 | CHAPTER XIV. The two admirals |  |
14. CHAPTER XIV.
On the canvass enchantingly glowed;
His touches, they flew like the leaves in a storm;
And the pure pearly white, and the carnation warm,
Contending in harmony flowed.”
Alston.
We shall now ask permission of the reader to advance
the time just eight-and-forty hours; a liberty with the unities
which, he will do us the justice to say, we have not often
taken. We must also transfer the scene to that already
described at Wychecombe, including the Head, the station,
the roads, and the inland and seaward views. Summer
weather had returned, too, the pennants of the ships at anchor
scarce streaming from their masts far enough to form
curved lines. Most of the English fleet was among these
vessels, though the squadron had undergone some changes.
The Druid had got into Portsmouth with la Victoire; the
Driver and Active had made the best of their way to the
nearest ports, with despatches for the admiralty; and the
Achilles, in tow of the Dublin, with the Chloe to take care
of both, had gone to leeward, with square yards, in the
hope of making Falmouth. The rest of the force was present,
the crippled ships having been towed into the roads that
morning. The picture among the shipping was one of extreme
activity and liveliness. Jury-masts were going up in
the Warspite; lower and top-sail-yards were down to be
fished, or new ones were rigging to be sent aloft in their
places; the Plantagenet was all a-tanto, again, in readiness
for another action, with rigging secured and masts fished,
while none but an instructed eye could have detected, at a
short distance, that the Cæsar, Carnatic, Dover, York, Elizabeth,
and one or two more, had been in action at all. The
landing was crowded with boats as before, and gun-room
servants and midshipmen's boys were foraging as usual;
some with honest intent to find delicacies for the wounded,
of the unhurt, by making appeals to the sympathies of
the women of the neighbourhood, in behalf of the hurt.
The principal transformation that had been brought about
by this state of things, however, was apparent at the station.
This spot had the appearance of a place to which the headquarters
of an army had been transferred, in the vicissitudes
of the field; warlike sailors, if not soldiers, flocking to it, as
the centre of interest and intelligence. Still there was a
singularity observable in the manner in which these heroes
of the deck paid their court; the cottage being seemingly
tabooed, or at most, approached by very few, while the grass
at the foot of the flag-staff was already beginning to show
proofs of the pressure of many feet. This particular spot,
indeed, was the centre of attraction; there officers of all
ranks and ages were constantly arriving, and thence they
were as often departing; all bearing countenances sobered
by anxiety and apprehension. Notwithstanding the constant
mutations, there had been no instant since the rising
of the sun, when some ten or twelve, at least, including
captains, lieutenants, masters and idlers, had not been collected
around the bench at the foot of the signal-staff, and
frequently the number reached even to twenty.
A little retired from the crowd, and near the verge of the
cliff, a large tent had been pitched. A marine paced in its
front, as a sentinel. Another stood near the gate of the little
door-yard of the cottage, and all persons who approached
either, with the exception of a few of the privileged, were
referred to the sergeant who commanded the guard. The
arms of the latter were stacked on the grass, at hand, and
the men off post were loitering near. These were the usual
military signs of the presence of officers of rank, and may,
in sooth, be taken as clues to the actual state of things, on
and around the Head.
Admiral Bluewater lay in the cottage, while Sir Gervaise
Oakes occupied the tent. The former had been transferred
to the place where he was about to breathe his last, at his
own urgent request, while his friend had refused to be separated
from him, so long as life remained. The two flags
were still flying at the mast-heads of the Cæsar, a sort of
melancholy memorial of the tie that had so long bound their
and professional friendship.
Persons of the education of Mrs. Dutton and her daughter,
had not dwelt so long on that beautiful headland, without
leaving on the spot some lasting impressions of their tastes.
