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 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 to full 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
believe that 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 yacht _Blue 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 yacht _Blue 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. He told 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 for _one_ other.
Enid and her mother are naturally anxious to know what is happening to
you; also they are 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 what _I_
know 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
stick to 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 was living 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
urged against 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 was
being 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 yacht
_Blue 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!"