The Breakfast Party at Seaside Villa.

The morning after the storm was bright and beautiful. The breakers, indeed, were still thundering on the shore, but otherwise the sea was calm, and the sun shone into the breakfast parlour of Seaside Villa with a degree of intensity that might have warmed the heart of an oyster. It certainly warmed the heart of the household cat, which, being an early riser, was first down-stairs, and lay at full length on the rug, enjoying at once the heat of the glowing fire which tinged its brown back with red, and the blazing sun which turned its white breast yellow.

Presently a dark cloud entered the room. It sat on the brow of George Stuart, Esquire, of Wreckumoft, the head of the family. Mr Stuart walked up to the fire and turned his back to it, as if to offer it a deliberate insult, while yet he accepted all the benefit it could afford him on that cold December morning.

The cat being in his way, he moved it out of his way with his foot. He did it roughly, but he did not exactly kick it, for he was not a cruel, or naturally unkind man.

Having disposed of the cat, and looked twice at his watch, and blown his nose three times—the last twice unnecessarily—Mr Stuart rang the bell with violence.

Mrs Niven entered.

“Why is breakfast not ready?” said the master with asperity.

“Breakfast is ready, sir,” replied the housekeeper with dignity.

“Where is my sister, then, and the rest of them?” The questioner was partly answered by the abrupt and somewhat flurried entrance of the sister referred to.

“What’s the meaning of this, Peppy?” demanded Mr Stuart with a frown.

“My dear George,” said Miss Peppy, bustling about actively, “I really am sorry, but you know things can’t always be just as one would wish, and then when things do turn out occasionally as one would not wish, and as one had no expectation of, and, so to speak, without consulting one at all, (dear me, where is that key?)—and when one can’t help things turning out so, you know, it’s really too much to—to—you know what I mean, brother; come now, be reasonable.”

“I do not know what you mean, Peppy,” (the lady’s name when unabbreviated was Penelope, but as she never was so named by any one, she might as well not have had the name at all), “and,” continued Mr Stuart, emphatically, “I would advise you to be reasonable and explain yourself.”

“Dear George, how can you,” said Miss Peppy, who talked with great volubility, and who never for a moment ceased to bustle about the room in a series of indescribable, as well as unaccountable, not to say unnecessary, preparations for the morning meal, which had already been prepared to perfection by Mrs Niven; “you surely don’t forget—things do happen so surprisingly at times—really, you know, I can not see why we should be subjected to such surprises. I’m quite sure that no good comes of it, and then it makes one look so foolish. Why human beings were made to be surprised so, I never could understand. No one ever sees pigs, or horses, or cows surprised, and they seem to get through life a great deal easier than we do, at all events they have less worry, and they never leave their children at their neighbour’s doors and run away—what can have got it?—I’m quite sure I put it there last night with the thimble and scissors.”

Miss Peppy thrust her right hand deep into that mysterious receptacle of household miscellanies her pocket, and fingered the contents inquiringly for a few moments.

“What are you looking for?” inquired her brother impatiently.

“The key of the press,” said Miss Peppy with a look of weariness and disappointment.

“What key is that in your left hand?” said Mr Stuart.

“Why, I declare, that’s it!” exclaimed his sister with a laugh; “there is no accounting for things. My whole life is a series of small surprises and perplexities. I wonder what I was born for! It seems to me so ridiculous that so serious a thing as life should be taken up with such little trifles.”

“What’s that you say about trifles, aunt?” asked Kenneth, who entered the room at the moment, and saluted Miss Peppy on the cheek.

“Nothing, Kennie, nothing worth mentioning,” (she seated herself at the table and began to pour out the tea): “it seems that you have been saving more lives last night.”

“Well, yes, at least I saved one,” said Kenneth, with a look of mingled pride and pleasure; “stout John Furby, the coxswain of the new lifeboat, was knocked overboard and nearly drowned. Bucephalus and I chanced to be near the spot at the time, so we managed to pull him out between us.”

“I don’t like Bucephalus,” observed Miss Peppy, stirring her tea with her egg-spoon by mistake.

“Don’t you, aunt—why?”

“Because he’s so big and strong and fierce. I wonder you can take pleasure in riding such a great cart-horse, Kennie.”

Miss Peppy at this moment discovered her mistake in regard to the egg-spoon, and rectified it, observing with a look of resignation, that there was no accounting for the way in which things happened in this world.

“Don’t call my Bucephalus a cart-horse, aunt,” said Kenneth, beginning to eat languidly; “true, he is uncommonly big and strong, but then I am unusually big too, so we’re well matched; and then his limbs are as delicately turned as those of a racer; and you should see him taking a five-barred gate, aunt!—he carries me over as if I were a mere feather. Think of his swimming powers too. John Furby is not the first man he has enabled me to drag out of the stormy sea. Ah! he’s a noble horse—worthy of higher praise than you seem inclined to give him, believe me.”

“Well I’m sure I have no objection to the horse if you have none, Kennie, and it’s a good thing for a beast to be able to save human lives, though why human lives should require to be saved at all is a mystery that I never could fathom; surely if men would only agree to give up going to sea altogether, and never build any more ships, there would be no more drowning, and no need of lifeboats and cork boots—or coats, I forget which—that enable them to walk on the water, or float in it, I don’t remember which. I’m sure with all that I have to remember it’s no wonder—what with ridiculous little trifles to worry one, such as keys, and thimbles, and scissors, when we should be giving our minds to the solemn realities of life—and then,—as if that were not enough for any woman’s shoulders,—to have a little child left at one’s door.”

“Oh, by the way,” interrupted Kenneth, “I had quite forgotten the child. Mrs Niven told me about it, and I looked into the crib as I went up to bed last night, or rather this morning, and saw that it was sleeping—somewhat restlessly I fancied. Who brought it here?”

Mr Stuart, who had hitherto eaten his breakfast in silence, looked at his sister as if the reply would interest him.

Before the answer could be given the door opened, and a smart handsome youth of apparently eighteen years of age entered. His dress bespoke him a midshipman in the navy, and the hearty familiarity of his manner showed that he was on intimate terms with the family.

“Gildart, my boy, how are you?” cried Kenneth, springing up and shaking the youth warmly by both hands.

“Hearty, old fellow, and happy to see my ancient chum. How d’ye do, Miss Penelope? How are ye, Mr Stuart?”

My son Gildart had been Kenneth’s favourite companion when they were boys at school. They had not met for many years.

“Sit down,” said Kenneth, pressing his friend into a chair; “when did you arrive; where did you come from; what brought you home?—your appearance is so unexpected!—hope you’ve come to stay with us. Had breakfast?”

“Well, now, such a string of ’em to answer all at once,” replied Gildart Bingley, laughing. “Suppose I try to reply in the same order—came this morning; direct from China, where we’ve been sinking junks and peppering pirates; got leave of absence for a few weeks to run down here and see the old folks at home; whether I stay with you will depend on the treatment I receive; I have had breakfast, and came down here supposing that yours would have been over—but I’m capable of a second meal at any time; have tried a third occasionally with reasonable success. Now, Kennie—I’m not afraid to call you by the old name, you see, although you have grown so big and manly, not to say fierce—having answered your questions, will you be so good as to tell me if it’s all true 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.