AND THE PRINCESS TIES IT AGAIN
DISAPPOINTMENT sat heavily on the face of Gilbert Byfield as an
obsequious porter who knew him pulled open the door of the carriage and
seized his bag. For there was no one with a familiar face in sight on
the little platform; and Gilbert had rather hoped that there might have
been someone with a smile to welcome him, and a hand to clasp his own.
Few passengers ever get out at Fiddler's Green, and on this occasion
there was only a stout and heavy farmer, and an elderly woman with a
plethoric basket. True, at the end of the platform was a young girl
in a white dress, and with a slim and pretty figure; but young girls
in white dresses were nothing to Gilbert Byfield at that moment. He
followed the porter gloomily, muttering something to the effect that he
supposed he'd better have the fly.
It was only when he was actually giving up his ticket that he found
himself face to face with the girl in the white dress; and then
discovered that he was holding her hands, and gazing at her--and that
it was Bessie, half laughing and half crying, and saying again and
again how glad she was to see him. And all in a moment the sun was
shining, and Fiddler's Green was beautiful; and the fly was a musty
affair, good enough to carry on his bag to the house, but not to be
ridden in under any circumstances.
They went on a little shyly and happily down the long road that led
from the station towards the house. Once or twice she looked at him as
he strode along beside her; and she laughed with the conscious shyness
of a child, and yet with complete happiness. Presently, when it came
about that a turn of the road hid them from the sight of the station
or of any houses beyond, she slipped her hand into his; and so held
it, as a child might have done, while they walked on side by side. And
then it was that the problem he had to face loomed large, and asked
fierce questions of the man, and would not be denied. Questions hard
to answer, with that happy face beside him, and with those clear eyes
looking up into his own. He found himself wishing passionately that the
time might never come when those eyes should change, or should look at
him with any indignation or any sorrow. Which might well happen, as he
knew.
"Tell me everything," he said after a pause. "About your life--and what
you do--and how you spend your days. This is such a changed Bessie that
I scarcely seem to know her."
"For the better, Mr. Byfield?" She looked at him with no seriousness at
all, and he gave her a gay answer naturally enough.
"Oh--this isn't the Bessie of Arcadia Street at all; this is a being
in a white frock who belongs naturally and properly to the country. I
shall believe presently that you've been here all your life."
"I believe it already," she retorted. "Arcadia Street seems miles
and miles away, as though it had never existed at all; I find myself
wondering sometimes exactly how one turned into it--and what the houses
were like--and if they really were as small and mean as they seem to be
now. You'll like Fiddler's Green," she added quickly.
"I'm sure I shall. And so I suppose you are really and truly very
happy?"
She did not answer for a moment; she walked on beside him, and he
noticed as he glanced at her that her face was grave. "So happy
sometimes, Mr. Byfield, that I'm afraid," she said steadily. "I wake
at night in the great room that is mine, and I lie listening to the
silence, and wondering if it's all true. I dread sometimes to open my
eyes in the morning, for fear that I may open them in the old narrow
room in the old narrow house in Arcadia Street; I'm frightened when
they knock at my door in the morning, lest it should be Amelia come to
say that the baker has stopped credit, or the milkman wants a little
something on account. You don't know, Mr. Byfield," she added, turning
wide, serious eyes upon him for a moment--"you really don't know what
it means never by any chance to hear that phrase again--'someone wants
something on account.'"
"I think I can understand," he replied. "And so you still like
Fiddler's Green--eh?"
"I never believed that there was such a place," she said. "It's
wonderful! Even poor father seems to be getting more used to it; he
missed his club terribly at first. But now he is finding quite a lot
to interest him; he drives round and studies the architecture of the
various old inns round about--sometimes gives up a day to it."
"And your brother?" asked Gilbert with a frown.
"Aubrey is turning out really splendidly," said the girl. "He looks
quite handsome when he's riding; even father admits that--and father
never did like Aubrey. In fact, everything is better than it has ever
been--and all the dreams I ever had seem to have come true."
"Dreams fade, little Make-Believe," he reminded her.
"I don't think my dreams will ever fade," she replied. "And you mustn't
call me Little-Make-Believe any more--because it isn't true. Everything
is real; I don't have to make-believe any longer."
"Fortunes are lost sometimes; it happens every day," he urged again.
"Suppose this great fortune of yours was swept away--this fortune that
came by lucky speculation--what then?"
"I can't believe that it will ever end; I can't believe that Fate would
be so cruel as to send me back again to Arcadia Street--and to all the
old unhappy life."
"You forget, Bessie; you were very happy there--playing that great game
of life."
