THE ISLANDS
Surrounded by a boundless width of dark blue sea at all visible
points of view, The Islands, lovely tufts of wooded rock, trees, and
full-flowering meadowlands, were situated in such a happy position as to
be well out of all possibility of modern innovation or improvement. They
were too small to contain much attraction for the curious tourist; and
though they were only a two-hours’ sail from the mainland, the distance
was just sufficiently inconvenient to keep mere sight-seers away. For
more than a hundred years they had been almost exclusively left to the
coral-fishers, who had made their habitation there; and the quaint,
small houses, and flowering vineyards and gardens, dotted about in the
more fertile portions of the soil, had all been built and planned by a
former race of these hardy folk, who had handed their properties down
from father to son. They were on the whole, a peaceable community.
Coral-fishing was one of the chief industries of the country, and the
islanders passed all their days in obtaining the precious product,
cleansing, and preparing it for the market. They were understood to be
extremely jealous of strangers and intruders, and to hold certain social
traditions which had never been questioned or interfered with by any
form of existing government, because in themselves they gave no cause
for interference, being counted among the most orderly and law-abiding
subjects of the realm. Very little interest was taken in their doings by
the people of the mainland,--scarcely as much interest, perhaps, as is
taken by Londoners in the inhabitants of Orkney or Shetland. One or two
scholars, a stray botanist here and there, or a few students fond of
adventure, had visited the place now and again, and some of these had
brought back enthusiastic accounts of the loveliness of the natural
scenery, but where a whole country is beautiful, little heed is given
to one small corner of it, particularly if that corner is difficult of
access, necessitating a two hours’ sail across a not always calm
sea. Vague reports were current that there was a strange house on The
Islands, built very curiously out of the timbers and spars of wrecked
vessels. The owner of this abode was said to be a man of advanced age,
whose history was unknown, but who many years ago had been cast
ashore from a great shipwreck, and had been rescued and revived by the
coral-fishers, since when, he had lived among them, and worked with
them. No one knew anything about him beyond that since his advent The
Islands had been more cultivated, and their inhabitants more prosperous;
and that he was understood to be, in the language or dialect of the
country, a ‘life-philosopher.’ Whereat, hearing these things by chance
now and then, or seeing a scrappy line or two in the daily press when
active reporters had no murders or suicides to enlarge upon, and wanted
to ‘fill up space,’ the gay aristocrats or ‘smart set’ of the metropolis
laughed at their dinner-parties and balls, and asked one another
inanely, “What is a ‘life-philosopher’?”
In the same way, when a small volume of poetry, burning as lava, wild
as a storm-wind, came floating out on the top of the seething soup of
current literature, bearing the name of Paul Zouche, and it was said
that this person was a poet, they questioned smilingly, “Is he dead?”
for, naturally, they could not imagine these modern days were capable
of giving birth to a living specimen of the _genus_ bard. For they,
too, had their motor-cars from France and England;--they, too, had their
gambling-dens secreted in private houses of high repute,--they, too, had
their country-seats specially indicated as free to such house-parties
as wished to indulge in low intrigue and unbridled licentiousness; they,
too, weary of simple Christianity, had their own special ‘religions’
of palmistry, crystal-gazing, fortune-telling by cards, and Esoteric
‘faith-healing.’ The days were passing with them--as it passes with many
of their ‘set’ in other countries,--in complete forgetfulness of all
the nobler ambitions and emotions which lift Man above the level of his
companion Beast. For the time is now upon us when what has formerly been
known as ‘high’ is of its own accord sinking to the low, and what has
been called the ‘low’ is rising to the high. Strange times!--strange
days!--when the tradesman can scorn the duchess on account of her ‘dirty
mind’--when a certain nobleman can get no honest labourers to work
on his estate, because they suspect him of ‘rooking’ young college
lads;--and when a church in a seaport town stands empty every Sunday,
with its bells ringing in vain, because the congregation which should
fill it, know that their so-called ‘holy man’ is a rascal! All over the
world this rebellion against Falsehood,--this movement towards Truth is
felt,--all over the world the people are growing strong on their legs,
and clear in their brains;--no longer cramped and stunted starvelings,
they are gradually developing into full growth, and awaking to
intelligent action. And wherever the dominion of priestcraft has been
destroyed, there they are found at their best and bravest, with a
glimmering dawn of the true Christian spirit beginning to lighten their
darkness,--a spirit which has no race or sect, but is all-embracing,
all-loving, and all-benevolent;--which ‘thinketh no evil,’ but is so
nobly sufficing in its tenderness and patience, as to persuade the
obstinate, govern the unruly, and recover the lost, by the patient
influence of its own example. On the reverse side of the medal, wherever
we see priestcraft dominant, there we see ignorance and corruption, vice
and hypocrisy, and such a low standard of morals and education as is
calculated to keep the soul a slave in irons, with no possibility of any
intellectual escape into the ‘glorious liberty of the free.’
