The Cruise of the Make-Believes
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Pringle stood to watch him climbing over the bridge; shook his head over his departing figure with an expression of disgust. "It's a rum thing, when you come to think of it," murmured Pringle to himself – "it's a mighty rum thing that that sort of creature generally manages to get through the world, and to get some one else to keep it. I suppose the real reason is that it turns so nasty if it doesn't get what it calls its rights, that it becomes pleasanter for all parties just to pay it to keep quiet."
Bessie had gone, in her bewilderment and anxiety, at last to Gilbert; to him she presented that mystery which was no mystery at all. What did he think had become of her dear father?
Even then he held back from the truth; even then he evaded the only explanation possible. "My dear," he said gently, taking her hand, "I can only assure you that your father is well – and safe."
"Then you know where he is?" she demanded quickly.
"I can guess – and I can only tell you that it is at the moment a little secret. You must trust me, just as you have trusted me all through. You shall know everything to-day; and everything shall be set right to-day."
"Set right?" She looked at him in perplexity. "Is anything wrong?"
"Nothing," he assured her. "You shall know everything to-day, my darling; that at least I can promise you. And your father is well."
She plied him with questions, but he would not answer her. Truth to tell, he had not yet made up his mind what to do; he seemed to see her, in imagination, drifting again out of his life – refusing to receive any explanation that he could offer. He whispered of his love for her – of all that they might do together in some impossible future, when they should have been rescued from that place. She listened with only a vague understanding of what he said; doubts were in her mind already as to what was happening, and why it should be necessary to keep her in ignorance concerning her father. She loved Gilbert – she thought she understood him; but passionately she declared to herself that she had been tricked once, and she would not be tricked again. She strove hard to keep an open mind; strove to remind herself that what he did was done for her sake, and out of his love for her. But he had sworn to tell her the truth always, and to cheat her no more; and to that he must keep steadfastly. There must be no second path.
Meanwhile, a series of personally conducted tours were taking place, under the guidance of Pringle. To Pringle each party appeared – and to him each party appealed. Mrs. Stocker, leading the obedient Stocker, demanded to be shown the way; the obliging Pringle, feeling that here at last was a solution of the great difficulty, willingly conducted the pair round the rocks – and pointed the way. He watched them climbing where Aubrey had climbed but a little time before – incongruous-looking figures, facing the dawn and going back into the world. Also he carried in his mind, as a message not to be delivered, certain parting words spoken by Mrs. Stocker.
"You may tell your master," that lady had said at the last moment, "that I am not likely to forget the position in which he has placed a lady who has hitherto been able to hold up her head with the very best in the most select part of Clapham. I am not sure that my husband will not lay the matter before his solicitors, with a view to a claim for damages. Do you understand?"
"I will bear it in mind, ma'am," said Pringle humbly.
"I am given to understand that we are probably on the western coast of Ireland, which is much the same as being cast among savages," went on the lady. "In any case the return fare to Clapham Junction (the station nearest our home), to say nothing of garments to be purchased, will be considerable; a claim shall be duly posted to your master, and must be met forthwith. So far as moral damage is concerned, I will consult with my husband, as I have suggested, and Mr. Byfield will doubtless receive a communication in due course."
"Very good, ma'am," said Pringle. "Go straight across, ma'am, and keep to the road. Nice little village, and pleasant people. Good morning!"
Pringle was turning away, not troubling for once to conceal his laughter, when he was met by the second party, consisting of Mr. Jordan Tant, Mrs. Ewart-Crane, and Enid. Pringle straightened his face, and gave them at once a cheerful but respectful greeting.
"Good morning, sir," he said to Tant. "Are you taking a walk, sir?"
"We are leaving this place, if it is at all possible," broke in Mrs. Ewart-Crane. "You can no longer deceive us, my good man."
"Not for the world, ma'am," said Pringle. "In fact, if you hurry a bit, there's just a chance you may be able to get across before the tide turns. Nice village, sir, just over the bridge; cheerful people. This way, sir."
He watched them also disappear – splashing a little in the middle of the neck of land, and with some lifting of skirts on the part of the ladies. Then he got back just in time himself, and set about the preparation of breakfast, quite as though nothing unusual had happened.
