MISS MAKE-BELIEVE ESCAPES
THE discreet Pringle, as on one other memorable occasion, had seated
himself on the box in the middle of the road out of earshot; Daniel
Meggison, lounging not too steadily against the parapet of the bridge,
addressed Gilbert.
"When I cast my mind back, sir, over the past, I find myself
marvelling--marvelling is the correct word--at the splendid fashion in
which you have kept the game alive for the sake of my child. For what,"
went on Mr. Meggison, waving a hand towards the sky, and addressing
the landscape generally--"for what have you not done on her account?
The splendid prodigality of it amazes me. In the first place, you
give up to her a house in the country--to which, quite naturally, she
brings her family, to say nothing of other relatives and friends who
trespass upon her. From that we fly"--Daniel Meggison made a movement
with his hands flutteringly in the air to suggest that flying--"to a
well-appointed yacht, where perhaps at the beginning all is not as well
as it might be. Reckless of the consequences--careless of the results
to life, limb and property--you splendidly drive that vessel upon the
rocks; you annex--(annex is the proper word, I believe)--a portion of
country that is probably not your own property; declare it to be an
island; and in the most romantic fashion provision the company cast
upon it with you. In a word, sir, the thing is magnificent--even if
carried a little too far."
"I firmly believed it to be an island until a few days ago," said
Gilbert. "I, like others, have been deceived; I, like others, have
been driven on a road I never meant to travel. Great things and great
consequences have sprung from my small beginnings."
"Nobly said, sir!" exclaimed Daniel Meggison. "But what I would ask
is--why give the game away now?" He lowered his voice to a whisper,
and took a step towards the younger man. "You've played the game
splendidly; play it a little longer. Here is a village--ready and
willing to supply all our needs; here is a pleasant land, where we may
pass the summer, or what remains of it, in idyllic simplicity. Why
change anything? For my own part, I needed but little to complete my
personal happiness, and that little I have found. Your credit here,
sir--or the credit of your servant--is particularly well established;
they bow before your name, sir."
"Are you another of them anxious to keep the fraud going?" asked
Gilbert in amazement.
"Certainly, sir," replied the unabashed Daniel Meggison. "In a
primitive fashion I am very happy here: what will happen when the
winter comes on is of course quite another matter. But let the future
take care of itself; for the moment we are children, and we laugh in
the sunshine."
"The tide's turning, sir," said Pringle, getting up from his box, and
preparing to shoulder it.
"I'm afraid the tide has turned for me," said Gilbert with a sigh, as
he moved away.
Daniel Meggison was very merry over breakfast that morning. He chose to
be flippant with Gilbert, and to rally Pringle on the ease with which
these islands could really be inhabited when it came to the pinch.
Dubbing himself the new Crusoe, he declared his intention of searching
the shore that very morning, in the hope to find that solitary
footprint of a possible Man Friday. He asked Gilbert whether it would
not be wise to set about at once the building of a stockade, the better
to protect themselves against the possible incursion of a dusky foe.
Altogether Daniel Meggison enjoyed the situation mightily, and bore
himself with that easy flippant gaiety that had marked him out in the
Arcadia Arms as being above the common herd. He displayed his power by
openly asking Gilbert if he had ever been to the west coast of Ireland,
and if so, what he thought of the scenery.
But it was by a combination of circumstances that the secret was at
last exposed to those who already were not in possession of it; and
when the exposure came at last, it seemed to come in the strangest way
from several quarters. In the first place, Daniel Meggison, growing
bolder, walked across that narrow neck of land one morning, and spent
the day in the village, or in an adjacent one, being regarded by the
inhabitants as a species of amiable tramp who had drifted out of the
great Unknown to enliven the monotony of their existence. As ill-luck
would have it, however, he drifted down across the bridge to the shore
again, blissfully forgetful of the fact that the tide only served at
certain hours, and discovered that he was cut off for the night.
Drifting back again, he made a bed for himself in an outhouse, and
slept the night away.
But to Bessie his disappearance was a great and inexplicable disaster.
She had been in the habit, even as in the old days of Arcadia
Street, of bidding him good night, and asking the question--futile
here--whether she could do anything more for him. But this night he was
missing; and an inquiry in various directions among that very scanty
population of the island revealed the fact that nothing had been seen
of him since early morning.
