"Well—so that you have explained it, I suppose it's all right," said Byfield slowly. "Only for her sake you must be careful."
"Careful, Mr. Byfield, sir?" exclaimed Daniel fervently. "From this moment I will be more than discreet. I was careless last night—reckless—unpardonably reckless. It shall not occur again; I'm annoyed with myself."
"Well—we'll say no more about it," said Gilbert, a little sorry and ashamed that he should have been so hard on anyone so abject. "Get her away to Fiddler's Green as soon as possible; I'll arrange that the house shall be ready, and that servants shall be there to look after you. There's a housekeeper and others there, and they shall be instructed that for the time being you are master, and that they take their orders from you."
"That will be highly satisfactory," said Daniel, cheering up wonderfully at the thought of the new importance that was to be his. "But if you will pardon my suggesting such a thing—there is a little matter of ready money——"
"Oh, you shall have ready money," said Gilbert impatiently. "There will be certain things to be bought—certain expenses to be paid. I suggest that you should be at Fiddler's Green for the next month or six weeks. You will, I suppose, get someone to look after the place—your own house I mean—in your absence?"
"I can quite safely leave that to my daughter," said Daniel, with a sort of cold shudder going through him at the remembrance of what had already been done in regard to the house. "She will provide for everything, as she has always done. A most reliable good girl, Mr. Byfield, sir."
The little man was so quiet now, and so humble and grateful, that Gilbert had no hesitation in sitting down to write a cheque for a certain sum to meet initial expenses. In the very act of writing it he looked up, and spoke to the waiting Daniel Meggison; he was petulantly anxious that his own point of view should be understood.
"You will understand, of course, Meggison, that I do this very willingly and very cheerfully—just as I might do something to help some poor child that could not help herself. For sheisa child—isn't she?"
"A mere babe, sir, in the ways of the world—a toddler, who should never have left her mother's knee," replied Meggison sentimentally. "Had shebeen, of course, anything else I should never for an instant have consented to this." He was carefully folding the cheque as he spoke, and was making rapid calculations in his own mind.
"One other point, Meggison. It is possible that your daughter might suspect that I had had something to do with the matter; I believe she thinks that I am a little richer than the people she generally meets. Therefore to avoid that, I have made up my mind to go away for a week, so that she may not in any way connect me with what is being done. You seem to have told your tale well—rather too well, if anything—and she believes you; when you come back here you will find me perhaps in this place again, quite in the ordinary way. So far as money is concerned, you will find your credit good at Fiddler's Green, and my housekeeper will order what is necessary for you. More than that, I will keep in touch with you, and will let you have what other ready money you may want. But no more talk of fortunes, Meggison, if you please."
"Certainly not, Mr. Byfield, sir; that was an indiscretion. I shall have a month or six weeks in which to explain to Bessie that I cannot go on beyond a certain time; she will understand perfectly. As for your notion about going away—I applaud it, sir. Splendid notion!"
"I'm glad you approve," said Gilbert dryly. "I will write down here exactly what you're to do to get to the house, so that you may in your daughter's eyes appear to be already familiar with it; and you will understand that to all intents and purposes you will be master there so long as you are in it.No one will question your right to be there—and no one will interfere with you."
Thus it happened, in the little drama that was afterwards to be played out so strangely, that Gilbert Byfield, the better to preserve his secret, left his lodging, and went back into the more seemly world that knew him; while Daniel Meggison, knowing that the coast was clear, set his hand boldly to the work he had to do, and burnt what boats were left to him with a gay good will.
The cheque was cashed; and from that moment, with money in his pocket and apparently unlimited credit for the first time in his life, Mr. Daniel Meggison flung caution to the winds, and hurled himself with zest into the new life that was opening before him. Arcadia Street was shaken to its very foundations at finding that the Meggisons were leaving—that the Meggisons were arraying themselves in new clothing, that the Meggisons had turned their lodgers adrift, and that the Meggisons actually had money to spend. Arcadia Street heard rumours, and flung them further out into Islington, and even onward into Highbury and other districts. If you wanted a quick word for lucky or fortunate or anything of that sort, you simply said, "What price Meggison?" and clicked your tongue; and so became in a moment wonderfully expressive.
Bessie, for her part, had set about the business, if not exactly with caution, at least with some forethought. The respectable part of the furniture fetched a good price; a landlord who had long given up hope compromised matters, and went away congratulating himself on having got anything at all.Everyone suggested that the Meggisons might have behaved better, but that on the other hand they might have behaved worse. So that in the long run most people were satisfied; while quite a number suggested that, after all, if any luck was coming to Arcadia Street, Mr. Meggison—always quite the gentleman, mind you!—was the man who should properly have it.
There came that tumultuous moment when the bare and empty house was to be left, and when, with such personal luggage as they had contrived to cram into several very new trunks, they were about to set out on their way to Fiddler's Green. Aubrey Meggison, not desiring to be associated with so public a departure, had casually suggested that he would "turn up at the station"; Mr. Meggison had gone out hurriedly, with a promise to be back in a moment; the actual business of leaving was left to Bessie. The small servant Amelia had drifted away hopelessly back to that institution from which she had come, there to wait until such time as another situation should offer itself.
The cab was at the door, and the trunks were piled upon it; and Arcadia Street had turned out to see the great departure. All the children of Arcadia Street had long since seized upon points of vantage, and had taken up positions on the pavement, leaving only a narrow lane, down which Bessie must presently pass. The elders stood behind, and suggested with sighs what they would have done if by any chance Dame Fortune had swooped upon them. By all accounts, it seemed unanimously resolved that they would have made something of a "splash," thoughin what particular water they did not specify. And while they waited, Bessie had gone through the blank and empty house for a final look at it—and so out into that poor garden of her dreams.
The garden was stripped now; the box that had formed the ottoman was naked and broken; the whole place a wilderness. Yet, as she stood in it for a moment, she seemed to see it as it had been, and as it never would be again; looked with eyes that were bright with tears at the familiar shabby place.
"Good-bye—old garden!" she whispered. "You did your best for me—but you never had a real chance. Yet I have loved you as I shall never love any other place, however beautiful; because everything that was good and kind has happened to me here. Good-bye; I hope someone may love you half as well as I have done!"
So at last she fluttered out of the house, and into the cab, with a kindly word or two for those that pressed about her; and quite naturally, as it seemed, told the man to stop at the corner—at the Arcadia Arms. Someone raised a feeble cheer; and one man, beating time, amazingly started—"For he's a jolly good fellow"; then the cab rolled away, with the younger part of Arcadia Street trailing after it.
