"I can't understand this, Pringle," he said, looking at the garment.
"No, sir?"
"No. I don't see how these things could have been on board the yacht; who could possibly have bought them."
"You're forgettin' the crew, sir. Sailors ain't as delicate in their feelings as gentlemen, sir; take my word for it, I shouldn't be a bit surprised if they hadn't belonged somehow to the crew."
So the shirts were accepted, and worn with gratitude; even Pringle admitted how astonishing it was that they should have been flung on to the island just when they were most wanted. Emboldened by his success, he smilingly predicted that he shouldn't be a bit surprised if something else equally useful turned up within a day or two; and sure enough a considerable quantity of cheap strong print, with a pleasing design of pink rosebuds upon it, arrived one morning, and was brought in triumph to the ladies. On this occasion it seemed that the box in which the material had been contained had burst upon the shore, and the wood had been carried out to sea. The print was a little damp in one place; but Pringle seemed to have been amazingly clever in snatching it out of the reach of the waves.
The making of dresses for the ladies was left to a large extent to Bessie, with the assistance of Mrs. Stocker. Bessie – careful little soul! – had needles and cottons and a tiny pair of scissors and other necessary things in a little case in her pocket; and although Mrs. Ewart-Crane at first expressed herself strongly as to why print of a superior pattern had not been found for her daughter and herself, she ultimately accepted, even with some show of gratitude, the uniform provided for her. It was a curious sight at first to see them all arrayed alike; but that created some laughter, and was not in the end really resented.
The packages arrived in no particular order; it was always possible that when they sat down to their open-air breakfast Pringle would have a surprise for them – or, on the other hand, it was possible that he would respectfully shake his head, as a sign that the sea had not been kindly disposed. Now and then some of the things flung up seemed to require some explanation; but Pringle always evaded any direct reference to them, and murmured something about being grateful to Providence. It was only when the new timber arrived, and was smilingly announced by Pringle as he handed round the tea, that Gilbert Byfield and Simon Quarle stared at the man, open-mouthed and wondering.
"I can't quite understand it myself, sir," said Pringle, keeping his eyes fixed upon the cup he was holding. "Nice clean boards, sir – and all about the same length. Rather handy, I should think, sir, for building an extra shelter for the ladies."
In a solemn silence Gilbert and Quarle walked down to the shore, with Pringle a step or two behind. There lay a pile of boards stacked neatly out of the reach of the sea; Pringle scratched his chin thoughtfully as he looked at them.
"These haven't come from the yacht," said Gilbert. "There was no loose timber there."
"No, sir, – of course not, sir," said Pringle. "Some unfortunate timber ship, I should think, sir. P'r'aps I ought to say, sir, that it didn't come all at once – just a board or two at a time. I didn't think anything of the first one; I only mentioned it this morning because I thought it might come in useful, sir. Such a lot of things have washed on shore that I haven't noticed very much about them."
"It seems rather a pity that we haven't a hammer and nails," said Simon Quarle, after a pause.
"Oh – didn't I tell you, sir?" Pringle looked round innocently at his master. "There was a few tools came in the last package, sir – and some nails and things. I dare say some building work might be managed, sir."
"You certainly didn't mention it," said Gilbert, staring at him.
"Very careless of me, sir," said Pringle.
So a fresh hut was built, with trees for its main support; and into this Mrs. Ewart-Crane and her daughter were induced to go. Mrs. Ewart-Crane, indeed, seemed quite pleased with her new abode, and was almost on the point of giving herself airs again in regard to it. Simon Quarle also was induced at last to leave the boat, and to take up his quarters in the cave-like place vacated by the ladies; this he shared with Mr. Jordan Tant. The supplies that had so miraculously come to them had given them confidence, and they had practically ceased to think of the future, or of what it might hold for them, beyond that place to which they had been so strangely brought.
Nor did those supplies cease; from time to time other packages arrived – always to be discovered by the industrious Pringle; so that in time the wonder of the thing ceased, and it never occurred to any one of them to ask from whence the things came, or how long the yacht was to take in breaking up and in delivering itself of the many useful things it evidently contained. The weeks went by, and it was altogether a very happy and contented little band of people, albeit queerly dressed.
