Part 26 (2/2)

Surely Rigby had spoken rightly; it were best for such a man no longer to c.u.mber the earth. And yet--that was not the only consideration. There was another. Two: Gracie and her mother.

The man had said that he feared solitude. Had spoken of his personal appearance with loathing. Had feared that no soul would wish to speak to him; that Drink was written on his face. Even allowing for exaggeration, there must be a basis of truth.

Was it wise to let him spend that voyage alone? Was it not possible to send with him a companion? One who would interest him; divert his thoughts; take him out of himself?

A companion to do this for her sake--for her child's sake. Why not himself? What was there in it after all? Not even self-sacrifice.

Masters felt that a voyage would do him good. That to stop in England just then, where he was, would stifle him. Let him go on to the broad ocean where he would be able to breathe.

His work he could take with him. Write as well, better, on the s.h.i.+p than in his own rooms. Why not? There was a soul to help to save! There was a woman to be made happy! A child to be taken out of the range of the pointed finger of shame! Why not?

If it were true, as the mother said, that he had saved the child's life, was it to be saved only that she should suffer misery thereafter?

Undeserved misery in all the future years? Should he not prevent that if he could?

Himself! Who better fitted? His heart and soul would be in the act. He would be working for those he loved! What a triumph if he could restore this man to her Well Enough To Marry. Why not?

Resolution: he would go. Yes, he would go on to the boat: it was the only way. The cab pa.s.sed a bill-poster's h.o.a.rding. A drama being played in London just then was: _The Only Way_. The mind of the man in the cab had run in keeping with the theatre announcement. He thought of Sidney Carton.

He would go! The hero of that _Tale of Two Cities_ was not the only man who had made sacrifices for the woman he loved; although his own sacrifice was hardly worth such a name. In his heart he wished it greater.

The thought trembled through his mind, result of the years of journalistic labour, that his cruise would serve in affording a supply of copy. He hated himself for the thought; it seemed to sully the purity of his motive, his love. He wanted to give to the woman he loved whole-souled service. Yet was weak enough to want an excuse.

Sidney Carton, when his good work was accomplished, died on the scaffold. When Masters had accomplished his good work--well, there would be time enough to think of that later.

Life was worth living just then: for her sake. It would have little value to him after; after its work was over. Then he would be content, wishful to rest.

The cab had reached Parliament Street. The fare's hand went through the roof trap; the driver reined up.

”There is a pa.s.senger--s.h.i.+p's pa.s.senger--agent's, somewhere round here,”

he called up to the bending-down driver, ”c.o.c.kspur Street, I think; do you know it?”

”So many about, sir. Might you happen to know the name, sir?”

”M'no. Yes! I have just remembered it: Sewell and Crowther.”

”Oh, yes; I know the place, sir. Do you want to drive there?”

”Please.”

”Right, sir.”

A few minutes later the cab stopped and he was alighting at the pa.s.senger agents' door. Entering, he said to the counter clerk:

”You are booking for _La Mascotte_, leaving for the Mediterranean, aren't you?”

”Yes, sir; we're the agents.”

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