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"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!
The bow of Dutton was now much lower than before, while young Wychecombe uncovered himself, and Sir Wycherly arose and paid his compliments cordially, introducing himself, and offering the admiral and all his officers the hospitality of the Hall.
"I presume he is. Sir Wycherly has no other nephew or at least this is the eldest of three brothers, I am told and, being childless himself, it must be so. My father tells me Sir Wycherly speaks of Mr. Thomas Wychecombe as his future heir." "Your father! Ay, fathers look on these matters with eyes very different from their daughters!"
They gazed at one another, and fancied that some magic power had really begun to smooth away the deep and sad inscriptions which Father Time had been so long engraving on their brows. The Widow Wycherly adjusted her cap, for she felt almost like a woman again. "Give us more of this wondrous water!" cried they, eagerly. "We are younger but we are still too old! Quick give us more!"
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.
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.
It was given me by Sylvia Ward, whose portrait hangs yonder, and I meant to wear it in my bosom at our wedding. Five and fifty years it has been treasured between the leaves of this old volume. Now, would you deem it possible that this rose of half a century could ever bloom again?" "Nonsense!" said the widow Wycherly, with a peevish toss of her head.
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?"
Sir Wycherly, after several abortive attempts, finally got the pen in his hand, and with great 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.
Let all who hear me, remember this, and be ready to testify to it when called on in a court of justice." Here Sir Wycherly struggled to rise in the bed, in evident excitement, gesticulating strongly to express his disgust, and his wish for his nephew to withdraw.
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