man looking over top of fireplace at girl"'I MAY GO AWAY AGAIN AT A MOMENT'S NOTICE.'"Page 66
"'I MAY GO AWAY AGAIN AT A MOMENT'S NOTICE.'"Page 66
He was a little shy about meeting her; so many ridiculous suggestions had been thrown to him by Jordan Tant, and by Enid and her mother, concerning this girl, that the old freedom between them, so far at least as he was concerned, seemed a thing of the past. Even when that summer evening arrived when, leaning over the wall, he saw her seated in her garden, and called to her, it was with a new constraint.
"I've come back, you see," he said.
She was genuinely very glad to see him; he found himself wondering if the eyes of Enid could by any chance ever light up at his coming as did the eyes of this child. Things were different in Arcadia Street, he knew; almost he wished that they were not—almost he wished that this happy familiarity might obtain in other places with which he was more naturally in touch.
"I thought—thought you were not coming back," said the girl. "And yet I hoped——"
"Hoped that I was—eh?" he supplemented. "Even now, I don't know how long I may be able to stop here; I may go away again at a moment's notice—and never come back at all. Don't lookso grave about it; you can go on making-believe, you know, just as well as ever."
"It won't be quite the same," she said. "You see, in that you've helped me—because, as I told you, you understood."
"And how have you been getting on?" he asked. "I mean, of course—the house?"
She stood against the wall over which he leaned; she did not look up at him when she replied. "Oh, pretty well, thank you," she said in a low voice. "Nothing ever happens, you know, in Arcadia Street—except the thing you don't want to happen."
"Your father?"
"Father is quite established again at his club; they think a lot of him at his club," she said. "And Aubrey is positive he will hear of something to do very shortly."
"That's good news," said Gilbert. "By the way—that Mr. Quarle I met when I was here last—the night I came over into your garden—do you know him very well?"
"Oh, yes; he's been a great friend of mine for nearly two years. But for him I think we couldn't keep the house going; he is the only lodger I have ever had who pays money without being asked for it. He's simply wonderful. Not that he's well off; he's only retired from something, and I don't think the something was very much before he retired from it. But his payments—oh—they're beautifully regular!"
"He's a valuable man," said Gilbert, not without a curious little feeling of jealousy that anyone elseshould be good to the girl except himself. Then the thought of what he had meant to do—the remembrance of the girl, shabby and forlorn, who had walked past the theatre that night, and had been something like Bessie Meggison—urged him to say something else.
"Bessie—(you don't mind my calling you Bessie—do you?)—have you ever had a holiday? I mean, have you ever got away from this dull house for one long evening—and seen bright lights, and happy faces—and heard music? Have you ever done that?"
Still leaning against the wall, she shook her head slowly, without looking up. "There hasn't been time—or money," she said simply.
"If you found the time—and I found the money?" he suggested. "What then?"
She looked up at him wonderingly; did not seem for a moment to understand what he meant. At last she said slowly—"I'm afraid it wouldn't do, you know; it really wouldn't do at all. Someone would be wanting me—someone would be calling for me."
"I should let them call for once," said Gilbert. "Just suppose for once, little Make-Believe, that we went out of Arcadia Street—and far beyond Islington—just our two selves. There are certain places called theatres, you know."
She nodded, with a sigh. "I know," she said. "That is, of course, I don't know much about what they're like inside; the outsides are wonderful. But I expect they're very expensive."
"We might manage it—just for once," he urged."I could save up, you know—go without something."
It needed a lot of persuasion before she would consent at all; but at last she named a night when it was probable that father would be more in requisition at his club even than usual, and when Aubrey would be engrossed in the mysteries of a billiard handicap. She would go then; and, the better to preserve the proprieties (for Arcadia Street was given to gossip), would meet him at a certain spot not a hundred yards from the Arcadia Arms.
He began to understand, almost at the last moment, that the expedition must be conducted in her own fashion; he had the delicacy to understand that he must be shabby to match her poor shabbiness. So that it is probable very few of his friends would have recognized Mr. Gilbert Byfield, had they seen him waiting about at the corner of a certain street in Islington, in a well-worn tweed suit and a billycock hat. At that time he did not like the idea at all; he would have liked to whirl her away in a hansom, and do the thing properly at a first-class restaurant, with stalls at a theatre to follow. He wondered a little how the evening was going to pass.
And yet, after all, it proved to be rather pleasant—viewed as a new experience. Pleasant, to begin with, to see that little thin figure coming towards him; to hold for a moment the little hand in the worn glove, and to notice with satisfaction how neat she was, and how tastefully dressed, despite the poor things she had on. He had the grace to forget that a swift hansom might be hailed with the raising of a hand; found an omnibus almost comfortable—quitedelightful, in fact, with the girl seated beside him, wearing upon her face that extraordinary look of complete happiness. He forgot even to think what his friends would have said had they seen him riding in such a vehicle, dressed in such fashion, and with such a companion.
The choosing of a restaurant was a difficulty, because he scarcely knew the cheaper or more dingy ones. She drew back in alarm at the prospect of entering a place gay with electric light; became reconciled at last to a little place of few tables and fewer waiters; sat open-eyed and breathless at the glory of a fifth-rate place, with a decided smell of the kitchen about it every time a creaking door was opened near her. She did not talk much; only occasionally she glanced at him, and when she did she smiled that slow grave smile of gratitude and friendliness.
Afterwards he found himself, for the first time in his life, in the upper circle at a theatre; congratulated himself on the fact that a friend he saw in a box below would not be likely to raise his eyes to the third row of that particular part of the building. He contented himself, not with looking at a play he had already seen, but with watching the thin face of the girl beside him—the bright eyes and the half-parted lips. Once, at a moment that was thrilling, she gripped his arm; and for quite a long time kept her hand there, holding to him while she watched the stage.
Coming out of the theatre, in the whirl and rush of people homeward bound, he got her into the hansom almost before she knew what had happened;it was only after the horse had started for Arcadia Street that she looked up at him reproachfully—shocked and awed by this friend who could spend so much money in a single evening. She voiced that thought as they drove along.
"You'll have to go without quite a lot for this, Mr. Byfield—won't you?" she asked wistfully. "I mean—it has been a frightfully expensive evening."
"I don't mind—for once," said Gilbert. "The only question in my mind is—have you really had a good time?"
She heaved a big sigh. "I should like to do it all over again," she said softly—"but to do it much more slowly. It has been wonderful!"
This was the one man in all the world that had ever thought about her, or had ever done her a kindness. Small wonder then that her eyes spoke more than gratitude when she put that little hand into his again in Arcadia Street, before the shabby house swallowed her up, and the door closed upon her. No one saw her, because Arcadia Street, save on Saturday nights, goes early to bed.
