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

has bin blowed up an’ sunk to the bottom o’ the sea,” (“Worse luck!” from Mrs Lynch),—“but we congratulate you an’ ourselves that we, the people, are all alive,”—(“an’ kickin’,” softly, from Malone—“Hush!” “silence!” from several others),—“an’ as loyal an’ devoted as ever we was.” (“More so,” and “Hear, hear!”). “Since the time you, Queen Pauline, took up the reins of guvermint, it has bin plain to us all that you has done your best to rule in the fear o’ God, in justice, truthfulness, an’ lovin’ kindness. An’ we want to tell you, in partikler, that your readin’s out of the Bible to us an’ the child’n—which was no part o’ your royal dooty, so to speak—has done us all a power o’ good, an’ there was some of us big uns as needed a lot o’ good to be done us, as well as the child’n—” (“Sure an’ that’s true, annyhow!” from Teddy).

“Now, what we’ve got to say,” continued Joe, clearing his throat again, and taking a long breath, “is this—the land we’re agoin’ to ain’t thickly popilated, as we knows on, an’ we would take it kindly if you’d consent to stop there with us, an’ continue to be our queen, so as we may all stick together an’ be rightly ruled on the lines o’ lovin’ kindness,”—(“With a taste o’ the broomstick now an’ then,” from Teddy). “If your majesty agrees to this, we promise you loyal submission an’ sarvice. Moreover, we will be glad that your brother, Mister Dominick, should be prime minister, an’ Mister Otto his scritairy, or wotever else you please. Also that Dr Marsh should be the chansler o’ the checkers, or anything else you like, as well as sawbones-in-gineral to the community. An’ this our petition,” concluded Joe, humbly laying the document at Pauline’s feet, “has bin signed by every man in the ship—except Teddy Malone—”

“That’s a lie!” shouted the amazed Teddy.

“Who,” continued Joe, regardless of the interruption, “not bein’ able to write, has put his cross to it.”

“Hear, hear!” cried the relieved Irishman, while the rest laughed loudly—but not long, for it was observed that Pauline had put her handkerchief to her eyes.

What the ex-queen said in reply, we need not put down in detail. Of course, she expressed her gratitude for kind expressions, and her thankfulness for what had been said about her Sabbath-school work. She also explained that her dear mother in England, as well as their old father in Java, must be filled with deepest anxiety on account of herself and her brothers by that time, and that, therefore, she was obliged, most unwillingly, to decline the honour proposed to her.

“Och!” exclaimed the disappointed widow Lynch, “cudn’t ye sind for yer mother to come out to yez, an’ the ould man in Javy too? They’d be heartily welcome, an’ sure we’d find ’em some sitivation under guvermint to kape their pot bilin’.”

But these strong inducements failed to change the ex-queen’s mind.

Now, while this was going on in the cabin, a change was taking place in the sky. The bad weather which Malines had predicted came down both suddenly and severely, and did the ship so much damage as to render refitting absolutely necessary. There was no regular port within hundreds of miles of them, but Malines said he knew of one of the eastern isles where there was a safe harbour, good anchorage, and plenty of timber. It would not take long to get there, though, considering the damaged state of the ship, it might take some months before they could get her into a fit state to continue the voyage. Accordingly, they altered their course, with heavy hearts, for the emigrants were disappointed at having their voyage again interrupted, while the Rigondas were depressed at the thought of the prolonged anxiety of their parents.

“Now this is a bad business, isn’t it?” said Otto to the doctor, with a groan, when the course was decided.

“Looks like it, my boy; but it isn’t,” replied the doctor, who nevertheless, being himself but a frail mortal, was so depressed that he did not feel inclined to say more.

In this gloomy state of matters Pina’s sweet tones broke upon them like a voice from the better land—as in truth it was—saying, “I will trust and not be afraid.”

About this time the cloud which hung over the emigrant ship was darkened still more by a visit from the Angel of Death. The mother of Brown-eyes died. At that time Pauline was indeed an angel of mercy to mother and child. After the remains of the mother were committed to the deep, the poor orphan clung so piteously to Pauline that it was scarcely possible to tear her away. It was agreed at last that, as the child had now no natural protector, except an uncle and aunt, who seemed to think they had already too many children of their own, Pauline should adopt her.

When the emigrants reached the island-harbour, without further mishap, they were surprised to find a large steamer at anchor. The captain of it soon explained that extensive damage to the machinery had compelled him to run in there for shelter while the necessary repairs were being effected.

“Where are you bound for?” asked Dominick, who with Dr Marsh and Otto had accompanied Malines on board the steamer.

“For England.”

“For England?” almost shouted Dominick and Otto in the same breath.

“Yes. Our repairs are completed, we set off to-morrow.”

“Have you room for two or three passengers?”

“Yes, plenty of room. We shall have to put several ashore at the Cape, where I hope to get a doctor, too, for our doctor died soon after we left port, and we are much in want of one, having a good many sick men on board.”

“Otto,” whispered Dr Marsh, “our having been diverted from our course has not turned out such a bad business after all, has it?”

“On the contrary, the very best that could have happened. I’ll never give way to unbelief again!”

