Orphan Island (14 page)

And then, passing close to Rosamond, these two, not waiting for the end of the waltz, broke asunder, turned, wordless, each from each; the young man slipped into the shadowed woods and the young woman danced up to Charles Thinkwell.

“Now
, if you still would like a dance.…”

Rosamond saw her face, and it was like a fire gone out, a blown flame.

Off they went, Flora and Charles, he a strange, prim, white figure among the feathers and bare limbs that were island evening wear; a stiff, prim figure, which made but a poor thing of the waltz, for Charles was used to a stiffer and a more stately step, and, too, he despised the sugared melody that the flutes were wailing. A
slushy
tune, he called it, and could scarcely bring himself to keep in step
with it. A
round
tune, perhaps, as Heathcliff would say. Charles preferred music to be angular.

Flora laughed at him; Rosamond saw her laughter breaking out of her quenched radiance.

“Perhaps lancers or Sir Roger or the quadrille are more in your line, Charles.”

“I used to be rather a success at Sir Roger at children's parties,” Charles owned.

“Are you good at the polka, or the gallop, Charles? For certainly you are not good at the waltz.”

“I am sorry. We dance differently in England, you see. We don't glide and leap; we walk.”

“Well, here's the end of this one.… We must certainly teach you to waltz, Charles. The next is lancers.… I'm going down to the sea.… Did you call, mamma?”

Mr. and Mrs. Albert Smith were sitting beneath a great mango tree at the glade's edge, on two chairs. They had arrived a few minutes ago, just before Flora began to dance with Charles.

“What is it, mamma?”

“Flora! Be careful.” Mrs. Smith's voice was admonitory, staccato.

“Oh, yes, mamma. I am being careful.”

Rosamond saw the half closure of Flora's left eye, and realised, with the intuition of the tipsy, that this was, indeed, the case. Flora had been, on her parents' advent, so careful as to change one partner for another.

“You must not go alone down to the sea, Flora.”

“Why in the world not, mamma?”

“It's not the proper thing, my dear.”

“Really
, mamma.…”

Mr. Smith intervened.

“My dear Flora, when your mamma has desired you not to act in a certain manner, the subject is closed.”

“Oh, la la,” muttered Flora, using an ejaculation that had been handed down since the days of the French missionary, but was considered not at all Smith.

“Pray,” said Flora, folding her hands before her like a little girl, “what
may
I do, mamma?”

“I should think that you would wish to go on dancing, my dear, as it's a ball. Are you not dancing with your cousin George at all?”

“No, mamma, not at all. Oh, dear me, no. If I must dance the lancers I will dance them with Charles, and teach him how to do more than walk. Come, Charles.”

“Where is your nice little sister?” Mrs. Smith asked of Charles.

Flora answered, “The nice little sister exceeded at table, and is doubtless sleeping it off somewhere. Come, Charles.”

Exceeded at table! Unkind phrase, so lightly, indifferently, contemptuously tossed. It pierced Rosamond's shield of perfumed airs and sweet, drowsy peace, and faintly rankled. To-morrow morning she would mind that phrase. To-night she scarcely minded anything, her happiness was too deep, too pervading, too rich.

The lancers were danced, and a polka, and a waltz again, and more waltzes, and a quadrille, and a gallop. What wildness, what speed, was in the bare, galloping feet on warm turf, while the pipers piped “John Peel.”

Rosamond sat up, and took off her shoes and stockings. She stood among the dropping cocoa-nuts; the grass was warm beneath her bare toes. The very moon, she thought, was warmer here than suns in England. She came out of the shadow of the trees, smiling sweetly at the ball. Heathcliff
materialised out of the shades and came to her, asking her to dance. They were still galloping. Rosamond gave Heathcliff her hand; his arm, taut and brown, circled her waist, and away they dashed. Round and round the open sward they sped, fleet and smooth and light, the grass moon-warm to their flying, naked feet, perfumes as of vanilla, of honey, of the sea, on the balmy air they breathed. Round and round, and round, chased by feathered crowds as by light birds, light and swift as happy birds themselves.

“Oh,” Rosamond breathed. “Oh.”

Then, “The sea is like silver fire. I want to dance to the sea.”

