The Cruise of the Make-Believes

CHAPTER XV
THE SIMPLE LIFE

IT must not be imagined for a moment that a person of the quality and the dignity of Mrs. Ewart-Crane could long sustain life under the conditions imposed upon her on that first night on the island. This promiscuous mixing with people in a very different sphere of life was not at all to her taste; she set about to remedy matters at the earliest possible opportunity.

Her slumbers during that night in the hut had been spoiled, as she declared, by the persistent snoring of Mrs. Stocker; Mrs. Stocker was equally emphatic that she had not snored at all, but that Mrs. Ewart-Crane, on the other hand, had been no quiet neighbour. To add to the good woman's troubles, her daughter Enid appeared to have struck up a sort of friendship with Bessie Meggison; there was much dodging to and fro from one compartment of the hut to the other, and a dragging aside in consequence of the improvised screen. More than that, Mrs. Ewart-Crane was conscious that after a night during which she had tossed about restlessly on what she designated as "leaves and twigs and prickles" she did not look her best. It seemed, too, that until something was devised ablutions were impossible.

However, Pringle had been early astir, and there was something at least in the shape of breakfast, with a fire to warm the early morning air. They gathered about it, and made the best of a bad situation, according to their moods – Mr. Tant declaring wheezily that he had caught the worst cold he had ever had in his life – and Daniel Meggison stating that but for an absurd prejudice on the part of Pringle to allowing him an early morning draught of strong waters to keep out the cold, this was in reality the very life for which Daniel Meggison had been pining throughout his existence.

The finding of a little spring of pure clear water in the side of the hill above the wood to the west led to the unfortunate episode of the barrel. There had, of course, been a barrel containing water, and the contents had been jealously guarded; but the finding of the spring supply caused the barrel to be regarded by Pringle as an ordinary article for domestic use. Whether or not he felt that Mrs. Stocker looked more dilapidated than Mrs. Ewart-Crane will never be known; certain it is that he approached the former lady smilingly, with the vessel partly filled with water, and delicately suggested that she might use it for her ablutions in the privacy of the hut. Mrs. Stocker was gratefully accepting this boon, forgetful of the fact that the rigged-up sail, while it concealed her from the people on the other side of it, did not mask her voice, when Mrs. Ewart-Crane swept it aside, and stood indignant before the abashed Pringle and Mrs. Stocker.

"Is there no one in this community to whom I can appeal?" demanded Mrs. Ewart-Crane. "Is it not sufficient that I am kept awake for the greater part of one extremely long night, but that now, in the morning, I am to be ousted from the position Society has never yet denied to me? Who is this person, that she should be given precedence over me in such a matter?"

"I'm very sorry, ma'am," said Pringle, scratching his chin – "but I thought perhaps this lady" – he indicated Mrs. Stocker, who was standing with folded arms on guard over the barrel – "I thought perhaps – "

"Well – what did you think?" demanded Mrs. Stocker.

Pringle had been on the very point of saying, as delicately as possible, that he thought she needed it the most; but cowering under her gaze he abjectly said – "Nothing, ma'am"; and pretended to hear a voice calling him in the distance.

Mrs. Stocker held to her rights, and Mrs. Ewart-Crane went unwashed. But the matter, of course, could not end there; and before nightfall it was known that some other arrangement must be made, or Mrs. Ewart-Crane at least would take her repose in the night air. Simon Quarle was disposed to let her do it; Gilbert looked hopeless; but Jordan Tant was firm about the matter, and said that another place must be found. Accordingly a further search of the island was begun, Pringle throwing himself into the matter with ardour, and with the utmost cheerfulness.

It was, after all, but an anticipating of after events. A little to the south of those miniature hills which rose in the centre of the island a sort of cave was discovered, going back some dozen feet into the hill itself; and over the front of this the wonderful Pringle arranged a sort of screen with the other sail, so that it might be lifted during the day, and form a pleasant shelter under which to sit, and might be lowered discreetly at night. To this place Mrs. Ewart-Crane and Enid were duly escorted; and over them during the day Mr. Jordan Tant kept watch and ward – extending that service even into the night, when he lay down outside the screen to sleep.

