Orphan Island Page 6

  “Also, we have other heresies. My mother has always said that heresies of all descriptions abound in Great Britain. Dissenters, she calls those who hold them. We too are not without our dissenters.”

  “The history,” said Mr. Thinkwell, “of your religious life here would be of great interest to me to hear, sometime.” For, as a sociologist, he held that in no matter is the trend and character of a society better shown than in its religions. “Have you,” he added, “atheists, sceptics, and agnostics?”

  “Unfortunately,” replied Mr. Smith, “and extraordinary and terrible as it must seem, we have always had atheists among us. You would scarcely think it credible that here, in this remote island where we have been so mercifully preserved, there should be found any who doubt the existence of a beneficent and all-wise Deity, but so it is. … As to the other sects you inquire after, I don’t know them.”

  Mr. Thinkwell perceived that the words sceptic and agnostic had not formed part of the vocabulary imparted by Miss Smith to the orphans.

  “Here,” said Mr. Smith, “we are.”

  Chapter VI

  AT THE YAMS

  THEY came out into a clearing, in which stood a fine dwelling built of logs and plastered with mud. It was surrounded by a garden, enclosed from the wood by a palisade, and on the gate was cut “The Yams.” Charles noted, without surprise, that no yams appeared to grow on the premises, or even very near.

  “My little place,” said Mr. Smith, ushering them through the gate. “No palace, as you see, but it suffices for our homely life. We Smiths, though between us we own all the island, are not flashy people.”

  “How the devil,” muttered Charles to Captain Paul, “do they come to own all the island?”

  “Doubtless,” Captain Paul sardonically murmured, “they obtained it from that source of all temporal and spiritual bounty, Miss Smith.”

  Mr. Smith conducted them through his garden to his verandahed house. When all the party was within the palisade, he carefully shut and bolted the garden gate.

  “Lest others intrude,” he said.

  And, indeed, the house was now surrounded by a considerable crowd, who had come up from the beach by other paths, and were peering through the palings. As Mr. Smith closed the gate, a tart female voice ejaculated, “’Pon my soul, Bertie!”

  “Aunt Adelaide is here,” said Flora, rather maliciously, to her papa. “Dying to come in.”

  Mr. Smith gave no sign of attention. The tart female voice exclaimed loudly, through the palisade, “No such thing. Stuff and nonsense, child. I haven’t the least desire to talk to our visitors in this house. Shouldn’t get in a word edgeways. All the same, Bertie, it’s pretty impudent the way you’ve carried ’em off.”

  The visitors saw, between the rails of the fence, a fine figure of a woman clad in rich skins and feathers and hung with ropes of pearls. A monkey-skin bag jingled on her wrist, and a tiny black monkey peered under her arm. The face above this rich attire was large and red and proud. Obviously one of the caste of Smith, and a great lady on the island. She was seated in a kind of hammock, carried by two West African negroes.

  Rosamond looked at her, embarrassed, feeling that their host was not being very courteous to this lady relative of his. The lady caught her eye and nodded to her.

  “You seem a nice little thing. Ain’t she, Sam?” (She addressed a gentleman at her side.) “My good brother Bertie, because he’s the eldest son, pretends he’s the only Smith on the island. Don’t you believe him. You must all come and see me next. I can do you as well as he can, and a trifle better too. My palm wine is flavoured with turtle. … Flora, you must bring them round to me later. I want to hear a world of things from them.”

  Flora nonchalantly nodded.

  Mr. Smith meanwhile ushered the guests into his verandah and bade them be seated. The seats were wooden chairs, made comfortable with cushions of brown cocoa-nut cloth stuffed with feathers. They were set round a table laid with fruits and drinks, the latter being served in cocoa-nut goblets. The two servant girls, Heavenly-Mind and True-Peace, were still setting out these refreshments, assisted by a small black child.

  “That will do, Zachary,” said Mrs. Smith to this infant. “You can run away now and help cook.”

  “A negroid child,” commented Mr. Thinkwell. “A descendant, I presume, of the black attendants of your missionary.”

  “Their youngest child,” Mr. Smith replied. “They are prolific, the Zacharies.”

  “That is their name?”

