The road to the Cove lay along the top of the cliffs, and was in many
parts exceedingly picturesque; now passing, in the form of a mere
bridle-path, along the verge of the precipices, where thousands of
sea-gulls floated around the giddy heights, or darted down into the
waves which fell on shingly beach, or promontory, or bay of yellow sand,
far below; anon cutting across the grassy downs on some bold headland,
or diverging towards the interior, and descending into a woody dell in
order to avoid a creek or some other arm of the sea that had cleft the
rocks and intruded on the land.
The day was sunny and sufficiently warm to render a slow pace agreeable
to my nag, which was a sedate animal, inclined to corpulency like
myself. My young companions and their horses were incapable of
restraining themselves to my pace, so they dashed on ahead at intervals,
and sometimes came back to me at full gallop. At other times they
dismounted and stood on the cliffs looking at the view of the sea, which
appeared to them, as it has always been to me, enchanting.
I think a view from a high cliff of the great blue sea, dotted with the
white and brown sails of ships and boats, is one of the grandest as well
as the most pleasant prospects under the sun.
Kenneth Stuart thought so too, for I heard him make use of that or some
similar expression to Lizzie as he stood beside her talking earnestly,
in spite of the light and jocular remarks of my son, who stood at
Lizzie's other side commenting on things in general with that easy
freedom of speech which is characteristic of middies in the British
navy, although not entirely confined to them.
The party had dismounted, and Kenneth held Lizzie's horse by the bridle,
while Gildart held his own. Bucephalus was roaming at large. His
master had trained him so thoroughly that he was as obedient as a dog.
He followed Kenneth about, and would trot up to him when he whistled. I
don't think I ever saw such a magnificent horse, as to size, beauty, and
spirit, coupled with docility, either before or since.
"Why, uncle, we thought you must have gone to sleep," said Lizzie,
turning towards me with a laugh as I rode up.
"Or fallen over the cliffs," added Gildart.
"In either case you would not have taken it much to heart, apparently,"
said I; "come, mount and push on."
Lizzie placed her little foot in Kenneth's hand, and was in the saddle
like a flash of thought, and with the lightness of a rose-leaf.
Gildart, being a little fellow, and his horse a tall one, got into the
saddle, according to his own statement, as a lands-man clambers into the
main-top through the "lubber's hole" in a squall; and I think the idea
was not far-fetched, for, during the process of mounting, his steed was
plunging like a ship in a heavy sea. Bucephalus came up at once when
whistled to.
"You seem very fond of your horse," said Lizzie, as Kenneth vaulted into
the saddle.
"I _love_ him," replied the youth enthusiastically.
"You love other creatures besides horses," thought I; but the thought
had barely passed through my brain when Lizzie went off like an arrow.
Kenneth sprang forward like a thunderbolt, and Gildart followed--if I
may so speak--like a zig-zag cracker. Now, it chanced that Lizzie's
horse was in a bad humour that morning, so it ran away, just as the
party came to a grassy slope of half a mile in extent. At the end of
this slope the road made a sharp turn, and descended abruptly to the
beach. Kenneth knew that if the horse came to this turn at a furious
gallop, nothing could save Lizzie from destruction. He therefore took
the only course open to him, which was to go by a short cut close along
the edge of the cliff, and thus overshoot and intercept the runaway. He
dashed spurs into Bucephalus, and was off like an arrow from a bow.
There was but one point of danger--a place where the bridle-path was
crossed by a fence, beyond which the road turned sharp to the left. The
risk lay in the difficulty of making the leap and the turn almost at the
same instant. To fail in this would result in horse and man going over
the cliff and being dashed to pieces. On they went like the wind, while
my son and I followed as fast as we could.
"Bravo, Kenneth!" shouted Gildart, as Bucephalus took the fence like a
deer, and disappeared.
Gildart did not know the dangers of the leap: I did, and hastened to the
spot with a feeling of intense alarm. On reaching it I saw Kenneth
flying far down the slope. He was just in time; a few seconds more, and
Lizzie would have been lost. But the bold youth reached the road in
time, caught her bridle, reined the horse almost on his haunches, then
turned him gradually aside until he galloped with him to a place of
safety.
