“Every thing was so comfortable, brother, while you were in health,” said Sir Wycherly, fidgeting; “you were my natural heir – “

“Heir of entail,” interrupted the judge.

“Well, well, heir, at all events; and that was a prodigious comfort to a man like myself, who has a sort of religious scruples about making a will. I have heard it whispered that you were actually married to Martha; in which case, Tom might drop into our shoes, so readily, without any more signing and sealing.”

“A filius nullius,” returned the other, too conscientious to lend himself to a deception of that nature.

“Why, brother, Tom often seems to me to favour such an idea, himself.”

“No wonder, Wycherly, for the idea would greatly favour him. Tom and his brothers are all filii nullorum, God forgive me for that same wrong.”

“I wonder neither Charles nor Gregory thought of marrying before they lost their lives for their king and country,” put in Sir Wycherly, in an upbraiding tone, as if he thought his penniless brethren had done him an injury in neglecting to supply him with an heir, though he had been so forgetful himself of the same great duty. “I did think of bringing in a bill for providing heirs for unmarried persons, without the trouble and responsibility of making wills.”

“That would have been a great improvement on the law of descents – I hope you wouldn’t have overlooked the ancestors.”

“Not I – everybody would have got his rights. They tell me poor Charles never spoke after he was shot; but I dare say, did we know the truth, he regretted sincerely that he never married.”

“There, for once, Wycherly, I think you are likely to be wrong. A femme sole without food, is rather a helpless sort of a person.”

“Well, well, I wish he had married. What would it have been to me, had he left a dozen widows?”

“It might have raised some awkward questions as to dowry; and if each left a son, the title and estates would have been worse off than they are at present, without widows or legitimate children.”

“Any thing would be better than having no heir. I believe I’m the first baronet of Wychecombe who has been obliged to make a will!”

“Quite likely,” returned the brother, drily; “I remember to have got nothing from the last one, in that way. Charles and Gregory fared no better. Never mind, Wycherly, you behaved like a father to us all.”

“I don’t mind signing cheques, in the least; but wills have an irreligious appearance, in my eyes. There are a good many Wychecombes, in England; I wonder some of them are not of our family! They tell me a hundredth cousin is just as good an heir, as a first-born son.”

“Failing nearer of kin. But we have no hundredth cousins of the whole blood.”

“There are the Wychecombes of Surrey, brother Thomas – ?”

“Descended from a bastard of the second baronet, and out of the line of descent, altogether.”

“But the Wychecombes of Hertfordshire, I have always heard were of our family, and legitimate.”

“True, as regards matrimony – rather too much of it, by the way. They branched off in 1487, long before the creation, and have nothing to do with the entail; the first of their line coming from old Sir Michael Wychecombe, Kt. and Sheriff of Devonshire, by his second wife Margery; while we are derived from the same male ancestor, through Wycherly, the only son by Joan, the first wife. Wycherly, and Michael, the son of Michael and Margery, were of the half-blood, as respects each other, and could not be heirs of blood. What was true of the ancestors is true of the descendants.”

“But we came of the same ancestor, and the estate is far older than 1487.”

“Quite true, brother; nevertheless, the half-blood can’t take; so says the perfection of human reason.”

“I never could understand these niceties of the law,” said Sir Wycherly, sighing; “but I suppose they are all right. There are so many Wychecombes scattered about England, that I should think some one among them all might be my heir!”

“Every man of them bears a bar in his arms, or is of the half-blood.”

“You are quite sure, brother, that Tom is a filius nullus?” for the baronet had forgotten most of the little Latin he ever knew, and translated this legal phrase into “no son.”

“Filius nullius, Sir Wycherly, the son of nobody; your reading would literally make Tom nobody; whereas, he is only the son of nobody.”

“But, brother, he is your son, and as like you, as two hounds of the same litter.”

