Orphan Island (34 page)

But the nurse did not know where, and could not tell him.

THE morning was windy and bright. Only a heaving sea and a wreck-strewn island showed that a storm had been. Pools of the sea lay about the emerald grass; smashed trees sprawled across the paths. Landowners ruefully surveyed their property, setting woodmen to gather up their strewn fruit and keep off marauders. Mr. Lane wandered downcast among his pigs, some of whom had been struck dead by lightning.

Rosamond wandered about the beaten woods, where children picked up the tumbled fruit and nuts. In the wet tangle of green, the birds were singing again, the aggrieved monkeys talking shrilly about the storm.

Rosamond met Flora.

“Good-morning, Rosamond. How is Charles? I heard he was sick of a fever.”

“He is getting better.” Rosamond hesitated.

“He kept waking all night,” the nurse had said, “and saying names I don't know. But most often Flora—that must be Miss Flora Smith. He is quieter now, the fever all gone; but I think it might cheer him up to see her just for a minute.”

“I wish you would come and see him,” said Rosamond. “He would like it.”

“Why, of course I will. I was cross with him, poor Charles, when last we spoke. I was furious with all the world, because of that detestable affair of the ship. I can't make out why some one doesn't murder grandmamma, fit or no fit. Wicked old woman! But it wasn't poor Charles's fault, and I think I was unkind. To be sure I will come, if you think he would care to see me.”

They walked along the soaked path to Belle Vue. Rosamond took Flora in to where Charles lay, pale and exhausted, with dark, sunk eyes and swollen lips. When Flora entered, with “You poor Charles; are you better?” a violent flush rushed over his face and ebbed.

“Only a minute,” said the nurse. “He must be kept ever so quiet. A teeny weeny little minute!”

She tiptoed from the room, and Rosamond followed.

“Poor Charles,” said Flora again, standing by him. “You've had a bad time.”

“Yes,” said Charles huskily.

“You must get better quickly. … And, Charles, you must forgive me for being so ill-humoured to you. I was prodigiously shocked and unhappy, you know. I'm better now—settling down, I suppose. Though I am still wretched, and grandmamma I shall never, never forgive. But, after all, it is as bad for you as for us. That's what Peter said to me. …” She caught herself up.

“It was a shocking storm last night. Trees broken and houses crushed—you should have seen the sea. … Well, I mustn't stay, or nurse will say I've made you worse. Good-bye, Charles.”

“Good-bye.”

He stared her as she stood there, backed by the window and the green wood light.
She laid a cool hand lightly on his, and smiled kindly.

“You must get well quickly.”

She was gone.

She had been kind, careless, and cool. She did not love him; she had never loved him; her kisses had not meant that. She was beyond his reach.

Dreams, dreams, dreams!

Charles, not greatly caring about anything, shut his eyes as the nurse bustled in, lest she should speak to him.

Rosamond went out with Flora. In the wind-beaten wood, beneath the blue, washed sky, shyness fell upon her. She said, bluntly, “Charles loves you.”

Flora glanced at her, doubtful how to reply, and slightly lifted a shoulder. The simple, obvious child.

“But you don't love him,” Rosamond pursued, with something of her father's inclination to precise and accurate statement of a situation.

“Love him! Well, no. I like Charles. …”

“I think he hoped you would love him,” said Rosamond, “some day. If you never will, perhaps it would be better not to let him think you may so that he won't be disappointed again. You love Peter Conolly, don't you?”

“What a catechism! But, since you will have it, yes, I love Peter.”

Rosamond gave a little sigh.

“It's a pity,” she said, “for Charles. But still,
it can't be helped, of course. Only don't let Charles
think
things again. …”

“My dear, am I responsible for Charles's thoughts?”

“Yes,” said Rosamond bluntly. “Partly.”

“Oh, indeed. You fancy I led him on, perhaps? Well, let me tell you I didn't. There was no need. Charles did all his own chasing, without my help.”

