True love is an unselfish passion; or, at all events--if the painful doctrine of some philosophers be correct, and there be no affection of the human mind without its share of selfishness--true love partakes thereof as little or less than any other passion, and that share of selfishness which it does admit, is of the noblest and most refined kind. Yet we are inclined to believe that it is without selfishness; for we cannot understand such a thing as being selfish by proxy. It is, in fact, a contradiction in terms; and when we love another so well as to be willing, ready, desirous of sacrificing our convenience, our comfort, our safety, our happiness, ourselves for them, we may admit the doctrine, that it gives us greater satisfaction to do so than not, without admitting that we are selfish in so feeling.
It was about four o'clock in the morning, and Charles Tyrrell sat with Lucy under the shelter of a projecting piece of rock, halfway up the face of one of those cliffs which are common upon that coast, not very difficult of ascent or descent, though enormously high, and presenting perpendicular faces of rock in many parts. They are broken, at various parts, by green flat slopes, by occasional trees and bushes, and by steps or paths of sufficient breadth to enable two, if not three people, to walk abreast.
The road which Hailes was to have taken toward the little village, called Alcombe, passed up one of these paths, along the face of the cliff. He had followed it, more than once, in former years, and had imagined that he remembered it still; but such had not been the case; and, after going on for some time, the whole party found that they were decidedly astray.
Lucy, by this time, was exhausted and fatigued; and it was at length determined, that while she sat and rested herself, Hailes should go on, and endeavour to discover the right path. This was rendered the more necessary by the coming on of a thunder-storm, which had been threatening all night. The rain had only ceased for a time, to come down in greater torrents, and was now mingled with vivid flashes of lightning, illuminating the whole bay. The thunder, probably, would not have been very loud, but it was echoed, and re-echoed, by the cliffs and rocks around. While Charles Tyrrell, after having found a place in which some projecting shelves of rock afforded Lucy a shelter from the rain, sat beside her, and held her to his heart, striving to cheer her with all that hope or fancy could suggest to brighten the future, he thought not of himself, he thought not of the dangers of his own situation, he thought of her alone; of all the perils, and fatigues, and anxieties, to which she had exposed herself for his sake; for her he looked forward to the future with apprehension and anguish, and a thousand, and a thousand times, he cursed himself for having given way to the spirit which tempted him to ask her to accompany him.
Lucy spoke little, for her heart was very much depressed. She felt as if the cup were not yet fully drained, as if there were more bitter yet to be tasted, and her apprehensions for him she loved, trebled her apprehensions for herself. She would not express any such feelings to him, but she could not expel them from her own bosom, and they spread out a cloud of sadness over her, that the moment, the scene, and the circumstances in which they were placed, were not calculated at all to dispel.
Nearly an hour and a half passed without the return of Hailes, and the day began to break dull and heavy, with the rain still pouring down in torrents, and the lightning, from time to time, flashing across the sky. Both Lucy and Charles were beginning to wonder at the fisherman's absence, and to calculate what they should do if he did not return soon, when, at length, his foot was heard coming down toward them; but he unfortunately brought them no good news.
"It is the oddest thing in the world," he said; "I can neither find Alcombe, nor any one to tell me the way, and I think I must go back to the place where we landed, in order to find my road rightly. I saw a little church on the top of the hill, some way off, but that is not it, for it lies down in the bottom of the punch-bowl, like."
"But if there is a church," said Charles Tyrrell, "there must be houses near it, and we had better go on there, at all events, for Miss Effingham is in absolute need of some repose. After she has rested herself there for two or three hours, we can go on to the other place, Wrexton, which the Captain mentioned, and, perhaps, can find some conveyance."
This was, accordingly, agreed upon; and, after waiting a little, to suffer the rain to decrease, which Hailes predicted it would do before long, they took their way up to the top of the cliffs, and crossed the downs by which those cliffs were surmounted, toward a small church, which was now clearly to be seen at a little distance before them.
When they were not half a mile from it, their satisfaction was greatly increased, by seeing a group of people near the church-door, and several coming in and going out; but before they reached it the whole had disappeared, taking their way, apparently, down the cliffs toward the seaside. It was still raining, though not so hard as before; the ground was wet and soft, and Lucy appeared chilly and unwell, although the atmosphere was still warm and sultry; but, alas! no houses were to be seen near the church, which was one of those buildings not uncommon on the coast of England, that served both as a landmark to those at sea, and a place of worship to those on land.
"Let us go into the church, at all events, Lucy, if we find it open," said Charles. "You can rest yourself there in safety, while I and Hailes seek for some better place of shelter for you."
Lucy consented; for, to say the truth, she was too much fatigued to proceed any farther; and, on approaching the church, they saw that the door was half open. Charles unclosed it entirely, and led her in.
