Shifting Winds: A Tough Yarn Part 7

"He thought it his duty to be so," answered Kenneth.

"And you agreed with him?" pursued Gaff.

"No, never!" cried the other indignantly. "I regretted deeply the course my father saw fit to pursue. I sympathised very strongly with my dear sister and poor Tom Graham."

"Did you?" said Gaff.

"Most truly I did."

"Hum. You spoke of suspicions--wot was your suspicions?"

"To be candid with you, then," said Kenneth, "when I came to see you I suspected that it was _you_ who left that child at our house, for I heard of your sudden re-appearance in Cove, but I am convinced now that I was wrong, for I know you would not tell me a falsehood, Gaff."

"No more I would, sir," said Gaff, drawing himself up, "and no more I _did_; but let me tell to you, sir, nevertheless, that your suspicions is c'rect. _I_ left Emmie Wilson at your house, and Emmie Wilson _is_ Emma Graham!"

Kenneth stopped and looked earnestly at his companion.

"My sister and brother?" he asked in a low suppressed voice.

"Dead, both of 'em," said Gaff.

With a mighty effort Kenneth restrained his feelings, and, after walking in silence for some time, asked why Gaff had concealed this from his family, and how it happened that the child did not know her proper name.

"You see, sir," replied the sailor, "I've know'd all along of your father's ill-will to Mr Graham and his wife, for I went out with them to Australia, and they tuk a fancy to me, d'ye see, an' so did I to them, so we made it up that we'd jine company, pull in the same boat, so to speak, though it _was_ on the land we was goin' and not the sea.

There's a proverb, sir, that says, `misfortin makes strange bed fellows,' an' I 'spose it's the same proverb as makes strange messmates; anyhow, poor Tom Graham, he an' me an' his wife, we become messmates, an' of course we spun no end o' yarns about our kith and kin, so I found out how your father had treated of 'em, which to say truth I warn't s'prised at, for I've obsarved for years past that he's hard as nails, altho' he _is_ your father, sir, an' has let many a good ship go to the bottom for want o' bein' properly found--"

"You need not criticise my father, Gaff," said Kenneth, with a slight frown. "Many men's sins are not so black as they look. Prevailing custom and temptation may have had more to do with his courses of action than hardness of heart."

"I dun know _that_," said Gaff, "hows'ever, I don't mean for to krittysise him, though I'm bound to say his sins is uncommon dark grey, if they ain't black. Well, I wos a-goin' to say that Mr Graham had some rich relations in Melbourne as he didn't want for to see. He was a proud man, you know, sir, an' didn't want 'em to think he cared a stiver for 'em, so he changed his name to Wilson, an' let his beard an'

mowstaches grow, so that when he put his cap on there was nothin' of him visible except his eyes and his nose stickin' out of his face, an' when his hair grew long, an' his face was tanned wi' the sun, his own mother would have cut him dead if she'd met him in the street.

"Well, we worked a year in Melbourne to raise the wind. Tom, (he made me call him Tom, sir), bein' a clever fellow, got into a store as a clerk, an' I got work as a porter at the quays; an' though his work was more gentlemanly than mine, I made very near as much as him, so we lived comfortable, and laid by a little. That winter little Emma was born.

She just come to poor Tom and his wife like a great sunbeam. Arter that we went a year to the diggin's, and then I got to weary to see my old missus, so I left 'em with a promise to return. I com'd home, saw my wife, and then went out again to jine the Grahams for another spell at the diggin's; then I come home again for another spell wi' the missus, an' so I kep' goin' and comin', year by year, till now.

"Tom was a lucky digger. He resolved to quit for good and all, and return to settle in England. He turned all he had into gold-dust, and put it in a box, with which he shipped aboard the `Fairy Queen,' of which I was one o' the crew at the time. The `Fairy Queen,' you must understand, had changed owners just about that time, havin' bin named the `Hawk' on the voyage out. We sailed together, and got safe to British waters, an' wos knocked all to bits on British rocks, 'cause the compa.s.ses wasn't worth a b.u.t.ton, as no more wos our charts, bein' old ones, an' the chain o' the best bower anchor had bin got cheap, and wasn't fit to hold a jolly-boat, so that w'en we drove on a lee-sh.o.r.e, and let go the anchor to keep off the reefs, it parted like a bit o'

packthread. I took charge of Emmie, and, by G.o.d's blessin', got safe to land. All the rest went down.

"Now, sir," continued Gaff, "it came into my head that if I took the little gal to her grandfather, he, bein' as hard as nails, an' desp'rit unforgivin', would swear I wos tellin' a lie, and refuse to take her in.

So I thought I'd just go and put her down in the pa.s.sage an' leave her, so that he'd be obleeged to take her in, d'ye see, not bein' able to see what else to do wi' her. You know he couldn't throw her out, and let her die in the street, could he, sir?"

