It was, of course, a shopping excursion to the village. Gilbert and Pringle hurried on their way, and crossed the narrow neck of land; Mr. Daniel Meggison rounded the corner of the rocks, and gasped, and saw freedom before him. He followed them at a discreet distance, and disappeared in the village; then, the better to enjoy his triumph, returned to the bridge, and seated himself there, and waited. And while he waited he gazed smilingly at the dawn through a bottle he held up before one eye.
Gilbert Byfield and Pringle, toiling up to the bridge, came upon him, and stopped in amazement; Daniel Meggison winked at them knowingly. His face was flushed, and he had about him some of the old swagger that had been seen in Arcadia Street.
"Splendid notion!" he said, pointing at the village and then at the distant line of rocks—"quite the best game of all, my dear Byfield. I beg you'll keep it up. I was so fortunate as to find an early morning house; charmingly easy manners the Irish have. Trust me, my dear Byfield—I won't say a word. Splendid notion!"
CHAPTER XVIII
MISS MAKE-BELIEVE ESCAPES
THE discreet Pringle, as on one other memorable occasion, had seated himself on the box in the middle of the road out of earshot; Daniel Meggison, lounging not too steadily against the parapet of the bridge, addressed Gilbert.
"When I cast my mind back, sir, over the past, I find myself marvelling—marvelling is the correct word—at the splendid fashion in which you have kept the game alive for the sake of my child. For what," went on Mr. Meggison, waving a hand towards the sky, and addressing the landscape generally—"for what have you not done on her account? The splendid prodigality of it amazes me. In the first place, you give up to her a house in the country—to which, quite naturally, she brings her family, to say nothing of other relatives and friends who trespass upon her. From that we fly"—Daniel Meggison made a movement with his hands flutteringly in the air to suggest that flying—"to a well-appointed yacht, where perhaps at the beginning all is not as well as it might be. Reckless of the consequences—careless of the results to life, limb and property—you splendidly drive that vessel upon the rocks; you annex—(annex is the proper word, I believe)—a portion of country that is probably not your own property; declare it to be an island; and in the most romantic fashion provision the company cast upon it with you. In a word, sir, the thing is magnificent—even if carried a little too far."
"I firmly believed it to be an island until a few days ago," said Gilbert. "I, like others, have been deceived; I, like others, have been driven on a road I never meant to travel. Great things and great consequences have sprung from my small beginnings."