The Cruise of the Make-Believes

CHAPTER XVI THE AMAZING PRINGLE "THEY STOOD HERE IN THE MOONLIGHT AND SILENCE." Page 253 "It is strange to think, sweetheart, how all the life we knew—the only life we seemed to understand—is left behind and forgotten," he whispered presently. "We were this and that in the world—and it was as if the great place could not go on without us; and in a moment we're swept away, and lost, and left stranded, high and dry out of all the hurly-burly of it. What is going to become of us I don't know—but even that doesn't matter." "Nothing matters at all; nothing will ever matter again," she whispered. "But oh, my dear love—I do pray you never to let me make-believe any more—always to let me understand exactly what is happening—exactly the truth. The poor game has been played out now to the bitter end; promise me that whatever the future may hold for us, my dear, we shall face it hand in hand, and without any pretence about it. Promise me that solemnly." He kissed her lips, and promised solemnly that in future she should always know the truth. They left the sea behind them, and went up together through the woods towards the hut that had been made for him by the industrious Pringle; it was a shorter way to her own sleeping place in the bigger hut. Quite near to the place where the unconscious Jordan Tant crouched inside his shelter and slumbered fitfully the pair halted for a moment, as a sudden thought occurred to Gilbert. "My darling Bessie—I want you to understand that I wouldn't have anything that has happened changed in the least," he said, in a low tone. "I could never have had you all to myself in any other place; foolish scruples and conventions would have crept in, and you would have run away from me, and I should have lost you in the big world. If someone came to me to-morrow, and told me that we could be rescued, and could go back to the commonplace world again, honestly I think that I would not be glad. If only we can manage to live somehow I want to stop here with you always." They went on down across the hill, and disappeared from sight. Within a few yards of where they had stopped Pringle raised himself on his elbow, wide awake, and stared after them. "That settles it!" he said to himself. "I was in two minds about it, after what I found out this mornin'; but if the guv'nor wants an island, an island he shall have. I was never in love myself—not to any great extent; but it's pretty to see it in others. Pringle, my boy, you are on an island, whatever Nature may say to the contrary; consequently, keep your mouth shut, and go to sleep." He dropped down again contentedly—chuckled once softly to himself—and slept. CHAPTER XVI THE AMAZING PRINGLE JUST so surely as had come about the division of the little company into its several parts, socially speaking—that necessary "drawing of the line" insisted upon in all things by Mr. Jordan Tant—so did it come about that the party he represented withdrew itself more and more from the rest of the islanders. It might have been thought that their common difficulties would have drawn them together; but the fact remains that the shabbier Mrs. Ewart-Crane and her daughter became the more urgent was it that their real position in the greater world should be firmly impressed upon those with whom they had been thrown in contact. Much tramping about over sand and rocks, and the necessity for sleeping on a bed of dry leaves and brushwood, to say nothing of a night journey in an open boat, had brought Mrs. Ewart-Crane's one dress to a condition of which a London charwoman would have been ashamed; while Enid was in no better plight. But although Mrs. Ewart-Crane was well aware that Mrs. Stocker was in the same lamentable condition, she resolutely declined to make common ground of complaint with her on that score; in other words, Mrs. Ewart-Crane wore her shabbiness with an air. The same condition of things ruled with the men. Mr. Jordan Tant had hitherto been a slave to nice detail concerning collars and ties, and neat shoes and socks; but those details, in his present case, were things to blush at. The neat suit he usually wore in the mornings, and in which he had taken that mad journey to the yacht, was creased and soiled and stained; his hat had been flung to the laughing waves by a wind more boisterous than discreet; and he had been compelled perforce to grow a beard, which he felt did not suit his type of face. True, there were improvements in the man, in the sense of an added colour in his cheeks, and more alert movements in his limbs; but such things he scorned. Mr. Daniel Meggison, in a moment of forgetfulness, had gone to his improvised couch with his silk hat on his head, and thereafter had grown careless in regard to its appearance; it had become a mere dilapidated head covering, with no dignity about it at all. Contact with thorns and brambles had made shipwreck of the immaculate frock-coat; his linen was non-apparent. In fact, to put the matter shortly, the little company had suffered from the fact that they had at the beginning but one suit of clothing apiece, and no means of replenishing it. The difficulty about food had been overcome by a sheer gift from Providence. There had come a night when they had sat about their fire, and when with discretion, and yet firmness, Gilbert Byfield had told them of the condition of the larder. The matter had to be broached somehow, because Aubrey Meggison had picked up his small portion of food from his tin plate disdainfully, and had muttered something about "stinginess." "I think the time has come," said Gilbert solemnly, "when we should understand clearly—all of us—the exact position. We have been remarkably careful with the few things we were able to bring away—but we have found nothing on the island——" "Beggin' your pardon, sir—except water," said Pringle, with deference. "I had forgotten the water," replied Gilbert, with a smile. "Our case would indeed have been hopeless had we not been fortunate enough to find the spring. But our tinned provisions have gone, and we have no means of replacing them; and even with the utmost care we have had to go on short rations for the last day or two. To-morrow's breakfast is provided; after that we face starvation." "Do you mean to suggest, my dear Gilbert, that we are to look at each other with the certain knowledge that we are to shrink day by day, with no hope of relief?" demanded Mrs. Ewart-Crane. "In the name of the ladies under my charge, I protest," said Mr. Jordan Tant. "It was not by our wish that we were brought to this place at all; it will certainly not be by our wish that we starve here. I enter a solemn protest against it." "I have been shuttle-cocked about from one place to another—despite my protests," said Daniel Meggison. "I make the common demand that each man has a right to make; I insist upon being fed. Look to it, someone, that the matter receives attention before to-morrow. My position in the world has hitherto been framed upon that common and ordinary basis; being in the world, I demand to be fed." "Seems to me that the real point is—what is generally done in these cases?" demanded Aubrey. "There must be a rule about these matters—a law, or something of that sort. I've read the newspapers pretty consistently since I've moved about the world; what's the exact procedure? I should like to say that my father—(with whom, mind you, I'm not going to say that I generally agree)—my father has voiced my opinion to what I might call a T. To put it simply: what happens?" "I should imagine, for my own