So far as the larger hut was concerned, the screen which divided it into two was kept in its place; Mrs. Stocker and Bessie occupied one side, and Daniel Meggison and Aubrey, with Mr. Edward Stocker, the other. They would have been willing to make arrangements for taking in Simon Quarle (though this was somewhat against the wishes of Daniel Meggison), but Simon settled the matter in characteristic fashion by wrapping himself up in a great overcoat he wore, and sleeping in the boat upon the shore.

Guessing, perhaps, something concerning the difficulty in which his master found himself with these uninvited guests, Pringle had even arranged a separate sleeping place for Gilbert Byfield. On the top of the hill, just above the spring – the highest point in the island – Pringle laced branches, dragged from the trees, firmly together between the trunks of some young saplings growing in a bunch; and after roofing them over in the same way, contrived a very comfortable sort of hut for his master. For his own part, he preferred the freedom of the open air on these warm nights, despite Gilbert's protests; more than that, the moon still proving bright, he devoted some portion of the night to keeping watch, in the hope that some passing vessel might cross the wide track of silver that lay upon the waters.

Thus it came about that only Jordan Tant, in his devotion, was left outside; and even he succumbed after a night or two, and crept up the hill, and craved shelter from Gilbert.

"Personally, I should be glad if I might be permitted to share this place with you – at night, I mean," said Mr. Jordan Tant. "Technically, of course, we are rivals, and that is a point upon which I shall never give way. I shudder to think what might have happened had Enid come to this place without that constant reminder of my devotion which my mere presence here affords. Nevertheless, even those claims must be waived when one is cold, and – and lonely."

"Come in, by all means," said Gilbert, smiling. "If it comes to that, I'm a little lonely myself – and a little bit afraid concerning the future. Frankly, I don't know what is to become of us."

"You alarm me," exclaimed Mr. Tant, seating himself on the ground, and staring at his friend.

"You see, we might stay here for months – and I haven't the ghost of a notion what we're to get to eat," went on Gilbert. "I don't care to alarm the ladies about the matter, and I've said nothing to anyone yet, except Pringle. But he tells me that the tinned foods are almost gone, and even his ingenuity hasn't been sufficient to enable him to catch any fish. In other words, my dear Tant, we're on the verge of starvation."

"We may see a vessel," said Mr. Tant, with a gloomy face.

"And that vessel may not see us," retorted Gilbert. "In any case, we don't seem to have been noticed yet, and the position is a desperate one. If nothing happens within the next twenty-four hours we must have a volunteer party for the boat, and that party must start off in the hope of discovering some other land comparatively near."

"I suppose you've no idea where we are?" asked Tant.

Gilbert Byfield shook his head. "Not the least in the world," he said. "I paid no heed to the direction in which the vessel was going during those few days of our voyage, nor do I even know at what rate we went, nor how far. There's one curious thing about this island, by the way."

"What's that?" asked the other.

"Why, that the vegetation is not tropical, nor, for the matter of that, is the climate. I am more puzzled than I can say; but all the puzzling in the world won't help us. Food we must have, and clothing; the ladies especially are at a serious inconvenience, in having nothing but what they stand up in."

"Personally, of course, I should like to do something of an apparently brave nature – something in the way of a rescue – just to impress Enid," said Mr. Tant thoughtfully. "But I expect that when it comes to the pinch that sort of thing will fall to your share, and I shall have to stand aside and look on. And she admires brave men; she's rather rubbed that point in once or twice."

"I'll promise you that if anything does happen that calls for bravery, you shall have the first chance, Tant," said Gilbert.

"I wasn't exactly suggesting that; there's nothing selfish about me, I hope," retorted Tant.

