_"POOR JIM!"_
"And you were the little boy that was taken out of the water, and poor Jim
was the brave man who swam into the great big waves to save you!"
Pat was the speaker, and the beautiful little boy the listener. They were
sitting together in the hot sunshine, just beneath the south wall of the
lighthouse, well sheltered from the wind; and the sun was shining with all
the brilliance that it sometimes can in early February on the south coast,
though the sea tumbled and foamed beneath the strong gale which still
blew steadily day by day, and cut off Lone Rock from the mainland. But
the weather began to show signs of modifying. The careful keeper of the
lighthouse had that day told his wife that he believed a few more days
would see the end of this bout of rough weather. The glass was beginning
to rise after its long period of depression, and this was the third day
on which the sun had shone out brightly and bravely, tempting the two
children out upon the rocks for several hours, in the brightest part of
the day. By this time the two boys were the best of friends. They were not
happy for a moment if separated. Pat took the lead in devising amusement
for his small guest, and was in one sense of the word the leading spirit,
yet it was the little prince who really ruled the pair, for his word was
law to his comrade, who could have sat and looked at him, or listened
to his merry prattle for hours. The little gentleman had a way with him
which had captivated every heart within the lighthouse. Nat and Eileen
were almost as much his slaves as Pat. He could twist any one of the three
round his chubby little fingers, and this was plainly no new art to him.
Those merry ways of his, half-coaxing, half-commanding, had plainly been
practised before. He was no novice in the art of getting what he wanted,
this beautiful little prince (as Pat firmly and fully believed him to
be); and it seemed to Eileen a pathetic thing that the little fellow
should thus be cast among strangers, and those of a rank in life so much
humbler than his own, without being able to explain to them who he was,
nor whence he had come, although in other ways he could prattle away fast
enough, and tell little stories, too, in his own peculiar fashion.
Eileen had listened in vain for any illusions to his parents in his talk;
but the name of father or mother was never on his lips. Once, when she
asked him where mother was, he pointed vaguely out over the sea; but she
could not make out whether he meant anything by the gesture; and the only
relative he ever spoke of was "Auntie;" whilst he did not appear to be
pining after anybody, but was as merry as a lark from morning to night;
very different from what Pat would have been, even as a little child, if
suddenly robbed of all those whom he had learned to love.
"I sometimes think the water has washed the memory of what went before
clean out of his head," Eileen had said to her husband, in some
disappointment at her failure to learn anything of the boy's history from
him. "It seems strange he should have forgotten everything, such a quick,
noticing little fellow as he is. He talks a little about a ship to Pat;
but never seems to remember the people who were with him. I can't make it
out. At his age, Pat would have been able to tell anybody where he lived,
and what his name was, and who his father and mother were. It puzzles me
altogether, that it does. And we want to send a message ashore when the
relief boat comes. I'd have liked to be able to say who the boy was."
"Well, we'll say enough for his relations to know him by, if he's got
any living claim to him, poor little chap. I suppose the children of the
gentry, who always have a nurse beside them, don't learn to be as knowing
and independent as our little ones, who have to fend for themselves so
much sooner. Pat may be will find out something more sooner or later. He
chatters away to him like a young magpie. The child looks a deal better
since his little prince came. It's good for boys to be together. I'll not
grumble if his folks don't come for him in a hurry. Look at them now; why,
they are as happy as kings together--and a deal happier than many kings,
I take it, if all we hear of the ways of the world is true."
The two boys were sitting in the hot sunshine in the lee of the
lighthouse, and the tame sea-gull was hopping about near to them,
sometimes diving into a pool after a dainty morsel that caught his eye,
sometimes flapping his wings, and uttering his harsh cries, which seemed
those of joy at seeing the sunshine again. Pat was evidently telling a
tale to the little one of more than usual interest. The little prince's
eyes were fixed upon his face with a look of wrapped absorption, his rosy
lips were parted, and his whole expression was one of deep and undivided
attention. He was in reality hearing the story of the little boy who had
been seen a few nights ago, just as it was growing to be dawn, floating
on the water on a broken spar; and of the brave man in the lighthouse,
who had swum out amongst the great waves to bring him in safe to shore;
and Prince Rupert had been more fascinated by this tale--told with all
the graphic power of which the youthful eye-witness was capable--than by
any other from Pat's store; and when at the close he was told that he
himself had been the little boy, and that it was Jim who had gone into
the boiling sea to fetch him out, he looked fairly bewildered at the idea,
and turning his dark eyes towards the lighthouse behind, he looked up and
down, and then asked--
"And where is poor Jim?--does he live here, too?"
