CHAPTER X
A DESPERATE REMEDY
WHATEVER judgment may be passed upon Byfield's methods at that time,it has to be remembered that up to that moment--and indeed longafterwards, in a lesser degree--he had regarded Bessie Meggison as achild. She was in his eyes a mere waif out of that London of which heknew but little; a mere pretty bit of flotsam flung at his feet in thestress and storm of the world, to be cherished by him very tenderly.That other people, with schemes and designs of their own, clung to herand therefore to him, was but an accidental circumstance that did notreally affect her. He had to remember the conventionalities of theworld--had to remember, for instance, that she was in reality poorand friendless and of no account, and that he had, on a mere foolishimpulse, placed her suddenly in an impossible position. That which hadseemed so simple at first was simple no longer.
And now, with that sudden declaration of her love for him, she hadbound him to her with a tie more difficult to be broken than any withwhich he had been bound yet. His generosity was stirred--the naturalchivalry of the man, that had only before been stirred to a sortof whimsical tenderness, woke to full life. More than ever was itnecessary that that strange fiction should be kept up; because now, ifshe learned the truth, he knew that she must be doubly shamed: firstbecause of the trick he had played upon her, and next because he hadsurprised from her that confession of love which she would never havespoken had she not believed that their worldly positions were prettymuch the same.
And he had asked her to go out into the world with him--still underthat false impression--and she had leapt to the one conclusion, and theone only. His had been a matter of tenderness for the child for whomhe was sorry; hers the love of a woman for a man who was the first andthe 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 hadbeen 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 ofthat tangle in which they were both involved, and to leave DanielMeggison and his son to struggle out of it for themselves. He toldhimself fiercely, again and again, that he had nothing to do withDaniel Meggison, save as an instrument for the furthering of thatinnocent plan to help Bessie. The father was unworthy of the child; hehad lived upon her hard work for years, and was ready to turn her toaccount in any way at any moment; clearly he was not to be reckonedwith. Gilbert held before him always the remembrance of the girl, andthe girl only; argued that she would be better off with himself thanwith anyone else. All the old platitudes were called into play; shehad but one life, and of that the best must be made--and love wassuperior to everything else--and love was the one thing worth livingfor and striving for. Of any Bessie grown older and wiser--of anyBessie grown ashamed, when she came to understand what the world was,he never thought at all. She stretched out to him now the tremblingeager 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--awhisper might in a moment teach her the truth; he knew that SimonQuarle was waiting in the house, dogged and persistent, and determinedthat the truth should be told; he knew also that Daniel Meggison, if heonce understood that the game was up, would not hesitate to blurt outunpleasant facts in mere viciousness. Whatever was to be done must bedone quickly.
Impulsive always, Gilbert did not stop to reason now, any more thanhe had ever done. Wealth had been his always, and the impulse of themoment could always be gratified; the one impulse now was to get thegirl away from Fiddler's Green, and so turn the tables, first on thefather and son, and afterwards on that arch meddler, Simon Quarle. Hebroached the matter that very night, within a few moments of the timewhen 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 thatshe has no will of her own, but does blindly for love's sake everythingthat 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 withme--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 withme, and leave all this behind--would you do that?"
"Of course," she replied, still with her eyes fixed upon his. "Youwould have the right--wouldn't you?"
Her simplicity unnerved him; her innocence was something that seemed tostand between him and her understanding of him. "My dear, you make mealmost afraid of you," he said. "Do you trust me so completely?"
She nodded, and laughed confidently. "I can't tell you how much," shesaid shyly. "Only, ever so long ago, as it seems, when you looked overthe wall into my poor garden in Arcadia Street, you made everything sodifferent. I was only tired and lonely and sad after that when you wentaway. Don't go away from me again, because I could not bear it. I wasafraid before that the happiness that father's fortune brought was toogreat to last; and now this that is greater has been added to it. Ifyou are ever to take that away from me, I would be more glad that youshould kill me to-night, so that I might not ever know."
"In this world of surprises, Bessie," he said, "there is yet anothersurprise for you. I'm not so poor as you thought I was. I only let youbelieve that I was poor, because it would have seemed a mean thing forme 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 veryrich myself, at least I have rich friends--people who like me, and knowme, and with whom I travel about the world sometimes. Now one of thoserich friends of mine has a yacht."
It was still necessary that he should lie to her, in his dread lest shemight suspect the real truth; and so this additional lie was added tothe heap. Even then she suspected nothing; even then it never occurredto her to link the fact of this man's unsuspected wealth with thatother fact of the unexpected wealth of Daniel Meggison.
