IN that sudden strange finding of the truth there was no degradation for the girl; the degradation was for those who had deceived her. Even Mrs. Ewart-Crane—hard woman of the world that she was—seemed to understand that, and however contemptuous she might be for the amazing innocence of Bessie, she yet seemed to know it for innocence, nevertheless. With a shrug of the shoulders she was the first to make a move to leave the girl and Gilbert together for that explanation that seemed to be demanded; the others followed suit, a little sheepishly—Daniel Meggison and Quarle the last to go.

"For my part," said Daniel, looking round, and speaking with an air of great frankness, "I cannot for the life of me see what all the fuss is about. If a good fellow likes to perform a generous action—what's to prevent him? I hate all this over-squeamishness."

"The less you say the better for everyone," said Simon Quarle, elbowing him out of the way. "You and your precious son are responsible for all this trouble; and I've been a weak-kneed idiot not to have put a stop to your games long ago."

"You can leave the precious son out of it, mister," said Aubrey, looking back over his shoulder. "Whatever I've done doesn't concern anybody else; and what father's done has been on account of the family. You never having had a family ain't likely to understand what such a man's feelings may be."

Simon Quarle would have turned back at the last; but he saw that the girl was standing straight and quiet, with her hands clasped before her, staring out at the sea, and evidently waiting until she could speak to Gilbert Byfield alone. Gilbert, for his part, watched the girl furtively, wondering a little what she would say or what she would do.

"Bessie," he said at last gently—"have you nothing to say to me?"

She did not look at him; she strove hard to keep her voice steady. "How long will it take us to get back?" she asked.

"To get back?" He looked at her quickly.

"To England. Don't you see for yourself how utterly helpless I am?" she demanded passionately, with a note in her voice he had not heard before. "I am a prisoner here; I cannot stir hand or foot to get away from you. Put me on shore—anywhere—and I will walk, if necessary, to get back to London."

"This is rank madness!" he exclaimed. "For Heaven's sake, Bessie, be reasonable, and let us face the situation fairly and squarely. What harm have I done you?"

"What harm?" She faced him suddenly, with her hands clenched, and with eyes that yet had the tears in them blazing at him. "What harm? Don't you understand—or won't you understand—that in all my life no one has ever been able to say that I didn't fight my own way—for myself and others; no one has been able to say that even in my poor fashion I didn't hold up my head—proud to think that I had never looked to anyone for a shilling. And you—you of all men on earth—have been"—she turned away her head, with the swift colour mounting in her face—"you have kept me!"

"Bessie!"

"It's true!" she flashed at him. "You've lied to me in everything—fed me with smooth words, just as you've fed me and the others with food you paid for. The clothes I wear have been bought with your money—and I would rather stand naked before you than have to say it."

"I tell you you don't understand," he pleaded. "It was done for your sake—and for your sake only. I was rich—and I saw a chance to help you, a mere child, and to bring some light and joy into your life. It was nothing to me; and you had longed, naturally enough, for things far beyond your reach. I tell you I was glad to do it."

"I understand perfectly," she said, standing close to him, and looking at him fearlessly. "I was a toy—something that amused you—a child you were sorry for. You didn't see that behind the child was the woman, who could be shamed and outraged and hurt; you never thought of that. It pleased you to spend money—because money was nothing to you, and was the easiest thing you had to part with. And then, to crown it all—the bitterest blow of all—you lied to me, and told me that you loved me."

"Stop!" he cried hastily. "You're wrong there; I swear it. I did love you—and I do love you; you are more wonderful to me than any woman I have ever met. I've been a brute and a fool, and I haven't understood; but I understand now, and I love you a thousand times more than I ever did before. I've blundered on, not troubling about you, or what became of you; content only to let each day go on—happy in keeping you in ignorance. There are no words bad enough to paint what I've done; but what I said to you was true then when I said it, and is more than ever true now."

