We must now turn for a time to Charles Tyrrell, and give some farther details of the events which had befallen him between his return to Oxford and his recall to Harbury Park, which we have hitherto purposely omitted.
Although there were many things unpleasant in his situation; although the conduct of his father towards himself had sent him back, as usual, with unpleasant memories fresh upon him, yet there was something now in the storehouse of remembrance which made up for all. There was a drop of that elixir cast into his cup, which is described by one of the greatest painters of human nature that ever lived, Le Sage, as giving flavour and sweetness to the sourest, the bitterest, or the most insipid cup. He had loved and was beloved; and when he looked back upon the last short month, it seemed as if the whole of the rest of life was as nothing compared with what he had done, enjoyed, and suffered in that brief space. The memory thereof afforded him sufficient matter to occupy his mind till he reached the university, and then it still remained, a comfort, a consolation, a hope, a joy. It was to him as an angel stretching out one hand towards the future and the other towards the past, and scattering flowers over both.
We will not dwell upon the passing of a week or two, on the prosecution of his academical studies, on the society that he kept, or the amusements which the narrow means his father afforded him enabled him to seek. We are coming now to the more bustling and active scenes of the drama, and we must not pause upon many interludes.
Time slipped by quietly. Charles kept his word faithfully to Mrs. Effingham; he wrote not to Lucy. He sent her even no message when he wrote to his mother, though he never failed to mention her in his letters with terms which he knew would induce Lady Tyrrell to repeat them to Lucy herself, and would show to her whom he loved how deeply he still loved her. In so writing, to say the truth, there was perhaps a greater pleasure than there even would have been in writing to herself. There was something exciting and doubly interesting in the shadowing forth, under anything that suggested itself, those feelings, wishes, hopes, and memories which he was forbidden to express more plainly. He now mentioned to his mother having met with some flower, or heard some song that recalled the sweet moments passed in the society of Lucy Effingham; it was now a picture he had bought which he longed to show her; it was now a book that he had read which would give her pleasure to read also; it was something now that she had said which he remembered and applied under new circumstances.
He certainly thought of Lady Tyrrell when he wrote those letters to her; but neither Lady Tyrrell, nor himself, nor Lucy Effingham could doubt that he thought of the latter, too, at every line he wrote. Lady Tyrrell could not help soon perceiving that her son was really, and not nominally, in love with Lucy Effingham; but, between a mother's fondness and a woman's clear-sightedness, she had discovered something long before which gave her comfort and satisfaction; it was, that Lucy Effingham was not quite indifferent to her son.
The time thus slipped quietly away, day after day, and Charles Tyrrell was calculating, with schoolboy impatience, how many days yet remained to the holidays. He had totally forgotten, by this time, Lieutenant Hargrave and everything concerning him. As soon as he had found that Lucy had never loved that personage, he had lost all feelings of enmity towards him, and his conduct in regard to the duel had only excited contempt.
A person we despise is soon forgotten, and such was the case in the present instance; but he was suddenly roused one morning from such forgetfulness by having a note put into his hands bearing Arthur Hargrave's name. It simply went to inform him that he had followed him to Oxford, with his friend Lieutenant ----, for the purpose of settling the affair which they had been prevented from settling before. The servant who brought the note told him farther, that the gentleman who delivered it had said he would call again for an answer towards five o'clock; and Charles, fully determined to have nothing farther to do with a person who had before failed to keep his appointment, merely sent for one of his friends of the same college to witness the explanation that was to ensue, and waited patiently for the hour appointed.
At five o'clock precisely the lieutenant of the revenue cutter made his appearance, and after the ordinary civilities usual on such occasions, Charles Tyrrell informed him that, by the advice both of the friend who accompanied him on the previous occasion and the gentleman whom he then saw present, he had determined to proceed no farther in the matter, having already done all that was required of him, and not thinking himself bound to be at the beck and call of Lieutenant Hargrave at any time that he thought proper.
"I am afraid, sir," replied the lieutenant, "that if you adhere to this resolution, you will seriously affect your own reputation. I am charged to give you a full explanation of the causes which prevented Lieutenant Hargrave from meeting you, and those causes will be found quite sufficient in the eyes of any man of honour."
Charles Tyrrell turned a questioning look upon his friend, who replied to it by saying,
"Of course we must hear. Pray, sir, what were those causes?"
"Why, sir," replied the lieutenant of the revenue cutter, "it is a delicate subject, in some degree, to deal with; but as I am quite sure I am speaking with two gentlemen and men of honour, who will not, on any account, betray a trust reposed in them, I will give you the real causes explicitly. You must know, that after I left Mr. Tyrrell, with the full determination of bringing Lieutenant Hargrave to the ground appointed on the following morning, Hargrave informed me of his intention of carrying off a young lady, who, he said, was willing to elope with him, and with whom he was in love."
Charles Tyrrell started off his chair, exclaiming, "The scoundrel! I trust, sir, you had no hand in such a business."