The inevitable discovery was made one morning quite early by Gilbert. The beauty of the morning had tempted him, and he had come out to taste the pure air, and to feel the warmth of the coming day. He found that Pringle, as usual, had been early astir; but he took no notice of that. Pringle was ever an early riser, and there was much to be done each day before the little company gathered round the fire for breakfast.
Gilbert strode away down the hill until he came to the eastern shore of the island; waited there a moment, as though undecided in which direction to turn. Then suddenly he became aware of a figure marching steadily towards the rocks at the north of the island; and, gazing more intently, discovered that figure to be Pringle, moving steadily and as though with a set purpose.
"What's the fellow up to now?" Gilbert asked himself, inwardly amused.
He decided to follow; and, keeping a safe distance between his servant and himself, presently saw that servant come to the great line of rocks which bounded the island to the north. But strangely enough Pringle did not stop there; in the mist of the morning he stepped as it seemed straight out into the sea, and disappeared.
Greatly amazed, Gilbert broke into a run, and did not stop until he had come to the very edge of the rocks where, as he had seen them before, they jutted into the sea. But now there was a clean, clear stretch of sand round the base of them, and it was along this stretch of sand that Pringle had gone. Without a moment's hesitation Gilbert Byfield ran round the high wall of rock – and so stepped at once into the heart of the mystery.
Pringle was hurrying ahead of him – not into a watery grave, but straight along a little spit of land that had been left dry by the receding tide. As in a dream, Byfield followed; and presently found himself climbing a path on to another land, and seeing before him as he went evidences of civilization, in the shape of cultivated fields, and decent stone walls and gates. And still Pringle went ahead, looking neither to right nor left nor backwards.
It was only when Gilbert had topped the rise, and had come to a little old-fashioned bridge, that he stopped and let Pringle go ahead, and looked about him. Below lay a prosperous-looking little village, with already early morning smoke rising from many chimneys; about him in all directions were cultivated fields. He seated himself on the parapet of the bridge, and watched the hurrying figure of Pringle dipping down into civilization; and then all in a moment he understood for the first time the fraud that had been practised upon him. To his credit be it said he sat upon the bridge, looking after Pringle (now a mere dot upon the landscape), and shouted with laughter.
He sat there for a long time, until presently the black dot appeared again out of the intricacies of the village, and began to climb the hill. When presently Pringle reappeared, he bore upon his shoulders yet another of those mysterious packages with which he had so thoughtfully provided the islanders. Toiling up the hill, singing cheerfully to himself, he stopped only when the long shadow of Gilbert fell across his path; paused for a moment to look at this surprising stranger watching him; and dropped his burden in the dust of the road.
"Morning, sir," said Pringle, a little nervously. And then, looking at the packing-case that lay between them, he added more nervously still, and yet with a dawning smile about his lips – "Washed ashore, sir!"
CHAPTER XVII
EXPLANATIONS
DURING the time he had awaited the return of Pringle, Gilbert Byfield had been able to look the position clearly in the face, and to understand exactly how he was situated. Bessie alone had to be considered; her opinion of the situation was the one thing to be thought of then. After that first burst of laughter the real tragedy faced him, and was not to be lightly thrust aside.
For when this was discovered, as it must be – when this amazing fraud was laid bare – she would see once again that the man who professed to love her had treated her as a child, and had played again that amazing game of make-believe. So much she must believe; for it would never be credited that Pringle had acted on his own responsibility, and that his master had been innocent. Once again the girl must be held up to ridicule; once again it must be shown that she had been playing with life, just as she had played with it, outside the sordid details of ordinary existence, in the old garden in Arcadia Street. The island was no island at all; but for some extraordinary circumstance, yet to be discovered, the little party must have been rescued a dozen times over. The comforts of civilization had lain within a mile of them; yet they had dealt out food sparingly, and had been tricked by a servant into believing that a special Providence had watched over them, and had provided them miraculously with things the man had actually purchased.
"How long has this game been going on, Pringle?" asked Gilbert at last, looking down at the man, who had seated himself upon the packing-case in the road.