Of the cottage, we have already spoken. The little garden,
too, then bright with flowers, had a grace and refinement
about it that we would hardly have expected to meet in such
a place; and even the paths that led athwart the verdant common
which spread over so much of the upland, had been
directed with an eye to the picturesque and agreeable. One
of these paths, too, led to a rustic summer-house—a sort of
small, rude pavilion, constructed, like the fences, of fragments
of wrecks, and placed on a shelf of the cliff, at a
dizzy elevation, but in perfect security. So far from there
being any danger in entering this summer-house, indeed,
Wycherly, during his six months' residence near the Head,
had made a path that descended still lower, to a point that
was utterly concealed from all eyes above, and had actually
planted a seat on another shelf, with so much security, that
both Mildred and her mother often visited it in company.
During the young man's recent absence, the poor girl, indeed,
had passed much of her time there, weeping and suffering
in solitude. To this seat, Dutton never ventured;
the descent, though well protected with ropes, requiring
greater steadiness of foot and head than intemperance had
left him. Once or twice, Wycherly had induced Mildred
to pass an hour with him alone in this romantic place, and
some of his sweetest recollections of this just-minded and intelligent
girl, were connected with the frank communications
that had there occurred between them. On this bench he
was seated at the time of the opening of the present chapter.
The movement on the Head, and about the cottage, was so
great, as to deprive him of every chance of seeing Mildred
alone, and he had hoped that, led by some secret sympathy,
she, too, might seek this perfectly retired seat, to obtain a
moment of unobserved solitude, if not from some still dearer
motive. He had not waited long, ere he heard a heavy
foot over his head, and a man entered the summer-house.
He was yet debating whether to abandon all hopes of
seeing Mildred, when his acute ear caught her light and
also.
“Father, I have come as you desired,” said the poor girl,
in those tremulous tones which Wycherly too well understood,
not to imagine the condition of Dutton. “Admiral
Bluewater dozes, and mother has permitted me to steal
away.”
“Ay, Admiral Bluewater is a great man, though but little
better than a dead one!” answered Dutton, as harshly in
manner as the language was coarse. “You and your
mother are all attention to him; did I lie in his place,
which of you would be found hanging over my bed, with
pale cheeks and tearful eyes?”
“Both of us, father! Do not—do not think so ill of
your wife and daughter, as to suppose it possible that either
of them could forget her duty.”
“Yes, duty might do something, perhaps; what has duty
to do with this useless rear-admiral? I hate the scoundrel—
he was one of the court that cashiered me; and one, too,
that I am told, was the most obstinate in refusing to help
me into this pitiful berth of a master.”
Mildred was silent. She could not vindicate her friend
without criminating her father. As for Wycherly, he would
have given a year's income to be at sea, and yet he shrunk
from wounding the poor daughter's feelings by letting her
know he overheard the dialogue. This indecision made
him the unwilling auditor of a conversation that he ought
not to have heard—an occurrence which, had there been
time for reflection, he would have taken means to prevent.
“Sit you down here, Mildred,” resumed Dutton, sternly,
“and listen to what I have to say. It is time that there
should no longer be any trifling between us. You have the
fortunes of your mother and myself in your hands; and, as
one of the parties so deeply concerned, I am determined
mine shall be settled at once.”
“I do not understand you, father,” said Mildred, with a
tremour in her voice that almost induced the young man to
show himself, though, we owe it to truth to say, that a lively
curiosity now mingled with his other sensations. “How can
I have the keeping of dear mother's fortunes and yours?”
“Dear mother, truly!—Dear enough has she proved to
Mildred; I 'll have no more of this trifling—but I ask you,
in a father's name, if any man has offered you his hand?
Speak plainly, and conceal nothing—I will be answered.”
“I wish to conceal nothing, father, that ought to be told;
but when a young woman declines the honour that another
does her in this way, ought she to reveal the secret, even to
her father?”
“She ought; and, in your case, she shall. No more
hesitation; name one of the offers you have had.”
Mildred, after a brief pause, in a low, tremulous voice,
pronounced the name of “Mr. Rotherham.”
