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.