“I am nullus, in the eye of the law, as regards poor Tom; who, until he marries, and has children of his own, is altogether without legal kindred. Nor do I know that legitimacy would make Tom any better; for he is presuming and confident enough for the heir apparent to the throne, as it is.”

“Well, there’s this young sailor, who has been so much at the station lately, since he was left ashore for the cure of his wounds. ‘Tis a most gallant lad; and the First Lord has sent him a commission, as a reward for his good conduct, in cutting out the Frenchman. I look upon him as a credit to the name; and I make no question, he is, some way or other, of our family.”

“Does he claim to be so?” asked the judge, a little quickly, for he distrusted men in general, and thought, from all he had heard, that some attempt might have been made to practise on his brother’s simplicity. “I thought you told me that he came from the American colonies?”

“So he does; he’s a native of Virginia, as was his father before him.”

“A convict, perhaps; or a servant, quite likely, who has found the name of his former master, more to his liking than his own. Such things are common, they tell me, beyond seas.”

“Yes, if he were anything but an American, I might wish he were my heir,” returned Sir Wycherly, in a melancholy tone; “but it would be worse than to let the lands escheat, as you call it, to place an American in possession of Wychecombe. The manors have always had English owners, down to the present moment, thank God!”

“Should they have any other, it will be your own fault, Wycherly. When I am dead, and that will happen ere many weeks, the human being will not be living, who can take that property, after your demise, in any other manner than by escheat, or by devise. There will then be neither heir of entail, nor heir at law; and you may make whom you please, master of Wychecombe, provided he be not an alien.”

“Not an American, I suppose, brother; an American is an alien, of course.”

“Humph! – why, not in law, whatever he may be according to our English notions. Harkee, brother Wycherly; I’ve never asked you, or wished you to leave the estate to Tom, or his younger brothers; for one, and all, are filii nullorum – as I term ‘em, though my brother Record will have it, it ought to be filii nullius, as well as filius nullius. Let that be as it may; no bastard should lord it at Wychecombe; and rather than the king; should get the lands, to bestow on some favourite, I would give it to the half-blood.”

“Can that be done without making a will, brother Thomas?”

“It cannot, Sir Wycherly; nor with a will, so long as an heir of entail can be found.”

“Is there no way of making Tom a filius somebody, so that he can succeed?”

“Not under our laws. By the civil law, such a thing might have been done, and by the Scotch law; but not under the perfection of reason.”

“I wish you knew this young Virginian! The lad bears both of my names, Wycherly Wychecombe.”

“He is not a filius Wycherly – is he, baronet?”

“Fie upon thee, brother Thomas! Do you think I have less candour than thyself, that I would not acknowledge my own flesh and blood. I never saw the youngster, until within the last six months, when he was landed from the roadstead, and brought to Wychecombe, to be cured of his wounds; nor ever heard of him before. When they told me his name was Wycherly Wychecombe, I could do no less than call and see him. The poor fellow lay at death’s door for a fortnight; and it was while we had little or no hope of saving him, that I got the few family anecdotes from him. Now, that would be good evidence in law, I believe, Thomas.”

“For certain things, had the lad really died. Surviving, he must be heard on his voire dire, and under oath. But what was his tale?”

“A very short one. He told me his father was a Wycherly Wychecombe, and that his grandfather had been a Virginia planter. This was all he seemed to know of his ancestry.”

“And probably all there was of them. My Tom is not the only filius nullius that has been among us, and this grandfather, if he has not actually stolen the name, has got it by these doubtful means. As for the Wycherly, it should pass for nothing. Learning that there is a line of baronets of this name, every pretender to the family would be apt to call a son Wycherly.”

“The line will shortly be ended, brother,” returned Sir Wycherly, sighing. “I wish you might be mistaken; and, after all, Tom shouldn’t prove to be that filius you call him.”

