The Admiral's Daughter (30 page)

It was with a great relief that she now turned to her father's letter, calling up in her mind as she did so a picture of that stern old face, so fearsome to his sailors when
angry, and so dearly loved by everyone who knew him at every other moment. Even his hand—bold, large, and blunt—was a comforting sight. Laying every other thought aside, Maggie sank into an armchair and opened it up. With a fond smile she noted the several closely written pages, and knew, from her own familiarity with the Admiral's usual epistolary brevity, that he must miss her sadly.

The first and the second pages of the letter were full of trivial news about all their friends and acquaintances in Sussex. The Admiral had progressed farther than he had hoped to do in his memoirs of the War, there was a new curate in the village, and the skill of the cook was not much improved since his daughter's departure. He hoped Maggie was benefiting from her relations' company, and enjoined her not to stay away too long. All this was predictable, and, to Maggie's present state of mind, delightful. She read his phrases as if she could hear his voice, and felt instantly comforted. But all at once the style and tone of the letter changed, as if the Admiral, postponing by every means he could think of the disclosure of some awful secret, had at last reached the end of his resources.

“My dear (read the letter), I was sorry to discover, from the tone of your last letter to me, that you seemed still to hold a grudge against your cousin, the Viscount. From what you said, I gathered he had given you no reason to dislike him, and yet you persist in calling him haughty, proud, and arrogant. He has been kind to you, and yet you cannot find it in your heart to feel a genuine affection and respect for him. I am very sorry for this, Maggie, very sorry indeed, for I believe it is all due to me that you feel as you do. Had I told you the whole truth of our correspondence, I believe you should think altogether differently, and blame
me
for what you now suppose is Lord Ramblay's fault. I should have remedied this unfortunate state long ago—indeed, I ought to have told you the whole truth at once, rather than letting you believe what you now do about him. I hope it is not too late for you to change your opinion of Lord Ramblay, for I have every reason to think him a fine, sensible, and generous man, as unlike his father as any son can be.

“When I showed you his letter, my dear, I am afraid I let you think it was his first attempt to correspond with me.
I did so out of shame, and nothing more, for I had behaved very badly in ignoring an earlier letter, written nearly five years since, in which my old enemy's son first expressed his eagerness to breach the gap made by our old feud.
That
letter was as different from the one you saw as day from night. It was three times as long, and positively begged me to forget our old quarrel. Of course it did not really beg, my dear, that is an exaggeration. Yet it went so far toward admitting his father's mistake, and hoping I would put our old quarrel out of my mind, that, had I not been such a stubborn old termagant, I should have answered it at once. That I did not, Maggie, is a fact I shall regret all my life, the more so if it has affected your own relations with him. I could not hope for a more amiable friend than Lord Ramblay, nor a more sincere one. His letter was everything it ought to have been, and for his second communication being cold and reserved, I can only blame myself. Indeed, he had every reason to be cold, after the disdain with which his first overture was received. I shall speak no more upon this subject, but I hope you will forgive me for letting this untruth go so long unconfessed.”

The letter did not end here, but Maggie was too amazed to read any further. In disbelief she perused the last paragraph again, and again, until, with an exclamation, she stood up and began pacing up and down the room. Her promenade was punctuated now and then by a little self-inflicted slap upon the brow, which came with every fresh realization of her error.

“Oh, Papa!” she exclaimed out loud, “why indeed did you not tell me sooner? Oh, dear—I ought to have known it was not in your character to make the first attempt at a reconciliation! I ought to have known you would never, never humble yourself to your old enemy's son! Lord, I have been a fool! To think—oh dear, to think what I
almost
was sure of!”

With every moment, Maggie's confidence in her own powers of perception was weakening. She had been so positive from the first of her cousin's character that she had not paused once to wonder if she was not mistaken. No, with the stubbornness of her nature (and, she thought now with a grimace, of her father's) she had stumbled blindly on, blaming everything upon Lord Ramblay, and never questioning if some other person might have been
at fault instead. In the matter of the letter, she had never weighed whether or not her own father might have been the instigator of the insult, and not his relative. At the posting house at Dartmoor, on her first sight of the Viscount, she had been quick to blame him for forgetting her, and leaving her without horses for her journey. Even when it was proved that horses had been sent, and a commodious carriage besides, she had supposed he meant to insult her, never once demanding of herself if perhaps his need was not more pressing, and the urgency of fetching the surgeon from London required a swifter team than one only destined for an easy ride over good roads with a vehicle made for easy pulling. Oh, no—in both these matters, it was clear to her, she now began to see, how it had been she herself who was mistaken and not her cousin. There was still the graver matter of her cousin's wife to be considered, however. But had she any knowledge, other than her own inclination to suspect him, and Captain Morrison's hints to go upon in blaming him for anything greater than an unhappy marriage? It was the latter gentleman's tale which had started her off, and now her certainty of even his character was faltering. Her suspicions of the officer, whose word she had been so quick to trust, were founded upon seeing him in that strange conversation with Miss Haversham. Her maid had been right—one did not argue so passionately with mere
friends
! But if they were not friends, what closer relationship joined them? The idea that they were lovers, hiding from the world behind the guise of other friends and admirers, had rushed over her with a sickening force. But in an instant that thought, however awful, had been replaced by an even more terrible idea. Was not it possible—was not it altogether
probable
—that Captain Morrison was that same brother of whom Miss Haversham had spoken?

