This was said dogmatically, but with a coarseness of manner that fully corresponded with the looseness of the principles, and the utter want of delicacy of feeling that alone could prompt such advice. Mrs. Dutton fairly groaned, as she listened to her husband, for never before had he so completely thrown aside the thin mask of decency that he ordinarily wore; but Mildred, unable to control the burst of wild emotion that came over her, broke away from the place she occupied at her father's knee, and, as if blindly seeking protection in any asylum that she fancied safe, found herself sobbing, as if her heart would break, in Admiral Bluewater's arms.
Dutton followed the ungovernable, impulsive movement, with his eye, and for the first time he became aware in whose presence he had been exposing his native baseness. Wine had not so far the mastery of him, as to blind him to all the consequences, though it did stimulate him to a point that enabled him to face the momentary mortification of his situation.
"I beg a thousand pardons, sir," he said, rising, and bowing low to his superior; "I was totally ignorant that I had the honour to be in the company of Admiral Bluewater—Admiral Blue, I find Jack calls you, sir; ha-ha-ha—a familiarity which is a true sign of love and respect. I never knew a captain, or a flag-officer, that got a regular, expressive ship's name, that he wasn't the delight of the whole service. Yes, sir; I find the people call Sir Gervaise, Little Jarvy, and yourself, Admiral Blue—ha-ha-ha—an infallible sign of merit in the superior, and of love in the men."
"I ought to apologize, Mr. Dutton, for making one, so unexpectedly to myself, in a family council," returned the rear-admiral. "As for the men, they are no great philosophers, though tolerable judges of when they are well commanded, and well treated.—But, the hour is late, and it was my intention to sleep in my own ship, to-night. The coach of Sir Wycherly has been ordered to carry me to the landing, and I hope to have your permission to see these ladies home in it."
The answer of Dutton was given with perfect self-possession, and in a manner to show that he knew how to exercise the courtesies of life, or to receive them, when in the humour.
"It is an honour, sir, they will not think of declining, if my wishes are consulted," he said. "Come, Milly, foolish girl, dry your tears, and smile on Admiral Bluewater, for his condescension. Young women, sir, hardly know how to take a joke; and our ship's humours are sometimes a little strong for them. I tell my dear wife, sometimes—'Wife,' I say, 'His Majesty can't have stout-hearted and stout-handed seamen, and the women poets and die-away swains, and all in the same individual,' says I. Mrs. Dutton understands me, sir; and so does little Milly; who is an excellent girl in the main; though a little addicted to using the eye-pumps, as we have it aboard ship, sir."
"And, now, Mr. Dutton, it being understood that I am to see the ladies home, will you do me the favour to inquire after the condition of Sir Wycherly. One would not wish to quit his hospitable roof, in uncertainty as to his actual situation."
Dutton was duly sensible of an awkwardness in the presence of his superior, and he gladly profited by this commission to quit the room; walking more steadily than if he had not been drinking.
All this time, Mildred hung on Admiral Bluewater's shoulder, weeping, and unwilling to quit a place that seemed to her, in her fearful agitation, a sort of sanctuary.
"Mrs. Dutton," said Bluewater, first kissing the cheek of his lovely burthen, in a manner so parental, that the most sensitive delicacy could not have taken the alarm; "you will succeed better than myself, in quieting the feelings of this little trembler. I need hardly say that if I have accidentally overheard more than I ought, it is as much a secret with me, as it would be with your own brother. The characters of all cannot be affected by the mistaken and excited calculations of one; and this occasion has served to make me better acquainted with you, and your admirable daughter, than I might otherwise have been, by means of years of ordinary intercourse."
"Oh! Admiral Bluewater, do not judge himtooharshly! He has been too long at that fatal table, which I fear has destroyed poor dear Sir Wycherly, and knew not what he said. Never before have I seen him in such a fearful humour, or in the least disposed to trifle with, or to wound the feelings of this sweet child!"
"Her extreme agitation is a proof of this, my good madam, and shows all you can wish to say. View me as your sincere friend, and place every reliance on my discretion."
The wounded mother listened with gratitude, and Mildred withdrew from her extraordinary situation, wondering by what species of infatuation she could have been led to adopt it.
——"Ah, Montague,If thou be there, sweet brother, take my hand,And with thy lips keep in my soul awhile!Thou lov'st me not; for, brother, if thou didst,Thy tears would wash this cold congealed bloodThat glues my lips, and will not let me speak.Come quickly, Montague, or I am dead."King Henry VI.
——"Ah, Montague,If thou be there, sweet brother, take my hand,And with thy lips keep in my soul awhile!Thou lov'st me not; for, brother, if thou didst,Thy tears would wash this cold congealed bloodThat glues my lips, and will not let me speak.Come quickly, Montague, or I am dead."
King Henry VI.
