The sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.…
Dreams, dreams, dreams!
He was drenched in sweat, from his climb through the hot, dark wood. The mist drifted about him chilling him. He plucked berries from a shrub at his side, and chewed them; they were bitter and numbing to the tongue. Perhaps they would also numb the soul.…
He was cold; he was hot; he was sick. The itch nettle spurted over him its milky juice. The moon reached him, looking over the hill, sending down long silver arms to embrace him where he lay in shadow, as if he had been Endymion. He was Endymion. As Endymion dreamed of the moon’s kiss, so he. Both woke.
She had kissed him, his lovely moon. She had let him kiss her on the mouth, on that proud, gay, cruel mouth.
She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew,
And sure in language strange she said,
I love thee true.
Dreams, dreams, dreams!
A mocking bird woke and uttered his odd, shrill cry. Centipedes crawled over the white sprawled figure by the water’s brink. The climbing moon stood straight above the valley pool, staring whitely down on it, turning its green, mist-smudged surface to dull, iridescent silver.
“Very Mallarméan,” said Charles hoarsely.
The moon set. Only the blinking stars lit the world. In the dark, still hour before dawn, forest life stirred; a bird trilled, a monkey spoke, a parokeet uttered one shrill complaint, two pigs answered each other through the night. Then silence fell again.
A small wind was born; it ran shivering about like a naked, crying child. It touched the sprawling figure among the dark shrubs, running cold fingers through his hair.
Charles moved, shivered, got slowly up. Starry darkness held the island. The marshy smell of stagnant water was in his nostrils; his throat was swollen, his lips and gums bitter and stiff. He ached, from his forehead down to his ankles, and his skin, where he touched it, or where flowers and herbs brushed it, was tender, as if he had fever.
He climbed over the hill’s top; he stood there and looked at the Pacific, vastily dim in the starlight. The island was a ship, that heaved and rocked at anchor. He plunged dizzily down into black forest, and murmuring boughs blinded the stars. Big crabs dropped from trees about him, and a ripe nut thudded on his shoulder. It would be dawn in a few moments. Everywhere the birds and beasts announced it, in their different modes.
It was dawn when he came to the wood’s edge. Morning glimmered on the Pacific, struggling with the dying stars.
A hundred birds unbailed themselves and sang; a hundred monkeys cried. Only man slept now; only Smiths and Orphans, wearied with the revellings of the birthday night of Miss Smith.
“Very Rimbaudien,” said Charles dizzily, and tumbled at the foot of a milk tree in a faint.
2
Every one was quieted down the day after the Birthday. They had got used to the disaster that had goaded them to revolt, to demonstration, to noise. After a day and a night spent in saying loudly what they thought of the affair, they woke with sore throats and practical purposes. Parliament was going to meet, and things were going to happen there. The Prime Minister had been told so last night, by the deputation which had waited on him at the Yams.
Mr. Thinkwell stood beside Charles, who lay sick of a fever at Belle Vue, with a cold bandage about his head. The doctor had come to see him.
“A fever,” the doctor said.
“Yes,” said Mr. Thinkwell, who had a clinical thermometer, “his temperature is a hundred and four.”
“If, as you say, he was out all night, it might account for it. Very unwholesome, sleeping out in the woods. He seems to have contracted a kind of ague. Also, I see from the state of his lips and gums that he has either eaten or chewed noxious berries of some kind. Some of these berries are very unwholesome, even poisonous. I am afraid he is suffering from a very serious chill.”
“He is no better at diagnosis than doctors elsewhere,” Mr. Thinkwell thought, “I could have said all that. Ague, poisonous berries, a chill. Which?”
“Keep him very warm,” said the doctor; “except his head, which should be cool. I will send round a nurse presently, and some medicine. Meanwhile, I will let a little blood.”
“Rather an old-fashioned remedy,” said Mr. Thinkwell. “I should scarcely think it advisable.”
