"I thank God—yes," said Gilbert Byfield steadily. "But it is not of that I am speaking; I am referring to the fashion in which you are flinging money broadcast—you and your dissolute son; I refer to this persistent fairy-tale that you have a great fortune, and that you are here for the remainder of your life. You have sold up the house in Arcadia Street; you are living on my charity."
"My good man," retorted Meggison, with a new insolence in his voice—"you appear to forget all the circumstances; more than that, you appear to forget what manner of man you are dealing with; you lose sight of the fact that you are dealing withme. If you wanted your absurd scheme carried out in any halting cheeseparing fashion, you should have gone to a meaner man; you should not have cometo Daniel Meggison. I am a creature of imagination; I soar, sir; I refuse to be confined or held back. I think only of my daughter, who in your own words was to have a much-needed rest and holiday; I have given her both. I let facts and results speak for themselves."
"I see it is quite useless to argue the matter with you," said Gilbert. "I intend to take the matter into my own hands; I intend to let Bessie understand the true facts of the case, so that she may know exactly where she stands. And I intend to do that to-night."
Mr. Daniel Meggison rose to his feet, and thrust his hands in his pockets, and nodded brightly. "Splendid notion! I applaud it. Do it by all means; don't think of me in the least. Go to my daughter, and say to her—'I have to tell you that your father, for your dear sake, has lied to you, and cheated you, and made a fool of you. Egged on by a man with whom, under ordinary circumstances, he would have had nothing to do, your poor old father has tried to do something for you at last—to make your life easier.' Go to Bessie, and tell her that—make her understand that all her house of cards must topple down, and that she must for the future loathe the man she now believes in and loves. The way is easy; it only requires a very few words."
"You know I can't do that; you know you've got me hard and fast, because in front of you and all your scheming stands the girl who does not deserve to suffer. I must bring myself down, I suppose, to appeal to you," said Gilbert. "I want youto release me; I want you to find a way out of the tangle you have created for us all."
"And I say that I decline to do anything of the kind," said Daniel Meggison. "I take my stand upon the happiness of my child; I raise my banner for her sake, and I fight to my last breath!"
"And very nobly said, too!" A voice came from the further end of the room, and there rose from the depths of an easy chair there, the back of which had been towards them, the long form of Aubrey Meggison. He held a sporting paper in his hands, and he now lounged forward, so as to put himself in a measure between the two men. "I don't always say that I uphold the old man, mind you," he added—"but on this occasion I think he has spoken as only a father and a man could speak. I suppose, Mr. Byfield," went on the youth aggressively, as he tossed the paper into the chair he had left—"I suppose it didn't occur to you that there might be such a thing—or such a being—as a man of the world to deal with—not an old man you could bully—eh?"
"I beg your pardon; in a sense I had forgotten you," said Gilbert, a little helplessly. "I quite understand that if only from motives of policy alone you would take the side of your father. I've nothing further to say to either of you."
They were glancing triumphantly at each other—the father with a new friendliness for the son—as Gilbert went out of the room. In the hall he stumbled upon Simon Quarle; was seized upon by that gentleman with the one inevitable question.
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to settle the matter—once and for all—with the girl," said Gilbert; and with a new feeling that he was being goaded into this thing went on to find her.
He found her, after some inquiries, just where he had expected her to be; she was wandering alone in the warm summer evening in that newer garden that had so eclipsed the old one. For a little time they walked side by side there; there seemed to be no actual need for words. He had told himself, as he came out of the house, that he would have done this night with the mad business; he told himself now, as he saw her face in the light of the stars, that it must go on. And even while he said that the natural man sprang up in him—the man who would not easily or lightly give way, and would no longer be robbed with impunity. Not in any spirit of meanness, but because of the dastardly fashion in which these people held out this innocent girl as their bait and their bribe.
Almost it seemed, in that quiet garden under the stars, that the two were alone. So that presently they stopped, with hand strangely holding hand; and it seemed almost that this new Bessie of the bright eyes was a woman. Her dreams had come true; the friend who had told her that they might some day come true was here with her, alone under the shining heavens. It was a matter of whispers—just the simple matter that it always must be in such an hour.
"Little friend—are you very happy?" he whispered.
"Happier than I have ever been in all my life," she replied.
"Long ago, Bessie (or it seems long ago), in Arcadia Street we were friends—in that poor old garden that was never a garden at all. I'm a very lonely man, Bessie, and it seems to me to-night that I want my friend."
"Yes?" She looked up into his eyes; and seemed insensibly, in the dusk of the garden, to creep nearer to him.
"I want you, Bessie; there was never a woman in this world that was like you; you've stolen your way into my heart somehow. Bessie—if to-night I asked you to leave all this, and for love's sake to come away with me—out into the big world—what would you say?"
"I could only say what my heart is saying now," she whispered. "I should say—yes."
"Would you? Are you sure?" She was warm and tender and fluttering in his arms. "Are you sure?"
"Yes—because I love you," she breathed.
And so she tied again that strange tangled knot he had tried so hard to cut.
WHATEVER judgment may be passed upon Byfield's methods at that time, it has to be remembered that up to that moment—and indeed long afterwards, in a lesser degree—he had regarded Bessie Meggison as a child. She was in his eyes a mere waif out of that London of which he knew but little; a mere pretty bit of flotsam flung at his feet in the stress and storm of the world, to be cherished by him very tenderly. That other people, with schemes and designs of their own, clung to her and therefore to him, was but an accidental circumstance that did not really affect her. He had to remember the conventionalities of the world—had to remember, for instance, that she was in reality poor and friendless and of no account, and that he had, on a mere foolish impulse, placed her suddenly in an impossible position. That which had seemed so simple at first was simple no longer.
And now, with that sudden declaration of her love for him, she had bound him to her with a tie more difficult to be broken than any with which he had been bound yet. His generosity was stirred—the natural chivalry of the man, that had only before been stirred to a sort of whimsical tenderness, woke tofull life. More than ever was it necessary that that strange fiction should be kept up; because now, if she learned the truth, he knew that she must be doubly shamed: first because of the trick he had played upon her, and next because he had surprised from her that confession of love which she would never have spoken had she not believed that their worldly positions were pretty much the same.
And he had asked her to go out into the world with him—still under that false impression—and she had leapt to the one conclusion, and the one only. His had been a matter of tenderness for the child for whom he was sorry; hers the love of a woman for a man who was the first and the greatest man in her life, because he had seemed to understand her. There was no going back now; they must tread the road on which he had been leading her until some end came that he could not yet foresee.
The one vague thought in his mind had been to lift her clean out of that tangle in which they were both involved, and to leave Daniel Meggison and his son to struggle out of it for themselves. He told himself fiercely, again and again, that he had nothing to do with Daniel Meggison, save as an instrument for the furthering of that innocent plan to help Bessie. The father was unworthy of the child; he had lived upon her hard work for years, and was ready to turn her to account in any way at any moment; clearly he was not to be reckoned with. Gilbert held before him always the remembrance of the girl, and the girl only; argued that she would be better off with himself than with anyone else. All the old platitudes were called into play;she had but one life, and of that the best must be made—and love was superior to everything else—and love was the one thing worth living for and striving for. Of any Bessie grown older and wiser—of any Bessie grown ashamed, when she came to understand what the world was, he never thought at all. She stretched out to him now the trembling eager hands of a child, and pleaded for love and beauty and happiness; he would give her all three.