Sir Wycherly had actually been seized with a fit of apoplexy. It was the first serious disease he had experienced in a long life of health and prosperity; and the sight of their condescending, good-humored, and indulgent master, in a plight so miserable, had a surprising effect on the heated brains of all the household. Mr. Rotherham, a good three-bottle man, on emergency, had learned to bleed, and fortunately the vein he struck, as his patient still lay on the floor, where he had fallen, sent out a stream that had the effect not only to restore the baronet to life, but, in a great measure, to consciousness. Sir Wycherly was not aharddrinker, like Dutton; but he was afairdrinker, like Mr. Rotherham, and most of the beneficed clergy of that day. Want of exercise, as he grew older, had as much influence in producing his attack as excess of wine; and there were already, strong hopes of his surviving it, aided as he was, by a good constitution. The apothecary had reached the Hall, within five minutes after the attack, having luckily been prescribing to the gardener; and the physician and surgeon of the family were both expected in the course of the morning.
Sir Gervaise Oakes had been acquainted with the state of his host, by his own valet, as soon as it was known in the servants'-hall, and being a man of action, he did not hesitate to proceed at once to the chamber of the sick, to offer his own aid, in the absence of that which might be better. At the door of the chamber, he met Atwood, who had been summoned from his pen, and they entered together, the vice-admiral feeling for a lancet in his pocket, for he, too, had acquired the art of the blood-letter. They now learned the actual state of things.
"Where is Bluewater?" demanded Sir Gervaise, after regarding his host a moment with commiseration and concern. "I hope he has not yet left the house."
"He is still here, Sir Gervaise, but I should think on the point of quitting us. I heard him say, that, notwithstanding all Sir Wycherly's kind plans to detain him, he intended to sleep in his own ship."
"That I've never doubted, though I've affected to believe otherwise. Go to him, Atwood, and say I beg he will pull within hail of the Plantagenet, as he goes off, and desire Mr. Magrath to come ashore, as soon as possible. There shall be a conveyance at the landing to bring him here; and he may order his own surgeon to come also, if it be agreeable to himself."
With these instructions the secretary left the room; while Sir Gervaise turned to Tom Wychecombe, and said a few of the words customary on such melancholy occasions.
"I think there is hope, sir," he added, "yes, sir, I think there is hope; though your honoured relative is no longer young—still, this early bleeding has been a great thing; and if we can gain a little time for poor Sir Wycherly, our efforts will not be thrown away. Sudden death is awful, sir, and few of us are prepared for it, either in mind, or affairs. We sailors have to hold our lives in our hands, it is true, but then it is for king and country; and we hope for mercy on all who fall in the discharge of their duties. For my part, I am never unprovided with a will, and that disposes of all the interests of this world, while I humbly trust in the Great Mediator, for the hereafter. I hope Sir Wycherly is equally provident as to his worldly affairs?"
"No doubt my dear uncle could wish to leave certain trifling memorials behind him to a few of his intimates," returned Tom, with a dejected countenance; "but he has not been without a will, I believe, for some time; and I presume you will agree with me in thinking he is not in a condition to make one, now, were he unprovided in that way?"
"Perhaps not exactly at this moment, though a rally might afford an opportunity. The estate is entailed, I think Mr. Dutton told me, at dinner."
"It is, Sir Gervaise, and I am the unworthy individual who is to profit by it, according to the common notions of men, though Heaven knows I shall consider it any thing but a gain; still, I am the unworthy individual who is to be benefited by my uncle's death."
"Your father was the baronet's next brother?" observed Sir Gervaise, casually, a shade of distrust passing athwart his mind, though coming from what source, or directed to what point, he was himself totally unable to say. "Mr. Baron Wychecombe, I believe, was your parent?"
"He was, Sir Gervaise, and a most tender and indulgent father, I ever found him. He left me his earnings, some seven hundred a year, and I am sure the death of Sir Wycherly is as far from my necessities, as it is from my wishes."
"Of course you will succeed to the baronetcy, as well as to the estate?" mechanically asked Sir Gervaise, led on by the supererogatory expressions of Tom, himself, rather than by a vulgar curiosity, to ask questions that, under other circumstances, he might have thought improper.
"Of course, sir. My father was the only surviving brother of Sir Wycherly; the only one who ever married; and I amhiseldest child. Since this melancholy event has occurred, it is quite fortunate that I lately obtained this certificate of the marriage of my parents—is it not, sir?"
Here Tom drew from his pocket a soiled piece of paper, which professed to be a certificate of the marriage of Thomas Wychecombe, barrister, with Martha Dodd, spinster, &c. &c. The document was duly signed by the rector of a parish church in Westminster, and bore a date sufficiently old to establish the legitimacy of the person who held it. This extraordinary precaution produced the very natural effect of increasing the distrust of the vice-admiral, and, in a slight degree, of giving it a direction.