  “Yes. They are called Zachary Macaulay. So are all their children. They were understood to say that, where they came from, most of the population bear that name, in memory of some one who was kind to them long ago. My mother says there was a slave-liberator of that name when she was young.”

  “Interesting,” said Mr. Thinkwell.

  “But his work was in vain,” interpolated Flora, languidly using her fan, “for now these poor Zacharies are slaves again.”

  “You employ unpaid labour, then?”

  “No one pays the Zacharies. They don’t expect it,” and Mr. Merton said, “Hear, hear,” and drained his cocoa-nut.

  “The lower orders among ourselves, however,” added Mr. Smith, “work for hire.”

  “The lower orders! You have them, then, even here?”

  “I should say so,” said Flora.

  “Why?” asked Charles, preparing to get sarcastic. “How are they lower? When did they become lower?”

  Mr. Smith said, “They have always been lower. Ever since our island history began.”

  “And how,” inquired Charles, “did they first show it?”

  Mr. Smith combed with his fingers his beautiful whiskers.

  “As they show it now, no doubt, by gesture, speech, character, and habits. Naturally there has always been a marked distinction between the descendants of my mother and the descendants of her brood of orphan children.”

  “Oh, I see. Then the upper classes are all Smiths?”

  “Naturally, my dear young sir.”

  “But the Smiths must have married among the orphans. What was the social position of their issue?”

  Issue was another word not taught by Miss Smith. But Mr. Smith, an intelligent man, perceived that it meant children, and replied, “The Smith blood decides the position of any one in whose veins it runs. Naturally no descendant of my mother’s—no legitimate descendant, of course”—Mr. Smith interpolated this in a lower tone, glancing at Flora—“could belong to the lower orders.”

  “And what,” asked Charles, “do you give the lower orders for their work?”

  “Why, money, to be sure.”

  “Money?”

  “Ay. Our money is in the form of certain shells, and pieces of coral. Yours, I believe, consists of discs of metal.”

  “But what,” asked William, “is the use of money here, “with nothing to buy?”

  “Nothing to buy!” Flora smiled derisively.

  Mr. Smith said, “Indeed, there is a great deal to buy. You must visit the shopping quarter later. Flora will tell you all about that; she haunts it. And how do you imagine that people obtain their daily food or clothes without buying them? They do not mostly own the sources of production, as the wealthier classes do. They are not, of course, allowed to rob the fruit trees or steal the game.”

  “It’s as bad as England,” William whispered to Rosamond.

  “But,” said Mr. Smith, “I am doing all the talking. This will never do. We are all eagerness, aren’t we, mamma, to hear our visitors’ tale of how they first learnt of our existence and decided to discover us.”

  “Fancy,” said Mrs. Smith, who was pressing delicious fruits upon Rosamond.

  So Mr. Thinkwell told them the tale of his grandfather the sailor, and of the old letter and chart that had come, after all these years, into his hands.

  Mr. Smith nodded at intervals, greatly interested. Flora stared at the narrator with her clear, bright gaze. Meanwhile, Rosamond, eating fruit, star
ed at Flora, and thought how very handsome she was. Charles thought so too. And Captain Paul and Mr. Merton thought, “If there are many girls as fine as her on the island, I wouldn’t mind staying on. …”

  “Lucky,” Flora commented, when Mr. Thinkwell had finished his narration. “Suppose that letter had never reached you. Or suppose you hadn’t bothered to start. … What luck.”

  “Hardly luck, Flora,” said Mr. Smith. “Rather let us call it Divine Arrangement. We know, don’t we, my child, that our lives are hidden in His hand, and that all that happens to us is according to His plan.”

  “Oh, yes, Flora, you know papa has often told you that,” Mrs. Smith absently interjected.

  Flora seemed to have the modern habit of not taking a great deal of notice of her papa and mamma. She addressed the Thinkwells.

  “What did you expect to find here? Were you amazed when you saw us? I’m sure I should have been prodigiously amazed if I had found an island like ours, full of people so odd as we. For I’m sure we are odd, aren’t we?”

  She asked this of Charles, who replied that, in his view, all human creatures were very odd indeed.