She shook her head. "I didn't understand--that was why I was happy,"
she said. "I struggled hard to make myself happy--fought hard to reach
every little gleam of sunshine that came my way. Now I don't have to
fight; thanks to father, all my happiness comes to me naturally."
They were nearing the house when she turned upon him with astounding
news. "Oh--I forgot to tell you that we've got visitors."
"Visitors?" He stared at her as though not understanding.
She nodded brightly. "Yes; Aunt Julia Stocker and Uncle Ted. Father
asked them down; father said--'What's the use of having a big house
if you don't fill it?' Father's thinking of asking some other
people--friends of his particularly. Of course there'll be lots of room
for you, Mr. Byfield," she added; "I've seen about your room myself.
Besides the housekeeper seemed to think that you'd like it; I suppose
she knew what sort of a man you were."
Gilbert Byfield went on to the house in silence, listening as in a
dream to the girl's animated chatter, as she pointed out this, that
or the other familiar thing, and demanded his admiration. He began
to understand that the difficulties he had created were greater than
he had yet imagined; already he seemed to see an imaginary Daniel
Meggison--grinning and triumphant--defying him to move at all, and
sheltering himself in every extravagance behind this girl in the white
frock, whose happiness Gilbert had purchased at so strange a price.
Mr. Daniel Meggison, for his part, made no secret from the beginning
of the attitude he intended to adopt. For some weeks now he had been
given a free hand, and that fact, combined with new clothes, and a
comfortable house, and money in his pocket, and servants to do his
bidding, had already gone far to spoil the man, and to bring out some
of the original bully that had been suppressed in his nature. Whatever
qualms he may have felt he hid successfully at the first moment of
meeting. He stood at the door of the house, with arms outstretched, and
with a beaming smile upon his face.
"Welcome, my dear Byfield--thrice welcome!" he exclaimed, seizing
Gilbert by the hand and wringing it hard--as much in apparent
cordiality as to impress upon him that he understood the secret compact
between them, and was acting his part accordingly. "Delighted to see
you. I would have driven down myself to the station--but my child here
seemed to think that you would expect her alone. Well--well--that
is quite natural; you were always good friends. Come in, my dear
Byfield--come in and make yourself at home. You will find friends here;
stay as long as you like--do what you like--order what you like! Come
in!"
So Gilbert Byfield went into his own house, not without some feeling of
amusement, and looked about him. The servant who hurried forward as he
saw his master was silenced with a look, and retired, wondering more
than ever; Gilbert allowed the girl to run on before him up the stairs,
to show him the way with which he was already familiar. He expressed
due approval of the room (which happened to be his own), and said that
he felt he should be very comfortable there for a few days.
When presently he went downstairs, his object was to find Mr. Daniel
Meggison and to have a talk with that gentleman. But Daniel was not to
be caught napping; he avoided Gilbert on every occasion, and clung to
his relatives with an amazing fondness whenever he saw the young man
approaching him.
The relatives, for their part, adopted characteristic attitudes
towards Byfield. Mrs. Stocker conceived it to be her duty, being in the
mansions of the great, to sit in the largest and the stiffest chair
she could discover, in a condition of state, ready to receive all and
sundry. Her dignity in this particular instance compelled her to suffer
tortures, for the simple reason that her husband, Mr. Edward Stocker,
was free to come and go as he liked, and was having rather a good time.
He cheerfully flitted about the place, and smoked unaccustomed pipes in
the boldest manner, and was for once quite happy. Being introduced by
Bessie to the new-comer, he greeted Gilbert cordially.
"It's a wonderful world, sir," he exclaimed, looking at Gilbert
with a smiling face. "Now, it would never have occurred to me that
Meggison was the man to make money--and yet to be so dark about it.
Having a little property myself--which runs to 'ouses--I may say
that I know what property is, and how money is made. But Meggison
seems to have gone a cut above us all. A modest place down Clapham
way--or Brixton--or even Norwood--but when you makes a splash in the
country--with servants and what not----well, I can only say that it's a
very wonderful world, sir."
Gilbert left the little man, and, still in search of Meggison, came
presently into the presence of Mrs. Stocker, sitting in state. She
received him coldly, but with the resignation of one who expects that
all sorts of people may drift in, and are not specially to be accounted
for. He was retiring again hastily, when she recalled him.
"One moment, sir, I beg. One of my brother's new friends?"
"Oh, no--an old friend," stammered Gilbert. "A friend of his daughter."
"She never told me--but that is not surprising; I seem to learn
everything only by accident here. I should like to know, sir"--she
lowered her voice, and looked round about her impressively--"I should
like to know what you think of this business?"
