that I hear of your having saved the life of a fisherman last night?”
“It is true that I pulled him out of the sea, aided and abetted by Bucephalus, but whether all that you have heard of me is true I cannot tell, not knowing what you have heard. Who told you of it?”
“Who? why the household of the Bingleys, to be sure—all speaking at once, and each louder than the other, with the exception of my pretty coz, by the way, who did not speak at all until the others were out of breath, and then she gave me such a graphic account of the affair that I would certainly have forgotten where I was, and been transported to the scene of action, had not her pretty flushed face and blazing black eyes riveted me to the spot where I sat. I actually gave vent to an irresistible cheer when she concluded. D’ye know, Kennie, you seem to have made an impression in that quarter? I wish I were you!”
The little midshipman sighed, and helped himself to a second slice of buttered toast. Kenneth laughed lightly, glanced askance at his father, and requested another cup of tea. Mr Stuart glanced at his son, frowned at his finished egg, and stuck the spoon through the bottom of the shell as he would have struck a dagger into the hopes of Kenneth, had he possessed the power.
“Peppy,” he said, pushing his cup from him, “before our young friend arrived, you were speaking of the little boy who was left mysteriously here last night—”
“It’s a girl,” interrupted Miss Peppy, “not but that it might have been a boy, brother, if it had been born so, but one cannot ignore facts, and to the best of my belief it was a girl last night. To be sure I was very sleepy when I saw it, but it may be a boy this morning for all I know to the contrary. I’m sure the perplexities that do surround us in this world!” (Here Miss Peppy sighed.) “But if there is any doubt on the question we had better ring for Mrs Niven, and send her up-stairs to ascertain.”
At that moment Mrs Niven entered, and handed a letter to Mr Stuart.
“Niven,” said Miss Peppy, who spoke so fast, all in one tone, that no one had a chance of interrupting her,—“Niven, will you be so good as to go up-stairs and inquire whether the girl—no, the boy—I—I mean the young human being, that—”
“La! ma’am,” exclaimed the housekeeper in surprise, “why do you call her a boy? She’s as sweet and lovely a girl as ever my two heyes looked on. I never saw nothink like ’er golden ’air—it’s quite ’eavenly, ma’am, if I may use the hexpression.”
“Oh! she is a girl then? ah! I thought so,” said Miss Peppy, with a sigh of resignation, as if the fact were a perplexity too deep for investigation, at least at that time.
“It matters nothing to me,” said Mr Stuart sternly, “whether she be a boy or a girl, I mean to send her to the workhouse.”
“Workhouse, brother!” exclaimed Miss Peppy in surprise.
“Workhouse, sir!” echoed Mrs Niven in horror.
“Father!” said Kenneth, remonstratively.
“Mrs Niven,” said Mr Stuart, breaking the seal of the letter very slowly, “you may leave the room. Sister, I do not choose to have my intentions commented on in such a manner, especially before the domestics. This child I have nothing whatever to do with; it has no claim on me, and I shall certainly hand it over to the parochial authorities to be dealt with—”
“According to law,” suggested the middy.
“Yes, according to law,” assented Mr Stuart with much severity, applying himself to the letter while the rest of the party rose from table.
“Dear me!” he exclaimed, with an expression of annoyance, as his eye fell on the first lines, “I find that Emma and her good-for-nothing husband will, in all likelihood, be here to-night.”
“To-night, father!” said Kenneth, with a look of gladness.
“Probably,” replied Mr Stuart. “The vessel in which they sailed from Australia was seen off the Lizard yesterday, at least my agent writes that he thinks it was the ‘Hawk,’ but the fog was too thick to permit of a clear sight being obtained; so, I suppose, we shall be inflicted with them and their child to-night or to-morrow.”
“To-night or to-morrow, it may be so, if they have weathered the storm,” muttered Kenneth in a deep, sad tone.
Chapter Six.
Kenneth indulges in Suspicions and Surmises
“Will you walk or ride?” said Kenneth Stuart as he and Gildart issued from Seaside Villa, and sauntered down the avenue that led to the principal gate.
“Ride, by all means,” said Gildart, “if you have a respectable horse. I love to ride, not only on the ‘bursting tide,’ but on the back of a thoroughbred, if he’s not too tough in the mouth, and don’t incline to shy.”
Kenneth replied that he had a mount to give him, which, although not quite thoroughbred, was nevertheless a good animal, and not addicted to the bad qualities objected to.
As he spoke Daniel Horsey walked up, and, touching his hat, asked if the horses would be required.
“Yes, Dan. Is Bucephalus none the worse of last night’s work?”
“Niver a taste, sur. He’s like a lark this mornin’.”
“Well, saddle him, and also the brown horse. Bring them both over to Captain Bingley’s as soon as you can.”
“Yis, sur.” Dan touched his cap, and walked smartly away.
“Why to my father’s?” asked Gildart.
“Because, after your father and Miss Gordon were exposed to such unwonted fatigue, I wish to inquire for them personally.”
“Humph! you’re not satisfied with my assurance that they are well?”
“Not quite, my boy,” said Kenneth, with a smile; “I wish to have the assurance from the lips of your sweet cousin.”
“Whew! in love!” exclaimed Gildart.
“No; not in love yet,” replied the other; “but, to change the subject, did you observe the manner in which my father received the news of the arrival of the ‘Hawk?’”
“Well, it did not require a fellow to have his weather eye very wide-open to perceive that your father has a decided objection to his son-in-law, and does not seem over anxious to meet with him or his wife or child. What have they been up to, Kennie—eloped, eh?”
“No, they did not exactly elope, but they married without my father’s consent, or rather against his wishes, and were discarded in consequence. You must not think my father is an unkind man, but he was deeply disappointed at poor Emma’s choice; for, to say truth, her husband was a wild harum-scarum sort of fellow, fond of steeple-chasing—”
“Like you,” interpolated Gildart.
“Like me,” assented Kenneth, with a nod, “and also of yachting and boating, like you.”
“Like me,” assented the middy.
“Nevertheless,” resumed Kenneth, “a good-hearted fellow in the main, who, I am certain, would have acted his part in life well if he