The afternoon was one of exceptional brilliance and freshness, when,
punctually at three o’clock, the Royal yacht hoisted sail, and dipped
gracefully away from the quay with their Majesties on board, amid the
cheers of an enthusiastic crowd. A poet might have sung of the scene in
fervid rhyme, so pretty and gay were all the surroundings,--the bright
skies, the dancing sea, the flying flags and streamers, and the soft
music of the Court orchestra, a band of eight players on stringed
instruments, which accompanied the Royal party on their voyage of
pleasure. The Queen stood on deck, leaning against the mast, her eyes
fixed on the shore, as the vessel swung round, and bore away towards the
west;--the people, elbowing each other, and climbing up on each other’s
shoulders and on the posts of the quay, merely to get a passing
glimpse of her beauty, all loyally cheering and waving their hats and
handkerchiefs, were as indifferent to her sight and soul as an ant-heap
in a garden walk. She had accustomed her mind to dwell on things beyond
life, and life itself had little interest for her. This was because she
had been set among the shams of worldly state and ceremonial from her
earliest years, and being of a profound and thoughtful nature, had grown
up to utterly despise the hollowness and hypocrisy of her surroundings.
In extenuation of the coldness of her temperament, it may be said that
her rooted aversion to men arose from having studied them too closely
and accurately. In her marriage she had fulfilled, or thought she had
fulfilled, a mere duty to the State--no more; and the easy conduct of
her husband during his apprenticeship to the throne as Heir-Apparent,
had not tended in any way to show her anything particularly worthy
of admiration or respect in his character. And so she had gone on her
chosen way, removed and apart from his,--and the years had flown by,
and now she was,--as she said to herself with a little touch of
contempt,--‘old--for a woman!’--while the King remained ‘young,--for
a man! ‘This was a mortifying reflection. True, her beauty was more
perfect than in her youth, and there were no signs as yet of its decay.
She knew well enough the extent of her charm,--she knew how easily she
could command homage wherever she went,--and knowing, she did not care.
Or rather--she had not cared. Was it possible she would ever care, and
perhaps at a time when it was no use caring? A certain irritability,
quite foreign to her usual composure, fevered her blood, and it arose
from one simple admission which she had been forced to make to herself
within the last few days, and this was, that her husband was as much her
kingly superior in heart and mind as he was in rank and power. She
had never till now imagined him capable of performing a brave deed, or
pursuing an independently noble course of action. Throughout all the
days of his married life he had followed the ordinary routine of his
business or pleasure with scarce a break,--in winter to his country
seat on the most southern coast of his southern land,--in spring to
the capital,--in full summer to some fashionable ‘bath’ or ‘cure,’--in
autumn to different great houses for the purpose of shooting other
people’s game by their obsequious invitation,--and in the entire round
he had never shown himself capable of much more than a flirtation with
the prettiest or the most pushing new beauty, or a daring ride on the
latest invention for travelling at lightning speed. She had noticed
a certain change in him since he had ascended the throne, but she had
attributed this to the excessive boredom of having to attend to State
affairs.