Outside the Arcadia Arms it waited, with the girl sitting quietly inside. It having been impressed upon Mr. Daniel Meggison inside that he was wanted, and that the time had come for farewells, he was presently prevailed upon to emerge. He appeared surrounded by friends, with a new silk hat, that had been rubbed in places the wrong way, upon the back of his head, and a large cigar with the band upon it ina corner of his mouth, and a little uncertain as to what to do with his legs. He shook hands with all and sundry, and murmured that he would never forget them; was helped into the cab by a dozen willing hands; and left to Arcadia Street the lasting remembrance that they had seen him, as the cab drove away, burst into tears.
Arcadia Street, having been shaken to its depths, spent what was left of the day in discussing the matter, and in talking about the Meggisons in general, and Mr. Daniel Meggison in particular. And quite late at night there were little knots of people gathered outside the empty house, still talking of the glory that had fallen upon those who had departed from it.
A DULL week in that civilization to which he obstinately refused to be accustomed brought Gilbert Byfield back again—naturally, as it seemed—to Arcadia Street. It had been a week spent practically between three points of a compass which represented Enid and her mother—the club—and his rooms. A fourth point, of a smaller sort, was represented by Mr. Jordan Tant, who hovered about him anxiously, and wondered without disguise why the man had ever come back at all.
Jordan Tant had made one or two remarks concerning the strange little shabby girl of Arcadia Street, but had found, something to his annoyance, that Gilbert appeared to take no interest whatever in that matter, and was quite indifferent to anything that might be said concerning it. Tant groaned in spirit at the thought that after all Gilbert had returned to the ways of the world to which he belonged, and that in due course Mr. Tant would be an interested spectator at some such place as St. George's, Hanover Square, what time Gilbert Byfield held the willing Enid by the hand.
Yet, as has been said, within a week Gilbert disappeared again—turning into Arcadia Street, appropriatelydressed for it, late on a warm evening just as the lamps were being lighted. He had kept his rooms, paying for them some time in advance; he put his key in the lock, and opened the door, and went up. Lighting the gas in the shabby little place, he saw that everything was just as he had left it, and nodded slowly with satisfaction. While he was still looking about him, his landlady bustled in to give him welcome, and to ask if there was anything he required. He told her that there was nothing he wanted that night, and somewhat curtly dismissed her when he saw that she was on the point of beginning to relate some piece of news that was doubtless of tremendous interest to her, if not to him. She went away, and he was left alone.
Scarcely five minutes had elapsed when there came a quick thud at the door, and it was opened unceremoniously enough. Looking round frowningly, Gilbert saw before him the thick-set figure of the man Simon Quarle—that man who lived at the house next door, and who had once thrust himself so unwarrantably upon Gilbert in the garden. The man was hat-less, and his strong almost scowling face was thrust forward with its habitual bullying look.
"Good evening!" said Quarle abruptly, as he closed the door.
"Good evening!" replied Gilbert, not very graciously. "You wish to speak to me?"
"I do; I've come up for that purpose. At the time I'm living just below you."
"In this house?" Gilbert stared at him in some astonishment.
Simon Quarle nodded. "In this house," he said."I didn't want to go far when I left next door, and I found that they had a couple of rooms vacant here. Nothing like so comfortable—but it serves."
"But why have you left next door?" asked Gilbert, after a pause.
"I left next door, if you wish to know, because next door left me," retorted Quarle. "You've been away, so I suppose you don't know. The Meggisons have gone."
"Yes—I know that; I understood that they were going—into the country. But that's no reason why you should leave, surely?"
"I can't very well live in an empty house with no furniture," snapped Quarle, sitting down and rubbing his hands slowly backwards and forwards on his knees. "At least—I don't intend to, while there are furnished rooms to be had."
"Empty house? . . . no furniture? I'm afraid I don't understand," said Gilbert slowly, and yet with an uncomfortable feeling in his mind that he did understand after all. "Will you please tell me plainly what has happened to my little friend—our little friend—Bessie?"
Simon Quarle stopped rubbing his knees for a moment, and frowned. "I don't exactly know why you should feel yourself privileged to call her 'Bessie'; I've known her longer than you have, and I'm older than you are. However, that's neither here nor there. The plain fact of it is that that arch tippler and shuffler, Daniel Meggison, has suddenly come into some money—or made some money—or stolen some money. He boasts that for the rest of his natural days he need not do any work (not that he hasever done any to my knowledge before)—and that he is going to live like a lord in the country—for the sake of his daughter. The letting of lodgings being quite out of the question for such a man in such a position, the house and all the crazy furniture has been sold up—and the family's gone."
Gilbert Byfield stood at his desk, looking down at it, and fingering the papers upon it in an aimless fashion. He saw clearly enough the position in which he was placed; understood only too well that Mr. Daniel Meggison had decided to play that great game of make-believe in the grand manner, being certain in his own mind that Gilbert Byfield would hesitate to stop him. The pretty fiction which Gilbert had himself invented must be kept alive until such time as Daniel Meggison decided he had had his fling, and was prepared to come back to the sober things of life. That at least was Gilbert's first thought.
"I suppose, Mr. Quarle, our friend Meggison did not happen to mention to you what sum of money he had secured—did he?"
"I couldn't get a word out of him as to that—nor could I discover in what particular investments he had been interesting himself," replied Simon Quarle. "It struck me as somewhat peculiar that a man of that type should suddenly come into money—by his own judicious speculation. In other words, Mr. Byfield, there's a mystery about it."
"Well—at all events it doesn't concern me," said Gilbert, a little coldly; for he was not inclined to give his confidence to this abrupt bullying man who had so unceremoniously invaded his rooms.
"No—of course not," retorted Quarle. "How should it concern you? In a sense, you know, Mr. Byfield," he went on, with a slyness that was ominous—"I'm sorry for you. Things have been taken out of your hands a little; you haven't been able to do quite what you desired—have you?"
"I'm afraid I don't quite understand," said Gilbert, turning over the few letters that were on his table, and idly picking up one, the handwriting of which was unfamiliar.
"The night I caught you trespassing you declared to me that you wanted to help the girl—to do something for her."
"Well—and I didn't succeed. What then?" Gilbert glanced up at him with an impatient frown.
"Very strange that it should happen that within a matter of days of that time her father—penniless ne'er-do-well—should suddenly come into money—eh?"
"A mere curious coincidence," responded the other quietly. "You'll excuse me?" He indicated the letter he held, and Simon Quarle nodded.
Gilbert ripped open the envelope, letting it fall to the floor as he unfolded the letter. Mr. Simon Quarle stooped forward politely and picked up the envelope; let his eyes glance across it for a moment as he laid it carefully on the desk. Then he sat with his hands on his knees, and with his head thrust forward, looking out of half-closed eyes at the man who was reading the letter.
The letter was from Bessie. It was a grateful, passionate, almost childish thing—written to a friend who would understand her great new happiness;and as he read it the man's face relaxed into a smile, and his heart softened. After all, the cost was nothing, as compared with this fine fruit; the game might go on for some time longer at least. She was a child, with the heart and mind of a child unspoiled; and it had been strangely given to him to have the power of bringing her into a world where for the first time she tasted joy—where for the first time she appeared to be radiantly happy. Yes—the cost was nothing.
