The Cruise of the Make-Believes

  CHAPTER VIII

  THE PRINCE CUTS THE KNOT

  A DULL week in that civilization to which he obstinately refused tobe accustomed brought Gilbert Byfield back again--naturally, as itseemed--to Arcadia Street. It had been a week spent practically betweenthree points of a compass which represented Enid and her mother--theclub--and his rooms. A fourth point, of a smaller sort, was representedby Mr. Jordan Tant, who hovered about him anxiously, and wonderedwithout disguise why the man had ever come back at all.

  Jordan Tant had made one or two remarks concerning the strangelittle shabby girl of Arcadia Street, but had found, something tohis annoyance, that Gilbert appeared to take no interest whatever inthat matter, and was quite indifferent to anything that might be saidconcerning it. Tant groaned in spirit at the thought that after allGilbert had returned to the ways of the world to which he belonged, andthat in due course Mr. Tant would be an interested spectator at somesuch place as St. George's, Hanover Square, what time Gilbert Byfieldheld the willing Enid by the hand.

  Yet, as has been said, within a week Gilbert disappeared again--turninginto Arcadia Street, appropriately dressed for it, late on a warmevening just as the lamps were being lighted. He had kept his rooms,paying for them some time in advance; he put his key in the lock, andopened the door, and went up. Lighting the gas in the shabby littleplace, he saw that everything was just as he had left it, and noddedslowly with satisfaction. While he was still looking about him, hislandlady bustled in to give him welcome, and to ask if there wasanything he required. He told her that there was nothing he wanted thatnight, and somewhat curtly dismissed her when he saw that she was onthe point of beginning to relate some piece of news that was doubtlessof tremendous interest to her, if not to him. She went away, and he wasleft alone.

  Scarcely five minutes had elapsed when there came a quick thud atthe door, and it was opened unceremoniously enough. Looking roundfrowningly, Gilbert saw before him the thick-set figure of the manSimon Quarle--that man who lived at the house next door, and who hadonce thrust himself so unwarrantably upon Gilbert in the garden. Theman was hat-less, and his strong almost scowling face was thrustforward with its habitual bullying look.

  "Good evening!" said Quarle abruptly, as he closed the door.

  "Good evening!" replied Gilbert, not very graciously. "You wish tospeak to me?"

  "I do; I've come up for that purpose. At the time I'm living just belowyou."

  "In this house?" Gilbert stared at him in some astonishment.

  Simon Quarle nodded. "In this house," he said. "I didn't want to gofar when I left next door, and I found that they had a couple of roomsvacant here. Nothing like so comfortable--but it serves."

  "But why have you left next door?" asked Gilbert, after a pause.

  "I left next door, if you wish to know, because next door left me,"retorted Quarle. "You've been away, so I suppose you don't know. TheMeggisons have gone."

  "Yes--I know that; I understood that they were going--into the country.But that's no reason why you should leave, surely?"

  "I can't very well live in an empty house with no furniture," snappedQuarle, sitting down and rubbing his hands slowly backwards andforwards on his knees. "At least--I don't intend to, while there arefurnished rooms to be had."

  "Empty house? . . . no furniture? I'm afraid I don't understand," saidGilbert slowly, and yet with an uncomfortable feeling in his mind thathe did understand after all. "Will you please tell me plainly what hashappened to my little friend--our little friend--Bessie?"

  Simon Quarle stopped rubbing his knees for a moment, and frowned. "Idon't exactly know why you should feel yourself privileged to call her'Bessie'; I've known her longer than you have, and I'm older than youare. However, that's neither here nor there. The plain fact of it isthat that arch tippler and shuffler, Daniel Meggison, has suddenly comeinto some money--or made some money--or stolen some money. He boaststhat for the rest of his natural days he need not do any work (not thathe has ever done any to my knowledge before)--and that he is goingto live like a lord in the country--for the sake of his daughter. Theletting of lodgings being quite out of the question for such a man insuch a position, the house and all the crazy furniture has been soldup--and the family's gone."

  Gilbert Byfield stood at his desk, looking down at it, and fingeringthe papers upon it in an aimless fashion. He saw clearly enough theposition in which he was placed; understood only too well that Mr.Daniel Meggison had decided to play that great game of make-believe inthe grand manner, being certain in his own mind that Gilbert Byfieldwould hesitate to stop him. The pretty fiction which Gilbert hadhimself invented must be kept alive until such time as Daniel Meggisondecided he had had his fling, and was prepared to come back to thesober things of life. That at least was Gilbert's first thought.