IN the course of many scrambling, shambling years Mr. Daniel Meggison had learnt much, in the sordid sense, concerning the value of men. Had it been necessary for him, at any time in his later life, to pass a strict examination in the Gentle Art of Tapping People, he would in all probability have come out of the ordeal with flying colours, as one having vast experience.
For he could have told you to a nicety how, in the case of this man, you must not try for more than half a crown, and must be jocular with him; how, in another case, you might fly higher, and whine for a sovereign, with a pitiful tale pitched to charm the coin out of his pockets; and how, in other cases, you would have to drop your demands so low as a shilling or even possibly a sixpence. It is not too much to say that every man, in a very special sense, had for Mr. Daniel Meggison his price; and that on all and sundry occasions he was only too ready to exact that price from his fellows.
Exactly how far back in the years he had really made any attempt to earn an honest living it is impossible to say, and he had probably long since forgotten. It had at the beginning been a mere accidentalbusiness; a temporary loss of work had thrown him into the willing arms, as it were, of a wife who had always done something to help him. It merely became necessary for her to increase her efforts; Mr. Meggison was in no hurry to look for work, and gradually the truth was forced upon him that he need never do so again. True, he made a pretence, for something like twelve months, to gain a livelihood, but with no ardour in the pursuit; and so gradually drifted into that great and marvellous army which always in a big city manages to exist pretty comfortably without working at all.
He learnt their tricks and their ways—even their little catch-phrases slipped naturally from his tongue. He might have been heard talking loudly concerning the affairs of the nation, and how they should be conducted; he knew his newspaper by heart. More than that, he might have been heard often demanding to know why this man and that did not obtain the employment that was obviously waiting for him in a busy world. And so in time he grew to the belief that he was in all respects something of a poor gentleman, for whom others must provide money, and who, by reason of a certain superiority of birth and education and resources, stood outside the mere common grubbing workaday world.
There were, of course, mean shifts and petty frauds to be encountered; but in time the man grew hardened even to those. There was a bed in which he might sleep, and there was food for him, and tobacco always; he became a familiar figure in his poor neighbourhood, and accepted with each day that which was provided for him, not without grumbling.In time the patient wife folded her hands, and sighed, and fell asleep; and the patient daughter took up the burden quite naturally, as it had been bequeathed to her. The legacy of the shiftless father, who was always to be protected and looked after, descended to her, and was taken up as a sacred trust.
But with that shiftless life that had been his portion so long the man had not lost his natural cunning—the cunning of the creature that preys upon his fellows. Money was necessary, for the occasional replenishing of his scanty wardrobe, and for tobacco and drinks; he would have been a poor thing without money in his pockets. Hence the borrowing—hence the tapping of any and every one with whom he came in contact. Therefore, too, it is small wonder that he turned his eyes at last towards Gilbert Byfield, with something of a smacking of lips. For here was higher game; here was a man who might, if handled carefully, be a man of sovereigns instead of paltry shillings.
The man was not above playing the spy, and he had of course a jealous interest in the fate of that chief breadwinner—his daughter. More than once he had shivered, with a very genuine horror, at the prospect of love or marriage being even suggested to her; had been short with Harry Dorricott, when he had seen that boy's eyes turn with an unmistakable look of affection in them in Bessie's direction. For what, in the name of all that was tragic, was to become of Mr. Daniel Meggison if his daughter left him?
From behind the curtain of a window he had seenthe stranger who lived next door talking to the girl over the wall; had been inclined to resent that at once. At the same time, he had a craven feeling that it would not do to upset Bessie; he had better watch, and be silent. So he had seen other meetings, until at last that night had arrived when Bessie was not in the house, and when she came in very late, and crept up to her room like the guilty truant she was. And had there not been a sound of wheels outside the house? Daniel Meggison shivered in his bed, and wondered what he had done in all his blameless life to deserve this.
Questioned cautiously on the following morning, Bessie would say but little. Yes—she had been out—all the evening—with a friend. No—she had not spent money over it; she would not have thought of doing such a thing; the friend had paid for everything. She hoped that her father was not annoyed, and that he had not wanted for anything.
"No, my child, I am not suggesting that I wanted for anything; I spent the greater part of the evening at my club," he replied stiffly. "Only, of course, as a father I am naturally anxious for you—and I——"
"It was a very nice friend—a very nice one indeed," she broke in; and he decided that it would not be wise to pursue the matter then.
For the sake of his very livelihood, however, he saw that he must be alert; it might even happen that this precious child would be snatched away from him. He went to that club of his less frequently; came into the house at unexpected moments, and was to be found loitering about on the staircase, andin rooms in which he had no business. Also he haunted that garden, and had a watchful eye upon the house next door. He hungered for another sight of this man who could afford to pay for an evening's entertainment, and could travel in cabs.
He knew, of course, that Gilbert Byfield was not as other men in Arcadia Street. Apart from his own observation, he knew instinctively that Bessie had hitherto held aloof from everyone; had gone about her duties soberly—a grown woman long before her time; he did her the justice to know that no ordinary man would have attracted her attention, or have drawn her away from the life her father had mapped out for her even for an hour. More than that, those who dwell in Arcadia Street have not money for evening pleasures or for cabs; and there had been from the beginning a sort of mystery about this young man who lived next door. Mr. Meggison determined to lie in wait for that young man, and to confront him.
He began artfully. On one particular evening he did not, as usual, shuffle off down the street, with his pipe between his teeth; he waited about in the house instead. Bessie hinted that she supposed he would be going out soon; he declared that he would wait a little while; he might not, in fact, be going out at all. He seated himself in his shabby easy chair, and declared that he was very comfortable where he was. He had been too much at the club of late; home was the proper place for the man and the head of a family, after all.
Bessie was moving towards the garden, when he sat up and called to her. "I dislike the idea of yoursitting out in that garden so much in the evening, my child," he said, with a new tenderness that was startling to the girl. "Here you've been cooped up in the house all day long—no fresh air—no exercise; and now you expect to go and sit out there. We must take care of you, Bessie. Much better go for a walk."
"But I like the garden, father," the girl urged faintly.
"For to-night, my dear—to please me," said Daniel Meggison, with an unaccustomed smile—"go for a walk. There may be little matters of shopping which you ordinarily leave to Amelia; go yourself on this occasion; you will probably buy more economically than she will. You must think of these matters in dealing with a household. Come, Bessie, I know what is best for you; put your hat on, and go out."
She kissed him obediently, and thanked him for his care of her; and went out into the hot streets. She was disappointed, because the garden would have been welcome, and it might just have happened that a face would look over the wall and a voice call to her; and then the ending of the day would be good and complete.
But Daniel Meggison, like greater men before him, had a motive. He desired to draw that shy being who dwelt on the other side of the wall; to come face to face with him, if possible, and discover something about him. He argued that it was a rare thing for Bessie not to be in the garden late in the evening if the weather happened to be fine, and that the man on the other side of the wall would be naturallysurprised, and perhaps alarmed. Mr. Daniel Meggison chuckled to himself at the thought of his own cunning, and sat down in such a position that he could watch the garden. He had not long to wait.
