 | CHAPTER XIII. The two admirals |  |
13. CHAPTER XIII.
“Video, et gaudeo.”
Nathaniel et Holofernes.
Tom Wychecombe had experienced an uneasiness that
it is unnecessary to explain, ever since he learned that his
reputed uncle had sent a messenger to bring the “half-blood”
to the Hall. From the moment he got a clue to the
fact, he took sufficient pains to ascertain what was in the
wind; and when Sir Reginald Wychecombe entered the
house, the first person he met was this spurious supporter
of the honours of his name.
“Sir Reginald Wychecombe, I presume, from the arms
and the liveries,” said Tom, endeavouring to assume the
manner of a host. “It is grateful to find that, though we
are separated by quite two centuries, all the usages and the
bearings of the family are equally preserved and respected,
by both its branches.”
“I am Sir Reginald Wychecombe, sir, and endeavour
not to forget the honourable ancestry from which I am
derived. May I ask what kinsman I have the pleasure now
to meet?”
“Mr. Thomas Wychecombe, sir, at your command; the
eldest son of Sir Wycherly's next brother, the late Mr.
Baron Wychecombe. I trust, Sir Reginald, you have not
considered us as so far removed in blood, as to have entirely
overlooked our births, marriages, and deaths.”
“I have not, sir,” returned the baronet, drily, and with
an emphasis that disturbed his listener, though the cold,
jesuitical smile that accompanied the words, had the effect
to calm his vivid apprehensions. “All that relates to the
house of Wychecombe has interest in my eyes; and I have
endeavoured, successfully I trust, to ascertain all that relates
to its births, marriages, and deaths. I greatly regret that
the second time I enter this venerable dwelling, should be
on an occasion as melancholy as this, on which I am now
Wychecombe, I wish to say?”
There was sufficient in this answer, taken in connexion
with the deliberate, guarded, and yet expressive manner of
the speaker, to make Tom extremely uncomfortable, though
there was also sufficient to leave him in doubts as to his
namesake's true meaning. The words emphasized by the
latter, were touched lightly, though distinctly; and the cold,
artificial smile with which they were uttered, completely
baffled the sagacity of a rogue, as common-place as the
heir-expectant. Then the sudden change in the construction
of the last sentence, and the substitution of the name
of the person mentioned, for the degree of affinity in which
he was supposed to stand to Tom, might be merely a rigid
observance of the best tone of society, or it might be equivocal.
All these little distinctions gleamed across the mind
of Tom Wychecombe; but that was not the moment to pursue
the investigation. Courtesy required that he should
make an immediate answer, which he succeeded in doing
steadily enough as to general appearances, though his sagacious
and practised questioner perceived that his words had
not failed of producing the impression he intended; for he
had looked to their establishing a species of authority over
the young man.
“My honoured and beloved uncle has revived a little, they
tell me,” said Tom; “but I fear these appearances are delusive.
After eighty-four, death has a fearful hold upon
us, sir! The worst of it is, that my poor, dear uncle's mind
is sensibly affected; and it is quite impossible to get at any
of his little wishes, in the way of memorials and messages—”
“How then, sir, came Sir Wycherly to honour me with
a request to visit him?” demanded the other, with an extremely
awkward pertinency.
“I suppose, sir, he has succeeded in muttering your
name, and that a natural construction has been put on its
use, at such a moment. His will has been made some time,
I understand; though I am ignorant of even the name of
the executor, as it is closed in an envelope, and sealed with
Sir Wycherly's arms. It cannot be, then, on account of a
will, that he has wished to see you. I rather think, as the
next of the family, out of the direct line of succession, he
in existence, and has thought it proper to notify you of the
same.”
“Yes sir,” returned Sir Reginald, in his usual cold, wary
manner; “though it would have been more in conformity
with usage, had the notification taken the form of a request
to serve, previously to making the testament. My letter
was signed `Gervaise Oakes,' and, as they tell me a fleet is
in the neighbourhood, I have supposed that the celebrated
admiral of that name, has done me the honour to write it.”
