The road to the Cove1 lay along the top of the cliffs, and was in many parts exceedingly picturesque2; now passing, in the form of a mere3 bridle4-path, along the verge5 of the precipices6, where thousands of sea-gulls floated around the giddy heights, or darted7 down into the waves which fell on shingly8 beach, or promontory9, or bay of yellow sand, far below; anon cutting across the grassy10 downs on some bold headland, or diverging11 towards the interior, and descending12 into a woody dell in order to avoid a creek13 or some other arm of the sea that had cleft14 the rocks and intruded15 on the land.
The day was sunny and sufficiently16 warm to render a slow pace agreeable to my nag17, which was a sedate18 animal, inclined to corpulency like myself. My young companions and their horses were incapable19 of restraining themselves to my pace, so they dashed on ahead at intervals20, and sometimes came back to me at full gallop21. 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, enchanting24.
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 prospects25 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 entirely26 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 thoroughly27 that he was as obedient as a dog. He followed Kenneth about, and would trot28 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 docility29, 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 plunging30 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 vaulted31 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 cracker32. 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 descended33 abruptly34 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 intercept35 the runaway36. 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, reined37 the horse almost on his haunches, then turned him gradually aside until he galloped38 with him to a place of safety.
This episode induced us to ride the rest of the way in a more leisurely39 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 inquiry41 as to the health of John Furby, he took the seaman42 out and walked towards the Downs.
“Well, Stephen, you have been wrecked43 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 uncommon45 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 rigid46 system of inspection47 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 annually48 on our shores, and that because of the indifference49 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’ wreck44 and may turn up yet.”
“At all events none of them came ashore50, 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 Villa40, and candidly52 admitted his suspicion that the child was his niece.
“But,” said Gaff, whose visage was as devoid53 of expression as a fiddle54 figure-head, “your brother-in-law’s name was Graham, you know.”
“True, that’s what puzzles me; the child’s Christian55 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 likeness56 to my sister in this child, and I cannot get rid of the impression, although I confess that it seems unreasonable57. 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 spoke58 of suspicions—wot was your suspicions?”
“To be candid51 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 mighty59 effort Kenneth restrained his feelings, and, after walking in silence for some time, asked why Gaff had concealed60 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 spun61 no end o’ yarns62 about our kith and kin23, 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 criticise63 my father, Gaff,” said Kenneth, with a slight frown. “Many men’s sins are not so black as they look. Prevailing64 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 quays65; 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’ bin66 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 bower67 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 gal22 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 semblance68 of cheerfulness, and the effervescing69 small-talk of the volatile70 Gildart was almost intolerable.
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1
cove
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| n.小海湾，小峡谷 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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precipices
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| n.悬崖，峭壁( precipice的名词复数 ) | |
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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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shingly
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| adj.小石子多的 | |
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promontory
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| n.海角；岬 | |
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grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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diverging
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| 分开( diverge的现在分词 )； 偏离； 分歧； 分道扬镳 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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cleft
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| n.裂缝；adj.裂开的 | |
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15
intruded
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| n.侵入的，推进的v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的过去式和过去分词 )；把…强加于 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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nag
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| v.(对…)不停地唠叨；n.爱唠叨的人 | |
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sedate
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| adj.沉着的，镇静的，安静的 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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gal
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| n.姑娘，少女 | |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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docility
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| n.容易教，易驾驶，驯服 | |
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plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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cracker
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| n.（无甜味的）薄脆饼干 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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intercept
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| vt.拦截，截住，截击 | |
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runaway
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| n.逃走的人，逃亡，亡命者；adj.逃亡的，逃走的 | |
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reined
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| 勒缰绳使（马）停步( rein的过去式和过去分词 )； 驾驭； 严格控制； 加强管理 | |
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galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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seaman
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| n.海员，水手，水兵 | |
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wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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annually
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| adv.一年一次，每年 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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53
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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54
fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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58
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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61
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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yarns
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| n.纱( yarn的名词复数 )；纱线；奇闻漫谈；旅行轶事 | |
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criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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quays
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| 码头( quay的名词复数 ) | |
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bin
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| n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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67
bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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69
effervescing
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| v.冒气泡，起泡沫( effervesce的现在分词 ) | |
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70
volatile
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| adj.反复无常的，挥发性的，稍纵即逝的，脾气火爆的；n.挥发性物质 | |
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