“By all means,” said Heathcliff, and leaped with her from the grass plateau on to warm sands, and galloped to the Pacific's silver edge. The warm waves lapped about their feet, luminous with phosphorescent gold.

“Deeper,” said Rosamond, and deeper they went, until the Pacific splashed about their knees, and their bare legs glowed and shone alight.

“Deeper,” said Rosamond. “I want to swim.”

“No,” Heathcliff said. “You mustn't swim out now. A shark was seen in the lagoon this evening.”

“It won't hurt me,” said Rosamond fatuously, feeling all birds and beasts and fishes her friends to-night.

“Can't risk it,” said Heathcliff. “Twenty times they'll let you pass, and the twenty-first they'll snap you up. Uncertain brutes. There—see that fin?”

A dark point rose above the sea a hundred yards from shore, and sank again.

“Come along,” said Heathcliff. “They're beginning the next dance.”

“You go. I shall stay down here.” She waded out, and lay on her stomach on the sand, her chin in her hands, staring at the sea. Heathcliff hesitated.

“I like it here,” said Rosamond. “I don't want to dance. You go.”

Heathcliff left her.

The touch of the sea had washed away most of the fumes from Rosamond's brain; she lay, all but sober, and listened to the dance music and to the gentle moan of the Pacific against the lagoon reef, half a mile from shore.

William's square form came between Rosamond and the moon.

“Hallo. Your legs are dripping fire. I should like to catch some of those insects.” He crouched at the sea's edge, dripping flaming water through his fingers.

“I say, Charles told me you were squiffy at dinner. Are you still?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“You must have had an awful lot of that stuff.
I
couldn't do anything on it. What's more, nor could Merton or Paul.… I say, it's not bad here, is it. I should like to stay a long time, wouldn't you?”

“Yes. Always.”

“I've been finding out how they tell the time. They have sundials and moondials, and shells of sand which run out in an hour. But their time is ten minutes slow. I must say I think they've done pretty well all round, considering they only began with an axe and a few lancets and forceps and
things, and I suppose some pocket knives. They build jolly well. And make cloth. Old Miss Smith must have had her head screwed on all right in those days.… I say,
she
was pretty tight to-night, wasn't she.… When twelve o'clock strikes we shall all have to turn in; they keep Sunday here.… Wish I could catch these little fools.… Hallo, Paul.”

The captain's lounging length dropped beside Rosamond on the sand.

“Feeling better?” he inquired.

“I'm all right, thank you.” She was no longer pleased and stirred by his presence. She was indifferent, and he a long way off, part of another world, bearing no relation to the island beneath the moon.

“Not used to the stuff, are you?” he said. “You'll have a head to-morrow, I shouldn't wonder.… Merton and I are going back to the
Typee
presently.… This is an experience, isn't it. Something to talk about when we get back. It'll make a sensation.”

He talked an alien language; Rosamond did not follow him. She nodded assent, her eyes on the silver sea. Talk, and talk, and talk. She wanted to swim, to wade, to curl up in the warm sand and sleep. A small wind spiced with vanilla stroked her cheek, stole into her mouth. There was a stirring of birds in the woods, and sharp, staccato cries, and it seemed that a monkey also woke and sang.

It was the warning of the week's end, for in another minute midnight was struck; twelve clashing blows of stones or shells, and a loud voice cried through the sudden silence, “Oh, yes! Oh, yes! Oh, yes! Sunday morning and a fine calm night!”

The island was hushed, calm, sedate.

“If they only knew,” said William, “it's been Sunday morning for the last ten minutes.”

The shadow of Flora fell on Rosamond.

“I've been sent,” she said, “to fetch you. It's bed-time. I believe you are sleeping at the Yams.”

Her voice was clear and cool, like a small waterfall, or ice tinkling on glass; her face was as a blown candle, which smoulders still.

“Perhaps,” said Flora to William, “you will help her up to the Yams.”

“Oh, she's all right now, aren't you.” said William. “I mean, you can walk all right, can't you?”

“Yes,” said Rosamond sulkily. “But I'd like to sleep on the shore.”

“No one is allowed to do that,” Flora said. “It's a law. People must sleep either in their houses or in the unenclosed part of the woods.”