"Everybody's late this morning," commented Simon Quarle, as he took his place by the fire, and nodded to Pringle. "Heard anything about Meggison?"
Pringle saw Bessie approaching, and merely shook his head. The girl greeted Simon quietly; her face was white and set, and she did not look round even when Gilbert approached. Gilbert seemed a little surprised to find that they were the only breakfasters; a gloomy silence had settled upon them all. Pringle was withdrawing as usual, to take his breakfast a little apart, when Gilbert called him back.
"Pringle – have you called the others?"
Pringle looked uncomfortable, and gazed down into the cup he was carrying. "Might I have a word with you, sir?" he asked, without raising his eyes.
"You can speak now; there's nothing to hide," said Gilbert, watching the girl.
"Well, sir – very early this morning the ladies and gentlemen made up their minds, sir, to go. It seems that everybody understood, sir – they'd found it out somehow or other, sir, and the delights of the island no longer attracted them. They've gone, sir, by the way you know."
"All of them?" Gilbert stared at the man incredulously.
"Every one of 'em, sir," replied the man. "First it was Mr. Aubrey – longing to see his father – and then it was Mr. and Mrs. Stocker – and then Mr. Tant and the other ladies."
"That will do, Pringle – thank you," said Gilbert; and the man walked a few paces away, and seated himself on the ground, and began his breakfast.
"Gone? Where the devil have they gone?" demanded Quarle, staring open-mouthed at Byfield. "I want to understand. Where could they go to?"
Gilbert turned to the girl; there could be no further delay.
"Bessie," he began gently – "you must understand that this place is not, as we thought, an island at all. At low tide it is connected with the mainland – and that mainland is, I believe, Ireland. Your father found that out, and was one of the first to go back into civilization; the others have discovered the secret, and have followed him. I did not know until – until a day or two ago that this place was not an island. I have been perfectly honest with you – up to that time."
She did not take her eyes from his face; a chill drop of doubt seemed to fall upon her heart, and to deaden it. She got to her feet and walked away; the two men, watching her, saw her suddenly stop, and drop her face in her hands. Gilbert sprang to his feet, and Simon Quarle scrambled up also.
"Bessie!" cried the younger man; and again as he got nearer to her – "Bessie!"
She turned swiftly, and dropped her hands at her sides, and faced him. "And all these people know now that the thing has been a cheat – a lie from the beginning. Just as we played at make-believe at your house at Fiddler's Green – just as we played at make-believe on the yacht – so we've played at make-believe here. Is that true?"
He took a step towards her, and laid his hands upon her shoulders; he felt her stiffen under his touch.
"Bessie – my dear, dear girl – it's true – but it wasn't my fault this time. I did indeed believe that we were cast away here; I hadn't the remotest notion of where we were at all. Then, when at last – only a few days ago, comparatively speaking – I found out that we could get back into civilization so easily, I determined that I would keep the game alive a little longer – "
"Ah! – the game – always the game!" she breathed tearfully, and dropped her head.
"And I did that because I loved you; and because I was afraid that you might stand before me as you're standing now, and refuse to believe what I told you. I wanted to keep you here a little longer – I wanted to see you cheerfully playing make-believe day after day; I didn't want you to go back into the world – the common ordinary world again."
"And now the game is ended," she said, looking up at him with eyes brimming with tears. "Take your hands away from me, Mr. Byfield, please; the game is ended. It has been a poor game from the first – and God help me! – I've lost every time. Take your hands away from me!"
He watched her go – standing miserably and helplessly looking after her. He dared not follow; he was afraid to think what she would do, or how this poor comedy that had so strangely developed into a tragedy was to end. Simon Quarle said nothing; he stood grimly muttering a little to himself; he seemed dazed by the sudden turn of events.
"An island – and not an island; and to think that I never for a moment suspected it," muttered Quarle. "And for me, at my time of life, to play at shipwrecks and Robinson Crusoe and the devil knows what! It's amazing!"