"Now, they call that yacht _Blue Bird_, and she lies ready to take usaway over the seas, miles and miles away, so that we may discover allthose wonderful places that I've tried to tell you about. She's a bigyacht, and she's very comfortable; and she's just waiting until BessieMeggison 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 wasthinking. He put a hand under her chin and raised her face; she waslooking 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 youlike 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 saidsimply. "That's where you have the right--because we love each other. Iwas only thinking----"
Her voice trailed off, and she stood very still; and once again theman wondered of what she was thinking, and yet did not question her.Knowing in an uncomfortable way that she would do what he asked, hethought it wisest not to put the matter more clearly before her, andnot to enter into any further explanation. Instead, he began to tellher 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 yacht _Blue Bird_,and you will come straight on board. Now, do you understand?"
"Yes--I understand perfectly," she replied. "And I am to leaveFiddler's Green--leave everybody?"
"Yes--leave them all behind. Aunts and uncles, and Simon Quarles andeverything; we don't want them. I shall wait at Newhaven until youcome."
She made no direct reply, but he seemed to understand that she hadmade up her mind, and that she would come. When presently they wen
tback to the house, she slipped away, saying that she wanted to findher father; Gilbert set about what he had to do with a curious feelingof elation, and yet with a still more curious feeling of remorse andbitterness. He told himself savagely that he had not done this thing;that his impulses had been generous ones that had been taken advantageof by Daniel Meggison and by his son; that therefore they were directlyresponsible. He meant to be very good to her; she should have a bettertime than she had ever had yet.
Simon Quarle--restless and watchful like himself--met him presentlywandering about the house; and once more faced him squarely, with ademand as to what he was going to do. "The girl's got to be lifted outof this slough of deceit and lies and humbug; she's too honest to livein 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 hascome to the end of his tether."
"I'm glad of it," said Quarle.
Finally, Gilbert sought again that servant who was responsible for thehouse, and gave him certain instructions. "I'm going away to-morrow,"he said--"and from that time my friend Mr. Meggison's connection withthe house ceases. You will say nothing about it, of course; you willsimply give him to understand that you've got my instructions toclose the place, and that he cannot remain here any longer. Do youunderstand? 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 noother course lay open to him, Gilbert Byfield went unhappily out ofthe house, and wandered about in the grounds. "I'm a mean brute," hemuttered to himself--"and I'm sneaking out of a business that I'mafraid to face openly. But it's no good: I can't look into her eyes andtell her the truth; I can't drive her back penniless and friendlessinto Arcadia Street. The child loves me; in a sense we are both waifsof fortune--and in that sense we'll face life together. The wholecircumstances are so mad and strange that they must be faced in a madand strange manner. And oh!--I mean to be good to her!"
While he stood there he saw before him, coming dancingly towards himthrough the trees, a little point of light; and knew it, after a momentor two, for the smouldering end of a cigarette. Wondering a little whothis was at such an hour, he waited until the figure of a man followedthe 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 wayhe 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?" demandedGilbert, with a rough laugh.
"Yes--and no," said Mr. Tant, flicking the ash from his cigarette, andlooking at it with his head on one side. "As you are aware, I am alwaysdoing something for others--or perhaps I should say for _one_ other.Enid and her mother are naturally anxious to know what is happening toyou; also they are curious concerning the people who have taken yourcottage. You may not know that they are down here?"
"I did not know--but I am not surprised," replied Gilbert. "Where arethey staying?"
"They have taken rooms--extremely uncomfortable rooms, and veryhigh-priced--at a house in the village," said Mr. Tant. "Enidcomplains--chiefly to me; therefore you may guess that I am remarkablyunhappy, and that indirectly I blame you for my unhappiness. I strolledover to-night to see you; they will naturally demand to know what _I_know about you."
"Then you can give them my message," said Gilbert, a littlecontemptuously. "You can tell them that I decline to have my actionscriticized by any one; you can let them understand that I know thatthey had no real reason for coming to Fiddler's Green, and takinguncomfortable 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 thekind," said Mr. Tant. "You can't send messages of that description--andI 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 worriedand troubled, and I seem to think that everyone about me is plottingagainst 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 willstick to you like leeches till they've sucked your very blood. Afterall, as I have said so often, one must draw the line somewhere, youknow."
"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 strolldown with you and see them. Come along!"
"They'll be delighted, I'm sure," said Tant, without the leastcordiality.
They found Mrs. Ewart-Crane and her daughter astonishing so much of thevillage as remained awake by sitting in an extremely small garden infront 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; Enidnodded, and said casually--"Ah, Gilbert"--and turned her attention toJordan Tant.
"Sorry I couldn't let you have my house," said Gilbert--"but you see Ihad 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 weall know that there's a girl--and that she came out of some quiteimpossible slum in which you chose to live. I'm not saying that she'snot perfectly nice and good, and all that sort of thing; but you haveto think of yourself, and of the future. And I suppose that she's gotall her horrid people with her?"
"Some friends of mine are certainly staying at my house down here atpresent," said Gilbert--"and I originally met them in Arcadia Street,when I was living there. It has merely been a visit--and that visitends almost immediately. As a matter of fact, I'm going away to-morrowon a yachting cruise."