"You go well armed, sir," observed Sir Gervaise, drily. "Is it your intention, when you succeed, to carry the patent of the baronetcy, and the title-deeds, in your pocket?"
"Ah! I perceive my having this document strikes you as odd, Sir Gervaise, but it can be easily explained. There was a wide difference in rank between my parents, and some ill-disposed persons have presumed so far to reflect on the character of my mother, as to assert she was not married at all."
"In which case, sir, you would do well to cut off half-a-dozen of their ears."
"The law is not to be appeased in that way, Sir Gervaise. My dear parent used to inculcate on me the necessity of doing every thing according to law; and I endeavour to remember his precepts. He avowed his marriage on his death-bed, made all due atonement to my respected and injured mother, and informed me in whose hands I should find this very certificate; I only obtained it this morning, which fact will account for its being in my pocket, at this melancholy and unexpected crisis, in my beloved uncle's constitution."
The latter part of Tom's declaration was true enough; for, after having made all the necessary inquiries, and obtained the hand-writing of a clergyman who was long since dead, he had actually forged the certificate that day, on a piece of soiled paper, that bore the water-mark of 1720. His language, however, contributed to alienate the confidence of his listener; Sir Gervaise being a man who was so much accustomed to directness and fair-dealing, himself, as to feel disgust at any thing that had the semblance of cant or hypocrisy. Nevertheless, he had his own motives for pursuing the subject; the presence of neither at the bed-side of the sufferer, being just then necessary.
"And this Mr. Wycherly Wychecombe," he said; "he who has so much distinguished himself of late; your uncle's namesake;—is it true that he is not allied to your family?"
"Not in the least, Sir Gervaise," answered Tom, with one of his sinister smiles. "He is only a Virginian, you know, sir, and cannot well belong to us. I have heard my uncle say, often, that the young gentleman must be descended from an old servant of his father's, who was transported for stealing silver out of a shop on Ludgate Hill, and who was arrested for passing himself off, as one of the Wychecombe family. They tell me, Sir Gervaise, that the colonies are pretty much made of persons descended from that sort of ancestors?"
"I cannot say that I have found it so; though, when I commanded a frigate, I served several years on the North American station. The larger portion of the Americans, like much the larger portion of the English, are humble labourers, established in a remote colony, where civilization is not far advanced, wants are many, and means few; but, in the way of character, I am not certain that they are not quite on a level with those they left behind them; and, as to the gentry of the colonies, I have seen many men of the best blood of the mother country among them;—younger sons, and their descendants, as a matter of course, but of an honourable and respected ancestry."
"Well, sir, this surprises me; and it is not the general opinion, I am persuaded! Certainly, it is not the fact as respects the gentleman—stranger, I might call him, for stranger he is at Wychecombe—who has not the least right to pretend to belong to us."
"Did you ever know him to lay claim to that honour, sir?"
"Not directly, Sir Gervaise; though I am told he has made many hints to that effect, since he landed here to be cured of his wound. It would have been better had he presented his rights to the landlord, than to present them to the tenants, I think you will allow, as a man of honour, yourself, Sir Gervaise?"
"I can approve of nothing clandestine in matters that require open and fair dealing, Mr. Thomas Wychecombe. But I ought to apologize for thus dwelling on your family affairs, which concern me only as I feel an interest in the wishes and happiness of my new acquaintance, my excellent host."
"Sir Wycherly has property in the funds that is not entailed—quite £1000 a year, beyond the estates—and I know he has left a will," continued Tom; who, with the short-sightedness of a rogue, flattered himself with having made a favourable impression on his companion, and who was desirous of making him useful to himself, in an emergency that he felt satisfied must terminate in the speedy death of his uncle. "Yes, a good £1000 a year, in the fives; money saved from his rents, in a long life. This will probably has some provision in favour of my younger brothers; and perhaps of this namesake of his,"—Tom was well aware that it devised every shilling, real and personal, to himself;—"for a kinder heart does not exist on earth. In fact, this will my uncle put in my possession, as heir at law, feeling it due to my pretensions, I suppose; but I have never presumed to look into it."
Here was another instance of excessive finesse, in which Tom awakened suspicion by his very efforts to allay it. It seemed highly improbable to Sir Gervaise, that a man like the nephew could long possess his uncle's will, and feel no desire to ascertain its contents. The language of the young man was an indirect admission, that he might have examined the will if he would; and the admiral felt disposed to suspect that what he might thus readily have done, he actually had done. The dialogue, however, terminated here; Dutton, just at that moment, entering the room on the errand on which he had been sent by Admiral Bluewater, and Tom joining his old acquaintance, as soon as the latter made his appearance. Sir Gervaise Oakes was too much concerned for the condition of his host, and had too many cares of his own, to think deeply or long on what had just passed between himself and Tom Wychecombe. Had they separated that night, what had been said, and the unfavourable impressions it had made, would have been soon forgotten; but circumstances subsequently conspired to recall the whole to his mind, of which the consequences will be related in the course of our narrative.
