The Cruise of the Make-Believes

His mind was pretty clearly made up as to what he should do by the time the train drew in at the platform at Fiddler's Green, and he was looking about to see if by chance someone had come to meet him.

CHAPTER IX
AND THE PRINCESS TIES IT AGAIN

DISAPPOINTMENT sat heavily on the face of Gilbert Byfield as an obsequious porter who knew him pulled open the door of the carriage and seized his bag. For there was no one with a familiar face in sight on the little platform; and Gilbert had rather hoped that there might have been someone with a smile to welcome him, and a hand to clasp his own.

Few passengers ever get out at Fiddler's Green, and on this occasion there was only a stout and heavy farmer, and an elderly woman with a plethoric basket. True, at the end of the platform was a young girl in a white dress, and with a slim and pretty figure; but young girls in white dresses were nothing to Gilbert Byfield at that moment. He followed the porter gloomily, muttering something to the effect that he supposed he'd better have the fly.

It was only when he was actually giving up his ticket that he found himself face to face with the girl in the white dress; and then discovered that he was holding her hands, and gazing at her – and that it was Bessie, half laughing and half crying, and saying again and again how glad she was to see him. And all in a moment the sun was shining, and Fiddler's Green was beautiful; and the fly was a musty affair, good enough to carry on his bag to the house, but not to be ridden in under any circumstances.

They went on a little shyly and happily down the long road that led from the station towards the house. Once or twice she looked at him as he strode along beside her; and she laughed with the conscious shyness of a child, and yet with complete happiness. Presently, when it came about that a turn of the road hid them from the sight of the station or of any houses beyond, she slipped her hand into his; and so held it, as a child might have done, while they walked on side by side. And then it was that the problem he had to face loomed large, and asked fierce questions of the man, and would not be denied. Questions hard to answer, with that happy face beside him, and with those clear eyes looking up into his own. He found himself wishing passionately that the time might never come when those eyes should change, or should look at him with any indignation or any sorrow. Which might well happen, as he knew.

"Tell me everything," he said after a pause. "About your life – and what you do – and how you spend your days. This is such a changed Bessie that I scarcely seem to know her."

"For the better, Mr. Byfield?" She looked at him with no seriousness at all, and he gave her a gay answer naturally enough.

"Oh – this isn't the Bessie of Arcadia Street at all; this is a being in a white frock who belongs naturally and properly to the country. I shall believe presently that you've been here all your life."

"I believe it already," she retorted. "Arcadia Street seems miles and miles away, as though it had never existed at all; I find myself wondering sometimes exactly how one turned into it – and what the houses were like – and if they really were as small and mean as they seem to be now. You'll like Fiddler's Green," she added quickly.

"I'm sure I shall. And so I suppose you are really and truly very happy?"

She did not answer for a moment; she walked on beside him, and he noticed as he glanced at her that her face was grave. "So happy sometimes, Mr. Byfield, that I'm afraid," she said steadily. "I wake at night in the great room that is mine, and I lie listening to the silence, and wondering if it's all true. I dread sometimes to open my eyes in the morning, for fear that I may open them in the old narrow room in the old narrow house in Arcadia Street; I'm frightened when they knock at my door in the morning, lest it should be Amelia come to say that the baker has stopped credit, or the milkman wants a little something on account. You don't know, Mr. Byfield," she added, turning wide, serious eyes upon him for a moment – "you really don't know what it means never by any chance to hear that phrase again – 'someone wants something on account.'"

"I think I can understand," he replied. "And so you still like Fiddler's Green – eh?"

"I never believed that there was such a place," she said. "It's wonderful! Even poor father seems to be getting more used to it; he missed his club terribly at first. But now he is finding quite a lot to interest him; he drives round and studies the architecture of the various old inns round about – sometimes gives up a day to it."

"And your brother?" asked Gilbert with a frown.

"Aubrey is turning out really splendidly," said the girl. "He looks quite handsome when he's riding; even father admits that – and father never did like Aubrey. In fact, everything is better than it has ever been – and all the dreams I ever had seem to have come true."

"Dreams fade, little Make-Believe," he reminded her.

