The Cruise of the Make-Believes

So far as Pringle was concerned, he dared not, of course, again approach his master; and gradually, as sleep settled down comfortably on the various passengers, the fog lifted, and the fair moon shone forth, and the crew set about preparations for departure. Presently the engines started, and the Blue Bird glided out of Newhaven Harbour into the English Channel, and turned westward. Unexpected journeys are always tiring; and all those with whom we are concerned had made unexpected journeys that day. They slept soundly, lulled to slumber by the throbbing of the engines, and the sound of the waves through which they churned their way.

Almost the first of the company to wake in the morning and to come on deck was Bessie. The Blue Bird was plunging and tearing through a choppy sea, but the new sensation was delightful; she had never experienced anything like it before. New ideas, and new hopes and desires, seemed to be buffeted into her by the boisterous wind; above all, it was good to feel that she was really afloat with Gilbert on this great sea, and to know also that her father was safely on board with her. She encountered Gilbert; and for a moment or two they held hands shyly, the man forgetting readily enough all that had happened.

"Good morning," she said, ducking her head to avoid the wind, and laughing.

"Good morning, Bessie mine," he responded. "You look as fresh as a rose."

"You were not hurt with me for bringing poor father with me yesterday – were you?" she asked. "You see, I couldn't very well come alone – and poor father loves the sea; in fact he says that he has an adventurous spirit that has been kept severely in check. You didn't mind, did you?"

"I don't mind anything this morning," he assured her. "All the little cares and troubles and worries seem to have been left behind in the narrow life that I have lived; this morning I breathe a freer, better air, and you are with me; what more could any man desire? Come to breakfast, my dear; I'm hungry, if you're not."

In the midst of breakfast Mr. Daniel Meggison appeared, very much dishevelled, and with a wild and curious stare in his eyes not to be accounted for by the mere strangeness of his surroundings. During the progress of the meal he more than once broke out into a chuckle of laughter; and then checked himself, and became amazingly solemn. In the very act of cracking an egg he stopped, like one haunted, listening; chuckled again, and then became solemn again; and made a most surprising remark to Gilbert.

"Byfield – do you know what I did? It wasn't drink, because your man only brought me one in the course of a long and thirsty evening – and it wasn't dreams, because I slept soundly. But I" – he glanced over his shoulder, and his face became strangely convulsed again – "I opened the wrong cabin door!"

"Well – what of that?" asked Gilbert.

"Nothing. Nothing at all," said Daniel; and again became remarkably solemn.

As a matter of fact Daniel Meggison, staggering along a corridor in the ship that morning, had opened a cabin door, and had seen that which caused his hair to rise and his flesh to creep. The vision before him, in the mere fragment of time before he closed the door again, was that of Mrs. Julia Stocker, leaning half-way out of a bunk and groaning; while Mr. Stocker held on to another bunk with one hand, and endeavoured to dress himself with the aid of the other, the while he groaned in concert. Daniel Meggison had been so alarmed that he had closed the door hurriedly, and had come away, certain in his own mind that he had been deceived, and that this was but a mere uneasy vision.

After breakfast, however, he went down again and proceeded to explore. Discovering again that cabin, the door of which he had opened, he once more peered in, and once more saw the figures of the Stockers; retreated hurriedly, and began to have a dim idea of what had happened. He opened another door, and came upon Simon Quarle, also desperately ill, and too far gone to take any notice of him; slammed that door, and stood in the rocking, heaving vessel, striving to understand what had happened. He was on the point of further investigation, when Pringle came delicately and skilfully towards him, balancing a small tray on which was a glass.

"Morning, sir," said Pringle cheerfully. "A bit fresh – isn't it, sir?"

"Too fresh for me," said Daniel Meggison, clutching at the man. "Here, I say, my fine fellow – a word with you. Who came on board last night?"

Pringle, balancing the tray and watching the glass upon it, answered deliberately. "Mr. Byfield first, sir – and you and the young lady. That's three. Then a large lady and a small gent – married – names unknown – "

"Stocker. I've seen them," said Daniel. "Was that all?"