“I suspected as much,” growled Dutton; “there was a
time when even he might have answered, but we can do
better than that now. Still he may be kept as a reserve;
the thousand pounds Mr. Thomas says shall be paid, and
that and the living will make a comfortable port after a
stormy life. Well, who next, Mildred? Has Mr. Thomas
Wychecombe ever come to the point?”
“He has asked me to become his wife, within the last
twenty-four hours, father; if that is what you mean.”
“No affectations, Milly; I can't bear them. You know
well enough what I mean. What was your answer?”
“I do not love him in the least, father, and, of course, I
told him I could not marry him.”
“That don't follow of course, by any means, girl! The
marrying is done by the priest, and the love is a very different
thing. I hope you consider Mrs. Dutton as my
wife?”
“What a question!” murmured Mildred.
“Well, and do you suppose she loves me; can love me,
now I am a disgraced, impoverished man?”
“Father!”
“Come—come—enough of this. Mr. Thomas Wychecombe
may not be legitimate—I rather think he is not, by
the proofs Sir Reginald has produced within the last day or
two; and I understand his own mother is dissatisfied with
him, and that will knock his claim flat aback. Notwithstanding,
Mildred, Tom Wychecombe has a good six hundred a
year already, and Sir Reginald himself admits that he must
take all the personal property the late baronet could leave.”
“You forget, father,” said Mildred, conscious of the inefficacy
of any other appeal, “that Mr. Thomas has promised
to pay the legacies that Sir Wycherly intended to leave.”
“Don't place any expectations on that, Mildred. I dare
say he would settle ten of the twenty thousand on you to-morrow,
if you would consent to have him. But, now, as
to this new baronet, for it seems he is to have both title and
estate—has he ever offered?”
There was a long pause, during which Wycherly thought
he heard the hard but suppressed breathing of Mildred. To
remain quiet any longer, he felt was as impossible as, indeed,
his conscience told him was dishonourable, and he
sprang along the path to ascend to the summer-house. At
the first sound of his footstep, a faint cry escaped Mildred;
but when Wycherly entered the pavilion, he found her face
buried in her hands, and Dutton tottering forward, equally
in surprise and alarm. As the circumstances would not
admit of evasion, the young man threw aside all reserve,
and spoke plainly.
“I have been an unwilling listener to a part of your discourse
with Mildred, Mr. Dutton,” he said, “and can answer
your last question for myself. I have offered my hand
to your daughter, sir; an offer that I now renew, and the
acceptance of which would make me the happiest man in
England. If your influence could aid me—for she has refused
my hand.”
“Refused!” exclaimed Dutton, in a surprise that over-came
the calculated amenity of manner he had assumed the
instant Wycherly appeared — “Refused Sir Wycherly
Wychecombe! but it was before your rights had been as
well established as they are now. Mildred, answer to this
—how could you—nay, how dare you refuse such an offer
as this?”
Human nature could not well endure more. Mildred suffered
her hands to fall helplessly into her lap, and exposed
a face that was lovely as that of an angel's, though pale
nearly to the hue of death. Feeling extorted the answer
she made, though the words had hardly escaped her, ere
she repented having uttered them, and had again buried her
face in her hands—
“Father”—she said—“could I—dare I to encourage Sir
ours!”
Conscience smote Dutton with a force that nearly sobered
him, and what explanation might have followed it is hard
to say; Wycherly, in an under-tone, however, requested to
be left alone with the daughter. Dutton had sense enough
to understand he was de trop, and shame enough to wish to
escape. In half a minute, he had hobbled up to the summit
of the cliff and disappeared.
“Mildred!—Dearest Mildred”—said Wycherly, tenderly,
gently endeavouring to draw her attention to himself,
“we are alone now; surely—surely—you will not refuse
to look at me!”
“Is he gone?” asked Mildred, dropping her hands, and
looking wildly around. “Thank God! It is over, for this
time, at least! Now, let us go to the house; Admiral Bluewater
may miss me.”
