 | CHAPTER XII. The two admirals |  |
12. CHAPTER XII.
Truly, Master Holofernes, the epithets are sweetly varied,
like a scholar, at the least: But, sir, I assure ye, it was a buck of
the first head.
Hol.
Sir Nathaniel, haud credo.
Bull.
'T was not a haud credo, 't was a pricket.”
Love's Labour Lost.
Every appearance of the jolly negligence which had been
so characteristic of life at Wychecombe-Hall, had vanished,
when the old coach drew up in the court, to permit the
party it had brought from the station to alight. As no one
was expected but Mrs. Dutton and her daughter, not even a
footman appeared to open the door of the carriage; the
vulgar-minded usually revenging their own homage to the
weak. Galleygo let the new-comers out, and, consequently,
he was the first person of whom inquiries were made, as to
the state of things in the house.
“Well,” said Admiral Bluewater, looking earnestly at
the steward; “how is Sir Wycherly, and what is the
news?”
“Sir Wycherly is still on the doctor's list, your honour;
and I expects his case is set down as a hard'un. We's as
well as can be expected, and altogether in good heart. Sir
Jarvy turned out with the sun, thof he didn't turn in 'till
the middle-watch was half gone—or two bells, as they calls
'em aboard this house—four bells, as we should say in the
old Planter — and chickens, I hears, has riz, a shillin' a
head, since our first boat landed.”
“It's a melancholy business, Mrs. Dutton; I fear there
can be little hope.”
“Yes it's all that, Admiral Blue,” continued Galleygo,
following the party into the house, no one but himself hearing
a word he uttered; “and 't will be worse, afore it's
any better. They tells me potaties has taken a start, too;
and, as all the b'ys of all the young gentlemen in the fleet
is out, like so many wild locusts of Hegypt, I expects nothing
better than as our mess will fare as bad as sogers on
a retreat.”
In the hall, Tom Wychecombe, and his namesake, the
lieutenant, met the party. From the formal despondency of
the first, everything they apprehended was confirmed. The
last, however, was more cheerful, and not altogether without
hope; as he did not hesitate openly to avow.
“For myself, I confess I think Sir Wycherly much better,”
he said; “although the opinion is not sanctioned by
that of the medical men. His desiring to see these ladies is
favourable; and then cheering news for him has been
brought back, already, by the messenger sent, only eight
hours since, for his kinsman, Sir Reginald Wychecombe.
He has sensibly revived since that report was brought in.”
“Ah! my dear namesake,” rejoined Tom, shaking his
head, mournfully; “you cannot know my beloved uncle's
constitution and feelings as well as I! Rely on it, the medical
men are right; and your hopes deceive you. The
my honoured uncle respects and esteems, looks more like
leave-taking than anything else; and, as to Sir Reginald
Wychecombe, — though a relative, beyond a question, — I
think there has been some mistake in sending for him; since
he is barely an acquaintance of the elder branch of the
family, and he is of the half-blood.”
“Half what, Mr. Thomas Wychecombe?” demanded
the vice-admiral so suddenly, behind the speaker, as to
cause all to start; Sir Gervaise having hastened to meet the
ladies and his friend, as soon as he knew of their arrival.
“I ask pardon, sir, for my abrupt inquiry; but, as I was
the means of sending for Sir Reginald Wychecombe, I feel
an interest in knowing his exact relationship to my host?”
Tom started, and even paled, at this sudden question;
then the colour rushed into his temples; he became calmer,
and replied.
“Half-blood, Sir Gervaise,” he said, steadily. “This is
an affinity that puts a person altogether out of the line of
succession; and, of course, removes any necessity, or wish,
to see Sir Reginald.”
“Half-blood—hey! Atwood?” muttered the vice-admiral,
turning away towards his secretary, who had followed him
down stairs. “This may be the solution, after all! Do
you happen to know what half-blood means? It cannot
signify that Sir Reginald comes from one of those, who have
no father—all their ancestry consisting only of a mother?”
