On reaching the railway station Marsten’s first regret was that he had not taken all the money offered him on the day of his discharge. He had no idea that his quest would lead him to a fashionable and expensive sea-side resort. Prudence proposed to him that he should defer his visit to Eastbourne until he had more money; but, he said to himself, if he did not go at once, Sartwell would be certain to learn from his wife of the visit to Wimbledon, and there might be increased difficulties in getting to see Edna at Eastbourne. As it was, he had no idea how the meeting he wished for was to be brought about, for doubtless Sartwell, when sending his daughter to the school, had given the lady into whose care Edna was entrusted, a hint of his object in placing her there. Marsten stepped out of the South Western carriage at Clapham Junction, and found he had but half an hour to wait for the Eastbourne train. He smiled when he remembered the care and thought he was giving to the Union, after having so frequently asserted that he was willing to devote his life to the work. It was a blessing that all the Union needed at the moment was to be let alone.

When he arrived at Eastbourne, he immediately set out in search of High Cliff School, thinking it well to reconnoitre the situation, hoping the sight of it might suggest some plan that was practical. He would have one thing in his favour, which was that Sartwell would not have warned his daughter against seeing him, fearing to arouse her curiosity or suspicions. If, then, he got one word with Edna alone, he had no fear but that he could arrange for a longer interview. He found High Cliff to be a large house, situated in extensive grounds, with a view of the sea, but with a wall that was even more discouraging than the glass-topped barrier at Wimbledon.

Marsten saw there was going to be more difficulty in getting an interview with his sweetheart than he had at first imagined. He thought for a moment of applying boldly at the front door for permission to see the young student, but quickly dismissed the plan as impracticable. He was certain that so shrewd a man as Sartwell would have more foresight than to leave arrangements at such loose ends that the first person who called to see his daughter would be admitted, even if the ordinary rules of the school allowed such a thing, which was most improbable. He realized that the place was not to be taken by assault, but rather by slow and patient siege; so, wandering down by the shore, he sat on the shingle, within sound of the soothing waves, and gave his whole attention to the problem.

If a man whose ambition it was to emancipate the worker, and change the whole relationship between capital and labour, was going to be baffled in seeking half an hour’s talk with a young girl, not immured in a prison or a convent, but merely residing in an ordinary English school, then were his chances of solving the larger question remote and shadowy. Thus he came to bind the two enterprises together, saying to himself that success in the one would indicate success in the other. The first thing to do, then, was to secure some cheap lodging—if such a thing was to be found in this fashionable resort—and so hoard his money and bide his time, for he was convinced he would make haste only by going slowly. It was a case in which undue precipitancy would make ultimate victory impossible. He knew that some time during the day the pupils would walk, though guarded doubtless by vigilant governesses. It might be possible to pass this interesting procession, and, while doing so, to slip a note into Edna’s hand; but even as Marsten thought of this plan, he dismissed it as impracticable, for Edna would be so surprised at such an inexplicable proceeding on his part that she would not have the presence of mind necessary to conceal the missive promptly enough to escape detection. He left the shore, still ruminating on the problem, and, searching in the back part of the town, found lodgings that suited his requirements and his purse. When this was done, he strolled on the promenade, still giving the great problem his whole attention.

Suddenly he received a staggering blow on the back which almost thrust him forward on his face. Recovering himself, he turned round breathless, alarmed and angry, to see before him the huge form and smiling face of Barney Hope, who genially presented the hand that had smitten him.

“Hello, old fellow!” cried Barney, laughing aloud at the other’s resentful glare. “What are you doing down here? Has the strike taken it out of you so that you had to have sea air to recuperate?”

“No strike ever took it out of me like the blow you struck just now.”

Barney threw back his head and roared; then, linking arms with Marsten in the most friendly manner, he said:

“No, my paw isn’t light, as all my friends say, and it has got me into trouble before now. I had to thrash a fellow in Paris once, merely because I could not convince him that the gentle tap I gave him was in fun. He admitted afterwards that there was a difference, and that he would rather have my open palm on his back than my closed fist in his face,—but what can you expect? The French have no sense of humour, and yet they can’t box well. It should occur to them, as a nation, that they ought either to know how to take a joke, or else how to put up their dukes, if they are going to take things seriously. But my slap on the back is nothing to my hand-shake when I’m feeling cordial towards a fellow-creature. Let’s see, have we shaken hands this go?”

