The Cruise of the Make-Believes Read online

  CHAPTER V

  THE GREAT GAME OF MAKE-BELIEVE

  IN the course of many scrambling, shambling years Mr. Daniel Meggisonhad learnt much, in the sordid sense, concerning the value of men. Hadit been necessary for him, at any time in his later life, to pass astrict examination in the Gentle Art of Tapping People, he would in allprobability have come out of the ordeal with flying colours, as onehaving 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 withhim; how, in another case, you might fly higher, and whine for asovereign, with a pitiful tale pitched to charm the coin out of hispockets; and how, in other cases, you would have to drop your demandsso low as a shilling or even possibly a sixpence. It is not too muchto say that every man, in a very special sense, had for Mr. DanielMeggison his price; and that on all and sundry occasions he was onlytoo ready to exact that price from his fellows.

  Exactly how far back in the years he had really made any attempt toearn an honest living it is impossible to say, and he had probablylong since forgotten. It had at the beginning been a mere accidentalbusiness; a temporary loss of work had thrown him into the willingarms, as it were, of a wife who had always done something to helphim. It merely became necessary for her to increase her efforts; Mr.Meggison was in no hurry to look for work, and gradually the truthwas forced upon him that he need never do so again. True, he made apretence, for something like twelve months, to gain a livelihood, butwith no ardour in the pursuit; and so gradually drifted into that greatand marvellous army which always in a big city manages to exist prettycomfortably without working at all.

  He learnt their tricks and their ways--even their little catch-phrasesslipped naturally from his tongue. He might have been heard talkingloudly concerning the affairs of the nation, and how they should beconducted; he knew his newspaper by heart. More than that, he mighthave been heard often demanding to know why this man and that did notobtain the employment that was obviously waiting for him in a busyworld. And so in time he grew to the belief that he was in all respectssomething of a poor gentleman, for whom others must provide money, andwho, by reason of a certain superiority of birth and education andresources, 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 inwhich he might sleep, and there was food for him, and tobacco always;he became a familiar figure in his poor neighbourhood, and acceptedwith 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 hadbeen bequeathed to her. The legacy of the shiftless father, who wasalways to be protected and looked after, descended to her, and wastaken up as a sacred trust.

  But with that shiftless life that had been his portion so long theman had not lost his natural cunning--the cunning of the creaturethat preys upon his fellows. Money was necessary, for the occasionalreplenishing of his scanty wardrobe, and for tobacco and drinks; hewould have been a poor thing without money in his pockets. Hence theborrowing--hence the tapping of any and every one with whom he came incontact. Therefore, too, it is small wonder that he turned his eyes atlast towards Gilbert Byfield, with something of a smacking of lips. Forhere 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 jealousinterest in the fate of that chief breadwinner--his daughter. More thanonce he had shivered, with a very genuine horror, at the prospect oflove or marriage being even suggested to her; had been short with HarryDorricott, when he had seen that boy's eyes turn with an unmistakablelook of affection in them in Bessie's direction. For what, in the nameof all that was tragic, was to become of Mr. Daniel Meggison if hisdaughter left him?

  From behind the curtain of a window he had seen the stranger who livednext door talking to the girl over the wall; had been inclined toresent that at once. At the same time, he had a craven feeling that itwould not do to upset Bessie; he had better watch, and be silent. Sohe had seen other meetings, until at last that night had arrived whenBessie was not in the house, and when she came in very late, and creptup to her room like the guilty truant she was. And had there not been asound 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 butlittle. Yes--she had been out--all the evening--with a friend. No--shehad not spent money over it; she would not have thought of doing sucha thing; the friend had paid for everything. She hoped that her fatherwas not annoyed, and that he had not wanted for anything.

  "No, my child, I am not suggesting that I wanted for anything; I spentthe 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; andhe 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 bealert; it might even happen that this precious child would be snatchedaway from him. He went to that club of his less frequently; came intothe house at unexpected moments, and was to be found loitering abouton the staircase, and in rooms in which he had no business. Also hehaunted 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 foran evening's entertainment, and could travel in cabs.

