CHAPTER XVIII.
HOME AGAIN.
By an odd coincidence, on the same day that Sir Lucius Chesney and NoahHawker crossed over from Calais, a P. and O. steamship, Calcutta forLondon, landed Jack Vernon at the Royal Albert Docks. He had expected tobe met there by Mr. Hunston, the editor of the _Illustrated Universe_,or by one of the staff; yet he seemed rather relieved than otherwisewhen he failed to pick out a single familiar face in the crowd. He wasfortunate in having his luggage attended to quickly, and, that formalitydone with, he walked to the dock station.
The four or five intervening months, commencing with that tragic nightin the Ravenscourt Park studio, had wrought a great change in Jack;though it was more internal, perhaps, than external. His old friendswould promptly have recognized the returned war-artist, laden withhonors that he did not care a jot for. He looked fit, and his step wasfirm and elastic. His cheeks were deeply bronzed and well filled out. Asevere bullet wound and a sharp attack of fever had led to his beingperemptorily ordered home as soon as he was convalescent, and the seavoyage had worked wonders and built up his weakened constitution. But hewas altered, none the less. There were hard lines about his mouth andforehead, and in his eyes was a listless, weary, cynical look--the lookof a man who finds life a care and a burden almost beyond endurance.
The train was waiting, and Jack settled himself in a second-classcompartment. He tossed his traveling-bag on the opposite seat, lighteda cigar, and let his thoughts wander at will. At the beginning of hisgreat grief, when nothing could console him for the loss of Madge, the_Illustrated Universe_, a weekly journal, had asked him to go out toIndia and represent them pictorially in the Afridi campaign on theNorthwest frontier. He accepted readily, with a desperate hope in hisheart that he did not confide to his friends. He wasted no time inleaving London, which had become intensely hateful to him. He joined theBritish forces, and performed his duty faithfully, sending home sketchesthat immensely increased the circulation of the _Universe_. And he didmore. At every opportunity he was in the thick of the fighting. Time andagain, when he found himself with some little detachment that was cutoff from the main column and harassed by the enemy, he distinguishedhimself for valor. He risked his life recklessly, with an unconcern thatsurprised his soldier comrades. But the Afridis could not kill him. Herecovered from a bullet wound in the shoulder and from fever, and now hewas back in England again.
It was a dreary home-coming, without pleasure or anticipation. The senseof his loss--the hopeless yearning for Madge--was but little dulled. Hefelt that he could never take up the threads of his old life again; hewished to avoid all who knew him. He had no plans for the future. Hisstudio was let, and the new tenant had engaged Alphonse--Nevill hadarranged this for him. He had received several letters from Jimmie, andhad answered them; but neither referred to Madge in the correspondence.She was dead to him forever, he reflected with savage resentment of hiscruel fate. As for Diane, she had taken his three hundred pounds--it wasarranged through Nevill--and returned to the Continent. She had vowedsolemnly that he should never see or hear of her again.
The train rolled into Fenchurch street. Jack took his bag and got out, alittle dazed by the unaccustomed hubbub and din, by the jostling throngon the platform. Here, again, there was no one to meet him. He passedout of the station--it was just four o'clock--into the clammy Novembermist. He shivered, and pulled up his coat collar. He was standing on thepavement, undecided where to go, when a cab drew alongside the curb. Acorpulent young gentleman jumped out, and immediately uttered an eagershout.
"Jack!" he cried. "So glad to see you! Welcome home!"
"Dear old Jimmie! This is like you!" Jack exclaimed. As he spoke hegripped his friend's hand, and for a brief instant his face lighted upwith 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 arestill badly blocked. I had a jolly close shave of it myself. How does itfeel to be back in dear old London?"
"I think I prefer Calcutta," Jack replied, stolidly. "I'm not used tofogs."
Jimmie regarded him with a critical glance, with a stifled sigh ofdisappointment. He saw clearly that strange scenes and stirringadventures had failed to work a cure. He expected better things--quitea 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 pulledthrough fever and a bullet hole. By Jove! I wish I could have seen youtackling the Afridis--you were mentioned in the papers after that lastscrimmage, and they gave you a rousing send-off. You deserve theVictoria Cross, and you would get it if you were a soldier."
"I didn't fight for glory," Jack muttered, bitterly. "I'm the mostunlucky beggar alive."
