Shipwrecked Emigrants and Horrified Conspirators.  
The scene which presented itself on the morning after the storm is not easily described, and the change to the trio who had up to that time lived so peacefully on Refuge Islands’ Reef was so great that they found it difficult at first to believe it was other than a dream.
 
On awaking, indeed, Otto saluted his brother with the exclamation—
 
“O Dom, I’ve had such a comical dream!”
 
“Indeed, my boy,” said Dominick, “I fear it was no dream, but a reality.”
 
At this Otto suddenly sprang up, and ran out to relieve his mind on the point. A few seconds sufficed. On clearing the bushes he beheld the new wreck lying not far from the old one, and saw from the crowds of people who were being put into the boats that the emigrant ship had been no mere creature of his imagination. It was evident that the boat which had just quitted the vessel’s side contained the first band of emigrants, for the only people yet landed were a few men, who busied themselves in putting up a rude shelter for the women and children, and in kindling fires for the preparation of breakfast on a little mound between two and three hundred yards from the golden cave.
 
By that time the storm had blown itself 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 have to do it.”
 
The voice which replied was pitched in a much deeper and softer key, but it was heard distinctly to say, “Ay, widdy Lynch, that’s the door I seed him an’ a boy go through; so ye’d better rap at it an’ inquire.”
 
“Faix, an’ that’s jist what I’ll do, though I don’t half belave ye.”
 
She was about to apply her large red knuckles to the door in question when her intention was frustrated and her doubts were scattered by the door opening and Dominick presenting himself.
 
“Come in, Mrs Lynch, come in. Your doctor is here, alive and well.”
 
“Well, is it—ah! I wish he was! Are ye there, darlin’?”
 
“Yes, yes,” came from within, in a laughing voice. “Here I am, Mrs Lynch, all right and comfortable. Come in.”
 
Being excessively tall, the widow was obliged, like others, to stoop to enter; but being also excessively broad, she only got her head and shoulders through the doorway, and then, unlike others, she stuck fast. By dint, however, of a good pull from Dominick and a gentle push from Joe, she was got inside without quite carrying away the structure which the gale of the preceding night had spared.
 
“Och! ’tis a quare place intirely, and there is some disadvantage in bein’ big—thank ye kindly, sir—but on the whole—”
 
She got no further, for at that moment her sharp little grey eyes fell on Pauline, and once again Otto’s heart was stirred to its profoundest depths by the expressive glare that ensued. Indeed, Dominick and Marsh were equally affected, and could not help laughing.
 
“Ha! ye may laugh,” said the widow, with profound solemnity, “but if it’s not dramin’ I am, what Father Macgrath says about ghosts is true, and—”
 
“I hope you don’t take me for a ghost, Mrs Lynch,” said Pauline, stepping forward with a kindly smile and holding out her hand.
 
“No, cushla! I don’t,” returned the widow, accepting the hand tenderly. “Sure it’s more like a ghost the doctor is, in spite of his larfin’. But wonders ’ll niver cease. I’ll lave ’im wid an aisy mind, for he’s in good hands. Now, Joe, clear out o’ the door, like a good man, an’ let me through. They’ll be wantin’ me at the camp. A good haul, Joe, I’m tough; no fear o’ me comin’ to pieces. Och! but it’s a poor cabin. An Irish pig wouldn’t thank ye for it.”
 
Murmuring similar uncomplimentary remarks, mingled with expressions of surprise, the voice of the woman gradually died away, and the people in the golden cave were left to discuss their situation and form hasty plans for the present emergency.
 
At first, of course, they could do little else than make each other partially acquainted with the circumstances which had so strangely thrown them together, but Dominick soon put an end to this desultory talk.
 
“You see, it will take all our time,” he said, “between this and sunset to get the emigrants comfortably under canvas, or some sort of shelter.”
 
“True,” assented Dr Marsh, “and it would never do with so many women and children, some of whom are on the sick list, to leave them to the risk of exposure to another storm like that which has just passed. Is your island subject to such?”
 
“By no means,” answered Dominick. “It has a splendid climate. This gale is quite exceptional. Nevertheless, we cannot tell when the next may burst on us. Come, Otto, you and I will go down to the camp. Now, Dr Marsh, you must remain here. I can see, without being told, that you are quite unfit to help us. I know that it is hard to be condemned to inaction when all around are busy, but reflect how many patients you have solemnly warned that their recovery would depend on implicit obedience to the doctor’s orders! Divide yourself in two, now, and, as a doctor, give yourself strict orders to remain quiet.”
 
“H’m! Gladly would I divide myself,” was the doctor’s reply, “if while I left the patient half to act the invalid, I could take the impatient half down to the camp to aid you. But I submit. The days of my once boasted strength are gone. I feel more helpless than a mouse.”
 
There was something quite pitiful in the half-humorous look and the weary sigh with which the poor youth concluded his remarks, and Otto was so touched that he suddenly suggested the propriety of his staying behind and taking care of him.
 