part, that one member of our pleasant little party will be missing after to-morrow—and the rest will feed sumptuously," said Simon Quarle, with a perfectly serious face. Mrs. Ewart-Crane rose, and stretched out a hand for her daughter. "Enid," she said, in accents of considerable dignity—"I desire that we withdraw. There are certain questions which cannot be discussed in this public manner, if one has any desire to retain one's natural feelings of delicacy. And I should like to add," she went on, waving Mr. Tant to his feet with an imperious movement of her hand—"I should really like to add that in the event of any casting of lots, or any other such barbarous procedure, Mr. Tant will be our protector, and will not hesitate to sell his life dearly. Mr. Tant—Enid—let us go, before I feel called upon to express myself more strongly." Simon Quarle and Gilbert walked long upon the shore that night, talking earnestly. Gilbert was disposed to be hopeful; a ship might heave in sight at any moment—or all sorts of things might happen that then seemed improbable. Simon Quarle pointed out that no ship had yet been seen, and that nothing else was likely to happen; incidentally he mentioned the one course open to them. "We must launch the boat to-morrow, and start off in the hope of finding some other land near at hand," he said. "If those who go in the boat don't come back, then the others must starve, or find a way out for themselves; in any case there's nothing else to be done. Let's get to sleep, and forget our troubles for one night at least." After all, it was Pringle who was the direct agent of Providence. I would not have you think that in that respect Providence passed over better men; in all probability it was because Pringle had a habit of getting up early in the morning, and lighting that open-air fire, and generally preparing what food there was for the early meal. And in that way it came about that Pringle brought deliverance to the islanders in a quite miraculous fashion. Gilbert Byfield had not slept during that anxious night; in a sense he felt that, by reason of the mad impulse that had started him on that wild journey from Newhaven, he was responsible for the lives of those concerned with him in the venture. Dawn was breaking, with the promise of a perfect day to follow, when he stepped over the legs of the sleeping Jordan Tant, and went down the hill to find Simon Quarle. Simon was sleeping peacefully in his self-appointed quarters in the boat; he roused himself sleepily when Gilbert laid a hand on his shoulder. "Oh—you needn't remind me," he said, with a grim nod; "I've been dreaming that I was a starving loafer in the streets of London, and that all the workhouses and casual wards were shut. I believe we have breakfast—don't we?" "And a meagre one at that," replied Gilbert, sitting on the edge of the boat. "And after that a council of war, and a decision as to what is to be done." "You're not the only one that's awake early, my friend," said Simon Quarle, pointing in the direction of the north of the island. "Who's that coming in the distance?" "It looks like Pringle," said Gilbert—"and he's carrying something." They waited while the unconscious Pringle drew nearer. As a matter of fact he was staggering under a load poised upon his shoulders; as he came within hail of them it seemed that the load was a heavy square packing-case. Evidently he had not expected anyone to be awake at that hour; as he trudged through the sand he was humming a jaunty tune jerkily to himself as though to encourage himself in his efforts. Being hailed suddenly by the deep voice of Simon Quarle, he stopped, and stared, and then let the packing-case down plump into the sand. And it must be confessed that at that moment he wore a curiously guilty air. "Why—what have you got there, Pringle?" demanded Gilbert, advancing towards him. "Where did you get that from?" "This, sir," asked the innocent Pringle. "Oh—this, sir? Washed ashore, sir." "Washed ashore!" exclaimed Simon Quarle, looking at the case curiously. "Do you know what's in it?" "Not the least notion in the world, sir," said Pringle, sitting upon the case, and looking down at it between his legs. "Out for an early morning stroll, sir, there it was, knockin' about just on the shore; in fact while I was lookin' at it—stupid like, you'll understand, sir—the sea give it a shove, and pushed it up at my very feet. I shouldn't be surprised, sir, if it didn't hold food." "Do you think it's come from the yacht?" asked Gilbert. "I should think so, sir," said Pringle. "Now I come to think of it, sir, there was one or two cases on board the very identical of this. Food, sir, I should think—and perhaps other things. Washed ashore, sir—that's what this was." "It doesn't seem to have been knocked about much," said Gilbert, walking round it curiously. "It's a frail sort of case to have been tossing about in the sea for so long a time. I hope the contents are not damaged." "We'll hope not, sir," replied Pringle cheerfully, as he stooped to pick up the case. "Bit of luck I call this, sir," he added, as with the assistance of Simon Quarle he got it onto his shoulders. "Not that I'll promise anything about the contents, sir; it might be almost anything." "Where exactly did it come ashore?" demanded Quarle. "Just by the rocks, sir," said Pringle. "It was lucky, in a way, that I happened to be there, sir; what you might call a yard or two further on it would have missed the island altogether, and missed us. Great bit of luck, sir." The case, on being wrenched open, was found to contain a considerable quantity of tinned food, together with some that was not tinned, and that was remarkably fresh. There were tins of biscuits; there was tea and sugar and other things, as wonderful in that place as they were unexpected. Pringle, for his part, was very modest about it all; he described again and again to the wondering people who presently seated themselves about the fire exactly how the considerate sea had tossed the case at his very feet, and how he had picked it up. Mrs. Ewart-Crane, relieved from the fear that her life might be in danger, made some advances to Mrs. Stocker, and even consented to listen with gravity to an account by that lady of the difficulties of rearing chickens in the neighbourhood of Clapham; "there was something in the air," according to Mrs. Stocker. In a sense it may be said that among some of them at least a better feeling of comradeship sprang up. The fear of actual starvation was gone; the weather was superb, and they were all in excellent bodily health. It grew to be a sort of great picnic on the island, and those who had been at first inclined to grumble were now in a minority, and began to feel that for their own sakes they had best take what the gods sent them with an approach to smiling faces. Perhaps for the change Bessie Meggison was in a sense directly responsible; because that new happiness that had come to her had painted even this small and uncomfortable world in rosy colours. There grew to be a sort of competition among them as to who should discover the next bit of wreckage to be cast ashore. Mr. Meggison visited the neighbourhood of the rocks more than once, and peered frowningly out to sea; but he never discovered anything. Aubrey Meggison listlessly wandered round the shore—perhaps in the hope of finding something of actual use to himself; but he was as unsuccessful as his father. It came at last to this: that the only one of them all to do any real salvage work was Pringle. At intervals Pringle was able to bring