In Friendship's Guise Part 17

All his pa.s.sionate love was poured out in those four little words. He forgot the past, and saw only the rich promise of the future. There was a lump in his throat as he added softly:

"You shall never repent your choice, darling!"

For an hour they sat on the bench, talking as they had never talked before, and many a whispered confidence of the girl's, many a phrase and sentence, burnt into Jack's memory to haunt him afterward. Then they parted, there by the riverside, and Madge tripped homeward.

Happy were Jack's reflections as he picked up a cab that rattled him swiftly into Richmond and up the famous Hill to the Roebuck. Nevill and Jimmie Drexell, who had arrived a short time before, greeted him hilariously.

The table was laid for Nevill and his guests in the coffee-room of the Roebuck, as cheerful and snug a place as can be found anywhere, with its snowy linen and s.h.i.+ning silver and cut-gla.s.s, its buffet temptingly spread, and on the walls a collection of paintings that any collector might envy.

The Roebuck's _chef_ was one of the best, and the viands served were excellent; the rare old wines gurgled and sparkled from cobwebbed bottles that had lain long in bin. The dinner went merrily, the evening wore on, and the sun dipped beneath the far-off Surrey Hills.

"This is a little bit of all right, my boys," said Jimmie, quoting London slang, as he stirred his _creme de menthe frappe_ with a straw.

"I'm jolly glad I crossed the pond. Many's the time I longed for a glimpse of Richmond and the river while I sweltered in the heat on the Casino roof-garden. Here's to 'Dear Old London Town,' in the words of--who _did_ write that song?"

Nevill drained his chartreuse.

"Come, let's go and have a turn on the Terrace," he said. "It's too early to drive back to town."

They lighted their cigars and filed down stairs, laughing gaily, and crossed the road. Jack was the merriest of the three. Little did he dream that he was going to meet his fate.

CHAPTER XV.

FROM THE DEAD.

There were not many people about town. The strollers had gone back to town, or down the hill to their dinners. The Terrace, and the gardens that dropped below it to the Thames, were bathed in the purplish opalescent shades of evening. From the windows of the Roebuck streamed a shaft of light, playing on the trunks of the great trees, and gleaming the breadth of the graveled walk. It shone full on Nevill and his companions, and it revealed a woman coming along the Terrace from the direction of the Star and Garter; she was smartly dressed, and stepped with a graceful, easy carriage.

"Look!" whispered Jimmie. "The La.s.s of Richmond Hill! There's something nice for you."

"Not for me," Jack laughed.

The woman, coming opposite to the three young men, shot a bold glance at them. She stopped with a little scream, and pressed one hand agitatedly to her heart.

"Jack!" she cried in an eager whisper. "My Jack!"

That once familiar voice woke the chords of his memory, bridged the gulf of years. His blood seemed to turn to ice in his veins. He stared at the handsome face, with its expression of mingled insolence and terror--met the scrutiny of the large, flas.h.i.+ng eyes. Then doubt fled. His brain throbbed, and the world grew black.

"Diane! My G.o.d!" fell from his lips.

"Fancy _her_ turning up!" Nevill whispered to Drexell.

"It's a bad business," Jimmie replied; he, as well as Nevill, had known Diane Merode while she was Jack's wife.

The woman came closer; she shrugged her shoulders mockingly.

"Jack--my husband," she said. "Have you no welcome for me?"

With a bitter oath he caught her arm. His face indicated intense emotion, which he vainly tried to control.

