The Island Queen

“Come, let us continue our walk,” said Dominick. “You don’t fully appreciate the loss of our boat Otto. Don’t you see that, even if we do build a raft, it will at best be a clumsy thing to manage, and heavy to pull, slow to sail, and bad to steer, and if we should chance to be on it when a stiff breeze springs up from the land, we should probably be driven out to sea and lost—or separated, if Pina should chance to have been left on shore at the time.”

“What a fellow you are, Dom, for supposing chances and difficulties, and fancying they cannot be overcome,” returned Otto, with the pert self-sufficiency that characterised him. “For my part I rather enjoy difficulties, because of the fun of overcoming them. Don’t you see, we three can make quite sure of never being separated by never going out on our raft except together, so that we shall always enjoy ourselves unitedly, or perish in company. Then we can easily get over the difficulty of being blown out to sea, by never going on the sea at all, but confining ourselves entirely to the lagoon, which is large enough for any reasonable man, and may be larger than we think, for we can’t see the whole of it from where we stand. Then, as to sailing and rowing slowly, we can overcome these difficulties by not being in a hurry,—taking things easy, you know.”

To this Dominick replied that there was one difficulty which his little brother, with all his wisdom and capacity, would never overcome.

“And what may that be?” demanded Otto.

“The difficulty of being unable to talk common-sense.”

“True, Dom, true, that is a great difficulty,” retorted the boy, with deep humility of aspect, “for a man’s conversation is greatly affected by the company he keeps, and with you as my only male companion, I have not much to hope for in the way of example. But even that may be got the better of by holding intercourse chiefly with Pina.”

“But what if I refuse to talk?” said Pauline, with a laugh.

“Then will you be all the more able to listen, sister mine, which is the most common-sense thing that you can do, except when brother Dom speaks,” said the incorrigible boy.

They had seated themselves on a bank while thus conversing, and from their position could see over a considerable portion of the lagoon. Suddenly Dominick pointed to an object a long way off, which was half concealed by the shadow of an island.

“Does it not look like a canoe?” he asked eagerly.

“Can’t make it out at all,” said Otto, shading his eyes with his hand.

“The sun on the water dazzles one so,” observed Pauline, “that it is difficult to look steadily.”

In a few moments the object which had drawn their attention sailed out from under the shade of the island, and, breaking up into fragments, rose into the air, proving itself to be a flock of large aquatic birds which had been swimming in a line.

“Things are not what they seem,” observed Pauline, rising and following her brothers through a little thicket.

“What a pity!” exclaimed Otto; “I was in hopes it was a canoeful of savages. It would be such fun to have a real Friday to be our servant.”

“More likely that our Friday would kill, cook, and eat us if he could,” said Dominick, to the surprise of Otto, who gave it as his opinion that savages never ate men, and asked if his brother really believed that they did.

“Indeed I do. We have it recorded by all the best authorities that South Sea islanders are given to this horrible practice. There can be no doubt about it whatever, and the less we see of these fellows in our present defenceless state the better.”

“How little,” said Pauline, “our dear father thought when he wrote for us to go out to him in his ship, that we should be cast on an unknown island, and the ship itself go to the bottom!”

“Little indeed, and as little did poor mother dream of such a fate,” returned Dominick, “when she let us all go so readily, on the understanding that we should give father no rest until we had got him to give up business, quit Java for ever, and return home.”

“Dear old mother!” said Pauline, “I wish—oh! I wish so much that we had not left her, even though it was to be for only a few months. She must be so lonely, with no one to talk to—”

“You forget Pina.”

“Forget—what?”

“The cat,” returned Otto, unable to repress a smile, which rose in spite of the ready tear that dimmed his eye at the mere mention of his mother. “You know the cat is her great resource—a sort of safety-valve. Sometimes, when I’ve been listening to her, lying on the rug at her feet half asleep, I’ve heard her talk to that cat as if it really was a human being, and tell it all about her little affairs and daily troubles and worries in quite a confidential tone. I’ve taken it into my head that that’s mother’s way of thinking aloud—she thinks at the cat, for company: and to do the brute justice, it does its best to accommodate her. I’ve seen it sit and stare at her by the half-hour at a time, and give a little purr or a meaiow now and then as if it wanted to speak. I’m quite sure it thinks, and wonders no doubt what idle, useless work it is to click knitting-needles together by the hour.”

“Dear me, Otto,” said Pauline, with a laugh, “I had no idea that you could think so much about anything.”

“Think!” exclaimed the boy, indignantly; “d’you suppose that it’s only stern-browed, long-legged fellows like Dom there who can think? Why, I think, and think, sometimes, to such an extent that I nearly think myself inside out! But, Pina, you don’t know half as much about motherkin as I do, for when you are with her she usually forgets herself, I can see, and talks only about the things that interest you; whereas, when there’s nobody present but me, she counts me for nothing, and lets me do pretty much what I like—because no doubt she thinks I’ll do that whether she lets me or not—but she’s wrong, for I love her far more than she thinks; and then it’s when I’m quiet and she forgets me, I fancy, or thinks I’m asleep, that she comes out strong at the cat.”