Mr. Gilbert Byfield was confident that on this particular evening the girl would be in the garden; and he wanted to talk to her. She had rather avoided him during these past few days, and he had already come to understand that Arcadia Street was a remarkably dull place, unless it was actually represented by her. Consequently, on this evening he had determined that he would see her, if possible, and that he would have a little tender whimsical explanation with her, in which, appropriately enough, he would play the part of a species of elderly friend or brother, and would in fact be very good to her. He recognized that that feeling of protective tenderness for the girl was growing; but he told himself sternly that it was, of course, merely the protective tenderness of a friend. On that point he was very strong. He had come back to Arcadia Street because he was interested in her; and when the time came for him to leave Arcadia Street he would, of course, leave it with regret on her account. He would not think about it to-night; he simply recognized that the time was coming when he must know Arcadia Street no more.
An inspection of the garden over the wall showed it to be empty, but the lighted house was beyond. It occurred to him that in all probability she had stepped inside for a moment; he would get over the wall, and would surprise her when she came outagain. He did so, and, carefully avoiding the broken boards in the ottoman that was not an ottoman, made his way cautiously towards the house. He sat down on one of the rickety chairs near the crazy table, and waited.
This was Mr. Daniel Meggison's opportunity. He rose with an air of importance, and laid down his pipe; pulled down his waistcoat, and set his smoking-cap a little rakishly on one side of his head; and sauntered out. He went with the air of a gentleman about to gaze upon the beauty of the evening; his face was indeed turned towards the sky at the moment that he emerged from the door and stepped on to the ragged old carpet.
Gilbert Byfield had risen, in the surprise of the encounter; he stood watching old Meggison. Meggison, for his part, allowed his eyes to come down from their contemplation of the stars, and so gradually to rest upon the intruder who stood before him. He gave a very fine start, in the most approved fashion, and then stood in a dignified attitude, with a hand thrust into his waistcoat, looking at Gilbert up and down.
"Sir!" exclaimed Meggison.
"I—I beg your pardon," stammered Gilbert, looking helplessly at the wall over which he had scrambled.
"Sir—you are an intruder—a trespasser upon the privacy of my family, my home, and my property!" said Mr. Meggison, keeping his voice remarkably low, and watching the door leading to the house. "What do you mean by it, sir?—what do you want?"
"There is nothing to make a fuss about, Mr. Meggison," said Gilbert quietly. "I live next door here; I came over in order to have a word or two with—with your daughter."
"Nothing to make a fuss about?" echoed Meggison, still in those cautious tones. "Came over to see my daughter? And what do you suppose, sir, her father will have to say to such a proceeding?"
"I do not wish to be offensive, Mr. Meggison," said the younger man—"but I fancy her father has not troubled very much about her until this moment. Don't bluster, sir; I am her friend before everything else."
Daniel Meggison took a step forward, and looked at the other; took a step back, and rolled his head threateningly; took another step forward, and laid a hand on Byfield's arm. "Sir," he said solemnly—"I am sure of it. Only you must forgive the anger and the suspicion of a parent to whom his child is very precious. She has no mother, sir."
"I know that," said Gilbert. "I had no right, of course, to trespass on your premises, Mr. Meggison—for that I owe you an apology. But I——"
"Not another word, sir—not another word, I beg," exclaimed Meggison, taking his hand and wringing it. "I like the look of you, sir; I like the blunt fearlessness with which you scramble over a wall; you are a man, sir!"
"You're very good," replied Gilbert awkwardly. "Is Miss—Miss Meggison in the house? I should like to speak to her."
"My daughter, sir, has gone out," said Meggison,seating himself, and waving a hand grandiloquently towards the other chair, "on a necessary errand connected with household matters. Poor child—poor child; I wish sometimes she did not have to work so hard."
"So do I," said Gilbert, looking squarely at him. "She's young, you know, Meggison—hardly more than a child; and all her youth is slipping away, and she'll only know too late that it's gone. It seems a pity, doesn't it?"
Daniel Meggison sniffed audibly, and turned his head away; began slowly and methodically to search himself, until presently he drew from out his clothing a doubtful-looking handkerchief. This he applied first to one eye, and then to the other.
"Youth, sir, is a beautiful thing," he said. He gave a glance towards the house, and then leant across the table, and laid a hand on the arm of the younger man; he still kept that handkerchief to one eye, but the other was bright and alert. "Don't misunderstand me; don't think that I speak lightly. I have watched that child grow up—like a flower, sir. I have lain awake at night thinking about her—wondering about her—planning for her. I have mentioned to friends at my—my club that I am tortured concerning her. 'What,' I have asked, 'is to become of one so tender—so loving to an unfortunate father—so willing to work for that unfortunate father?' That is the question I have asked others as well as myself. Mr. Byfield, she is not strong; in other words, she is very frail. Her mother was never strong; I worshipped her mother, and her mother (I can say it with pride)was devoted to me. You are her friend—Bessie's friend, I mean; has it ever occurred to you that she is not strong? I am her father—you will understand my anxiety."
Gilbert Byfield had got up with some impatience from his chair, and had moved away down the length of the garden. For a moment he could not trust himself to speak, or to answer that hypocritical whining voice. He knew, however, that if he was to do anything to help the girl he must control himself, and must make what use he could of the one instrument ready to his hand. So he walked back to the table, and stood there, with his hands in his pockets, looking down at the old man.
"I am glad we think alike," he said slowly. "I do not think she is strong; it is a thousand pities that she cannot be taken out of this place—a thousand pities that she has to work so hard to—to support other people."
"I agree with you," said Meggison, eagerly getting up from his chair, and coming hurriedly round the table to the young man. "Sometimes, sir," he exclaimed, with a sort of feeble passion—"sometimes I am roused almost to madness at the thought that I am so helpless—that I can do nothing. The truth of the matter is that I was never brought up to do anything—not anything that would pay; I blame my parents bitterly for that. My late wife—devoted soul!—would often say that I was never really fitted to cope with the world. 'You are by nature and by instinct, Daniel, a gentleman and a man of leisure,' she would say; 'it seems naturalthat others should provide for you.' And she knew me—knew me intimately, sir."
"I'm sure she did," said Gilbert, looking at him steadily. "But we are wandering from the subject a little—the subject of your daughter. Her mother is gone; it is not too late to do something for the child."
"True—very true," exclaimed Meggison, with an air of deep determination. "Bless you, my dear sir! Now—what shall we do? Let's put our heads together."
As though he meant to carry that suggestion into effect literally, Mr. Daniel Meggison pushed the old smoking-cap a little further on to one side of his head, and leaned nearer to his companion, and assumed a very wise expression. Gilbert, with a glance at the house, began to speak in a cautious tone.