“You are not mistaken, sir; Sir Gervaise Oakes is in the
house—ah—here he comes to receive you, accompanied by
Rear-Admiral Bluewater, whom the sailors call his mainmast.”
The foregoing conversation had taken place in a little
parlour that led off from the great hall, whither Tom had
conducted his guest, and in which the two admirals now
made their appearance. Introductions were scarcely necessary,
the uniform and star—for in that age officers usually
appeared in their robes—the uniform and star of Sir Gervaise
at once proclaiming his rank and name; while, between
Sir Reginald and Bluewater there existed a slight personal
acquaintance, which had grown out of their covert, but deep,
Jacobite sympathies.
“Sir Gervaise Oakes,” and “Sir Reginald Wychecombe,”
passed between the gentlemen, with a hearty shake
of the hand from the admiral, which was met by a cold touch
of the fingers on the part of the other, that might very well
have passed for the great model of the sophisticated manipulation
of the modern salute, but which, in fact, was the
result of temperament rather than of fashion. As soon as
this ceremony was gone through, and a few brief expressions
of courtesy were exchanged, the new comer turned to Bluewater,
with an air of greater freedom, and continued—
“And you, too, Sir Richard Bluewater! I rejoice to meet
an acquaintance in this melancholy scene.”
“I am happy to see you, Sir Reginald; though you have
conferred on me a title to which I have no proper claim.”
“No!—the papers tell us that you have received one of
the lately vacant red ribands?”
“I believe some such honour has been in contemplation—”
“Contemplation!—I do assure you, sir, your name is
fairly and distinctly gazetted—as, by sending to my carriage,
it will be in my power to show you. I am, then, the
first to call you, Sir Richard.”
“Excuse me, Sir Reginald—there is some little misapprehension
in this matter; I prefer to remain plain Rear-Admiral
Bluewater. In due season, all will be explained.”
The parties exchanged looks, which, in times like those
in which they lived, were sufficiently intelligible to both;
and the conversation was instantly changed. Before Sir
Reginald relinquished the hand he held, however, he gave
it a cordial squeeze, an intimation that was returned by a
warm pressure from Bluewater. The party then began to
converse of Sir Wycherly, his actual condition, and his
probable motive in desiring to see his distant kinsman. This
motive, Sir Gervaise, regardless of the presence of Tom
Wychecombe, declared to be a wish to make a will; and,
as he believed, the intention of naming Sir Reginald his
executor, if not in some still more interesting capacity.
“I understand Sir Wycherly has a considerable sum entirely
at his own disposal,” continued the vice-admiral;
“and I confess I like to see a man remember his friends
and servants, generously, in his last moments. The estate
is entailed, I hear; and I suppose Mr. Thomas Wychecombe
here, will be none the worse for that precaution in his ancestor;
let the old gentleman do as he pleases with his
savings.”
Sir Gervaise was so much accustomed to command, that
he did not feel the singularity of his own interference in the
affairs of a family of what might be called strangers, though
the circumstance struck Sir Reginald, as a little odd.
Nevertheless, the last had sufficient penetration to understand
the vice-admiral's character at a glance, and the peculiarity
made no lasting impression. When the allusion was
made to Tom's succession, as a matter of course, however,
he cast a cold, but withering look, at the reputed heir, which
almost chilled the marrow in the bones of the jealous rogue.
“Might I say a word to you, in your own room, Sir Gervaise?”
asked Sir Reginald, in an aside. “These matters
the ground better, before I advance.”
This question was overheard by Bluewater; who, begging
the gentlemen to remain where they were, withdrew himself,
taking Tom Wychecombe with him. As soon as they
were alone, Sir Reginald drew from his companion, by
questions warily but ingeniously put, a history of all that
had occurred within the last twenty-four hours; a knowledge
of the really helpless state of Sir Wycherly, and of
the manner in which he himself had been summoned, included.
When satisfied, he expressed a desire to see the
sick man.
