 | CHAPTER IX. The two admirals |  |
9. CHAPTER IX.
If thou be there, sweet brother, take my hand,
And with thy lips keep in my soul awhile!
Thou lov'st me not; for, brother, if thou didst,
Thy tears would wash this cold congealed blood
That glues my lips, and will not let me speak.
Come quickly, Montague, or I am dead.”
King Henry VI.
Sir Wycherly had actually been seized with a fit of
apoplexy. It was the first serious disease he had experienced
in a long life of health and prosperity; and the sight of
their condescending, good-humoured, and indulgent master,
in a plight so miserable, had a surprising effect on the
heated brains of all the household. Mr. Rotherham, a good
three-bottle man, on emergency, had learned to bleed, and
fortunately the vein he struck, as his patient still lay on the
floor, where he had fallen, sent out a stream that had the
effect not only to restore the baronet to life, but, in a great
measure, to consciousness. Sir Wycherly was not a hard
drinker, like Dutton; but he was a fair drinker, like Mr.
Rotherham, and most of the beneficed clergy of that day.
Want of exercise, as he grew older, had as much influence
in producing this attack as excess of wine; and there were,
already, strong hopes of his surviving it, aided as he was,
by a good constitution. The apothecary had reached the
Hall, within five minutes after the attack, having luckily
been prescribing to the gardener; and the physician and
surgeon of the family were both expected in the course of
the morning.
Sir Gervaise Oakes had been acquainted with the state
of his host, by his own valet, as soon as it was known in
the servants'-hall, and being a man of action, he did not
hesitate to proceed at once to the chamber of the sick, to
offer his own aid, in the absence of that which might be
better. At the door of the chamber, he met Atwood, who
had been summoned from his pen, and they entered together,
too, had acquired the art of the blood-letter. They now
learned the actual state of things.
“Where is Bluewater?” demanded Sir Gervaise, after
regarding his host a moment with commiseration and concern.
“I hope he has not yet left the house.”
“He is still here, Sir Gervaise, but I should think on the
point of quitting us. I heard him say, that, notwithstanding
all Sir Wycherly's kind plans to detain him, he intended
to sleep in his own ship.”
“That I 've never doubted, though I 've affected to believe
otherwise. Go to him, Atwood, and say I beg he will
pull within hail of the Plantagenet, as he goes off, and desire
Mr. Magrath to come ashore, as soon as possible. There
shall be a conveyance at the landing to bring him here;
and he may order his own surgeon to come also, if it be
agreeable to himself.”
With these instructions the secretary left the room; while
Sir Gervaise turned to Tom Wychecombe, and said a few
of the words customary on such melancholy occasions.
“I think there is hope, sir,” he added, “yes sir, I think
there is hope; though your honoured relative is no longer
young — still, this early bleeding has been a great thing;
and if we can gain a little time for poor Sir Wycherly, our
efforts will not be thrown away. Sudden death is awful,
sir, and few of us are prepared for it, either in mind, or
affairs. We sailors have to hold our lives in our hands, it
is true, but then it is for king and country; and we hope for
mercy on all who fall in the discharge of their duties. For
my part, I am never unprovided with a will, and that disposes
of all the interests of this world, while I humbly trust
in the Great Mediator, for the hereafter. I hope Sir Wycherly
is equally provident as to his worldly affairs?”
“No doubt my dear uncle could wish to leave certain
trifling memorials behind him to a few of his intimates,”
returned Tom, with a dejected countenance; “but he has
not been without a will, I believe, for some time; and I presume
you will agree with me in thinking he is not in a condition
to make one, now, were he unprovided in that way?”
“Perhaps not exactly at this moment, though a rally
Mr. Dutton told me, at dinner.”
“It is, Sir Gervaise, and I am the unworthy individual
who is to profit by it, according to the common notions of
men, though Heaven knows I shall consider it anything but
a gain; still, I am the unworthy individual who is to be
benefited by my uncle's death.”
“Your father was the baronet's next brother?” observed
Sir Gervaise, casually, a shade of distrust passing athwart
his mind, though coming from what source, or directed to
what point, he was himself totally unable to say. “Mr.
Baron Wychecombe, I believe, was your parent?”
