MR. THINKWELL was a lecturer in sociology in the University of Cambridge, and a very amiable, learned, and gentleman-like man, who lived in Grange Road. In the year 1923 he was fifty-three years of age, a widower with three grown children, Charles, William, and Rosamond. Of these, Charles, who was twenty-five, clever and conceited, had, since the war, been living in London and experimenting in literature. William (twenty-two) had, for the last three years, been at Trinity College, Cambridge, reading for the Natural Sciences Tripos, in which he had, being a youth of some scientific talent, acquitted himself with credit. Rosamond (nineteen) had, since leaving school, lived at home with her father, being neither eager in the pursuit of further learning nor apt at the practice of any profession.
It happened one morning early in the Long Vacation that Mr. Thinkwell received by post a packet from his aged aunts in Sydney. He had never seen his aunts, for his father, the son of a rough and not very virtuous but wealthy sea captain long settled in Australia, had come to England as a young man, to practise at the English bar, and had married and brought up his children there. The sea captain, Mr. Thinkwell’s grandfather, had died in the eighteen-seventies. As we shall see, though he had behaved ill enough, in fact too ill, he had been conscience-stricken at the last.
The letter which Mr. Thinkwell took out of the bulky envelope was written in the slender, flowing, sloping hand often used by old ladies, and more surely still by such old ladies as are rather genteel than actually gentle, for, though Mr. Thinkwell’s father had been a highly educated man, the family whom he had left in Australia had remained the family of a well-off merchant captain who had started as a common sailor. Mr. Thinkwell’s aunts were well considered in Sydney, but did not consort with the local aristocracy, such as it was.
“Dear Nephew”—(ran the letter)—“Your Aunt Martha and myself have recently moved house, in the course of which we had a great clean up and a grand rummage among your Grandfather’s old things, turning up a great number of curious old sea Treasures, and among them we came on the Enclosed, which your Aunt Martha and I well remember your Grandfather giving to your Grandmother and ourselves in his last illness, in 1875, and bidding us make it public after his death, but of course your Grandmother thought nothing more about it, nor did we, but put it away with the rest of his things as a Memento, along with his telescope, sharks’ teeth, etc., etc. But your Aunt and I remember his saying before he died that it was sadly on his conscience that he and some fellow sailors had long ago deserted a Party on some remote Island, making off with the boats and leaving them to fend for themselves, and that, though he had not liked to make the tale public while he lived, for fear he should be ill thought of for the part he (being then a mate though only a third) and his companions had played, he desired us to make amends after his death by giving the Information contained in these Papers (which he had prepared some years ago in a previous attack of illness which he recovered from, however, so put Papers away) to some one who would organise an expedition to this Island and discover whether any of the unfortunate Party still survived. I recollect my Mother promising to do this, to soothe him, but of course we never thought of it again, and the papers have lain in the old sea-chest all this time, until we came on them in clearing up. It scarcely seems worth while to trouble about such old tales, and the Party are surely by now all deceased, even if they survived at all, but we thought you might like to see the Papers, so am enclosing them. Do not trouble to return.
“I suppose you are not thinking of ever paying a visit to Australia. Should be very pleased to see you if ever you came across. Hoping that yourself and family are all well, I remain
“Your affecate aunt,
Having perused this letter, and feeling mildly interested in its contents, Mr. Thinkwell proceeded to extract from the envelope the other documents it contained, which were very yellow and ancient, and consisted of a roughly-drawn ocean chart, marked with latitude and longitude, and dotted with islands, one of which was marked with a cross, and a sheet of paper written over in a vile and common scrawl which Mr. Thinkwell recognised from some old letters of his father’s, as that of his grandfather, Captain William Thinkwell. The inscription was brief. It ran: “Pacific Ocean (Oceania), lat. about 23, long. 115, fertile coral island, uninhabited by Natives, consisting of two parts, joined by issmus and surrounded by lagoon. On it were cast up, from S. S. “Providence,” wrecked by Act of God, May, 1855, on the passage to San Francisco, a Party. Viz.: Miss Smith, Dr. O’Malley, a nurse Jean, and a great number of Orfen Children, about 40. Might be there yet, as Island seemed well provided, but more likely dead. Obliged by circs, and no blame to any one, to leave them there, and have not yet been able to send Rescue Party, but hope this may be done after my decease, as should not care to go to next World without mentioning this, and can’t say when my time will come, having fits as I do.