"Quite a long time, sir," said Pringle, recovering his cheerfulness a little. "I've done my best, sir."
"Your best?" exclaimed Gilbert. "Don't you understand the position in which you have placed me; don't you understand that they've all been cheated and fooled – and that they'll believe it's my fault. What induced you to play such a game?"
Pringle looked really aggrieved. "It was my wish, sir, to please you," he said. "In a wakeful moment, sir, I happened to overhear you say something to the young lady about liking the idea of this being an island – I mean that place over there, sir – and you being cut off romantic-like with her, with nobody to interfere, sir. I'd only found out a little while before that at a certain state of the tide you could cut across to the mainland; and as everybody was so comfortable and happy, it seemed to me that it wasn't at all a bad idea to keep the game alive, sir, when that game was so easy played. I had money with me, sir, part of which I'd used for stocking the yacht and paying wages, so there wasn't no difficulty."
"Have you any idea where we are, or what that village is?" asked Gilbert, after a gloomy pause.
"I haven't made any exact inquiries, sir – but from the tongue and from general appearances I believe we're on a remote part of the western coast of Ireland. Nice people, sir – but a bit superstitious."
"Superstitious? What do you mean?" asked Byfield.
"Well, sir – luckily for us, they're a little bit afraid of that bit of land we've called an island; there's a sort of feeling among them that it's haunted, sir."
"Haunted?"
"Yes, sir. It seems that there was a man who had a big house here who went a bit off his head, sir; and one day, when the tide was low, he slipped across to that bit of land, and had a look at it. He liked it, sir – and he liked the loneliness; so he got them to bring timber and so on out to him, and build him that shed that we first found on the day of our arrival. After that, sir," went on Pringle, "he liked it so much that he lived there altogether; cooked his own food, sir, and made a sort of hermit of himself. And then one day took it into his head to die, sir."
"Not a word of this to the ladies, mind," said Gilbert hastily.
"Not for the world, sir," responded Pringle solemnly. "It seems, sir, that somebody came out to him, to bring food or something or other, and found that he'd passed away, sir; and ever since then there's been a feeling that his ghost is knocking about, sir – unquiet like. Consequently no one comes to the place – which is a bit fortunate for us, sir."
"I'm glad you think it's fortunate, Pringle," retorted Gilbert. "And pray what explanation have you given of your purchases, and your surreptitious visits to the village?"
Pringle got up from the box, and passed a hand slowly across his mouth; it was as though with that action he wiped away a smile that would not have been becoming to the situation. "Well, sir, you see, I found it a bit difficult at first, sir; the natives were what you might call a bit avaricious, and had a fancy for running over to the island, and selling things that they didn't actually want to keep themselves. So havin' discovered, sir, about the last tenant, I was careful to spread it about that you was another one of the same kidney, sir; and I never said a word about anybody else bein' there at all. I hope you'll excuse the liberty, sir – but something had to be done under the circumstances. As a matter of fact, sir, of course they were only too willin' to be quiet, because I've been rather a good customer to the village, one way and another, sir."
The sheer absurdity of the thing was borne in again upon Gilbert Byfield. From where he sat he could see the path leading down the narrow strip of sand; beyond that the great wall of rock – and beyond that (in his imagination, at least) the little company who had been playing, all unconsciously, that game of privation and starvation for weeks past. He thought of how the business had begun – far away in Arcadia Street; of that mad race to the yacht; of this madder business on an island that had never been an island at all. He thought of the outrageous costumes carefully made from comic-opera material supplied by the resourceful Pringle: and he told himself bitterly enough that the one being for whom it had all been done, and for whom the sorry business had been kept up, would believe less than ever that the man had not planned it all himself in sheer mockery of her.
The voice of Pringle recalled him to a remembrance of where he was. "Excuse me, sir – but we shan't get back if we don't look quick, sir. The tide's coming up fast."
Gilbert set off at once, and Pringle, shouldering the box, followed him. As they came to the narrow strip of land, Gilbert turned to the man, and voiced for a moment what was in his mind.
"For the present you will say nothing, Pringle," he suggested.
"Very good, sir," replied the man.