“I should think not, Sir Gervaise; in that case, Sir
Reginald would scarcely be considered of so honourable a
lineage, as he appears to be. I have not the smallest idea,
sir, what half-blood means; and, perhaps, it may not be
amiss to inquire of the medical gentlemen. Magrath is up
stairs; possibly he can tell us.”
“I rather think it has something to do with the law. If
this out-of-the-way place, now, could furnish even a lubberly
attorney, we might learn all about it. Harkee, Atwood;
you must stand by to make Sir Wycherly's will, if he says
anything more about it—have you got the heading all written
out, as I desired.”
“It is quite ready, Sir Gervaise—beginning, as usual,
`In the name of God, Amen.' I have even ventured so far
`I, Sir Wycherly Wychecombe, Bart., of Wychecombe
Hall, Devon, do make and declare this to be my last will
and testament, &c. &c.' Nothing is wanting but the devises,
as the lawyers call them. I can manage a will, well enough,
Sir Gervaise, I believe. One of mine has been in the courts,
now, these five years, and they tell me it sticks there, as
well as if it had been drawn in the Middle Temple.”
“Ay, I know your skill. Still, there can be no harm in
just asking Magrath; though I think it must be law, after
all! Run up and ask him, Atwood, and bring me the
answer in the drawing-room, where I see Bluewater has
gone with his convoy; and—harkee—tell the surgeons to
let us know the instant the patient says anything about his
temporal affairs. The twenty thousand in the funds are
his, to do what he pleases with; let the land be tied up, as
it may.”
While this “aside,” was going on in the hall, Bluewater
and the rest of the party had entered a small parlour, that
was in constant use, still conversing of the state of Sir Wycherly.
As all of them, but the two young men, were
ignorant of the nature of the message to Sir Reginald
Wychecombe, and of the intelligence in connection with
that gentleman, which had just been received, Mrs. Dutton
had ventured to ask an explanation, which was given by
Wycherly, with a readiness that proved he felt no apprehensions
on the subject.
“Sir Wycherly desired to see his distant relative, Sir
Reginald,” said the lieutenant; “and the messenger who
was sent to request his attendance, fortunately learned from
a post-boy, that the Hertfordshire baronet, in common with
many other gentlemen, is travelling in the west, just at this
moment; and that he slept last night, at a house only
twenty miles distant. The express reached him several
hours since, and an answer has been received, informing us
that we may expect to see him, in an hour or two.”
Thus much was related by Wycherly; but, we may add
that Sir Reginald Wychecombe was a Catholic, as it
was then usual to term the Romanists, and in secret, a Jacobite;
and, in common with many of that religious persuasion,
he was down in the west, to see if a rising could not
any attempt to repel the young Pretender in the north. As
the utmost caution was used by the conspirators, this fact
was not even suspected by any who were not in the secret
of the whole proceeding. Understanding that his relation
was an inefficient old man, Sir Reginald, himself an active
and sagacious intriguer, had approached thus near to the
old paternal residence of his family, in order to ascertain if
his own name and descent might not aid him in obtaining
levies among the ancient tenantry of the estate. That day
he had actually intended to appear at Wychecombe, disguised,
and under an assumed name. He proposed venturing
on this step, because circumstances put it in his power, to
give what he thought would be received as a sufficient
excuse, should his conduct excite comment.
Sir Reginald Wychecombe was a singular, but by no
means an unnatural compound of management and integrity.
His position as a Papist had disposed him to intrigue, while
his position as one proscribed by religious hostility, had disposed
him to be a Papist. Thousands are made men of
activity, and even of importance, by persecution and proscription,
who would pass through life quietly and unnoticed,
if the meddling hand of human forethought did not
force them into situations that awaken their hostility, and
quicken their powers. This gentleman was a firm believer
in all the traditions of his church, though his learning extended
little beyond his missal; and he put the most implicit
reliance on the absurd, because improbable, fiction of the
Nag's Head consecration, without having even deemed it
necessary to look into a particle of that testimony by which
alone such a controversy could be decided. In a word, he
was an instance of what religious intolerance has ever done,
and will probably for ever continue to do, with so wayward
a being as man.
