 | CHAPTER V. The two admirals |  |
5. CHAPTER V.
Whoever wear them, challenge our devoir.”
Young.
Our plan does not require an elaborate description of the residence
of Sir Wycherly. The house had been neither priory,
abbey, nor castle; but it was erected as a dwelling for
himself and his posterity, by a Sir Michael Wychecombe,
two or three centuries before, and had been kept in good
serviceable condition ever since. It had the usual long, narrow
windows, a suitable hall, wainscoted rooms, battlemented
walls, and turreted angles. It was neither large,
nor small; handsome, nor ugly; grand, nor mean; but it
was quaint, respectable in appearance, and comfortable as
an abode.
The admirals were put each in possession of bed-chambers
and dressing-rooms, as soon as they arrived; and Atwood
was berthed not far from his commanding-officer, in
readiness for service, if required. Sir Wycherly was naturally
hospitable; but his retired situation had given him a
Sir Gervaise, it was understood, was to pass the night
with him, and he entertained strong hopes of including his
friend in the same arrangement. Beds were ordered, too,
for Dutton, his wife, and daughter; and his namesake, the
lieutenant, was expected also to sleep under his roof, that
night.
The day passed in the customary manner; the party having
breakfasted, and then separated to attend to their several
occupations, agreeably to the usages of all country houses,
in all parts of the world, and, we believe, in all time. Sir
Gervaise, who had sent a messenger off to the Plantagenet
for certain papers, spent the morning in writing; Admiral
Bluewater walked in the park, by himself; Atwood was occupied
with his superior; Sir Wycherly rode among his
labourers; and Tom Wychecombe took a rod, and pretended
to go forth to fish, though he actually held his way back to
the head-land, lingering in and around the cottage until it
was time to return home. At the proper hour, Sir Wycherly
sent his chariot for the ladies; and a few minutes
before the appointed moment, the party began to assemble
in the drawing-room.
When Sir Wycherly appeared, he found the Duttons already
in possession, with Tom doing the honours of the
house. Of the sailing-master and his daughter, it is unnecessary
to say more than that the former was in his best uniform—an
exceedingly plain one, as was then the case with
the whole naval wardrobe—and that the last had recovered
from her illness, as was evident by the bloom that the sensitive
blushes constantly cast athwart her lovely face. Her
attire was exactly what it ought to have been; neat, simple,
and becoming. In honour of the host, she wore her best;
but this was what became her station, though a little jewelry
that rather surpassed what might have been expected in a
girl of her rank of life, threw around her person an air of
modest elegance. Mrs. Dutton was a plain, matronly woman—the
daughter of a land-steward of a nobleman in the
same county—with an air of great mental suffering, from
griefs she had never yet exposed to the heartless sympathy
of the world.
The baronet was so much in the habit of seeing his humble
them. Sir Wycherly, who was anything but an acute observer,
felt an interest in the melancholy-looking, and almost
heart-broken mother, without knowing why; or certainly
without suspecting the real character of her habitual sadness;
while Mildred's youth and beauty had not failed of
producing the customary effect of making a friend of the
old bachelor. He shook hands all round, therefore, with
great cordiality; expressing his joy at meeting Mrs. Dutton,
and congratulating the daughter on her complete recovery.
“I see Tom has been attentive to his duty,” he added,
“while I've been detained by a silly fellow about a complaint
against a poacher. My namesake, young Wycherly,
has not got back yet, though it is quite two hours past his
time; and Mr. Atwood tells me the admiral is a little uneasy
about his despatches. I tell him Mr. Wycherly Wychecombe,
though I have not the honour of ranking him among
my relatives, and he is only a Virginian by birth, is a young
man to be relied on; and that the despatches are safe, let
what may detain the courier.”
“And why should not a Virginian be every way as trustworthy
and prompt as an Englishman, Sir Wycherly?”
asked Mrs. Dutton. “He is an Englishman, merely separated
from us by the water.”