"I don't think my dreams will ever fade," she replied. "And you mustn't call me Little-Make-Believe any more – because it isn't true. Everything is real; I don't have to make-believe any longer."

"Fortunes are lost sometimes; it happens every day," he urged again. "Suppose this great fortune of yours was swept away – this fortune that came by lucky speculation – what then?"

"I can't believe that it will ever end; I can't believe that Fate would be so cruel as to send me back again to Arcadia Street – and to all the old unhappy life."

"You forget, Bessie; you were very happy there – playing that great game of life."

She shook her head. "I didn't understand – that was why I was happy," she said. "I struggled hard to make myself happy – fought hard to reach every little gleam of sunshine that came my way. Now I don't have to fight; thanks to father, all my happiness comes to me naturally."

They were nearing the house when she turned upon him with astounding news. "Oh – I forgot to tell you that we've got visitors."

"Visitors?" He stared at her as though not understanding.

She nodded brightly. "Yes; Aunt Julia Stocker and Uncle Ted. Father asked them down; father said – 'What's the use of having a big house if you don't fill it?' Father's thinking of asking some other people – friends of his particularly. Of course there'll be lots of room for you, Mr. Byfield," she added; "I've seen about your room myself. Besides the housekeeper seemed to think that you'd like it; I suppose she knew what sort of a man you were."

Gilbert Byfield went on to the house in silence, listening as in a dream to the girl's animated chatter, as she pointed out this, that or the other familiar thing, and demanded his admiration. He began to understand that the difficulties he had created were greater than he had yet imagined; already he seemed to see an imaginary Daniel Meggison – grinning and triumphant – defying him to move at all, and sheltering himself in every extravagance behind this girl in the white frock, whose happiness Gilbert had purchased at so strange a price.

Mr. Daniel Meggison, for his part, made no secret from the beginning of the attitude he intended to adopt. For some weeks now he had been given a free hand, and that fact, combined with new clothes, and a comfortable house, and money in his pocket, and servants to do his bidding, had already gone far to spoil the man, and to bring out some of the original bully that had been suppressed in his nature. Whatever qualms he may have felt he hid successfully at the first moment of meeting. He stood at the door of the house, with arms outstretched, and with a beaming smile upon his face.

"Welcome, my dear Byfield – thrice welcome!" he exclaimed, seizing Gilbert by the hand and wringing it hard – as much in apparent cordiality as to impress upon him that he understood the secret compact between them, and was acting his part accordingly. "Delighted to see you. I would have driven down myself to the station – but my child here seemed to think that you would expect her alone. Well – well – that is quite natural; you were always good friends. Come in, my dear Byfield – come in and make yourself at home. You will find friends here; stay as long as you like – do what you like – order what you like! Come in!"

So Gilbert Byfield went into his own house, not without some feeling of amusement, and looked about him. The servant who hurried forward as he saw his master was silenced with a look, and retired, wondering more than ever; Gilbert allowed the girl to run on before him up the stairs, to show him the way with which he was already familiar. He expressed due approval of the room (which happened to be his own), and said that he felt he should be very comfortable there for a few days.

When presently he went downstairs, his object was to find Mr. Daniel Meggison and to have a talk with that gentleman. But Daniel was not to be caught napping; he avoided Gilbert on every occasion, and clung to his relatives with an amazing fondness whenever he saw the young man approaching him.

The relatives, for their part, adopted characteristic attitudes towards Byfield. Mrs. Stocker conceived it to be her duty, being in the mansions of the great, to sit in the largest and the stiffest chair she could discover, in a condition of state, ready to receive all and sundry. Her dignity in this particular instance compelled her to suffer tortures, for the simple reason that her husband, Mr. Edward Stocker, was free to come and go as he liked, and was having rather a good time. He cheerfully flitted about the place, and smoked unaccustomed pipes in the boldest manner, and was for once quite happy. Being introduced by Bessie to the new-comer, he greeted Gilbert cordially.

"It's a wonderful world, sir," he exclaimed, looking at Gilbert with a smiling face. "Now, it would never have occurred to me that Meggison was the man to make money – and yet to be so dark about it. Having a little property myself – which runs to 'ouses – I may say that I know what property is, and how money is made. But Meggison seems to have gone a cut above us all. A modest place down Clapham way – or Brixton – or even Norwood – but when you makes a splash in the country – with servants and what not – well, I can only say that it's a very wonderful world, sir."

