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.
Strange as it may appear, for two whole days the situation remained
unchanged. Gilbert held practically no communication with anyone on
board, save with Bessie, to whom occasionally he sent a note by the
discreet hands of Pringle. But though she read the notes, and though
over the first of them at least she wavered a little, she never
sent any reply, and the notes themselves, in fragments, were tossed
overboard. But on the evening of the second day after that disclosure
of the truth, Mr. Tant literally forced his way into the presence of
Gilbert, and demanded to know what was going to happen.
"My dear Gilbert," he exclaimed--"I can really stand it no longer.
Mrs. Ewart-Crane, fortunately for all of us (though Heaven forgive
me for saying so) has been extremely ill again, or she would in all
probability have demanded to see you; Enid, I regret to say, has
merely become sulky. Don't think that I blame her for a moment; in her
position anyone might be excused for doing the same. The other people
do not concern me, and so I have not troubled about them; but I would
merely observe that the elder Meggison appears to be making a frantic
attempt to drink himself to death, thanks to the services of the
obliging Pringle. Something's got to be done--and quickly."
"There is one person in command of this vessel, and of the situation,"
replied Gilbert. "That person is Miss Meggison; and when she deigns
to look at the matter from the proper standpoint, and practically to
take no notice of any of those persons who have forced their way on
to the yacht, we shall know what we are going to do. I am perfectly
comfortable, and unless Miss Meggison moves in the matter the situation
must solve itself."
So Mr. Jordan Tant, shaking his head desolately, went off to find
Bessie. As a matter of fact he was a little afraid of her, because of
the extraordinary position that a girl of her origin had taken up; it
was clearly against anything he had ever understood concerning people
of her class. He approached her in the politest fashion, and pleaded
with her to do something in the matter.
"I have been speaking to our friend Byfield, Miss Meggison," said
Mr. Tant--"and I may be said to be a sort of reluctant ambassador.
Personally I do not like the sea; there is not that stability about it
that I require for my actual comfort; if you come to that, I think none
of us here really like the sea; we should all like to go back safely to
dry land. Now--what do you say?"
"I have already told Mr. Byfield that I want to go back to England,"
said Bessie.
"Excellent! I am sure that our friend Byfield does not really
understand the situation. Perhaps you have not explained the matter
clearly."
"I have explained it very clearly--but Mr. Byfield absolutely refuses
to go back," said Bessie. "The matter is not in my hands, as you appear
to think; I am a prisoner here just the same as you are. Here is my
father; perhaps you had better speak to him about it."
"Personally I don't see that there's anything to discuss," said Daniel
Meggison, airily stepping into the conversation. "Our good friend
Byfield--owner of this charming yacht--prefers as an idle man to take
a cruise on summer seas. I, as another idle man, am delighted to
accompany him--and my daughter is included in the party. I confess
there are certain people on board who have forced themselves, as it
were, into the original scheme of things; but the vessel is a large
one, and we may safely ignore them. Personally, I'm very comfortable,
and I decline to question the motives of my friend Byfield in any way.
Excellent fellow, Byfield--lavish with his money."
"You hear what my father says," said Bessie, with a little note of
contempt in her voice. "Surely you can want nothing else. I don't count
at all, you see; all the other people have to be reckoned with first."
Mr. Tant went away, but did not return to Gilbert. Instead he spent
some hours in going about between Mrs. Ewart-Crane and Enid and
Simon Quarle--putting questions to them, with his head very much on
one side, and speaking always in a plaintive tone. Those questions
resolved themselves simply into--What ought a fellow to do under
certain exasperating circumstances?--Wouldn't it be better to appoint a
committee, or something of that kind, to take charge of things? Failing
to get any satisfaction from any quarter, Mr. Tant took his sorrows to
the cheerful Pringle, who seemed to suggest that there was nothing very
much to worry about.
"Bless you, sir--so long as you're in comfortable quarters I don't
think it matters much, sir, whether you're afloat or whether you're
ashore. You've got to pass the time somehow, and you may as well make
the best of things as they happen along, sir. Nice vessel, sir--an'
company nice and varied; some of 'em swears at you, an' some of 'em
complains about things--an' nobody seems just at the moment to be
absolutely wild with joy. But Lor', sir, anything might happen to cheer
everybody up at a moment's notice. Anything I can do for you, sir?"
Mr. Tant went away, feeling more miserable than ever. Coming on deck,
he found that it was growing dark, and that a soft uncomfortable rain
was falling; the wind had dropped to nothing. He wondered despondently
where they were, or for what port they were bound; he had not troubled
to ask about such matters as that at all. Finally he went below, and
curled himself up in a corner of the saloon, and went to sleep.
He was awakened from that sleep by a sudden violent shock that flung
him full upon his face upon the carpet. He scrambled up, hearing above
him a great noise of running feet, and the shouts of men, and once the
agitated scream of a woman. He got the door of the saloon open, and
went off along a corridor that seemed to slope in an unaccountable
fashion in search of Mrs. Ewart-Crane's cabin. He met Enid at the door
of it.
