In Friendship's Guise Read online

  CHAPTER VI.

  A VISITOR FROM PARIS.

  It was seven o'clock in the evening, ten days after Jack's secondencounter with Madge Foster, and a blaze of light shone from the bigstudio that overlooked Ravenscourt Park. The lord and master of it waswriting business letters, a task in which he was assisted by frequentcigarettes. A tray containing whisky, brandy and siphons stood on aMoorish inlaid smoking stand, and suggested correctly that a visitor wasexpected. At noon Jack had received a letter from Victor Nevill, of whomhe had seen nothing since their meeting at Strand-on-the-Green, to saythat he was coming out at eight o'clock that night to have a chat overold times. Alphonse, being no longer required, had gone to his lodgingsnear by.

  "It will be a bit awkward if Nevill wants his dinner," Jack said tohimself, in an interval of his letter writing. "I'll keep him here acouple of hours, and then take him to dine in town. He's a good fellow,and will understand. He'll find things rather different from the Parisdays."

  There was a touch of pardonable pride in that last thought, for fewartists in London could boast of such luxuriously decorated quarters, orof such a collection of treasures as Jack's purse and good taste hadenabled him to gather around him. The hard oak floor, oiled and polishedby the hands of Alphonse, was sparsely strewn with Oriental rugs and acouple of tiger skins. A screen of stamped leather hid three sides ofthe French stove. The eye met a picturesque confusion of inlaid cabinetswith innumerable drawers, oak chests and benches, easy chairs of everysort, Chippendale trays and escritoires, Spanish lanterns dangling fromoverhead, old tables worn hollow on top with age, countless weapons andpieces of armor, and shelves stacked with blue delf china and rows ofpewter plates. A long costume case flashed its glass doors at a cosycorner draped with art muslin. On the walls, many of them presented byfriends, were scores of water-colors and oil paintings, etchings andengravings, no two of them framed alike. Minor articles were scatteredabout in profusion, and a couple of bulging sketch-books bore witness totheir owner's summer wanderings about England.

  The letters finished and stamped, Jack closed his desk with a sigh ofrelief. The evening was chilly, and he had started a small fire of coalsin the grate--he used his stove only in wintry weather. He pulled a bigchair to the blaze, stretched his legs against the fender, and fellstraightway into a reverie; an expression that none of his Englishcompanions had ever seen there softened his handsome face.

  "I wonder what she is doing now," he thought. "I fancy I can see hersitting opposite to her father, at the dinner table, with the softlamplight on her lovely cheeks, and that bewitching look in her eyes.I am a conceited fool to believe that she cares for me, and yet--andyet--By Jove, I would marry her in a minute. She is the most winsomegirl I ever saw. It is not like the passion I had for Diane--I was afoolish, hot-headed boy then. Madge would be my good angel. In spite ofmyself, she has come into my life and taken a deep hold on my heart--Ican't put her out again. Jack, my boy, you had better have gone on thatsketching tour--better have fled to Devonian wilds before it was toolate."

  But was it too late now? If so, the fact did not seem to trouble Jackmuch, for he laughed softly as he stirred the fire. He, the impregnableand boastful one, the woman-hater, had fallen a victim when he believedhimself most secure. It was unutterably sweet to him--this secondpassion--and he knew that it was not to be shaken off.

  During the past ten days he had seen Madge frequently. Nearly everyafternoon, when the fading sun glimmered through a golden haze, he hadwandered down to Strand-on-the-Green, confident that the girl would notbe far away, that she would welcome him shyly and blushingly, with thatradiant light in her eyes which he hoped he could read aright. They hadenjoyed a couple of tramps together, when time permitted--once up thetowing-path toward Richmond, and again down the river to Barnes.

  They were happy hours for both. Madge was unconventional, and wouldhave resented a hint that she was doing anything in the least improper.She had left boarding school two years before, and since then she hadrejoiced in her freedom, not finding life dull in the sleepy Thames-sidesuburb of London. As for Jack, his conscience gave him few twinges inregard to these surreptitious meetings. It would be different, he toldhimself, had Stephen Foster chosen to receive him as a visitor. But hehad gathered, from what Madge told him, that her father was eccentric,and detested visitors--that he would permit nothing to break themonotonous and regular habits of the secluded old house. Madge admittedthat one friend of his, a young man, came sometimes; but she intimatedunmistakably that she did not like him. Jack was curious to know whatbusiness took Stephen Foster to town every day, but on that subject thegirl never spoke.

  As the young artist sat watching the fire in the grate, his fancypainted pleasing pictures. "Why should I not marry?" he mused. "Bachelorlife is well enough in its way, but it can't compare with a snug house,and one's own dining-table, and a charming wife to drive away theoccasional blue-devils. I have money put aside, and it won't be longtill I'm making an easy twelve hundred a year. By Jove, I will--"

  A noisy rap at the door interrupted Jack's train of thought, and broughthim to his feet.