But the first sight that presented itself made them both draw hack. In the middle of the aisle two or three low benches had been put, side to side, so as to form a little sort of platform, over which was thrown a large table-cloth, brought from the vestry; but underneath that cloth was something stretched upon the benches, the outline of which was seen through the table-cloth, leaving no earthly doubt that it covered a dead body. Charles and Lucy, as we have said, both paused; but Hailes walked on, saying, merely, as he passed them; "It's some poor fellow who has been drowned last night in the storm. They always bring 'em to the churches, in this country, and put them down just so. I should not wonder if it were one of the men out of that cursed cutter; for she's struck on the reef, I'm very sure."
So saying, he walked to the benches and pulled back the table-cloth from the dead man's face. Lucy turned away her head with a shudder, but she was suddenly startled by hearing a loud exclamation, almost amounting to a shout, from the fisherman, and by feeling Charles Tyrrell suddenly dart forward from her side, as if something very extraordinary had occurred. She too raised her eyes, and saw her lover standing beside the little platform, with Hailes grasping him tight by the arm, and pointing, with a face as pale as death, to the countenance of the dead man before them. Charles Tyrrell too was very pale, and, notwithstanding the horror of the sight they were looking upon, she ran forward to his side, exclaiming:--
"What is the matter, Charles? For Heaven's sake, what is the matter?" but as her eyes also fell upon the face of the corpse, the words died away upon her lips, and she clung trembling to the arm of her lover; for there before them, stretched out in death, lay the form of one they had supposed to be dead many days before. It was that of Lieutenant Hargrave, calm, still, and ashy. The part of the body which Hailes had uncovered, displayed no clothing but a sailor's check shirt; but the countenance was not to be mistaken, and not a little was the agitation of the poor fisherman as he gazed upon the corpse, scarcely able to persuade himself that what he beheld was real.
No one spoke for several minutes, till at length Hailes put forth his hand, and touched the body with his finger; and then, as if Sir Charles Tyrrell had been affected by the same fancies as himself, he turned round, and said in a low voice:--
"It is flesh and blood, nevertheless."
"Certainly," replied Charles Tyrrell; "it is very extraordinary, there can be no doubt."
"Well, hang me!" replied Hailes, "if I did not think it was his ghost, when he came down after us to the boat, that night."
"Was it he who came down to the boat?" demanded Charles Tyrrell; "would to God I had known that!"
"He!" exclaimed Hailes, "to be sure it was he. Who else should it be? I thought it was his ghost, and expected to see it coming along the water after us."
"This is a horrible sight for you, dear Lucy," said Charles, turning toward her; "but, at all events, we draw comfort from this sad sight. My innocence of anything that has been laid to my charge, may now be easily proved, at least, so far as an explanation of where I was, during the whole period of my absence from home, and how the blood came upon my hands and coat, was wanting to the establishment of my innocence before.[2]But come, dear Lucy," he continued, "this is not a place in which you can remain; there must be some cottage in the neighbourhood, where you can rest for a short time."
"I should think, sir," said Hailes, "that there must be fishermen's houses hereabout; for this church, you see, tops the cliff, and when one gets it in a line with the point of the nose, one knows that the Hog's-back reef lies south and by east."
Without waiting to hear any farther account of the bearings of the coast, Charles Tyrrell led Lucy out of the church; but almost at the moment that they passed the door, they perceived a group of people approaching from the side of the cliff, bearing up, apparently, another dead body from below. There was at the head of them an old gentleman, dressed in black, with white hair, and a mild and amiable expression of countenance, about whose whole appearance there was something that indicated strongly the pastor of the parish. His face at the moment was full of solemn feeling, and, from time to time, he turned round to address a word or two to the sailors and fishermen, who were carrying the body.
Behind that group, at a little distance, came a young gentleman in the undress of the naval service; but the moment his eyes fell upon Charles Tyrrell, he hastened up to the group which had gone on before him, and had passed it by a step or two, before they reached the church. The young baronet instantly recognised him as the lieutenant commanding the cutter, with whom he had been brought in contact several times before. From what had passed between himself and the master of the schooner on the preceding night, he felt sure that the meeting between them was likely to produce painful results, and he nerved his mind for the worst.
"Dear Lucy," he said rapidly, and in a low voice, "I am afraid we must not attempt to pursue our flight farther; but do not be alarmed, dear girl; remember I have it now, I trust, in my power to prove myself innocent beyond all doubt."
Before she could answer him, the young officer had approached, and walking straight up to Charles Tyrrell, he bowed with a courteous and gentlemanly air, saying:--
"I must not say that I am glad to see you, Sir Charles Tyrrell, for I am afraid that a very painful duty must devolve upon me in consequence."
Charles returned his bow, and replied gravely:--
"Not so painful to me, sir, perhaps, as you imagine; for a very extraordinary circumstance has just taken place, which greatly alters the complexion of my affairs."
