THE DESERT ISLAND
The train proceeded slowly along the head of Mount's Bay, the waters
of the high tide washing up almost to the sleepers on the line.
Armorel let down the window and looked out across the bay--
Where the great vision of the guarded Mount
Looks towards Namancos and Bayona's hold.
'See, Effie!' she cried. 'There is Mount's Bay. There is the Lizard.
There is Penzance. And there--oh! there is the Mount itself!'
St. Michael's Mount, always weird and mysterious, rose out of the
waters wrapped in a thin white cloud, which the early sun had not yet
been able to dissipate. I am told there is a very fine modern house
upon the Mount. I prefer not to believe that story. The place should
always remain lonely, awful, full of mystery and wonder. There is also
said to be a battery with guns upon it. Perhaps. But there are much
more wonderful things than these to tell of the rock. Upon its highest
point those gallant miners--Captain Caractac and Captain Caerleon,
both of Boadicea Wheal--were wont to stand gazing out upon the stretch
of waters expecting the white sails and flashing oars of the
Phoenician fleet, come to buy their white and precious tin, with
strong wines from Syria and spices from the far East, and purple robes
and bronze swords and spearheads, far better than those made by Flint
Jack of the Ordnance Department. Hither came white-robed priests with
flowing beards and solemn faces--faces supernaturally solemn, till
they were alone upon the rock. Then, perhaps, an eyelid trembled. What
they did I know not, nor did the people, but it was something truly
awful, with majestic rites and ineffable mysteries and mumbo-jumbo of
the very noblest. Here St. Michael himself once, in the ages of Faith,
condescended to appear. It was to a hermit. Such appearances were the
prizes of the profession. Many went a-hermiting in hopes of getting a
personal call from a Saint who would otherwise have fought and lived
and died quite like the rest of the world. And, indeed, there were so
many Cornish Saints--such as St. Buryan, St. Levan, St. Ives, St.
Just, St. Keverne, St. Anthony, not to speak of St. Erth, St. Gulval,
St. Austell, St. Wenn--all kindly disposed saints, anxious to
encourage hermits, and pleased to extend their own sphere of
usefulness, that few of these holy men were disappointed.
In the bay the blue water danced lightly in the morning breeze: the
low, level sunlight shone upon Penzance on the western side: the
fishing-boats, back from the night's cruise, lay at their moorings,
their brown sails lowered: the merchantmen and trading craft were
crowded in the port: beyond, the white curves chased each other across
the water, and showed that, outside, the breeze was fresh and the
water lively.
'We are almost at home,' said Armorel. 'There is our steamer lying off
the quay--she looks very little, doesn't she? Only a short voyage of
forty miles--oh! Effie, I do hope you are a good sailor--and we shall
be at Hugh Town.'
'Are we really arrived? I believe I have slept the whole night
through,' said Effie, sitting up and pulling herself straight. 'Oh!
how lovely!'--as she too looked out of window. 'Have you slept well,
Armorel?'
'I don't think I have been asleep much. But I am quite happy, Effie,
dear--quite as happy as if I had been sound asleep all night. There
are dreams, you know, which come to people in the night when they are
awake as well as when they are asleep. I have been dreaming all night
long--one dream which lasted all the night--one voice in my ears--one
hand in mine. Oh! Effie, I have been quite happy!' She showed her
happiness by kissing her companion. 'I am happier than I ever thought
to be. Some day, perhaps, I shall be able to tell you why.'
And then the train rolled in to Penzance Station.
It was only half-past seven in the morning. The steamer would not
start till half-past ten. The girls sent their luggage on board, and
then went to one of the hotels which stand all in a row facing the
Esplanade. Here they repaired the ravages of the night, which makes
even a beautiful girl like Armorel show like Beauty neglected, and
then they took breakfast, and, in due time, went on board.
Now behold! They had left in London a pitiless nor'-easter and a black
sky. They found at Penzance a clear blue overhead, light and sunshine,
and a glorious north-westerly breeze. That is not, certainly, the
quarter whose winds allay the angry waves and soothe the heaving
surge. Not at all. It is when the wind is from the north-west that the
waves rise highest and heaviest. Then the boat bound to Scilly tosses
and rolls like a round cork, yet persistently forces her way westward,
diving, ploughing, climbing, slipping, sliding, and rolling, shipping
great seas and shaking them off again, always getting ahead somehow.