This was said mildly, or in the manner of one accustomed
to speak under a rebuked feeling; but it was said earnestly,
and perhaps a little reproachfully, while the speaker's eye
glanced with natural interest towards the beautiful face of
her daughter.
“Why not, sure enough, my dear Mrs. Dutton!” echoed the
baronet. “They are Englishmen, like ourselves, only born
out of the realm, as it might be, and no doubt a little different
on that account. They are fellow-subjects, Mrs.
Dutton, and that is a great deal. Then they are miracles
of loyalty, there being scarcely a Jacobite, as they tell me,
in all the colonies.”
“Mr. Wycherly Wychecombe is a very respectable young
gentleman,” said Dutton; “and I hear he is a prime seaman
for his years. He has not the honour of being related to
this distinguished family, like Mr. Thomas, here, it is true;
but he is likely to make a name for himself. Should he
done already, His Majesty would probably knight him; and
then we should have two Sir Wycherly Wychecombes!”
“I hope not — I hope not!” exclaimed the baronet; “I
think there must be a law against that. As it is, I shall be
obliged to put Bart, after my name, as my worthy grandfather
used to do, in order to prevent confusion; but England
can't bear two Sir Wycherlys, any more than the world
can bear two suns. Is not that your opinion, Miss Mildred?”
The baronet had laughed at his own allusion, showing he
spoke half jocularly; but, as his question was put in too direct
a manner to escape general attention, the confused girl
was obliged to answer.
“I dare say Mr. Wychecombe will never reach a rank
high enough to cause any such difficulty,” she said; and it
was said in all sincerity; for, unconsciously perhaps, she
secretly hoped that no difference so wide might ever be
created between the youth and herself. “If he should, I
suppose his rights would be as good as another's, and he
must keep his name.”
“In such a case, which is improbable enough, as Miss
Mildred has so well observed,” put in Tom Wychecombe,
“we should have to submit to the knighthood, for that
comes from the king, who might knight a chimney-sweep,
if he see fit; but a question might be raised as to the name.
It is bad enough as it is; but if it really got to be two Sir
Wycherlys, I think my dear uncle would be wrong to submit
to such an invasion of what one might call his individuality,
without making some inquiry as to the right of the
gentleman to one or both his names. The result might show
that the king had made a Sir Something Nobody.”
The sneer and spite with which this was uttered, were too
marked to escape notice; and both Dutton and his wife felt it
would be unpleasant to mingle farther in the discourse.
Still the last, submissive, rebuked, and heart-broken as she
was, felt a glow on her own pale cheek, as she saw the
colour mount in the face of Mildred, and she detected the
strong impulses that urged the generous girl herself to
answer.
“We have now known Mr. Wychecombe several months,”
observed Mildred, fastening her full, blue eye calmly on
anything to cause us to think he would bear a name—or
names—that he does not at least think he has a right to.”
This was said gently, but so distinctly, that every word
entered fairly into Tom Wychecombe's soul; who threw a
quick, suspicious glance at the lovely speaker, as if to ascertain
how far she intended any allusion to himself. Meeting
with no other expression than that of generous interest,
he recovered his self-command, and made his reply with
sufficient coolness.
“Upon my word, Mrs. Dutton,” he cried, laughing; “we
young men will all of us have to get over the cliff, and hang
dangling at the end of a rope, in order to awaken an interest
in Miss Mildred, to defend us when our backs are turned.
So eloquent—and most especially, so lovely, so charming
an advocate, is almost certain of success; and my uncle and
myself must admit the absent gentleman's right to our
name; though, heaven be praised, he has not yet got either
the title or the estate.”
“I hope I have said nothing, Sir Wycherly, to displease
you,” returned Mildred, with emphasis; though her face was
a thousand times handsomer than ever, with the blushes
that suffused it. “Nothing would pain me more, than to
suppose I had done so improper a thing. I merely meant
that we cannot believe Mr. Wycherly Wychecombe would
willingly take a name he had no right to.”
