Yr Ynys Unyg; or, The lonely island

by Julia de Winton

Schillie (with her mouth full of turtle).—"Pooh, pooh, use your brains for some other purpose. It's a house, is it not? Then why not call it a house!"

Sybil.—"But all houses have names to distinguish them."

Schillie.—"Alack, if you are not a young noodle. Pray, who has got a house here besides? A great boon it would be to have some neighbours to whom one could talk common sense."

Serena.—"Oh, we will talk as much common sense as you like, little Mother; and the first thing I shall say is, though there is but one house in the island, we may just as well make it as like home as we can, and call it the same name."

I nodded approvingly to the dear girl for her nice thought. Madame's pocket handkerchief was in requisition, while Schillie, who seemed to favour Serena's remarks with more attention than any of the others, said, "Call it any name you like, my dear child, if it gives you the smallest pleasure; only you will see house it is, and house it will be called, until a hurricane blows it down."

"Oh don't, my dear Madam," murmured Madame. "Hurricanes will come," repeated Schillie. "I would oblige you if I could, but in this particular I am not clerk of the works, and have no control."

"Then," said Sybil, "we will call it Maescelyn."

"No," said Oscar, "I won't have it called that. The real Maescelyn is a castle, very large, airy, and handsome to look at, and this is a dingy little house, with no windows in it."

What a start we all gave. It was too true. Even the clerk of the works looked quite silly. The house that had cost us such infinite labour, on which we looked with such pride and affection, had no windows of any kind or sort in its principal room. It is true the door was very wide, it is true that floods of light poured in through it, but, suppose we had to shut the door (that is when we had made one) what could we do then? It is true the little bed-rooms had each their little pigeon holes for light and ventilation, and that the back kitchen was very airy, but our hall, dining-room, drawing-room, school-room (the pride of our hearts and delight of our eyes) had no windows whatever. No wonder we all felt the remark was true. Felix spoke first, but only in a whisper, which whisper passed round among the young ones, and marvellously restored their equanimity. "There was no possibility of doing lessons in the dark." As Madame became aware of this telegraphic dispatch, and saw its effect, she grew quite nervous, which always caused her to lose her voice. In vain she attempted an expostulation, and, what between her efforts and the rising exultation, I began to apprehend she would have a fit, so I comforted her, and said, "Never mind, Madame, we will have a window without doubt somewhere, and at present you see we don't want one, for the door throws in so much light, that we never found out we ought to have windows." I don't think the clerk of the works spoke for the next half hour, she was so annoyed; but, what we thought a great misfortune proved afterwards a very desirable thing, for it was most refreshing in the glaring sunshine and hot baking air to come into the dark cool house, the walls of which being so thick, and filled up with clay, preventing the heat penetrating into it.

So we carried on the discussion about the name; Madame, Sybil, Serena, and Winifred all for calling it Maescelyn. Oscar, Felix, Lilly, and Jenny all against it. The little Mother, not having recovered herself gave no name, Gatty was waiting for her opinion before she gave any, for, though in constant warfare, their similarity of tastes made them in reality sworn friends. Hargrave also would give no name, principally because she said, "It was a 'orrifying place, and very outrageous," by which we suppose she meant outlandish. Though urged by the little ones, whom she suspected were laughing at her, to explain, she would not, but went off into a discussion upon dress, and, bidding the young ladies to look at her Mistress dressed in Christmas robes, with her hair so beautifully plaited in a basket plait, and her curls so smooth and bright, and her black satin gown sitting and hanging so becomingly and well. "And then to think she could like such a 'ole of an hisland, where no one could see how she 'ad hattired her Mistress, and to give such a 'eathen place a name too, was more than she could bear." So the girls who loved to tease her, declared her Mistress did not look one bit better than the rest of the party, and that Madame's neat plain white cap was the prettiest thing at the dinner table, or Jenny's smart blue one, with bows and ends all over it. As she was too-matter-of-fact to see any joke in this, and as her Mistress's hair was her weak point, she waxed wrath, and began a splendid description, misplacing all the h's, and making such a sad havoc amongst her parts of speech, that it was difficult to make out what she wished us must to admire, whether her Mistress, or diamonds, or black velvet, herself or hair. I had the casting vote in giving a name to the house, but, previously, I thought it as well that we should give a name to our island. "Certainly, certainly," was said on all sides, and also most voices decided it should be a Welsh name; therefore, in a glass of lime punch, after a long discussion, we christened our island "Yr Ynys Unyg," the last word, Unyg, being pronounced as inig. This in English signified "The Lonely Island." Much as I wished all my dear companions to feel happy, and to be as much at home in our painful situation as circumstances would allow, and, much also as I liked the notion of our calling everything about us by home names, I yet shrunk from giving the name of our beloved home to the hut in which we now seemed doomed to pass our days. Several times I attempted to begin upon the subject, but it was too painful and I dared not trust my voice, lest its faltering should show my companions that this Christmas-day was not one of unmixed pleasure, and I was the more anxious to restrain my feelings as I could easily perceive that a little was only wanting to turn our day of feasting into one of mourning. It was not, therefore, until repeated entreaties had been urged, that, at last, I said somewhat shortly, and with an effort of hilarity, "I think we will call our house 'Cartref Pellenig,' or 'The Distant Home,' because—because—"