"Oh, by no means, sir," said Pringle cheerfully. "Two other ladies, and a small gentleman very much out of breath; another gentleman, tall and thin, that asked most particular about you and the lady, and said you wasn't to be disturbed; smoking a cigarette, that gentleman was, sir."

"Aubrey – my disgraceful son – for a thousand pounds!" said Daniel. "Clever boy, Aubrey; knows his way about."

"And last, sir, just as I thought we had shipped the lot of 'em, in a manner of speaking, another gentleman, with a very loud voice and what I might call a way of snapping at a man. Square shoulders – clean shaven."

"Simon Quarle!" exclaimed Daniel Meggison. "We've got the whole menagerie!"

"Exactly, sir. Just what occurred to me, sir. You'll excuse me, sir, I know; lady very ill along 'ere – the married one."

Daniel Meggison struggled on deck, and tried to think. By what extraordinary process of events they had all contrived to follow he did not know; still less did he understand who the two strange ladies and the gentleman out of breath might be. He felt, however, that he would wait a little before imparting his knowledge to anyone else; some old spirit of deviltry that had long lain dormant in him whispered to him to be silent, and to await developments.

But for the fact that Pringle was such a very discreet servant the discovery must have been made long before it actually was. But Pringle was that admirable type of servant that told himself he had certain duties to perform, and was well paid for performing them, and that nothing else mattered. Consequently during the next two days he waited upon these new passengers, prostrate in their cabins, with the most assiduous care, and said nothing to anyone. Daniel Meggison stumbled about the ship, hourly expecting the explosion that must follow the discovery of the full passenger list; Bessie was blissfully unconscious of everything, except that she was on the wide sea, with the man she loved for company.

Gradually, however, the weather changed; and gradually one by one the white-faced passengers crept out of their cabins. Pringle, feeling quite certain in his own mind that his master would welcome their advent in restored health, bustled about to get out deck chairs, and generally to make his patients comfortable. It was destined to be a morning of surprises for everyone; but Pringle did not know that, and he was as cheerful as ever as he gradually persuaded one and another to go up on deck.

It happened that Gilbert was standing alone when he heard a movement behind him, and turning, saw the first of the invalids being helped up the companion by Pringle, who made use of little encouraging remarks on the way. The patient was Mrs. Stocker, who clung to Pringle as she might have clung to her best friend.

"That's it, ma'am – you won't know yourself when you're on deck, and get the breeze. Other foot, ma'am; that's right – now here we are, and here's Mr. Byfield absolutely waitin' for us. If you would be so kind, sir" – this to the amazed Gilbert – "if you would be so kind, sir, as to take the lady's other arm, I could get her to the chair there in a mere matter of winking. That's it, ma'am; take your time from us – asking the master's pardon."

"What – in the name of all that's marvellous – " Gilbert was staring at the woman who clutched him, and was quite mechanically stepping along the deck in the direction indicated.

"I can explain everything," said Mrs. Stocker. "I came on account of my niece; I have suffered severely for my devotion. I am suffering now."

"The gentleman, sir, said he'd find his way up alone," said Pringle. "It's taken it out of the gentleman a lot, sir; much more frail than the lady, sir. Talkin' of angels! – here he is, sir."

"Beautiful vessel, sir," murmured poor Edward Stocker, getting discreetly a little behind Pringle. "Most sorry to have been ill on the premises, as I might say, sir; it doesn't seem exactly grateful for privileges – does it, sir?"

Gilbert walked past him, and accosted Pringle, who now for the first time began to look doubtful. "How did these people come on board, Pringle?" he asked.

"Well, sir," said the man – "they – they just came. Asked for you, sir, and seemed as if they knew they were expected, and – and here they are, sir. Every one who came on board seemed to know you, and seemed to think they'd be expected, sir."

"Every one? How many more?"

"Five more, sir – only five. Two ladies, and a gentleman with them – and two separate gents that tumbled in without appearing to know each other, sir."

"But why did you let them stop – and who the deuce are they?" demanded Gilbert angrily.

"If you please, sir, you'll remember I asked you if any more was expected, and the remark you made, sir, was (askin' your pardon, of course, sir) – 'The Lord only knows!' In fact, you seemed to think, sir, that all sorts of people might be droppin' in. Consequently, sir, when they did arrive I made 'em as comfortable as I could, and I've waited on 'em simply 'and and foot ever since. Very ill they've been indeed, sir."