“My little dear,” said the baronet, taking the hand of the
distressed girl, and kissing her cheek, as he had often done
before, with fatherly tenderness; “it is not an easy matter
for you to offend me; and I'm sure the young fellow is quite
welcome to both my names, if you wish him to have 'em.”
“And I merely meant, Miss Mildred,” resumed Tom, who
feared he might have gone too far; “that the young gentleman—quite
without any fault of his own—is probably ignorant
how he came by two names that have so long pertained
to the head of an ancient and honourable family. There is
many a young man born, who is worthy of being an earl,
but whom the law considers—”here Tom paused to choose
terms suitable for his auditor, when the baronet added,
“A filius nullius—that's the phrase, Tom—I had it from
your own father's mouth.”
Tom Wychecombe started, and looked furtively around
him, as if to ascertain who suspected the truth. Then he
continued, anxious to regain the ground he feared he had
lost in Mildred's favour.
“Filius nullius means, Miss Mildred, exactly what I
wish to express; a family without any legal origin. They
tell me, however, that in the colonies, nothing is more common
than for people to take the names of the great families
at home, and after a while they fancy themselves related.”
“I never heard Mr. Wycherly Wychecombe say a word
to lead us to suppose that he was, in any manner, connected
with this family, sir,” returned Mildred, calmly, but quite
distinctly.
“Did you ever hear him say he was not, Miss Mildred?”
“I cannot say I ever did, Mr. Wychecombe. It is a subject
that has seldom been introduced in in my hearing.”
“But it has often been introduced in his! I declare, Sir
Wycherly, it has struck me as singular, that while you and
I have so very frequently stated in the presence of this gentleman,
that our families are in no way connected, he has
never, in any manner, not even by a nod or a look of approbation,
assented to what he must certainly know to be
the case. But I suppose, like a true colonist, he was unwilling
to give up his hold on the old stock.”
Here the entrance of Sir Gervaise Oakes changed the
discourse. The vice-admiral joined the party in good
spirits, as is apt to be the case with men who have been
much occupied with affairs of moment, and who meet relaxation
with a consciousness of having done their duty.
“If one could take with him to sea, the comforts of such
a house as this, Sir Wycherly, and such handsome faces as
your own, young lady,” cried Sir Gervaise, cheerfully, after
he had made his salutations; “there would be an end of
our exclusiveness, for every petit maitre of Paris and London
would turn sailor, as a matter of course. Six months
in the Bay of Biscay gives an old fellow, like myself, a keen
relish for these enjoyments, as hunger makes any meat
palatable; though I am far, very far, indeed, from putting
this house or this company, on a level with an indifferent
feast, even for an epicure.”
“Such as it is, Sir Gervaise, the first is quite at your
do all in its power to make itself agreeable.”
“Ah—here comes Bluewater to echo all I have said and
feel. I am telling Sir Wycherly and the ladies, of the satisfaction
we grampuses experience when we get berthed under
such a roof as this, with woman's sweet face to throw a
gleam of happiness around her.”
Admiral Bluewater had already saluted the mother, but
when his eye fell on the face and person of Mildred, it was
riveted, for an instant, with an earnestness and intentness
of surprise and admiration that all noted, though no one saw
fit to comment on it.
“Sir Gervaise is so established an admirer of the sex,”
said the rear-admiral, recovering himself, after a pause; “that
I am never astonished at any of his raptures. Salt water
has the usual effect on him, however; for I have now known
him longer than he might wish to be reminded of, and yet
the only mistress who can keep him true, is his ship.”
“And to that I believe I may be said to be constant. I
don't know how it is with you, Sir Wycherly, but everything
I am accustomed to I like. Now, here I have sailed
with both these gentlemen, until I should as soon think of
going to sea without a binnacle, as to go to sea without 'em
both—hey! Atwood?—Then, as to the ship, my flag has
been flying in the Plantagenet these ten years, and I can't
bear to give the old craft up, though Bluewater, here, would
have turned her over to an inferior after three year's service.
I tell all the young men they don't stay long enough
in any one vessel to find out her good qualities. I never
was in a slow ship yet.”
