The Cruise of the Make-Believes

CHAPTER VII

FAREWELL TO ARCADIA STREET

THE morning which followed that night of wild exaggerations found Mr. Daniel Meggison in a despairing mood. He knew that he had gone too far – understood that he had plunged not only himself but others into this new sea of deceit in which they must all struggle together, and from which only one hand – that of Mr. Gilbert Byfield – could drag them. In the calmer mood following upon a severe headache, and a petulant remembrance of certain absurd statements of the night before, Meggison saw that he must substantiate much of what had been said at the earliest possible opportunity. Bessie believed in him, and Bessie would require to be satisfied; if even that considerable sum of fifty pounds was to be wrung out of the matter, the game must be kept alive, for a few days at least.

In a sense, however, Bessie had taken the matter out of his hands. Her belief in him was so sublime and so fine that she had absolutely taken him at his word; and that morning the one or two lodgers who only paid when they were driven to it, and the one or two others who paid when by chance they had any money, had special interviews with a radiant girl in a shabby black frock, who told them with shining eyes that she was sorry to get rid of them, and that the bills did not matter. The house was to be given up; they were retiring to the country. So the lodgers went away puzzled, thereafter to make arrangements for other lodgings, where it was to be feared they might not find landladies who would deal with them so generously.

Two lodgers were difficult to deal with: poor Harry Dorricott for one, and Simon Quarle for another. It was hard to turn Harry out into the world – harder still to make him understand that in one night his divinity had been removed far out of his reach. He did not understand in the least; he pleaded that he might have the new address, so that in time to come he could forward his long overdue account. For the rest, she cut short as delicately as she could his farewells and his protestations.

It was not so easy to get rid of Mr. Simon Quarle. Mr. Simon Quarle usually breakfasted late, because there was no business which claimed him, as in the case of the others; and this morning Bessie came upon him with a newspaper propped up against the cruet, and with a fork busily going over a breakfast that had been already cut up for greater expedition in eating. He looked up at her quickly as she came into the room, and then frowningly resumed his breakfast and his newspaper; which was in a sense his habit.

"If you please, Mr. Quarle – if I might speak to you," she began.

"Which is exactly what you're doing, you know," he retorted, not unkindly.

"I thought I should like to know when it would be suitable to you to go, Mr. Quarle."

He laid down his fork very slowly, and looked up at her; picked up the fork again, and resumed his breakfast. "Don't talk nonsense, Bessie," he said.

"But, indeed, Mr. Quarle, I mean it," she urged. "The house is going to be sold up – and all the lodgers are going. Of course I'm very sorry – "

"And pray what's the execution for this time?" he demanded, laying down his fork finally with a sigh, and leaning back in his chair. "And how much is it?"

"You won't understand," she exclaimed, taking a seat at the further side of the table, and resting her chin on her folded hands, and smiling across at him. "You've been so very good to me always, Mr. Quarle, that I thought you'd be glad."

"Glad! Because once again you're in difficulties?"

"But we're not; it's quite the other way about," she exclaimed. "We're only getting rid of this place – and the lodgers – and you – because father has come into a lot of money, and is taking me down into the country."

"Your father has come into a lot of money?" The man burst into a laugh, and picked up his fork again. "Who's told him so?"

"Mr. Quarle – you are really most unkind," she said. "Father is much more clever than anyone has ever imagined; he has speculated and made money, while we have all thought that he has merely been living the life of a – a gentleman – and doing nothing. Ask him yourself if you're not sure."

"I will," said Quarle grimly.

"And will you please tell me when it will be convenient for you to go?" she asked again. "Oh, please don't think that I'm anxious to get rid of you; I'd like to keep you here for ever and ever; but of course I have to remember that things are so different – and that father and Aubrey must be considered. I'm sure you understand that."

Simon Quarle slowly laid down his fork for the last time, and pushed his plate away from him. "Come here," he said gruffly.

She got up, and came round the table, and stood close to him; he took one of the hands that was a little coarsened with work, and gently held it while he spoke to her; and his voice was altogether changed.

"When I came here first you were a bit of a girl in short frocks – shorter even than they are now – and I was sorry for you. I could have gone to other lodgings – "

"I'm glad you didn't, Mr. Quarle," she whispered.

"But I didn't. I came here because I liked the look of you, and I thought my bit of money might be useful. There was no woman in the world that was anything to me – and I had no chicks – no one who cared a button about me. I saw you grow up – and you didn't grow up half badly; and I suppose because I'm an old fool, I'm fond of you."

"I know," she said softly.

"Consequently, I don't want any tricks to be played, or any infernal nonsense to come into your life and to upset it. I'm not going to say anything about family matters, because I suppose after all a father's a father, no matter what color he is. Only I'm a business man, little Bessie, and we must know that everything is fair and square and straight. Do you understand?"

"Yes, of course I understand; only I think none of us quite know what father is capable of," she responded.

"There I agree with you," he retorted grimly. "And I'll talk about going when I've had a chance to inquire into the matter. Don't turn me out before it's necessary; it happens that I'm rather a lonely man."

