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Page 75
"Curse him!" he said, hoarsely. "_He_ again! Is he destined to blast my
life and ruin my prospects?"
* * * * *
The "do" at Joubert Mansions, Chelsea, by no means fell short of Jack's
forecast; on the contrary, it exceeded it. His memory failed him as to
what transpired after three in the morning; he woke at noon in a strange
bed, with a sense of overmastering languor, and a head that felt too big
for his body. Vance Dickens, with a palette on his thumb, was standing
over him. He laughed till the roof threatened to come off.
"I wish you could see yourself," he howled. "It's not exactly the
awakening of Venus. You _wouldn't_ be undressed, so we had to tuck you
away as you were--some chaps helped to bring you here."
"You beggar!" growled Jack. "You look as fresh as a new penny."
"Two whiskies is my limit, old boy--I don't go beyond it. And I had
a page black-and-white to do to-day. Stir yourself, and we'll have
breakfast. The kettle is boiling. Wait--I'll bring you a pick-me-up."
The pick-me-up, compounded on the principle that like cures like, did
not belie its name. It got Jack to his feet and soothed his head. The
two men were about of a size, and Dickens loaned his friend a shirt and
collar and a tweed suit, promising to send his dress clothes home by a
trusty messenger.
"No; I'll attend to that," demurred Jack, who did not care to tell where
he lived.
He nibbled at his breakfast, drank four cups of strong tea, and then
sauntered to the window. It was drizzling rain, and the streets between
the river and the King's road were wrapped in a white mist.
"This sort of thing won't do," he reflected. "I must pull up short, or
I'll be a complete wreck." He remembered the brief, sad note--with more
love than bitterness in it--which he had received from Madge in reply to
his letter of explanation. "I owe something to her," he thought. "She
forgave me, and begged me to face the future bravely. And, by heavens,
I'll do it! I hope she doesn't know the life I've been leading since I
came back. Work is the thing, and I'll buckle down to it again."
Fired by his new resolve, Jack settled himself in a cozy corner and
lighted a pipe. With a stimulating interest he watched Dickens, who had
finished his black-and-white, and was doing a water color from a sketch
made that summer at Walberswick, a quaint fishing village on the Suffolk
coast. He blobbed on the paint, working spasmodically, and occasionally
he refreshed himself at the piano with a verse of the latest popular
song.
"By Jove, this is Friday!" he said suddenly; "and I'm due at the London
Sketch Club to-night. Will you come there and have supper with me at
nine?"
"Sorry, but I can't," Jack replied, remembering his promise to Sir
Lucius Chesney. "I'm off now. I'll drop in to-morrow and get my
dress-suit--don't trouble to send it."
Dickens vainly urged a change of mind. Jack was not to be coerced, and,
putting on a borrowed cap and overcoat, he left the studio. He walked to
Sloane square, and took a train to the Temple; but he was so absorbed
in a paper that he was carried past his station. He got out at
Blackfriars, and lingered doubtfully on the greasy pavement, staring at
the sea of traffic surging in the thick, yellow fog. He had reached
another turning-point in his life, but he did not know it.
"I'll go to the 'Cheese,'" he decided, "and have some supper."
CHAPTER XXV.
A FRUITLESS ERRAND.
The merest trifles often have far-reaching results, and Jack's careless
decision, prompted by a hungry stomach, made him the puppet of fate. The
crossing at Blackfriars station is the most dangerous in London, and he
did not reach the other side without much delay and several narrow
escapes. It was a shoulder-and-elbow fight to the mouth of the dingy
little court in which is the noted hostelry he sought, and then
compensation and a haven of rest--the dining-room of the "Cheshire
Cheese!" Here there was no trace of the fog, and the rumble of wheels
was hushed to a soothing murmur. An old-world air pervaded the place,
with its low ceiling and sawdust-sprinkled floor, its well-worn benches
and tables and paneling. The engravings on the walls added to the charm,
and the head waiter might have stepped from a page of Dickens. Savory
smells abounded, and the kettle rested on the hob over the big
fireplace, to the right of which Doctor Johnson's favorite seat spoke
eloquently of the great lexicographer, who in time past was wont to
foregather here with his friends.
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