"No farther hand than might become a man of honour, sir," replied the lieutenant, calmly. "He told me the young lady was ready to go off with him, he was quite sure; that she would have a large fortune at her father's death--"
"Why her father has been dead for many months!" exclaimed Charles Tyrrell, again interrupting him.
"There must be some mistake," replied the lieutenant; "for I saw you talking to her father himself the very last time we met; and I am as certain as a man can be of anything in this world, that old Longly was alive not eight-and-forty hours ago."
"Old Longly!" exclaimed Charles Tyrrell; "that is quite another affair. I beg your pardon; I interrupted you by mistake; pray go on."
"Well, sir, as I was about to say, he told me if I would but carry them round to Guernsey or Jersey in the cutter, I should lay him under an infinite obligation, and it was settled that I was to land him that evening near the house; that he was to go to meet her, with two of the boat's crew to carry her things; that he and I were to land the next morning, to give you the meeting; and, when he had shot you, we were to go on board again, and get under weigh for Guernsey."
"A kind, pleasant, and jovial arrangement!" said Charles Tyrrell, with a touch of his father's bitterness in his tone and manner; "pray what prevented it from succeeding?"
"Why two things," replied the officer; "in the first place, while we were away, the people got intimation that it was Hargrave that had spied out the smuggled goods, and given the information which led to the seizure. His name, it is true, did not appear, but he was to have two thirds of the reward. In the next place, you see, the young lady was not quite so willing as he had represented her to be. We landed, indeed, at the hour appointed; and he went up with the two men and met her in the wood; but then she did not choose to come away with him; and when he made his entreaties somewhat too pressing, and got one of the men to help him lead her down to the boat, perhaps not so tenderly as might be, she set up a scream, which brought me up from the shore, and I insisted upon her being set free directly. She then ran back to her father's house; but it would seem the old gentleman had by this time found out the whole business, and refused to take her in; so that, if she had not met with John Hailes, the fisherman, and found shelter in his cottage, I do not know what would have become of her; for by this time we had put off, and perhaps reached the ship. Well, Hargrave and I had a bit of a quarrel that night, as you may suppose."
"I am glad to hear it, I am glad to hear it," exclaimed Charles Tyrrell, vehemently; "for the honour of human nature, I am glad to hear it."
"Why I did not like the job, it must be confessed," replied the young officer; "but, however, as I had engaged to stand his friend in the business with you, I could not get off, you see, and we landed the next morning in time to be with you. How it was that the fishermen, and hovellers, and smugglers got an inkling of what we were about, I don't know. But it seems they had found out, not only that Hargrave had given information, but that we were going to land early that morning, and they had laid an ambuscade just to the west of Stony Point; so that, before we had got a hundred yards from the boat, they were upon us, and Hargrave was in their hands in a minute. They did not offer to hurt us, though they were five or six to one; but they thrashed him with the stretchers in such a way, that I saw they would kill him outright before they had done; and consequently, getting all the boat's crew together, I made a rush for it, and got him more than half dead out of their hands. They pelted us all the way back to the boat with large stones, which hurt several of the men; but we got off notwithstanding, and, as soon as I could, I wrote a note to you, and going ashore higher up, sent it off by a boy. I hope it reached you."
"It certainly did," replied Charles Tyrrell, "but not till I had waited some time. However, by your own account, sir, this Lieutenant Hargrave seems to be so little of a gentleman and so much of a scoundrel, that I wonder you consent to present yourself upon his part."
"I do not intend to justify his conduct or to make myself his champion, sir," replied the commander of the revenue cutter, "and therefore we will put all that out of the question, if you please. Having once engaged in the business, I do not choose to go back; and have only farther to say, that, of course, you will act as you please; but that the cause of Lieutenant Hargrave's conduct in not meeting you at the place appointed having been explained, and that cause being that he was incapacitated from doing anything by the ill usage of the mob, it seems to me that a gentleman, a brave man, and a man of honour cannot refuse the appointment he before made."
"Well, sir," replied Charles Tyrrell, "on your account, and to make it perfectly evident that fear has nothing to do with the matter, I will meet him. I suppose if you, a respectable officer and an honourable and gentlemanly man, do not refuse to second him, I must not refuse to fight him: but still, sir, I must say, that I look upon him as a scoundrel of the lowest and most ungentlemanly character, for whom the only proper treatment would be a horsewhip."
The lieutenant bit his lips. "I must beg leave to decline giving any opinion respecting his character," he answered; "the task I have undertaken I will accomplish, and I have only further to ask you to name the time and place."
The rest of the preliminaries were speedily arranged, and upon the particulars of the duel we shall not pause. Every precaution was taken by Charles Tyrrell and his second to keep the matter so private that it could not reach the ears of the academical authorities, and in this they succeeded perfectly. Charles met his antagonist at a considerable distance from Oxford, and, as he had predetermined, did not fire at him, though he made no display of firing in the air. The other fired at him and missed him only by a few inches; and the moment that an exchange of shots had taken place, Lieutenant Hargrave's second walked up to Charles Tyrrell, saying, "I ask you, sir, as a gentleman and a man of honour, whether you fired at Lieutenant Hargrave?"