From that moment the passengers may be said to have emerged gradually and with caution. Mr. Tant came on deck with something of a scared look, and seemed appalled to find himself on the open sea; seized by Gilbert, he blurted out something of what had happened.

"It's no use bullying me," he said, in an aggrieved fashion. "I didn't bring them; they brought me. Thank your stars that you've got a man on board in case of emergencies. Enid and her mother were both frantically anxious about you, and simply insisted on coming straight away to the yacht; though why on earth you wanted to bring 'em away to sea beats me."

"I didn't even know they were on board," exclaimed Gilbert furiously. "It's simply monstrous that I should be followed about in this fashion. I understand there are five of you, besides those I've already discovered; who are the other two?"

"How should I know?" retorted Tant crossly. "You've taken an interest in so many people, and have adopted families wholesale, that you ought to know better than I do. Where's that man of yours? I'm ravenously hungry for the first time in three days. This is a beastly vessel for pitching."

As he went away sounds of a struggle and of heated voices floated to Gilbert from below; and a moment or two later Simon Quarle struggled on deck, grasping by the collar Aubrey Meggison, whom he was dragging in triumph with him. Aubrey was protesting feebly, and endeavouring under trying circumstances to sustain his dignity.

"Come out – stowaway!" exclaimed Simon excitedly. "Another hanger-on – another creature sneaking behind a woman's skirts, and shirking the honest work he ought to do. Come on deck and show yourself!"

"So you are the other two – are you?" asked Gilbert. "May I ask what brings you here, Mr. Quarle?"

"You may – and you shall be answered," said Simon Quarle sturdily. "I come to have an explanation with you – and I come also to set a few matters straight. I didn't expect to be carried away to sea like this – "

"You're not the only one," said Gilbert, with a smile. "All your followers are here – all the people with whom you have associated yourself. There's quite a ship's load of them – of all sorts and sizes and qualities!"

Even in such an amazing business as this a crisis had to be reached; all the many threads had to be gathered together. That crisis was reached when Bessie presently came along the deck, accompanied by her father; when she stared with amazement at Mrs. Julia Stocker and Mr. Stocker, reposing in deck chairs; when she encountered her brother, disposed to be affectionate from sheer terror of what might happen to him; and when she was finally received into the arms of Simon Quarle with a friendly hug.

"Don't you be afraid, Bessie," said Quarle. "I came on board on purpose to look after you; no one shall do you any harm. You've got one friend in the world, at least."

"I seem to have a great many friends," said Bessie, looking round at them. "Father, dear – you and Mr. Byfield have been arranging a surprise for me; you've brought all our friends together, even here. Here's dear Aubrey – and Aunt Julia and Uncle Ted, and – "

"So this is the girl – is it?" It was an unfriendly voice, and it proceeded from Mrs. Ewart-Crane, who had that moment climbed to the deck accompanied by her daughter. From an unfinished breakfast Jordan Tant had also appeared; so that they were all gathered about her on that deck, with the friendly arms of Simon Quarle round her; her troubled eyes were turned upon Gilbert.

"I did not expect to see you here," said Gilbert slowly to Mrs. Ewart-Crane. "Perhaps now you'll explain what it is you want?"

"We've been carried to sea quite against our will, and in deplorable weather," said Enid. "May I ask if this is the young lady who is the cause of all this trouble and disturbance?" she asked, looking at Bessie.

"Don't you mind, my dear; I'm close to you," growled Simon Quarle.

"This is Miss Bessie Meggison," said Gilbert.

"Gilbert and I are very glad to see you," said Bessie, still watching Byfield, but speaking bravely. "Gilbert has been good enough to take us all away on his beautiful yacht; I didn't know there was going to be such a large party. Why do you all look at me so strangely – why won't someone speak to me?"

"Don't take any notice of 'em; keep a brave heart, child," growled Simon Quarle in the same fashion as before.

"I certainly think it's time, Byfield, that some proper explanation was made," said Tant, adjusting himself with difficulty to the rolling of the vessel. "It's a mad business from beginning to end; but it seems to me Miss Meggison is the only one that doesn't understand it."

