CHAPTER XIX
THE LAMPS ARE LIT IN ARCADIA STREET
ARCADIA STREET, on a warm July evening some twelve months after thatsurprising day when Mr. Daniel Meggison had waved farewell to theArcadia Arms for ever, looked much the same as it had ever done. Eventhe children who played wonderfully with no toys on the pavementseemed to be the same that had followed a certain Mr. Jordan Tant,on the occasion of his first visit to the street; and there were thesame loungers (or others very like them) propping up that institutionso necessary to Arcadia Street and the immediate neighbourhood--theArcadia Arms.
Even in the house where Bessie had once toiled and struggled and dreamtthere was a card propped up against the window-frame, announcing thatwithin were rooms to let; quite as though that particular house hadbeen marked from the beginning for that particular purpose, and couldnot change. Only in these days the house did not wear quite that air ofneatness that it had worn when Bessie Meggison had presided there.
It was growing late this July evening, and the dusk was falling, andsoftening the outlines of the ugly houses, when a four-wheeled cab,after a preliminary objection on the part of the horse to enteringthe street at all, turned into Arcadia Street, and jerked and bumpedand rattled its way along, until it came to a standstill at the doorof that particular house. As the then landlady of the house afterwardsstated, "it put her all of a quiver"--cabs of any sort being rareindeed in Arcadia Street. On the top of the cab were a couple of oldand shabby portmanteaus, and a small square wooden box; inside wasanother box, and a smaller bag, and a young man. The young man gotout, and, pushing his way through the small knot of children that hadgathered to watch the proceedings, knocked quickly at the door, andthen stood waiting. The cabman knelt upon his seat, with a hand on theforemost of the portmanteaus, and waited also.
Mrs. Laws--the landlady in question--a stout and elderly woman with achronic aversion to stairs--removed her eyes from the window of thefront room, and crossed the room heavily, and went to open the door.When it was opened the young man nodded pleasantly, and indicated thecard in the window.
"You have rooms to let?" he said. "I was walking through hereyesterday, and saw the card, and thought the place might suit me."
"W'ich it's a sweet room, sir--or p'raps I should say two rooms--onehopenin' out of the other--and cheap at any price. On the second floor,sir--an' if you cared to walk in----"
"Thank you," said the young man. "I know the sort of rooms; I'll takethem, if the price is all right. I can't afford very much--but I daresay we can arrange that."
It was arranged then and there--the landlady a little surprised atthe suddenness with which the young man accepted an offer that washalf a crown in advance of what the landlady would really have taken.The luggage was brought in, with the assistance of the cabman, whoturned on each occasion as he got to the door with a box or a bag onhis shoulder to shout sternly at the horse--"Whoa!"--as though thatpatient steed, apparently half asleep, had made up its mind to seizethe opportunity to run away. Then the cabman was paid, and the cabwas gone; and the young man, after declining to have any little thingcooked for him, was left in the shabby room to himself. He shut thedoor, and looked about him.
He was a tall young man, with broad shoulders, and he was rathershabbily dressed. He presently walked through into the back room, andlooked out over those apologies for gardens common to Arcadia Streetand other places; shrugged his shoulders, and sighed a little, andshook his head.
"Just the same as ever--nothing changed, and yet everything changed,"he muttered. "All the spirit of Arcadia Street--all that peopled it andmade it beautiful--is gone; there's no one left to look for Fairylandwithin its limits. Well--it's as good a place for a poor man to live inas any other; and after all there are certain memories that float aboutits grimy chimneys."
He was roused by a knock at the door of the other room. Believing itto be the anxious Mrs. Laws with another appeal to the new lodger topartake of food, he walked into that further room, and called outsomewhat impatiently--
"Come in!"
The door opened, and a man came in; nodded grimly on seeing the youngman, and closed the door again. A thick-set man, with head thrust wellforward between his shoulders, and standing now with his hands claspedbehind his back. A man called Simon Quarle.
"Well, Mr. Byfield--and what's brought you back here?" asked Quarlesuspiciously. "I heard your voice on the stairs; also I happened to belooking out of the window when you drove up. I should have thought youhad done with Arcadia Street long ago."
Gilbert Byfield laughed, and held out his hand. "Why treat me as anenemy still, Mr. Quarle?" he asked pleasantly. "I always rather likedyou, and we've been through some curious adventures, one way andanother. Won't you shake hands?"
"I will--when I know what new game's afoot," said Quarle. "As I toldyou once, you have no place in Arcadia Street; go back to your ownworld, and stop there."
