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."
"May I ask what you exactly mean by the term 'small'?" asked Daniel
Meggison.
"I would suggest a sum of about fifty pounds," said Gilbert quietly.
Mr. Daniel Meggison opened his mouth very wide, and then shut it with a
snap; opened it again, as though intending to speak; and blurted out a
faint echo of the sum that had been named.
"Fifty--fifty pounds!" Mr. Meggison came nearer, and touched Gilbert,
as though to discover whether or not he was actually real. Then
suddenly and harshly he burst out laughing. "Fifty pounds, indeed!
Don't attempt to fool me, please. Where will you get such a sum--and
you in Arcadia Street?"
"I have not always been in Arcadia Street, and I shall not always
remain here," said Gilbert. "As the world understands it, I am rather a
rich man, and the fifty pounds is quite easily to be found. I am living
in Arcadia Street for a whim, if you must know; that is part of our
secret understanding, Mr. Meggison. Come, now--is it a bargain?"
Daniel Meggison looked at the young man for only one moment longer;
then he seemed to leap at him, and to catch his hand between both his
own. "A bargain, sir?" he exclaimed, in a rapture. "Of course it's a
bargain--and in a noble cause, sir. Fifty pounds, did you say? It's a
fortune!"
"A fortune into which you have very strangely come," Gilbert reminded
him. "Don't say a word now; I can see your daughter coming straight
through the house towards us. Come round and see me to-morrow, and
we'll work out together this game of make-believe which you are to
play."
"I'll play it well until the end!" exclaimed Meggison, shaking his hand
again. "A great game of make-believe! Splendid notion!"