"I've scarcely had time to think about it at all yet," replied Gilbert.
"My brother Daniel has surprised us all," said Mrs. Stocker. "I don't
like sly people; I should have thought that he would have been only too
glad to take me into his confidence. But, no--oh dear, no! He is glad,
of course, to ignore me--and then to invite me down here on sufferance,
as it were."
"Can you tell me where your brother is now?" asked Gilbert, moving
towards the door.
"I cannot say," said Mrs. Stocker, in an affected voice. "I believe
Daniel drives out a great deal. He might have asked me certainly to go
with him; but no one ever thinks of me."
Gilbert was crossing the hall, still intent upon that search, when
he was approached by the elderly manservant--staid husband of the
housekeeper--who had been in charge of the house for years. The man
hesitated for a moment, with puzzled face, remembering his strange
instructions as to the new tenants; and Gilbert, seeing that the man
had something to say, opened the door of a room and went in, beckoning
the man to follow. He closed the door and waited.
"Do you want to speak to me?" he asked.
"To know, sir, if everything is all right," responded the man in a low
tone. "Also, sir, to understand how long it's to last."
"Until you have orders to the contrary, or until Mr. Meggison goes,"
said Gilbert, after a moment's pause. "Why do you ask?"
"Only, sir, on account of the wines and such-like," replied the man in
an aggrieved tone. "Your friends was to have all that they required,
and no questions asked; but I didn't quite understand it was to be
champagne here, and champagne there--to say nothing of spirits in what
I may call a fashion that is absolutely _had lib_, sir. Mr. Meggison,
sir, and the young man--beg pardon, gentleman--they do put away a great
deal."
"That's all right," said Gilbert easily. "You were quite right to
mention it, of course. Anything else?"
"Only the manners of the two gents is a little bit 'arsh, if I may use
the word, in regard to me and the other servants; also the young gent
is not particular as to language if a little heated, sir."
"I'm sorry; I've no doubt his tone will improve from this time,"
replied Gilbert grimly. "That will do; and be careful to remember what
I have said; I am only a guest here for the present. You take all your
orders from Mr. Meggison."
The man was going slowly out of the room when he turned back and looked
again at his master. Gilbert Byfield turned a lowering gloomy face to
the man, and asked somewhat impatiently what more he wanted.
"Only one thing, sir; I wouldn't have you think for a moment that in
any remarks it has been my duty to make concerning your friends I
should be thought to include the young lady."
Gilbert's face lightened a little, and he looked at the man quickly.
"Oh--so you don't complain about the young lady?" he said.
"Between you and me, sir--if I may take so bold a liberty--if it 'adn't
been for the young lady I don't think that any of us could have stood
it. Oil on the waters more than once Miss Meggison's been--and always
a smile if she wants anything--and always sorry to give any trouble.
Fairly on her knees to her the wife is, Mr. Byfield, sir."
"Then that's a great compensation--isn't it?" asked Gilbert, laughing.
"It's everything, sir," replied the man earnestly. "Though, if you'll
excuse the saying, it licks me how the young lady could ever 'ave had
such a father--to say nothing of such a brother. Asking your pardon, of
course, sir."
Gilbert decided that he would do no good in the matter by forcing
the issue; on the other hand, he might strengthen his position if he
waited, and saw for himself what was happening. He rightly judged that
Meggison at least would be anxious to know what steps the outraged
owner of the house at Fiddler's Green would take, and would in all
probability in very fear be the first to approach Byfield.
He decided to wait at least until evening.
In that great game that was being played, as poor Bessie fondly
believed in reality at last, she had determined that it should at least
be played properly. Thus dinner was a special function, and a solemn
one; and although neither Mr. Meggison nor his son had yet reached
that sublime point insisted upon in the pictures in the illustrated
papers of "dressing" for it, she yet had hopes even that that might
some day be accomplished. As a matter of fact, Aubrey, the better to
show his complete independence, had a fashion of strolling in a little
late, and sitting down attired in very loud riding clothes; old Daniel
Meggison sported a frock-coat somewhat too large for him, and so was
passable. Bessie fulfilled the dream of many years, and appeared always
in white.
On this particular occasion the dinner gong had gone for some minutes,
and after waiting uneasily Bessie had at last suggested that perhaps
they had better go in to dinner. Meggison had not appeared, nor his
son; the tale was complete otherwise. They straggled awkwardly across
the hall, and into the big dining-room; and there the girl took one end
of the table, and quietly indicated where the others should sit. The
head of the table was vacant, and one other place; and Gilbert found
himself watching with amusement to see what would presently happen.
