 | CHAPTER X. The two admirals |  |
10. CHAPTER X.
And with an argument new-set a pulse;
Then think, my lord, of reasoning into love.”
Young.
While the scene just related, took place in the chamber
of the sick man, Admiral Bluewater, Mrs. Dutton, and Mildred
left the house, in the old family-coach. The rear-admiral
had pertinaciously determined to adhere to his practice
of sleeping in his ship; and the manner in which he
had offered seats to his two fair companions—for Mrs. Dutton
still deserved to be thus termed — has already been seen.
The motive was simply to remove them from any further
brutal exhibitions of Dutton's cupidity, while he continued
in his present humour; and, thus influenced, it is not probable
that the gallant old sailor would be likely to dwell,
scene of which he had been a witness. In fact, no allusion
was made to it, during the quarter of an hour the party was
driving from the Hall to the station-house. They all spoke,
with regret,—Mildred with affectionate tenderness, even,—
of poor Sir Wycherly; and several anecdotes, indicative of
his goodness of heart, were eagerly related to Bluewater, by
the two females, as the carriage moved heavily along. In
the time mentioned, the vehicle drew up before the door of
the cottage, and all three alighted.
If the morning of that day had been veiled in mist, the
sun had set in as cloudless a sky, as is often arched above
the island of Great Britain. The night was, what in that
region, is termed a clear moonlight. It was certainly not
the mimic day that is so often enjoyed in purer atmospheres,
but the panorama of the head-land was clothed in a soft,
magical sort of semi-distinctness, that rendered objects sufficiently
obvious, and exceedingly beautiful. The rounded,
shorn swells of the land, hove upward to the eye, verdant
and smooth; while the fine oaks of the park formed a
shadowy background to the picture, inland. Seaward, the
ocean was glittering, like a reversed plane of the firmament,
far as eye could reach. If our own hemisphere, or rather this
latitude, may boast of purer skies than are enjoyed by the
mother country, the latter has a vast superiority in the tint
of the water. While the whole American coast is bounded
by a vast, dull-looking sheet of sea-green, the deep blue of
the wide ocean appears to be carried close home to the shores
of Europe. This glorious tint, from which the term of
“ultra marine” has been derived, is most remarkable in the
Mediterranean, that sea of delights; but it is met with, all
along the rock-bound coasts of the Peninsula of Spain and
Portugal, extending through the British Channel, until it is
in a measure lost on the shoals of the North Sea; to be
revived, however, in the profound depths of the ocean that
laves the wild and romantic coast of Norway.
“'T is a glorious night!” exclaimed Bluewater, as he
handed Mildred, the last, from the carriage; “and one can
hardly wish to enter a cot, let it swing ever so lazily.”
“Sleep is out of the question,” returned Mildred, sorrowfully.
“These are nights in which even the weary are
while there is this uncertainty about dear Sir Wycherly.”
“I rejoice to hear you say this, Mildred,”—for so the
admiral had unconsciously, and unrepelled, begun to call his
sweet companion—“I rejoice to hear you say this, for I am
an inveterate star-gazer and moon-ite; and I shall hope to
persuade you and Mrs. Dutton to waste yet another hour,
with me, in walking on this height. Ah! yonder is Sam
Yoke, my coxswain, waiting to report the barge; I can
send Sir Gervaise's message to the surgeons by deputy, and
there will be no occasion for my hastening from this lovely
spot, and pleasant company.”
The orders were soon given to the coxswain. A dozen
boats, it would seem, were in waiting for officers ashore,
notwithstanding the lateness of the hour; and directions
were sent for two of them to pull off, and obtain the medical
men. The coach was sent round to receive the latter, and
then all was tranquil, again, on the height. Mrs. Dutton
entered the house, to attend to some of her domestic concerns,
while the rear-admiral took the arm of Mildred, and
they walked, together, to the verge of the cliffs.
A fairer moonlight picture seldom offered itself to a seaman's
eye, than that which now lay before the sight of
Admiral Bluewater and Mildred. Beneath them rode the
fleet; sixteen sail of different rigs, eleven of which, however,
were two-decked ships of the largest size then known in
naval warfare; and all of which were in that perfect order,
that an active and intelligent commander knows how to procure,
even from the dilatory and indifferent. If Admiral
Bluewater was conspicuous in manœuvring a fleet, and in
rendering every vessel of a line that extended a league, efficient,
and that too, in her right place, Sir Gervaise Oakes
had the reputation of being one of the best seamen, in the
ordinary sense of the word, in England. No vessel under
his command, ever had a lubberly look; and no ship that
had any sailing in her, failed to have it brought out of her.