to them the most astonishing things that had been washed ashore conveniently for his picking up. Strangely, too, the things he found were always useful. It was no mere matter of broken woodwork, such as might be expected to come from the wrecked yacht; again and again he discovered in the most miraculous way articles for which a wish had actually been expressed by some member of the community. Food tumbled upon the shore almost in abundance; and always food that was wanted. The various articles that had been in use on the yacht must have been curiously packed; for tinned foods actually arrived more than once accompanied by articles of clothing that were distinctly useful to the shipwrecked party. Thus it happened one day that some coarse strong flannel shirts were flung at the feet of Pringle in the early morning, and were distributed to the male members of the party soon afterwards. Gilbert examined one of them with a thoughtful frown, and then took Pringle aside. "I can't understand this, Pringle," he said, looking at the garment. "No, sir?" "No. I don't see how these things could have been on board the yacht; who could possibly have bought them." "You're forgettin' the crew, sir. Sailors ain't as delicate in their feelings as gentlemen, sir; take my word for it, I shouldn't be a bit surprised if they hadn't belonged somehow to the crew." So the shirts were accepted, and worn with gratitude; even Pringle admitted how astonishing it was that they should have been flung on to the island just when they were most wanted. Emboldened by his success, he smilingly predicted that he shouldn't be a bit surprised if something else equally useful turned up within a day or two; and sure enough a considerable quantity of cheap strong print, with a pleasing design of pink rosebuds upon it, arrived one morning, and was brought in triumph to the ladies. On this occasion it seemed that the box in which the material had been contained had burst upon the shore, and the wood had been carried out to sea. The print was a little damp in one place; but Pringle seemed to have been amazingly clever in snatching it out of the reach of the waves. The making of dresses for the ladies was left to a large extent to Bessie, with the assistance of Mrs. Stocker. Bessie—careful little soul!—had needles and cottons and a tiny pair of scissors and other necessary things in a little case in her pocket; and although Mrs. Ewart-Crane at first expressed herself strongly as to why print of a superior pattern had not been found for her daughter and herself, she ultimately accepted, even with some show of gratitude, the uniform provided for her. It was a curious sight at first to see them all arrayed alike; but that created some laughter, and was not in the end really resented. The packages arrived in no particular order; it was always possible that when they sat down to their open-air breakfast Pringle would have a surprise for them—or, on the other hand, it was possible that he would respectfully shake his head, as a sign that the sea had not been kindly disposed. Now and then some of the things flung up seemed to require some explanation; but Pringle always evaded any direct reference to them, and murmured something about being grateful to Providence. It was only when the new timber arrived, and was smilingly announced by Pringle as he handed round the tea, that Gilbert Byfield and Simon Quarle stared at the man, open-mouthed and wondering. "I can't quite understand it myself, sir," said Pringle, keeping his eyes fixed upon the cup he was holding. "Nice clean boards, sir—and all about the same length. Rather handy, I should think, sir, for building an extra shelter for the ladies." In a solemn silence Gilbert and Quarle walked down to the shore, with Pringle a step or two behind. There lay a pile of boards stacked neatly out of the reach of the sea; Pringle scratched his chin thoughtfully as he looked at them. "These haven't come from the yacht," said Gilbert. "There was no loose timber there." "No, sir,—of course not, sir," said Pringle. "Some unfortunate timber ship, I should think, sir. P'r'aps I ought to say, sir, that it didn't come all at once—just a board or two at a time. I didn't think anything of the first one; I only mentioned it this morning because I thought it might come in useful, sir. Such a lot of things have washed on shore that I haven't noticed very much about them." "It seems rather a pity that we haven't a hammer and nails," said Simon Quarle, after a pause. "Oh—didn't I tell you, sir?" Pringle looked round innocently at his master. "There was a few tools came in the last package, sir—and some nails and things. I dare say some building work might be managed, sir." "You certainly didn't mention it," said Gilbert, staring at him. "Very careless of me, sir," said Pringle. So a fresh hut was built, with trees for its main support; and into this Mrs. Ewart-Crane and her daughter were induced to go. Mrs. Ewart-Crane, indeed, seemed quite pleased with her new abode, and was almost on the point of giving herself airs again in regard to it. Simon Quarle also was induced at last to leave the boat, and to take up his quarters in the cave-like place vacated by the ladies; this he shared with Mr. Jordan Tant. The supplies that had so miraculously come to them had given them confidence, and they had practically ceased to think of the future, or of what it might hold for them, beyond that place to which they had been so strangely brought. Nor did those supplies cease; from time to time other packages arrived—always to be discovered by the industrious Pringle; so that in time the wonder of the thing ceased, and it never occurred to any one of them to ask from whence the things came, or how long the yacht was to take in breaking up and in delivering itself of the many useful things it evidently contained. The weeks went by, and it was altogether a very happy and contented little band of people, albeit queerly dressed. The inevitable discovery was made one morning quite early by Gilbert. The beauty of the morning had tempted him, and he had come out to taste the pure air, and to feel the warmth of the coming day. He found that Pringle, as usual, had been early astir; but he took no notice of that. Pringle was ever an early riser, and there was much to be done each day before the little company gathered round the fire for breakfast. Gilbert strode away down the hill until he came to the eastern shore of the island; waited there a moment, as though undecided in which direction to turn. Then suddenly he became aware of a figure marching steadily towards the rocks at the north of the island; and, gazing more intently, discovered that figure to be Pringle, moving steadily and as though with a set purpose. "What's the fellow up to now?" Gilbert asked himself, inwardly amused. He decided to follow; and, keeping a safe distance between his servant and himself, presently saw that servant come to the great line of rocks which bounded the island to the north. But strangely enough Pringle did not stop there; in the mist of the morning he stepped as it seemed straight out into the sea, and disappeared. Greatly amazed, Gilbert broke into a run, and did not stop until he had come to the very edge of the rocks where, as he had seen them before, they jutted into the sea. But now there was a clean, clear stretch of sand round the base of them, and it was along this stretch of sand that Pringle had gone. Without a moment's hesitation Gilbert Byfield ran round the high wall of rock—and so stepped at once into the heart