“Why, you conceited creature,” cried Dominick, “of what use could you be? Besides, don’t you think that Pina is a sufficiently good nurse?”
 
Otto humbly admitted that she was.
 
Dr Marsh, glancing at her pretty face, on which at the moment there beamed an expression of deep sympathy, also admitted that she was; but, being a man of comparatively few words, he said nothing.
 
It was a busy day for Dominick and his brother. Not only had they to counsel and advise with the unfortunate emigrants as to the best position for the temporary encampment, with reference to wood and water, as well as to assist with their own hands in the erection of tents made of torn sails and huts and booths composed of broken planks and reeds, but they had to answer innumerable questions from the inquisitive as to their own history, from the anxious as to the probabilities of deliverance, from the practical as to the resources of the islands, and from the idiotic as to everything in general and nothing in particular. In addition to which they had to encourage the timid, to correct the mistaken, and to remonstrate with or resist the obstinate; also to romp a little with the children as they recovered their spirits, quiet the babies as they recovered their powers of lung, and do a little amateur doctoring for the sick in the absence of the medical man.
 
In all these varied occupations they were much aided by the widow Lynch, who, instead of proving to be, as they had expected, a troublesome termagant, turned out to be a soft-hearted, kindly, enthusiastic, sympathetic woman, with a highly uneducated, unbalanced mind, a powerfully constituted and masculine frame, and “a will of her own.” In this last particular she did not differ much from the rest of the human species, but she was afflicted with an unusually strong desire to assert it.
 
Very like Mrs Lynch in the matters of kindly soft-heartedness and sympathy was Mrs Welsh—a poor, gentle, delicate Englishwoman, the wife of a great hulking cross-grained fellow named Abel, who was a carpenter by trade and an idler by preference. Mrs Welsh was particularly good as a sick-nurse and a cook, in which capacities she made herself extremely useful.
 
About midday, Mrs Welsh having prepared a glorious though simple meal for her section of the emigrant band, and the other sections having been ministered to more or less successfully by their more or less capable cooks, Dominick and Otto went up to the golden cave to dinner, which they well knew the faithful Pauline would have ready waiting for them.
 
“What a day we have had, to be sure!” said Dominick as they walked along; “and I’m as hungry as a kangaroo.”
 
Without noticing the unreasonableness of supposing that long-legged creature to be the hungriest of animals, Otto declared that he was in the same condition, “if not more so.”
 
On opening the door they were checked by the expression of Pauline’s face, the speaking eyes of which, and the silent mouth, were concentrated into an unmistakable “hush!”—which was emphasised by a significant forefinger.
 
“What’s wrong?” whispered Dominick, anxiously.
 
“Sleeping,” murmured Pauline—she was too good a nurse to whisper—pointing to the invalid, who, overcome with the night’s exposure and the morning’s excitement, had fallen into a profound slumber on Otto’s humble couch.
 
This was a rather severe and unexpected trial to Otto, who had come up to the cave brimming over with camp news for Pauline’s benefit. He felt that it was next to impossible to relate in a whisper all the doings and sayings, comical and otherwise, that he had seen and heard that day. To eat his dinner and say nothing seemed equally impossible. To awaken the wearied sleeper was out of the question. However, there was nothing for it but to address himself to the suppression of his feelings. Probably it was good for him to be thus self-disciplined; certainly it was painful.
 
He suffered chiefly at the top of the nose—inside behind his eyes—that being the part of the safety-valve where bursts of laughter were checked; and more than once, while engaged in a whispering commentary on the amiable widow Lynch, the convulsions within bade fair to blow the nasal organ off his face altogether. Laughter is catching. Pauline and Dominick, ere long, began to wish that Otto would hold his tongue. At last, some eccentricity of Joe Binney, or his brother, or Mrs Lynch, we forget which, raised the pressure to such a pitch that the safety-valves of all three became ineffective. They all exploded in unison, and poor Marsh was brought to consciousness, surprise, and a sitting posture at the same instant.
 
“I’m afraid,” he said, rather sheepishly, “that I’ve been sleeping.”
 
“You have, doctor, and a right good sleep you’ve had,” said Dominick, rising and placing a stool for the invalid. “We ought to apologise for disturbing you; but come, sit down and dine. You must be hungry by this time.”
 
“Indeed I am. The land air seems to have had a powerful effect on me already.”
 
“Truly it must,” remarked Pauline, “else you could not have fallen asleep in the very middle of my glowing description of our island home.”
 
“Did I really do that?” said the doctor, with an air of self-reproach.
 
“Indeed you did; but in the circumstances you are to be excused.”
 
“And I hope,” added Dominick, “that you’ll have many a good sleep in our golden cave.”
 
“Golden cave, indeed,” echoed the invalid, in thought, for his mind was too much taken up just then with Pauline to find vent in speech. “A golden cave it will be to me for evermore!”
 