The vice-admiral was familiar with that all-important fact—
one that members equally of Congress and of Parliament
are so apt to forget, or rather not to know at all—that the
efficiency of a whole fleet, as a fleet, is necessarily brought
down to the level of its worst ships. Of little avail is it,
well, if the eight or ten that remain, behave badly, and are
dull. A separation of the vessels is the inevitable consequence,
when the properties of all are thoroughly tried; and the
division of a force, is the first step towards its defeat; as its
proper concentration, is a leading condition of victory. As
the poorer vessels cannot imitate the better, the good are compelled
to regulate their movements by the bad; which is at
once essentially bringing down the best ships of a fleet to
the level of its worst; the proposition with which we commenced.
Sir Gervaise Oakes was so great a favourite, that all he
asked was usually conceded to him. One of his conditions
was, that his vessels should sail equally well: “If you give
me fast ships,” he said, “I can overtake the enemy; if dull,
the enemy can overtake me; and I leave you to say which
course will be most likely to bring on an action. At any
rate, give me consorts; not one flyer, and one drag; but
vessels that can keep within hail of each other, without
anchoring.” The admiralty professed every desire to oblige
the gallant commander; and, as he was resolved never to
quit the Plantagenet until she was worn out, it was indispensably
necessary to find as many fast vessels as possible,
to keep her company. The result was literally a fleet of
“horses,” as Galleygo used to call it; and it was generally
said in the service, that “Oakes had a squadron of flyers,
if not a flying-squadron.”
Vessels like these just mentioned, are usually symmetrical
and graceful to the eye, as well as fast. This fact was apparent
to Mildred, accustomed as she was to the sight of
ships; and she ventured to express as much, after she and
her companion had stood quite a minute on the cliff, gazing
at the grand spectacle beneath them.
“Your vessels look even handsomer than common, Admiral
Bluewater,” she said, “though a ship, to me, is always
an attractive sight.”
“This is because they are handsomer than common, my
pretty critic. Vice-Admiral Oakes is an officer who will
no more tolerate an ugly ship in his fleet, than a peer of the
realm will marry any woman but one who is handsome;
unless indeed she happen to be surpassingly rich.”
“I have heard that men are accustomed to lose their
hearts under such an influence,” said Mildred, laughing;
“but I did not know before, that they were ever frank enough
to avow it!”
“The knowledge has been imparted by a prudent mother,
I suppose,” returned the rear-admiral, in a musing manner:
“I wish I stood sufficiently in the parental relation to you,
my young friend, to venture to give a little advice, also.
Never, before, did I feel so strong a wish to warn a human
being of a great danger that I fear is impending over her,
could I presume to take the liberty.”
“It is not a liberty, but a duty, to warn any one of a
danger that is known to ourselves, and not to the person
who incurs the risk. At least so it appears to the eyes of
a very young girl.”
“Yes, if the danger was of falling from these cliffs, or of
setting fire to a house, or of any other visible calamity.
The case is different, when young ladies, and setting fire to
the heart, are concerned.”
“Certainly, I can perceive the distinction,” answered
Mildred, after a short pause; “and can understand that the
same person who would not scruple to give the alarm against
any physical danger, would hesitate even at hinting at one
of a moral character. Nevertheless, if Admiral Bluewater
think a simple girl, like me, of sufficient importance to take
the trouble to interest himself in her welfare, I should hope
he would not shrink from pointing out this danger. It is a
terrible word to sleep on; and I confess, besides a little uneasiness,
to a good deal of curiosity to know more.”
“This is said, Mildred, because you are unaccustomed to
the shocks which the tongue of rude man may give your
sensitive feelings.”
“Unaccustomed!” said Mildred, trembling so that the
weakness was apparent to her companion. “Unaccustomed!
Alas! Admiral Bluewater, can this be so, after
what you have seen and heard!”
“Pardon me, dear child; nothing was farther from my
thoughts, than to wish to revive those unpleasant recollections.
If I thought I should be forgiven, I might venture,
yet, to reveal my secret; for never before—though I cannot
interest in one who is almost a stranger—”
“No—no—not a stranger, dear sir. After all that has
passed to-day; after you have been admitted, though it were
by accident, to one most sacred secret;—after all that was
said in the carriage, and the terrible scenes my beloved mother
went through in your presence so many years since,
you can never be a stranger to us, whatever may be your
own desire to fancy yourself one.”
“Girl, you do not fascinate—you do not charm me, but
you bind me to you in a way I did not think it in the power
of any human being to subjugate my feelings!”