"To a question so put," replied Charles, "I can but reply, that I did not."
"Then the business can go no farther," said the lieutenant; "I presume you agree with me, sir?" he continued, turning to Charles Tyrrell's second.
The other replied that he did so exactly; and, without any farther discussion, the parties prepared to separate.
To Charles's surprise, however, he perceived, as they were getting into the chaise which brought them there, that Arthur Hargrave and his second parted also on the ground, with no other farewell than a cold bow on either side. Every precaution was adopted, in returning to Oxford, to avoid attracting attention, and, by extreme prudence and care, not a whisper of the transaction spread through the university.
Everything resumed its usual train in the life of Charles Tyrrell, and he fancied the matter would never be farther heard of, when he suddenly was aroused from this dream of repose by receiving the bitter but laconic note from his father, which we mentioned in a former chapter, bidding him come immediately to Harbury Park. The tone of this epistle led him to believe, upon full consideration, that Sir Francis was acquainted with the whole affair of the duel, though of course he did not know, till he reached home, that his engagement with Lucy Effingham had been also disclosed.
He prepared, however, instantly to obey the summons he had received, and certainly did not suppose that his father, who had always been an advocate for duelling, would now entertain any very serious wrath at what had occurred, if the matter were properly explained to him. Making his preparations, therefore, with as much quickness as possible, he set out, on the morning after the receipt of his father's note, upon a journey destined to prove the most important of his life. He followed the same course that he had pursued on his preceding journey, going first to London, and then making his way onward by the heavy nightcoach.
During the former part of the journey, namely, from Oxford to London, Charles Tyrrell's thoughts were principally employed in endeavouring, by one effort of imagination or another, to divine who could be the person that had given Sir Francis Tyrrell information of an event which had been so carefully concealed as to be perfectly unknown to the members of the university, within twenty miles of the spot where it took place. But the only person whom he could fix upon was Lieutenant Hargrave himself, as he felt perfectly sure that that officer's second would not mention the matter: it having been represented to him beforehand that very serious consequences might ensue if it became known, by any chance, to the heads of the colleges, that a duel had been fought by one of the gentlemen commoners.
The irritation which he felt, under these circumstances, was very great; and it was fortunate that Lieutenant Hargrave himself was not near at hand at the moment when Charles came to the above conclusion, as it is not improbable that he would speedily have resorted to some sharp measure for chastising what he conceived to be an unwarrantable breach of confidence. However, as we have said, it luckily so happened that Lieutenant Hargrave was not in the coach, and, even more, that there was nobody in it at all: for Charles Tyrrell was certainly in an irritable mood, and there are few men, let their dispositions be what they will, who are not disagreeable companions when such is the case. Thus he had plenty of opportunity to torment himself with his own fancies, and in the course of that journey he learned one of the most valuable secrets of the human heart, by long and solitary commune with his own in a state of excitement.
People of an eager and impetuous nature, when by chance they fall into the sin and folly of anger, are apt to declare, that other people or other things have put them in a passion, when, in truth--even if others have had any share in the business at all, which is not always the case--those angry people have been themselves the principals, and others only the accessories. It generally happens that others may throw down for us a little smouldering straw, but it is our own thoughts and imagination that toss it up into a flame.
Charles Tyrrell felt that such was the case in his own instance; that he had worked himself up into a fit of anger upon very unreasonable grounds. He detected the habit of doing so in his own mind, and he had sufficient firmness and resolution, as soon as he had detected that habit, vigorously to set about rooting it out.
As the first effort so to do, he resolved to think upon Lieutenant Hargrave no farther; gazing forth from the window, he revolved with pleasure upon a thousand other things; remembered that the shooting season had already commenced; laid out a plan for being absent from home the greater part of the day, either occupied in the healthful sports of the field, or passing the hours in the society of her he loved best; and devising with her schemes for future happiness, building on foundations laid by imagination with materials from the abundant storehouses of hope.
At length, however, he reached the great metropolis of smoke and industry, and then once more set out in the Old Blue for the park of his father. At a little distance from London, however, the coach stopped, and a woman and a little girl, seemingly both out of health, and probably proceeding to the seaside for its recovery, applied to the coachman to be admitted. There was one place vacant in the vehicle, and the guard represented that the little girl was young and small, and would occupy but little space, if the passengers would consent to her sitting on her mother's knee.
Against this proposal a fat lady, who, if equity ruled stagecoaches, should have paid for two places instead of one, opposed her veto most vehemently, declaring that she would get out and take a chaise, and make the coachman pay, if any more than the legal proportion of passengers was admitted into the favoured vehicle in which she travelled. The poor woman stood by the coachside, with her child in her hand, waiting the event of the discussion, and pleading by no other means than a look of care, and anxiety, and ill health. The little girl was a frail, delicate child, like a flower of the early spring, that the first frost might wither, and she looked up first to her mother's face, and then to the vehicle, as if asking what they were to do.