"Not exactly," replied Kenneth, with a sad smile, "nevertheless he would not find it difficult to dispose of her in some other way; in fact, he has already spoken of sending her to the workhouse."

"You don't say so, sir?"

"Indeed I do, but keep your mind easy, Gaff, for, without telling my father who little Emmie is, I will see to it that she is properly cared for."

Kenneth rode back to town that day with a heart so heavy that the bright eyes of Lizzie Gordon failed to rouse him to even the semblance of cheerfulness, and the effervescing small-talk of the volatile Gildart was almost intolerable.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

DAN HORSEY DOES THE AGREEABLE IN THE KITCHEN.

"Captain Bingley," said Kenneth, entering my study somewhat hastily on the following morning, "I am going to carry off Gildart for the day to have a ride with me, and I looked in on you in pa.s.sing to tell you that Haco has arrived in his schooner, and that he is going to sail this evening for London and will take your Russians to their consul if you wish it."

"Thank you, lad; many thanks," said I, "some of them may be able to go, but others, I fear, are too much hurt, and may require to be nursed in the `Home' for some time yet. I will consider it; meanwhile will you carry a note to your father for me?"

"With pleasure; at least I will send Dan Horsey with it, if that will do as well."

"Quite as well, if you can spare him; send him into the kitchen while I write the note. Adieu, lad, and see that you don't break Gildart's neck. Remember that he is not much accustomed to horses."

"No fear of him," said Kenneth, looking back with a laugh as he reached the door, "he is well used to riding out hard gales, and that is more arduous work than steeple-chasing." When Dan Horsey was told to go to the kitchen and await further orders, he received the command with a cheerful smile, and, attaching the bridle of his horse to a post, proceeded to obey it.

The kitchen of Bingley Hall was the abode of two females who severally owned a distinct and dissimilar character, both mental and physical.

The first female--first in most senses of the word--was Bounder the cook, who was fat, as cooks ought to be in order to prove that their productions agree with them; and self-opinionated, as cooks generally are, in order, no doubt, to prove that they know their business.

The second female was Susan Barepoles, a slim, graceful housemaid, apparently modest, (cook did not even pretend to that virtue), and wonderfully sharp-eyed. Both females were good-looking and young, and both were desperately in love with Daniel Horsey. Each knew the fact, and so did Dan. Each was mortally jealous of the other, and Dan was dreadfully perplexed in consequence.

Not that he was uncertain as to which of the two he preferred, for Susan's image was "engruven," as he expressed it, deeply on his heart, to the exclusion of all other images, but he found that the jealousy of the two interfered somewhat with the course of true love, causing it to run in its proverbially rough channel.

"It's a fine mornin', my darlints," said Dan, as he entered the kitchen with a swagger, and laid his hat and riding-whip on the dresser, at the same time seating himself on the edge of a small table that stood near the window. This seat he preferred to a chair, partly because it enabled him to turn his back to the light, and partly because it afforded him an opportunity of swinging his legs gently with an easy motion that was agreeable, and, at the same time, in his opinion, graceful.

"None o' yer imperance," said cook, stirring the contents of a large pan carefully.

Susan tossed her head slightly, but admitted that the morning _was_ good.

"He's a-writin' of a letter to Grumpy," said Dan, pointing with his thumb towards the ceiling, in order to indicate that the "he" referred to was myself.

"Who's Grumpy?" inquired cook, with a look of interest.

"Arrah, now, don't ye know it's old Stuart?"

Susan laughed, and cook observed that the name seemed to her an extremely disrespectful one.

"It's not bad enough for him, the old pair o' tongs," said Dan, taking up his whip with a gentlemanly a.s.sumption of ease, and flipping the toe of his boot with it; "av it wasn't for the love that my master Kenneth bears me, I'd have left 'em long ago. But, you see, the young master is a first-rater, and couldn't get on without me no how, so I'm willin' to stop. Besides," continued Dan, with a _very_ small sigh, "I have private raisons for not carin' to leave just now."

He accompanied the latter remark with a sly glance at Susan, who chanced quite accidentally to cast a sly glance at Dan, so that their eyes met, and the result was that Susan blushed and began to rub the silver tea-pot, which she was cleaning, unmercifully, and Dan laughed.

Whereupon cook looked round hastily and asked what he was laughing at, to which Dan responded that his own imagination, which happened to be a brilliant one, had just then suggested a train of comical ideas which had tickled his risible muscles so that he couldn't help it!

"I don't believe it," said cook, who observed Susan's confusion of face, and became internally red hot with jealousy, "I b'lieve you was larfin'

at me."

"Och, Miss Bounder!" exclaimed Dan, looking at her with an expression so awfully reproachful that cook instantly repented and laughed.

"There's bin some strange doin's up at the Villa," said Susan, by way of changing the subject, while she polished the tea-pot yet more unmercifully.

"Ah," exclaimed cook, "that's true; what does it all mean, Mr Horsey?"