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."