After listening for a moment or two to the fat woman's objections, Charles Tyrrell put his foot out of the coach, saying, "My good lady, I will soon settle the matter; you sha'n't be put to the trouble of seeking a postchaise to-night by having too many in the inside. Coachman, I will go on the top, and then there will be plenty of room."
The fat woman had nothing to say, but, "Well, I declare!" but the poor woman by the coach side dropped him a low and grateful courtesy, and thanked him in a tone which could not be mistaken.
If it had been the coldest night of the year, Charles Tyrrell would have been well repaid for what was, in fact, no sacrifice. But it was clear, and beautiful, and warm; and as the coach rolled along, with the fine summer's moon pouring her bright light over the sleeping world, he enjoyed himself highly, till a gray streak here and there upon the edge of the eastern sky, and a faint indescribable glistening about, the tops of the hills, told that the orb of day was soon about to rise.
They had now come very near to the seacoast, and were within a few miles of the spot where, winding round the deep shores of a small bay, the road turned to pass the park of Sir Francis Tyrrell. The distance by the road might be about ten miles; through the wood it was less than half; and so fine had been the night, that Charles Tyrrell had almost made up his mind to alight at that spot, and take the shorter path in order to enjoy the morning freshness more at leisure.
As they approached the shore, however, and the day began to dawn, a thick sea-fog came on, unusual at that period of the year, but which took away all promise of pleasure from the idea of walking through the wood. The high road itself was scarcely discernible; and as they turned away from the sea again to sweep round the bay and cut across the opposite point, they could hear the voices of persons talking close by the road, without being able to see where they were.
The coachman was going on at a furious rate, and one of the passengers who sat on the box had just said, "You had better take care, or you will run over something or somebody," when some object coming out of the wood on the left, which neither the coachman nor any of the passengers could see, startled the leaders, who dashed violently up the bank on the opposite side of the road. The coach was carried after them and instantly upset, and Charles Tyrrell, with the rest of the passengers on the outside, felt himself instantly cast with enormous force towards the wood on the left.
Of what happened after for some time he had no consciousness. He felt, indeed, a violent blow upon the head, but that was all; and when, after a long lapse of time, he regained his senses for a few minutes, it was but to feel, or at least to think, he was dying, and to sink again into insensibility. Those brief moments, however, had been sufficient for many a painful thought to cross his mind. He thought of Lucy Effingham certainly; but we must tell the truth, and acknowledge that the first, the deepest, the most painful thought was of his mother. Lucy, he knew, had other ties to life; and though she might grieve, she would not grieve without consolation. Lady Tyrrell had none but him, and, had he had power to speak, he might have exclaimed with the wounded cavalier, Prince Baldwin, in the Marquis of Mantua:
"O triste Reyna mi madre,Dios te quiera consolar,Que yà es quebrado el espejoEn que te solias mirar."Siempre de mi recelasteSobresalto de pesarAhora de aqui adelanteNo te cumple rezelar."
"O triste Reyna mi madre,Dios te quiera consolar,Que yà es quebrado el espejoEn que te solias mirar."Siempre de mi recelasteSobresalto de pesarAhora de aqui adelanteNo te cumple rezelar."
However, as we have said, he spoke not; for there was a faint sickness upon him, a deathlike sensation at his heart, which took away all power; and the first feelings that assailed him instantly cast him back into insensibility once more. How long he remained in this state, he, of course, could in no degree calculate; but when he at length opened his eyes again, he felt much better than he had been before, and could see around him, which had not been the case on the former occasion, when all had been dim and indistinct. It was night, and the place in which he was had the appearance of a fisherman's cottage; and stretched upon a rough but clean bed, he gazed round, and saw several anxious faces watching him by the light of a single candle.
All those faces but one were known to him, and they were those of honest John Hailes, the fisherman, his wife, and his eldest boy, who now, apparently recovered from the injury he had sustained, but pale and eager with anxiety, was holding a basin under Charles's arm, while the blood flowed into it from an incision just made by a gentleman in black, who was sitting by the bedside, and whom Charles Tyrrell naturally concluded to be a surgeon. The medical man immediately saw that consciousness had returned, and slightly moving the arm backward and forward, he caused the bleeding to proceed more freely, every drop that flowed giving his patient greater relief.
After a short time Charles found himself able to speak, and was about to ask some questions when the surgeon held up his finger, saying, "Perfect quietness, and you will soon be quite well! There is no bone broken, no injury to the scull, merely a severe cut and concussion. But you must be perfectly quiet; neither speak nor move, nor think, if it be possible, till to-morrow morning. I will stay with you all night, and not leave you till I am perfectly sure you are safe. Your father has been informed of what has occurred, as soon as these good people could send up to let him know. But their first care was, of course, most wisely to seek for medical advice, which rendered it late. You will soon be quite well, however, so keep your mind at ease."