Gilbert dropped on one knee beside a portmanteau, and began to unstrapit. "As a matter of fact," he said, "I think I have more right inArcadia Street even than you have."
"How's that?" asked Quarle.
"Well, if I remember rightly, you have something of an income, evenif it's a small one; I am under the impression that you retired fromsomething or other, with just enough money to live upon."
"I did," said the other, with a nod. "I was thrifty in my young days,and I saved up the pence."
"Well, I wasn't thrifty in my young days, and I didn't save anything.Consequently"--Gilbert looked up at him with a whimsical smile--"Ihave now no money at all, except such as I may be able to earn. All myaffairs have gone to smash, Mr. Quarle; I've come to Arcadia Street,because in the old days I found it cheap, when I was playing a certaingame for the fun of the thing--and I may find it cheap now, when I amplaying that game in solid sober earnest. Now do you understand?"
Mr. Simon Quarle leaned forward, and peered down at this new wonder."You mean to tell me that you are no longer the rich Mr. Byfield weused to know? You mean to tell me that you have got to set to work toearn your living?" he asked.
"Yes--and with no particular qualifications for doing it," saidGilbert. "I'm not afraid, because I think that it's really the lifefor which I was fitted; idleness never really suited me. It's too longa story to tell, but my affairs got out of order during that time Idisappeared from the world; and when I came back they went from bad toworse. I have nothing save what I may earn--and I rather think I wantfriends."
Mr. Simon Quarle stretched out a hand, and Byfield grasped it quickly.After a moment of silence the elder man asked--"And that is the onlything that has brought you back to Arcadia Street--eh?"
"That--and the memory of the best woman I ever met. I've had a longyear to think about her since she ran away from me--to wonder abouther. I've looked back over it all--and I've seen what I was, and whatI did, and how I strove to make her something that should pleasemyself only. I wanted a toy--someone to be good to, and help--someonewho would look up at me, and say how good I was, and how kind I hadbeen--and so forth. I didn't understand her then; I didn't know thevalue of what I was striving to bend or break in my own direction. Idon't know where she is--I don't hope ever to have anything to do withher again; because if I met her she must carry that resentment in herheart for me always. But I'd give a good deal to call her back here, ifonly for an hour--just to tell her what I think about it all. I supposeyou know nothing about her?"
"Am I likely to know anything?" snapped the other, in the old fashion."I came back here because I liked the place, and because she had livedhere; that's all. I can tell you about some of the others, and aboutwhat's happened to them, if you like; I've heard vague things from timeto time."
"Do you think it likely that she has gone back to her father?" askedGilbert eagerly. "Because if you know where he is I might be able----"
"Mr. Daniel Meggison has done rather well for himself--and I don'tthink he wants anything to do with his daughter," said Quarle, seatinghimself and folding his arms
. "It appears that he wandered about a bitin Ireland, and finally drifted to Liverpool; and there he took up hisquarters in a little public-house. The public-house was owned by aconfiding widow--and Daniel Meggison was ever plausible. He marriedthe widow, and settled down in some sort of comfort."
"Ungrateful brute!" exclaimed Gilbert. "And the son?"
"Cast off by his father, and unable to find his sister, he really didsomething for himself at last, in his own particular fashion. I thinkhe does a little in the way of billiard-marking, and a little in theway of racing, and more still in the way of borrowing. He'll neverstarve, you may be sure of that. The Stockers got back in due courseto Clapham, and have doubtless settled down into their own old way oflife; that exhausts my list."
"You will be interested to know, perhaps," said Gilbert in his turn,"that Mr. Tant married Miss Ewart-Crane some months ago; I've seen verylittle of him, but I believe their extraordinary adventures on a desertisland are already quite the talk in their own particular sphere.Pringle--most wonderful of servants--is no longer a servant of mine,but is, I believe, doing well for himself. When last I saw him he hadgot in touch with the captain and crew of the lost _Blue Bird_; theywere all picked up."
Simon Quarle got to his feet, and stood for a moment thoughtfullyscratching his chin. "I suppose," he said at last slowly, withoutlooking at Byfield--"I suppose that if the child ever came into yourlife again you'd make the same muddles--and do the same foolish thingsyou did before--wouldn't you? Don't frown; I'm an old man, and I wasvery fond of the girl. I only ask because one likes to know the pointof view of other people. You're never likely to see her again, youknow--so that you needn't answer if you don't want to."