"It has to be understood, of course, in the first place, that whatever is done is done for the girl only. Do you understand?"
Mr. Meggison stared at him almost with indignation; he opened his eyes very wide. "Of course—of course—Bessie only. You leave that to me; I'll see to that."
"I'll see to that also," retorted Gilbert. "In the second place, whatever is done is done by you."
"By me?" The man stared at him with growing uneasiness. "But I can't——"
"I mean that whatever is done for the girl must be done for her by her father—so far as she knows. She is the last in the world to accept anything from me, and I would not ask her to do so; it would bean insult. I ask you to do so"—(Mr. Meggison pocketed that insult cheerfully, and said nothing)—"because through you I can do what I could not do for myself. For example, if we are to help this poor daughter of yours, money will be required."
"Yes—of course—money," replied Mr. Meggison, rubbing his hands, and nodding his head many times. "Oh, yes—of course money."
"And that must come through her father, as the only proper person who can give it to her. Again, in other words, Meggison, it becomes necessary, in order that this whim of mine may be carried out, that you and I should have a little secret understanding with each other. Whatever is necessary to be paid, I shall pay you, and you in turn will pay——"
"Somebody else," broke in Meggison, nodding again, and laying a forefinger against the side of his nose. "Splendid notion—and very easy—eh?" He coughed, and hesitated for a moment. "Should I, for instance—begin to-night?"
"I think not," said Gilbert quietly.
"Oh—you think not," Meggison replied with a look of disappointment. "Well—perhaps you know best. What are your plans? I'm a man for hurry always."
"My plans depend to a great extent upon you," said Gilbert. "I do not imagine for a moment that you are possessed of any sum of money?"
"I am a most unfortunate man, sir, to whom much money should have come had Fate treated me better. But I am not worth sixpence."
"Briefly, my plan is this," went on Gilbert, aftera pause. "I would like to give Bessie a sight of the better world that lies outside Arcadia Street; not the world of London, and London streets and sights and sounds; but that bigger world for which she longs—that freer world of trees and flowers and blue skies. In other words, I would like to give her a holiday. Now, can you by any possibility suggest some reason why you should suddenly come into a little money, Mr. Meggison?"
"I can suggest a hundred reasons—but they would be equally romantic and absurd," said Meggison, scratching the top of the smoking-cap thoughtfully. "A rich relative of whom she has never heard—no—that wouldn't do, because she knows all my relatives. Work that suddenly brings in a lot of money? . . . No—she wouldn't believe in work, so far as I'm concerned; that would require too great a stretch of the imagination, I'm afraid. A lucky speculation? . . . No—one requires capital for that."
"I'm afraid you'll have to fall back on a relative—a distant relative—very much removed. Understand, it would only be a small legacy."
"May I ask what you exactly mean by the term 'small'?" asked Daniel Meggison.
"I would suggest a sum of about fifty pounds," said Gilbert quietly.
Mr. Daniel Meggison opened his mouth very wide, and then shut it with a snap; opened it again, as though intending to speak; and blurted out a faint echo of the sum that had been named.
"Fifty—fifty pounds!" Mr. Meggison came nearer, and touched Gilbert, as though to discoverwhether or not he was actually real. Then suddenly and harshly he burst out laughing. "Fifty pounds, indeed! Don't attempt to fool me, please. Where will you get such a sum—and you in Arcadia Street?"
"I have not always been in Arcadia Street, and I shall not always remain here," said Gilbert. "As the world understands it, I am rather a rich man, and the fifty pounds is quite easily to be found. I am living in Arcadia Street for a whim, if you must know; that is part of our secret understanding, Mr. Meggison. Come, now—is it a bargain?"
Daniel Meggison looked at the young man for only one moment longer; then he seemed to leap at him, and to catch his hand between both his own. "A bargain, sir?" he exclaimed, in a rapture. "Of course it's a bargain—and in a noble cause, sir. Fifty pounds, did you say? It's a fortune!"
"A fortune into which you have very strangely come," Gilbert reminded him. "Don't say a word now; I can see your daughter coming straight through the house towards us. Come round and see me to-morrow, and we'll work out together this game of make-believe which you are to play."
"I'll play it well until the end!" exclaimed Meggison, shaking his hand again. "A great game of make-believe! Splendid notion!"
BESSIE MEGGISON had no suspicion; for it was scarcely possible, in the first place, that anyone should be interesting himself on her behalf. She was glad to think that her father and Mr. Byfield had suddenly grown to be to all appearances such excellent friends; although even in that there was a lurking dread, lest the wily Daniel Meggison should exercise that "tapping" process upon his new acquaintance. For the rest, it simplified matters, and made it easier to carry on that innocent intercourse with Gilbert.
The plotters meanwhile may be said to have watched each other's movements with suspicion and distrust. Daniel Meggison was all for immediate action; wanted to feel his fingers grasping that good money, and putting it to such uses as only he, from a long experience, could accurately name. Bessie should, of course, have a share in the good things that were coming; but only, quite properly, after her father had been satisfied; quixotic notions were not to be encouraged where a rich young man absolutely offered to toss fifty pounds over a garden wall in Islington. Gilbert Byfield, on the other hand,already began to doubt whether after all he had not been a little precipitate; began to suggest this, and to demand that, in the way of security. Not that he regretted his action so far as Bessie was concerned; a single glance at her white face was sufficient to speed him to the undertaking; but he doubted the instrument he had been compelled to choose.
Daniel Meggison's idea of a rest and a holiday for his daughter, when it came to the actual point of expression, seemed to consist in a vague notion of driving about London all day long, with large cigars for his own consumption, and new clothes, and an occasional visit with some ceremony to a saloon bar; which was not of course quite the idea that had been in the mind of Mr. Gilbert Byfield. The wily old man had already drawn sundry sovereigns, on account of that imaginary fortune, and still nothing had been done, when one evening he appeared in Gilbert Byfield's rooms with a face of mystery, and with round eyes that had a frightened look in them. He closed the door, and carefully removed his dingy skull cap; combed out the last threads of its silk tassel between his fingers; and looked up and spoke.
"Mr. Byfield, sir," he whispered—"my daughter is ill."
Gilbert got up quickly, and came across to where the little man was standing. "What do you mean?" he demanded in a shocked voice.
"Fainted, sir—gave way suddenly, and became all at once, in a manner of speaking, collapsed," said Meggison, nodding at him slowly. "Never knewher do it before—but it's not unlikely she may do it again. Mr. Byfield, sir—my heart bleeds."
"She must be got away—at once," said Gilbert hastily.
"She must be got away—at once," echoed Meggison, moistening his lips with the tip of his tongue. "Just what I said, Mr. Byfield, sir, as she was coming to. Not a moment to be lost—eh?"
