dazed girl upstairs, and Jack was led into
the oak-panelled parlor of the old inn by the landlord, who promptly
poured him out a little brandy, and then insisted on his having a change
of clothing.
"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.