  "Come in!" he cried, expecting to see Nevill.

  But the visitor was a telegraph boy, bearing the familiar brownenvelope. Jack signed for it, and tore open the message.

  "Awfully seedy," Victor Nevill wired. "Sorry I can't get out to-night.Am going to bed."

  "No answer," said Jack, dismissing the boy. With his hands in hispockets he strolled undecidedly about the studio for a couple ofminutes. "I hope nothing serious is the matter with Nevill," hereflected. "He's not the sort of a chap to go to bed unless he feelspretty bad. What shall I do now? I must be quick about it if I wantto get any dinner in town. It's past eight, and--"

  There was the sound of slow footsteps out in the passage, followed bythe nervous jingling of the electric bell.

  "Who can that be?" Jack muttered.

  He pulled a cord that turned the gas higher in the big circlet of jetsoverhead, and opened the door curiously. The man who entered the studiowas a complete stranger, and it was certain that he was not anEnglishman, if dress and appearance could decide that fact. He wasvery tall and well-built, with a handsome face, so deeply tanned asto suggest a recent residence in a tropical country. His mustaches weretwisted into waxed points, and there was a good deal of gray in hisbeard, which was parted German fashion in the middle, and carefullybrushed to each side. His top hat was unmistakably French, with a flatrim, and his boots were of patent leather. As he opened his long capedcloak, the collar of which he kept turned up, it was seen that he was inevening dress.

  "Do I address Monsieur Vernon, the artist?" he asked in good English,with a French accent.

  "Yes, that's right."

  "Formerly Monsieur John Clare?"

  "I once bore that name," said Jack, with a start of surprise; he wasill-pleased to hear it after so many years.

  The visitor produced a card bearing the name of M. Felix Marchand, ParcMonceaux, Paris.

  "I do not recall you," said Jack. "Will you take a seat."

  "We have not met until now," said M. Marchand, "but I have the honor tobe familiar with your work, and to possess some of it. Pictures are tome a delight--I confess myself a humble patron of art--and a few yearsago I purchased several water-color sketches signed by your name. Theyappealed to me especially because they were bits of Paris--one lookingdown the river from the bridge of the Carrousel, and the other a nightimpression of Montmartre."

  "I remember them vaguely," said Jack. "They, with others, were sold forme by a dealer named Cambon--"

  "Monsieur is right. It was from Jacques Cambon, of the Quai Voltaire,I obtained the sketches. They pleased me much, and I went again to seekmore--that was eighteen months later, when I returned to Paris after along absence. Imagine my disappointment to learn that Jacques Cambonhad no further knowledge of Monsieur Clare, and no more of his sketchesto sell."

  "No; I had come to London by that time--or was in Italy," said Jack."But pe
rhaps--pardon me--you would prefer to carry on our conversationin French."

  "Monsieur is thoughtful," replied M. Marchand. "He will understand thatI desire, while in England, to improve as much as possible my knowledgeof the language."

  "Quite so," assented Jack. "You speak it already like a native born," headded to himself.

  "The years passed on," resumed the Frenchman, "but I did not forget theauthor of my little sketches. A few weeks ago I resolved to cross theChannel and pay a visit to London, which I last saw in 1891. I had butlately returned from a long trip to Algeria and Morocco, and I was toldthat the English spring was mild; in Paris I found the weather too coldfor my chest complaint. So I said to myself, 'I will make endeavor tofind the artist, John Clare.' But how? I had an idea. I went to theschool of the great Julian, and there my inquiries met with success.'Monsieur Clare,' one of the instructors told me, 'is now a prosperouspainter of London, by the name of Vernon.' They gave me the address ofa magazine in your Rue Paternoster, and at that place I was this morninginformed where to find you. I trust that my visit is not an intrusion."

  "Oh, not at all," said Jack. "Who at Julian's can have known so muchabout me?" he thought.

  "I have spoken with freedom--perhaps too much," M. Marchand went on."But I desired to explain clearly. I have come on business, monsieur,hoping that I may be privileged to purchase one or two pictures to takeback with me to Paris."

  "I am very sorry," said Jack, "but I fear I have nothing whatever tosell at present. I am indeed flattered by your kind interest in my work."

  "Monsieur has nothing?"

  Jack shook his head.

  "You see I do a great deal in the way of magazine drawing," heexplained. "The half-finished water-colors on the easels are orders.I expect to have a large painting in the Royal Academy shortly."

  "Alas, I will not be able to see it," M. Marchand murmured. "I leaveLondon to-morrow." All the time he was speaking he had been looking withinterest about the studio, and his eyes still wandered from wall towall. "Ah, monsieur, I have a thought," he added suddenly. "It is of thefinished pictures, of your later work, that you speak. But surely youpossess many sketches, and among them would be some of Paris, such asyou placed with Jacques Cambon. Is it not so?"

  Jack, in common with all artists, was reluctant to part with hissketches. But he was growing uncomfortably hungry, and felt disposed tomake a sacrifice for the sake of getting rid of his importunate visitor.