"Not an instant," said Gilbert, beginning to pace up and down the room. "We've waited too long already, Meggison, over that scheme of ours."
"Nearly a week—and nothing done," retorted the other, twisting the skull cap round and shaking his head at it. "Not my fault, of course."
"It's only because I haven't known what to do, or how to do it," said Gilbert, pondering. "But now we must wait no longer; you must take her away at once."
"At once," said Meggison, putting on his cap with an air of determination, as though he had quite made up his mind to start upon a journey forthwith. "All times are alike to me, Mr. Byfield, sir; it's only the question of money." His eyes were expectant.
"It's just the question of money, Meggison, that is troubling me," said Gilbert Byfield, seating himself on the end of his desk, and so facing the little man at the door with folded arms. "If it hadn't been the question of money, and the difficulty of dealing with it, and of dealing with you, something would have been done before."
"Of dealing with me, Mr. Byfield, sir?" DanielMeggison put his head on one side, with a faint show of indignation.
"Frankly, Mr. Meggison, I do not know quite what you would do with any substantial sum of money that might be placed in your hands. I do not trust your discretion. I want to speak quite plainly."
"Don't spare my feelings," said Meggison, leaning against the door, and folding his arms in turn. "I have been battered by the world; I can put up with anything."
"You clear the ground beautifully," said Gilbert, smiling grimly. "Frankly then, I don't care a rush about you or your son, or any of you—with the sole exception of Bessie. I want to help her—and I only use you because there's no one else that stands in such near relation to her as you do. She wouldn't take money from me—but you will; and so we've got to start some little fiction about the matter, as I suggested. This very night, Mr. Meggison, you must come into your property; but I shall have to be a sort of trustee, the better to keep a tight hand upon what you do."
"You mentioned a sum of fifty pounds," said Meggison, after an uncomfortable pause. "Fifty pounds is not much, when it comes to a holiday; as fortunes are counted, it's nothing to speak of."
"I've altered my mind about that," said Gilbert. "Instead of providing the money, I think I'll provide the place for a holiday, and see that you have sufficient money to keep it going. I've a cottage in Sussex—at a place they call Fiddler's Green; I've used it for fishing and so forth; it's rather pretty,and it wouldn't be half a bad notion to whisk this girl of yours away down there, and give her a holiday."
Daniel Meggison looked dubious. "It occurs to me, on the other hand, Mr. Byfield, sir," he said, with a shake of the head, "that she might find it dull. No society—no familiar figures such as she meets every day; no intercourse with boon companions——"
"Perhaps you're thinking a little of yourself," said Gilbert, with a smile. "I imagine we can trust your daughter to like the place to which I'm thinking of sending her. We'll call it settled. Now for the method."
"Which I suppose is where I come in," retorted the other, a little sourly.
"Exactly. We want a fine stretch of your imagination; we want you to invent that mysterious relative, or that extraordinary speculation—either of which shall in a moment provide you with a substantial sum of money. What more natural, therefore, than that you—devoted father—should immediately turn to your daughter with the earnest desire that she should be the first to benefit by your good fortune. The cottage at Fiddler's Green you rent, as a surprise to her; you give her the rest she so sorely needs; you bring her back to London in due course, with renewed strength to take up the battle of life."
"Back to Arcadia Street? It seems rather a tame ending, Mr. Byfield, sir," said the little man, with a shake of the head.
"It's the ending we'll adopt for the present," retorted the younger man. "And you understand,of course, that I must not appear in the matter; I shall be as greatly surprised as she will be to hear of what has happened. Remember always that she believes me to be almost as poor and as struggling as herself."
"It's all right up to a point," said Meggison, pursing up his lips and frowning; "what I don't like is the temporary nature of it. Come, sir—don't be cheese-paring; why not do the thing more handsomely—extend it a bit—eh?"
"All I intend to do is to give Bessie a short holiday at Fiddler's Green, and to bring her back to London restored to health," said Gilbert, with an air of finality.
"Well of course, Mr. Byfield, sir, you know best," Meggison said doubtfully. "In the meantime I will go and see my child, and will endeavour to act my part in that game of make-believe as becomes a father and a man. If by any chance you should be walking in the garden attached to this house a little later on, it might happen that Bessie would have some startling news to impart to you. Splendid notion—eh?"
With restored good humour Daniel Meggison set the old skull cap rakishly at one side of his head, and went downstairs, whistling softly to himself, and seeing before him a golden vision that was not soon to fade.
A visit to the Arcadia Arms gave him renewed confidence; through the glass he held he saw, by no means darkly, a rosy prospect wherein Gilbert Byfield continued from a mere matter of sentiment to supply the wants of Daniel Meggison, at least,for the rest of that gentleman's natural life. Daniel told himself, if not in so many words at least with so many nods and winks, that he would be a very limpet—sticking fast to his benefactor, and not to be shaken off. This young man had talked lightly of fifty pounds—had spoken of them, in fact, in much the same fashion in which Daniel Meggison might have spoken of fifty pence. Over a second glass Mr. Meggison said that this sort of thing should be encouraged; that men of sentiment were rare, and that for his dear daughter's sake at least the chance should be snatched at. With the draining of that glass Mr. Daniel Meggison had firmly persuaded himself that it was his solemn duty to sink his own personal feelings for the sake of his child, and to make war upon this young man. Not too steadily he went down Arcadia Street with that idea in his mind.
Bessie had recovered, and was leaning upon the sympathetic Amelia, inclined to laugh a little at this new weakness that had come upon her. Her brother Aubrey stood looking at her in some dismay, with his hands thrust in his pockets, and with the inevitable cigarette drooping from his lips; for this was a new and uncommon disaster, which threatened the source of his income. Not that he put it quite in that crude fashion, but rather that he saw his small world shaken to its foundations, and trembled a little in consequence.
Mr. Daniel Meggison was jocose. He wondered if by any chance Bessie (always his favourite child!) was strong enough to bear a shock—to hear news that might prove startling? Bessie a little faintlydeclared that she was quite well—was sorry, in fact, to have caused such trouble; she was ready for any news. Perhaps he had heard of a new and profitable lodger?
"To the devil with all lodgers!" exclaimed Mr. Meggison, with a sudden blustering violence. "We have done with lodgers for ever, my child; henceforth this particular Englishman's house is his castle—inviolate. Henceforth his child plays the lady, and takes that position in the world to which, as her father's child, she has a right."
"You've stayed a bit long at the club, guv'nor," said Aubrey, applying a light to his cigarette and winking at his sister. "'Tisn't quite fair to worry Bess now—is it?"