Suddenly the door was flung open, and Daniel Meggison came in quickly,
smiling broadly and with a somewhat feverish air of patronage. He did
not even look at Gilbert; but he glanced round at the others as he took
his seat, and tucked one corner of his napkin inside his collar.
"You should not have waited," he said quickly. "Unexpectedly detained;
so many things to see to in a place like this. My child"--this to
Bessie down the length of the table--"you remind me of your poor
mother. That frock suits you."
"Thank you, father," said the girl.
Daniel Meggison began to gulp soup at a great rate; paused to say over
his spoon--"Pretty country about here, Mr. Byfield--eh?"
"Very," replied Gilbert, looking at him steadily. "Do you find the
house convenient?"
"There are certain things in it that I should change if it actually
belonged to me," replied Meggison critically--"but it'll serve--it'll
serve. I could suggest half a dozen ways in which money might be spent
to improve it."
"In my opinion there's a lot of ground wasted," said Mrs. Stocker
gloomily. "What's anyone want with more than a bit in front to keep
people from staring in at the windows, and a bit behind to put a few
seeds in? Why, you could build four houses this size on the place, and
still have a lot of land to cut to waste. Of course, if I'm wrong I
stand corrected; but I know what house property's worth."
It was at this moment that Mr. Aubrey Meggison entered the room. He
came in with the inevitable cigarette drooping from his lips, but
condescended to toss that into the fireplace; then seated himself,
and expressed the hope that there might be some hot soup left, unless
anybody had chosen to "wolf it."
"If you came in at a decent time you would partake of the same dishes
as other people, and at the same moment," said Daniel Meggison
crushingly. "In future, sir, you will clearly understand that unless
you arrive at the moment--I repeat, sir, at the moment--you won't
get----"
"I don't think anybody's paying any real attention to you, dad," said
Aubrey patiently. "And perhaps others may want to get a word in on
their own account."
Daniel Meggison muttered and spluttered over his soup; Gilbert seized
the opportunity to turn to Bessie. "And what do you do with yourself
all day in the country--you who used always to be so busy?" he asked.
She turned to him with a smile. "Oh, there seems to be such a lot
to do," she replied quickly. "So many people want me--and there are
flowers to arrange--and orders to give--and half a hundred things to
do. And then, of course, I'm obliged to go and see the dogs----"
"Who bark very early in the morning, and kick up a devil of a row at
night," snapped Meggison from his end of the table.
"Yes, of course--the dogs," went on Gilbert, taking no notice of the
interruption. "There's Ponto--and Billy--and----"
"Why--how did you know their names?" she asked, with a puzzled look in
her eyes.
He saw in a moment the blunder he had made. "Why--your father--Mr.
Meggison told me all about them," he replied lamely, with a quick
glance down the table.
"Oh, yes--I told him--I mentioned it this afternoon," said Meggison
hastily. "I found he was very deeply interested in dogs."
Gilbert saw that it was impossible to talk to the girl just then; he
knew that Meggison at least was watching every gesture and listening
to every word. He contented himself with looking at the girl; noting
little subtle differences in her, and seeing that the little unnatural
sharpness that had belonged to her scheming plotting life had already
worn away and left her softened. Her hair was differently and more
generously arranged; there was a refinement and a delicacy about her,
greater even than that which had at first singled her out in his eyes
in Arcadia Street. And it was pleasant, too, sitting there, to have her
eyes turned occasionally in his direction, and always to see in their
depths that fine smile of comradeship and friendliness. As the meal
progressed he found himself weighing her against the others; noting
their coarseness and their awkwardness and their airs and attitudes;
and seeing her so different that she might not have belonged to them at
all. Of all that strange assortment in the house at Fiddler's Green she
was the one who seemed properly to belong there.
They were getting to the end of the meal when a servant entered and
spoke a little diffidently to Bessie, after a glance at old Meggison.
"Mr. Quarle is here, Miss."
Bessie sprang to her feet at once. "Oh, please bring him in," she
exclaimed; "how delightful that he should have come to-night. You know
Mr. Quarle, Mr. Byfield?" she added.
"Oh, yes--I know him quite well," said Gilbert.
"Quarle has nothing to do with us now; he's an unpleasant reminder
of things I endeavour to forget," said Meggison peevishly. "Second
visit, too; what's he think he's going to get out of us? . . . ah!--my
dear Quarle--delighted to see you," he broke off hurriedly as Simon
came into the room, looking sharply about him. "I was just saying
to my daughter Bessie how very charming . . . a place for Mr. Quarle
there; what the devil are you standing staring for; don't you know your
duties?"