Apart from this weakness, Sir Reginald Wychecombe had
both a shrewd and an inquiring mind. His religion he left
very much to the priests; but of his temporal affairs he assumed
a careful and prudent supervision. He was much
richer than the head of the family; but, while he had no
meannesses connected with money, he had no objection to
be the possessor of the old family estates. Of his own relation
the circumstance of the half-blood, with all its legal consequences,
was no secret to him. Sir Reginald Wychecombe
was not a man to be so situated, without having
recourse to all proper means, in order, as it has become the
fashion of the day to express it, “to define his position.”
By means of a shrewd attorney, if not of his own religious,
at least of his own political opinions, he had ascertained the
fact, and this from the mouth of Martha herself, that Baron
Wychecombe had never married; and that, consequently,
Tom and his brothers were no more heirs at law to the
Wychecombe estate, than he was in his own person. He
fully understood, too, that there was no heir at law; and
that the lands must escheat, unless the present owner made
a will; and to this last act, his precise information told him
that Sir Wycherly had an unconquerable reluctance. Under
such circumstances, it is not at all surprising, that when the
Hertfordshire baronet was thus unexpectedly summoned to
the bed-side of his distant kinsman, he inferred that his own
claims were at length to be tardily acknowledged, and that
he was about to be put in possession of the estates of his
legitimate ancestors. It is still less wonderful, that, believing
this, he promptly promised to lose no time in obeying
the summons, determining momentarily to forget his political,
in order to look a little after his personal interests.
The reader will understand, of course, that all these details
were unknown to the inmates of the Hall, beyond the fact
of the expected arrival of Sir Reginald Wychecombe, and
that of the circumstance of the half-blood; which, in its
true bearing, was known alone to Tom. Their thoughts
were directed towards the situation of their host, and little
was said, or done, that had not his immediate condition for
the object. It being understood, however, that the surgeons
kept the sick chamber closed against all visiters, a silent and
melancholy breakfast was taken by the whole party, in
waiting for the moment when they might be admitted.
When this cheerless meal was ended, Sir Gervaise desired
Bluewater to follow him to his room, whither he led the way
in person.
“It is possible, certainly, that Vervillin is out,” commenced
the vice-admiral, when they were alone; “but we
reports. You saw nothing but her number, I think you told
me?”
“She was at work with private signals, when I left the
head-land; of course I was unable to read them without the
book.”
“That Vervillin is a good fellow,” returned Sir Gervaise,
rubbing his hands; a way he had when much pleased; “and
has stuff in him. He has thirteen two-decked ships, Dick,
and that will be one apiece for our captains, and a spare
one for each of our flags. I believe there is no three-decker
in that squadron?”
“There you've made a small mistake, Sir Gervaise, as
the Comte de Vervillin had his flag in the largest three-decker
of France; le Bourbon 120. The rest of his ships
are like our own, though much fuller manned.”
“Never mind, Blue—never mind:—we'll put two on the
Bourbon, and try to make our frigates of use. Besides, you
have a knack at keeping the fleet so compact, that it is nearly
a single battery.”
“May I venture to ask, then, if it's your intention to go
out, should the news by the Active prove to be what you
anticipate?”
Sir Gervaise cast a quick, distrustful glance at the other,
anxious to read the motive for the question, at the same time
that he did not wish to betray his own feelings; then he
appeared to meditate on the answer.
“It is not quite agreeable to lie here, chafing our cables,
with a French squadron roving the channel,” he said; “but
I rather think it's my duty to wait for orders from the
Admiralty, under present circumstances.”
“Do you expect my lords will send you through the
Straits of Dover, to blockade the Frith?”
“If they do, Bluewater, I shall hope for your company.
I trust, a night's rest has given you different views of what
ought to be a seaman's duty, when his country is at open
war with her ancient and most powerful enemies.”
“It is the prerogative of the crown to declare war, Oakes.
No one but a lawful sovereign can make a lawful war.”
“Ay, here come your cursed distinctions about de jure and
de facto, again. By the way, Dick, you are something of
man a nullus?”
Admiral Bluewater, who had taken his usual lolling attitude
in the most comfortable chair he could find, while his
more mercurial friend kept pacing the room, now raised his
head in surprise, following the quick motions of the other,
with his eyes, as if he doubted whether he had rightly heard
the question.
