“Funny point of view,” said William, renouncing interest in the subject and going after a crab who was wearing a whelk’s shell on his tail. Obviously Flora must be an ass.
“Oh, yes, I’m sure painting is quite Smith,” Rosamond said. “Unless it’s done on pavements.”
“That makes a difference? Why?”
“I don’t know, but it does. Perhaps it shows that you can’t afford paper or canvas. Anyhow, pavement artists aren’t generally gentlemen. They’re very clever, though. I’d rather be one. But then I don’t mind about being Smith.”
“Lord knows I don’t. But Flora.…”
Rosamond nodded sympathetically.
“I know. I want to be Smith—to seem Smith, I mean—when I’m with Flora.”
She was, in spite of his marvellous, his golden fortune in being loved by Flora, almost a little sorry for Nogood, who would have so much to live up to, such a continuous strain all his life.
“What,” asked the young man, rather moodily, “does your brother Charles do? Anything?”
“He writes things. Poetry, and stories, and articles in papers, and reviews of books.”
“Oh. Is that a Smith trade?”
“N-no, not very,” said Rosamond kindly, and shied a pebble at a high cocoa-nut, getting it full in the middle, so that it leaped to the ground and rolled on to the sand.
“Is he good at it?” Nogood looked a little brighter, she was pleased to see.
“Oh, I don’t know.… Much like other people, I suppose.… I expect it’s a thing any one can do, you know, if they try. Anyhow, a great many people seem to.… As a matter of fact, I don’t actually read what Charles writes.”
“Lord, I should think not!” said William, overhearing, and went off again after a creature.
Suddenly, quite suddenly, as they walked at the sea’s edge, the rose-gold day dipped down, the silver and purple night swung up. Fireflies, sparking like the souls of the righteous, ran to and fro about the forest gloom and twinkled over the dark and shining lagoon, whose ripples ran gold beneath the climbing moon. The scented tides of the night flowed sweetly down their throats; its little drowsy calls began, its gentle winds caressed their throats and cheeks.
Nogood Conolly left the Thinkwells at the isthmus that led to Hibernia.
“You know the way from here. Good-night.”
2
They met Mr. Thinkwell; he was examining the stars. He told them that they had all been asked to supper by Mrs. Smith-Carter, and that they were late.
Supper at Mrs. Smith-Carter’s was a loud, jolly meal. Mr. Carter had rather Orphan manners, and was full of cheerful, ill-bred chaff. There were two married daughters and their husbands, Mr. Lane and Dr. Field, to supper, and the Smith-Carter son, George. Flora had also been invited, but she and Charles did not come in until supper was nearly finished.
The Smith-Carter sons-in-law desired information about England. Pigs, for instance. Mr. Lane wanted to know about pigs. Cambridge pigs: how were they for flesh? None of the Think wells knew. Mr. Thinkwell was inclined to think Cambridge not a pig centre. Pigs flourished more elsewhere. English pigs were better, he believed, than pigs on the Continent. Stouter. Mr. Lane told about island pigs, which he was interested in breeding.
“But what I can’t understand,” said Mrs. Smith-Carter, “is how you get on without turtle and tortoise meat. Mamma says you have neither, only turtle soup now and then.”
Mr. Thinkwell said that they ate instead a great deal of mutton and beef, which meant dead sheep and cow.
“Oh, I know, of course. As the children learn at school—’ Of what use is the cow? To give us milk to drink and beef to eat. Of what use is the sheep? Its wool makes clothes for us to wear, and its flesh makes mutton for us to eat.’ Mamma brought us all up on a long catechism of English habits, most of which meant nothing to us at all, because we didn’t know what kind of creatures sheep and cows and the rest might be—and mamma never could draw anything. ‘Why did God create the dog? To be the friend of man. The horse? To draw burdens for man and carry him about. The horse is a noble animal.’ ”
“But when,” said one of the sons-in-law, “we asked to be told of some of the noble deeds of the horse, our teachers knew of none, and a deputation to Miss Smith failed to discover any. For it seems that the horse don’t carry man about and draw his burdens out of kindness, but because he has to. So that’s not noble. Perhaps you can tell us, sir, something about the noble conduct of the horse.”
