Orphan Island (11 page)

“Bertie,” said Miss Smith sharply, “don't mutter. It's bad manners. We've told you before, often. What are you talking to Thinkwell about?”

“Only statistics, mamma. Our guests are curious about the number of our population.”

“Well, that'll do. You can leave the talk to us. When we want you to join in, we'll let you know. … So you see, Thinkwell, the number of our upper classes is comparatively small. The rest are the working classes, and the tradespeople, and so on. The lower and lower middle classes.
What we call here Orphan. Troublesome people, usually. Get ideas above their station; had a lot o' trouble with them, eh, Bertie?”

“A great deal, mamma.”

“You see,” Miss Smith went on, “we're a free nation——”

“Most unusual,” Mr. Thinkwell commented. “You have not laws, then?”

“Laws? Bless my soul, yes; any number. We're a law-abiding nation, but free; constitutional; the only island besides Great Britain which holds sacred the name liberty.”

“You're island has the advantage of Great Britain, ma'am. We have never gone in for liberty.”

“Oh Lord, Thinkwell, you've not learnt history. Didn't they teach you Magna Carta and Habeas Corpus and the glorious Revolution, and all the rest of it? When we were a girl in England, we were taught that Great Britain was the home of liberty.”

“
I
learnt that, too, at the Perse,” put in Rosamond, speaking for the first time, in her small, deep voice.

Mr. Thinkwell passed it up to Miss Smith.

“My daughter says that she, too, was taught that at school. I am surprised that the tradition still lingers. Like many other things that are taught the young, it has no foundation in fact. We have never (with all our follies) been so foolish or so reckless as to go in for liberty in Great Britain. I have never heard of a country which did so.”

“Well, well.” Miss Smith had not quite followed; she was ninety-eight, and did not concentrate. “Liberty,” she said again. “Liberty. And duty. … I learnt some verses when I was a girl. … how did they go?

“The fair twin sisters, see them stand,

Tum tum ti tum, hand clasped in hand.…

How does it go, child?” She poked Rosamond with her stick. But Rosamond had not learnt that at the Perse, and was dumb.

“The fair twin sisters,” Miss Smith repeated. “Liberty and duty, you know.” She drank deeply, possibly to toast them. “Hand in hand,” she muttered, setting down the shell. “That's the stuff. … There's another poem too, on liberty, by Dr. Akenside, which I used to recite when I was a girl. I taught it to all the children—say it, Bertie. Begin at ‘England's ancient Barons, clad in arms.'”

Mr. Albert Smith cleared his throat, and obediently recited :—

“Where England's ancient Barons, clad in arms,

And stern with conquest, from their tyrant King

(Thus render'd tame) did challenge and secure

The Charter of their Freedom. Pass not on

Till thou hast bless'd their memory, and paid

Those thanks which God appointed the reward

Of public virtue … er … ahem …

Go call thy sons; instruct them what a debt

They owe their ancestors, and make them swear

To pay it, by transmitting down entire

Those sacred rights to which themselves were born.”

“That's the stuff,” said Miss Smith again, rather drowsily. “Always been our rule here. Liberty but not licence. Eh? Liberty and law. Parliamentary government and the British constitution. Eh, Thinkwell?”

“I'm not quite certain, ma'am, precisely what you are asking me.”

Miss Smith was not quite certain either. She was becoming irrelevant.

“Take 'em away, Bertie. They tire me. I'll see 'em again later. Time I had another nap. And I have to think of a text for to-morrow's sermon.”

Mr. Smith tiptoed forward, waved the visitors towards the door, indicating that they were to advance to it backwards. His mother sat hunched up in her chair with half-shut eyes, a squat, brooding, little old woman, slightly tipsy. As they reached the door she opened her eyes wide and struck the table with her stick.

“Mind you, Thinkwell, don't you go putting notions into the Orphans' minds. The Orphans are very well as they are. … Very well as they are. …”

Mr. Thinkwell bowed, and backed out of the door.

Steps hurried out after them, old, hobbling, crutched steps; and Jean the nurse followed them outside the house. She plucked at Mr. Thinkwell's sleeve. He looked down into her face, and it was working and twitching as if with tears. Moved, Mr. Thinkwell said kindly, “Yes? You want to speak with me?”