  "I suppose, Mr. Quarle, our friend Meggison did not happen to mentionto you what sum of money he had secured--did he?"

  "I couldn't get a word out of him as to that--nor could I discover inwhat particular investments he had been interesting himself," repliedSimon Quarle. "It struck me as somewhat peculiar that a man of thattype should suddenly come into money--by his own judicious speculation.In other words, Mr. Byfield, there's a mystery about it."

  "Well--at all events it doesn't concern me," said Gilbert, a littlecoldly; for he was not inclined to give his confidence to this abruptbullying man who had so unceremoniously invaded his rooms.

  "No--of course not," retorted Quarle. "How should it concern you? Ina sense, you know, Mr. Byfield," he went on, with a slyness that wasominous--"I'm sorry for you. Things have been taken out of your hands alittle; you haven't been able to do quite what you desired--have you?"

  "I'm afraid I don't quite understand," said Gilbert, turning overthe few letters that were on his table, and idly picking up one, thehandwriting of which was unfamiliar.

  "The night I caught you trespassing you declared to me that you wantedto help the girl--to do something for her."

  "Well--and I didn't succeed. What then?" Gilbert glanced up at him withan impatient frown.

  "Very strange that it should happen that within a matter of days ofthat time her father--penniless ne'er-do-well--should suddenly comeinto money--eh?"

  "A mere curious coincidence," responded the other quietly. "You'llexcuse me?" He indicated the letter he held, and Simon Quarle nodded.

  Gilbert ripped open the envelope, letting it fall to the floor as heunfolded the letter. Mr. Simon Quarle stooped forward politely andpicked up the envelope; let his eyes glance across it for a moment ashe laid it carefully on the desk. Then he sat with his hands on hisknees, and with his head thrust forward, looking out of half-closedeyes at the man who was reading the letter.

  The letter was from Bessie. It was a grateful, passionate, almostchildish thing--written to a friend who would understand her great newhappiness; and as he read it the man's face relaxed into a smile, andhis heart softened. After all, the cost was nothing, as compared withthis fine fruit; the game might go on for some time longer at least.She was a child, with the heart and mind of a child unspoiled; and ithad been strangely given to him to have the power of bringing her intoa world where for the first time she tasted joy--where for the firsttime she appeared to be radiantly happy. Yes--the cost was nothing.

  His musings were cut short by the dry, hard voice of Simon Quarle. "Soshe writes to you?" he said.

  Gilbert looked round at him, visibly annoyed. "How do you know that?"he demanded.

  Simon Quarle pointed a finger at the envelope he had placed on thedesk. "I know the writing," he replied. "The weekly bills used to bemade out by her; I've got dozens of 'em. Well--there's nothing to beoffended about; how's she getting on?"

  There was a curious note of wistfulness--almost a note of jealousyin the man's tones; he seemed to rage at the thought that this otherman could have a letter from her that brought a softening smileto his face, whilst he--that older friend Simon Quarle--sat thereempty-handed. The world was a bitter place just then, a
nd he resentedits bitterness more than usual.

  "She's well--and she's very happy," said Gilbert grudgingly.

  "Anything about her dear father?"

  "Father also appears to be very well--though nothing is said about hisparticular happiness," replied the younger man, with a glance at theletter. "You will be interested also perhaps to learn that Aubreyfinds the country somewhat dull . . . but perhaps you're not interestedin Aubrey?"

  "I am not," replied Quarle. "I don't know that I'm particularlyinterested in anyone except the girl." He got up, and moved across theroom, with his hands clasped behind his back; stopped without lookinground, and put a question. "How long, Mr. Byfield, does this preciousfortune last?"

  "How in the world should I know?" demanded Gilbert, more savagely thanhe intended. "You'd better ask Meggison; he knows all about it. And mayI suggest, Mr. Quarle, that I'm busy, and would rather be alone?"

  Simon Quarle turned slowly, and walked towards the door; stopped there,and looked over his shoulder back at Gilbert. "I'm sorry, Mr. Byfield,"he said, in a tone that was singularly gentle--"I'm sorry that you findit necessary to remind me that I'm not wanted; I'm more sorry stillthat you shut me out, not only from your room but from your secrets.Good night to you!"

  "Stop!" cried Gilbert quickly, as the hand of the other man was uponthe door. "Come back, please; let there be no misunderstanding aboutthis. I have not meant to offend you in any way; I did not mean to beabrupt. But you must not connect me in any way with this matter."

