Produced by Charles Bowen from page scans provided by
Google Books (Princeton University)











Transcriber's Notes:
   1. Page scan source:
      https://books.google.com/books?id=2mhVAAAAYAAJ
      (Princeton University)
   2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].





CHARLES TYRRELL;

OR,

THE BITTER BLOOD.



BY

G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.

AUTHOR OF "THE HUGUENOT," "THE ROBBER," "MARY
OF BURGUNDY," &c., &c.



IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. I.




NEW YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS,
FRANKLIN SQUARE.
1855.






CHARLES TYRRELL;

OR,

THE BITTER BLOOD.



CHAPTER I.


Among all the many fine and beautiful figures and modes of reasoning
that the universe in which we dwell has afforded for the illustration
of the bright hope that is within us of a life renewed beyond the
tomb, there is none more beautiful or more exquisite, that I know of,
than that which is derived from the seasons; from the second life that
bursts forth in spring in objects apparently dead, and from the
shadowing forth in the renovation of everything around us of that
after destiny which divine revelation calls upon our faith to believe
shall yet be ours. The trees, that have faded and remained dark and
gray through the long, dreary lapse of winter, clothe themselves again
in green in the spring sunshine, and every leaf and every hue speaks
of life. The birds that were mute sing again as tunefully as ever; the
flowers that were trampled down and faded burst forth once more, in
freshness and in beauty; the streams break from the icy chains that
held them, and the glorious sun himself comes wandering back from his
far journey, giving summer and warmth, and fertility and magnificence
to everything around. All that we see breathes of the same hope;
everything that we see rekindles into life.

But, on the other hand, there are things within us that awake no more;
there are feelings in our hearts that, passed away, return not; there
are thoughts that can never be thought again: there are hopes that,
once put out, are put out for ever. These are the things that speak to
us of death! These are the things that would darken our hopes of
immortality, were we not to draw from them inferences of a higher
state of being, where love, and confidence, and happiness are not
delusions; where the plant of enjoyment has not its root in the earth,
and where the flowers of life wither not away. There are certainly
changes in our very nature which would fill our bosoms with many dark
and awful doubts, did we not find that, in the well-regulated mind,
the bright and intoxicating dreams of early youth, the love that has
been crushed or thwarted, the confidence that has been a thousand
times betrayed, may give place to firmer and more solid things,
feelings not so exquisite, but more deep and powerful; thoughts not so
brilliant, but more just and true, did we not find that, with proper
cultivation, the flowers made way for fruit; did we not find that
every stage of existence would have, but for our own faults, its
proper class of enjoyments, and that every stage but leads us on
towards an appreciation of that last noblest state of being, for which
all the rest are but a preparation. If we are immortal, is it not well
that we should find earth's flowers fade? If we are immortal, is it
not well that we should find earth's hopes deceive us? If we are
immortal, is it not well that we should learn to regret the passing
away of bright capabilities in our own nature, which are sure to be
renewed extended, multiplied in heaven?

The flowers that have been torn up can never take root again on earth;
but, nevertheless, there does occasionally come a time, there do
occasionally occur events, by which all the pain and agony that our
heart has suffered in disappointment of trust or expectation, is more,
far more than made up; and though, perhaps, the same flower is not to
be refreshed, brighter plants blossom in its stead, and give us back
our confidence.

In a pleasant part of Hampshire, where I have passed many of the
bright and sunshiny days of my early existence, not very far from the
seacoast, there stands a house with which is connected three or four
legends, each of a very interesting character, but from which I choose
one as having reference to times and events within my own remembrance.
It is a very large and convenient house, without any pretensions to
architectural decoration, with no relationship to any style
whatsoever, and constructed upon no principles except those implanted
by nature, which teaches man to construct for himself a dwelling the
best adapted to his own wants and conveniences. It had, in fact, at
one time been a small house, built indeed with regard to no economy of
space, but only with regard to the comfort of its first owners, who
required but few apartments, yet made them as roomy as could be
desired. It had been added to by about three generations, who,
increasing in wealth and luxury, demanded more accommodation; and
thus, though on one side of the building some degree of order and
regularity was still preserved--that is to say, the windows were all
in a line, and of the same number in each of the stories--on the other
side they had been posted wherever pleasure or convenience suggested;
so that the northern front was like a child's first drawing of a
house, in which a window and a door are put in wherever a place is
found open for them.

At the time I knew the building it was covered with stucco on the
outside, and in appearance was as unlike a place in which tragedy or
romance ever had been, or ever was likely to be enacted, as it is
possible to conceive. There was a cheerfulness about its aspect, a
bright, whitewashed, unsentimental gayety of appearance that spoke of
blithe and joyful things; but, at the same time, it was relieved from
the harshness and vulgarity with which whitewashed buildings are
generally invested by the scenery that surrounded it, by the pleasant
irregularity of its aspect, and by a number of old chimneys that came
peeping over the parapets in odd places where nobody expected them. It
was imbosomed, too, in a deep wood, which came up to three out of the
four angles of the building, leaving long sunshiny lawns--only broken
here and there by a fine tree with a garden-seat beneath it--sweeping
up to the three principal fronts of the house.

The fourth front had once been the principal one; but, according to
the plan of modern improvement, which in so many instances conceives
that it produces all that can be desired by turning the back part of
things foremost, that front had now been dedicated to the offices.
From it wound away a long wide avenue of fine old elm-trees, like that
which we see so frequently leading up to an antique French chateau;
and I remember, in my young days, I used to dispute with myself in the
summer and the winter, as I rode up the broad green road between the
two rows, which looked the best and most congenial to the scene, those
fine trees in the dark green fulness of their midsummer clothing, or
in the cold, gray, solemn bareness of the winter, when all the bright
things that had decorated them through the rest of the year were cast
down withering at their feet, like the passing pleasures of existence
cast off from a mind preparing for a tomb. I believe I then preferred
the summer aspect, perhaps I might now find more harmony in the
winter.

The woods that surrounded the building on the other sides were, in
fact, kept as pleasure-grounds. They were full of winding walks,
cleanly and carefully swept, though the extent was very great; while
underneath the beeches and the elms, on either side of those paths,
grew up an abundance of wild flowers, the plain white strawberry, the
graceful and beloved plant of the winds, the columbine, the violet,
and the primrose.

One of those walks which led away towards the south, at a distance of
half a mile from the house, divided into two. The left-hand branch,
which followed the original direction, brought me to another broad
walk, which faced the risen sun upon the edge of the wood; and while
the fine beech-trees, sweeping down with their long branches like a
penthouse, sheltered it entirely from the sun in the summer, and from
the rain in the spring and the autumn, they did not at all obstruct
the view over some sunny fields to another little wood beyond, over
which again rose up Harbury Hill, the chief landmark of the country
round about.

The other branch of the road took a direction somewhat to the west,
and at the distance of about a quarter of a mile, or a little more,
from the place where the two separated, it reached the wall of the
kitchen-garden, which lay imbosomed in the deepest part of the wood,
containing within itself a space of about two acres, surrounded by
high brick walls on all sides. There were two doors in this wall, the
one exactly opposite to the path we have mentioned, the other on the
other side. Besides this, however, there was a way in and out through
the back of one of the two gardeners' cottages, which were built
against the wall in the inside.

On the outside of the wall all was fair and smooth, no building of any
kind being suffered to deface the external appearance of that high and
imposing mass of lichen-covered brickwork, except--alas! that there
should be an exception to everything in this world--except one little
solitary toolshed, of the ugliest and most anomalous aspect, stuck on
like an imposthume on the face of the tall wall, and offending the eye
on the very first approach to the garden. Many and many a time have I
petitioned that it should be removed; but there was some impediment in
the very nature of things, it would seem, which prevented the request
from being attended to.

The tools that were kept therein were not, it would seem, a part and
parcel of the gardener's utensils. They belonged to the woodmen, and,
of course, the gardener would not give them admission within his
domain. The place where the great bulk of the woodmen's tools were
kept was at the opposite side of the wood, a mile and a half off. It
was very handy to have the tools near; and it would seem, that for
various reasons, the nature of which I could never find out, or, at
least, not understand, there was no place whatsoever in the wood round
about which was so convenient as that spot against the garden wall.
Such, at least, was the report of the woodman; and, of course, as he
was a very veracious person, and somewhat surly withal, I was bound to
believe him, and say nothing more upon the subject.

Now let not the reader suppose that either in the long and vague
proemium with which this chapter opens, and in which he will find
hereafter some reference to the tale; or in this minute and curious
description of the house and grounds, especially of the paths leading
to the back walk and the garden, that I have been led away by the vain
desire of reading homilies to those who will not hear, or of dwelling
with a sort of doting pleasure upon scenes which I loved in my youth,
and about which few care or are interested besides myself. Every
author, whose fingers are worthy to hold a pen, has an object in each
sentence that he writes; and--although in the multitude of characters
which throng the world, and the difficulty of ascertaining men's real
feelings from their outward appearances, it would be impossible to put
the right direction upon each epistle--every half page of every book
that is worth reading is addressed to some particular person or class
of persons, who are supposed by the author to be capable of
understanding and appreciating him. The description that we have
given, however, has a more general purpose, and the reader is besought
earnestly to remember every word of it, or, at all events, to put a
piece of paper in the place, inasmuch as, without having that scene
constantly before his eyes, and knowing and comprehending it all as
well as if he had walked through it a hundred times, he cannot clearly
and distinctly understand the matter that is to follow.

Having given an account of the place, it now behooves us to speak of
those who inhabited it; and certainly, at the period I speak of--I do
not mean that period within my own personal acquaintance with the
spot--it offered anything but an illustration of the beautiful words
of Hooker in his description of the celestial dwelling-places.
Nevertheless, we shall make the quotation, if it were but for the
pleasure of transcribing those beautiful words, independent of the
splendid opposition which they afford to all that we are about to
describe. "Angels," he says, "are spirits immaterial and intellectual.
The glorious inhabitants of those sacred palaces, where there is
nothing but light and immortality, no shadow of matter for tears,
discontentments, griefs, and uncomfortable passions to work upon; but
all joy, tranquillity, and peace, even for ever do dwell."

This may be taken for a grand description of everything which that
dwelling was not. Beautiful as was the scene, and pleasant as all the
accessories round about, there was seldom anything like peace and
tranquillity within. The pheasants came strutting upon the lawns, the
timid hare lost a part of her shyness, and scarcely deigned to stand
erect and listen with elevated ears for the half-heard sound; the
squirrel crossed from one plantation to another within twenty yards of
the windows; all the habits of the sylvan world around spoke of peace
and tranquillity. But peace was not within. The truth was, that the
inmates of that dwelling were too busy in making war upon each other
to turn their attacks upon the people of the woods without.

But it is time that we should enter into more specific details, and
bring the characters, one by one, before the reader.

Sir Francis Tyrrell, the proprietor of that mansion and of some very
large estates in that vicinity, was in possession, besides, of a
baronetcy, derived in a direct line by himself from an ancestor who
had received it at the time whereat that mixed breed between the baron
and the knight was first propagated. His ancestry was also distinctly
traceable through several centuries before, producing a great number
of very ornamental people in former times, who shone in the tiltyard,
the tournament, and the battle-field; and, in later times, more than
one who had received the high distinction of swinging in effigy upon a
signpost, either as the distinctive mark of the house, or a
recommendation to the beer within.

There were various of his progenitors, indeed, whose names were but
lightly touched upon in the family history; they were not omitted, as
that would have caused a breach in the line, but belonging to that
numerous class of persons who may be best described by saying, _the
less said about them the better_, those who compiled the genealogy had
been cautious in dealing with them. Deeper investigations, however,
would have shown that these members, who met with scanty mention, had
generally encountered fates more or less tragical; one had been killed
by a blow of an axe received from a woodman; another had been almost
torn to pieces by a mob at the end of the reign of James II., and died
of the injuries received; three or four of them had been killed in
duels, and one had been shot by a soldier under his command, who was
afterward executed for the offence.

All these were certainly mentioned by the genealogist, and, in some
instances, their lamentable fate was commented on with praises of
their virtues, &c. But the causes of those duels, the provocation
given to the soldier, the woodman, and the mob, were not mentioned.
There were three in the line whose birth and death alone were
recorded; and it was shrewdly suspected by those who understood such
matters, that one, if not two, of these had perished by the hands of a
functionary of the law, while the other, or others, were supposed to
have taken their departure unsummoned to their long account.

On looking nearer still, it was found that, in the whole race, there
was a fierce and furious disposition, an impetuous and ungovernable
temper, which, combined with a general fearlessness of character and
heedlessness of consequences, formed that very moral constitution
which was best calculated to lead them into dangers, difficulties, and
even crimes. The man who had been killed by the axe had been proved to
have exasperated the unfortunate woodman to such a degree by his
intemperate violence and domineering pride, that a jury could not be
found to condemn the slayer, though an inquest had brought in a
verdict of murder upon the slain.

The same conduct was shown to have been the case in regard to him who
was torn to pieces by the mob, he having, in his magisterial capacity,
done anything but attempt to calm and quiet the sedition, but, on the
contrary, had done all that he could to exasperate, to irritate, and
to drive into madness. This was put forth, indeed, by his biographer
as a bold and valiant proceeding on his part; but there were others
who thought that it was only an evidence of the same furious,
irritable, scornful disposition which had made itself so remarkable in
the race.

The father of Sir Francis Tyrrell had differed very little from his
ancestors. He had been a bold, fearless, overbearing, and tyrannical
man; a soldier in his youth, a fox-hunter in his latter days; a despot
in his magisterial capacity, an irritating neighbour, and an
insufferable master of his house. He had been a very handsome man
withal; and, in order to prove his disregard for personal beauty, he
had married a young lady of the neighbourhood of considerable fortune,
but who certainly possessed few personal attractions. As a girl, she
had been silent, calm, unobtrusive, apparently thoughtful; in person,
little, dark, pale, with small, keen black eyes, and a somewhat
pointed nose. Her voice had been sharp, but not very musical; and
there was something in her whole demeanour which made the old
clergyman of the parish, who had known her from her youth, and who
was, moreover, somewhat waggishly disposed, declare, when he heard of
the marriage about to take place, that he was excessively glad of it,
for that she was just the wife for Sir John Tyrrell.

When they were once fairly married, more of the lady's character
appeared; not that she ever became more loquacious or loud-tongued
than she had been before; but Sir John very soon found that she had
always ready for any of his furious breakings forth of passion a calm,
quiet, stinging reply, in which she seemed to combine with diabolical
ingenuity everything that was most disagreeable for him to hear, and
to compress it into the fewest possible words. She had a particular
art, too, of modulating her voice, so that, in the midst of one of his
most furious and noisy fits of rage, her low, quiet tones made
themselves distinctly heard, and not one biting word was lost to his
ear.

Sir John was not a man to be frustrated even by this sort of warfare,
and he carried it on with his lady through the whole of his life; but
he was a candid man, and used occasionally to acknowledge that his
furious speeches and behaviour, compared with the quiet words and
demeanour of his wife, were as a drubbing with a crabstick to a cut
with a scythe.

The offspring of this hopeful union was Sir Francis Tyrrell, and well
might his biographer declare that he combined in his own person all
the virtues and qualities of his father and his mother: for, to an
ungovernable temper, such as had descended to him from his ancestors,
he added a sarcastic bitterness peculiarly his own.

Sir Francis Tyrrell was a learned and a literary man; in person
somewhat below the middle size, dark in complexion, with sharp
features and overhanging eyebrows, which, at the time I choose for
opening this tale, were grizzled with some long gray hairs, which from
time to time he industriously pulled out with tweezers, while they,
with a pertinacity worthy of him from whom they sprang, regularly grew
up again, longer, and grayer, and more prominent than ever. He wrote a
good deal at various times, and produced works marked by very superior
talents; and he also formed frequent theories, which were by no means
always correct, but which all displayed genius of a certain kind, and
considerable originality, if not perversity of thought. Of these works
and these theories Sir Francis was not a little vain, and this was one
of the most irritable points in his character. He could bear to be
touched upon almost all other subjects but those; or rather we might
say, that though it was not without danger that any one touched him
upon any subject, upon these he became quite furious.

His family were totally without what the phrenologists call the organ
of veneration. They had little respect for anything, and set out with
having no respect for themselves. This they concealed in their own
case, of course, as far as possible; but this want of respect never
failed to make itself manifest both in words and deeds, when it
referred to any member of their own family. Thus, Sir Francis was
heard to declare that his father was one of the greatest fools that
ever lived, and on being asked why, replied, "For marrying my mother."

"A man puts a lemon to a bottle of spirits," he said, "and people call
him a sensible fellow, and go to drink punch with him; but if a man
were to eat a whole lemon, plain people would say he was mad."

Again, on the occasion of his own marriage, he set out upon the
principle of finding somebody the direct reverse of her who had been
chosen by his father, declaring that he looked upon it as a duty to
his children. Such an event, he said, as the marriage of his father
and mother was sufficient to serve ten generations, and that he would
do his best to dilute the quintessence of bitterness which had been
hence produced. He chose, accordingly, a young lady from a distant
part of the country, possessed of little of no fortune, of a gay and
happy disposition, who had been brought up in great subjection to the
will of parents that were really kind to her, and who had a fund of
gentle and kindly feelings and good principles, but who was somewhat
imprudent and incautious of speech, and of a timid as well as of an
affectionate nature. From the first sight of Sir Francis Tyrrell, she
had rather disliked him than otherwise. He had gained a little by
attention upon her good graces, and upon her esteem by some
philanthropic doctrines which he put forth, with no desire, indeed, of
deceiving her or others, but solely because they were theories for
which he had a fondness, and in which his vanity was concerned.

His progress in her favour, however, had not arrived beyond the
dangerous point of indifference when he proposed himself to her
parents as her future husband. She shrank from the very idea; but he
was wealthy, bore a fair reputation, had, indeed, acquired a high
character as a man of honour and integrity, and her parents pressed
her so urgently to accept him, that she who was accustomed to yield to
them in all things, yielded to them in this also, and she became the
wife of a man that she did not love; though it is but fair to say,
that there was no other person for whom she had any decided
preference.

She married Sir Francis Tyrrell with the full desire and determination
to love him as much as she could, and to make him as happy as it was
in her power to do, and there were a variety of circumstances which
combined to render the first two years of their union tolerably happy.
In the first place, there were novelty and passion upon his side; in
the next place, her very gentleness was a fortress to her upon which
it was difficult to begin an attack; in the third place, her mildness
and placability were something so new to the conceptions of Sir
Francis, that they made him feel more or less ashamed of his own
violence, till he became more familiar with the qualities which at
first disarmed him.

But he was one of those who did not like to lead, but rather preferred
to drive or to goad; and from the very first moment that some slight
remonstrance on the part of Lady Tyrrell, with regard to something in
which he had no business to interfere, gave the slightest suspicion of
opposition to his will, the violent, the sarcastic, the bitter, the
selfish spirit rose up with delight, unfettered; and the system of
domineering and tyranny began in full force. The parents of the lady
lived to see her apparent happiness, but not to witness its reverse.
Her mother died before she had been married six months, and her father
scarcely survived two years. Perhaps a suspicion of the truth troubled
his deathbed, but we cannot say.

Unless we listen to the voice of the better spirit within us,
prosperity and age generally lead forward selfishness between them;
and then that selfishness who has hidden herself bashfully in the
presence of the more generous feelings of youth, rushes forward with
daring impudence, and blindfolds our eyes lest we should see her
deformity. Such was the case with Sir Francis Tyrrell. There was no
counterbalancing power to check or to control. His feelings of
religion, if he had any, were not active; he had speculated away the
greater part of his morality. He would not, indeed, have done anything
that was glaringly and universally admitted to be evil; first, because
his vanity would not consent to his incurring the reputation of a
vicious man; and, secondly, because his passions did not particularly
take that course. But of the moralities of life, which go hand in hand
with the charities of life, he had no conception. To trample upon
those who were prostrate before him; to make his own house a hell, and
to act the part of ruling fiend himself; to cast every kind of
aspersion and imputation, true or false, upon every one that offended
him, and many that never offended him at all; to be suspicious,
jealous, irritable without cause; to allow no opinion to prevail but
his own; to deal a very different measure to himself and others; to
exact the utmost, and to grant the least; to be avaricious while he
was ostentatious, sensorious when he affected to be candid, and
harshly severe to every one while he assumed the language of
philanthropy, he considered to be no wrong, and sat down with the
conviction that he was a very good and virtuous man.

The effect upon his wife was, that for a time she sank into a state of
timid and cheerless despair, from which she at length rallied herself
to make ineffectual resistance. When he accused her of things she had
never committed, and purposes she had never entertained, she would now
rouse herself to repel the charge, but still, having the worst of the
argument, and cut to the heart by sarcasms and insinuations, she would
have recourse to flight to her own chamber, and end the day in tears.
When he was simply violent, she had the good sense to sit in quiet and
make no reply.

But under all these cruel circumstances her health was daily injured,
and she who had been full of bloom, and life, and health, became pale,
and worn, and thin, and unequal to the least exertion. Sir Francis and
Lady Tyrrell had but one child, a son, who was born in the second year
of their marriage; but of that son, for various reasons, it will be
necessary to speak apart.




CHAPTER II.


It is a terrible thing when youth--the time of sport and enjoyment,
the period which nature has set apart for acquiring knowledge, and
power, and expansion, and for tasting all the multitude of sweet and
magnificent things which crowd the creation, in their first freshness
and with the zest of novelty--is clouded with storms or drenched with
tears. It is not so terrible by any means when the mere ills of
fortune afflict us; for they are light things to the buoyancy of
youth, and are soon thrown off by the heart which has not learned the
foresight of fresh sorrows. The body habituates itself more easily to
anything than the mind, and privations twice or thrice endured are
privations no longer. But it is a terrible thing, indeed, when--in
those warm days of youth when the heart is all affection, the mind
longing for thrilling sympathies, the soul eager to love and be
beloved--the faults, the vices, or the circumstances of others cut us
off from those sweet natural ties with which nature, as with a wreath
of flowers, has garlanded our early days; when we have either lost and
regret, or known but to contemn, the kindred whose veins flow with the
same blood as our own, or the parents who gave us being.

There are few situations more solitary, more painful, more moving,
than that of an orphan. I remember a schoolfellow who had many friends
who were kind to him and fond of him: but he said to me one day, in
speaking of his holiday sports, "I, you know, have no father or
mother." And there was a look of thoughtful melancholy in his face,
and a tone of desolation in his voice, which struck me strangely, even
young as I then was. But that situation, lonely as it is, deprived of
all the tender and consoling associations of kindred feeling, is
bright and cheerful, gay and happy, compared with that in which
Charles Tyrrell commenced his career on earth.

He was as beautiful a child as ever was seen; strong vigorous, and
healthy; with his mother's fair complexion, a fine, intelligent
countenance, even in infancy and a smile of peculiar sweetness. His
father was fond of him as long as he continued an infant. He was proud
of him, I was going to say, but I believe the proper term would be,
conceited of him. Everybody admired the child, and expressed their
admiration, and, by some strange complication of ideas, the admiration
seemed to the father reflected back upon himself. The child amused him
too, and interested him, and for a certain time he seemed to derive a
pleasure from caressing it, which softened his manner, if not his
feelings.

Hard must be the heart and selfish the mind which is not softened and
expanded by communion with sweet infancy. The innocence of childhood
is the tenderest, and not the least potent remonstrance against the
vices and the errors of grown man, if he would but listen to the
lesson and take it to his heart. Seldom, too seldom, do we do so; and
I cannot say that it was the case with Sir Francis Tyrrell; but still
he could not undergo that influence without losing something of his
harshness from the gentle presence of the child.

To Lady Tyrrell the birth of her infant was a renewal of hope and a
solid store of happiness. She had a fresh object before her, a new
motive for exertion and endurance; and as she gazed upon his infant
face, she promised herself, for his sake, to bear all and to strive
for all. Her health, however, gave way under constant irritation; and
as the boy grew up, his father lost that pride in him which he had
before experienced; and though he had fondled the infant, he chided
and railed at the child; while Lady Tyrrell, who was, perhaps,
inclined to be a little over-indulgent to her only son, roused herself
to defend him from the bitter and unmerited reproaches of his father,
when, perhaps, in her own case, she might have borne those reproaches
in silence.

Every point of his education became a subject of contention. While a
child, he had been to Sir Francis a mere plaything; but the moment
that his reason began to expand, his father looked upon him as a new
object of tyranny, and Lady Tyrrell would often sit and gaze with
melancholy eyes upon her son's face, thinking of his future fate, and
sorrowing, from the sad experience of her own, over the long and
miserable years to be passed under the sway of such a man as his
father. She exerted herself to conquer even her own affection for the
child, and the selfishness of that affection. In order as much to
remove him from home, and to give him the blessing of other society,
as to ensure him a good education, she determined, if possible, to
send him to school, though she thereby lost the comfort of his
presence, and the continual solace and relief of all his sports, and
words, and looks.

Sir Francis, however, on the contrary, did not choose to sacrifice his
own pleasure. He did not choose to lose the new object of tyranny
which he had acquired. He declared he intended to have a tutor in the
house when his son was old enough to learn anything; and the very wish
which his wife expressed, that the boy should be sent to school, only
hardened his determination to keep him at home. He had no confidence
in virtue or in sincerity of any kind; and although he knew that Lady
Tyrrell was, when he married her, as frank and open as the day, he
still could not persuade himself that she acted towards him without
guile.

It was this error which, in the present instance, ultimately produced
the result that she wished. He one day heard her say, by chance, while
stooping over her boy, that it would break her heart to part with him;
and a suspicion crossed his mind that she had proposed to send the
child to school for the purpose of inducing him to pursue exactly the
opposite course. The very thought was, indeed, but little
complimentary to his own disposition, and arose from an internal
consciousness (the full force of which he would not acknowledge) of
the contradictory and mulish character of his own mind. His
determination, however, was fixed by a scene of altercation with the
boy himself, whom he had punished severely for doing something that
his mother had directed him to do, but whom he could induce by no
means, neither by anger nor by blows, to acknowledge that he had done
wrong in the slightest degree. It was determined, in consequence, that
he should go to school, and to school he was accordingly sent; but,
unfortunately, not to a school which was at all likely to correct the
constitutional errors of his disposition, or to afford to his mind
that strong moral tone which might have served to counteract all the
evils with which his mind became familiarized at home.