"Anything which renders them better, sir," replied the officer, "of course, must be satisfactory to me. I need not tell you, Sir Charles, that, from all I know of you, I feel perfectly certain that you are innocent of that which is laid to your charge, but, at the same time, it becomes my duty, on recognising you, to carry you back to the place from which you have made your escape."
Lucy looked up with anguish in Charles Tyrrell's countenance, saying:--
"Oh, Charles, Charles, is it to end in this?"
"Do not be alarmed, dear Lucy," he said; "remember in how much better a situation I am now placed, than when we came away; but I must endeavour, as far as possible, to obtain for you, protection, comfort, and assistance, till we meet again."
"Oh, let me go with you," exclaimed Lucy; "do not, do not part with me, Charles; I must not, I cannot be separated from you now!"
"Dearest Lucy," he said, "it will but be for a short time. You are already too much fatigued; you are wet, you are ill, you are unable to bear a long journey under such circumstances."
By this time the clergyman had paused, and was looking on at what took place with some degree of interest, and two or three of the sailors and fishermen had gathered round, while the rest carried the body into the church.
"Will you allow me to ask you one question, sir?" said Charles, turning to the officer. "Am I, or am I not right, in supposing that I have just now seen in that church, the body of Lieutenant Hargrave?"
"It is but too true, sir," replied the officer. "He would come off in the boat last night, when we were unfortunate enough to get upon the reef; and, as I told him, would be the case, he was drowned; the only chance was staying by the ship till the wind went down. The first thing we saw this morning, when we got off ourselves, was his body, lying among the rocks, with that of one of the poor fellows who went with him. The other we have not found yet."
"Then I am to understand you," said Charles Tyrrell, "that he was safe and well on board your ship last night."
"Quite so," replied the lieutenant, with some expression of surprise, at questions, the tendency of which he did not understand.
"But had he not been ill to your knowledge?" demanded Charles Tyrrell.
"Oh yes," replied the lieutenant; "three or four days before, he had been very ill, up at a cottage, close by your park; and he had a spitting of blood, for which he thought the sea would do him good. So when he gave us information of the sailing of the schooner, he insisted upon coming with me; though, to say the truth, I wished him not.
"I will show you in a moment, why I ask," continued Charles Tyrrell. "But, in the meantime, I should wish to speak, for an instant, to this reverend gentleman here present; and I should think that you know sufficient of me, to trust to my word, when I assure you that I will not make the slightest attempt to escape. But, as soon as I have made arrangements for the comfort and protection of this young lady, will return, and go with you wherever you please. Do you trust me?"
"Most implicitly," replied the young officer, bowing. "You are not a man, sir, I know, to break your word," and, calling the sailors away, he turned toward the church, and left Charles and Lucy standing with the clergyman only.
"What can I do for you, my good sir?" said the clergyman, mildly; "from what I have heard, I am led to suppose that I speak to Sir Charles Tyrrell, whose name has, unfortunately, become too familiar to us lately."
"Unfortunately, indeed, sir," replied Charles Tyrrell. "But luckily a turn has taken place in these affairs, which will soon clear that name from every imputation. The simple facts are these, sir. I was accused, under circumstances of strong suspicion, of an awful and horrible crime, of which I was perfectly innocent. There were two circumstances, which seemed perfectly confirmatory of the accusation, and in regard to which I was prevented from giving any explanation, by the fear of involving others in still more dangerous affairs, than that in which I was myself placed. The sight, however, which I have had in this church, of the dead body of Lieutenant Hargrave, altogether removes the obstacles which prevented me from proving my innocence, and I willingly go back to take my trial. In the meantime, however, this young lady requires protection, repose, and consolation."
"Who is the young lady, sir?" demanded the clergyman. "I hope, nay, I am sure you would not----"
"Hush, sir," said Charles. "Pray utter not a word that can even imply a doubt or a suspicion. This young lady, before my father's death, was engaged to me by the consent of all parties; and when, seeing no prospect of clearing myself of a crime which had never entered my thoughts, I made my escape from prison, she nobly and generously agreed to accompany me in my flight. Our marriage was to take place as soon as we reached a place of safety; and, to facilitate our union as far as possible, her mother, ere she went, gave her full consent, in writing, to our immediate marriage. Is it not so, my Lucy?"
Lucy had clung to him with her heart sinking with apprehension and anxiety, and her face covered with blushes; and the old clergyman, without increasing her emotion by gazing upon, had marked her changing countenance, and its pure, high expression, from time to time, while her lover spoke, explaining all the circumstances of their situation.
"I need no farther confirmation," said the good old man, at length, "I need no farther confirmation than the lady's face. Come, my child," he added, putting his hand gently on her arm, "be comforted. I trust that all will yet go right, and you see that this gentleman himself now thinks that he can easily clear himself. Be comforted; be comforted!" he continued, seeing that his kind tone had moved her to tears; "all will go right, depend upon it; and now tell me what I can do for you?"