“In the woods, then,” said Rosamond.

“Well, I expect you'll have to sleep in the house to-night. Mamma has got a bed all ready for you. She and papa always sleep indoors. It's not thought Smith to sleep out; it's common and Orphan.”

“But I'm not Smith.”

“You're not Orphan, though. You're a visitor. And a lady. You'll have to sleep in the spare feather bed at the Yams.”

“Where do you sleep?”

Flora shrugged her shoulders.

“Oh, I'm allowed to sleep in the garden. Not outside it. One might, you see, meet undesirable characters.” She gave the words the intonation of her papa.

“Well,” said Captain Paul, “I must say goodnight, Miss Flora; I'm off to my ship.” He looked at her loveliness with hungry and melancholy eyes, then called aloud for Mr. Merton,

“Lord knows where he's got to, among all those girls.”

William stayed to help him, and Flora and Rosamond went up from the beach.

The island was quiet beneath the high moon. A few persons still strayed about, looking already Sundayfied and demure; most had retired to rest. Mr. Albert Smith, with Mr. Thinkwell and Charles, were waiting at the wood's edge.

“You have been a great while, my child,” said Mr. Smith, with the mild and firm displeasure that was his customary reaction towards his children. “I thought I had desired you to fetch Miss Rosamond instantly.”

Mr. Thinkwell also looked with displeasure on his child. He did not care that his family should become intoxicated at meals.

Mr. Smith patted Rosamond on the shoulder.

“I fear that our island drinks proved a little too much for you, my dear. Moderation in all things: that has always been our rule here. You see, we have it carved on that tree there.”

True enough, so they had. And on other trees were other maxims and comments on life, of which some were biblical, and several by Dr. Isaac Watts, a poet with whom Miss Smith would seem to have had a close acquaintance.

“My mother,” explained Mr. Smith, as they walked down the glade, “during the first years here caused the elder among her young charges to inscribe with knives on trees wholesome texts from the Bible (of which she unfortunately had no copy with her)
and passages from the best English verse. An admirable plan, for our people, as they go about their business, are thus constantly confronted with the maxims of religious and virtuous living.”

From the trunk of a great banana tree “Grace Sufficient,” cut in deep capitals, leaped at them. On a mango next it was carved a large eye, and beneath it, “Thou Seest Me.” On the pepper tree beyond was “Waste Not Want Not,” and, on a palm, “Go to the Ant, Thou Sluggard,” with a verse of poetry circling scroll-wise down the tree,—

“In Works of Labour or of Skill

I would be Busy too,

For Satan finds some Mischief still

For Idle Hands to do.”

On another palm tree, farther on, were two grim stanzas:—

“Have you not Heard what Dreadful Plagues

Are threatened by the Lord

To him that Breaks his Father's Law

Or Mocks his Mother's Word?

What heavy Guilt upon Him lies!

How cursed is his Name!

The Ravens shall Pick out his Eyes,

And Eagles Eat the Same.”

Many other good counsels there were, in verse and prose. Charles was delighted. Rosamond had always been taught that it was rather Orphan to carve on trees, but it certainly made a wood interesting.

They reached the Yams. Mrs. Smith was at the open door, sleepily kind.

“Come in, my dear. I've just been shaking up a nice feather bed for you.”

“I would rather, if you don't mind, sleep out of doors,” said Rosamond.

“Oh, but, my dear! No indeed, that would never do. Mr. Smith and I couldn't possibly allow it.”

“Flora does.”

“Flora's a sad wild girl, and we allow her to take her bed into the garden sometimes. But I'm sure, my dear, you ain't used to such droll ways; is she, Mr. Thinkwell?”

“I often sleep out of doors at home.”

“You had better do what is most convenient to Mrs. Smith, Rosamond,” said Mr. Thinkwell, like a father.

“Indeed, my dear, you'll sleep off that little attack you had much better indoors. There, we'll say no more about it, will we; girls will be girls, we all know, and I'm sure it was very naughty of Heathcliff to tempt you on.”

Rosamond was led indoors, and shown a recess behind a palm curtain in which stood a wooden trough full of the soft, downy feathers of birds' breasts, white and rosy and green and gold.