Presently he leaned back against the trunk of a tree, and fell into an uneasy slumber. Anxiety kept Byfield awake, and presently also urged him to leave the rough little hut, and to set off on a ramble in the moonlight. Pringle, sleeping like a dog with one eye open, stirred and sat up; then, reassured, lay down to sleep again. Gilbert picked his way down the hillside into the wood, hearing more and more distinctly as he moved the murmur of the sea. And most of all now, in the silence of the night, he thought of Bessie – Bessie who had never complained; Bessie who worked hard, even here, for others; Bessie who had been, in her love and her innocence, so shamefully treated. He knew that he had brought ruin upon her, in the sense that she would never accept from him any help in the future, even should it happen that they were rescued from that place. He knew that she must start in some other Arcadia Street that old sordid battle of life he had but interrupted. He remembered bitterly enough how she had avoided him almost completely in this place; he knew that she felt that everyone about her knew now in what way she had lived, and on whose charity; he understood that she raged fiercely within herself at the thought of uncharitable eyes that watched her, and uncharitable lips that whispered about her.

He went down through the wood, and came out upon the shore at the western side of the island. And there, standing startlingly enough in that deserted place, was a woman at the very margin of the sea, her figure showing dark against the moonlit water and the sky. He went forward wonderingly, and yet with a vague feeling in his mind that he knew who it was; and so came to her, and spoke her name.

"Bessie!"

"I couldn't sleep; I came out into the silence and the moonlight; I wanted to think," she said; and in that solemn hour it seemed as though the barrier she had raised between them had gone down again, and could not ever again separate them. She seemed to look at him with the old friendliness; she let her hands rest in his, while they stood together, with only the sea and the moon for company.

"I couldn't sleep – and I too wanted to think," he said. "I wanted to think most about you – about all that I had wanted and longed to do for you – and about all the ruin I have brought upon you. I have remembered all that you said to me on board the yacht – all that I deserved you should say to me."

"I don't want you to remember that," she told him earnestly. "I lay awake there to-night, and remembered that you were the only one that had ever gone out of your way to do anything for me, or to help me; I remembered that you spent your money recklessly for me, and to give me pleasure. And after that I said vile things to you, and told you that I hated you."

"I deserved it every bit," said Gilbert. "I didn't understand at the time – but I treated you like a child, without care or thought of your feelings in the matter – or of your future. I lied to you, and deceived you; but there was one matter about which I didn't lie."

"What was that?" she asked.

"When I said I loved you. That was true enough – it grows more true every day I live. I wouldn't part with any hour of all that we have spent together; I wouldn't go back, or undo anything I have done, if the undoing meant that I must lose any hour of that time. The yacht is gone – and we are poor castaways who may never leave this place alive; yet I'm glad – selfishly and brutally glad – for my own sake. Do you understand me, Bessie?"

She nodded slowly, keeping her head turned away from him. "Yes – I understand," she replied. "And I believe you. I never meant anything that I said to you on the yacht – about the hating part, I mean," she added in a whisper.

He put his arms about her, and drew her close to him. "Have you nothing further to say to me? – or do you shut me out of your life altogether, Bessie?" he asked.

She bent her head down until her face was hidden on his arm. "You know I can't do that, dear," she whispered. "I've tried hard to do it – but love won't let me."

They stood for a long time there, without word or movement; it seemed as though, while he held her in his arms and she lay contentedly on his breast, no words were needed. And all else was forgotten – past bitternesses and misunderstandings – and even their present situation. That they were poor prisoners, cast away hopelessly and helplessly on an island of which they did not even know the name, did not matter then; for love has wide wings that may stretch even across great continents and great seas. Arcadia Street and Fiddler's Green and all the rest of the amazing business lay far behind; they stood here in the moonlight and silence, forgetting even the grotesque figures that slept so near them.

"It is strange to think, sweetheart, how all the life we knew – the only life we seemed to understand – is left behind and forgotten," he whispered presently. "We were this and that in the world – and it was as if the great place could not go on without us; and in a moment we're swept away, and lost, and left stranded, high and dry out of all the hurly-burly of it. What is going to become of us I don't know – but even that doesn't matter."

"Nothing matters at all; nothing will ever matter again," she whispered. "But oh, my dear love – I do pray you never to let me make-believe any more – always to let me understand exactly what is happening – exactly the truth. The poor game has been played out now to the bitter end; promise me that whatever the future may hold for us, my dear, we shall face it hand in hand, and without any pretence about it. Promise me that solemnly."

He kissed her lips, and promised solemnly that in future she should always know the truth.