As it is not our purpose to trace him through the uninteresting
details of a school life, we shall content ourselves with showing what
was his natural disposition; and though he is the person destined to
act the most prominent part in these pages, we shall in no degree
conceal that which was evil in his nature. His first great fault,
then, was a part of his inheritance, the violent passion of his
father. Even when a child, he would throw himself down in fits of
ungovernable anger, and lie writhing on the ground, as if in
convulsions, till the fit went off. He had much of the talent, too, of
his father; perhaps; indeed, more, and certainly possessed genius of a
higher order; for the qualities of his mind received a much greater
degree of expansion from being united with superior qualities of the
heart. There was, however, a frequent similarity to be observed
between the turn and form of his ideas and those of Sir Francis. In
his childhood, even, he had been known unconsciously to utter many a
keen and cutting phrase, which brought upon the countenance of his
father a sarcastic smile, in which was strangely blended an expression
of contempt and bitterness with that of approbation and pleasure.

The boy, indeed, would have been altogether what his nurses called the
"moral of his father," with a finer person and much greater corporeal
powers, had it not been that his mother's nature was intimately
mingled with the whole, and counterbalanced many faults, if it did not
counteract them. Under her tuition he acquired a love of truth which
never left him through life; but he had by nature a frank
straightforwardness of character which was very winning. One saw, even
in his very infancy and childhood, that the heart acted before the
mind had been taught to act; and with a spirit which was utterly
insusceptible of fear, and a body not very sensitive of suffering,
some of his very good qualities might have led him to wound the
feelings of others much more frequently than he did, if he had not
possessed a natural tenderness and kindness of heart, which led him,
with a sort of unerring instinct, to perceive the points on which
others were vulnerable, and to spare them on those points, except when
moved by some fierce opposition or angry passion. He was also by
nature--and that, too, he derived from his mother--most affectionate.
That is to say, he did not attach himself to every one, or lightly. He
was not as the seed of the mistletoe or the moss, that fixes itself
upon everything wherever it lights, and grows there till it is torn
away. But he had within his heart the power of deep attachment;
strong, permanent, immoveable. He was not likely to form friendships
very easily, or to love often; but where he did love, he loved wholly
and for ever.

The first instance in which these qualities were put to the proof, was
in choosing between his father and his mother. We may call it
choosing, though, indeed, there was no choice; for he could not but
love the one, and it was very easy not to love the other. On that
mother, then, fixed the whole strength of his infant affection, and it
grew with his growth, and strengthened with his strength. Everything
that occurred--the gentle warnings and reproaches which she sometimes
forced herself to make when he behaved ill; her ill health; her deep
melancholy; her conduct to her husband, and his conduct to her, all
made him cling the more closely to her--made him love her and respect
her the more.

The next instance in which he was tried was in the choice of a friend
among his schoolfellows. They were almost all inferior to himself; not
in point of birth indeed, for there were some superior in that
respect, but in talent, and corporeal as well as mental qualities;
besides a great and marked inferiority in that most inestimable of all
qualities, energy of character, which he possessed in an overwhelming
degree. The school contained a variety of dispositions, shades and
differences of every kind of mind; but he chose, as his companion and
his friend, a lad somewhat older than himself, but much less in
stature, inferior in station, not remarkable for any brilliant
qualities, but of a calm, quiet, and thoughtful disposition, giving
occasionally signs of dormant talent and penetration, which no one had
been at the pains to call forth, and of a determination of purpose and
constancy of character which is one of the greatest elements of
success in life. His health was by no means vigorous, and his
corporeal powers small; so that, in the contest with which we open out
the struggle of life in our schoolboy days, he was generally
vanquished, and, indeed, was somewhat ill-treated by stronger youths
than himself, till Charles Tyrrell appeared in the school, and at once
took the part of his defender.

Everard Morrison was grateful to him; admired the corporeal powers and
vigour which he did not himself possess, and still more admired the
brilliant and remarkable talent displayed by his new friend, though
those talents were of a character as strikingly opposite to his own as
Tyrrell's vigour to his feebleness. Even the wild and intemperate
bursts of passion to which the new scholar frequently gave way, the
rash and remorseless conduct which he displayed under those
circumstances, seemed to afford him matter for thought and
speculation, ay, and even admiration likewise; and when, on one
occasion, some extraordinary act of violence had called down upon the
head of the wealthy baronet's son a rare and reluctant punishment from
the master, Everard Morrison stood forward as his defender, and with
great ingenuity and talent endeavoured to show that the provocation
which Charles Tyrrell had received was sufficient to justify the acts
he had committed; and in boyish language, but with keen penetration,
he pointed out that the violent passions of his friend were seldom, if
ever, excited by any petty injury or offence solely to himself, but
rather by what was mean, pitiful, unjust, or tyrannical in others.

Their friendship lasted during the whole time that they were at school
together; but at length, on the same vacation, Morrison was removed to
take a clerk's place in the house of his father, a country attorney,
and Charles Tyrrell was sent to Eton to undergo the needful discipline
of a public school. They separated with a thousand boyish professions
of friendship, and consoled themselves with the idea that the county
town in which Morrison's father made his abode was only seven miles
distant from the seat of Sir Francis Tyrrell, called Harbury Park, so
that they could often meet during the holidays. They promised to do so
continually. But such promises, made in the guileless days of youth,
are rapidly forgotten. The grasp of our affection expands with the
grasp of our intellects, and the little things that we loved in
infancy and youth but too often slip away from us as our mind
enlarges, like sand through the fingers of a giant. It remains to be
inquired, in the present instance, which it was that forgot the other.
It certainly was not Charles Tyrrell; for his first expedition on his
midsummer return from Eton was to pay a visit to Everard Morrison: and
again and again he walked or rode over to the county town to see his
old companion. Morrison always received him gladly to all appearance;
but, notwithstanding all the reiterated invitations of his
schoolfellow, he never visited Harbury Park but once. He showed, in
short, no disposition to cultivate the acquaintance that he had formed
at school.

Charles Tyrrell saw this, and was hurt, but he said nothing, and
persevered for some time; but finding perseverance produced no effect,
he gradually ceased to seek for Everard Morrison's closer friendship.
But his peculiar tenacity of regard displayed itself in this instance
also. Although he was hurt and offended, he gave way to no anger; he
loved Everard Morrison still, and he did not cease to love him,
although he saw him but rarely, and then under some restraint.

His life at Eton we shall not inquire into, for it was exactly the
life of every person so situated, or with variations of no importance.
Neither is there much to be told in the detached periods of his
holiday residence at home; at least, not much which the reader may not
divine without being told.

Age seemed to squeeze out the last drop of honey from his father's
nature, and to leave all the bitter behind. His conduct to Lady
Tyrrell would not, perhaps, in any court established for the purpose
of dispensing justice or injustice, as the case may be, have been
pronounced cruelty, for such courts weigh nothing but that which
affects immediately the body; and the wounds, ay, or even the death
inflicted through the mind, are left to the judgment of another world.
Sir Francis Tyrrell showed no personal violence towards his wife. He
treated her apparently with ceremonious respect, except when the fit
of passion was upon him, and even then the weapon that he used against
her was but the tongue.

With him, however, that weapon was worse than a poisoned dagger,
inflicting wounds that could never be healed. Everything that was
stinging, everything that was venomous, everything that was scornful,
everything that was irritating, then poured from his lips without the
slightest remorse, and without the slightest regard to truth or
justice. There can be little doubt that he believed what he said at
the time; for his passion acted as a sort of magician in his own
breast, and conjured up chimeras, and phantoms, and demons which had
no existence but in the phantasmagoria of his own imagination.

These fits of passion, too, were of frequent, nay, of daily
occurrence; and his life with Lady Tyrrell, passed thus, either absent
from her when, in order to avoid him or on account of illness, she
confined herself to her own room; in cold and sneering ceremony when
there was no absolute cause of offence; or in violent and angry
dispute when she roused herself to resist or to deny.

The effect on her was such as might be expected. Ere she had reached
the age of forty, the buoyant health which she had once possessed, the
radiant yet gentle beauty, the cheerful and contented disposition,
were all gone; and she remained old before her time, with a heart
wrung and torn, and without one trace of that loveliness with which
Heaven had at first endued her.

The conduct of Sir Francis Tyrrell to his son was also such as might
be expected from his disposition. The first two or three days after
his return during the vacations, the natural feeling of a parent, of
course, had its way. He seemed glad to see him; fond of him; proud of
him; but the third day scarcely ever passed over without some sharp
rebuke, and the fourth never came to an end without one of those
violent scenes of altercation, which increased in frequency and
intensity as the boy grew up towards the man.

The power of reasoning, the will of acting for himself, which soon
became evident in Charles Tyrrell, though not exercised prematurely,
insolently, or obstinately, gave his father daily offence. It was with
the gradual work of nature that he quarrelled in reality, while he
affected to find fault with the conduct of his son. It was that he did
not choose to see one, over whom he still thought to keep extended the
rule of his iron rod, emancipated gradually, by the development of his
corporeal and mental powers, from the authority which is given to
parents for the protection and guidance of our immature years.

All this irritated him; but yet we do not mean to say that young
Charles Tyrrell entertained any great veneration for his father's
character, any love for his person, or any respect for his opinions:
but that he did not do so was not his fault. The treatment which he
daily experienced himself, and which he saw his mother undergo, had
put an end altogether to anything like love and veneration; and the
frequent variations of opinion which he daily beheld in his father;
the arguing one day on one side of the question, and the next on the
other side, as the passion of the moment dictated, left him, whether
he would or not, without anything like respect for his judgment.

He had learned at a public school to put some degree of restraint upon
himself, and to show some degree of respect, whether he felt it or
not, to older persons than himself. Thus, as far as he could, he
restrained himself and obeyed; but it was when his mother was
concerned that he forgot all deference towards his father. Then the
strong passions which he had inherited from him would burst forth;
then the indignation, which he smothered in his own case, would find a
voice; then the vehement energy of his nature would display itself,
employing all the talents he possessed to give fire and point to his
angry rejoinders.

Still, however, his father's experience, knowledge of the world,
learning, and skill in sarcasm, would furnish him with weapons which
almost drove the boy to madness; and more than once, during the first
two or three years after he had ventured to oppose his father in
regard to his mother, his anger ended in bitter and disappointed tears
at being overpowered by arguments and sarcasms which he felt to be
wrong and unjust.

After a time, however, as he approached the age of seventeen or
eighteen, instead of tears, he fell into deep silence, partly from
finding himself unable to express his indignation in words such as he
dared to use towards his father; partly from the desire to examine
intensely what could be the cause which prevented him from proving
himself right when he knew himself to be so. That silence, however,
was mortifying to Sir Francis: the tears he had liked very well to
see; but when once in the career of passion, he loved to provoke a
rejoinder, almost sure that it would throw his opponent open to some
new blow. Silence, therefore, was the most irritating thing that could
be opposed to him; and twice, when, in some of their violent
altercations, his son suddenly ceased and said no more, he was even
hurried on to strike him, although the period of life at which such an
act from a father to a son is at all justifiable had long passed.

On those two occasions, Charles Tyrrell put both his hands behind his
back, and clasped them tight together, till round each of the fingers,
as they pressed upon the flesh of the other hand, a deep white space
might be seen, showing the stern energy with which he clinched them
together. On both these occasions, too, after gazing, with a frowning
brow and a quivering lip, on his father's face for two or three
moments in deep silence, he rushed suddenly out of the house and
plunged into the woods around.




CHAPTER III.


We have dealt long enough in general descriptions, but they were
necessary to explain what is to follow. We must now turn to particular
incidents and to details of facts, endeavouring to set forth our tale
more as a gallery of pictures than as a consecutive narrative.

The period of Charles Tyrrell's schooldays was over, and he was now
studying at the University; but with his studies there we, of course,
shall not meddle, but take up his history at his first return to his
father's house, after having been absent some months at Oxford. His
father, though possessed, as we have said, of very large fortune, had
made his son no larger allowance at college than mere shame compelled
him to do. This, however, proceeded in no degree from parsimony; for,
as far as money was concerned, he was a liberal and a generous man;
but the latent motive was to have a continual check upon his son, and
a subject, at any time that he chose to employ it, for censure and
irritation.

Do not let any one suppose that this picture is caricatured; for, on
the contrary, it is true, and only drawn with a hand not strong enough
to paint it accurately. The sum which he allowed his son was by no
means sufficient to maintain him upon a level with young men of his
own station, and, ere he had been many months at college, the
thoughtlessness natural to youth, joined with a free and generous
disposition, had, of course, plunged him into some difficulties. As
soon as he found it was so, Charles Tyrrell, well knowing his fathers
character, determined to extricate himself without subjecting himself
to make a request to his father, which would be granted, he knew, with
taunts and reproaches, and held over his head as an obligation
incurred, to be frequently alluded to in the future. He therefore
applied himself to economize with the most rigid exactness; and at a
time when everything that was extravagant and thoughtless was done by
all those around him, he devoted himself to study and to thought,
making his application to such pursuits an excuse for absenting
himself from the society of those with whom he had begun to associate.

So far, perhaps, the effect was good; and, indeed, we might go
farther. The habit of commanding one's self, of resisting
inclinations, conquering habits, doing right in spite of our own
weakness, is the most ennobling, enlarging, elevating act of the human
mind. Under the influence of such a purpose and of such an effort,
Charles Tyrrell grew day by day more manly, more vigorous in mind,
more competent even to guide and rule others.

He was grave and sad, however, for the fetters of circumstances
pressed heavily upon him. He could not do good where he sought to do
good; he could not reward where reward had been deserved; he could not
encourage where encouragement was wanting. All this he felt, and he
felt bitterly, and he knew that all was inflicted upon him by his
father, at once unnecessarily and unwisely. Nor, it must be confessed,
was he without a consciousness of the motive which caused the
infliction; and, of course, that motive made his heart swell
indignantly at the tyranny sought to be exercised over him, and the
means which that tyranny employed.

When we are aware that those to whom we owe existence have devoted
long years, during our infancy and youth, to protect, to nourish, and
to guide us; when they have thought of us rather than themselves, and
sacrificed pleasure and amusement, and tastes and feelings, for our
benefit; when they have spent the weary hours of watchfulness over the
bed of infancy and of sickness; when they have rejoiced in our joys
and mourned for our sorrows; when they have made efforts for us that
they would not have made for themselves, and even corrected us with
more pain to themselves than to us, for our benefit; when they have
felt it a pang, and yet a duty, to deny us what we sought; and when
they have given up, in short, time, thought, pleasure, exertion,
energy, hope, comfort, selfishness, for our after welfare; when they
have done all this, and we know it, there is nothing on earth can
equal, or should equal, the love and gratitude of a child for his
parents. But when, on the other hand, we owe them nothing but
existence, a gift given selfishly, to be selfishly employed; when we
have been to them but as objects of pleasure or dominion to
themselves, the matter is very different, and the love and gratitude
that we show them must have its source in that love and gratitude we
owe to the better Father, whose will placed them in such relationship
to us.

Charles Tyrrell, then, could not love his father; and, had not his
mother been living, it is probable that, devoting himself entirely to
study, he would not even have visited his paternal mansion during the
vacations; but when he thought of her, and how much she needed
comfort; of her fond and deep affection for him, and her loneliness in
his absence, he determined to go back, although he feared the violence
of his father's disposition, and even feared the violence of his own.

Such was the state of his mind towards the commencement of his first
vacation; and pursuing his plan of economy, he came up to London by
the Oxford stage, and thence proceeded by the Old Blue, night coach,
towards his own dwelling, though that was a period at which young men
were not in the custom either of driving the coaches that carried
them, or, indeed, of travelling by such conveyances at all, when their
circumstances enabled them to afford another. The Old Blue coach
contained in the inside the number of six passengers, and slow and
heavy was its progress along roads which had not yet submitted to the
petrifying power of Mr. M'Adam. The personage, then, who was seated in
the middle, was under the unpleasant necessity either of watching
through the long progress of a tedious night in the strait-waistcoat
of a close-packed stage, or to choose the shoulder of one of his
fellow-travellers for a pillow, which was hard or soft, as the case
might be.

On entering the coach, Charles Tyrrell found it full when he himself
was added to the number of its occupants; but the faint glimmer of the
feeble lamps in the courtyard of the old Golden Cross, Charing Cross,
was not sufficient to show him distinctly the countenances of his
companions, though a man with a pen behind his ear, and a book in one
hand, came forward to see that all the booked passengers were
assembled in the interior, holding up a sickly-looking tallow candle,
with a long wick and a fiery mushroom at the top. All that Charles
Tyrrell could discover was, that the middle place of the front seat
had been left for him; and, when the coach drove off, not a further
word was said by any one, everybody seeming well disposed, with the
exception of himself, to seek oblivion from the evils of their state
in the blissful arms of slumber.

The young Oxonian had no inclination to sleep; and leaning back, as
far as circumstances would permit him, with his broad shoulders
somewhat circumscribed by the bulk which his companion on either side
contrived to give to theirs, he remained pondering in silence over the
coming days, looking forward to the time spent at home with none of
that expectant pleasure which awaits those whose hearts have a
domestic refuge when they return from long absence and from distant
scenes.

At a small but pretty inn, which there are few who do not know well,
called Hertford Bridge--Heaven knows what changes it has undergone
since--the coach stopped for supper, as was customary in those days,
and the sight of the woodbines and other climbing plants, which at
that time twined round the door of one of the prettiest little inns in
Europe, was refreshing and delightful to the eye of the traveller. The
breath of the plants, too, some of which pour forth their odours more
fully at midnight than at any other hour, came sweet and balmy to the
senses of Charles Tyrrell, as, entering the little inn, he turned into
the room on the left hand, where the coach supper had been prepared.
There was a room opposite, through the brown Holland blinds of which
he had seen streaming forth a light as the coach came up; but the door
of that room was closed, and all that could be known of its inmates
was gathered from the sounds of some gay and cheerful voices speaking
within, and mingling sweet musical tones with laughter.

On entering the supper-room, one after another of the inside
passengers were found stripping themselves of various parts of their
travelling costume, and in one of them Charles Tyrrell instantly
recognised a person whom he had seen more than once before. This was a
gentleman somewhat past the prime of life; that is to say, he might be
fifty-five or fifty-six years of age. He was hale and well, however,
though of a thin and meager habit; and his whole countenance bespoke
health, not of an exuberant, but of a durable kind. His face, though
undoubtedly handsome, was not of a pleasant character; the eyebrows
ran up as well as the eyes; the nose was somewhat sharp and pointed;
the cheek bones rather too high; the forehead not low, but wide rather
than high, and a monstrous protuberance of that superior part of the
back of the head in which phrenologists have thought fit to place the
organs of self-esteem, self-will, caution, &c. The line might be made
to comprise all those organs which tend to combativeness and
acquisitiveness, though the former in somewhat of a less degree than
the latter.

The shape of a man's head has a far greater share in giving expression
to his face than people in general imagine; and as we have said,
though one could not help acknowledging that Mr. Driesen must have
been a handsome man in his youth, there was about his countenance that
look and air which gave to the features of Voltaire the expression of
an old and malicious monkey. Charles Tyrrell had seen him frequently
with his father, with whom he used to spend a part of every year, and
what he had seen of him under such circumstances had not by any means
tended to diminish the impression of dislike which his face had at
first produced.

Mr. Driesen was descended from a family originally German, but which
had been settled for many centuries in England. He was possessed of a
small property, which, during his youth, afforded him quite sufficient
to live upon in comfort without pursuing any profession in order to
make it larger. He had studied the law, but he never attempted to
practise it; and had devoted himself, during many years, to the
pursuit of that sort of philosophy which prepared the way for, and
ushered in, not so much the French revolution as the horrors and
impieties which accompanied an act that might have passed over,
perhaps, innocuously, had not the whole moral and religious
foundations of society been previously shaken in France by the efforts
of men who fancied they were pursuing wisdom, when, in fact, they were
pursuing vanity.

Mr. Driesen was a man of talent, however, and a man of learning. He
was a profound Greek scholar, a tolerable mathematician, a clear and
cutting reasoner, but artful as a sophist; and, aided by his own
vanity, deceiving himself while he deceived others. He was fond of all
sorts of startling propositions; feared to shock no feelings or
opinions, however respectable or however well founded; and he was,
moreover, full of rich stores of rare and unusual knowledge, and of
reading in works which are sealed to the eye of most men. His memory
was unfailing, his fluency great, and he could thus bring to bear upon
any subject arguments and quotations startling from their novelty and
confounding from their multitude. He made a boast of being without any
fixed principle, and Sir Francis Tyrrell did not esteem him at all the
less on that account, not being overburdened with principle himself.

But there was one secret in his partiality for Mr. Driesen, which was,
that his friend was in the custom of comparing him to the famous
Mirabeau, whom they had both known in France, in their youth, during
the period of his utmost power over the National Assembly. The
comparison was not altogether without justice. But it was to
Mirabeau's father, the old Marquis de Mirabeau, that Sir Francis
Tyrrell bore a strong resemblance rather than to the son. However that
might be, the comparison flattered him, and he was fond of the society
of Mr. Driesen, who, without bearing by any means a good character for
morality, did not, on the contrary, bear a very bad one. He, on his
part, had contrived by various means to diminish his own patrimony
considerably, and therefore the luxuries of Sir Francis Tyrrell's
house were not disagreeable to him; nor, indeed, if the current tales
were true, the occasional assistance of Sir Francis Tyrrell's purse.

Although there had never existed any very great acquaintance between
him and his friend's son; and though, on the part of Charles, there
had always been a feeling of antipathy, which he could scarcely
explain to himself; in the present instance, no sooner did Mr. Driesen
discover who had been his companion in the night-coach, than he
advanced to shake hands with him with a warm and friendly air, which
Charles Tyrrell could not make up his mind to repel. They sat down
together to supper with the rest of the travellers, and the
conversation between the two acquaintances took a turn the least
likely in the world to be taken between two travellers in a
stagecoach. It neither referred to politics, nor war, nor locomotion,
nor the supper that was before them; but it referred to Greek and
Latin poets, to Hesiod, to Euripides, to Lucan; or else, turning to
more modern, but not less unusual topics under such circumstances,
commented upon Clement Marot, or inquired into the authenticity of the
poems attributed to Clotilde de Surville.

The company round about opened their eyes and looked aghast, or opened
their mouths and devoured their supper in silence; but the
conversation did not certainly receive that direction from an
intention on the part of either of the two to excite astonishment in
the listeners. It is very probable that neither of them had the
slightest intention of giving it the direction which it took. It very
often happens that a single chance word; the most remote or trifling
accident; some circumstance scarcely noted even by ourselves; the fall
of a spoon, or the change of a plate, or any other insignificant
occurrence, will set that rapid flyer, thought, winging her way
through the endless regions of imagination and memory, leading after
her words and even feelings into directions the most remote from the
occurrences which first gave them rise. A single word, a single tone,
a single look, is often sufficient, not only to carry us away into
trains of idea and conversation quite different from all that we had
proposed to follow, but more, far more! to throw open the gates of a
new fate before us, and lead us onward to our destiny through narrow,
tortuous, and darkling tracts, which we would never otherwise have
trod.

If any one had a design in leading the conversation in the direction
which we have mentioned, it was Mr. Driesen; and it might be so, for
these were not only subjects of which he was fond himself, as a clever
and a learned man, but they were also those on which he fancied that
his young acquaintance, all hot from Oxford, would be prompt to speak,
especially as he had learned that Charles Tyrrell had devoted himself
earnestly to study.

Eager in all things, and with a taste naturally fine and cultivated,
Charles Tyrrell followed the lead willingly, and, ending his supper
before the rest, he still carried it on, though Mr. Driesen himself
soon showed a disposition to profit by the good things set before him,
and took care of the corporeal part of his being at the expense of the
supper.

At length, perceiving such to be the case, Charles Tyrrell ceased;
and, thinking the time long, turned to the door to see if the horses
were not yet put to. Just as he was entering the passage on quitting
the supper-room, the opposite door opened, and a lady came partly out,
bearing a light in her hand. She was turning her head to speak to some
one within the room, and at first all that Charles Tyrrell could see
was a beautiful figure, graceful in every line; but more peculiarly
graceful from the manner in which the head was turned, showing the
beautiful hair, fine, full, and glossy as silk, gathered up into a
knot at the back of the head, from which one or two curls escaped, and
fell upon the fair neck below. The form and the attitude were
beautiful, but that attitude lasted only for a moment; for the first
step of Charles Tyrrell made her turn round, not with any quick and
nervous start, but quietly and slowly, to see who it was so near; and
the moment she had seen the stranger, she withdrew again quietly into
the room and closed the door, probably divining that the members of
the supper party belonging to the stagecoach were about to resume
their journey, and resolving to let them depart ere she proceeded
whithersoever she was going.

The single moment, however, during which she had turned towards him,
had been sufficient to show Charles Tyrrell one of the loveliest faces
he had ever beheld. It is nearly in vain to describe beauty; for the
pen will not trace the same definite lines as the pencil, and the
imagination of those who read will not be fettered down to the
reality, like the imagination of those who see. Nor, indeed, although
Charles obtained a full sight of that beautiful face, was the idea
that he formed of it accurate. He fancied that her eyes were black,
when, in truth, they were deep blue; but that mistake might proceed
from their being shadowed by the great length of the thick black
eyelashes. He fancied, too, that the hair was nearly black, when, in
fact, it was of the rich brown of a chestnut just separated from its
green covering; but that might proceed from its being of a very deep
tint of that brown, and from the position of the light which she
carried.