of the mystery. Pringle was hurrying ahead of him—not into a watery grave, but straight along a little spit of land that had been left dry by the receding tide. As in a dream, Byfield followed; and presently found himself climbing a path on to another land, and seeing before him as he went evidences of civilization, in the shape of cultivated fields, and decent stone walls and gates. And still Pringle went ahead, looking neither to right nor left nor backwards. It was only when Gilbert had topped the rise, and had come to a little old-fashioned bridge, that he stopped and let Pringle go ahead, and looked about him. Below lay a prosperous-looking little village, with already early morning smoke rising from many chimneys; about him in all directions were cultivated fields. He seated himself on the parapet of the bridge, and watched the hurrying figure of Pringle dipping down into civilization; and then all in a moment he understood for the first time the fraud that had been practised upon him. To his credit be it said he sat upon the bridge, looking after Pringle (now a mere dot upon the landscape), and shouted with laughter. He sat there for a long time, until presently the black dot appeared again out of the intricacies of the village, and began to climb the hill. When presently Pringle reappeared, he bore upon his shoulders yet another of those mysterious packages with which he had so thoughtfully provided the islanders. Toiling up the hill, singing cheerfully to himself, he stopped only when the long shadow of Gilbert fell across his path; paused for a moment to look at this surprising stranger watching him; and dropped his burden in the dust of the road. "Morning, sir," said Pringle, a little nervously. And then, looking at the packing-case that lay between them, he added more nervously still, and yet with a dawning smile about his lips—"Washed ashore, sir!" CHAPTER XVII EXPLANATIONS DURING the time he had awaited the return of Pringle, Gilbert Byfield had been able to look the position clearly in the face, and to understand exactly how he was situated. Bessie alone had to be considered; her opinion of the situation was the one thing to be thought of then. After that first burst of laughter the real tragedy faced him, and was not to be lightly thrust aside. For when this was discovered, as it must be—when this amazing fraud was laid bare—she would see once again that the man who professed to love her had treated her as a child, and had played again that amazing game of make-believe. So much she must believe; for it would never be credited that Pringle had acted on his own responsibility, and that his master had been innocent. Once again the girl must be held up to ridicule; once again it must be shown that she had been playing with life, just as she had played with it, outside the sordid details of ordinary existence, in the old garden in Arcadia Street. The island was no island at all; but for some extraordinary circumstance, yet to be discovered, the little party must have been rescued a dozen times over. The comforts of civilization had lain within a mile of them ; yet they had dealt out food sparingly, and had been tricked by a servant into believing that a special Providence had watched over them, and had provided them miraculously with things the man had actually purchased. "How long has this game been going on, Pringle?" asked Gilbert at last, looking down at the man, who had seated himself upon the packing-case in the road. "Quite a long time, sir," said Pringle, recovering his cheerfulness a little. "I've done my best, sir." "Your best?" exclaimed Gilbert. "Don't you understand the position in which you have placed me; don't you understand that they've all been cheated and fooled—and that they'll believe it's my fault. What induced you to play such a game?" Pringle looked really aggrieved. "It was my wish, sir, to please you," he said. "In a wakeful moment, sir, I happened to overhear you say something to the young lady about liking the idea of this being an island—I mean that place over there, sir—and you being cut off romantic-like with her, with nobody to interfere, sir. I'd only found out a little while before that at a certain state of the tide you could cut across to the mainland; and as everybody was so comfortable and happy, it seemed to me that it wasn't at all a bad idea to keep the game alive, sir, when that game was so easy played. I had money with me, sir, part of which I'd used for stocking the yacht and paying wages, so there wasn't no difficulty." "Have you any idea where we are, or what that village is?" asked Gilbert, after a gloomy pause. "I haven't made any exact inquiries, sir—but from the tongue and from general appearances I believe we're on a remote part of the western coast of Ireland. Nice people, sir—but a bit superstitious." "Superstitious? What do you mean?" asked Byfield. "Well, sir—luckily for us, they're a little bit afraid of that bit of land we've called an island; there's a sort of feeling among them that it's haunted, sir." "Haunted?" "Yes, sir. It seems that there was a man who had a big house here who went a bit off his head, sir; and one day, when the tide was low, he slipped across to that bit of land, and had a look at it. He liked it, sir—and he liked the loneliness; so he got them to bring timber and so on out to him, and build him that shed that we first found on the day of our arrival. After that, sir," went on Pringle, "he liked it so much that he lived there altogether; cooked his own food, sir, and made a sort of hermit of himself. And then one day took it into his head to die, sir." "Not a word of this to the ladies, mind," said Gilbert hastily. "Not for the world, sir," responded Pringle solemnly. "It seems, sir, that somebody came out to him, to bring food or something or other, and found that he'd passed away, sir; and ever since then there's been a feeling that his ghost is knocking about, sir—unquiet like. Consequently no one comes to the place—which is a bit fortunate for us, sir." "I'm glad you think it's fortunate, Pringle," retorted Gilbert. "And pray what explanation have you given of your purchases, and your surreptitious visits to the village?" Pringle got up from the box, and passed a hand slowly across his mouth; it was as though with that action he wiped away a smile that would not have been becoming to the situation. "Well, sir, you see, I found it a bit difficult at first, sir; the natives were what you might call a bit avaricious, and had a fancy for running over to the island, and selling things that they didn't actually want to keep themselves. So havin' discovered, sir, about the last tenant, I was careful to spread it about that you was another one of the same kidney, sir; and I never said a word about anybody else bein' there at all. I hope you'll excuse the liberty, sir—but something had to be done under the circumstances. As a matter of fact, sir, of course they were only too willin' to be quiet, because I've been rather a good customer to the village, one way and another, sir." The sheer absurdity of the thing was borne in again upon Gilbert Byfield. From where he sat he could see the path leading down the narrow strip of sand; beyond that the great wall of rock—and beyond that (in his imagination, at least) the little company who had been playing, all unconsciously, that game of privation and starvation for weeks past. He thought of how the business had begun—far away in Arcadia Street; of that mad race to the yacht; of this madder business on an island that had never been an