The Admiral's Daughter (2 page)

For some time he had pondered what to do, but without
finding any satisfactory solution to his dilemma. And then one day, as if in answer to his prayers, he had learned of Admiral Trevor's coming into the neighborhood. The Admiral was renowned throughout England for his victories against the French usurper; he had been decorated by the King himself, and acquired during his career a handsome fortune. Though without any of the consequence of birth, he had carved out a position for himself second only to a peerage—a connection with such a man could only help the curate. And when Wayland heard that the Admiral also possessed a daughter—a young lady said to be handsome, clever, and rich—his way seemed clear. Even before he had laid eyes upon Miss Trevor, the curate had determined to marry her, and had he discovered that she was in fact a wretched hag, his determination should not have been decreased.

Such was the clergyman's complacency that he did not for a moment doubt of his success. With the stubbornness (some might say blindness) of his nature, he had set out to woo her, but even Mr. Wayland understood that some formalities must be observed in this courtship. Having never been moved by any passion stronger than the one reserved for his own dear self, he was forced to resort to novels for advice on how to court a lady. From these he gleaned that the proper way of going was to slowly woo her by means of many pretty speeches, made over a protracted period of time. At the end, on the day selected for the final conflagration, he found that he must fall down upon the ground—either full-length, as the ancients were fond of doing, or on the knees, in the manner preferred by more civilized beings.

The first part of the task was completed. For six months Wayland had trudged across the meadow to the Admiral's house on every day the weather did not make him fearful of muddying his boots. His speeches had, at first, been written down and then rehearsed before his glass, much in the way he practiced the delivery of his sermons. But at last Mr. Wayland discovered he could as easily extemporize upon the spot, and with a great deal more freedom. This last was especially necessary if he was to deal with Miss Trevor's annoying habit of contradicting him at every turn. But the curate would not be put off, and if he ever
suspected that his attentions were unwelcome, he gave no hint of it.

Today in particular he was determined not to be distracted from his purpose, for this was the day for which he had worked so long. If Maggie Trevor wished to turn aside his compliments, then he would turn them back. Suppressing his mounting irritation, therefore, he said:

“Besides, you know, I did not mean actual saintliness. It is only a figure of speech. And yet I do really like your modesty; it is a most becoming attribute in a young lady. Pray, don't blush! Nothing is so fitting in tender womanhood as a disinclination to be overpraised. And yet I would equally say it is a lover's prerogative to contradict the lady he admires. Pray, what is a gentleman's function, if not to serve as a mirror for his beloved, so that she may see all the flowering beauty he invests her with reflected in his eyes?”

Mr. Wayland was very well pleased with this simile, and paused for a moment to let it hang in the air. He did not expect a response—indeed, he was prepared to answer it at some length himself—and was therefore displeased at hearing his companion interrupt yet again:

“You are much too kind, Mr. Wayland! And I cannot listen any longer to so much flattery. In truth, I find it most painful.”

“Ah! And you
ought
to be pained, too, dear lady, at seeing a man's heart lying open before you, waiting only to be thrust aside by one little gesture of your hand, or made whole and happy with a word! You see before you, Miss Trevor, a man whose destiny hangs in the balance!”

The time had certainly come, thought the curate, to fling himself to the ground. He had really hoped this interview might have been held indoors, for he had bought a new pair of breeches for the occasion, and had no wish to muddy them. A recent rain had left the ground damp, and here and there were still some puddles in the grass. Mr. Wayland accorded the ground a doubtful glance, but seeing that they had by now reached the bottom of the garden walk, and that Miss Trevor was on the point of turning back, he took one quick breath and fell to his knees, making simultaneously a lunge for the young lady's hand.

