Orphan Island

by Rose Macaulay

  A loud and repeated knocking, as with a stick on the floor, was heard from the interior of Balmoral, and Mr. Smith started.

  “Mamma grows impatient. We must delay no more.” He led the way into the house, only stopping once more just outside the door to say “Speak loudly. She is rather deaf.”

  Chapter IX

  MISS SMITH

  THE inside of Balmoral was stuffy and dark, and smelt of fermented liquor. Miss Smith, it seemed, a true mid-Victorian, did not care for open windows. The Balmoral windows were blinded with curtains of plaited palm, that kept out the sun and sultry wind. The rough-hewn chairs stood straight and prim. On their seats were feather-stuffed cushions, and over the back of each was laid an antimacassar of plaited leaves. In the middle of the room stood a round table, on which were some cocoanut cups full of drink, and some worn books, tied about with string. In the largest and most commodious of the chairs sat a shortish, stout old lady. She was dressed in a costume of black-dyed bark cloth, which came up to her throat and down to her feet in a full, crinoline-like sweep. Her face was a rich burnt-sienna red, cut with a thousand wrinkles; she had still some teeth, and she peered at the strangers with a pair of small, sharp, astonishingly blue eyes.

  At her side sat another old woman, larger of stature, bony, grim-faced. Both the old ladies wore over their thin white hair head-dresses of plaited leaves.

  Mr. Albert Smith ushered in the visitors, one by one. He introduced them. “Mr. Thinkwell. Miss Rosamond Thinkwell. Mr. Charles and Mr. William Thinkwell. Captain Paul. Mr. Merton,” and as he mentioned their names, each bowed before Miss Smith and kissed the small, stout, gouty red hand.

  “So,” said Miss Smith, and her ancient voice grated like sawn wood, “so the rascal Thinkwell and the other rogues got to safety, did they. We had supposed that they had met the death they deserved.”

  “They have doubtless all met it by now, ma’am,” said Mr. Thinkwell loudly.

  “Dead, are they? Dead and gone to judgment?” said Miss Smith, with satisfaction. “Well, when the Books are opened, theirs won’t make pretty reading. … We recollect the fellow Thinkwell well. A sad, ugly scoundrel. It was he hit the doctor on the head and left him stunned. Your grandpapa, eh, young man?”

  “I fear so, ma’am,” Mr. Thinkwell admitted.

  “I’m sorry for you. You’ve bad, common blood in you.”

  “I’m sure of it. But then, one way or another, we all have.”

  Miss Smith glared at him under lifted brows. Then she struck the floor with her stick.

  “Speak for yourself, Thinkwell; speak for yourself. You needn’t insult our royal ancestors, the kings and queens of England.”

  “Hoots, ma’am,” broke in the high Scottish voice of Jean, “the man only means we’re all from Adam, not to mention Eve.”

  Miss Smith accepted this with a nod, and took a drink.

  “True, Jean. To be sure there was Adam. Very true. We are all born sinners. But the sailor Thinkwell and his friends exceeded the bounds of normal human transgression. … Upon my word, sir, you’ve been some time about this business. No doubt you and your grandpapa thought there was no hurry.”

  “My grandfather,” said Mr. Thinkwell, “certainly does appear to have been of that opinion. He waited his time. As to myself, I only heard the story last June, and started as soon as might be after that, though I can’t say I expected to find any life still on the island.”

  “And well you might not expect it; well you might not. The uncovenanted mercies of Providence were marvellously extended to us”—Miss Smith had another pull at the cocoa-nut—“doubtless for a wise purpose. We were a remnant saved as by fire, in order that we might bring up all those innocent children unspotted by the world. Though even here sin has crept in, like the serpent into Eden. … Our people ain’t what they were once. This is an age of sensationalism, of lawlessness, of seeking always after some new thing. Is that the case in England too?”

  “I have not observed it,” said Mr. Thinkwell precisely, “more than in other ages. The qualities you mention are probably general characteristics of the human race.”

  He had forgotten to speak up, and Miss Smith said “Race! Ay, indeed. Always a mad race after excitement. And the women are worse than the men. They have forgotten the proprieties of their sex, and go gallivanting about with dye on their hair and vermilion from the shell-fish on their faces, and nothing at all on their arms and legs, dancing like light women and drinking like the fish in the deep. … But we have always set our face against such doings. Have we not, Bertie? We always refuse to receive immodest females. It’s our Rule. Ain’t it, Bertie?”

  “Certainly, mamma. And very proper too.”

  “Of course it’s very proper. We didn’t ask your opinion as to that, Bertie. Keep your views till they are asked for, my boy.”

  “I beg your pardon, mamma.”

  “Don’t interrupt me, Bertie. We were talking to Thinkwell’s grandson. Where were we? What were we speaking of, Thinkwell?”

  “You were mentioning the degeneracy of the age, madam.”

  “Oh, ay, we were. So it is degenerate, sadly; but that’ll keep. Now to business.” Miss Smith refreshed herself again. “We suffer amazingly in our digestion,” she explained. “Pains, and what not. The doctor has prescribed this fruit juice as a remedy. Plain fruit juice it is—nothing else. We have to keep it constantly on draught, or the consequences might be serious. Ain’t it so, Jean?”

  Jean emitted a sound between a grunt and a snort, and tightened her old mouth.

  “Business,” Miss Smith repeated vaguely. “Now to business. Ay.… You have a ship here, I understand. Is it a large ship? A liner?”

  “No, ma’am. A small trading schooner only.”

  Miss Smith nodded. She looked not ill-pleased.

  “How many will it hold?”

  Captain Paul said, “Not more than a dozen, besides the crew.”