  He knew, of course, that Gilbert Byfield was not as other men inArcadia Street. Apart from his own observation, he knew instinctivelythat Bessie had hitherto held aloof from everyone; had gone abouther duties soberly--a grown woman long before her time; he did herthe justice to know that no ordinary man would have attracted herattention, or have drawn her away from the life her father had mappedout for her even for an hour. More than that, those who dwell inArcadia Street have not money for evening pleasures or for cabs; andthere had been from the beginning a sort of mystery about this youngman who lived next door. Mr. Meggison determined to lie in wait forthat 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 waitedabout in the house instead. Bessie hinted that she supposed he would begoing out soon; he declared that he would wait a little while; he mightnot, in fact, be going out at all. He seated himself in his shabby easychair, and declared that he was very comfortable where he was. He hadbeen too much at the club of late; home was the proper place for theman 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 theevening, my child," he said, with a new tenderness that was startlingto the girl. "Here you've been cooped up in the house all day long--nofresh air--no exercise; and now you expect to go and sit out there. Wemust 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 anunaccustomed smile--"go for a walk. There may be little matters ofshopping which you ordinarily leave to Amelia; go yourself on thisoccasion; you will probably buy more economically than she will. Youmust 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; andwent out into the hot streets. She was disappointed, because the gardenwould have been welcome, and it might just have happened that a facewould look over the wall and a voice call to her; and then the endingof the day would be good and complete.

  But Daniel Meggison, like greater men before him, had a motive. Hedesired to draw that sh
y being who dwelt on the other side of the wall;to come face to face with him, if possible, and discover somethingabout him. He argued that it was a rare thing for Bessie not to be inthe 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 naturallysurprised, and perhaps alarmed. Mr. Daniel Meggison chuckled to himselfat the thought of his own cunning, and sat down in such a position thathe could watch the garden. He had not long to wait.

  Mr. Gilbert Byfield was confident that on this particular evening thegirl would be in the garden; and he wanted to talk to her. She hadrather avoided him during these past few days, and he had alreadycome to understand that Arcadia Street was a remarkably dull place,unless it was actually represented by her. Consequently, on thisevening he had determined that he would see her, if possible, andthat he would have a little tender whimsical explanation with her, inwhich, appropriately enough, he would play the part of a species ofelderly friend or brother, and would in fact be very good to her. Herecognized that that feeling of protective tenderness for the girl wasgrowing; but he told himself sternly that it was, of course, merely theprotective 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, ofcourse, leave it with regret on her account. He would not think aboutit to-night; he simply recognized that the time was coming when he mustknow 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 allprobability she had stepped inside for a moment; he would get over thewall, and would surprise her when she came out again. He did so, and,carefully avoiding the broken boards in the ottoman that was not anottoman, made his way cautiously towards the house. He sat down on oneof the rickety chairs near the crazy table, and waited.

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

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

  "Sir!" exclaimed Meggison.

  "I--I beg your pardon," stammered Gilbert, looking helplessly at thewall 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 voiceremarkably low, and watching the door leading to the house. "What doyou mean by it, sir?--what do you want?"

  "There is nothing to make a fuss about, Mr. Meggison," said Gilbertquietly. "I live next door here; I came over in order to have a word ortwo with--with your daughter."

  "Nothing to make a fuss about?" echoed Meggison, still in thosecautious 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 youngerman--"but I fancy her father has not troubled very much about her untilthis moment. Don't bluster, sir; I am her friend before everythingelse."

  Daniel Meggison took a step forward, and looked at the other; tooka step back, and rolled his head threateningly; took another stepforward, and laid a hand on Byfield's arm. "Sir," he said solemnly--"Iam sure of it. Only you must forgive the anger and the suspicion of aparent 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 onyour 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 likethe blunt fearlessness with which you scramble over a wall; you are aman, sir!"

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

  "My daughter, sir, has gone out," said Meggison, seating himself, andwaving a hand grandiloquently towards the other chair, "on a necessaryerrand connected with household matters. Poor child--poor child; I wishsometimes she did not have to work so hard."

  "So do I," said Gilbert, looking squarely at him. "She's young, youknow, Meggison--hardly more than a child; and all her youth is slippingaway, 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 slowlyand methodically to search himself, until presently he drew from outhis clothing a doubtful-looking handkerchief. This he applied first toone eye, and then to the other.

  "Youth, sir, is a beautiful thing," he said. He gave a glance towardsthe house, and then leant across the table, and laid a hand on the armof the younger man; he still kept that handkerchief to one eye, butthe other was bright and alert. "Don't misunderstand me; don't thinkthat I speak lightly. I have watched that child grow up--like a flower,sir. I have lain awake at night thinking about her--wondering abouther--planning for her. I have mentioned to friends at my--my club thatI am tortured concerning her. 'What,' I have asked, 'is to become ofone so tender--so loving to an unfortunate father--so willing to workfor that unfortunate father?' That is the question I have asked othersas well as myself. Mr. Byfield, she is not strong; in other words, sheis 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 areher friend--Bessie's friend, I mean; has it ever occurred to you thatshe is not strong? I am her father--you will understand my anxiety."