His musings were cut short by the dry, hard voice of Simon Quarle. "So she writes to you?" he said.
Gilbert looked round at him, visibly annoyed. "How do you know that?" he demanded.
Simon Quarle pointed a finger at the envelope he had placed on the desk. "I know the writing," he replied. "The weekly bills used to be made out by her; I've got dozens of 'em. Well—there's nothing to be offended about; how's she getting on?"
There was a curious note of wistfulness—almost a note of jealousy in the man's tones; he seemed to rage at the thought that this other man could have a letter from her that brought a softening smile to his face, whilst he—that older friend Simon Quarle—sat there empty-handed. The world was a bitter place just then, and he resented its bitterness more than usual.
"She's well—and she's very happy," said Gilbert grudgingly.
"Anything about her dear father?"
"Father also appears to be very well—though nothing is said about his particular happiness," replied the younger man, with a glance at the letter."You will be interested also perhaps to learn that Aubrey finds the country somewhat dull . . . but perhaps you're not interested in Aubrey?"
"I am not," replied Quarle. "I don't know that I'm particularly interested in anyone except the girl." He got up, and moved across the room, with his hands clasped behind his back; stopped without looking round, and put a question. "How long, Mr. Byfield, does this precious fortune last?"
"How in the world should I know?" demanded Gilbert, more savagely than he intended. "You'd better ask Meggison; he knows all about it. And may I suggest, Mr. Quarle, that I'm busy, and would rather be alone?"
Simon Quarle turned slowly, and walked towards the door; stopped there, and looked over his shoulder back at Gilbert. "I'm sorry, Mr. Byfield," he said, in a tone that was singularly gentle—"I'm sorry that you find it necessary to remind me that I'm not wanted; I'm more sorry still that you shut me out, not only from your room but from your secrets. Good night to you!"
"Stop!" cried Gilbert quickly, as the hand of the other man was upon the door. "Come back, please; let there be no misunderstanding about this. I have not meant to offend you in any way; I did not mean to be abrupt. But you must not connect me in any way with this matter."
The other man came slowly back into the room, and stood for a moment or two with his head bent, and his hands clasped behind him, and the toe of one boot grinding slowly into the carpet. Without looking up he said at last—"I'm an older man than you are,Byfield—and I know what a beastly world we live in, from some points of view. Talk to me of Meggison or his worthless son, and I don't care a snap of the fingers; tell me about this girl, and the old blood in me fires up as it might have done if it had ever been ordained that I should have a child of my own. That's foolish, I know—but for once it happens to come straight from my heart. I have a love for her that I have for nothing else on God's earth; and I can't stand by now, and see her in all innocence rushing on to a place where the feet of a stronger woman might not tread. Do you or do you not understand for one moment what you're doing?"
"I think so," said Gilbert quietly.
"I don't think you do. As I understand it, you've cheated this girl—tried to draw her to you by a beggarly underhand payment of pounds shillings and pence. That's nothing to you, and you can keep it up for a long time; but where's it going to end? Who's going to tell her the truth—you or I?"
They faced each other in the shabby room—white-faced. "What do you mean by the truth?" asked Byfield at last.
"The truth—that your money buys the clothes she wears and the food she eats; that every copper she drops into the hand of a beggar is so much of your money. Who is to tell her that?" Simon Quarle did not flinch as he stood waiting for his answer.
"You put the thing crudely, Mr. Quarle," said Gilbert at last. "I admit that on the face of it the thing may be reduced to that; you have surprised my secret, and you probably know as well as I do that I am paying the small sum of money for this littlewhim—which pleases me and can do no harm to anyone else. Stop—don't interrupt me; I repeat that it can do no harm to anyone else, while on the other hand it may do a great deal of good. The money is nothing to me—what it can buy means a great deal to her."
"But the end—the end of it!" persisted Quarle. "What of that?"
"Let the end take care of itself," replied Gilbert. "I would not have said so much as this to any other man; but I do you the justice to believe that you are honestly very fond of her, and that you would do a great deal on your own account to help her. Therefore I say that for the present the matter must be left where it is."
"What was the original intention in your mind—apart from merely helping her; what did you purpose doing?" demanded Quarle.
"I planned a holiday for the girl—and God knows she needed it badly. Our friend Meggison probably—certainly misunderstood me."
"Exactly." Quarle nodded slowly, and grinned. "It was the purpose of our friend Meggison to misunderstand you," he said. "Meggison, for the first time in his life, finds a rich man with a soft spot in his heart; it is a chance not to be missed. He proceeds to lie to everyone; to his daughter, who believes in him completely—to others only too willing to believe him. He displays some money; he has a house in the country to which he is to go—— By the way—that house in the country?"
"Is mine," said Gilbert. "I originally intended that Meggison should take the girl down there for afew weeks; that they should then return to their own house. You know for yourself what he has done."
"The question is not so much what he has done as what you are going to do," said the other. "The bubble must burst some day, you know."
Gilbert Byfield picked up the letter again, and looked at it attentively; turned to the other man, and tapped the paper with a forefinger. "She's very well—and very happy," he said slowly. "Think of that, Quarle: for the first time in all her short life she is very well and very happy. I say to you—to the devil with your conventions and your laws—your prejudices and what not; this child is happy. I think you know in your heart that I shall do her no harm; in mercy let her remain where she is, for a little time at least, until I can decide what is to be done. Would you drag her back here again to slave for that drunken father and that lout of a brother; to face semi-starvation, and bills and duns, and every other sordid item that her life should never have known? Would you do that, Quarle?"
"Yes—I would," replied the other stoutly. "And keep her honest."
"She'll keep honest on her own account," said Gilbert. "For the present, I tell you the thing must remain as it is. Meggison won't speak, for his own sake; you won't speak—unless you want to break her heart."
"I'll promise nothing," said Quarle angrily. "You think you've got me in a corner so that I can't move—but I'll find a way to tell the truth without hurting her—or if I do hurt her a little it'll only be for hergood. Oh—I wish I could make you understand what you're doing!"
"I tell you the thing was begun innocently enough," replied Gilbert. "I'm not responsible for what has happened—except that I ought to have known what kind of man Meggison was, and so have been prepared. For the present the thing must stand—and you must be silent."
"It shan't stand an hour longer than I can prevent," was Simon Quarle's final declaration as he went away.
Gilbert Byfield, reviewing the matter carefully so far as it had gone, was disposed first to be righteously indignant, and then to be amused. That which he had done on the mere quick generous impulse of the moment had suddenly turned into something so enormous, and yet so cunningly devised, that he did not quite see how he was to get out of it; on the other hand, the sheer audacity of it held his unwilling admiration even against his better judgment. At one moment he told himself that he must honestly and frankly declare what had happened, and must set himself right in the eyes of the girl; the next he saw that to do that would be to break down her self-respect completely, and to strip old Daniel Meggison of whatever virtues he possessed in the eyes of his daughter—both clearly possible. Therefore, not knowing what to do, he adopted what seemed to be the wisest course—and did nothing at all.