He was in a difficult position. He knew that a breath—a look—a whisper might in a moment teach her the truth; he knew that Simon Quarle was waiting in the house, dogged and persistent, and determined that the truth should be told; he knew also that Daniel Meggison, if he once understood that the game was up, would not hesitate to blurt out unpleasant facts in mere viciousness. Whatever was to be done must be done quickly.
Impulsive always, Gilbert did not stop to reason now, any more than he had ever done. Wealth had been his always, and the impulse of the moment could always be gratified; the one impulse now was to get the girl away from Fiddler's Green, and so turn the tables, first on the father and son, and afterwards on that arch meddler, Simon Quarle. He broached the matter that very night, within a few moments of the time when her innocent declaration had been made.
"I wonder if you understand what I mean, little Bessie?" he whispered. "Love means a giving-up—a sacrifice; with a woman it should mean that she has no will of her own, but does blindly for love's sake everything that her lover demands."
"Yes—I understand that," she replied, looking at him wonderingly.
"When I said just now that I wanted to ask you to come away with me—out into the big world that you have never seen yet—I meant it. There are great places across the sea—wide lands that are wonderful, cities where the sun always shines. If I asked you to come away with me, and leave all this behind—would you do that?"
"Of course," she replied, still with her eyes fixed upon his. "You would have the right—wouldn't you?"
Her simplicity unnerved him; her innocence was something that seemed to stand between him and her understanding of him. "My dear, you make me almost afraid of you," he said. "Do you trust me so completely?"
She nodded, and laughed confidently. "I can't tell you how much," she said shyly. "Only, ever so long ago, as it seems, when you looked over the wall into my poor garden in Arcadia Street, you made everything so different. I was only tired and lonely and sad after that when you went away. Don't go away from me again, because I could not bear it. I was afraid before that the happiness that father's fortune brought was too great to last; and now this that is greater has been added to it. If you are ever to take that away from me, I would be more glad that you should kill me to-night, so that I might not ever know."
"In this world of surprises, Bessie," he said, "there is yet another surprise for you. I'm not so poor as you thought I was. I only let you believethat I was poor, because it would have seemed a mean thing for me to appear rich when you had nothing—wouldn't it?"
"And are you as rich as father is?"
"There's no actual comparison," he assured her. "But if I'm not very rich myself, at least I have rich friends—people who like me, and know me, and with whom I travel about the world sometimes. Now one of those rich friends of mine has a yacht."
It was still necessary that he should lie to her, in his dread lest she might suspect the real truth; and so this additional lie was added to the heap. Even then she suspected nothing; even then it never occurred to her to link the fact of this man's unsuspected wealth with that other fact of the unexpected wealth of Daniel Meggison.
"Now, they call that yachtBlue Bird, and she lies ready to take us away over the seas, miles and miles away, so that we may discover all those wonderful places that I've tried to tell you about. She's a big yacht, and she's very comfortable; and she's just waiting until Bessie Meggison puts her small feet on her white deck, and then she's off!"
She was silent for a moment or two; the man wondered of what she was thinking. He put a hand under her chin and raised her face; she was looking at him solemnly.
"And you want me to leave this place—and to go right away—with you?" she asked. "For how long?"
"Well, I don't exactly know how long, dear—perhaps just as long as you like to cruise about,"he replied, a little uneasily. "Don't forget, Bessie, that you promised."
"I know—because you were lonely, and because you wanted me," she said simply. "That's where you have the right—because we love each other. I was only thinking——"
Her voice trailed off, and she stood very still; and once again the man wondered of what she was thinking, and yet did not question her. Knowing in an uncomfortable way that she would do what he asked, he thought it wisest not to put the matter more clearly before her, and not to enter into any further explanation. Instead, he began to tell her what she must do.
"I shall start off early to-morrow to see that the yacht is all right," he said. "Then you will slip away, and you will follow me to Newhaven. When you get to Newhaven, you will ask for the steam yachtBlue Bird, and you will come straight on board. Now, do you understand?"
"Yes—I understand perfectly," she replied. "And I am to leave Fiddler's Green—leave everybody?"
"Yes—leave them all behind. Aunts and uncles, and Simon Quarles and everything; we don't want them. I shall wait at Newhaven until you come."
She made no direct reply, but he seemed to understand that she had made up her mind, and that she would come. When presently they went back to the house, she slipped away, saying that she wanted to find her father; Gilbert set about what he had to do with a curious feeling of elation, and yet with a still more curious feeling of remorse and bitterness. Hetold himself savagely that he had not done this thing; that his impulses had been generous ones that had been taken advantage of by Daniel Meggison and by his son; that therefore they were directly responsible. He meant to be very good to her; she should have a better time than she had ever had yet.
Simon Quarle—restless and watchful like himself—met him presently wandering about the house; and once more faced him squarely, with a demand as to what he was going to do. "The girl's got to be lifted out of this slough of deceit and lies and humbug; she's too honest to live in it," said the old man. "Try gentle means, if you can—if you don't, I must try rougher ones."
"I've fully made up my mind what to do," said Gilbert in reply. "To-morrow our game of make-believe will end; Mr. Daniel Meggison has come to the end of his tether."
"I'm glad of it," said Quarle.
Finally, Gilbert sought again that servant who was responsible for the house, and gave him certain instructions. "I'm going away to-morrow," he said—"and from that time my friend Mr. Meggison's connection with the house ceases. You will say nothing about it, of course; you will simply give him to understand that you've got my instructions to close the place, and that he cannot remain here any longer. Do you understand? From to-morrow night they all go—every one of 'em."
"Very good, sir," replied the man, looking at him a little curiously.
Still telling himself that what he was doing was right, and that no other course lay open to him,Gilbert Byfield went unhappily out of the house, and wandered about in the grounds. "I'm a mean brute," he muttered to himself—"and I'm sneaking out of a business that I'm afraid to face openly. But it's no good: I can't look into her eyes and tell her the truth; I can't drive her back penniless and friendless into Arcadia Street. The child loves me; in a sense we are both waifs of fortune—and in that sense we'll face life together. The whole circumstances are so mad and strange that they must be faced in a mad and strange manner. And oh!—I mean to be good to her!"
While he stood there he saw before him, coming dancingly towards him through the trees, a little point of light; and knew it, after a moment or two, for the smouldering end of a cigarette. Wondering a little who this was at such an hour, he waited until the figure of a man followed the dancing point of light, and revealed itself as Mr. Jordan Tant. Mr. Tant, in evening dress, and looking even more immaculate than usual, expressed no surprise at seeing his friend, although in a curious way he seemed a little afraid of the big man facing him.