Strangely enough, Simon Quarle was to cut the knot on this occasion. He had sought out Pringle, and had got the real truth from him – understanding only too well that it would be necessary to wait until early morning if he would cross to the mainland. He was wandering disconsolately on the shore when Bessie approached him.
"Mr. Quarle – you were always my friend – weren't you?" she pleaded, looking quickly round about to see that they were not observed. "And you're going to help me?"
He nodded. "With my life, if necessary, my dear," he said, with an attempt at whimsicality. "What are you going to do?"
"The boat will take us across to the mainland; we need not wait another night here," she whispered hurriedly. "Dear good kind old friend – take me across – and set me free."
He nodded again, and turned away at once in the direction of the boat, she following. Together they shoved it into the water, and with sturdy strokes the man pulled round the rocks and in the direction of the mainland. As he helped her out, she suddenly bent, and put her arms about his neck, and kissed him.
"Good-bye, old friend," she said, a little brokenly – "I'm going to run away."
"You'll find the others all down in the village, I expect," he reminded her.
She shook her head, and smiled through her tears. "I'm not going to find the others; I couldn't bear to meet them," she replied. "I'm going to run away into the world – all alone. Good-bye!"
"Stop!" he exclaimed, "you can't go like that." But she waved her hand to him, and ran up towards the bridge; turned there for a moment to wave her hand again, and to blow a kiss in his direction. And then ran on out of his sight, and down into the world.
CHAPTER XIX
THE LAMPS ARE LIT IN ARCADIA STREET
ARCADIA STREET, on a warm July evening some twelve months after that surprising day when Mr. Daniel Meggison had waved farewell to the Arcadia Arms for ever, looked much the same as it had ever done. Even the children who played wonderfully with no toys on the pavement seemed to be the same that had followed a certain Mr. Jordan Tant, on the occasion of his first visit to the street; and there were the same loungers (or others very like them) propping up that institution so necessary to Arcadia Street and the immediate neighbourhood – the Arcadia Arms.
Even in the house where Bessie had once toiled and struggled and dreamt there was a card propped up against the window-frame, announcing that within were rooms to let; quite as though that particular house had been marked from the beginning for that particular purpose, and could not change. Only in these days the house did not wear quite that air of neatness that it had worn when Bessie Meggison had presided there.
It was growing late this July evening, and the dusk was falling, and softening the outlines of the ugly houses, when a four-wheeled cab, after a preliminary objection on the part of the horse to entering the street at all, turned into Arcadia Street, and jerked and bumped and rattled its way along, until it came to a standstill at the door of that particular house. As the then landlady of the house afterwards stated, "it put her all of a quiver" – cabs of any sort being rare indeed in Arcadia Street. On the top of the cab were a couple of old and shabby portmanteaus, and a small square wooden box; inside was another box, and a smaller bag, and a young man. The young man got out, and, pushing his way through the small knot of children that had gathered to watch the proceedings, knocked quickly at the door, and then stood waiting. The cabman knelt upon his seat, with a hand on the foremost of the portmanteaus, and waited also.
Mrs. Laws – the landlady in question – a stout and elderly woman with a chronic aversion to stairs – removed her eyes from the window of the front room, and crossed the room heavily, and went to open the door. When it was opened the young man nodded pleasantly, and indicated the card in the window.
"You have rooms to let?" he said. "I was walking through here yesterday, and saw the card, and thought the place might suit me."
"W'ich it's a sweet room, sir – or p'raps I should say two rooms – one hopenin' out of the other – and cheap at any price. On the second floor, sir – an' if you cared to walk in – "
"Thank you," said the young man. "I know the sort of rooms; I'll take them, if the price is all right. I can't afford very much – but I dare say we can arrange that."
It was arranged then and there – the landlady a little surprised at the suddenness with which the young man accepted an offer that was half a crown in advance of what the landlady would really have taken. The luggage was brought in, with the assistance of the cabman, who turned on each occasion as he got to the door with a box or a bag on his shoulder to shout sternly at the horse – "Whoa!" – as though that patient steed, apparently half asleep, had made up its mind to seize the opportunity to run away. Then the cabman was paid, and the cab was gone; and the young man, after declining to have any little thing cooked for him, was left in the shabby room to himself. He shut the door, and looked about him.