“He was, Sir Gervaise, and a most tender and indulgent
father, I ever found him. He left me his earnings, some
seven hundred a year, and I am sure the death of Sir Wycherly
is as far from my necessities, as it is from my
wishes.”
“Of course you will succeed to the baronetcy, as well as
to the estate?” mechanically asked Sir Gervaise, led on by
the supererogatory expressions of Tom, himself, rather than
by a vulgar curiosity, to ask questions that, under other circumstances,
he might have thought improper.
“Of course, sir. My father was the only surviving brother
of Sir Wycherly; the only one who ever married; and
I am his eldest child. Since this melancholy event has
occurred, it is quite fortunate that I lately obtained this certificate
of the marriage of my parents—is it not, sir?”
Here Tom drew from his pocket a soiled piece of paper,
which professed to be a certificate of the marriage of Thomas
Wychecombe, barrister, with Martha Dodd, spinster, &c.
&c. The document was duly signed by the rector of a
parish church in Westminster, and bore a date sufficiently
old to establish the legitimacy of the person who held it.
This extraordinary precaution produced the very natural
effect of increasing the distrust of the vice-admiral, and, in
a slight degree, of giving it a direction.
“You go well armed, sir,” observed Sir Gervaise, drily.
“Is it your intention, when you succeed, to carry the patent
of the baronetcy, and the title-deeds, in your pocket?”
“Ah! I perceive my having this document strikes you
as odd, Sir Gervaise, but it can be easily explained. There
some ill-disposed persons have presumed so far to reflect on
the character of my mother, as to assert she was not married
at all.”
“In which case, sir, you would do well to cut off half-a-dozen
of their ears.”
“The law is not to be appeased in that way, Sir Gervaise.
My dear parent used to inculcate on me the necessity of
doing everything according to law; and I endeavour to
remember his precepts. He avowed his marriage on his
death-bed, made all due atonement to my respected and injured
mother, and informed me in whose hands I should
find this very certificate; I only obtained it this morning,
which fact will account for its being in my pocket, at this
melancholy and unexpected crisis, in my beloved uncle's
constitution.”
The latter part of Tom's declaration was true enough;
for, after having made all the necessary inquiries, and obtained
the hand-writing of a clergyman who was long since
dead, he had actually forged the certificate that day, on a
piece of soiled paper, that bore the water-mark of 1720.
His language, however, contributed to alienate the confidence
of his listener; Sir Gervaise being a man who was so much
accustomed to directness and fair-dealing, himself, as to feel
disgust at anything that had the semblance of cant or hypocrisy.
Nevertheless, he had his own motives for pursuing
the subject; the presence of neither at the bed-side of the
sufferer, being just then necessary.
“And this Mr. Wycherly Wychecombe,” he said; “he
who has so much distinguished himself of late; your uncle's
namesake;—is it true that he is not allied to your family?”
“Not in the least, Sir Gervaise,” answered Tom, with
one of his sinister smiles. “He is only a Virginian, you
know, sir, and cannot well belong to us. I have heard my
uncle say, often, that the young gentleman must be descended
from an old servant of his father's, who was transported
for stealing silver out of a shop on Ludgate Hill, and
who was arrested for passing himself off, as one of the
Wychecombe family. They tell me, Sir Gervaise, that the
colonies are pretty much made of persons descended from
that sort of ancestors?”
“I cannot say that I have found it so; though, when I
commanded a frigate, I served several years on the North
American station. The larger portion of the Americans,
like much the larger portion of the English, are humble
labourers, established in a remote colony, where civilization
is not far advanced, wants are many, and means few; but,
in the way of character, I am not certain they are not quite
on a level with those they left behind them; and, as to the
gentry of the colonies, I have seen many men of the best
blood of the mother country among them;—younger sons,
and their descendants, as a matter of course, but of an
honourable and respected ancestry.”
“Well, sir, this surprises me; and it is not the general
opinion, I am persuaded! Certainly, it is not the fact as
respects this gentleman — stranger, I might call him, for
stranger he is at Wychecombe—who has not the least right
to pretend to belong to us.”
“Did you ever know him to lay claim to that honour,
sir?”