She laughed, and flung up her head with a little quick gesture. "I don't believe it," she said—"but even if it's true it happens that at least I can spare myself something—can keep some little shred of self-respect to cover me. I hate you; when I said that I loved you it was wrong, and it wasn't true. I never want to see you again; I never want to have anything to do with you again. Some day, when I've fought and striven a little, I'll be able to pay you back what I've had from you; I shall work for that through all the years that are coming to me—I shall think only of that. That's my last word, Mr. Byfield. Now, if you have any feeling left at all, you will go away, and will let me alone until you can put me on shore. I don't want to stay here longer than I can help," she added, her voice breaking a little—"because there are so many people on this yacht who know all about it, and must be laughing at me."

He saw the utter hopelessness of arguing the matter with her; he turned away. At the same time there was, naturally enough, in his mind a bitter feeling of resentment that the matter should have ended in this way; for after all it must be remembered that, even with that mad impulse which had started the business, the mad impulse had been a good one, and had only been thwarted by others. The man had done his best, however mistakenly, and he bitterly resented the very natural attitude the girl took up. He was chafing with futile rage at the position in which he found himself, and in which he had placed her, when her voice recalled him.

"Mr. Byfield—you have not told me how soon we can go back," she reminded him coldly. "Surely you understand that I have done with all this"—she gave a comprehensive sweep of her hands to indicate the yacht and all about it—"and that I want to get back to some such sort of Arcadia Street as that in which you found me."

He came slowly back to her; he looked at her steadily. "I'm not going back," he said. "You don't understand that, whatever I may have done, and however mistaken I may be, you're treating me very unfairly. I'll change nothing to which I've set my hand; I'll go back in my own good time. These other people came on board for their own purposes; I'll not be at the beck and call of anyone now that those purposes are finished. I've done everything for the best, and whether I have failed or not doesn't affect the matter. More than that, although you won't listen to me I love you, and I don't mean to give you up. It's you and I, Bessie, against the world, and against all these other people; you shan't go back to any Arcadia Street if I can help it."

"I'll find my own way back," she exclaimed passionately. "I have nothing further to do with you; you don't touch my life at all. You must take me back to England."

"I will not," he replied obstinately; and with those final words left her.

Strange as it may appear, for two whole days the situation remained unchanged. Gilbert held practically no communication with anyone on board, save with Bessie, to whom occasionally he sent a note by the discreet hands of Pringle. But though she read the notes, and though over the first of them at least she wavered a little, she never sent any reply, and the notes themselves, in fragments, were tossed overboard. But on the evening of the second day after that disclosure of the truth, Mr. Tant literally forced his way into the presence of Gilbert, and demanded to know what was going to happen.

"My dear Gilbert," he exclaimed—"I can really stand it no longer. Mrs. Ewart-Crane, fortunately for all of us (though Heaven forgive me for saying so) has been extremely ill again, or she would in all probability have demanded to see you; Enid, I regret to say, has merely become sulky. Don't think that I blame her for a moment; in her position anyone might be excused for doing the same. The other people do not concern me, and so I have not troubled about them; but I would merely observe that the elder Meggison appears to be making a frantic attempt to drink himself to death, thanks to the services of the obliging Pringle. Something's got to be done—and quickly."

"There is one person in command of this vessel, and of the situation," replied Gilbert. "That person is Miss Meggison; and when she deigns to look at the matter from the proper standpoint, and practically to take no notice of any of those persons who have forced their way on to the yacht, we shall know what we are going to do. I am perfectly comfortable, and unless Miss Meggison moves in the matter the situation must solve itself."

So Mr. Jordan Tant, shaking his head desolately, went off to find Bessie. As a matter of fact he was a little afraid of her, because of the extraordinary position that a girl of her origin had taken up; it was clearly against anything he had ever understood concerning people of her class. He approached her in the politest fashion, and pleaded with her to do something in the matter.

"I have been speaking to our friend Byfield, Miss Meggison," said Mr. Tant—"and I may be said to be a sort of reluctant ambassador. Personally I do not like the sea; there is not that stability about it that I require for my actual comfort; if you come to that, I think none of us here really like the sea; we should all like to go back safely to dry land. Now—what do you say?"

"I have already told Mr. Byfield that I want to go back to England," said Bessie.