island at all. He thought of the outrageous costumes carefully made from comic-opera material supplied by the resourceful Pringle: and he told himself bitterly enough that the one being for whom it had all been done, and for whom the sorry business had been kept up, would believe less than ever that the man had not planned it all himself in sheer mockery of her. The voice of Pringle recalled him to a remembrance of where he was. "Excuse me, sir—but we shan't get back if we don't look quick, sir. The tide's coming up fast." Gilbert set off at once, and Pringle, shouldering the box, followed him. As they came to the narrow strip of land, Gilbert turned to the man, and voiced for a moment what was in his mind. "For the present you will say nothing, Pringle," he suggested. "Very good, sir," replied the man. "When the time comes for the truth to be told, I'll tell it," went on Gilbert. "You've landed me into rather a difficulty, Pringle; such a lot of explanations will be necessary—explanations that will not be believed. For the next few days, at all events, our necessaries will come to us in the same romantic fashion as before—and not from the village shops." "I quite understand, sir," said Pringle. "And if you don't hurry up, sir, we shall have to wade." They just got round the corner of the line of rocks in time; the sea was within a foot or two of their base, and was rapidly rising. In due course Pringle appeared with the news that was no longer surprising; that another box had been washed ashore. There being in it nothing more exciting than provisions, the discovery passed almost without comment. Now the sea fell only in the very early morning, leaving that neck of land exposed; and fortunately for Gilbert's scheme the islanders were not early risers. Pringle, who had kept the secret so well, would keep it even better for the future; Gilbert had nothing to fear from him. Nothing short of an accident could betray the fact that they were so near to civilization, and an accident of that sort was not likely to happen. The splendid summer weather and the open-air life and the freedom from anxiety and world-worry had had a soothing effect upon them all; they accepted all that came to them with the blind confidence of children, and appeared almost to have forgotten that they had ever led any other lives. But the accident came, and the secret was surprised by the most unexpected person of them all. Gilbert had retired to his hut one night, when he thought he heard a movement outside it; and, knowing that Pringle was still busily occupied with domestic arrangements over the remains of the fire, he went out to see who was stirring at that hour. Somewhat to his surprise he saw Mr. Edward Stocker in the moonlight, smiling apologetically, and bowing with ceremony. "Is anything the matter?" asked Gilbert. "Nothing at all, sir," said Mr. Stocker in a whisper. "Only I rather wanted to have a word with you—in private—if you wouldn't mind sparing me five minutes. Might I come in?" "By all means," said Gilbert, wondering what the little man wanted. "Sorry I can't offer you a seat—but the ground's dry, and I'm used to it myself." "Nice little place," said Stocker, looking round it, and then lowering himself to the ground. "For my part, sir, I often feel that in a way this is really very much superior to Clapham. No one to call after you from the front door when you're going out that you haven't got your gloves on, or that you've got one trouser leg turned up and the other down (not that I would wish to express any disrespect to Mrs. Stocker for a moment; the very best of wives, sir). And then again you don't have to take a cheap return to the seaside; you've got it on the premises, as it were. Of course, you don't get the niggers, or little entertainments of that kind; but, after all, niggers ain't everything." "You had something rather important to say to me," Gilbert reminded him. Mr. Stocker put a finger to his lips, and appeared to be listening intently; nodded his head with relief after a moment or so; and motioned to Byfield to sit down beside him. Then suddenly and unexpectedly, and with a note of triumph in his tones, he made a dramatic announcement— "Sir—it's not an island at all!" All sorts of wild suggestions flitted through Byfield's brain. There was of course the possibility that Pringle, after all, had betrayed the secret; there was the further possibility that Mr. Edward Stocker, in some early morning excursion, had discovered it for himself. Quite mechanically, Gilbert returned an evasive answer. "I'm afraid I don't understand you," he said. "What makes you say the place isn't an island?" Mr. Stocker ventured to lay a hand on the other's arm; in his excitement he raised his voice a little. "This morning I went for a walk round the island, and it occurred to me that I would like to climb the rocks at the further end—partly by way of a little pleasing exercise, and partly because I thought that if I gained the top I should be able to see much farther than I should while down below. With considerable difficulty I gained the top, grazing myself a good deal in the process. There was only a narrow ledge to which I could cling, but the air was clear, and the view very fine. I repeat, sir," he added impressively—"the view was very fine." "Of a wide expanse of sea?" asked Gilbert. "No, sir; of a certain expanse of sea, and, quite near to me—land—and civilized land at that. I distinctly saw the roofs of houses, with smoke coming from them; I saw a bridge—and I saw many other things to indicate that we are quite close to a sort of civilization, however primitive. There was a little strip of land that was almost covered by water; but as the tide was rising I should imagine that that strip of land is not covered at all at low water." Gilbert was silent for what seemed a long time; then out of the darkness of the little hut he spoke. "Well—I suppose you've told everybody about it?" he said. "Oh, dear, no," replied Mr. Stocker, with what seemed to be a little chuckle. "I haven't said a word all day about it; I've been waiting until I could catch you alone, and tell you about it." "I knew it some days ago," said Gilbert calmly. "But I had my own reasons for saying nothing. Now I am in your hands, and you have a perfect right to tell anyone you like—to let the whole company walk ashore, in fact, with the least possible delay." "Well, you see, sir—that's just my difficulty," said Edward Stocker gravely. "Of course I know that everybody ought to be told—and everybody ought to go back to their own particular walk in life, after having had a rather good little holiday. But you see, sir, it means that Mrs. Stocker and me would go straight back to Clapham, where I've no doubt the girl (if she thinks we're still alive) has been using my credit to live upon, and has been keeping the little house properly and respectably. It's a nice house, as houses go—hot and cold water, and a bit of garden back and front, and so forth; but after all it is a house." "And doubtless you will be glad to go back to it," said Gilbert. "Not exactly, sir—quite between ourselves, of course. You see, Mrs. Stocker and me, while rubbing along in a manner of speaking from the first of January until the end of the year pretty tolerably, might sometimes hit it off a good deal better together than what we do; that is to say, in Clapham. Now here, sir, on the contrary, we've done rather well; Mrs. Stocker has developed no edges to speak of—and the island is a bit larger than my little bit of property at Clapham, even with the