Almost instantly Wayland regretted his action. A stabbing
pain shot through one knee, and he realized—too late—that he had knelt upon a jagged pebble. With an heroic effort, however, he disguised his agony and proceeded at as rapid a rate as possible:

“My dear Miss Trevor! Surely you cannot mistake my meaning! So much delicacy of feeling must long ago have recognized my admiration for you! One glance must have told you, even on the first day of our acquaintance, what I felt on looking into your eyes! For months I have struggled against my own emotion, weighing the duty of my
office
against my weakness as a mere
man,
and at last I could not pretend any longer to be master of myself. A clergyman's chief joy ought to be in a single-minded pursuit of holiness; but a man—oh, a man, Miss Trevor! A man is not whole until he knows the comfort and joys attendant upon the company of the woman he loves! Ah! What a relief it is, at last to say what is in my heart! Say you will be my wife!”

Mr. Wayland had a look of sublime ecstasy upon his face as he gazed into the startled countenance of his companion. Unable to grasp her hand on his first attempt, he now made another essay, but Maggie managed just in time to move her arms behind her back.

“Mr. Wayland!” she cried out, “what on earth are you doing? Do, do please get up upon your feet! This is a most extraordinary performance! Indeed, sir, you had better get off the ground at once.”

The curate would no doubt have been glad to oblige her. The ground was certainly very wet, and very cold as well, and the agony of his knee was increasing every moment. But having come this far, he was not about to relent. With a stubborn look, he said,

“I will stay where I am, ma'am, at least until you have heard me out. A man in love has as great a right to kneel upon the ground as any other. Only say you will do me the joy to be my wife, and I will get up as quickly as you like!”

“Then I fear you will be on your knees a great while,” replied Miss Trevor, “for I cannot marry you, though your asking does me great honor.”

Mr. Wayland was astonished. He thought for a moment as clearly as he could, under the circumstances, and at length stammered, with an incredulous look:

“Can it be you do not
wish
to marry me? Perhaps you consider the living I hold too paltry for you! It is true I have not a great deal of worldly fortune to offer, but then, I have all the fortune of Heaven! Do not you consider Heaven a greater temptation than this dull earth?”

Maggie smiled enigmatically. “Is it a place in Heaven you are offering me then, sir? I had thought it was a place at your side.” Her expression might have troubled Mr. Wayland, had he happened to notice it.

“Both, both, my dearest love!” he now positively wailed, for he thought he could not bear the pain in his knee another moment. “Both by my side on earth, and in Heaven afterward! Oh, do, do,
do
please say you will be my wife!”

The misery in Mr. Wayland's voice was so intense that Maggie, gazing down upon him in astonishment, could not help but be softened. She had never supposed Mr. Wayland had any feeling in his heart greater than a love of his own voice, but now she wondered if she had been mistaken, and regretted having teased him for so many months. His face was twisted up in agony, his eyes were red, as if from crying, and his fingers clenched and unclenched in the air. In a kind voice, she said:

“Dear Mr. Wayland, you must not take it so much to heart. I cannot marry you, nor anyone else. I am honored that you would think of me, but my duty is to my father, for I am certain he needs me a great deal more than you. Even had I the desire to marry, I could not. What else could a young lady want, beside the company of her dearest friend, a house of her own, and the freedom to do as she likes? No, no, I cannot marry you, but I thank you for the honor you do me.”

After some moments of utter disbelief, a cunning light came into the clergyman's eye. “Oh, I see what you are doing! I have heard that young ladies count it as a point of pride never to accept the first offer. They like to bide their time, and after they have had their fun, they give in, as they always intended doing.”

Maggie was at her wits' end. “But I assure you I have no such intention, Mr. Wayland! I am the most plain-spoken creature you will ever meet, and detest all manner of deviousness. If I wished to marry you, you should know it without any doubt. My refusal is likewise definite; I shall
never consent to be your wife. Now you had better get up off the ground.”

But Mr. Wayland would not budge. His knee was numb, and his mind determined.