"Good evening, Byfield," said Mr. Tant precisely.
"Well—have you come to spy out the land, friend Tant?" demanded Gilbert, with a rough laugh.
"Yes—and no," said Mr. Tant, flicking the ash from his cigarette, and looking at it with his head on one side. "As you are aware, I am always doing something for others—or perhaps I should say foroneother. Enid and her mother are naturally anxious to know what is happening to you; also theyare curious concerning the people who have taken your cottage. You may not know that they are down here?"
"I did not know—but I am not surprised," replied Gilbert. "Where are they staying?"
"They have taken rooms—extremely uncomfortable rooms, and very high-priced—at a house in the village," said Mr. Tant. "Enid complains—chiefly to me; therefore you may guess that I am remarkably unhappy, and that indirectly I blame you for my unhappiness. I strolled over to-night to see you; they will naturally demand to know whatIknow about you."
"Then you can give them my message," said Gilbert, a little contemptuously. "You can tell them that I decline to have my actions criticized by any one; you can let them understand that I know that they had no real reason for coming to Fiddler's Green, and taking uncomfortable lodgings, except in order to find out what I was doing. You can tell them——"
"I beg your pardon, Byfield—but I can't tell them anything of the kind," said Mr. Tant. "You can't send messages of that description—and I can't take them."
"You're quite right, my Tant; of course you can't," replied Gilbert. "I'm obliged to you for reminding me. Forgive me; I'm a little worried and troubled, and I seem to think that everyone about me is plotting against me, and scheming against me."
"My dear Byfield—why don't you shake these people off?" asked Tant, lowering his voice. "Common charity is one thing; but these people will stickto you like leeches till they've sucked your very blood. After all, as I have said so often, one must draw the line somewhere, you know."
"Yes—I know; and I'm going to draw the line to-morrow," said Gilbert, half to himself. "However, if the ladies have not retired, I'll stroll down with you and see them. Come along!"
"They'll be delighted, I'm sure," said Tant, without the least cordiality.
They found Mrs. Ewart-Crane and her daughter astonishing so much of the village as remained awake by sitting in an extremely small garden in front of an unpretentious cottage stiffly on chairs in evening dress; behind them was the lighted room in which they had just been dining. Mrs. Ewart-Crane greeted Gilbert grimly, and hoped he was well; Enid nodded, and said casually—"Ah, Gilbert"—and turned her attention to Jordan Tant.
"Sorry I couldn't let you have my house," said Gilbert—"but you see I had already let it to other people. A little later on, perhaps——"
"My dear Gilbert—what is really happening?" asked Mrs. Ewart-Crane, lowering her voice, and turning away from the others. "Of course we all know that there's a girl—and that she came out of some quite impossible slum in which you chose to live. I'm not saying that she's not perfectly nice and good, and all that sort of thing; but you have to think of yourself, and of the future. And I suppose that she's got all her horrid people with her?"
"Some friends of mine are certainly staying at my house down here at present," said Gilbert—"and I originally met them in Arcadia Street, when I wasliving there. It has merely been a visit—and that visit ends almost immediately. As a matter of fact, I'm going away to-morrow on a yachting cruise."
"I am relieved to hear it," said the lady, with a sigh. "I have been perfectly miserable over the whole business; I have not known how to sleep. I came down here, and took these rooms to-day, on the assurance of Jordan that they were the only ones to be had in the place; I wanted to keep an eye on you."
"Extremely kind of you," he said. "Only you see I rather object to anyone keeping an eye upon me."
"Now, however, that the horrid people are going, and that you have made up your mind in a sense to run away also, there is no further necessity for my remaining here," went on Mrs. Ewart-Crane. "But tell me; do you go on this yachting cruise alone?"
"Well—I've scarcely made up my mind yet," he returned evasively; and the lady looked at him, and silently drew in her breath and pursed her lips. "My plans have been made rather hurriedly."
"Exactly," she said. "Now, my dear Gilbert—would it not be a kindly thing to take Enid and myself with you? I know the yacht, and I know how very comfortable you can make your guests. And believe me, we should be more than grateful."
"I'm afraid I'm not able to do that just at present," he replied. "Mine is, in a sense, a sudden trip, and I have no real preparations made for the reception of passengers on the yacht. I'm sorry, but——"
"Oh, it doesn't matter," she said, with a smile. "It was only a sudden thought on my part."
Feeling annoyed and ashamed and resentful at this cross-questioning, Gilbert presently bade them good night curtly enough, and strolled off into the darkness towards his own house. As he disappeared, Mrs. Ewart-Crane turned to Jordan Tant and the girl.
"Well—one thing I have discovered, at least," she said viciously. "Gilbert takes the girl with him to-morrow on this extraordinary voyage."
"My dear mother!" Enid rose with an appearance of indignation. "He wouldn't do such a thing."
"I don't know what to make of the fellow myself," said Jordan Tant, with a shake of the head. "I don't think he means any harm; I simply think he's got himself into a deuce of a hole, and doesn't quite know how to get out of it. That's my opinion. As for the girl—well, of course she's decidedly pretty—and nice-mannered—and all that kind of thing; and so I suppose——"
"I think we will wish you good night, Jordan," said Mrs. Ewart-Crane, rising. And Jordan Tant took the hint, and went off to his room at the village inn.
Gilbert Byfield walked far that night under the stars, and smoked many pipes. Now he was right, and now he was wrong; now he knew that this thing was good in the sight of that wholly impossible heaven that smiles upon unconventional things when they are done for a good and proper purpose. Now there was no other way—and now there was a better way, by which he might speak the truth, and send her back to some Arcadia Street where she could struggle on, and yet live the old clean fine life. Now he hated himself for what he had settled to do; now he urgedagainst a pricking conscience that Bessie loved him, and that nothing else mattered. Still, with those warring thoughts he got back in the small hours, and let himself in, and went to bed.
There was much to be done on the following day, and he determined to start early. He made all necessary arrangements with the man in charge of the house; left a brief note for Bessie, to be given into her hands alone, in which he explained carefully what she was to do. Then, avoiding his strange guests, who fortunately for him were in the habit of rising late, he found his way to the little station, and left Fiddler's Green behind him.
There followed a hurried rush through London, and the settling of various affairs there, and the dispatch of telegrams. Late in the afternoon he found himself at Newhaven, with a small hillock of luggage, and facing a man who had the appearance of being half landsman and half seaman, and who was respectfully touching his cap to him.
"Ah, Pringle—so you had my wire," he said cheerfully.
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. And everything's ready, sir," said Pringle.
Pringle was a long, thin, cleanly shaven man, with a countenance absolutely without expression, save for a pair of eyes that twinkled on occasion with a touch of humour very unbefitting a servant. He was neatly dressed in a blue suit, and was in fact a species of half steward, half man-servant, who had been with his master in various parts of the world on various occasions. He was that sort of man who, had he received a telegram to say that a young and lively tiger wasbeing consigned to his care, would in all probability have bought the largest and strongest dog collar and chain obtainable, as a matter of precaution, and have gone to meet his charge with perfect equanimity. He had the luggage gathered together now, and in an incredibly short space of time had deposited that and his master on board the yachtBlue Bird.