“As you like, my dear sir, as you like. It is the cure for fever, you know, but as you like. Well, I must be getting back to my other patient. She remains just the same, poor old lady. She’ll never get over it, I fancy, however long she lingers. Well, it’s a pretty state of affairs, isn’t it? Our servants wanting to be our masters.”
Dr. Field, as the husband of a Smith-Carter daughter, felt one of the family. He viewed the Orphan unrest with disfavour.
“You must take care of this young gentleman,” he said, as he went away. “I don’t like his state; not at all.”
“I know nothing about Charles’s state that I did not know before he came,” said Mr. Thinkwell, when he was gone. “I see that doctors are the same everywhere. They know uncommonly little.”
“Yes,” Rosamond agreed. She sat by Charles’s bedside, damping his bandage when it grew warm.
It was she who had found him, early in the morning, beneath the milk-tree.
Mr. Thinkwell stood looking down on his son.
“I have been asked to attend the meeting of parliament,” he said. “And it would interest me to do so. The nurse will be here directly. If he gets worse you must come for me or send a message, at once. You had better send William. Where is he? Down on the shore, I suppose. Well, never mind. I imagine, from what I know of malarial types of fever, that he will go on much the same through the day. I shall be back, in any case, in a couple of hours.”
He went out.
Rosamond sat by Charles. Every quarter of an hour she dipped the bandage round his head in cold water and replaced it. He tossed and turned, flushed and muttering, scarcely conscious. Through the long, wide, uncurtained window the sweet air of the island stole in, and the green forest light. Outside the window a large many-stemmed banian tree grew, giving shade with its thick foliage and edification with its stout trunks, each of which was inscribed with pious verse. One related the story of Ananias and Sapphira; from where she sat Rosamond could only see,—
“So did his wife Sapphira die,
When she came in and grew so bold
As to confirm that wicked lie
That just before her husband told.
Then let me always watch my lips,
Lest I be struck to death and Hell,
Since God a book of reckoning keeps
For every lie that children tell.”
On another stem the tale of Elisha and the mocking children must have been inscribed, for the stanza visible ran—
“God quickly stopped their wicked breath,
And sent two raging bears,
That tore them limb from limb to death,
With blood and groans and tears.”
Between these two a third trunk struck a more cheerful note, moved, doubtless, to a natural thankfulness by these sad tales of the fate of Israelites.
“Lord, I ascribe it to Thy grace,
And not to chance, as others do,
That I was born of Christian race,
And not a Heathen or a Jew.”
Charles picked at the cocoa-nut sheet with hot hands. He muttered with his lips. From time to time he ejaculated the name of Flora, or of a French poet.
Suddenly the quiet broke up, and there was a burst of noises. Noises seldom come singly. They arrive in battalions. The galloping of pigs in the wood, a sudden wind tearing at the trees, a breaking bough, the yelping of monkeys, the screaming of parokeets, the crying of a child. The world seemed all in a flurry. Then, as suddenly, it all died down; the world was drowsy again, and one heard only the small sounds, fruits that dropped with soft thumps, a gentle murmuring
wind, bees humming over flowers, the sea that mourned against the reef and lapped with sleepy ripples on the shore.
With the quiet, came a small silver bird, like a pigeon. It flew in at the open window, and hovered over Charles’s bed.
“It is the Holy Ghost,” thought Rosamond, without surprise, and dipped Charles’s bandage again.
The bird flew out at the window. Charles sat up in bed.
“Very Baudelairien,” he exclaimed loudly, and fell back, muttering.
The nurse arrived. She was bright and strong and happy, and like a nurse.
“Now,” she said, “I’ll make you nice and comfortable.”
Charles, who did not like nurses, and hated the word comfortable, scowled at her in his delirium. However, she moved cheerily about him, rearranged his head-bandage, dipping it into some fragrant lotion she had, felt his pulse, and told him how nice and comfortable he now was. She looked with interest at Mr. Thinkwell’s clinical thermometer, which lay on a table by the bed.