"Yes, he lives here," answered Pat. "But he got hurt that night. He has to
lie in bed. I go to see him every day. Poor Jim looks very sad and poorly.
Father says he won't be better till we can get a doctor to him."
Little Rupert's eyes were wide with sympathy and interest. He was quite a
kind-hearted little fellow, though he had been taught to think first of
himself and his own wishes, as too many little children are, whether those
about them know it or not.
"Did he get hurted coming into the water after me?" he asked, in a voice
that was quite soft and subdued with surprise and thought.
"Yes, Prince Rupert, he did," answered Pat. "I don't quite know how it
was; but there was a big black thing floating in the water, too. I saw it,
and a great wave came and carried it right against Jim. I think it might
have hit you, perhaps, only Jim saw it coming, and turned over so that
it came against him instead, and a big wave broke all over him then, and
I couldn't see what happened. But I know he got hurt then, for after that
he couldn't help himself a bit; and father and mother could only pull you
both in, for Jim never let go of you. And it seemed like as if you were
both dead at first. But mother took care of you, and father took care of
Jim, and you both got better. But Jim has to lie in bed, and his side
hurts him dreadfully when he moves. But you can run about and play. I'm so
glad you weren't hurt, too. Do you remember being washed into the water?"
But the child did not answer the question. He seemed to be watching the
gull at his queer play; but he was evidently thinking of something else,
for he turned presently to Pat, and said with a lip that quivered a
little--
"I don't like Jim to be hurted in getting me out. Where does Jim live?"
"In there," answered Pat, indicating the lighthouse behind. "When he was
well, he helped father to take care of her--the big lamp, you know, that
you went to see last night. He can't help now, because he's ill. But when
he gets better he will again."
"I'd like to go and see Jim," said the child, suddenly scrambling to his
feet. "I fink Jim must be a very good man. I'll go and tell him so."
"Yes, do!" answered Pat eagerly. "I'm sure he would like it. I tell him
about you every day, Prince Rupert. He likes to hear about you, I know,
though he can't talk hardly at all. You must talk to him. He can't say
hardly anything himself. It hurts him so; and mother says he mustn't."
"I'll talk," answered the little prince serenely. "I can talk very well,
if I like. I've heard people say so, though they don't always understand
when I do. Why didn't you take me to see Jim before?"
"I don't know. I didn't think perhaps you'd care to come. You see, he
has only a poor little dark room, and you are a little prince." Pat's
loving admiration was betrayed in every word he spoke, and in the glance
of his smiling eyes. He thought Rupert looked prettier than ever with his
golden curls blowing about in the breeze, and his little face, with the
peach bloom tanned by the kisses of the sunbeams which had been caressing
it these past days. His own stylish little sailor suit had been neatly
mended, too, and had not suffered so very much by the long immersion in
salt water. The child had an air of refinement and sovereignty about him
of which Pat's sensitive Irish nature was keenly conscious. He felt he
could lay down his life for this princely child; and understood very well
now how it was that real kings and princes in history had got hundreds
and thousands of followers to go with them to victory or death. Sometimes
before, his mother's stories had puzzled him. He did not quite understand
how men had been so easily led to fight against fearful odds. But it was
no puzzle to him now. The spirit of hero-worship had entered into his
being, and had made many things plain that had perplexed him before.
