The Island Queen, R. M. Ballantyne [sight word readers .txt] 📗

out, and the rising sun was mounting into a cloudless blue sky, and covering the sea with dazzling ripples, which looked as if the very water were laughing with joy at the sudden change from darkness and fury to light and peace.

Conspicuous among those who worked on shore was the gigantic form of Joe Binney. Considering him an old acquaintance. Otto ran up to him and shook hands.

“How many emigrants are there of you?” he asked.

“Three hundred, more or less, master, but I ain’t rightly sure; there’s such a many that it’s difficult to count ’em when they are all a-movin’ to and fro.”

“Here, Joe, catch hold o’ this post, an’ keep it steady till I make it fast,” said Hugh Morris, the seaman who has been described as one of the most turbulent among the men.

While Joe assisted in the erection of the canvas booth or shelter, he gave Otto a good deal of information regarding the vessel, the emigrants, the crew, and the misunderstandings which had occurred previous to the captain’s death.

“It’s well for one man that we’ve bin wrecked, anyhow,” remarked Morris, stepping back with an artistic air to survey his handiwork.

“You mean the young doctor,” said Joe.

“That’s who I mean,” returned Morris. “Doctor John Marsh. He’s the only man in the ship that’s worth his salt, but I fear he’s a doomed man.”

“I hope not, Hugh, though there are one or two men on board worth more than their salt,” said Joe, with a peculiar smile, as he returned to the care of a large kettle of beans from which the sailor had called him.

On Otto inquiring what was the matter with the doctor, Joe Binney explained—

“He’s been ill a’most since we left England, owin’ to a fall he had in tryin’ to save one o’ the child’n as was tumblin’ down the after-hatch. He saved the child, but broke one or two of his own ribs, an’ the broken ends must have damaged his lungs, for, ever since, he’s bin spittin’ blood an’ wearin’ away, till we can hardly believe he’s the same stout, hearty, active young feller that came aboord at Gravesend. Spite of his hurt he’s bin goin’ among us quite cheerful-like, doin’ the best he could for the sick; but as Morris says, he looks like a doomed man. P’r’aps gittin’ ashore may do him good. You see, bein’ the only doctor in the ship, he couldn’t attend to hisself as well as might be, mayhap.”

While Joe and Otto were conversing, the first boat load of emigrants landed, consisting chiefly of women and children. Dr Marsh was also among them, in order that, as he said with quiet pleasantry, he might attend to the sanitary arrangements of the camp in the new land, though all who saw him quit the wreck were under the sorrowful impression that the new land would prove to be in his case a last resting-place.

There was something peculiarly attractive in the manly, handsome face of this young disciple of Aesculapius, worn as it was by long sickness and suffering, and Otto fell in love with him at first sight.

There can be no doubt that some human beings are so constituted as to powerfully attract others by their mere physical conformation and expression, without reference to character or conduct,—indeed, before character or conduct can possibly be known. And when this peculiar conformation and expression is coupled with delicacy of health, and obvious suffering, the attractive influence becomes irresistible. Let us thank God that such is the case. Blind, unreasoning affection is a grand foundation on which to build a mighty superstructure of good offices, kindly acts, and tender feelings, mingled, it may be, with loving forbearance, and occasional suffering, which shall be good to the souls of the lover, as well as the loved one.

Anyhow, when Otto saw Dr Marsh helped, almost lifted, out of the boat; observed him give a pitiful little smile, and heard him utter some mild pleasantry to those who assisted him, he experienced a gush of feeling such as had never before inflated his reckless little bosom, and something like water—to his great astonishment—caused interference with his vision.

Running forward just as the widow Lynch was officiously thrusting her warm-hearted attentions on the invalid, he accosted the doctor, and offered to escort him to the golden cave.

And we may here inform the reader that the involuntary affection of our little hero met with a suitable return, for Dr Marsh also fell in love with Otto at first sight. His feelings, however, were strongly mingled with surprise.

“My boy,” he said, with painfully wide-open eyes, “from what part of the sky have you dropt?”

“Well, not being a falling star or a rocket-stick, I cannot claim such high descent,—but hasn’t the mate told you about us?” returned Otto.

Here widow Lynch broke in with:

“Towld him about you? Av course he hasn’t. He don’t throuble his hid to tell much to any wan; an’, sure, wasn’t the doctor slaapin’ whin he returned aboord i’ the night, an’ wasn’t I nursin’ of ’im, and d’ee think any wan could git at ’im widout my lave?”

Otto thought that certainly no one could easily accomplish that feat, and was about to say so, when Dr Marsh said remonstratively—

“Now, my dear widow Lynch, do leave me to the care of this new friend, who, I am sure, is quite able to assist me, and do you go and look after these poor women and children. They are quite helpless without your aid. Look! your favourite Brown-eyes will be in the water if you don’t run.”

The child of a poor widow, which had been styled Brown-eyes by the doctor because of its gorgeous optics, was indeed on the point of taking an involuntary bath as he spoke. Mrs Lynch, seeing the danger, rushed tumultuously to the rescue, leaving the doctor to Otto’s care.

“Don’t let me lean too heavily on you,” he said, looking down; “I’m big-boned, you see, and long-legged, though rather thin.”