Simon Quarle cocked an eyebrow comically at sight of Byfield, and then,
with a nod to the others, came round the table, and shook hands with
Bessie. "I'll find room here, thank you," he said, as he pulled up a
chair beside the girl--"no one need disturb themselves on my account.
Well--and how's the little girl getting on?" he asked, taking no notice
of anyone else.
Gilbert Byfield watched him, wondering a little what the object of this
visit might be. He noted the old man's tenderness for the girl--the
change in his tones when he spoke to her; he saw also, or thought he
saw, a new grimness about the lines of his mouth. He knew in his own
mind that something must be settled this night; felt certain that with
this man in the house the bubble must be pricked, and poor Bessie be
shown in a moment this new and horrible game of make-believe in which
she had really had no part. Looking at the happy face of the girl, he
seemed more than ever to separate her from those who had plotted, with
her for a shield, and who had not hesitated to bite the hand that fed
them.
"You didn't let us know you were coming," hinted Daniel Meggison.
"I didn't think it necessary," retorted Quarle, with a momentary glance
at him. "Now I beg that just as soon as you have finished--all of
you--you will go away and leave me with my young hostess," he added.
"I've a great deal to say to Bessie--and I'm desperately hungry--and I
know that I'm very late. No ceremony, I beg."
"You seem quite to take possession of the house, Mr. Quarle," said
Daniel Meggison, half rising from his chair.
"Exactly. Just as you have done, you know," said Simon Quarle, with a
grim nod at him. "Don't you worry; Bessie understands."
It was curious to see how in that ill-assorted household one and
another of them took the hint and went away. First Mrs. Stocker, with
a toss of the head and much rustling of skirts; followed obediently
by her husband. Then Daniel--followed at a grumbling interval by his
son. So that at the last Bessie sat between Simon Quarle and Gilbert
Byfield. And from one to the other, before her unconscious eyes, swept
meaning glances; glances that meant appeal on the part of Gilbert, and
determination on the part of Quarle.
"I'm going to talk to your father," said Gilbert at last, rising from
his place, and looking squarely at Quarle. "We've not had a chat
together yet."
"We'll excuse you," said Quarle gruffly. Then, as the younger man was
moving towards the door, he got up quickly and followed him. "I wonder
what they're doing about my bag," he began; and then, as he thrust
Gilbert into the hall in front of him--and closed the door--"Well--so
you've made up your mind that something must be done--eh?"
"Yes--something must be done--and to-night," whispered Gilbert quickly.
"I can promise you that at least."
"Good." Quarle nodded, and turned to go back into the room. "I'm glad
you see the necessity for that. Don't spare them."
"I want only to spare _her_," said Gilbert.
Mr. Daniel Meggison proved to be as difficult of capture as before.
In the drawing-room he was talking of the value and the security of
having a stake in the country to his sister and brother-in-law; on the
appearance of Gilbert he button-holed Mr. Stocker, and began rapidly to
ask his candid opinion concerning the work of our parish councils, and
whether he did not think they required new blood--as, for instance, new
blood from London, in the shape of a man who had had experience of the
vicissitudes of life, and who knew what real government meant? Gilbert
remaining, and looking at him steadily, he began to see that the matter
had to be brought to a crisis, and could not much longer be delayed.
Therefore he turned with an air of forced geniality to Byfield, and
actually took him by the arm.
"You have something to talk to me about, Mr. Byfield?" he demanded
with sublime assurance "As a matter of fact, too, I should like your
advice on a little question of investments; I am a child in these
matters--save accidentally. Suppose we have a bit of a talk--eh?"
"Nothing would please me better," Gilbert answered.
"Then, if my dear sister will excuse us--we will go and smoke a
friendly cigar, and have a dry business chat," said Meggison, drawing
Gilbert towards the door. "I want some sound advice."
They went towards a small room which had been used by Gilbert as a
smoking-room; it was empty, although a lamp burned on a small table
at one end. Meggison closed the door, and went into the room; threw
himself on to a couch, and looked up smilingly at the other man. His
face was rather white, and he had something of the air of a schoolboy
about to receive punishment that he knew he had deserved; but his
manner was as jaunty as ever.
"Now, sir--what do you want with me?" he asked.
"Bluntly--an account of your stewardship, Meggison," said Gilbert. "I
need hardly remind you of the facts; you were to come down here with
your daughter; you were to give her that rest and that holiday she so
sorely needed."
"Will you deny that she is having that rest and that holiday?" asked
Meggison, with a grin. "Isn't there a wonderful change in her?"
"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 with _me_. 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 come to 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 you to 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.