"Back to Arcadia Street? It seems rather a tame ending, Mr. Byfield, sir," said the little man, with a shake of the head.
"It's the ending we'll adopt for the present," retorted the younger man. "And you understand, of course, that I must not appear in the matter; I shall be as greatly surprised as she will be to hear of what has happened. Remember always that she believes me to be almost as poor and as struggling as herself."
"It's all right up to a point," said Meggison, pursing up his lips and frowning; "what I don't like is the temporary nature of it. Come, sir—don't be cheese-paring; why not do the thing more handsomely—extend it a bit—eh?"
"All I intend to do is to give Bessie a short holiday at Fiddler's Green, and to bring her back to London restored to health," said Gilbert, with an air of finality.
"Well of course, Mr. Byfield, sir, you know best," Meggison said doubtfully. "In the meantime I will go and see my child, and will endeavour to act my part in that game of make-believe as becomes a father and a man. If by any chance you should be walking in the garden attached to this house a little later on, it might happen that Bessie would have some startling news to impart to you. Splendid notion—eh?"
With restored good humour Daniel Meggison set the old skull cap rakishly at one side of his head, and went downstairs, whistling softly to himself, and seeing before him a golden vision that was not soon to fade.
A visit to the Arcadia Arms gave him renewed confidence; through the glass he held he saw, by no means darkly, a rosy prospect wherein Gilbert Byfield continued from a mere matter of sentiment to supply the wants of Daniel Meggison, at least, for the rest of that gentleman's natural life. Daniel told himself, if not in so many words at least with so many nods and winks, that he would be a very limpet—sticking fast to his benefactor, and not to be shaken off. This young man had talked lightly of fifty pounds—had spoken of them, in fact, in much the same fashion in which Daniel Meggison might have spoken of fifty pence. Over a second glass Mr. Meggison said that this sort of thing should be encouraged; that men of sentiment were rare, and that for his dear daughter's sake at least the chance should be snatched at. With the draining of that glass Mr. Daniel Meggison had firmly persuaded himself that it was his solemn duty to sink his own personal feelings for the sake of his child, and to make war upon this young man. Not too steadily he went down Arcadia Street with that idea in his mind.
Bessie had recovered, and was leaning upon the sympathetic Amelia, inclined to laugh a little at this new weakness that had come upon her. Her brother Aubrey stood looking at her in some dismay, with his hands thrust in his pockets, and with the inevitable cigarette drooping from his lips; for this was a new and uncommon disaster, which threatened the source of his income. Not that he put it quite in that crude fashion, but rather that he saw his small world shaken to its foundations, and trembled a little in consequence.
Mr. Daniel Meggison was jocose. He wondered if by any chance Bessie (always his favourite child!) was strong enough to bear a shock—to hear news that might prove startling? Bessie a little faintly declared that she was quite well—was sorry, in fact, to have caused such trouble; she was ready for any news. Perhaps he had heard of a new and profitable lodger?
"To the devil with all lodgers!" exclaimed Mr. Meggison, with a sudden blustering violence. "We have done with lodgers for ever, my child; henceforth this particular Englishman's house is his castle—inviolate. Henceforth his child plays the lady, and takes that position in the world to which, as her father's child, she has a right."