“Not directly, Sir Gervaise; though I am told he has
made many hints to that effect, since he landed here to be
cured of his wound. It would have been better had he presented
his rights to the landlord, than to present them to the
tenants, I think you will allow, as a man of honour, yourself,
Sir Gervaise?”
“I can approve of nothing clandestine in matters that
require open and fair dealing, Mr. Thomas Wychecombe.
But I ought to apologize for thus dwelling on your family
affairs, which concern me only as I feel an interest in the
wishes and happiness of my new acquaintance, my excellent
host.”
“Sir Wycherly has property in the funds that is not entailed—quite
£1000 a year, beyond the estates—and I know
he has left a will,” continued Tom; who, with the shortsightedness
of a rogue, flattered himself with having made a
favourable impression on his companion, and who was desirous
of making him useful to himself, in an emergency
that he felt satisfied must terminate in the speedy death of
his uncle. “Yes, a good £1000 a year, in the fives;
money saved from his rents, in a long life. This will probably
has some provision in favour of my younger brothers;
that it devised every shilling, real and personal, to himself;
—“for a kinder heart does not exist on earth. In fact, this
will my uncle put in my possession, as heir at law, feeling
it due to my pretensions, I suppose; but I have never presumed
to look into it.”
Here was another instance of excessive finesse, in which
Tom awakened suspicion by his very efforts to allay it. It
seemed highly improbable to Sir Gervaise, that a man like
the nephew could long possess his uncle's will, and feel no
desire to ascertain its contents. The language of the young
man was an indirect admission, that he might have examined
the will if he would; and the admiral felt disposed to suspect
that what he might thus readily have done, he actually
had done. The dialogue, however, terminated here; Dutton,
just at that moment, entering the room on the errand on
which he had been sent by Admiral Bluewater, and Tom
joining his old acquaintance, as soon as the latter made his
appearance. Sir Gervaise Oakes was too much concerned
for the condition of his host, and had too many cares of his
own, to think deeply or long on what had just passed between
himself and Tom Wychecombe. Had they separated that
night, what had been said, and the unfavourable impressions
it had made, would have been soon forgotten; but circumstances
subsequently conspired to recall the whole to his
mind, of which the consequences will be related in the course
of our narrative.
Dutton appeared to be a little shocked, as he gazed upon
the pallid features of Sir Wycherly, and he was not sorry
when Tom led him aside, and began to speak confidentially
of the future, and of the probable speedy death of his uncle.
Had there been one present, gifted with the power of reading
the thoughts and motives of men, a deep disgust of human
frailties must have come over him, as these two impure
spirits betrayed to him their cupidity and cunning. Outwardly,
they were friends mourning over a mutual probable
loss; while inwardly, Dutton was endeavouring to obtain
such a hold of his companion's confidence, as might pave
the way to his own future preferment to the high and unhoped-for
station of a rich baronet's father-in-law; while
Tom thought only of so far mystifying the master, as to
his own claims. The manner in which he endeavoured to
effect his object, however, must be left to the imagination of
the reader, as we have matters of greater moment to record
at this particular juncture.
From the time Sir Wycherly was laid on his bed, Mr.
Rotherham had been seated at the sick man's side, watching
the course of his attack, and ready to interpret any of the
patient's feebly and indistinctly expressed wishes. We say
indistinctly, because the baronet's speech was slightly affected
with that species of paralysis which reduces the
faculty to the state that is vulgarly called thick-tongued.
Although a three-bottle man, Mr. Rotherham was far from
being without his devout feelings, on occasions, discharging
all the clerical functions with as much unction as the habits
of the country, and the opinions of the day, ordinarily exacted
of divines. He had even volunteered to read the
prayers for the sick, as soon as he perceived that the patient's
recollection had returned; but this kind offer had been declined
by Sir Wycherly, under the clearer views of fitness,
that the near approach of death is apt to give, and which
views left a certain consciousness that the party assembled
was not in the best possible condition for that sacred office.
Sir Wycherly revived so much, at last, as to look about
him with increasing consciousness; and, at length, his eyes
passed slowly over the room, scanning each person singly,
and with marked deliberation.
“I know you all—now,” said the kind-hearted baronet,
though always speaking thick, and with a little difficulty;
“am sorry to give — much trouble. I have — little time
to spare.”