"You'll be able to come down and see us as often as you like – to stay with us," she reminded him; but to that he made no answer.

That arch-plotter Daniel Meggison had been spending an anxious hour or two in search of his patron. Inquiry at the front of the house next door elicited the information that Mr. Gilbert Byfield was having his bath; the landlady a little contemptuous concerning a man who found it necessary to wash all over every day. An impromptu peep over the wall at the back was equally useless. The only occupation left to Daniel Meggison was to saunter about the house, and to carry things with a high hand, and yet with a failing courage.

His man might escape at any moment, and go out into that world outside Arcadia Street, and never come back. The people with whom hitherto Daniel had had dealings were in the habit of repudiating a promise at a day or even an hour's notice; it was quite on the cards that this young man would do the same. Daniel Meggison began to wish that he had in some fashion got the thing reduced to writing; more than that, he began to doubt the actual value of that asset on which he had counted – his daughter. Therefore Simon Quarle, coming upon him unexpectedly, and thrusting his head out at him in characteristic fashion, found the man in no mood for questions.

"It's all right," said Meggison, with a very distinct air of its being all wrong. "I have been lucky – fortunate; I have kept my eyes open."

"How much have you made?" demanded Quarle stolidly. "Always better to come to figures, you know."

"It doesn't concern you – and I am inclined to keep my particular figures to myself," snapped Daniel Meggison. "Suffice it that this system of living is ceasing; suffice it that I no longer find it necessary to depend for my income upon lodgers whose payments are not what they should be, and whose manners do not please me."

"Keep your temper, Meggison; there's nothing that should call for personal remarks. If you didn't like my manners you could have got rid of me years ago – always supposing, of course, that it suited me to go. Meantime, we're no nearer to this mysterious fortune – are we? Exactly in what particular investments were you so very lucky?"

"The investments were – were various," said Daniel Meggison, with a wave of the hand. "A little bit in this – and a little bit in that; it's taken quite a long time – but it's growing even now."

"Wonderful!" said Simon Quarle, nodding his head slowly. "Most remarkable. And so you sell up everything here – and you start for the country – eh? House cost much?"

"I have merely – merely rented it – hired it for a period," said Meggison.

"What I shall do with you," said Quarle, with a bullying shake of his head at him, "will be to keep my eye on you. You've been doing something mysterious – something you don't want talked about; I shall find out presently what it is. You never were any good, you know – and you never will be. Don't wave your arms about, and don't splutter at me; bluster is the last dog that will frighten me. So far as you're concerned I don't care a snap of the fingers – but I do care about the girl."

"Sir – you are not the only one who cares about the girl," retorted Daniel Meggison. "It is for her sake that I have done this; it is on her account alone that I propose burying myself in the country, and having what will probably prove a devilish dull time of it. I decline to answer any further questions; it is no affair of yours."

He went away again on that hunt for Byfield; with the creeping on of the hours his courage had fallen more and more. He had burnt his boats, in the sense that even his daughter now was ranged against him in that mad business of giving up what had, at the best and the worst, been a livelihood for them all. He had hoped that she would have been content to take her cue from him, and to march a little behind his stride; he was appalled, now that he came to look at the thing from a common-sense point of view, to see that she was bringing to bear upon this new situation the characteristic energy that had helped her in the old one. He had forced her to be self-reliant in the past; that self-reliance now might well prove the undoing of them all.

He was returning from a hurried visit to the Arcadia Arms when he met Gilbert Byfield in the street. He essayed a rather nervous "Good morning, Mr. Byfield, sir"; but it halted on his tongue as Byfield frowningly took him by the arm, and turned him round, and walked with him up the street. Without a word that young man conducted him to the door of that house in which he had taken a lodging; took him upstairs; and having got him into the room where the desk littered with papers stood, thrust him unceremoniously into a chair, and looked at him sternly over folded arms.

"Now, Mr. Daniel Meggison – let me know what the game is," said Gilbert.

"Game, Mr. Byfield, sir?" asked Daniel innocently. "I'm sure, so far as I'm concerned, there ain't any game; if I've been a bit playful in mentioning matters – a joke's a joke – and I – "

"There is no joke about this, Meggison," broke in Gilbert. "I want you to understand from the beginning that this is to be merely a holiday for the girl; whatever innocent lie you tell must not go beyond that. My cottage at Fiddler's Green is at your disposal for a few weeks; and that will be the end of it."

"Have I said different?" pleaded Daniel passionately. "A bit of money was what I've come into, and no more than that. I'll own that last night, Mr. Byfield, sir, I was excited – exhilarated – perhaps a little unduly happy. Mine has been a hard life, and if I may be said to have looked upon the rosy wine in a joyful moment, is that always to be thrown up in my face for ever after? Is there to be no charity extended to me?"

"Last night you led your daughter to believe that this was no mere matter of a little sudden money to provide her with a holiday – but something in the nature of a fortune, that should mean ease and contentment for the rest of her days."

"A playful exaggeration; she perfectly understands this morning," said Daniel. "She knows her poor old father; she will take the thing in the right spirit, and be grateful. I am a man of imagination, Mr. Byfield, sir; I can assure you that a very ordinary duck with me may quite easily and legitimately become a swan."