“Yes, thanks,” said Marsten, with such eagerness that the other laughed again.

“Well, I’m delighted to meet you so unexpectedly, don’t you know. Your name’s Langton, if I remember rightly?”

“My name is Marsten.”

“Oh, yes, of course. I’m the stupidest fool in the kingdom about names, and it’s an awfully bad failing. People seem to get offended if you can’t remember their names. I’m sure I can’t tell why. I wouldn’t care tuppence what I was called, so long as you don’t say I’m no painter. Then I’m ready to fight. A man who won’t fight for his art oughtn’t to have an art. And, talking about art, I remember now that Langton was the fellow you sent me who can play the piano as if he were a Rubinhoff—that Russian player, don’t you know. Well, I’m thundering glad to see you; I was just hoping to meet some fellow I knew. I’m dying for some one to talk to. It’s a beastly dull hole, Eastbourne, don’t you know.”

“I was never here before. It seems to me a very nice place.”

“Yes, it looks that way at first, but wait till you’ve been here a day or two. It’s so wretchedly respectable!—that’s what I object to in it. Respectability’s bad enough on its native heath, but sea air seems to accentuate it, don’t you know. I can’t tell you why it is, but it’s so; and respectability that you can put up with in London becomes unbearable down by the sea. Haven’t you noticed that? And it’s all on such a slender basis too: the third-class fare to Brighton is four shillings and tuppence-ha’penny, while to Eastbourne it’s four shillings and elevenpence, so all this swagger is on a beggarly foundation of eightpence-ha’penny. You see what I mean? I wouldn’t give a week in Brighton for a day in Eastbourne, although I should hate to be condemned to either, for that matter. London is the only town that’s exactly my size, don’t you know.”

“Then why do you stop at Eastbourne?”

“Ah, now you come to the point; now you place your finger right on the spot. Why, indeed? Can’t you guess? I can tell in a moment why you are here.”

“Why?” asked Marsten, in some alarm.

“Oh, simply because some fool of a doctor, who didn’t know any better, sent you down. You’re here for the air, my boy: you don’t come for the society, so it must be the air—that’s the only other thing Eastbourne’s got. You were told it would brace you up in a week, and it will, if your reason holds out for so long. I’d be a madman, sane as I am, if I were compelled to live in this place a fortnight; I would, on my honour! No, you don’t catch me in Eastbourne for either air or the society, and yet, in a way, it is the society, too, only it doesn’t seem to come off; and here I am stranded, don’t you know, with a coachman and a groom, not to mention a valet, two horses, and one of the smartest carts that ever left London. That’s my turn-out, there. I drive tandem, of course; it’s the only Christian way to drive. Not that I care about the style of it,—I hope I’m above all that sort of thing,—and I’m not to be blamed because so many other fellows do it, don’t you know; I love a tandem for itself alone. Ever drive tandem?”

“I never did,” said Marsten, looking at Barney’s handsome equipage, which was being slowly driven up and down the road by a man in livery. He had noticed it before, but now he gazed at it with renewed interest, as Barney modestly proclaimed himself the owner.

“Well, it isn’t as easy as it looks. It’s not every fool can drive a tandem, although I am said to be one of the first tandem-drivers in London, don’t you know. I don’t say so, of course; but there are those who do, and they are judges, too. But it’s no fun driving about alone: to enjoy tandem-driving you need to have a pretty girl beside you.”

“And are there no pretty girls in Eastbourne?”

“There are, my boy, and that’s just what I want to talk with you about. Let’s sit down here in this shelter, because I want your whole attention. Now, I did you a favour one day, even though it was for another fellow, didn’t I?”

“Yes. You have done me at least two favours.”

“Well, that’s all right. I may be able to do you a third or a fourth,—who knows?—and I mention it because I’m about to ask you to do me a great one now. That’s what made me so glad to see you, don’t you know, as well, of course, as the pleasure of talking with you again in this dismal hole. I was just thinking about it, and wondering whom I could get, when I looked up, and there you were. Providence always helps me when I’m in a pinch—always, don’t you know. I never knew it to fail, and yet I’m not what you’d call a devout man myself. You’ve got nothing particular to do down here I suppose?”

“Nothing but my own pleasure.”