  The other man came slowly back into the room, and stood for a momentor two with his head bent, and his hands clasped behind him, and thetoe of one boot grinding slowly into the carpet. Without looking up hesaid at last--"I'm an older man than you are, Byfield--and I know whata beastly world we live in, from some points of view. Talk to me ofMeggison or his worthless son, and I don't care a snap of the fingers;tell me about this girl, and the old blood in me fires up as it mighthave done if it had ever been ordained that I should have a child of myown. That's foolish, I know--but for once it happens to come straightfrom my heart. I have a love for her that I have for nothing else onGod's earth; and I can't stand by now, and see her in all innocencerushing on to a place where the feet of a stronger woman might nottread. Do you or do you not understand for one moment what you'redoing?"

  "I think so," said Gilbert quietly.

  "I don't think you do. As I understand it, you've cheated thisgirl--tried to draw her to you by a beggarly underhand payment ofpounds shillings and pence. That's nothing to you, and you can keep itup for a long time; but where's it going to end? Who's going to tellher the truth--you or I?"

  They faced each other in the shabby room--white-faced. "What do youmean by the truth?" asked Byfield at last.

  "The truth--that your money buys the clothes she wears and the food sheeats; that every copper she drops into the hand of a beggar is so muchof your money. Who is to tell her that?" Simon Quarle did not flinch ashe stood waiting for his answer.

  "You put the thing crudely, Mr. Quarle," said Gilbert at last. "I admitthat on the face of it the thing may be reduced to that; you havesurprised my secret, and you probably know as well as I do that I ampaying the small sum of money for this little whim--which pleases meand can do no harm to anyone else. Stop--don't interrupt me; I repeatthat it can do no harm to anyone else, while on the other hand it maydo a great deal of good. The money is nothing to me--what it can buymeans a great deal to her."

  "But the end--the end of it!" persisted Quarle. "What of that?"

  "Let the end take care of itself," replied Gilbert. "I would not havesaid so much as this to any other man; but I do you the justice tobelieve that you are honestly very fond of her, and that you would doa great deal on your own account to help her. Therefore I say that forthe present the matter must be left where it is."

  "What was the original intention in your mind--apart from merelyhelping her; what did you purpose doing?" demanded Quarle.

  "I planned a holiday for the girl--and God knows she needed it badly.Our friend Meggison probably--certainly misunderstood me."

  "Exactly." Quarle nodded slowly, and grinned. "It was the purpose ofour friend Meggison to misunderstand you," he said. "Meggison, for thefirst time in his life, finds a rich man with a soft spot in his heart;it is a chance not to be missed. He proceeds to lie to everyone; to hisdaughter, who believes in him completely--to others only too willing tobelieve him. He displays some money; he has a house in the country towhich he is to go---- By the way--that house in the country?"

  "Is mine," said Gilbert. "I originally intended that Meggison shouldtake the girl down there for a few weeks; that they should then returnto their own house. You know for yourself what he has done."

  "The question is not so much what he has done as what you are going todo," said the other. "The bubble must burst some day, you know."

  Gilbert Byfield picked up the letter again, and looked at itattentively; turned to the other man, and tapped the paper with aforefinger. "She's very well--and very happy," he said slowly. "Thinkof that, Quarle: for the first time in all her short life she is verywell and very happy. I say to you--to the devil with your conventionsand your laws--your prejudices and what not; this child is happy. Ithink you know in your heart that I shall do her no harm; in mercylet her remain where she is, for a little time at least, until I candecide what is to be done. Would you drag her back here again toslave for that drunken father and that lout of a brother; to facesemi-starvation, and bills and duns, and every other sordid item thather life should never have known? Would you do that, Quarle?"

  "Yes--I would," replied the other stoutly. "And keep her honest."

  "She'll keep honest on her own account," said Gilbert. "For thepresent, I tell you the thing must remain as it is. Meggison won'tspeak, for his own sake; you won't speak--unless you want to break herheart."

  "I'll promise nothing," said Quarle angrily. "You think you've got mein a corner so that I can't move--but I'll find a way to tell the truthwithout hurting her--or if I do hurt her a little it'll only be forher good. Oh--I wish I could make you understand what you're doing!"

  "I tell you the thing was begun innocently enough," replied Gilbert."I'm not responsible for what has happened--except that I ought to haveknown what kind of man Meggison was, and so have been prepared. For thepresent the thing must stand--and you must be silent."