Gilbert had his suspicions, of course, and so had Pringle; but Bessie
was frantic with anxiety. A thousand things, in her imagination, might
have happened to him; he might have climbed the rocks and fallen into
the sea, or he might have fallen asleep on the shore and been carried
away by the waves. At all events, the most exhaustive inquiry failed to
find him within the limited circumference of the island; and Bessie was
suddenly a new power to be reckoned with.
Those who were the head and front of the actual conspiracy came to
Gilbert that night--drifting to him guiltily and secretly one after
the other. Mr. Edward Stocker came first; and Mr. Edward Stocker was
vaguely apologetic for his wife's brother.
"An anxiety to the family at all times, sir," said Mr. Stocker.
"Clever man, of course, with much more dignity and much more of real
gentlemanly feeling than ever I had, or am likely to have. Bit of
genius in his way, sir." Mr. Stocker paused, and thoughtfully pulled at
one ear as he looked at Gilbert. "I suppose it isn't necessary to ask
where he's gone, sir?"
"I'm afraid not," replied the other. "He penetrated the secret of this
place a little time back; he's making the most of his new freedom on
the mainland--and I expect he's been cut off by the tide. He's safe
enough; but it means that we must tell Bessie."
"I suppose so," said Mr. Stocker, with a long face. "And that also
means that Mrs. Stocker and me will go back to Clapham. Well," he
added, with a sigh--"the best of holidays must end."
Mr. Stocker had perhaps more gentlemanly feeling after all than he
imagined; at the very moment of departure from Gilbert's hut he came
back to him, to make a little set speech that had been in his mind
evidently from the first. "I should like to say, sir, on behalf of self
and Mrs. Stocker (although Mrs. Stocker may not think it absolutely
necessary to speak for herself), I should like to say that we take
it kind that people who force themselves on a gent like you, without
so much as 'by your leave,' should have been so treated as I may say
we have been. It isn't everyone that would go and put up with people
that shoved themselves on him, and insisted on being shipwrecked with
him--and even on being supported, like the early Christians, in rocks
and caves of the earth. On behalf of self and Mrs. Stocker--I am very
thankful, sir."
Mr. Jordan Tant came up the hill jubilantly enough; he carried his head
almost defiantly. He was still a yard or two away, in fact, when he
burst out with his great news.
"She accepts me! As I predicted, she accepts me!"
"That's not the most important thing on earth," retorted Gilbert.
"What about this wretched old man who has suddenly disappeared, as
his daughter supposes, and who will force us to tell the secret, and
explain the false position in which we stand?"
"That scarcely matters to me now," said Tant. "My dear Enid is a woman
of her word, and although I may be forced to return to civilization,
she will I know go with me--understanding me better for the way in
which I have risen to the occasion during our dangers and privations.
She will say to herself--'If this man can behave in such a fashion amid
unknown perils, and with the sea roaring and leaping about us--what
will he not be like in the neighbourhood of a mere tame Hyde Park
or Kensington Gardens?' That's what she will say; that's what she's
already saying. Consequently, my dear Byfield, I don't mind how soon I
go back to civilization."
"Well--you've won your woman; you can afford to play the deserter now,"
retorted Gilbert. "Go, by all means; I have a vision of you and Mrs.
Ewart-Crane and the fair Enid, incongruously dressed, stepping daintily
across to the mainland----"
"Where I shall immediately telegraph news of my safety, and proceed to
buy a few rough garments with the money I still have, and which it has
been impossible for me to spend in this place," broke in Jordan Tant.
"Above all things, Byfield, I shall cherish the remembrance that in a
fair and open field, when reduced almost to the condition of primitive
men, I won her from you, as the better man. I always knew it; I was
always certain that in me were qualities undeveloped by the artificial
life I had led."
"You can believe that if you will," said Gilbert, laughing. "As for
myself, the bottom seems to have dropped out of everything I ever
contemplated doing, and I am living here a more artificial life than
ever I lived in London. Take your way out into the world, my Tant--and
be happy."