Gilbert left the little man, and, still in search of Meggison, came presently into the presence of Mrs. Stocker, sitting in state. She received him coldly, but with the resignation of one who expects that all sorts of people may drift in, and are not specially to be accounted for. He was retiring again hastily, when she recalled him.

"One moment, sir, I beg. One of my brother's new friends?"

"Oh, no – an old friend," stammered Gilbert. "A friend of his daughter."

"She never told me – but that is not surprising; I seem to learn everything only by accident here. I should like to know, sir" – she lowered her voice, and looked round about her impressively – "I should like to know what you think of this business?"

"I've scarcely had time to think about it at all yet," replied Gilbert.

"My brother Daniel has surprised us all," said Mrs. Stocker. "I don't like sly people; I should have thought that he would have been only too glad to take me into his confidence. But, no – oh dear, no! He is glad, of course, to ignore me – and then to invite me down here on sufferance, as it were."

"Can you tell me where your brother is now?" asked Gilbert, moving towards the door.

"I cannot say," said Mrs. Stocker, in an affected voice. "I believe Daniel drives out a great deal. He might have asked me certainly to go with him; but no one ever thinks of me."

Gilbert was crossing the hall, still intent upon that search, when he was approached by the elderly manservant – staid husband of the housekeeper – who had been in charge of the house for years. The man hesitated for a moment, with puzzled face, remembering his strange instructions as to the new tenants; and Gilbert, seeing that the man had something to say, opened the door of a room and went in, beckoning the man to follow. He closed the door and waited.

"Do you want to speak to me?" he asked.

"To know, sir, if everything is all right," responded the man in a low tone. "Also, sir, to understand how long it's to last."

"Until you have orders to the contrary, or until Mr. Meggison goes," said Gilbert, after a moment's pause. "Why do you ask?"

"Only, sir, on account of the wines and such-like," replied the man in an aggrieved tone. "Your friends was to have all that they required, and no questions asked; but I didn't quite understand it was to be champagne here, and champagne there – to say nothing of spirits in what I may call a fashion that is absolutely had lib, sir. Mr. Meggison, sir, and the young man – beg pardon, gentleman – they do put away a great deal."

"That's all right," said Gilbert easily. "You were quite right to mention it, of course. Anything else?"

"Only the manners of the two gents is a little bit 'arsh, if I may use the word, in regard to me and the other servants; also the young gent is not particular as to language if a little heated, sir."

"I'm sorry; I've no doubt his tone will improve from this time," replied Gilbert grimly. "That will do; and be careful to remember what I have said; I am only a guest here for the present. You take all your orders from Mr. Meggison."

The man was going slowly out of the room when he turned back and looked again at his master. Gilbert Byfield turned a lowering gloomy face to the man, and asked somewhat impatiently what more he wanted.

"Only one thing, sir; I wouldn't have you think for a moment that in any remarks it has been my duty to make concerning your friends I should be thought to include the young lady."

Gilbert's face lightened a little, and he looked at the man quickly. "Oh – so you don't complain about the young lady?" he said.

"Between you and me, sir – if I may take so bold a liberty – if it 'adn't been for the young lady I don't think that any of us could have stood it. Oil on the waters more than once Miss Meggison's been – and always a smile if she wants anything – and always sorry to give any trouble. Fairly on her knees to her the wife is, Mr. Byfield, sir."

"Then that's a great compensation – isn't it?" asked Gilbert, laughing.

"It's everything, sir," replied the man earnestly. "Though, if you'll excuse the saying, it licks me how the young lady could ever 'ave had such a father – to say nothing of such a brother. Asking your pardon, of course, sir."

Gilbert decided that he would do no good in the matter by forcing the issue; on the other hand, he might strengthen his position if he waited, and saw for himself what was happening. He rightly judged that Meggison at least would be anxious to know what steps the outraged owner of the house at Fiddler's Green would take, and would in all probability in very fear be the first to approach Byfield.

He decided to wait at least until evening.