His arm was then bandaged up, and, by the surgeon's direction, Hailes and his wife and children left the room in which the young gentleman was, and retired into an inner chamber, keeping everything as quiet as possible. The surgeon then resumed his seat by his patient's bedside, shaded the lamp, and applied himself to read, refraining from speaking even a word. Charles Tyrrell did not sleep for some time, however, and towards midnight the surgeon felt his pulse, and gave him something to drink, which seemed both to cool and tranquillize him: for in a few moments he fell asleep, and did not wake again till the sun was high up in the sky.
It may now be necessary to return for a time to the family at the Manor house, and without pausing upon all the minute events which varied the course of existence for Mrs. Effingham and her daughter during the first period of Charles's absence, we will come at once to the visit of Sir Francis Tyrrell to that lady on the day of his conversation with Mr. Driesen--a visit which we have already seen had no very tranquillizing effect upon his mind.
He at once spoke on the subject of his son's love for Lucy Effingham; but there were two motives which put a restraint upon Sir Francis, and which acting together were sufficient to prevent him from indulging in any violent outbreak of passion notwithstanding the excited state in which he had gone down to the manor. Neither of these reasons indeed would have been sufficient to act as a curb alone.
The first was a strong desire that Lucy should still become the wife of his son. It was a scheme of his own planning, a thing in regard to which he had so long made up his mind that he did not like to be foiled in it, even though he met with no opposition; for though he would sometimes contradict himself when he could find nobody else to do it, and work himself into anger with his own impediments, yet in his favourite schemes he was more wilful than capricious.
His second motive was a certain feeling of respect for Mrs. Effingham, of which he had never been able to divest himself. He might have often called her a foolish woman to others, might have spoken of her religious feelings as fanatical, and found fault with many of her actions; but there was something in her very calm placidity, in the constant presence of her reason and good sense in all that she did, which had its effect even upon Sir Francis Tyrrell. He knew that under no circumstances could he induce her to quarrel with him. He knew that nothing would produce a high word or an angry argument; and he felt that her cool and clear-seeing mind would in a moment cut through everything like sophistry, and take the sting out of everything like sarcasm. In all his dealings with her, then, he was calmer, cooler, and more placable than with any other person on earth, not even excepting Mr. Driesen; for with Mrs. Effingham, Sir Francis did not dare to venture any of those sarcastic speeches which very commonly took place between him and his friend.
On the present occasion, then, he acted with wonderful restraint, pressed Mrs. Effingham on the subject, indeed, so far that she could not avoid without insincerity informing him of all that had taken place. But still to her he expressed no disapprobation of the marriage itself. On his son's conduct, indeed, he launched forth most bitterly and vehemently--though not so bitterly and vehemently indeed to her as he would have done to any other person.
She suffered him to come to an end, and when he had done, merely replied, "I suppose, Sir Francis, the truth is, that you have indulged in a little violence to your son occasionally, and that he being of a quick and impetuous character himself, is anxious on all occasions to avoid coming into actual collision with you."
"You are charitable to him and me, dear lady," replied Sir Francis.
"No, indeed, Sir Francis," replied Mrs. Effingham, "I am only just. I have not, and shall not oppose Lucy's marriage with your son, if she be herself inclined to consent, because I think he has a number of good qualities and is a most honourable and upright young man; but I am not at all insensible to his defects, Sir Francis, and must acknowledge that had I chosen for my daughter, I should have chosen otherwise."
The little of opposition thus thrown in had a wonderful effect in deterring Sir Francis Tyrrell from saying one word that could increase it; and for fear he should do so, he took his leave and hastened away as speedily as possible. As he went, however, he lashed himself up into the more fury against his son from the restraint he had put upon himself, and the result of his proceedings on that day we have already seen.
In the meantime, Mrs. Effingham informed Lucy of all that had occurred, and the tidings certainly agitated her very much. But she was destined, ere two days passed, to be agitated still more. On the following day no one from the park appeared at the Manor house and Lucy passed the time in picturing to herself all sorts of unpleasant consequences to result from the opposition which she seemed to have pre-determined Sir Francis Tyrrell was to display in regard to her marriage with his son. Her mother had told her the simple truth, that Sir Francis had neither expressed his approbation nor disapprobation; and though Lucy's was a strong and hopeful heart, yet her feelings were too deeply interested not to have courted some fears and apprehensions even had such fears and apprehensions been unreasonable. Hope indeed revived, and put them out as evening came, and the next day she rose in the full expectation of some pleasant intelligence.