"Excellent! I am sure that our friend Byfield does not really understand the situation. Perhaps you have not explained the matter clearly."

"I have explained it very clearly—but Mr. Byfield absolutely refuses to go back," said Bessie. "The matter is not in my hands, as you appear to think; I am a prisoner here just the same as you are. Here is my father; perhaps you had better speak to him about it."

"Personally I don't see that there's anything to discuss," said Daniel Meggison, airily stepping into the conversation. "Our good friend Byfield—owner of this charming yacht—prefers as an idle man to take a cruise on summer seas. I, as another idle man, am delighted to accompany him—and my daughter is included in the party. I confess there are certain people on board who have forced themselves, as it were, into the original scheme of things; but the vessel is a large one, and we may safely ignore them. Personally, I'm very comfortable, and I decline to question the motives of my friend Byfield in any way. Excellent fellow, Byfield—lavish with his money."

"You hear what my father says," said Bessie, with a little note of contempt in her voice. "Surely you can want nothing else. I don't count at all, you see; all the other people have to be reckoned with first."

Mr. Tant went away, but did not return to Gilbert. Instead he spent some hours in going about between Mrs. Ewart-Crane and Enid and Simon Quarle—putting questions to them, with his head very much on one side, and speaking always in a plaintive tone. Those questions resolved themselves simply into—What ought a fellow to do under certain exasperating circumstances?—Wouldn't it be better to appoint a committee, or something of that kind, to take charge of things? Failing to get any satisfaction from any quarter, Mr. Tant took his sorrows to the cheerful Pringle, who seemed to suggest that there was nothing very much to worry about.

"Bless you, sir—so long as you're in comfortable quarters I don't think it matters much, sir, whether you're afloat or whether you're ashore. You've got to pass the time somehow, and you may as well make the best of things as they happen along, sir. Nice vessel, sir—an' company nice and varied; some of 'em swears at you, an' some of 'em complains about things—an' nobody seems just at the moment to be absolutely wild with joy. But Lor', sir, anything might happen to cheer everybody up at a moment's notice. Anything I can do for you, sir?"

Mr. Tant went away, feeling more miserable than ever. Coming on deck, he found that it was growing dark, and that a soft uncomfortable rain was falling; the wind had dropped to nothing. He wondered despondently where they were, or for what port they were bound; he had not troubled to ask about such matters as that at all. Finally he went below, and curled himself up in a corner of the saloon, and went to sleep.

He was awakened from that sleep by a sudden violent shock that flung him full upon his face upon the carpet. He scrambled up, hearing above him a great noise of running feet, and the shouts of men, and once the agitated scream of a woman. He got the door of the saloon open, and went off along a corridor that seemed to slope in an unaccountable fashion in search of Mrs. Ewart-Crane's cabin. He met Enid at the door of it.

"What's the matter?" she asked. "Everything in the cabin seems to be upside down."

"I don't know," responded Mr. Tant, with his teeth chattering—"but I should say that we'd bumped into something."

Mr. Tant left her, and went along that corridor that sloped unpleasantly on his way to the deck. At the foot of the companion he collided with Pringle, who apologized, and beamed upon him as cheerfully as ever.

"Shouldn't be a bit surprised, sir, if we wasn't all goin' to the bottom," said Pringle, with a grin. "This way, sir; take my arm, sir."

They scrambled on deck in a pitchy darkness of fog and a blur of rain, to see dim figures moving swiftly about the deck, and to hear a voice above them crying orders. The deck sloped as much as the corridor had done, and at quite as unpleasant an angle; somewhere near at hand they heard Gilbert's voice speaking sharply to the captain.

"It means taking to the boats, sir," shouted the voice above. "Plenty of time, if things are done quietly; the men are all standing by. Better get your friends on deck, sir."