“I can only suppose,” Mr. Thinkwell replied, “that some persons think it noble of the horse not to trample and kick them to death whenever it gets the chance. For my part, I should call it only stupid. For the larger and stronger creature to allow himself to be captured and kept in disagreeable bondage by the smaller and weaker is merely an evidence of inferior intelligence. No; I never observed any nobility of act or thought on the part of a horse, though I don’t pretend, of course, to see into their minds.”
“So much for the horse,” said Mr. Lane. “To tell ye the truth, I always suspected it. None of the animals here are noble—pigs, turtles, lizards, fish, birds, monkeys, and the rest—not one of ’em—at least I never noticed it in them, did you, Jack? So why should the horse be so peculiar? And there you are; he ain’t; it was a tale put up by Miss Smith. As to old Jean, all she’d ever say was that all God’s creatures were verra weel in their ain places, but that none of ’em, not even man, had cause to be set up. If any creature is noble, I fancy Jean thinks it’s the Scottish haddock. … If you’re interested in animals, Mr. Thinkwell, I must show you over my little farm to-morrow. I have the largest tortoise stud on the island. We race ’em, you know. Betting on races is forbidden by law, because Miss Smith says it’s sinful, but there’s a good bit of it goes on just the same.”
“Really, Sam,” his wife said, “you don’t need to tell Mr. Thinkwell that. Whatever will he think of us? Besides, I’m sure he has far too many things to see here to want to look at the animals on your farm.”
“Very true, Lizzie,” said her papa. “Mr. Thinkwell must come and see parliament at work to-morrow, and get an idea of the way we do things here. What say you, Mr. Thinkwell?”
“I should certainly wish to do that.”
“I’ll come and see your animals, Mr. Lane, may I?” said William.
“We’ve a debate to-morrow on the Fermented Liquors Bill,” said Mr. Carter. “And on the Bastardy Bill. And probably the Noxious Herbs Bill too. Besides all the usual business. Our parliament, you know, is closely modelled on yours, only we’ve only one House.”
“How many members have you?”
“Twenty-nine. And a cabinet of six. My brother-in-law Albert Edward is Prime Minister, you know. Always is. He’s a great man at working the elections.”
“What is your suffrage qualification?”
“Eh?”
“Who votes?”
“Men who own or rent a certain amount of land.”
“Not exactly democratic.”
“Democratic.…”
“I mean, your constitution seems to rest on a narrow basis. The unpropertied classes don’t have much say in it.”
“No; that’s the notion; that’s as it should be.”
“I suppose that is one cause of the risings that occur from time to time.”
“Oh, well, that’s more the land laws, and so on. But we put ’em down. You do the same in Great Britain, I suppose.”
“Certainly, when they occur. But our suffrage is more extended than yours, so there is less grievance on the whole, as to the laws.… Not that I personally regard a vote as a privilege, or as a particularly useful instrument in helping to govern a country, for we can only vote for the candidates who present themselves, and these are, as a rule, singularly inefficient persons. All the same, however, foolish as they may be, they count as votes in a division, and the House may possibly occasionally divide on a question of importance. But the whole business is a very foolish performance, and
a very poor and dilatory way of getting things done. I have no doubt that yours is the same.”
“And so much,” said Mr. Lane, “for the nobility, wisdom, and justice of the British constitution. It’s like the noble horse—a put-up tale. Your grandmamma, my dear Lizzie, is an old lady of prodigious imagination, as I’ve often suspected.”
“Now, Sam,” said his mother-in-law, “no impertinence about mamma. You know I don’t allow it in this house.”
At this point Flora appeared, with Charles, remarking that darkness had overtaken them on the hill. She was in high spirits; as to Charles, he appeared as if he were under a spell. He ate little, but drank and laughed a good deal, and, throughout the evening, his eyes scarcely left Flora’s face. Enchantment held Charles; not for the first time, nor for the last, he was passionately and profoundly fallen into love. Flora, golden-brown in Rosamond’s white frock, her dark eyes glinting through their long lashes like starlit pools through reeds, her dimples playing in and out, flung at him her careless, mocking charm, teased him with her impudent wit, smiled into his eyes, and smiled away; then turned the battery of her idle nonsense on the other gentlemen—on Mr. Thinkwell, who thought her a handsome and charming girl who talked too much; on William, who wished she wouldn’t chatter to him, for he preferred girls of few words, and had, besides, already decided that Flora must be an ass; on George, already her helpless, stolid slave; on the husbands of her cousins, who were used to her and ate their supper. Even on Rosamond Flora smiled, collecting in passing the devotion from that childish gray stare. It pleased Flora to-night to be in good humour and to please her company.