  “Compared with what?” his father asked him, deriding his lack of precision; but Charles, who thought it no moment for philosophical argument, merely said “Turtles; vegetables; anything,” and to Flora, “We had no idea how many of you to expect, of course. You have increased at a good rate.”

  “As a matter of fact,” said William, “they haven’t increased so much as one would have expected. I calculated, if you remember, that the first orphans would make twenty pairs, and have, on an average, ten——”

  Mr. Smith cleared his throat, and it occurred to Mr. Thinkwell that perhaps young ladies on the island were still Victorian and not supposed to hear calculations based on birth-rates.

  Mrs. Smith hastily led the topic along harmless lines by asking Rosamond, “Do you like children?” a question which always made Rosamond puzzle and frown, for to her it meant neither more nor less than if some one were to ask her if she liked grown persons. Being inarticulate, she could not explain her difficulty except by saying, “Some of them.” To which Mrs. Smith returned, “They soon know, don’t they.”

  “They soon know! They said that here too, then, thought Mr. Thinkwell. Strange, how these remarkable phrases grow up everywhere the same, springing, it seems, out of the fatuity of the human mind. Or had Miss Smith and the Scottish nurse said it before the wreck, and passed it down? They soon know! Perhaps they also said on Orphan Island that the world was small, that boys would be boys, that we’ve only one life, haven’t we.

  William meanwhile was still pursuing his calculations. “How many are there actually on the island now?” he asked, and Mr. Smith told him one thousand and twenty-five, of whom five hundred and ninety-three were children under fifteen.

  “Oh, I see,” said William. “That’s on the basis of an average of about five children to each pair, taking four generations and given approximate equality of sexes, and a few deaths. I suppose,” he added, “that you don’t have many celibates. Bachelors, I mean, and spinsters, as we have in England.”

  “Oh, a few. Not many, certainly.”

  “Poor things,” Mrs. Smith said kindly. “Seems quite against nature, don’t it. Poeple ought to get married, to be sure they ought. It’s only right. We were made for that, after all, weren’t we?”

  “In consequence of that, anyhow,” Mr. Thinkwell amended. “What we were made for seems a doubtful question. I dare say you are no nearer answering it on Orphan Island than we in our hemisphere.”

  Charles thought they were probably a good deal nearer, and, to avert a discussion that might prove wearisome and could scarcely be very fruitful, he begged Mr. Smith to relate to them something of the history of the island community during the past sixty-eight years, and to give them some idea of its social constitution, which, he said, must be a very interesting story. At this request, Miss Flora yawned, and got up to go.

  “That,” she murmured, as she passed Charles, “is indeed asking for it.”

  Mr. Smith looked benignantly on the young inquirer, and said, “You are very right, sir. The history and development of our community is of immense and remarkable interest, and I shall have great pleasure in unfolding something of it in the near future. But just now is not the moment, for we have sat here long enough. If you are all refreshed, we will take a turn on the beach and read the day’s news, and then I shall endeavour to arrange an audience for you with Miss Smith.” He inclined his head at the name, as usual, and the visitors politely did the same.

  “She receives people, then?” Captain Paul said.

  “Oh, yes; in moderation. Her mind is still, at intervals, vigorous, and she is by no means an invalid. A wonderful grasp of affairs. Of course, at ninety-eight, she has a few fancies.…”

  Rosamond, who at nineteen had more than a few of these, wondered in what direction Miss Smith’s fancy strayed. Perhaps she imagined Orphan Island full of elves … perhaps, in her view, the turtles and the shell fish chatted together with mermaids on the beach. … Oh, yes, even at ninety-eight one would have retained a few fancies, on such an isle as this.

  “But first,” resumed Mr. Smith, “we will go and read the evening news on the shore, if you are agreeable. It comes out at about this hour.”

  “My God,” Mr. Merton commented. “The local press.”

  “My love, perhaps you would prefer not to come out again in the heat,” said Mr. Smith to Mrs. Smith, and Mrs. Smith agreed that she would prefer a nap. The visitors bade her good-bye for the present, thanking her for her kindness and hospitality.