“For the simple reason that you never get into a fast
one, that you do not wear her fairly out, before you give her
up. The Plantagenet, Sir Wycherly, is the fastest two-decker
in His Majesty's service, and the vice-admiral knows
it too well to let any of us get foot in her, while her timbers
will hang together.”
“Let it be so, if you will; it only shows, Sir Wycherly,
that I do not choose my friends for their bad qualities. But,
allow me to ask, young lady, if you happen to know a certain
Mr. Wycherly Wychecombe—a namesake, but no relative,
holds a commission in His Majesty's service?”
“Certainly, Sir Gervaise,” answered Mildred, dropping
her eyes to the floor, and trembling, though she scarce knew
why; “Mr. Wychecombe has been about here, now, for
some months, and we all know something of him.”
“Then, perhaps you can tell me whether he is generally
a loiterer on duty. I do not inquire whether he is a laggard
in his duty to you, but whether, mounted on a good hunter,
he could get over twenty miles, in eight or ten hours, for
instance?”
“I think Sir Wycherly would tell you that he could, sir.”
“He may be a Wychecombe, Sir Wycherly, but he is
no Plantagenet, in the way of sailing. Surely the young
gentleman ought to have returned some hours since!”
“It's quite surprising to me that he is not back before
this,” returned the kind-hearted baronet. “He is active,
and understands himself, and there is not a better horseman
in the county—is there, Miss Mildred?”
Mildred did not think it necessary to reply to this direct
appeal; but spite of the manner in which she had been endeavouring
to school her feelings, since the accident on the
cliff, she could not prevent the deadly paleness that dread
of some accident had produced, or the rush of colour to her
cheeks that followed from the unexpected question of Sir
Wycherly. Turning to conceal her confusion, she met the
eye of Tom Wychecombe riveted on her face, with an expression
so sinister, that it caused her to tremble. Fortunately,
at this moment, Sir Gervaise turned away, and
drawing near his friend, on the other side of the large apartment,
he said in an under tone—
“Luckily, Atwood has brought ashore a duplicate of my
despatches, Bluewater, and if this dilatory gentleman does not
return by the time we have dined, I will send off a second
courier. The intelligence is too important to be trifled with;
and after having brought the fleet north, to be in readiness
to serve the state in this emergency, it would be rare folly
to leave the ministry in ignorance of the reasons why I have
done it.”
“Nevertheless, they would be almost as well-informed,
as I am myself,” returned the rear-admiral, with a little
only advantage I have over them is that I do know where
the fleet is, which is more than the First Lord can boast of.”
“True—I had forgot, my friend—but you must feel that
there is a subject on which I had better not consult you. I
have received some important intelligence, that my duty, as
a commander-in-chief, renders it necessary I should—keep
to myself.”
Sir Gervaise laughed as he concluded, though he seemed
vexed and embarrassed. Admiral Bluewater betrayed neither
chargin, nor disappointment; but strong, nearly ungovernable
curiosity, a feeling from which he was singularly exempt
in general, glowed in his eyes, and lighted his whole
countenance. Still, habitual submission to his superior, and
the self-command of discipline, enabled him to wait for anything
more that his friend might communicate. At this moment,
the door opened, and Wycherly entered the room, in
the state in which he had just dismounted. It was necessary
to throw but a single glance at his hurried manner, and
general appearance, to know that he had something of importance
to communicate, and Sir Gervaise made a sign for
him not to speak,
“This is public service, Sir Wycherly,” said the vice-admiral,
“and I hope you will excuse us for a few minutes.
I beg this good company will be seated at table, as soon as
dinner is served, and that you will treat us as old friends—
as I should treat you, if we were on board the Plantagenet,
Admiral Bluewater, will you be of our conference?”
Nothing more was said until the two admirals and the
young lieutenant were in the dressing-room of Sir Gervaise
Oakes. Then the latter turned, and addressed Wycherly,
with the manner of a superior.
