With regard to Percy, of whom his daughter had spoken, the baronet had no fixed thoughts of any kind. He knew the boy—knew him to be the son of a man who was said to be a noted smuggler; but, somehow, the idea of smuggling, as an offence, did not strike him with anything akin to horror.
On the contrary, he thought of it without pain and even without bitterness. Though he would not have willingly admitted a smuggler to his friendship, he would not make war against him. And, further, he would not visit the sins of the father upon the head of the child.
He had met Percy Maitland, and had spoken with him, and had been most agreeably surprised by the beauty of person, and his evident beauty and purity of mind.
He had seen enough of the boy to feel assured that the errors of the sire had not in the least given taint to the son.
Another thing had wrought somewhat upon Sir William’s mind with regard to Percy Maitland. When he had become acquainted with him, the first thought that came to him thereafter found vent in these words, spoken aloud, to himself:
“Oh, what would I give if Matthew could be like that boy! What a blessing he might be to his father! What a blessing to us all!”
He knew that during the summer Cordelia had become not only acquainted, but intimate with the smuggler’s son. One day the little pet had surprised her father by asking him a question in very good French.
“For mercy’s sake! where did you learn that?” he had asked her.
“Ho! Percy taught me; and he is going to teach me to read French. Won’t it be nice?”
And the baronet had suffered it to go on. It was enough for him that his child was the happier for this friendship; and, further, that under its influence she was really improving.