This episode induced us to ride the rest of the way in a more leisurely
fashion.
Arrived at Cove, we each went on our several pieces of business,
arranging to meet at the north end of the village in about an hour
afterwards.
Kenneth found Stephen Gaff at home. Leaving Lizzie to make inquiry as
to the health of John Furby, he took the seaman out and walked towards
the Downs.
"Well, Stephen, you have been wrecked again, I am told?" said Kenneth.
"So I have, sir; it's the sixth time now. It's quite plain I ain't born
to be drownded. I only hope as how I won't live to be hanged."
"I hope not, Stephen. What was the name of the ship?"
"The `Fairy Queen.'"
"The `Fairy Queen,'" echoed Kenneth, with a slight feeling of
disappointment; "from Australia?"
"Yes, from Australia."
"Did she go to pieces?"
"Ay, not an inch of her left. She was an old rotten tub not fit for
sea."
"Indeed! That's by no means an uncommon state of things," said Kenneth,
with some degree of warmth. "It seems to me that until men in power
take the matter up, and get a more rigid system of inspection
instituted, hundreds of lives will continue to be sacrificed every year.
It is an awful thing to think that more than a thousand lives are lost
annually on our shores, and that because of the indifference of those
who have the power, to a large extent, to prevent it. But that is not
the point on which I want to speak to you to-day. Was the `Fairy Queen'
bound for this port?"
"No; for the port of London," said Gaff, with a cautious glance at his
questioner.
"Then why did she make for Wreckumoft?" inquired Kenneth.
"That's best known to the cap'n, who's gone to his long home," said Gaff
gravely.
"Were _all_ lost except yourself?" pursued Kenneth, regarding his
companion's face narrowly; but the said face exhibited no expression
whatever as its owner replied simply--
"It's more than _I_ can tell; mayhap some of 'em were carried away on
bits o' wreck and may turn up yet."
"At all events none of them came ashore, to your knowledge?"
"I believe that every mother's son o' the crew wos lost but me," replied
Gaff evasively.
"Were none of the children saved?"
"What child'n?" asked the other quickly. "I didn't say there was
child'n aboord, did I?"
Kenneth was somewhat confused at having made this slip; and Gaff,
suddenly changing his tactics, stopped short and said--
"I tell 'ee wot it is, young man--seems to me you're pumpin' of me for
some ends of yer own as I'm not acquainted with; now, I tell 'ee wot it
is, I ain't used to be pumped. No offence meant, but I ain't used to be
pumped, an' if you've got anything to say, speak it out fair and above
board like a man."
"Well, well, Gaff," said Kenneth, flushing and laughing at the same
moment, "to say truth, I am not used to pump, as you may see, nor to be
otherwise than fair and aboveboard, as I hope you will believe; but the
fact is that a very curious thing has occurred at our house, and I am
puzzled as well as suspicious, and _very_ anxious about it."
Here Kenneth related all that he knew about the little girl having been
left at Seaside Villa, and candidly admitted his suspicion that the
child was his niece.
"But," said Gaff, whose visage was as devoid of expression as a fiddle
figure-head, "your brother-in-law's name was Graham, you know."
"True, that's what puzzles me; the child's Christian name is Emma--the
same as that of my niece and sister--but she says her last name is
Wilson."
"Well, then, Wilson ain't Graham, you know, any more nor Gaff ain't
Snooks, d'ye see?"
"Yes, I see; but I'm puzzled, for I _do_ see a family likeness to my
sister in this child, and I _cannot_ get rid of the impression, although
I confess that it seems unreasonable. And the thought makes me very
anxious, because, if I were correct in my suspicion, that would prove
that my beloved sister and her husband are drowned."
Kenneth said this with strong feeling, and the seaman looked at him more
earnestly than he had yet done.
"Your father was hard on your sister and her husband, if I bean't
misinformed," said Gaff.
"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
compasses wasn't worth a button, 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-shore,
and let go the anchor to keep off the reefs, it parted like a bit o'
packthread. I took charge of Emmie, and, by God'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 passage 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.