This was said with so much energy, that Mildred dropped
the arm she held, and actually recoiled a step, if not in
alarm, at least in surprise. But, on looking up into the face
of her companion, and perceiving large tears actually
glistening on his cheek, and seeing the hair that exposure
and mental cares had whitened more than time, all her confidence
returned, and she resumed the place she had abandoned,
of her own accord, and as naturally as a daughter
would have clung to the side of a father.
“I am sure, sir, my gratitude for this interest ought to be
quite equal to the honour it does me,” Mildred said, earnestly.
“And, now, Admiral Bluewater, do not hesitate to speak to
me with the frankness that a parent might use. I will listen
with the respect and deference of a daughter.”
“Then do listen to what I have to say, and make no
answer, if you find yourself wounded at the freedom I am
taking. It would seem that there is but one subject on which
a man, old fellow or young fellow, can speak to a lovely
young girl, when he gets her alone, under the light of a fine
moon;—and that is love. Nay, start not again, my dear,
for, if I am about to speak on so awkward a subject, it is
not in my own behalf. I hardly know whether you will
think it in behalf of any one; as what I have to say, is not
an appeal to your affections, but a warning against bestowing
them.”
“A warning, Admiral Bluewater! Do you really think
that can be necessary?”
“Nay, my child, that is best known to yourself. Of one
thing I am certain; the young man I have in my eye, affects
women are led to believe they are loved, it is a strong appeal
to all their generous feelings to answer the passion, if not
with equal warmth, at least with something very like it.”
“Affects to admire, sir!—And why should any one be at
the pains of affecting feelings towards me, that they do not
actually entertain? I have neither rank, nor money, to
bribe any one to be guilty of an hypocrisy so mean, and
which, in my case, would be so motiveless.”
“Yes, if it were motiveless to win the most beautiful
creature in England! But, no matter. We will not stop
to analyze motives, when facts are what we aim at. I
should think there must be some passion in this youth's
suit, and that will only make it so much the more dangerous
to its object. At all events, I feel a deep conviction that he
is altogether unworthy of you. This is a bold expression
of opinion on an acquaintance of a day; but there are such
reasons for it, that a man of my time of life, if unprejudiced,
can scarcely be deceived.”
“All this is very singular, sir, and I had almost used
your own word of `alarming,”' replied Mildred, slightly
agitated by curiosity, but more amused. “I shall be as
frank as yourself, and say that you judge the gentleman
harshly. Mr. Rotherham may not have all the qualities
that a clergyman ought to possess, but he is far from being
a bad man. Good or bad, however, it is not probable that
he will carry his transient partiality any farther than he
has gone already.”
“Mr. Rotherham!—I have neither thought nor spoken
of the pious vicar at all!”
Mildred was now sadly confused. Mr. Rotherham had
made his proposals for her, only the day before, and he had
been mildly, but firmly refused. The recent occurrence
was naturally uppermost in her mind; and the conjecture
that her rejected suitor, under the influence of wine, might
have communicated the state of his wishes, or what he fancied
to be the state of his wishes, to her companion, was so
very easy, that she had fallen into the error, almost without
reflection.
“I beg pardon, sir—I really imagined,” the confused girl
answered; “but, it was a natural mistake for me to suppose
who has ever spoken to my mother on the subject of anything
like a preference for me.”
“I should have less fear of those who spoke to your mother,
Mildred, than of those who spoke only to you. As I
hate ambiguity, however, I will say, at once, that my allusion
was to Mr. Wychecombe.”
“Mr. Wychecombe, Admiral Bluewater!”—and the veteran
felt the arm that leaned on him tremble violently, a
sad confirmation of even more than he apprehended, or he
would not have been so abrupt. “Surely—surely—the
warning you mean, cannot, ought not to apply to a gentleman
of Mr. Wychecombe's standing and character!”
“Such is the world, Miss Dutton, and we old seamen, in
particular, get to know it, whether willingly or not. My
sudden interest in you, the recollection of former, but painful
scenes, and the events of the day, have made me watchful,
and, you will add, bold—but I am resolved to speak, even
at the risk of disobliging you for ever—and, in speaking, I
must say that I never met with a young man who has made
so unfavourable an impression on me, as this same Mr.
Wychecombe.”
Mildred, unconsciously to herself, withdrew her arm, and
she felt astonished at her own levity, in so suddenly becoming
sufficiently intimate with a stranger to permit him thus to
disparage a confirmed friend.
“I am sorry, sir, that you entertain so indifferent an
opinion of one who is, I believe, a general favourite, in this
part of the country,” she answered, with a coldness that
rendered her manner marked.