“I hope not, Sir Wycherly,” put in the vicar, in a consolatory
manner; “you have had a sharp attack, but then
there is a good constitution to withstand it.”
“My time — short — feel it here,” rejoined the patient,
passing his hand over his forehead.
“Note that, Dutton,” whispered Tom Wycherly. “My
poor uncle intimates himself that his mind is a little shaken.
Under such circumstances, it would be cruel to let him injure
himself with business.”
“It cannot be done legally, Mr. Thomas—I should think
Admiral Oakes would interfere to prevent it.”
“Rotherham,” continued the patient, “I will—settle with
with—world;—then, give—thoughts—to God. Have we—
guests—the house?—Men of family—character?”
“Certainly, Sir Wycherly; Admiral Oakes is in the
room, even; and Admiral Bluewater, is, I believe, still in
the house. You invited both to pass the night with you.”
“I remember it — now; my mind — still — confused,” —
here Tom Wychecombe again nudged the master —“Sir
Gervaise Oakes — an Admiral — ancient baronet — man of
high honour. Admiral Bluewater, too — relative — Lord
Bluewater; gentleman — universal esteem. You, too, Rotherham;
wish my poor brother James—St. James,—used to
call him—had been living;—you—good neighbour—Rotherham.”
“Can I do anything to prove it, my dear Sir Wycherly?
Nothing would make me happier than to know, and to
comply with, all your wishes, at a moment so important!”
“Let all quit room—but yourself—head feels worse—
I cannot delay—”
“'T is cruel to distress my beloved uncle with business,
or conversation, in his present state,” interposed Tom
Wychecombe, with emphasis, and, in a slight degree, with
authority.
All not only felt the truth of this, but all felt that the
speaker, by his consanguinity, had a clear right to interfere,
in the manner he had. Still Sir Gervaise Oakes had great
reluctance in yielding to this remonstrance; for, to the distrust
he had imbibed of Tom Wychecombe, was added an
impression that his host wished to reveal something of interest,
in connection with his new favourite, the lieutenant.
He felt compelled, notwithstanding, to defer to the acknowledged
nephew's better claims, and he refrained from interfering.
Fortunately, Sir Wycherly was yet in a state to
enforce his own wishes.
“Let all quit — room,” he repeated, in a voice that was
startling by its unexpected firmness, and equally unexpected
distinctness. “All but Sir Gervaise Oakes—Admiral Bluewater—Mr.
Rotherham. Gentlemen—favour to remain—
rest depart.”
Accustomed to obey their master's orders, more especially
when given in a tone so decided, the domestics quitted the
room, accompanied by Dutton; but Tom Wychecombe saw
fit to remain, as if his presence were to be a matter of
course.
“Do me — favour — withdraw, — Mr. Wychecombe,”
resumed the baronet, after fixing his gaze on his nephew
for some time, as if expecting him to retire without this
request.
“My beloved uncle, it is I—Thomas, your own brother's
son—your next of kin—waiting anxiously by your respected
bed-side. Do not — do not — confound me with strangers.
Such a forgetfulness would break my heart!”
“Forgive me, nephew — but I wish — alone with these
gentle—head—getting—confused—”
“You see how it is, Sir Gervaise Oakes—you see how it
is, Mr. Rotherham. Ah! there goes the coach that is to
take Admiral Bluewater to his boat. My uncle wished for
three witnesses to something, and I can remain as one of
the three.”
“Is it your pleasure, Sir Wycherly, to wish to see us
alone?” asked Sir Gervaise, in a manner that showed
authority would be exercised to enforce his request, should
the uncle still desire the absence of his nephew.
A sign from the sick man indicated the affirmative, and
that in a manner too decided to admit of mistake.
“You perceive, Mr. Wychecombe, what are your uncle's
wishes,” observed Sir Gervaise, very much in the way that
a well-bred superior intimates to an inferior the compliance
he expects; “I trust his desire will not be disregarded, at a
moment like this.”
“I am Sir Wycherly Wychecombe's next of kin,” said
Tom, in a slightly bullying tone; “and no one has the
same right as a relative, and, I may say, his heir, to be at
his bed-side.”
