Chapter VI

 
“The circle form’d, we sit in silent state,
Like figures drawn upon a dial-plate; Y
es ma’am, and no ma’am, uttered softly show,
Every five minutes how the minutes go.”
 

Cowper.

It is scarcely necessary to tell the reader that England, as regarded material civilization, was a very different country a hundred years since, from what it is to-day. We are writing of an age of heavy wagons, coaches and six, post-chaises and four; and not of an era of MacAdam-roads, or of cars flying along by steam. A man may now post down to a country-house, some sixty or eighty miles, to dinner; and this, too, by the aid of only a pair of horses; but, in 1745 such an engagement would have required at least a start on the previous day; and, in many parts of the island, it would have been safer to have taken two days’ grace. Scotland was then farther from Devonshire, in effect, than Geneva is now; and news travelled slowly, and with the usual exaggerations and uncertainties of delay. It was no wonder, then, that a Jacobite who was posting off to his country-house – the focus of an English landlord’s influence and authority – filled with intelligence that had reached him through the activity of zealous political partisans, preceded the more regular tidings of the mail, by several hours. The little that had escaped this individual, or his servants rather, for the gentleman was tolerably discreet himself, confiding in only one or two particular friends at each relay, had not got out to the world, either very fully, or very clearly. Wycherly had used intelligence in making his inquiries, and he had observed an officer’s prudence in keeping his news for the ears of his superior alone. When Sir Gervaise joined the party in the drawing-room, therefore, he saw that Sir Wycherly knew nothing of what had occurred at the north; and he intended the glance which he directed at the lieutenant to convey a hearty approval of his discretion. This forbearance did more to raise the young officer in the opinion of the practised and thoughtful admiral, than the gallantry with which the youth had so recently purchased his commission; for while many were brave, few had the self-command, and prudence, under circumstances like the present, that alone can make a man safe in the management of important public interests. The approbation that Sir Gervaise felt, and which he desired to manifest, for Wycherly’s prudence, was altogether a principle, however; since there existed no sufficient reason for keeping the secret from as confirmed a whig as his host. On the contrary, the sooner those opinions, which both of them would be apt to term sound, were promulgated in the neighbourhood, the better it might prove for the good cause. The vice-admiral, therefore, determined to communicate himself, as soon as the party was seated at table, the very secret which he so much commended the youth for keeping. Admiral Bluewater joining the company, at this instant, Sir Wycherly led Mrs. Dutton to the table. No alteration had taken place among the guests, except that Sir Gervaise wore the red riband; a change in his dress that his friend considered to be openly hoisting the standard of the house of Hanover.

“One would not think, Sir Wycherly,” commenced the vice-admiral, glancing his eyes around him, as soon as all were sealed; “that this good company has taken its place at your hospitable table, in the midst of a threatened civil war, if not of an actual revolution.”

Every hand was arrested, and every eye turned towards the speaker; even Admiral Bluewater earnestly regarding his friend, anxious to know what would come next.

“I believe my household is in due subjection,” answered Sir Wycherly, gazing to the right and left, as if he expected to see his butler heading a revolt; “and I fancy the only change we shall see to-day, will be the removal of the courses, and the appearance of their successors.”

“Ay, so says the hearty, comfortable Devonshire baronet, while seated at his own board, favoured by abundance and warm friends. But it would seem the snake was only scotched; not killed.”

“Sir Gervaise Oaken has grown figurative; with his snakes and scotchings,” observed the rear-admiral, a little drily.

“It is Scotch-ing, as you say with so much emphasis, Blue-water. I suppose, Sir Wycherly – I suppose, Mr. Dutton, and you, my pretty young lady – I presume all of you have heard of such a person as the Pretender; – some of you may possibly have seen him.”

Sir Wycherly now dropt his knife and fork, and sat gazing at the speaker in amazement. To him the Christian religion, the liberties of the subject – more especially of the baronet and lord of the manor, who had four thousand a year – and the Protestant succession, all seemed to be in sudden danger.

“I always told my brother, the judge – Mr. Baron Wychecombe, who is dead and gone – that what between the French, that rogue the Pope, and the spurious offspring of King James II., we should yet see troublesome times in England! And now, sir, my predictions are verified!”

“Not as to England, yet, my good sir. Of Scotland I have not quite so good news to tell you; as your namesake, here, brings us the tidings that the son of the Pretender has landed in that kingdom, and is rallying the clans. He has come unattended by any Frenchmen, it would seem, and has thrown himself altogether on the misguided nobles and followers of his house.”

“’Tis, at least, a chivalrous and princely act!” exclaimed Admiral Bluewater.

“Yes – inasmuch as it is a heedless and mad one. England is not to be conquered by a rabble of half-dressed Scotchmen.”

“True; but England may be conquered by England, notwithstanding.”

Sir Gervaise now chose to remain silent, for never before had Bluewater come so near betraying his political bias, in the presence of third persons. This pause enabled Sir Wycherly to find his voice.

“Let me see, Tom,” said the baronet, “fifteen and ten are twenty-five, and ten are thirty, and ten are forty-five – it is just thirty years since the Jacobites were up before! It would seem that half a human life is not sufficient to fill the cravings of a Scotchman’s maw, for English gold.”

“Twice thirty years would hardly quell the promptings of a noble spirit, when his notions of justice showed him the way to the English throne,” observed Bluewater, coolly. “For my part, I like the spirit of this young prince, for he who nobly dares, nobly deserves. What say you, my beautiful neighbour?”