Dutton appeared to be a little shocked as he gazed upon the pallid features of Sir Wycherly, and he was not sorry when Tom led him aside, and began to speak confidentially of the future, and of the probable speedy death of his uncle. Had there been one present, gifted with the power of reading the thoughts and motives of men, a deep disgust of human frailties must have come over him, as these two impure spirits betrayed to him their cupidity and cunning. Outwardly, they were friends mourning over a mutual probable loss; while inwardly, Dutton was endeavouring to obtain such a hold of his companion's confidence, as might pave the way to his own future preferment to the high and unhoped-for station of a rich baronet's father-in-law; while Tom thought only of so far mystifying the master, as to make use of him, on an emergency, as a witness to establish his own claims. The manner in which he endeavoured to effect his object, however, must be left to the imagination of the reader, as we have matters of greater moment to record at this particular juncture.
From the time Sir Wycherly was laid on his bed, Mr. Rotherham had been seated at the sick man's side, watching the course of his attack, and ready to interpret any of the patient's feebly and indistinctly expressed wishes. We say indistinctly, because the baronet's speech was slightly affected with that species of paralysis which reduces the faculty to the state that is vulgarly called thick-tongued. Although a three-bottle man, Mr. Rotherham was far from being without his devout feelings, on occasions, discharging all the clerical functions with as much unction as the habits of the country, and the opinions of the day, ordinarily exacted of divines. He had even volunteered to read the prayers for the sick, as soon as he perceived that the patient's recollection had returned; but this kind offer had been declined by Sir Wycherly, under the clearer views of fitness, that the near approach of death is apt to give, and which views left a certain consciousness that the party assembled was not in the best possible condition for that sacred office. Sir Wycherly revived so much, at last, as to look about him with increasing consciousness; and, at length, his eyes passed slowly over the room, scanning each person singly, and with marked deliberation.
"I know you all—now," said the kind-hearted baronet, though always speaking thick, and with a little difficulty; "am sorry to give—much trouble. I have—little time to spare."
"I hope not, Sir Wycherly," put in the vicar, in a consolatory manner; "you have had a sharp attack, but then there is a good constitution to withstand it."
"My time—short—feel it here," rejoined the patient, passing his hand over his forehead.
"Note that, Dutton," whispered Tom Wycherly. "My poor uncle intimates himself that his mind is a little shaken. Under such circumstances, it would be cruel to let him injure himself with business."
"It cannot be donelegally, Mr. Thomas—I should think Admiral Oakes would interfere to prevent it."
"Rotherham," continued the patient, "I will—settle with—world; then, give—thoughts—to God. Have we—guests—the house?—Men of family—character?"
"Certainly, Sir Wycherly; Admiral Oakes is in the room, even; and Admiral Bluewater, is, I believe, still in the house. You invited both to pass the night with you."
"I remember it—now; my mind—still—confused,"—here Tom Wychecombe again nudged the master—"Sir Gervaise Oakes—an Admiral—ancient baronet—man of high honour. Admiral Bluewater, too—relative—Lord Bluewater; gentleman—universal esteem. You, too, Rotherham; wish my poor brother James—St. James—used to call him—had been living;—you—good neighbour—Rotherham."
"Can I do any thing to prove it, my dear Sir Wycherly? Nothing would make me happier than to know, and to comply with, all your wishes, at a moment so important!"
"Let all quit—room—but yourself—head feels worse—I cannot delay—"
"'Tis cruel to distress my beloved uncle with business, or conversation, in his present state," interposed Tom Wychecombe, with emphasis, and, in a slight degree, with authority.
All not only felt the truth of this, but all felt that the speaker, by his consanguinity, had a clear right to interfere, in the manner he had. Still Sir Gervaise Oakes had great reluctance in yielding to this remonstrance; for, to the distrust he had imbibed of Tom Wychecombe, was added an impression that his host wished to reveal something of interest, in connection with his new favourite, the lieutenant. He felt compelled, notwithstanding, to defer to the acknowledged nephew's better claims, and he refrained from interfering. Fortunately, Sir Wycherly was yet in a state to enforce his own wishes.
"Let all quit—room," he repeated, in a voice that was startling by its unexpected firmness, and equally unexpected distinctness. "All but Sir Gervaise Oakes—Admiral Bluewater—Mr. Rotherham, Gentlemen—favour to remain—rest depart."
Accustomed to obey their master's orders, more especially when given in a tone so decided, the domestics quitted the room, accompanied by Dutton; but Tom Wychecombe saw fit to remain, as if his presence were to be a matter of course.
"Do me—favour—withdraw,—Mr. Wychecombe," resumed the baronet, after fixing his gaze on his nephew for some time, as if expecting him to retire without this request.