“Doctor told me of it,” she said. “But we must be ever so careful, of course, never to let the patient get hold of it himself, even when he gets better.”
“Why not?” asked Rosamond. “It’s rather amusing, taking one’s temperature; it’s something to do in bed.”
“My dear! That would never do. Doctor would be sadly shocked. We never let them know how they are.”
“Don’t you? Why not?”
“Oh, it wouldn’t do at all; it would throw them back. I never tell my patients what their pulse is, for example.”
Rosamond believed that she never did. “Very nice” would probably be the extent of the information she would transmit on the subject.
“Now, my dear,” said the nurse, cheery and kind, “you must run out and have some fresh air. I’ll take care of him, never fear. Don’t you worry, my dear, everything will be quite all right, and you needn’t be one bit anxious.”
“I’m not,” said Rosamond.
3
She went down to the lagoon to wade. On the way she met a lady with a sweet, spiritual face and a wonderful smile, who stopped and addressed her on the subject of Charles.
“I wish,” she said, “that you would let me heal him. He doesn’t require doctors and nurses, it’s all so simple really—just a question of faith. If you would let me treat him.…”
She smiled beautifully, and Rosamond saw that her smile was of the no-evil type, Christian Science or Faith Healing, she was not sure which; there were both in Cambridge.
“Thanks very much,” she said, “But perhaps you had better ask my father about it.”
“Gentlemen,” said the healer, “aren’t always very easy to convince, are they? Rather obstinate and bigoted sometimes.”
Rosamond agreed that gentlemen were often like that.
“A little faith,” continued the lady, “is worth a hundred doctors. My treatment consists in letting loose the powers of good, till they flow about the patient, healing him. It’s all so simple!”
“Well,” said Rosamond, “you might speak to the nurse about it. She’s in there now.”
“Oh, the nurse. Nurses aren’t always very openminded, are they? Rather bigoted.”
Rosamond agreed that nurses were probably like that.
“Well, at least I will try treatment from a distance on him, until I can see him. One can let loose the powers even from a distance—but not so loose.… I will speak to Mr. Thinkwell about it. Any one on the island can tell you of marvellous healings I have performed. Not really marvellous in the least, of course—it’s all so simple, if one believes in the Lord of health. You see, don’t you, that the Lord must will good health to His children. He must hate illness and pain, mustn’t He? It’s His nature to.”
Rosamond agreed that the Lord must probably be like that.
Then, seeing no likelihood that the conversation would end unless she ended it, she said “Good-bye,” and went down to the lagoon.
William was there, hanging over his favourite pool with his net.
“Hallo,” he said. “Charles getting on all right?”
“I think so. A nurse has come. And a faith healer is giving him absent treatment.”
“What on earth’s that? … Oh, well, I suppose he’ll be all right, soon, won’t he. Rotten luck, though.… I say, these people seem rather excited still. They’ve all gone off to parliament now, to make demonstrations there. They seem to mean to change the government or something. More fools they not to have changed it years ago, if they don’t like it.… By the way, the weather experts say there’s a first-rate storm coming along: see that purple over there?”
Rosamond saw it: a banked mass in the far south, slowly moving.
“That’ll probably do for those convicts and the Typee,” said William. “That is, if they’re navigating her themselves.… I shouldn’t wonder if we’re stuck here for some time. I shan’t mind, shall you? There’s lots to do here, and I rather like it. My aquarium needs a lot more creatures in it still.” He scooped up a netful of green sargassum, and in it there plunged an infant fish with a big head, but, while being transferred to a tin basin, it leaped into the open lagoon and fled.
“Another perfectly good young filefish gone,” said William resignedly. “The last died of grief. I must find another.”
Rosamond joined him at his marine sport.