“I should have met you with a reproof, for this delay,
young gentleman,” he commenced, “did I not suspect, from
your appearance, that something of moment has occurred to
produce it. Had the mail passed the market-town, before
you reached it, sir?”
“It had not, Admiral Oakes; and I have the satisfaction
of knowing that your despatches are now several hours on
their way to London. I reached the office just in season to
see them mailed.”
“Humph! On board the Plantagenet, it is the custom for
an officer to report any important duty done, as soon as it is
in a condition to be thus laid before the superior!”
“I presume that is the usage in all His Majesty's ships,
Sir Gervaise Oakes; but I have been taught that a proper
discretion, when it does not interfere with positive orders,
and sometimes when it does, is a surer sign of a useful officer,
than even the most slavish attention to rules.”
“That is a just distinction, young gentleman, though safer
in the hands of a captain, perhaps, than in those of a lieutenant,”
returned the vice-admiral, glancing at his friend,
though he secretly admired the youth's spirit. “Discretion
is a comparative term; meaning different things with different
persons. May I presume to ask what Mr. Wycherly
Wychecombe calls discretion, in the present instance?”
“You have every right, sir, to know, and I only wanted
your permission to tell my whole story. While waiting to
see the London mail start with your despatches, and to rest
my horse, a post-chaise arrived that was carrying a gentleman,
who is suspected of being a Jacobite, to his country-seat,
some thirty miles further west. This gentleman held
a secret conference with another person of the same way of
thinking as himself; and there was so much running and
sending of messages, that I could not avoid suspecting something
was in the wind. Going to the stable to look after
Sir Wycherly's hunter, for I knew how much he values the
animal, I found one of the stranger's servants in discourse
with the ostler. The latter told me, when the chaise had
gone, that great tidings had reached Exeter, before the travellers
quitted the town. These tidings he described as
news that `Charley was no longer over the water.' It was
useless, Sir Gervaise, to question one so stupid; and, at the
inn, though all observed the manner of the traveller and his
visiter, no one could tell me anything positive. Under the
circumstances, therefore, I threw myself into the return
chaise, and went as far as Fowey, where I met the important
intelligence that Prince Charles has actually landed, and is
at this moment up, in Scotland!”
“The Pretender is then really once more among us!” exclaimed
Sir Gervaise, like one who had half suspected the
truth.
“Not the Pretender, Sir Gervaise, as I understand the
news; but his young son, Prince Charles Edward, one much
more likely to give the kingdom trouble. The fact is certain,
I believe; and as it struck me that it might be important
to the commander of so fine a fleet as this which lies under
Wychecombe Head, to know it, I lost no time in getting
back with the intelligence.”
“You have done well, young gentleman, and have proved
that discretion is quite as useful and respectable in a lieutenant,
as it can possibly prove to be in a full admiral of the
white. Go, now, and make yourself fit to take a seat by
the side of one of the sweetest girls in England, where I
shall expect to see you, in fifteen minutes. Well, Bluewater,”
he continued, as soon as the door closed on Wycherly;
“this is news, of a certainty!”
“It is, indeed; and I take it to be the news, or connected
with the news, that you have sent to the First Lord, in the
late despatches. It has not taken you altogether by surprise,
if the truth were said?”
“It has not, I confess. You know what excellent intelligence
we have had, the past season, from the Bordeaux
agent; he sent me off such proofs of this intended expedition,
that I thought it advisable to bring the fleet north on
the strength of it, that the ships might be used as the exigency
should require.”
“Thank God, it is a long way to Scotland, and it is not
probable we can reach the coast of that country until all is
over! I wish we had inquired of this young man with what
sort of, and how large a naval force the prince was accompanied
with. Shall I send for him, that we may put the
question?”
“It is better that you remain passive, Admiral Bluewater.
I now promise you that you shall learn all I hear; and that,
under the circumstances, I think ought to content you.”