front and back garden thrown in. In other words, sir"—Edward Stocker lowered his voice to a mere whisper—"in other words, I'm able to dodge Mrs. S. rather easily here—and I've had a better time than I've ever had in all my life before. Consequently, sir, if you was to say to me at the present moment—'Edward Stocker—be mum about it, and forget that you ever saw that bit of civilization beyond the rocks'—I should be the first to take you by the hand, sir, (the liberty being excused) and to say to you, sir—'Righto!'" "Then that is exactly what I want you to do," said Gilbert. "For a little time, at least, until I know what is going to happen to us all, I want everybody to believe that we are stranded here, save for a miracle, for the rest of our lives. Go back to bed, Mr. Stocker, and sleep peacefully; unless you tell other people yourself, they will never hear it from me." "I'm sure I'm very much obliged, sir," said Mr. Stocker, getting to his feet. "After all, sir, if the winter comes on, or we get tired of it, we can always find out quite by accident that there's a road by which Mrs. Stocker and me can start off for Clapham; let's hope it won't be soon, sir. Good night; I'm very much obliged to you." Gilbert was still laughing to himself over the extraordinary reason given by Stocker for a further sojourn on the island when the apology for a curtain which covered the doorway of the hut was pulled aside, and he saw Jordan Tant looking down at him. After a moment of silence Tant came in, and stood leaning against a tree which formed one of the supports of the hut, staring moodily at Gilbert over his folded arms. In these days it was a sturdier, healthier-looking Mr. Tant, and his fair beard and moustache rather suited him. "I like always to be strictly honest, Byfield," he began abruptly, "and therefore I begin at once by saying that I have been playing the eavesdropper. It was accidental; because I heard voices just as I got up to the hut, and then I was so interested that I didn't seem to be able to tear myself away. You have every right to speak strongly about the matter, but I beg that you will refrain until you have heard me." "How much did you hear?" asked Gilbert, feeling that now indeed the game was ended, and that he was at the mercy of this chatterer. "Practically everything," replied Jordan Tant. "The first I heard was the surprising announcement by the man Stocker that this place was not an island—a statement afterwards corroborated by yourself. So far as that is concerned, I may be said to resemble the man Stocker, because I too have to make an appeal to you." "An appeal?" Mr. Tant nodded slowly. "It is one to which I would ask you to lend a generous ear, because it is one which affects not only myself but another person also. I refer of course to Enid—and I refer to her with the utmost delicacy. That young lady has been placed in a most equivocal position; she has been compelled to dress in garments totally unsuited to her position in the world; she has been compelled to live in caves and in rude constructions of timber. Consequently, whatever is done in regard to that young lady must be done with the utmost delicacy. Surely you see that?" Mr. Tant put his head on one side, and thoughtfully pulled at his new beard. "I see it from the lady's point of view, of course," replied Gilbert. "But I don't quite see where the appeal comes in, so far as you're concerned." "I will explain," said Jordan Tant eagerly. "You must know that when I was in London Enid looked coldly upon me—probably because I really did not shine in a civilized place. There was nothing romantic about me then; you were the one to whom she turned, naturally, because you did things rather out of the common. Since we have been in this place, however, she seems to have discovered in me qualities which had before lain dormant. She has hinted as much more than once, when we have been sitting in front of her rude dwelling-place at night. I will not say that the moon has had nothing to do with it; nevertheless, the fact remains that she is much more partial to me—I mean, of course, Enid, and not the moon—since we have been in this place. Perhaps my dog-like fidelity in keeping guard over her sleeping-place has touched her; at all events, she has given a promise that she will consider my claims, and will in all probability consider them favourably." "I'm delighted to hear it, my dear fellow," Gilbert replied. "But what appeal have you to make to me?" "Not to let her know that this place is not really an island, and that she can escape at any moment," urged Jordan Tant. "Here, my dear Byfield, I am a person of importance—a man to be leant upon, and to be trusted in an emergency; she leans upon, and she trusts me. Take me back to London, and I become at once a well-dressed atom that rides in cabs and takes afternoon tea; there would be nothing heroic about me there at all." "But, my dear Tant—you can't remain here for ever," said Gilbert. "I do not ask to remain here for ever," retorted Jordan Tant. "I ask to be allowed to remain here—keeping Enid in ignorance—until such time as she shall have promised to share what she believes to be an everlasting exile with me. She is a woman of her word, and once she promises to love me I can safely pass beyond the barrier of rocks, reach the mainland, and marry her with due propriety. If she were to discover now that in a sense she has been cheated, she would believe that I had been guilty of the deception. In other words, my dear Byfield, I am very near to winning her, in my present bold, bearded, and badly-dressed character; and it is the only real chance I have ever had." "Very well, Tant—I am already pledged not to reveal the secret—so you can proceed with your wooing as long as you like. And I wish you luck." Mr. Jordan Tant felt for the other's hand in the darkness, and wrung it hard. "It's the real romance of the thing that touches her," he said solemnly. "The shipwreck—and the stores washed ashore—and the camp fire at night—and so forth. When we do get back to London it'll be so very nice, because we shall have quite enough to talk about for the rest of our lives. Think of the difference: in the old days I was not considered brilliant at all at dinner parties and so forth; now I shall be able to tell of how we nearly cast lots to decide which of us should be eaten." "I'm glad it never came to that," said Gilbert, with a laugh. "I may tell you in confidence, my dear Byfield," said Tant, coming nearer to him for a moment in the darkness—"in the strictest confidence, of course, that Enid has already assured me that had the lot fallen upon myself, nothing would have induced her to do anything other than starve on my account. I think that's rather touching. Good night—and thank you!" So it came about that the strange game was kept alive for yet a few days longer. Dread of what the girl might say or do when she heard of the deception that had been practised upon her, and when she saw clearly before her the way of escape, held Gilbert silent; he knew, too, that those who had already penetrated the secret would for their own purposes say nothing. More than once he was in a mind to tell Bessie everything, and to throw himself upon her mercy; but he had blundered too often before to care to make the experiment. She, for her part, with no particular care nor thought of the future, had her own secret to keep; she met him night after night in the wood—binding him to her more closely at each meeting with her innocence and her gentleness, and her tenderness for him. For