“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.
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 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.”
“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 assumption 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?”
“That’s more nor myself can tell,” said Dan; “the facts o’ the case is clear, so far as they come’d under our obsarvation. But as to the circumstances o’ the case, ’specially those of ’em as hasn’t yet transpired, I don’t rightly know myself wot opinions I ought to entertain.”
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 meant.
“Explain what I mean, coolinary sunbeam!” said Dan; “isn’t it explainin’ that I am as plain as the nose on yer face, (an’ a purty wan it is), though I haven’t got the powers of a lawyer, nor yit a praist? Didn’t a drippin’ wet sailor come to our door at the dead o’ night an’ ring the bell as bowld as brass, an’ when Mrs Niven, whose intellect was niver much beyond that of a poplypus—”
“What’s a poplypus?” interrupted cook.
“Well now,” remonstrated Dan, “I ain’t ’xactly a walkin’ dictionary; but I b’lieve it’s a baist o’ the say what hain’t got nothin’ but a body an’ a stummik, indeed I’m not sure but that it’s all stummik together, with just legs enough to move about with, or may be a fin or two, an’ a hole to let in the wittles; quite in your line, by the way, Miss Bounder.”
“Imperance!” ejaculated cook.
“No offence,” said Dan;