"You are very kind, sir," replied Lucy, "but if it were possible, I would much rather go back with him at once."
"Indeed, dear Lucy, you are not fit," said Charles; "you are worn out, exhausted, chilled, and it would kill you. What I seek for her, sir, is a place of repose, quiet, and protection, till she is able to return to her mother, Mrs. Effingham."
"Indeed, young lady, Sir Charles is right," said the clergyman; "the urgency of the case, and circumstances of which I am not aware, may have rendered it quite right for your mother to consent to your accompanying him without servant or companion."
"Pardon me," said Charles, "Miss Effingham's maid is now in the schooner, from which we landed last night; but she was too ill to land at that time; and, as our object was only to escape the search which was likely to be made, we left her willingly enough, onboard; as, indeed, she has been of no service, but only an incumbrance to us.
"I am glad, however," said the old man, "that she is there. It will be much better, my poor young friend, that Miss Effingham should remain here for a day or two, than accompany you back; going, as you must do, I fear, a prisoner. I have a sister living with me, who has suffered some sorrows herself, and can feel for others. I may promise for her that she will be as a mother to this young lady, till we give her back into the care of her own mother: or perhaps," he added, with a faint smile, "to her husband. However, it will be much better for her to remain; and what we can do to comfort her we will."
"I am sure of it," said Charles, "I am sure of it. Can we not conduct her to some place of repose at once?"
"My poor vicarage is not far off," replied the clergyman, "but I think you said to the officer of the cutter, that you would join him in the church. Let me guide the young lady down to my house, and provide for her comfort, while you go and speak to him."
"But you will not leave me, Charles!" said Lucy, clinging to him. "You will not let them take you away without seeing me again."
"Certainly not, dear Lucy," he replied, "do not be alarmed, dearest; I will see you again immediately; and remember, my beloved, when I do go, I go but to establish my innocence, and to come back, free and happy, to claim my Lucy as my own."
"I believe I am very foolish," replied Lucy, taking the arm the old clergyman offered her, "but all that I have gone through seems to have weakened my mind as well as my body. I trust to your promise, however, Charles; I know you would not deceive me."
"Not by a thought, dear Lucy," he replied; and bidding her a temporary adieu, he turned to the church, where he found the lieutenant standing, with the sailors and fishermen, at the end of the aisle, near the door.
"You mentioned, Sir Charles," said the young officer, as soon as he saw him, "that there was something which you wished to point out to me in regard to poor Hargrave; and I have, therefore, not suffered the body to be touched till you arrived."
"I will show you in a moment," replied Charles Tyrrell, advancing to the place where the body lay; "but I wish every one to witness, and to take note, exactly, of what they see, as the state of this body may be of much importance hereafter. The lieutenant beckoned up the men, and Charles Tyrrell untied the black silk handkerchief that was round the dead man's neck, and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt, throwing it far back. The moment that he did so a small wound was perceived, just above the collar-bone. It could scarcely be said to be in the neck, and lay not half a finger's breadth from the windpipe. The whole flesh and skin around was discoloured, as if from a severe bruise, and there were marks of dressings and surgical applications, which had, probably, been washed away by the sea-water. But little, if any, inflammation appeared to have followed the wound, and in every other respect the appearance of the dead man was healthy and vigorous.
"That is very odd, indeed," said the lieutenant, after having gazed for a minute. "He never said anything to me, upon the subject; but he seems to have had a gunshot in the throat, which must have gone very near to kill him."
"A pistolshot, not a gunshot," replied Charles Tyrrell; "and every one who was present thought that it had killed him; for he lay before my eyes as like a dead man as he now lies there."
"It is very odd, indeed," said the young officer; "but yet I don't quite understand how this should have prevented you, Sir Charles, from explaining where you were, and what you were doing, which I saw, by the newspapers, you would not do. I could have proved that he gave you provocation enough if you had shot him twenty times over."
"I had no hand in shooting him," replied Charles Tyrrell; "but I happened to be accidentally present when it was done, and I would not mention the fact, because I was afraid that it might draw down destruction upon the head of several persons who were engaged in the business; and nothing, should have induced me to say one word upon the subject, if we had not now proof positive that he was alive and well long after the event."
"Was it done fairly?" asked the lieutenant, laconically.
"As fairly as such a thing can be done," replied Charles Tyrrell. "He had the first shot, and he was at a considerable distance from his antagonist. How far, exactly, I cannot say; for I did not choose to be present, and was going off the ground as fast as possible, when the shots were fired."
"This is all very strange," continued the lieutenant; "if it were all fair, why should you mind!"