now, when at last it seemed that they were both in the same helpless position, she did not hesitate to tell him frankly and fearlessly what was in her heart, and what had been in her heart so long. And even while he made up his mind that with the next moment she should learn the truth, she silenced him all unconsciously by whispering that now for the first time in her life she was happy—that now all doubts and fears had been swept away. It was all impossible—idyllic—absurd; yet he clung to the vague hope that they might make-believe a little longer yet. The utter impossibility of the whole business was sprung upon them when Mr. Daniel Meggison stepped jauntily in, and pricked the bubble. It had not seemed possible that that wily old schemer should be able to discover anything; but Meggison had been cunningly setting his wits to work to discover some way of escape from the island. For him were no dreams and no romance; his exile here was marked only by the fact that he was sternly deprived of stimulants. He knew that Pringle had in charge some spirits, rigorously withheld until such time as they might be wanted for medicinal purposes; and it is safe to assert that Daniel Meggison had practised every art, and had pleaded every complaint known to science, in a vain endeavour to extract them from Pringle's custody. But he had failed; and for that reason had set himself to watch, in the hope that Pringle might be absent on one occasion, and so leave the way open for a direct theft. It was in that spirit that he awoke early one morning, and crept out of the large hut, leaving his companions sleeping. In this particular instance he was rewarded; for he saw not only Pringle but Gilbert Byfield stealing away through the shadows of the dawn towards the north of the island. Curiosity overcame every other consideration, and Daniel Meggison stealthily followed. It was, of course, a shopping excursion to the village. Gilbert and Pringle hurried on their way, and crossed the narrow neck of land; Mr. Daniel Meggison rounded the corner of the rocks, and gasped, and saw freedom before him. He followed them at a discreet distance, and disappeared in the village; then, the better to enjoy his triumph, returned to the bridge, and seated himself there, and waited. And while he waited he gazed smilingly at the dawn through a bottle he held up before one eye. Gilbert Byfield and Pringle, toiling up to the bridge, came upon him, and stopped in amazement; Daniel Meggison winked at them knowingly. His face was flushed, and he had about him some of the old swagger that had been seen in Arcadia Street. "Splendid notion!" he said, pointing at the village and then at the distant line of rocks—"quite the best game of all, my dear Byfield. I beg you'll keep it up. I was so fortunate as to find an early morning house; charmingly easy manners the Irish have. Trust me, my dear Byfield—I won't say a word. Splendid notion!" CHAPTER XVIII MISS MAKE-BELIEVE ESCAPES THE discreet Pringle, as on one other memorable occasion, had seated himself on the box in the middle of the road out of earshot; Daniel Meggison, lounging not too steadily against the parapet of the bridge, addressed Gilbert. "When I cast my mind back, sir, over the past, I find myself marvelling—marvelling is the correct word—at the splendid fashion in which you have kept the game alive for the sake of my child. For what," went on Mr. Meggison, waving a hand towards the sky, and addressing the landscape generally—"for what have you not done on her account? The splendid prodigality of it amazes me. In the first place, you give up to her a house in the country—to which, quite naturally, she brings her family, to say nothing of other relatives and friends who trespass upon her. From that we fly"—Daniel Meggison made a movement with his hands flutteringly in the air to suggest that flying—"to a well-appointed yacht, where perhaps at the beginning all is not as well as it might be. Reckless of the consequences—careless of the results to life, limb and property—you splendidly drive that vessel upon the rocks; you annex—(annex is the proper word, I believe)—a portion of country that is probably not your own property; declare it to be an island; and in the most romantic fashion provision the company cast upon it with you. In a word, sir, the thing is magnificent—even if carried a little too far." "I firmly believed it to be an island until a few days ago," said Gilbert. "I, like others, have been deceived; I, like others, have been driven on a road I never meant to travel. Great things and great consequences have sprung from my small beginnings." "Nobly said, sir!" exclaimed Daniel Meggison. "But what I would ask is—why give the game away now?" He lowered his voice to a whisper, and took a step towards the younger man. "You've played the game splendidly; play it a little longer. Here is a village—ready and willing to supply all our needs; here is a pleasant land, where we may pass the summer, or what remains of it, in idyllic simplicity. Why change anything? For my own part, I needed but little to complete my personal happiness, and that little I have found. Your credit here, sir—or the credit of your servant—is particularly well established; they bow before your name, sir." "Are you another of them anxious to keep the fraud going?" asked Gilbert in amazement. "Certainly, sir," replied the unabashed Daniel Meggison. "In a primitive fashion I am very happy here: what will happen when the winter comes on is of course quite another matter. But let the future take care of itself; for the moment we are children, and we laugh in the sunshine." "The tide's turning, sir," said Pringle, getting up from his box, and preparing to shoulder it. "I'm afraid the tide has turned for me," said Gilbert with a sigh, as he moved away. Daniel Meggison was very merry over breakfast that morning. He chose to be flippant with Gilbert, and to rally Pringle on the ease with which these islands could really be inhabited when it came to the pinch. Dubbing himself the new Crusoe, he declared his intention of searching the shore that very morning, in the hope to find that solitary footprint of a possible Man Friday. He asked Gilbert whether it would not be wise to set about at once the building of a stockade, the better to protect themselves against the possible incursion of a dusky foe. Altogether Daniel Meggison enjoyed the situation mightily, and bore himself with that easy flippant gaiety that had marked him out in the Arcadia Arms as being above the common herd. He displayed his power by openly asking Gilbert if he had ever been to the west coast of Ireland, and if so, what he thought of the scenery. But it was by a combination of circumstances that the secret was at last exposed to those who already were not in possession of it; and when the exposure came at last, it seemed to come in the strangest way from several quarters. In the first place, Daniel Meggison, growing bolder, walked across that narrow neck of land one morning, and spent the day in the village, or in an adjacent one, being regarded by the inhabitants as a species of amiable tramp who had drifted out of the great Unknown to enliven the monotony of their existence. As ill-luck would have it, however, he drifted down across the bridge to the shore again, blissfully forgetful of the fact that the tide only served at certain hours, and discovered that he was cut off for the night. Drifting back again, he made a bed for himself in an outhouse, and slept the night away. But to Bessie his disappearance was a great