He was a tall young man, with broad shoulders, and he was rather shabbily dressed. He presently walked through into the back room, and looked out over those apologies for gardens common to Arcadia Street and other places; shrugged his shoulders, and sighed a little, and shook his head.
"Just the same as ever – nothing changed, and yet everything changed," he muttered. "All the spirit of Arcadia Street – all that peopled it and made it beautiful – is gone; there's no one left to look for Fairyland within its limits. Well – it's as good a place for a poor man to live in as any other; and after all there are certain memories that float about its grimy chimneys."
He was roused by a knock at the door of the other room. Believing it to be the anxious Mrs. Laws with another appeal to the new lodger to partake of food, he walked into that further room, and called out somewhat impatiently —
"Come in!"
The door opened, and a man came in; nodded grimly on seeing the young man, and closed the door again. A thick-set man, with head thrust well forward between his shoulders, and standing now with his hands clasped behind his back. A man called Simon Quarle.
"Well, Mr. Byfield – and what's brought you back here?" asked Quarle suspiciously. "I heard your voice on the stairs; also I happened to be looking out of the window when you drove up. I should have thought you had done with Arcadia Street long ago."
Gilbert Byfield laughed, and held out his hand. "Why treat me as an enemy still, Mr. Quarle?" he asked pleasantly. "I always rather liked you, and we've been through some curious adventures, one way and another. Won't you shake hands?"
"I will – when I know what new game's afoot," said Quarle. "As I told you once, you have no place in Arcadia Street; go back to your own world, and stop there."
Gilbert dropped on one knee beside a portmanteau, and began to unstrap it. "As a matter of fact," he said, "I think I have more right in Arcadia Street even than you have."
"How's that?" asked Quarle.
"Well, if I remember rightly, you have something of an income, even if it's a small one; I am under the impression that you retired from something or other, with just enough money to live upon."
"I did," said the other, with a nod. "I was thrifty in my young days, and I saved up the pence."
"Well, I wasn't thrifty in my young days, and I didn't save anything. Consequently" – Gilbert looked up at him with a whimsical smile – "I have now no money at all, except such as I may be able to earn. All my affairs have gone to smash, Mr. Quarle; I've come to Arcadia Street, because in the old days I found it cheap, when I was playing a certain game for the fun of the thing – and I may find it cheap now, when I am playing that game in solid sober earnest. Now do you understand?"
Mr. Simon Quarle leaned forward, and peered down at this new wonder. "You mean to tell me that you are no longer the rich Mr. Byfield we used to know? You mean to tell me that you have got to set to work to earn your living?" he asked.
"Yes – and with no particular qualifications for doing it," said Gilbert. "I'm not afraid, because I think that it's really the life for which I was fitted; idleness never really suited me. It's too long a story to tell, but my affairs got out of order during that time I disappeared from the world; and when I came back they went from bad to worse. I have nothing save what I may earn – and I rather think I want friends."
Mr. Simon Quarle stretched out a hand, and Byfield grasped it quickly. After a moment of silence the elder man asked – "And that is the only thing that has brought you back to Arcadia Street – eh?"
"That – and the memory of the best woman I ever met. I've had a long year to think about her since she ran away from me – to wonder about her. I've looked back over it all – and I've seen what I was, and what I did, and how I strove to make her something that should please myself only. I wanted a toy – someone to be good to, and help – someone who would look up at me, and say how good I was, and how kind I had been – and so forth. I didn't understand her then; I didn't know the value of what I was striving to bend or break in my own direction. I don't know where she is – I don't hope ever to have anything to do with her again; because if I met her she must carry that resentment in her heart for me always. But I'd give a good deal to call her back here, if only for an hour – just to tell her what I think about it all. I suppose you know nothing about her?"
"Am I likely to know anything?" snapped the other, in the old fashion. "I came back here because I liked the place, and because she had lived here; that's all. I can tell you about some of the others, and about what's happened to them, if you like; I've heard vague things from time to time."