Now, however, all at once and without warning, this change had developed
into what was evidently likely to prove a complete transformation--and
he had surprised her into an involuntary, and more or less reluctant
admiration of qualities which she had never hitherto suspected in
him. She had consented to join him on this occasion in his trip to
The Islands, in order to try and fathom the actual drift of his
intentions,--for his idea that their son, Prince Humphry, had yielded
to some particular feminine attraction there, piqued her curiosity even
more than her interest. She turned away now from her observation of the
shore, as it receded on the horizon and became a mere thin line of light
which vanished in its turn as the vessel curtsied onward; and she moved
to the place prepared for her accommodation--a sheltered corner of the
deck, covered by silken awnings, and supplied with luxurious deck chairs
and footstools. Here two of her ladies were waiting to attend upon her,
but none of the rougher sex she so heartily abhorred. As she seated
herself among her cushions with her usual indolent grace, she raised
her eyes and saw, standing at a respectful distance from her, a
distinguished personage who had but lately arrived at the Court, from
England,--Sir Walter Langton, a daring traveller and explorer in far
countries,--one who had earned high distinction at the point of the
sword. He had been presented to her some evenings since, among a crowd
of other notabilities, and she had, as was her usual custom with all
men, scarcely given him a passing glance. Now as she regarded him, she
suddenly decided, out of the merest whim, to call him to her side. She
sent one of her ladies to him, charged with her invitation to approach
and take his seat near her. He hastened to obey, with some surprise, and
no little pleasure. He was a handsome man of about forty, sun-browned
and keen of eye, with a grave intellectual face after the style of a
Vandyk portrait, and a kindly smile; and he was happily devoid of all
that unbecoming officiousness and obsequiousness which some persons
affect when in the presence of Royalty. He bowed profoundly as the Queen
received him, saying to him with a smile:--
“You are a stranger here, Sir Walter Langton!--I cannot allow you to
feel solitary in our company!”
“Is it possible for anyone to feel solitary when you are near, Madam?”
returned Sir Walter gallantly, as he obeyed the gesture with which she
motioned him to be seated;--“You must be weary of hearing that even your
silent presence is sufficient to fill space with melody and charm! And
I am not altogether a stranger; I know this country well, though I have
never till now had the honour of visiting its ruling sovereign.”
“It is very unlike England,” said the Queen, slowly unfurling her fan of
soft white plumage and waving it to and fro.
“Very unlike, indeed!” he agreed, and a musing tenderness darkened his
fine hazel eyes as he gazed out on the sparkling sea.
“You like England best?” resumed the Queen.
“Madam, I am an Englishman! To me there is no land so fair, or so much
worth living and dying for, as England!”
“Yet--I suppose, like all your countrymen, you are fond of change?”
“Yes--and no, Madam!” replied Langton.--“In truth, if I am to speak
frankly, it is only during the last thirty or forty years that my
countrymen have blotted their historical scutcheons by this fondness for
change. Where travelling is necessary for the attainment of some worthy
object, then it is wise and excellent,--but where it is only for the
purpose of distracting a self-satiated mind, it is of no avail, and
indeed frequently does more harm than good.”
“Self-satiated!” repeated the Queen,--“Is not that a strange word?”
“It is the only compound expression I can use to describe the
discontented humour in which the upper classes of English society exist
to-day,” replied Sir Walter. “For many years the soul of England has
been held in chains by men whose thoughts are all of Self,--the honour
of England has been attainted by women whose lives are moulded from
first to last on Self. To me, personally, England is everything,--I have
no thought outside it--no wish beyond it. Yet I am as ashamed of some of
its leaders of opinion to-day, as if I saw my own mother dragged in the
dust and branded with infamy!”
“You speak of your Government?” began the Queen.
“No, Madam,--I have no more quarrel with my country’s present Government
than I could have with a child who is led into a ditch by its nurse. It
is a weak and corrupted Government; and its actual rulers are vile and
abandoned women.”
The Queen’s eyes opened in a beautiful, startled wonderment;--this man’s
clear, incisive manner of speech interested her.
“Women!” she echoed, then smiled; “You speak strongly, Sir Walter! I
have certainly heard of the ‘advanced’ women who push themselves so much
forward in your country, but I had no idea they were so mischievous! Are
they to be admired? Or pitied?”
“Pitied, Madam,--most sincerely pitied!” returned Sir Walter;--“But such
misguided simpletons as these are not the creatures who rule, or
play with, or poison the minds of the various members who compose
our Government. The ‘advanced’ women, poor souls, do nothing but talk
platitudes. They are perfectly harmless. They have no power to persuade
men, because in nine cases out of ten, they have neither wit nor beauty.