"Quite nice to be here again, Pringle," said Gilbert. "As you may have gathered from my wire, there is someone else coming; make the necessary arrangements. Also meet the trains this afternoon coming from London; a young lady will inquire for the yacht, and you can bring her down."
"Very good, sir," said Pringle; and vanished.
It was late in the evening when Pringle appeared again, standing solemnly just within the cabin door. His face was inscrutable to an ordinary observer—and yet one might have thought that there was in his eyes a lurking gleam of that humour that was so very much out of place.
"Young lady's come aboard, sir," said Pringle.
Gilbert sprang up, and pushed the man aside, and went out and mounted the companion. There was Bessie—smiling and bright-eyed, and obviously very excited; as he took her hands, and looked at her delightedly, she broke out into a flood of speech.
"Oh, my dear—such a journey—and yet I'm so glad to be here. I don't know how I should have managed it—all alone and not knowing anything much about travelling—if it hadn't have been for dear father."
"Dear father?" he repeated, with a curious chill creeping into his heart.
"Yes, of course," she replied. "You see, I couldn't come without father—and besides, he would have broken his heart if I had gone away without him. So I told him all you said, and all that you were going to do; and he worked hard to get things packed, and to get us off. See—there he is!"
Gilbert dropped her hands, and walked a pace or two along the deck to where a man was standing looking over the side. The man turned, and revealed the smiling features of Daniel Meggison; Daniel in the frock-coat much too large for him—a silk hat perched upon one side of his head—and with an umbrella half unfurled grasped tightly by the middle in one hand. Daniel waved the umbrella cheerfully as he advanced to meet Byfield.
"Ha!—so here we are!" he exclaimed, with much heartiness. "Beautiful vessel—very trim and ship-shape. Splendid notion!"
THE explanation of that coming of Daniel Meggison to the yacht is a very simple one. He had seen for himself that the game could not last very much longer; he knew that in all probability Byfield would fling caution to the winds, and expose the trick that Meggison and his son were playing. Therefore he watched that young man with more anxiety than he really showed; despite the bravado he displayed, Meggison was really in deadly fear of what was to happen.
The sudden going of Gilbert from the house, while it might have allayed the suspicions of a less cunning man than Meggison, only served to increase them in his case. He felt that in all probability Byfield had but gone away to seek advice or assistance; Meggison began to think that after all the game had been played a little too boldly, and a little too extravagantly. He blamed himself that he had not been more cautious; they might then have hung on for quite a long time.
Prying about the house, in the hope to discover something, Daniel Meggison became aware of the fact that no one seemed in the least surprised at Byfield's departure. True, a question was asked by Simon Quarle, but no definite answer given; Mr. and Mrs.Stocker paid no attention to chance visitors. The astounding thing to Daniel Meggison was that Bessie took no notice of Gilbert's departure, but went about the house singing gaily, and evidently very busy over something in her room. She flitted backwards and forwards to that room with an air of great mystery.
Meggison summoned courage at last to mount the stairs, and to set off in search of her. At the very door of the room, as he knocked, he was confronted by Bessie, who had opened it at that very moment; she smiled at him, and beckoned him in, and closed the door again.
"My child," he whispered with deep anxiety—"what is happening?"
"Father dear, I'm running away," she said, with eyes dancing like those of a child. "And you are going to run away with me."
"But why, my dear? Why leave the beauties of the country?—why run away at all? Please explain," he pleaded.
"Sit down here, father, while I go on with my packing," she commanded—"and I'll tell you all about it. It's so wonderful that you'll scarcely believe it at first; so strange that it would be hard for anyone to believe it. Please don't interrupt me—because I shall have things to pack for you presently, before we run away together."
"I am of a singularly patient nature," said Daniel Meggison, seating himself and folding his hands. "Pray proceed, Bessie."
She proceeded then glibly enough to tell him of all that had happened; of how the Prince of that fairy tale that had come true so strangely had come downthere, and had told her that he loved her. There was much that she could not tell her father, beyond the bald fact; but he would understand, and he would know that when the Prince commanded, his willing slave must follow.
"He wanted me to run away with him out into the world—to sail far over the sea with him in this yacht that has been lent to him by a friend," said Bessie, on her knees beside one of the new trunks, busily folding garments. "But of course that wouldn't do at all—because, although I know Gilbert perfectly, and know how good he is, ladies mustn't travel about with gentlemen in that promiscuous way. More than all, it is necessary of course that a certain poor old father, quite incapable of looking after himself, should not be left behind; therefore that father comes in, as usual, very happily." She jumped up at that point, specially to kiss the old reprobate, who was thinking long thoughts.
"Wise little Bessie!" he said, patting her head. "I might have known that you would make no mistake over a matter of that kind. And so friend Byfield wants to take away his bride that is to be, and give her a little holiday on the sea—eh? Well—that seems a very excellent idea, and I promise you that you shall not find your poor old father in the way. But a word of warning, my Bessie!" He turned in his chair, and faced his daughter solemnly.
"Yes, father dear?"
"Not a word to anyone else—not a syllable!" he whispered. "Let us slip away together, leaving the other people in comfort here; we can write to them from some foreign port. Because, you see, we don'twant to annoy our friend Byfield; and he might not have accommodation for everybody on this wonderful yacht. Your brother and the others will be very comfortable here; but as we do not wish to make them envious, we will say nothing about our new plans."
"But when they find we're gone, they'll naturally be worried to know what has become of us," urged Bessie.
"True, my child, most true," he responded. "On second thoughts, it would perhaps be better to leave a note for them—a carefully worded diplomatic note—not giving too much information, but just enough. Leave that to me. I'll go and get the few things together that I shall need, and you can come and help me presently. Newhaven, did you say? I'm all excitement. It's a splendid notion!"
The matter of getting from the house was not after all so great a difficulty as may be imagined, for the simple reason that that astute servant in charge of the place saw in this packing up merely the exodus of extraordinary tenants, one of whom at least had been most undesirable. That they should demand that the thing be done secretly seemed under the circumstances reasonable enough; so that the luggage was actually smuggled out of the house, and taken out to a back gate, where a hired carriage was waiting.
"I've left the note in a prominent position, explaining enough to set their minds at rest," said Daniel Meggison, chuckling to himself as he got into the carriage with the girl.
Mr. Daniel Meggison understood, of course, exactly what had happened; saw, or thought he saw, that Gilbert had cunningly determined to lift Bessieneatly out of all the business, and leave the others to face the music as best they might. Daniel felt certain that secret instructions had been given to the servants at the house—instructions which were not to include Bessie; and that Gilbert Byfield had made up his mind to play a new game for himself alone. It is probable that on the score of morality alone Daniel Meggison did not regard the matter seriously; but this proposed desertion of himself was little short of a crime.