“I perceive I shall share the fate of all unwelcome counsellors,
but can only blame my own presumption. Mildred,
we live in momentous times, and God knows what is to
happen to myself, in the next few months; but, so strong is
the inexplicable interest that I feel in your welfare, that I
shall venture still to offend. I like not this Mr. Wychecombe,
who is so devout an admirer of yours — real or
affected—and, as to the liking of dependants for the heir of
a considerable estate, it is so much a matter of course, that
I count it nothing.”
“The heir of a considerable estate!” repeated Mildred, in
the arm, she had so unceremoniously dropped —
“Surely, dear sir, you are not speaking of Mr. Thomas
Wychecombe, Sir Wycherly's nephew.”
“Of whom else should I speak?—Has he not been your
shadow the whole day?—so marked in his attentions, as
scarce to deem it necessary to conceal his suit?”
“Has it really struck you thus, sir?—I confess I did not
so consider it. We are so much at home at the Hall, that
we rather expect all of that family to be kind to us. But,
whether you are right in your conjecture, or not, Mr. Thomas
Wychecombe can never be aught to me—and as proof,
Admiral Bluewater, that I take your warning, as it is meant,
in kindness and sincerity, I will add, that he is not a very
particular favourite.”
“I rejoice to hear it! Now there is his namesake, our
young lieutenant, as gallant and as noble a fellow as ever
lived—would to Heaven he was not so wrapt up in his profession,
as to be insensible to any beauties, but those of a
ship. Were you my own daughter, Mildred, I could give
you to that lad, with as much freedom as I would give him
my estate, were he my son.”
Mildred smiled—and it was archly, though not without a
shade of sorrow, too—but she had sufficient self-command,
to keep her feelings to herself, and too much maiden reserve
not to shrink from betraying her weakness to one who, after
all, was little more than a stranger.
“I dare say, sir,” she answered, with an equivocation
which was perhaps venial, “that your knowledge of the world
has judged both these gentlemen, rightly. Mr. Thomas
Wychecombe, notwithstanding all you heard from my poor
father, is not likely to think seriously of me; and I will
answer for my own feelings as regards him. I am, in no
manner, a proper person to become Lady Wychecombe;
and, I trust, I should have the prudence to decline the honour
were it even offered to me. Believe me, sir, my father
would have held a different language to-night, had it not
been for Sir Wycherly's wine, and the many loyal toasts
that were drunk. He must be conscious, in his reflecting
moments, that a child of his is unsuited to so high a station.
Our prospects in life were once better than they are now,
raise these high expectations in us.”
“An officer's daughter may always claim to be a gentlewoman,
my dear; and, as such, you might become the wife
of a duke, did he love you. Since I find my warning unnecessary,
however, we will change the discourse. Did not
something extraordinary occur at this cliff, this morning, and
in connection with this very Mr. Thomas Wychecombe?
Sir Gervaise was my informant; but he did not relate the
matter very clearly.”
Mildred explained the mistake, and then gave a vivid description
of the danger in which the young lieutenant had
been placed, as well as of the manner in which he had extricated
himself. She particularly dwelt on the extraordinary
presence of mind and resolution, by means of which he had
saved his life, when the stone first gave way beneath his foot.
“All this is well, and what I should have expected from
so active and energetic a youth,” returned the rear-admiral,
a little gravely; “but, I confess I would rather it had not
happened. Your inconsiderate and reckless young men,
who risk their necks idly, in places of this sort, seldom have
much in them, after all. Had there been a motive, it would
have altered the case.”
“Oh! but there was a motive, sir; he was far from doing
so silly a thing for nothing!”
“And what was the motive, pray?—I can see no sufficient
reason why a man of sense should trust his person over
a cliff as menacing as this. One may approach it, by moonlight;
but in the day, I confess to you I should not fancy
standing as near it, as we do at this moment.”
Mildred was much embarrassed for an answer. Her own
heart told her Wycherly's motive, but that it would never
do to avow to her companion, great as was the happiness
she felt in avowing it to herself. Gladly would she have
changed the discourse; but, as this could not be done, she
yielded to her native integrity of character, and told the
truth, as far as she told anything.
“The flowers that grow on the sunny side of these rocks,
Admiral Bluewater, are singularly fragrant and beautiful,”
she said; “and hearing my mother and myself speaking
of them, and how much the former delighted in them, though
cliff—not here, where it is so very perpendicular, but yonder,
where one may cling to it, very well, with a little care—and
it was in venturing a little—just a very little too far, he
told me, himself, sir, to-day, after dinner,—that the stone
broke, and the accident occurred. I do not think Mr. Wycherly
Wychecombe in the least fool-hardy, and not at all
disposed to seek a silly admiration, by a silly exploit.”