“Oh, sir! Oh, sir!” The old voice cracked and quavered. “Ye'll tak' me hame tae Scotland? Oh, I hae waited for this day! Tae see Aberdeen again afore I dee. … Tae eat an Aberdeen haddock. … Oh, I hae waited and watched and prayed, for I kenned in my hairt it wasna writ in the Book that I wad dee an exile! Ye'll tak' me hame tae Aberdeen, Thinkwell's grandson, and mak'
amends for the wickedness of your grandfather? Wull ye swear tae tak' me hame, man?”

“Indeed I will.” Mr. Thinkwell, a good deal touched, took her hand. “It must,” he said, “have been a long and weary time for you here, so far from your home, and so curiously different.”

She held his hand in both hers, and shook her head to and fro, the tears running down her channelled cheeks.

“A weary time; ay, a weary time. But I kenned in my hairt that rescue wad come, soon or late. The Lord has been guid tae send you here before the end. … Now I must awa' within.”

She hobbled away. The younger Thinkwells had, for the first time on the island, a feeling that this was the right way to be received, and what they would have expected. It put them in their true position, as rescuers.

“Very proper,” said Charles.

OUTSIDE Balmoral they were met by Mr. Smith's sister Adelaide, reclining in her negro-borne hammock. A stout, genial, jolly lady of perhaps five and fifty, hung about with jingling chains, her red face dabbed with white shell-powder, her baby monkey on her shoulder.

“Well,” she snapped. “Are you going to let ‘em go for a bit, my good Bertie? I fail, I must say, to see why you should monopolise our guests for the whole afternoon and evening. I want 'em to come and have supper with me.”

“I have arranged,” said Mr. Smith, “for a public supper, at which our visitors shall meet a number of us, and be introduced to our society in a formal and agreeable manner.”

“Oh, a state banquet. As you please. I dare say it may amuse them. Who are you letting come? All the family?”

“There will scarcely be room for all. I am having the crier announce that any one desiring to be present must send in his or her name to my secretary, and I will consider the application.”

“Free food?”

“Certainly not. The price of admission will be twenty corals, exclusive of drinks.”

“Mamma won't appear, I suppose?”

“She may come in before the end, for speeches.

But it is uncertain. Saturday night, you know. … I left her thinking out to-morrow's text,” he added, in a clear and audible tone, different from that in which he had said “Saturday night.”

“She had a long talk with our friends here.”

“How did she take to 'em?”

“Kindly, on the whole. But she is most anxious that the Orphans should not get it into their heads that they are to be taken away.”

“Quite right, quite right. Very bad for 'em. Besides, why in the world
should
they be taken away? This is the place for them. … Now, some of
us
would be glad of a change. I've a mind to see the world a little myself, now I've got the girls off.
I'll
come away with you, gentlemen, if you'll let me.” She tapped Captain Paul with her palm fan, for she thought him handsomer than Mr. Thinkwell, as indeed he was.

“That brother of mine hasn't introduced me. I'm Mrs. Smith-Carter.
I'll
come away with you, with all the pleasure in life.”

Captain Paul wondered if the Thinkwells realised what they were in for, if they knew the cost of getting all these queer birds to England, and what to do with them when there; but, as Thinkwell troubles touched him lightly, he bowed with gallantry.

“By all means, madam. Delighted to take you. But, you know, there'll be so many wanting to come that my little ship won't hold you all. We shall have to charter a liner for you.”

“A liner? That's the kind of ship that split in two under mamma, ain't it? You'll have to bring a safe one, young man. We don't want another wreck.… Well, how long will it take you to fetch your liner?”

“A good many weeks, I'm afraid.”

“Oh, Lord! What a time! Well, but you could carry some of us off on that little ship of yours, eh?”

“I fear the quarters are poor, ma'am. You would not be comfortable.”

“Oh, well, I like to be comfortable, that's very true.… Ain't you comfortable on his ship, child?” the lady asked Rosamond.

“Very. It's a most nice ship.”