  “Delicious drinks you gave us, madam,” said Mr. Merton, and she smiled, pleased, and said, “The recipes are mostly from Mr. Smith’s papa. Such a very clever man at making drinks. A doctor, you see. Good-bye, sir; good-bye, my dear. Very pleased, I’m sure. We don’t often see such a party here; it makes a nice change. We shall meet again later on. The drink makes one sleepy, don’t it. Particularly on top of the heat. I shall have a good nap. Don’t let Mr. Smith tire you out, walking round. I’m sure there’ll be plenty of time for you to see everything later on. Good-bye.”

  Chapter VII

  THE PRESS

  THE party went through the garden out into the wood, where a crowd of islanders stood patiently waiting for them to come. When they appeared a murmur of interest rippled among the crowd. Mothers lifted up their children to see the sight; young persons giggled to one another because of the strangers’ unconventional attire.

  Mr. Smith raised a firm hand, motioning them all back.

  “No crowding,” he commanded. “I am conducting our guests to the shore, to see the news. Make way, if you please.”

  The crowd followed them down to the shore; perhaps they all wanted to see the news.

  Rosamond, walking a little behind the rest, looked round for Flora, and saw her slipping away, her arm in a girl friend’s. Rosamond had a little envious pang. If she had been Flora’s friend! But what was she, to be the friend of radiant Flora? Flora would never do more than fling her an occasional word or glance, and pass on to her own friends. To be loved by Flora—what felicity! But did Flora, loved, surely, by all, really love any one? Was it in Flora’s heart to love?

  They came down out of the wood on to the shore again, and on the smooth, damp stretch of sand near the sea’s edge two men were busily writing with sharp sticks, at the dictation of a third, who threw a sentence or phrase now at one, now at the other. What was already written was large and legible, in clear round letters, and laid out in separate paragraphs, each with its own heading.

  “Amazing Occurrence this Afternoon,” the largest paragraph was headed. “Landing of Strangers.” It went on, “Early this afternoon a more amazing event occurred than has ever before been known in our country. A large vessel was seen on the horizon, and was observed to be approaching our shores. When it was arrived at the reef, it stopped, and a boat put forth from it, contain
ing several persons, who presently landed on the island. They proved to be a party of six, a Mr. Thinkwell, his daughter and two sons, a Captain Paul, who owned the ship, and a Mr. Merton. Great excitement was naturally caused by this unprecedented event, and there were amazing scenes as most of the population assembled on the shore to watch the landing and to inspect the newcomers, who were dressed in some white material. The young lady of the party wore a thin white gown and a white hat, and had fair hair cut short on the neck after our fashion of fifteen years ago or so. It was thought at first that they must be missionaries, but it was gathered that this was not the case, but that they were a party who had sailed from England with the object of removing us from the island, having learnt of our whereabouts in some manner as yet unknown to the press, who have not yet had an opportunity of interviewing any of the party. The keenest interest is felt in the newcomers, who were shortly conducted by Mr. Albert Edward Smith to his house, the Yams, for refreshment. The party was followed up to the house by a considerable crowd, among whom were many well-dressed women.”

  Parallel with this column, there were other items of news—a paragraph on the weather, reports of the convictions of various persons arrested for trespassing or theft, and, in a prominent position and large letters, “Health of Miss Smith. Miss Smith has to-day been feeling the heat a little, and has not yet been out. Doctor Brown reports, however, that she is taking her meals well and that there is no cause for anxiety.” Next to this was “Resumed Trial of True-Heart Jenkins. Amazing Statements. The trial of True-Heart Jenkins for the murder of her husband by poison berries was resumed this morning. There were many well-dressed women present. The prisoner was smartly dressed in bark, with broad hat of plaited palm trimmed with pink feathers, and white coral necklace and ear-rings. Testimony was given by Hindley Green, aged eight, whom Jenkins had desired to pick the berries for her a few days before her husband’s death. Jenkins told the boy that the berries were for a hat wreath. Testimony was given by Sally Wilson, the girl who worked for Jenkins, that the berries had been crushed up for jam. Doctor Brown stated that Adolphus Jenkins had certainly died of the jam. Testimony was given by many witnesses that prisoner and deceased had not lived in harmony of late. The jury gave a verdict of guilty, and the judge (Mr. James Smith) sentenced the unfortunate and misguided female to be drowned, which will be done on Monday morning.”