Chasing! Not a nice word. Rosamond coloured. She stood there inarticulate, her power of language, never great, all ebbed. She was no match for Flora. …

“Well,” she said, “that's all. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye.” Flora strolled away down the path. A few yards on she stopped, and called back over her shoulder, “If you like, and since you are so afraid of raising Charles's hopes of me, you can tell him that Peter and I are to be married next week. I must have Peter at once, to make up for losing the world. Not that he does make up, but still he's something. …”

Rosamond stood and looked after her retreating figure. Lovely she was, enchanting, disturbing, moving about common earth like a goddess, playing her juggler's games with the hearts of men. Lovely and disturbing and adorable—but was she hard? Was she common? Was she selfish? Did she love people for what they could give her? Charles had been going to give her life in the great world. Peter was to make up to her for the great world's loss. Rosamond could give her nothing, so Rosamond she merely tolerated.

Inarticulate, puzzled, unused to these reflections on human beings and their vagaries, Rosamond stopped to watch the little red crabs the sea had left scuttling bewildered about the grass.

Charles, who had fallen asleep, suddenly sat up straight, with wide, sunken eyes, remarked, “Life is very stale,” and fell back.

“There, there,” said the nurse, and made him nice and comfortable.

In the afternoon Miss Smith died. Helpless to the last, she never, by word or sign, after the minute of mute violence on the beach, revealed her opinion of old Jean's accusation against her past propriety, never denied or admitted its truth. She went down inarticulate into darkness, her indomitable will undefeated, her arrogance unbroken, her authority snapped short abruptly at the hilt.

A respectful population followed while four black slaves carried her in her curtained palanquin up to the top of the hill and there buried her in the conspicuous grave demanded by her position, for Miss Smith of Smith Island was not to be given to the waste seas, like more ordinary corpses. She had a noble monument, a tall tree trunk set high on the hill's crest, and on it was carved:—

“HERE LIE THE REMAINS OF MISS SMITH, RULER OF SMITH ISLAND (NOW ORPHAN ISLAND)”—this had been interpolated by the carver, uncommanded by his Smith employers—“FOR SIXTY-EIGHT YEARS. BORN SEPTEMBER 1ST, 1825. DIED ON HER BIRTHDAY, 1923.

“ ‘THE PRICE OF A GOOD WOMAN IS ABOVE RUBIES.'—
Miss Smith.”

(It had not been known on the island that this
remark, one of Miss Smith's favourites, had not been originated by her but by Solomon, and when Mr. Thinkwell and Mr. Merton pointed it out, it was too late for alteration.)

Yes; the population, even the most revolutionary Orphans, were respectful enough to the Remains of Miss Smith. After all, she had always stood to them for destiny, for sovereignty, for the accepted order of things. And those who were unmoved by that felt that here was an old, old woman, who had been fuddled in her mind during her last years and not responsible for her actions, which, after all, she had meant, perhaps, for the best.

And—who knew?—perhaps they had been for the best. Perhaps Miss Smith, however arbitrary in her methods, had been right in her decision. She had told her people that they would come to grief if they should leave the island, that the wider world held no place for them. Who knew, but that she had been right? Here, after all, they had a living; here was the land they knew, and, if its existing order should be changed and bettered, so that all had their fair share, it might be best to stay on it.

At any rate, destiny and Miss Smith had so decided.

But old Jean, mazed in her wits by age and grief, did not attend the funeral. She wandered up and down, to and fro, about the shore, peering always out to sea, and muttering, “A ship tae Aberrdeen. A wee ship tae Aberrdeen. Hoo lang, oh Lord, hoo lang?”

THE island—Orphan Island now, by government proclamation—settled down. The newly-constituted parliament, under the thoughtful, just, and moderating guidance of Mr. Thinkwell, got to work on the amendation of the laws of the land and the readjustment of property. There were, after all, Smiths in the new Parliament, though not in a prominent position. At Mr. Thinkwell's suggestion, one of the first measures was the repeal of the bastardy laws, so that even the generation of Smiths who were under suspicion in this matter, were not ineligible for public position. But they were kept in their places. They formed in future the solid and stolid nucleus of that reactionary conservative party without which no parliament is complete. An eloquent minority, they sat on the opposition benches and voted consistently and ineffectively against the government. They had to listen to the passing of Acts by which their land was shorn to small plots close about their dwelling houses, their woods turned into common land, their game into the people's food. It was bitter; it was outrageous.