They left the sea behind them, and went up together through the woods towards the hut that had been made for him by the industrious Pringle; it was a shorter way to her own sleeping place in the bigger hut. Quite near to the place where the unconscious Jordan Tant crouched inside his shelter and slumbered fitfully the pair halted for a moment, as a sudden thought occurred to Gilbert.

"My darling Bessie – I want you to understand that I wouldn't have anything that has happened changed in the least," he said, in a low tone. "I could never have had you all to myself in any other place; foolish scruples and conventions would have crept in, and you would have run away from me, and I should have lost you in the big world. If someone came to me to-morrow, and told me that we could be rescued, and could go back to the commonplace world again, honestly I think that I would not be glad. If only we can manage to live somehow I want to stop here with you always."

They went on down across the hill, and disappeared from sight. Within a few yards of where they had stopped Pringle raised himself on his elbow, wide awake, and stared after them.

"That settles it!" he said to himself. "I was in two minds about it, after what I found out this mornin'; but if the guv'nor wants an island, an island he shall have. I was never in love myself – not to any great extent; but it's pretty to see it in others. Pringle, my boy, you are on an island, whatever Nature may say to the contrary; consequently, keep your mouth shut, and go to sleep."

He dropped down again contentedly – chuckled once softly to himself – and slept.

CHAPTER XVI
THE AMAZING PRINGLE

JUST so surely as had come about the division of the little company into its several parts, socially speaking – that necessary "drawing of the line" insisted upon in all things by Mr. Jordan Tant – so did it come about that the party he represented withdrew itself more and more from the rest of the islanders. It might have been thought that their common difficulties would have drawn them together; but the fact remains that the shabbier Mrs. Ewart-Crane and her daughter became the more urgent was it that their real position in the greater world should be firmly impressed upon those with whom they had been thrown in contact.

Much tramping about over sand and rocks, and the necessity for sleeping on a bed of dry leaves and brushwood, to say nothing of a night journey in an open boat, had brought Mrs. Ewart-Crane's one dress to a condition of which a London charwoman would have been ashamed; while Enid was in no better plight. But although Mrs. Ewart-Crane was well aware that Mrs. Stocker was in the same lamentable condition, she resolutely declined to make common ground of complaint with her on that score; in other words, Mrs. Ewart-Crane wore her shabbiness with an air.

The same condition of things ruled with the men. Mr. Jordan Tant had hitherto been a slave to nice detail concerning collars and ties, and neat shoes and socks; but those details, in his present case, were things to blush at. The neat suit he usually wore in the mornings, and in which he had taken that mad journey to the yacht, was creased and soiled and stained; his hat had been flung to the laughing waves by a wind more boisterous than discreet; and he had been compelled perforce to grow a beard, which he felt did not suit his type of face. True, there were improvements in the man, in the sense of an added colour in his cheeks, and more alert movements in his limbs; but such things he scorned.

Mr. Daniel Meggison, in a moment of forgetfulness, had gone to his improvised couch with his silk hat on his head, and thereafter had grown careless in regard to its appearance; it had become a mere dilapidated head covering, with no dignity about it at all. Contact with thorns and brambles had made shipwreck of the immaculate frock-coat; his linen was non-apparent. In fact, to put the matter shortly, the little company had suffered from the fact that they had at the beginning but one suit of clothing apiece, and no means of replenishing it.

The difficulty about food had been overcome by a sheer gift from Providence. There had come a night when they had sat about their fire, and when with discretion, and yet firmness, Gilbert Byfield had told them of the condition of the larder. The matter had to be broached somehow, because Aubrey Meggison had picked up his small portion of food from his tin plate disdainfully, and had muttered something about "stinginess."

"I think the time has come," said Gilbert solemnly, "when we should understand clearly – all of us – the exact position. We have been remarkably careful with the few things we were able to bring away – but we have found nothing on the island – "

"Beggin' your pardon, sir – except water," said Pringle, with deference.

"I had forgotten the water," replied Gilbert, with a smile. "Our case would indeed have been hopeless had we not been fortunate enough to find the spring. But our tinned provisions have gone, and we have no means of replacing them; and even with the utmost care we have had to go on short rations for the last day or two. To-morrow's breakfast is provided; after that we face starvation."

