A MISSION.
A deep melancholy, an extreme lassitude follow our great bereavement.
’Tis as though Death had passed over us, and his lingering shadow still
blighted the sunlight of the Isle. We turned to work again, but, at
first, only like automaton figures. There is the action of labour,
but little effect. We eat and drink in much the same mechanical way.
A bird’s-eye view of us would suggest something in waxwork on a grand
scale. Our talk is depressing as a demonstration on the phonograph, the
topics indifferent, the tones a mere resurrection of the voice. No one
speaks of the ship that is dead and gone.
Victoria, whose personal share in the common sorrow can be but small,
seems to grieve as much as any of us. I am not allowed to be with
her now--rather I see she does not want me, and I keep away. When she
starts for the Peak, I start for the Watcher’s Cave, and we pine on
opposite heights. Her simple household duties done, she will disappear
for the whole day. I pass a good deal of time in the Ancient’s library,
reading yellow British classics, out of the old scuttled ship. They are
interleaved with book-marks, each a delicate feminine finger beckoning
to a place of refreshment and rest. It is a question of time and
season, and perhaps Victoria herself will tell me when to speak.
But I tire of waiting at last, the sooner because, till now, she has
shared all her thoughts with me; and, one day, I track her to a silent
shelter of woods south of the ridge. She lies in the high grass,
picking a flower to pieces, but otherwise quite still.
‘Victoria.’
‘Ah! thinking of you has brought you,’ she says, turning her head with
no surprise.
‘How could I know you wanted me?’
‘I did not know it myself till to-day.’
‘Why must _you_ suffer, Victoria?’
‘I do not suffer at all as you think; but they do; anyone can see that.’
‘Well, that is their concern, or, at most, your father’s. You are not
Governor of the Island.’
‘I am the Governor’s daughter,’ she said, in another tone. ‘And what
can my father do? What can anyone do, but you, perhaps? You must help
us. Only you _can_ help us. We are a poor lost people, without you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘This sorrow----’
‘Will pass in a week. Let it run its course.’
‘I do not want it to pass like that, to die of mere numbness. So much
else will die along with it, if it does.’
‘Fight it down.’
‘No, no, no! What a bludgeon man you are! You must be killing
something. And you can’t kill a sorrow or a weakness by what you call
fighting it. Perhaps it will kill you instead. I know; do you think I
have never had to try? Now listen to what I say. Whenever you are weak,
or whenever you are bad, you are not to go into battle with your own
heart and twang off little texts at it. Heart will put on its casing,
and turn the points of the texts; or, perhaps, twang back at you, and
you will both be wounded and worried, that’s all. And, if you win, you
have either a corpse before you, or a slave, and there’s a nice union
till death do us part!’
‘You are to run away, perhaps. Is that your woman’s science of war?’
‘Oh, now we have heard the mocking bird on the Island!’ she said, in
grave rebuke. ‘But that is just it; you are to run away, but always
to higher ground. Leave your weakness and your badness alone, and try
for goodness, that is all. Don’t waste yourself in the marshes; the
mountain is the best place. An old man who had lived in India with the
priests told me that, and I gave him some yams for it. He was cook to a
whaler. Yet you say we don’t know how to trade.’
‘But what has all this to do with my healing powers? That is what
puzzles me.’
‘Lead us to the higher ground,’ she said, laying her hand on my arm.
‘What _do_ you mean?’
‘Civilise us. Make us like England. Give us larger things to live for.
Tell us what we must do. There must be something wanting, but I cannot
tell what it is. It all seems so beautiful here--the shining sun,
friends to love, peace, the singing, the sea, the very wind in this
wood! Yet I know there must be something. That is why the Queen’s ships
never come again. We are like children, perhaps.’
‘Keep so.’
‘No, no, we want to be like you. This is babyland. Make us great and
good. You know the secret: you have lived _there_.’
‘What am I to do?’
‘Speak to father. Father will speak to the people. He does not see it
as I do, but you can open his eyes. Then we’ll have a meeting, and
begin to be like England at once.’
It was inviting, no doubt: to be a Moses of the Pacific, and to shape a
nation! Perhaps they _are_ in a bad way, if one comes to think of it.
I remember that test case of the barter of the yams. It seemed nothing
in passing; it is everything, if you look at it in the proper light.
What poverty of spirit! they cannot so much as dispose of a vegetable
on first principles. They have no principles at all, only beautiful
emotions; no science of life; at best, but an unconscious art. Upon
my word, they live like so many lilies of the field, not even like
orchids, which, in a general way, are at least brought up. They are
a mere flowery mead of humanity. By the time I have brought them to
this state, in swift meditation, I myself might be a Scotch landscape
gardener, for my yearning to lay them out in walks.
‘Very well, Victoria; anything to make you happy--you and yours. You
wish to have your people civilised?’
Her smile was answer enough.
‘I must warn you beforehand: it hurts.’
‘How else could we expect it to do us good?’
‘Sometimes you will think me your worst enemy.’
‘O! be still! when will you speak to father?’
‘To-night. But you must take care to keep us to ourselves--us three. We
want no outsiders.’
‘I will take care.’
‘Now go, dear child, and leave me alone to work it out.’
She had gradually lowered her voice, as though to lull me to rest
in a blessed promise and a blessed resolve. Now she ceased speaking
altogether, and only looked ineffable gratitude and hope, as she stole
away softly through the long grass.