And without either of these two charms, Madam, it is difficult to put
even a clever cobbler, much less a Prime Minister, into leading strings!
No,--it is the spendthrift women of a corrupt society that I mean,--the
women who possess beauty, and are conscious of it,--the women who have
a mordant wit and use it for dangerous purposes--the women who give up
their homes, their husbands, their children and their reputations
for the sake of villainous intrigue, and the feverish excitement of
speculative money-making;--with these--and with the stealthy spread of
Romanism,--will come the ruin of my country!”
“So grave as all that!” said the Queen lightly;--“But, surely, Sir
Walter, if you see ruin and disaster threatening so great an Empire in
the far distance, you and other wise men of your land are able to stave
it off?”
“Madam, I have no power!” he returned bitterly. “Those who have thought
and worked,--those who are able to see what is coming by the light of
past experience, are seldom listened to, or if they get a hearing, they
are not seldom ridiculed and ‘laughed down.’ Till a strong man speaks,
we must all remain dumb. There is no real Government in England at
present, just as there is no real Church. The Government is made up
of directly self-interested speculators and financiers rather than
diplomatists,--the Church, for which our forefathers fought, is yielding
to the bribery of Rome. It is a time of Sham,--sham politics, and sham
religion! We have fallen upon evil days,--and unless the people rise, as
it is to be hoped to God they will, serious danger threatens the glory
and the honour of England!”
“Would you desire revolution and bloodshed, then?” enquired the Queen,
becoming more and more interested as she saw that this Englishman
did not, like most of his sex, pass the moments in gazing at her in
speechless admiration,--“Surely not!”
“I would have revolution, Madam, but not bloodshed,” he replied;--“I
think my countrymen are too well grounded in common-sense to care for
any movement which could bring about internal dissension or riot,--but,
at the same time, I believe their native sense of justice is great
enough to resist tyranny and wrong and falsehood, even to the death. I
would have a revolution--yes--but a silent and bloodless one!”
“And how would you begin?” asked the Queen.
“The People must begin, Madam!” he answered;--“All reforms must begin
and end with the People only! For example, if the People would decline
to attend any church where the incumbent is known to encourage practices
which are disloyal to the faith of the land, such disloyalty would soon
cease. If the majority of women would refuse to know, or to receive, any
woman of high position who had voluntarily disgraced herself, they
would soon put a stop to the lax morality of the upper classes. If our
builders, artisans and mechanics would club together, and refuse to make
guns or ships for our enemies in foreign countries, we should not run
the risk of being one day hoisted with our own petard. In any case, the
work of Revolution rests with the people, though it is quite true they
need teachers to show them how to begin.”
“And are these teachers forthcoming?”
“I think so!” said Sir Walter meditatively. “Throughout all history, as
far back as we can trace it, whenever a serious reform has been needed
in either society or government, there has always been found a leader to
head the movement.”
The Queen’s beautiful eyes rested upon him with a certain curiosity.
“What of your King?” she said.
“Madam, he is my King!” he replied,--“And I serve him faithfully!”
She was silent. She began to wonder whether he had any private motive
to gain, any place he sought to fill, that he should assume such a
touch-me-not air at this stray allusion to his Sovereign.
“Lèse-majesté is so common nowadays!” she mused;--“It is such an
ordinary thing to hear vulgar _parvenus_ talk of their king as if he
were a public-house companion of theirs, that it is somewhat remarkable
to find one who speaks of his monarch with loyalty and respect.
I suppose, however, like everyone else, he has his own ends to
serve!--Kings are the last persons in the world who can command absolute
fidelity!”
She glanced dreamily over the sea, and perceiving a slight shade
of weariness on her face, Sir Walter discreetly rose, craving her
permission to retire to the saloon, where he had promised to join
the King. When he had left her, she turned to one of her ladies, the
Countess Amabil, and remarked:
“A very personable gentleman, is he not?”
“Madam,” rejoined the Countess, who was very lovely in herself, and of a
bright and sociable disposition;--“I have often thought it would be more
pleasant and profitable for all of us if we had many such personable
gentlemen with us oftener!”