"Do you mean to suggest, my dear Gilbert, that we are to look at each other with the certain knowledge that we are to shrink day by day, with no hope of relief?" demanded Mrs. Ewart-Crane.

"In the name of the ladies under my charge, I protest," said Mr. Jordan Tant. "It was not by our wish that we were brought to this place at all; it will certainly not be by our wish that we starve here. I enter a solemn protest against it."

"I have been shuttle-cocked about from one place to another – despite my protests," said Daniel Meggison. "I make the common demand that each man has a right to make; I insist upon being fed. Look to it, someone, that the matter receives attention before to-morrow. My position in the world has hitherto been framed upon that common and ordinary basis; being in the world, I demand to be fed."

"Seems to me that the real point is – what is generally done in these cases?" demanded Aubrey. "There must be a rule about these matters – a law, or something of that sort. I've read the newspapers pretty consistently since I've moved about the world; what's the exact procedure? I should like to say that my father – (with whom, mind you, I'm not going to say that I generally agree) – my father has voiced my opinion to what I might call a T. To put it simply: what happens?"

"I should imagine, for my own part, that one member of our pleasant little party will be missing after to-morrow – and the rest will feed sumptuously," said Simon Quarle, with a perfectly serious face.

Mrs. Ewart-Crane rose, and stretched out a hand for her daughter. "Enid," she said, in accents of considerable dignity – "I desire that we withdraw. There are certain questions which cannot be discussed in this public manner, if one has any desire to retain one's natural feelings of delicacy. And I should like to add," she went on, waving Mr. Tant to his feet with an imperious movement of her hand – "I should really like to add that in the event of any casting of lots, or any other such barbarous procedure, Mr. Tant will be our protector, and will not hesitate to sell his life dearly. Mr. Tant – Enid – let us go, before I feel called upon to express myself more strongly."

Simon Quarle and Gilbert walked long upon the shore that night, talking earnestly. Gilbert was disposed to be hopeful; a ship might heave in sight at any moment – or all sorts of things might happen that then seemed improbable. Simon Quarle pointed out that no ship had yet been seen, and that nothing else was likely to happen; incidentally he mentioned the one course open to them.

"We must launch the boat to-morrow, and start off in the hope of finding some other land near at hand," he said. "If those who go in the boat don't come back, then the others must starve, or find a way out for themselves; in any case there's nothing else to be done. Let's get to sleep, and forget our troubles for one night at least."

After all, it was Pringle who was the direct agent of Providence. I would not have you think that in that respect Providence passed over better men; in all probability it was because Pringle had a habit of getting up early in the morning, and lighting that open-air fire, and generally preparing what food there was for the early meal. And in that way it came about that Pringle brought deliverance to the islanders in a quite miraculous fashion.

Gilbert Byfield had not slept during that anxious night; in a sense he felt that, by reason of the mad impulse that had started him on that wild journey from Newhaven, he was responsible for the lives of those concerned with him in the venture. Dawn was breaking, with the promise of a perfect day to follow, when he stepped over the legs of the sleeping Jordan Tant, and went down the hill to find Simon Quarle.

Simon was sleeping peacefully in his self-appointed quarters in the boat; he roused himself sleepily when Gilbert laid a hand on his shoulder. "Oh – you needn't remind me," he said, with a grim nod; "I've been dreaming that I was a starving loafer in the streets of London, and that all the workhouses and casual wards were shut. I believe we have breakfast – don't we?"

"And a meagre one at that," replied Gilbert, sitting on the edge of the boat. "And after that a council of war, and a decision as to what is to be done."

"You're not the only one that's awake early, my friend," said Simon Quarle, pointing in the direction of the north of the island. "Who's that coming in the distance?"

"It looks like Pringle," said Gilbert – "and he's carrying something."

They waited while the unconscious Pringle drew nearer. As a matter of fact he was staggering under a load poised upon his shoulders; as he came within hail of them it seemed that the load was a heavy square packing-case. Evidently he had not expected anyone to be awake at that hour; as he trudged through the sand he was humming a jaunty tune jerkily to himself as though to encourage himself in his efforts. Being hailed suddenly by the deep voice of Simon Quarle, he stopped, and stared, and then let the packing-case down plump into the sand. And it must be confessed that at that moment he wore a curiously guilty air.