“By the way, Sir Reginald,” said the vice-admiral, with
his hand on the lock of the door, arresting his own movement
to put the question; “I see, by your manner of expressing
yourself, that the law has not been entirely overlooked
in your education. Do you happen to know what
`half-blood' means? it is either a medical or a legal term,
and I understand few but nautical.”
“You could not apply to any man in England, Sir Gervaise,
better qualified to tell you,” answered the Hertfordshire
baronet, smiling expressively. “I am a barrister of
the Middle Temple, having been educated as a younger son,
and having since succeeded an elder brother, at the age of
twenty-seven; and, I stand in the unfortunate relation of
the `half-blood' myself, to this very estate, on which we are
now conversing.”
Sir Reginald then proceeded to explain the law to the
other, as we have already pointed it out to the reader; performing
the duty succinctly, but quite clearly.
“Bless me!—bless me! Sir Reginald,” exclaimed the
direct-minded and just-minded sailor—“here must be some
mistake! A fortieth cousin, or the king, take this estate before
yourself, though you are directly descended from all
the old Wychecombes of the times of the Plantagenets!”
“Such is the common law, Sir Gervaise. Were I Sir
Wycherly's half-brother, or a son by a second wife of our
common father, I could not take from him, although that
common father had earned the estate by his own hands, or
services.”
“This is damnable, sir—damnable—and you 'll pardon
principle in the good, honest, well-meaning laws, of good,
honest, well-meaning old England!”
Sir Reginald was one of the few lawyers of his time, who
did not recognize the virtue of this particular provision of
the common law; a circumstance that probably arose from
his having so small an interest now in the mysteries of the
profession, and so large an interest in the family estate of
Wychecombe, destroyed by its dictum. He was, consequently,
less surprised, and not at all hurt, at the evident
manner in which the sailor repudiated his statement, as doing
violence equally to reason, justice, and probability.
“Good, honest, well-meaning old England tolerates many
grievous things, notwithstanding, Sir Gervaise,” he answered;
“among others, it tolerates the law of the half-blood.
Much depends on the manner in which men view
these things; that which seems gold to one, resembling silver
in the eyes of another. Now, I dare say,”—this was said
as a feeler, and with a smile that might pass for ironical
or confiding, as the listener pleased to take it—“Now, I
dare say, the clans would tell us that England tolerates an
usurper, while her lawful prince was in banishment; though
you and I might not feel disposed to allow it.”
Sir Gervaise started, and cast a quick, suspicious glance
at the speaker; but there the latter stood, with as open and
guileless an expression on his handsome features, as was
ever seen in the countenance of confiding sixteen.
“Your supposititious case is no parallel,” returned the vice-admiral,
losing every shade of suspicion, at this appearance
of careless frankness; “since men often follow their feelings
in their allegiance, while the law is supposed to be
governed by reason and justice. But, now we are on the
subject, will you tell me, Sir Reginald, if you also know
what a nullus is?'
“I have no farther knowledge of the subject, Sir Gervaise,”
returned the other, smiling, this time, quite naturally;
“than is to be found in the Latin dictionaries and
grammars.”
“Ay—you mean nullus, nulla, nullum. Even we sailors
know that; as we all go to school before we go to sea.
called you a `half-blood.”'
“And quite correctly—I admit such to be the fact; and
that I have no more legal claim, whatever, on this estate,
than you have yourself. My moral right, however, may be
somewhat better.”
“It is much to your credit, that you so frankly admit it,
Sir Reginald; for, hang me, if I think even the judges would
dream of raising such an objection to your succeeding, unless
reminded of it.”
“Therein you do them injustice, Sir Gervaise; as it is
their duty to administer the laws, let them be what they
may.”
“Perhaps you are right, sir. But the reason for my
asking what a nullus is, was the circumstance that Sir Wycherly,
in the course of his efforts to speak, repeatedly called
his nephew and heir, Mr. Thomas Wychecombe, by that
epithet.”
“Did he, indeed?—Was the epithet, as you well term it,
filius nullius?”
“I rather think it was nullus—though I do believe the
word filius was muttered, once or twice, also.”
“Yes sir, this has been the case; and I am not sorry
Sir Wycherly is aware of the fact, as I hear that the young
man affects to consider himself in a different point of view.