In that great game that was being played, as poor Bessie fondly believed in reality at last, she had determined that it should at least be played properly. Thus dinner was a special function, and a solemn one; and although neither Mr. Meggison nor his son had yet reached that sublime point insisted upon in the pictures in the illustrated papers of "dressing" for it, she yet had hopes even that that might some day be accomplished. As a matter of fact, Aubrey, the better to show his complete independence, had a fashion of strolling in a little late, and sitting down attired in very loud riding clothes; old Daniel Meggison sported a frock-coat somewhat too large for him, and so was passable. Bessie fulfilled the dream of many years, and appeared always in white.

On this particular occasion the dinner gong had gone for some minutes, and after waiting uneasily Bessie had at last suggested that perhaps they had better go in to dinner. Meggison had not appeared, nor his son; the tale was complete otherwise. They straggled awkwardly across the hall, and into the big dining-room; and there the girl took one end of the table, and quietly indicated where the others should sit. The head of the table was vacant, and one other place; and Gilbert found himself watching with amusement to see what would presently happen.

Suddenly the door was flung open, and Daniel Meggison came in quickly, smiling broadly and with a somewhat feverish air of patronage. He did not even look at Gilbert; but he glanced round at the others as he took his seat, and tucked one corner of his napkin inside his collar.

"You should not have waited," he said quickly. "Unexpectedly detained; so many things to see to in a place like this. My child" – this to Bessie down the length of the table – "you remind me of your poor mother. That frock suits you."

"Thank you, father," said the girl.

Daniel Meggison began to gulp soup at a great rate; paused to say over his spoon – "Pretty country about here, Mr. Byfield – eh?"

"Very," replied Gilbert, looking at him steadily. "Do you find the house convenient?"

"There are certain things in it that I should change if it actually belonged to me," replied Meggison critically – "but it'll serve – it'll serve. I could suggest half a dozen ways in which money might be spent to improve it."

"In my opinion there's a lot of ground wasted," said Mrs. Stocker gloomily. "What's anyone want with more than a bit in front to keep people from staring in at the windows, and a bit behind to put a few seeds in? Why, you could build four houses this size on the place, and still have a lot of land to cut to waste. Of course, if I'm wrong I stand corrected; but I know what house property's worth."

It was at this moment that Mr. Aubrey Meggison entered the room. He came in with the inevitable cigarette drooping from his lips, but condescended to toss that into the fireplace; then seated himself, and expressed the hope that there might be some hot soup left, unless anybody had chosen to "wolf it."

"If you came in at a decent time you would partake of the same dishes as other people, and at the same moment," said Daniel Meggison crushingly. "In future, sir, you will clearly understand that unless you arrive at the moment – I repeat, sir, at the moment – you won't get – "

"I don't think anybody's paying any real attention to you, dad," said Aubrey patiently. "And perhaps others may want to get a word in on their own account."

Daniel Meggison muttered and spluttered over his soup; Gilbert seized the opportunity to turn to Bessie. "And what do you do with yourself all day in the country – you who used always to be so busy?" he asked.

She turned to him with a smile. "Oh, there seems to be such a lot to do," she replied quickly. "So many people want me – and there are flowers to arrange – and orders to give – and half a hundred things to do. And then, of course, I'm obliged to go and see the dogs – "

"Who bark very early in the morning, and kick up a devil of a row at night," snapped Meggison from his end of the table.

"Yes, of course – the dogs," went on Gilbert, taking no notice of the interruption. "There's Ponto – and Billy – and – "

"Why – how did you know their names?" she asked, with a puzzled look in her eyes.

He saw in a moment the blunder he had made. "Why – your father – Mr. Meggison told me all about them," he replied lamely, with a quick glance down the table.

"Oh, yes – I told him – I mentioned it this afternoon," said Meggison hastily. "I found he was very deeply interested in dogs."