Every one has felt, and more than one poet besides Lord Byron has
expressed the peculiar sensations which we experience when some bright
and beautiful form crosses our path for a moment, and then leaves us
without our seeing it any more. A shooting star, though but the meteor
of a bright electric night, seems often more brilliant than the orbs
that hold their place crowned with eternal splendour, and Charles
Tyrrell thought that face the most beautiful, that form the most
graceful, that he had ever beheld. There was, besides, a certain
feeling of mystery about her rapid appearance and disappearance. It
seemed to be a vision of loveliness given to him alone. It touched and
woke imagination; and advancing to the door of the inn with very
different thoughts from those which he had come from the supper-room,
he gazed up towards the heavens, all sparkling with their everlasting
fires, and fixing upon one bright planet which had not yet set, but
remained pouring its calm light more tranquilly and equally than the
rest, among all the radiant things that surrounded it, he thought that
it was like her whom he had just seen, and, plunging into the dreams
of fancy, he revelled in sweet reveries till it was time to depart.




CHAPTER IV.


The scenery amid which we are born and brought up, if we remain long
enough therein to have passed that early period of existence on which
memory seems to have no hold, sinks, as it were, into the spirit of
man; twines itself intimately with every thought, and becomes a part
of his being. He can never cast it off, any more than he can cast off
the body in which his spirit acts. Almost every chain of his after
thoughts is linked at some point to the magical circle which bounds
his youth's ideas; and even when latent, and in no degree known, it is
still present, affecting every feeling and every fancy, and giving a
bent of its own to all our words and our deeds.

I have heard a story of a girl who was captive to some Eastern prince,
and wore upon her ancles a light golden ring. She learned to love her
master devotedly, and was as happy as she could be in his love.
Adored, adorned, and cherished, she sat beside him one day in all the
pomp of Eastern state, when suddenly her eye fell upon the golden ring
round her ancle, which custom had rendered so light that she had
forgotten it altogether. The tears instantly rose in her eyes as she
looked upon it, and her lover divining all at once, asked, with a look
of reproach, "Would you be free?" She cast herself upon his bosom and
answered, "Never!"

Thus, often the links that bind us to early scenes and places, in
which we have passed happy or unhappy hours, are unobserved and
forgotten, till some casual circumstance turns our eyes thitherward.
But if any one should ask us whether we would sever that chain, there
is scarcely one fine mind that would not also answer, Never! The
passing of our days may be painful, the early years may be checkered
with grief and care, unkindness and frowns may wither the smiles of
boyhood, and tears bedew the path of youth; yet, nevertheless, when we
stand and look back, in later life, letting Memory hover over the
past, prepared to light where she will, there is no period in all the
space laid out before her over which her wings flutter so joyfully, or
on which she would so much wish to pause, as the times of our youth.
The evils of other days are forgotten; the scenes in which those days
passed are remembered, detached from the sorrows that checkered them,
and the bright misty light of life's first sunrise still gilds the
whole with a glory not its own. It is not alone, however, after long
years have passed away, and crushed out the gall from sorrows endured,
that fine and enchanting feelings are awakened by the scenes in which
our early days have gone by, and that the thrill of association is
felt in all its joyfulness, acting as an antidote to the poisonous
sorrows which often mingle with our cup.

It was so, at least, with Charles Tyrrell as he returned towards the
home of his fathers. The sun rose upon his journey when he was about
twenty miles from home, but still in scenes of which every rood was
familiar to him; and while the first red and blushing hues upon the
eastern sky were changing into the bright and golden splendour that
surrounds the half-risen sun, the road wound out upon the side of a
hill, showing him a wide extent of country to the right, scattered
with many a mound and many a tumulus, each, in general, planted with a
small clump of dark fir-trees, which waved above the conical hillocks
like plumes from the casques of the warriors who now slept beneath.

Beyond that extent again might be beheld long lines of hill and
woodland, broken, before the eye reached the faintest line in the
distance, by a tall, curiously-shaped hill, known by the name of
Harbury Hill, or, as some called it, Harbury Fort, though, to say
sooth, scarcely a vestige of a fort existed there, except the broken
vallum of a Roman camp, on the short sweet grass of which now grazed
some innocent sheep and peaceful cows.

Looking forth, as well as he could, from the window, the eyes of
Charles Tyrrell instantly sought out Harbury Hill, which was, it may
be remembered, within a very short distance of his paternal mansion.
They lighted on it at once; and, notwithstanding all that he had
suffered there, and felt he was still to suffer, a thrill of
satisfaction passed through his bosom, again to behold the well-known
scenes of his early years; the hill, the valley, the wood, the plain,
all glowing in the early light of the morning, which imaged not amiss
the light of youth pouring its lustre through all that surrounds it.
He gazed and enjoyed; and, with an economy of pleasure, which the
harsh lessons of the world had taught him to practise even then, he
enjoyed, perhaps, the more, because he felt that that first glow of
joy was the only pleasure which was likely to be his during his
sojourn there.

All the passengers in the coach were still sound asleep; and after a
glance, which gave him no satisfaction, at the sharp, astute
countenance of Mr. Driesen, he turned away from the fat, unmeaning
faces of the rest, heated with travelling and dirty with a journey,
and continued to gaze at every well-remembered object till the coach
stopped, the horses were unharnessed, and four staid and heavy
animals, but very little like the light blood tits that now gallop
over the ground with the Highflyer behind them, were brought out, and
with somewhat slow and clumsy hands attached to the heavy Blue. The
stopping of the coach roused almost all the inside passengers, and
amid many expressions of wonder at the sun having risen while they
were all asleep, Mr. Driesen put forth his head from the coach window,
commented on the beauty of the morning, and assured Charles Tyrrell
that, though he had been absent but a few months, he would find very
great improvements in the neighbourhood of Harbury Park.

"Indeed," said Charles; "I have not heard of any, either in progress
or contemplation."

"It is nevertheless true," replied Mr. Driesen, "and I may say that I
have had some share therein, for I suggested several of the plans to
your father; and I hear that he is not only executing them, but
greatly improving upon them: I am even now on my way to spend a week
or two at the Park, and see what progress has been made."

"Pray, in what may these improvements consist?" demanded Charles
Tyrrell. "I do not understand how any very considerable improvements
could be made, especially in so short a time."

"You will see, you will see," replied his companion. "But you remember
the old manor-house which your father was at one time talking of
pulling down, and laying out the gardens by the bank of the stream in
meadows?"

"I remember it well," replied Charles Tyrrell, as the words of his
companion called up before his mind the picture of a place where he
had often played in infancy. It was situated in a valley, at the
distance of about three quarters of a mile from his father's dwelling,
with a clear and rapid stream rushing through the green turf of the
lawn. The house was an old house, built of flints, with manifold gable
ends turning in every different direction, but with an air of grave
and quiet antiquity about it all which was pleasant to the
imagination. It was the property of Sir Francis Tyrrell; but the house
in which he dwelt was more convenient and suitable to him in every
respect; and though he had once let the old manor-house, he had
contrived to quarrel so violently with his tenant, that no one could
be found to take it when the lease expired.

It had thus remained uninhabited for many years and on it time had
consequently had the destroying effect which time has on all man's
works, when once they are deprived of the constant superintendence of
his care. It had not, indeed, been totally neglected, but still it had
fallen into decay; and when an occasional servant was sent down to
open the windows and give admission to the healing air and sunshine,
the rooms appeared damp and chilly, while the garden, with less
tendance than was required to keep it up, showed a crop of speedy
grass upon its gravel walks, and a sad luxuriance of weeds.

Nevertheless, Lady Tyrrell loved it, and would often wander thither
with her child and the nurse in the days of Charles's infancy, to
enjoy an hour or two of peace at some distance from her troublous
home. He thus did, indeed, remember it well; and at the very name, the
clear rushing stream seemed to flow on before him, the green lawns to
slope out beneath his feet.

"I remember it well," he said: "but what of it? My father is not going
to pull it down, I hope."

"Oh, no," replied his companion, with a cynical sneer, which he could
not restrain even when speaking of his best friend. "Oh, no! your
mother said she wished he would, and so, of course, he has abandoned
that idea. No; on the contrary, he has repaired and beautified it; has
had all the gardens trimmed and put in order, and made it one of the
sweetest spots in the country."

Charles Tyrrell was surprised; and revolving rapidly in his mind what
could be his father's motive, he was inclined to believe, and the
belief was not unpleasant to him, that his father contemplated a
separation from Lady Tyrrell, and intended to give her the old
manor-house for her dwelling. The belief, we have said, was pleasant
to him; for, notwithstanding some pain and some annoyance which might
still exist, he felt confident that tranquillity and peace, which were
the only objects that Lady Tyrrell could now hope for in life, were
only to be obtained by separating her from him who had inflicted upon
her twenty years of misery.

As one is very much accustomed to do in conversing with one in whom we
have little confidence, and with whom we have few sources of feeling
in common, Charles Tyrrell pondered what he had heard in his own mind
for some moments before he asked any explanation from his companion.
When he had done so, however, and began to doubt, from what he knew of
his father's nature, whether his first solution of the mystery was
correct, he once more turned to his informant and demanded, "Pray what
may be my father's purpose in this new arrangement, do you know?"

"Ay, that you will learn hereafter," replied Mr. Driesen, with a
sententious shake of the head, expressive of all the importance of a
profound but not unpleasant secret. "Ay, that you will learn
hereafter; but you must hear that from your father himself."

Charles Tyrrell had a potent aversion to mysteries of every kind, and
an avowed animosity, not a little mingled with contempt, for those who
made them unnecessarily. To Mr. Driesen's answer, then, he offered not
the slightest rejoinder; and, unwilling to gratify him by letting him
see that his curiosity was excited in the least degree, he instantly
turned the conversation to some indifferent subject, talked of the
weather and the high road, the old heavy Blue coach and the horses
that drew it, and of anything, in short, but that in regard to which
he was really inclined to inquire.

In the mean while the coach rolled on, and bore him nearer and nearer
to his home. At one particular point the road commanded a view of the
old manor-house; and Charles, looking out of the window, saw it
gleaming out from among the trees. Though it was lost again almost
instantly, and he could catch none of the particulars, there was an
indefinable look of freshness about it, an air of renovation, which
showed him that it was greatly changed. A little farther on, the coach
rolled past the lodge, and it, too, had undergone improvement; but
that was not all. There was a servant in mourning livery standing at
the gate, and looking out at the pretty country scene before his eyes
with an expression which seemed to show that the whole scene was new
to him. The suit which he wore showed that he was not a servant of Sir
Francis Tyrrell; but Charles saw the small, keen black eyes of Mr.
Driesen wandering over his face, and he took no more notice than if
the servant had been a post at the gate of some house which he had
never seen before. About three quarters of a mile farther the coach
stopped at the lodge of the Park, and Charles Tyrrell and his
companion alighted, leaving the inside passengers to tell strange
stories of the violent temper and uncontrollable passions which were
considered in that neighbourhood as a part of the inheritance of the
Tyrrell family.

On entering his paternal mansion, Charles found his father apparently
in a more placable mood than usual; but it certainly seemed as if the
coming of Mr. Driesen afforded him greater pleasure than the visit of
his son. His mother was not present; and after spending a few minutes
in the library with Sir Francis Tyrrell, Charles rose to seek his
mother.

"You are in vast haste, Charles," said his father; "but I suppose it
is of great importance that you should make Lady Tyrrell aware how
soon young men at college learn to know everything better than their
father. You can seek her in her own room, where you will most likely
find her."

Charles's lip quivered and his nostril expanded. "I seek my mother,
sir," he replied, with a look of indignation that he could not well
control, "to inquire after her health, and to tell her about mine."
And though some other bitter words sprang up to his lips, he had the
good sense to remember that it was the first day of his return home,
and to repress them before they found utterance.

In order to make sure of his own temper, he left the room at once; but
could hear, as he shut the door, Mr. Driesen's low, sarcastic laugh,
and fancy pictured the figure of his father and the skeptic amusing
themselves with the anger which had been excited in his bosom. He
smothered that anger as far as he could, however, and hoped to leave
no trace of it ere he reached his mother's apartment; but, at all
events, his feelings were, of course, turned into gall and bitterness
by this first occurrence in his father's house.

Lady Tyrrell received him with joy; and as she gazed upon the
countenance of her son, with proud feelings at the noble and manly
aspect which his whole person was beginning to assume, she felt that
there was yet one tie between her and life, one bright spot for
affection to rest upon in the great desert of "this side the grave."
Their meeting was full of tenderness and affection, and in the first
overflowing of their feelings Charles forgot Mr. Driesen, and all that
he had told him of changes, improvements, and plans.

At length, however, after having passed about an hour with his mother
in telling her all that he had done at Oxford, hiding, indeed,
everything that was painful, and only displaying that which was
pleasant, his eye lighted upon his father and the sophist crossing the
lawn before his mother's windows, and slowly walking on towards that
part of the wood through which a tortuous pathway led to the grounds
of the old manor-house. His journey in the coach, and all that had
been said, then rose upon remembrance, and he said, "I forgot, my dear
mother, to tell you that fellow Driesen had come down in the coach
with me."

"I knew he was coming, my dear Charles," replied his mother; "I heard
your father mention it to one of the servants, telling him to get Mr.
Driesen's room ready; for it has gone on till the blue room at the top
of the staircase is called Mr. Driesen's room now."

Charles replied nothing, though his mother paused. After a short time,
Lady Tyrrell went on: "I grieve that that man is so much here,
Charles; he is a dangerous, a bad, and an unprincipled man; and I
should grieve still more if your character were anything but what it
is; but I feel certain that, notwithstanding all his art and all his
eloquence, both of which are undoubtedly very great, Mr. Driesen could
no sooner lead you than he could make oil and water mix."

"Indeed, my dear mother, he could not," replied Charles Tyrrell: "I
know him thoroughly, I think, and dislike him not a little; but still
I shall keep away from him as far as possible; for he is continually
throwing out those sneers at everything that is holy and good; at
religion, at virtue, at feeling, which leave unpleasant impressions;
stains, in fact, which are difficult to efface."

"Do, do avoid him as much as possible, Charles," replied his mother.
"I sincerely believe that the only safeguard against such insidious
serpents is that tendency which nature has given us to avoid them from
our first abhorrence of their doctrines and feelings: I believe,
otherwise, very few would escape them."

"Oh, I do not think that," replied Charles Tyrrell; "I never yet heard
of a strong-built house being knocked down by footballs or beaten to
pieces by peashooters; but the one and the other may break the windows
if they go on too long. At all events, I shall keep out of his way,
because I dislike him. But tell me," he added, "what is this he has
been speaking of, and which must be true from the changes I observed
as I passed? The old manor-house, it seems, is repaired and
beautified, and I saw a servant standing at the lodge: what is the
meaning of all this?"

A smile, sad and thoughtful, but still a smile, came over Lady
Tyrrell's countenance. "It is a plot against you, I fear, my dear
Charles," she replied: "but, still, not one that is likely to be very
dangerous, unless you yield yourself to it. You have heard," she
added, seeing that she had excited her son's surprise, "you have often
heard your father speak of Mr. Effingham, who had a beautiful place in
Northumberland. It was at that house, then Mr. Effingham's father's,
that I first met my husband, and he has two or three times talked of
taking you there."

"I forgot all about it," interrupted Charles Tyrrell; "I remember the
name of Effingham, and hearing that he was my father's cousin, I
think, but nothing more."

"A very distant cousin indeed," replied Lady Tyrrell; "a Scotchman
might call it a close connexion; but we, who have no clans, forget
such cousinships except when it serves our purposes; but, as I was
going to tell you, Mr. Effingham died some months ago, and made your
father his executor. You know how fond he is of projects, and no
sooner did he find that Mr. Effingham had left a large estate somewhat
encumbered, together with a widow and a daughter not yet of age, than
he laid out in his own mind a scheme for bringing them to the old
manor-house, for saving sufficient from the rents to clear off the
encumbrances on the Northumberland estates, and for marrying you, I am
sure, to the daughter."

"Indeed!" said Charles. "I rather suppose that he will find himself
mistaken in his calculations; for, thank God, the time is gone by when
parents had it in their power to marry their sons and daughters to
whomsoever they pleased, and took them to the altar as to a cattle
fair, to sell them to whom they liked. I hope, my dear mother, you
have given no countenance to this scheme?"

"None whatever, Charles," replied his mother, "but quite on the
contrary. I was well aware, my dear boy, that the endeavour to force
anybody upon you was the readiest way to make you take a dislike to a
person whom you might otherwise have chosen for yourself; and,
besides, I had various reasons which made me anything but anxious that
such a marriage should take place. In the first place, I should much
wish you to see a good deal more of the world before you marry at all;
nor do I wish you to marry early. It is not, indeed, so much the
desire of keeping you altogether to myself, for my own comfort and
consolation, as for the sake of your own after happiness and the
happiness of the person you may choose. There are some men who
certainly should marry young, and who are all the happier in after
life for so doing; but such is not the case with your family, Charles.
You should all of you plunge into the world; endure even its sorrows
and its reverses; taste the uses of adversity; encounter
disappointment, care, anxiety, even overthrow and defeat, perhaps, to
take off the keen and fiery impetuosity with which you set out in
life, and never think of marrying till you can deliberately propose to
yourselves to seek in domestic life calmness, peace, tranquillity, and
the reciprocation of equal affection, rather than rule, domination,
and contention."

Charles Tyrrell was silent for several moments. He felt that what his
mother said was true in some degree, and yet there was a good deal in
it that mortified him. He loved her too well, however; he appreciated
her motives too well; he was of too frank and candid a nature to
suffer any mortification he felt to appear harshly.

"My dear mother," he said, in a melancholy tone, "I think, if you knew
all that I have felt, you would judge that I have had disappointments
and griefs enough in seeing my mother's unhappiness, and living in a
house of strife, to trample down, even from my infancy, great part of
those strong passions that you fear."

Lady Tyrrell shook her head, and Charles went on. "Well, well, my
dear mother, it does not signify; at all events, I am very glad that
you have given no encouragement to this scheme of my father's; for,
depend upon it, it must and will fail."

"I would have encouraged it on no account whatsoever," replied Lady
Tyrrell; "I should have thought it unjust and wrong in every respect;
but I am sorry to say that it has been the cause of as bitter a
quarrel between myself and your father as ever occurred, and they have
been but too many. He wished me to write and invite Mrs. Effingham
here; but I would not do so. I had never seen her, for Mr. Effingham
was not married when I was last at his father's house; and as your
father had often spoken of Mrs. Effingham as of a weak, poor-minded
person, with whom he did not wish me to keep up any acquaintance, of
course I never made the attempt; but I could not be expected suddenly
to turn round and affect great regard for persons I had never seen,
and towards whom I had shown some neglect. If, immediately after Mr.
Effingham's death, your father had asked me to write, and, as a matter
of kindness, invited Mrs. Effingham here for change of scene, I would
have done it with pleasure; but when it was to press her to come
hither after two or three months had elapsed, and to say everything I
could in my letter to forward a scheme I disapproved, of course I
endeavoured to avoid doing so; and on my showing the least reluctance,
your father took fire, and spoke and acted as you can conceive. He has
scarcely ever opened his lips to me since, except, indeed, the other
day, when he informed me that he himself had written to Mrs.
Effingham, and that she had accepted his invitation, which, of course,
did not raise her very high in my opinion. All the other arrangements
were concluded too, I find; so that she has taken the manor, and is
about to reside there with her daughter till Lucy becomes of age, and
is, consequently, no longer under your father's guardianship.
Everything will be prepared to receive them there in about ten days.
In the mean time, they come here before the end of the week; what day
I do not well know, as I have not been informed. I shall treat them,
of course, with kindness and civility, and trust you will do the same;
for your father has the fullest right to expect that at our hands,
though I cannot write hypocritically pressing invitations to people
that I not wish to see."

The impression produced on the mind of Charles Tyrrell by the account
which his mother gave him, was certainly anything but pleasant in
regard to Mistress and Miss Effingham; and certain it is that,
although he, as well as Lady Tyrrell, made up their minds to perform
every external act of civility, yet there was a predetermination on
the part of both to make that civility so cold and icy as to cut short
every project of an alliance with one whom they were resolved to
dislike.

Their conversation then turned to other subjects, on which it is not
necessary to dwell; and the only thing which occurred further between
the mother and son worthy of remark, was, that Charles Tyrrell, who
had always entertained a great antipathy to the name of Lucy, took
pains to repeat it with particular emphasis whenever the conversation
returned to Mistress and Miss Effingham.

In the evening Lady Tyrrell came down to dinner, which she had not
done for several days before; and willing to make her son's return
home as cheerful as she could, she restrained, as far as possible,
every appearance of bearing in mind the dispute between her husband
and herself, though it had thrown her into a fit of illness. Acting on
the same principle, she suffered Mr. Driesen to take her unresisting
hand, and in reply to several speeches, which he purposely rendered
extravagantly gallant, she uttered some civil words, of course.

Sir Francis, in the course of his walk, seemed to have been tutored to
politeness by Mr. Driesen, and both to his wife and son behaved with
an unusual degree of courteousness, though the very nature and
constitution of his mind prevented him from abstaining altogether from
an occasional sneer or sarcasm. In fact, his very politeness savoured
thereof, and there was nine times out of ten as much bitter as sweet
in everything he said.

On the whole, however, the evening passed over more pleasantly than
usual; and though both Lady Tyrrell and her son were well aware that
no real change for the better had taken place, they were only too
anxious to protract, as long as possible, the temporary suspension of
strife and irritation. It was to be remarked, too, that every time Mr.
Driesen found Sir Francis Tyrrell touching upon dangerous ground, he
skilfully contrived to draw him away, by throwing some new element
into the conversation of such a kind as he knew Sir Francis Tyrrell
would dash at, forgetful of what went before. Thus the whole party
were, in fact, in a much more placable mood, when the rush of a
carriage wheels was heard indistinctly through the open doors, and a
loud peal upon the bell called the servants to the gate.




CHAPTER V.


Sir Francis Tyrrell heard the sounds, but, for a moment, took no
farther notice of them than by raising his eyes, with a meaning look,
to the countenance of Driesen, who was sitting at a little distance,
in an attitude which he was very fond of, when busy in propounding
some of his own speculative opinions, which he knew were likely to
sound harsh in the ears of some of the persons present. It was an
attitude entirely composed of angles, one knee nearly up to his chin,
which was itself long and pointed, one arm thrust behind his back, the
other bent into a sharp angle to support his head, and his whole body
leaning forward, with his under jaw a little protruding. Charles
Tyrrell used to say, when he saw him in this attitude, that he was
knotted into a theorem; but, nevertheless, the attitude, which was
beyond all doubt studied, was not without its effect upon those who
saw it, from its very extravagance.

He also heard the carriage, and stopped in the midst of a disquisition
which he was addressing to Sir Francis, as to whether the religion of
the Greeks and Romans was not more rational than Christianity. Lady
Tyrrell was working and hearing as little as possible, and Charles
Tyrrell sat by his mother drawing a flower for her embroidery, and
from time to time addressing her in a low voice, with a running
comment upon Driesen's discourse, which certainly would not have
gratified that gentleman to hear.

Lady Tyrrell heard the carriage like the rest, and was the first to
speak upon the subject. The feeling that it was impossible to avoid
the daily strife with her husband had engendered carelessness, but not
awe; his tyranny having, like all other tyranny, taught her, to
resist.

"There is the sound of a carriage," she said, fixing her eyes full
upon her husband. "Do you expect any company to-night, Sir Francis."

"To-night or to-morrow," replied Sir Francis, "I expect Mrs. and Miss
Effingham, Lady Tyrrell."

He was about to add something bitter; but as he particularly wished
that Lady Tyrrell should not show towards his new guests any distaste
for their society, he commanded himself sufficiently to stop short.
Nor was it unusual with him, indeed, so to do; for he was one of those
who loved the condition better than the reputation of a domestic
tyrant, and, when any strangers were present, he contrived, as far as
possible, to veil the natural badness of his temper under the garb of
formal courtesy towards his wife and son.

Lady Tyrrell thought that it might have been as well to inform her
that such guests were so speedily expected, and she had every
inclination either to say so, or to quit the room and leave Sir
Francis to receive them himself. She looked at her son, however, and
one or two ideas crossed her mind which prevented her from giving way
to a wrong impulse. She recollected that a painful scene might be the
consequence between Sir Francis and herself. She recollected that it
was the first day of her son's return, and that such a scene might, on
that very day, call up one of those bitter quarrels between father and
son which she had more than once seen take place on her account. She
remembered, too, the purposes with which she had set out in married
life, and the efforts which she had often made to conquer harshness by
gentleness, and overcome bad conduct by good. However ineffectual she
had found it, she resolved once more to try the more generous course,
and in everything to act towards Mrs. Effingham as a lady, with
courtesy if she could not affect kindness.

Lady Tyrrell laid down her work and rose. Sir Francis frowned, not
knowing what was to follow; but she said, "If you think that is Mrs.
Effingham. Sir Francis, I had better go out to receive her,
considering that she is a stranger, and come from a long journey."

The face of Sir Francis Tyrrell changed in a moment, and Charles's
heart smote him for not having felt at once what was the conduct which
his mother ought to pursue. Lady Tyrrell moved towards the door, which
was, as we have said, partly open; but, before she reached it, the
servant threw it wide, announcing Mrs. Effingham.

The next moment that lady entered, and certainly bore nothing in her
appearance which could inspire any feeling of coldness or dislike. She
was tall, though not quite so tall as Lady Tyrrell, and dressed in
widow's mourning; but the close cap and the dull crape could not
conceal that she was very beautiful. Yes, even yet, though past the
season of youth, extremely beautiful. Her hair, which had once been
bright and glossy as woven sunbeams, was now, indeed, carefully
hidden; but there were the fine, straight features; the calm,
expressive eyes; broad, clear forehead; the beautiful mouth and fine
teeth; the oval face, which was not without the expression of sorrow;
but even sorrow as well as time had treated it leniently. She was
entering a strange house, to meet people only one of whom she had ever
seen before, under circumstances very different from those to which
she had been accustomed; but yet there was a grave calmness about her
which seemed to say, "Wrapped up in deeper thoughts and feelings, I
set all trifling inconveniences at defiance."