“If you dislike the vicarage here, Miss Trevor, I should mention—though it is not yet a certainty—that I have hopes of a better living. It is such an excellent situation in every wise, affording not only an increase in stature, but proximity to one of the best families in England, that even you, Miss Trevor, cannot scoff at it. No, no! Pray let me finish! The park is very grand, and the lady of the family has hinted that, should I take the living, I and my family would be welcome to use it. Besides, we should have the advantage of a close association with the family, who are a very tonnish kind of people, fond of music, with a great deal of society always about them. You should be privy to the wittiest conversations, the most stylish arguments—so much amusement, in fact, I am certain even you cannot dislike. Perhaps you might even be on intimate terms with the daughter, who I am told, is a most elegant young lady.”

“So much inducement,” replied Maggie in a dry tone, “could hardly persuade me to love anyone. Had I the advantage of a husband whose tastes I shared, I should want no further company. And without the first requisite, every other recommendation is superfluous. My decision, Mr. Wayland, will not be changed. And now, I must beg you to get up, for I have a great deal to do indoors, and must give up your company.”

Mr. Wayland had no choice, at this, but to rise to his feet and accompany Miss Trevor back to the entrance of the house. This he did with so sullen an expression, and so strong a feeling of resentment in his heart, that the pain in his knee was as nothing in comparison. Sly creature! She would lead him on in this fashion, and then reject him! So like a woman! He made no attempt to speak, and for once, Maggie had the whole length of the walk to make conversation. Her bright, impersonal chatter, however, was kept up without any of the joy it might have afforded her—only for knowing she had managed to get a word in edge-wise while in the curate's company—at another time. When they had reached the terrace which surrounded the south entrance, Mr. Wayland stopped.

“My company,” he said with a great bitterness, “cannot
please you very well, Miss Trevor. I shall not burden you with it any more.”

And with a stiff bow and a last accusing look, the curate turned upon his heel and hobbled off across the meadow.

Two

IT HAS BEEN
said that the history of mankind is divided equally between the sublime and the ridiculous. Surely as many great wars, resulting in untold horrors and death, had their beginnings in a comedy of errors as those begun by the thoughtful decisions of wise men. Individual lives are often conducted in the same fashion.

The unfortunate Mr. Wayland, limping back to his vicarage across the meadow, could hardly have guessed what a dire effect the sight of him had had upon Admiral Trevor. Most certainly he could not have imagined that one look at the Vicar, with his hair plastered down upon his prematurely balding pate and his arms sawing the air in eloquent gesticulation, had caused the stern old officer to revise his opinion of an ancient quarrel.

Many years before, when the Admiral had been a penniless ensign, he had fallen in love with a young lady from one of England's noblest houses. Though herself without fortune, Miss Ramblay had been the favorite of her uncle, the family's head and a Viscount besides. Lord Ramblay had opposed the match from the start, and when it looked as if his niece would not give up her attachment, he had written her out of his will and out of his heart. He had intended leaving her a handsome legacy, but his pride was such that he could not bear any hint of disobedience, and when the young people married despite him, he would not hear her name mentioned in his presence. Young Trevor soon began to make his mark in the Navy, and his fortunes grew in proportion to his rank, but still a bitter resentment persisted between the two families. Even after Mrs. Trevor died, shortly following the birth of a daughter, her husband carried on the feud, refusing to recognize his wife's relations and growing angry at the mere mention of the Viscount's name.

Maggie Trevor grew up without any knowledge of her cousins save that they were very rich, and very proud, and cared nothing about her. She had heard how cruel they had been to her mother, and harbored a natural bitterness against them, encouraged by her father.

Some time ago the old Viscount had died, and an only son had come into the title. Admiral Trevor heard the news and paid it no attention, for his feelings were firmly fixed. A letter arriving soon afterward from the new Lord Ramblay, in which was expressed a keen regret for his father's conduct and a warm desire to see the quarrel ended and harmony restored between the families, had been torn up and was never answered. And yet the matter had been in Admiral Trevor's mind increasingly of late, and he had begun to regret having missed the chance to renew his relations with his wife's family.