"When the time comes for the truth to be told, I'll tell it," went on Gilbert. "You've landed me into rather a difficulty, Pringle; such a lot of explanations will be necessary – explanations that will not be believed. For the next few days, at all events, our necessaries will come to us in the same romantic fashion as before – and not from the village shops."
"I quite understand, sir," said Pringle. "And if you don't hurry up, sir, we shall have to wade."
They just got round the corner of the line of rocks in time; the sea was within a foot or two of their base, and was rapidly rising. In due course Pringle appeared with the news that was no longer surprising; that another box had been washed ashore. There being in it nothing more exciting than provisions, the discovery passed almost without comment.
Now the sea fell only in the very early morning, leaving that neck of land exposed; and fortunately for Gilbert's scheme the islanders were not early risers. Pringle, who had kept the secret so well, would keep it even better for the future; Gilbert had nothing to fear from him. Nothing short of an accident could betray the fact that they were so near to civilization, and an accident of that sort was not likely to happen. The splendid summer weather and the open-air life and the freedom from anxiety and world-worry had had a soothing effect upon them all; they accepted all that came to them with the blind confidence of children, and appeared almost to have forgotten that they had ever led any other lives.
But the accident came, and the secret was surprised by the most unexpected person of them all. Gilbert had retired to his hut one night, when he thought he heard a movement outside it; and, knowing that Pringle was still busily occupied with domestic arrangements over the remains of the fire, he went out to see who was stirring at that hour. Somewhat to his surprise he saw Mr. Edward Stocker in the moonlight, smiling apologetically, and bowing with ceremony.
"Is anything the matter?" asked Gilbert.
"Nothing at all, sir," said Mr. Stocker in a whisper. "Only I rather wanted to have a word with you – in private – if you wouldn't mind sparing me five minutes. Might I come in?"
"By all means," said Gilbert, wondering what the little man wanted. "Sorry I can't offer you a seat – but the ground's dry, and I'm used to it myself."
"Nice little place," said Stocker, looking round it, and then lowering himself to the ground. "For my part, sir, I often feel that in a way this is really very much superior to Clapham. No one to call after you from the front door when you're going out that you haven't got your gloves on, or that you've got one trouser leg turned up and the other down (not that I would wish to express any disrespect to Mrs. Stocker for a moment; the very best of wives, sir). And then again you don't have to take a cheap return to the seaside; you've got it on the premises, as it were. Of course, you don't get the niggers, or little entertainments of that kind; but, after all, niggers ain't everything."
"You had something rather important to say to me," Gilbert reminded him.
Mr. Stocker put a finger to his lips, and appeared to be listening intently; nodded his head with relief after a moment or so; and motioned to Byfield to sit down beside him. Then suddenly and unexpectedly, and with a note of triumph in his tones, he made a dramatic announcement —
"Sir – it's not an island at all!"
All sorts of wild suggestions flitted through Byfield's brain. There was of course the possibility that Pringle, after all, had betrayed the secret; there was the further possibility that Mr. Edward Stocker, in some early morning excursion, had discovered it for himself. Quite mechanically, Gilbert returned an evasive answer.
"I'm afraid I don't understand you," he said. "What makes you say the place isn't an island?"
Mr. Stocker ventured to lay a hand on the other's arm; in his excitement he raised his voice a little. "This morning I went for a walk round the island, and it occurred to me that I would like to climb the rocks at the further end – partly by way of a little pleasing exercise, and partly because I thought that if I gained the top I should be able to see much farther than I should while down below. With considerable difficulty I gained the top, grazing myself a good deal in the process. There was only a narrow ledge to which I could cling, but the air was clear, and the view very fine. I repeat, sir," he added impressively – "the view was very fine."
"Of a wide expanse of sea?" asked Gilbert.
"No, sir; of a certain expanse of sea, and, quite near to me – land – and civilized land at that. I distinctly saw the roofs of houses, with smoke coming from them; I saw a bridge – and I saw many other things to indicate that we are quite close to a sort of civilization, however primitive. There was a little strip of land that was almost covered by water; but as the tide was rising I should imagine that that strip of land is not covered at all at low water."