"My beloved uncle, it is I—Thomas, your own brother's son—your next of kin—waiting anxiously by your respected bed-side. Do not—do not—confound me with strangers. Such a forgetfulness would break my heart!"
"Forgive me, nephew—but I wish—alone with these gentle——head—getting—confused—"
"You see how it is, Sir Gervaise Oakes—you see how it is, Mr. Rotherham. Ah! there goes the coach that is to take Admiral Bluewater to his boat. My uncle wished for three witnesses to something, and I can remain as one of the three."
"Is it your pleasure, Sir Wycherly, to wish to see us alone?" asked Sir Gervaise, in a manner that showed authority would be exercised to enforce his request, should the uncle still desire the absence of his nephew.
A sign from the sick man indicated the affirmative, and that in a manner too decided to admit of mistake.
"You perceive, Mr. Wychecombe, what are your uncle's wishes," observed Sir Gervaise, very much in the way that a well-bred superior intimates to an inferior the compliance he expects; "I trust his desire will not be disregarded, at a moment like this."
"I am Sir Wycherly Wychecombe's next of kin," said Tom, in a slightly bullying tone; "and no one has the same right as a relative, and, I may say, his heir, to be at his bed-side."
"That depends on the pleasure of Sir Wycherly Wychecombe himself, sir.Heis master here; and, having done me the honour to invite me under his roof as a guest, and, now, having requested to see me alone, with others he has expressly named—one of whom you are not—I shall conceive it my duty to see his wishes obeyed."
This was said in the firm, quiet way, that the habit of command had imparted to Sir Gervaise's manner; and Tom began to see it might be dangerous to resist. It was important, too, that one of the vice-admiral's character and station should have naught to say against him, in the event of any future controversy; and, making a few professions of respect, and of his desire to please his uncle, Tom quitted the room.
A gleam of satisfaction shot over the sick man's countenance, as his nephew disappeared; and then his eye turned slowly towards the faces of those who remained.
"Bluewater," he said, the thickness of his speech, and the general difficulty of utterance, seeming to increase; "the rear-admiral—I want all—respectable—witnesses in the house."
"My friend has left us, I understand," returned Sir Gervaise, "insisting on his habit of never sleeping out of his ship; but Atwood must soon be back; I hopehewill answer!"
A sign of assent was given; and, then, there was the pause of a minute, or two, ere the secretary made his appearance. As soon, however, as he had returned, the three collected around the baronet's bed, not without some of the weakness which men are supposed to have inherited from their common mother Eve, in connection with the motive for this singular proceeding of the baronet.
"Sir Gervaise—Rotherham—Mr. Atwood," slowly repeated the patient, his eye passing from the face of one to that of another, as he uttered the name of each; "three witnesses—that will do—Thomas said—must havethree—threegoodnames."
"What can we do to serve you, Sir Wycherly?" inquired the admiral, with real interest. "You have only to name your requests, to have them faithfully attended to."
"Old Sir Michael Wychecombe, Kt.—two wives—Margery and Joan. Two wives—two sons—half-blood—Thomas, James, Charles, and Gregory,whole—Sir Reginald Wychecombe,half. Understand—hope—gentlemen?"
"This is not being very clear, certainly," whispered Sir Gervaise; "but, perhaps by getting hold of the other end of the rope, we may under-run it, as we sailors say, and come at the meaning—we will let the poor man proceed, therefore. Quite plain, my dear sir, and what have you next to tell us. You left off without saying onlyhalfabout Sir Reginald."
"Half-blood; onlyhalf—Tom and the rest, whole. Sir Reginald, nonullius—young Tom, anullius."
"Anullius, Mr. Rotherham! You understand Latin, sir; what can anullius, mean? No such rope in the ship, hey! Atwood?"
"Nullius, ornullius, as it ought sometimes to be pronounced, is the genitive case, singular, of the pronounnullus; nullus, nulla, nullum; which means, 'no man,' 'no woman,' 'no thing.'Nulliusmeans, 'of no man,' 'of no woman,' 'of no thing.'"
The vicar gave this explanation, much in the way a pedagogue would have explained the matter to a class.
"Ay-ay—any school-boy could have told that, which is the first form learning. But what the devil can 'Nom.nullus, nulla, nullum; Gen.nullius, nullius, nullius,' have to do with Mr. Thomas Wychecombe, the nephew and heir of the present baronet?"
"That is more than I can inform you, Sir Gervaise," answered the vicar, stiffly; "but, for the Latin, I will take upon myself to answer, that it is good."
Sir Gervaise was too-well bred to laugh, but he found it difficult to suppress a smile.
"Well, Sir Wycherly," resumed the vice-admiral, "this is quite plain—Sir Reginald is onlyhalf, while your nephew Tom, and the rest, arewhole—Margery and Joan, and all that. Any thing more to tell us, my dear sir?"