A filius nullius is the legal term for a bastard—the `son
of nobody,' as you will at once understand. I am fully
aware that such is the unfortunate predicament of Mr. Thomas
Wychecombe, whose father, I possess complete evidence
to show, was never married to his mother.”
“And yet, Sir Reginald, the impudent rascal carries in
his pocket even, a certificate, signed by some parish priest
in London, to prove the contrary.”
The civil baronet seemed surprised at this assertion of
his military brother; but Sir Gervaise explaining what had
passed between himself and the young man, he could no
longer entertain any doubt of the fact.
“Since you have seen the document,” resumed Sir Reginald,
“it must, indeed, be so; and this misguided boy is
prepared to take any desperate step in order to obtain the
title and the estate. All that he has said about a will must
obtain so hollow a distinction as a baronetcy—we are equally
members of the class, and may speak frankly, Sir Gervaise
—and the will would secure the estate, if there were one.
I cannot think, therefore, that there is a will at all.”
“If this will were not altogether to the fellow's liking,
would not the marriage, beside the hollow honour of which
you have spoken, put the whole of the landed property in
his possession, under the entail?”
“It would, indeed; and I thank you for the suggestion.
If, however, Sir Wycherly is desirous, now, of making a
new will, and has strength and mind sufficient to execute
his purpose, the old one need give us no concern. This is
a most delicate affair for one in my situation to engage in,
sir; and I greatly rejoice that I find such honourable and
distinguished witnesses, in the house, to clear my reputation,
should anything occur to require such exculpation.
On the one side, Sir Gervaise, there is the danger of an
ancient estate's falling into the hands of the crown, and this,
too, while one of no stain of blood, derived from the same
honourable ancestors as the last possessor, is in existence;
or, on the other, of its becoming the prey of one of base
blood, and of but very doubtful character. The circumstance
that Sir Wycherly desired my presence, is a great
deal; and I trust to you, and to those with you, to vindicate
the fairness of my course. If it's your pleasure, sir, we
will now go to the sick chamber.”
“With all my heart. I think, however, Sir Reginald,”
said the vice-admiral, as he approached the door; “that
even in the event of an escheat, you would find these Brunswick
princes sufficiently liberal to restore the property. I
could not answer for those wandering Scotchmen; who
have so many breechless nobles to enrich; but, I think,
with the Hanoverians, you would be safe.”
“The last have certainly one recommendation the most,”
returned the other, smiling courteously, but in a way so
equivocal that even Sir Gervaise was momentarily struck
by it; “they have fed so well, now, at the crib, that they
may not have the same voracity, as those who have been
long fasting. It would be, however, more pleasant to take these
lands from a Wychecombe—a Wychecombe to a Wychecombe—than
who made the first grant.”
This terminated the private dialogue, as the colloquists
entered the hall, just as the last speaker concluded. Wycherly
was conversing, earnestly, with Mrs. Dutton and
Mildred, at the far end of the hall, when the baronets appeared;
but, catching the eye of the admiral, he said a few
words hastily to his companions, and joined the two gentlemen,
who were now on their way to the sick man's chamber.
“Here is a namesake, if not a relative, Sir Reginald,”
observed Sir Gervaise, introducing the lieutenant; “and
one, I rejoice to say, of whom all of even your honourable
name have reason to be proud.”
Sir Reginald's bow was courteous and bland, as the admiral
proceeded to complete the introduction; but Wycherly
felt that the keen, searching look he bestowed on himself,
was disagreeable.
“I am not at all aware, that I have the smallest claim to
the honour of being Sir Reginald Wychecombe's relative,”
he said, with cold reserve. “Indeed, until last evening, I
was ignorant of the existence of the Hertfordshire branch
of this family; and you will remember, Sir Gervaise, that
I am a Virginian.”
“A Virginian!” exclaimed his namesake, taken so much
by surprise as to lose a little of his self-command. “I did
not know, indeed, that any who bear the name had found
their way to the colonies.”