"I will tell you why, in a moment," replied Charles; "because, in regard to that practice of duelling, our English law is either iniquitous itself, or iniquitous in its administration--perhaps both But, at all events, put it to yourself.--Suppose a man, considered by the forms of society in an inferior station, were to receive from an officer in the service of the king, either in his own person, or in the person of his child, a gross insult and a bitter injury, and were to call that man to account, as you or I should do----"
"Why, a thousand chances to one," said the officer, "the man who had been blackguard enough to give the offence, would be blackguard enough to refuse the satisfaction?"
"True," replied Charles Tyrrell; "but suppose that they met in such a situation that the satisfaction could not be well refused; that the person, considered as the inferior, were to put pistols into the hands of the superior, and insist upon that atonement which could not be denied if they had been considered as equals: supposing that, under these circumstances, they fought what is termed a duel, and the officer in the king's service was killed, only one witness being present, and that a person coming willingly with the inferior, what would be the result then?"
"Why, I am very much afraid," said the young officer, "that the poor fellow would be hanged."
"But, if we add to all this," said Charles Tyrrell, "that, besides the insult and the injury which I have before spoken of, the king's officer was supposed to have laid an information against the man who shot him and the witness brought to the ground, for any offence you like to imagine, so that revenge might be attributed to the inferior as the cause of his conduct: suppose that a fourth person had accidentally been present, and, although fully convinced that the inferior had but one motive, namely, to punish an aggravated and shameful insult, had warned him that he was committing an illegal act, which would be construed into murder, what would be the consequence to the inferior, if the facts were discovered? What ought to be the conduct of the witness, accidentally present, if fully convinced of the honesty, uprightness, and high motives of the survivor?"
"I take you, sir, I take you," replied the young officer. "I understand it all; I see how it is; but, for that matter Hargrave had no right to refuse to fight Captain Longly. A man who stands upon such nice distinctions, is either a coward, or no gentleman. I should not mind fighting Captain Longly myself, for that matter; and Hargrave certainly did behave very badly to Miss Longly, even from his own account."
"Remember," said Charles Tyrrell; "remember, I have named no names. The case, as I have put it, regarding the unwilling witness, is entirely my own; but before I even now mention the names of the other persons, I must speak with my lawyer, and ascertain that there is no danger to them. In the meantime, however, I wish most earnestly, that if you have time, you would take measures to put precisely upon record the state in which this body has been found, and all the facts concerning the last days of this unhappy young man."
"That I will; that I will," replied the lieutenant; "I shall have plenty of time, unfortunately, for you see I must stay to see if anything can be saved from the vessel when the tide goes down. Then, of course, I must go to town, to demand a court-martial, though I don't think they can say I did wrong. She was carrying on as gallantly as possible, and I had plenty of room, when, you see, the mast came by the board, and before anything could be done we were on the reef. The best thing to be done in this business, is to send for a surgeon, and have the body properly examined. But, on my soul, I do not know what to do with you, Sir Charles. I think you have acted a most honourable and upright part, and yet, I suppose what I ought to do is to send for an officer to go back with you to prison. I cannot, and I ought not, to let you get off, you know."
Charles Tyrrell smiled at the young officer's embarrassment, but he hastened to relieve him, by saying:--
"Make yourself not the least uneasy, on that account. I have not the slightest desire to get off, I can assure you. My only view and object is, at present, to go back, as fast as possible, myself, and to get the trial over, and my own character cleared, as I now can do, without a moment's delay. As long as I believed that this young man had been killed, and that my only means of exculpation, if I used it, would be employed to the destruction of others, I was anxious, as you may easily suppose, to escape to another country, till such time as it was possible for me to prove my own innocence without the destruction of two honest men. Now, however, the establishment of my own character, is my first object; and I give you my word, that if you were not here, or had not recognised me, I would go back, and surrender myself at once."
"Well, then," replied the lieutenant, "I think that is the best thing that you can do now. Of course it will be much more pleasant for you to go back alone, than in custody. The assizes have begun, I believe, and if you'll pledge me your word of honour, that you will surrender to take your trial, as people do in duels, and things of that kind, I shan't say anything more of the matter, unless you call me as a witness."
"Which, of course, I shall do," replied Charles Tyrrell; "but most willingly, and most thankfully, do I pledge you my word of honour; for you may easily conceive that the custody of a constable, or the confinement of a prison, can afford but too little consolation, under circumstances already too painful."
We must now return, with the reader's good leave, to the spot from which we first set out, and to an individual whom we have not spoken of for some time--the desolate mansion of Harbury Park, and the unprincipled, but not altogether heartless friend of its last proprietor.
The sad and awful funeral of Sir Frances Tyrrell took place while his son was still a prisoner within the walls of the county jail, accused, upon strong presumptive evidence, of the murder of his own father. As Sir Francis had no near relation living but his son, Mr. Driesen acted the part of chief mourner. An immense number of the country gentlemen, from the neighbouring parts of the different counties, however, attended; and, as was very customary, in those times, a large body of the tenantry of the deceased.