“Quite so. And, as there isn’t any pleasure to be had here, you may just as well turn round and help me; it will be a great lark. You see, I want a man of intelligence, and I don’t suppose one is to be found in Eastbourne,—for if he was intelligent he wouldn’t stay. Then, too, he must be a man not known in the town—you see what I mean? Also, he must know something about the labouring classes and their ways; so you see, my boy, Providence has sent the very man I want, don’t you know. Now promise that you will help me.”

“If I can, I will.”

“Right you are! You’re just the individual who can, and no one else can do it half so well. Now, in the first place, have you ever seen Sartwell’s daughter? He’s only got one.”

“Have I ever seen her?”

“Yes. She was at my reception the day you were there. I don’t suppose you noticed her among so many; but she was the handsomest girl in the room, far and away.”

“Yes, I have seen Miss Sartwell. She used to call for her father at his office quite frequently.”

“Good again! That’s a fourth qualification needed by the person who is to help me, so you see you are the man of all men for this job. Now it happens that this charming girl is at school in Eastbourne, which is, in a word, the reason I am here. I want to get a message taken to Miss Sartwell at the school, and I want you to take it.”

“Oh, I don’t think I should care to go on a mission of that sort, Mr. Hope. If Mr. Sartwell were to find out that I——”

“My dear fellow,” interrupted Barney, placing his hand confidentially on Marsten’s shoulder, “it’s all right, I assure you. There is really nothing surreptitious about it. Heavens and earth, Langton, you don’t think I’m that kind of a man, I trust! Oh, no! I’ve the parental consent all right enough.”

“Then why don’t you go to the school and see her?”

“Because, dear boy, the case is just a trifle complicated, don’t you know. I can always get the parental consent; that’s the money, you know. As a general thing the girls like me, and I won’t say the money has all to do with that: no, I flatter myself, personal attractions, a fair amount of brains, and a certain artistic reputation come in there; but money tells with the older people. Now Sartwell and I understand each other. Not to put too fine a point upon it, you know, he says practically: ‘Barney, you’re an ass, but you’re rich, and I don’t suppose you’re a bigger fool than the average young man of the present day, so I give you a fair field; go in, my boy, and win.’ I say to Sartwell: ‘You’re a grumpy old curmudgeon, with no more artistic perception than the Shot Tower; but your daughter is an angel, and I’ve got money enough for the two of us.’ You see, I never did care for money except to get what I want. So there we stand. Sart-well was coming down here with me; but, after I started, he telegraphed to my studio that there was so much to do in the shops, with all the men newly back, that he would like me to postpone my visit for a week. Well, I had to get the horses and trap down here; so I drove, and I left London a day earlier than I expected to. Hence the present complication. I called at the school, asked to see Miss Sartwell, saying I was a friend of her father’s; but the lady in charge looked on me with suspicion,—she did indeed, my boy, difficult to believe as the statement is. The lady said she could not allow Miss Sartwell to see any person unless that person was accompanied by her father. She would take no message to the girl—and there I was. I wrote to Miss Sartwell from my hotel here, but the letter was opened by the dragon, who returned it to me, asking me not to attempt to communicate with any of the young ladies under her charge. So here is this stylish tandem, and there is that lovely girl, while I am wasting in the desert air, longing to take her out for a drive. That’s the situation in a nut shell, don’t you know, and I want you to help me by taking a message to Miss Edna.”

“I don’t see how I can do it. If you, with her father’s permission, could not get a word with her, how can I hope to?”

“Oh, I have that all arranged. I thought first of getting some young man in as a carpenter or plumber; but, so far as I can learn, the pipes and the woodwork of the school are all right. Then an inspiration came to me,—‘I am subject to inspirations. The man who looks after the garden lives in the town, and he is quite willing to assist me; in fact I have made it worth his while, don’t you know. The trouble is that all his assistants are rather clodhoppers, and would be sure to bungle a diplomatic affair like this; however, I was going to chance it with one to-morrow when I saw you, and said to myself: ‘Here is the very man!’ When Providence sends the right man I always recognize him. That is the whole secret of a successful life, don’t you know,—to be able to recognize the gifts Providence sends at the moment they are sent. Where most people go wrong, don’t you know, is by not appreciating the providential interposition until afterwards. You will put on a gardener’s smock, take a clumsy and unwieldy broom in your hand, and go to High Cliff School to sweep the walks, and that sort of thing, don’t you know. Then, as the girls are walking about, seize the psychological moment and tell Miss Edna I am waiting down here with the tandem. The young ladies are allowed to walk out three at a time. Two of them can sit back to back with us, and Edna will sit with me. Tell her to choose two friends whom she can trust, and we will all go for a jolly drive together. If she hesitates, tell her I am down here with her father’s permission, but don’t say that unless as a last resort. I would much rather have her come of her own accord, don’t you know.”