"She understands all that is necessary," broke in Daniel Meggison fiercely. "She trusts her poor old father, and she knows where her best friends are. Come, now – what if we all go to breakfast? or at all events get some refreshment of some sort? Splendid notion!"

"Mr. Byfield has asked us to sail with him on his yacht," said Bessie steadily. "What explanation is needed? My father and I would never have come away from England like this, but that my father had a fortune, and was able suddenly to make up for many years of hardship and misery. I would have liked to stay at Fiddler's Green for ever."

"You don't seem to understand that the house at Fiddler's Green belonged to Mr. Byfield," broke in the cold voice of Mrs. Ewart-Crane.

"Borrowed by me under a special arrangement," persisted Daniel Meggison. "Why don't we all go to breakfast?"

"Lent to your father by Mr. Byfield, because for some absurd reason he thought it might be well for you, who had lived all your life in a poverty-stricken district of London, to have a taste of the country," said Enid. "Will the girl never understand?"

"Bear it bravely; keep a stiff upper lip before 'em all!" urged Simon Quarle, in a growling undertone. "We'll get you out of this muddle with clean hands yet."

"Mr. Byfield – won't you tell me what it all means?" asked Bessie.

"I never meant that you should know the truth," said Gilbert. "I played a game of make-believe, just as you had done; your father's fortune was make-believe too. God knows you've been welcome to anything I've been able to do for you; we'd have been happy enough but for all the meddlers and muddiers who have been about us. Now you know the truth."

"There was never any fortune – never any money, except what you gave us?" she said slowly, looking at Byfield. "All the rest is lies – and pretence – "

"Only make-believe, Bessie," said Gilbert gently.

"There's no more make-believe for me!" she exclaimed, with a sudden new fierceness. "I'm not a child any more." Then suddenly breaking down, she looked at them appealingly, with eyes swimming with tears. "Won't you turn your faces from me?" she pleaded. "Don't you see that I am shamed and mean and horrible? For pity's sake turn your faces away from me!"

She turned her own then, and hid it on the friendly breast of Simon Quarle.

CHAPTER XIII

MISERY MAKES STRANGE BOAT-FELLOWS

IN that sudden strange finding of the truth there was no degradation for the girl; the degradation was for those who had deceived her. Even Mrs. Ewart-Crane – hard woman of the world that she was – seemed to understand that, and however contemptuous she might be for the amazing innocence of Bessie, she yet seemed to know it for innocence, nevertheless. With a shrug of the shoulders she was the first to make a move to leave the girl and Gilbert together for that explanation that seemed to be demanded; the others followed suit, a little sheepishly – Daniel Meggison and Quarle the last to go.

"For my part," said Daniel, looking round, and speaking with an air of great frankness, "I cannot for the life of me see what all the fuss is about. If a good fellow likes to perform a generous action – what's to prevent him? I hate all this over-squeamishness."

"The less you say the better for everyone," said Simon Quarle, elbowing him out of the way. "You and your precious son are responsible for all this trouble; and I've been a weak-kneed idiot not to have put a stop to your games long ago."

"You can leave the precious son out of it, mister," said Aubrey, looking back over his shoulder. "Whatever I've done doesn't concern anybody else; and what father's done has been on account of the family. You never having had a family ain't likely to understand what such a man's feelings may be."

Simon Quarle would have turned back at the last; but he saw that the girl was standing straight and quiet, with her hands clasped before her, staring out at the sea, and evidently waiting until she could speak to Gilbert Byfield alone. Gilbert, for his part, watched the girl furtively, wondering a little what she would say or what she would do.

"Bessie," he said at last gently – "have you nothing to say to me?"

She did not look at him; she strove hard to keep her voice steady. "How long will it take us to get back?" she asked.

"To get back?" He looked at her quickly.

"To England. Don't you see for yourself how utterly helpless I am?" she demanded passionately, with a note in her voice he had not heard before. "I am a prisoner here; I cannot stir hand or foot to get away from you. Put me on shore – anywhere – and I will walk, if necessary, to get back to London."

