"My Lord,
"Before this is placed in your hands, the writer will have quitted a life which begins to be troublesome, and will have laid himself down, with a full and clear notion of what he is about, to take, after the fatigues of existence, the sleep of annihilation. Yon will, therefore, be pleased to regard this as the declaration of a dying man, if that can give any additional character of solemnity, or veracity, to words which are written with plain sincerity, and a straightforward regard to truth.
"My motive for making this declaration at all is, that I am inclined to believe, that some link in the chain may be wanting, of the defence of my excellent young friend, Sir Charles Tyrrell, who is to be tried before you to-morrow. Though there can be no earthly doubt of his acquittal, yet it is but fair and right, that he should start afresh in life, without any suspicion attaching to him of having committed an act, which, in him, would have been criminal under any circumstances, and which our somewhat indiscriminate law regards as criminal but too frequently.
"Without troubling you with my own particular notions on the subject, I will merely proceed to say, that Sir Charles Tyrrell had neither any share in, not any cognizance of, the death of his father, as I, myself, with my own hand, without any aid, and, as I imagined at the time, without any witnesses, performed that act, of which he is now accused. It may be necessary, or, at all events, satisfactory, for you to know all the circumstances, which were as follows:--
"On the morning that the event occurred a serious dispute took place between the young man and his father, whose whole temper and demeanour were such, that it is only extraordinary that he was suffered to live to the age of thirty; nearly miraculous, that there was no man found sensible and courageous enough to cut short a life, that was a torment to himself and everybody else, till he was approaching the usual term of human existence. The dispute which was, as I understand, regarding a proposed separation between Lady Tyrrell and her husband, appeared so much more violent than ordinary, that the servants called upon me to interfere. Being an extremely good-tempered man myself, I had gone through life without ever quarrelling with Sir Francis Tyrrell. He had left me a very large portion of his property. He had, on various occasions, lent me large sums of money; and notwithstanding all these causes for disagreement, we had remained very good friends till that morning, when I saw, for the first time, a disposition to quarrel with myself, as well as everything else that came in his way.
"I had gone out of the room to avoid a consummation which I did not at all wish, and came down, when the servants called me, unwillingly. On so doing, I found my young friend, Charles, rushing out of the house in an indescribable state of grief and agitation, and his father about to follow him, more like a maniac than anything else. I endeavoured to stop him in a course that threatened to produce the most lamentable results, but upon my using some gentle force to restrain him, he turned upon me with fury, and not only begged me not to interfere with his family, but quit his house, and to prepare myself to repay suddenly, within the week, all the sums that he had lent me, together with the interest on the same.
"This was both disagreeable and inconvenient and he added that he should instantly cancel everything that he had written favourable to myself in his will, and leave the money to hospitals, which, of course, I thought very foolish. This staggered and surprised me, as well it might; but on the servants bringing me my hat, and urging me, as far as I recollect, to go after him, in order to prevent the painful consequences they anticipated between himself and his son, I followed rapidly and overtook him near the door of the garden.
"A violent but short dispute ensued between us, the precise terms of which I do not, at this moment, recollect; but it ended by his attempting to strike me. I wrenched the stick out of his hand, and threw it to a distance, when he darted after it, with menaces which made me clearly comprehend that there could be nothing between us for the future but open war. I had long thought that it would be a good thing if such a man were out of the world. I saw that his longer life would produce nothing but misery and destruction to all connected with him, and that I myself and his son would be among the first victims. There was a good deal of consideration of myself in the business, as was rational and natural, and there was a little anger too, which was irrational and foolish, I acknowledge.
"However, at the very moment he turned to dart after the stick, my eye lighted upon a gun, leaning against the garden wall. I caught it up, determined, if he attempted to strike me again, to knock him down with the butt end; but I saw that it was loaded, by some powder that was clinging fresh about the pan, and it passed through my mind that it would be better to finish the matter at once by firing the contents into his head, which, I imagine, is, by no means a painful kind of death. Without giving it a second thought, I acted accordingly; and as soon as I felt sure that he was quite dead, and did not require the second barrel, I went back to the house as fast as I could, resolving to let the matter settle itself, as it might, and take no further heed about it.
"I felt a good deal pained and grieved, I acknowledge, when I found that suspicion had fallen upon Charles; but knowing that he had nothing on earth to do with the matter, I did not doubt that he would easily be able to clear himself. Finding, however that such was not the case; discovering that another person had been present when I was not aware of it; knowing that the law of this country was likely to look upon the matter in a different light from that in which I regarded it, and preferring the calm and speedy extinction of laurel water to the annoying process of a trial, and the disagreeable end of strangulation, I have determined my course, and written this to be delivered to you when I am no more, in order that my good friend Charles, whose lot in life has hitherto not been a very agreeable one, may enjoy the rest of that space of intellectual existence which falls to his share, without any drawback from suspicion attaching to his name.
"I have nothing further to say than that every word contained in this paper is precisely true, and to add my name.