There was something in her appearance which--why or wherefore she
could scarcely tell--changed Lady Tyrrell's feelings to her in a
moment, not entirely, indeed, but in a very great degree. What was it
that she expected to see in Mrs. Effingham? It was, in fact, anything
but what she did see. It was a gay widow, that darkest and most
anomalous of all natural chimeras. Now, the whole of Mrs. Effingham's
appearance bespoke her the very reverse. There was not the slightest
trickery about her dress. It was the plain, unbecoming dress of the
widow, as unbecoming as it could be rendered. There was no affectation
about her manner. It was sad even under an effort to be cheerful. She
smiled, indeed, but it was the ripple over a dark, deep sea, and Lady
Tyrrell found that she had misconstrued her husband's words, or that
they had pictured Mrs. Effingham very ill. She instantly extended her
hand to her.

Mrs. Effingham took it quietly, saying, "Lady Tyrrell, I suppose;"
but, by this time, Sir Francis Tyrrell had advanced, and he now
proceeded not only to welcome his fair guest, but to introduce her and
Lady Tyrrell to each other with formal courtesy and politeness. The
introduction of his son followed; but almost at the same moment Lady
Tyrrell asked, "Where is Miss Effingham? Has she not accompanied you?"

"She is speaking with her maid," replied Mrs. Effingham, "and will be
here immediately. I have been lately somewhat of an invalid, and
therefore came in from the night air at once."

Charles Tyrrell was young, and hesitated whether he should or should
not go out to the carriage door to meet Miss Effingham. He would have
done so to any other person; but the hint which Lady Tyrrell had given
him of the purposes of his father, and a doubt whether those purposes
might not be suspected or known both by Mrs. Effingham and her
daughter, made him hesitate. That hesitation was increased by seeing
the eyes of Mrs. Effingham fixed steadfastly upon him, with some
degree of surprise, perhaps, but still with a scrutinizing and
examining look.

A hint from his mother, however, made him turn towards the door for
the purpose of doing what was courteous, at all events; and as soon as
he had left the room, Mrs. Effingham said, in some surprise to Sir
Francis, "I thought your son was much younger! He seems two or
three-and-twenty. I fancied him much younger than Lucy."

A well-pleased smile came over the countenance of Lady Tyrrell, and
Sir Francis answered, "That was, I suppose, because, in writing, I
called him _the boy_; but that is only a form of speech, you know. He
is not of age, yet, however, thank Heaven, for I am sure he is not fit
to take care of himself. Few men have sufficient wit to keep
themselves from running their head against a wall till they are thirty
at least. Permit me, madam, to introduce my friend Mr. Driesen;
though, I believe, you already are acquainted with him."

Mrs. Effingham drew herself up, saying coldly, "I have had the honour
of seeing Mr. Driesen before."

That gentleman, however, was not one easily repelled, and throughout
the whole of that night he devoted himself assiduously to paying court
to the fair widow. Whatever were her feelings towards him, whatever
was her opinion of his character, it cannot but be acknowledged that
she, as well as others on whom he chose to employ his art, was
compelled to listen, and could not help finding something agreeable in
his conversation, for he was one of those endowed with the rare power
called eloquence. It is true that he misemployed one of the noblest
gifts of Heaven; but still he possessed it, and by means of it he
could sweeten the poison he was too fond of offering to others.

While the brief conversation which we have noticed was taking place,
however, Charles Tyrrell had left the drawing-room, and proceeded
through the glass doors which separated the inner corridors from the
entrance hall, thinking to himself, with that injustice which
naturally follows prepossession, either for or against, "This young
lady seems to be giving herself vast trouble to ensure the safety of
her caps and bonnets."

As he entered the vestibule, however, he saw the person he sought
speaking eagerly to one who seemed her maid, while a man-servant in a
travelling dress held up a long basket, such as plants are sometimes
carried in, and two or three of the servants stood round and assisted.
He heard, at the same time, a sweet, musical voice, which was not
altogether strange to him, saying, "I hope they are not broke,
Margaret. You know how fond my mother is of them, and I would rather
that anything else had been injured than these flowers."

"There is but one of them hurt, Miss Lucy," said the man-servant; "and
I will get some of the people to show me the way down to the house
to-morrow morning, so as to have them planted at once."

Lucy Effingham examined the plants for a moment, and then telling the
man to do as he proposed, turned round to enter the house. She had not
remarked the approach of Charles Tyrrell, and he had remained a step
behind her, waiting till she had given her orders. In the time that
had elapsed, however, he had made a discovery by the tone of her
voice, which, it must be acknowledged, was not at all unpleasant to
him. When she did turn round, therefore, he was not at all surprised
to see the face and form of the young lady he had seen the night
before at the pretty little inn of Hertford Bridge. Lucy, on her part,
did not recognise him; for on the preceding evening she had seen him
but for a single instant, and had withdrawn and shut the door before
she was conscious of anything except that there was some stranger
going along the passage.

Throughout life we are constantly holding long conversations without
saying a word, for the expression of the countenance is just as much a
language as that which hangs upon our tongue; and though the one and
the other are often equally deceitful, yet we are constantly
endeavouring to correct the falsehood and mistakes of either by the
commentary of the other.

Charles Tyrrell instantly saw that she did not recollect in the least
having seen him on the preceding night; but she saw that he knew who
she was and that he seemed very well pleased to see her; and she
therefore gathered from that circumstance that he was Sir Francis
Tyrrell's son, though there was certainly four years difference
between his real age and that which she had fancied it to be, and at
least six in appearance. Charles Tyrrell bowed, and, though he saw it
was unnecessary, informed her who he was, and then led her to the
drawing-room, where his mother received her kindly.

A strange house, strange people, and a novel situation in every
respect, of course, had their effect upon a young and inexperienced
girl, who, though not precisely of the character which is called
timid, was yet naturally modest and retiring in all her feelings, and
full of high and noble principles, which would, if called upon, have
enabled her to take a strong, a vigorous part in any situation of
difficulty. She was, however, grave and reserved through the greater
part of the evening, and till they retired to rest Charles Tyrrell did
not hear again that cheerful tone which had struck his ear in the inn
at Hertford Bridge.

Lady Tyrrell accompanied her guests to their apartments, and Charles
remained a moment or two before he himself retired to his own room. To
him his father made no observation; but, almost as soon as the ladies
were gone, he turned to Mr. Driesen, saying, "She is very beautiful
indeed."

"Which do you mean," demanded Mr. Driesen; "the mother or the
daughter?"

"Oh, I meant the daughter, of course," replied Sir Francis: "I had
seen the mother often before; but I had no idea that Lucy, whom I
remember a plain child, would have turned out so beautiful."

"She puts me in mind," said Mr. Driesen, in reply, "of a piece of
French porcelain, all rosy, red, and clear white, and ultramarine
blue."

There was a sneer upon his lip as he spoke, and Charles Tyrrell, who
felt the simile to be unjust in everything but the mere terms,
inasmuch as nothing could be more beautifully shaded and harmonized
than the colouring of Lucy Effingham's complexion, turned round and
quitted the drawing-room.

Immediately after he was gone, Sir Francis proceeded to read Mr.
Driesen a lecture upon the impolicy of decrying Lucy Effingham's
beauty, knowing, so well as he did, the project formed for uniting her
to his son. "I can tell you, Driesen," he added, "that young man is
harder to deal with than you know; to use the late King of Spain's
expression, 'he is as obstinate as an Aragonese mule.'"

"My dear sir, he is your son!" replied Mr. Driesen, with a cynical
bow; "but, begging your pardon, I said what I did quite advisedly. She
is a great deal too pretty for him to acknowledge the justice of what
I said. He is even now gone up to his room, not only excessively angry
at me for saying it, but thinking Lucy Effingham ten times as
beautiful as he did the minute before, simply because I compared her
to a French flowerpot. He will, in all probability, dream of her all
night, and will rise to-morrow morning fully prepared to tilt his wit
against mine in her defence."

"Perhaps you are right," replied Sir Francis Tyrrell, "though you
concealed your meaning so well that I did not perceive it: Latet
anguis in herbâ Driesen, eh? I did not perceive the reptile under the
flowerpot, though I might have known, too, that there must be a snake
under any flowers that you choose to cull;" and thus, having repaid
him for the rejoinder to the Aragonese mule, Sir Francis Tyrrell
wished him good-night, and they mutually retired.

Mr. Driesen went up to his room; saw that everything was comfortable
for the night; put his two feet upon the hobs by the side of the fire,
and made some calculation on a piece of paper resting on his knee. He
then took down, from a corner in which he had placed it when he
unpacked his baggage, Hobbes's Leviathan, without which he never
travelled; varied it with an article out of Bayle; added a page or two
of Petronius, and then, upon the comfortable doctrines he had imbibed,
went to bed and slept.

On the following morning, Lady Tyrrell sent her maid to inform Mrs.
Effingham that, having a violent headache, she was compelled, as the
only means of removing it, to remain in bed. In truth, the arrival of
her son and of unexpected guests had excited her more than usual, and
her health was so shattered by anxiety, grief, and disappointment,
that a very little agitation had a serious effect upon her.

The morning was thus passed by Mrs. Effingham and her daughter with
the three gentlemen only; and on Sir Francis proposing to walk through
the grounds to visit the old manor-house, Mrs. Effingham declined, but
said her daughter would go, while she herself would visit Lady Tyrrell
in her own room.

Sir Francis took the hint that had been given by Mr. Driesen the night
before, and having fancied that his son was somewhat struck by the
beauty of Lucy Effingham, and was inclined to court her society, he
determined to throw a few obstacles in the way, and declared that he
would have the young lady's company all to himself, so that Charles
and Mr. Driesen might amuse themselves the best way they could.

While he and Lucy set off through the woods to the manor-house, Mrs.
Effingham having sent to inquire whether Lady Tyrrell could receive
her without increasing her headache, proceeded to her room, and we
shall beg leave to accompany her thither, as the conversation between
the two was not without importance; and it is the only one which,
perhaps, it may be necessary to record, as a specimen of many which
afterward took place between those ladies.

Mrs. Effingham proceeded calmly to Lady Tyrrell's bedside, and sat
down in a chair which was placed for her by the maid, who then
retired. She asked kindly after Lady Tyrrell's health, and told her
that Sir Francis and her daughter had gone to the manor-house. There
was something in her manner which, without the slightest affectation
of so doing, displayed towards Lady Tyrrell a feeling of tenderness
and interest which touched that lady's heart, and won very much upon
her regard, though it was impossible to say in what consisted the
charm to which she was so willing to yield.

After she had spoken of several other things, and found that Lady
Tyrrell appreciated and understood her character, at all events, in
some degree, she added, "I have taken this opportunity of speaking to
you, my dear Lady Tyrrell, because I do not know when I may have
another opportunity of conversing with you alone for any length of
time; and yet, as what I have to say is a matter of some interest, I
almost fear that it may make you worse if I go on, though it ought to
be said at once, as we are placed in a relative position towards each
other which makes it necessary that we should understand each other
from the beginning."

"Go on, my dear madam, go on," replied Lady Tyrrell; "there is nothing
I love so much as frankness and sincerity; and I am so much accustomed
to bear ill health and to undergo much more painful excitements, while
suffering sickness, than any your conversation can produce, that I
have no fear of your making my headache worse, and even trust that
your conversation may have another effect."

Mrs. Effingham paused for a moment and looked upon the ground. "You
have so plainly alluded, my dear madam," she said at length, "to
matters which I dare scarcely have ventured to touch upon, that I may
now say, I trust my being here in your neighbourhood may perhaps
afford you some comfort and consolation. I do not mean that the vain
hope of doing so induced me to accept your husband's invitation to
this house, even although that invitation was not ratified by your
own."

Lady Tyrrell turned a little red as Mrs. Effingham touched at once so
distinctly on her not having written herself, especially as she felt
that it would be impossible to meet the apparent candour with which
that lady treated her, by explaining the motives which had induced her
so to act. Mrs. Effingham went on, however, without apparently
noticing the embarrassment of her hostess.

"I had many important reasons," she said, "for accepting that
invitation and coming hither; but, believe me, Lady Tyrrell, that the
thought of being a companion and consolation to you, strange as it may
seem, had no slight share in my determination. In the first place, let
me inform you, that my late husband, whom I revered and respected, as
perhaps you know"--she spoke with perfect calmness--"requested me,
upon his deathbed, when the eyes of the only one I ever loved were
closing for ever, to accept the invitation, which he doubted not I
should receive, to spend some time in this place. It was as a command
to me, Lady Tyrrell, which I could by no means disobey. In the next
place, I was very anxious to quit that part of the country for a time
on two accounts, the strongest of which I will explain to you
afterward; the other was personal, I believe I might say, selfish.
There are some people who linger fondly in scenes where they have
spent happy hours with persons who are lost to them: it seems to
recall the happiness without the loss; to me it daily recalls the loss
without the happiness; and though I struggled hard against what I felt
to be a weakness, yet both the weakness and the struggle undermined my
health, which had already suffered. Then, again, my late husband had
the highest confidence in the honour and integrity of Sir Francis
Tyrrell."

"His honour and integrity," said Lady Tyrrell, "and even his
generosity, where neither passions nor prejudices are concerned, Mrs.
Effingham, may be fully relied on. God forbid that I should not give
my husband his full due."

"I am sure you would, my dear Lady Tyrrell," replied her companion.
"My husband knew him well; his faults, his failings, and his good
qualities; and he told me, that although not the wealth of a Cr[oe]sus
or the power of an emperor would have made him give his sister or his
daughter to be the wife of Sir Francis Tyrrell, yet he could put his
wife and daughter confidently under his charge and direction, and with
the more confidence, inasmuch as Sir Francis held a considerable
mortgage upon his estate, which he believed would only act as a bond
to make him treat them more nobly and guide them more carefully."

The words of Mrs. Effingham put the character of Sir Francis Tyrrell
to his wife in somewhat of a new light, or, at all events, in a light
which had not shone upon it for many years, and her eyes filled with
tears, called up by many mingled emotions.

"Doubtless, you remember my husband well," continued Mrs. Effingham,
"for he knew and esteemed you highly, I can assure you, though he had
not seen you since your marriage; but there was a conviction upon his
mind that yours was the last character on earth to cope with such a
temper as that of Sir Francis; who required, he thought, one almost as
vehement, quite as determined, and somewhat more calm than his own.
Such he knew that you were not, and there was a conviction upon his
mind that--"

"That I was unhappy," said Lady Tyrrell, calmly, as she saw Mrs.
Effingham hesitate.

"At all events, that you might require and appreciate some
consolation," said Mrs. Effingham. "Among the last things that he said
to me were, 'I wish you could be near her; you might mutually support
and console each other after I am gone;' and therefore it was that I
first proposed to your husband to seek for me a house in this
neighbourhood; accepted gladly what he proposed, when he offered to
repair and let to me, what I hear is a very beautiful place, in the
immediate vicinity, and did not refuse when he invited me to spend a
week or ten days here, although Lady Tyrrell did not confirm the
invitation."

"Lady Tyrrell was, perhaps, very wrong not to do so," said the
invalid; "but many circumstances prevented me from doing what, I
sincerely assure you, I regret not to have done. Those circumstances
would be tedious to explain, and even painful; for to do so would
compel me to enter into the private particulars of the state of this
house, which perhaps you may learn, ere long, by your own observation,
but upon which I cannot myself dwell."

"Say not a word, my dear Lady Tyrrell," replied Mrs. Effingham. "It is
very possible that even Sir Francis Tyrrell himself, when he made the
invitation, was not well aware whether he should regret it or not; for
when I last saw him, on his visit to Northumberland several years ago,
I do not know that we were the best friends in the world. It was with
great difficulty that my husband could make me believe, that a man who
professed to have little or no religion, except of a very vague and
unsatisfactory nature, could be an upright, honest, and honourable
man. I was wrong, I know; and he, on his part, was wrong too. Because
I put forth, perhaps with a good deal of the vanity of youth--I was
young then--somewhat more than necessary of my religious opinions in
the presence of one I knew to be a skeptic and believed to be an
infidel, he thought me a foolish fanatic, as well as a very
disagreeable person. Those religious feelings, Lady Tyrrell, however,
have since been more withdrawn into my own heart. I feel them more
deeply than ever: I thence derive the only consolation that I know.
They make me cheerful under sadness, and give me happiness because
they render hope immortal; but I have since learned, that to display
those feelings too frequently or obtrusively is a vanity which cannot
be pleasing to God, and must naturally be offensive to man."

Lady Tyrrell held out her hand to her. "I will acknowledge, my dear
Mrs. Effingham," she said, "that I must have sadly misconstrued some
of my husband's expressions in regard to you, and I thank you for all
your candour and your confidence. Depend upon it, I will return it
with pleasure and with comfort to myself."

"I thought so from what I saw of you last night," said Mrs. Effingham;
"but I had determined, nevertheless, whatever might be your character,
to explain to you frankly and straightforwardly why I came without
your invitation. I must now, however, come to another part of the
subject, more difficult, and, perhaps, more disagreeable to treat of."

"Indeed!" said Lady Tyrrell, with some alarm. "Pray what may that be?"

"It is in regard to your son and my daughter," said Mrs. Effingham.

Lady Tyrrell smiled; but she was as much wrong in her present
conclusions as she had been in her former ones.

"I have been entirely mistaken," continued Mis. Effingham, "in regard
to your son's age; I had thought, I do not well know why, that he was
not more than fifteen or sixteen, and I cannot let Lucy be here even
for the short time that we are to stay, nor be so intimate in the
house after we have removed to the manor, as I hope we shall be,
without being straightforward and candid on that subject also. I
mentioned that there were two motives which induced me to wish to
leave Northumberland."

"Good God!" exclaimed Lady Tyrrell, raising herself in bed. "Your
daughter is in love with somebody there." And she felt strangely at
that moment what a perverse thing is human nature. Not two days
before, all her feelings would have been different on hearing that
Lucy Effingham was either engaged to, or in love with, somebody in
Northumberland; but now, although she would not admit even to herself
that she absolutely wished her to marry Charles Tyrrell, yet she was
disappointed to think that such a thing was out of the question.

Mrs. Effingham, however, after a moment's pause, replied, "Not
exactly, my dear Lady Tyrrell; I do not mean to say that Lucy is
absolutely in love with anybody; but there is a young gentleman in
that neighbourhood who is certainly desperately in love with her. What
are Lucy's feelings on the subject I have never inquired; because both
her father and myself were resolved, from the first, to set our face
against such a marriage; and, having determined to reject it without
any appeal to her, judged it would be unkind and unjust to enter upon
the subject with her at all, as nothing that she could have said, or
any one else could have said, could by any chance have shaken our
resolution."

"Some person, I suppose," said Lady Tyrrell, "inferior to herself in
circumstances and station?"

"Not exactly," replied Mrs. Effingham; "at least, not so inferior as
to have proved an objection in her father's eyes or mine, had it not
been for other circumstances. His father, Colonel Hargrave, is a man
of small fortune, and, I believe, not very high connexions; but he is
a gentleman, and a good though a weak man. His eldest son, who is
married, is a clergyman; but his second son, who is in the navy, is in
every respect objectionable; rash, wild, licentious, unprincipled. He
was early sent to sea, from his ungovernableness at home; but the
experiment only made bad worse. However, he was absent from our part
of the country, and we did not hear of many of his proceedings till
his return. Before we were aware of all the facts, he had seen Lucy
frequently, both at his mother's house, at ours, and at other houses
in the neighbourhood. But his reputation speedily followed him into
Northumberland. We found that he had been in no place without leaving
a bad character behind him; and that not alone of a wild and heedless
young man of strong passions, but of a heartless, unfeeling debauchee;
who was, besides, without any principle in affairs where money was
concerned. He could not be exactly called a swindler, but approached
as near that character as possible without bringing himself under the
arm of the law, and he had very nearly ruined his father to free him
from the consequences of his own extravagances and misconduct."

"But surely," said Lady Tyrrell, "your daughter, who seems so gentle
and amiable, could never love a man of such a character."

"I do not know, Lady Tyrrell," said Mrs. Effingham, shaking her head;
"women frequently love the people most opposite to themselves, not
alone in person and tastes, but often, too often, in moral qualities.
He is very handsome, too, and extremely prepossessing in his manners.
To listen to his conversation, you would think him an angel of light,
though I have heard that now and then, in all societies, the evil
spirit breaks forth and shows himself. He took care, however, of
course, to conceal his real character as far as possible from Lucy;
but I find that even then he could not govern his evil propensities so
far as not to behave in such a manner in one of the neighbouring
houses as to get himself heartily cudgelled by a servant, whose sister
he attempted to seduce. One could not offend Lucy's ears by entering
into all the particulars of such affairs, and, consequently, the means
Mr. Effingham took were to shut the doors of our house against him. He
then demanded an explanation, which you can conceive was complete and
final; but he behaved in so violent and outrageous a manner, that Mr.
Effingham, who was even then very ill, was obliged to ring and order
the servants to show him to the door.

"Of this latter part Lucy was aware; but her father's illness rapidly
increased, and his death soon followed, so that she had sufficient
matter of a painful kind to occupy all her thoughts. The young man was
absent from the neighbourhood at the time, afraid, in fact, of being
arrested for a debt. His father has since paid it, and he returned
about a month ago. He has since been seen hovering round the house,
and one time even left a card and inquired for the family. Lucy has
never mentioned his name to me since; but I was at all events, very
glad to quit that part of the country. When, however, my dear Lady
Tyrrell, I came here and found your son so much older than I had
thought, I felt instantly that it would not be just to you to remain
without letting you know exactly how we are circumstanced. Even making
deduction for a mother's fondness, it cannot be denied that Lucy is
very beautiful, and it seems to me that she is very engaging also. It
by no means follows, indeed, that any evil consequences should result;
but I have but done what is right in laying the facts exactly before
you."

Lady Tyrrell thanked her a thousand times: she saw that Mrs. Effingham
had acted a generous and honourable part towards her; that she was one
of those in whom she might repose the fullest confidence, and that all
her preconceived opinions regarding her were wrong. She was most happy
now that Mrs. Effingham had come to their neighbourhood. She felt that
there was a person near of whom she could make a friend; who could
give her solace, consolation, and advice; but yet, in the present
instance, she could not immediately respond to the frank and candid
statement of her guest in the way she would have wished; for, to say
the truth, she was in doubt as to what her own conduct ought to be,
and she plunged into a train of thought without making any reply; a
habit which very naturally grows upon persons accustomed to seclusion,
and frequently cast back upon their own reflections for guidance and
support.

Her conviction, from the conversation which had taken place, was, that
Mrs. Effingham felt perfectly sure that Lucy's heart had been engaged
by this young man of whom she had spoken, and there was something in
her maternal pride and love for her son--the only object of her pride
and affection for many years--which made her unwilling that her
Charles should be the second in any one's affection, even supposing
that Lucy's first love for this young man could be utterly
obliterated. From what she knew of her son also, from the character
and appearance of Lucy Effingham, and from the near proximity in which
they were placed, she believed that that young lady was the person, of
all others she had ever seen, to whom Charles was most likely to
become attached; and after pondering for several minutes in silence,
all that she could say to Mrs. Effingham was, that, if it were
possible, she should much like to give her son intimation of the fact
which she had just learned.

Mrs. Effingham in turn thought for a minute or two, and then replied,
"Do so, Lady Tyrrell; tell him all that I have told you, but pray tell
him nothing more; for I have spoken exactly as I mean, and given you a
true picture of my own impressions on the subject."

Lady Tyrrell did tell him that very afternoon, not long after Mrs.
Effingham had left her; but she certainly went beyond what Mrs.
Effingham had intended; for, impressed with the full conviction that
Lucy was attached to Arthur Hargrave, she conveyed that impression to
her son as a matter of certainty.

The effect of this communication upon Charles Tyrrell was not such as
his mother expected, or the reader may expect to find. It seemed to
take a load from him; to relieve his mind from a burden, and his
manners from a restraint. So long as he had imagined that Lucy was
brought there for him to fall in love with, he had felt fettered in
every word and in every action, lest he should convey to herself a
false impression of his views and motives. But the moment he was told
that she was attached to another, all such impressions were done away.
He resumed his usual character and conduct, and all he felt towards
Lucy was admiration for her beauty, fondness for her society, and a
sort of tender compassion for the disappointment of one so young and
so deserving. But he thought to himself as he had often thought
before, "I could never be content with a heart, the first fresh
feelings of which have been given to another."




CHAPTER VI.


We must allow two or three days for the imagination of the reader to
fancy all that took place in the development of the various characters
of those assembled at Harbury Park to the eyes of each other. In those
two or three days considerable progress had been made in showing to
Mrs. Effingham and Lucy the state of existence of Sir Francis Tyrrell,
his wife, and his son. The father, though he still put some restraint
upon himself, had lost the first effect of the presence of strangers,
and given full way, both towards Lady Tyrrell and Charles, to the
bitter and sarcastic spirit which showed itself at all times, even
when the more violent excesses of his passionate nature were under
control. The tears were too much accustomed to rush into Lady
Tyrrell's eyes not to find their way there easily, and she had two or
three times quitted the room to prevent them from overflowing in the
presence of her guests.

Charles, on every account, had restrained himself as far as possible,
and had done so always when he himself was assailed; but when the
attack was levelled at his mother, even the presence of others could,
not prevent his eyes from flashing and his lip from quivering, in a
manner that startled and alarmed both Lucy and Mrs. Effingham.

When he was alone with them he was all that was kind and gentle,
without making any effort whatsoever to conceal the quick and hasty
disposition which was certainly his. Lucy then seemed well pleased in
his society; for she was gay and cheerful, though with an occasional
degree of gravity, which never suffered him to forget what Lady
Tyrrell had told him. When they were all in the society of his father,
however, the very apprehension which she entertained of some quarrel,
seemed to make her regard him with greater interest. Her eyes were
frequently upon him, and she appeared in those moments, when he was
excited by, and struggling with, the strong passions of his nature, to
look upon him with a degree of awe.

Thus the matter had proceeded till the party had been assembled at
Harbury Park for four days. On the evening of that day it was
determined, that on the following morning, if fine, as Sir Francis was
to be engaged with his Court Baron, Lady Tyrrell and Mrs. Effingham,
neither of whom were competent to much exertion, should go down to the
manor-house and make various arrangements there; while Lucy,
accompanied by Charles, and under the safe conduct of Mr. Driesen,
should proceed on horseback to the seaside (the nearest point of which
lay at about four miles from the house), and take a canter along the
sands.

