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!"