She would have gladly walked over to see Lady Tyrrell, but a sense of propriety prevented her from so doing, till something more had passed on a subject so near to her heart; and Mrs. Effingham had ordered her carriage to drive out in a different direction, when Lucy's maid, while assisting her to dress for the expedition, informed her that the London night coach had been upset that morning, and two or three of the passengers had been killed. Such tidings, horrible in themselves, had at that moment a greater effect upon Lucy Effingham's mind than they would have had at any other time. Her heart was unnerved, and rendered more susceptible of every painful impression. Her anxiety had reached that precise point where it does not give strength and energy, but weakens; and though she had not the slightest idea that Charles Tyrrell was likely to travel down to Harbury Park before three weeks had passed, yet the information struck her with new and sudden apprehensions which she could by no means banish.
Leaving her toilet half concluded, she ran to tell her mother what had occurred; but Mrs. Effingham did not seem to share in her fears; and toward evening, hearing nothing more upon the subject, she grew more tranquil.
Just as night was falling, however, the butler entered the room, and with the sad, but important face wherewith a servant generally communicates disagreeable intelligence, he began in the prescribed form: "I beg pardon, madam, but I am afraid there's a terrible accident happened."
"Do you mean in regard to the coach, Harris?" demanded his mistress. "We heard that in the morning."
"No, ma'am," replied the man, "I mean that, indeed; but I mean that about young Mr. Tyrrell, too."
Mrs. Effingham held up her hand to stop him, but it was too late.
"Let him go on, mamma. Let him go on," cried Lucy, "I have heard too much or too little. Speak, Harris, is he killed?" and she gazed on him fixedly, though with a face as pale as death, endeavouring to read on his countenance whether what he was about to say was the whole unvarnished truth.
The man who had known her from her infancy now guessed at once, both from her look and manner, and from that of Mrs. Effingham, how it went with her young heart, and he hastened to relieve her of at least part of the apprehension which he had cast upon her.
"Oh, no, Miss Effingham," he said, "Mr. Charles is not killed. Don't be afraid. He was hurt a good deal, and was taken into one of the fishermen's cottages, down on the shore, which was the nearest place they could find, though that was many miles off the park. But he is not killed, and they say there is no doubt he will recover. I am quite sure of the fact, for I happened to be at the gate just now, as one of the fishermen came by who was going up to carry the news to the park; and he stopped to tell me the whole story."
After some further questions and answers, the butler retired, and Lucy advanced at once to her mother with a look of beseeching anxiety. "Oh, mamma," she said, "let us go to him."
"Quite impossible, my dear Lucy," replied Mrs. Effingham. "Circumstanced as you are, quite impossible!"
"But dear mamma," replied Lucy, more earnestly than perhaps she had ever pressed a request before, "it is the very circumstances in which I stand toward him which should make me go. Unless he were to set me free," she added with a blushing countenance, "I shall ever look upon myself as pledged to be his wife. Who, who then should be with him if I am to be absent?"
"But you forget, Lucy," replied Mrs. Effingham, "his father! Sir Francis has in no manner expressed his approbation of your future marriage with his son; and I cannot consent to your going, unless Sir Francis himself were to wish it. We must bear even the suspense, Lucy, and the only thing that can be done, is for me to go up and see what I can do to comfort poor Lady Tyrrell. Console yourself as well as you can, my dear Lucy, till I return, and never lose your hope, and trust in Him whose right is our full faith and unmurmuring submission."
As soon as the carriage could be brought round, Mrs. Effingham fulfilled her intention. But on arriving at Harbury park, she found that Lady Tyrrell had been ill in bed for the last two days--a brain fever the doctor called it; and her delirium ran so high, that she did not recognise any one. While she was hesitating what to do, the voice of Sir Francis Tyrrell himself was heard, demanding eagerly if that was the carriage. The servant informed that it was not, but that it was Mrs. Effingham who had called to inquire after Lady Tyrrell.
The baronet was at the door of the carriage in a moment, and soon found that Mrs. Effingham was already acquainted with the event that had occurred. He was dreadfully agitated, but his agitation had always anger as a sort of safety-valve, and now a great part of it flew off in wrath. He was excessively angry that the coach had been overturned, and though he knew nothing of the matter, he vowed that it must have been entirely the coachman's stupidity and folly, and that the punishment of having been killed on the spot was only what he deserved.
He was equally angry with Charles Tyrrell for having been hurt, and here he was upon surer ground, for he proved to a demonstration, that if he had been in the inside of the coach where he ought to have been, he would not have suffered so severely. He was angry that the intelligence had not been conveyed to him sooner, though the coachman had been killed and the guard had his leg broke, and they were the only two persons about the vehicle, who knew his son's name and family.
His anger at his own servants, however, for not bringing up the carriage exceeded all, though Mr. Driesen who followed him out, intending to accompany him on his expedition, proved to him clearly that the order had not been given four minutes and a half.
"The best way, Sir Francis," said Mrs. Effingham as soon as she heard this fact, "will be for you and Mr. Driesen to come into my carriage; let me get out at the gate of the Manor house as you pass, and then go straight on yourselves."