A slight frown of annoyance crossed the Queen’s face. The Countess was
a very charming lady; very fascinating in her own way, but her decided
predilection for the sterner sex often led her to touch on dangerous
ground with her Royal mistress. This time, however, she escaped the
chilling retort her remark might possibly, on another occasion, have
called down upon her. The Queen said nothing. She sat watching the
sea,--and now and again took up her field-glass to study the picturesque
coast of The Islands, which was rapidly coming into view. Teresa de
Launay, the second lady in attendance on her, was reading, and, seeing
her quite absorbed in her book, the Queen presently asked her what it
contained.
“You have smiled twice over that book, Teresa,” she said kindly;--“What
is it about?”
“Madam, it speaks of love!” replied Teresa, still smiling.
“And love makes you smile?”
“I would rather smile than weep over it, Madam!” replied Teresa, with
a slight colour warming her fair face;--“But as concerns this book,
I smile, because it is full of such foolish verses,--as light and
sweet--and almost as cloying,--as French _fondants_!”
“Let me hear!” said the Queen; “Read me a few lines.”
“This one, called ‘A Canzonet’ is brief enough for your Majesty’s
immediate consideration,” replied Teresa;--“It is just such a thing as
a man might scribble in his note-book after a bout of champagne, when
he is in love for ten minutes! He would not mean a word of it,--but it
might sound pretty by moonlight!” Whereupon she read aloud:--
My Lady is pleased to smile,
And the world is glad and gay;
My Lady is pleased to weep;--
And it rains the livelong day!
My Lady is pleased to hate,
And I lose my life and my breath;
My Lady is pleased to love,--
And I am the master of Death!
I know that my Lady is Love,
By the magical light about her;
I know that my Lady is Life,
For I cannot live without her!
“And you do not think any man would truly mean as much love as this?”
queried the Queen.
“Oh, Madam, you know he would not! If he had written such lines about
the joys of dining, or the flavour of an excellent cigar, they might
then indeed be taken as an expression of his truest and deepest feeling!
But his ‘Lady’! Bah! She is a mere myth,--a temporary peg to hang a
stray emotion on!”
She laughed, and her laughter rippled merrily on the air.
“I do not think the men who write so easily about love can ever truly
feel it,” she went on;--“Those who really love must surely be quite
unable to express themselves. This man who sings about his ‘Lady’ being
pleased to do this or do that, was probably trying to obtain the good
graces of some pretty housemaid or chorus girl!”
A slight contemptuous smile crossed the Queen’s face; from her
expression it was evident that she agreed in the main with the opinion
of her vivacious lady-in-waiting. Just at that moment the King and his
suite, with Sir Walter Langton and one or two other gentlemen, who
had been invited to join the party, came up from the saloon, and the
conversation became general.
“Have you seen Humphry at all to-day?” enquired the King aside of De
Launay. “I sent him an early message asking him to join us, and was told
he had gone out riding. Is that true?”
“I have not seen his Royal Highness since the morning, Sir,” replied
the equerry; “He then met me,--and Professor von Glauben also--in the
gardens. He gave me no hint as to whether he knew of your intention to
sail to The Islands this afternoon or not; he was reading, and with some
slight discussion on the subject of the book he was interested in, he
and the Professor strolled away together.”
“But where is Von Glauben?” pursued the King; “I sent for him likewise,
but he was absent.”
“I understood him to say that you had not commanded his attendance again
to-day, Sir,” replied Sir Roger;--“He told me he had already waited upon
you.”
“Certainly I did not command his attendance when I saw him the first
thing this morning,” replied the King; “I summoned him then merely to
satisfy his scruples concerning my health and safety, as he seemed
last night to have doubts of both!” He smiled, and his eyes twinkled
humourously. “Later on, I requested him to join us in this excursion,
but his servant said he had gone out, leaving no word as to when he
would return. An eccentricity! I suppose he must be humoured!”
Sir Roger was silent. The King looked at him narrowly, and saw that
there was something in his thoughts which he was not inclined to utter,
and with wise tact and discretion forbore to press any more questions
upon him. It was not a suitable time for cross-examination, even of the
most friendly kind; there were too many persons near at hand who might
be disposed to listen and to form conjectures; moreover the favouring
wind had so aided the Royal yacht in her swift course that The Islands
were now close at hand, and the harbour visible, the run across from the
mainland having been accomplished under the usual two hours.