  "It shan't stand an hour longer than I can prevent," was Simon Quarle'sfinal declaration as he went away.

  Gilbert Byfield, reviewing the matter carefully so far as it had gone,was disposed first to be righteously indignant, and then to be amused.That which he had done on the mere quick generous impulse of the momenthad suddenly turned into something so enormous, and yet so cunninglydevised, that he did not quite see how he was to get out of it; on theother hand, the sheer audacity of it held his unwilling admirationeven against his better judgment. At one moment he told himself thathe must honestly and frankly declare what had happened, and must sethimself right in the eyes of the girl; the next he saw that to do thatwould be to break down her self-respect completely, and to strip oldDaniel Meggison of whatever virtues he possessed in the eyes of hisdaughter--both clearly possible. Therefore, not knowing what to do, headopted what seemed to be the wisest course--and did nothing at all.

  Arcadia Street having grown distasteful, alike because there was noBessie Meggison next door, and because the stern face of Mr. SimonQuarle fronted him now and then on the staircase and in the street,he determined once more to go back to his own ordinary mode of life,at least for a week or two; and so came again in touch with Mr. JordanTant and the rest. If he thought at all of what might be happening atFiddler's Green, he steadfastly strove to banish the matter from hismind, and told himself that in that he had succeeded. Nevertheless hewas restless and unhappy; and his spirit hovered, as it were, in wakingand sleeping moments alike, between Arcadia Street and Fiddler's Green,Sussex.

  A fortnight later found him back again in Arcadia
Street--there todiscover another letter from Bessie, gently suggesting that he mighthave found time to write to her, and with a little general note ofwistfulness in it that tugged at his heartstrings. Almost he determinedto go down and see her; yet knew full well that he dared not do that,for the simple reason that he could not face those clear eyes and lookinto their depths. At last he told himself that he would get to workthere in Arcadia Street, and would leave the problem to work itself out.

  Like most problems it was destined to work itself out in a whollyunexpected fashion. It began to work itself out the very next day, withthe arrival of Mr. Simon Quarle, who came in quickly, and closed thedoor, and looked at Byfield with a face of gloom. Gilbert waved hishand towards a chair to indicate that this unceremonious guest shouldsit down.

  "Well--I've been to Fiddler's Green," was Quarle's first utterance, ashe seated himself, and squared his shoulders, and frowned at his host.

  "You at Fiddler's Green? What for?"

  "To see for myself what was going on; to understand for myself how theMeggisons stand riches," said Quarle, evidently in a great state ofgrim triumph. "I've seen them--talked with them--been snubbed by one atleast of them. Would you like to hear about it?"

  "How's the girl?--how's Bessie?" asked Gilbert.

  "Oh--I grant you'd be pleased with her," retorted Quarle grudgingly."As pretty as a picture--and with a smile in her eyes for the firsttime. But the other two! The dogs--the scorpions--the blood-suckers!"

  "Steady! I'm sure there's nothing to get excited about. What have theydone to you?"

  "I stand for nothing--and I don't complain," replied Quarle. "But whenI see that snivelling lounger Daniel Meggison cutting a dash, sir,in a hired carriage--when I see that ardent billiard-room enthusiastAubrey Meggison cutting an absurd figure about the country lanes on ahired hack, and slapping his leg with a riding whip in the bar of thelocal inn--when I think of the bills that are running up, and the pricethere'll be to pay--plus the necessary explanations----"

  "That will do, thank you, Quarle," said Gilbert, with a new gravityupon him. "I'll go down there at once; I've delayed too long. I giveyou my word I didn't think it was coming to this--I thought at leastthey'd have the decency to be quiet."

  "Decency, sir, is a word they don't understand. Only I tell you I'mbitterly sorry for the girl. If I could in any way drown father andson, or smother them, or get rid of them somehow, I'd cheerfully do it,if it would keep her in ignorance of the truth. One word, Byfield:you've got to be mighty careful, because either Daniel Meggison orthe boy is mean enough, if the game appears to be up, to tell thetruth--and not to tell it with too nice a tongue. Be careful."

  Gilbert Byfield had crossed the room and had taken up a railway guide.There was a look of decision about him that impressed Simon Quarle.While the young man was busily fluttering the pages the door wasopened, and Mr. Jordan Tant sauntered in, as immaculate-looking asever. He glanced at the sturdy figure of Simon Quarle, and then lookedacross at Byfield; coughed to attract the latter's attention.

  Gilbert turned and looked at him. "Hullo, Tant," he exclaimed. "I'msure I'm very glad to see you. Let me make you known to my friend--Mr.Simon Quarle."