Meanwhile there were other happenings. Mr. Edward Stocker had deemed
himself safe from his formidable spouse, and had perhaps grown a little
careless under his new liberty; but it happened that on that particular
night, when the little man had climbed the hill to Gilbert's hut,
Mrs. Stocker had thought it prudent to follow him. She had marked his
absence on other occasions; she who had forced from him every secret
his unromantic life had known determined that she would force from
him now any knowledge he possessed outside that she herself held. She
listened outside the hut, and heard that talk of the mainland and of
the absent Daniel Meggison; when Mr. Stocker, after his set speech,
cautiously scrambled down the hill, Mrs. Stocker, scratching herself
with briers, and gasping as she stumbled over the rough earth, followed
him. Bessie being absent from the hut, Mrs. Stocker suddenly pounced
upon Mr. Stocker, to his great alarm, and dragged him into that portion
of the hut hitherto occupied by Bessie Meggison and herself.
"My dear--I've been for a little walk," faltered Edward Stocker,
looking at her with a faint smile.
"Plotter and schemer!--so you thought you would keep everything from
your Julia--did you?" she demanded, in a suppressed voice. "You had
no objection to your wife being made a guy of for the amusement of
those who consider themselves superior in station; you didn't care
if she lived in a sort of cattle shed, without so much as a scrap of
looking-glass or a comb for weeks on end; you didn't mind if she had to
endure the pity of women who never really look anything at all unless
they are dressed to death! What's this talk of the island and the
mainland; and where is my brother?"
"My dear--we've really been very comfortable here," pleaded Edward
Stocker. "It's been quite a new experience--the sort of holiday to talk
to our friends about long years afterwards."
"I dare say," she sniffed. "Friends who have enjoyed the privileges of
Margate or Ramsgate, or even Brighton, and worn respectable clothing
with the best--with a special blouse for dinner in the evening.
Holiday, indeed! I shall never be able to hold up my head again as long
as I live."
"I'm extremely sorry," said Mr. Stocker. "What would you like me to do?"
"The moment this tide or whatever it is turns, you will conduct me to
the mainland. There, after we have procured proper clothing, you will
discover the best way to reach Clapham; and for the rest of your life
you will remain there--respectably. No more gadding about after people
with whom one is not really concerned. And don't you ever dare, Edward
Stocker, to refer to this time as a holiday!"
Late though it was, Mrs. Edward Stocker, primed with this new
knowledge, set out to impart it to the lady she had hitherto regarded
as her foe. Mrs. Ewart-Crane should understand that Mrs. Stocker was
no mere ordinary woman, to be imposed upon; Mrs. Ewart-Crane should
be impressed with the fact that Mrs. Stocker had sprung into the very
heart of the secret, and had in fact, if it came to that, suspected the
truth from the first. Binding the trembling Edward Stocker to her with
a fierce command, she set out to find Mrs. Ewart-Crane.
She performed the visit with all due ceremony; apologized profusely
and yet with dignity for a call which she knew was not strictly in
accordance with the usages of polite society; and then, in a most
casual manner, declared that she had at last been able to verify the
suspicion that she had entertained for a long time.
"In fact, for some inexplicable reason, we have been kept here, when we
might have escaped at any moment. The whole thing is one gigantic hoax,
and I am surprised that anyone should have been taken in by it for a
moment," said Mrs. Stocker loftily. "Personally, I have had reasons for
remaining here, not altogether unconnected with relatives of my own;
but I see no further necessity for enduring discomfort when I can quite
easily get home."
"I am extremely sorry that you should have had the trouble to call at
this hour," retorted Mrs. Ewart-Crane, shaking out her print dress
more gracefully about her. "But I was informed some time ago of the
extraordinary fact you have related. Our friend Mr. Jordan Tant knows
all about it. We shall of course return to London at once. We were
brought into this discreditable business greatly against my wish, and
the sooner we have done with it the better I shall be pleased. Good
night, ma'am--and pray take care of your husband; he doesn't look
strong."
Mrs. Stocker led Edward Stocker back to the hut, commenting fiercely
upon the manners of the upper classes, and upon the airs they gave
themselves. On second thoughts she decided that, once back in her
Clapham home, she might reasonably expand the adventures on this
supposed island; might come near to starvation and that casting of
lots that had been threatened; and might be rescued in the nick of
time and in the last stage of exhaustion by a friendly vessel, flying
a foreign flag, the captain of which was not altogether unimpressed by
her charms. Also she determined that the island should be placed in a
situation very remote from the British Isles.