"After this," he though to himself, "I'll put the screw on a bit. He thinks he'll play fast and loose with me; he thinks he'll leave me in the lurch—does he? He doesn't know poor old Daniel! Bessie's the ticket—and I'll stick to her through thick and thin—poor child! After all, it's rather lucky that she loves her father so fondly!"
As we already know they arrived on board the yachtBlue Birdin due course, something to the astonishment of Gilbert Byfield, and giving him a new problem to be faced. So far as the note that had been written by Daniel Meggison was concerned—a mere shadowy trail, indicating vaguely the way they had taken—that was to be found some hours later by Mr. Aubrey Meggison.
Now, Aubrey had discovered for the first time on the previous day the real secret of that mysterious fortune the origin of which had more than puzzled him from the first. He was not a brilliant youth, but he knew enough to understand that his father was probably the last man in the world ever to have money to speculate with, or ever to be lucky in any impossible speculation in which he might indulge. Aubrey hadbeen willing enough to accept his share of that impossible fortune, and to shut his eyes resolutely to everything outside the actual good realities that came to him; but he had a feeling that in some fashion a crash would come, involving him with the rest, in the near future. The conversation he had overheard between Daniel and Gilbert Byfield had given him the clue; and he had sprung to his father's rescue with the instinct of one who desires to save himself first of all. But from that moment it became necessary that he should watch the source of the unexpected wealth, the better to be sure that that source did not run dry.
He knew that Gilbert was in a mood to kick over the traces; he was not surprised to find that the master of the house at Fiddler's Green had suddenly gone. But when he discovered that Daniel Meggison and Bessie were also missing, he began to be possessed by a great fear; and when a little later he discovered the note that had been left by his father, that fear was changed at once into a certainty of disaster.
The note had been left to him, as the eldest son, as a species of baneful legacy; it lay upon his dressing-table.
"My dear Aubrey,"You will have gathered, from the conversation you accidentally overheard yesterday, that our good friend Mr. Byfield is naturally restive at the prospect of providing for the wants not of one person alone, but of a family. In that restiveness I cordially agree with him; I feel that it is time a growing lad—or youth—or young man—whichever you prefer—should be doing something to provide for his ownwants. Mr. Byfield is interested in the welfare of your sister, and I foresee for her an alliance in the future which will lift her into that sphere to which I have always felt the family should properly belong."Mr. Byfield understands that father and child must not be separated; therefore I accompany Bessie. We are about to start on a voyage, but our ultimate destination is unknown; it will, however, probably be some foreign port. Let me advise you, my son, to keep a stout heart, and to wrest from the world that portion which belongs equally to every one of her sons. I shall expect to hear that you are doing well, and are a credit to the family whose name you bear."Your father,"Daniel Meggison."
"You will have gathered, from the conversation you accidentally overheard yesterday, that our good friend Mr. Byfield is naturally restive at the prospect of providing for the wants not of one person alone, but of a family. In that restiveness I cordially agree with him; I feel that it is time a growing lad—or youth—or young man—whichever you prefer—should be doing something to provide for his ownwants. Mr. Byfield is interested in the welfare of your sister, and I foresee for her an alliance in the future which will lift her into that sphere to which I have always felt the family should properly belong.
"Mr. Byfield understands that father and child must not be separated; therefore I accompany Bessie. We are about to start on a voyage, but our ultimate destination is unknown; it will, however, probably be some foreign port. Let me advise you, my son, to keep a stout heart, and to wrest from the world that portion which belongs equally to every one of her sons. I shall expect to hear that you are doing well, and are a credit to the family whose name you bear."
Your father,"Daniel Meggison."
Aubrey Meggison remained for some minutes plunged in gloom after reading the letter; then he said some uncomplimentary things concerning that father who had been so willing to desert him. Child of that father, however, he came quickly to the conclusion that something must be done. He shivered at the thought of being left alone in the world—even such a world as that of Arcadia Street—with no one to feed him, and with no convenient Bessie from whom to borrow half-crowns and shillings.
"Only thing to be done, as far as I can see, is to stick to the guv'nor," he murmured disconsolately. "The guv'nor'll stick to Bessie, and I suppose Bessie'll stick to that bounder Byfield. Well, there'll be a nice string of us; and even if I am at the tail-end of it, I don't mean to be dropped. Only thing is—where have they gone to?"
He knew that it was quite useless to raise a hue and cry, because that would have set others on the track, and so have spoilt his own game. He determined to make cautious inquiries, and in the meantime to appear quite unsuspicious. And it happened that he received assistance from an unexpected quarter.
Mrs. Ewart-Crane had had a sleepless night. She saw herself flouted and laughed at by this slip of a girl who had been picked out of a certain slum called Arcadia Street—saw in imagination that imp of common wickedness known as Bessie Meggison setting her at naught, and leading Gilbert Byfield where she would. Mrs. Ewart-Crane thought of her daughter, and of that daughter's future—felt that this boy-and-girl courtship of years before should be made a binding thing once for all. If Mr. Gilbert Byfield did not know what was due to himself and his friends, he must be taught; and Mrs. Ewart-Crane, as a lady and a mother (for so she reckoned herself, in that order and in those actual words) was the one to teach him.
Rising after that troubled night, she determined to wait until the unlucky Jordan Tant should put in an appearance; she meant to seize upon him as a convenient messenger. It happened, however, that Mr. Jordan Tant was quite content to let well alone; he believed that Gilbert was gone, and was safely out of the way for a considerable time to come. Tant would very gladly have carried the ladies back to London in due course, there to teach them to forget the existence of any such person as Gilbert Byfield.
With this object in view, Mr. Jordan Tant, suspecting that he might be wanted in the business,kept out of the way; so that it happened that it was quite late in the afternoon—long after repeated messages had been sent down to the inn to summon him—that he put in a sheepish appearance at the cottage where dwelt Mrs. Ewart-Crane and her daughter.
Mrs. Ewart-Crane may be said to have seized him in no uncertain fashion, and to have pointed the way. He protested and pleaded; but all to no purpose. Mrs. Ewart-Crane demanded to know what had happened or was happening; and her dignity forbade that she should take any active part in the matter personally. Clearly Jordan Tant was the man sent by Providence for such a purpose.
So Jordan Tant went—and Jordan Tant arrived at the house at the very moment when the whole discovery had burst upon that house. Mr. Gilbert Byfield himself, as an apparent visitor, might not have been missed; but Bessie—the very head and front of everything—and Daniel Meggison, whose dictatorial tones had been heard everywhere at all times and seasons in that house; these were the people to be missed indeed. Mrs. Stocker complained first of discourteous behaviour on the part of host and hostess; later on became suspicious that all was not well, and wondered sarcastically if her brother had gone in search of yet another fortune. This suggestion she made with an accompaniment of sniffs and folded hands, and some pursing of lips.
Still Aubrey Meggison was discreetly silent. He wanted to find out what had happened, solely on his own account; he wanted to know what had become of that father who had so basely deserted him; but onthe other hand he did not want, as he tersely expressed it, "a crowd."