Arcadia Street having grown distasteful, alike because there was no Bessie Meggison next door, and because the stern face of Mr. Simon Quarle fronted him now and then on the staircase and in the street,he determined once more to go back to his own ordinary mode of life, at least for a week or two; and so came again in touch with Mr. Jordan Tant and the rest. If he thought at all of what might be happening at Fiddler's Green, he steadfastly strove to banish the matter from his mind, and told himself that in that he had succeeded. Nevertheless he was restless and unhappy; and his spirit hovered, as it were, in waking and sleeping moments alike, between Arcadia Street and Fiddler's Green, Sussex.
A fortnight later found him back again in Arcadia Street—there to discover another letter from Bessie, gently suggesting that he might have found time to write to her, and with a little general note of wistfulness in it that tugged at his heartstrings. Almost he determined to go down and see her; yet knew full well that he dared not do that, for the simple reason that he could not face those clear eyes and look into their depths. At last he told himself that he would get to work there in Arcadia Street, and would leave the problem to work itself out.
Like most problems it was destined to work itself out in a wholly unexpected fashion. It began to work itself out the very next day, with the arrival of Mr. Simon Quarle, who came in quickly, and closed the door, and looked at Byfield with a face of gloom. Gilbert waved his hand towards a chair to indicate that this unceremonious guest should sit down.
"Well—I've been to Fiddler's Green," was Quarle's first utterance, as he seated himself, and squared his shoulders, and frowned at his host.
"You at Fiddler's Green? What for?"
"To see for myself what was going on; to understandfor myself how the Meggisons stand riches," said Quarle, evidently in a great state of grim triumph. "I've seen them—talked with them—been snubbed by one at least of them. Would you like to hear about it?"
"How's the girl?—how's Bessie?" asked Gilbert.
"Oh—I grant you'd be pleased with her," retorted Quarle grudgingly. "As pretty as a picture—and with a smile in her eyes for the first time. But the other two! The dogs—the scorpions—the blood-suckers!"
"Steady! I'm sure there's nothing to get excited about. What have they done to you?"
"I stand for nothing—and I don't complain," replied Quarle. "But when I see that snivelling lounger Daniel Meggison cutting a dash, sir, in a hired carriage—when I see that ardent billiard-room enthusiast Aubrey Meggison cutting an absurd figure about the country lanes on a hired hack, and slapping his leg with a riding whip in the bar of the local inn—when I think of the bills that are running up, and the price there'll be to pay—plus the necessary explanations——"
"That will do, thank you, Quarle," said Gilbert, with a new gravity upon him. "I'll go down there at once; I've delayed too long. I give you my word I didn't think it was coming to this—I thought at least they'd have the decency to be quiet."
"Decency, sir, is a word they don't understand. Only I tell you I'm bitterly sorry for the girl. If I could in any way drown father and son, or smother them, or get rid of them somehow, I'd cheerfully do it, if it would keep her in ignorance of the truth. Oneword, Byfield: you've got to be mighty careful, because either Daniel Meggison or the boy is mean enough, if the game appears to be up, to tell the truth—and not to tell it with too nice a tongue. Be careful."
Gilbert Byfield had crossed the room and had taken up a railway guide. There was a look of decision about him that impressed Simon Quarle. While the young man was busily fluttering the pages the door was opened, and Mr. Jordan Tant sauntered in, as immaculate-looking as ever. He glanced at the sturdy figure of Simon Quarle, and then looked across at Byfield; coughed to attract the latter's attention.
Gilbert turned and looked at him. "Hullo, Tant," he exclaimed. "I'm sure I'm very glad to see you. Let me make you known to my friend—Mr. Simon Quarle."
The two nodded distantly after the introduction, and Tant stood awkwardly while Gilbert still fluttered the pages. At last Gilbert flung the book aside petulantly, and crossed over to his friend, and shook hands with him.
"What's brought you to Arcadia Street?" he asked.
"Well, as a matter of fact, my dear Gilbert, I do not come exactly on my own account, but for somebody else," responded Mr. Tant. "Mrs. Ewart-Crane wanted a message conveyed to you, and I couldn't think of your number, although, as I told her, I knew the house when once I got into this beastly locality. Consequently, here I am."
"My friend Mr. Tant doesn't like Arcadia Street," said Gilbert, turning to Simon Quarle.
"The young gentleman doesn't look as if he did," retorted Quarle, with a curling lip.
"What I always say is, 'Let us draw the line,'" said Mr. Tant severely. "However, my dear Gilbert, the message is this. The old lady—(by which term, of course, I refer not at all discourteously to Mrs. Ewart-Crane)—the old lady is anxious to get away into the country; thinks Enid is not looking well, and so forth."
"I'm sorry," said Gilbert absently. "But what can I do?"
"There's that beautiful place of yours that you leave empty so much—down at Fiddler's Green. Now, if you could let her have that——"
"I can't; it's quite out of the question," broke in Gilbert harshly, with a glance at Simon Quarle.
"But, my dear Gilbert, she seems quite set on it," urged Mr. Tant. "There can be no reason——"
"The reason is, young gentleman, that the house is full already," said Simon Quarle. "Full of people, I mean."
"You must understand, Tant," said Gilbert, without looking at him, "that I've lent the house to some friends of mine—for a time. Tell Mrs. Ewart-Crane that I'm sorry; under any other circumstances I should have been delighted."
"Oh, very well, my dear Byfield," said Mr. Tant. Then, as a thought occurred to him, he suggested quickly—"Perhaps after your friends have left—gone away from the house——"
"Mr. Byfield doesn't quite know when that's going to happen," said Simon Quarle maliciously. "These friends are down there as a sort of permanentarrangement—stop-as-long-as-they-like sort of thing."
"You seem to know a great deal about it," replied Tant, in his precise tones.
"I do; I've just been to see them," Simon Quarle answered, with a grim laugh. "The sort of guests, young gentleman, that you don't get rid of in a hurry, I can assure you."
Gilbert plunged into the dangerous conversation hurriedly. "I don't think anything more need be said, Mr. Quarle," he exclaimed. "If you'll excuse me now, there are things I want to talk to Mr. Tant about. Good day to you!"
Simon Quarle got up, and walked to the door of the room; turned there, and spoke with characteristic bluntness. "Sorry if I've hurt anybody's feelings," he said. "Of course, it's no business of mine."
He was gone, and the two younger men faced each other. It is safe to say that Jordan Tant had always at the back of his mind one thought dominating all others; the thought of Enid. The fact that Byfield had gruffly refused even to consider the suggestion that the house should be lent to her and her mother set the man's wits to work; the fact that another man who obviously lived in Arcadia Street knew all about the strange occupants of that house at Fiddler's Green stirred into being a process commonly known as "putting two and two together." Mr. Jordan Tant did some hard thinking.