“He has a most lovely and a most eloquent advocate,”
returned the admiral, smiling, though the expression of his
countenance was melancholy, even to sadness; “and he is
acquitted. I think few men of his years would hesitate
about risking their necks for flowers so fragrant and beautiful,
and so much coveted by your mother, Mildred.”
“And he a sailor, sir, who thinks so little of standing on
giddy places, and laughs at fears of this nature?”
“Quite true; though there are few cliffs on board ship.
Ropes are our sources of courage.”
“So I should think, by what passed to-day,” returned
Mildred, laughing. “Mr. Wycherly called out for a rope,
and we just threw him one, to help him out of his difficulty.
The moment he got his rope, though it was only yonder
small signal-halyards, he felt himself as secure as if he
stood up here, on the height, with acres of level ground around
him. I do not think he was frightened, at any time; but
when he got hold of that little rope, he was fairly valiant!”
Mildred endeavoured to laugh at her own history, by
way of veiling her interest in the event; but her companion
was too old, and too discerning, to be easily deceived. He
continued silent, as he led her away from the cliff; and
when he entered the cottage, Mildred saw, by the nearer
light of the candles, that his countenance was still sad.
Admiral Bluewater remained half an hour longer in the
cottage, when he tore himself away, from a society which, for
him, possessed a charm that he could not account for, nor
yet scarcely estimate. It was past one, when he bid Mrs.
Dutton and her daughter adieu; promising, however, to see
them again, before the fleet sailed. Late as it was, the
mother and Mildred felt no disposition to retire, after
the exciting scenes they had gone through; but, feeling a
calm on their spirits, succeeding the rude interruption produced
the cool air, and the bland scenery of the head-land, at that
witching hour.
“I should feel alarm at this particularity of attention, from
most men, my child,” observed the prudent mother, as they
left the house; “but the years, and especially the character
of Admiral Bluewater, are pledges that he meditates nothing
foolish, nor wrong.”
“His years would be sufficient, mother,” cried Mildred,
laughing—for her laugh came easily, since the opinion she
had just before heard of Wycherly's merit—“leaving the
character out of the question.”
“For you, perhaps, Mildred, but not for himself. Men
rarely seem to think themselves too old to win the young of
our sex; and what they want in attraction, they generally
endeavour to supply by flattery and artifice. But, I acquit
our new friend of all that.”
“Had he been my own father, dearest mother, his language,
and the interest he took in me, could not have been
more paternal. I have found it truly delightful to listen to
such counsel, from one of his sex; for, in general, they do
not treat me in so sincere and fatherly a manner.”
Mrs. Dutton's lip quivered, her eye-lids trembled too, and
a couple of tears fell on her cheeks.
“It is new to you, Mildred, to listen to the language of
disinterested affection and wisdom from one of his years and
sex. I do not censure your listening with pleasure, but
merely tell you to remember the proper reserve of your
years and character. Hist! there are the sounds of his
barge's oars.”
Mildred listened, and the measured but sudden jerk of
oars in the rullocks, ascended on the still night-air, as distinctly
as they might have been heard in the boat. At the
next instant, an eight-oared barge moved swiftly out from
under the cliff, and glided steadily on towards a ship, that
had one lantern suspended from the end of her gaff, another
in her mizzen-top, and the small night-flag of a rear-admiral,
fluttering at her mizzen-royal-mast-head. The
cutter lay nearest to the landing, and, as the barge approached
her, the ladies heard the loud hail of “boat-ahoy!”
The answer was also audible; though given in the mild
“rear-admiral's flag.” A death-like stillness succeeded this
annunciation of the rank of the officer in the passing boat,
interrupted only by the measured jerk of the oars. Once
or twice, indeed, the keen hearing of Mildred made her fancy
she heard the common dip of the eight oars, and the wash
of the water, as they rose from the element, to gain a renewed
purchase. As each vessel was approached, however,
the hail and the answer were renewed, the quiet of midnight,
in every instance, succeeding. At length the barge was
seen shooting along on the quarter of the Cæsar, the
rear-admiral's own ship, and the last hail was given. This
time, there was a slight stir in the vessel; and, soon after
the sound of the oars ceased, the lanterns descended from the
stations they had held, since nightfall. Two or three other
lanterns were still displayed at the gaffs of other vessels,
the signs that their captains were not on board; though
whether they were ashore, or visiting in the fleet, were facts
best known to themselves. The Plantagenet, however, had
no light; it being known that Sir Gervaise did not intend
to come off that night.
When all this was over, Mrs. Dutton and Mildred sought
their pillows, after an exciting day, and, to them, one far
more momentous than they were then aware of.
| CHAPTER X. The two admirals | |