Mr. Baron Wychecombe, as much from esprit de corps as from moral principle, was a man of strict integrity, in all things that related to meum and tuum. He was particularly rigid in his notions concerning the transmission of real estate, and the rights of primogeniture. The world had taken little interest in the private history of a lawyer, and his sons having been born before his elevation to the bench, he passed with the public for a widower, with a family of promising boys. Not one in a hundred of his acquaintances even, suspected the fact; and nothing would have been easier for him, than to have imposed on his brother, by inducing him to make a will under some legal mystification or other, and to have caused Tom Wychecombe to succeed to the property in question, by an indisputable title. There would have been no great difficulty even, in his son’s assuming and maintaining his right to the baronetcy, inasmuch as there would be no competitor, and the crown officers were not particularly rigid in inquiring into the claims of those who assumed a title that brought with it no political privileges. Still, he was far from indulging in any such project. To him it appeared that the Wychecombe estate ought to go with the principles that usually governed such matters; and, although he submitted to the dictum of the common law, as regarded the provision which excluded the half-blood from inheriting, with the deference of an English common-law lawyer, he saw and felt, that, failing the direct line, Wychecombe ought to revert to the descendants of Sir Michael by his second son, for the plain reason that they were just as much derived from the person who had acquired the estate, as his brother Wycherly and himself. Had there been descendants of females, even, to interfere, no such opinion would have existed; but, as between an escheat, or a devise in favour of a filius nillius, or of the descendant of a filius nullius, the half-blood possessed every possible advantage. In his legal eyes, legitimacy was everything, although he had not hesitated to be the means of bringing into the world seven illegitimate children, that being the precise number Martha had the credit of having borne him, though three only survived. After reflecting a moment, therefore, he turned to the baronet, and addressed him more seriously than he had yet done, in the present dialogue; first taking a draught of cordial to give him strength for the occasion.

“Listen to me, brother Wycherly,” said the judge, with a gravity that at once caught the attention of the other. “You know something of the family history, and I need do no more than allude to it. Our ancestors were the knightly possessors of Wychecombe, centuries before King James established the rank of baronet. When our great-grandfather, Sir Wycherly, accepted the patent of 1611, he scarcely did himself honour; for, by aspiring higher, he might have got a peerage. However, a baronet he became, and for the first time since Wychecombe was Wychecombe, the estate was entailed, to do credit to the new rank. Now, the first Sir Wycherly had three sons, and no daughter. Each of these sons succeeded; the two eldest as bachelors, and the youngest was our grandfather. Sir Thomas, the fourth baronet, left an only child, Wycherly, our father. Sir Wycherly, our father, had five sons, Wycherly his successor, yourself, and the sixth baronet; myself; James; Charles; and Gregory. James broke his neck at your side. The two last lost their lives in the king’s service, unmarried; and neither you, nor I, have entered into the holy state of matrimony. I cannot survive a month, and the hopes of perpetuating the direct line of the family, rests with yourself. This accounts for all the descendants of Sir Wycherly, the first baronet; and it also settles the question of heirs of entail, of whom there are none after myself. To go back beyond the time of King James I.: Twice did the elder lines of the Wychecombes fail, between the reign of King Richard II. and King Henry VII., when Sir Michael succeeded. Now, in each of these cases, the law disposed of the succession; the youngest branches of the family, in both instances, getting the estate. It follows that agreeably to legal decisions had at the time, when the facts must have been known, that the Wychecombes were reduced to these younger lines. Sir Michael had two wives. From the first we are derived – from the last, the Wychecombes of Hertfordshire – since known as baronets of that county, by the style and title of Sir Reginald Wychecombe of Wychecombe-Regis, Herts.”

“The present Sir Reginald can have no claim, being of the half-blood,” put in Sir Wycherly, with a brevity of manner that denoted feeling. “The half-blood is as bad as a nullius, as you call Tom.”

“Not quite. A person of the half-blood may be as legitimate as the king’s majesty; whereas, a nullius is of no blood. Now, suppose for a moment, Sir Wycherly, that you had been a son by a first wife, and I had been a son by a second – would there have been no relationship between us?”