"What's the matter?" she asked. "Everything in the cabin seems to be
upside down."
"I don't know," responded Mr. Tant, with his teeth chattering--"but I
should say that we'd bumped into something."
Mr. Tant left her, and went along that corridor that sloped
unpleasantly on his way to the deck. At the foot of the companion
he collided with Pringle, who apologized, and beamed upon him as
cheerfully as ever.
"Shouldn't be a bit surprised, sir, if we wasn't all goin' to the
bottom," said Pringle, with a grin. "This way, sir; take my arm, sir."
They scrambled on deck in a pitchy darkness of fog and a blur of rain,
to see dim figures moving swiftly about the deck, and to hear a voice
above them crying orders. The deck sloped as much as the corridor had
done, and at quite as unpleasant an angle; somewhere near at hand they
heard Gilbert's voice speaking sharply to the captain.
"It means taking to the boats, sir," shouted the voice above. "Plenty
of time, if things are done quietly; the men are all standing by.
Better get your friends on deck, sir."
That suggestion was more easily made than carried out. Mrs. Stocker,
for instance, was in a great state of hysteria, and was clinging to
little Mr. Stocker, something to his suffocation. She insisted upon
being taken on deck, and at the same time vigorously resisted every
effort to get her there. Mr. Daniel Meggison wept, and wrung his
hands, and bawled for life-belts; Aubrey, with all the bravado gone
out of him, stood still, and plucked at his lips, and stared into
the blackness of the night, terror-stricken. Mrs. Ewart-Crane and
her daughter clung together; but Enid, to do her justice, was quite
composed, and spoke sharply once to Mr. Tant when that gentleman
demanded to know if anybody was ever going to do anything.
Simon Quarle found the hand he wanted in the darkness, and gripped it.
"Well, Bessie--are you afraid?" he whispered.
"No--not afraid," she said steadily. "If only father would be quiet; we
can't do any good by shouting."
"Life-belts!" bellowed Daniel Meggison. "Oh--my God!--are there no
life-belts on this rotten old hulk? Life-belts!"
The yacht was settling down slowly but steadily; there was nothing
for it but to take to the boats. Some provisions were put in--the men
hurrying hither and thither, answering cheerfully to the orders given
them, and standing in their places without disorder. The only confusion
was among the passengers; when their boat was at last ready, Daniel and
his son scuffled together feebly for a moment or two, even with blows,
in an attempt to get into the boat first.
Now, just how it happened that in the confusion that boat went off
with the passengers only in it--the Stockers and the Ewart-Cranes, the
Meggisons and Quarle, and Tant and Gilbert--will never be known. At the
last moment Gilbert called out to know if Pringle was there; and the
cheery voice of the man answered him; and Pringle, following the voice,
stepped into his place.
"Nice smooth sea, sir," said Pringle, as he took an oar.
The other boats were being manned; to the last, as they pulled away,
they heard the steady voice of the captain calling orders. Gilbert
and Pringle and Simon Quarle pulled steadily; the women were huddled
in the stern, and one of them at least was whimpering. Gradually the
night seemed to close in above them and about them; gradually it seemed
that they were left more and more alone on the gently heaving sea. At
last--minutes after, as it seemed--there was a sound of rending and
tearing upon rocks--and then a splash of waters; then all was still.
"She's gone," said Gilbert, drawing a long breath.
They pulled slowly, waiting for the dawn; no one seemed inclined to
speak. Daniel Meggison slumbered a little, murmuring in his sleep;
Mrs. Julia Stocker also appeared to sleep, pillowing her head upon Mr.
Stocker, who seemed to strive to make her as comfortable as he could.
She murmured more than once of Clapham.
Gilbert strove to pierce the darkness to catch a glimpse of Bessie. He
thought he knew where she sat--upright and slim and steady; he wondered
of what she was thinking, out there in the darkness--remembered with
a pang how far she was from that quiet Arcadia Street in which he had
found her. Then gradually, from sheer exhaustion, he nodded a little
himself, even while he kept his oar moving rhythmically. And the dawn
grew at last in the sky, and shed its grey light upon them--that
strange little company in an open boat upon the sea.
That little company woke gradually to the full meaning of their
situation. Mrs. Stocker, shuddering, was absolutely certain that she
"looked a fright"; Mr. Edward Stocker passed a sort of damp compliment
to her concerning her appearance. Mrs. Ewart-Crane had withdrawn
herself a little, with her daughter, from the commoner company; Enid
might have been observed holding the hand of Jordan Tant. Daniel
Meggison, for his part, more than once put the lives of them all in
peril by standing up in the boat, holding on to the person nearest him,
and declaring that he distinctly saw land; after such an exhibition he
was usually hauled down unceremoniously by the coat-tails by his son.