“What I fail to understand about your plan is why—if you really have Mr. Sartwell’s permission,—no, no, I’m not doubting your word,—I should have put it, as you have her father’s permission,—why do you not telegraph him, saying you are here, and get him to send a wire to the mistress of the school, asking her to allow Miss Sartwell to go with you for a drive, with a proper chaperon, of course?”

“My dear Langton——”

“Marsten, if you please.”

“Oh, yes, of course. My dear Marsten, what you suggest is delightfully simple, and is precisely what would present itself to the well-regulated mind, It would be the sane thing to do and would be so charmingly proper. But you see, Marsten, my boy, I understand a thing or two about women, which you may not yet have had experience enough to learn. I don’t want too much parental sanction about this affair, because a young girl delights in an innocent little escapade on her own account,—don’t you see what I mean? Of course, if the villain of the piece is baffled, he will ultimately appeal to the proper authority; but you know I have already seen a good deal of the young lady under the parental wing—if I may so state the fact; and although she is pleasant enough and all that, I don’t seem to be making as much progress with her as I would like, don’t you know. Now a little flavour of—well, you understand what I mean—thingumbob—you know—romance, and that sort of thing—is worth all the cut-and-dried ‘Bless-you-my-children’ in the market. You’ll know all about that, as you grow older, my boy.”

“Mr. Hope——”

“Look here, my boy, call me Barney. Few of my friends say ‘Mr. Hope,’ and when any one does say it, I always think he is referring to my father, who is at this moment giddily enjoying his precious self at Dresden, or thereabouts. You were about to——”

“I was about to say I would very much like to oblige you, but I have scruples about doing what you ask of me.”

“Marsten—you’ll forgive me, won’t you?—but I’m afraid you’re very much like the rest of the world. Fellows always want to oblige you, but they don’t want to do the particular obligement that you happen to want—if I make myself clear. If you want to borrow a fiver, they will do any mortal thing you wish but lend it. Now it happens that, so far from wanting a fiver, I’ll give you one—or a ten-pound note, for that matter—if you will do this, don’t you know.”

“Oh, if I did it at all, I wouldn’t take money for doing it.”

“But I don’t want a fellow to work for love, don’t you know. I don’t believe in that. If I sell a picture I want my money for it—yes, by Jove, I do!”

“If I did this, it would be entirely for love and for no other consideration. But I don’t think I would be acting fairly and honourably if I did it. I can’t explain to you why I think this; my whole wish is to do what you ask me, and yet I feel sure, if I were thoroughly honest, as I would like to be, I should at once say ‘No.’”

“My dear fellow, I honour your scruples; but I assure you they are misplaced in this instance. They are, really. Besides, I have your promise, and I’m going to hold you to it. It isn’t as though I were going to run away with the girl, and marry her against her own wish and the wishes of her combined relatives. If I wanted to see the girl against her father’s will—well, then there might be something to urge in opposition to my project; but I’m not,—and don’t you see that fact makes all the difference in the world? Of course you do. Why, a man ought to do anything for the girl he loves, and he’s a poltroon if he doesn’t. That’s why I’m taking all this trouble and staying in this town of the forlorn. If a girl doesn’t find you taking some little trouble in order to see her, why she is not going to think very much or often about you; take my word for that.”

“I believe you are right. I’ll go.”

“You’re a brick, Marsten! yes, my boy, a brick!” cried Barney, enthusiastically, slapping his comrade on the shoulder.

“A brick of very common clay, I’m afraid, Mr. Hope. I suppose you believe in the saying, ‘All’s fair in love’?”

“Of course I do, dear boy; it is the maxim on which I regulate my daily life.”

“Very well. I will not take a verbal message, for I may not have an opportunity to deliver it; besides, I might forget something, or give it a misleading twist. If you will write exactly what you want Miss Sartwell to know, and give it to me as a letter, I will deliver it if there is the slightest chance of my doing so.”

“Right you are, old man! Now come with me, and I’ll introduce you to the gardener person, and see if he has a blouse that will fit you.”