"If I am a prince, princes must be good," said the golden-haired child,
suddenly straightening himself out, and looking at Pat with a new
expression in his eyes. It was as if some sudden memory were coming back
to him--a memory of something or somebody almost forgotten hitherto. Pat
held his breath to watch and listen. "I know that's right. She said so. I
remember quite well. She said, 'If you are a prince, you must be a good
one,' and she kissed me, and took me in her arms. The sea was all shining
over there, just like it shines now. Was it here she said it, Pat?"
Pat shook his head. He was almost as curious as his mother would have been
to know who the "she" was whose words the child has just quoted.
But the flash of memory did not seem to go farther, and after a moment's
pause, Rupert went back to his former theme, speaking with his baby lisp,
yet in words quite intelligible to Pat.
"Take me to see poor Jim. I'd like to see him. I'd like to tell him he's a
good man, and that I'm very much obliged to him for pulling me out of the
sea. I suppose I should have been drowned if he hadn't got me out in time;
shouldn't I, Pat?"
"Yes, indeed you would; I thought you'd be drowned as it was. It seemed
such a long time before they could get you both out. Now I'll take you to
see poor Jim. I'm sure he'll be pleased, though perhaps he won't seem to
be. Jim is rather a funny man; but he's very nice when you know him. You
won't be frightened if he looks rather cross at you?"
"Nobody looks cross at me, except nurse, when she's in a bad temper,"
answered the child serenely. "And only babies and girls are frightened at
things. I wasn't frightened when the gull pecked me--you said so yourself."
"No, you weren't, you were very brave," said Pat, in loyal admiration;
adding, after a moment's pause, "Now come with me. I'll take you to Jim;
but go quietly, in case he's asleep. Mother says he gets so little sleep
at night. We won't awake him if he should be asleep now. This is the way,
just up these little steep stairs. There are only four of them. Have you
never been here before?" and Pat laid his fingers on his lips, and pushed
open the door, and peeped cautiously in before he turned back to his
companion.
"We can go in. He's not asleep. His eyes are open. It's rather dark, when
you first get in, but you'll see better when you've been in a little
while. Jim," he added, advancing into the bare little wedge-shaped room
which had been Jim's as long as he had been on Lone Rock, "Prince Rupert
wants to come and see you. I told him to-day about how you went into the
sea after him. He thinks it was very kind of you."
"Lift me on the bed. I can't see him properly," spoke the second visitor
in imperious tones, and Pat hastened to obey. The next minute the
beautiful child and the rugged faced man were looking straight at each
other with mutual curiosity and interest; and after a few seconds spent in
this silent inspection, Rupert put out his tiny hand and laid it in Jim's.
"I like you," he said deliberately. "I fink you're a very brave man; and
you're a very good one, too. I shall tell my papa about you. I fink he
will make you one of his soldiers, or servants, or somefing like that. He
will like you very much for coming into the water after me. He likes men
when they are brave. He is very brave himself. I shall tell him to take
you away from here, and let you be always with him."
Pat listened breathlessly to these words. The little prince had never
before spoken in this manner at all.
"Have you got a father?" he asked in eager accents; but Rupert looked at
him as though he scarcely understood the question.
"Have you got a papa, little gentleman?" asked Jim, in his very low, faint
tones, so unlike the old strong gruff voice that used to rise above the
tumult of the winds and the waves.
"_Torse_ I have," answered the child, almost indignantly. "I'll tell my
papa about you. He'll like you because you got yourself hurted instead
of me. My papa did that himself once. He got nearly killed, instead of
somebody else. Mamma told me about it her own self. And the Queen gave him
a cross for it. She showed it me. It wasn't so very pretty; but mamma said
papa liked it better than anything else he had. Perhaps when I'm a man,
I'll get one for myself; but mamma said they only gave them to very brave
men. P'raps they'll give one to you, Jim. You're very brave, you know.
When my papa comes home, I'll tell him about you. He'll come and see you
then. P'raps you'll have a cross, too."
Jim smiled faintly, and stroked the small hand that lay in his palm,
rather as he might have stroked a delicate rose petal that had floated
to him from the sky. He could not talk; but it was a pleasure to lie and
look at this beautiful child; and Rupert became all at once wonderfully
communicative. He plainly took a strange and wayward liking to Jim, as
children will do sometimes to the most unlikely people.
