"You will understand, of course, Meggison, that I do this very willingly and very cheerfully—just as I might do something to help some poor child that could not help herself. For she is a child—isn't she?"
"A mere babe, sir, in the ways of the world—a toddler, who should never have left her mother's knee," replied Meggison sentimentally. "Had she been, of course, anything else I should never for an instant have consented to this." He was carefully folding the cheque as he spoke, and was making rapid calculations in his own mind.
"One other point, Meggison. It is possible that your daughter might suspect that I had had something to do with the matter; I believe she thinks that I am a little richer than the people she generally meets. Therefore to avoid that, I have made up my mind to go away for a week, so that she may not in any way connect me with what is being done. You seem to have told your tale well—rather too well, if anything—and she believes you; when you come back here you will find me perhaps in this place again, quite in the ordinary way. So far as money is concerned, you will find your credit good at Fiddler's Green, and my housekeeper will order what is necessary for you. More than that, I will keep in touch with you, and will let you have what other ready money you may want. But no more talk of fortunes, Meggison, if you please."
"Certainly not, Mr. Byfield, sir; that was an indiscretion. I shall have a month or six weeks in which to explain to Bessie that I cannot go on beyond a certain time; she will understand perfectly. As for your notion about going away—I applaud it, sir. Splendid notion!"
"I'm glad you approve," said Gilbert dryly. "I will write down here exactly what you're to do to get to the house, so that you may in your daughter's eyes appear to be already familiar with it; and you will understand that to all intents and purposes you will be master there so long as you are in it. No one will question your right to be there—and no one will interfere with you."
Thus it happened, in the little drama that was afterwards to be played out so strangely, that Gilbert Byfield, the better to preserve his secret, left his lodging, and went back into the more seemly world that knew him; while Daniel Meggison, knowing that the coast was clear, set his hand boldly to the work he had to do, and burnt what boats were left to him with a gay good will.
The cheque was cashed; and from that moment, with money in his pocket and apparently unlimited credit for the first time in his life, Mr. Daniel Meggison flung caution to the winds, and hurled himself with zest into the new life that was opening before him. Arcadia Street was shaken to its very foundations at finding that the Meggisons were leaving—that the Meggisons were arraying themselves in new clothing, that the Meggisons had turned their lodgers adrift, and that the Meggisons actually had money to spend. Arcadia Street heard rumours, and flung them further out into Islington, and even onward into Highbury and other districts. If you wanted a quick word for lucky or fortunate or anything of that sort, you simply said, "What price Meggison?" and clicked your tongue; and so became in a moment wonderfully expressive.
Bessie, for her part, had set about the business, if not exactly with caution, at least with some forethought. The respectable part of the furniture fetched a good price; a landlord who had long given up hope compromised matters, and went away congratulating himself on having got anything at all. Everyone suggested that the Meggisons might have behaved better, but that on the other hand they might have behaved worse. So that in the long run most people were satisfied; while quite a number suggested that, after all, if any luck was coming to Arcadia Street, Mr. Meggison—always quite the gentleman, mind you!—was the man who should properly have it.
There came that tumultuous moment when the bare and empty house was to be left, and when, with such personal luggage as they had contrived to cram into several very new trunks, they were about to set out on their way to Fiddler's Green. Aubrey Meggison, not desiring to be associated with so public a departure, had casually suggested that he would "turn up at the station"; Mr. Meggison had gone out hurriedly, with a promise to be back in a moment; the actual business of leaving was left to Bessie. The small servant Amelia had drifted away hopelessly back to that institution from which she had come, there to wait until such time as another situation should offer itself.
The cab was at the door, and the trunks were piled upon it; and Arcadia Street had turned out to see the great departure. All the children of Arcadia Street had long since seized upon points of vantage, and had taken up positions on the pavement, leaving only a narrow lane, down which Bessie must presently pass. The elders stood behind, and suggested with sighs what they would have done if by any chance Dame Fortune had swooped upon them. By all accounts, it seemed unanimously resolved that they would have made something of a "splash," though in what particular water they did not specify. And while they waited, Bessie had gone through the blank and empty house for a final look at it—and so out into that poor garden of her dreams.