"Do you think it likely that she has gone back to her father?" asked Gilbert eagerly. "Because if you know where he is I might be able – "
"Mr. Daniel Meggison has done rather well for himself – and I don't think he wants anything to do with his daughter," said Quarle, seating himself and folding his arms. "It appears that he wandered about a bit in Ireland, and finally drifted to Liverpool; and there he took up his quarters in a little public-house. The public-house was owned by a confiding widow – and Daniel Meggison was ever plausible. He married the widow, and settled down in some sort of comfort."
"Ungrateful brute!" exclaimed Gilbert. "And the son?"
"Cast off by his father, and unable to find his sister, he really did something for himself at last, in his own particular fashion. I think he does a little in the way of billiard-marking, and a little in the way of racing, and more still in the way of borrowing. He'll never starve, you may be sure of that. The Stockers got back in due course to Clapham, and have doubtless settled down into their own old way of life; that exhausts my list."
"You will be interested to know, perhaps," said Gilbert in his turn, "that Mr. Tant married Miss Ewart-Crane some months ago; I've seen very little of him, but I believe their extraordinary adventures on a desert island are already quite the talk in their own particular sphere. Pringle – most wonderful of servants – is no longer a servant of mine, but is, I believe, doing well for himself. When last I saw him he had got in touch with the captain and crew of the lost Blue Bird; they were all picked up."
Simon Quarle got to his feet, and stood for a moment thoughtfully scratching his chin. "I suppose," he said at last slowly, without looking at Byfield – "I suppose that if the child ever came into your life again you'd make the same muddles – and do the same foolish things you did before – wouldn't you? Don't frown; I'm an old man, and I was very fond of the girl. I only ask because one likes to know the point of view of other people. You're never likely to see her again, you know – so that you needn't answer if you don't want to."
"If I ever found her – and she ever forgave me – I should tell her simply and truly what I told her before – that I love her," said Gilbert. "If she'd let me I'd work for her with a better heart than I can ever work for myself only. Because I tell you," he finished simply – "there's no other woman like her in all the world."
"Amen to that!" said Quarle, moving to the door. "But you're a bit late; you're not likely to see her again, you know."
Simon Quarle, with a final nod, went out of the room, closing the door behind him. He went thoughtfully down to his own quarters, and for a long time paced about there, as though he had some problem in his mind difficult of solution. More than once he stopped in his restless walk, with his eyes upon the ground; more than once he shook his head, as though he felt that the way to solve the problem had not been found yet. And at last sat down in his shabby arm-chair, with his hands clasped on his knees, to think it out afresh.
The lamplighter had drifted in from the bigger world outside, and had lit the lamps in Arcadia Street – performing that duty in a casual perfunctory manner, as though it didn't matter very much whether Arcadia Street was lighted or not. The Arcadia Arms was doing a great trade, with its doors swinging and banging every minute or two, and the roar of the greater world outside Arcadia Street had not yet finished for the day. Out from that greater world there drifted into Arcadia Street a little figure that came with lagging feet – a little figure that had come into Arcadia Street many many times through the years that had once, as it seemed, been happily left behind. A shabbier figure even than of old, although as neat as ever; a white-faced girl, carrying bundles and parcels. She stopped at the door of that house that had so recently swallowed up a new lodger, and let herself in with a key.
"Sich goin's on since you went out," said Mrs. Laws, nodding her head solemnly at the girl. "Cabs arrivin' – an' things bein' took upstairs – bags an' boxes, an' bundles an' things; an' as nice a young man as ever I set my two eyes on – though shy. An' goodness knows in these 'ard times a extra lodger is a puffeck gift of Providence."
"I hope he won't be unreasonable," said the girl, with a little sigh. "Some of them have such a way of ringing bells for no particular reason – and one gets so tired sometimes. But I'm glad – for your sake, Mrs. Laws."
Simon Quarle had been on the look out; he bent over the stair head, and called in a hoarse whisper —
"Bessie! – Bessie!"
She looked up at him with a smile, and climbed the stairs; she thought, as she looked at him, that he seemed strangely excited. He held her hand for a moment as they stood together on the landing, and he patted it softly, and seemed almost (although that, of course, was absurd) to be chuckling. He drew her into his room, and closed the door.