  The two nodded distantly after the introduction, and Tant stoodawkwardly while Gilbert still fluttered the pages. At last Gilbertflung the book aside petulantly, and crossed over to his friend, andshook hands with him.

  "What's brought you to Arcadia Street?" he asked.

  "Well, as a matter of fact, my dear Gilbert, I do not come exactlyon my own account, but for somebody else," responded Mr. Tant. "Mrs.Ewart-Crane wanted a message conveyed to you, and I couldn't think ofyour number, although, as I told her, I knew the house when once I gotinto this beastly locality. Consequently, here I am."

  "My friend Mr. Tant doesn't like Arcadia Street," said Gilbert, turningto Simon Quarle.

  "The young gentleman doesn't look as if he did," retorted Quarle, witha curling lip.

  "What I always say is, 'Let us draw the line,'" said Mr. Tant severely."However, my dear Gilbert, the message is this. The old lady--(bywhich term, of course, I refer not at all discourteously to Mrs.Ewart-Crane)--the old lady is anxious to get away into the country;thinks Enid is not looking well, and so forth."

  "I'm sorry," said Gilbert absently. "But what can I do?"

  "There's that beautiful place of yours that you leave empty somuch--down at Fiddler's Green. Now, if you could let her have that----"

  "I can't; it's quite out of the question," broke in Gilbert harshly,with a glance at Simon Quarle.

  "But, my dear Gilbert, she seems quite set on it," urged Mr. Tant."There can be no reason----"

  "The reason is, young gentleman, that the house is full already," saidSimon Quarle. "Full of people, I mean."

  "You must understand, Tant," said Gilbert, without looking at him,"that I've lent the house to some friends of mine--for a time. TellMrs. Ewart-Crane that I'm sorry; under any other circumstances I shouldhave been delighted."

  "Oh, very well, my dear Byfield," said Mr. Tant. Then, as a thoughtoccurred to him, he suggested quickly--"Perhaps after your friends haveleft--gone away from the house----"

  "Mr. Byfield doesn't quite know when that's going to happen," saidSimon Quarle maliciously. "These friends are down there as a sort ofpermanent arrangement--stop-as-long-as-they-like sort of thing."

  "You seem to know a great deal about it," replied Tant, in his precisetones.

  "I do; I've just been to see them," Simon Quarle answered, with a grimlaugh. "The sort of guests, young gentleman, that you don't get rid ofin a hurry, I can assure you."

  Gilbert plunged into the dangerous conversation hurriedly. "I don'tthink anything more need be said, Mr. Quarle," he exclaimed. "If you'llexcuse me now, there are things I want to talk to Mr. Tant about. Goodday to you!"

  Simon Quarle got up, and walked to the door of the room; turned there,and spoke with characteristic bluntness. "Sorry if I've hurt anybody'sfeelings," he said. "Of course, it's no business of mine."

  He was gone, and the two younger men faced each other. It is safe tosay that Jordan Tant had always at the back of his mind one thoughtdominating all others; the thought of Enid. The fact that Byfield hadgruffly refused even to consider the suggestion that the house shouldbe lent to her and her mother set the man's wits to work; the fact thatanother man who obviously lived in Arcadia Street knew all about thestrange occupants of that house at Fiddler's Green stirred into beinga process commonly known as "putting two and two together." Mr. JordanTant did some hard thinking.

  "Please explain to Mrs. Ewart-Crane why I can't let her have thehouse--and make my apologies!" said Gilbert after a pause.

  "I will certainly do that--when I know what to say," said Tant,putting his head on one side, and looking at his friend with a smile."My dear Gilbert--who have you been giving away your property to?"

  "I have not been giving it away at all," retorted Gilbert. "I've simplylent the house to some friends. Say no more about it."

  Mr. Jordan Tant said no more about it. After an awkward pause he made aremark, which in the connection was certainly startling. "By the way,Gilbert, I noticed as I came into this house that your little friendnext door--the Princess, as you called her--has flitted."

  Byfield, startled, swung round upon him. "And pray what the devil doyou think that's got to do with Fiddler's Green?" he demanded savagely.

  Jordan Tant fairly leapt in his astonishment. "Really--I never said----Why, Gilbert--you don't mean to say that you've sent her down toFiddler's Green?"

