"He spoke; when behold the fair Geraldine's form
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, but
more with the roguish design of contributing to the comforts 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 gallant
owners in the strong sympathies of an enduring personal and professional
friendship.
Persons of the education of Mrs. Dutton and her daughter, had not dwelt
so long on that beautiful head-land, 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 well-known footstep, as she reached the
summer-house, 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; 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 me; but I intend
the daughter shall pay for it. Hark you, 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;
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 overcame 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 Wycherly
Wychecombe to unite himself to a family like 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 difficulty
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 embrace that was
too involuntarily bestowed, and too heartfelt 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 Sir Gervaise, in a
gentle, subdued manner, "to ask Captain Greenly to come hither, as you
pass the flag-staff?"
"Most willingly, Sir Jairvis; and I know he'll be any thing 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_ 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,
beckoned 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 acted under a nervous
excitement, as well as from constitutional 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 not, 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 not _that_!
Oh! the fearful moment has come at last; and, 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 simple, and so clear, as, in
connection with the other evidence, 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 uncle and niece; the latter passing her
time in retirement, 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 Mildreth's birth; the one or two others to
whom it was known being in stations to render it improbable they should
ever communicate any thing 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, again and again, blessing her in the most fervent and solemn
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 family in all things, for never can either Mildred or
myself cease to consider you as any thing 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
make 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 thus a little longer, Gervaise. They have faced many a
gale and many a battle together, and may endure each other's company a
few hours longer."