"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."