Chapter XXIII
THE COUP D’ÉTAT
1
PARLIAMENT had a stormy meeting that morning. Respectable Smith M.P.’s were pushed aside by a vociferous crowd of Orphans, who rushed the House, shouting cheerfully for the resignation of the Prime Minister and the Government, and for an immediate dissolution. They even shouted, rudely and continually, “We don’t want Smiths!” until the Prime Minister, with grave dignity, addressed to them, at last and with difficulty making himself heard, an inquiry as to whom, then, if they dispensed with Smiths, did they deem fit for the government of the island? A loud shout of “Orphans!” answered him, but, more particularly than that, they specified no one.
It was obviously of little use to continue the proceedings of the House, as the Speaker had no control over this irruption and the police did not appear to be functioning to-day, so the Speaker before long arose and went, followed by the government and the members, leaving the intrusive Orphans in possession of the floor.
“Very Cromwellian proceedings,” Mr. Thinkwell commented. He himself remained in the House, interested in watching a political revolution at work.
There was a good speaking, of a more or less irrelevant but consistently anti-Smith tendency, and the question of the formation of the new government was discussed with energy, but unfruitfully. Jealousies, emulations, disagreements, and conflicting interests appeared to split the Orphans into factions. There was a good deal of heated argument as to who was to be the future Prime Minister. It became apparent that any Prime Minister would have a difficult time with the rival factions, and, though many names were flung about, no agreement was reached, until suddenly some one shouted, “How about Mr. Thinkwell? He’s from outside; he’d be fair; no one’d make objections to him.”
The speaker was Dobbs the shoemaker, with whom Mr. Thinkwell had several times conversed over his work. His proposal was followed by a moment’s pause; every one turned and looked at Mr. Thinkwell, where he sat on a bench by the door. Then the shoemaker’s suggestion was acclaimed with a shout of approval, and Mr. Thinkwell had the experience, familiar to him hitherto only after feasts at his own college, when his health had sometimes been drunk, of hearing his name called in unison and with approbation by a considerable number of persons.
“Dear me!” he said, by way of comment. “Dear me!”
He was surrounded by a friendly crowd, all clamouring to him. He had had no idea that he was so popular on the island as was, apparently, the case.
The shoemaker addressed him.
“What do you say, sir? Since you’re to stay on with us here, why not take on the government? W
e can promise you loyal support. You know how the countries of the world are governed to-day, and you can help us to frame our constitution and laws on European models.”
“Heaven forbid!” said Mr. Thinkwell.
“Anyhow, sir, you’re apart from our quarrels and parties, and would have a support no other man would have, so long as you act just and right by us. Come, sir, will you take it on?”
“Really,” said Mr. Thinkwell, “I don’t know. I must think it over. It’s a very sudden idea to me, and I can’t reply off-hand. I will let you know to-morrow morning; that is, if you are still of the same mind.”
“We shall be that, sir. A gentleman like yourself is just what we want as head. You think it over, and meanwhile we’ll be appointing the rest of the government and framing up the new laws. We must tackle this land business first.”
“Dear me. It all seems rather rapid and unconstitutional. But still, it’s your own concern, of course.”
Mr. Thinkwell left them to it, and thoughtfully walked away. Outside the House he met Denis Smith, strolling uneasily about, switching mangoes off the trees with his stick. When Mr. Thinkwell informed him of what had occurred, he slapped his thigh and rejoiced.
“The very thing,” he said. “The Orphans won’t be ruled by Smiths, and the Smiths won’t be ruled by Orphans, but a government with you at the top—they’d both stand that. Gad, it’s the very scheme. You’ll be a drag on the hot-heads who want to go the whole hog, too. I must say the idea does the fellers credit, ’pon my soul it does. You may pull the old island through its troubles yet. Don’t know what Bertie’ll say to it, but he’d rather you took his place than an Orphan, anyhow. You won’t say no, Thinkwell?”
“I don’t know, really. It is a curious proposal, and I must think it over. I have never been a politician, you know; my work has been of a quite different nature. Nor do I know anything of your constitution here.”
“The less the better, I dare say, since it’s to be overturned.”
Orphan Island Page 25