The Cruise of the Make-Believes

It needed a lot of persuasion before she would consent at all; but at last she named a night when it was probable that father would be more in requisition at his club even than usual, and when Aubrey would be engrossed in the mysteries of a billiard handicap. She would go then; and, the better to preserve the proprieties (for Arcadia Street was given to gossip), would meet him at a certain spot not a hundred yards from the Arcadia Arms.

He began to understand, almost at the last moment, that the expedition must be conducted in her own fashion; he had the delicacy to understand that he must be shabby to match her poor shabbiness. So that it is probable very few of his friends would have recognized Mr. Gilbert Byfield, had they seen him waiting about at the corner of a certain street in Islington, in a well-worn tweed suit and a billycock hat. At that time he did not like the idea at all; he would have liked to whirl her away in a hansom, and do the thing properly at a first-class restaurant, with stalls at a theatre to follow. He wondered a little how the evening was going to pass.

And yet, after all, it proved to be rather pleasant – viewed as a new experience. Pleasant, to begin with, to see that little thin figure coming towards him; to hold for a moment the little hand in the worn glove, and to notice with satisfaction how neat she was, and how tastefully dressed, despite the poor things she had on. He had the grace to forget that a swift hansom might be hailed with the raising of a hand; found an omnibus almost comfortable – quite delightful, in fact, with the girl seated beside him, wearing upon her face that extraordinary look of complete happiness. He forgot even to think what his friends would have said had they seen him riding in such a vehicle, dressed in such fashion, and with such a companion.

The choosing of a restaurant was a difficulty, because he scarcely knew the cheaper or more dingy ones. She drew back in alarm at the prospect of entering a place gay with electric light; became reconciled at last to a little place of few tables and fewer waiters; sat open-eyed and breathless at the glory of a fifth-rate place, with a decided smell of the kitchen about it every time a creaking door was opened near her. She did not talk much; only occasionally she glanced at him, and when she did she smiled that slow grave smile of gratitude and friendliness.

Afterwards he found himself, for the first time in his life, in the upper circle at a theatre; congratulated himself on the fact that a friend he saw in a box below would not be likely to raise his eyes to the third row of that particular part of the building. He contented himself, not with looking at a play he had already seen, but with watching the thin face of the girl beside him – the bright eyes and the half-parted lips. Once, at a moment that was thrilling, she gripped his arm; and for quite a long time kept her hand there, holding to him while she watched the stage.

Coming out of the theatre, in the whirl and rush of people homeward bound, he got her into the hansom almost before she knew what had happened; it was only after the horse had started for Arcadia Street that she looked up at him reproachfully – shocked and awed by this friend who could spend so much money in a single evening. She voiced that thought as they drove along.

"You'll have to go without quite a lot for this, Mr. Byfield – won't you?" she asked wistfully. "I mean – it has been a frightfully expensive evening."

"I don't mind – for once," said Gilbert. "The only question in my mind is – have you really had a good time?"

She heaved a big sigh. "I should like to do it all over again," she said softly – "but to do it much more slowly. It has been wonderful!"

This was the one man in all the world that had ever thought about her, or had ever done her a kindness. Small wonder then that her eyes spoke more than gratitude when she put that little hand into his again in Arcadia Street, before the shabby house swallowed her up, and the door closed upon her. No one saw her, because Arcadia Street, save on Saturday nights, goes early to bed.

CHAPTER V

THE GREAT GAME OF MAKE-BELIEVE

IN the course of many scrambling, shambling years Mr. Daniel Meggison had learnt much, in the sordid sense, concerning the value of men. Had it been necessary for him, at any time in his later life, to pass a strict examination in the Gentle Art of Tapping People, he would in all probability have come out of the ordeal with flying colours, as one having vast experience.

For he could have told you to a nicety how, in the case of this man, you must not try for more than half a crown, and must be jocular with him; how, in another case, you might fly higher, and whine for a sovereign, with a pitiful tale pitched to charm the coin out of his pockets; and how, in other cases, you would have to drop your demands so low as a shilling or even possibly a sixpence. It is not too much to say that every man, in a very special sense, had for Mr. Daniel Meggison his price; and that on all and sundry occasions he was only too ready to exact that price from his fellows.