Gilbert was silent for what seemed a long time; then out of the darkness of the little hut he spoke. "Well – I suppose you've told everybody about it?" he said.
"Oh, dear, no," replied Mr. Stocker, with what seemed to be a little chuckle. "I haven't said a word all day about it; I've been waiting until I could catch you alone, and tell you about it."
"I knew it some days ago," said Gilbert calmly. "But I had my own reasons for saying nothing. Now I am in your hands, and you have a perfect right to tell anyone you like – to let the whole company walk ashore, in fact, with the least possible delay."
"Well, you see, sir – that's just my difficulty," said Edward Stocker gravely. "Of course I know that everybody ought to be told – and everybody ought to go back to their own particular walk in life, after having had a rather good little holiday. But you see, sir, it means that Mrs. Stocker and me would go straight back to Clapham, where I've no doubt the girl (if she thinks we're still alive) has been using my credit to live upon, and has been keeping the little house properly and respectably. It's a nice house, as houses go – hot and cold water, and a bit of garden back and front, and so forth; but after all it is a house."
"And doubtless you will be glad to go back to it," said Gilbert.
"Not exactly, sir – quite between ourselves, of course. You see, Mrs. Stocker and me, while rubbing along in a manner of speaking from the first of January until the end of the year pretty tolerably, might sometimes hit it off a good deal better together than what we do; that is to say, in Clapham. Now here, sir, on the contrary, we've done rather well; Mrs. Stocker has developed no edges to speak of – and the island is a bit larger than my little bit of property at Clapham, even with the front and back garden thrown in. In other words, sir" – Edward Stocker lowered his voice to a mere whisper – "in other words, I'm able to dodge Mrs. S. rather easily here – and I've had a better time than I've ever had in all my life before. Consequently, sir, if you was to say to me at the present moment – 'Edward Stocker – be mum about it, and forget that you ever saw that bit of civilization beyond the rocks' – I should be the first to take you by the hand, sir, (the liberty being excused) and to say to you, sir – 'Righto!'"
"Then that is exactly what I want you to do," said Gilbert. "For a little time, at least, until I know what is going to happen to us all, I want everybody to believe that we are stranded here, save for a miracle, for the rest of our lives. Go back to bed, Mr. Stocker, and sleep peacefully; unless you tell other people yourself, they will never hear it from me."
"I'm sure I'm very much obliged, sir," said Mr. Stocker, getting to his feet. "After all, sir, if the winter comes on, or we get tired of it, we can always find out quite by accident that there's a road by which Mrs. Stocker and me can start off for Clapham; let's hope it won't be soon, sir. Good night; I'm very much obliged to you."
Gilbert was still laughing to himself over the extraordinary reason given by Stocker for a further sojourn on the island when the apology for a curtain which covered the doorway of the hut was pulled aside, and he saw Jordan Tant looking down at him. After a moment of silence Tant came in, and stood leaning against a tree which formed one of the supports of the hut, staring moodily at Gilbert over his folded arms. In these days it was a sturdier, healthier-looking Mr. Tant, and his fair beard and moustache rather suited him.
"I like always to be strictly honest, Byfield," he began abruptly, "and therefore I begin at once by saying that I have been playing the eavesdropper. It was accidental; because I heard voices just as I got up to the hut, and then I was so interested that I didn't seem to be able to tear myself away. You have every right to speak strongly about the matter, but I beg that you will refrain until you have heard me."
"How much did you hear?" asked Gilbert, feeling that now indeed the game was ended, and that he was at the mercy of this chatterer.
"Practically everything," replied Jordan Tant. "The first I heard was the surprising announcement by the man Stocker that this place was not an island – a statement afterwards corroborated by yourself. So far as that is concerned, I may be said to resemble the man Stocker, because I too have to make an appeal to you."
"An appeal?"
Mr. Tant nodded slowly. "It is one to which I would ask you to lend a generous ear, because it is one which affects not only myself but another person also. I refer of course to Enid – and I refer to her with the utmost delicacy. That young lady has been placed in a most equivocal position; she has been compelled to dress in garments totally unsuited to her position in the world; she has been compelled to live in caves and in rude constructions of timber. Consequently, whatever is done in regard to that young lady must be done with the utmost delicacy. Surely you see that?" Mr. Tant put his head on one side, and thoughtfully pulled at his new beard.