That suggestion was more easily made than carried out. Mrs. Stocker, for instance, was in a great state of hysteria, and was clinging to little Mr. Stocker, something to his suffocation. She insisted upon being taken on deck, and at the same time vigorously resisted every effort to get her there. Mr. Daniel Meggison wept, and wrung his hands, and bawled for life-belts; Aubrey, with all the bravado gone out of him, stood still, and plucked at his lips, and stared into the blackness of the night, terror-stricken. Mrs. Ewart-Crane and her daughter clung together; but Enid, to do her justice, was quite composed, and spoke sharply once to Mr. Tant when that gentleman demanded to know if anybody was ever going to do anything.

Simon Quarle found the hand he wanted in the darkness, and gripped it. "Well, Bessie—are you afraid?" he whispered.

"No—not afraid," she said steadily. "If only father would be quiet; we can't do any good by shouting."

"Life-belts!" bellowed Daniel Meggison. "Oh—my God!—are there no life-belts on this rotten old hulk? Life-belts!"

The yacht was settling down slowly but steadily; there was nothing for it but to take to the boats. Some provisions were put in—the men hurrying hither and thither, answering cheerfully to the orders given them, and standing in their places without disorder. The only confusion was among the passengers; when their boat was at last ready, Daniel and his son scuffled together feebly for a moment or two, even with blows, in an attempt to get into the boat first.

Now, just how it happened that in the confusion that boat went off with the passengers only in it—the Stockers and the Ewart-Cranes, the Meggisons and Quarle, and Tant and Gilbert—will never be known. At the last moment Gilbert called out to know if Pringle was there; and the cheery voice of the man answered him; and Pringle, following the voice, stepped into his place.

"Nice smooth sea, sir," said Pringle, as he took an oar.

The other boats were being manned; to the last, as they pulled away, they heard the steady voice of the captain calling orders. Gilbert and Pringle and Simon Quarle pulled steadily; the women were huddled in the stern, and one of them at least was whimpering. Gradually the night seemed to close in above them and about them; gradually it seemed that they were left more and more alone on the gently heaving sea. At last—minutes after, as it seemed—there was a sound of rending and tearing upon rocks—and then a splash of waters; then all was still.

"She's gone," said Gilbert, drawing a long breath.

They pulled slowly, waiting for the dawn; no one seemed inclined to speak. Daniel Meggison slumbered a little, murmuring in his sleep; Mrs. Julia Stocker also appeared to sleep, pillowing her head upon Mr. Stocker, who seemed to strive to make her as comfortable as he could. She murmured more than once of Clapham.

Gilbert strove to pierce the darkness to catch a glimpse of Bessie. He thought he knew where she sat—upright and slim and steady; he wondered of what she was thinking, out there in the darkness—remembered with a pang how far she was from that quiet Arcadia Street in which he had found her. Then gradually, from sheer exhaustion, he nodded a little himself, even while he kept his oar moving rhythmically. And the dawn grew at last in the sky, and shed its grey light upon them—that strange little company in an open boat upon the sea.

That little company woke gradually to the full meaning of their situation. Mrs. Stocker, shuddering, was absolutely certain that she "looked a fright"; Mr. Edward Stocker passed a sort of damp compliment to her concerning her appearance. Mrs. Ewart-Crane had withdrawn herself a little, with her daughter, from the commoner company; Enid might have been observed holding the hand of Jordan Tant. Daniel Meggison, for his part, more than once put the lives of them all in peril by standing up in the boat, holding on to the person nearest him, and declaring that he distinctly saw land; after such an exhibition he was usually hauled down unceremoniously by the coat-tails by his son.

"Got any notion where we are?" growled Simon Quarle over his shoulder to Gilbert.

"Not the slightest," replied Byfield in the same tone. "As a matter of fact, I didn't trouble very much about the direction we were taking during the past few days."

"Then we must hope for luck—and cheer up the women," said Quarle, bending to his oar again.

"It might help a bit, sir, if I was to serve out breakfast," said Pringle, looking back over his shoulder. "It isn't much, sir; but it might well be less. At the worst, it'll keep us going for a day or two, sir."

"Go ahead then—but be sparing," said Gilbert.

"Very good, sir," replied Pringle cheerfully; and proceeded to hand out miscellaneous provisions forthwith.