Exactly how far back in the years he had really made any attempt to earn an honest living it is impossible to say, and he had probably long since forgotten. It had at the beginning been a mere accidental business; a temporary loss of work had thrown him into the willing arms, as it were, of a wife who had always done something to help him. It merely became necessary for her to increase her efforts; Mr. Meggison was in no hurry to look for work, and gradually the truth was forced upon him that he need never do so again. True, he made a pretence, for something like twelve months, to gain a livelihood, but with no ardour in the pursuit; and so gradually drifted into that great and marvellous army which always in a big city manages to exist pretty comfortably without working at all.

He learnt their tricks and their ways – even their little catch-phrases slipped naturally from his tongue. He might have been heard talking loudly concerning the affairs of the nation, and how they should be conducted; he knew his newspaper by heart. More than that, he might have been heard often demanding to know why this man and that did not obtain the employment that was obviously waiting for him in a busy world. And so in time he grew to the belief that he was in all respects something of a poor gentleman, for whom others must provide money, and who, by reason of a certain superiority of birth and education and resources, stood outside the mere common grubbing workaday world.

There were, of course, mean shifts and petty frauds to be encountered; but in time the man grew hardened even to those. There was a bed in which he might sleep, and there was food for him, and tobacco always; he became a familiar figure in his poor neighbourhood, and accepted with each day that which was provided for him, not without grumbling. In time the patient wife folded her hands, and sighed, and fell asleep; and the patient daughter took up the burden quite naturally, as it had been bequeathed to her. The legacy of the shiftless father, who was always to be protected and looked after, descended to her, and was taken up as a sacred trust.

But with that shiftless life that had been his portion so long the man had not lost his natural cunning – the cunning of the creature that preys upon his fellows. Money was necessary, for the occasional replenishing of his scanty wardrobe, and for tobacco and drinks; he would have been a poor thing without money in his pockets. Hence the borrowing – hence the tapping of any and every one with whom he came in contact. Therefore, too, it is small wonder that he turned his eyes at last towards Gilbert Byfield, with something of a smacking of lips. For here was higher game; here was a man who might, if handled carefully, be a man of sovereigns instead of paltry shillings.

The man was not above playing the spy, and he had of course a jealous interest in the fate of that chief breadwinner – his daughter. More than once he had shivered, with a very genuine horror, at the prospect of love or marriage being even suggested to her; had been short with Harry Dorricott, when he had seen that boy's eyes turn with an unmistakable look of affection in them in Bessie's direction. For what, in the name of all that was tragic, was to become of Mr. Daniel Meggison if his daughter left him?

From behind the curtain of a window he had seen the stranger who lived next door talking to the girl over the wall; had been inclined to resent that at once. At the same time, he had a craven feeling that it would not do to upset Bessie; he had better watch, and be silent. So he had seen other meetings, until at last that night had arrived when Bessie was not in the house, and when she came in very late, and crept up to her room like the guilty truant she was. And had there not been a sound of wheels outside the house? Daniel Meggison shivered in his bed, and wondered what he had done in all his blameless life to deserve this.

Questioned cautiously on the following morning, Bessie would say but little. Yes – she had been out – all the evening – with a friend. No – she had not spent money over it; she would not have thought of doing such a thing; the friend had paid for everything. She hoped that her father was not annoyed, and that he had not wanted for anything.

"No, my child, I am not suggesting that I wanted for anything; I spent the greater part of the evening at my club," he replied stiffly. "Only, of course, as a father I am naturally anxious for you – and I – "

"It was a very nice friend – a very nice one indeed," she broke in; and he decided that it would not be wise to pursue the matter then.

For the sake of his very livelihood, however, he saw that he must be alert; it might even happen that this precious child would be snatched away from him. He went to that club of his less frequently; came into the house at unexpected moments, and was to be found loitering about on the staircase, and in rooms in which he had no business. Also he haunted that garden, and had a watchful eye upon the house next door. He hungered for another sight of this man who could afford to pay for an evening's entertainment, and could travel in cabs.