"Got any notion where we are?" growled Simon Quarle over his shoulder
to Gilbert.
"Not the slightest," replied Byfield in the same tone. "As a matter of
fact, I didn't trouble very much about the direction we were taking
during the past few days."
"Then we must hope for luck--and cheer up the women," said Quarle,
bending to his oar again.
"It might help a bit, sir, if I was to serve out breakfast," said
Pringle, looking back over his shoulder. "It isn't much, sir; but it
might well be less. At the worst, it'll keep us going for a day or two,
sir."
"Go ahead then--but be sparing," said Gilbert.
"Very good, sir," replied Pringle cheerfully; and proceeded to hand out
miscellaneous provisions forthwith.
"I feel that I am a citizen of the world," said Daniel Meggison, biting
a biscuit, and looking round upon his fellow-voyagers. "Anything might
happen to me--anything may happen; but at least I shall have warmed
both hands at the fire of life."
"That's about the only fire you ever will warm your hands at, Dad, I
should think," retorted Aubrey. "Beastly chilly on the sea at this
time of the morning." He flogged himself viciously with his arms as
he spoke. "Besides, how anybody can be cheerful under these horrible
circumstances licks me. Biscuits--and tinned things--and water!"
"Water is certainly a drawback, but I believe thirst is even worse,"
said Mr. Meggison.
"If Mr. Stocker and I were at home now we should at least be having a
comfortable breakfast," said Mrs. Stocker, shivering. "I do hope that
girl is looking after the house; ten chances to one she won't have
dusted the place since last I set foot in it. I wonder what'll happen
if we all go to the bottom of the sea? I wonder if she'll stop at the
house, and hope for us to come back."
"Let us hope, on our own accounts, that we shall go back, my dear,"
said Mr. Stocker. "After all, we're not the worst off by any means," he
added, lowering his voice. "Mr. Byfield, for instance--think what he's
lost. All that great vessel gone to the bottom of the sea."
"Well, he ought to have had more sense than to go tearing over the
ocean, and bumping into things in the dark the way he did," snapped
Mrs. Stocker.
"I don't know whether you noticed, ma'am," said Daniel Meggison
genially, as he turned to Mrs. Ewart-Crane, "that about a fortnight
ago, in one of the Sunday papers, there was an account of a shipwrecked
crew--provisions exhausted--who decided to draw lots as to which of
them should be killed to provide sustenance for the remainder. It fell
to the cook----"
"I do not read the Sunday papers, sir," said Mrs. Ewart-Crane, turning
her back upon him.
"That's a pity," he retorted, nothing abashed. "They seemed to find the
cook somewhat reluctant, but finally overcame his scruples, and were
just deciding how best to dispose his person among the crew--to divide
him up, in fact, ma'am--when there was a cry from one of the number
that a vessel was in sight. So the cook escaped. Highly interesting
narrative, ma'am."
"Even in the small compass of this boat, sir, you will find that it is
more convenient to draw the line, if I may use the expression, between
class and class," said Mr. Jordan Tant icily. "Because a lady is
compelled to sit upon the same seat with you in a boat on the open sea
is no reason why you should force your conversation upon her. It isn't
done, sir."
"Confound your impudence!" exclaimed Daniel Meggison, starting to
his feet. But Aubrey promptly pulled him down again, and he retired,
muttering, into the depths of his large frock-coat, the collar of which
he had turned up about his ears.
A mist had settled down again over the sea. They pulled on and on
steadily, with no definite purpose in their minds as to what was to
happen to them. But presently, amid a silence that had fallen upon them
all (for even Daniel Meggison had given up conversation as hopeless
under the circumstances), Gilbert leaned forward and spoke to Simon
Quarle.
"I can hear the sound of waves breaking on rocks," he said. "I thought
I heard it just now; but now I'm certain."
They rested upon their oars, and listened; the sound was unmistakable.
Everyone sat up, and began to offer suggestions as to where they
were, and what the land was likely to be; the three rowers settled
again to their work. And now the sound grew louder and louder, until
presently, jutting up out of the mist, was a grey shadow that was
certainly land--a grey shadow that presently resolved itself into a
sloping shore, with white crested waves breaking upon it. They pulled
cautiously, looking for an opening; Daniel Meggison was with difficulty
restrained from leaping to his feet and shouting.
"For my part, I do hope there'll be somebody that can speak the
English language," said Mrs. Stocker. "Also I hope there won't be any
unnecessary bumping when we do land. I remember when I was a girl at
Brighton when we were run up on the beach in a very nice boat----"
The speech was cut short by the boat that moment taking ground gently;
the three men sprang out, and began to haul it up on the sloping shore.
One by one the cramped passengers were handed out over the seats;
they stood on a desolate shore, without any sign of human habitation
anywhere, and looked about them forlornly.
"Looks to me very much like an island, sir," said Pringle cheerfully.
"By all the rules of the game it certainly ought to be an island," said
Daniel Meggison.