The two admirals now separated, though neither returned
to the company for some little time. The intelligence they
had just learned was too important to be lightly received,
and each of these veteran seamen paced his room, for near
a quarter of an hour, reflecting on what might be the probable
consequences to the country and to himself. Sir Gervaise
Oakes expected some event of this nature, and was less taken
serious, and as one likely to destroy the prosperity
of the nation, as well as the peace of families. There was
then in England, as there is to-day, and as there probably
will be throughout all time, two parties; one of which clung
to the past with its hereditary and exclusive privileges,
while the other looked more towards change for anticipated
advantages, and created honours. Religion, in that age,
was made the stalking-horse of politicians; as is liberty on
one side, and order on the other, in our own times; and men
just as blindly, as vehemently, and as regardlessly of principle,
submitted to party in the middle of the eighteenth
century, as we know they do in the middle of the nineteenth.
The mode of acting was a little changed, and the watchwords
and rallying points were not exactly the same, it is
true; but, in all that relates to ignorant confidence, ferocious
denunciation, and selfishness but half concealed under the
cloak of patriotism, the England of the original whigs and
tories, was the England of conservatism and reform, and
the America of 1776, and the America of 1841.
Still thousands always act, in political struggles, with the
fairest intentions, though they act in bitter opposition to each
other. When prejudice becomes the stimulant of ignorance,
no other result may be hoped for; and the experience of the
world, in the management of human affairs, has left the upright
and intelligent, but one conclusion as the reward of all
the pains and penalties with which political revolutions have
been effected—the conviction that no institutions can be invented,
which a short working does not show will be perverted
from their original intention, by the ingenuity of those entrusted
with power. In a word, the physical constitution of man
does not more infallibly tend to decrepitude and imbecility,
imperiously requiring a new being, and a new existence, to
fulfil the objects of his creation, than the moral constitutions
which are the fruits of his wisdom, contain the seeds of
abuses and decay, that human selfishness will be as certain
to cultivate, as human indulgence is to aid the course of nature,
in hastening the approaches of death. Thus, while on
the one hand, there exists the constant incentive of abuses
and hopes to induce us to wish for modifications of the social
to demonstrate their insufficiency to produce the happiness
we aim at. If the world advances in civilization and humanity,
it is because knowledge will produce its fruits in
every soil, and under every condition of cultivation and improvement.
Both Sir Gervaise Oakes and Admiral Bluewater believed
themselves to be purely governed by principles, in submitting
to the bias that each felt towards the conflicting claims
of the houses of Brunswick and Stuart. Perhaps no two
men in England were in fact less influenced by motives that
they ought to feel ashamed to own; and yet, as has been
seen, while they thought so much alike on most other things,
on this they were diametrically opposed to each other.
During the many years of arduous and delicate duties that
they had served together, jealousy, distrust, and discontent
had been equally strangers to their bosoms; for each had
ever felt the assurance that his own honour, happiness, and
interests were as much ruling motives with his friend, as
they could well be with himself. Their lives had been constant
scenes of mutual but unpretending kindnesses; and
this under circumstances that naturally awakened all the
most generous and manly sentiments of their natures. When
young men, their laughing messmates had nick-named them
Pylades and Orestes; and later in life, on account of their
cruising so much in company, they were generally known
in the navy as the “twin captains.” On several occasions
had they fought enemies' frigates, and captured them; on
these occasions, as a matter of course, the senior of the two
became most known to the nation; but Sir Gervaise had
made the most generous efforts to give his junior a full share
of the credit, while Captain Bluewater never spoke of the
affairs without mentioning them as victories of the commodore.
In a word, on all occasions, and under all circumstances,
it appeared to be the aim of these generous-minded
and gallant seamen, to serve each other; nor was this attempted
with any effort, or striving for effect; all that was
said, or done, coming naturally and spontaneously from the
heart. But, for the first time in their lives, events had now
occurred which threatened a jarring of the feelings between
them in open and declared hostility to each other. No
wonder, then, that both looked at the future with gloomy
forebodings, and a distrust, which, if it did not render them
unhappy, at least produced uneasiness.
| CHAPTER V. The two admirals | |