"Please explain to Mrs. Ewart-Crane why I can't let her have the house—and make my apologies!" said Gilbert after a pause.
"I will certainly do that—when I know what tosay," said Tant, putting his head on one side, and looking at his friend with a smile. "My dear Gilbert—who have you been giving away your property to?"
"I have not been giving it away at all," retorted Gilbert. "I've simply lent the house to some friends. Say no more about it."
Mr. Jordan Tant said no more about it. After an awkward pause he made a remark, which in the connection was certainly startling. "By the way, Gilbert, I noticed as I came into this house that your little friend next door—the Princess, as you called her—has flitted."
Byfield, startled, swung round upon him. "And pray what the devil do you think that's got to do with Fiddler's Green?" he demanded savagely.
Jordan Tant fairly leapt in his astonishment. "Really—I never said—— Why, Gilbert—you don't mean to say that you've sent her down to Fiddler's Green?"
All this interference with what he had come to regard as his private plans began to have a maddening effect upon Gilbert Byfield. He had savagely to acknowledge to himself that he had failed; that that impulsive generosity of which he had been guilty had been taken advantage of by those in whose hands he was practically powerless. The thought of that did not tend to mend his temper; and Tant was a handy victim. Byfield squared his shoulders, and set his hands on his hips, and gazed down at the shrinking little man with blazing eyes.
"And suppose I have sent her to Fiddler's Green—and suppose I intend to keep her there just as longas it pleases me—what then, my Tant?" he bellowed. "What do you, in your secure and comfortable life, hedged about by every conventionality, and not daring to stir by so much as a hair's breadth from that line you so often draw and so often talk about—what do you know of the world and the people who live in it? Can't a man stretch out the hand of friendship to a woman without your smug lips opening, and your smooth tongue beginning to bleat this and that and the other? Must you always think that we're in this world only to do wrong—that there are no better impulses in any one of us? I'll tell you now in so many words: the child of the white face and the shabby frock is down at Fiddler's Green at my expense—and she's having a holiday. Have you anything to say to that?"
Jordan Tant backed away from him, and waved him off with protesting hands. "My dear Byfield—I have not said a word about it; it's not my business," he pleaded. "You have always been in the habit of doing unconventional things, and I suppose you will do them until the end of the chapter; but I am not criticizing. It's very kind of you—very thoughtful—and all that sort of thing. Necessarily one wonders a little what the world will say—and one is a little sorry for the girl, who is doubtless quite respectable—in her own sphere of life—and quite nice."
"I notice everyone's sorry for the girl," retorted Gilbert, a little bitterly. "I think the girl can take care of herself, and I think, even if it came to the point where she understood the real truth of the matter, she would come also to understand my motive."
"Oh, I see; then she doesn't understand yet?" said Tant slowly.
"How the devil could I tell her that I was going to provide her with money—and a house—and various comforts? You've no delicacy, Tant. No—I arranged better than that; ostensibly her father is the man who provides the money; he is supposed to have come into a fortune unexpectedly. Now are you satisfied?"
"Perfectly," said Jordan Tant, looking at the floor. "It's all very simple—isn't it?"
Mr. Jordan Tant carried his amazed face out of Arcadia Street, and back to the other end of London; presented it in due course to Mrs. Ewart-Crane and to Enid. Suffering himself to be questioned closely, he refused to speak ill of a friend, but shook his head over that friend nevertheless; and so had the thing gradually screwed out of him.
"I wouldn't have you think for a moment that I'm saying anything against poor old Byfield," said Tant gloomily. "What I do think is that these designing people have got hold of him, and that, to use a vulgar phrase, they will bleed him pretty heavily unless someone steps in. He's mad about the girl; but of course he hasn't reckoned with the family. They'll stick to him like leeches; he'll never be able to shake them off."
"My dear," said Mrs. Ewart-Crane, turning to her daughter a determined face—"I think it is about time that we interfered. Apart from every other consideration, we owe a duty to a friend who, however wrong-headed he may be, is at least a gentleman. I shall most certainly step in, and shall understand once for all, if only for my own satisfaction, what thesepeople intend to do. I dare say a small cottage or at the worst some rooms are to be obtained somewhere in Fiddler's Green; we will go down, and see for ourselves what is happening."
"Personally, mother, I don't think I should interfere," said Enid. "If Gilbert likes to be so silly it's his affair, and it would be somewhat undignified on our part to interfere."
"Undignified or not, I intend to do it," retorted Mrs. Ewart-Crane. "Mr. Tant shall go down and secure a place for us; if I don't have those people out of Gilbert's house in something under a week, I shall be very much surprised!"
Meanwhile, Gilbert Byfield had started himself for the scene of operations. A telegram had flashed down, addressed to Bessie; a telegram had flashed back eagerly in reply; and here he was on his way to Fiddler's Green. And all the thoughts he had tended in one direction.
"I did it for the girl, and for her alone. Ask yourself, Byfield, if there's anyone in the world like her; ask yourself if you've ever met anyone cut out of the living heart of life as she is; compare her with any woman you have ever seen. Be strong, man; cut the knot yourself, and get her out of the net in which you're both involved. Think of her—and think of yourself; nothing else matters."
His mind was pretty clearly made up as to what he should do by the time the train drew in at the platform at Fiddler's Green, and he was looking about to see if by chance someone had come to meet him.
DISAPPOINTMENT sat heavily on the face of Gilbert Byfield as an obsequious porter who knew him pulled open the door of the carriage and seized his bag. For there was no one with a familiar face in sight on the little platform; and Gilbert had rather hoped that there might have been someone with a smile to welcome him, and a hand to clasp his own.
Few passengers ever get out at Fiddler's Green, and on this occasion there was only a stout and heavy farmer, and an elderly woman with a plethoric basket. True, at the end of the platform was a young girl in a white dress, and with a slim and pretty figure; but young girls in white dresses were nothing to Gilbert Byfield at that moment. He followed the porter gloomily, muttering something to the effect that he supposed he'd better have the fly.
It was only when he was actually giving up his ticket that he found himself face to face with the girl in the white dress; and then discovered that he was holding her hands, and gazing at her—and that it was Bessie, half laughing and half crying, and saying again and again how glad she was to see him. And all in a moment the sun was shining, and Fiddler's Greenwas beautiful; and the fly was a musty affair, good enough to carry on his bag to the house, but not to be ridden in under any circumstances.