“That depends on the pleasure of Sir Wycherly Wychecome
himself, sir. He is master here; and, having done
me the honour to invite me under his roof as a guest, and,
now, having requested to see me alone, with others he has
expressly named—one of whom you are not—I shall conceive
it my duty to see his wishes obeyed.”
This was said in the firm, quiet way, that the habit of
command had imparted to Sir Gervaise's manner; and Tom
began to see it might be dangerous to resist. It was important,
too, that one of the vice-admiral's character and
station should have naught to say against him, in the event
of any future controversy; and, making a few professions
of respect, and of his desire to please his uncle, Tom quitted
the room.
A gleam of satisfaction shot over the sick man's countenance,
as his nephew disappeared; and then his eye turned
slowly towards the faces of those who remained.
“Bluewater,” he said, the thickness of his speech, and
the general difficulty of utterance, seeming to increase; “the
rear-admiral — I want all — respectable — witnesses in the
house.”
“My friend has left us, I understand,” returned Sir Gervaise,
“insisting on his habit of never sleeping out of his
ship; but Atwood must soon be back; I hope he will
answer!”
A sign of assent was given; and, then, there was the
pause of a minute, or two, ere the secretary made his appearance.
As soon, however, as he had returned, the three
collected around the baronet's bed, not without some of the
weakness which men are supposed to have inherited from
their common mother Eve, in connection with the motive
for this singular proceeding of the baronet.
“Sir Gervaise — Rotherham — Mr. Atwood,” slowly repeated
the patient, his eye passing from the face of one to
that of another, as he uttered the name of each; “three
witnesses—that will do—Thomas said—must have three—
three good names.”
“What can we do to serve you, Sir Wycherly?” inquired
the admiral, with real interest. “You have only to name
your requests, to have them faithfully attended to.”
“Old Sir Michael Wychecombe, Kt.—two wives—Margery
and Joan. Two wives—two sons—half-blood—Thomas,
James, Charles, and Gregory, whole — Sir Reginald
Wychecome, half. Understand—hope—gentlemen?”
“This is not being very clear, certainly,” whispered Sir
Gervaise; “but, perhaps by getting hold of the other end
of the rope, we may under-run it, as we sailors say, and
therefore. Quite plain, my dear sir, and what have you
next to tell us. You left off, with saying only half about
Sir Reginald.”
“Half-blood; only half—Tom and the rest, whole. Sir
Reginald, no nullius—young Tom, a nullius.”
“A nullius, Mr. Rotherham! You understand Latin,
sir; what can a nullius, mean? No such rope in the ship,
hey! Atwood?”
“Nullius, or nullius, as it ought sometimes to be pronounced,
is the genitive case, singular, of the pronoun nullus;
nullus, nulla, nullum; which means, `no man,' `no
woman,' `no thing.' Nullius means, `of no man,' `of no
woman,' `of no thing.”'
The vicar gave this explanation, much in the way a pedagogue
would have explained the matter to a class.
“Ay-ay—any school-boy could have told that, which is
the first form learning. But what the devil can `Nom.
nullus, nulla, nullum; Gen. nullius, nullius, nullius,' have
to do with Mr. Thomas Wychecombe, the nephew and heir
of the present baronet?”
“That is more than I can inform you, Sir Gervaise,”
answered the vicar, stiffly; “but, for the Latin, I will take
upon myself to answer, that it is good.”
Sir Gervaise was too well-bred to laugh, but he found it
difficult to suppress a smile.
“Well, Sir Wycherly,” resumed the vice-admiral, “this
is quite plain—Sir Reginald is only half, while your nephew
Tom, and the rest, are whole—Margery and Joan, and all
that. Anything more to tell us, my dear sir?”
“Tom not whole—nullus, I wish to say. Sir Reginald
half—no nullus.”
“This is like being at sea a week, without getting a sight
of the sun! I am all adrift, now, gentlemen.”
“Sir Wycherly does not attend to his cases,” put in Atwood,
drily. “At one time, he is in the genitive, and then
he gets back to the nominative; which is leaving us in the
vocative.”