"Tomnotwhole—nullus, I wish to say. Sir Reginaldhalf—nonullus."
"This is like being at sea a week, without getting a sight of the sun! I am all adrift, now, gentlemen."
"Sir Wycherly does not attend to his cases," put in Atwood, drily. "At one time, he is in thegenitive, and then he gets back to thenominative; which is leaving us in thevocative"
"Come—come—Atwood, none of your gun-room wit, on an occasion so solemn as this. My dear Sir Wycherly, have you any thing more to tell us? I believe we perfectly understand you, now. Tom is notwhole—you wish to saynullus, and not to saynullius. Sir Reginald is onlyhalf, but he is nonullus."
"Yes, sir—that is it," returned the old man, smiling. "Half, but nonullus. Change my mind—seen too much of the other, lately—Tom, my nephew—want to makehimmy heir."
"This is getting clearer, out of all question. You wish to make your nephew, Tom, your heir. But the law does that already, does it not my dear sir? Mr. Baron Wychecombe was the next brother of the baronet; was he not, Mr. Rotherham?"
"So I have always understood, sir; and Mr. Thomas Wychecombe must be the heir at law."
"No—no—nullus—nullus," repeated Sir Wycherly, with so much eagerness as to make his voice nearly indistinct; "Sir Reginald—Sir Reginald—Sir Reginald."
"And pray, Mr. Rotherham, who may this Sir Reginald be? Some old baronet of the family, I presume."
"Not at all, sir; it is Sir Reginald Wychecombe of Wychecombe-Regis, Herts; a baronet of Queen Anne's time, and a descendant from a cadet of this family, I am told."
"This is getting on soundings—I had taken it into my head this Sir Reginald was some old fellow of the reign of one of the Plantagenets. Well, Sir Wycherly, do you wish us to send an express into Hertfordshire, in quest of Sir Reginald Wychecombe, who is quite likely your executor? Do not give yourself the pain to speak; a sign will answer."
Sir Wycherly seemed struck with the suggestion, which, the reader will readily understand, was far from being his real meaning; and then he smiled, and nodded his head in approbation.
Sir Gervaise, with the prompitude of a man of business, turned to the table where the vicar had written notes to the medical men, and dictated a short letter to his secretary. This letter he signed, and in five minutes Atwood left the room, to order it to be immediately forwarded by express. When this was done, the admiral rubbed his hands, in satisfaction, like a man who felt he had got himself cleverly out of a knotty difficulty.
"I don't see, after all, Mr. Rotherham," he observed to the vicar, as they stood together, in a corner of the room, waiting the return of the secretary; "what he lugged in that school-boy Latin for—nullus, nulla, nullum! Can you possibly explainthat?"
"Not unless it was Sir Wycherly's desire to say, that Sir Reginald, being descended from a younger son, was nobody—as yet, had no woman—and I believe he is not married—and was poor, or had 'nothing.'"
"And is Sir Wycherly such a desperate scholar, that he would express himself in this hieroglyphical manner, on what I fear will prove to be his death-bed?"
"Why, Sir Gervaise, Sir Wycherly was educated like all other young gentlemen, but has forgotten most of his classics, in the course of a long life of ease and affluence. Is it not probable, now, that his recollection has returned to him suddenly, in consequence of this affection of the head? I think I have read of some curious instances of these reviving memories, on a death-bed, or after a fit of sickness."
"Ay, that you may have done!" exclaimed Sir Gervaise, smiling; "and poor, good Sir Wycherly, must have begun afresh, at the very place where he left off. But here is Atwood, again."
After a short consultation, the three chosen witnesses returned to the bed-side, the admiral being spokesman.
"The express will be off in ten minutes. Sir Wycherly," he said; "and you may hope to see your relative, in the course of the next two or three days."
"Too late—too late," murmured the patient, who had an inward consciousness of his true situation; "too late—turn the will round—Sir Reginald, Tom;—Tom, Sir Reginald. Turn the will round."
"Turn the will round!—this is very explicit, gentlemen, to those who can understand it. Sir Reginald, Tom;—Tom, Sir Reginald. At all events, it is clear that his mind is dwelling on the disposition of his property, since he speaks of wills. Atwood, make a note of these words, that there need be no mistake. I wonder he has said nothing of our brave young lieutenant, his namesake. There can be no harm, Mr. Rotherham, in just mentioning that fine fellow to him, in a moment like this?"
"I see none, sir. It isourduty to remind the sick oftheirduties."
"Do you not wish to see your young namesake, LieutenantWycherlyWychecombe, Sir Wycherly?" asked the admiral; sufficiently emphasizing the Christian name. "He must be in the house, and I dare say would be happy to obey your wishes."
"I hope he is well, sir—fine young gentleman—honour to the name, sir."