“No, Mildred, not yet. You surely can spare me—me,
who have suffered so much of late on your account—nay,
by your means—you can, in mercy, spare me a few short
minutes. Was this the reason—the only reason, dearest
girl, why you so pertinaciously refused my hand?”
“Was it not sufficient, Wycherly?” answered Mildred,
afraid the chartered air might hear her secret. “Remember
who you are, and what I am! Could I suffer you to
become the husband of one to whom such cruel, cruel
propositions had been made by her own father!”
“I shall not affect to conceal my horror of such principles,
Mildred, but your virtues shine all the brighter by having
flourished in their company. Answer me but one question
frankly, and every other difficult can be gotten over.
Do you love me well enough to be my wife, were you an
orphan?”
Mildred's countenance was full of anguish, but this question
changed its expression entirely. The moment was extraordinary
as were the feelings it engendered, and, almost
unconsciously to herself, she raised the hand that held her
own to her lips, in a sort of reverence. In the next instant
she was encircled in the young man's arms, and pressed
with fervour to his heart.
“Let us go”—said Mildred, extricating herself from an
to alarm her delicacy. “I feel certain Admiral Bluewater
will miss me!”
“No, Mildred, we cannot part thus. Give me, at least,
the poor consolation of knowing, that if this difficulty did
not exist—that if you were an orphan for instance—you
would be mine.”
“Oh! Wycherly, how gladly—how gladly!—But, say
no more—nay—”
This time the embrace was longer, more fervent even than
before, and Wycherly was too much of a sailor to let the
sweet girl escape from his arms without imprinting on her
lips a kiss. He had no sooner relinquished his hold of the
slight person of Mildred, ere it vanished. With this characteristic
leave-taking, we change the scene to the tent of Sir
Gervaise Oakes.
“You have seen Admiral Bluewater?” demanded the commander-in-chief,
as soon as the form of Magrath darkened
the entrance, and speaking with the sudden earnestness of
a man determined to know the worst. “If so, tell me at
once what hopes there are for him?”
“Of all the human passions, Sir Jairvis,” answered Magrath,
looking aside, to avoid the keen glance of the other,
“hope is generally considered, by all rational men, as the
most treacherous and delusive; I may add, of all denominations
or divisions of hope, that which decides on life is
the most unsairtain. We all hope to live, I 'm thinking, to
a good old age, and yet how many of us live just long
enough to be disappointed!”
Sir Gervaise did not move until the surgeon ceased speaking;
then he began to pace the tent in mournful silence. He
understood Magrath's manner so well, that the last faint hope
he had felt from seeking his opinion was gone; he now knew
that his friend must die. It required all his fortitude to
stand up against this blow; for, single, childless, and accustomed
to each other almost from infancy, these two veteran
sailors had got to regard themselves as merely isolated parts
of the same being. Magrath was affected more than he
chose to express, and he blew his nose several times in a way
that an observer would have found suspicious.
“Will you confer on me the favour, Dr. Magrath,” said
Greenly to come hither, as you pass the flag-staff.”
“Most willingly, Sir Jairvis; and I know he 'll be anything
but backward in complying.”
It was not long ere the captain of the Plantagenet made
his appearance. Like all around him, the recent victory
appeared to bring no exultation.
“I suppose Magrath told you all,” said the vice-admiral,
squeezing the other's hand.
“He gives no hopes, Sir Gervaise, I sincerely regret to
say.”
“I knew as much! I knew as much! And yet he is
easy, Greenly!—nay, even seems happy, I did feel a little
hope that this absence from suffering might be a favourable
omen.”
“I am glad to hear that much, sir; for I have been thinking
that it is my duty to speak to the rear-admiral on the
subject of his brother's marriage. From his own silence on
the subject, it is possible—nay, from all the circumstances,
it is probable he never knew of it, and there may be reasons
why he ought to be informed of the affair. As you
say he is so easy, would there be an impropriety in mentioning
it to him?”