He knew, of course, that Gilbert Byfield was not as other men in Arcadia Street. Apart from his own observation, he knew instinctively that Bessie had hitherto held aloof from everyone; had gone about her duties soberly – a grown woman long before her time; he did her the justice to know that no ordinary man would have attracted her attention, or have drawn her away from the life her father had mapped out for her even for an hour. More than that, those who dwell in Arcadia Street have not money for evening pleasures or for cabs; and there had been from the beginning a sort of mystery about this young man who lived next door. Mr. Meggison determined to lie in wait for that young man, and to confront him.

He began artfully. On one particular evening he did not, as usual, shuffle off down the street, with his pipe between his teeth; he waited about in the house instead. Bessie hinted that she supposed he would be going out soon; he declared that he would wait a little while; he might not, in fact, be going out at all. He seated himself in his shabby easy chair, and declared that he was very comfortable where he was. He had been too much at the club of late; home was the proper place for the man and the head of a family, after all.

Bessie was moving towards the garden, when he sat up and called to her. "I dislike the idea of your sitting out in that garden so much in the evening, my child," he said, with a new tenderness that was startling to the girl. "Here you've been cooped up in the house all day long – no fresh air – no exercise; and now you expect to go and sit out there. We must take care of you, Bessie. Much better go for a walk."

"But I like the garden, father," the girl urged faintly.

"For to-night, my dear – to please me," said Daniel Meggison, with an unaccustomed smile – "go for a walk. There may be little matters of shopping which you ordinarily leave to Amelia; go yourself on this occasion; you will probably buy more economically than she will. You must think of these matters in dealing with a household. Come, Bessie, I know what is best for you; put your hat on, and go out."

She kissed him obediently, and thanked him for his care of her; and went out into the hot streets. She was disappointed, because the garden would have been welcome, and it might just have happened that a face would look over the wall and a voice call to her; and then the ending of the day would be good and complete.

But Daniel Meggison, like greater men before him, had a motive. He desired to draw that shy being who dwelt on the other side of the wall; to come face to face with him, if possible, and discover something about him. He argued that it was a rare thing for Bessie not to be in the garden late in the evening if the weather happened to be fine, and that the man on the other side of the wall would be naturally surprised, and perhaps alarmed. Mr. Daniel Meggison chuckled to himself at the thought of his own cunning, and sat down in such a position that he could watch the garden. He had not long to wait.

Mr. Gilbert Byfield was confident that on this particular evening the girl would be in the garden; and he wanted to talk to her. She had rather avoided him during these past few days, and he had already come to understand that Arcadia Street was a remarkably dull place, unless it was actually represented by her. Consequently, on this evening he had determined that he would see her, if possible, and that he would have a little tender whimsical explanation with her, in which, appropriately enough, he would play the part of a species of elderly friend or brother, and would in fact be very good to her. He recognized that that feeling of protective tenderness for the girl was growing; but he told himself sternly that it was, of course, merely the protective tenderness of a friend. On that point he was very strong. He had come back to Arcadia Street because he was interested in her; and when the time came for him to leave Arcadia Street he would, of course, leave it with regret on her account. He would not think about it to-night; he simply recognized that the time was coming when he must know Arcadia Street no more.

An inspection of the garden over the wall showed it to be empty, but the lighted house was beyond. It occurred to him that in all probability she had stepped inside for a moment; he would get over the wall, and would surprise her when she came out again. He did so, and, carefully avoiding the broken boards in the ottoman that was not an ottoman, made his way cautiously towards the house. He sat down on one of the rickety chairs near the crazy table, and waited.

This was Mr. Daniel Meggison's opportunity. He rose with an air of importance, and laid down his pipe; pulled down his waistcoat, and set his smoking-cap a little rakishly on one side of his head; and sauntered out. He went with the air of a gentleman about to gaze upon the beauty of the evening; his face was indeed turned towards the sky at the moment that he emerged from the door and stepped on to the ragged old carpet.