“Come—come—Atwood, none of your gun-room wit, on
an occasion so solemn as this. My dear Sir Wycherly,
have you anything more to tell us? I believe we perfectly
nullus, and not to say nullius. Sir Reginald is only half,
but he is no nullus.”
“Yes, sir — that is it,” returned the old man, smiling.
“Half, but no nullus. Change my mind—seen too much
of the other, lately—Tom, my nephew—want to make him
my heir.”
“This is getting clearer, out of all question. You wish
to make your nephew, Tom, your heir. But the law does
that already, does it not, my dear sir? Mr. Baron Wychecombe
was the next brother of the baronet; was he not, Mr.
Rotherham?”
“So I have always understood, sir; and Mr. Thomas
Wychecombe must be the heir at law.”
“No — no — nullus — nullus,” repeated Sir Wycherly,
with so much eagerness as to make his voice nearly indistinct;
“Sir Reginald—Sir Reginald—Sir Reginald.”
“And pray, Mr. Rotherham, who may this Sir Reginald
be? Some old baronet of the family, I presume.”
“Not at all, sir; it is Sir Reginald Wychecombe of
Wychecombe-Regis, Herts; a baronet of Queen Anne's
time, and a descendant from a cadet of this family, I am
told.”
“This is getting on soundings—I had taken it into my
head this Sir Reginald was some old fellow of the reign of
one of the Plantagenets. Well, Sir Wycherly, do you wish
us to send an express into Hertfordshire, in quest of Sir
Reginald Wychecombe, who is quite likely your executor?
Do not give yourself the pain to speak; a sign will answer.”
Sir Wycherly seemed struck with the suggestion, which,
the reader will readily understand, was far from being his
real meaning; and then he smiled, and nodded his head in
approbation.
Sir Gervaise, with the promptitude of a man of business,
turned to the table where the vicar had written notes to the
medical men, and dictated a short letter to his secretary.
This letter he signed, and in five minutes Atwood left the
room, to order it to be immediately forwarded by express.
When this was done, the admiral rubbed his hands, in satisfaction,
like a man who felt he had got himself cleverly out
of a knotty difficulty.
“I don't see, after all, Mr. Rotherham,” he observed to
the vicar, as they stood together, in a corner of the room,
waiting the return of the secretary; “what he lugged in
that school-boy Latin for—nullus, nulla, nullum! Can you
possibly explain that?”
“Not unless it was Sir Wycherly's desire to say, that
Sir Reginald, being descended from a younger son, was nobody
— as yet, had no woman — and I believe he is not
married—and was poor, or had `no thing.”'
“And is Sir Wycherly such a desperate scholar, that he
would express himself in this hieroglyphical manner, on
what I fear will prove to be his death-bed.”
“Why, Sir Gervaise, Sir Wycherly was educated like
all other young gentlemen, but has forgotten most of his
classics, in the course of a long life of ease and affluence.
Is it not probable, now, that his recollection has returned to
him suddenly, in consequence of this affection of the head?
I think I have read of some curious instances of these reviving
memories, on a death-bed, or after a fit of sickness.”
“Ay, that you may have done!” exclaimed Sir Gervaise,
smiling; “and poor, good Sir Wycherly, must have begun
afresh, at the very place where he left off. But here is
Atwood, again.”
After a short consultation, the three chosen witnesses
returned to the bed-side, the admiral being spokesman.
“The express will be off in ten minutes, Sir Wycherly,”
he said; “and you may hope to see your relative, in the
course of the next two or three days.”
“Too late—too late,” murmured the patient, who had an
inward consciousness of his true situation; “too late—turn
the will round—Sir Reginald, Tom;—Tom—Sir Reginald.
Turn the will round.”
“Turn the will round!—this is very explicit, gentlemen,
to those who can understand it. Sir Reginald, Tom;—Tom,
Sir Reginald. At all events, it is clear that his mind is
dwelling on the disposition of his property, since he speaks
of wills. Atwood, make a note of these words, that there
need be no mistake. I wonder he has said nothing of our
brave young lieutenant, his namesake. There can be no
harm, Mr. Rotherham, in just mentioning that fine fellow
to him, in a moment like this?”
“I see none, sir. It is our duty to remind the sick of
their duties.”