Pringle sought his master in the hope of having some new light thrown
upon this strange development of the story. Single-hearted as to
purpose, so far as Byfield was concerned, Pringle had held obstinately
to that fact he had set before himself at the first: that the place was
an island. Now, in a moment, it seemed that there was no hope of that
fiction being kept alive; he desired fresh instructions as to how to
deal with the problem before him.
"Asking your pardon, sir, for interfering," he said--"but I suppose you
understand that this won't be the end of it, by no means. Mr. Meggison,
sir, has been lured away in search of things he couldn't find here,
sir--and I'm afraid the others'll follow. I've done my best from the
very first; I wouldn't have you think otherwise, sir."
"I know you've done your best, Pringle," replied Gilbert, laughing
ruefully--"but that doesn't mend matters. The thing has gone beyond
Mr. Daniel Meggison; there are others already who know it. You have
played your part of the game admirably, Pringle; but unfortunately I
shall be supposed to have played it with you from the very beginning.
So far as Mr. Meggison is concerned, let him stay on the mainland, or
let him come back; personally, I should be glad if both he and his son
had gone altogether. The others are free to go when they like, because
I'm afraid that the sorry game is played out. It isn't your fault,
Pringle, because if it comes to that you played your game better than
any of us."
"Much obliged to you, sir, for your good opinion," said Pringle. "If it
would ease matters at all, I'd take the boat and row across, and bring
Mr. Meggison back--by force if necessary, sir."
"That wouldn't do at all; but we must invent some story to allay Miss
Meggison's anxiety."
"If I might make so bold, sir--wouldn't it be better to tell her the
truth? She's the best of the whole bunch, sir--again asking your pardon
for the liberty--and I'm sure she'd understand, sir."
"Perhaps you're right, Pringle; in any case something has to be done,
and that without delay."
That thought was in the mind of Pringle as he walked back towards his
own quarters. Counting over in his mind the various people who had been
so strangely brought together in that place, he came with particular
dislike to a recollection of Mr. Aubrey Meggison--that coarse-mannered
youth who had consistently refused to assist in any work on the island,
and who had always taken growlingly his full share of all the food and
clothing that were to be had. It might be a good idea to rid this
harassed master of his of the son as well as of the father.
Fortune played into his hands. He was sitting by the last remains of
the fire when he heard steps, and, looking up, saw the man of whom he
had been thinking staring moodily down at him. Pringle looked up, and
nodded cheerfully, and spoke with that deep respect with which he spoke
to all men.
"Good evening, sir," said Pringle cheerfully. "Bad business, sir--this
about your guv'nor."
"A very mysterious business," said Aubrey darkly. "If I was in London,
I should have a word or two to say about what the police had been
doin'; I should let 'em know what I thought about the matter--and I
should point out a theory or two, to put 'em on the right track. You
can't deceive me, you know; I wasn't born yesterday, not by a long
chalk."
"I can quite believe it, sir," said Pringle. "Now, what might be your
theory, sir?--or, if left to yourself, how would you set about finding
this guv'nor of yours, sir?"
Mr. Aubrey Meggison lowered himself to the ground, and, resting a hand
on each knee, leaned forward towards Pringle. "My opinion," he said
solemnly, "is that the guv'nor was in the way--another mouth to feed,
you'll understand--and he's been made away with." Aubrey leaned back,
and nodded slowly three times.
"Now, I should never have thought of that, sir," said Pringle.
"Nor anybody else that hadn't knocked about the world as I have, and
seen things," said Aubrey composedly. "Mind, I'm not sayin' that in
a way it doesn't serve the guv'nor right; he hasn't played what you
might call the gentleman since we've been 'ere. At the same time, you
see, he's my father--and as fathers go he wasn't bad. At the same time,
justice is justice, and I want to know what's become of the old man."
"If you'll excuse the saying, sir," said Pringle, with deep
respect--"you're smart--but your father's smarter. That's putting it
in the rough, sir; but you've not been fairly dealt with, sir, and I
should like to speak my mind to you."
"You're probably mistaken, you know," said Aubrey--"but you can go on."
"Thank you, sir," said Pringle. "You must know, then, that your father
has discovered that there is a way of escape from this place--and he
has taken that way."