“Pooh!” said Otto, looking up, “you’re as light as a feather, and I’m as strong as a horse,—a little horse, at least. You’d better not go to the camp yet, they are not ready for you, and that sweet little delicate creature you call widow Lynch is quite able to manage them all. Come up with me to the cave. But has nobody said a word about us?”

“Not a soul. As the widow told you, I was asleep when the mate returned to the wreck. Indeed, it is not very long since I awoke. I did hear some mention in passing of a few people being on the island, but I thought they referred to savages.”

“Perhaps they were not far wrong,” said Otto, with a laugh. “I do feel pretty savage sometimes, and Dominick is awful when he is roused; but we can’t count Pauline among the savages.”

“Dominick! Pauline!” exclaimed the doctor. “My good fellow, explain yourself, and let us sit down on this bank while you do so. I’m so stupidly weak that walking only a few yards knocks me up.”

“Well, only two or three yards further will bring you to our cave, which is just beyond that cluster of bushes, but it may be as well to enlighten you a little before introducing you.”

In a few rapid sentences Otto explained their circumstances, and how they came to be there. He told his brief tale in sympathetic ears.

“And your own name,” asked the doctor, “is—?”

“Otto Rigonda.”

“Well, Otto, my boy, you and I shall be friends; I know it—I feel it.”

“And I’m sure of it,” responded the enthusiastic boy, grasping the hand of the invalid, and shaking it almost too warmly. “But come, I want to present you to my sister. Dominick is already among the emigrants, for I saw him leave the cave and go down to the camp when you were disputing with that female grampus.”

“Come, don’t begin our friendship by speaking disrespectfully of one of my best friends,” said the doctor, rising; “but for widow Lynch’s tender nursing I don’t think I should be here now.”

“I’ll respect and reverence her henceforth and for ever,” said Otto. “But here we are—this is the golden cave. Now you’ll have to stoop, because our door was made for short men like me—and for humble long ones like my brother.”

“I’ll try to be a humble long one,” said the doctor as he stooped and followed Otto into the cave.

Pauline was on her knees in front of the fire, with her back to the door, as they entered. She was stooping low and blowing at the flames vigorously.

“O Otto!” she exclaimed, without looking round, “this fire will break my heart. It won’t light!”

“More company, Pina,” said her brother.

Pauline sprang up and turned round with flushed countenance and disordered hair; and again Otto had the ineffable delight of seeing human beings suddenly reduced to that condition which is variously described as being “stunned,” “thunderstruck,” “petrified,” and “struck all of a heap” with surprise.

Pauline was the first to recover self-possession.

“Really, Otto, it is too bad of you to take one by surprise so. Excuse me, sir,—no doubt you are one of the unfortunates who have been wrecked. I have much pleasure in offering you the hospitality of our humble home!”

Pauline spoke at first half jestingly, but when she looked full at the thin, worn countenance of the youth who stood speechless before her, she forgot surprise and everything else in a feeling of pity.

“But you have been ill,” she continued, sympathetically; “this wreck must have—pray sit down.”

She placed a little stool for her visitor beside the fire.

If Dr John Marsh had spoken the words that sprang to his lips he would have begun with “Angelic creature,” but he suppressed his feelings and only stammered—

“Your b–brother, Miss Rigonda, must have a taste for taking people by surprise, for he did not tell me that—that—I—I mean he did not prepare me for—for—you are right. I think I had better sit down, for I have, as you perceive, been very ill, and am rather weak, and—and in the circumstances such an unexpected—a—”

At this critical moment Dominick fortunately entered the cave and rescued the doctor from the quicksand in which he was floundering.

“Oh! you must be the very man I want,” he said, grasping his visitor by the hand.

“That is strange,” returned the doctor, with a languid smile, “seeing that you have never met me before.”

“True, my good sir; nevertheless I may venture to say that I know you well, for there’s a termagant of an Irish woman down at the camp going about wringing her hands, shouting out your good qualities in the most pathetic tones, and giving nobody a moment’s peace because she does not know what has become of you. Having a suspicion that my brother must have found you and brought you here, I came to see. But pray, may I ask your name, for the Irish woman only describes you as ‘Doctor, dear!’”

“Allow me to introduce him,” cried Otto, “as an old friend of mine—Dr Marsh.”

Dominick looked at his brother in surprise.

“Otto is right,” said the doctor, with a laugh, “at least if feeling may be permitted to do duty for time in gauging the friendship.”

“Well, Dr Marsh, we are happy to make your acquaintance, despite the sadness of the circumstances,” said Dominick, “and will do all we can for you and your friends; meanwhile, may I ask you to come to the camp and relieve the mind of your worshipper, for I can scarcely call her less.”

Poor Dr Marsh, feeling greatly exhausted by excitement as much as by exertion, was on the point of excusing himself and begging his host to fetch the widow up to the cave, when he was saved the trouble by the widow herself, whose voice was just then heard outside.

“What’s that yer sayin’, Joe?” she exclaimed in a remonstrative tone, “ye seed ’im go into that rabbit-hole? Never! Don’t tell me! Arrah it’s on his hands an knees he’d