Every word that lady had said in description of her sibling now came back to Maggie with a ringing, jeering clarity. “You could not understand me, without seeing him—he could charm a stone into speaking.” Was not that almost exactly what she herself had thought about the officer? “His charm was so great that the world took it in lieu of more solid qualities.” He had been depicted to her as amiable, handsome, and popular in the
ton
; was not that an exact description of Captain Morrison? Miss Haversham
had said he was clever, and a naval captain, besides. He was admired in the service, and circulated freely in the
haute
society of London. All these thoughts had come back to Maggie in the first few moments after she had seen her friend and the officer in Berkeley Street, and had inspired her letter to Miss Haversham. Indeed, she
must
be certain of the matter. So cruel a misunderstanding must be cleared up at once, for until she knew, for certain, she could not trust a word of the Captain's.

Indeed, if she could not trust him on any other count, how could she believe his story of Lord Ramblay's marriage? The link had been long in coming to her, for her brain had been too much muddled by events to allow her to think clearly. But now, standing stock-still in the middle of her bedroom, it dawned over her: Had not Captain Morrison been the only person who had said anything against the Viscount? Had not he, when she had related to him her morbid suspicions, been quick to take them up and to encourage them? All this was plain, and it broke over Maggie with the sudden force of a thunderclap. And yet, try as she might to make some sense of it, she could not comprehend what advantage it would be to the officer to have her think ill of her own cousin! To be sure, it was a most extraordinary, and most perplexing case.

Having turned the matter over in her mind until she was incapable of thinking any more, and so exhausted that she thought she would weep, she sank down into her armchair again with the thought, “I cannot consider this any more, until I have some proof of my suspicions. Indeed, my suspicions have already been the cause of too much trouble. Until I have a reply to my letter to Blanche Haversham, I shall not think about it, but make better use of my time. There is little Jamey to nurse, and a deal of other better occupations for my mind than senseless wondering.”

And with this very sensible intention (more sensible, in truth, than most of Maggie's ideas of late), she took up the remainder of her father's letter to read.

There was little left of it, only a paragraph. But this one paragraph, though brief, and written as if an after-thought to the principle subject of the document, was almost more interesting than Admiral Trevor's admission of his mistake.

“My dearest child, I had almost forgot. You made some mention of having met a Captain Morrison. The name struck me as familiar, and by chance I remembered some business that was connected with it. I have since looked further into the matter, and having heard from my old friend Corning, in Portsmouth, hope that indeed you have not befriended a Captain Charles Morrison, if such is the fellow's name. That gentleman, though well thought of in the service for his ability as a commander, has yet a most unsavory reputation among his fellow officers. It seems he is an incurable gambler, and is always in debt. Several duels have been fought over his refusal to pay, and one or two other matters, involving the wives of his comrades, which I shall not go into. There was a business some years ago which seems to have been hushed up, by whom I cannot say—but that it was very serious, and very detrimental to the Navy as a whole, I have reason to believe. I cannot comprehend why he retained his commission afterward, but suppose some very elevated personages must have interferred on his behalf. However the case, I hope you shall have a care in your dealings with him, and avoid him as much as possible.
I
have never met him, or if I have, have no recollection of the fact—you may tell him so if you see him again.”

Such was the end to this astounding letter, already overloaded with interesting information, and it was some time before Maggie could contrive to put it down. Suffice it to say, in respect to her thoughts upon the subject, that it was a most mortified young lady who that night lay down upon her bed.

Twenty-two

WHATEVER WAS TROUBLING
Maggie in those next two days—and we may assume that her thoughts were not entirely comforting ones—she gave no sign of it to anyone else. All the vast resources of her energy, intelligence, and cheerfulness were directed at the business of curing little James Ramblay. That child so delightfully, and so instantly, had taken hold of her heart that no other distraction could have sufficed as well. Indeed, she was rewarded the first moment she walked into his nursery by seeing the lad, wrapped up in his covers and lying full length upon his bed, greet her with a happy smile. His nurse was no less welcoming, and before an hour had passed the three were well attached in friendship and good humor.

Little James was not yet strong enough, after his illness, to get out of bed. But together Maggie and his nurse contrived to invent such amusements for him as could be practiced upon his back, without disarranging his coverlets, and these he readily undertook. So willing was he to be taught, and so sweet in the performance of his various feats, that Maggie could barely resist hugging him every few seconds. She attempted to curb her demonstrations of affection, however, upon remembering how a little son of one of her friends disliked being toyed over like a girl. Little James seemed to feel no such injury to his dignity, however—he was equally warm in his embraces of her as she was of him.

It was apparent at once to both the child's nurses that this new form of treatment was having an immediate effect. His color was already much improved by the end of the first day, and on the afternoon of the second, he actually made a sound that was very like a laugh upon seeing one of his toy soldiers knock another down!

Maggie stared at the nurse, who stared back in amazement,
and together they tried the trick again. This brought up a similar sound, though a little louder, and on peering into his face, they saw his eyes twinkling in amusement. A third essay brought forth an absolute chortle, upon hearing which, the two ladies seized each other's hands and began dancing about the room, clapping and laughing. This spectacle was infinitely funnier than anything tin soldiers could do—and very soon the three were all bent double with laughing, and tears were streaming out of Maggie's eyes from an equal combination of happiness and gratitude. It was as they were clapping each other on the back and commencing a new jig that a grave voice sounded at the door.

“I hope I may interrupt this scene,” came the unmistakable tones of Lord Ramblay.

Instantly abashed, the ladies straightened up and stared in mortification at the nobleman. Even little James seemed to feel the change in the air, and the smile froze upon his face at the sight of his father.

“Oh dear!” murmured Maggie. “We did not expect you back so soon!”

“I seem to have interrupted you a second time, Cousin,” said he, advancing into the room. “I hope it is not quite so inconvenient as it was
then.
”