"Well – so that you have explained it, I suppose it's all right," said Byfield slowly. "Only for her sake you must be careful."

"Careful, Mr. Byfield, sir?" exclaimed Daniel fervently. "From this moment I will be more than discreet. I was careless last night – reckless – unpardonably reckless. It shall not occur again; I'm annoyed with myself."

"Well – we'll say no more about it," said Gilbert, a little sorry and ashamed that he should have been so hard on anyone so abject. "Get her away to Fiddler's Green as soon as possible; I'll arrange that the house shall be ready, and that servants shall be there to look after you. There's a housekeeper and others there, and they shall be instructed that for the time being you are master, and that they take their orders from you."

"That will be highly satisfactory," said Daniel, cheering up wonderfully at the thought of the new importance that was to be his. "But if you will pardon my suggesting such a thing – there is a little matter of ready money – "

"Oh, you shall have ready money," said Gilbert impatiently. "There will be certain things to be bought – certain expenses to be paid. I suggest that you should be at Fiddler's Green for the next month or six weeks. You will, I suppose, get someone to look after the place – your own house I mean – in your absence?"

"I can quite safely leave that to my daughter," said Daniel, with a sort of cold shudder going through him at the remembrance of what had already been done in regard to the house. "She will provide for everything, as she has always done. A most reliable good girl, Mr. Byfield, sir."

The little man was so quiet now, and so humble and grateful, that Gilbert had no hesitation in sitting down to write a cheque for a certain sum to meet initial expenses. In the very act of writing it he looked up, and spoke to the waiting Daniel Meggison; he was petulantly anxious that his own point of view should be understood.

"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.

The garden was stripped now; the box that had formed the ottoman was naked and broken; the whole place a wilderness. Yet, as she stood in it for a moment, she seemed to see it as it had been, and as it never would be again; looked with eyes that were bright with tears at the familiar shabby place.

"Good-bye – old garden!" she whispered. "You did your best for me – but you never had a real chance. Yet I have loved you as I shall never love any other place, however beautiful; because everything that was good and kind has happened to me here. Good-bye; I hope someone may love you half as well as I have done!"

So at last she fluttered out of the house, and into the cab, with a kindly word or two for those that pressed about her; and quite naturally, as it seemed, told the man to stop at the corner – at the Arcadia Arms. Someone raised a feeble cheer; and one man, beating time, amazingly started – "For he's a jolly good fellow"; then the cab rolled away, with the younger part of Arcadia Street trailing after it.

Outside the Arcadia Arms it waited, with the girl sitting quietly inside. It having been impressed upon Mr. Daniel Meggison inside that he was wanted, and that the time had come for farewells, he was presently prevailed upon to emerge. He appeared surrounded by friends, with a new silk hat, that had been rubbed in places the wrong way, upon the back of his head, and a large cigar with the band upon it in a corner of his mouth, and a little uncertain as to what to do with his legs. He shook hands with all and sundry, and murmured that he would never forget them; was helped into the cab by a dozen willing hands; and left to Arcadia Street the lasting remembrance that they had seen him, as the cab drove away, burst into tears.

Arcadia Street, having been shaken to its depths, spent what was left of the day in discussing the matter, and in talking about the Meggisons in general, and Mr. Daniel Meggison in particular. And quite late at night there were little knots of people gathered outside the empty house, still talking of the glory that had fallen upon those who had departed from it.

CHAPTER VIII

THE PRINCE CUTS THE KNOT

A DULL week in that civilization to which he obstinately refused to be accustomed brought Gilbert Byfield back again – naturally, as it seemed – to Arcadia Street. It had been a week spent practically between three points of a compass which represented Enid and her mother – the club – and his rooms. A fourth point, of a smaller sort, was represented by Mr. Jordan Tant, who hovered about him anxiously, and wondered without disguise why the man had ever come back at all.

Jordan Tant had made one or two remarks concerning the strange little shabby girl of Arcadia Street, but had found, something to his annoyance, that Gilbert appeared to take no interest whatever in that matter, and was quite indifferent to anything that might be said concerning it. Tant groaned in spirit at the thought that after all Gilbert had returned to the ways of the world to which he belonged, and that in due course Mr. Tant would be an interested spectator at some such place as St. George's, Hanover Square, what time Gilbert Byfield held the willing Enid by the hand.

Yet, as has been said, within a week Gilbert disappeared again – turning into Arcadia Street, appropriately dressed for it, late on a warm evening just as the lamps were being lighted. He had kept his rooms, paying for them some time in advance; he put his key in the lock, and opened the door, and went up. Lighting the gas in the shabby little place, he saw that everything was just as he had left it, and nodded slowly with satisfaction. While he was still looking about him, his landlady bustled in to give him welcome, and to ask if there was anything he required. He told her that there was nothing he wanted that night, and somewhat curtly dismissed her when he saw that she was on the point of beginning to relate some piece of news that was doubtless of tremendous interest to her, if not to him. She went away, and he was left alone.