  All this interference with what he had come to regard as his privateplans began to have a maddening effect upon Gilbert Byfield. He hadsavagely to acknowledge to himself that he had failed; that thatimpulsive generosity of which he had been guilty had been takenadvantage of by those in whose hands he was practically powerless. Thethought of that did not tend to mend his temper; and Tant was a handyvictim. Byfield squared his shoulders, and set his hands on his hips,and gazed down at the shr
inking little man with blazing eyes.

  "And suppose I have sent her to Fiddler's Green--and suppose I intendto keep her there just as long as it pleases me--what then, my Tant?"he bellowed. "What do you, in your secure and comfortable life, hedgedabout by every conventionality, and not daring to stir by so much asa hair's breadth from that line you so often draw and so often talkabout--what do you know of the world and the people who live in it?Can't a man stretch out the hand of friendship to a woman without yoursmug lips opening, and your smooth tongue beginning to bleat this andthat and the other? Must you always think that we're in this world onlyto do wrong--that there are no better impulses in any one of us? I'lltell you now in so many words: the child of the white face and theshabby frock is down at Fiddler's Green at my expense--and she's havinga holiday. Have you anything to say to that?"

  Jordan Tant backed away from him, and waved him off with protestinghands. "My dear Byfield--I have not said a word about it; it's not mybusiness," he pleaded. "You have always been in the habit of doingunconventional things, and I suppose you will do them until the endof the chapter; but I am not criticizing. It's very kind of you--verythoughtful--and all that sort of thing. Necessarily one wonders alittle what the world will say--and one is a little sorry for the girl,who is doubtless quite respectable--in her own sphere of life--andquite nice."

  "I notice everyone's sorry for the girl," retorted Gilbert, a littlebitterly. "I think the girl can take care of herself, and I think, evenif it came to the point where she understood the real truth of thematter, she would come also to understand my motive."

  "Oh, I see; then she doesn't understand yet?" said Tant slowly.

  "How the devil could I tell her that I was going to provide her withmoney--and a house--and various comforts? You've no delicacy, Tant.No--I arranged better than that; ostensibly her father is the manwho provides the money; he is supposed to have come into a fortuneunexpectedly. Now are you satisfied?"

  "Perfectly," said Jordan Tant, looking at the floor. "It's all verysimple--isn't it?"

  Mr. Jordan Tant carried his amazed face out of Arcadia Street, andback to the other end of London; presented it in due course to Mrs.Ewart-Crane and to Enid. Suffering himself to be questioned closely, herefused to speak ill of a friend, but shook his head over that friendnevertheless; and so had the thing gradually screwed out of him.

  "I wouldn't have you think for a moment that I'm saying anythingagainst poor old Byfield," said Tant gloomily. "What I do think isthat these designing people have got hold of him, and that, to use avulgar phrase, they will bleed him pretty heavily unless someone stepsin. He's mad about the girl; but of course he hasn't reckoned with thefamily. They'll stick to him like leeches; he'll never be able to shakethem off."

  "My dear," said Mrs. Ewart-Crane, turning to her daughter a determinedface--"I think it is about time that we interfered. Apart fromevery other consideration, we owe a duty to a friend who, howeverwrong-headed he may be, is at least a gentleman. I shall mostcertainly step in, and shall understand once for all, if only formy own satisfaction, what these people intend to do. I dare say asmall cottage or at the worst some rooms are to be obtained somewherein Fiddler's Green; we will go down, and see for ourselves what ishappening."

  "Personally, mother, I don't think I should interfere," said Enid. "IfGilbert likes to be so silly it's his affair, and it would be somewhatundignified on our part to interfere."

  "Undignified or not, I intend to do it," retorted Mrs. Ewart-Crane."Mr. Tant shall go down and secure a place for us; if I don't havethose people out of Gilbert's house in something under a week, I shallbe very much surprised!"

  Meanwhile, Gilbert Byfield had started himself for the scene ofoperations. A telegram had flashed down, addressed to Bessie; atelegram had flashed back eagerly in reply; and here he was on his wayto Fiddler's Green. And all the thoughts he had tended in one direction.

  "I did it for the girl, and for her alone. Ask yourself, Byfield, ifthere's anyone in the world like her; ask yourself if you've ever metanyone cut out of the living heart of life as she is; compare her withany woman you have ever seen. Be strong, man; cut the knot yourself,and get her out of the net in which you're both involved. Think ofher--and think of yourself; nothing else matters."

  His mind was pretty clearly made up as to what he should do by thetime the train drew in at the platform at Fiddler's Green, and he waslooking about to see if by chance someone had come to meet him.