"Quite true, Sir Wycherly; and an honour to thenation, too."
"Didn't know Virginia was anation—so much the better—fine youngVirginian, sir."
"Of yourfamily, no doubt, Sir Wycherly, as well as of your name," added the admiral, who secretly suspected the young sailor of being a son of the baronet, notwithstanding all he had heard to the contrary. "An exceedingly fine young man, and an honour to any house in England!"
"I suppose theyhavehouses in Virginia—bad climate; houses necessary. No relative, sir;—probably anullus. Many Wychecombes,nulluses. Tom, anullus—this young gentleman, anullus—Wychecombes of Surrey, allnulluses—Sir Reginald nonullus; but ahalf—Thomas, James, Charles, and Gregory, allwhole. My brother, Baron Wychecombe, told me—before died."
"Whole what, Sir Wycherly?" asked the admiral, a little vexed at the obscurity of the other's language.
"Blood—whole blood, sir. Capital law, Sir Gervaise; had it from the baron—first hand."
Now, one of the peculiarities of England is, that, in the division of labour, few know any thing material about the law, except the professional men. Even their knowledge is divided and sub-divided, in a way that makes a very fair division of profit. Thus the conveyancer is not a barrister; the barrister is not an attorney; and the chancery practitioner would be an unsafe adviser for one of the purely law courts. That particular provision of the common law, which Baron Wychecombe had mentioned to his brother, as the rule of thehalf-blood, has been set aside, or modified, by statute, within the last ten years; but few English laymen would be at all likely to know of such a law of descent even when it existed; for while it did violence to every natural sentiment of right, it lay hidden in the secrets of the profession. Were a case stated to a thousand intelligent Englishmen, who had not read law, in which it was laid down that brothers, by different mothers, though equally sons of the founder of the estate, could not take from each other, unless by devise or entail, the probability is that quite nine in ten would deny the existence of any rule so absurd; and this, too, under the influence of feelings that were creditable to their sense of natural justice. Nevertheless, such was one of the important provisions of the "perfection of reason," until the recent reforms in English law; and it has struck us as surprising, that an ingenious writer of fiction, who has recently charmed his readers with a tale, the interest of which turns principally on the vicissitudes of practice, did not bethink him of this peculiar feature of his country's laws; inasmuch as it would have supplied mystery sufficient for a dozen ordinary romances, and improbabilities enough for a hundred. That Sir Gervaise and his companions should be ignorant of the "law of the half-blood," is, consequently, very much a matter of course; and no one ought to be surprised that the worthy baronet's repeated allusions to the "whole," and the "half," were absolutely enigmas, which neither had the knowledge necessary to explain.
"Whatcanthe poor fellow mean?" demanded the admiral, more concerned than he remembered ever before to have been, on any similar occasion. "One could wish to serve him as much as possible, but all this about 'nullus,' and 'whole blood,' and 'half,' is so much gibberish to me—can you make any thing of it,—hey! Atwood?"
"Upon my word, Sir Gervaise, it seems a matter for a judge, rather than for man-of-war's men, like ourselves."
"It certainly can have no connection with this rising of the Jacobites?Thatis an affair likely to trouble a loyal subject, in his last moments, Mr. Rotherham!"
"Sir Wycherly's habits and age forbid the idea that he knows more ofthat, sir, than is known to us all. His request, however, to 'turn the will round,' I conceive to be altogether explicit. Several capital treatises have appeared lately on the 'human will,' and I regret to say, my honoured friend and patron has not always been quite as orthodox on that point, as I could wish. I, therefore, consider his words as evidence of a hearty repentance."
Sir Gervaise looked about him, as was his habit when any droll idea crossed his mind; but again suppressing the inclination to smile, he answered with suitable gravity—
"I understand you, sir; you think all these inexplicable terms are connected with Sir Wycherly's religious feelings. You may certainly be right, for it exceeds my knowledge to connect them with any thing else. I wish, notwithstanding, he had not disowned this noble young lieutenant of ours! Is it quite certain the young man is a Virginian?"
"So I have always understood it, sir. He has never been known in this part of England, until he was landed from a frigate in the roads, to be cured of a serious wound. I think none of Sir Wycherly's allusions have the least reference tohim."
Sir Gervaise Oakes now joined his hands behind his back, and walked several times, quarter-deck fashion, to and fro, in the room. At each turn, his eyes glanced towards the bed, and he ever found the gaze of the sick man anxiously fastened on himself. This satisfied him that religion had nothing to do with his host's manifest desire to make himself understood; and his own trouble was greatly increased. It seemed to him, as if the dying man was making incessant appeals to his aid, without its being in his power to afford it. It was not possible for a generous man, like Sir Gervaise, to submit to such a feeling without an effort; and he soon went to the side of the bed, again, determined to bring the affair to some intelligible issue.