"I see it from the lady's point of view, of course," replied Gilbert. "But I don't quite see where the appeal comes in, so far as you're concerned."
"I will explain," said Jordan Tant eagerly. "You must know that when I was in London Enid looked coldly upon me – probably because I really did not shine in a civilized place. There was nothing romantic about me then; you were the one to whom she turned, naturally, because you did things rather out of the common. Since we have been in this place, however, she seems to have discovered in me qualities which had before lain dormant. She has hinted as much more than once, when we have been sitting in front of her rude dwelling-place at night. I will not say that the moon has had nothing to do with it; nevertheless, the fact remains that she is much more partial to me – I mean, of course, Enid, and not the moon – since we have been in this place. Perhaps my dog-like fidelity in keeping guard over her sleeping-place has touched her; at all events, she has given a promise that she will consider my claims, and will in all probability consider them favourably."
"I'm delighted to hear it, my dear fellow," Gilbert replied. "But what appeal have you to make to me?"
"Not to let her know that this place is not really an island, and that she can escape at any moment," urged Jordan Tant. "Here, my dear Byfield, I am a person of importance – a man to be leant upon, and to be trusted in an emergency; she leans upon, and she trusts me. Take me back to London, and I become at once a well-dressed atom that rides in cabs and takes afternoon tea; there would be nothing heroic about me there at all."
"But, my dear Tant – you can't remain here for ever," said Gilbert.
"I do not ask to remain here for ever," retorted Jordan Tant. "I ask to be allowed to remain here – keeping Enid in ignorance – until such time as she shall have promised to share what she believes to be an everlasting exile with me. She is a woman of her word, and once she promises to love me I can safely pass beyond the barrier of rocks, reach the mainland, and marry her with due propriety. If she were to discover now that in a sense she has been cheated, she would believe that I had been guilty of the deception. In other words, my dear Byfield, I am very near to winning her, in my present bold, bearded, and badly-dressed character; and it is the only real chance I have ever had."
"Very well, Tant – I am already pledged not to reveal the secret – so you can proceed with your wooing as long as you like. And I wish you luck."
Mr. Jordan Tant felt for the other's hand in the darkness, and wrung it hard. "It's the real romance of the thing that touches her," he said solemnly. "The shipwreck – and the stores washed ashore – and the camp fire at night – and so forth. When we do get back to London it'll be so very nice, because we shall have quite enough to talk about for the rest of our lives. Think of the difference: in the old days I was not considered brilliant at all at dinner parties and so forth; now I shall be able to tell of how we nearly cast lots to decide which of us should be eaten."
"I'm glad it never came to that," said Gilbert, with a laugh.
"I may tell you in confidence, my dear Byfield," said Tant, coming nearer to him for a moment in the darkness – "in the strictest confidence, of course, that Enid has already assured me that had the lot fallen upon myself, nothing would have induced her to do anything other than starve on my account. I think that's rather touching. Good night – and thank you!"
So it came about that the strange game was kept alive for yet a few days longer. Dread of what the girl might say or do when she heard of the deception that had been practised upon her, and when she saw clearly before her the way of escape, held Gilbert silent; he knew, too, that those who had already penetrated the secret would for their own purposes say nothing. More than once he was in a mind to tell Bessie everything, and to throw himself upon her mercy; but he had blundered too often before to care to make the experiment. She, for her part, with no particular care nor thought of the future, had her own secret to keep; she met him night after night in the wood – binding him to her more closely at each meeting with her innocence and her gentleness, and her tenderness for him. For now, when at last it seemed that they were both in the same helpless position, she did not hesitate to tell him frankly and fearlessly what was in her heart, and what had been in her heart so long. And even while he made up his mind that with the next moment she should learn the truth, she silenced him all unconsciously by whispering that now for the first time in her life she was happy – that now all doubts and fears had been swept away. It was all impossible – idyllic – absurd; yet he clung to the vague hope that they might make-believe a little longer yet.