“If you mean to address me, sir, by that compliment,” answered Mildred, modestly, but with the emphasis that the gentlest of her sex are apt to use when they feel strongly; “I must be suffered to say that I hope every Englishman will dare as nobly, and deserve as well in defence of his liberties.”

“Come – come, Bluewater,” interrupted Sir Gervaise, with a gravity that almost amounted to reproof; “I cannot permit such innuendoes before one so young and unpractised. The young lady might really suppose that His Majesty’s fleet was entrusted to men unworthy to enjoy his confidence, by the cool way in which you carry on the joke. I propose, now, Sir Wycherly, that we eat our dinner in peace, and say no more about this mad expedition, until the cloth is drawn, at least. It’s a long road to Scotland, and there is little danger that this adventurer will find his way into Devonshire before the nuts are placed before us.”

“It would be nuts to us, if he did, Sir Gervaise,” put in Tom Wycherly, laughing heartily at his own wit. “My uncle would enjoy nothing more than to see the spurious sovereign on his own estate, here, and in the hands of his own tenants. I think, sir, that Wychecombe and one or two of the adjoining manors, would dispose of him.”

“That might depend on circumstances,” the admiral answered, a little drily. “These Scots have such a thing as a claymore, and are desperate fellows, they tell me, at a charge. The very fact of arming a soldier with a short sword, shows a most bloody-minded disposition.”

“You forget, Sir Gervaise, that we have our Cornish hug, here in the west of England; and I will put our fellows against any Scotch regiment that ever charged an enemy.”

Tom laughed again at his own allusion to a proverbial mode of grappling, familiar to the adjoining county.

“This is all very well, Mr. Thomas Wychecombe, so long as Devonshire is in the west of England, and Scotland lies north of the Tweed. Sir Wycherly might as well leave the matter in the hands of the Duke and his regulars, if it were only in the way of letting every man follow his own trade.”

“It strikes me as so singularly insolent in a base-born boy like this, pretending to the English crown, that I can barely speak of him with patience! We all know that his father was a changeling, and the son of a changeling can have no more right than the father himself. I do not remember what the law terms such pretenders; but I dare say it is something sufficiently odious.”

“Filius nullius, Thomas,” said Sir Wycherly, with a little eagerness to show his learning. “That’s the very phrase. I have it from the first authority; my late brother, Baron Wychecombe, giving it to me with his own mouth, on an occasion that called for an understanding of such matters. The judge was a most accurate lawyer, particularly in all that related to names; and I’ll engage, if he were living at this moment, he would tell you the legal appellation of a changeling ought to be filius nullius.”

In spite of his native impudence, and an innate determination to make his way in the world, without much regard to truth, Tom Wychecombe felt his cheek burn so much, at this innocent allusion of his reputed uncle, that he was actually obliged to turn away his face, in order to conceal his confusion. Had any moral delinquency of his own been implicated in the remark, he might have found means to steel himself against its consequences; but, as is only too often the case, he was far more ashamed of a misfortune over which he had no possible control, than he would have been of a crime for which he was strictly responsible in morals. Sir Gervaise smiled at Sir Wycherly’s knowledge of law terms, not to say of Latin; and turning good-humouredly to his friend the rear-admiral, anxious to re-establish friendly relations with him, he said with well-concealed irony –

“Sir Wycherly must be right, Bluewater. A changeling is nobody – that is to say, he is not the body he pretends to be, which is substantially being nobody – and the son of nobody, is clearly a filius nullius. And now having settled what may be called the law of the case, I demand a truce, until we get our nuts – for as to Mr. Thomas Wychecombe’s having his nut to crack, at least to-day, I take it there are too many loyal subjects in the north.”

When men know each other as well as was the case with our two admirals, there are a thousand secret means of annoyance, as well as of establishing amity. Admiral Bluewater was well aware that Sir Gervaise was greatly superior to the vulgar whig notion of the day, which believed in the fabricated tale of the Pretender’s spurious birth; and the secret and ironical allusion he had made to his impression on that subject, acted as oil to his own chafed spirit, disposing him to moderation. This had been the intention of the other; and the smiles they exchanged, sufficiently proved that their usual mental intercourse was temporarily restored at least.

Deference to his guests made Sir Wycherly consent to change the subject, though he was a little mystified with the obvious reluctance of the two admirals to speak of an enterprise that ought to be uppermost, according to his notion of the matter, in every Englishman’s mind. Tom had received a rebuke that kept him silent during the rest of the dinner; while the others were content to eat and drink, as if nothing had happened.

It is seldom that a party takes its seat at table without some secret man[oe]uvring, as to the neighbourhood, when the claims of rank and character do not interfere with personal wishes. Sir Wycherly had placed Sir Gervaise on his right and Mrs. Dutton on his left. But Admiral Bluewater had escaped from his control, and taken his seat next to Mildred, who had been placed by Tom Wychecombe close to himself, at the foot of the table. Wycherly occupied the seat opposite, and this compelled Dutton, and Mr. Rotherham, the vicar, to fill the other two chairs. The good baronet had made a wry face, at seeing a rear-admiral so unworthily bestowed; but Sir Gervaise assuring him that his friend was never so happy as when in the service of beauty, he was fain to submit to the arrangement.