“Still, you're young. I dare say that I shouldn't be comfortable. Perhaps I'll wait for the liner. That'll give me time to get some new clothes, after all. I've not a rag fit to face the world in. True-heart Jenkins makes my things, and she's to be drowned Monday. I must find a new woman.… Are you interested in clothes, child?”

“No,” said Rosamond, in her deep, abrupt
little
voice. “I mean, I don't know much about them.”

“She doesn't know very much about anything,” Charles explained, “except islands. She's a terribly ignorant girl.”

Mrs. Smith-Carter's eyes approved the slim, nonchalant, dark young man.

“But
you
look as if you thought you knew plenty,” she told him. “What does this impudent brother of yours know, child?”

“Charles? Oh, I don't know. Lots of things.… About restaurants, and book, and writers, and foreign countries, and plays, and pictures, and Russians dancing, and … oh, lots of things.…”

“What a catalogue,” said Charles, pleased.

“Well,” the lady said, “none of it sounds a lot of use, to me, but I dare say it's all right in your country.… You must make friends, both of you, with my niece, Flora. I shouldn't be surprised
if she could teach you both something. A clever girl, Flora. Handsome girl, too. Seen her?”

“Yes,” said Rosamond, and coloured pink.

“Well, you must get her to show you round. They try to keep her too much in leading-strings, and it makes her naughty, a fine, spirited girl like that. Wants to go her own way, Flora does. Scoldings won't cure her, and I've told my brother so. How does your papa treat you, girl? Is he stern with you?”

“Oh, no. Not stern.”

“He looks a queer man. Is he clever? What does he know about?”

“Yes, he is clever. He knows about nearly everything.” Rosamond was still so young as to have retained that filial illusion.

Charles, who was not, looked sceptical as he strolled away to listen to what Mr. Smith was saying to his father.

“Well, well,” Mrs. Smith-Carter said, “that's not in my line. I'd rather a gentleman had agreeable manners and a handsome face and knew how to tell a good story after supper. And was Godfearing, of course,” she added, on a yawn. “Mamma brought us all up to think a lot of that. Is your papa a God-fearing man?”

“I don't think father believes in God,” said Rosamond.

“Not! Why, then he's an atheist. 'Pon my soul, mamma won't like that. How very wrong and ignorant of your papa, child. Did he bring you all up in irreligion, then? Are you and your brothers atheists, too?”

“Charles and William don't believe in God, I suppose.… But father didn't bring us up not to, he let us alone.” Rosamond stammered away
from the religious beliefs of Charles, William, and herself, not able or willing to articulate her own. For Rosamond had religion. She believed, in a deep, childish, and romantic way, in God. She went further, and liked the expression of religion to be pictorial, lovely, sweet of sound and scent. Before the hard, patronising stare of this genial Smith lady, her religion fled, abashed, for cover.

“Well,” said Mrs. Smith-Carter, yawning again, “to-morrow's Sunday, you know, and we all go to church. You'll have to come—papa, Charles, William, and all, and the other gentlemen too, even if they
are
atheists. Do 'em good, I dare say.… Can't understand atheism, for my part, though of course we have it here too. What I say is, if there's no God,
who made
us all, and the land and sea and sun and moon and stars, and the birds and fishes and beasts for us to eat, and all the rest of it? There's a poser for your papa, my dear, since he's so clever. Ask him that from me. It all made itself, no doubt he'll say. Oh, I know 'em, your clever folk who set themselves up to do without the Lord who made 'em. They come to no good, in this world or the next. We've always had 'em with us. I recollect 'em when I was a girl, jabbering away about the truths of science and disproving the Creator from His handiwork in the shells and rocks. Doubt, we called it then. It ain't doubt in these days, it's sheer impudence. Horrid atheism, mamma always called it.
She
never allowed it, I can tell you.”

“What did she do?” Rosamond asked, interested.

“Tied 'em up, my dear, and fed 'em on nothing but shell-fish till they thought better of it. That was in the good old days. But people won't stand
that now—they're grown so stuck up and independent, there'd be a riot. There has been, sometimes.… It's a sad, insolent age.… That Jesuit missionary that landed when I was a girl,
he
said we ought to burn 'em to death. But mamma always said that would be popish. Mamma never would be popish; she don't like the Pope. What do
you
think of the Pope, child?”