CHAPTER XXI
A HAPPY CONSUMMATION
"Mother," said Richard, as the three were left alone, "I will beentirely brief and frank with you. I love Emily Sanford. It is asudden feeling, I grant you, but I am sure none the less deep andabiding for that. I have reason to think that she loves me as well.This morning, after I came back from the inn, freed from theengagement by Josephine's own act, I asked the admiral if he wouldgive her to me."
"I said, madam," interrupted the admiral, with natural pride, "that Iwould not withhold my consent provided the match were agreeable toyourself. I have reared and educated my granddaughter principallymyself, and, naturally, she lacks many things which, I trust, she mayeasily acquire upon the good foundation I have endeavored to give her;but she has lived in an atmosphere of love and devotion in this house,and I would not have her an unwelcome intruder in any family. As toher family, madam, it is my own, and I think," he added with simpledignity, "that there is none better in the Republic. She will not cometo your son portionless--there is a tidy little fortune for her afterI am gone, and that will be soon, certainly. Of her personal qualitiesI may not speak. She is most dear to me. For the last twenty years ofmy life she has been everything to me. No one could have a moredutiful child, nor one sweeter and more tender. She has been thesunshine and joy of my old age. I can scarcely bear to think for amoment that she should leave me, but it is a matter of a short timeonly. The old ship and I are ready to go, and yet I would fain see herprovided for before."
"Admiral Stewart," said Mrs. Revere, gravely, "you touch meprofoundly. I divined that things might be as you say when I saw yourgranddaughter. The marriage of a son is always a grief to a mother,"she continued, somewhat sadly. "She feels that, in a certain sense,she will be supplanted in her boy's heart, and I have long accustomedmyself to think of another wife for Richard; but of her own will shehas given him his freedom. I thought it would be a grief to my son,but I find that it is a joy. Is it not so, Richard?"
"Yes, mother, the greatest joy, almost, that ever came to me, exceptloving Emily."
"Very well. Admiral Stewart, I never had a little girl. God has givenme but this, my son. I will receive Emily gladly. She shall be to me adaughter, indeed, and I will endeavor to be to her a mother."
"Emily! Josephine!" called Richard, instantly, stepping into the hall."Come here!"
The deep satisfaction in his heart spoke in the tones of his voice.Emily and Josephine comprehended it well. As the two girls came on theporch, Mrs. Revere again took the younger in her arms.
"My dear child," she said, with kindly affection, "I learn that youare going to be my daughter. I am very glad. In fact," she added,drawing back her head and looking at the girl approvingly, "the more Isee of you, I believe the more pleased I shall be."
"I congratulate you, Richard," said Josephine, "and I do it honestly,too. Emily and I are destined to be great friends, I am sure."
"Oh, Mrs. Revere," said Emily, her eyes filled with tears, she couldnot tell exactly why, "you have made me so happy! I know I have manythings to learn, but with you to teach me and Mr. Revere to helpme----"
"And me, too," interrupted Josephine; "don't forget me!"
"Yes, and you, I am sure I shall learn, and I shall try very hard tobe what you want me to be and what I ought to be."
"Be your own sweet self, dear," said the older lady, patting herapprovingly, "and you will do."
"Emily, bring me the sword of the _Constitution_," said the admiral."Richard, lad, I give it to you," he added, as it was handed to him bythe girl. "May you wear it always in defence of our beloved country,holding it ever at her service, defending the honor of her flag. AfterEmily it is my chiefest treasure, young sir. It has gone with me onmany a cruise. I have worn it, not without some honor, too, in battlesand on dangerous service. I give it gladly into your hands, as I giveyou Emily. I know you will wear the one honorably and treat the otherlovingly. When you look upon it, when your children gather about yourknee and marvel at its quaintness, mark the rudeness of the hilt incontrast to its jewelled scabbard and brilliant blade, tell them ofme, who shall never see them. Tell them the story of '_Old Ironsides_'and the last of the fighting captains of the _Constitution_."
"Sir," said Revere, as the old man solemnly pressed his lips to theiron guard and extended the sword to him, "I take it as a knight ofold received the accolade; and, as the men of the past did, I swearupon the hilt of the sword that I will be everything a man ought to beto a woman, to your granddaughter,--and more."
At this moment Revere's man rode up to the porch, dismounted, touchedhis hat, and held out a letter, reporting,--
"I did not find them, sir."
"They are here, Baker. I'll take the letter. Say nothing about it toany one, and then go back to the inn and arrange to bring the trunksof the two ladies over here."