"Why – what have you got there, Pringle?" demanded Gilbert, advancing towards him. "Where did you get that from?"

"This, sir," asked the innocent Pringle. "Oh – this, sir? Washed ashore, sir."

"Washed ashore!" exclaimed Simon Quarle, looking at the case curiously. "Do you know what's in it?"

"Not the least notion in the world, sir," said Pringle, sitting upon the case, and looking down at it between his legs. "Out for an early morning stroll, sir, there it was, knockin' about just on the shore; in fact while I was lookin' at it – stupid like, you'll understand, sir – the sea give it a shove, and pushed it up at my very feet. I shouldn't be surprised, sir, if it didn't hold food."

"Do you think it's come from the yacht?" asked Gilbert.

"I should think so, sir," said Pringle. "Now I come to think of it, sir, there was one or two cases on board the very identical of this. Food, sir, I should think – and perhaps other things. Washed ashore, sir – that's what this was."

"It doesn't seem to have been knocked about much," said Gilbert, walking round it curiously. "It's a frail sort of case to have been tossing about in the sea for so long a time. I hope the contents are not damaged."

"We'll hope not, sir," replied Pringle cheerfully, as he stooped to pick up the case. "Bit of luck I call this, sir," he added, as with the assistance of Simon Quarle he got it onto his shoulders. "Not that I'll promise anything about the contents, sir; it might be almost anything."

"Where exactly did it come ashore?" demanded Quarle.

"Just by the rocks, sir," said Pringle. "It was lucky, in a way, that I happened to be there, sir; what you might call a yard or two further on it would have missed the island altogether, and missed us. Great bit of luck, sir."

The case, on being wrenched open, was found to contain a considerable quantity of tinned food, together with some that was not tinned, and that was remarkably fresh. There were tins of biscuits; there was tea and sugar and other things, as wonderful in that place as they were unexpected. Pringle, for his part, was very modest about it all; he described again and again to the wondering people who presently seated themselves about the fire exactly how the considerate sea had tossed the case at his very feet, and how he had picked it up.

Mrs. Ewart-Crane, relieved from the fear that her life might be in danger, made some advances to Mrs. Stocker, and even consented to listen with gravity to an account by that lady of the difficulties of rearing chickens in the neighbourhood of Clapham; "there was something in the air," according to Mrs. Stocker.

In a sense it may be said that among some of them at least a better feeling of comradeship sprang up. The fear of actual starvation was gone; the weather was superb, and they were all in excellent bodily health. It grew to be a sort of great picnic on the island, and those who had been at first inclined to grumble were now in a minority, and began to feel that for their own sakes they had best take what the gods sent them with an approach to smiling faces. Perhaps for the change Bessie Meggison was in a sense directly responsible; because that new happiness that had come to her had painted even this small and uncomfortable world in rosy colours.

There grew to be a sort of competition among them as to who should discover the next bit of wreckage to be cast ashore. Mr. Meggison visited the neighbourhood of the rocks more than once, and peered frowningly out to sea; but he never discovered anything. Aubrey Meggison listlessly wandered round the shore – perhaps in the hope of finding something of actual use to himself; but he was as unsuccessful as his father. It came at last to this: that the only one of them all to do any real salvage work was Pringle. At intervals Pringle was able to bring to them the most astonishing things that had been washed ashore conveniently for his picking up.

Strangely, too, the things he found were always useful. It was no mere matter of broken woodwork, such as might be expected to come from the wrecked yacht; again and again he discovered in the most miraculous way articles for which a wish had actually been expressed by some member of the community. Food tumbled upon the shore almost in abundance; and always food that was wanted. The various articles that had been in use on the yacht must have been curiously packed; for tinned foods actually arrived more than once accompanied by articles of clothing that were distinctly useful to the shipwrecked party.

Thus it happened one day that some coarse strong flannel shirts were flung at the feet of Pringle in the early morning, and were distributed to the male members of the party soon afterwards. Gilbert examined one of them with a thoughtful frown, and then took Pringle aside.