A peculiar and painful feeling, totally independent and distinct from the general sensation of awe which is experienced by all men of feeling, in committing to the dust the remains of one of our frail brethren of earth, pervaded the whole assembly. It approached the bounds of superstition, and derived intensity and grandeur from the very indistinctness which no one present would suffer his thoughts or his reason to fathom and remove. There seemed to be a fate about the family to which the dead man belonged--a sort of dark and painful destiny, which produced in all minds a gloomy, and, if we may so term it, an anxious feeling. That feeling was expressed in a few words, by an old and wealthy farmer, who could well-nigh remember three generations in that house, when, on arriving to attend the funeral, he met a neighbour of nearly the same age as himself.
"Ay," he said, "ay, another of these Tyrrells gone down to a bloody grave!"
Such was the feeling of every one there present. It was, that the fate which dogged the family, had taken another victim; that it was only the working out of some dark, unseen combination of causes, which ever had, and ever would produce horrible catastrophes in the devoted race.
When the funeral was over, and the coffin deposited in the vault, the principal gentry returned to the house to be present at the opening of the will. The farmers in general separated at the door of the churchyard; but the two old yeomen whom we have mentioned, remained, conversing over the event, while an aged man, whom we have already once before brought to the notice of the reader, named Smithson, sat, on a tombstone hard by, listening to their discourse.
"Ay," said one of the farmers, "there is but one of them left now. They seldom go beyond one."
"There won't be one long either, I think," replied the other farmer. "The father is gone, and the son won't be long before he follows, and then none will be left."
"He's a promising lad, too," said the other farmer, "and seems as if he had got some fresh blood in his veins; for he's frank and free, and though somewhat quick, is good-humoured, too. It's a pity he should be lost, he might have mended the matter. But do you think they'll really hang him, Master Jobson!"
"As sure as I'm alive," replied the other farmer, "there's no hope else."
"They sha'n't!" muttered a voice close by them, but the farmers, without noticing, went on.
"There can be no doubt you see that he killed him," continued the yeoman who had last spoke. "That he didn't," said the same voice.
"What are you sitting cockering there about old Smithson?" said the other farmer, attracted by the noise, though to say the truth, he was himself full ten years older than the fisherman whom he addressed. "Come away, Master Jobson, the old fool's half crazy, I believe;" and so saying, they walked away to their horses, which were tied at the churchyard gate, and proceeded on their road homeward.
We shall not follow them, but turn at once to the library at Harbury Park, where some forty people were assembled, comprising the lawyers of the late Sir Francis Tyrrell, who had come down from London, for the purpose of aiding in the examination of the deceased gentleman's papers. Lady Raymond had declined to be present; but had deputed, upon her part, the young lawyer, Everard Morrison, to witness the opening of the will; a proceeding which was declared very extraordinary by several persons, as it was well known that she had not seen the young lawyer for years, and had only known him as a schoolboy companion of her son. The first place that was opened was a strong iron chest, which stood under one of the bookcases in the library. Nothing, however, was found in it, but a considerable sum of money, some keys, some cases, and the title-deeds of a small farm which Sir Francis had lately bought. "As far as I remember," said the eldest of the two lawyers, "when I drew the will of the late Sir Francis Tyrrell, in the year of our Lord, one thousand seven hundred and ---- he put it, with a number of other valuable papers, into one of the drawers of this library table. Butler, where is the key, do you know?"
"He generally put the key in the strong box, Sir," replied the butler. "It's a patent key, and I think this is it; but I'm not quite sure."
"If it be in the strong box, and be a patent key," said the lawyer, "that must be the key; for in the box there is no other patent key."
With this sage and logical exposition the lawyer took forth the key, and tried it in the drawers of the library table. It fitted exactly. But as nothing which one seeks was ever yet found in the first drawer one opens, the drawer which the lawyer tried was found empty. The second, however, afforded a rich harvest; for in it were found more than a dozen papers, of different kinds; the one at the top was endorsed in the hand of Sir Francis Tyrrell himself,--"Codicil to my last will and testament." Two or three of minor interest intervened, and then came another "codicil to my last will and testament;" and immediately beneath the last will and testament itself.
As few of those persons present expected to derive any benefit from the will of Sir Francis Tyrrell, the passion which was principally stirred among them was curiosity. Mr. Driesen, however, felt a little anxious, as we may well believe, when he found that there were two codicils to the will, when he had imagined that there was only one. His anxiety was soon relieved, however; for though the lawyer spent as much time as possible in reading the first will and the first codicil, yet, as the will only went to bequeath a few legacies, leaving the whole bulk of his property to go to the natural heirs, and the first codicil merely referred to the disposal of a sum amounting to one hundred and ten pounds, thirteen shillings. They were neither of them very lengthy.
When the second codicil was read, it was found to be dated a few days before the death of the deceased, and conveyed to Mr. Driesen everything of every description which could be separated from the entailed estates.