“Darling mother!” said Pauline, musingly. “I can see her now, in my mind, with her neat black cap and smooth braided hair, and gold spectacles, as plain as if she were sitting before me.”

“I’m sorry to destroy the vision, Pina, on my own account as well as yours,” observed Dominick, “but it behoves us now to look for a night’s lodging, for the sun is sinking fast, and it would not be pleasant to lie down on the bare ground shelterless, fine though the climate is. Come, we will return to the place where we landed, and search for a cave or a bit of overhanging rock.”

The best sleeping-place that they had up to that time discovered was undoubtedly the grove in which they had found the graves of the shipwrecked crew, but, as Otto truly remarked, it would probably result in uncomfortable dreams if they were to go to sleep in a burying-ground, alongside of a skeleton.

Accordingly they returned to the beach, and sought for some time among the débris of the boat for anything useful that might have been washed up, but found nothing. Then they went along-shore in the direction of the wreck which had raised their hopes so high that day when first seen, but nothing suitable was discovered until they rounded a low point of rocks, when Pauline came to a sudden pause.

“Look! a golden cave!” she exclaimed, pointing eagerly to a grassy spot which was canopied by feathery palms, and half enclosed by coral rocks, where was a cavern into which the sinking sun streamed at the moment with wonderful intensity.

Their home for that night obviously lay before them, but when they entered it and sat down, their destitution became sadly apparent. No beds to spread, no food to prepare, nothing whatever to do but lie down and sleep.

“No matter, we’re neither hungry nor thirsty,” said Dominick, with an air of somewhat forced gaiety, “and our clothes are getting dry. Come, sister, you must be weary. Lie down at the inner side of the cave, and Otto and I, like faithful knights, will guard the entrance. I—I wish,” he added, in a graver tone, and with some hesitation, “that we had a Bible, that we might read a verse or two before lying down.”

“I can help you in that,” said his sister, eagerly. “I have a fair memory, you know, and can repeat a good many verses.”

Pauline repeated the twenty-third Psalm in a low, sweet voice. When she had finished, a sudden impulse induced Dominick, who had never prayed aloud before, to utter a brief but fervent prayer and thanksgiving. Then the three lay down in the cave, and in five minutes were sound asleep.

Thus appropriately did these castaways begin their sojourn on a spot which was destined to be their home for a long time to come.

Chapter Three.

Explorations and Discoveries

As the sun had bathed the golden cave when our castaways went to sleep, so it flooded their simple dwelling when they awoke.

“Then,” exclaims the intelligent reader, “the sun must have risen in the west!”

By no means, good reader. Whatever man in his wisdom, or weakness, may do or say, the great luminaries of day and night hold on the even tenor of their way unchanged. But youth is a wonderful compound of strength, hope, vitality, carelessness, and free-and-easy oblivion, and, in the unconscious exercise of the last capacity, Pauline and her brothers had slept as they lay down, without the slightest motion, all through that night, all through the gorgeous sunrise of the following morning, all through the fervid noontide and the declining day, until the setting sun again turned their resting-place into a cave of gold.

The effect upon their eyelids was such that they winked, and awoke with a mighty yawn. We speak advisedly. There were not three separate awakenings and three distinct yawns; no, the rousing of one caused the rousing of the others in succession so rapidly that the yawns, commencing with Pauline’s treble, were prolonged, through Otto’s tenor down to Dominick’s bass, in one stupendous monotone or slide, which the last yawner terminated in a groan of contentment. Nature, during the past few days, had been doubly defrauded, and she, having now partially repaid herself, allowed her captives to go free with restored vigour. There was, however, enough of the debt still unpaid to induce a desire in the captives to return of their own accord to the prison-house of Oblivion, but the desire was frustrated by Otto, who, sitting up suddenly and blinking at the sun with owlish gravity, exclaimed—

“Well, I never! We’ve only slept five minutes!”

“The sun hasn’t set yet!”

Dominick, replying with a powerful stretch and another yawn, also raised himself on one elbow and gazed solemnly in front of him. A gleam of intelligence suddenly crossed his countenance.

“Why, boy, when we went to sleep the sun was what you may call six feet above the horizon; now it is twelve feet if it is an inch, so that if it be still setting, it must be setting upwards—a phenomenon of which the records of astronomical research make no mention.”

“But it is setting?” retorted Otto, with a puzzled look, “for I never heard of your astronomical searchers saying that they’d ever seen the sun rise in the same place where it sets.”

“True, Otto, and the conclusion I am forced to is that we have slept right on from sunset to sunset.”

“So, then, we’ve lost a day,” murmured Pauline, who in an attitude of helpless repose, had been winking with a languid expression at the luminous subject of discussion.

“Good morning, Pina,” said Dominick.

“Good evening, you mean,” interrupted his brother. “Well, good evening. It matters little which; how have you slept?”