Shifting Winds: A Tough Yarn by R. M. Ballantyne (best free ebook reader txt) đ
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
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âHum. You spoke of suspicionsâwot was your suspicions?â
âTo be candid with you, then,â said Kenneth, âwhen 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.â
âNo more I would, sir,â said Gaff, drawing himself up, âand no more I did; but let me tell to you, sir, nevertheless, that your suspicions is cârect. I left Emmie Wilson at your house, and Emmie Wilson is Emma Graham!â
Kenneth stopped and looked earnestly at his companion.
âMy sister and brother?â he asked in a low suppressed voice.
âDead, both of âem,â 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.
âYou see, sir,â replied the sailor, âIâve knowâd all along of your fatherâs ill-will to Mr Graham and his wife, for I went out with them to Australia, and they tuk a fancy to me, dâye see, anâ so did I to them, so we made it up that weâd jine company, pull in the same boat, so to speak, though it was on the land we was goinâ and not the sea. Thereâs a proverb, sir, that says, âmisfortin makes strange bed fellows,â anâ I âspose itâs the same proverb as makes strange messmates; anyhow, poor Tom Graham, he anâ me anâ his wife, we become messmates, anâ of course we spun no end oâ yarns about our kith and kin, so I found out how your father had treated of âem, which to say truth I warnât sâprised at, for Iâve obsarved for years past that heâs hard as nails, althoâ he is your father, sir, anâ has let many a good ship go to the bottom for want oâ beinâ properly foundââ
âYou need not criticise my father, Gaff,â said Kenneth, with a slight frown. âMany menâs 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.â
âI dun know that,â said Gaff, âhowsâever, I donât mean for to krittysise him, though Iâm bound to say his sins is uncommon dark grey, if they ainât black. Well, I wos a-goinâ to say that Mr Graham had some rich relations in Melbourne as he didnât want for to see. He was a proud man, you know, sir, anâ didnât want âem to think he cared a stiver for âem, so he changed his name to Wilson, anâ let his beard anâ mowstaches grow, so that when he put his cap on there was nothinâ of him visible except his eyes and his nose stickinâ out of his face, anâ when his hair grew long, anâ his face was tanned wiâ the sun, his own mother would have cut him dead if sheâd met him in the street.
âWell, we worked a year in Melbourne to raise the wind. Tom, (he made me call him Tom, sir), beinâ a clever fellow, got into a store as a clerk, anâ I got work as a porter at the quays; anâ 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 digginâs, and then I got to weary to see my old missus, so I left âem with a promise to return. I comâd home, saw my wife, and then went out again to jine the Grahams for another spell at the digginâs; then I come home again for another spell wiâ the missus, anâ so I kepâ goinâ and cominâ, year by year, till now.
âTom 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 âFairy Queen,â of which I was one oâ the crew at the time. The âFairy Queen,â you must understand, had changed owners just about that time, havinâ bin named the âHawkâ on the voyage out. We sailed together, and got safe to British waters, anâ wos knocked all to bits on British rocks, âcause the compasses wasnât worth a button, as no more wos our charts, beinâ old ones, anâ the chain oâ the best bower anchor had bin got cheap, and wasnât fit to hold a jolly-boat, so that wâen we drove on a lee-shore, and let go the anchor to keep off the reefs, it parted like a bit oâ packthread. I took charge of Emmie, and, by Godâs blessinâ, got safe to land. All the rest went down.
âNow, sir,â continued Gaff, âit came into my head that if I took the little gal to her grandfather, he, beinâ as hard as nails, anâ despârit unforgivinâ, would swear I wos tellinâ a lie, and refuse to take her in. So I thought Iâd just go and put her down in the passage anâ leave her, so that heâd be obleeged to take her in, dâye see, not beinâ able to see what else to do wiâ her. You know he couldnât throw her out, and let her die in the street, could he, sir?â
âNot exactly,â replied Kenneth, with a sad smile, ânevertheless 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.â
âYou donât say so, sir?â
âIndeed 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.â
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.
âCaptain Bingley,â said Kenneth, entering my study somewhat hastily on the following morning, âI am going to carry off Gildart for the day to have a ride with me, and I looked in on you in passing 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.â
âThank you, lad; many thanks,â said I, âsome of them may be able to go, but others, I fear, are too much hurt, and may require to be nursed in the âHomeâ for some time yet. I will consider it; meanwhile will you carry a note to your father for me?â
âWith pleasure; at least I will send Dan Horsey with it, if that will do as well.â
âQuite as well, if you can spare him; send him into the kitchen while I write the note. Adieu, lad, and see that you donât break Gildartâs neck. Remember that he is not much accustomed to horses.â
âNo fear of him,â said Kenneth, looking back with a laugh as he reached the door, âhe is well used to riding out hard gales, and that is more arduous work than steeple-chasing.â 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 femaleâfirst in most senses of the wordâwas 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 Susanâs image was âengruven,â 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.
âItâs a fine morninâ, my darlints,â 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.
âNone oâ yer imperance,â said cook, stirring the contents of a large pan carefully.
Susan tossed her head slightly, but admitted that the morning was good.
âHeâs a-writinâ of a letter to Grumpy,â said Dan, pointing with his thumb towards the ceiling, in order to indicate that the âheâ referred to was myself.
âWhoâs Grumpy?â inquired cook, with a look of interest.
âArrah, now, donât ye know itâs old Stuart?â
Susan laughed, and cook observed that the name seemed to her an extremely disrespectful one.
âItâs not bad enough for him, the old pair oâ tongs,â said Dan, taking up his whip with a gentlemanly assumption of ease, and flipping the toe of his boot with it; âav it wasnât for the love that my master Kenneth bears me, Iâd have left âem long ago. But, you see, the young master is a first-rater, and couldnât get on without me no how, so Iâm willinâ to stop. Besides,â continued Dan, with a very small sigh, âI have private raisons for not carinâ to leave just now.â
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 couldnât help it!
âI donât believe it,â said cook, who observed Susanâs confusion of face, and became internally red hot with jealousy, âI bâlieve you was larfinâ at me.â
âOch, Miss Bounder!â exclaimed Dan, looking at her with an expression so awfully reproachful that cook instantly repented and laughed.
âThereâs bin some strange doinâs up at the Villa,â said Susan, by way of changing the subject, while she polished the tea-pot yet more unmercifully.
âAh,â exclaimed cook, âthatâs true; what does it all mean, Mr Horsey?â
âThatâs more nor myself can tell,â said Dan; âthe facts oâ the case is clear, so far as they comeâd under our obsarvation. But as to the circumstances oâ the case, âspecially those of âem as hasnât yet transpired, I donât rightly know myself wot opinions I ought to entertain.â
Susan listened to these remarks with profound admiration, chiefly because she did not understand them; but cook, who was more matter-of-fact in her nature, and somewhat demonstrative in her tendencies, advised Dan not to talk gammon, but to explain what he
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