"Come--no bunkum, you know," said Aubrey. "You can't gammon me; I'm
much too fly."
"It would be waste of breath to try to, sir," replied Pringle. "But
your father has discovered, quite by accident, what no one else knows;
he has found out that this place is not an island at all, but is
connected with the mainland. Consequently, sir, to that mainland he has
gone; and I expect at the present moment he's got his toes stuck up
in front of a very decent fire, sir--with a glass of something in his
hand, and I shouldn't be surprised if there was a cigar in the other."
Aubrey Meggison slowly got to his knees, and leaned forward, and stared
in blank amazement at the placid Pringle. "You don't mean to say that
while all these mugs are rottin' about here, playin' shipwrecks, the
guv'nor's gone and found a little place for himself, where he can be
nice and comfortable? Don't tell me that the old man's gone one better
than anybody else!" he pleaded.
"Unhappily it's a fact, sir. He's living on the fat of the land," said
Pringle.
Aubrey got up, and walked round the fire, swearing softly to himself
as he went. Then he stopped, and looked down at Pringle, and began
to laugh; shook his head whimsically more than once, and slapped his
thigh, and danced about a little.
"By George!--he's a wonder!" he exclaimed, in a tone of deep
admiration. "I've always been proud of him in a way; never minded
tippin' him the nod in a billiard-room or anything of that kind,
because he wasn't quite like other chaps' guv'nors. But to think of him
slipping off like that and having a good time---- I tell you what it
is--my old guv'nor would make a jolly good livin' at the North Pole,
without a relief expedition. He's a living wonder!"
"He's a very remarkable man, sir," supplemented Pringle.
"But I'll bowl him over; I'll show him that two can play at that game,"
said Aubrey, with a chuckle. "You show me what's the best way to get
off this blessed place--same as father's done--and I'll ferret out the
old man, and stand before him, and show him that two can play at that
game as well as one. All's well that ends well, don't you know; when
I've got a good old cigar in between my teeth, and something a little
stronger than water ready to my hand, I shall feel like a man again!"
Pringle, delighted with the success of his scheme, arranged an
early meeting at the point where the rocks jutted into the sea. That
appointment (surprisingly enough for one who hated early rising) was
kept by Aubrey Meggison; and on the way across the narrow neck of
land the youth chuckled to himself at the ease with which it had been
possible all along to reach the mainland. On the opposite shore he
turned to Pringle impressively.
"Don't you run away with the idea, my man, that you've got rid of us,"
he said; "we're not so easy shaken off as that. I know the guv'nor, and
I also know myself; and we shall have just a word to say, if necessary,
to the person that placed us in this position. I don't think I need
enlarge on the subject; if you want to understand my feelings just cast
your eye over my clothes. This Mr. Byfield has trotted us about for his
own convenience; he needn't think he's going to dump us anywhere, and
leave us to shift for ourselves. I'm going to find the guv'nor, and I'm
going to make myself comfortable with him. So long!"
Pringle stood to watch him climbing over the bridge; shook his head
over his departing figure with an expression of disgust. "It's
a rum thing, when you come to think of it," murmured Pringle to
himself--"it's a mighty rum thing that that sort of creature generally
manages to get through the world, and to get some one else to keep it.
I suppose the real reason is that it turns so nasty if it doesn't get
what it calls its rights, that it becomes pleasanter for all parties
just to pay it to keep quiet."
Bessie had gone, in her bewilderment and anxiety, at last to Gilbert;
to him she presented that mystery which was no mystery at all. What
did he think had become of her dear father?
Even then he held back from the truth; even then he evaded the only
explanation possible. "My dear," he said gently, taking her hand, "I
can only assure you that your father is well--and safe."
"Then you know where he is?" she demanded quickly.
"I can guess--and I can only tell you that it is at the moment a little
secret. You must trust me, just as you have trusted me all through. You
shall know everything to-day; and everything shall be set right to-day."
"Set right?" She looked at him in perplexity. "Is anything wrong?"
"Nothing," he assured her. "You shall know everything to-day, my
darling; that at least I can promise you. And your father is well."