“November, 10th 1867.”
“Island should be known by its shape, viz., two parts joined by neck, wooded hills, coral reef round lagoon.”
“H’m,” said Mr. Thinkwell, “a bland ruffian indeed.” He thoughtfully laid down the papers, removed his glasses, and took a drink of the coffee which Rosamond had just passed him. “This is really a little interesting.”
“Yes,” said Rosamond, who was an absent girl, and often appeared to be thinking about something other than what was being mentioned.
“What is interesting, Rosamond?” Mr. Thinkwell somewhat sharply asked her, for this inattentive habit in his child annoyed him, both because it is tiresome in a companion and because it vexed him to see in Rosamond a vague and wandering mind. Sometimes he was afraid that Rosamond had taken in some ways after her poor mother, an excellent creature, but with an inadequate power of response to himself. But he knew that these two were in reality very different, for the thoughts of the wife and mother had been engrossed mainly by practical matters, whereas those of the daughter appeared to stray in some less useful direction, except, indeed, when they were, as was frequently the case, upon things to eat.
Rosamond, recalled to the moment by her father’s question, replied readily but inaptly, assuming that her father had been reading the morning newspaper, that she supposed it was the state of Europe which was, as usual, a little interesting. Possibly Central Europe. … This she hazarded with the air of a child making a good guess.
“Not to you, my dear Rosamond,” Mr. Thinkwell replied, “as I believe you don’t yet know the difference between Yugo-Slavia and Czecho-Slovakia.”
“She never will,” put in Charles, entering the room at this moment. “She doesn’t know the difference between any two things, unless they’re to eat. She can’t distinguish between women and men, nor between the Georgian poets. She mixes up the Sitwells and John Drinkwater and calls them both Drinkwell, to rhyme with us. The poor child’s mind is, so far, entirely undiscriminating. What’s that chart you have, father? It looks like islands.”
“It is islands,” Mr. Thinkwell replied, and at the word islands Rosamond’s small round face turned pink, and her mouth, sticky with honey, fell open. It was untrue that her mind was entirely undiscriminating, for, in point of fact, she could distinguish between every Pacific island shown on maps, having, from an early age, made them her special study. It is probable that there was no island literature written, of any period, which she had not perused. Some young female minds are like this—inert, slovenly and dreamy, but with one great romance. As some young women perhaps meditate in idle hours, “When I shall be a great writer, actress, or doctor”; “when I shall play hockey for England”; or “when I shall love and be loved, marry a man, have a house, have children” … so others dream, “When I shall explore the world, find new islands, see coral reefs. …” It is a dream which does not well equip them for life, for it is sadly apt to go under without fulfilment, and leave them for ever in what the psycho-analysts call a state of frustration. Then they have to endeavour to sublimate their longing by literature, love, games, or some such inadequate substitute for adventure.
Anyhow Rosamond, all agape, slice of bread and honey in hand, stared round-eyed at the dirty yellow paper by her father’s plate, seeing that it was indeed a chart of some part of the ocean, and as full of islands as a pudding of currants.
“What scale?” she inquired, with her mouth full, her chief desire being to know how near the islands were together. For her part, she thought that the ideal islands lay in groups of three or four, within canoeing or even swimming distance of one another, so that now and then one could have a change. And on each island different trees and flowers, different creatures, different colours. … Oh, Rosamond could discriminate, when discrimination was worth while. Not between the sexes, the Drinkwells, or the Central European states, but between any things that mattered.