“You’re very smart and proud, missie,” her uncle told her, “in your white gown. I suppose you made Miss Rosamond give you that.”
“We exchanged, uncle. Rosamond prefers the feathers, don’t you, Rosamond? I declare it suits you famously. Doesn’t she look well in feathers? Like a little scarlet pigeon with a yellow head. Doesn’t she, Charles?”
“Not so well as you did. You looked like a bird of paradise in it.”
“Well, and what do I look like now?”
“Oh, some kind of wood goddess.”
Charles spoke carelessly, pretending not to care, pretending to be casual and off-hand, while his laughing eyes shone like the lit candle-nuts on the table.
“A wood-goddess! Oh, la la! I’d rather be a lady of fashion, driving through London town. You don’t say the right things to me, Charles.”
“Ladies of fashion driving through London don’t wear white cotton tennis frocks. Something much more elaborate. You’d have to wear stockings, too. You wouldn’t be nearly so nice as you are now.”
“Wait and see.… As to you, you’d be wearing a tall black hat and a coat with tails; I’ve read about that in Mixing in Society.”
“You’re a few years out of date on this island, let me tell you. You’ll get a lot of surprises in England.”
“The more the better. I enjoy surprises.… And what I shall really enjoy is seeing grandmamma get them. We shall all love that, shan’t we, Sam?”
“Now, Flora,” her aunt broke in, “you know very well I don’t let you be impertinent to your grandmamma here. I’ve just had to say the same to Sam. You’ll shock the Mr. Thinkwells, rattling on like this. Now fetch your flute, George, and the girls shall sing some quiet Sunday songs and hymns.”
Here was Flora’s eclipse, for Lizzie, the stouter of the young matrons, had a voice of that sweet, exquisite, and powerful quality which is only to be found in the stout, and soared high above Flora’s thin contralto, as George piped for them “Nearer my God, to Thee,” “Sun of my soul,” and other tunes suitable for Sunday evening. Rosamond, who liked evening hymns, joined, in her small, deep voice, though, having little ear, she did not join in tune. The Thinkwell gentlemen, not caring for either the words or the tunes, sat in silence, a good deal bored. In fact, half-way through William went out. Mr. Thinkwell sighed, unconsciously, much oftener than he knew. But Charles, oblivious, sat in his dark corner and stared at Flora, who had so transfixed his heart.
At the end of a hymn Mr. Thinkwell rose hastily and said that he must go. The party broke up. George was detailed to accompany Flora home to the Yams. The Thinkwells walked to the little house at the edge of the wood which had been placed at their disposal by Mr. Denis Smith, on whose land it was, and who had turned out the present occupants to make room for them. It was a nice little house, with four rooms, and the Thinkwells, very happy to have it and no longer to be staying with people as visitors—a position which Mr. Thinkwell, in particular, always found rather disagreeable—had already placed in it their possessions. But only Mr. Thinkwell intended to sleep in it; his sons and daughter preferred the woods.
Rosamond dragged her mattress under a spreading bread-fruit tree, from whence she looked out on the moony sea; and quite close to her was a cow-tree, so that when she woke in the morning she could pluck a bread-fruit and put her mouth to the cow-tree, for she did not yet know that this was strictly forbidden, and that both trees belonged to Mr. Denis Smith, who sold the milk to the milkman and the fruit to the bread-fruit vendor. Rosamond did not yet understand about property, even in England.