Gilbert saw that it was impossible to talk to the girl just then; he knew that Meggison at least was watching every gesture and listening to every word. He contented himself with looking at the girl; noting little subtle differences in her, and seeing that the little unnatural sharpness that had belonged to her scheming plotting life had already worn away and left her softened. Her hair was differently and more generously arranged; there was a refinement and a delicacy about her, greater even than that which had at first singled her out in his eyes in Arcadia Street. And it was pleasant, too, sitting there, to have her eyes turned occasionally in his direction, and always to see in their depths that fine smile of comradeship and friendliness. As the meal progressed he found himself weighing her against the others; noting their coarseness and their awkwardness and their airs and attitudes; and seeing her so different that she might not have belonged to them at all. Of all that strange assortment in the house at Fiddler's Green she was the one who seemed properly to belong there.

They were getting to the end of the meal when a servant entered and spoke a little diffidently to Bessie, after a glance at old Meggison. "Mr. Quarle is here, Miss."

Bessie sprang to her feet at once. "Oh, please bring him in," she exclaimed; "how delightful that he should have come to-night. You know Mr. Quarle, Mr. Byfield?" she added.

"Oh, yes – I know him quite well," said Gilbert.

"Quarle has nothing to do with us now; he's an unpleasant reminder of things I endeavour to forget," said Meggison peevishly. "Second visit, too; what's he think he's going to get out of us?.. ah! – my dear Quarle – delighted to see you," he broke off hurriedly as Simon came into the room, looking sharply about him. "I was just saying to my daughter Bessie how very charming.. a place for Mr. Quarle there; what the devil are you standing staring for; don't you know your duties?"

Simon Quarle cocked an eyebrow comically at sight of Byfield, and then, with a nod to the others, came round the table, and shook hands with Bessie. "I'll find room here, thank you," he said, as he pulled up a chair beside the girl – "no one need disturb themselves on my account. Well – and how's the little girl getting on?" he asked, taking no notice of anyone else.

Gilbert Byfield watched him, wondering a little what the object of this visit might be. He noted the old man's tenderness for the girl – the change in his tones when he spoke to her; he saw also, or thought he saw, a new grimness about the lines of his mouth. He knew in his own mind that something must be settled this night; felt certain that with this man in the house the bubble must be pricked, and poor Bessie be shown in a moment this new and horrible game of make-believe in which she had really had no part. Looking at the happy face of the girl, he seemed more than ever to separate her from those who had plotted, with her for a shield, and who had not hesitated to bite the hand that fed them.

"You didn't let us know you were coming," hinted Daniel Meggison.

"I didn't think it necessary," retorted Quarle, with a momentary glance at him. "Now I beg that just as soon as you have finished – all of you – you will go away and leave me with my young hostess," he added. "I've a great deal to say to Bessie – and I'm desperately hungry – and I know that I'm very late. No ceremony, I beg."

"You seem quite to take possession of the house, Mr. Quarle," said Daniel Meggison, half rising from his chair.

"Exactly. Just as you have done, you know," said Simon Quarle, with a grim nod at him. "Don't you worry; Bessie understands."

It was curious to see how in that ill-assorted household one and another of them took the hint and went away. First Mrs. Stocker, with a toss of the head and much rustling of skirts; followed obediently by her husband. Then Daniel – followed at a grumbling interval by his son. So that at the last Bessie sat between Simon Quarle and Gilbert Byfield. And from one to the other, before her unconscious eyes, swept meaning glances; glances that meant appeal on the part of Gilbert, and determination on the part of Quarle.

"I'm going to talk to your father," said Gilbert at last, rising from his place, and looking squarely at Quarle. "We've not had a chat together yet."

"We'll excuse you," said Quarle gruffly. Then, as the younger man was moving towards the door, he got up quickly and followed him. "I wonder what they're doing about my bag," he began; and then, as he thrust Gilbert into the hall in front of him – and closed the door – "Well – so you've made up your mind that something must be done – eh?"

"Yes – something must be done – and to-night," whispered Gilbert quickly. "I can promise you that at least."

"Good." Quarle nodded, and turned to go back into the room. "I'm glad you see the necessity for that. Don't spare them."

"I want only to spare her," said Gilbert.

Mr. Daniel Meggison proved to be as difficult of capture as before. In the drawing-room he was talking of the value and the security of having a stake in the country to his sister and brother-in-law; on the appearance of Gilbert he button-holed Mr. Stocker, and began rapidly to ask his candid opinion concerning the work of our parish councils, and whether he did not think they required new blood – as, for instance, new blood from London, in the shape of a man who had had experience of the vicissitudes of life, and who knew what real government meant? Gilbert remaining, and looking at him steadily, he began to see that the matter had to be brought to a crisis, and could not much longer be delayed. Therefore he turned with an air of forced geniality to Byfield, and actually took him by the arm.