and inexplicable disaster. She had been in the habit, even as in the old days of Arcadia Street, of bidding him good night, and asking the question—futile here—whether she could do anything more for him. But this night he was missing; and an inquiry in various directions among that very scanty population of the island revealed the fact that nothing had been seen of him since early morning. Gilbert had his suspicions, of course, and so had Pringle; but Bessie was frantic with anxiety. A thousand things, in her imagination, might have happened to him; he might have climbed the rocks and fallen into the sea, or he might have fallen asleep on the shore and been carried away by the waves. At all events, the most exhaustive inquiry failed to find him within the limited circumference of the island; and Bessie was suddenly a new power to be reckoned with. Those who were the head and front of the actual conspiracy came to Gilbert that night—drifting to him guiltily and secretly one after the other. Mr. Edward Stocker came first; and Mr. Edward Stocker was vaguely apologetic for his wife's brother. "An anxiety to the family at all times, sir," said Mr. Stocker. "Clever man, of course, with much more dignity and much more of real gentlemanly feeling than ever I had, or am likely to have. Bit of genius in his way, sir." Mr. Stocker paused, and thoughtfully pulled at one ear as he looked at Gilbert. "I suppose it isn't necessary to ask where he's gone, sir?" "I'm afraid not," replied the other. "He penetrated the secret of this place a little time back; he's making the most of his new freedom on the mainland—and I expect he's been cut off by the tide. He's safe enough; but it means that we must tell Bessie." "I suppose so," said Mr. Stocker, with a long face. "And that also means that Mrs. Stocker and me will go back to Clapham. Well," he added, with a sigh—"the best of holidays must end." Mr. Stocker had perhaps more gentlemanly feeling after all than he imagined; at the very moment of departure from Gilbert's hut he came back to him, to make a little set speech that had been in his mind evidently from the first. "I should like to say, sir, on behalf of self and Mrs. Stocker (although Mrs. Stocker may not think it absolutely necessary to speak for herself), I should like to say that we take it kind that people who force themselves on a gent like you, without so much as 'by your leave,' should have been so treated as I may say we have been. It isn't everyone that would go and put up with people that shoved themselves on him, and insisted on being shipwrecked with him—and even on being supported, like the early Christians, in rocks and caves of the earth. On behalf of self and Mrs. Stocker—I am very thankful, sir." Mr. Jordan Tant came up the hill jubilantly enough; he carried his head almost defiantly. He was still a yard or two away, in fact, when he burst out with his great news. "She accepts me! As I predicted, she accepts me!" "That's not the most important thing on earth," retorted Gilbert. "What about this wretched old man who has suddenly disappeared, as his daughter supposes, and who will force us to tell the secret, and explain the false position in which we stand?" "That scarcely matters to me now," said Tant. "My dear Enid is a woman of her word, and although I may be forced to return to civilization, she will I know go with me—understanding me better for the way in which I have risen to the occasion during our dangers and privations. She will say to herself—'If this man can behave in such a fashion amid unknown perils, and with the sea roaring and leaping about us—what will he not be like in the neighbourhood of a mere tame Hyde Park or Kensington Gardens?' That's what she will say; that's what she's already saying. Consequently, my dear Byfield, I don't mind how soon I go back to civilization." "Well—you've won your woman; you can afford to play the deserter now," retorted Gilbert. "Go, by all means; I have a vision of you and Mrs. Ewart-Crane and the fair Enid, incongruously dressed, stepping daintily across to the mainland——" "Where I shall immediately telegraph news of my safety, and proceed to buy a few rough garments with the money I still have, and which it has been impossible for me to spend in this place," broke in Jordan Tant. "Above all things, Byfield, I shall cherish the remembrance that in a fair and open field, when reduced almost to the condition of primitive men, I won her from you, as the better man. I always knew it; I was always certain that in me were qualities undeveloped by the artificial life I had led." "You can believe that if you will," said Gilbert, laughing. "As for myself, the bottom seems to have dropped out of everything I ever contemplated doing, and I am living here a more artificial life than ever I lived in London. Take your way out into the world, my Tant—and be happy." Meanwhile there were other happenings. Mr. Edward Stocker had deemed himself safe from his formidable spouse, and had perhaps grown a little careless under his new liberty; but it happened that on that particular night, when the little man had climbed the hill to Gilbert's hut, Mrs. Stocker had thought it prudent to follow him. She had marked his absence on other occasions; she who had forced from him every secret his unromantic life had known determined that she would force from him now any knowledge he possessed outside that she herself held. She listened outside the hut, and heard that talk of the mainland and of the absent Daniel Meggison; when Mr. Stocker, after his set speech, cautiously scrambled down the hill, Mrs. Stocker, scratching herself with briers, and gasping as she stumbled over the rough earth, followed him. Bessie being absent from the hut, Mrs. Stocker suddenly pounced upon Mr. Stocker, to his great alarm, and dragged him into that portion of the hut hitherto occupied by Bessie Meggison and herself. "My dear—I've been for a little walk," faltered Edward Stocker, looking at her with a faint smile. "Plotter and schemer!—so you thought you would keep everything from your Julia—did you?" she demanded, in a suppressed voice. "You had no objection to your wife being made a guy of for the amusement of those who consider themselves superior in station; you didn't care if she lived in a sort of cattle shed, without so much as a scrap of looking-glass or a comb for weeks on end; you didn't mind if she had to endure the pity of women who never really look anything at all unless they are dressed to death! What's this talk of the island and the mainland; and where is my brother?" "My dear—we've really been very comfortable here," pleaded Edward Stocker. "It's been quite a new experience—the sort of holiday to talk to our friends about long years afterwards." "I dare say," she sniffed. "Friends who have enjoyed the privileges of Margate or Ramsgate, or even Brighton, and worn respectable clothing with the best—with a special blouse for dinner in the evening. Holiday, indeed! I shall never be able to hold up my head again as long as I live." "I'm extremely sorry," said Mr. Stocker. "What would you like me to do?" "The moment this tide or whatever it is turns, you will conduct me to the mainland. There, after we have procured proper clothing, you will discover the best way to reach Clapham; and for the rest of your life you will remain there—respectably. No more gadding about after people with whom one is not really concerned. And don't you ever dare, Edward Stocker, to refer to this time as a holiday!"

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