"I feel that I am a citizen of the world," said Daniel Meggison, biting a biscuit, and looking round upon his fellow-voyagers. "Anything might happen to me—anything may happen; but at least I shall have warmed both hands at the fire of life."

"That's about the only fire you ever will warm your hands at, Dad, I should think," retorted Aubrey. "Beastly chilly on the sea at this time of the morning." He flogged himself viciously with his arms as he spoke. "Besides, how anybody can be cheerful under these horrible circumstances licks me. Biscuits—and tinned things—and water!"

"Water is certainly a drawback, but I believe thirst is even worse," said Mr. Meggison.

"If Mr. Stocker and I were at home now we should at least be having a comfortable breakfast," said Mrs. Stocker, shivering. "I do hope that girl is looking after the house; ten chances to one she won't have dusted the place since last I set foot in it. I wonder what'll happen if we all go to the bottom of the sea? I wonder if she'll stop at the house, and hope for us to come back."

"Let us hope, on our own accounts, that we shall go back, my dear," said Mr. Stocker. "After all, we're not the worst off by any means," he added, lowering his voice. "Mr. Byfield, for instance—think what he's lost. All that great vessel gone to the bottom of the sea."

"Well, he ought to have had more sense than to go tearing over the ocean, and bumping into things in the dark the way he did," snapped Mrs. Stocker.

"I don't know whether you noticed, ma'am," said Daniel Meggison genially, as he turned to Mrs. Ewart-Crane, "that about a fortnight ago, in one of the Sunday papers, there was an account of a shipwrecked crew—provisions exhausted—who decided to draw lots as to which of them should be killed to provide sustenance for the remainder. It fell to the cook——"

"I do not read the Sunday papers, sir," said Mrs. Ewart-Crane, turning her back upon him.

"That's a pity," he retorted, nothing abashed. "They seemed to find the cook somewhat reluctant, but finally overcame his scruples, and were just deciding how best to dispose his person among the crew—to divide him up, in fact, ma'am—when there was a cry from one of the number that a vessel was in sight. So the cook escaped. Highly interesting narrative, ma'am."

"Even in the small compass of this boat, sir, you will find that it is more convenient to draw the line, if I may use the expression, between class and class," said Mr. Jordan Tant icily. "Because a lady is compelled to sit upon the same seat with you in a boat on the open sea is no reason why you should force your conversation upon her. It isn't done, sir."

"Confound your impudence!" exclaimed Daniel Meggison, starting to his feet. But Aubrey promptly pulled him down again, and he retired, muttering, into the depths of his large frock-coat, the collar of which he had turned up about his ears.

A mist had settled down again over the sea. They pulled on and on steadily, with no definite purpose in their minds as to what was to happen to them. But presently, amid a silence that had fallen upon them all (for even Daniel Meggison had given up conversation as hopeless under the circumstances), Gilbert leaned forward and spoke to Simon Quarle.

"I can hear the sound of waves breaking on rocks," he said. "I thought I heard it just now; but now I'm certain."

They rested upon their oars, and listened; the sound was unmistakable. Everyone sat up, and began to offer suggestions as to where they were, and what the land was likely to be; the three rowers settled again to their work. And now the sound grew louder and louder, until presently, jutting up out of the mist, was a grey shadow that was certainly land—a grey shadow that presently resolved itself into a sloping shore, with white crested waves breaking upon it. They pulled cautiously, looking for an opening; Daniel Meggison was with difficulty restrained from leaping to his feet and shouting.

"For my part, I do hope there'll be somebody that can speak the English language," said Mrs. Stocker. "Also I hope there won't be any unnecessary bumping when we do land. I remember when I was a girl at Brighton when we were run up on the beach in a very nice boat——"

The speech was cut short by the boat that moment taking ground gently; the three men sprang out, and began to haul it up on the sloping shore. One by one the cramped passengers were handed out over the seats; they stood on a desolate shore, without any sign of human habitation anywhere, and looked about them forlornly.

"Looks to me very much like an island, sir," said Pringle cheerfully.

"By all the rules of the game it certainly ought to be an island," said Daniel Meggison.