Jimmie looked at him curiously.
"You don't mean to say," he asked, "that you were hankering for anAfridi bullet or spear in your heart?"
"It's the best thing that could have happened. They tell me I bear acharmed 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 youany 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 otherstuff there. You can fix up a bit, and then we'll go out and have a goodfeed."
"As you like," Jack assented, indifferently. "But I must see Hunstonfirst--he will go from the docks to the office, and expect to find methere."
They entered a cab and drove westward, through the decorated streets andsurging crowds of the city, down Ludgate Hill and up the slope of Fleetstreet. Jack left his friend in the Strand, before the _IllustratedUniverse_ building, with its windows placarded with the paper's originalsketches and sheets from the current issue, and it was more than anhour later when he turned up at Jimmie's luxurious chambers in theAlbany. He was in slightly better spirits, and he exhaled an odor ofbrandy. He had a check for five hundred pounds in his pocket, and therewas more money due him.
"Where's my war-paint?" he demanded.
That meant, in plain English, Jack's dress clothes, and they were soonproduced from a trunk he had left in Jimmie's care. He made a carefultoilet, and then the two sallied forth into the blazing streets andpleasure-seeking throngs.
They went to the Continental, above Waterloo Place, and Jack orderedthe dinner lavishly--he insisted on playing the host. He chatted inhis old light-hearted manner during the courses, occasionally laughingboisterously, but with an artificial ring that was perceptible to hiscompanion. His eyes sparkled, and his brown cheeks flushed under theglow 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--Idon't care how."
"I wouldn't drink any more," Jimmie urged.
"Another bottle, old chap," Jack cried, thickly, as he lighted a freshcigar; "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_--'notherbottle!'"
Jimmie looked at him gravely. He had serious misgivings about thefuture.
* * * * *
Many of London's spacious suburbs have the advantage of lying beyond thescope of the fog-breeding smoke which hangs over the great city, and atStrand-on-the-Green, on that 9th of November, the weather was lessdisagreeable.
A man and a woman came slowly from the direction of Kew Bridge,sauntering along the wet flagstones of the winding old quay, whichwas almost as lonely as a rustic lane. Victor Nevill looked veryaristocratic and handsome in his long Chesterfield coat and top hat; inone gray-gloved hand he swung a silver-headed stick.
Madge Foster walkedquietly by his side, a dainty picture in furs. She was as lovely asever, if not more so, but it was a pale, fragile sort of beauty. She hadspent the summer in Scotland and the month of September in Devonshire,and had returned to town at the beginning of October. Change of air andscenery had worked a partial cure, but had not brought back her merry,light-hearted disposition. She secretly nursed her grief--the sorrowthat 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 seemedunconscious of the presence of her companion.
"It's a beastly day," remarked Nevill. "I shouldn't like to live by theriver in winter. You need cheering up. What do you say to a box at theSavoy 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 grimybarge that was creeping up stream. She had become resigned to seeing agood deal of Victor Nevill lately, but her treatment of him was littlealtered. She knew his real name now, and that he was the heir of SirLucius Chesney. She had accepted his excuses--listened to him withresentment and indignation when he explained that he had assumed thename of Royle because he wanted to win her for himself alone, and notfor 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 quayjutted out a little like a pier. It was guarded by a railing, and Madgeleaned on this and looked down at the black, incoming tide lapping belowher. No other person was in sight, and the white mist seemed suddenly toclose around the couple. The paddles of a receding steamer churned andsplashed monotonously. From Kew Bridge floated a faint murmur ofrumbling 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 impulsivelynearer.
"I will take you home," he said; "but first I want to ask you aquestion--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 notlose hope. And now I ask you again, for the third time, will you be mywife? Do I not deserve my reward?"
The girl did not answer. Her eyes were downcast, and one little foottapped the flagstone nervously.
"I love you with all my heart, Madge," he went on, with deep and sincerepassion in his voice. "You cannot doubt that, whatever you may think ofme. You are the best and sweetest of women--the only one in the worldfor 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 thehappiest of men."
"I suppose I must," she replied. She did not look him in the face. "Myfather 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 bitterrealization 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 totake her in his arms and kiss her red lips. The coldness of her mannerrepelled him. They turned and walked slowly along the river, while theshadows deepened around them.