Chapter XXI: A Happy Consummation

"Mother," said Richard, as the three were left alone, "I will be entirely brief and frank with you. I love Emily Sanford. It is a sudden feeling, I grant you, but I am sure none the less deep and abiding for that. I have reason to think that she loves me as well. This morning, after I came back from the inn, freed from the engagement by Josephine's own act, I asked the admiral if he would give her to me."

"I said, madam," interrupted the admiral, with natural pride, "that I would not withhold my consent provided the match were agreeable to yourself. I have reared and educated my granddaughter principally myself, and, naturally, she lacks many things which, I trust, she may easily 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 to her family, madam, it is my own, and I think," he added with simple dignity, "that there is none better in the Republic. She will not come to your son portionless--there is a tidy little fortune for her after I am gone, and that will be soon, certainly. Of her personal qualities I may not speak. She is most dear to me. For the last twenty years of my life she has been everything to me. No one could have a more dutiful child, nor one sweeter and more tender. She has been the sunshine and joy of my old age. I can scarcely bear to think for a moment that she should leave me, but it is a matter of a short time only. The old ship and I are ready to go, and yet I would fain see her provided for before."

"Admiral Stewart," said Mrs. Revere, gravely, "you touch me profoundly. I divined that things might be as you say when I saw your granddaughter. 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 accustomed myself to think of another wife for Richard; but of her own will she has 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, except loving Emily."

"Very well. Admiral Stewart, I never had a little girl. God has given me but this, my son. I will receive Emily gladly. She shall be to me a daughter, 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 the porch, Mrs. Revere again took the younger in her arms.

"My dear child," she said, with kindly affection, "I learn that you are 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 I see 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 could not tell exactly why, "you have made me so happy! I know I have many things to learn, but with you to teach me and Mr. Revere to help me----"

"And me, too," interrupted Josephine; "don't forget me!"

"Yes, and you, I am sure I shall learn, and I shall try very hard to be what you want me to be and what I ought to be."

"Be your own sweet self, dear," said the older lady, patting her approvingly, "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 by the girl. "May you wear it always in defence of our beloved country, holding it ever at her service, defending the honor of her flag. After Emily it is my chiefest treasure, young sir. It has gone with me on many a cruise. I have worn it, not without some honor, too, in battles and on dangerous service. I give it gladly into your hands, as I give you Emily. I know you will wear the one honorably and treat the other lovingly. When you look upon it, when your children gather about your knee and marvel at its quaintness, mark the rudeness of the hilt in contrast to its jewelled scabbard and brilliant blade, tell them of me, 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 the iron guard and extended the sword to him, "I take it as a knight of old received the accolade; and, as the men of the past did, I swear upon the hilt of the sword that I will be everything a man ought to be to a woman, to your granddaughter,--and more."

At this moment Revere's man rode up to the porch, dismounted, touched his 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 to any one, and then go back to the inn and arrange to bring the trunks of the two ladies over here."

Revere had descended to the foot of the steps to meet the man, and he had spoken softly when referring to the letter, so that all the party on the porch heard of the colloquy was the direction about the baggage. Nor had any of them, except Emily, seen the man hand him the letter. With it in his hand, Revere walked up the steps and handed it to his betrothed without a word. A glance told her that it was addressed to Josephine Remington, and Emily understood instantly that it was the famous letter about which they had quarrelled.

What should she do was in her mind; what would she do in his. Her temptation was strong. It would have been a triumph to have handed the letter over to Josephine at once. She hesitated for a few seconds, and, choosing the greater triumph, thrust it quietly into the bosom of her dress. She had decided not to give it to Josephine, after all, so Revere read her smiling gesture, and in the same mute, eloquent way he thanked her for her forbearance.

"Who is this coming up the path?" said Josephine, tactfully, breaking the pause which threatened to become an awkward one, and pointing to the 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 the water, mother," Revere explained.

"My man," said Mrs. Revere, graciously, as Barry stopped at the foot of the steps and saluted, "I have to thank you for a great deal, I understand. It was your strength and determination, coupled with this young 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 obeyed Miss Emily's orders. What she says, I do. I always do."

"Nevertheless, you did it," continued Mrs. Revere, struck by his harsh words and repellent manner, but trying to suppress her astonishment and be kind to this strange old man, "and I feel deeply grateful. Is there 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, it seemed.

"What's the matter with you, Captain Barry?" gently asked Emily, who had been scrutinizing the man's pale, haggard face, his bloodshot eyes, 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 face working with emotion he vainly strove to control; "nothin'. I--Miss Emily--the ship----"

"What of the ship?" cried the admiral, suddenly.

"It's almost gone, your honor. I came to ask the leftenant to go down with me an' take another look at it."

"Certainly, Barry," cried Richard, springing to his feet, eager to do anything for the old man, and anxious to terminate a scene painful to all of them, although he could not tell why. "I shall be back in a few moments, Emily, mother. Good-by. Come along, man," he said, striding lightly down the path.

But Barry lingered in apparent reluctance at the foot of the steps. He seemed wistful to say something, but words failed him. He turned to go, stopped, faced about again.

"The ship," he said, hoarsely; "I'm afraid it's gone. Good-by, your honor. Good-by, Miss Emily," he added, hoarsely, and then he turned again with a gesture and a movement which gave to all who were so intently watching him the impression that he was somehow breaking away from 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 at the vessel.

His hand grasped the hilt of the sword of the _Constitution_, which Richard had handed back to him as he left. Emily stepped over to his side and stood there with her arm around his neck. They waited in silence a little, a foreboding of disaster stealing over them.

"I wonder," she said, presently, in tones of great anxiety, "what the matter can be? I am afraid it is something serious. I never knew Captain Barry so agitated."

"It's the end, daughter, the end. I feel it here," murmured the old man, 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 enough for the ship."

"Shall I go with you?" asked Josephine, noticing how pale and worried Emily 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 was seriously wrong.

Poor Emily was in two minds about the matter. She wished to remain with the old man, and yet, when she thought of Revere on that ship with Captain Barry, and how strangely, how madly, almost insanely, the sailor had looked, her heart smote her with undefined terror of she knew not what.

She must go! It might be too late already!

The two girls ran swiftly toward the ship in vague but rapidly increasing fear.