She plied him with questions, but he would not answer her. Truth to
tell, he had not yet made up his mind what to do; he seemed to see her,
in imagination, drifting again out of his life--refusing to receive any
explanation that he could offer. He whispered of his love for her--of
all that they might do together in some impossible future, when they
should have been rescued from that place. She listened with only a
vague understanding of what he said; doubts were in her mind already
as to what was happening, and why it should be necessary to keep her
in ignorance concerning her father. She loved Gilbert--she thought she
understood him; but passionately she declared to herself that she had
been tricked once, and she would not be tricked again. She strove
hard to keep an open mind; strove to remind herself that what he did
was done for her sake, and out of his love for her. But he had sworn
to tell her the truth always, and to cheat her no more; and to that he
must keep steadfastly. There must be no second path.
Meanwhile, a series of personally conducted tours were taking place,
under the guidance of Pringle. To Pringle each party appeared--and to
him each party appealed. Mrs. Stocker, leading the obedient Stocker,
demanded to be shown the way; the obliging Pringle, feeling that here
at last was a solution of the great difficulty, willingly conducted the
pair round the rocks--and pointed the way. He watched them climbing
where Aubrey had climbed but a little time before--incongruous-looking
figures, facing the dawn and going back into the world. Also he carried
in his mind, as a message not to be delivered, certain parting words
spoken by Mrs. Stocker.
"You may tell your master," that lady had said at the last moment,
"that I am not likely to forget the position in which he has placed a
lady who has hitherto been able to hold up her head with the very best
in the most select part of Clapham. I am not sure that my husband will
not lay the matter before his solicitors, with a view to a claim for
damages. Do you understand?"
"I will bear it in mind, ma'am," said Pringle humbly.
"I am given to understand that we are probably on the western coast
of Ireland, which is much the same as being cast among savages," went
on the lady. "In any case the return fare to Clapham Junction (the
station nearest our home), to say nothing of garments to be purchased,
will be considerable; a claim shall be duly posted to your master, and
must be met forthwith. So far as moral damage is concerned, I will
consult with my husband, as I have suggested, and Mr. Byfield will
doubtless receive a communication in due course."
"Very good, ma'am," said Pringle. "Go straight across, ma'am, and keep
to the road. Nice little village, and pleasant people. Good morning!"
Pringle was turning away, not troubling for once to conceal his
laughter, when he was met by the second party, consisting of Mr. Jordan
Tant, Mrs. Ewart-Crane, and Enid. Pringle straightened his face, and
gave them at once a cheerful but respectful greeting.
"Good morning, sir," he said to Tant. "Are you taking a walk, sir?"
"We are leaving this place, if it is at all possible," broke in Mrs.
Ewart-Crane. "You can no longer deceive us, my good man."
"Not for the world, ma'am," said Pringle. "In fact, if you hurry a bit,
there's just a chance you may be able to get across before the tide
turns. Nice village, sir, just over the bridge; cheerful people. This
way, sir."
He watched them also disappear--splashing a little in the middle of
the neck of land, and with some lifting of skirts on the part of the
ladies. Then he got back just in time himself, and set about the
preparation of breakfast, quite as though nothing unusual had happened.
"Everybody's late this morning," commented Simon Quarle, as he took
his place by the fire, and nodded to Pringle. "Heard anything about
Meggison?"
Pringle saw Bessie approaching, and merely shook his head. The girl
greeted Simon quietly; her face was white and set, and she did not look
round even when Gilbert approached. Gilbert seemed a little surprised
to find that they were the only breakfasters; a gloomy silence had
settled upon them all. Pringle was withdrawing as usual, to take his
breakfast a little apart, when Gilbert called him back.
"Pringle--have you called the others?"
Pringle looked uncomfortable, and gazed down into the cup he was
carrying. "Might I have a word with you, sir?" he asked, without
raising his eyes.
"You can speak now; there's nothing to hide," said Gilbert, watching
the girl.
"Well, sir--very early this morning the ladies and gentlemen made
up their minds, sir, to go. It seems that everybody understood,
sir--they'd found it out somehow or other, sir, and the delights of
the island no longer attracted them. They've gone, sir, by the way you
know."
"All of them?" Gilbert stared at the man incredulously.
"Every one of 'em, sir," replied the man. "First it was Mr.
Aubrey--longing to see his father--and then it was Mr. and Mrs.
Stocker--and then Mr. Tant and the other ladies."