"This is rank madness!" he exclaimed. "For Heaven's sake, Bessie, be reasonable, and let us face the situation fairly and squarely. What harm have I done you?"

"What harm?" She faced him suddenly, with her hands clenched, and with eyes that yet had the tears in them blazing at him. "What harm? Don't you understand – or won't you understand – that in all my life no one has ever been able to say that I didn't fight my own way – for myself and others; no one has been able to say that even in my poor fashion I didn't hold up my head – proud to think that I had never looked to anyone for a shilling. And you – you of all men on earth – have been" – she turned away her head, with the swift colour mounting in her face – "you have kept me!"

"Bessie!"

"It's true!" she flashed at him. "You've lied to me in everything – fed me with smooth words, just as you've fed me and the others with food you paid for. The clothes I wear have been bought with your money – and I would rather stand naked before you than have to say it."

"I tell you you don't understand," he pleaded. "It was done for your sake – and for your sake only. I was rich – and I saw a chance to help you, a mere child, and to bring some light and joy into your life. It was nothing to me; and you had longed, naturally enough, for things far beyond your reach. I tell you I was glad to do it."

"I understand perfectly," she said, standing close to him, and looking at him fearlessly. "I was a toy – something that amused you – a child you were sorry for. You didn't see that behind the child was the woman, who could be shamed and outraged and hurt; you never thought of that. It pleased you to spend money – because money was nothing to you, and was the easiest thing you had to part with. And then, to crown it all – the bitterest blow of all – you lied to me, and told me that you loved me."

"Stop!" he cried hastily. "You're wrong there; I swear it. I did love you – and I do love you; you are more wonderful to me than any woman I have ever met. I've been a brute and a fool, and I haven't understood; but I understand now, and I love you a thousand times more than I ever did before. I've blundered on, not troubling about you, or what became of you; content only to let each day go on – happy in keeping you in ignorance. There are no words bad enough to paint what I've done; but what I said to you was true then when I said it, and is more than ever true now."

She laughed, and flung up her head with a little quick gesture. "I don't believe it," she said – "but even if it's true it happens that at least I can spare myself something – can keep some little shred of self-respect to cover me. I hate you; when I said that I loved you it was wrong, and it wasn't true. I never want to see you again; I never want to have anything to do with you again. Some day, when I've fought and striven a little, I'll be able to pay you back what I've had from you; I shall work for that through all the years that are coming to me – I shall think only of that. That's my last word, Mr. Byfield. Now, if you have any feeling left at all, you will go away, and will let me alone until you can put me on shore. I don't want to stay here longer than I can help," she added, her voice breaking a little – "because there are so many people on this yacht who know all about it, and must be laughing at me."

He saw the utter hopelessness of arguing the matter with her; he turned away. At the same time there was, naturally enough, in his mind a bitter feeling of resentment that the matter should have ended in this way; for after all it must be remembered that, even with that mad impulse which had started the business, the mad impulse had been a good one, and had only been thwarted by others. The man had done his best, however mistakenly, and he bitterly resented the very natural attitude the girl took up. He was chafing with futile rage at the position in which he found himself, and in which he had placed her, when her voice recalled him.

"Mr. Byfield – you have not told me how soon we can go back," she reminded him coldly. "Surely you understand that I have done with all this" – she gave a comprehensive sweep of her hands to indicate the yacht and all about it – "and that I want to get back to some such sort of Arcadia Street as that in which you found me."

He came slowly back to her; he looked at her steadily. "I'm not going back," he said. "You don't understand that, whatever I may have done, and however mistaken I may be, you're treating me very unfairly. I'll change nothing to which I've set my hand; I'll go back in my own good time. These other people came on board for their own purposes; I'll not be at the beck and call of anyone now that those purposes are finished. I've done everything for the best, and whether I have failed or not doesn't affect the matter. More than that, although you won't listen to me I love you, and I don't mean to give you up. It's you and I, Bessie, against the world, and against all these other people; you shan't go back to any Arcadia Street if I can help it."

"I'll find my own way back," she exclaimed passionately. "I have nothing further to do with you; you don't touch my life at all. You must take me back to England."

"I will not," he replied obstinately; and with those final words left her.