"Be silent, sir!" Daniel Meggison turned upon him wrathfully. "What do you understand of my methods—or even of me? While you, sir—a mere hobbledehoy—a lout—a frequenter of low billiard saloons and such-like places—while you are wasting your time and your substance in a species of debauchery—your father is out and about in the world—looking here and there and everywhere for opportunities. While you are wasting the hard earnings of your sister, and squandering money to which you have no right, I am turning that brain which has never really failed me yet to account—and making money!"
By this time Daniel Meggison had worked himself into that state of mind in which he was quite prepared to believe that he really had done the wonderful thing he suggested. He soared in imagination in high finance; dabbled with this and with that;held the great world of money in the mere hollow of his hand. For the first time in his mean and shiftless life he had his grip upon a man who was prepared to pay largely and without question; and the education Daniel Meggison had received in a hard world had prepared him to meet such a man, and to deal with him in the right way. The more he talked the more his ideas grew, and the more certain he was that he had tapped at last a gold mine. Moreover, on this occasion he knew that he had played a stronger card than any he had ever held before; his glance shifted to the figure of the girl, and he recognized that her white face had a power to charm gold out of the pockets of Mr. Gilbert Byfield, and that in her very innocence as to the plot lay Meggison's real safety.
"You are excited, father dear," said Bessie, going to him with the intention to put him in his chair. But he boisterously put an arm about her, and stood thus in an attitude, facing the astonished Amelia and the contemptuous Aubrey.
"Excited! I should think so, indeed," he exclaimed. "Who would not be excited at the prospect of a sudden fortune—of an end to want and pinching and—and general meanness? Who would not be excited at the prospect of leaping, in one glorious moment, from Arcadia Street to affluence; of stepping in a moment gloriously out of the shadows in which for so long we have been plunged, into the splendid sunshine of riches and plenty? Excited!—I am drunk with excitement!"
"When you feel yourself fairly sober again, it mightn't be a bad idea to let us know what on earthyou are talkin' about," suggested Aubrey, leaning against the mantelpiece, and presenting a bored expression to the company. "Not that I'm denyin', mind you, that you'd do a lot if you had the chance; you've always impressed that on us, so that we ain't likely to forget it. But what I argue is—show us something solid."
Mr. Daniel Meggison laughed an easy laugh. "Something solid, sir," he ejaculated. "What if I tell you that I can to-night produce, if necessary, a sum of fifty pounds——"
"Father!" The girl was clinging to his arm, looking at him in bewilderment.
"What if I tell you that that is but the beginning—the forerunner of many similar sums? Yes, my child, your father has at last justified an existence that has in the past not perhaps been all that it might have been. For the future, my dear Bessie, I will make amends; for the future our relative positions will be changed. No longer shall you trouble about lodgers—no longer shall you weigh this and that, or reckon how much a shilling will do in this direction or in that; all that is done with. We have for the first time in our lives that very necessary thing—an income."
"But, father, I don't understand," she pleaded. "What has happened? It's only some dream—something that in your good heart you wish might come true—for my sake."
"I tell you ithascome true!" he exclaimed. "The chance of a lifetime—a mere matter of fortunate speculation."
"Fortunate what?" demanded Aubrey contemptuously."Where did you get the money to speculate?"
"Borrowed capital," replied Meggison promptly. "What do you know of such matters? I hear of a great many things in the world—stocks and shares—this going up—that going down. It might have happened that I had plunged the family deeper into ruin even than before; that was a risk I had to take. But no"—he shook his head, and smiled with deep wisdom—"I knew from the beginning that I was right. A pound or two in the right direction—and a pound or two added to that. It mounted; it grew into a perfect snowball, which, rolling on, added to itself with every movement. So that to-night I stand before you revealed in my true colours. To all intents and purposes I am a rich man!"
She broke down then for the first time. It never occurred to her for a moment to doubt him; indeed she had always been secretly a little proud of this man, who was a little better, in the matter of dignity and deportment, than his fellows of Arcadia Street. Her life had at all times been a surprising thing of chances; this greater chance that had come was only what might in her dreams have been expected. Practical only in the matter of dealing with the small details of her daily life, she was utterly unpractical where it came to any question of dealing with the world. This was but a coming true of all the best dreams she had ever had.
She called him her dear, dear father; she blessed and praised him for his cleverness; she called the astonished Aubrey to witness that she had said over and over again that if only father had his chance hewould do better than anyone. They were not to mind her tears; she had perhaps been a little tired and a little troubled at times; but all that was done with now, and they should see her bright and smiling. Above all, they had never had any real chance to show the best that was in them in the life that was done with from to-night!
Mr. Aubrey Meggison was a little stunned. Feeling that perhaps it might be well if he ranged himself on the side of this new financier, he somewhat flabbily shook the hand of his parent, and murmured "Good old guv'nor!" as an encouragement to that gentleman to do even better yet. And then in a bewildered way, with Amelia the servant almost light-headed from sheer excitement, they sat down to a hastily provided supper, the better to discuss details.
"Of course you will understand that I have kept it all secret; I intended to spring a surprise upon you," said Daniel Meggison, between bites at an unaccustomed delicacy. "And I have done nothing by halves; in fact, I may tell you that I have already provided a place in the country—a mere modest cottage. Charming spot—Fiddler's Green, Sussex," he added carelessly, with a secret determination to discover from Gilbert exactly in what part of Sussex Fiddler's Green was situated.
"Oh, my dear!" whispered Bessie under her breath, as she looked at this new wonder. "The country—and a cottage! Is it a large cottage, father dear?"
"Largish," said Mr. Meggison cautiously. "Roomy place—and well furnished. Fishing, I understand, and other pursuits of a like nature."
"I will say that for the guv'nor—he has got large ideas," said Aubrey, with a solemn nod. "I wish he'd taken me into his confidence as to the locality—but still I'm not blaming him for that. Can't say I care much for the countryascountry—but I dare say I shall get used to it. Rummy thing, though, that you should have kept the game going so well that you haven't even added to your wardrobe, or changed your habits at all. He's a sly 'un, the guv'nor," added the young gentleman, with a wink at Bessie.
"I intended that it should all be a surprise; moreover, I intended to assert myself, and to take for the first time my true position in the family," said Mr. Meggison. "In this matter you will have to take your time from me; when I say 'move,' we will move. Now, as I am perhaps a little excited, I will just stretch my legs in the open air, and perhaps look in at my club for a moment or two."
By that time the man had fully persuaded himself that all he said was true—had fully made up his mind, in fact, that the great game on which he was embarked could be played out to the end by sheer bluff and cunning. Someone else was to pay the piper, but Mr. Daniel Meggison had quite made up his mind that he would call the tune. And so elated was he that he even unbent so far as to desire Aubrey to join him in that stroll to the Arcadia Arms; so that father and son went off arm in arm, with quite a new amiability sitting a little awkwardly upon them.