Outside parliament, they adopted the position of despoiled aristocrats. They might be robbed of
land and power, but no one could rob them of caste. Class barriers in their eyes reared even more stiffly than before between them and the Lower Orders. Even though they had, perforce, to live now much like these lower beings, they would never descend to their common level. Smiths were for ever Smith, Orphans for ever Orphan, and through all their fallen state the Smiths' social pride sustained them.

Their displeasure with Mr. Thinkwell, the interloping Premier who sanctioned and in part devised these changes was mitigated by the knowledge that, if he had not been there, they would have been far worse off than they were. For Mr. Thinkwell, to give him his due, was a fair man, a man who at least tried to be moderate and just.

That is to say, so far he has tried. But, since he has only been a politician for a year, it is to be feared that the deterioration almost inevitable in politicians may before long set in, and that his head may be turned and his eyes dazzled with power.

However that may be, he is interested in this new job. He finds it a good deal more interesting than his work at Cambridge. The government of this curious, this probably unique island, the development of its constitution and civilisation—here indeed is an absorbing problem for a man who has devoted his life to the study of sociology. Mr. Thinkwell is happy to be there, and desires no change. If a vessel should come now to the island, he might decline to depart in it; he would certainly advise the islanders in general to stay where they are. It was a mistake, he now sees, even more clearly than before, to plan their removal; the plan, he consoles himself by reflecting, was never his, but the memory of having at least played with
it, still irks him. It is, of course, as an island republic that their development should proceed. Being a just man, he would never, should opportunity arise, play them the trick Miss Smith had played them, but he might wish that his principles would allow of some such ruse.

Captain Paul and Mr. Merton, both easy-going men with few home ties, settled down, after a time, cheerfully enough, to island life. They expected to be rescued before long; Captain Paul at first constantly scanned the horizon for a sail, but, as no sail appeared, he accepted its absence without much disappointment. Before the year was out, he had taken a handsome young woman to wife. Mr. Merton has married no one so far, but flirts with all the girls in turn, enjoys the various drinks very much, and has taught the island several more.

Charles, when he was well of his fever, at first moped and brooded a good deal, for, since Flora would not have him, and had, in fact, married another, he disliked the island and was very homesick. But, by degrees, he found his place. Hindley Smith-Rimski made friends with him, eager to learn all he could impart as to English literature. Charles had with him several books—two anthologies of modern verse, a Shelley, a book of critical essays, and another of short stories, besides many of his own poems in manuscript. These specimens of English literature were eagerly welcomed by young islanders, and, guided by Charles, a new school of island literature rose and developed. Charles was before long asked to accept the position of Professor
of Literature, which he enjoyed. His own writings were acclaimed as he produced them (and many an old literary effort he was thus enabled to produce as new) with flattering admiration, and he came gradually to find as much pleasure in writing for this island public as for his public (nearly as small and much less appreciative) in England. After all, it was provincial to think that one public was less important than another. Here he had the advantage of being unique, foremost, a leader, instead of merely one among many literary young men. If Charles ever returns to London, he will miss the pleasant atmosphere of adulation; he will feel chilled, lost in a crowd. It is not many young men who, at five-and-twenty, are Professors of Literature. Charles would not now be pleased if a ship should come.

Generously, he used his influence to make Peter Conolly's painting the fashion. Peter was enabled to give up dentistry and sell as many pictures as he could paint, and Flora became rich.

The island underwent—is now undergoing—an intellectual as well as a political renaissance. It is producing, for good or ill, a considerable body of indifferent literature and art. It also has a flourishing drama and stage. Learning in all branches has been extended and reinforced by the stock of it introduced by the Cambridge Thinkwells. William has been made Instructor in Science, and twentieth century views of the cosmos have supervened on the dying and despised Paleyology imparted by Miss Smith.