Sir Francis accepted the proposal at once, for he was really anxious about his son, whom he loved as well as he could love anything on earth, and getting into Mrs. Effingham's carriage with Mr. Driesen, he thanked her a thousand times for the proposal, adding, "It would be too great a favour to ask of you to come on with us to the place where this poor boy is lying. You must not think me hardhearted, Mrs. Effingham; I am very sorry for him, and very anxious about him, indeed."
"I see you are, Sir Francis," replied Mrs. Effingham, "and am really sorry for you; but I fear I cannot go on with you to-night Sir Francis, for you must remember, that I have one at home requiring consolation also, and requiring it not a little I can assure you. Poor Lucy," she added, "she is terribly shocked, and wished to set off to see him at once; but of course I could not consent, Sir Francis."
"Why not, my dear madam? Why not?" demanded Sir Francis Tyrrell. "Why should not his promised wife go under the protection of her mother to see him, if she be inclined to do so?"
"She can never be his promised wife, Sir Francis," replied Mrs. Effingham, "without his father's full consent."
"Oh, that wis a matter of course," replied Sir Francis Tyrrell, who at that moment would have consented to almost anything. "You do not suppose, my dear madam, that I would ever oppose the union of Charles to a daughter of yours, and of my poor friend Effingham. It is the thing of all others I should most desire. I was only angry at his want of confidence."
"I could not tell your views, Sir Francis," replied Mrs. Effingham, "till you let me know them."
"I thought all that was fully understood," replied Sir Francis, though if he had looked into his own heart, he would have seen, that such had not been exactly the thoughts he had entertained: "pray," he added, "pray, Mrs. Effingham, do not refuse to take Lucy to see him, if it will, as I doubt not, be a comfort to either of them."
"Now I understand you, Sir Francis," replied Mrs. Effingham, "I shall certainly not hesitate any longer. I will not keep you now, however, for it would delay you some time, but I will go and make Lucy as happy as I can, with the intelligence which I have to bear her. There are the gates I think."
It will be remarked that Mr. Driesen, during all this conversation had not proffered a word, and neither Mrs. Effingham nor Sir Francis Tyrrell seemed to have regarded his presence in the least, looking upon him as an animal of that class, too independent to be ranked with the toad-eater; but which is known, I believe, by the name of a tame cat. Mr. Driesen's silence indeed proceeded from feelings at work in his own bosom, not from any respect for either of his companions, inasmuch as Mr. Driesen had no respect for any one: there being an utter vacancy in his brain exactly at that spot where we are told the organ of veneration ought to be discovered.
However, shortly after, the carriage stopped at the lodge of the Manor house, and Mrs. Effingham alighting, hastened to convey to Lucy, tidings that she knew would give her the greatest comfort, though they could not allay her fears for her lover. Lucy was indeed overjoyed at the tidings, and it was no proof of the contrary, that the first effect produced upon her by the news of Sir Francis Tyrrell's full and unconditional consent to her marriage with his son, was to cast her into a flood of tears. She could not be satisfied, however, without extorting from her mother, a promise to take advantage of the permission given, to visit Charles Tyrrell the next day, as early as possible, and Mrs. Effingham, who was the kindest and most indulgent of mothers, where no duty lay in the way, rose earlier than usual, and though still ill in health, put herself to many minor inconveniences, to gratify her daughter in what she conceived, a reasonable and natural wish.
The carriage was ordered to the door immediately after breakfast, although Sir Francis had sent a very favourable report of his son's health, after having seen the surgeon who attended him, and witnessed the tranquil sleep into which he had fallen, by the time that he and Mr. Driesen had arrived. Lucy's heart beat high and anxiously as they proceeded on their way, and certainly never did eight or nine short miles appear so long to travel, as those which lay between the Manor house and the fisherman's cottage.
Lucy Effingham and her mother were obliged to quit the vehicle some way before they arrived at the cottage, and to proceed on foot; and before they had arrived at the door, Lucy had wrought herself into such a state of anxious excitement that she was obliged to pause and take breath. Everything as they approached the house, however, bore a peaceful and a tranquil aspect.
It is wonderful how prone is the heart to draw its auguries even from slight causes. The sight of the children playing at the door, of a couple of fishermen sitting at the shady side of the house, mending their nets, and one of them whistling while he did so, were to Lucy Effingham, confirmation strong as proof of holy writ, that the tidings of Charles Tyrrell's improved health were not deceitful. The step of the two ladies upon the shingly shore made one of the fishermen look up. It was good John Hailes himself, and the moment his eye fell upon Lucy he recollected her at once, and advanced in his usual abrupt way to meet her, answering before it was put, the question which he knew was uppermost in her heart by saying, "He's a great deal better, ma'am. He'll do quite well, I'm sure."
Lucy made no reply, but eagerly advanced to the door, and laid her hand upon the latch, not observing that one of the fishermen made the other a sign to remark what she was about, and that both of them seemed somewhat embarrassed.
