The Cruise of the Make-Believes

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.

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 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."