"Do you think, Sir Wycherly, you could write a few lines, if we put pen, ink, and paper before you?" he asked, as a sort of desperate remedy.
"Impossible—can hardly see; have got no strength—stop—will try—if you please."
Sir Gervaise was delighted with this, and he immediately directed his companions to lend their assistance. Atwood and the vicar bolstered the old man up, and the admiral put the writing materials before him, substituting a large quarto bible for a desk. Sir Wycherly, after several abortive attempts, finally got the pen in his hand, and with great difficulty traced six or seven nearly illegible words, running the line diagonally across the paper. By this time his powers failed him altogether, and he sunk back, dropping the pen, and closing his eyes in a partial insensibility. At this critical instant, the surgeon entered, and at once put an end to the interview, by taking charge of the patient, and directing all but one or two necessary attendants, to quit the room.
The three chosen witnesses of what had just past, repaired together to a parlour; Atwood, by a sort of mechanical habit, taking with him the paper on which the baronet had scrawled the words just mentioned. This, by a sort of mechanical use, also, he put into the hands of Sir Gervaise, as soon as they entered the room; much as he would have laid before his superior, an order to sign, or a copy of a letter to the secretary of the Navy Board.
"This is as bad as the 'nullus!'" exclaimed Sir Gervaise, after endeavouring to decipher the scrawl in vain. "What is this first word, Mr. Rotherham—'Irish,' is it not,—hey! Atwood?"
"I believe it is no move than 'I-n,' stretched over much more paper than is necessary."
"You are right enough, vicar; and the next word is 'the,' though it looks like achevaux de frise—what follows? It looks like 'man-of-war.' Atwood?"
"I beg your pardon, Sir Gervaise; this first letter is what I should call an elongated n—the next is certainly an a—the third looks like the waves of a river—ah! it is an m—and the last is an e—n-a-m-e—that makes 'name,' gentlemen."
"Yes," eagerly added the vicar, "and the two next words are, 'of God.'"
"Then it is religion, after all, that was on the poor man's mind!" exclaimed Sir Gervaise, in a slight degree disappointed, if the truth must be told. "What's this A-m-e-n—'Amen'—why it's a sort of prayer."
"This is the form in which it is usual to commence wills, I believe, Sir Gervaise," observed the secretary, who had written many a one, on board ship, in his day. "'In the name of God, Amen.'"
"By George, you're right, Atwood; and the poor man was trying, all the while, to let us know how he wished to dispose of his property! What could he mean by thenullus—it is not possible that the old gentleman has nothing to leave?"
"I'll answer for it, Sir Gervaise,thatis not the true explanation," the vicar replied. "Sir Wycherly's affairs are in the best order; and, besides the estate, he has a large sum in the funds."
"Well, gentlemen, we can do no more to-night. A medical man is already in the house, and Bluewater will send ashore one or two others from the fleet. In the morning, if Sir Wycherly is in a state to converse, this matter shall be attended to."
The party now separated; a bed being provided for the vicar, and the admiral and his secretary retiring to their respective rooms.
"Bid physicians talk our veins to temper,And with an argument new-set a pulse;Then think, my lord, of reasoning into love."Young.
"Bid physicians talk our veins to temper,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, more than was absolutely necessary, on the unpleasant 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 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 "ultramarine" 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 romantic coast of Norway.
"'Tis 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 reluctant to lose their consciousness; but who can sleep 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 man[oe]uvring 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 forgot, 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, that four or five vessels of a squadron sail fast, and work 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 meconsorts; 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 theyarehandsomer 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 tell the reason of so sudden and so extraordinary an 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 tous, whatever may be your own desire to fancy yourself one."
"Girl, you do not fascinate—you do not charm me, but youbindme 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 to admire you, whether he does or not; and when young 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 ofaffectingfeelings 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 ease, would be so motiveless."
"Yes, if itweremotiveless to win the most beautiful creature in England! But, no matter. We will not stop to analyze motives, whenfactsare 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 you meant Mr. Rotherham, as he is the only person who has ever spoken to my mother on the subject of any thing like a preference for me."
"I should have less fear of those who spoke to your mother, Mildred, than of those who spoke only toyou. 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,oughtnot 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 a voice to which the natural sweetness returned, quietly resuming 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 ought 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 be 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 regardshim. 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. Hemustbe 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, Admiral Bluewater; but they have never been such as to 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 therewasa 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 any thing.
"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 they were so seldom to be had, he just ventured over the cliff—not here, where it is soveryperpendicular, but yonder, where onemaycling to it, very well, with a little care—and it was in venturing a little—just averylittle 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 byyourmother, 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 by Dutton's brutality, they walked out on the cliff, to enjoy 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."
"Hisyearswould 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.
"Itisnew 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 gentleman-like voice of Bluewater, himself. It was simply, "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.