“What a question, Tom, to put to your own brother!”

“But I should not be your own brother, my good sir; only your half brother; of the half, and not of the whole blood.”

“What of that – what of that? – your father would have been my father – we would have had the same name – the same family history – the same family feelings – poh! poh! – we should have been both Wychecombes, exactly as we are to-day.”

“Quite true, and yet I could not have been your heir, nor you mine. The estate would escheat to the king, Hanoverian or Scotchman, before it came to me. Indeed, to me it could never come.”

“Thomas, you are trifling with my ignorance, and making matters worse than they really are. Certainly, as long as you lived, you would be my heir!”

“Very true, as to the £20,000 in the funds, but not as to the baronetcy and Wychecombe. So far as the two last are concerned, I am heir of blood, and of entail, of the body of Sir Wycherly Wychecombe, the first baronet, and the maker of the entail.”

“Had there been no entail, and had I died a child, who would have succeeded our father, supposing there had been two mothers?”

“I, as the next surviving son.”

“There! – I knew it must be so!” exclaimed Sir Wycherly, in triumph; “and all this time you have been joking with me!”

“Not so fast, brother of mine – not so fast. I should be of the whole blood, as respected our father, and all the Wychecombes that have gone before him; but of the half-blood, as respected you. From our father I might have taken, as his heir-at-law: but from you, never, having been of the half-blood.”

“I would have made a will, in that case, Thomas, and left you every farthing,” said Sir Wycherly, with feeling.

“That is just what I wish you to do with Sir Reginald Wychecombe. You must take him; a filius nullius, in the person of my son Tom; a stranger; or let the property escheat; for, we are so peculiarly placed as not to have a known relative, by either the male or female lines; the maternal ancestors being just as barren of heirs as the paternal. Our good mother was the natural daughter of the third Earl of Prolific; our grandmother was the last of her race, so far as human ken can discover; our great-grandmother is said to have had semi-royal blood in her veins, without the aid of the church, and beyond that it would be hopeless to attempt tracing consanguinity on that side of the house. No, Wycherly; it is Sir Reginald who has the best right to the land; Tom, or one of his brothers, an utter stranger, or His Majesty, follow. Remember that estates of £4000 a year, don’t often escheat, now-a-days.”

“If you’ll draw up a will, brother, I’ll leave it all to Tom,” cried the baronet, with sudden energy. “Nothing need be said about the nullius; and when I’m gone, he’ll step quietly into my place.”

Nature triumphed a moment in the bosom of the father; but habit, and the stern sense of right, soon overcame the feeling. Perhaps certain doubts, and a knowledge of his son’s real character, contributed their share towards the reply.

“It ought not to be, Sir Wycherly,” returned the judge, musing, “Tom has no right to Wychecombe, and Sir Reginald has the best moral right possible, though the law cuts him off. Had Sir Michael made the entail, instead of our great-grandfather, he would have come in, as a matter of course.”

“I never liked Sir Reginald Wychecombe,” said the baronet, stubbornly.

“What of that? – He will not trouble you while living, and when dead it will be all the same. Come – come – I will draw the will myself, leaving blanks for the name; and when it is once done, you will sign it, cheerfully. It is the last legal act I shall ever perform, and it will be a suitable one, death being constantly before me.”

This ended the dialogue. The will was drawn according to promise; Sir Wycherly took it to his room to read, carefully inserted the name of Tom Wychecombe in all the blank spaces, brought it back, duly executed the instrument in his brother’s presence, and then gave the paper to his nephew to preserve, with a strong injunction on him to keep the secret, until the instrument should have force by his own death. Mr. Baron Wychecombe died in six weeks, and the baronet returned to his residence, a sincere mourner for the loss of an only brother. A more unfortunate selection of an heir could not have been made, as Tom Wychecombe was, in reality, the son of a barrister in the Temple; the fancied likeness to the reputed father existing only in the imagination of his credulous uncle.