They went on a little shyly and happily down the long road that led from the station towards the house. Once or twice she looked at him as he strode along beside her; and she laughed with the conscious shyness of a child, and yet with complete happiness. Presently, when it came about that a turn of the road hid them from the sight of the station or of any houses beyond, she slipped her hand into his; and so held it, as a child might have done, while they walked on side by side. And then it was that the problem he had to face loomed large, and asked fierce questions of the man, and would not be denied. Questions hard to answer, with that happy face beside him, and with those clear eyes looking up into his own. He found himself wishing passionately that the time might never come when those eyes should change, or should look at him with any indignation or any sorrow. Which might well happen, as he knew.
"Tell me everything," he said after a pause. "About your life—and what you do—and how you spend your days. This is such a changed Bessie that I scarcely seem to know her."
"For the better, Mr. Byfield?" She looked at him with no seriousness at all, and he gave her a gay answer naturally enough.
"Oh—this isn't the Bessie of Arcadia Street at all; this is a being in a white frock who belongs naturally and properly to the country. I shall believe presently that you've been here all your life."
"I believe it already," she retorted. "ArcadiaStreet seems miles and miles away, as though it had never existed at all; I find myself wondering sometimes exactly how one turned into it—and what the houses were like—and if they really were as small and mean as they seem to be now. You'll like Fiddler's Green," she added quickly.
"I'm sure I shall. And so I suppose you are really and truly very happy?"
She did not answer for a moment; she walked on beside him, and he noticed as he glanced at her that her face was grave. "So happy sometimes, Mr. Byfield, that I'm afraid," she said steadily. "I wake at night in the great room that is mine, and I lie listening to the silence, and wondering if it's all true. I dread sometimes to open my eyes in the morning, for fear that I may open them in the old narrow room in the old narrow house in Arcadia Street; I'm frightened when they knock at my door in the morning, lest it should be Amelia come to say that the baker has stopped credit, or the milkman wants a little something on account. You don't know, Mr. Byfield," she added, turning wide, serious eyes upon him for a moment—"you really don't know what it means never by any chance to hear that phrase again—'someone wants something on account.'"
"I think I can understand," he replied. "And so you still like Fiddler's Green—eh?"
"I never believed that there was such a place," she said. "It's wonderful! Even poor father seems to be getting more used to it; he missed his club terribly at first. But now he is finding quite a lot to interest him; he drives round and studies the architecture ofthe various old inns round about—sometimes gives up a day to it."
"And your brother?" asked Gilbert with a frown.
"Aubrey is turning out really splendidly," said the girl. "He looks quite handsome when he's riding; even father admits that—and father never did like Aubrey. In fact, everything is better than it has ever been—and all the dreams I ever had seem to have come true."
"Dreams fade, little Make-Believe," he reminded her.
"I don't think my dreams will ever fade," she replied. "And you mustn't call me Little-Make-Believe any more—because it isn't true. Everything is real; I don't have to make-believe any longer."
"Fortunes are lost sometimes; it happens every day," he urged again. "Suppose this great fortune of yours was swept away—this fortune that came by lucky speculation—what then?"
"I can't believe that it will ever end; I can't believe that Fate would be so cruel as to send me back again to Arcadia Street—and to all the old unhappy life."
"You forget, Bessie; you were very happy there—playing that great game of life."
She shook her head. "I didn't understand—that was why I was happy," she said. "I struggled hard to make myself happy—fought hard to reach every little gleam of sunshine that came my way. Now I don't have to fight; thanks to father, all my happiness comes to me naturally."
They were nearing the house when she turned uponhim with astounding news. "Oh—I forgot to tell you that we've got visitors."
"Visitors?" He stared at her as though not understanding.
She nodded brightly. "Yes; Aunt Julia Stocker and Uncle Ted. Father asked them down; father said—'What's the use of having a big house if you don't fill it?' Father's thinking of asking some other people—friends of his particularly. Of course there'll be lots of room for you, Mr. Byfield," she added; "I've seen about your room myself. Besides the housekeeper seemed to think that you'd like it; I suppose she knew what sort of a man you were."
Gilbert Byfield went on to the house in silence, listening as in a dream to the girl's animated chatter, as she pointed out this, that or the other familiar thing, and demanded his admiration. He began to understand that the difficulties he had created were greater than he had yet imagined; already he seemed to see an imaginary Daniel Meggison—grinning and triumphant—defying him to move at all, and sheltering himself in every extravagance behind this girl in the white frock, whose happiness Gilbert had purchased at so strange a price.
Mr. Daniel Meggison, for his part, made no secret from the beginning of the attitude he intended to adopt. For some weeks now he had been given a free hand, and that fact, combined with new clothes, and a comfortable house, and money in his pocket, and servants to do his bidding, had already gone far to spoil the man, and to bring out some of the original bully that had been suppressed in his nature. Whatever qualms he may have felt he hid successfully at thefirst moment of meeting. He stood at the door of the house, with arms outstretched, and with a beaming smile upon his face.
"Welcome, my dear Byfield—thrice welcome!" he exclaimed, seizing Gilbert by the hand and wringing it hard—as much in apparent cordiality as to impress upon him that he understood the secret compact between them, and was acting his part accordingly. "Delighted to see you. I would have driven down myself to the station—but my child here seemed to think that you would expect her alone. Well—well—that is quite natural; you were always good friends. Come in, my dear Byfield—come in and make yourself at home. You will find friends here; stay as long as you like—do what you like—order what you like! Come in!"
So Gilbert Byfield went into his own house, not without some feeling of amusement, and looked about him. The servant who hurried forward as he saw his master was silenced with a look, and retired, wondering more than ever; Gilbert allowed the girl to run on before him up the stairs, to show him the way with which he was already familiar. He expressed due approval of the room (which happened to be his own), and said that he felt he should be very comfortable there for a few days.
When presently he went downstairs, his object was to find Mr. Daniel Meggison and to have a talk with that gentleman. But Daniel was not to be caught napping; he avoided Gilbert on every occasion, and clung to his relatives with an amazing fondness whenever he saw the young man approaching him.
The relatives, for their part, adopted characteristicattitudes towards Byfield. Mrs. Stocker conceived it to be her duty, being in the mansions of the great, to sit in the largest and the stiffest chair she could discover, in a condition of state, ready to receive all and sundry. Her dignity in this particular instance compelled her to suffer tortures, for the simple reason that her husband, Mr. Edward Stocker, was free to come and go as he liked, and was having rather a good time. He cheerfully flitted about the place, and smoked unaccustomed pipes in the boldest manner, and was for once quite happy. Being introduced by Bessie to the new-comer, he greeted Gilbert cordially.
"It's a wonderful world, sir," he exclaimed, looking at Gilbert with a smiling face. "Now, it would never have occurred to me that Meggison was the man to make money—and yet to be so dark about it. Having a little property myself—which runs to 'ouses—I may say that I know what property is, and how money is made. But Meggison seems to have gone a cut above us all. A modest place down Clapham way—or Brixton—or even Norwood—but when you makes a splash in the country—with servants and what not——well, I can only say that it's a very wonderful world, sir."