The morning, when it arrived, was as beautiful as it could be, and
everything was prepared to set out, when it was found that one of the
horses wanted shoeing, and the delay of nearly an hour took place. Mr.
Driesen consoled himself with some of his favourite studies, while
Charles and Lucy stood in the conservatory, whiling away the time by
talking over what the Latin poet, with a sort of prophetical
inspiration of an Irish bull, has happily expressed by words which may
be rendered "everything in the universe and a little besides." At
length the impediment was obviated, the horses brought round, and the
party set out for the seaside.

Charles was an excellent horseman; and Mr. Driesen, though in figure
resembling the prongs of a carving fork, was by no means otherwise
than a good rider. Indeed, he excelled in most exercises. He was a
skilful fisherman, and a good shot; and whatever he did, was done with
such quiet ease, that it was evidently the result of long and early
practice. Lucy also rode uncommonly well, and the whole party felt the
exhilaration of beautiful weather, rapid motion, and command over the
noblest beast in the creation.

The seashore was soon reached, and the sands were still uncovered,
although a slight mistake about the time of tide, and the delay which
had occurred ere they set out, had kept them so late that the sea was
beginning to flow in. The coast, however, was by no means a dangerous
one, so that there was no chance whatsoever of such an awful scene
occurring as is depicted in the most beautiful and interesting of
modern novels, called "Reginald Dalton." The sands were hard and firm,
and you might gallop over them in safety, even with the water dancing
round your horse's feet. There were high cliffy banks above the shore,
it is true, in general crowned with dark masses of wood, which there
approached fearlessly even to the very edge of the sea. But there were
constant gaps in this cliffy barrier leading up into sweet inland
valleys beyond, and through most of these gaps there wound away a path
not fitted indeed for a carriage, but perfectly practicable for
persons on horseback or on foot. A few lonely houses belonging to
fishermen, in general covered for a roof with an inverted boat, were
the only habitations for some way along the coast, except where a
solitary martello tower marked the end of a headland at about two
miles distance.

By the time they reached the seashore, a light summer haze had come
over the blue sky. It could by no means be called a mist, for the
earth and air around were all pure and clear. Nor did it properly
deserve the name of a cloud, for the sun shone through it, though
softened. But it was like a thin white veil drawn over the blue, and
where a thin line or two of cloud did really appear and cross the disk
of the sun, they became like streaks of gold, as we often see at the
rising and setting of the great orb of day.

The beautiful weather was rendered all the more enjoyable by the
absence of fiercer light and greater heat, for there was not a single
breath of wind upon the waters, which, instead of dashing upon the
shore with a roar and a bound, rippled calmly up with a low, peaceful
rustle, as if afraid of breaking the silence.

Lucy Effingham declared that to her ear the waves seemed to say
"Hush;" and Mr. Driesen begun a dissertation upon the real and
fanciful affinities of sounds and objects in the external world to the
feelings, and thoughts, and actions, and fortunes of man. It was a
fine and a high theme; and though, perhaps, upon that subject he
thought not right or wisely, he spoke eloquently, nay, poetically.

Charles Tyrrell was almost angry that he displayed himself to so much
advantage in the eyes of Lucy Effingham; but he knew not what was
going on in Lucy's bosom, and therefore did not comprehend, that
although the flow of words, the choice, the beautiful, and the
appropriate expressions which Mr. Driesen might use, could not but
have some effect; yet Lucy felt, as it were by instinct, that there
was an art in the whole; that it was a composition which Mr. Driesen
spoke, not an outpouring of the simple heart in the grand presence of
Nature. She would rather a thousand times have heard a few words less
polished, less refined, from the lips of Charles Tyrrell; but he
remained very nearly silent, more struck with the observations of
their companion than she was; for men in general do not perceive the
want of nature and simplicity in such things so easily as women do,
and appreciate metaphysical refinements more highly.

They rode on along the sands, however, for a considerable way,
enjoying themselves much; and if Charles Tyrrell was at all angry that
a man, whose real character and views he understood so completely as
he did those of Mr. Driesen, should set himself in a different light
towards Lucy Effingham to that which he really merited, the worthy
gentleman soon contrived to cure the evil himself. The conversation
gradually turned to the subject of human motives in general. It was
one of which Mr. Driesen was remarkably fond, and he could by no means
resist his inclination to plunge at once into his usual course of
reasoning on the subject. He was something more than even a disciple
of La Rochefoucault. With him selfishness was everything. It was the
great predominant spirit which moved all nature. There was nothing he
did not refer to it, nothing that he did not derive from it.

Lucy was now silent in turn. She neither liked the doctrine nor
believed it. She saw there must be sophistry, though she could not see
where. She believed that there was either a confusion or a laxity of
terms, which enabled Mr. Driesen to confound one thing with another;
and as she could not detect where it existed, she wisely held her
tongue.

Charles Tyrrell, who had heard the same doctrines before, did not
choose to enter into a dispute upon the subject, but contented himself
with throwing in a word or two every now and then to counteract Mr.
Driesen's reasonings by reducing them to an absurdity. He broke in
upon them too, from time to time, to call Lucy's attention to some
beautiful spot or some curious object, and for almost all of them he
had some little anecdote to tell, some little legend to narrate, or
some observation to make, which showed that he had not frequented the
scenes of his youth with eyes or ears shut, or heart or mind idle.

When they had passed the martello tower some way, and as the day was
beginning to decline, he pointed out a road which led between two of
the cliffs to the left, saying, "Now, which way shall we go? That
takes us back to the Park, and is about two miles shorter than the way
we came; but I do not know that it is so pleasant."

"Oh, the longest way, by all means, Mr. Tyrrell," replied Lucy
Effingham, looking up in his face with a bright smile. "Such a
pleasant ride as this can hardly be too long."

Often have we harangued upon the important results which spring from
the smallest trifles. Those few words decided the fate of Charles
Tyrrell and Lucy Effingham for ever. It was not that the bright smile
with which they were accompanied lighted up in Charles Tyrrell's bosom
any feelings which were not there before; for he fully believed
afterward, as he had previously thought, that the first affections of
her heart were given to another; but it was, that the very moment in
which they stood there to decide on the one road or the other, was the
very critical moment of their fate; that every after-moment through
all time and eternity was affected by it; and that the consequences of
Lucy's decision, by the concatenation of a thousand fine, small
incidents, brought events to pass that no one then did calculate or
ever could have calculated.

This is, in fact, the place where our story should have begun; but,
notwithstanding the maxim of the poet of old Rome, we cannot help
thinking that it is better to begin a little too soon than a little
too late, in histories as in other things.

Charles Tyrrell instantly turned his horse's head on the road for
which Lucy had decided; but they rode back more slowly than they had
come; for it seemed as if the two younger of the party, at all events,
wished to linger on as long as possible by the side of that calm grand
sea. More than once they pulled in the rein and stood to gaze, though
the ocean presented little for their contemplation beyond the sublime
of its own immensity; except, indeed, where a distant sail skimmed
along the waters, or a white bird dipped its long pinions in the dark
bosom of the deep.

They had returned very nearly to the spot where they had first reached
the seashore, when they came to a little cottage at about the distance
of a mile from the martello tower, and about twenty yards apart from
another, which stood close to the cliff. There was nobody visible at
the cottage-door, and a boat, which had lain high and dry as they had
passed before, was now beginning to float with the tide, which was
rolling rapidly in. The sea on that part of the coast, as I have often
witnessed, goes out as gently and softly as a fine summer's day; but,
even in the calmest weather, rushes in with great rapidity and force.
There was no other boat near, though, from the appearance of the
ground, and a spar or two which lay upon the beach, there appeared to
have been a larger one somewhat higher up not long before, and it was
natural to conclude that the fishermen, on that fine day, had put out
to sea.

Charles and Lucy drew up their horses not far from the boat to gaze
once more over the sea; but at that moment Charles Tyrrell saw the
little bark begin to slip down the sand as the water flowed round it,
and it instantly struck him that by some accident it had become
detached from whatever it had been moored to.

"They'll lose their boat," he exclaimed, "if they do not mind what
they are about;" and he turned his horse's head in order to tell the
people at the cottage; but Mr. Driesen, who had remarked the same fact
before him, and had turned for the same purpose, exclaimed, "I'll go,
I'll go. You and Miss Effingham are picturesque and contemplative; an
old fellow like I am can afford to have his reveries broken into."

Thus saying, he rode up to the cottage first, but found nobody. He
then rode on leisurely to the second, and called in at the door: "Good
woman, are there no men about? You'll lose your boat to a certainty,
for it's adrift there--afloat."

A loud, shrill cry was the woman's only answer; and rushing out to the
spot where Charles and Lucy stood, with an infant at her breast, she
exclaimed, in a voice of agony, "Oh, the child, the child!" and at the
same moment, though the boat had drifted out some way, the whole party
could see a little pair of hands stretched over the gunwale of the
boat, and part of the head and face of a child of about three or four
years old.

The woman uttered another loud scream when she saw it; but Charles
Tyrrell was off his horse in a moment, and casting down his coat and
waistcoat on the sand, he plunged at once into the sea.

The ground, for a space of about ten yards from the spot where the
line of the rising water was rippling over the sand, was very nearly
level, but the boat was considerably beyond that by this time; and
after rushing across that first space, with the sea scarcely above his
knees, Charles Tyrrell found the ground rapidly shelved down beneath
him, while some low black rocks, slippery with seaweed, impeded his
way and made him fall twice. The second time he cut his knee so
severely as to cause him great pain; but, nevertheless, exerting all
his strength as he saw the boat getting farther and farther out, he
dashed on till he was clear of the rocks and out of his depth; and
then, swimming as rapidly as he could, approached the boat and
endeavoured to catch hold of the rope by which it had been attached.

In the mean time, two, at least, of those who stood upon the seashore
watched with terrible anxiety for his success, and saw with pain and
apprehension that twice, as he attempted to catch hold of the rope, a
slight turn of the boat drew it out of his reach.

The child, by this time aware of its danger, was leaning over the side
towards the person who sought to deliver it, and they saw Charles
Tyrrell, unable to catch the rope, and apparently fatigued by swimming
in his clothes, place his hands on the gunwale of the boat as if to
get in and guide it back to the shore. The boat, however, which was
small and light, heeled under his weight and nearly capsized; the
child, thrown off its balance, pitched out, and for a moment both
Charles and the boy were lost to the sight. The next instant, however,
Charles appeared again, holding the child firmly with his left hand
and striking towards the shore with his right; and Lucy Effingham and
the mother saw him reach the rocks, sit down for a moment as if to
recover strength, and appear to sooth the terrors of the child,
placing it so as to be able to carry it more conveniently to land. He
waved with his hand at the same moment to show that all was safe, and
then slowly and carefully rose and made the best of his way back to
the sands with the child.

Three various impulses seized upon the fisherman's wife as soon as she
found that her boy was safe. The first was to clasp him to her breast
with all the vehemence of maternal affection; the next was to scold
him angrily for getting into the boat at all; the next was to pour
forth a torrent of grateful thanks to Charles Tyrrell for saving the
child. The principal force of her gratitude seemed to be excited by
the fact that such a gentleman as he seemed should have gone into the
sea and spoiled his clothes for the purpose of saving her Johnny.

Mr. Driesen grinned a cynical smile at the turns taken by the woman's
emotion; but the eyes of Lucy Effingham, she could not tell why,
filled with tears, ay, and overflowed. She felt a little ashamed of
being so much moved, and, having no other refuge but a jest, she laid
her hand upon Charles's arm, saying, "Pray come home, Mr. Tyrrell, and
change your clothes as fast as possible! You have been quite selfish
enough, according to Mr. Driesen's opinion, already." And her eye
lighted up with a gay smile, though not enough to dry up the tears
through which it shone.

Charles Tyrrell thought her very lovely indeed at that moment; but
though he was not only wet, but suffering great pain from a bleeding
gash on his knee, he did not follow her counsel of returning home till
he had asked several questions of the fisherman's wife. He found that
her husband was partner in the fishing boats with the master of the
next cottage and his son, and that they had gone away early that
morning to try their fortune, with other boats, at some distance. They
had at first proposed to go in the boat which had now drifted out, and
had pushed her down nearly into the water, when some circumstance,
which the wife did not know, had caused them to change their mind and
take the larger boat. By some carelessness they had forgotten to moor
the boat they left to anything; and while the little boy who was saved
played about at the door, as she thought, the poor woman had remained
within, nursing the child at her breast, and tending an elder child
than either, who was sick in the cottage.

By the time that he had learned these particulars, Charles Tyrrell had
resumed the clothes he had cast off and was ready again to mount his
horse.

"I am sorry, my good woman," he said, seeing her eyes turn with a look
of hopeless and bewildered anxiety towards the little bark, "that
there is no other boat near, to enable me to bring back the one that
is drifting out; but it is too far, I am afraid, for me to attempt to
swim to it. There are other boats, however, at those cottages about
half a mile on, and we saw men near the doors as we passed about an
hour ago. As I ride by now I will tell them to put out after your
boat, and I dare say they will do it willingly."

"Oh, that they will, sir," answered the woman. "My husband's brother
lives in the second cottage, and he is at home, I know."

Charles then mounted his horse, though with difficulty; and riding on
with Lucy and Mr. Driesen along the seashore, they came to the
cottage, where they found plenty of people willing to put out
immediately after the boat that had gone adrift. They then returned
home as fast as they could.

Were we writing a romance instead of a true history, this might be a
favourable opportunity for plunging our hero into a severe fit of
illness, and casting him almost entirely upon the society of Lucy
Effingham for resource and consolation. Such, however, we are forced
to admit, was not the case. Charles Tyrrell changed his clothes
indeed; but, farther than that, he had no occasion to think of his
having been in the water any more. He caught not the slightest cold;
the cut on his knee got well as rapidly as possible, and two days
after he drove down with Lucy, Lady Tyrrell, and Mrs. Effingham, as
far as the carriage could proceed on its way towards the fisherman's
cottage. They then walked the rest of the way, and found both the
boats drawn up upon the shore.

Three men were hanging about on the sands, two mending some nets and
cordage, and another, a stout, weather-beaten, thick-set seaman, of
the middle age, standing with a telescope at his eye, gossiping in his
own mind with a ship that appeared hull-down in the offing. As he was
the nearest to them, and as, situated in that little remote nook,
Charles Tyrrell judged that the inhabitants of the two cottages must
be looked upon as almost one family, the young gentleman applied
himself at once to the personage with the telescope.

To the first words, however, the man replied nothing but "Ay, ay,
sir," keeping the glass still to his eye; but when Charles Tyrrell
proceeded to say, "We want to hear, my good sir, how the little fellow
gets on whom we saw nearly carried out to sea in the boat the other
day. Was he any the worse for his wetting?" the man instantly dropped
the glass by his side, as if he had been grounding arms, and
exclaiming, "I'm sure you're the gentleman that saved poor Johnny!--me
if I am not glad to see you!" confirming it with an oath which it is
unnecessary to repeat.

"Why, sir," he continued, "the boy's as well as can be, and a good boy
he is too; and though my wife has scolded me ever since for not
mooring the boat, I thank you, and am obliged to you, with all my
heart; and there's John Hailes's hand." And he held out to Charles
Tyrrell a broad, brown, horny hand, as large as the crown of his hat.

Charles took the honour as it was meant, feeling that the man intended
to imply, and perhaps with justice, that the hand of John Hailes was
that of an honest and an upright man, not given to everybody without
consideration. He therefore took it, as we have said, and shook it
frankly, saying, "I am very glad to hear that the little fellow has
received no hurt; and how is the other young one who was ill?"

"Why, he's better, sir, he's better," replied the man; "I think the
fright did him good, for he heard all about his little brother that
he's so fond of, and he couldn't budge out to help him himself, poor
fellow. Won't the ladies come in? I'm sure my wife will be very glad
to see them. There's nothing catching about the child's illness. It's
only that the pot of hot tar fell down off the fire over his feet and
burned him badly."

Lady Tyrrell and Mrs. Effingham very willingly agreed to go into the
cottage, for they were both tired; and here new thanks awaited Charles
Tyrrell; for the mother, having recovered from the first overpowering
emotions of the moment, was now voluble, and even eloquent, in her
gratitude. Lady Tyrrell was pleased and affected, as well as Mrs.
Effingham, and Lucy turned to the window and looked out upon the sea,
which for some reason looked dull and indistinct to her eyes. Charles,
however, was overpowered, and would willingly have escaped; but he was
relieved, as well as the whole party, in some degree, by the good
father, John Hailes, cutting across his wife, as if he suddenly
recollected something, and planting himself abruptly before Charles,
with the words, "I'll thank you, sir, to tell me what's your name."

This speech caused a general smile, and the fisherman proceeded to
comment upon it in explanation, saying, "You see, sir, the reason why
I ask is, that I had forgotten it, and so had my wife, when you were
here before, and I was afraid that we should both forget it again, and
you should go away without our knowing who it was that saved our poor
boy from the worst luck that can happen to any one, being turned
adrift in an empty boat."

"My name is Tyrrell," replied Charles; "and I am the son of your
neighbour here, Sir Francis Tyrrell; but you really owe me nothing, my
good friend, for no one could see a child in such a situation without
helping him."

"That don't matter, sir," replied Hailes; "the man that did it's the
man for me; so I am very much obliged to you; and if ever it should be
that even you should want a helping hand in your turn, why, here's
John Hailes."

While this conversation had been going on, the poor boy that was sick
had been looking up in Charles Tyrrell's face with a pair of large,
intelligent, dark eyes, as if he sought to catch his every look. He
was apparently about ten years old, and a good-looking boy, but very
pale from what he had suffered; and Charles, to put an end to all
farther expressions of gratitude, went up and spoke to him about the
accident he had met with. The boy answered sensibly and clearly; but
when he had done, he added, in a low voice, "Thank you, sir, for
saving poor little Johnny. I am sure I should have died if he'd gone
out to sea and nobody with him."

By this time the people from the other cottage had brought in the
little boy, who was, it seems, as much a pet of theirs as of his own
family: and the two sturdy fishermen were standing leaning against the
lintels of the door, looking into the cottage, which was by this time
wellnigh full.

There was nothing, perhaps, very moving in the scene which she had
witnessed; but yet it had agitated Lady Tyrrell, who was weak in
health; and now, finding the numbers too much for her, she rose and
wished the cottagers "good-by," giving the little boy some money, with
a friendly warning never to go and play in the empty boat again. They
then returned home, and, for the time, this little adventure--and an
adventure is always, abstractedly, a desirable thing in a country
house out of the sporting season--produced nothing but matter for
conversation and amusement while Mrs. Effingham and Lucy remained at
the Park.

Their departure, however, was now speedily approaching, and the
greater insight which Mrs. Effingham daily obtained of the temper and
disposition of Sir Francis Tyrrell made her hasten her preparations as
far as possible, to settle herself in the manor-house with all speed.




CHAPTER VII.


In the ordinary commerce of one human being with another, which takes
place in the every-day routine of that dull machine which is called
society, especially in large cities, we pass on through life, knowing
little or nothing of the human beings with whom we are brought in
temporary contact. A cynic said, that language was made to conceal our
ideas; and he might have added, with equal truth, that the expression
of the human countenance was intended to convey false impressions. A
great part of the truth is not spoken, because there is no necessity
for speaking it; another great part is swallowed up by conventional
falsehoods; and the rest, or very nearly the rest, is buried under
lies that the liars think cannot be discovered.

Thus, when we think of the great part of our ordinary acquaintance,
and ask ourselves what are their views, purposes, opinions, thoughts,
feelings, dispositions, characters, we may well say with the moralist,
poet, and philosopher, "We know nothing." It is much to be feared,
that if from society in general we were to take away all that is false
in word, look, and action, we should have nothing but a pantomime in
dumb show, performed by very stiff automatons.

Such, however, cannot be the case entirely with those who spend ten
days together in a country house. There will come moments when the
machinery is somewhat deranged; when the springs will appear; when the
piece of mechanism will want winding-up; in short, I believe it to be
very difficult for the most habitual actor on the world's stage to
pass the whole of many days with an observant companion without some
trait appearing, some slight indication taking place of the real man
within, of the heart that beats, and the character that acts
underneath the mask of our ordinary communications with the world.

At the end of ten days Mrs. Effingham was settled at the manor-house,
and she was perfectly satisfied in regard to every point of the
character of Sir Francis Tyrrell. She saw and knew, as she had before
believed, that he was a man who would on no account commit a base,
dishonourable, or dishonest action; that in everything appertaining to
money, when separated and apart from other motives and passions, he
was generous and liberal. But the violence, the irritability, the
exasperating nature of his temper and disposition, it must be owned,
went far beyond anything that she had expected or even believed
possible. For Lady Tyrrell she was deeply sorry; and though she did
not always think that lady acted wisely towards her husband, yet she
was evidently the suffering party, and therefore engaged all Mrs.
Effingham's best feelings in her behalf.

Some doubts in regard to her estimate of Charles Tyrrell's character
would occasionally insinuate themselves into the mind of Mrs.
Effingham. She saw that he possessed all his father's good qualities,
and almost all his mother's, improved and directed by a mind of a
higher tone, and by mingling, as a young man only can mingle, with the
world. But she perceived, also, that no small portion of the fierce
and fiery character of his father had descended to him. She marked it
in the flashing of his eye; she heard it in the quivering of his
voice; and she distinguished it in the sharp, uncompromising reply
which burst from his lips when his mother was assailed; and she felt
sure that in that noble and commanding form, already full of high and
manly graces, there dwelt a passionate and eager spirit, difficult to
control, and which might or might not, by habit and indulgence, assume
a character like that of his father.

She hoped and trusted, indeed, that it was not so; for she saw that
Charles was continually engaged in a struggle with himself, and she
fully appreciated the powers of his mind and the feelingness of his
heart. She doubted, however; she was not sure; and she thought of
Lucy, and the chance that existed of her daughter, sweet, amiable, and
gentle as she was, acting again the part of Lady Tyrrell, and
withering like a flower scorched by the lightning.

When, however, she reflected and compared which of the two she would
rather have for the husband of her daughter, Charles Tyrrell or Arthur
Hargrave, she was inclined to clasp her hands together, and exclaim
without hesitation, "Oh, Charles, by all means! With him there is
always some hope; with him there is always some resource. It would be
difficult, I should think, for a well-intentioned person to miss the
means of either moving him by his feelings or convincing him by his
reason. No, no," she added, "he can never become like his father; but
I fear, I very much fear, lest the intense and fiery disposition which
I see is so ungovernable within him, may lead him to acts which will
bring misery on himself and on those that love him."

What were the feelings of Lucy Effingham herself, and what the view
which she took of the characters of Sir Francis Tyrrell's family, we
shall not pause to inquire. She had attached herself greatly to Lady
Tyrrell, and with her winning sweetness had wound herself so closely
round that lady's heart, that, ere she left Harbury Park, its mistress
looked upon her almost as a daughter.

The fourth personage which formed the society that Mrs. Effingham and
her daughter left behind when they proceeded to take up their abode at
the manor-house, was abhorred and disliked by both; but Mr. Driesen
did not, or would not, or could not, find it out. He was plentifully
furnished, as we have had occasion to show, with that most serviceable
and comforting of properties, self-conceit. People might disagree with
him in all his views, oppose him in argument, or frankly acknowledge
their dislike for the principles he inculcated, without affecting his
opinion of himself in the least. He believed, in general, that the
only thing for which anybody argued was victory. He thought, with the
utmost confidence, that he was always victorious, and believed (as was
indeed the case) that he was always more or less eloquent, and
therefore concluded that his opponents must be convinced, and admire,
even if they did not like him.

At all events, his love of himself was an impregnable citadel which
nothing could storm. He had seldom, if ever, ventured out of it, it is
true, to attack any one else violently, though once or twice he had
done so in younger days, and had shown himself decidedly a man of
courage: valuing the life of this world very little, though he
believed that there was none other beyond the grave, and not at all
scrupulous of risking it for the purpose of punishing any one who very
deeply offended him.

These were rare cases, however, and, on the whole, Mr. Driesen was
considered a good-tempered and placable man; and those who did not see
very deeply had been heard to observe, that it was a pity such a
good-humoured fellow as Driesen, so talented and so amusing, should be
utterly unprincipled. However, one great source of his good humour was
his self-conceit, which seldom, if ever, suffered him to take offence,
and this, therefore, prevented him from seeing that Lucy Effingham
shrank from him whenever it was possible to do so without rudeness,
and that Mrs. Effingham received all the civilities and attentions
that he paid her with coldness which would have repelled any other
man.

We must now come to inquire into the most important point of all,
namely, with what feelings Charles Tyrrell saw Lucy Effingham quit his
father's house. He had thought her exquisitely beautiful from the
first. The grace which marked all her movements, and which seemed to
spring from a graceful mind, had not been lost to him either. There
had been also constant traits appearing of a kind and gentle heart;
and without attempting anything like display--for one of the most
marked and distinguishing characteristics of Lucy's mind was a
retiring, though not, perhaps, a timid modesty--she had suffered so
much to appear during her stay at Harbury Park, that Charles could not
doubt her mind had been as highly cultivated by her parents as it had
been richly endowed by Heaven. All this he had seen as a mere
observer; and, never forgetting what his mother had said in regard to
Arthur Hargrave, he fancied that he looked upon the whole merely as a
spectator, and that he examined, appreciated, and admired Lucy
Effingham merely as his father's guest and his mother's affectionate
friend.

Thus it went on till she had quitted the Park and taken up her abode
at the manor-house, and then Charles felt a vacancy and a want far
more strongly than he had expected. The house seemed to have lost its
sunshine; the Park, beautiful as it was, appeared cold and damp; the
melodious sound of her voice, too, which he had not thought of while
she was there, was now remembered when it was no longer heard.