Meanwhile there was, of course, one person to whom it was absolutely necessary that the greatnews should be told—one person who would be glad for her sake, and yet, she hoped, a little sorry on his own account. She went out into that garden of her dreams, feeling a little strange now that the dreams were coming true—vaguely troubled in fact that there should be no more necessity for pretence. She was like a child that is promised with certainty a new and gorgeous toy, and yet looks back, in the very act of going to it, with regret at the broken, battered things left behind.
Not that the place seemed poor or common; it could never be that, because of the memories it held. Nor did it look shabby even to-night, with the grander prospect opening out in Bessie's imagination; she would be in a sense regretful at the thought of leaving it, because so much had happened there—every poor sordid stick and stone of it meant so much more to her than to anyone else. She passed through the place now smilingly, looking and listening for her friend.
And the friend was there; in the strangest fashion he looked over the wall directly she emerged from the house. Of course he knew nothing of the great and glorious news; that was for her to tell him. Pride was in that thought, because all in a moment she was lifted nearer to him by reason of her new riches. She was greater even than this wonderful young man who could spend money recklessly on theatres and cabs. She went straight to him now, and told him without parley all the great news. He, expecting it, set himself to appear as surprised as she would expect to find him.
"Mr. Byfield—there's something I want to tellyou," she began. "You've been my best friend—almost my only friend; so you must know before anyone else. It's great good news."
"I'm very glad," he assured her, leaning on the wall, and looking down at her. "What has happened? Another and a splendid lodger?"
She laughed and shook her head—laughed more light-heartedly than he had ever known her. "It's nothing to do with lodgers; there are never going to be any lodgers any more," she said; and he thought how even the tired voice had changed in a little time. "Father has suddenly grown very rich!"
He stared at her for a moment in utter bewilderment; he could not understand. He was on the very point of correcting her, and of telling her that the strange fortune which had come to her father was a matter that would provide leisure for a period of a few weeks only, when he reflected that he must know nothing about it. Doubtless she had misunderstood old Meggison; that would be a matter to be set right afterwards.
"I'm very glad," he said cordially. "Very rich—is he? And what's he going to do with all his money?"
"He thought first of me; one might know he would do that," she said proudly. "He's taken a house in the country—and he's going to take me down there—and of course Aubrey."
"Oh—so Aubrey's going—is he?" said Gilbert slowly. "Anybody else?"
"I was only thinking, Mr. Byfield," she said shyly—"I was only thinking that we should beglad if you would come down. I know father would like it—and so should I. It's at Fiddler's Green."
"I shall be delighted," he exclaimed, smiling at the thought of this strange invitation to his own place. "And I suppose you're going to stop there until you're quite well and strong again—eh? You'll be sorry to come back to Arcadia Street."
"But we're not coming back to Arcadia Street," she assured him. "Father's going to give it all up; we're going to live down there for ever. Think of it—in the country!"
The friendly darkness hid his bewildered face; he wondered what new blunder Daniel Meggison had plunged them all into. Even as that thought came to him the door at the end of the garden was opened, and old Meggison came in. He was singing to himself in a high cracked falsetto, and the hand that was not required to support him against the edge of the door was solemnly beating time to the tune. He closed the door, and leant against it; stared with drunken sternness at his daughter.
"Whash this?" he demanded. "Go in, m' child; go t' bed. Object mos' strongly—endanger precious life. Go t' bed!"
Bessie went in quickly, and her father, after a preliminary stagger, essayed to follow her. He was pulled up quickly by the stern hurried voice of Gilbert Byfield.
"What have you been telling her?" demanded the young man.
Mr. Meggison winked solemnly. "A little exaggel-exaggeration," he replied. "Splendid notion! Goo' night!"
THE morning which followed that night of wild exaggerations found Mr. Daniel Meggison in a despairing mood. He knew that he had gone too far—understood that he had plunged not only himself but others into this new sea of deceit in which they must all struggle together, and from which only one hand—that of Mr. Gilbert Byfield—could drag them. In the calmer mood following upon a severe headache, and a petulant remembrance of certain absurd statements of the night before, Meggison saw that he must substantiate much of what had been said at the earliest possible opportunity. Bessie believed in him, and Bessie would require to be satisfied; if even that considerable sum of fifty pounds was to be wrung out of the matter, the game must be kept alive, for a few days at least.
In a sense, however, Bessie had taken the matter out of his hands. Her belief in him was so sublime and so fine that she had absolutely taken him at his word; and that morning the one or two lodgers who only paid when they were driven to it, and the one or two others who paid when by chance they had any money, had special interviews with a radiant girl in a shabby black frock, who told them withshining eyes that she was sorry to get rid of them, and that the bills did not matter. The house was to be given up; they were retiring to the country. So the lodgers went away puzzled, thereafter to make arrangements for other lodgings, where it was to be feared they might not find landladies who would deal with them so generously.
Two lodgers were difficult to deal with: poor Harry Dorricott for one, and Simon Quarle for another. It was hard to turn Harry out into the world—harder still to make him understand that in one night his divinity had been removed far out of his reach. He did not understand in the least; he pleaded that he might have the new address, so that in time to come he could forward his long overdue account. For the rest, she cut short as delicately as she could his farewells and his protestations.
It was not so easy to get rid of Mr. Simon Quarle. Mr. Simon Quarle usually breakfasted late, because there was no business which claimed him, as in the case of the others; and this morning Bessie came upon him with a newspaper propped up against the cruet, and with a fork busily going over a breakfast that had been already cut up for greater expedition in eating. He looked up at her quickly as she came into the room, and then frowningly resumed his breakfast and his newspaper; which was in a sense his habit.
"If you please, Mr. Quarle—if I might speak to you," she began.
"Which is exactly what you're doing, you know," he retorted, not unkindly.
"I thought I should like to know when it would be suitable to you to go, Mr. Quarle."
He laid down his fork very slowly, and looked up at her; picked up the fork again, and resumed his breakfast. "Don't talk nonsense, Bessie," he said.
"But, indeed, Mr. Quarle, I mean it," she urged. "The house is going to be sold up—and all the lodgers are going. Of course I'm very sorry——"
"And pray what's the execution for this time?" he demanded, laying down his fork finally with a sigh, and leaning back in his chair. "And how much is it?"
"You won't understand," she exclaimed, taking a seat at the further side of the table, and resting her chin on her folded hands, and smiling across at him. "You've been so very good to me always, Mr. Quarle, that I thought you'd be glad."
"Glad! Because once again you're in difficulties?"
"But we're not; it's quite the other way about," she exclaimed. "We're only getting rid of this place—and the lodgers—and you—because father has come into a lot of money, and is taking me down into the country."
"Your father has come into a lot of money?" The man burst into a laugh, and picked up his fork again. "Who's told him so?"
"Mr. Quarle—you are really most unkind," she said. "Father is much more clever than anyone has ever imagined; he has speculated and made money, while we have all thought that he has merely been living the life of a—a gentleman—and doing nothing. Ask him yourself if you're not sure."