The King scanned the coast through his glass with some interest.
“We shall obtain amusement from this unprepared trip,” he said,
addressing the friends who were gathered round him; “We have forbidden
any announcement of our visit here, and, therefore, we shall receive
no recognition, or welcome. We shall have to take the people as we find
them!”
“Let us hope they will prove themselves agreeable, Sir,” said one of the
suite, the Marquis Montala, a somewhat effeminate elegant-looking man,
with small delicate features and lazily amorous eyes,--“And that the
women of the place will not be too alarmingly hideous.”
“Women are always women.” said the King gaily; “And you, Montala, if you
cannot find a pretty one, will put up with an ugly one for the moment
rather than have none at all! But beauty exists everywhere, and I
daresay we shall find it in as good evidence here as in other parts of
the kingdom. Our land is famous for its lovely women,”--and turning to
Sir Walter Langton he added--“I think, Sir Walter, we can almost beat
your England in that one particular!”
“Some years ago, Sir, I should have accepted that challenge,” returned
Sir Walter, “And with the deepest respect for your Majesty, I should
have ventured to deny the assertion that any country in the world could
surpass England for the beauty of its women. But since the rage for
masculine sports and masculine manners has taken hold of English girls,
I am not at all disposed to defend them. They have, unhappily, lost all
the soft grace and modesty for which their grandmothers were renowned,
and one begins to remark that their very shapes are no longer feminine.
The beautiful full bosoms, admired by Gainsborough and Romney, are
replaced by an unbecoming flatness--the feet and hands are growing large
and awkward, instead of being well-shaped, white and delicate--the
skin is becoming coarse and rough of texture, and there is very little
complexion to boast of, if we except the artificial make-up of the women
of the town. Some few pretty and natural women remain in the heart of
the forest and the country, but the contamination is spreading, and
English women are no longer the models of womanhood for all the world.”
“Are you married, Sir Walter?” asked the King with a smile.
“To no woman, Sir! I have married England--I love her and work for her
only!”
“You find that love sufficient to fill your heart?”
“Perhaps,” returned Sir Walter musingly--“perhaps if I speak personally
and selfishly--no! But when I argue the point logically, I find
this--that if I had a wife she might probably occupy too much of my
time,--certes, if I had children, I should be working for them and their
future welfare;--as it is, I give all my life and all my work to my
country, and my King!”
“I hope you will meet with the reward you merit,” said the Queen gently;
“Kings are not always well served!”
“I seek no reward,” said Sir Walter simply; “The joy of work is always
its own guerdon.”
As he spoke the yacht ran into harbour, and with a loud warning cry the
sailors flung out the first rope to a man on the pier, who stood gazing
in open-mouthed wonder at their arrival. He seemed too stricken with
amazement to move, for he failed to seize the rope, whereat, with an
angry exclamation as the rope slipped back into the water, and the yacht
bumped against the pier, a sailor sprang to land, and as it was thrown
a second time, seized it and made it fast to the capstan. A few
more moments and the yacht was safely alongside, the native islander
remaining still motionless and staring. The captain of the Royal vessel
stepped on shore and spoke to him.
“Are there any men about here?”
The individual thus addressed shook his head in the negative.
“Are you alone to keep the pier?”
The head nodded in the affirmative. A voice, emanating from a thickly
bearded mouth was understood to growl forth something about ‘no strange
boats being permitted to harbour there.’ Whereupon the Captain walked up
to the uncouth-looking figure, and said briefly.
“We are here by the King’s order! That vessel is the Royal yacht, and
their Majesties are on board.”
For one instant the islander stared more wildly than ever, then with a
cry of amazement and evident alarm, ran away as fast as his legs could
carry him and disappeared. The captain returned to the yacht and related
his experience to Sir Roger de Launay. The King heard and was amused.
“It seems, Madam,” he said, turning to the Queen, “That we shall have
The Islands to ourselves; but as our visit will be but brief, we shall
no doubt find enough to interest us in the mere contemplation of the
scenery without other human company than our own. Will you come?”
He extended his hand courteously to assist her across the gangway of the
vessel, and in a few minutes the Royal party were landed, and the yacht
was left to the stewards and servants, who soon had all hands at work
preparing the dinner which was to be served during the return sail.