“And if they had, sir, they would have met with a set
of fellows every way fit to be their associates, Sir Reginald.
We English are a little clannish—I hate the word, too; it
has such a narrow Scotch sound—but we are clannish, although
generally provided with garments to our nether
limbs; and we sometimes look down upon even a son, whom
the love of adventure has led into that part of the world.
In my view, an Englishman is an Englishman, let him come
from what part of the empire he may. That is what I call
genuine liberality, Sir Reginald.”
“Quite true, Sir Gervaise; and a Scotchman is a Scotchman,
even though he come from the north of Tweed.”
This was quietly said, but the vice-admiral felt the merited
rebuke it contained, and he had the good-nature and the
This little encounter brought the party to Sir Wycherly's
door, where all three remained until it was ascertained that
they might enter.
The next quarter of an hour brought about a great change
in the situation of all the principal inmates of Wychecombe
Hall. The interdict was taken off the rooms of Sir Wycherly,
and in them had collected all the gentlemen, Mrs.
Dutton and her daughter, with three or four of the upper
servants of the establishment. Even Galleygo had contrived
to thrust his ungainly person in, among the rest, though he
had the discretion to keep in the background, among his
fellows. In a word, both dressing-room and bed-room had
their occupants, though the last was principally filled by the
medical men, and those whose rank gave them claims to be
near the person of the sick.
It was now past a question known that poor Sir Wycherly
was on his death-bed. His mind had sensibly improved,
nor was his speech any worse; but his physical system
generally had received a shock that rendered recovery
hopeless. It was the opinion of the physicians that he might
possibly survive several days; or, that he might be carried
off, in a moment, by a return of the paralytic affection.
The baronet, himself, appeared to be perfectly conscious
of his situation; as was apparent by the anxiety he expressed
to get his friends together, and more especially the
concern he felt to make a due disposition of his worldly
affairs. The medical men had long resisted both wishes,
until, convinced that the question was reduced to one of a
few hours more or less of life, and that denial was likely to
produce worse effects than compliance, they finally and
unanimously consented.
“It's no a great concession to mortal infirmity to let a
dying man have his way,” whispered Magrath to the two
admirals, as the latter entered the room. “Sir Wycherly
is a hopeless case, and we 'll just consent to let him make a
few codicils, seeing that he so fairvently desires it; and then
there may be fewer hopeless deevils left behind him, when
he 's gathered to his forefathers.”
“Here we are, my dear Sir Wycherly,” said the vice-admiral,
who never lost an occasion to effect his purpose,
comply with your wishes. Your kinsman, Sir Reginald
Wychecombe, is also present, and desirous of doing your
pleasure.”
It was a painful sight to see a man on his death-bed, so
anxious to discharge the forms of the world, as the master
of the Hall now appeared to be. There had been an unnecessary
alienation between the heads of the two branches
of the family; not arising from any quarrel, or positive
cause of disagreement, but from a silent conviction in both
parties, that each was unsuited to the other. They had met
a few times, and always parted without regret. The case
was now different; the separation was, in one sense at
least, to be eternal; and all minor considerations, all caprices
of habits or despotism of tastes, faded before the solemn impressions
of the moment. Still, Sir Wycherly could not
forget that he was master of Wychecombe, and that his
namesake was esteemed a man of refinement; and, in his
simple way of thinking he would fain have arisen, in order
to do him honour. A little gentle violence, even, was necessary
to keep the patient quiet.
“Much honoured, sir — greatly pleased,” muttered Sir
Wycherly, the words coming from him with difficulty.
“Same ancestors—same name—Plantagenets—old house,
sir—head go, new one come—none better, than—”
“Do not distress yourself to speak, unnecessarily, my
dear sir,” interrupted Sir Reginald, with more tenderness
for the patient than consideration for his own interest, as
the next words promised to relate to the succession. “Sir
Gervaise Oakes tells me, he understands your wishes, generally,
and that he is now prepared to gratify them. First
relieve your mind, in matters of business; and, then, I shall
be most happy to exchange with you the feelings of kindred.”