Gilbert Byfield had risen, in the surprise of the encounter; he stood watching old Meggison. Meggison, for his part, allowed his eyes to come down from their contemplation of the stars, and so gradually to rest upon the intruder who stood before him. He gave a very fine start, in the most approved fashion, and then stood in a dignified attitude, with a hand thrust into his waistcoat, looking at Gilbert up and down.

"Sir!" exclaimed Meggison.

"I – I beg your pardon," stammered Gilbert, looking helplessly at the wall over which he had scrambled.

"Sir – you are an intruder – a trespasser upon the privacy of my family, my home, and my property!" said Mr. Meggison, keeping his voice remarkably low, and watching the door leading to the house. "What do you mean by it, sir? – what do you want?"

"There is nothing to make a fuss about, Mr. Meggison," said Gilbert quietly. "I live next door here; I came over in order to have a word or two with – with your daughter."

"Nothing to make a fuss about?" echoed Meggison, still in those cautious tones. "Came over to see my daughter? And what do you suppose, sir, her father will have to say to such a proceeding?"

"I do not wish to be offensive, Mr. Meggison," said the younger man – "but I fancy her father has not troubled very much about her until this moment. Don't bluster, sir; I am her friend before everything else."

Daniel Meggison took a step forward, and looked at the other; took a step back, and rolled his head threateningly; took another step forward, and laid a hand on Byfield's arm. "Sir," he said solemnly – "I am sure of it. Only you must forgive the anger and the suspicion of a parent to whom his child is very precious. She has no mother, sir."

"I know that," said Gilbert. "I had no right, of course, to trespass on your premises, Mr. Meggison – for that I owe you an apology. But I – "

"Not another word, sir – not another word, I beg," exclaimed Meggison, taking his hand and wringing it. "I like the look of you, sir; I like the blunt fearlessness with which you scramble over a wall; you are a man, sir!"

"You're very good," replied Gilbert awkwardly. "Is Miss – Miss Meggison in the house? I should like to speak to her."

"My daughter, sir, has gone out," said Meggison, seating himself, and waving a hand grandiloquently towards the other chair, "on a necessary errand connected with household matters. Poor child – poor child; I wish sometimes she did not have to work so hard."

"So do I," said Gilbert, looking squarely at him. "She's young, you know, Meggison – hardly more than a child; and all her youth is slipping away, and she'll only know too late that it's gone. It seems a pity, doesn't it?"

Daniel Meggison sniffed audibly, and turned his head away; began slowly and methodically to search himself, until presently he drew from out his clothing a doubtful-looking handkerchief. This he applied first to one eye, and then to the other.

"Youth, sir, is a beautiful thing," he said. He gave a glance towards the house, and then leant across the table, and laid a hand on the arm of the younger man; he still kept that handkerchief to one eye, but the other was bright and alert. "Don't misunderstand me; don't think that I speak lightly. I have watched that child grow up – like a flower, sir. I have lain awake at night thinking about her – wondering about her – planning for her. I have mentioned to friends at my – my club that I am tortured concerning her. 'What,' I have asked, 'is to become of one so tender – so loving to an unfortunate father – so willing to work for that unfortunate father?' That is the question I have asked others as well as myself. Mr. Byfield, she is not strong; in other words, she is very frail. Her mother was never strong; I worshipped her mother, and her mother (I can say it with pride) was devoted to me. You are her friend – Bessie's friend, I mean; has it ever occurred to you that she is not strong? I am her father – you will understand my anxiety."

Gilbert Byfield had got up with some impatience from his chair, and had moved away down the length of the garden. For a moment he could not trust himself to speak, or to answer that hypocritical whining voice. He knew, however, that if he was to do anything to help the girl he must control himself, and must make what use he could of the one instrument ready to his hand. So he walked back to the table, and stood there, with his hands in his pockets, looking down at the old man.