“Do you not wish to see your young namesake, Lieutenant
Wycherly Wychecombe, Sir Wycherly?” asked the admiral;
sufficiently emphasizing the Christian name. “He
must be in the house, and I dare say would be happy to
obey your wishes.”
“I hope he is well, sir—fine young gentleman—honour
to the name, sir.”
“Quite true, Sir Wycherly; and an honour to the nation,
too.”
“Didn't know Virginia was a nation—so much the better
—fine young Virginian, sir.”
“Of your family, no doubt, Sir Wycherly, as well as of
your name,” added the admiral, who secretly suspected the
young sailor of being a son of the baronet, notwithstanding
all he had heard to the contrary. “An exceedingly fine
young man, and an honour to any house in England!”
“I suppose they have houses in Virginia—bad climate;
houses necessary. No relative, sir;—probably a nullus.
Many Wychecombes, nullusus. Tom, a nullus—this young
gentleman, a nullus—Wychecombes of Surrey, all nulluses
—Sir Reginald, no nullus; but a half — Thomas, James,
Charles, and Gregory, all whole. My brother, Baron Wychecombe,
told me—before he died.”
“Whole what, Sir Wycherly?” asked the admiral, a little
vexed at the obscurity of the other's language.
“Blood—whole blood, sir. Capital law, Sir Gervaise;
had it from the baron—first hand.”
Now, one of the peculiarities of England is, that, in the
division of labour, few know anything material about the
law, except the professional men. Even their knowledge is
divided and sub-divided, in a way that makes a very fair
division of profit. Thus the conveyancer is not a barrister;
the barrister is not an attorney; and the chancery practitioner
would be an unsafe adviser for one of the purely
law courts. That particular provision of the common law,
which Baron Wychecombe had mentioned to his brother, as
the rule of the half-blood, has been set aside, or modified,
by statute, within the last ten years; but few English laymen
would be at all likely to know of such a law of descent
natural sentiment of right, it lay hidden in the secrets of the
profession. Were a case stated to a thousand intelligent
Englishmen, who had not read law, in which it was laid
down that brothers, by different mothers, though equally
sons of the founder of the estate, could not take from each
other, unless by devise or entail, the probability is that quite
nine in ten would deny the existence of any rule so absurd;
and this, too, under the influence of feelings that were
creditable to their sense of natural justice. Nevertheless,
such was one of the important provisions of the “perfection
of reason,” until the recent reforms in English law; and it
has struck us as surprising, that an ingenious writer of
fiction, who has recently charmed his readers with a tale,
the interest of which turns principally on the vicissitudes of
practice, did not bethink him of this peculiar feature of his
country's laws; inasmuch as it would have supplied mystery
sufficient for a dozen ordinary romances, and improbabilities
enough for a hundred. That Sir Gervaise and his
companions should be ignorant of the “law of the half-blood,”
is, consequently, very much a matter of course; and
no one ought to be surprised that the worthy baronet's repeated
allusions to the “whole,” and the “half,” were absolutely
enigmas, which neither had the knowledge necessary
to explain.
“What can the poor fellow mean?” demanded the admiral,
more concerned than he remembered ever before to
have been, on any similar occasion. “One could wish to
serve him as much as possible, but all this about `nullus,'
and `whole blood,' and `half,' is so much gibberish to me—
can you make anything of it,—hey! Atwood?”
“Upon my word, Sir Gervaise, it seems a matter for a
judge, rather than for man-of-war's-men, like ourselves.”
“It certainly can have no connection with this rising of
the Jacobites? That is an affair likely to trouble a loyal
subject, in his last moments, Mr. Rotherham!”
“Sir Wycherly's habits and age forbid the idea that he
knows more of that, sir, than is known to us all. His request,
however, to `turn the will round,' I conceive to be
altogether explicit. Several capital treatises have appeared
lately on the `human will,' and I regret to say, my honoured
that point, as I could wish. I, therefore, consider his words
an evidence of a hearty repentance.”
Sir Gervaise looked about him, as was his habit when
any droll idea crossed his mind; but again suppressing the
inclination to smile, he answered with suitable gravity—
“I understand you, sir; you think all these inexplicable
terms are connected with Sir Wycherly's religious
feelings. You may certainly be right, for it exceeds my
knowledge to connect them with anything else. I wish,
notwithstanding, he had not disowned this noble young lieutenant
of ours! Is it quite certain, the young man is a
Virginian?”