All these, and a thousand other feelings, came upon him at the
breakfast-table on the morning after their departure. He recollected,
however, before breakfast was over, that it would be but civil to go
down and inquire for Mrs. Effingham and her daughter, and to ascertain
whether they were comfortable in their new abode. He accordingly did
so, and by some strange combination of circumstances, which Sir
Francis Tyrrell, and Mr. Driesen, and Lady Tyrrell all observed it so
happened that not a day passed without there being some very valid
motive and excellent good reason why Charles Tyrrell should go down to
the manor-house, unless it happened to be on a day when he was aware
that Mrs. Effingham and her daughter, or Lucy alone, were to be with
Lady Tyrrell.

Once Charles thought of it himself, and for a single instant a doubt
crossed his bosom as to what his feelings might become; but he laughed
it off in a moment. The causes that took him to the manor-house seemed
so natural, that there was no fear, he thought, of his feelings
becoming anything but what they were already. Indeed, there was no
great necessity that they should; for by this time Charles Tyrrell was
as much in love with Lucy Effingham as he well could be. The very
consequence of his being so much in love was, that he went on,
confident he was not so at all; and how long he would have remained in
this state of ignorance would be difficult to determine, if the period
of his return to Oxford had not rapidly approached, bringing with it
thoughts and reflections which made him look more accurately into his
own heart.

He put off the hour of examination, indeed, till the very evening
before the day fixed for his departure. But on that evening Mrs.
Effingham and Lucy dined at the Park; and although there occurred not
one event which we could take hold of to write it down as a legitimate
cause why Charles Tyrrell should feel differently after that evening,
yet upon the whole the passing of it had the effect of making him
determine to sift his own sensations to the bottom. Of course, there
was a certain impression upon the whole party at the Park, caused by
his approaching departure. Lady Tyrrell felt it very bitterly, as she
always did, and did not scruple to suffer that feeling to appear.

But it was the effect upon Lucy Effingham that principally moved
Charles Tyrrell. She said not a word but such as she was accustomed to
say: no one single incident took place to show that there was a
difference in her feelings; and yet a certain softness, a degree of
sadness coloured her thoughts, and was heard in the tone of her voice,
which Charles Tyrrell did remark. He was anything but vain, and would
never, probably, have applied what he did remark to himself, had not
hope been busy with imagination, and imagination with Lucy Effingham.
But, as it was so, he did remark, in addition to the softness and
sadness of Lucy's tone and manner, that the softness and sadness were
always somewhat increased after his approaching departure had been
mentioned.

As he gazed upon her, too, he thought that she was lovelier than ever.
As he stood beside her while she sang, her voice seemed to him melody
itself; and when he put her into the carriage which was to bear her
away, the thrill which ran through his heart as she shook hands with
him and bade him farewell, made him pause for a moment in the
vestibule ere he returned to the rest of the world.

As soon as he had retired to his own room, Charles began his commune
with his own heart. The interrogatory, as far as the actual facts were
concerned, was soon at an end; for when he asked himself if he loved
Lucy Effingham really, truly, and sincerely, his heart answered "yes"
at once.

There were other questions, however, to be asked, referring only to
probabilities. The first question was whether there existed any chance
of obtaining het love in return, notwithstanding the previous
attachment which she entertained towards Arthur Hargrave. This was a
difficult problem to solve; for though there were hopes, from the
friendship with which Lucy Effingham seemed to regard him, and from
her demeanour during that evening, which made his heart beat high, yet
there had been nothing so decided in word, or even in manner, as to
justify him in any very sanguine expectations. Love and hope, however,
are almost inseparable: and the smiling goddess first produced one
argument from her store, and then another, to show him that there was
no reason to despair. In the first place, Lucy had seen this young
man, this Lieutenant Hargrave, not very often, according to his
mother's account; in the next place, she knew that he was disapproved,
disliked, and contemned by all whom she had cause to esteem; and, in
the third place, she had made no resistance to the will of her
parents, nor proffered a word of opposition. In short, he settled it
in his own mind that there was hope for him; but then came the
question, could he be satisfied with that portion of affection which
he could hope to gain from a heart that had loved before. He asked
himself if it were possible that any heart could love really twice;
and he felt inclined to answer in words almost equally strong, but not
so beautiful, as those of Walter Savage Landor, when the great poet
says:


    "Tell me: if ever, Eros! are revealed
     Thy secrets to the earth: have they been true
     To any love who speak about the first?
     What! shall these holier lights, like twinkling stars
     In the few hours assigned them, change their place,
     And, when comes ampler splendour, disappear?
     Idler I am; and pardon, not reply,
     Implore from thee, thus questioned. Well I know
     Thou strikest, like Olympian Jove, but once."


But Charles Tyrrell loved, and though he would have given worlds that
Lucy Effingham had never felt one feeling of attachment to another;
though he knew, if he would have owned it, that her having done so
would be a bitter drop in his cup through life, even if she accepted
him willingly; though he could not have denied, if he had still gone
on to question himself closely, that no signs of affection to himself,
in after life would ever convince him that she loved him as fully, as
truly, as entirely as if she had never loved another, yet Charles
Tyrrell loved, and the hope of possessing Lucy Effingham was
sufficient to make him stride over every objection.

All this being settled, and his determination taken, the next thing to
be considered was the course which he should pursue. He was not yet of
age; but a few months only were wanting, and he felt that, when they
were past, he should be in a different position, and enabled to treat
the matter in a different manner. He was sure that there was a certain
perversity in the disposition of Sir Francis, which would make his
expressed wish to marry Lucy Effingham the very reason why the baronet
would throw obstacles in the way, though he had been himself the first
to seek the alliance.

In regard to his mother, after all that had passed between them, upon
the subject, after what had been said of Lucy Effingham's first
attachment, and their both agreeing that he never could be satisfied
with anything but affection in its first young strength, he felt a
degree of shame, a sort of shyness as to mentioning his changed views
and purposes.

Under these circumstances he determined to set out for Oxford without
informing either his father or his mother of the state of his
feelings. He was too upright and straightforward to affect towards his
father any dislike to one whom he loved and admired as he did Lucy,
although he well knew that such would be the means to hurry on Sir
Francis into some irrevocable step towards the promotion of their
marriage; but he felt himself quite justified in saying nothing on the
subject, and returning to Oxford as if with unconcern, and he
consequently determined to do so the next day.

At the same time, however, his was by far too eager a nature to leave
the affections of Lucy Effingham to be lost or won during his absence
without an effort; and he therefore resolved to acquaint his mother by
letter with feelings which he did not choose to speak, and to induce
her to make known those feelings to Lucy, and to endeavour to
ascertain more accurately the state of her affection in return.

All those resolutions and determinations were formed with great and
calm deliberation before he lay down to rest; but, unfortunately,
while he had been resolving one way, Fate had been resolving another,
and not one single thing that he determined upon that night did he
succeed in executing.

Thoughts such as those that occupied him are very matutinal in their
activity, and before five o'clock on the following morning Charles
Tyrrell was up and dressed. The vehicle that was to convey him did not
pass the gates of the Park till about eleven o'clock, and he would
have had time, if he had chosen so to act; to go down and see Lucy
once more, and learn his fate from her own lips. He did not choose to
do so, however; but, to fill up the hours till breakfast time, he
determined to wander about the park, and in the spots where he had
more than once passed some of the sweetest moments of existence in her
society, to call up the delicious dream of the past, now that he was
just about to place between it and hope's bright vision of the future
an interval which seemed to him a long, long lapse of weary hours and
dull realities.

Opening the doors for himself--for, though it was daylight, none of
the servants were yet up--he went out upon the lawn and gazed around
him on the sparkling aspect of reawakening nature. Beauty, and peace,
and harmony were over all the scene; many a glossy pheasant was
strutting about here and there within the precincts of a spot where
guns were never heard, and only jostled from their path by some old
familiar hare, grown fat and gray on immunity and abundant food, or
else startled to a half flight by the rush of the rapid squirrel
darting across the lawn to some opposite tree.

The opening of the door, the aspect even of man, the great destroyer
of all things, did not disturb the tenants of the wood. One or two of
the hares crouched down as if asleep indeed; but those who had passed
many years there undisturbed showed no farther sign of apprehension
than by standing up high on their hind feet, and with their ears
projecting in all sorts of ways, seeming to inquire who it was that
had got up as early as themselves. Having satisfied themselves of that
fact, the utmost that they condescended to do was to hop a few steps
farther from the house; and Charles Tyrrell was proceeding on his
walk, when a window above was opened, and the voice of Mr. Driesen
pronounced his name.

Now of all people on earth, perhaps Mr. Driesen was the last whom
Charles Tyrrell would have chosen to be his companion at a moment when
such feelings as those that agitated him then were busy in his bosom,
he therefore affected a deafness to Mr. Driesen's call, and, without
taking the slightest notice, walked on quietly into the wood. Ere he
had been absent from the house half an hour, however, and while he was
yet walking up that long straight walk of beeches, from which, as we
have said, Harbury Hill was visible, and which we have fully described
in the first or second chapter of this book, he was joined by Mr.
Driesen, who, coming straight up to him, gave him no opportunity of
escaping.

"I called to you, Charles, from the window," said the modern
philosopher, "and you would not hear me, as is always the case when
one wants to do a man a service. There is nothing on earth so deaf as
a man that you wish to assist or to counsel; a post, why a post is all
ears compared to it."

"I really did not know," replied Charles Tyrrell, "that you had any
particular wish to assist or to counsel me, as I was not at all aware
that I was in need either of counsel or assistance. However, if you
will advise me as to what ought to be the price of small beer, I shall
be obliged to you, as the wine I got at Oxford during the last term
was so bad that I shall have no more of it."

"Why, the value of small beer," replied Mr. Driesen, curling his
snout, "is just equal to the value of small jokes multiplied by four;
a quart of one to a gallon of the other, Charles, eh? Why, you are
emulous of your father, which I certainly did not think to see in your
harmonious little family. But, to put aside all such sour and bitter
figures, you do want both counsel and assistance; and though I do not
mean to say that ninety-nine people out of a hundred would not be
better calculated to give it to you than I am, because our views and
opinions upon so many subjects differ, yet, as you have nobody else in
the world near you who has anything like experience or judgment, wit,
wisdom, or common sense, except, indeed, persons whom I know you do
not choose to apply to, you had better take up with mine than none. I
did not expect you to ask it; but, when it is offered, you can take it
or reject it, as you think best."

He spoke with a degree of frankness that Charles Tyrrell had seldom
heard him use, and he replied, "I am really very much obliged to you,
Mr. Driesen, and will, of course, hear with respect and attention
whatever advice you think fit to give me; but you must take the
trouble of telling me upon which subject it is to be, for I confess
myself ignorant."

"Of course I will, of course I will," replied Mr. Driesen; "for I
intend it to be what the ancients used to call a free gift: now, if I
were to expect you to give me your confidence in return, it would be a
matter of trade, traffic, barter, commerce. You would value it more,
doubtless, but I care nothing about that. I will, in the first place,
set out then by telling you the points of your situation on which you
require advice and assistance, some of which you know, and some of
which you don't. But let us go up and down the walk, for my old blood
does not run so quickly as once it did, and I am rather chilly."

Charles Tyrrell followed his suggestion; and having made his pause
just sufficiently long to be impressive, Mr. Driesen went on.

"In the first place, Charles, you are in love." Charles Tyrrell
coloured a little, more from surprise than any other feeling; but the
other proceeded: "In the next place, you know your father, and are
puzzled how to act in the business. I saw it all in your face last
night when you came in from handing Miss Effingham into the carriage;
so do not say a word, but let me go on. In the next place," continued
Mr. Driesen, "you are not going to Oxford to-day--"

"Indeed," replied Charles Tyrrell, "you are quite mistaken. Everything
is packed up and ready, and, whenever the coach passes, I intend to
get up and go to Oxford."

"You intend," said Mr. Driesen, with a grim smile; "I never said you
did not intend, I only said you are not going; and the very fact of
your fully intending it is one of the reasons why you won't go. Your
father thinks that you are getting too fond of Oxford; that you like
being away from home. Here you are going two days before it is
necessary; I am quite sure you would like to remain those two days
here now, only you are ashamed of saying so, because you fixed the day
for going back on the very day you came. However, your father won't
let you go. He thinks you wish it, and the consequence, you know, is
certain. He will take hold of the very first excuse for making you
stay. See if he does not. I am not very sure that he will let you go
at all; but that is doubtful. However, you can prevent it at once, if
you like, by strongly pressing to go."

"You mistake, my good sir," replied Charles Tyrrell; "such means I
will never consent to use with my father, even supposing I did not
wish to go; but certainly, on the contrary, I do wish to go, and to
remain till I have taken a degree of some kind."

"Well, so be it then," replied Mr. Driesen; "and though in love and
war all things are fair, I suppose you will be equally scrupulous
about the means of obtaining your father's consent to your marriage."

"Certainly, equally scrupulous," replied Charles, "inasmuch as not
affecting to oppose the very things that I desire."

"Well, well," answered Mr. Driesen, "I have told you the facts, and
now I come to give you the advice. In the first place, never dream of
saying one word to Sir Francis about your attachment till he proposes
the marriage to you himself, which he will do ere long, depend upon
it."

"I do not intend to mention anything upon the subject to him," replied
Charles Tyrrell. "As you are come so clearly to the point, Mr.
Driesen, in regard to my father's conduct towards myself, I do not
scruple to acknowledge that I know no cause for placing in my father
that implicit confidence, which, under any other circumstances, I
should be most anxious to do. If he should think fit to propose to me
a marriage with a person I love, of course, such an event would be
doubly pleasing. But should he not do so, I shall not, of course,
consider myself bound to speak with him at all upon the subject till
the time arrives when it may be fit for me to marry at all, which, of
course, I do not regard as the case at present."

"So far, so well," replied his companion; "but take my advice, my
young friend; do not let him see the slightest inclination on your
part towards such a marriage; an inclination which was somewhat too
evident last night. If you will but be careful till you go to
Oxford--that is, if your father lets you go at all--and will leave the
rest to me, I will undertake that, before a month is over, your father
shall have so committed himself in regard to your marriage with Lucy
Effingham, that his sense of honour will prevent him from ever
retracting."

"Pray, how long do you intend to remain here, Mr. Driesen?" demanded
Charles, considering only what the worthy gentleman proposed to
perform, without in the slightest degree recollecting that the
question might be an awkward one.

Whether Mr. Driesen took it up in an unpleasant sense or not, it did
not in the least put him out of countenance, as, indeed, nothing ever
did. He replied, however:

"Why, you see, Charles, your father's cook is an excellent one; his
mutton very fine; excellent fish from the sea and from the river;
better wine nowhere in Europe; and as comfortable a bed as one would
wish to sleep in: all these are circumstances to be considered when
one is asked how long one intends to stay. I should think that my
adhesiveness might last another month."

Charles Tyrrell could not help smiling at the great coolness with
which Mr. Driesen treated the matter; but he replied, "I did not mean
at all to put an impertinent question, but only to know how much time
you would nave to give to the object you proposed. In anything you may
think fit to do, of course, I cannot interfere, and I will not deny,
as I know that you have very great influence with my father, that
nothing would give me so much gratification as if my father did
propose this affair to me himself, and in such terms as would bind him
to give it his speedy sanction."

"Much more reasonable, indeed, than could be expected of a Tyrrell,"
cried Mr. Driesen; "why, Charles, you will discredit your family.
However, put your mind at ease. I will undertake that your father
shall do what you wish, and that very speedily, if you will but be
careful, and for the next two or three days let him remain in
ignorance of your feelings upon the subject."

"Depend upon it, my dear sir," replied Charles Tyrrell, "depend upon
it, you are mistaken; and that I shall go to Oxford to-day without
opposition."

"Poo, poo, Charles!" said Mr. Driesen; "I have known your father for
thirty years too well to be mistaken in what he intends to do. You
will soon see, and judge by that how right I am regarding all the
rest. As far as we have gone yet, Charles, I have been acting quite
disinterestedly, and out of regard for my friend's son, as well as for
my friend himself, who does not always know his own interests. I do
not mean to say that the day will not come when I may ask a favour of
you in return; but that period, I should think, is far distant.
However, if ever it should, you will remember what I do for you on the
present occasion, and, if I know you right, you will be very willing
to return it."

"That I will, Mr. Driesen," replied Charles, warmly, for the other had
touched exactly the right point; but before he could proceed any
farther, either in thanks or professions, he saw a servant at the
other end of the walk apparently seeking him, and in a minute or two
after the man came up and told him that Sir Francis wished to see him
immediately, as there had occurred important business which he feared
might prevent the journey to Oxford that day. Mr. Driesen grinned
slightly, and, with the servant following, accompanied Charles into
the house.




CHAPTER VIII.


We must now leave the party of Harbury Park for a short period; ay!
and the party at the manor-house also, and go to a somewhat humbler
scene, though not without its comforts and even elegances. We must
also go back in point of time for somewhat more than one day, and yet
not quite two, and ask the gentle reader to accompany us to a small
but neat white stone house, situated among the woods, which we have
mentioned as crowning the summits of the high cliffs that guarded the
seashore. The house was perched upon the top of one of the highest of
these, which overhung the group of small fishermen's cottages, in
which the brother of good John Hailes dwelt, and at the distance of
about a mile from John's own abode. Through the wood and down to the
shore was practised a small, well-trimmed path, from the gate of the
little garden over the face of the cliff, guarded in the precipitous
parts by neat wooden balustrades, from which a pleasant scene of ocean
and seacoast was visible at various points to the walker who chose to
pause, and, leaning his folded arms upon the railing, gaze over at the
view below.

There was no carriage-way through the wood up to the house, and for
about a quarter of a mile there did not appear even a cart-road; but
there was an excellent, well-beaten footpath, wide enough for a horse
or two abreast, which led out into the way made for the wood-carts,
and thence to a small by-road, by which the fishermen sent up their
fish to the county town. Those were not days when everything on earth
went to London.

The house itself was neat, the garden kept in beautiful order, and, in
a warm situation upon a genial coast, was prolific of every kind of
flower that had been at that time introduced into England; but
although these were signs of a landsman's tastes, there were not
wanting indications of nautical habits and associations. There was a
tall pole, with a vane at the top, carried sufficiently high above the
neighbouring trees to indicate truly what wind was blowing at the
time. A difficulty having been found in carrying this pole up to the
proper height in one piece, it had been managed as a mast, with a step
and sort of topmast; and, to make the whole sure, various stays and
braces had been carried down and made fast to the roof of the house;
so that, seen over the tops of the trees, it appeared exactly like the
mast of a ship rising out of the wood. In the garden was seen a little
summer-house, formed from a large boat sawn in two; and at the other
end of the house, opposite to the mast, was raised a flagstaff, with a
block and pulley, for running up and down a flag upon occasion.

As far as description goes, this will be enough; and we will now
immediately proceed to the dwellers in that house, and those with whom
they were in communication about six-and-thirty hours previously to
the period at which we last left Charles Tyrrell.

The evening sunshine was at that time bright over the world; but it
reached not the house or the gardens around it, the trees throwing
them at that period into shadow. The door, however, was open, and
leaning against one of the doorposts was a stout, elderly man, strong
in limb, rather bulky in size, and with a form apparently better
adapted for the exertion of slow but vigorous efforts, than for
anything like grace or activity. His features were good, though
somewhat heavy; except, indeed, the eyes, which were keen and even
sharp in expression. His complexion was of that dark brown hue which
is generally called weather-beaten, and his hair was gray and rather
short, except, indeed, behind, where it was gathered into an
enormously long, thin queue, as was not uncommon among seamen at that
time. This queue was bound tightly up with black riband, and in
colour, form, and length resembled very much a lady's riding-whip of
the present day.

He was raised upon the step of the door, and was, consequently,
looking down upon another person, whom he spoke to, standing on the
little gravel semicircle before the house, and who was also somewhat
shorter than himself. His companion, however, was apparently not less
endowed with corporeal vigour, and though not a young man by any
means, was two or three years younger than the master of the house. He
was broadly built, with large, strong limbs, a rough, hale
countenance, and a frank, clear blue eye. There were one or two deep
scars upon his face, which somewhat disfigured him; but in every other
respect his countenance was good and pleasing, though there was about
it, at the moment, a sort of thoughtfulness and sternness which
betokened occupation with matters of importance and moment.

While talking to the other, he remained with his large brawny hands
behind his back, looking up in the face of his companion with the
queue, and the subject they spoke upon was marked as one of
considerable interest, more by the pauses for reflection which took
place between every sentence and its rejoinder, than by any great
changes of expression called up in the speakers' countenances. They
evidently understood each other perfectly, so that whatever was to be
said was only, in fact, half expressed, and that in a particular slang
of their own, eked out by a shrug of the shoulders, a lifting up of
the eyebrows, or an occasional ejection of tobacco-juice from the
mouth, which seemed to be looked upon as very expressive.

"Well, good-night, Master Longly," said the shorter of the two, taking
a step back from the door and shaking hands with the other: "I'll do
as you think fit, you know; but I think myself--the sooner gone the
better."

"So do I, so do I," answered the other. "Good-night, old Will."

But, though they mutually wished each other good-night, they by no
means parted, nor, indeed, seemed to have the slightest idea that they
were going to part; for Master Longly, or, as the people about the
country used generally to call him, Captain Long, descended from his
doorway as the other turned away, and sauntered after him through the
garden; while Old Will, as he termed him, perfectly sure that the
other was following, continued his observations in rejoinder to what
had taken place at the door.

Thus they walked on, putting one slow step before another till they
reached the top of the cliff, where they again came to a pause and
another discussion, and then breaking off again, old Will began to
descend the zigzag towards the shore, while Longly, after taking two
or three steps farther, leaned over the railing as he had done forty
times before in the same circumstances, and continued talking with the
other till he was half way down. Then came the quicker and final
good-night, and Captain Long took his way back with a somewhat more
rapid step.

The history of Captain Long, or, as he is more accurately described in
some of his official papers, Mr. Thomas Longly, Master Mariner, is
soon told: and it was a history then very common among the inhabitants
of the seacoast of England. He had been a somewhat wildish youth in
the nearest seaport town; had received a good plain education; but,
smitten with a love of adventure, had volunteered on board a king's
ship; for which his father, who was a dealer in marine stores, had
instantly disinherited him, and declared he would cut him off with a
shilling, in imitation of his betters. The boy was clever and active,
bold and enterprising, but by no means fond of any kind of restraint,
and with a strong spice of obstinacy in his nature, which,
notwithstanding the subordination of a ship of war, made him set out
with resisting and attempting to run as soon as he found that his
majesty's service was not quite so easy and joyous a life as he had
expected. He was not easily broken of such bad propensities; but the
cat-o'nine-tails was applied, and not in vain, the youth soon finding
that it was less disagreeable to obey and exert himself, than to make
in effectual efforts at resistance and be flogged for his pains.

His commander was a smart officer, but a just man. Occasions of
difficulty and danger soon presented themselves, for England was then
in the midst of a hot war; and the boy proving active as a squirrel
and bold as a lion, gained attention and distinction; was noticed by
the captain, and after a few years' service turned out one of the best
seamen in the ship. After a certain period of time, when he was
returning to England from the West Indies, and it was supposed the
crew were to be paid off, he was suddenly raised to the rank of a
warrant officer, probably with a view of keeping him in the service.

On returning to his native town, however, he found his father at the
point of death; a point at which men are not fond of executing all
that they have threatened against their refractory children. The
consequence was, as might have been expected, a full share of the
worthy dealer's money came to his son Thomas; and, with a capital of a
few thousand pounds, he thought it would be much better to set up in
command of a ship of his own, than to continue any longer in the
king's service when there was no war going on. He therefore bought
shares in a large cutter, with the understanding that he was to
command her, and set out as a trader, in which capacity, to say the
truth, he was not particularly fortunate. He did not lose, indeed, but
his gains at the end of four or five years had only been sufficient to
enable him, in conjunction with the other shareholders, to abandon the
cutter, and buy a handsome, well-built schooner.

Just about the same time, however, a fresh war broke out. Longly
applied for letters of marque, mounted some handsome brass guns on the
deck of his schooner, with some heavy caronades for close quarter, and
set sail from the port with the determination of doing the enemy's
commerce as much harm as possible. This sort of trade he understood
much better than the other, and, consequently, he was far more
fortunate. Captain Long became known upon the whole coast of France
and England; and while the traders of Bourdeaux looked out with
considerable apprehension for fear of meeting Captain Long on the high
seas, the corsairs of St. Malo despatched some of their gallant
skimmers of the ocean to look out for him, with the vain hope of
bringing Captain Long into the French port. It is true, they caught
him; but they formed, in their hunt for Captain Long, a strong
resemblance to the old story in regard to catching a Tartar; for in
one instance he sunk his adversary with every soul on board, and in
another he brought his pursuer into the nearest English port.

He thus acquired a very comfortable little independence; but, at the
same time, acquired habits of a somewhat marauding nature, mixing up
in a strange compound the ideas of the merchant, and, with reverence
be it spoken, the ideas of the pirate.

Two things, however, occurred to sober him at about the age of fifty;
one was, a very severe fall, which left him stiff and less active for
the rest of his life, and the other was the death of his wife, whom he
loved as well as he could love anything, except his daughter. These
circumstances induced him to give up the sea; and having nothing
farther to care about or to provide for, he retired to the spot where
we have introduced him to the reader, built the house that we have
described, and gave himself up to rural life, with occasional little
indications of his former habits and propensities breaking out, of a
more serious kind indeed than his fondness for looking over the sea
with a telescope, or having his own boat upon the shore below. He was
very much loved and liked by all the neighbouring fishermen; and
though he was a great man in their estimation, and not a little one in
his own, yet he was too frank, and free, and open-hearted, to treat
his neighbours as anything but messmates.

Leaving him, then, to return to his own dwelling, we shall take leave
to walk into the little neat parlour thereof, and see who and what it
contained. It was nicely and tastefully fitted up, with two or three
detestably bad portraits of persons who might be Captain and Mrs.
Longly in their best clothes, or any other person on earth that the
spectator might choose to imagine; and besides these was a neat, small
pianoforte, with a number of books, pretty little jars for flowers,
various curiosities brought over by Longly himself from foreign
countries in which he had carried on his various occupations, together
with a number of minor objects, denoting taste and refinement.