"I feel as though he belonged to me," he remarked later on in the living
room, as the mid-day meal was going forward. "You see, he got me out of
the water; and I fink my papa will take him for one of his soldiers,
because he's so brave. I'm to be a soldier when I grow up. Perhaps I'll
have Jim to be my orderly. Papa has an orderly, I know. I suppose he
keeps his things tidy for him. I fink I'll have Jim for mine when he gets
better. Why doesn't he get better quickly?"
"Because we can't get a doctor to him yet, little gentleman."
"My papa would send one if you'd ask him," said the child, in the same
rather magnificent way. "He can send anybody anywhere, I know. He can do
anything he likes. My papa is a very great man."
"And where does he live, dear?" asked Eileen breathlessly, realising
for the first time that, though the words father and mother conveyed
no impression to the child's mind, he had a very decided notion about
his papa and mamma, although he had never spoken of them before to-day;
but the question was beyond the child's power of answering. He looked
perplexed for a moment, and then said--
"They're going home--we're all going home. They'll go home as soon as the
big ship gets to land. I suppose they've gone home already," and then
he looked about him with wide-open wondering eyes, filled with a vague
distress and perplexity; and glancing up into Eileen's face, he asked--
"Is this home? Is this where they are coming to, by-and-by?"
"No, darling," answered Eileen quickly, the tears springing to her eyes
as she realised the possibility that the child's parents had found a
different home from the one they had talked about to their little boy.
"Papa and mamma stayed on the big ship; and if the big ship got safe into
port, they would go home when they landed; and we will find out where they
are, and you shall go to them. Don't cry, little prince. As soon as ever
a boat can come from shore we will find out all about it."
"I don't want to cry," answered the child, whose wondering eyes were quite
dry. "I like being here. I like you, and Pat, and Jim, and the gull, and
everybody. I fink I'll stay here always. My papa and mamma can come and
live with us if they want to; and if they don't, I'll go and see them
sometimes. I don't live with them ever--only now and then. I'd like to be
a lighthouse keeper, with Jim to help me. I fink I'll live always with
you."
"Oh, do, do, do!" cried Pat, clapping his hands, and running across to his
little prince, he folded him in his arms in a long embrace. "I should be
so unhappy if you went away. Now I am going to give Jim his dinner. Will
you come and help me?"
"_Torse_ I will. I like Jim. I'll help you take care of him till he's
better;" and the pair went off together, carefully carrying Jim's light
repast, while Eileen looked up in perplexity at her husband, and said--
"What does the little fellow mean?--and why doesn't he seem to care more
for his parents? He has never cried for them, or seemed to miss them, and
yet he knows all about his papa and mamma, as he calls them. I cannot make
it out--no, that I can't--such a warm-hearted little fellow as he is, too."
Nat shook his head slowly. The problem was beyond him also.
"May be we'll find out some day. It isn't all fine folks that get the
love of their little ones. Perhaps they're too fine to notice him, and he
doesn't love them as our little one loves us. But plainly his father is
a soldier, and a bit of a grand one, too. I doubt there'll be no trouble
in making out who the youngster is, once we get ashore. But if he belongs
to them as have no love for him, it will be a hard matter to let him go,
though we'll have to do it, I suppose."
Eileen sighed at the thought, but knew it would be inevitable. Yet as the
days passed by, the child endeared himself to them more and more by the
singular devotion he suddenly conceived for "poor Jim," as he invariably
called him. He was in and out of the little dark room morning, noon, and
night. He insisted on taking Pat's place on the bed at meal times, and
feeding the patient with his own tiny but capable hands. A singular bond
grew up between the rough man and the two children, one of whom he had
risked his life to save; and in this way the days slipped by, one after
another, until the sea went down, the waves ceased to dash themselves
against the reef; and Pat came tearing down from the gallery in wild
excitement one morning to announce to his mother the fact that the relief
boat was coming out to Lone Pock as fast as winds and waves could bring
her.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]