Greenly could not possibly have made a suggestion that
was a greater favour to Sir Gervaise. The necessity
of doing, his habits of decision, and having an object
in view, contributed to relieve his mind by diverting his
thoughts to some active duty; and he seized his hat, bekoned
Greenly to follow, and moved across the hill with a
rapid pace, taking the path to the cottage. It was necessary
to pass the flag-staff. As this was done, every countenance
met the vice-admiral's glance, with a look of sincere
sympathy. The bows that were exchanged, had more in
them than the naked courtesies of such salutations; they
were eloquent of feeling on both sides.
Bluewater was awake, and retaining the hand of Mildred
affectionately in his own, when his friend entered. Relinquishing
his hold, however, he grasped the hand of the vice-admiral,
and looked earnestly at him, as if he pitied the sorrow
that he knew the survivor must feel.
“My dear Bluewater,” commenced Sir Gervaise, who
decision, “here is Greenly with something to tell you
that we both think you ought to know, at a moment like
this.”
The rear-admiral regarded his friend intently, as if inviting
him to proceed.
“Why, it 's about your brother Jack. I fancy you cannot
have known that he was ever married, or I think I
should have heard you speak of it.”
“Married!” repeated Bluewater, with great interest, and
speaking with very little difficulty. “I think that must be
an error. Inconsiderate and warm-hearted he was, but
there was only one woman he could, nay, would have married.
She is long since dead, but not as his wife; for that
her uncle, a man of great wealth, but of unbending will,
would never have suffered. He survived her, though my
poor brother did not.”
This was said in a mild voice, for the wounded man spoke
equally without effort, and without pain.
“You hear, Greenly?” observed Sir Gervaise. “And
yet it is not probable that you should be mistaken.”
“Certainly, I am no, gentlemen. I saw Colonel Bluewater
married, as did another officer who is at this moment
in this very fleet. Captain Blakely is the person I mean,
and I know that the priest who performed the ceremony is
still living, a beneficed clergyman.”
“This is wonderful to me! He fervently loved Agnes
Hedworth, but his poverty was an obstacle to the union; and
both died so young, that there was little opportunity of conciliating
the uncle.”
“That, sir, is your mistake. Agnes Hedworth was the
bride.”
A noise in the room interrupted the dialogue, and the
three gentlemen saw Wycherly and Mildred stooping to pick
up the fragments of a bowl that Mrs. Dutton had let fall.
The latter, apparently in alarm, at the little accident, had
sunk back into a seat, pale and trembling.
“My dear Mrs. Dutton, take a glass of water,” said Sir
Gervaise, kindly approaching her; “your nerves have been
sorely tried of late; else would not such a trifle affect you.”
“It is not that!” exclaimed the matron, huskily. “It is
from my inmost spirit I thank thee, my Lord and my God,
that it has come free from shame and disgrace!”
The closing words were uttered on bended knees, and
with uplifted hands.
“Mother!—dearest, dearest mother,” cried Mildred, falling
on her mother's neck. “What mean you? What new
misery has happened to-day?”
“Mother! Yes, sweet one, thou art, thou ever shalt be
my child! This is the pang I have most dreaded; but what
is an unknown tie of blood, to use, and affection, and to a
mother's care? If I did not bear thee, Mildred, no natural
mother could have loved thee more, or would have died for
thee, as willingly!”
“Distress has disturbed her, gentlemen,” said Mildred,
gently extricating herself from her mother's arms, and helping
her to rise. “A few moments of rest will restore her.”
“No, darling; it must come now—it ought to come now
—after what I have just heard, it would be unpardonable not
to tell it, now. Did I understand you to say, sir, that you
were present at the marriage of Agnes Hedworth, and that,
too, with the brother of Admiral Bluewater?”
“Of that fact, there can be no question, madam. I and
others will testify to it. The marriage took place in London,
in the summer of 1725, while Blakely and myself were
up from Portsmouth, on leave. Colonel Bluewater asked us
both to be present, under a pledge of secresy.”
