During those five years so eventful to the Etherton family, Mabel Arden was growing up into an exquisitely lovely and accomplished girl. The first two years she constantly looked forward to either hearing from or seeing her never-forgotten mother; but as time passed on, and no tidings could be gained from France, convulsed as it was to its centre, and a fierce war raging between the two countries, she began to despair. As she advanced towards womanhood her feelings for her young protector she felt, though she scarcely knew how, were undergoing a great change; the childish love was maturing itself in her young and most affectionate heart. The mere mention of his name caused the rich blood to rush to her cheek, and a deep anxiety stole over her when news arrived of the English fleet, or engagements between any of the French and English ships. Four years had elapsed since she had seen William Thornton, as she still called him, though convinced his real name was Oscar de Bracy, and that they were cousins.
To Mr. Stanmore’s excessive vexation, news reached England of Sir Oscar de Bracy’s death taking place at the Cape of Good Hope. The solicitor, fearing that such a catastrophe might occur, had taken the precaution to send out letters by a Government vessel, detailing all the circumstances of our hero’s story as related to him by Lieutenant O’Loughlin, by William Thornton, and Lord Hood’s coxswain; as well as Madame Volney’s account of the finding of the picture of himself round the neck of the child. In fact, he omitted no circumstance likely to convince the most sceptical of the identity of William Thornton’s being Sir Oscar de Bracy’s son. Whether the baronet received these letters and documents before his death Mr. Stanmore remained ignorant, and would remain so, till the frigate that was under Sir Oscar’s orders should return to England. The lawyer was also aware that the baronet, as governor of ——, must have accumulated a considerable sum, his large salary and emoluments, together with a vast amount of prize money, would constitute a fortune in themselves. The Duchess de Coulancourt, therefore, in default of heirs direct, would no doubt be entitled to his property if he died without a will.
Mabel Arden felt acutely, particularly on our hero’s account, this untoward event of Sir Oscar de Bracy’s death. She knew he would deeply deplore it, for his most ardent desire was to be acknowledged by his father. The last letters Mabel and Agatha Volney had received from the two friends were just previous to the Diamond frigate’s visit to Brest harbour. William Thornton wrote with all the sincerity and truth of an affectionate brother; the fondest sister could find no fault with the tone and tenor of his long and affectionate letter. But there was nothing of love in it: how could there be? She was scarcely more than thirteen when they parted, and yet Mabel was in her heart disappointed; and her cheeks glowed as she detected her feelings.
Agatha Volney, a light-hearted, affectionate, generous girl, loved her intended husband, Lieutenant O’Loughlin, with true affection, and looked forward with cheerfulness and hope to his being made a commander—the time fixed upon for their union.
William Thornton, in his letter, observing that delays were dangerous, playfully hinted that O’Loughlin’s whiskers were turning into a greyish tint, and that if Agatha waited ten years longer, they would be of a uniform colour, and the commandership still in the clouds.
Not long after the receipt of these letters, the inmates of the villa were startled, and most agreeably surprised, by the entrance of O’Loughlin himself. Agatha and Mabel were alone in the drawing-room when he entered; before a word could be said he threw his arm round the blushing, but delighted Agatha, and kissed her with fond affection, saying—
“I am entitled to this; I am, by Jove! I have been made commander.”
Then looking around, he perceived the tall and graceful form of Mabel Arden; he gazed at her for a moment bewildered; her extreme loveliness, and sweet expressive features, amazed him.
“Impossible!” he exclaimed; “and yet the eyes are those of Miss Arden.”
“Yes,” said Mabel, with her sweet, captivating smile, and extending her hand to the delighted sailor; “I am Mabel. You cannot have forgotten the little deserted girl you so generously and nobly protected.”