"If I ever found her--and she ever forgave me--I should tell her simplyand truly what I told her before--that I love her," said Gilbert. "Ifshe'd let me I'd work for her with a better heart than I can ever workfor myself only. Because I tell you," he finished simply--"there's noother woman like her in all the world."
"Amen to that!" said Quarle, moving to the door. "But you're a bitlate; you're not likely to see her again, you know."
Simon Quarle, with a final nod, went out of the room, closing the doorbehind him. He went thoughtfully down to his own quarters, and for along time paced about there, as though he had some problem in his minddifficult of solution. More than once he stopped in his restless walk,with his eyes upon the ground; more than once he shook his head, asthough he felt that the way to solve the problem had not been foundyet. And at last sat down in his shabby arm-chair, with his handsclasped on his knees, to think it out afresh.
The lamplighter had drifted in from the bigger world outside, and hadlit the lamps in Arcadia Street--performing that duty in a casualperfunctory manner, as though it didn't matter very much whetherArcadia Street was lighted or not. The Arcadia Arms was doing a greattrade, with its doors swinging and banging every minute or two, and theroar of the greater world outside Arcadia Street had not yet finishedfor the day. Out from that greater world there drifted into ArcadiaStreet a little figure that came with lagging feet--a little figurethat had come into Arcadia Street many many times through the yearsthat had once, as it seemed, been happily left behind. A shabbierfigure even than of old, although as neat as ever; a white-faced girl,carrying bundles and parcels. She stopped at the door of that housethat had so recently swallowed up a new lodger, and let herself in witha key.
"Sich goin's on since you went out," said Mrs. Laws, nodding herhead solemnly at the girl. "Cabs arrivin'--an' things bein' tookupstairs--bags an' boxes, an' bundles an' things; an' as nice a youngman as ever I set my two eyes on--though shy. An' goodness knows inthese 'ard times a extra lodger is a puffeck gift of Providence."
"I hope he won't be unreasonable," said the girl, with a little sigh."Some of them have such a way of ringing bells for no particularreason--and one gets so tired sometimes. But I'm glad--for your sake,Mrs. Laws."
Simon Quarle had been on the look out; he bent over the stair head, andcalled in a hoarse whisper--
"Bessie!--Bessie!"
She looked up at him with a smile, and climbed the stairs; she thought,as she looked at him, that he seemed strangely excited. He held herhand for a moment as they stood together on the landing, and he pattedit softly, and seemed almost (although that, of course, was absurd) tobe chuckling. He drew her into his room, and closed the door.
"Why--what's the matter, Mr. Quarle?" asked the girl.
"Bessie Meggison--have you heard about the new lodger?" asked SimonQuarle, holding her hand and speaking very solemnly.
"Yes--of course I've heard about him," replied Bessie wonderingly."Mrs. Laws told me. What does it matter?--to me it only means so manymore stairs to climb so many times a day. You forget that I'm nothingmore than a servant here."
"I try not to remember it," said Simon Quarle, gently touching hercheek with one hand with a touch as light as that of a woman. "Whenyou came back here, little woman--hoping to get shelter in the oldArcadia Street on which you had so gladly turned your back once upon atime--you found me--didn't you?"
She nodded quickly. "And you made it all right with Mrs. Laws, so thatI might have food and shelter and a very little money in return for mywork. Why--I might have starved but for you."
"Not quite so bad as that, perhaps--but still, you were pretty lowdown," said the man. "The world hasn't treated you well, my dear--butthen the world never does treat the timid ones well. You didn't fighthard enough; you hadn't cheek enough. Only I want you to understand,Bessie dear, that you're not the only one that has suffered."
"I know that," she said quickly. "Poor father went through a lot ofprivations before he found someone to take pity on him; and dear Aubreymust find it hard sometimes to make a living."
"I wasn't thinking about poor father or dear Aubrey," exclaimed Quarlesnappishly. "They'll get on all right for themselves. But there issomeone else, my child--someone perhaps we have not quite understood."
She tried to withdraw her hand, but he held it firmly, and patted it ashe went on speaking.
"I know, my dear--I know all about it, and I know what you feel," saidSimon Quarle. "Only in this poor strange topsy-turvy world of ours weare all a little like children--wilful and headstrong, and always sosure that we know what is best for us. And the great god Chance happensalong one day, and sees that we are in a bit of a muddle, and arespoiling our lives; and shakes us up, and tumbles us about--and perhapssets us straight again. This one has a gilded toy, and doesn't know howmuch it's worth; and so the toy is snatched away and given to another;and this one has nothing, and gets perhaps not the gift it craved, butsomething better yet. What if I told you, Bessie, that the man whoplayed that great game of make-believe with you had touched disastertoo, and was as poor as you are?"