“And in the summer of 1726, Agnes Hedworth died in
my house and my arms, an hour after giving birth to this
dear, this precious child—Mildred Dutton, as she has ever
since been called—Mildred Bluewater, as it would seem her
name should be.”
It is unnecessary to dwell on the surprise with which all
present, or the delight with which Bluewater and Wycherly
heard this extraordinary announcement. A cry escaped
Mildred, who threw herself on Mrs. Dutton's neck, entwining
it with her arms, convulsively, as if refusing to permit the
tie that had so long bound them together, to be thus rudely
torn asunder. But half an hour of weeping, and of the tenderest
consolations, calmed the poor girl a little, and she was
able to listen to the explanations. These were exceedingly
to put the facts out of all doubt.
Miss Hedworth had become known to Mrs. Dutton, while
the latter was an inmate of the house of her patron. A year
or two after the marriage of the lieutenant, and while he was
on a distant station, Agnes Hedworth threw herself on the
protection of his wife, asking a refuge for a woman in the
most critical circumstances. Like all who knew Agnes
Hedworth, Mrs. Dutton both respected and loved her; but
the distance created between them, by birth and station, was
such as to prevent any confidence. The former, for the
few days passed with her humble friend, had acted with the
quiet dignity of a woman conscious of no wrong; and no
questions could be asked that implied doubts. A succession of
fainting fits prevented all communications in the hour of death,
and Mrs. Dutton found herself left with a child on her hands,
and the dead body of her friend. Miss Hedworth had
come to her dwelling unattended and under a false name.
These circumstances induced Mrs. Dutton to apprehend the
worst, and she proceeded to make her arrangements with
great tenderness for the reputation of the deceased. The
body was removed to London, and letters were sent to the
uncle to inform him where it was to be found, with a reference
should he choose to inquire into the circumstances of
his niece's death. Mrs. Dutton ascertained that the body
was interred in the usual manner, but no inquiry was ever
made, concerning the particulars. The young duchess, Miss
Hedworth's sister, was then travelling in Italy, whence she
did not return for more than a year; and we may add,
though Mrs. Dutton was unable to make the explanation,
that her inquiries after the fate of a beloved sister, were met
by a simple statement that she had died suddenly, on a visit
to a watering-place, whither she had gone with a female
friend for her health. Whether Mr. Hedworth himself had
any suspicions of his niece's condition, is uncertain; but the
probabilities were against it, for she had offended him by
refusing a match equal in all respects to that made by her
elder sister, with the single exception that the latter had
married a man she loved, whereas he exacted of Agnes a
very different sacrifice. Owing to the alienation produced
by this affair, there was little communication between the
and professedly with friends that the former neither knew
nor cared to know. In short, such was the mode of life of
the respective parties, that nothing was easier than for the
unhappy young widow to conceal her state from her uncle.
The motive was the fortune of the expected child; this uncle
having it in his power to alienate from it, by will, if he saw
fit, certain family property, that might otherwise descend to
the issue of the two sisters, as his co-heiresses. What might
have happened in the end, or what poor Agnes meditated
doing, can never be known; death closing the secret with
his irremovable seal.
Mrs. Dutton was the mother of a girl but three months'
old, at the time this little stranger was left on her hands. A
few weeks later her own child died; and having waited several
months in vain for tidings from the Hedworth family,
she had the surviving infant christened by the same name
as that borne by her own daughter, and soon came to love
it, as much, perhaps, as if she had borne it. Three years
passed in this manner, when the time drew near for the return
of her husband from the East Indies. To be ready to
meet him, she changed her abode to a naval port, and, in
so doing, changed her domestics. This left her accidentally,
but fortunately, as she afterwards thought, completely mistress
of the secret of Mildred's birth; the one or two others
to whom it was known being in stations to render it improbable
they should ever communicate anything on the subject,
unless it were asked of them. Her original intention,
however, was to communicate the facts, without reserve, to
her husband. But he came back an altered man; brutal
in manners, cold in his affections, and the victim of drunkenness.