Poor Otto! He did not at that time know how deeply doubt and unbelief are ingrained in the human heart. He did not know that man has to be convinced again and again, and over again, before he learns to hope against hope, and to believe heartily at all times that, “He doeth all things well.”

It was with very mingled feelings that the Rigondas, Dr Marsh, and Brown-eyes parted next day from the friends with whom they had associated so long. It is no exaggeration to say that there was scarcely a dry eye in the two vessels; for, while the settlers wept for sorrow, the crews and passengers wept more or less from sympathy. Even the dead-eyes of the ship, according to Malone, shed tears! As for poor Brown-eyes, who was a prime favourite with many of her old friends, male and female, before she got away she had been almost crushed out of existence by strong arms, and her eyes might have been pea-green or pink for anything you could tell, so lost were they in the swollen lids. Long after the vessels had separated the settlers continued to shout words of good-will and blessing, “We’ll never forgit ye, Miss Pauline,” came rolling after them in the strong tones of Joe Binney. “God bless you, Miss,” came not less heartily from Hugh Morris. “We loves ye, darlint,” followed clear and shrill from the vigorous throat of the widow Lynch, and a wild “Hooray!” from Teddy endorsed the sentiment. Nobbs, the blacksmith, and little Buxley, ran up the rigging to make the waving of their caps more conspicuous, and when faces could no longer be distinguished and voices no longer be heard, the waving of kerchiefs continued until the rounding of a cape suddenly shut them all out from view for ever.

“Thank God,” said Dr Marsh, with a voice deepened and tremulous from emotion, “that though they have lost their queen, they shall never lose the sweet influences she has left behind her.”

The great ocean steamer had now cleared the land; her mighty engines seemed to throb with joy at being permitted once more to “Go ahead, full speed,” and soon she was cleaving her way grandly through the broad-backed billows of the Southern sea—homeward bound!

Let us leap on in advance of her.

The little old lady with the gold spectacles and neat black cap, and smooth, braided hair, is seated in her old arm-chair, with the old sock, apparently—though it must have been the latest born of many hundreds of socks—on the needles, and the unfailing cat at her elbow. The aspect of the pair gives the impression that if a French Revolution or a Chili earthquake were to visit England they would click-and-gaze on with imperturbable serenity through it all.

But the little old lady is not alone now. Old Mr Rigonda sits at the table opposite to her, with his forehead in his hands, as though he sought to squeeze ideas into his head from a book which lies open before him on the table. Vain hope, for the book is upside down. Profound silence reigns, with the exception of the clicking needles and the purring cat.

“My dear,” at length exclaimed the bald old gentleman, looking up with a weary sigh.

“Yes, John?” (Such is his romantic Christian name!)

“I can’t stand it, Maggie.” (Such is her ditto!)

“It is, indeed, hard to bear, John. If we only knew for certain that they are—are gone, it seems as if we could bow to His will; but this terrible and wearing uncertainty is awful. Did you make inquiry at Lloyd’s to-day?”

“Lloyd’s? You seem to think Lloyd’s can tell everything about all that happens on the sea. No, it’s of no use inquiring anywhere, or doing anything. We can only sit still and groan.”

In pursuance of this remaining consolation, the poor old gentleman groaned heavily and squeezed his forehead tighter, and gazed at the reversed book more sternly, while the old lady heaved several deep sighs. Even the cat introduced a feeble mew, as of sympathy, into the midst of its purr—the hypocrite!

“It was the earthquake that did it,” cried Mr Rigonda, starting up, and pacing the room wildly, “I’m convinced of that.”

“How can that be, John, dear, when you were in Java at the time, and our darlings were far away upon the sea?”

“How can I tell how it could be, Maggie? Do you take me for a geological philosopher, who can give reasons for every earthly thing he asserts? All I know is that these abominable earthquakes go half through the world sometimes. Pity they don’t go through the other half, split the world in two, and get rid of the subterranean fires altogether.”

“John, my dear!”

“Well, Maggie, don’t be hard on me for gettin’ irascible now and then. If you only knew what I suffer when—but forgive me. You do know what I suffer—there!”

He stooped and kissed the old lady’s forehead. The cat, uncertain, apparently, whether an assault was meant, arched its back and tall, and glared slightly. Seeing however that nothing more was done, it subsided.

Just then the wheels of a cab were heard rattling towards the front door, as if in haste. The vehicle stopped suddenly. Then there was impatient thundering at the knocker, and wild ringing of the bell.

“Fire!” gasped the half-petrified Mrs Rigonda.

“No smell!” said her half-paralysed spouse.

Loud voices in the passage; stumbling feet on the stairs; suppressed female shrieks; bass masculine exclamations; room door burst open; old couple, in alarm, on their feet; cat, in horror, on the top of the bookcase!

“Mother! mother! O father!”—yelled, rather than spoken.

Another moment, and the bald, little old man was wrestling in the ex-queen’s arms; the little old lady was engulfed by Dominick and Otto; Dr John Marsh and Brown-eyes stood transfixed and smiling with idiotic joy at the door; while the cat—twice its size, with every hair erect—glared, and evolved miniature volcanoes in its stomach.

It was an impressive sight. Much too much so to dwell on!

Passing it over, let us look in on