The Two Admirals (67 page)

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."

"Compound or weakness and of strength,
Mighty, yet ignorant of thy power!
Loftier than earth, or air, or sea,
Yet meaner than the lowliest flower!

MARGARET DAVIDSON.

Not a syllable of explanation, reproach, or self-accusation had passed
between the commander-in-chief and the rear-admiral, since the latter
received his wound. Each party appeared to blot out the events of the
last few days, leaving the long vista of their past services and
friendship, undisfigured by a single unsightly or unpleasant object. Sir
Gervaise, while he retained an active superintendence of his fleet, and
issued the necessary orders right and left, hovered around the bed of
Bluewater with the assiduity and almost with the tenderness of a woman;
still not the slightest allusion was made to the recent battles, or to
any thing that had occurred in the short cruise. The speech recorded at
the close of the last chapter, was the first words he had uttered which
might, in any manner, carry the mind of either back to events that both
might wish forgotten. The rear-admiral felt this forbearance deeply, and
now that the subject was thus accidentally broached between them, he had
a desire to say something in continuation. Still he waited until the
baronet had left the window and taken a seat by his bed.

"Gervaise," Bluewater then commenced, speaking low from weakness, but
speaking distinctly from feeling, "I cannot die without asking your
forgiveness. There were several hours when I actually meditated
treason—I will not say to my
king
; on that point my opinions are
unchanged—but to
you
."

"Why speak of this, Dick? You did not know yourself when you believed it
possible to desert me in the face of the enemy. How much better I judged
of your character, is seen in the fact that I did not hesitate to engage
double my force, well knowing that you could not fail to come to my
rescue."

Bluewater looked intently at his friend, and a smile of serious
satisfaction passed over his pallid countenance as he listened to Sir
Gervaise's words, which were uttered with his usual warmth and sincerity
of manner.