Charles lay long awake, staring up at the starry sky, listening to the island noises and the crooning sea, drinking in a hundred sweet odours, smiling to see before him in the night Flora’s wild loveliness, Flora’s mocking, tilting smile. The things he had said to Flora on that walk he said again over to himself … the things that had pleased her, that had made her laugh.… A witty, elegant young man from London, a poet, a gentleman of taste.… Surely … surely …
Chapter XVI
SMITH METHODS WITH SOME DULL THINGS
1
NEXT morning the Thinkwells enjoyed the great pleasure of breakfasting alone in their own house, off food and milk left them by the regular vendors of these. They were all very happy to be no longer visitors, and to be free to do precisely as they pleased. Mr. Thinkwell had had, before breakfast, a bath in one of the hot geyser springs shown him by Mr. Denis Smith, which were kept strictly enclosed from the public, and had found it very agreeable and beneficial to his health. The others had swum in the lagoon, where they had again met Nogood Conolly and Heathcliff Smith, but not this time Flora, who had perhaps slept late.
Mr. Denis Smith had even engaged a young woman to serve them, prepare their meals, and so forth. She was a handsome girl called Hate-Lies Jones, the granddaughter of an Orphan whose father had been a Welsh milkman in east London and who had himself gone into the island milk trade and had passed it down to his son, the father of Hate-Lies. Hate-Lies, who always complained that, what with one thing and what with another, she was the most unlucky girl in the world, thus had the misfortune of taking in the morning milk, whether from cow-tree or cocoa-nut, from her own father or brother, which every one must perceive is very dull. However, she endeavoured to make up for this with the bread-fruit man, the yam man, and the tortoise-meat man. But poor Hate-Lies was rather gloomy, for she had a great ambition to be married, and, though she was now turned twenty-eight, she was not yet engaged. She now declared herself sick of the Orphan young men, and hoped to meet some more likely husbands in Great Britain.
“I expect you heard the drowning this morning,” she remarked to Rosamond, as she cleared away the breakfast things.
“The drowning? No.”
“Well, that woman that poisoned her husband was drowned. Taken in a boat out to sea from Convict Cove and drowned. Six o’clock, it was fixed for. Half the island was down on the shore watching. Ought to be a lesson.”
Rosamond felt as she sometimes did in church before breakfast on a hot day—hot and cold and blind. Drowned on purpose! Choked to death in sea-water.… Yet was it worse than hangings in England … or prison everywhere … or animals in cages? …
She went out of the house and sat in the wood, staring into green trees, her back to the cruel sea, and thought of humming-birds, of Flora, of baby torto
ises.
It was an exquisite morning of pearl and emerald, turquoise and gold. The Thinkwells lay and smoked outside Belle Vue, reposing after their pre-breakfast exertions and contemplating with pleasure the agreeable day before them. Rosamond forget the poor drowned murderess; she was drowned again, poor woman, in the enchanted oblivion of the island, a land of sweet mandragora in which no grief could live.
Mr. Thinkwell said he would go and look at the schools this morning, and in the afternoon visit the House of Parliament. Charles said one could do that kind of thing in England, and he wasn’t going to waste his time over it here. For his part, he would stroll about the island and enjoy himself ; he had a desire to visit the shops. William said he thought of calling on Mr. Lane this morning and seeing his animals. Rosamond had an ambition to cruise about the lagoon in a log canoe, landing on the reef. Also, she wanted to explore more of the island. She hoped that she might also enjoy for a time the company of Flora; and, for that matter, Charles too hoped for this.
2
So the Thinkwells went about their several businesses. Mr. Denis Smith strolled over to Belle Vue to fetch Mr. Thinkwell to see the schools.
“Which shall I show you first? The Smith school or the Orphan?”
“You have two, then?”
“Oh, dear, yes. ’Pon my soul, I should say so. High class and low class; gentry and riff-raff. Why, don’t tell me you educate your different classes all mixed up at the same schools!”
“No. There is such a difference in cost between our various types of school that it means, practically, a class difference. We have our free schools, our cheap schools, and our expensive schools. It is merely a question of cost with us. Any one who can afford it is free to send his children to the most expensive schools.”
“Well, we are very strict about ours. Only Smiths by birth—and not quite all of them—are admitted into our better schools. Never do to mix ’em up; it’d do away with class distinctions in no time.”
Orphan Island Page 17