"I am glad we think alike," he said slowly. "I do not think she is strong; it is a thousand pities that she cannot be taken out of this place – a thousand pities that she has to work so hard to – to support other people."

"I agree with you," said Meggison, eagerly getting up from his chair, and coming hurriedly round the table to the young man. "Sometimes, sir," he exclaimed, with a sort of feeble passion – "sometimes I am roused almost to madness at the thought that I am so helpless – that I can do nothing. The truth of the matter is that I was never brought up to do anything – not anything that would pay; I blame my parents bitterly for that. My late wife – devoted soul! – would often say that I was never really fitted to cope with the world. 'You are by nature and by instinct, Daniel, a gentleman and a man of leisure,' she would say; 'it seems natural that others should provide for you.' And she knew me – knew me intimately, sir."

"I'm sure she did," said Gilbert, looking at him steadily. "But we are wandering from the subject a little – the subject of your daughter. Her mother is gone; it is not too late to do something for the child."

"True – very true," exclaimed Meggison, with an air of deep determination. "Bless you, my dear sir! Now – what shall we do? Let's put our heads together."

As though he meant to carry that suggestion into effect literally, Mr. Daniel Meggison pushed the old smoking-cap a little further on to one side of his head, and leaned nearer to his companion, and assumed a very wise expression. Gilbert, with a glance at the house, began to speak in a cautious tone.

"It has to be understood, of course, in the first place, that whatever is done is done for the girl only. Do you understand?"

Mr. Meggison stared at him almost with indignation; he opened his eyes very wide. "Of course – of course – Bessie only. You leave that to me; I'll see to that."

"I'll see to that also," retorted Gilbert. "In the second place, whatever is done is done by you."

"By me?" The man stared at him with growing uneasiness. "But I can't – "

"I mean that whatever is done for the girl must be done for her by her father – so far as she knows. She is the last in the world to accept anything from me, and I would not ask her to do so; it would be an insult. I ask you to do so" – (Mr. Meggison pocketed that insult cheerfully, and said nothing) – "because through you I can do what I could not do for myself. For example, if we are to help this poor daughter of yours, money will be required."

"Yes – of course – money," replied Mr. Meggison, rubbing his hands, and nodding his head many times. "Oh, yes – of course money."

"And that must come through her father, as the only proper person who can give it to her. Again, in other words, Meggison, it becomes necessary, in order that this whim of mine may be carried out, that you and I should have a little secret understanding with each other. Whatever is necessary to be paid, I shall pay you, and you in turn will pay – "

"Somebody else," broke in Meggison, nodding again, and laying a forefinger against the side of his nose. "Splendid notion – and very easy – eh?" He coughed, and hesitated for a moment. "Should I, for instance – begin to-night?"

"I think not," said Gilbert quietly.

"Oh – you think not," Meggison replied with a look of disappointment. "Well – perhaps you know best. What are your plans? I'm a man for hurry always."

"My plans depend to a great extent upon you," said Gilbert. "I do not imagine for a moment that you are possessed of any sum of money?"

"I am a most unfortunate man, sir, to whom much money should have come had Fate treated me better. But I am not worth sixpence."

"Briefly, my plan is this," went on Gilbert, after a pause. "I would like to give Bessie a sight of the better world that lies outside Arcadia Street; not the world of London, and London streets and sights and sounds; but that bigger world for which she longs – that freer world of trees and flowers and blue skies. In other words, I would like to give her a holiday. Now, can you by any possibility suggest some reason why you should suddenly come into a little money, Mr. Meggison?"

"I can suggest a hundred reasons – but they would be equally romantic and absurd," said Meggison, scratching the top of the smoking-cap thoughtfully. "A rich relative of whom she has never heard – no – that wouldn't do, because she knows all my relatives. Work that suddenly brings in a lot of money?.. No – she wouldn't believe in work, so far as I'm concerned; that would require too great a stretch of the imagination, I'm afraid. A lucky speculation?.. No – one requires capital for that."

"I'm afraid you'll have to fall back on a relative – a distant relative – very much removed. Understand, it would only be a small legacy."