“It's plain English, is it not?—or plain Latin, if you
will—what is meant by calling a man a nullus?” repeated
Sir Gervaise, observing the other's manner.
“The Latin is plain enough, certainly,” returned Bluewater,
smiling; “you surely do not mean nullus, nulla,
nullum?”
“Exactly that—you've hit it to a gender.—Nullus, nulla,
nullum. No man, no woman, no thing. Masculine, feminine,
neuter.”
“I never heard the saying. If ever used, it must be some
silly play on sounds, and mean a numskull—or, perhaps, a
fling at a fellow's position, by saying he is a `nobody.' Who
the deuce has been calling another a nullus, in the presence
of the commander-in-chief of the southern squadron?”
“Sir Wycherly Wychecombe—our unfortunate host,
here: the poor man who is on his death-bed, on this very
floor.”
Again Bluewater raised his head, and once more his eye
sought the face of his friend. Sir Gervaise had now stopped
short, with his hands crossed behind his back, looking intently
at the other, in expectation of the answer.
“I thought it might be some difficulty from the fleet—
some silly fellow complaining of another still more silly for
using such a word. Sir Wycherly!—the poor man's mind
must have failed him.”
“I rather think not; if it has, there is `method in his
madness,' for he persevered, most surprisingly, in the use
of the term. His nephew, Tom Wychecombe, the presumptive
heir, he insists on it, is a nullus; while this Sir Reginald,
who is expected to arrive every instant, he says is only
half—or half-blood, as it has since been explained to us.”
“I am afraid this nephew will prove to be anything but
nullus, when he succeeds to the estate and title,” answered
I never laid eyes on.”
“That is just my way of thinking; and not in the least
like the family.”
“This matter of likenesses is not easily explained, Oakes.
We see parents and children without any visible resemblance
to each other; and then we find startling likenesses between
utter strangers.”
“Bachelor's children may be in that predicament, certainly;
but I should think few others. I never yet studied
a child, that I did not find some resemblance to both parents:
covert and only transitory, perhaps; but a likeness so distinct
as to establish the relationship. What an accursed
chance it is, that our noble young lieutenant should have no
claim on this old baronet; while this d—d nullus is both
heir at law, and heir of entail! I never took half as much
interest in any other man's estate, as I take in the succession
to this of our poor host!”
“There you are mistaken, Oakes; you took more in
mine; for, when I made a will in your own favour, and
gave it to you to read, you tore it in two, and threw it over-board,
with your own hand.”
“Ay, that was an act of lawful authority. As your superior,
I countermanded that will! I hope you've made
another, and given your money, as I told you, to your
cousin, the Viscount.”
“I did, but that will has shared the fate of the first. It
appearing to me, that we are touching on serious times, and
Bluewater being rich already, I destroyed the devise in his
favour, and made a new one, this very morning. As you
are my executor, as usual, it may be well to let you know
it.”
“Dick, you have not been made enough to cut off the head
of your own family—your own flesh and blood, as it might
be—to leave the few thousands you own, to this mad adventurer
in Scotland!”
Bluewater smiled at this evidence of the familiarity of his
friend with his own way of thinking and feeling; and, for
a single instant, he regretted that he had not put his first
intention in force, in order that the conformity of views might
have been still more perfect; but, putting a hand in his pocket,
it carelessly to Sir Gervaise.
“There is the will; and by looking it over, you will know
what I've done,” he said. “I wish you would keep it; for,
if `misery makes us acquainted with strange bed-fellows,'
revolutions reduce us, often, to strange plights, and the paper
will be safer with you than with me. Of course, you will
keep my secret, until the proper time to reveal it shall
arrive.”
The vice-admiral, who knew that he had no direct interest
in his friend's disposition of his property, took the will, with
a good deal of curiosity to ascertain its provisions. So short
a testament was soon read; and his eye rested intently on
the paper until it had taken in the last word. Then his hand
dropped, and he regarded Bluewater with a surprise he
neither affected, nor wished to conceal. He did not doubt
his friend's sanity, but he greatly questioned his discretion.