The living beings whom Longly had left behind when he walked down with
old Will, were three in number, the first of which lay upon the
hearth-rug in the form of an immense tabby cat. The next that we shall
specify was a remarkably pretty girl of about eighteen years of age,
upon whose character, naturally wild, lively, and sportive, but
sincere, affectionate, and generous, a couple of years spent at a
boarding-school had grafted a certain degree of coquetry and
affectation which certainly did not improve her, but which spoiled her
less than might be imagined. This is very nearly enough of the
character of Hannah Longly. She was, as we have said, remarkably
pretty, full of grace and warm colouring, with dark eyes much larger
than her father's, and deep brown hair, slightly approaching to
auburn. She had in most things a natural good taste, and,
notwithstanding having been at school, was not in reality vulgar,
except inasmuch as the least approach to affectation of any kind is
vulgar in itself.

The third person in the room is one whom we may have quitted rather
too long, and who, on many accounts, deserved more particular and
constant attention; this was no other than Everard Morrison, the old
school companion of Charles Tyrrell. He was now sitting with Hannah
Longly, well dressed, improved in health, and by no means a
bad-looking young man, though still short, and apparently not very
robust. He was just out of his articles as a lawyer's clerk, and in
partnership with his father, and it was in his legal capacity that he
had made acquaintance with Captain Longly, who, about a year before,
had, by some unpleasant mistake, become embroiled with the officers of
his majesty's customs. So confident were those officers that Longly
had been engaged in some of the smuggling transactions which took
place so frequently in the good old times, when no such thing as a
coastguard was known, and which have somewhat decreased since its
adoption, that nothing would prevent them from proceeding against him
at law, and he was obliged to have recourse to Messrs. Morrison to do
the best they could in his defence. Young Morrison exerted himself
strenuously, and two or three times visited Captain Longly at his own
dwelling. His visits there seemed even to increase his zeal; and the
result was, that the captain was carried through triumphantly, vowing
that it was entirely young Morrison's doing, and that there was one
honest lawyer in the world.

Such a feeling naturally produced an inclination to see more of the
young lawyer, and for some reason young Morrison very frequently
availed himself of the old sailor's frank invitation, called upon him
in the morning, dined with him if he had time, and even on one or two
occasions slept in the house.

Hannah Longly was not sorry to have such a companion, and, to say the
truth, was not sorry to be made love to in a quiet way. Though she was
really a good girl, and neither fretted nor murmured, she did feel
that the place where her father had fixed his abode was very lonely,
and shut her off from any sort of society she could have enjoyed. She
did also feel that, unless by some miracle not to be expected, a young
man equal to herself in taste and feelings were suddenly brought and
dropped down like an aerolite in the neighbourhood, the only
alternative before her was living on in single blessedness, or
marrying the richest fisherman she could find. Some of the officers
who had known Longly at a former period came to see him from time to
time, it is true, and one old gentleman, a post-captain in the navy,
who had been lieutenant of Longly's first ship, fell desperately in
love with her at the age of sixty-five, and offered to marry her,
holding out the prospect of her becoming, at some future time, Mrs.
Admiral Jackson; but Hannah's ambition was not of that kind, and she
refused decidedly and at once. She had occasionally seen others, too,
at her father's house, with whom the ambition of the heart might have
been satisfied; but they either only strayed for a brief call at the
house of the well-known old sailor, or showed themselves merely
disposed to trifle with pretty Hannah Longly as an inferior. To this
she was not disposed to submit, feeling that the way by which a woman
should be won does not begin in insult, even though the shade be
light.

She was well pleased, then, upon all occasions, to see Everard
Morrison. She esteemed him highly, she liked him much, and he was
daily making progress in her regard; so that, at the time we speak of,
though he had not asked her and she had not consented, all things bade
fair to make her very soon the wife of a thriving young lawyer in a
country town.

The fact of Captain Longly having gone out to speak with old Will, as
he was called, left young Morrison a favourable opportunity for
telling his tale and exchanging vows with Hannah Longly, an
opportunity which few men would have let slip, especially when, from
the spot in which he was seated, he saw the old gentleman saunter away
with his companion towards the seacoast.

But Everard Morrison was a phenomenon in many respects. He was modest
notwithstanding his profession, and he could not make up his mind to
speak words which, though they might render Hannah Longly his wife,
might, at the same time, deprive him of the pleasure he enjoyed from
time to time in her society. He wished to speak, he longed to speak;
but yet he could not make up his mind to do it: perhaps Hannah herself
expected it; and certain it is that nothing which Everard said upon
any other subject was either very applicable or very agreeable.

The matter was becoming awkward, and young Morrison was upon the very
eve of putting an end to it by a bold effort of resolution, when her
father appeared again beyond the rails of the garden, and at the very
same moment a loud voice was heard shouting, "Ship, ahoy! hollah,
Captain Long! Captain Long! pigtail! Hie! bring-to, bring-to!"

Captain Longly immediately halted in his advance, and turned to see
who it was that thus hailed him; and Everard Morrison could see
through the window a young man come up, dressed in a sailor's jacket
and trousers, with a stick over his shoulder and a bundle on the hook
of the stick, and certainly not giving more indications of being a
gentleman by his dress than he had done by his salutation. But yet
there was something in his manner and carriage, in his personal
appearance altogether, we may say, which stamped upon him the mint
mark of a higher station than that which he assumed; and Everard was
not at all surprised when he heard Longly exclaim, "Why, master
lieutenant, is that you? Who would suppose it in such a rig as that.
Why, you look like a smart coxswain. Why, I haven't seen you, sir,
since you got your rank. I hope it has sobered you."

Let it be noted, that in all the speeches of Captain Long were
interspersed sundry expletives of a high flavour, which we have not
thought it fit to repeat, and shall leave to the imagination of our
readers.

"Ay, ay, captain," replied the lieutenant, "I have my own reasons for
what I am about. I have been sobered enough by one thing or another,
and what I want of you now is to know whether you will give me a bed
and a dinner for a day or two."

"That I will, that I will," replied Longly; "I'll give you that, and
more too, if you want it, for old acquaintance' sake; but come in, and
we'll see about it."

"I sha'n't tire you out by staying too long," answered the other, and
he followed Longly through the garden towards the house.

Everard Morrison was mortified and disappointed in every way. He was
vexed with himself for not having seized the opportunity of proposing
to Hannah which had been afforded to him. He was disappointed at
another person, and that person a stranger, being obtruded upon them,
and he was sufficiently in love to be apprehensive without a cause. He
was not one of those, however, who suffer the emotions of the heart to
appear very much on the countenance, and, therefore, remained calmly
till Longly brought in the stranger, whom the young lawyer examined
carefully from head to foot, concluding that, notwithstanding the
worst that envy could say to disparage him, he was a very handsome man
indeed, of about thirty years of age.

When all the little preliminaries had been settled, such as
introducing Hannah Longly and Lieutenant Hargrave to each other,
Everard Morrison put in his quiet word, saying, "I think, Mr. Longly,
I shall go and get my horse and go home, for it is growing late, and I
have some way to go, you know."

"Why, I thought you were going to stay all night, Master Everard,"
answered Longly. "Never mind the lieutenant; we've plenty of room;
we'll stow him away in the back room, where the hammock swings."

"Not to-night, Master Longly," replied Everard; "I must go home
to-night; but the day after to-morrow perhaps, I shall come and see
you again;" and shaking hands with Hannah, with a slight pressure as
he did so, just sufficient to make the colour mount a little higher in
her cheeks, he left the room with a good-night to Longly and a bow to
their new companion, somewhat stiff and stately indeed, and, finding
his horse, was soon after seen riding away.

"Who the devil is that?" demanded Lieutenant Hargrave. "He seems
mighty stately. Is that Sir Francis Tyrrell's son that I have heard so
much talk about?"

"Oh, bless ye, no!" replied Longly. "Why, compared with young Tyrrell,
that's but a sloop compared to a seventy-four. He's a wonderful nice
young fellow though, that Everard Morrison. If it hadn't been for him,
d--n me if I shouldn't have been in prison now, and, most likely, a
bankrupt. He is young Everard Morrison, the lawyer's son, at Winsby."

"A lawyer!" cried the young officer. "Oh, curse the young shark! I
wonder you let him into your doors. Don't look so angry, pretty Miss
Hannah. What! I suppose this lawyer's a lover of yours. Never mind
that, we'll make him walk a plank, and I'll console you."

"Come, come, no nonsense, Master Hargrave," rejoined Captain Long,
seeing his daughter both vexed and angry at the young sailor's
unceremonious familiarity. "That young Morrison is as fine a fellow as
ever stepped, and brave though he's modest. Didn't I see him outface a
dozen of the lawyers at least, and swear he would not have me wronged
if there was law in the land. D--n me if it wasn't like a single ship
fighting a whole fleet of the enemy. But he beat 'em all. And now, Mr.
Hargrave, let's see what we can do to make you comfortable. Have you
had any dinner?"

Lieutenant Hargrave acknowledged that he had had none; and anything
that Longly and his daughter chose to do to make him comfortable, he
took with the greatest coolness, without ever seeming to feel that he
might be giving trouble. All that could be obtained of any kind he
appeared very willing to receive; asked without ceremony, and made use
of without any great apparent thankfulness. In fact, there was a sort
of habitual selfishness sufficiently apparent in his whole demeanour
to have been remarked by probably any other person than Longly
himself, and which, for the first half hour or so, struck Hannah
Longly considerably.

When he had made himself as comfortable as he could be, Lieutenant
Hargrave thought that it might not be amiss to spend an hour or so in
flirting with his host's pretty daughter, and he applied himself with
diligence, and with success but too common in this life, to remove, by
attention and flattery, any unfavourable impression he had made at
first, and to rouse up a different feeling in its place. Although
Longly seemed to treat him with such little ceremony, and, to say the
truth, did look down upon him in various respects, inasmuch as he had
known him as a youngster of a wild, thoughtless disposition in
different scenes and times; had heard of his contracting large debts
here and large debts there, and paying nobody; and, moreover, knew
that, as a young man, he had committed a good many actions which had
delayed his promotion, and deprived him of the esteem of his superior
officers, yet Lieutenant Hargrave, by his rank in the service, by
being the son of a person in a superior station, and by the good
education which he had received and thrown away, conceived himself to
be sufficiently above Captain Long and his daughter to treat them with
perfect familiarity and ease.

When he found that Hannah however, was more inclined to give her
attention to him when he spoke in a higher and more gentlemanly tone
than that which he had assumed at first in order to make his
conversation suit his company, as he thought, he changed that tone
almost entirely, resumed the demeanour of a gentleman and a man of
cultivated mind, talked to her on matters where it gave her pleasure
to display her little store of knowledge, made her sing and play, and
declared that, although he had heard all the first performers that the
theatres of London, Paris, and Naples could produce, he had never
heard a voice so sweet, an ear so just, or a taste so exquisite. Poor
Hannah listened, and coloured, and believed, if not the whole, a
considerable part; and, before the hour for retiring to rest,
Lieutenant Hargrave was high in her good graces, and they were talking
sentiment in very rapid career.

Arthur Hargrave retired to his room and laughed. He was a good deal
struck, it is true, with Hannah Longly's beauty; but he had other
objects in view at the time, and only thought of her as of one whose
society might serve very pleasantly to pass the time that was not
otherwise occupied. There were worse thoughts, perhaps more evil
purposes, in his bosom; but they were at present vague, and to be
contingent upon the degree of weakness which he found in his
entertainer's child, though he smiled even now at the simple vanity
which had been so easily beguiled, and doubted not that, with a little
art, patience, and perseverance, that vanity and that simplicity might
be used to lead her to anything that he pleased.

Hannah Longly, on her part, retired to rest, first thinking a good
deal more than necessary of Arthur Hargrave; but with cooler
reflection came the thoughts of Everard Morrison, and she began to
feel sorry for what she had done, and more sorry for what she had
felt. If there had been anybody near to reproach her with her conduct,
she was just in the state of mind to pout and throw the blame upon
him, saying, "Stupid fellow, why didn't he propose when he had an
opportunity, then?" _But_ nobody said a word except her own heart; and
it went on reasoning the matter with her in so severe though calm a
manner, that she could not sleep for a long while.

Old Longly himself was differently affected. "He's a bad one," he
thought, as his mind turned to Arthur Hargrave; "he's a bad one, I've
a notion. At all events, he's running ahead somewhat too fast with our
Hannah. He sha'n't stay here long, I'll take care of that. However,
one can't well turn him out before a day or two are over. But I must
keep a good lookout ahead. That would never do. I'd rather she married
Jim Wilson, the fisherman; but she'll never think of him, I dare say,
though she seemed to haul her wind a little, too."

Early in the morning, as was his invariable custom, Longly was down in
his garden, not exactly working therein, but rather enjoying; for
there was not a little of the love for what is beautiful and graceful
in the old sailor's mind; and the fresh, sparkling light of morning
among the green shrubs and sweet flowers which his own hand had
planted, was one of his chief delights.

After looking at this plant, however, and that plant, for about half
an hour, he found himself insensibly approaching the garden gate, and
his habitual impulse carried him through it and along the walk to the
top of the cliff, He could not have sat down to his breakfast
comfortably without his morning look at the sea; and there might be
other feelings, too, a little concerned, with which we have nothing to
do at this moment, as the only indications thereof, in the walk he
took at present, were to be found in a slight deviation from the
well-worn path which he usually followed. As soon as he had come
within sight of the shore, then, he turned to the right for about two
hundred yards along the top of the cliff, and paused at a spot where a
projecting part of the crag formed a little nook or recess below, not
big enough, indeed, to deserve the name of a bay, and never reached by
the water but at times when spring tides were accompanied by high
southwesterly winds.

Above that spot he paused, and suffering the telescope, his almost
invariable companion, to drop by his side, gazed down upon a large
mass of stones and seaweed on the shore. He was suddenly startled,
however, by the sound of a footstep, and instantly the telescope went
up to his eye, and was pointed towards a small vessel out at sea.

"Well, captain," cried the voice of young Hargrave, "good-morning to
you. I could find no one in the house but the maid and the cook, and
so, after giving each of them a kiss for good luck, I came out for a
cruise; and so here you are."

"You had better mind where you cruise, though," muttered Captain
Longly, in a low and angry voice, the tones of which were too
indistinct for the other to hear; and seeing the old sailor still
looking through his glass, the lieutenant asked, "Can you make her
out?"

"The revenue cutter, I think," answered Longly; and, without more
words, he turned back to the house.

Captain Long was evidently surly from some cause; and after doing all
that he could during breakfast to make Hannah Longly in love with him,
Arthur Hargrave announced that he was going out for a long walk up
into the country on business, and would not be back till late.

Captain Long seemed not a little rejoiced to see him go, and even lent
him a couple of guineas, which the other asked, with perfect
confidence; but the old sailor added to his farewell a notice that he
closed his doors at ten o'clock at night, and opened them again for
nobody less than King George.




CHAPTER IX.


Although suspicion formed no part of the character of Charles Tyrrell,
to whom we now return, and though his whole mind was of a frank,
daring, and straightforward character, which admitted a few doubts
with regard to the motives or purposes of others, yet he could
scarcely refrain from giving credence to a suspicion which crossed his
mind that Mr. Driesen's vaticination regarding the delay of his
journey to Oxford must have had its rise in something which had passed
between that gentleman and his father on the preceding night.

Charles Tyrrell was wrong, however, as he soon found, not doing
justice to that acuteness with which Mr. Driesen was endowed in a very
extraordinary degree, and by which men possessed of great experience
in human character discover by slight, and, to others, almost
imperceptible indications, the conduct which particular persons are
likely to pursue long before that conduct is developed. This, however,
Charles had soon cause to admit; for the circumstances which caused
his father to recall him, and offered an excuse for detaining him
during that day from Oxford, had only arisen that very morning.

On his return he found Sir Francis in his dressing-gown, with his
sharp features sharpened by excitement, and his long, overhanging
black eyebrows looking blacker and more like a ragged thatch than
ever.

"I am sorry to find, sir," said Charles, "from what the servant says,
that you have met with some business which is likely to detain me from
Oxford. My place is taken by the coach, and I have a good many things
which I wish to settle and arrange at the University before the actual
commencement of the term."

"You are vastly eager to return, Charles," said his father; "lam
almost inclined to fear that there may be some particular attraction
there. But I should think that your father having occasion for you
here, might seem a sufficient motive for your stay. It is not for my
own pleasure, depend upon it, that I require you to remain. I can
always spare your society willingly, for as long a period as you like;
I am neither very much edified, very much instructed, nor very much
amused by your pleasant and agreeable conversation, so do not suppose,
my good sir, that my motives for detaining you are selfish: I have had
some consideration for you in this matter, and I therefore had a right
to trust that you would obey my directions willingly."

Charles Tyrrell bore this little spurt of parental tenderness in
perfect silence. He knew that reply was vain; that whatever he might
say to justify himself would but drive his father to show that he was
farther in the wrong, and perhaps end by producing some of those more
violent ebullitions which he was most anxious on every account to
avoid. When the alarum had run down, however, he paused a moment, and
then said, "May I ask what the matter is?"

"To consider, I suppose," replied Sir Francis Tyrrell, "whether it is
your will and pleasure to remain or not?"

"No, my dear sir, no," replied Charles, somewhat impatiently; "I am
perfectly prepared to remain, obeying your commands without any
consideration, merely asked as a matter of curiosity."

"Well, sir, do not put yourself in a passion," replied Sir Francis;
"you should learn, Charles, to be less captious and irritable,
especially when speaking to your father. However, it is not necessary
to enter into the subject for which I wish you to remain at present.
Information has just been sworn before me, upon oath, in regard to
some transactions which will be brought before me, I trust, by
eleven or twelve o'clock to-day. Some of the persons implicated, I
understand you take a very great interest in, and, therefore, I wished
that you should be present yourself, in order that you might feel
sure--as I know most young men are inclined to doubt their father's
judgment--that nothing harsh or unpleasant has been done."

To the allegation against young men in general, Charles Tyrrell did
not think fit to make any reply; and as he saw that Sir Francis chose
to be mysterious as well as dogmatical, he asked no farther questions,
leaving the matter to elucidate itself.

In order, however, to say something, and to make that subject
agreeable upon the only topic that was left him, he answered, "I am
very much obliged to you, sir, for your consideration; for though I
have every confidence in your judgment, and my presence can, of
course, alter in no degree what is to take place, yet I shall be glad,
of course, to be present, if there is anything to be brought forward
against people I take an interest in, merely in order to hear the
facts."

There seemed so little to take hold of in this reply that he trusted
his father would let it pass unquestioned; but Sir Francis was by no
means in a mood to suffer anything to escape him, and, in consequence,
he pounced upon his son's expression of a belief that his presence
could not alter at all what was likely to take place, and, of course,
he was the more angry upon the subject, as there was nothing to be
angry about. He showed clearly and distinctly that the very idea was
insulting to him, that he should have detained his son from Oxford to
be present at an examination in which he could take no part, and to
witness proceedings which he could in no degree alter. The thing was
too absurd, he said, to be put forward except for the express purpose
of annoying him, and on this copious theme he went on for nearly half
an hour, proceeding slowly in his toilet while he did so, and
interrupting constantly the act of dressing for the purpose of showing
his son how much he was in error.

Charles heard him in perfect silence; not without being a good deal
irritated indeed, and feeling his own fiery nature rising up to
resist; but he struggled against himself and conquered, though we must
acknowledge that the effect upon his mind was to render it irritable
and out of sorts for some time after. He thanked his stars, however,
when at length he heard the breakfast-bell ring before he had given
way to anything that he felt; and his father hearing it also, and not
being nearly ready, yet valuing himself highly upon his punctuality,
hurried Charles rapidly out of the room to make breakfast, saying,
that he knew very well that Lady Tyrrell would not be down. Charles
Tyrrell knew the contrary, being perfectly assured that, on the last
morning of his stay at Harbury Park, his mother would not fail to be
at the breakfast-table, well or ill.

He accordingly found her there on his arrival, and before even Mr.
Driesen appeared he had an opportunity of explaining to Lady Tyrrell
that his journey was put off, and also of giving her a hint of the
sort of mood in which his father seemed to be. The moment that she
heard what were the facts, Lady Tyrrell determined to make her escape
from the breakfast-table, and got away before Sir Francis appeared.

As soon as he came down, however, he began to remark on her absence,
saying, that he did think, on that day at least, she might have been
down. "I suppose she chooses to be unwell," he continued, "but I do
think she might have put that off till another morning, when she knew
that you were going to Oxford for two or three months."

"I have just seen my mother for a moment, sir," replied Charles, "and
told her I was not going. Though she was unwell, she intended to have
been at breakfast if my departure had not been disarranged."

What the reply of Sir Francis might have been cannot be told, for his
ingenuity in discovering matter of offence when he wished it was
almost superhuman; but at that moment Mr. Driesen entered, with his
gay, good-humoured air, apparently thinking of the merest trifles in
the world, but all the time remarking everything around him, down to
the least motion and gesture of his companions, with a shrewdness that
placed the greater part of their thoughts at his disposal. He
instantly saw that the father and son were not upon the most placable
grounds in the world, and he cut across the subject with a gay sally,
and a happy quotation from a Greek author; and then insisted upon Sir
Francis giving his opinion upon an obscure epigram which he declared
to be written by Martial, but which, in truth, he had himself
manufactured between the door and the breakfast-table.

This gave some change to the feelings with which the morning had
commenced, and matters passed on very quietly till about eleven
o'clock. At that hour, however, Sir Francis began to be irritable and
anxious regarding the return of the constables and officers whom he
had despatched in the morning. They had not made their appearance,
however, though he twice rang the bell to inquire if "the people" had
come. The reply was still in the negative, and he found that up to
half past eleven no one had arrived, nor had two messengers returned
whom he had sent to call for the assistance of two brother magistrates
who lived at some distance.

As time went by he became still more anxious and irritable, and it
soon appeared that he had promised Mrs. Effingham to come down to the
manor-house at twelve o'clock, in order to speak with her in regard to
some improvements and alterations which she had proposed. His
punctuality in regard to time he believed to be almost proverbial in
the neighbourhood, and he would not have forfeited that reputation for
a great deal; but yet it became evident that he could not fulfil his
engagement; and after a great deal of hesitation, and many hints to
his son, which Charles did not choose to take, he proposed to him
straightforwardly to go down to the manor-house, and explain to Mrs.
Effingham why he could not come.

"I must remain," he said, "to receive the magistrates, and it is very
evident now that I cannot get away from them in time."

Charles had laid out for himself a walk down to the manor-house in the
afternoon, and had thought that, very likely, if he could persuade
Lady Tyrrell to go down with him at that hour, Lucy might be induced
to take a drive or a ride with them. He therefore was not at all
disposed to cut himself off from going in the evening by going in the
morning, when a great probability existed of his neither seeing Mrs.
Effingham nor her daughter. He ventured to say, then, "Cannot you send
a servant with a note, sir? Mrs. Effingham may think it strange my
breaking in upon them at this hour."

Sir Francis drew himself up with marked politeness. "I beg your
pardon, sir," he said; "I forgot that I ought not to make my son a
messenger; or perhaps it is that he sees his father has a particular
regard for Mrs. and Miss Effingham, and therefore wishes to mark his
own difference of opinion."

"Indeed, my dear sir, you do me wrong," replied Charles. "I have a
very great esteem for Mrs. Effingham and her daughter; I am sure my
whole conduct towards them ought to show you that such was the case."

Mr. Driesen made a villanous face at him from the bow window, in which
he sat sunning himself, which, if put into words, would probably have
been, "You are going too far; you are showing your hand."

Charles, however, did not choose to play any double part in the
matter, and he replied, "I am quite ready to go, sir, if you wish me;
but I thought I only remained here to be present at the proceedings
which are now likely, it seems, to take place while I am away."

"Oh, we will wait for your invaluable presence," replied Sir Francis.
"We will not proceed without your sapient counsel and advice, depend
upon it. There are many preliminaries to be gone through. I have to
receive the other magistrates, for I do not choose to act in this
matter by myself. I have several other things to communicate to them,
and besides, who would venture to proceed in the absence of Mr.
Charles Tyrrell? No, no, if you will condescend to walk to Mrs.
Effingham's, and explain to her why I cannot come, we will, by all
means, wait till you return."

Charles Tyrrell made no reply, but quitted the room, took his hat, and
issued out into the park, to seek his way by the shortest path to Mrs.
Effingham's.

As soon as he was out of the house, he felt glad that he had been
sent; for the fresh air, the glorious sunshine, the sweet, bright,
calm aspect of nature, were a solace and a refreshment to a mind which
had been harassed throughout the whole morning with petty irritations.

As soon as he had reached the angle of the wood, close to the house,
and was beneath the cool checkered shade of the green boughs, he
pulled off his hat to let the reviving influence of the air play round
his heated temples, and neither walking very quickly nor very slowly,
moved on towards the other side of the park, endeavouring to fill his
mind with thoughts unlike those which had so lately occupied him.

The path was wide and nicely kept, but it had been purposely rendered
tortuous, and, though often approaching to the verge of the woods
where they joined the wide, open deer-park, it still remained beneath
the shelter of the trees, which prevented any one from seeing along it
for more than twenty or thirty yards in advance; occasionally indeed,
in spots where the trees were thinner, one could catch a glimpse of
the onward course of the path at some distance; but it was only
momentary, and everything had been done which the art of gardening
could do, to give a sort of mysterious and lonely effect to the green
light and shade which poured in upon it.

As Charles Tyrrell walked along, and when he had reached a spot about
half way between his own dwelling and the manor-house, he thought he
heard some one speaking, and, raising his eyes, saw through the boles
of the trees at some distance before him one or two figures, he could
not well distinguish which, coming rapidly along as if towards him.
They were hidden in a moment by the other trees, and Charles,
advancing more rapidly with some degree of curiosity--excited! why or
by what he could not tell--plainly distinguished the voice of Lucy
Effingham before he had proceeded twenty yards farther, saying in a
loud and angry tone, "I insist upon your leaving me directly, sir. I
am not now unprotected, and, depend upon it, you shall have cause to
regret such conduct."