“Yes, Sir Wycherly,” put in Sir Gervaise, on this hint;
“I believe I have now found the clue to all you wish to say.
The few words written by you, last night, were the commencement
of a will, which it is your strong desire to make.
Do not speak, but raise your right hand, if I am not mistaken.”
The sick man actually stretched his right arm above the
bed-clothes, and his dull eyes lighted with an expression of
in the result.
“You see, gentlemen!” said Sir Gervaise, with emphasis.
“No one can mistake the meaning of this! Come nearer,
doctor—Mr. Rotherham—all who have no probable interest
in the affair—I wish it to be seen that Sir Wycherly Wychecombe
is desirous of making his will.”
The vice-admiral now went through the ceremony of repeating
his request, and got the same significant answer.
“So I understood it, Sir Wycherly, and I believe now I
also understand all about the `half,' and the `whole,' and
the `nullus.' You meant to tell us that your kinsman, Sir
Reginald Wychecombe, was of the `half-blood' as respects
yourself, and that Mr. Thomas Wychecombe, your nephew,
is what is termed in law—however painful this may be, gentlemen,
at such solemn moments the truth must be plainly
spoken — that Mr. Thomas Wychecombe is what the law
terms a `filius nullius.' If we have understood you in this,
also, have the goodness to give this company the same sign
of assent.”
The last words were scarcely spoken, before Sir Wycherly
again raised his arm, and nodded his head.
“Here there can be no mistake, and no one rejoices in it
more than I do myself; for, the unintelligible words gave
me a great deal of vexation. Well, my dear sir, understanding
your wishes, my secretary, Mr. Atwood, has drawn
the commencement of a will, in the usual form, using your
own pious and proper language of—`In the name of God,
Amen,' as the commencement; and he stands ready to write
down your bequests, as you may see fit to name them. We
will take them, first, on a separate piece of paper; then read
them to you, for your approbation; and afterwards, transcribe
them into the will. I believe, Sir Reginald, that mode
would withstand the subtleties of all the gentlemen of all the
Inns of Court?”
“It is a very proper and prudent mode for executing a
will, sir, under the peculiar circumstances,” returned he of
Hertfordshire. “But, Sir Gervaise, my situation, here, is
a little delicate, as may be that of Mr. Thomas Wychecombe
—and others of the name and family, if any such there be.
desired by the intended testator?”
“Is it your wish, Sir Wycherly, that your kinsmen and
namesakes remain in the room, or shall they retire until the
will is executed? I will call over the names of the company,
and when you wish any one, in particular, to stay in the
room, you will nod your head.”
“All—all stay,” muttered Sir Wycherly; “Sir Reginald
—Tom—Wycherly—all—”
“This seems explicit enough, gentlemen,” resumed the
vice-admiral. “You are all requested to stay; and, if I
might venture an opinion, our poor friend has named those
on whom he intends his bequests to fall—and pretty much,
too, in the order in which they will come.”
“That will appear more unanswerably when Sir Wycherly
has expressed his intentions in words,” observed Sir
Reginald, very desirous that there should not be the smallest
appearance of dictation or persuasion offered to his kinsman,
at a moment so grave. “Let me entreat that no leading
questions be put.”
“Sir Gervaise understands leading in battle, much better
than in a cross-examination, Sir Reginald,” Bluewater observed,
in a tone so low, that none heard him but the person
to whom the words were addressed. “I think we shall
sooner get at Sir Wycherly's wishes, by allowing him to
take his own course.”
The other bowed, and appeared disposed to acquiesce.
In the mean time preparations were making for the construction
of the will. Atwood seated himself at a table near
the bed, and commenced nibbing his pens; the medical men
administered a cordial; Sir Gervaise caused all the witnesses
to range themselves around the room, in a way that each
might fairly see, and be seen; taking care, however, so to
dispose of Wycherly, as to leave no doubt of his handsome
person's coming into the sick man's view. The lieutenant's
modesty might have rebelled at this arrangement, had he
not found himself immediately at the side of Mildred.
| CHAPTER XIII. The two admirals | |