"You have something to talk to me about, Mr. Byfield?" he demanded with sublime assurance "As a matter of fact, too, I should like your advice on a little question of investments; I am a child in these matters – save accidentally. Suppose we have a bit of a talk – eh?"

"Nothing would please me better," Gilbert answered.

"Then, if my dear sister will excuse us – we will go and smoke a friendly cigar, and have a dry business chat," said Meggison, drawing Gilbert towards the door. "I want some sound advice."

They went towards a small room which had been used by Gilbert as a smoking-room; it was empty, although a lamp burned on a small table at one end. Meggison closed the door, and went into the room; threw himself on to a couch, and looked up smilingly at the other man. His face was rather white, and he had something of the air of a schoolboy about to receive punishment that he knew he had deserved; but his manner was as jaunty as ever.

"Now, sir – what do you want with me?" he asked.

"Bluntly – an account of your stewardship, Meggison," said Gilbert. "I need hardly remind you of the facts; you were to come down here with your daughter; you were to give her that rest and that holiday she so sorely needed."

"Will you deny that she is having that rest and that holiday?" asked Meggison, with a grin. "Isn't there a wonderful change in her?"

"I thank God – yes," said Gilbert Byfield steadily. "But it is not of that I am speaking; I am referring to the fashion in which you are flinging money broadcast – you and your dissolute son; I refer to this persistent fairy-tale that you have a great fortune, and that you are here for the remainder of your life. You have sold up the house in Arcadia Street; you are living on my charity."

"My good man," retorted Meggison, with a new insolence in his voice – "you appear to forget all the circumstances; more than that, you appear to forget what manner of man you are dealing with; you lose sight of the fact that you are dealing with me. If you wanted your absurd scheme carried out in any halting cheeseparing fashion, you should have gone to a meaner man; you should not have come to Daniel Meggison. I am a creature of imagination; I soar, sir; I refuse to be confined or held back. I think only of my daughter, who in your own words was to have a much-needed rest and holiday; I have given her both. I let facts and results speak for themselves."

"I see it is quite useless to argue the matter with you," said Gilbert. "I intend to take the matter into my own hands; I intend to let Bessie understand the true facts of the case, so that she may know exactly where she stands. And I intend to do that to-night."

Mr. Daniel Meggison rose to his feet, and thrust his hands in his pockets, and nodded brightly. "Splendid notion! I applaud it. Do it by all means; don't think of me in the least. Go to my daughter, and say to her – 'I have to tell you that your father, for your dear sake, has lied to you, and cheated you, and made a fool of you. Egged on by a man with whom, under ordinary circumstances, he would have had nothing to do, your poor old father has tried to do something for you at last – to make your life easier.' Go to Bessie, and tell her that – make her understand that all her house of cards must topple down, and that she must for the future loathe the man she now believes in and loves. The way is easy; it only requires a very few words."

"You know I can't do that; you know you've got me hard and fast, because in front of you and all your scheming stands the girl who does not deserve to suffer. I must bring myself down, I suppose, to appeal to you," said Gilbert. "I want you to release me; I want you to find a way out of the tangle you have created for us all."

"And I say that I decline to do anything of the kind," said Daniel Meggison. "I take my stand upon the happiness of my child; I raise my banner for her sake, and I fight to my last breath!"

"And very nobly said, too!" A voice came from the further end of the room, and there rose from the depths of an easy chair there, the back of which had been towards them, the long form of Aubrey Meggison. He held a sporting paper in his hands, and he now lounged forward, so as to put himself in a measure between the two men. "I don't always say that I uphold the old man, mind you," he added – "but on this occasion I think he has spoken as only a father and a man could speak. I suppose, Mr. Byfield," went on the youth aggressively, as he tossed the paper into the chair he had left – "I suppose it didn't occur to you that there might be such a thing – or such a being – as a man of the world to deal with – not an old man you could bully – eh?"