"Henry Driesen."
When the paper had been read, the judge immediately turned toward the jury, and said:--
"To this paper, and written under these circumstances, you will give, gentlemen of the jury, whatsoever credence you may think fit; but with the evidence before you, it seems to me that you can but come to one conclusion, as, indeed, you appeared to have done even before the case for the defence was as clear as it now is. If you think it necessary for me to sum up that evidence, I will do it now, that the whole case has been gone into; but if not, and if your verdict is already decided, it is for your foreman now to pronounce it."
As is generally the case, there was a moment of deep silence, and then the foreman, without farther hesitation or consultation whatever, replied,
"We have long been unanimous, my lord, and pronounce that the prisoner is not guilty, only regretting that the circumstances in which he has been placed have put him to as much pain, and inflicted upon him as much punishment as the laws of the realm award to many a serious offence."
"Sir Charles Tyrrell," said the Judge, "you quit the bar of this court, not simply acquitted by the verdict of your fellow-countrymen of the crime of which you were suspected, but cleared of the slightest doubt or suspicion whatsoever. Allow me, however, to remark that portion of the pain and anxiety which you have suffered is to be attributed to your having been a party in concealing an act, which the laws of your country required you immediately to reveal. We regard and reverence your high sense of honour, and acknowledge that the circumstances in which you were placed were painful; but the paramount duty of every subject of a civilized country is obedience to the laws of the land in which he lives. I congratulate you most sincerely upon the result of the trial, and while I am sure that it will be a warning to you for the future, I trust it will be a warning to others, especially in this part of the country, where I find that, although a great deal of good feeling does certainly exist, yet very strange and dangerous notions, in regard to right and wrong, are entertained by many classes of the community."
Charles Tyrrell bowed in silence, and withdrew from the bar. He was too much affected, and too much overpowered, to speak to any one, but taking the arm of Everard Morrison, he hastened through the passages of the court-house out into the market-square. The court was nearly emptied after him; an immense multitude of persons was assembled without; an extraordinary degree of interest seemed to have been excited in his favour; Everard Morrison was himself an immense favourite with the people, and when the young baronet appeared, leaning on his arm, with his tall commanding figure, looking still taller from the deep mourning in which he was clothed, with his face pale with agitation and deep feeling, and an irrepressible moisture in his eyes, a loud and long-continued shout burst from the multitude.
It was scarcely possible for him to make his way across the square to the house of the young lawyer; for though a lane was formed to enable him to pass through the midst, the women pressed forward to see him, the boys run on by his side, gazing up in his face, and the men waved their hats, and shouted in his path.
At the house of young Morrison's father he found Longly and his daughter, and good John Hailes and his wife, with the eldest of their children; and, giving way to many mingled emotions, Charles hid his eyes in his handkerchief, and wept.
As soon as he was a little calm, however, he said in a low voice to Morrison,--
"Have you got a horse for me here, Morrison, for I long to go to my poor mother?"
"No; I have not a horse," replied Morrison, gravely; "but I have ordered four horses to be ready for your carriage."
"Nonsense, nonsense, my dear Everard," replied Charles; "I do not go home with such parade as that will make; considering the circumstances, and my father's recent and horrible death, that would be indecent."
"Tyrrell," replied Morrison, "it is not for the purpose of parade that I ordered them; but I am sorry to be obliged to diminish your happiness at your acquittal, by telling you what I dared not tell you before, that Miss Effingham is very ill. Mrs. Effingham went down to her yesterday; but another express, which must have passed her on the road, arrived this morning, and we thus learn that she is seriously and dangerously indisposed. Knowing that you would wish to set off to see her immediately, I ordered the horses, and you can just see Lady Tyrrell as you pass by the manor. My dear father, let Sir Charles Tyrrell have some refreshment, and by that time the carriage will be round, and the people somewhat cleared away."
Charles Tyrrell took some wine, but he could take nothing else, for the news he had heard had made his heart feel sick.
As soon as the carriage was brought round he hastened to enter it, and proceeded at full speed to the manor-house, bearing with him, to Lady Tyrrell, the first tidings of his acquittal. Lady Tyrrell's nerves were weakened by all the grief and anxiety that she had undergone; and the first effect of the joy of seeing her son, was to make her faint, which added considerably to the time that he had to remain at the manor-house, although, indeed, when she recovered, she pressed him eagerly to go on to see Lucy. Her mind was, indeed, so much depressed by all the misfortunes and sorrows of her life, that she viewed everything in the darkest colours, and painted the state of Lucy Effingham as much more alarming than even the letter brought by the express justified. Still, however, she detained Charles with her, even while pressing him to go, and it was late in the day before he was once more permitted to enter the carriage to proceed upon his solitary journey.
It often happens to us in life, at least to those people, whose feelings are very deep and strong, that the consequence of some great and sudden joy, or some quick and scarcely expected deliverance from evil or danger, has any effect rather than that of exhilarating, or renewing expectations, or reviving hope.