Revere had descended to the foot of the steps to meet the man, and hehad spoken softly when referring to the letter, so that all the partyon the porch heard of the colloquy was the direction about thebaggage. Nor had any of them, except Emily, seen the man hand him theletter. With it in his hand, Revere walked up the steps and handed itto his betrothed without a word. A glance told her that it wasaddressed to Josephine Remington, and Emily understood instantly thatit was the famous letter about which they had quarrelled.
What should she do was in her mind; what would she do in his. Hertemptation was strong. It would have been a triumph to have handed theletter over to Josephine at once. She hesitated for a few seconds,and, choosing the greater triumph, thrust it quietly into the bosom ofher dress. She had decided not to give it to Josephine, after all, soRevere read her smiling gesture, and in the same mute, eloquent way hethanked her for her forbearance.
"Who is this coming up the path?" said Josephine, tactfully, breakingthe pause which threatened to become an awkward one, and pointing tothe brow of the hill.
"It is Captain Barry," answered Emily, glad of the interruption.
"The old sailor of whom I spoke to you, madam," said the admiral,turning to Mrs. Revere.
"The man who rowed the boat the night Emily pulled me out of thewater, mother," Revere explained.
"My man," said Mrs. Revere, graciously, as Barry stopped at the footof the steps and saluted, "I have to thank you for a great deal, Iunderstand. It was your strength and determination, coupled with thisyoung lady's skill, that saved the life of my son. I owe you much,sir."
"You owe me nothing, ma'am," said Barry, ungraciously. "I only obeyedMiss Emily's orders. What she says, I do. I always do."
"Nevertheless, you did it," continued Mrs. Revere, struck by his harshwords and repellent manner, but trying to suppress her astonishmentand be kind to this strange old man, "and I feel deeply grateful. Isthere any way in which I can show it?"
"No way, ma'am," burst out the sailor, almost rudely.
He hated the whole brood,--mother, son, friend, all of them, itseemed.
"What's the matter with you, Captain Barry?" gently asked Emily, whohad been scrutinizing the man's pale, haggard face, his bloodshoteyes, his utterly despairing, broken, yet firmly resolute look. She,too, had been surprised and deeply pained by his words and actions.
"Nothin', Miss Emily," he answered, turning toward her, his faceworking with emotion he vainly strove to control; "nothin'. I--MissEmily--the ship----"
"What of the ship?" cried the admiral, suddenly.
"It's almost gone, your honor. I came to ask the leftenant to go downwith me an' take another look at it."
"Certainly, Barry," cried Richard, springing to his feet, eager to doanything for the old man, and anxious to terminate a scene painful toall of them, although he could not tell why. "I shall be back in a fewmoments, Emily, mother. Good-by. Come along, man," he said, stridinglightly down the path.
But Barry lingered in apparent reluctance at the foot of the steps. Heseemed wistful to say something, but words failed him. He turned togo, stopped, faced about again.
"The ship," he s
aid, hoarsely; "I'm afraid it's gone. Good-by, yourhonor. Good-by, Miss Emily," he added, hoarsely, and then he turnedagain with a gesture and a movement which gave to all who were sointently watching him the impression that he was somehow breaking awayfrom his moorings, and walked rapidly down the hill.
"The ship! the ship!" murmured the admiral, oblivious of all the rest,leaning forward in his chair over the rail of the porch and gazing atthe vessel.
His hand grasped the hilt of the sword of the _Constitution_, whichRichard had handed back to him as he left. Emily stepped over to hisside and stood there with her arm around his neck. They waited insilence a little, a foreboding of disaster stealing over them.
"I wonder," she said, presently, in tones of great anxiety, "what thematter can be? I am afraid it is something serious. I never knewCaptain Barry so agitated."
"It's the end, daughter, the end. I feel it here," murmured the oldman, staring before him.
"Grandfather, if you don't mind, I think I will go down to the ship,"said Emily; "I'm so anxious."
"Don't go too near it, child," said the old man; "one life is enoughfor the ship."
"Shall I go with you?" asked Josephine, noticing how pale and worriedEmily looked, and feeling somewhat alarmed herself.
"Go, both of you, and I will stay with the admiral. Look to Richard,"said Mrs. Revere, apprehensively, sure now that something wasseriously wrong.
Poor Emily was in two minds about the matter. She wished to remainwith the old man, and yet, when she thought of Revere on that shipwith Captain Barry, and how strangely, how madly, almost insanely, thesailor had looked, her heart smote her with undefined terror of sheknew not what.
She must go! It might be too late already!
The two girls ran swiftly toward the ship in vague but rapidlyincreasing fear.
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