Simon Quarle sprang into the very heart of the matter, strident-tongued and fierce. It was his Bessie that was concerned, and he passionately swept aside any suggestion that anyone else might be injured. Where was she?—and what was being done?—those were the questions to which he demanded an instant answer—questions which he shook before the faces of all with whom he came in contact.
Mr. Tant, coming in the guise of a friend of Mr. Gilbert Byfield, was seized upon eagerly as someone having information. What did he know?—and what was he prepared to tell? Mr. Tant looked round on the eager faces, and feeling that for once he held a position of importance, waved the questioners aside, and declined to answer.
"I know nothing of Mr. Byfield's movements," he said. "There certainly has been a suggestion that he might be leaving here shortly—but beyond that I know nothing."
"Does nobody know anything?" wrathfully demanded Mrs. Stocker, glaring at her husband as though she fully expected that mild little man to be hiding important information in his quaking breast. "Are we all to be treated in this fashion, and no explanations to be given whatever?"
It was at that moment that the vanity which possessed Mr. Aubrey Meggison overcame all other feelings, and demanded to have speech. Aubrey had up to this moment been ignored; more than that, he had been ignored by this aristocratic-looking, well-dressed stranger. He thrust his way into the circle, elbowingout of it Mr. Edward Stocker, as being the weakest there, and faced Mr. Jordan Tant.
"Seein' that everybody seems to be at sixes and sevens, and not quite to know what they're talkin' about, it mightn't be a bad idea if what I might call the last representative of the family put in a spoke. There's a lot of jawin' goin' on—and yet nobody seems to know anything at all. If I might say a word, p'raps I could elucidate what seems to be regarded as a bit of a mystery, but which ain't, mind you, any mystery at all."
"Why—what in the world doyouknow about it?" demanded Mrs. Stocker fiercely.
"What I know about it is this," replied Aubrey calmly, as he drew the note from his pocket, and flicked at it with a finger. "The guv'nor's taken it into his head to go—likewise that sweet sister of mine; and by all accounts our precious friend Byfield has gone also. No thought, mind you, of what's goin' to become of me, or of what I'm to do, left with this blessed house on my hands. Also to say nothin' of hints thrown out as to the necessity for me to earn my own livin'. That's what I know about it."
"I knew it," said Jordan Tant. "I was certain in my own mind that when it came to the point Byfield would shake himself free of you all, and go away. But I certainly did not anticipate that he would take the girl or her father."
"So you know the truth—do you?" demanded Simon Quarle, elbowing his way up to Mr. Tant. "You know the whole disgraceful truth—do you? I suppose you're one of his precious friends—eh?"
"Mr. Byfield is certainly a friend of mine," saidJordan Tant. "And I am the more sorry that he seems to have been sponged upon by all sorts of people with whom he should have had nothing to do."
"Sponged upon!" Mrs. Stocker literally took him by one shoulder, and turned him round so that he faced her. "My brother, let me tell you, has a private fortune of his own——"
"Private fiddlesticks, ma'am," broke in Simon Quarle. "He never had a penny to bless himself with, until he happened to light upon a soft-hearted man who took an interest in his daughter Bessie. That soft-hearted man was Gilbert Byfield; and all this house, and the servants, and the rioting and the feasting, and the champagne and what not—it's all been paid for by him. So much for your brother's fortune, ma'am!"
"I'll not believe it," exclaimed Mrs. Stocker, seeing the matter clearly enough now, but clinging to straws. "It's ridiculous!"
"It happens to be true," said Mr. Tant. "Byfield's friends have long bewailed this absurd infatuation of his, and have done their best to get him away from it; now he has finally defied all their efforts, and has actually run away with this young person."
"Regardin' the fact that she's my sister—would you wish to offer any explanation of that remark to me?" asked Aubrey, with dignity.
"Don't forget, my friend, that she has gone with her father," Simon Quarle reminded Tant in his harsh voice. "There's not a word can be breathed against the girl; understand that."
"The only question is—where have they gone?"demanded Mrs. Stocker. "Personally, I should like to see my brother; I should like to let him understand that never for one instant was I deceived about the matter; never for one instant did I believe his tales of this fortune—and his speculations—and so forth. He would find it difficult to deceive me, I think. I saw through the whole business from the very beginning."
"All I can tell you is this," said Mr. Tant, turning towards the door. "Our friend Byfield—or perhaps I should saymyfriend Byfield—is an extremely wealthy man, and has a yacht—theBlue Bird—lying at Newhaven. He has gone there, and will doubtless be found on board by anyone sufficiently interested in him to follow. So far as I'm concerned—I wash my hands of him altogether. Good day to you!"
Mr. Tant put on his hat, and walked with his little mincing steps out of the house; from the windows they saw him going down the drive, and turning out into the high road. There was a silence for a moment or two until he had disappeared; then Mrs. Stocker, in the most startling fashion, demanded of her husband why he was standing staring there.
"Will you permit me, Edward, to remain any longer in a house in which I have been insulted—defrauded—held up to ridicule? As you are well aware, I am compelled to accompany you whenever I receive orders to do so; such is my wifely duty. But at the present moment I implore you to take me away."
"Certainly, my love," said Mr. Stocker feebly. "Only I should have liked to know what had happenedto poor Bessie; I always took an interest in the girl, and I was in a way—(subject, of course, to your decision in the matter, my dear)—quite fond of her. I should have liked to know——"
"Your wife, I believe, stands first," said Mrs. Stocker, pointing to the door. "I suggest, Edward—for of course I would not wish to put my views before yours—I suggest that you lead the way, and that I follow. We can then decide privately what is best for us to do."
So Mr. Edward Stocker, with a protesting glance at the others, led the way, and Mrs. Stocker followed. In the hall, with the door closed, Mrs. Stocker literally took him by the collar, and after administering a shake to him, the better to rouse his wits, spoke her mind.
"Edward Stocker—I am going after them," she said. "I am not going to allow that wretched brother of mine to triumph in such a manner as this; I intend to let him know exactly what I think of him. As for the girl"—Mrs. Stocker bridled and breathed hard—"I fancy I shall have a word to say to her also when we meet. Edward Stocker—our way lies straight for Newhaven and this vessel calledBlue Bird."
"But, my love—I am not a good sailor," protested little Mr. Stocker.
"Idiot!—I don't anticipate a voyage," exclaimed Mrs. Stocker. "We may be in time to stop them; that's my idea."
Aubrey Meggison, left with Simon Quarle, looked at the latter dubiously; and then, in his despair, decided to seek that gentleman's advice. Simon waspacing about the room, with his hands clasped behind him, and muttering to himself.
"Speakin' of myself for a moment—what would you advise?" said Aubrey.
"Advise? What do you mean?" snarled Mr. Quarle, turning upon him.
"As a man—and as a brother," said Aubrey a little feebly. "To say nothing of a being that's been abandoned, and left to what I might call his fate. What do you think I ought to do?"