  Gilbert Byfield had got up with some impatience from his chair, andhad moved away down the length of the garden. For a moment he couldnot trust himself to speak, or to answer that hypocritical whiningvoice. He knew, however, that if he was to do anything to help the girlhe must control himself, and must make what use he could of the oneinstrument ready to his hand. So he walked back to the table, and stoodthere, 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 isstrong; it is a thousand pities that she cannot be taken out of thisplace--a thousand pities that she has to work so hard to--to supportother 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 amroused almost to madness at the thought that I am so helpless--that Ican do nothing. The truth of the matter is that I was never broughtup to do anything--not anything that would pay; I blame my parentsbitterly for that. My late wife--devoted soul!--would often say that Iwas never really fitted to cope with the world. 'You are by nature andby instinct, Daniel, a gentleman and a man of leisure,' she would say;'it seems natural that others should provide for you.' And she knewme--knew me intimately, sir."

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

  "True--very true," exclaimed Meggison, with an air of deepdetermination. "Bless you, my dear sir! Now--what shall we do? Let'sput 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 oneside of his head, and leaned nearer to his companion, and assumed avery wise expression. Gilbert, with a glance at the house, began tospeak in a cautious tone.

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

  Mr. Meggison stared at him almost with indignation; he opened his eyesvery 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 Ican't----"

  "I mean that whatever is done for the girl must be done for her by herfather--so far as she knows. She is the last in the world to acceptanything from me, and I would not ask her to do so; it would bean insult. I ask you to do so"--(Mr. Meggison pocketed that insultcheerfully, and said nothing)--"because through you I can do what Icould not do for myself. For example, if we are to help this poordaughter of yours, money will be required."

  "Yes--of course--money," replied Mr. Meggison, rubbing his hands, andnodding his head many times. "Oh, yes--of course money."

  "And that must come through her father, as the only proper personwho can give it to her. Again, in other words, Meggison, it becomesnecessary, in order that this whim of mine may be carried out, thatyou 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 willpay----"

  "Somebody else," broke in Meggison, nodding again, and laying aforefinger against the side of his nose. "Splendid notion--and veryeasy--eh?" He coughed, and hesitated for a moment. "Should I, forinstance--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 hurryalways."

  "My plans depend to a great extent upon you," said Gilbert. "I do notimagine 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 comehad Fate treated me better. But I am not worth sixpence."

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

  "I can suggest a hundred reasons--but they would be equally romanticand absurd," said Meggison, scratching the top of the smoking-capthoughtfully. "A rich relative of whom she has never heard--no--thatwouldn't do, because she knows all my relatives. Work that suddenlybrings in a lot of money? . . . No--she wouldn't believe in work, sofar as I'm concerned; that would require too great a stretch of theimagination, I'm afraid. A lucky speculation? . . . No--one requirescapital for that."

  "I'm afraid you'll have to fall back on a relative--a distantrelative--very much removed. Understand, it would only be a smalllegacy."

  "May I ask what you exactly mean by the term 'small'?" asked DanielMeggison.

  "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 asnap; opened it again, as though intending to speak; and blurted out afaint 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. Thensuddenly and harshly he burst out laughing. "Fifty pounds, indeed!Don't attempt to fool me, please. Where will you get such a sum--andyou in Arcadia Street?"

  "I have not always been in Arcadia Street, and I shall not alwaysremain here," said Gilbert. "As the world understands it, I am rather arich man, and the fifty pounds is quite easily to be found. I am livingin Arcadia Street for a whim, if you must know; that is part of oursecret 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 hisown. "A bargain, sir?" he exclaimed, in a rapture. "Of course it's abargain--and in a noble cause, sir. Fifty pounds, did you say? It's afortune!"

  "A fortune into which you have very strangely come," Gilbert remindedhim. "Don't say a word now; I can see your daughter coming straightthrough the house towards us. Come round and see me to-morrow, andwe'll work out together this game of make-believe which you are toplay."

  "I'll play it well until the end!" exclaimed Meggison, shaking his handagain. "A great game of make-believe! Splendid notion!"