Then those who come forth at the start with elastic step and lofty
looks lie low and wish that some friend would prod Father Time with a
bradawl and make him run: and those who enjoy the sea, Sir, and are
never sick, are fain to put down the pipe with which they proudly
started and sink into nothingness. For taking the conceit out of a
young man there is nothing better than the voyage from Penzance to
Scilly, especially if it be a tripper's voyage--that is, back again
the same day.
There is, on the Scilly boat, a cabin, or rather a roofed and walled
apartment, within which is the companion to the saloon. Nobody ever
goes into the saloon, though it is magnificent with red velvet, but
round this roofed space there is a divan or sofa. And here lie the
weak and fearful, and all those who give in and oppose no further
resistance to the soft influences of ocean. Effie lay here, white of
cheek and motionless. She had never been on the sea before, and she
had a rough and tumbling day to begin with, and the sea in glory and
grandeur--but all was lost and thrown away so far as she was
concerned. Armorel stood outside, holding to the ropes with both
hands. She was dressed in a waterproof: the spray flew over her: her
cheek was wet with it: her eyes were bright with it: the heavy seas
dashed over her: she laughed and shook her waterproof: as for wet
boots, what Scillonian regardeth them? And the wind--how it blew
through and through her! How friendly was its rough welcome! How
splendid to be once more on rough water, the boat fighting against a
head wind and rolling waves! How glorious to look out once more upon
the wild ungoverned waves!
It was not until the boat had rounded the Point and was well out in
the open that these things became really enjoyable. Away south stood
the Wolf with its tall lighthouse: you could see the white waves
boiling and fighting around it and climbing half-way up. Beyond the
Wolf a great ocean steamer plunged through the water outward bound.
Presently there came flying past them the most beautiful thing ever
invented by the wit of man or made by his craft, a three-masted
schooner under full sail--all sails spread--not forging slowly along
under poverty-stricken stays which proclaim an insufficient crew, but
flying over the water under all her canvas. She was a French boat, of
Havre.
'There is Scilly, Miss,' said the steward, pointing out to sea.
Yes; low down the land lay, west by north. It looked like a cloud at
first. Every moment it grew clearer; but always low down. What one
sees at first are the eastern shores of St. Agnes and Gugh, St.
Mary's, and the Eastern Islands. They are all massed together, so that
the eye cannot distinguish one from the other, but all seem to form
continuous land. By degrees they separated. Then one could discover
the South Channel and the North Channel. When the tide is high and the
weather fair the boat takes the former: at low tide, the latter.
To-day the captain chose the South Channel. And now they were so near
the land that Armorel could make out Porthellick Bay, and her heart
beat, though she was going home to no kith or kin, and to nothing but
her _familia_, her serving folk. Next she made out Giant's Castle,
then the Old Town, then Peninnis Head, black and threatening. And now
they were so near that every carn and every boulder upon it could be
made out clearly: and one could see the water rising and falling at
the foot of the rock, and hear it roaring as it was driven into the
dark caves and the narrow places where the rocks opened out and made
make-believe of a port or haven of refuge. And now Porthcressa Bay,
and now the Garrison, and smooth water.
Then Armorel brought out Effie, pale and languid. 'Now, dear, the
voyage is over: we are in smooth water, and shall be in port in ten
minutes. Look round--it is all over: we are in the Road. And over
there--see!--with his twin hills--is my dear old Samson.'
There was a little crowd on the quay waiting to see the boat arrive.
All of them--boatmen, fishermen, and flower-farmers' men, to say
nothing of those representing the interests of commerce--pressed
forward to welcome Armorel. Everybody remembered her, but now she was
a grand young lady who had left them a simple child. They shook hands
with her and stepped aside. And then Peter came forward, looking no
older but certainly no younger, and Armorel shook hands with him too.
He had the boat alongside, and in five minutes more the luggage was on
board, the mast was up, the sail set, and Armorel was sitting in her
old place, the strings in her hand, while Peter held the rope and
looked out ahead, shading his eyes with his right hand in the old
familiar style.
'It is as if I never left home at all,' said Armorel. 'I sailed like
this with Peter yesterday--and the day before.'