“This is a very simple, but a very ingenious arrangement,
to disturb the order of society,” he said; “and to
convert a very modest and unpretending, though lovely girl,
into a forward and airs-taking old woman! What is this
Mildred Dutton to you, that you should bequeath to her
£30,000?”
“She is one of the meekest, most ingenuous, purest, and
loveliest, of her meek, ingenuous, pure, and lovely sex,
crushed to the earth by the curse of a brutal, drunken
father; and, I am resolute to see that this world, for once,
afford some compensation for its own miseries.”
“Never doubt that, Richard Bluewater; never doubt that.
So certain is vice, or crime, to bring its own punishment in
this life, that one may well question if any other hell is
needed. And, depend on it, your meek, modest ingenuousness,
in its turn, will not go unrewarded.”
“Quite true, so far as the spirit is concerned; but, I mean
to provide a little for the comfort of the body. You remember
Agnes Hedworth, I take it for granted?”
“Remember her!—out of all question. Had the war left
me leisure for making love, she was the only woman I ever
knew, who could have brought me to her feet—I mean as a
dog, Dick.”
“Do you see no resemblance between her and this Mildred
features—but, it is the expression which alone denotes the
character.”
“By George, you're right, Bluewater; and this relieves
me from some embarrassment I've felt about that very expression
of which you speak. She is like poor Agnes, who
became a saint earlier than any of us could have wished.
Living or dead, Agnes Hedworth must be an angel! You
were fonder of her, than of any other woman, I believe.
At one time, I thought you might propose for her hand.”
“It was not that sort of affection, and you could not have
known her private history, or you would not have fancied
this. I was so situated in the way of relatives, that Agnes,
though only the child of a cousin-german, was the nearest
youthful female relative I had on earth; and I regarded her
more as a sister, than as a creature who could ever become
my wife. She was sixteen years my junior; and by the
time she had become old enough to marry, I was accustomed
to think of her only as one destined for another station.
The same feeling existed as to her sister, the Duchess,
though in a greatly lessened degree.”
“Poor, sweet Agnes!—and it is on account of this accidental
resemblance, that you have determined to make the
daughter of a drunken sailing-master your heiress?”
“Not altogether so; the will was drawn before I was
conscious that the likeness existed. Still, it has probably,
unknown to myself, greatly disposed me to view her with
favour. But, Gervaise, Agnes herself was not fairer in
person, or more lovely in mind, than this very Mildred
Dutton.”
“Well, you have not been accustomed to regard her as
a sister; and she has become marriageable, without there
having been any opportunity for your regarding her as so
peculiarly sacred, Dick!” returned Sir Gervaise, half suppressing
a smile as he threw a quiet glance at his friend.
“You know this to be idle, Oakes. Some one must inherit
my money; my brother is long since dead; even poor,
poor Agnes is gone; her sister don't need it; Bluewater is
an over-rich bachelor, already; you won't take it, and what
better can I do with it? If you could have seen the cruel
manner in which the spirits of both mother and daughter
and father, you would have felt a desire to relieve their
misery, even though it had cost you Bowldero, and half
your money in the funds.”
“Umph! Bowldero has been in my family five centuries,
and is likely to remain there, Master Bluewater, five more;
unless, indeed, your dashing Pretender should succeed, and
take it away by confiscation.”
“There, again, was another inducement. Should I leave
my cash to a rich person, and should chance put me on the
wrong side in this struggle, the king, de facto, would get it
all; whereas, even a German would not have the heart to
rob a poor creature like Mildred of her support.”
“The Scotch are notorious for bowels, in such matters!
Well, have it your own way, Dick. It 's of no great moment
what you do with your prize-money; though I had supposed
it would fall into the hands of this boy, Geoffrey Cleveland,
who is no discredit to your blood.”
“He will have a hundred thousand pounds, at five-and-twenty,
that were left him by old Lady Greenfield, his great-aunt,
and that is more than he will know what to do with.
But, enough of this. Have you received further tidings from
the north, during the night?”
“Not a syllable. This is a retired part of the country;
and half Scotland might be capsized in one of its loughs,
and we not know of it, for a week, down here in Devonshire.