"Do? See if you can find some honest work somewhere—preferably road-mending, or something of that sort," snapped the other; and turned and walked out of the room.
"Gentlemanly chap, that," said Aubrey, addressing the furniture. "Road-mendin' indeed! I think I know a trick worth two of that. If this man Byfield is so fly with his money, why shouldn't I have a turn at him? An outraged brother ought to count for something. Is it to be left to the old man to deal with him? Not much! Newhaven, wasn't it? I'll have a look at this blessedBlue Birdon my own account!" He buttoned his coat with some show of resolution, and went hurriedly out of the room.
It has to be recorded that Mr. Simon Quarle, on his knees in his room, hurriedly packing his small bag, had arrived also at a decision. He was cramming things in ruthlessly, muttering savagely to himself as he did so.
"Oh!—my Bessie—child in the ways of the world—and child most of all where your heart is touched—is there anyone that can look after you? You'll be lost, body and soul, among the lot of 'em,if your old friend Simon doesn't stir himself. Devils!—harpies!—vultures!—they shall reckon with me when it comes to the pinch. I'm for Newhaven!"
Meanwhile, Mr. Jordan Tant had walked straight back to the cottage, in search of Mrs. Ewart-Crane and Enid. There, with many gestures, and with the air of a man whose feelings of right and wrong had been outraged, he told his story. "If Gilbert had only listened to me," he ended pathetically—"but he never would learn to draw the line."
"One thing I am resolved upon," said Mrs. Ewart-Crane grimly—"and that is that poor Gilbert shall not be absolutely lost. He must be rescued; he must be snatched away from these people, against his will if necessary. As I have already hinted, my mind is pretty well made up; we will go at once to Newhaven, and see what can be done."
"We?" Enid looked at her mother in bewilderment.
"That was the word I used," said Mrs. Ewart-Crane sternly. "Jordan, I am sure, would not allow us to go on such an expedition alone; he will doubtless be willing to lend us his support—morally and physically."
"Certainly—if you wish it," said Jordan Tant humbly. "Most delighted. To Newhaven, by all means."
IT becomes necessary that we should return to the deck of that yachtBlue Bird, there to discover Mr. Daniel Meggison beaming upon Gilbert Byfield, and inwardly congratulating himself on having once more stepped straight into the heart of a difficult and delicate business. We have to imagine the state of mind of that misguided young man Gilbert, in once again finding himself saddled with Mr. Daniel Meggison.
Yet, if the truth be told, there was behind this resentment some faint sneaking feeling of relief. In imagination he had gone over scenes that must presently be enacted on that yacht; and always had come against a dead wall, beyond which he could not go; and that dead wall had sprung up hard and firm whenever he thought of how he must look into the eyes of Bessie Meggison. He had seen her in many different moods—still always in his imagination; but, to do the man credit, he had seen her always pure. Which is only another way of saying that she had always been the girl he had first imagined her to be.
Shorn of all the romantic element in it, the thing had painted itself in brutal colours; and Byfield hadbeen able to leap the years, as it were, and to see her in the future. He had set out to do this thing with the finest motives, and it was not his fault entirely that his hand had been forced, and that he had been compelled to take a different course from that he had at first contemplated; nevertheless he could not blink the fact that what he was to do now was shameful. So that the coming of Daniel Meggison, while it changed every plan he had, yet relieved the situation of awkwardness; there were to be none of those scenes between himself and Bessie, when she would demand an explanation he could not fully give.
Nevertheless (such is the inconsistency of man) he rebelled at the thought that once again this man Meggison was to take matters into his own hands, and to do as he liked, with the unconscious aid of the girl. Gilbert was quite prepared to end the matter, and, however, reluctantly, to be done with the whole business for ever; but he was not prepared to go on with it under present conditions. The thing resolved itself into the ridiculous; this carrying away into the world of Mr. Daniel Meggison, in the absurd frock-coat and silk hat of his supposed respectability.
Dejectedly enough, Gilbert showed the girl over the yacht—Daniel Meggison tailing behind, and expressing loud approval of everything. Then, so soon as it could be managed, the young man got rid of Bessie, and approached the father. For he had determined that now he would no longer mince matters.
"I'm afraid I don't quite understand the position, Meggison," said Gilbert, standing leaning over the side while the old man stood beside him. "What do you imagine I'm going to do; what do you think isgoing to happen, now that you have come here with Bessie?"
Mr. Daniel Meggison opened wide eyes of virtuous astonishment. "What am I going to do?" he echoed. "Is it possible that you imagined, sir, that I was going to allow my daughter to come here alone? Is it possible that you thought that her old father would be so neglectful of her interests as to permit such a thing? What in the name of all that's moral did you think I should do?"
That was a poser indeed; Gilbert bit his lip and said nothing. Mr. Daniel Meggison pursued his advantage relentlessly.
"My child, sir, has no mother," he went on in a subdued tone. "I have not been fortunate, Mr. Byfield, so far as the world is concerned, but yet I have held up my head. I have been father and mother too to my girl; she has never been able to complain that I have not watched over her. Consequently, when she comes to me, and in the joy of her girlish heart says to me—'Father—I love this man, and this man loves me'—I take her to my heart, and I rejoice with her. Nevertheless, sir"—Daniel Meggison wagged his head sternly at the other man—"nevertheless, knowing the ways of men, I say to myself that I must be careful, and I must be watchful. My suspicions are aroused when I learn that there is to be a secret stealing away from the house—with talk of a yacht—and a voyage—and unknown countries. When my child turns to me, and says naturally and simply—'You will of course come with me, father'—the tears gather in my eyes, and I know that all is well. Providence has arrangedthat I am to shepherd my child, after all. And here I am."
The difficulty lay, of course, in the fact that the old schemer was absolutely right; out of the lips of another man his words would have sounded magnificently indeed. Setting aside the fact that he had been working for himself, and had followed the girl simply because she led the way to that gold mine Daniel Meggison had discovered in his old age, the man was absolutely right in what he had done, and Gilbert had no word in reply. But after a moment or two he turned to Meggison, and said bitterly enough the only thing he felt he could say.
"Very well, Meggison—we will grant that you are right," he said. "But you must understand that I am not going to carry you about the world for your own pleasure; I shouldn't think of such a thing. Since the moment when I did a mad thing for the sake of this girl you have done your best to drain me; you have, in fact, announced your intention of living upon me for the rest of your life. Therefore I'll end the matter; since I cannot help Bessie without being preyed on by you for your own purposes, I will not help her at all. The game is ended; you can go back to that miserable, shiftless, shifty life you were living at the time I first met you. Take Bessie away, and let's put an end to the matter. I've done with it."
Daniel Meggison walked after him, and laid a detaining hand on his arm. "Not so fast, my young friend—not so fast," he urged. "For the sake of my child, and for the sake of the past, I will overlook certain references to what you term my miserable, shiftless, shifty existence; I will swallow that particularinsult, as I have swallowed others. But this matter cannot be ended in the fashion you suggest. Nay more—it shall not be ended."