Charles had reached out for the chart, and was studying it.
“The scale appears to be five hundred miles to the inch. Some of these islands seem fairly close together, some a great many miles apart. The one to which our attention seems specially called is at least two hundred miles from the next. Who drew this map, father, and why is one island singled out for our notice with a cross and some letters. … What are they … O, R, F, E, N, S. …”
“Orphans,” said Mr. Thinkwell. “That, apparently, was the way your great-grandfather used to spell it. Your great-grandfather wished to convey to posterity—strictly to posterity only—that on that island he and some fellow rascals deserted a lady, a doctor, a nurse, and a number of orphan children, in the year 1855. He wrote this document, which tells the tale, in 1867, when he seems to have thought it possible, though improbable, that some of the party might yet survive.”
He passed to Charles his Aunt Sarah’s letter, together with his grandfather’s statement. Rosamond read them over Charles’s shoulder, and William, coming down very late to breakfast, a square-shouldered, rough-headed youth, with near, peering sight, and a sweet, wide grin, began on his porridge.
“Exciting,” Charles commented, having perused the papers. “Heartless old ladies, our great-grandmamma and great aunts. They none of them seem to have worried themselves at all over these poor castaways. Now great-grandpapa had his excuses; he had obviously behaved in a shady way and wasn’t asking for trouble. He did his best for those he had marooned directly it seemed safe. But his female relatives were merely callous. Now, when great-grandpapa died, in 1875, there might have been quite a sporting chance of saving some of the castaways alive.”
“But they’re probably still alive,” said Rosamond, solemn-eyed and glad. “The orphan children—they’d only be about seventy now. Great-grandfather says the island was comfortable and fertile, and some Pacific islands have lovely climates. They’d probably live till eighty or ninety.”
“What in the world,” said William, over his porridge, “are you all talking about?”
“Who were those so-called orphans?” Charles said. “Were they all brothers and sisters? Were they of two sexes? Because, if of two sexes and unrelated, they are probably by now great-grandparents. There is probably a thriving community on Orfens Island.”
Mr. Thinkwell referred to his grandfather’s statement.
“About forty orphan children. That sounds, I think, like more than one family. As to their sex, we know nothing. But in any case,” the sociologist meditated, “there was this Doctor O’Malley and Miss Smith, not to mention Jean the nurse. It may well be that some of those on the island became parents, and even grandparents, if spared long enough. An interesting thought. … More likely, the whole lot perished very soon after being left there.”
“People don’t,” said Rosamond, “perish very much on desert islands. I’ve noticed that. They survive until rescued, as a rule. But still, father, I think no more time should be lost before we rescue them. When can we start?”
“Not to-morrow,” Mr. Thinkwell said. “I have an examiners’ meeting.”
William had now, since no one answered his questions, read the documents and grasped the business in hand.
“I say,” he said, “let’s really go and find this island. You could take next term off, father, and, thank God, I’m a free man myself at last. Charles is becoming Cockneyfied and too damned literary and needs a change; a sea voyage might cure him of wielding the pen. And Rosamond may as well come too; she’s idle, wherever she is, and she’ll enjoy the new and strange foods. … That’s settled, then.”
William had always been practical. He did not allow grass to grow under his feet, once he had made up his mind.
“A steam yacht,” said Rosamond, “might be best.”
“That would not,” said William, “be large enough to remove all the orphans on, should they wish to be rescued. I calculate that there might be about seven thousand of them by now. Allowing that the forty orphans made twenty pairs, and that each pair had, on an average, ten children, and that the next two generations did the same. …”
“The orphans were not rabbits, William,” said Mr. Thinkwell.