The reading of this codicil produced upon the minds of the great bulk of the hearers a twofold effect; the first was wonderful--the second, miraculous. In the first place, there was not a single individual in the room who did not feel perfectly convinced that he had divined, years before, that Mr. Driesen would ultimately be the heir of all that Sir Francis could leave him. They had seen it--they had known it--they had been sure of it. The second effect was, that, in the estimation of forty honest and independent men, by the reading of less than forty cabalistic lines, written on a sheet of bath paper, and called a codicil, Mr. Driesen was in one moment transformed, transmuted, and metamorphosed, from an unprincipled vagabond and a sneering infidel, into a highly respectable, worthy, and well-meaning man.
In the meantime, however, the subject of this wonderful transformation, though not thinking at all of those who surrounded him, was conscious of a sudden and extraordinary change in himself, but of a very different kind from that which was going on in his favour in the estimation of others. He, who, through life, had scoffed at everything like the display of feeling or sentiment--he, who had considered a tear as a proof of weakness, and agitation, under any circumstances, as a minor kind of idiocy, was now moved to the very heart, and agitated beyond all restraint. He trembled while the codicil was reading; his countenance became pale, and when one of the persons present, who was slightly acquainted with him, came up to shake hands with him, and congratulate him on the vast accession of fortune which had fallen to him, he struggled in vain for a reply, and ended by bursting into tears.
"It is too much," he said, "it is too much," and without waiting for any more, he turned away abruptly, sought his own room, and shut himself up there for several hours.
When he came forth he had recovered his composure. He conferred with the lawyers, and sent them off to London, charged with his especial business. He wrote several letters in great haste; and he then sent to request permission to wait upon Lady Tyrrell. This, however, she declined, saying she was unfit to receive anybody; but begging that he would make any communication which he thought of importance, by letter. He immediately sat down, and wrote to her the following note, which must not be omitted in tracing the character of one whom we have had to speak of somewhat unfavorably. It was to the following effect:--
"Dear Madan,
"Mr. Morrison has doubtless communicated to you the nature of the will, and codicils thereunto attached, which have been read this day, and I cannot help concluding that that communication must have been extremely disagreeable and painful to you, well knowing, both that I do not stand so high in your esteem as I did in that of your late husband, and that I had no title whatsoever to expect the generosity which he has displayed toward me.
"To alleviate, as far as possible, the pain which you may feel on account of the loss sustained by your son, in consequence of this will, I beg to inform you, that I have immediately made my own will, leaving to Charles, who, I trust, and feel sure, will be able to clear himself before many days are over, the whole of the property left to me by his father, together with the little patrimony which I myself possess.
"I have only farther to add, that I am,
"Dear Madam,
"Your faithful servant,
"H. Driesen."
Lady Tyrrell returned a polite but brief answer, written in a hand, which betrayed, in every line, the deep and terrible emotions under which she had been lately suffering. Mr. Driesen deciphered it with difficulty, but he found that it contained a request, that he would remain at Harbury Park till the fate of its heir was decided, and take charge and cognizance of everything, as it was Lady Tyrrell's intention, as soon as she could quit her room, to go to stay with Mrs. Effingham, at the Manor House.
Mr. Driesen agreed to remain, though he had notified his intention of leaving the Park on the following day; and, left alone, and in comparative idleness, he bestirred himself, with active zeal, to discover any circumstances, which might tend to throw a favourable light upon the case of Charles Tyrrell. His conduct, in this respect, and, indeed, his demeanour altogether, since the death of Sir Francis Tyrrell, had an extraordinary effect in his favour with the old servants of the house, who had previously looked upon him with a degree of dislike, bordering on contempt. They had regarded him, indeed, as assort of intrusive hanger-on, who came alone for what he could get; who looked upon Sir Francis Tyrrell's house as a very convenient abode, and who cared for none of the family in reality, but only regarded his own person. Little acts, of what they calledshabbiness, were frequently told of him, among themselves, and not many days before the event occurred which changed the whole face of affairs at Harbury Park, one of the footmen, having used the letter which came by the post as a sort of telescope, before he delivered it to Mr. Driesen, declared, while he rubbed his hands with satisfaction, that they should soon be delivered from the old snarler, as there was a man in London threatening to arrest him.
Now, however, all feelings were changed, for servants are much more acute observers than those who are acting before their eyes know. They now saw the active energy with which Mr. Driesen was labouring to collect evidence in favour of Charles Tyrrell; they saw that his whole mind was bent upon that object during the day, and they judged, and judged rightly, that he had no small regard for the young baronet, and no slight anxiety for the result of the trial. At night, too, they remarked, when he sat down to dinner, or rang for his solitary coffee, that there was a deep gloom and sadness upon a countenance, which had never before changed from its usual calm self-satisfaction, except to assume a smile, more or less, blended with sarcasm. They saw him stand long before the full-length picture of Sir Francis Tyrrell, over the drawing-room mantel-piece, and gaze upon it earnestly; and they once more judged, and judged rightly, that, however strangely he might occasionally show his feelings, and however much he might school them all away, he was naturally a man of some strong affections.