Yielding to nothing but her own feelings at the moment, Lucy opened the door and went in, and as she did so, somewhat indeed to her surprise, she beheld a very beautiful girl, dressed in a manner far different from that which might be expected in such a scene, retreating quickly into the inner chamber. At the same moment, the surgeon who was still sitting by the bedside of Charles Tyrrell held up his hand to her, as if to beg her to make no noise, and she perceived that her lover was still asleep.
No feeling like jealousy crossed Lucy's breast for a moment. She thought the appearance of the girl she had seen strange, indeed, and felt somewhat curious to know who she was; but nothing more, and her whole attention was turned, in a moment, to her lover, who, whether by the sudden opening of the door, and the coming in of the sunshine, or by some other cause, began to wake almost at the same moment that Lucy entered. Mrs. Effingham who had followed her close, however, and was more familiar with scenes of sickness and danger than herself, laid her hand upon her arm, and drew her gently back out of the cottage, saying in a low voice: "Let him wake up completely, Lucy, before he sees you; for if he feels for you, as I believe he does, it will agitate him a good deal."
Lucy obeyed at once, and remained for a short time, with her mother, conversing with the fishermen on the outside. From them they learned, that John Hailes and his companion had both been on the road at the time the accident happened, and had carried Charles down at once to the cottage, as the nearest place of shelter. He had remained perfectly insensible for many hours, and the two fishermen were proceeding to enter broadly into all the horrible details of the accident, when Mrs. Effingham put a stop to a narration, which she saw would agitate her daughter, by begging one of them to go in and ask the surgeon to speak with her. This was done immediately, and after a short pause, the medical man appeared.
From him, Mrs. Effingham and Lucy heard a still more favourable account of the invalid.
"I apprehend no danger whatever, madam," he said; "the young gentleman is evidently of a very strong and powerful constitution, which made me at first, indeed, more apprehensive of the consequences; but all the symptoms have now taken such a turn, that strength and vigour will only serve to restore him the more rapidly to health. The brain is now quite free, and nothing more is required than care, attention and tranquillity for a few days, in order to prevent all evil results."
In answer to a subsequent question of Mrs. Effingham's, the surgeon replied, that he could see no objection to herself and her daughter visiting his patient, when he was properly prepared. That he might be so, the surgeon then went in to tell him that they were waiting without, and in a few minutes Lucy was sitting by the bedside of Charles Tyrrell with her hand clasped in his.
We shall not pause to depict the joy that he felt at seeing her. We shall not dwell upon the gladness and rejoicing of his heart, that his father's full consent had been given to their marriage. That consent seemed to open his heart to new feelings, toward a parent, who had lost by his own fault, the first great tie, filial love, upon one full of every warm affection. He was unconscious that Sir Francis Tyrrell had come down to see him on the preceding night, and Mrs. Effingham, one of whose rules it was, to tell everything that might promote good and kindly feelings, and to be silent when she could not do so, painted the agitation and anxiety of Sir Francis Tyrrell in such terms, that for the first time in life, Charles Tyrrell really believed he was beloved by his father. His heart instantly beat warmly in return; but, alas! those feelings were soon destined to be drowned in others, dark and terrible, indeed.
On Lucy's visits to her lover, we shall dwell no more. They were repeated on the two following days, and on one of those, she again saw the same female figure retreat before her, which she had beheld on her first visit. Still Lucy was not jealous, for she was of a confiding nature. She could only love where she doubted not, and when she did love, her trust was not easily shaken.
On her third visit, Charles Tyrrell was rapidly recovering, up, and dressed, and sitting at the door of the cottage. The surgeon had given a sort of half consent to his going to Harbury park on the following day, and to say the truth, there was not the slightest reason, as far as his own health was concerned, why he should not have done so. Mrs. Effingham, however, held a moment's conversation with the surgeon apart, and that gentleman's opinion seemed to be considerably changed thereby. He felt Charles's pulse some time after they were gone, shook his head gravely, and expressed doubts as to the propriety of his attempting the journey.
Toward evening, when he returned again, after having been absent for some hours, he declared that he must not think of it; that there was a tendency to fever in his pulse, and various other signs and symptoms of not being so well, with which Charles's own sensations did not correspond in the least. He was persuaded, however, to submit, and it may scarcely be necessary to tell the reader, that the cause of all this was the health of Lady Tyrrell. The day on which Charles had first proposed to return, was the day on which the physicians had declared the crisis of her disease would take place, and on the following, day, Mrs. Effingham, who never shrunk from a painful task, and who undertook to tell Charles that his mother had been at the point of death, had the satisfaction of being enabled to add, that she was no longer considered in danger.
Still the news agitated Charles Tyrrell a great deal, and he now felt how ill he himself had been. He was only the more anxious, however, to return home as speedily as possible, and on the following day, he arrived at Harbury park, and took up his post by the sick bed of his mother. Lady Tyrrell recovered very slowly, Charles saw little of his father: and the day of his coming of age, which was the second after his return, passed without mark or rejoicing in a gloomy and melancholy house.