Gilbert left the little man, and, still in search of Meggison, came presently into the presence of Mrs. Stocker, sitting in state. She received him coldly, but with the resignation of one who expects that all sorts of people may drift in, and are not specially to be accounted for. He was retiring again hastily, when she recalled him.
"One moment, sir, I beg. One of my brother's new friends?"
"Oh, no—an old friend," stammered Gilbert. "A friend of his daughter."
"She never told me—but that is not surprising; I seem to learn everything only by accident here. I should like to know, sir"—she lowered her voice, and looked round about her impressively—"I should like to know what you think of this business?"
"I've scarcely had time to think about it at all yet," replied Gilbert.
"My brother Daniel has surprised us all," said Mrs. Stocker. "I don't like sly people; I should have thought that he would have been only too glad to take me into his confidence. But, no—oh dear, no! He is glad, of course, to ignore me—and then to invite me down here on sufferance, as it were."
"Can you tell me where your brother is now?" asked Gilbert, moving towards the door.
"I cannot say," said Mrs. Stocker, in an affected voice. "I believe Daniel drives out a great deal. He might have asked me certainly to go with him; but no one ever thinks of me."
Gilbert was crossing the hall, still intent upon that search, when he was approached by the elderly manservant—staid husband of the housekeeper—who had been in charge of the house for years. The man hesitated for a moment, with puzzled face, remembering his strange instructions as to the new tenants; and Gilbert, seeing that the man had something to say, opened the door of a room and went in, beckoning the man to follow. He closed the door and waited.
"Do you want to speak to me?" he asked.
"To know, sir, if everything is all right," respondedthe man in a low tone. "Also, sir, to understand how long it's to last."
"Until you have orders to the contrary, or until Mr. Meggison goes," said Gilbert, after a moment's pause. "Why do you ask?"
"Only, sir, on account of the wines and such-like," replied the man in an aggrieved tone. "Your friends was to have all that they required, and no questions asked; but I didn't quite understand it was to be champagne here, and champagne there—to say nothing of spirits in what I may call a fashion that is absolutelyhad lib, sir. Mr. Meggison, sir, and the young man—beg pardon, gentleman—they do put away a great deal."
"That's all right," said Gilbert easily. "You were quite right to mention it, of course. Anything else?"
"Only the manners of the two gents is a little bit 'arsh, if I may use the word, in regard to me and the other servants; also the young gent is not particular as to language if a little heated, sir."
"I'm sorry; I've no doubt his tone will improve from this time," replied Gilbert grimly. "That will do; and be careful to remember what I have said; I am only a guest here for the present. You take all your orders from Mr. Meggison."
The man was going slowly out of the room when he turned back and looked again at his master. Gilbert Byfield turned a lowering gloomy face to the man, and asked somewhat impatiently what more he wanted.
"Only one thing, sir; I wouldn't have you think for a moment that in any remarks it has been my duty tomake concerning your friends I should be thought to include the young lady."
Gilbert's face lightened a little, and he looked at the man quickly. "Oh—so you don't complain about the young lady?" he said.
"Between you and me, sir—if I may take so bold a liberty—if it 'adn't been for the young lady I don't think that any of us could have stood it. Oil on the waters more than once Miss Meggison's been—and always a smile if she wants anything—and always sorry to give any trouble. Fairly on her knees to her the wife is, Mr. Byfield, sir."
"Then that's a great compensation—isn't it?" asked Gilbert, laughing.
"It's everything, sir," replied the man earnestly. "Though, if you'll excuse the saying, it licks me how the young lady could ever 'ave had such a father—to say nothing of such a brother. Asking your pardon, of course, sir."
Gilbert decided that he would do no good in the matter by forcing the issue; on the other hand, he might strengthen his position if he waited, and saw for himself what was happening. He rightly judged that Meggison at least would be anxious to know what steps the outraged owner of the house at Fiddler's Green would take, and would in all probability in very fear be the first to approach Byfield.
He decided to wait at least until evening.
In that great game that was being played, as poor Bessie fondly believed in reality at last, she had determined that it should at least be played properly. Thus dinner was a special function, and a solemn one; and although neither Mr. Meggison nor his son hadyet reached that sublime point insisted upon in the pictures in the illustrated papers of "dressing" for it, she yet had hopes even that that might some day be accomplished. As a matter of fact, Aubrey, the better to show his complete independence, had a fashion of strolling in a little late, and sitting down attired in very loud riding clothes; old Daniel Meggison sported a frock-coat somewhat too large for him, and so was passable. Bessie fulfilled the dream of many years, and appeared always in white.
On this particular occasion the dinner gong had gone for some minutes, and after waiting uneasily Bessie had at last suggested that perhaps they had better go in to dinner. Meggison had not appeared, nor his son; the tale was complete otherwise. They straggled awkwardly across the hall, and into the big dining-room; and there the girl took one end of the table, and quietly indicated where the others should sit. The head of the table was vacant, and one other place; and Gilbert found himself watching with amusement to see what would presently happen.
Suddenly the door was flung open, and Daniel Meggison came in quickly, smiling broadly and with a somewhat feverish air of patronage. He did not even look at Gilbert; but he glanced round at the others as he took his seat, and tucked one corner of his napkin inside his collar.
"You should not have waited," he said quickly. "Unexpectedly detained; so many things to see to in a place like this. My child"—this to Bessie down the length of the table—"you remind me of your poor mother. That frock suits you."
"Thank you, father," said the girl.
Daniel Meggison began to gulp soup at a great rate; paused to say over his spoon—"Pretty country about here, Mr. Byfield—eh?"
"Very," replied Gilbert, looking at him steadily. "Do you find the house convenient?"
"There are certain things in it that I should change if it actually belonged to me," replied Meggison critically—"but it'll serve—it'll serve. I could suggest half a dozen ways in which money might be spent to improve it."
"In my opinion there's a lot of ground wasted," said Mrs. Stocker gloomily. "What's anyone want with more than a bit in front to keep people from staring in at the windows, and a bit behind to put a few seeds in? Why, you could build four houses this size on the place, and still have a lot of land to cut to waste. Of course, if I'm wrong I stand corrected; but I know what house property's worth."
It was at this moment that Mr. Aubrey Meggison entered the room. He came in with the inevitable cigarette drooping from his lips, but condescended to toss that into the fireplace; then seated himself, and expressed the hope that there might be some hot soup left, unless anybody had chosen to "wolf it."
"If you came in at a decent time you would partake of the same dishes as other people, and at the same moment," said Daniel Meggison crushingly. "In future, sir, you will clearly understand that unless you arrive at the moment—I repeat, sir, at the moment—you won't get——"
"I don't think anybody's paying any real attention to you, dad," said Aubrey patiently. "And perhapsothers may want to get a word in on their own account."