'You've growed,' said Peter, after an inquiring gaze, being for the
moment satisfied that there was nothing ahead and that there was no
immediate danger of shipwreck on the Nut Rock or Green Island.
'I am five years older,' Armorel replied.
'It's been a rare harvest this year,' he went on. 'I thought we should
never come to the end of the daffodils.'
'Now I am at home indeed,' said Armorel, 'when I hear the old, old
talk about the flowers. To-morrow, Effie, I will show you our little
fields where we grow all the lovely flowers--the anemone and
jonquil--the narcissus and the daffodil. This afternoon, when we have
had dinner and rested a little, I will take you all round Samson and
show you the glories of the place: they are principally views of other
islands: but there is a headland and two bays, and there are the Tombs
of the Kings--the Ancient Kings of Lyonesse--in one of them Roland
Lee'--she blushed and turned away her head--henceforth, she
understood, this was a name to be treated with more reverence--'found
a golden torque, which you have seen me wear. And oh! my dear--you
shall be so happy: the sea-breeze shall fill your soul with music: the
sea-birds shall sing to you: the very waves shall lap on the shore in
rhyme and rhythm for you: and the sun of Scilly, which is so warm and
glowing, but never too warm, shall colour that pale cheek of yours,
and fill out that spare form. And oh, Effie! I hope you will not get
tired of Samson and of me! We are two maidens living on a desert
island: there is nobody to talk to except each other: we shall wander
about together as we list. Oh, I am so happy, Effie!--and oh, my dear,
I am so hungry!'
The boat ran up over the white sand of the beach. They jumped out, and
Armorel, leaving Peter to bring along the trunks by the assistance of
the donkey, led the way over the southern hill to Holy Farm.
'Effie,' she said, 'I have been tormented this morning with the fear
that everything would look small. I was afraid that my old memories--a
child's memories--would seem distorted and exaggerated. Now I am not
in the least afraid. Samson has got all his acres still: he looks
quite as big and quite as homely as ever he did--the boulders are as
huge, the rocks are as steep. I remember every boulder, Effie, and
every bush, and every patch of brown fern, and almost every trailing
branch of bramble. How glorious it is here! How the sea-breeze sweeps
across the hill--it comes all the way from America--across the
Atlantic! Effie, I declare you are looking rosier already. I must
sing--I must, indeed--I always used to sing!----' She threw up her
arms in the old gesture, and sang a loud and clear and joyous burst of
song--sang like the lark springing from the ground, because it cannot
choose but sing. 'I used to jump, too; but I do not want, somehow, to
jump any more. Ah, Effie, I was quite certain there would be some
falling-off, but I could not tell in what direction. I can no longer
jump. That comes of getting old. To be sure, I did not jump when I
took Roland Lee about the islands. Sometimes I sang, but I was ashamed
to jump. Here we are upon the top. It is not a mighty Alp, is it?--but
it serves. Look round--but only for a moment, because Chessun will
have dinner waiting for us, and you are exhausted by your bad
passage--you poor thing. This is our way, down the narrow lanes. Here
our fields begin: they are each about as big as a dinner-table. See
the tall hedges to keep off the north wind: there is a field of
narcissus, but there are no more flowers, and the leaves are dying
away. This way! Ah! Here we are!'
The house did not look in the least mean, or any smaller than Armorel
expected. She became even prouder of it. Where else could one find a
row of palms, with great verbena-trees and prickly pear and aloes, not
to speak of the creepers over the porch, the gilt figure-head, and the
big ship's lantern hung in the porch? Within, the sunlight poured into
the low rooms--all of them looking south--and made them bright: in the
room where formerly the ancient lady passed her time in the hooded
chair--the lady passed away and the chair gone--the cloth was spread
for dinner. And in the porch were gathered the serving-folk--Justinian
not a day older, Dorcas unchanged, and Chessun thin and worn, almost
as old, to look at, as her mother. And as soon as the greetings were
over, and the questions asked and answered, and the news told of the
harvest and the prices, and the girls had run all over the house,
Chessun brought in the dinner.