"We'll see about that," said Gilbert. "I give you fair warning that you are to get off this boat as soon as you can possibly manage it; you are to make what excuses you like to Bessie; and you are not to come back here, nor to go again to Fiddler's Green. In fact, so far as Fiddler's Green is concerned, I may tell you that I have given instructions to the servants there that your credit is stopped, and that you are not to be admitted if you go to the place again."
"I guessed as much," said Daniel, with a grin. "That was one reason why I pursued you here—because I really wanted you to understand that you can't take people up one minute, and drop them the next, like so many hot potatoes. I did not seek you, young man; you sought me; consequently you've got to put up with me. I decline to go."
"You'll think better of it presently," said Gilbert, turning away helplessly.
"Sir—I defy you!" said Daniel Meggison, in a stage whisper, as he ran after the other man. "You dare not do anything—because you dare not tell Bessie. If I wasn't a weakling, without a penny to bless myself with in the world, I would not shelter myself behind my child. But you compel me to do so—and I am not ashamed. I defy you. You dare not tell Bessie the truth!"
Gilbert knew only too well that that was strictly true; he went below, nursing his wrath, and wondering what had better be done. Mr. Daniel Meggison,mildly jubilant, went down below also, in search of refreshment.
Now that astute servant Pringle had had instructions that directly the guest expected by Gilbert arrived theBlue Birdwas to start. Consequently he went below now in search of his master, and finding him, pointed out that the captain was ready, and only awaited Gilbert's instructions. Gilbert Byfield, in a quandary indeed, told the man angrily that he had changed his mind.
"I'm not going to start yet at all, Pringle," he said.
"Very good, sir," said Pringle cheerfully. "Expecting anybody else, sir?"
"The Lord only knows!" exclaimed Gilbert. "I shouldn't be surprised if everybody else came—any number of them. We must wait, at any rate; I won't start yet."
"Very good, sir," said Pringle; and retired wondering. "'Shouldn't be surprised if everybody came.' Wonder what he means?" muttered the man to himself. "However, it doesn't matter; only it doesn't look as if we should have a very cheery or chatty party."
Meanwhile those who were on their way to the yacht were proceeding as fast as various trains would carry them. Mrs. Julia Stocker and her husband had discovered that by taking a route across country they would avoid the necessity of going to London, and would arrive at Newhaven very late that night; they chose that route accordingly. Mr. Aubrey Meggison made a dash for London, and caught the mail train down—as did also Mrs. Ewart-Crane and herdaughter, piloted by Jordan Tant. As, however, they had never seen Aubrey (so far, at least, as the ladies were concerned), and as Mr. Jordan Tant was too busy even to notice him, it happened that they all travelled down by the same train together, without mutual discovery.
Simon Quarle, for his part, was unlucky enough to miss the mail train, but found on that particular day that there was another and a slower train, half an hour later; by that he travelled, on his way to find that yacht on which all his thoughts were centred.
Now it happened that on that particular night a dense and heavy white fog, with indeed almost a suggestion of the "London particular" to add to its density, settled down upon Newhaven, and upon the coast for some miles inland, and upon the sea that washed that coast. A perplexing fog for the summer, and one not to be accounted for; and it only concerns us in so far that many strange things were to happen under the mantle of it. Pringle eyed it with concern, for it meant that there was no possibility of a start being made; and Pringle was of a restless disposition, with a love of the sea that was as incongruous as that suggestion of humour in his eyes. However, there was the fog, and they had to make the best of it.
But Pringle was troubled, because he could not quite understand what was happening, or what was going to happen. He knew enough of his master and of that master's moods to know that he must not question him further; and he had a vague notion that there might be other people coming to the yacht, or there might not. Being of a philosophical turnof mind, he decided to be prepared for anything that might happen.
Then, in the most surprising fashion, various people drifted in, sulkily or suspiciously, out of the fog, and confronted Pringle. In the first place a lanky youth, with his hat on the back of his head, and with a cigarette drooping from the corner of his mouth; a youth who was anxious to know whether this really was the yachtBlue Bird, owned by Mr. Gilbert Byfield; and whether, further, a young lady and an old gentleman had come on board already. Being assured as to these points, Mr. Aubrey Meggison instructed Pringle in a lordly fashion to show him to a cabin.
"And there's no call for you to mention that I've arrived; I'll break it to 'em later," said Aubrey.
Next there drifted in out of the night Mrs. Ewart-Crane and Enid, piloted by the anxious Jordan Tant; and in this case there was a long consultation on the quay, while Pringle stood waiting, before they consented to go on board. And there Mr. Jordan Tant button-holed Pringle at once, and explained the situation.
"No one is to be disturbed so late as this; Mrs. Ewart-Crane will choose her own time for an interview with Mr. Byfield. Let them retire somewhere—the ladies, I mean—and show me some place where I can be out of the way also. With daylight the atmosphere will be likely to clear, in more ways than one."
"Very good, sir," said the obliging Pringle; and proceeded to accommodate the party without further delay.
The coming of Mr. and Mrs. Stocker would have surprised any other man; but Pringle was equal even to them. He scratched his head a little as he thought of what the accommodation was; but cheerfully solved a difficulty that was growing in his mind by whispering to Mr. Edward Stocker—"Man and wife, sir, I presume?"—and on being assured that that was the fact, conducting them with some ceremony and much delicacy to one cabin.
Pringle had finally decided that the vessel was fairly well stocked, and was discussing the situation with the captain, when he was hailed for the last time from the quay; and after preliminaries there descended to him the square-shouldered figure of Simon Quarle. Once again Pringle was button-holed, and once again he proved equal to the emergency.
"Yes, sir—quite right, sir; young lady and elderly gentleman. Best not disturb them till the morning, sir; sunshine an' daylight makes a world of difference, if the temper is at all 'eated, sir. Mr. Byfield, sir, wouldn't care to be disturbed, I know. Cold night, sir, with the fog; could I get you anything, sir?"
"What you can get me is a bunk of some sort—some place I can sleep in," said Simon Quarle, in a determined voice. "And you need not let anyone know that I'm here; I'll explain to Mr. Byfield myself in the morning."
"Very good, sir," replied the smiling but bewildered Pringle. "This way, sir."
Pringle counted them on his fingers, and shook his head over them, and decided that they were a little mixed. Proud of the way in which he had accommodatedthe party, he went on deck, and assured the captain that it was all right, but that they were "a rummy lot." Being summoned in a great hurry by Gilbert Byfield, he discovered that gentleman evidently in a very fierce and bitter humour, striding up and down his cabin. Pringle discreetly remained at the door.
"Oh, Pringle"—Gilbert turned quickly as the man appeared—"let it be understood that we start as early as possible in the morning—directly it clears. Let there be no delay. Do you understand?"
"Certainly, sir—perfectly, sir," said Pringle. He hesitated at the door, and came a step or two into the cabin. "And—and the passengers, sir?"