It is of no use mincing the matter; Dr John Marsh, after being regarded by his friends at home as hopelessly unimpressible—in short, an absolute woman-hater—had found his fate on a desolate isle of the Southern seas, he had fallen—nay, let us be just—had jumped over head and ears in love with Pauline Rigonda! Dr Marsh was no sentimental die-away noodle who, half-ashamed, half-proud of his condition, displays it to the semi-contemptuous world. No; after disbelieving for many years in the power of woman to subdue him, he suddenly and manfully gave in—sprang up high into the air, spiritually, and so to speak, turning a sharp somersault, went headlong down deep into the flood, without the slightest intention of ever again returning to the surface.
 
But of this mighty upheaval and overturning of his sentiments he betrayed no symptom whatever, excepting two bright spots—one on either cheek—which might easily have been mistaken for the effects of weakness, or recent excitement, or bad health, or returning hunger. Calmly he set to work on the viands before him with unusual appetite, conversing earnestly, meanwhile, with Dominick and Otto on the gravity of their situation, and bestowing no more attention upon Pauline than was barely consistent with good breeding, insomuch that that pretty young creature began to feel somewhat aggrieved. Considering all the care she had so recently bestowed on him, she came to the conclusion, in short, that he was by no means as polite as at first she had supposed him to be.
 
By degrees the conversation about the present began to give place to discussions as to the future, and when Dominick and Otto returned for their evening meal at sunset, bringing with them Mr Malines, the mate, and Joe Binney and his brother David and Hugh Morris as being representative men of the emigrants and ship’s crew, the meeting resolved itself into a regular debating society. At this point Pauline deserted them and went down to the camp to cultivate the acquaintance of the widow Lynch, Mrs Welsh, and the other female and infantine members of the wrecked party.
 
“For my part,” said Malines, “I shall take one o’ the boats, launch it in the lagoon, and go over to the big island, follow me who may, for it is clear that there’s not room for us all on this strip of sand.”
 
“I don’t see that,” objected Hugh Morris. “Seems to me as there’s space enough for all of us, if we’re not too greedy.”
 
“That shows ye knows nothin’ about land, Hugh,” said Joe Binney. “What’s of it here is not only too little, but too sandy. I votes for the big island.”
 
“So does I,” said David Binney. “Big Island for me.”
 
Thus, incidentally, was the large island named.
 
“But,” said Hugh, still objecting, “it won’t be half so convenient to git things out o’ the wreck as where we are.”
 
“Pooh! that’s nothing,” said Malines. “It won’t cost us much trouble to carry all we want across a spit of sand.”
 
Seeing that the two men were getting angry with each other, Dominick interposed by blandly stating that he knew well the capabilities of the spot on which they were encamped, and he was sure that such a party would require more ground if they meant to settle on it.
 
“Well now, master,” observed Joe, with a half-laugh, “we don’t ’zactly mean for to settle on it, but here we be, an’ here we must be, till a ship takes us off, an’ we can’t afford to starve, ’ee know, so we’ll just plough the land an’ plant our seed, an’ hope for good weather an’ heavy crops; so I says Big Island!”
 
“An’ so says I—Big Island for ever!” repeated his brother David.
 
After a good deal more talk and altercation this was finally agreed to, and the meeting dissolved itself.
 
That night, at the darkest hour, another meeting was held in the darkest spot that could be found near the camp. It chanced, unknown to the meeting, to be the burial-ground at first discovered by the Rigondas.
 
Unwittingly, for it was very dark, Hugh Morris seated himself on one of the old graves, and about thirty like-minded men gathered round him. Little did they know that Otto was one of the party! Our little hero, being sharp eyed and eared, had seen and overheard enough in the camp that day to induce him to watch Morris after he left the cave, and follow him to the rendezvous.
 
“My lads,” said Morris, “I’ve done my best to keep them to the reef, but that blackguard Malines won’t hear of it. He’s bent on takin’ ’em all to the big island, so they’re sure to go, and we won’t get the help o’ the other men: but no matter; wi’ blocks an’ tackle we’ll do it ourselves, so we can afford to remain quiet till our opportunity comes. I’m quite sure the ship lays in such a position that we can get her over the ledge into deep water, and so be able to draw round into the open sea, and then—”
 
“Hurrah for the black flag and the southern seas,” cried one of the party.
 
“No, no, Jabez Jenkins,” said Morris, “we don’t mean to be pirates; only free rovers.”
 
“Hallo! what’s this?” exclaimed another of the party. “A cross, I do believe! and this mound—why, it’s a grave!”
 
“And here’s another one!” said Jabez, in a hoarse whisper. “Seems to me we’ve got into a cannibal churchyard, or—”
 
“Bo–o–o–o–oo!” groaned Otto at that moment, in the most horribly sepulchral tone he could command.
 
Nothing more was wanted. With one consent the conspirators leapt up and fled from the dreadful spot in a frenzy of unutterable consternation.