“So I have always understood it, sir. He has never
been known in this part of England, until he was landed
from a frigate in the roads, to be cured of a serious wound.
I think none of Sir Wycherly's allusions have the least
reference to him.”
Sir Gervaise Oakes now joined his hands behind his back,
and walked several times, quarter-deck fashion, to and fro,
in the room. At each turn, his eyes glanced towards the
bed, and he ever found the gaze of the sick man anxiously
fastened on himself. This satisfied him that religion had
nothing to do with his host's manifest desire to make himself
understood; and his own trouble was greatly increased.
It seemed to him, as if a dying man was making incessant
appeals to his aid, without its being in his power to afford
it. It was not possible for a generous man, like Sir Gervaise,
to submit to such a feeling without an effort; and he
soon went to the side of the bed, again, determined to bring
the affair to some intelligible issue.
“Do you think, Sir Wycherly, you could write a few
lines, if we put pen, ink, and paper before you?” he asked,
as a sort of desperate remedy.
“Impossible—can hardly see; have got no strength—
stop—will try—if you please.”
Sir Gervaise was delighted with this, and he immediately
directed his companions to lend their assistance. Atwood
and the vicar bolstered the old man up, and the admiral put
the writing materials before him, substituting a large quarto
bible for a desk. Sir Wycherly, after several abortive
difficulty traced six or seven nearly illegible words, running
the line diagonally across the paper. By this time his
powers failed him altogether, and he sunk back, dropping
the pen, and closing his eyes in a partial insensibility. At
this critical instant, the surgeon entered, and at once put an
end to the interview, by taking charge of the patient, and
directing all but one or two necessary attendants, to quit the
room.
The three chosen witnesses of what had just past, repaired
together to a parlour; Atwood, by a sort of mechanical
habit, taking with him the paper on which the baronet had
scrawled the words just mentioned. This, by a sort of mechanical
use, also, he put into the hands of Sir Gervaise, as
soon as they entered the room; much as he would have laid
before his superior, an order to sign, or a copy of a letter to
the secretary of the Navy Board.
“This is as bad as the `nullus!' exclaimed Sir Gervaise,
after endeavouring to decipher the scrawl in vain. “What
is this first word, Mr. Rotherham—`Irish,' is it not,—hey!
Atwood?”
“I believe it is no more than `I-n,' stretched over much
more paper than is necessary.”
“You are right enough, vicar; and the next word is
`the,' though it looks like a chevaux de frise—what follows?
It looks like `man-of-war,' Atwood?”
“I beg your pardon, Sir Gervaise; this first letter is
what I should call an elongated n—the next is certainly an
a—the third looks like the waves of a river—ah! it is an
m—and the last is an e—n-a-m-e—that makes `name,' gentlemen.”
“Yes,” eagerly added the vicar, and the two next words
are, `of God.”'
“Then it is religion, after all, that was on the poor man's
mind!” exclaimed Sir Gervaise, in a slight degree disappointed,
if the truth must be told. “What's this A-m-e-n—
`Amen'—why it's a sort of a prayer.”
“This is the form, in which it is usual to commence
wills, I believe, Sir Gervaise,” observed the secretary, who
had written many a one, on board ship, in his day. `In the
name of God, Amen.”'
“By George, you're right, Atwood; and the poor man
was trying, all the while, to let us know how he wished to
dispose of his property! What could he mean by the nullus
— it is not possible that the old gentleman has nothing to
leave?”
“I'll answer for it, Sir Gervaise, that is not the true explanation,”
the vicar replied. “Sir Wycherly's affairs are
in the best order; and, besides the estate, he has a large
sum in the funds.”
“Well, gentlemen, we can do no more to-night. A medical
man is already in the house, and Bluewater will send
ashore, one or two others from the fleet. In the morning, if
Sir Wycherly is in a state to converse, this matter shall be
attended to.”
The party now separated; a bed being provided for the
vicar, and the admiral and his secretary retiring to their
respective rooms.
| CHAPTER IX. The two admirals | |