By this time, the wife was too much attached to
the child to think of exposing it to the wayward caprices of
such a being; and Mildred was educated, and grew in
stature and beauty as the real offspring of her reputed parents.
All this Mrs. Dutton related clearly and briefly, refraining,
of course, from making any allusion to the conduct of
her husband, and referring all her own benevolence to her
attachment to the child. Bluewater had strength enough to
receive Mildred in his arms, and he kissed her pale cheek,
manner.
“My feelings were not treacherous or unfaithful,” he
said; “I loved thee, sweetest, from the first. Sir Gervaise
Oakes has my will, made in thy favour, before we sailed on
this last cruise, and every shilling I leave will be thine. Mr.
Atwood, procure that will, and add a codicil explaining this
recent discovery, and confirming the legacy; let not the last
be touched, for it is spontaneous and comes from the heart.”
“And, now,” answered Mrs. Dutton, “enough has passed
for once. The sick-bed should be more quiet. Give me
my child, again:—I cannot yet consent to part with her
for ever.”
“Mother! mother!” exclaimed Mildred, throwing herself
on Mrs. Dutton's bosom — “I am yours, and yours
only.”
“Not so, I fear, Mildred, if all I suspect be true, and this
is as proper a moment as another to place that matter also
before your honoured uncle. Come forward, Sir Wycherly—I
have understood you to say, this minute, in my ear,
that you hold the pledge of this wilful girl to become your
wife, should she ever be an orphan. An orphan she is, and
has been since the first hour of her birth.”
“No—no—no”—murmured Mildred, burying her face
still deeper in her mother's bosom, “not while you live, can
I be an orphan. Not now—another time—this is unseasonable—cruel—nay,
it is not what I said.”
“Take her away, dearest Mrs. Dutton,” said Bluewater,
tears of joy forcing themselves from his eyes. “Take her
away, lest too much happiness come upon me at once. My
thoughts should be calmer at such a moment.”
Wycherly removed Mildred from her mother's arms, and
gently led her from the room. When in Mrs. Dutton's apartment,
he whispered something in the ear of the agitated girl
that caused her to turn on him a look of happiness, though
it came dimmed with tears; then he had his turn of holding
her, for another precious instant, to his heart.
“My dear Mrs. Dutton—nay, my dear mother,” he said,
“Mildred and myself have both need of parents. I am an
orphan like herself, and we can never consent to part with
you. Look forward, I entreat you, to making one of our
cease to consider you as anything but a parent entitled to
more than common reverence and affection.”
Wycherly had hardly uttered this proper speech, when he
received what he fancied a ten-fold reward. Mildred, in a
burst of natural feeling, without affectation or reserve, but
yielding to her heart only, threw her arms around his neck,
murmured the word “thanks” several times, and wept freely
on his bosom. When Mrs. Dutton received the sobbing girl
from him, Wycherly kissed the mother's cheek, and he left
the room.
Admiral Bluewater would not consent to seek his repose
until he had a private conference with his friend and Wycherly.
The latter was frankness and liberality itself, but
the former would not wait for settlements. These he trusted
to the young man's honour. His own time was short,
and he should die perfectly happy could he leave his niece
in the care of one like our Virginian. He wished the marriage
to take place in his presence. On this he even insisted,
and, of course, Wycherly made no objections, but went
to state the case to Mrs. Dutton and Mildred.
“It is singular, Dick,” said Sir Gervaise, wiping his eyes,
as he looked from a window that commanded a view of the
sea, “that I have left both our flags flying in the Cæsar!
I declare, the oddness of the circumstance never struck me
till this minute.”
“Let them float a little longer together, Gervaise. They
have faced many a gale and many a battle together, and may
endure each other's company a few hours longer.”
| CHAPTER XIV. The two admirals | |