It is a blessed thing that we must eat, because upon this necessity we
have woven so many pretty customs. We eat a welcome home: we eat a
godspeed: we eat together because we love each other: we eat to
celebrate anything and everything. Above all, upon such an event as
the return of one who has long been parted from us we make a little
banquet. Thought and pains had been bestowed upon the dinner which
Chessun placed upon the table. Dorcas stood by the table, watching the
effect of her cares. First there was a chicken roasted, with bread
crumbs--a bird blessed with a delicacy of flavour and a tenderness of
flesh and a willingness to separate at the joints unknown beyond the
shores of Scilly: Dorcas said so, and the girls believed it--Effie, at
least, willing to believe that nothing in the world was so good as in
this happy realm of Queen Armorel. Dorcas also invited special
attention to the home-cured ham, which was, she justly remarked, mild
as a peach: the potatoes, served in their skins, were miracles of
mealiness--had Armorel met with such potatoes out of Samson? had the
young lady, her visitor, ever seen or dreamed of such potatoes? There
was spinach grown on the farm, freshly cut, redolent of the earth,
fragrant with the sea-breeze. And there was home-made bread, sweet,
wholesome, and firm. There was also placed upon the table a Brown
George, filled with home-brewed, furnished with a head snow-white,
venerable, and benevolent, such a head as not all the breweries of
Burton--or even of the whole House of Lords combined--could furnish.
Alas! that head smiled in vain upon this degenerate pair. They would
not drink the nut-brown, sparkling beer. It was not wasted, however.
Peter had it when he brought the pack-ass to the porch laden with the
last trunk. Nor did they so much as remove the stopper from the
decanter containing a bottle of the famous blackberry wine, the
primest _crû_ of Samson, opened expressly for this dinner. Yet this
was not wasted either, for Justinian, who knew a glass of good wine,
took it with three successive suppers. Is it beneath the dignity of
history to mention pudding? Consider: pudding is festive: pudding
contributes largely to the happiness of youth. Armorel and Effie
tackled the pudding as only the young and hungry can. And this day,
perhaps from the promptings of simple piety, being rejoiced that
Armorel was back again; perhaps from some undeveloped touch of poetry
in her nature, Chessun placed upon the table that delicacy seldom seen
at the tables of the unfortunate Great--who really get so few of the
good things--known as Grateful Pudding. You know the ingredients of
this delightful dish? More. To mark the day, Chessun actually made it
with cream instead of milk!
'To-morrow,' said Armorel, fired with emulation, 'I will show you,
Effie, what I can do in the way of puddings and cakes. I always used
to make them: and, unless my lightness of hand has left me, I think
you will admire my teacakes, if not my puddings. Roland Lee praised
them both. But, to be sure, he was so easily pleased. He liked
everything on the island. He even liked--oh! Effie!--he liked me.'
'That was truly wonderful, Armorel.'
'Now, Effie, dear, lie down in this chair beside the window. You can
look straight out to sea--that is Bishop's Rock, with its lighthouse.
Lie down and rest, and I will talk to you about Scilly and Samson and
my own people. Or I will play to you if you like. I am glad the new
piano has arrived safely.'
'I like to look round this beautiful old room. How strange it is! I
have never seen such a room--with things so odd.'
'They are all things from foreign lands, and things cast up by the
sea. If you like odd things I will show you, presently, my punch-bowls
and the snuff-boxes and watches and things. I did not give all of them
to the care of Mr. Jagenal five years ago.'
'It is wonderful: it is lovely: as if one could ever tire of such a
place!'
'Lie down, dear, and rest. You have had such a tossing about that you
must rest after it, or you may be ill. It promises to be a fine and
clear evening. If it is we will go out by-and-by and see the sun set
behind the Western Rocks.'
'We are on a desert island,' Effie murmured obediently, lying down and
closing her eyes. 'Nobody here but ourselves: we can do exactly what
we please: think of it, Armorel! Nobody wants any money, here: nobody
jostles his neighbour: nobody tramples upon his friend. It is like a
dream of the primitive life.'
'With improvements, dear Effie. My ancestors used to lead the
primitive life when Samson was a holy island and the cemetery of the
Kings of Lyonesse: they went about barefooted and they were dressed in
skins: they fought the wolves and bears, and if they did not kill the
creatures, why, the creatures killed them: they were always fighting
the nearest tribe. And they sucked the marrow-bones, Effie, think of
that! Oh! we have made a wonderful advance in the civilisation of
Samson Island.'