"I will," said Quarle grimly.
"And will you please tell me when it will be convenient for you to go?" she asked again. "Oh, please don't think that I'm anxious to get rid of you; I'd like to keep you here for ever and ever; but of course I have to remember that things are so different—and that father and Aubrey must be considered. I'm sure you understand that."
Simon Quarle slowly laid down his fork for the last time, and pushed his plate away from him. "Come here," he said gruffly.
She got up, and came round the table, and stood close to him; he took one of the hands that was a little coarsened with work, and gently held it while he spoke to her; and his voice was altogether changed.
"When I came here first you were a bit of a girl in short frocks—shorter even than they are now—and I was sorry for you. I could have gone to other lodgings——"
"I'm glad you didn't, Mr. Quarle," she whispered.
"But I didn't. I came here because I liked the look of you, and I thought my bit of money might be useful. There was no woman in the world that was anything to me—and I had no chicks—no one who cared a button about me. I saw you grow up—and you didn't grow up half badly; and I suppose because I'm an old fool, I'm fond of you."
"I know," she said softly.
"Consequently, I don't want any tricks to be played, or any infernal nonsense to come into your life and to upset it. I'm not going to say anything about family matters, because I suppose after all afather's a father, no matter what color he is. Only I'm a business man, little Bessie, and we must know that everything is fair and square and straight. Do you understand?"
"Yes, of course I understand; only I think none of us quite know what father is capable of," she responded.
"There I agree with you," he retorted grimly. "And I'll talk about going when I've had a chance to inquire into the matter. Don't turn me out before it's necessary; it happens that I'm rather a lonely man."
"You'll be able to come down and see us as often as you like—to stay with us," she reminded him; but to that he made no answer.
That arch-plotter Daniel Meggison had been spending an anxious hour or two in search of his patron. Inquiry at the front of the house next door elicited the information that Mr. Gilbert Byfield was having his bath; the landlady a little contemptuous concerning a man who found it necessary to wash all over every day. An impromptu peep over the wall at the back was equally useless. The only occupation left to Daniel Meggison was to saunter about the house, and to carry things with a high hand, and yet with a failing courage.
His man might escape at any moment, and go out into that world outside Arcadia Street, and never come back. The people with whom hitherto Daniel had had dealings were in the habit of repudiating a promise at a day or even an hour's notice; it was quite on the cards that this young man would do the same. Daniel Meggison began to wish thathe had in some fashion got the thing reduced to writing; more than that, he began to doubt the actual value of that asset on which he had counted—his daughter. Therefore Simon Quarle, coming upon him unexpectedly, and thrusting his head out at him in characteristic fashion, found the man in no mood for questions.
"It's all right," said Meggison, with a very distinct air of its being all wrong. "I have been lucky—fortunate; I have kept my eyes open."
"How much have you made?" demanded Quarle stolidly. "Always better to come to figures, you know."
"It doesn't concern you—and I am inclined to keep my particular figures to myself," snapped Daniel Meggison. "Suffice it that this system of living is ceasing; suffice it that I no longer find it necessary to depend for my income upon lodgers whose payments are not what they should be, and whose manners do not please me."
"Keep your temper, Meggison; there's nothing that should call for personal remarks. If you didn't like my manners you could have got rid of me years ago—always supposing, of course, that it suited me to go. Meantime, we're no nearer to this mysterious fortune—are we? Exactly in what particular investments were you so very lucky?"
"The investments were—were various," said Daniel Meggison, with a wave of the hand. "A little bit in this—and a little bit in that; it's taken quite a long time—but it's growing even now."
"Wonderful!" said Simon Quarle, nodding his head slowly. "Most remarkable. And so you sellup everything here—and you start for the country—eh? House cost much?"
"I have merely—merely rented it—hired it for a period," said Meggison.
"What I shall do with you," said Quarle, with a bullying shake of his head at him, "will be to keep my eye on you. You've been doing something mysterious—something you don't want talked about; I shall find out presently what it is. You never were any good, you know—and you never will be. Don't wave your arms about, and don't splutter at me; bluster is the last dog that will frighten me. So far as you're concerned I don't care a snap of the fingers—but I do care about the girl."
"Sir—you are not the only one who cares about the girl," retorted Daniel Meggison. "It is for her sake that I have done this; it is on her account alone that I propose burying myself in the country, and having what will probably prove a devilish dull time of it. I decline to answer any further questions; it is no affair of yours."
He went away again on that hunt for Byfield; with the creeping on of the hours his courage had fallen more and more. He had burnt his boats, in the sense that even his daughter now was ranged against him in that mad business of giving up what had, at the best and the worst, been a livelihood for them all. He had hoped that she would have been content to take her cue from him, and to march a little behind his stride; he was appalled, now that he came to look at the thing from a common-sense point of view, to see that she was bringing to bear upon this new situation the characteristic energy that hadhelped her in the old one. He had forced her to be self-reliant in the past; that self-reliance now might well prove the undoing of them all.
He was returning from a hurried visit to the Arcadia Arms when he met Gilbert Byfield in the street. He essayed a rather nervous "Good morning, Mr. Byfield, sir"; but it halted on his tongue as Byfield frowningly took him by the arm, and turned him round, and walked with him up the street. Without a word that young man conducted him to the door of that house in which he had taken a lodging; took him upstairs; and having got him into the room where the desk littered with papers stood, thrust him unceremoniously into a chair, and looked at him sternly over folded arms.
"Now, Mr. Daniel Meggison—let me know what the game is," said Gilbert.
"Game, Mr. Byfield, sir?" asked Daniel innocently. "I'm sure, so far as I'm concerned, there ain't any game; if I've been a bit playful in mentioning matters—a joke's a joke—and I——"
"There is no joke about this, Meggison," broke in Gilbert. "I want you to understand from the beginning that this is to be merely a holiday for the girl; whatever innocent lie you tell must not go beyond that. My cottage at Fiddler's Green is at your disposal for a few weeks; and that will be the end of it."
"Have I said different?" pleaded Daniel passionately. "A bit of money was what I've come into, and no more than that. I'll own that last night, Mr. Byfield, sir, I was excited—exhilarated—perhaps a little unduly happy. Mine has been a hard life, andif I may be said to have looked upon the rosy wine in a joyful moment, is that always to be thrown up in my face for ever after? Is there to be no charity extended to me?"
"Last night you led your daughter to believe that this was no mere matter of a little sudden money to provide her with a holiday—but something in the nature of a fortune, that should mean ease and contentment for the rest of her days."
"A playful exaggeration; she perfectly understands this morning," said Daniel. "She knows her poor old father; she will take the thing in the right spirit, and be grateful. I am a man of imagination, Mr. Byfield, sir; I can assure you that a very ordinary duck with me may quite easily and legitimately become a swan."