  "I will show you my collection," he answered briefly.

  Lifting the drapery of a couch, he pulled out one of half a dozen fatportfolios, of huge dimensions. He untied the strings and opened it,exhibiting a number of large water-color drawings on bristol-board, mostof them belonging to his student days in Paris, some made in Holland andNormandy. The sight of them, recalling his married life with Diane,awoke unpleasant memories. He moved away and lighted a cigarette.

  The Frenchman began to turn the sketches over eagerly, and presentlyJack saw him staring hard at an unstiffened canvas which he had found.It was the duplicate Rembrandt painted for Martin Von Whele. Jack hadnot been reading the papers much of late, and was ignorant of theHollander's death.

  "That is nothing of any account," he said. "It is the copy of an oldmaster."

  "Ah, I have a little taste for the antique," replied M. Marchand."This is repulsive--it is a frightful face. Were it in my collection,monsieur, it would quite spoil my pretty bits of scenery."

  He tossed the canvas carelessly aside, and finally chose a couple ofwater-colors, both showing picturesque nooks of Paris.

  "I should like to have these," he said, "if monsieur is willing to namea price."

  "Fifteen pounds for the two," Jack announced reluctantly. "Can I sendthem for you?" he added.

  "No; I will take them with me."

  Jack tied up the portfolio and replaced it under the couch, an operationthat was closely watched by his visitor. Then he wrapped up the twosketches, and received three five-pound notes.

  "May I offer you some refreshment?" he said, politely. "You will findbrandy there--"

  "I love the golden whisky of England," protested M. Marchand.

  He mixed some for himself, and after drinking it he wiped his lips witha handkerchief. As he returned it to his pocket Jack saw on the whitelinen a brown stain that he was sure had not been there before.

  M. Felix Marchand looked at his watch, shook hands with Jack, and hopedthat he would have the pleasure of seeing him again. Then he bowedceremoniously, and was gone, carrying the parcel under his arm. Jackclosed the door, and retired to an inner room to change his clothing forthe evening.

  "I'll have a grill at the Trocadero," he told himself, "and drop in atthe Alhambra for the last few numbers. A queer chap, that Frenchman!Where did he pick up such good English? He was all right, of course, butI can't help feeling a bit puzzled. Fancy his taking a craze for mystudies of Paris! I remember that they gathered dust for months in oldCambon's window, until one day I missed them. It's a funny thing aboutthat brown mark which came off on his handkerchief after he wiped hismustache. Still, I've known men to use such stuff to give them a healthycolor, though this chap didn't look as if he needed it. And he said hesuffered from a chest complaint."

  * * * * *

  At eight o'clock Jack was up and splashing in his bath, a custom that hehugely enjoyed, winter and summer. He had come home the night before bythe last train, after dining with some friends he had picked up, andspending an hour with them at the Alhambra.

  He dressed himself with unusual care and discrimination, selecting asuit of dark brown tweeds that matched his complexion, and a scarf witha good bit of red in it. Prepared for him in the studio, and presidedover by Alphonse in a white apron, were rolls and coffee, eggs andbacon. The sun was shining brightly outside. The postman came while hewas at breakfast, and he read his batch of letters; from some of whichdropped checks. One he purposely saved for the last, and thecontents--only a few lines--brought a smile to his lips. He tore thedainty sheet of note-paper into small pieces and threw them into thefire. Then he filled his cigar case with choice Regalias, pulled on hisdriving gloves, and perched a jaunty Alpine hat on his head.

  "Alphonse, you must be here all day," he said. "Mordaunt, of theFrivolity, will send for that poster; and a messenger may come from thePiccadilly Magazine--the drawings are in a parcel on my desk. Say to anyperson who calls that I will not be back until evening."

  "I will remember," assured Alphonse.

  "By the by, Alphonse, you were living in a big house in the ParcMonceaux half a dozen years ago?"

  "Monsieur is right."

  "Do you remember a gentleman by the name of Marchand--M. FelixMarchand?"

  "My memory may be at fault," Alphonse answered, "but I do not recall aperson of that name."

  "Well, no matter. He may not have resided there then, and the ParcMonceaux means a large neighborhood."

  Jack banished M. Marchand from his mind with ease, as he went out intothe sunshine and freshness of the spring morning; the singing of thebirds, and the beauty of the trees and flowers, told him that it was aglorious thing to be alive. He waited a few moments at a nearby liverystable, while the attendants brought out a very swell-looking and newlyvarnished trap, and put into the shafts a horse that would have held hisown in Hyde Park.

  Chiswick high-road, with its constantly widening and narrowingperspectives, its jumble of old and modern houses, had never looked morecheerful as Jack drove rapidly westward. He crossed Kew Bridge, rattledon briskly, and finally entered Richmond, where he pulled up by the curbopposite to the station where centre a number of suburban railway lines.

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

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

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