“They were Victorians, though,” said Charles. “I expect William’s quite right. They would need at least a liner, large size, to take them away. We must go on a liner. We must arrange with one of the companies. Wouldn’t the Royal Geographical Society finance the expedition? It ought to, as it’s to explore to an undiscovered island. Or the Royal Humane Society. …”
“A party of pleasure,” said Rosamond, biting an apple, and turning the words over softly to herself, her eyes watching her father’s dark, fantastic face for signs.
Mr. Thinkwell wiped his curious mouth with his napkin and pushed back his chair. He strolled to the window and looked out on Grange Road. He lit his pipe.
“Father,” said Rosamond, questioning.
“My dear?” said Mr. Thinkwell absently, as he had been used to reply to Rosamond’s mamma.
“Rosamond means, what have you decided to do in the matter of these unhappy orphans?” Charles interpreted. “I certainly think it is up to us, as Christian philanthropists, to do something. Especially since it was our great-grandfather. … The Government might organise an expedition, possibly. Or the Daily Whoop. Conducted, of course, by the Thinkwell family. …”
“Government,” said Mr. Thinkwell placidly, “nothing. And the Royal Geographical Society nothing. And vulgar réclame, detestable always, is unnecessary at this stage. I shall by all means make an expedition to search for this alleged island. If white human life should yet survive on it in any form (which is improbable) it would be a remarkably interesting subject for investigation, and I should keep it for the present for my own researches. Since you all seem interested in my plans, I will tell you that I intend, early next month, to go via the Panama Canal to Tahiti or some other Polynesian island which lies on the steamer routes, and from there I shall hire a cargo steamer of some kind and set out in it to look for this island. It will be a purely private enterprise, with no publicity attached, and unreferred to by the press. If we should find the island, and if, by a curious chance, there should prove to be white persons on it, and should they, or some of them, want to be removed, that could be arranged later. Having waited some seventy years, they could wait, I imagine, a little longer. It might be a simple matter or a complicated economic problem in the solution of which I should be compelled to seek outside help.”
“A very sound scheme,” said Charles. “And precisely the right way to do it. That’s all settled, then. William and Rosamond and I can be ready in a fortnight. It will take us about that to get our tropical outfit, I imagine”.
“I see,” said Mr. Thinkwell, “that you all mean to insist on coming too. Very well, then, come. But there must be no babbling about it, either now or on the voyage out. It must not get about America, mind. Nor about Cambridge.”
Mr. Thinkwell was a rather secretive man, and never cared that his affairs should get about anywhere, let alone America and Cambridge. Perhaps he inherited that from his grandfather, the sailor, who had kept his counsel so well for twenty years.
His children promised that it should be as he desired, and then they looked up the Panama sailings in the press.
They were going a trip to the Polynesian Islands, and would be away at least six months. That was all they told Cambridge. Saying the lovely and liquid words, Polynesian Islands, Rosamond would colour and stammer, as if she were in love.
She would have to give up her Girl Guides for a term; she was going to the Polynesian Islands. She divested herself of all that clinging web of obligation and performance that spins itself so readily and so closely about the young ladies resident in Cambridge whose papas are dons. Even about such as Rosamond, idle, inactive, ill-informed, jejune, and withdrawn, these webs are spun, and they command Girl Guides, act in Christmas plays, and take stalls at bazaars. It is difficult, in university towns, to be idle and alone. But in Polynesia, in Polynesia. … Oh, on Polynesian Islands, one could surely be both idle and alone. To lie under the mango tree and eat of the fruit thereof without any personal inconvenience whatever—that dear ideal, condemned by missionaries, of the savage and idle soul, could there, if anywhere, be achieved. In those unknown, dreaming, island-dotted seas—it was there that real life lay. Orphans nothing, as Mr. Thinkwell would have put it had he felt as Rosamond felt, instead of, in fact, precisely the reverse. Rosamond was not much interested in the orphans or the orphans’ children. She wanted to land on and explore an uninhabited island for herself. Perhaps her father would let her do that, while he and the others steamed off seeking orphans.