"I am relieved to hear it," said the lady, with a sigh. "I have beenperfectly miserable over the whole business; I have not known how tosleep. I came down here, and took these rooms to-day, on the assuranceof Jordan that they were the only ones to be had in the place; I wantedto keep an eye on you."
"Extremely kind of you," he said. "Only you see I rather object toanyone keeping an eye upon me."
"Now, however, that the horrid people are going, and that you have madeup your mind in a sense to run away also, there is no further necessityfor my remaining here," went on Mrs. Ewart-Crane. "But tell me; do yougo on this yachting cruise alone?"
"Well--I've scarcely made up my mind yet," he returned evasively; andthe lady looked at him, and silently drew in her breath and pursed herlips. "My plans have been made rather hurriedly."
"Exactly," she said. "Now, my dear Gilbert--would it not be a kindlything to take Enid and myself with you? I know the yacht, and I knowhow very comfortable you can make your guests. And believe me, weshould be more than grateful."
"I'm afraid I'm not able to do that just at present," he replied. "Mineis, in a sense, a sudden trip, and I have no real preparations made forthe reception of passengers on the yacht. I'm sorry, but----"
"Oh, it doesn't matter," she said, with a smile. "It was only a suddenthought on my part."
Feeling annoyed and ashamed and resentful at this cross-questioning,Gilbert presently bade them good night curtly enough, and strolledoff 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 extraordinaryvoyage."
"My dear mother!" Enid rose with an appearance of indignation. "Hewouldn'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 knowhow to get out of it. That's my opinion. As for the girl--well, ofcourse she's decidedly pretty--and nice-mannered--and all that kind ofthing; 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 thevillage inn.
Gilbert Byfield walked far that night under the stars, and smoked manypipes. Now he was right, and now he was wrong; now he knew that thisthing was good in the sight of that wholly impossible heaven thatsmiles upon unconventional things when they are done for a good andproper purpose. Now there was no other way--and now there was a betterway, by which he might speak the truth, and send her back to someArcadia Street where she could struggle on, and yet live the old cleanfine life. Now he hated himself for what he had settled to do; now heurged against a pricking conscience that Bessie loved him, and thatnothing else mattered. Still, with those warring thoughts he got backin the small hours, and let himself in, and went to bed.
There was much to be done on the following day, and he determinedto start early. He made all necessary arrangements with the man incharge of the house; left a brief note for Bessie, to be given intoher hands alone, in which he explained carefully what she was to do.Then, avoiding his strange guests, who fortunately for him were in thehabit of rising late, he found his way to the little station, and leftFiddler's Green behind him.
There followed a hurried rush through London, and the settling ofvarious affairs there, and the dispatch of telegrams. Late in theafternoon he found himself at Newhaven, with a small hillock ofluggage, and facing a man who had the appearance of being half landsmanand 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 countenanceabsolutely without expression, save for a pair of eyes that twinkledon occasion with a touch of humour very unbefitting a servant. Hewas neatly dressed in a blue suit, and was in fact a species of halfsteward, half man-servant, who had been with his master in variousparts 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 thelargest and strongest dog collar and chain obtainable, as a matter ofprecaution, and have gone to meet his charge with perfect equanimity.He had the luggage gathered together now, and in an incredibly shortspace of time had deposited that and his master on board the yacht_Blue Bird_.
"Quite nice to be here again, Pringle," said Gilbert. "As you may havegathered from my wire, there is someone else coming; make the necessaryarrangements. Also meet the trains this afternoon coming from London; ayoung 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, standingsolemnly just within the cabin door. His face was inscrutable to anordinary observer--and yet one might have thought that there was in hiseyes 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 mountedthe companion. There was Bessie--smiling and bright-eyed, and obviouslyvery excited; as he took her hands, and looked at her delightedly, shebroke out into a flood of speech.
"Oh, my dear--such a journey--and yet I'm so glad to be here. I don'tknow how I should have managed it--all alone and not knowing anythingmuch about travelling--if it hadn't have been for dear father."
"Dear father?" he repeated, with a curious chill creeping into hisheart.
"Yes, of course," she replied. "You see, I couldn't come withoutfather--and besides, he would have broken his heart if I had gone awaywithout him. So I told him all you said, and all that you were goingto 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 deckto where a man was standing looking over the side. The man turned,and revealed the smiling features of Daniel Meggison; Daniel in thefrock-coat much too large for him--a silk hat perched upon one side ofhis head--and with an umbrella half unfurled grasped tightly by themiddle in one hand. Daniel waved the umbrella cheerfully as he advancedto meet Byfield.
"Ha!--so here we are!" he exclaimed, with much heartiness. "Beautifulvessel--very trim and ship-shape. Splendid notion!"