"Yes, it is you!" he said, hoa.r.s.ely. "You have come back from the grave to wreck my life. I heard you were dead, and I believed it--"

"You read it in a Paris paper," interrupted Diane, speaking English with a French accent. "It was a lie--a mistake. It was not I who was dragged from the river and taken to the Morgue. It would have been better so, perhaps. Jack, why do you glare at me? Listen, I am not as wicked as you think. There were circ.u.mstances--I was not to blame. I can explain all--"

"Hush, or I will kill you!" he said, fiercely. He s.n.a.t.c.hed at a chain that encircled her white throat, and as it broke in his grasp a sparkling jewel fell to the ground. The most stinging name that a man can call a woman hissed from his clenched teeth. She shrank back, terrified, into the shadow, and he followed her. "Are you dead to all shame, that you dare to make yourself known to me?" he cried. "The life you lead is blazoned on your painted cheeks! You are no wife of mine!

Begone! Out of my sight! Merciful G.o.d, what have I done to deserve this?"

"For Heaven's sake, don't make a scene!" urged Jimmie. "Control yourself, old man." He looked anxiously about, but as yet the altercation had not been observed by the few persons in the vicinity. "Nevill, we must stop this," he added.

"I _won't_ go away," Diane vowed, obstinately. "You are my husband, Jack, and you know it. Let your friends, who knew us in the old days, deny it if they can! I have a wife's claim on you."

"Take her away!" Jack begged.

Nevill drew the woman to one side, and though she made a show of resistance at first, she quickly grew calm and listened quietly to his whispered words. He whistled for a pa.s.sing hansom, and it stopped at the edge of the street. He helped Diane into it, and rejoined his companions.

"It's all right--she is reasonable now," he said in a low voice. "Brace up, Jack; I'll see you through this. Jimmie, go over and pay the account, will you? Here is the money. And say that I will send for the trap to-morrow."

Nevill entered the cab, and it rattled swiftly down the hill. As the echo of the wheels died away, Jack dropped on a bench and hid his face in his hands.

"I'll be back in a moment, old chap," said Jimmie. "Wait here."

He had scarcely crossed the street when Jack rose. His agony seemed too intense to bear, and even yet he did not realize all that the blow meant. For the moment he was hardly responsible for his actions, and a glimpse of the river, s.h.i.+ning far below, lured him on blindly and aimlessly. A little farther along the Terrace, just beyond the upper side of the gardens, was a footway leading down to the lower road and the Thames. He followed this, swaying like a drunken man, and he had reached the iron stile at the bottom when Jimmie, who had sighted him in the distance, overtook him and caught his arm. Jack shook him roughly off.

"What do you want?" he said, hoa.r.s.ely.

"Don't take it so hard," pleaded Jimmie. "I'm awfully sorry for you, old man. I know it's a knock-down blow, but--"

"You don't know half. It's worse than you think. I am the most miserable wretch on earth! And an hour ago I was the happiest--"

"Come with me," said Jimmie. "That's a good fellow."

Jack did not resist. Linked arm in arm with his friend, he stumbled along the narrow pavement of the lower road. At The Pigeons they found a cab that had just set down a fare. They got into it, and Jimmie gave the driver his orders.

It seemed a short ride to Jack, and while it lasted not a word pa.s.sed his lips. He sat in a stupor, with dull, burning eyes and a throbbing head. In all his thoughts he recalled the lovely, smiling face of Madge.

And now she was lost to him forever--there was a barrier between them that severed their lives. In his heart he bitterly cursed the day when he had yielded to the wiles of Diane Merode, the popular dancer of the Folies Bergere.

The cab stopped, and he reeled up a dark flight of steps. He was sitting in a big chair in his studio, with the gas burning overhead, and Jimmie staring at him with an expression of heartfelt sympathy on his honest face.

"This was the best place to bring you," he said.

Jack rose, and paced to and fro. He looked haggard and dazed; his hair and clothing were disheveled.

"Tell me, Jimmie," he cried, "is it all a dream, or is it true?"

"I wish it wasn't true, old man. But you're taking it too hard--you're as white as a ghost. It can be kept out of the papers, you know. And you won't have to live with her--you can pension her off and send her abroad. I dare say she's after money. Women are the very devil, Jack, ain't they? I could tell you about a little sc.r.a.pe of my own, with Totsy Footlights, of the Casino--"