  “You must understand, Miss Smith,” Mr. Thinkwell explained, “that this was merely planned as a voyage of investigation. The odds were, in my opinion, very strong indeed that no survivor of the unfortunate party referred to by my grandfather would be found on this island, even should we discover it. I merely came to find out. Of course now, things being as they are, suitable transport can, I have no doubt, be provided to convey away such of your party as may desire to leave the island; even, if they should be so unwise, the entire population.”

  “Stuff and nonsense, sir.” Miss Smith spoke sharply, irritably. She took another drink, set the empty shell down smartly on the table, and wiped her lips with her hand.

  “Stuff and nonsense, Thinkwell. Why should the whole population of this island suddenly take it into their heads to emigrate? Does the whole population of Great Britain desire to leave it?”

  “I believe not.” Mr. Thinkwell laughed, as at a good joke. This fuddled and amusing old lady was sound enough in some of her views. “No. I believe not.”

  “Well, then, why should our people? The Orphans are very well as they are. Let ’em be, and don’t go putting notions into their heads. They’re happy enough, and why shouldn’t they be? Could they be better off, or better cared for, or better governed? Haven’t they all the fruits of the earth provided for them by the good God to live on, besides birds and beasts and fishes? Haven’t they law and liberty and a good parliamentary constitution? What more do they want? To see the world, I suppose. But, as we’ve always told ’em, and instructed our clergy to tell ’em, the world’s a wicked fair, in which they’d soon lose their souls. Not but that it ain’t bad enough here; oh, ay, they’re worldly enough, the Orphans, to be sure. The plain truth is, Thinkwell, that they’re not fit for the larger world. They’d lose their heads in it and play the fool. After all, what stock do they come from? Orphans, picked from the gutter—no breeding among the lot of ’em. They’re well enough so long as there’s a firm hand over ’em. Haven’t we arranged everything for ’em ourself—named ’em, taught ’em, punished
’em, married ’em, made their laws and constitution, and given ’em their livelihood? Haven’t we minded ’em, Bertie?”

  “Indeed you have, mamma.”

  Miss Smith nodded, with pursed lips.

  “They’re very well as they are, the Orphans,” she said. “They’d be homesick in a month if you moved ’em. … But see here, Thinkwell. There are those here that are of different stock, fit to move in wider society and take part in the affairs of the world. There are the Smiths, Thinkwell.”

  “To be sure there are,” Mr. Thinkwell agreed.

  “Good blood.” Miss Smith stared at him with fierce blue eyes. “Royal blood. A race apart. Ten children we had”—one gathered that this was, strictly, the royal we, and that Dr. O’Malley’s share in the work had been, very properly, consigned to oblivion—” and all of ’em married and had young ones, and the young ones had young in their turn, and so on. … Upon my word, I forget how far that business has gone by now. How far has it gone, Bertie?”

  “You have great-great-grandchildren, mamma.”

  “Ay, to be sure we have. To be sure. Not through Bertie here, you know; Bertie married late, and his children have only just now grown up and married. Bertie was our eldest son, but not our eldest child. That was Caroline. … She’s dead. … Ain’t poor Caroline dead, Bertie?”

  “Yes, mamma. Twenty years ago, you recollect.”

  “Ay, poor Carrie. Our eldest. Born, if I recollect rightly, in ’57. Poor girl, she was always wild. Carrotty hair, and picked up bad habits and naughty Latin expressions. I could never think,” said Miss Smith firmly, “where she got ’em from. … Always a wild girl, Carrie. Fast. Set a bad example to the Orphans. Married beneath her … but then they all did that; no one else to marry, in those days. Cain and Abel married their sisters, to be sure, but that was in the Scriptures; can’t be done now. It don’t matter; Smith blood tells, whatever riff-raff it’s mixed with. All our children and grandchildren are Smith. Eh, Bertie?”

  “Practically all, mamma.” Bertie tugged at his whisker, looking momentarily confused, and the snub, freckled faces of the Miss Macbeans crossed the scene, embarrassing everyone but Miss Smith.

  “Practically all,” she repeated, and nodded, a satisfied ancestress brooding over her progeny. “How many decendants have we, Bertie?”

  “Two hundred and fifty-eight, mamma, at the census last month, and four more little ones since then. Two hundred and sixty-two altogether.”

  “Two hundred and sixty-two. Our ten have done well. Like the talents that weren’t in the napkin. Eh, Thinkwell?”

  “They certainly,” said Mr. Thinkwell, a precise answerer, “seem to have had a fairly large allowance of descendants apiece, if that is well-doing.”

  “Supposing,” William calculated aloud, “that the first lot had five each, that would make fifty. And suppose each of them had——” Charles nudged him, and he subsided into mental arithmetic, moving his lips.

  “Our family has done well,” Miss Smith repeated. “But, even so, you perceive that they form but a small proportion of the whole community. Gentle blood is vastly in the minority on our island. A matter of over a thousand, and only two hundred and sixty-two Smiths.”

  “How,” asked William loudly (he was never shy when doing sums), “do the husbands and wives of Smiths count?”

  Miss Smith turned on the youth her sharp blue stare.

  “They don’t count,” she returned, with a snap.

  Mr. Albert Smith seemed to deprecate this, with a remonstrating smile and shrug.

  “My dear mamma!” He turned to the visitors. “You have touched on an old point of difference,” he told them, in a low voice. “Of course, in all the interests of family life—the sanctity of the home, and all that—husbands and wives must and do rank (approximately, I don’t say exactly) as social equals. Otherwise one would have the strange anomaly of children ranking above their parents. It has, in point of fact, always been our social principle that to marry Smith is to become (approximately) Smith. But my mother, and more especially since she is getting old, has made a little trouble on this point. It would, I think, be as well not to pursue the topic.”

  “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.