When Charles Tyrrell cast himself back in the carriage which was to bear him away to her he so dearly loved, it was with a feeling of deep depression. The news of Lucy's sickness, had come upon him suddenly, in the midst of his joy, like a funeral crossing some gay procession; and he felt as if it were too much to expect, or hope for, that he should be suddenly delivered from all the pangs and anxieties that had lately surrounded his path, without some terrible drawback, without some drop of intense bitter mingling in the sweetness of his cup. A feeling, which he could scarcely refrain from calling a presentiment, that his Lucy would be snatched from him; and that while he regained life, she who made life so dear, would be taken away.
Nor long after he had entered the carriage night came on; but though he had rested not at all the night before, no sleep now visited his eyelids, and he watched with feverish anxiety, the passing from stage to stage, conjuring up every dark and bitter anticipation, every terrible prospect and gloomy image, thinking the horses tardy, though they went at full speed, and the time wasted in waking the people at the inns, and changing the horses, almost interminable.
Day dawned at length, but he was still far from his journey's end, and weary hour after hour went by, till he almost fancied the milestones along the road were themselves deceiving him.
It was about four o'clock in the afternoon, when coming down one of the wooded slopes of Devonshire, with the dark blue sea, rising to meet the eye above the trees in the valley, he saw the little church crowning the hill above, and the few scattered white houses, which constituted the village, round the clergyman's house. It was a neat and pretty building, though very small. There was a garden before the door filled with autumn flowers, and that sweetest of all importations from foreign lands, the monthly rose, clustering the porch and spreading round the windows. The casements were almost all open, and the sunshine was upon the dwelling.
There is much, very much, in the aspect of a place to which we are going. The whole of Charles's journey had offered him nothing but images of despair; but the sight of that house, and its flowers, and its sunshine, showed him that hope was not altogether extinguished in his bosom.
As the carriage and four drove up, there was a head put out of one of the upper windows, and, without ringing or knocking, a servant ran to open the door, and the little gate.
"How is Miss Effingham?" demanded Charles instantly.
"She is better, sir," replied the maid.
Charles put his hand to his heart, and paused for a moment, for he felt as if he should have fallen.
"Where is she?" he demanded at length, "where is she? I may go up, I'm sure."
The servant ran up stairs before him, but he overtook her as she reached the top, and himself knocked at the door which she was opening.
"May I come in?" he said; "may I come in? It is Charles."
"Oh, yes, come in, come in, dearest, Charles," said the voice of Lucy, herself. "Come in," repeated the voice of Mrs. Effingham, and Charles was in the room in a moment. Lucy was sitting up in bed, with her mother beside her. She was pale, and had evidently been very ill; but there was life, and hope, and joy in her eyes, and Charles, springing forward, threw his arms around her, and pressed her to his bosom.
"I shall soon be well now, Charles," said Lucy, as soon as she could dry her tears. "Your step upon the stairs, Charles, was better than the finest drug that ever was imported from foreign lands. I shall soon be well now!"
She kept her word, and was soon well. The cloud that had hung over the early day of Charles Tyrrell was wafted away. In his youth he had drank the bitter cup to the dregs, and the rest of his life passed in sunshine and sweetness. Lucy made him happy, and having learned so many severe lessons by experience, Charles acquired that command over himself, and taught it to his children, which had been possessed by none of his family before him.
He entertained, however, a sort of antipathy toward the spot where so much misery had befallen him, and he proposed to Lucy, and she willingly agreed, that he, being the last in the entail, should sell the property of Harbury Park, and purchase another in the neighbourhood of the spot where they were reunited after so painful a separation.
In that park, however, and in the scenes around it, I have spent many a happy day in sunshiny hours of my youth, and there collected, many years ago, the details of that history which I have now given. The Tyrrell family are still recollected by a multitude of persons living around, and it seems to be a general opinion, that the sort of spell which conducted so many of them to a bloody grave, had been broken by the trial and acquittal of Sir Charles Tyrrell.
Young Morrison, alas! no longer young, is still alive, and affords daily a good example of what an honest, upright, well-intentioned lawyer can do for the defence, protection, and assistance of his neighbours. Poor Captain Longly I remember well, with his hair as white as snow, but nourishing to the last, with scrupulous care, the long pig-tail, in which consisted the glory of his person. Hailes, his wife, and children, removed to Devonshire, and he became the commander of Sir Charles Tyrrell's yacht.
And now, having, as my admirable friend, Landor, says, "Not only tried to give the ball, but swept out the ballroom," I will bid my readers farewell; and, with the light and happy hearts of virtue and honour, wish them a fair repose.
Footnote 1: These letters of license, were granted constantly by the French Government, during the whole of the war, even at the very period of the strictest non-intercourse system, established by Napoleon.
Footnote 2: This was probably before the famous act of Lord Ellenborough was passed.
Footnote 3: This incident of a man being apparently killed by a wound in the throat, which ultimately proved very trifling, occurred within the knowledge of the author.