Daniel Meggison muttered and spluttered over his soup; Gilbert seized the opportunity to turn to Bessie. "And what do you do with yourself all day in the country—you who used always to be so busy?" he asked.
She turned to him with a smile. "Oh, there seems to be such a lot to do," she replied quickly. "So many people want me—and there are flowers to arrange—and orders to give—and half a hundred things to do. And then, of course, I'm obliged to go and see the dogs——"
"Who bark very early in the morning, and kick up a devil of a row at night," snapped Meggison from his end of the table.
"Yes, of course—the dogs," went on Gilbert, taking no notice of the interruption. "There's Ponto—and Billy—and——"
"Why—how did you know their names?" she asked, with a puzzled look in her eyes.
He saw in a moment the blunder he had made. "Why—your father—Mr. Meggison told me all about them," he replied lamely, with a quick glance down the table.
"Oh, yes—I told him—I mentioned it this afternoon," said Meggison hastily. "I found he was very deeply interested in dogs."
Gilbert saw that it was impossible to talk to the girl just then; he knew that Meggison at least was watching every gesture and listening to every word. He contented himself with looking at the girl; noting little subtle differences in her, and seeing that the littleunnatural sharpness that had belonged to her scheming plotting life had already worn away and left her softened. Her hair was differently and more generously arranged; there was a refinement and a delicacy about her, greater even than that which had at first singled her out in his eyes in Arcadia Street. And it was pleasant, too, sitting there, to have her eyes turned occasionally in his direction, and always to see in their depths that fine smile of comradeship and friendliness. As the meal progressed he found himself weighing her against the others; noting their coarseness and their awkwardness and their airs and attitudes; and seeing her so different that she might not have belonged to them at all. Of all that strange assortment in the house at Fiddler's Green she was the one who seemed properly to belong there.
They were getting to the end of the meal when a servant entered and spoke a little diffidently to Bessie, after a glance at old Meggison. "Mr. Quarle is here, Miss."
Bessie sprang to her feet at once. "Oh, please bring him in," she exclaimed; "how delightful that he should have come to-night. You know Mr. Quarle, Mr. Byfield?" she added.
"Oh, yes—I know him quite well," said Gilbert.
"Quarle has nothing to do with us now; he's an unpleasant reminder of things I endeavour to forget," said Meggison peevishly. "Second visit, too; what's he think he's going to get out of us? . . . ah!—my dear Quarle—delighted to see you," he broke off hurriedly as Simon came into the room, looking sharply about him. "I was just saying to my daughterBessie how very charming . . . a place for Mr. Quarle there; what the devil are you standing staring for; don't you know your duties?"
Simon Quarle cocked an eyebrow comically at sight of Byfield, and then, with a nod to the others, came round the table, and shook hands with Bessie. "I'll find room here, thank you," he said, as he pulled up a chair beside the girl—"no one need disturb themselves on my account. Well—and how's the little girl getting on?" he asked, taking no notice of anyone else.
Gilbert Byfield watched him, wondering a little what the object of this visit might be. He noted the old man's tenderness for the girl—the change in his tones when he spoke to her; he saw also, or thought he saw, a new grimness about the lines of his mouth. He knew in his own mind that something must be settled this night; felt certain that with this man in the house the bubble must be pricked, and poor Bessie be shown in a moment this new and horrible game of make-believe in which she had really had no part. Looking at the happy face of the girl, he seemed more than ever to separate her from those who had plotted, with her for a shield, and who had not hesitated to bite the hand that fed them.
"You didn't let us know you were coming," hinted Daniel Meggison.
"I didn't think it necessary," retorted Quarle, with a momentary glance at him. "Now I beg that just as soon as you have finished—all of you—you will go away and leave me with my young hostess," he added. "I've a great deal to say to Bessie—and I'm desperatelyhungry—and I know that I'm very late. No ceremony, I beg."
"You seem quite to take possession of the house, Mr. Quarle," said Daniel Meggison, half rising from his chair.
"Exactly. Just as you have done, you know," said Simon Quarle, with a grim nod at him. "Don't you worry; Bessie understands."
It was curious to see how in that ill-assorted household one and another of them took the hint and went away. First Mrs. Stocker, with a toss of the head and much rustling of skirts; followed obediently by her husband. Then Daniel—followed at a grumbling interval by his son. So that at the last Bessie sat between Simon Quarle and Gilbert Byfield. And from one to the other, before her unconscious eyes, swept meaning glances; glances that meant appeal on the part of Gilbert, and determination on the part of Quarle.
"I'm going to talk to your father," said Gilbert at last, rising from his place, and looking squarely at Quarle. "We've not had a chat together yet."
"We'll excuse you," said Quarle gruffly. Then, as the younger man was moving towards the door, he got up quickly and followed him. "I wonder what they're doing about my bag," he began; and then, as he thrust Gilbert into the hall in front of him—and closed the door—"Well—so you've made up your mind that something must be done—eh?"
"Yes—something must be done—and to-night," whispered Gilbert quickly. "I can promise you that at least."
"Good." Quarle nodded, and turned to go backinto the room. "I'm glad you see the necessity for that. Don't spare them."
"I want only to spareher," said Gilbert.
Mr. Daniel Meggison proved to be as difficult of capture as before. In the drawing-room he was talking of the value and the security of having a stake in the country to his sister and brother-in-law; on the appearance of Gilbert he button-holed Mr. Stocker, and began rapidly to ask his candid opinion concerning the work of our parish councils, and whether he did not think they required new blood—as, for instance, new blood from London, in the shape of a man who had had experience of the vicissitudes of life, and who knew what real government meant? Gilbert remaining, and looking at him steadily, he began to see that the matter had to be brought to a crisis, and could not much longer be delayed. Therefore he turned with an air of forced geniality to Byfield, and actually took him by the arm.
"You have something to talk to me about, Mr. Byfield?" he demanded with sublime assurance "As a matter of fact, too, I should like your advice on a little question of investments; I am a child in these matters—save accidentally. Suppose we have a bit of a talk—eh?"
"Nothing would please me better," Gilbert answered.
"Then, if my dear sister will excuse us—we will go and smoke a friendly cigar, and have a dry business chat," said Meggison, drawing Gilbert towards the door. "I want some sound advice."
They went towards a small room which had been used by Gilbert as a smoking-room; it was empty,although a lamp burned on a small table at one end. Meggison closed the door, and went into the room; threw himself on to a couch, and looked up smilingly at the other man. His face was rather white, and he had something of the air of a schoolboy about to receive punishment that he knew he had deserved; but his manner was as jaunty as ever.
"Now, sir—what do you want with me?" he asked.
"Bluntly—an account of your stewardship, Meggison," said Gilbert. "I need hardly remind you of the facts; you were to come down here with your daughter; you were to give her that rest and that holiday she so sorely needed."
"Will you deny that she is having that rest and that holiday?" asked Meggison, with a grin. "Isn't there a wonderful change in her?"