Should I get no intelligence or orders, in the next thirty-six
hours, I think of posting up to London, leaving you in command
of the fleet.”
“That may not be wise. You would scarcely confide so
important a trust, in such a crisis, to a man of my political
feelings—I will not say opinions; since you attribute all to
sentiment.”
“I would confide my life and honour to you, Richard
Bluewater, with the utmost confidence in the security of
both, so long as it depended on your own acts or inclinations.
We must first see, however, what news the Active brings
us; for, if de Vervillin is really out, I shall assume that
the duty of an English sailor is to beat a Frenchman, before
all other considerations.”
“If he can,” drily observed the other, raising his right
chair; an effort that nearly brought his back in a horizontal
line.
“I am far from regarding it as a matter of course, Admiral
Bluewater; but, it has been done sufficiently often, to
render it an event of no very violent possibility. Ah, here
is Magrath to tell us the condition of his patient.”
The surgeon of the Plantagenet entering the room, at
that moment, the conversation was instantly changed.
“Well, Magrath,” said Sir Gervaise, stopping suddenly
in his quarter-deck pace; “what news of the poor man?”
“He is reviving, Admiral Oakes,” returned the phlegmatic
surgeon; “but it is like the gleaming of sunshine that
streams through clouds, as the great luminary sets behind
the hills—”
“Oh! hang your poetry, doctor; let us have nothing but
plain matter-of-fact, this morning.”
“Well then, Sir Gervaise, as commander-in-chief, you 'll
be obeyed, I think. Sir Wycherly Wychecombe is suffering
under an attack of apoplexy — or αποπλβξβσ as the Greeks
had it. The diagnosis of the disease is not easily mistaken,
though it has its affinities as well as other maladies. The
applications for gout, or arthritis—sometimes produce apoplexy;
though one disease is seated in the head, while the
other usually takes refuge in the feet. Ye 'll understand
this the more readily, gentlemen, when ye reflect that as a
thief is chased from one hiding-place, he commonly endeavours
to get into another. I much misgive the prudence
of the phlebotomy ye practised among ye, on the first summons
to the patient.”
“What the d—l does the man mean by phlebotomy?”
exclaimed Sir Gervaise, who had an aversion to medicine,
and knew scarcely any of the commonest terms of practice,
though expert in bleeding.
“I 'm thinking it 's what you and Admiral Bluewater so
freely administer to His Majesty's enemies, whenever ye fall
in with 'em at sea;—he-he-he—” answered Magrath, chuckling
at his own humour; which, as the quantity was small,
was all the better in quality.
“Surely he does not mean powder and shot! We give
the French shot; Sir Wycherly has not been shot?”
“Varra true, Sir Gervaise, but ye 've let him blood,
amang ye: a measure that has been somewhat preceepitately
practised, I 've my misgivings!”
“Now, any old woman can tell us better than that, doctor.
Blood-letting is the every-day remedy for attacks of
this sort.”
“I do not dispute the dogmas of elderly persons of the
other sex, Sir Gervaise, or your every-day remedia. If
`every-day' doctors would save life and alleviate pain,
diplomas would be unnecessary; and we might, all of us,
practise on the principle of the `de'el tak' the hindmaist,'
as ye did yoursel', Sir Gervaise, when ye cut and slash'd
amang the Dons, in boarding El Lirio. I was there, ye 'll
both remember, gentlemen; and was obleeged to sew up the
gashes ye made with your own irreverent and ungodly
hands.”
This speech referred to one of the most desperate, hand-to-hand
struggles, in which the two flag-officers had ever
been engaged; and, as it afforded them the means of exhibiting
their personal gallantry, when quite young men, both
usually looked back upon the exploit with great self-complacency;
Sir Gervaise, in particular, his friend having
often declared since, that they ought to have been laid on
the shelf for life, as a punishment for risking their men in
so mad an enterprise, though it did prove to be brilliantly
successful.
“That was an affair in which one might engage at twenty-two,
Magrath,” observed Bluewater; “but which he ought
to hesitate about thinking of even, after thirty.”