"You have heard from him?" she asked quickly.
He nodded slowly. "I have heard from him--and he has been throughrather a bad time. The game of make-believe for him is ended; he hascome down to the realities. All his money is gone; he's got to work andfight and strive, as every other man must work and fight and strivein this world, if he's to be worthy to be called a man at all. And hewanted to know about you, Bessie."
"Only the old whim--only the old feeling that he's sorry for me. I'monly a little patient drudge again, in the house where he first saw me;and even the poor old garden that I think he laughed at secretly tohimself is gone, and blotted out. You mustn't tell him where I am; Idon't want him to know."
"Did you love him, Bess?" Simon Quarle stood squarely before her, withhis hands clasped behind his back.
She hesitated for a moment, and then looked up at him, with a littletouch of colour stealing over her white face, and with a smile inher eyes. "Yes," she said slowly--"I loved him very dearly. If heblundered, he blundered rather finely; and I shall always think ofhim as I knew him first--someone frank and friendly, coming outof the great world, and liking me a little because I liked him.There--there--don't talk about it; he has his own friends, I suppose,even in
his poverty. You said he was poor--didn't you?"
"Yes--very poor. Poor enough, I should think, to live in Arcadia Streetin real earnest," said Simon. "Well--I'm sorry if I've touched onanything that has pained you; best forget it. Love's a queer business,and I'm not sure that you're not well out of it. Let the brute starve;it'll do him good."
"Mr. Quarle--you know I didn't mean that at all," faltered Bessie."You're the unkindest man I've ever met."
"Sorry you think so," said Quarle, turning upon her frowningly. "Butyou needn't stop and bully me; if you remembered your duties properlyyou'd know that this new lodger by this time probably requires someattention. Go away and look after him; personally, I'm disappointed inyou."
"Oh, no, you're not," she coaxed, putting her arms about his neck."You always growl at me, I think, when you love me the most."
"Perhaps I do," he snapped, thrusting her away from him. "But go andattend to the new lodger."
She climbed the stairs wearily, thinking a little of what Simon Quarlehad said--wondering why it happened that life must be always a grey andprofitless thing to some, and not to others. She knocked softly at thedoor, and heard a shout from within, commanding her to enter; caughther breath for a moment, and passed her hand across her eyes, as thoughshe felt that she might still be dreaming. Then, as the shout wasrenewed, she opened the door, and went slowly in.
* * * * *
The stars had come out even over Arcadia Street, to help the lamps alittle; and still the two sat at the window of that room, looking outinto an Arcadia Street that was strangely beautified. So much therewas for them to say to each other--so much that had never been saidbefore by any man or woman in all the great world--or so at least theythought. Only once, smiling through her tears, Bessie drew away fromhim, and looked at him for a moment with the old perplexed frown.
"If you should be cheating me again!" she whispered. "If, instead ofthis poor room for your home, you should really be rich, and should betrying to steal me out of my poverty by a trick! For the love of God,don't do that again; be fair to me--be just to me!"
"My darling, that particular game of make-believe ended a long timeago," he said--"but a new one begins from to-night. We shall have towork hard, you and I, to keep the wolf from the door; and we shall haveto make-believe hard to show that we like it."
"That won't be any make-believe for me, dear," she whispered.
Simon Quarle took it into his head to climb the stairs presently, andafter knocking softly in vain, to look in and see them. They cameforward a little guiltily, hand in hand, to bear his scrutiny; he shookhis head over them whimsically enough.
"Well," he growled to Gilbert--"does she believe you now?"
"I think so," said Gilbert softly.
"Little fool!" said Simon Quarle, touching the girl's cheek with roughtenderness. He turned on his heel and walked out of the room; and hiseyes were shining.
THE END.
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* * * * *
/> Transcriber's Notes:
Obvious punctuation errors repaired.
Page 112, "herelf" changed to "herself" (not help herself)
Page 157, "ocasion" changed to "occasion" (occasion I think)
Page 198, "Meggson" changed to "Meggison" (Aubrey Meggison instructed)
Page 246, "posible" changed to "possible" (possible, that he)
Page 266, "though" changed to "thought" (I thought it might)
Page 290, "addel" changed to "added" (he added, with a sigh)
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