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Page 54
Seating himself in a rickety chair he lighted his pipe and opened the
packet, which contained several papers in a good state of preservation.
He read them carefully and thoughtfully, and the task occupied him for
half an hour or more.
"Whew! It's a heap better than I counted on--I didn't have the time to
examine them right before," he muttered. "There may be a tidy little
fortune in it. I'll make something out of this, or my name ain't Noah
Hawker. The old chap is out of the running, to start with, so I must
hunt up the others. And that won't be easy, perhaps."
CHAPTER XVIII.
HOME AGAIN.
By an odd coincidence, on the same day that Sir Lucius Chesney and Noah
Hawker crossed over from Calais, a P. and O. steamship, Calcutta for
London, landed Jack Vernon at the Royal Albert Docks. He had expected to
be met there by Mr. Hunston, the editor of the _Illustrated Universe_,
or by one of the staff; yet he seemed rather relieved than otherwise
when he failed to pick out a single familiar face in the crowd. He was
fortunate in having his luggage attended to quickly, and, that formality
done with, he walked to the dock station.
The four or five intervening months, commencing with that tragic night
in the Ravenscourt Park studio, had wrought a great change in Jack;
though it was more internal, perhaps, than external. His old friends
would promptly have recognized the returned war-artist, laden with
honors that he did not care a jot for. He looked fit, and his step was
firm and elastic. His cheeks were deeply bronzed and well filled out. A
severe bullet wound and a sharp attack of fever had led to his being
peremptorily ordered home as soon as he was convalescent, and the sea
voyage had worked wonders and built up his weakened constitution. But he
was altered, none the less. There were hard lines about his mouth and
forehead, and in his eyes was a listless, weary, cynical look--the look
of a man who finds life a care and a burden almost beyond endurance.
The train was waiting, and Jack settled himself in a second-class
compartment. He tossed his traveling-bag on the opposite seat, lighted
a cigar, and let his thoughts wander at will. At the beginning of his
great grief, when nothing could console him for the loss of Madge, the
_Illustrated Universe_, a weekly journal, had asked him to go out to
India and represent them pictorially in the Afridi campaign on the
Northwest frontier. He accepted readily, with a desperate hope in his
heart that he did not confide to his friends. He wasted no time in
leaving London, which had become intensely hateful to him. He joined the
British forces, and performed his duty faithfully, sending home sketches
that immensely increased the circulation of the _Universe_. And he did
more. At every opportunity he was in the thick of the fighting. Time and
again, when he found himself with some little detachment that was cut
off from the main column and harassed by the enemy, he distinguished
himself for valor. He risked his life recklessly, with an unconcern that
surprised his soldier comrades. But the Afridis could not kill him. He
recovered from a bullet wound in the shoulder and from fever, and now he
was back in England again.
It was a dreary home-coming, without pleasure or anticipation. The sense
of his loss--the hopeless yearning for Madge--was but little dulled. He
felt that he could never take up the threads of his old life again; he
wished to avoid all who knew him. He had no plans for the future. His
studio was let, and the new tenant had engaged Alphonse--Nevill had
arranged this for him. He had received several letters from Jimmie, and
had answered them; but neither referred to Madge in the correspondence.
She was dead to him forever, he reflected with savage resentment of his
cruel fate. As for Diane, she had taken his three hundred pounds--it was
arranged through Nevill--and returned to the Continent. She had vowed
solemnly that he should never see or hear of her again.
The train rolled into Fenchurch street. Jack took his bag and got out, a
little dazed by the unaccustomed hubbub and din, by the jostling throng
on the platform. Here, again, there was no one to meet him. He passed
out of the station--it was just four o'clock--into the clammy November
mist. He shivered, and pulled up his coat collar. He was standing on the
pavement, undecided where to go, when a cab drew alongside the curb. A
corpulent young gentleman jumped out, and immediately uttered an eager
shout.
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