The Island Queen

“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 that happy home when toned down to a condition of reasonable felicity.

“It’s a dream—all a wild, unbelievable dream!” sighed the old gentleman, as, with flushed face and dishevelled hair, he spread himself out in an easy chair, with Queen Pina on his knee and Brown-eyes at his feet. “Hush! all of you—wait a bit.”

There was dead silence, and some surprise for a few seconds, while Mr Rigonda shut his eyes tight and remained perfectly still, during which brief lull the volcanic action in the cat ceased, and its fur slowly collapsed.

“Dreams shift and change so!” murmured the sceptical man, gradually opening his eyes again—“What! you’re there yet, Pina?”

“Of course I am, darling daddy.”

“Here, pinch me on the arm, Dominick—the tender part, else I’ll not waken up sufficiently to dispel it.”

A fresh outburst of hilarity, which started the stomachic volcanoes and hair afresh, while Pauline flung her arms round her father’s neck for the fiftieth time, and smothered him. When he was released, and partially recovered, Otto demanded to know if he really wanted the dream dispelled.

“Certainly not, my boy, certainly not, if it’s real; but it would be so dreadfully dismal to awake and find you all gone, that I’d prefer to dream it out, and turn to something else, if possible, before waking. I—I—”

Here the old gentleman suddenly seized his handkerchief, with a view to wipe his eyes, but, changing his mind, blew his nose instead.

Just then the door opened, and a small domestic entered with that eminently sociable meal, tea. With a final explosion, worthy of Hecla or Vesuvius, the cat shot through the doorway, as if from a catapult, and found refuge in the darkest recesses of the familiar coal-hole.

“But who,” said Mr Rigonda, casting his eyes suddenly downward, “who is this charming little brown-eyed maid that you have brought with you from the isles of the southern seas? A native—a little Fiji princess—eh?”

“Hush! father,” whispered Pauline in his ear, “she’s a dear little orphan who has adopted me as her mother, and would not be persuaded to leave me. So, you see, I’ve brought her home.”

“Quite right, quite right,” returned the old man, stooping to kiss the little one. “I’ve often thought you’d be the better of a sister, Pina, so, perhaps, a daughter will do as well.”

“Now, then, tea is ready; draw in your chairs, darlings,” said Mrs Rigonda, with a quavering voice. The truth is that all the voices quavered that night, more or less, and it was a matter of uncertainty several times whether the quavering would culminate in laughter or in tears.

“Why do you so often call Pina a queen, dear boy?” asked Mrs Rigonda of her volatile son, Otto.

“Why?” replied the youth, whose excitement did not by any means injure his appetite—to judge from the manner in which he disposed of muffins and toast, sandwiched now and then with wedges of cake—“Why? because she is a queen—at least she was not long ago.”

An incredulous smile playing on the good lady’s little mouth, Pauline was obliged to corroborate Otto’s statement.

“And what were you queen of?” asked her father, who was plainly under the impression that his children were jesting.

“Of Refuge Islands, daddy,” said Pina; “pass the toast, Otto, I think I never was so hungry. Coming home obviously improves one’s appetite.”

“You forget the open boat, Pina.”

“Ah, true,” returned Pauline, “I did for a moment forget that. Yes, we were fearfully hungry that time.”

Of course this led to further inquiry, and to Dominick clearing his throat at last, and saying—“Come, I’ll give you a short outline of our adventures since we left home. It must only be a mere sketch, of course, because it would take days and weeks to give you all the details.”

“Don’t be prosy, Dom,” said Otto, helping himself to a fifth, if not a tenth, muffin. “Prosiness is one of your weak points when left to your own promptings.”

“But before you begin, Dom,” said old Mr Rigonda, “tell us where Refuge Islands are.”

“In the Southern Pacific, father.”

“Yes,” observed Otto; “at the bottom of the Southern Pacific.”