“I 'd do it again, this blessed day, if you would give us
a chance!” exclaimed Sir Gervaise, striking the back of
one hand into the palm of the other, with a sudden energy,
that showed how much he was excited by the mere recollection
of the scene.
“That w'ud ye!—that w'ud ye!” said Magrath, growing
more and more Scotch, as he warmed in the discourse;
“ye 'd board a mackerel-hoy, rather than not have an engagement.
Ye 'r a varra capital vice-admiral of the red,
Sir Gervaise, but I 'm judging ye 'd mak' a varra indeeferent
loblolly-boy.”
“Bluewater, I shall be compelled to change ships with
They stick to me like leeches; and have got to be
so familiar, that they criticise all my orders, and don't more
than half obey them, in the bargain.”
“No one will criticise your nautical commands, Sir Gervaise;
though, in the way of the healing airt,—science, it
should be called—ye 're no mair to be trusted, than one of
the young gentlemen. I 'm told ye drew ye 'r lancet on
this poor gentleman, as ye 'd draw ye 'r sword on an
enemy!”
“I did, indeed, sir; though Mr. Rotherham had rendered
the application of the instrument unnecessary. Apoplexy
is a rushing of the blood to the head; and by diminishing
the quantity in the veins of the arms or temples, you lessen
the pressure on the brain.”
“Just layman's practice, sir—just layman's practice. Will
ye tell me now if the patient's face was red or white? Everything
depends on that; which is the true diagnosis of the
malady.”
“Red, I think; was it not, Bluewater? Red, like old
port, of which I fancy the poor man had more than his
share.”
“Weel, in that case, you were not so varra wrong; but,
they tell me his countenance was pallid and death-like; in
which case ye came near to committing murder. There is
one principle that controls the diagnosis of all cases of apoplexy
among ye'r true country gentlemen—and that is, that
the system is reduced and enfeebled, by habitual devotion to
the decanter. In such attacks ye canna' do warse, than to
let blood. But, I 'll no be hard upon you, Sir Gervaise;
and so we 'll drop the subject—though, truth to say, I do
not admire your poaching on my manor. Sir Wycherly is
materially better, and expresses, as well as a man who has
not the use of his tongue, can express a thing, his besetting
desire to make his last will and testament. In ordinary
cases of apoplexia, it is good practice to oppose this craving;
though, as it is my firm opinion that nothing can save the
patient's life, I do not set myself against the measure, in
this particular case. Thar' was a curious discussion at
Edinbro', in my youth, gentlemen, on the question whether
the considerations connected with the disposition of the property,
health, ought to preponderate in the physician's mind, when
it might be reasonably doubted whether the act of making a
will, would or would not essentially affect the nervous system,
and otherwise derange the functions of the body. A very
pretty argument, in excellent Edinbro' Latin, was made on
each side of the question. I think, on the whole, the physicos
had the best o' it; for they could show a plausible present
evil, as opposed to a possible remote good.”
“Has Sir Wycherly mentioned my name this morning?”
asked the vice-admiral, with interest.
“He has, indeed, Sir Gervaise; and that in a way so
manifestly connected with his will, that I 'm opining ye 'll
no be forgotten in the legacies. The name of Bluewater
was in his mouth, also.”
“In which case no time should be lost; for, never before
have I felt half the interest in the disposition of a stranger's
estate. Hark! Are not those wheels rattling in the courtyard?”
“Ye'r senses are most pairfect, Sir Gervaise, and that
I 've always said was one reason why ye'r so great an admiral,”
returned Magrath. “Mind, only one, Sir Gervaise;
for many qualities united, are necessary to make a truly
great man. I see a middle-aged gentleman alighting, and
servants around him, who wear the same liveries as those
of this house. Some relative, no doubt, come to look after
the legacies, also.”
“This must be Sir Reginald Wychecombe; it may not
be amiss if we go forward to receive him, Bluewater.”
At this suggestion, the rear-admiral drew in his legs,
which had not changed their position on account of the presence
of the surgeon, arose, and followed Sir Gervaise, as
the latter left the room.
| CHAPTER XII. The two admirals | |