Mr. Driesen, therefore, suddenly found himself served with respect and zeal; the servants came for his orders, and ventured to talk to him of "poor Master Charles," and of what could be done for him; but Mr. Driesen mistook the motive, and thought that it was the change of circumstances which produced this alteration, not a change in the estimation of his own character. On the evening of the funeral, Mr. Driesen endeavoured to read as he was wont to do. No ordinary book would suit him however; Machiavelli had no charms; Voltaire could not engage his attention; in forcing himself to read a few pages of the Philosophical Dictionary, he felt like an eagle chasing a butterfly--he felt how vain it all is--he felt, in short, how empty and insufficient are the subtilest reasonings of the human mind, when brought in opposition with the mighty feelings of the human heart--he felt that there is a deeper, a stronger, a more majestic philosophy planted ineradically in our bosoms by the hand of God, on which the philosophy, that can clothe itself in words, acts as iron on the diamond. He then tried Bayle and Hobbes--but the one was dust, and the other was ashes.
His last attempt was upon a manuscript book, in which he had collected passages from Plato, and scraps attributed to Epicurus, and many another choice extract, comprising all the most questionable doctrines of Pagan speculators. Neither would that suit him at the moment. He felt that his mental stomach was not of its usual ostrich tone, and that he could not bolt cast-iron.
As the last resource, he took up his hat and walked out into the park, sauntering in the moonlight over the open lawns, but avoiding the deeper walks in the woods, which in their gloomy shade assimilated more than he desired with the tone of his feelings at that time. The following night the same mood continued, only he maintained the struggle with his books a shorter time, and going out between nine and ten, walked for more than an hour and a half up and down the lady-walk, with his thoughts indeed not in the same state of turmoil and confusion, with all that had occurred during the last week, as they had been on the preceding night; but still sad, gloomy, and disturbed. Many was the sigh to which he gave way--many was the little gesture of despondency, or impatience of God's will, which he suffered to appear, little knowing that during a part of the time at least, another eye was upon him, as we have shown before.
It was late when he returned to the house, and the servant who came to give him admittance, exclaimed with a joyful look as he entered, "Oh, sir, do you know what has happened; Master Charles has escaped from prison!"
Mr. Driesen started and gazed in the man's countenance, demanding, in a low tone, "Is he here?"
"Oh! no sir!" answered the servant, "but a constable has been up from the governor of the prison, who is searching Mrs. Effingham's. He said the governor would not come up himself, for he did not think my young master would come here; and the man saw clearly enough that we had not seen him by our faces. He said, however, he had orders to hang about the park, and see whether he came there."
"Send one of the gamekeepers to take him as a poacher, directly," said Mr. Driesen. "Bid Wise go: he is deaf, and will not attend to what the man says. The object is, to get him out of the way for two or three hours."
The servant seemed to understand in a moment, the gamekeepers were sent out, the unfortunate constable seized, upon the pretence that he was poaching, and spent several hours in durance, till Mr. Driesen thought that he might in safety be set at liberty.
We are already aware, however, that Charles Tyrrell met with no interruption in effecting his flight, and we shall therefore pause no longer upon the indignation of the constable, or upon the anger of the governor of the prison. Mr. Driesen, for his part, appeared highly delighted that the escape had taken place, and walked up and down the room the greater part of the night, in a state of agitation unusual with him.
On the following morning, however, he relapsed into gloom and sadness, and so strange was the effect produced upon him by the agitation of mind, to which he was so little accustomed, that his corporeal health seemed to suffer. It was in vain that the cook employed her utmost skill; he seemed to loathe his food, and could scarcely prevail upon himself to eat above two or three mouthfuls at a time. His taste indeed for wine was not gone, and he drank willingly and much of the choicest produce of Sir Francis Tyrrell's cellar. It seemed, however, to heat without exhilarating him. He had always been meager, but he now became thinner than ever. He learned to stoop a good deal, and his footsteps were remarked to be wavering and uneven. The mourning suit, too, which he wore, ill made, in the haste of the moment, made him look thinner and worse in health, than might otherwise have been the case; and many who saw him took the opportunity of moralizing, and making themselves wise in their own conceit, by showing the unfruitfulness of wealth, as displayed in the case of Mr. Driesen, who had scarcely become possessed of riches when health, the more inestimable blessing, was denied him.
At length, however, one night as he was sitting down about to take his coffee, a note was put into his hand, the contents of which made him start, and turn pale. He read it over twice, however, and it may be as well to give here the few words which produced that effect. It began:--