"That will do, Pringle--thank you," said Gilbert; and the man walked
a few paces away, and seated himself on the ground, and began his
breakfast.
"Gone? Where the devil have they gone?" demanded Quarle, staring
open-mouthed at Byfield. "I want to understand. Where could they go to?"
Gilbert turned to the girl; there could be no further delay.
"Bessie," he began gently--"you must understand that this place is not,
as we thought, an island at all. At low tide it is connected with the
mainland--and that mainland is, I believe, Ireland. Your father found
that out, and was one of the first to go back into civilization; the
others have discovered the secret, and have followed him. I did not
know until--until a day or two ago that this place was not an island. I
have been perfectly honest with you--up to that time."
She did not take her eyes from his face; a chill drop of doubt seemed
to fall upon her heart, and to deaden it. She got to her feet and
walked away; the two men, watching her, saw her suddenly stop, and drop
her face in her hands. Gilbert sprang to his feet, and Simon Quarle
scrambled up also.
"Bessie!" cried the younger man; and again as he got nearer to
her--"Bessie!"
She turned swiftly, and dropped her hands at her sides, and faced him.
"And all these people know now that the thing has been a cheat--a lie
from the beginning. Just as we played at make-believe at your house at
Fiddler's Green--just as we played at make-believe on the yacht--so
we've played at make-believe here. Is that true?"
He took a step towards her, and laid his hands upon her shoulders; he
felt her stiffen under his touch.
"Bessie--my dear, dear girl--it's true--but it wasn't my fault this
time. I did indeed believe that we were cast away here; I hadn't the
remotest notion of where we were at all. Then, when at last--only a few
days ago, comparatively speaking--I found out that we could get back
into civilization so easily, I determined that I would keep the game
alive a little longer----"
"Ah!--the game--always the game!" she breathed tearfully, and dropped
her head.
"And I did that because I loved you; and because I was afraid that you
might stand before me as you're standing now, and refuse to believe
what I told you. I wanted to keep you here a little longer--I wanted to
see you cheerfully playing make-believe day after day; I didn't want
you to go back into the world--the common ordinary world again."
"And now the game is ended," she said, looking up at him with eyes
brimming with tears. "Take your hands away from me, Mr. Byfield,
please; the game is ended. It has been a poor game from the first--and
God help me!--I've lost every time. Take your hands away from me!"
He watched her go--standing miserably and helplessly looking after her.
He dared not follow; he was afraid to think what she would do, or how
this poor comedy that had so strangely developed into a tragedy was to
end. Simon Quarle said nothing; he stood grimly muttering a little to
himself; he seemed dazed by the sudden turn of events.
"An island--and not an island; and to think that I never for a moment
suspected it," muttered Quarle. "And for me, at my time of life, to
play at shipwrecks and Robinson Crusoe and the devil knows what! It's
amazing!"
Strangely enough, Simon Quarle was to cut the knot on this occasion.
He had sought out Pringle, and had got the real truth from
him--understanding only too well that it would be necessary to wait
until early morning if he would cross to the mainland. He was wandering
disconsolately on the shore when Bessie approached him.
"Mr. Quarle--you were always my friend--weren't you?" she pleaded,
looking quickly round about to see that they were not observed. "And
you're going to help me?"
He nodded. "With my life, if necessary, my dear," he said, with an
attempt at whimsicality. "What are you going to do?"
"The boat will take us across to the mainland; we need not wait another
night here," she whispered hurriedly. "Dear good kind old friend--take
me across--and set me free."
He nodded again, and turned away at once in the direction of the boat,
she following. Together they shoved it into the water, and with sturdy
strokes the man pulled round the rocks and in the direction of the
mainland. As he helped her out, she suddenly bent, and put her arms
about his neck, and kissed him.
"Good-bye, old friend," she said, a little brokenly--"I'm going to run
away."
"You'll find the others all down in the village, I expect," he reminded
her.
She shook her head, and smiled through her tears. "I'm not going to
find the others; I couldn't bear to meet them," she replied. "I'm
going to run away into the world--all alone. Good-bye!"
"Stop!" he exclaimed, "you can't go like that." But she waved her hand
to him, and ran up towards the bridge; turned there for a moment to
wave her hand again, and to blow a kiss in his direction. And then ran
on out of his sight, and down into the world.