Charles quickened his pace; his heart beat high, and the next moment
Lucy stood before him at the distance of about twenty yards. She was
followed close by a very handsome young man, dressed in the garb of a
sailor; and the moment that she beheld Charles Tyrrell, she darted
forward like lightning, with a cry of delight, and clung to his arm.
Charles gently withdrew it from her, saying, "Wait one moment; don't
be alarmed;" and, leaning against a tree for support, she saw him
advance to the person who had been following her, speak a few words to
him in an under voice, and then, at one blow, knock him headlong down
upon the ground. She now screamed violently in order to bring
assistance; but Charles suffered the other to rise, and the next
moment, without anything farther taking place, except some low spoken
words, which she did not hear, they separated.

Charles Tyrrell then immediately came up to her, and though his face
was a good deal flushed and his eyes still flashing, he applied
himself gently and tenderly to sooth her. When she was a little
calmed, he said, "How can I apologize to you, Miss Effingham, for the
manner in which I have been obliged to treat a person in your
presence, who, perhaps, may at one time have been dear to you?"

"To me, Mr. Tyrrell!" exclaimed Lucy, with unfeigned astonishment in
every feature. "To me! Good God, what could make you dream of such a
thing? I hate and abhor him, and have always done so."

"He told me his name was Hargrave!" exclaimed Charles, in equal
surprise.

"So it is," replied Lucy, alternately blushing and turning pale,
merely with agitation. "If you have heard anything of him, as I
suppose you have, it can but be that he has persecuted me in a most
unmanly manner; insulted my poor father not long before his death, and
deprived me of the power of going out of our house in Northumberland
without distress and annoyance."

She spoke eagerly, and Charles Tyrrell could not doubt that she spoke
sincerely, for bright candour and frankness were in every line of her
countenance, and her heightened colour and her beaming eye seemed to
say that she looked upon the very thought of loving such a man as
injurious to her. To Charles her words, her look, her manner, were all
a relief. It seemed as if a load were taken from his heart, and he had
by no means such command over his countenance as not to look the joy
he felt, or over his conduct as not to express the hope to which her
words gave rise.

"Oh, Miss Effingham," he said, "you do not know, you cannot conceive,
you can form not even an idea, of the joy, the satisfaction that your
words afford me."

The change of his manner and of his countenance, the sparkling hope
that lit up his look, could hardly be mistaken, even though Lucy was a
novice in such things. If she had been agitated by a mixture of fear
and annoyance before, new emotions now took possession of her. She
looked no more up in the face of Charles Tyrrell; she dropped her eyes
towards the ground; the colour became still more heightened in her
cheek, and spread over her whole face, and Charles felt the hand, that
he had taken to draw her arm within his own, trembling with agitation
in his grasp.

All he saw, however, gave him hope, as well as all that he had heard.

"Oh, Lucy," he said, "I have been deeply mistaken. I have bitterly and
painfully deceived myself during the last month. It has been reported,
and the report reached my ears, that you were attached to this man, to
this Lieutenant Hargrave."

"Good Heaven!" exclaimed Lucy, "who could spread such a report? Surely
he could not have the wickedness to say such a thing himself, when he
knew how I contemned and reprobated him; when he knew that his return
had made me break off my acquaintance with his sister. But, now I
think of it, it was more likely his sister herself, who, I remember,
in her wild and thoughtless way, declared one day before some other
people that I was in love with her brother, because I praised, without
knowing them to be his, some drawings that all the rest were
condemning. But could _you_--could _you_ suppose that I could love
such a man?"

The emphasis that she laid upon the word you was almost a sufficient
answer to anything that Charles Tyrrell could desire to ask.

"I was foolish enough to believe it, Lucy," he said; "not that I
believed such attachment would continue; but I thought that, for the
time at least, it might be so. But, indeed, I have done many more
foolish things than that," he continued, gaining confidence as he saw
Lucy's eye sinking under his, while her hand remained unwithdrawn
within his own; "such things that I fear you will hardly forgive, Miss
Effingham."

"Indeed!" she said, looking up, apparently with some alarm: "I hope,
Mr. Tyrrell, you have not given any countenance and authority to such
a tale."

"No, oh no!" replied Charles. "It has never passed my lips, of course.
But although I was foolish enough to give credit to it myself, I was
still more foolish, and dared, in the face of that belief, to love
where I had so little chance of being beloved in return. Was not that
unpardonable, Lucy? If you can forgive the other, can you forgive this
also?"

For a moment Lucy made no reply. Her lips moved, indeed, but they
uttered no sound.. Her eyes continued fixed upon the ground. Her hand
remained in his, and the only thing that varied was the colour in her
cheek, which changed every moment. At length Charles Tyrrell saw two
or three tears steal from her eyes and roll over her cheek.

"Lucy," he said, in a sad tone, "dear Lucy, you are unhappy; but if
I--"

But she stopped him at once, looking up frankly in his face, saying,
"Oh no; you are mistaken, Charles; I am very happy;" and the moment
she had said it, agitation overcame everything else; she burst into a
long flood of tears; but they were tears not to be mistaken, and
Charles Tyrrell pressed her to his bosom with the hope, and the trust,
and the full confidence of being loved, and loved alone.

Perhaps it is scarcely fair to enter so much into people's secrets,
and to repeat so much of private conversation, which was certainly
only intended for themselves. There was much to be spoken of between
Lucy Effingham and Charles Tyrrell, and they gave up fully as much
time as Charles had any business to spend in absence from the house,
in the enjoyment of those first dear overflowings of mutual affection,
which form, certainly, the sweetest of all the fountains that we meet
with in our long journey across the desert of life.

They had not, indeed, time to dwell upon all the more important points
of their situation, and therefore they contented themselves with
dwelling upon the minor points. Lucy had to explain now she happened
to be coming up through the park to sit a while with Lady Tyrrell, and
console her for her son's departure, when she was overtaken in the
wood by Arthur Hargrave, who had evidently been watching for her; and
Charles, on his part, had to tell the cause of his journey's delay,
and the message he had been charged to deliver to her mother.

Then Lucy again, with no very great knowledge of the world or worldly
things, expressed a hope which, under her situation at the moment,
seemed strange, that Charles would set out for Oxford without fail on
the following morning; and on pressing her on the subject, he found
that this sudden desire for his absence proceeded from a fear that he
should meet with Arthur Hargrave again, and that their quarrel should
go to still greater lengths. She knew, indeed, that, in point of mere
strength, Charles Tyrrell was so far superior to his antagonist, as
had been that day proved, that the other was not likely to provoke him
in a similar manner; but she feared more serious consequences still,
and did not possess a sufficient knowledge of such transactions to
show her that the distance of a hundred miles or more would make no
difference in regard to the results she apprehended.

Although Charles found it more difficult than he had imagined to quiet
Lucy's apprehensions, yet he succeeded eventually in doing so, binding
himself by promise to return to the University as soon as his father
would permit him; and the question then became, whether he should go
on to the manor-house, protecting Lucy by the way from all chance of
farther annoyance, or she should return with him to Harbury Park. The
former plan was adopted, and it were vain to say that they were not
somewhat long on their way to the manor. The half hour, however, they
thus spent was as sweet to the heart of Charles Tyrrell as it could
be; for it gave him every assurance that man could receive from woman
of the whole affection of Lucy Effingham being his.

As they were just issuing out of the park and entering the grounds of
the manor-house, however, Lucy paused for a moment and said, "Of
course I must tell my mother."

Charles himself could have wished for a little delay, being well
aware, from what he had seen of Mrs. Effingham, that she would hold
herself bound in honour immediately to make known the facts to Sir
Francis and Lady Tyrrell. But, although the idea suggested itself of
requesting Lucy not to mention the explanation which had taken place
between them for a day or two, he could not make up his mind to ask
one, from whom he trusted himself to meet unbounded confidence, to
show any want of confidence to such a mother as hers.

"I will go in with you, Lucy," he said, at length, "and tell your
mother all that I feel upon the occasion. We run great risks by being
frank and open in this business: I will not conceal from you, Lucy,
that we shall most likely bring upon ourselves grief and anxiety for
some time by such conduct; but neither will I ask you, on any account,
to act otherwise. We must bear what we cannot prevent; and if Lucy
loves me as I love her, we shall be happy in the end."

He did, accordingly, go into the manor-house, and was shown into the
room where Mrs. Effingham was, while Lucy, seized with a sudden fit of
timidity, even towards her own mother, took refuge in her chamber.

Mrs. Effingham was not a little surprised to see Charles Tyrrell, whom
she imagined far on his way to Oxford; but he scarcely gave her time
to express that surprise, telling her, first, the cause of his
father's not coming, and then entering rapidly upon all that had
occurred between him and Lucy, and upon the subject of their mutual
love for each other. He told her how he had been tempted to ask Lucy
not to mention the matter for some days. He assured her of his perfect
certainty that Sir Francis Tyrrell, if suffered to pursue his own
course, would propose a marriage between them very soon. But he
assured her also, that if his father were made acquainted with the
fact of his having himself proposed to Lucy, even in a moment of such
excitement as that in which he did first tell her of his affection,
Sir Francis would throw obstacles in the way which might bring misery,
distress, and disappointment upon them.

He spoke rapidly and eagerly, refusing to sit down, and leaning on the
table before Mrs. Effingham; while she, on her part, was agitated by
various different feelings at the different parts of his hurried
details. Anger, indignation, and apprehension were the first feelings
she experienced on hearing of the appearance of Arthur Hargrave. A
slight degree of surprise appeared upon her fine countenance when she
heard how willingly Lucy had received the addresses of Charles
Tyrrell.

"I have been deceived in this matter myself, my dear young gentleman,"
she said; "Lucy is perfectly incapable of falsehood or concealment of
any kind; and though I informed Lady Tyrrell, and gave her leave to
inform you of what I suspected to be the case in this matter, yet I
told her that I had never asked Lucy herself, because I thought it
unfair to press her upon the matter when her father and myself were
quite decided in our determination. I took my impression, too, of
Lucy's feelings from the positive assurance of a person whose opinion
I ought to have doubted, and who, doubtless, received hers from the
sister of this young man."

As Charles went on, however, to tell all that had occurred, a slight
smile, in which pleasure had its share, hung upon Mrs. Effingham's lip
at finding how entirely her daughter and Charles Tyrrell relied upon
her consent being given to their union. They never, indeed,
entertained a doubt upon the subject, and the confidence of affection
was well calculated to give the mother pleasure.

When the young gentleman, however, came to speak upon the character
and probable conduct of his father Mrs. Effingham found matter for
more serious thoughts. She was deeply gratified with the perfect
candour and openness of Charles's behaviour; but it placed her in a
somewhat difficult situation, from which she saw no relief but in his
immediately returning to Oxford; and, after he had ceased speaking,
she remained for a minute or two in deep thought before she replied.
The answer even then was elicited by his saying, "Well, dear Mrs.
Effingham, I must now return, as I have been absent twice as long as I
ought to have been; but I was resolved to tell you at once all that I
thought upon the subject, and leave you to act as you think fit."

"No, Charles," she said, "we must act together. I am fully sensible of
your candour, and deeply grateful for your confidence, and you shall
find me willing to acknowledge it by actions as well as words; for I
will suffer no punctilios, no feelings of pride whatsoever, now or at
any future period, to stand in the way of your happiness, if it is to
consist in your union with Lucy: I think, however, that you are
somewhat inclined to do your father injustice. I know that his temper
is extraordinary, and his violence, as we have ourselves seen two or
three times, quite unreasonable. But, still, I do not think that he
would act merely for the perverse pleasure of contradicting your
wishes."

Charles shook his head with a melancholy smile. "You do not know him,
my dear madam," he said. "It is my firm conviction, that if nothing is
said to my father about this business, he himself will propose a
marriage between me and Lucy, which I know he desires; but that, if he
be told that I love her now, he will throw a thousand obstacles in the
way of our union, if he do not oppose it altogether."

"This is very singular," said Mrs. Effingham; but, at the same time,
she knew that it was in some degree true; and, after thinking for a
few moments, she replied, "Well, Charles, the only thing that I can do
is this. I have certainly no right to interfere between you and your
father. You must communicate to him your views and wishes when you
think fit; but I cannot, of course, suffer any communication between
you and Lucy to go on, after what has taken place, till you have made
such a communication to your father. I must not even have you write to
each other; and if you go to Oxford immediately, and judge it best to
delay the communication till you return, I can say nothing against it.
In the mean time, however, it will be absolutely necessary for me to
state the facts to Lady Tyrrell, and you must not suffer yourself to
be tempted by any circumstance to hold any communication with Lucy
till your father is fully informed. Listen to me, Charles," she
continued, seeing him about to reply. "To make your mind easy, and to
repay the confidence you have placed in me, I will say that if, when
your father is informed of your attachment, he refuses to sanction it,
solely from caprice or ill humour, and assigns no reasonable or
legitimate cause for so doing, I will not oppose your union with Lucy
Effingham as soon as you are both of age."

"Nor shut me out from her society, Mrs. Effingham?" said Charles.

"Not when you are of age to judge for yourself," replied Mrs.
Effingham, "provided always the motives assigned by your father are
capricious and unreasonable. We speak frankly to each other, Charles,
and I know that you are not one either to encroach or to misunderstand
me."

"Oh, no, no, indeed," he answered; "a thousand thanks, dear Mrs.
Effingham. If possible, I will certainly set off for Oxford to-morrow,
and, in the mean time, I trust Lucy will not forget me."

"Her heart would not be worth having if she did," replied Mrs.
Effingham. "But there is one thing I want myself to speak to you upon.
You are not without your father's defects, Charles. You are impetuous
passionate, violent, to a great degree. I have a right to tell you
this, Charles, now that my daughter's happiness is likely to be placed
in your keeping."

"Oh, but, dear madam, I could never be violent or passionate towards
such a creature as Lucy," replied Charles Tyrrell.

"All men think so when they first love," replied Mrs. Effingham. "They
look upon love as one of those famous specifics which we see daily
advertised, and think that it will cure all moral maladies; but a
short trial shows them the reverse. Even supposing that it be as you
say, Charles, still Lucy's happiness may be greatly affected by your
violence toward others. If she love as she will love, her existence
will become one with her husband's. Every act of his that lessens his
dignity, sinks him in the esteem of others, brings him in danger, or
calls upon him reproach, will be painful, agonizing, fearful to her."

Charles took Mrs. Effingham's hand and pressed his lips upon it. "You
give me," he said, "a new, a strong, an overpowering motive for
gaining self-command, and depend upon it, Mrs. Effingham, I will
struggle vigorously; but even now you must not suppose that I do not
put a great restraint upon myself."

"I know you do," replied Mrs. Effingham; "I have seen it in a thousand
instances, and therefore it is that I place so much confidence in you,
Charles. You see the evil of a violent and passionate disposition, and
strive against it. Your father neither sees nor knows it. I am not
sure that he is not proud of being ill-tempered; for many men, I
believe, think that energy of mind must be combined with violence of
passion. But still I cannot help thinking, Charles, that you gave way
more than necessary to-day, in acting towards this young man, this
Arthur Hargrave, as I gather that you have done. To protect Lucy was
right and just, even if you had not been her lover; but you might have
done so, it seems to me, without knocking him down, risking, thereby,
evil consequences to yourself, which, I hope, are not likely to take
place."

Charles smiled. "Perhaps, if I had not taken him for the favoured
lover," he said, "I might have treated him more gently. But there is
no reason to be apprehensive of any farther consequences; all that can
be said is, that I found a strange man, dressed as a sailor, in my
father's park, and insulting my father's ward, and that I knocked him
down accordingly; so there is nothing likely to ensue."

"I think not, either," replied Mrs. Effingham; "for it is an
impression upon my mind, that a man who insults or persecutes a woman,
will sooner or later prove himself a coward in his dealings with man;
so now, good-by!"




CHAPTER X.


Charles Tyrrell made the best of his way back towards the park by a
different line from that which he had taken in coming; for the path
which he had followed, though the nearest of the manifold paths, and
much nearer than the high road itself, was about twice the length
which it might have been rendered if the makers thereof had chosen to
take a straight line. He accordingly cut across the grounds of the
manor-house towards the paling which separated them from the park,
vaulted over the fence, and, taking his way through the midst of the
trees and even the underwood, gained a compensating five or ten
minutes for the half hour more than needful which had been given to
Lucy and Mrs. Effingham.

When he entered the library of Sir Francis, he found that worthy
gentleman in his element, the two friendly justices having arrived, to
one of whom he was laying down the law upon various matters of county
jurisprudence, while the other was undergoing Mr. Driesen, for we know
of no other way to express ourselves, seeing that that gentleman was
operating upon him with the calm cruelty of a surgeon in large
practice, or a professed torturer of the Inquisition, making use of a
passage from Aristophanes as the rack, and enjoying the writhings of
his victim when he insisted upon his giving his view of a long
quotation, of which he neither understood nor could remember one
single word. The unhappy man, it seems, had acquired a certain degree
of reputation for learning in the county, by occasionally misquoting
to his brother justices some of the Latin headings to the papers in
the Rambler and Spectator; and Mr. Driesen, it would seem, had
determined, from the first, to do justice upon him as soon as he could
meet with him. He had, consequently, dragged him close up to Sir
Francis and the other justice, and endeavoured, as far as possible, to
call them from Sir Francis's discussion upon the law, to witness his
infliction upon the worthy personage he was persecuting.

No sooner did Charles appear than the poor man darted towards him for
refuge, leaving Mr. Driesen grinning at him with triumph and contempt;
but Sir Francis had also his word to say to his son, and immediately
remarked,

"Why, Charles, I should have supposed those enormous long legs of
yours might have carried you to the manor-house and back somewhat more
rapidly."

"Under ordinary circumstances they would have done so," replied
Charles Tyrrell, coolly: for all that had passed between him and Lucy,
although it had left his mind in no slight state of agitation, had
also left it in as placable a mood as it is possible to conceive. "I
met with various little incidents on the road, sir," he added, with a
smile, "none of them very disagreeable indeed, but which served to
detain me. In the first place, I met Miss Effingham coming up here to
console you and my mother for the absence of your affectionate son,
who she fully believed had departed, not this life, but this house, on
his journey to Oxford."

"You are pleased to be facetious, sir," said his father, dryly. "Pray
what was the next little incident? I suppose this was not a
disagreeable one, certainly."

"Of course not," replied Charles; and, as he had predetermined, he
went on: "I had next to knock down a man dressed like a sailor, who
had followed Miss Effingham into the park, and was insolent to her."

"Indeed," cried every one, while their eyes opened somewhat wider with
astonishment, and Sir Francis added, "I must really have some stop put
to this. It is now the fifth or sixth time within the last week, I
think, that sailors have been found wandering about in the park. The
gamekeepers must not do their duty, or else such people would not be
in five minutes without their finding them. And so," he continued,
renewing the attack upon his son, "you made yourself the champion of
Miss Effingham, did you? for which she was, of course, very grateful,
doughty sir."

"Certainly," replied Charles; "I could not refuse to become the lady's
champion when you were not present, sir, to defend your fair
favourite; and even more, after that was all over, and she had a
little recovered, I escorted her home to the manor-house, as she was
not disposed to come on here, judging that you would not be quite so
inconsolable as she thought, as I was to remain another day."

"I hope you gave my message to Mrs. Effingham," continued his father.

Charles replied in the affirmative; and as Sir Francis chose, when in
society, to assume the character of a very amiable and placable
parent, though he could hardly suppose that he really deceived anybody
by so doing, he dropped the matter there, and resumed his conversation
with his brother justice.

Nearly half an hour more elapsed without any notice being given that
the persons expected had arrived, and the conversation began naturally
to turn upon the subject of their meeting, when Charles, though he did
not think fit to ask any questions, gathered that the important
business on which his father had detained him was neither more nor
less than the examination of a gang of smugglers, one of the largest
and most important seizures having been made on the coast the night
before which had been known for many years. This had been effected by
the custom-house officers, aided by the crew of the revenue cutter;
but for the apprehension of the smugglers themselves, as the
contraband articles had not been found actually in their possession,
the civil power had been called in, and the necessary authority given
by Sir Francis Tyrrell.

While Charles was step by step discovering these facts, the door of
the library was thrown open, and no less than two-and-twenty men, of
different kinds and stations, poured into the room. The greater part
of them remained, however, at the farther end, while a young gentleman
in naval uniform advanced to the magistrates, and informed them that
he believed, with the assistance he had received from the civil power,
he had succeeded in capturing almost all the persons implicated. The
prisoners had sent off, he said, for a lawyer from the neighbouring
town, to assist them before the magistrates, though he did not see
what a landshark could do for the poor devils; but, however, as some
desperate resistance had been made, and it might go hard with them for
their lives if one of the constables who had been injured were to die,
he thought it better, he said, to bring them up but slowly, while the
messenger went on for the lawyer.

While he had been thus speaking, Charles Tyrrell had been examining
attentively the group at the farther end of the room, and separating
it into its constituent parts. The constables and other officers were
immediately distinguished, and, in general, the boat's crew of the
cutter could also be marked out from the rest. The group of smugglers
stood in the middle, with the others sweeping round them, and one or
two of them bearing evident marks of the contest in which they had so
lately been engaged.

But the surprise and grief of Charles Tyrrell was not slight, to see
standing beside another man, some ten or fifteen years older than
himself, and bearing a strong resemblance to him, honest John Hailes,
the father of the little boy who had so nearly drifted out to sea in
the empty boat. The other person who stood next to him afterward
proved to be William Hailes, whom we have already introduced to the
reader under the name of Old Will. The younger of the brothers, John
Hailes, had evidently been somewhat severely treated, having received
a blow upon the forehead with a cutlass, the bleeding of which seemed
scarcely to be stanched yet. William Hailes had met with less sharp
usage, or had shown less resistance, and Charles doubted not that it
was on account of the former, and the interest which he took in him
from the little incident of having saved his child, that his father
had required him to remain at Harbury Park that day.

It is certainly strange, the bond which exists between us and any one
who has called into action towards them the better feelings of our
nature. It seems as if they had made acquaintance with our hearts, and
obtained an entrance at once on all occasions when strangers are not
admitted. "We put a withering twig in the ground," says Sterne, "and
then we water it because we have planted it." Whatever may be the
philosophical cause of this tendency, Charles Tyrrell certainly felt
far more interest in the case of John Hailes than he did in that of
any one present; and advancing towards him, he asked him, not in a
loud voice indeed, but not in a low one, how he happened to be in such
a situation.

"Bless you, sir!" replied the man, "I've no more to do with it than
you have. How I got the cut on the head, you see, is because these
fellows came in upon me suddenly, and I not liking to be overhauled in
that manner, knocked one of them down. That's the truth, I don't deny.
But as for running the goods, I had no more to do with that than my
boy Johnny. I wonder they didn't take him too; for you know well
enough, sir, that he had nearly gone to sea without any papers aboard,
poor boy. D----, they may do what they like; they can't do any harm to
me; for I had no hand in running anything, so they can't make out that
I had."

"But you should have submitted when you knew that there was a warrant
out against you," replied Charles.

"I never knew anything of that," replied the man "Nobody ever told me
of a warrant. But, just when I was stooping down over the chest in the
window of the hovel, in comes one of these lubbers, and catches me by
the jacket, telling me I must come away with him: so, you see, sir, I
turned round and knocked him over, as was natural. Nobody can say much
against that, I think."

"Come, come, Charles," cried Sir Francis, "wo must investigate this
matter in a more orderly way. I don't see the use of waiting longer
for the lawyer. We might remain here all day."

Charles endeavoured to persuade his father that it would be better to
give a little more time for the arrival of the person who had been
sent for; but, as a natural consequence, Sir Francis persisted in
proceeding immediately, and had opened the business, when it was again
interrupted by the entrance of no less a personage than Captain Long,
with his pigtail at full length, accompanied by Everard Morrison, both
bearing evident marks of having lost no time by the road.

As soon as Charles saw his old schoolfellow, he advanced and shook
hands with him cordially; and though Everard received his friend's
greeting with his usual calm and thoughtful demeanour, to those who
knew him well it would have been evident, from the placid smile that
hung upon his lip and the momentary brightness of his eye, that his
meeting with Charles Tyrrell, and the warm reception given him by the
baronet's son, were grateful to every feeling of his heart.

Charles instantly led him up to Sir Francis Tyrrell, and introduced
him in form as the friend and schoolfellow whom he had so often heard
him mention, and the baronet behaved by no means ill upon the
occasion, treating the young lawyer with politeness and respect, and
saying, that though, of course, the business must be conducted by the
magistrates, and they could not suffer any one to interfere, yet it
was extremely right and proper that a solicitor should be present on
behalf of the prisoners, to watch the proceedings against them.

"Depend upon it, Sir Francis," replied young Morrison, "I should never
dream of interfering but where the law authorized me, and my duty
compelled me as the prisoners' solicitor. You will permit me, of
course, to have a few minutes' conversation with them, in the first
place?"

Sir Francis Tyrrell and the other justices consented, and Morrison,
approaching the group at the other end of the room, bade the officers
and others retire a little, in a tone which, though calm and quiet,
was obeyed at once, and then spoke to each of the prisoners in turn
for a single instant, seeming to ask none of them more than two
questions, to which some of them answered briefly, some merely by a
shrug of the shoulders or a shake of the head.

Towards the end of this proceeding, Captain Long walked up to one of
the prisoners and spoke to him; when the young officer, who had
remained standing by the magistrates, exclaimed, "Come, come, Master
Longly, none of that. We know you well of old, and I am very sure
that, if right were done, you would be standing among them yourself."

Longly eyed him from head to foot, while, by a slouching motion of his
head, he caused his pigtail to project at full length, straight out
over the collar of his jacket, and ejecting a considerable portion of
tobacco-juice upon the Turkey carpet, he replied, "So you call
yourself a sailor, do ye, you lubber?"

Everard Morrison instantly interfered. "You forget, sir," he said,
turning to the officer, "that in this room you have no authority, and
that it does not become you to bring a charge which you cannot
sustain. Sir Francis Tyrrell is the person to interfere, if Mr. Longly
does anything that is amiss, and Mr. Longly has, I know, too much
respect for him not to bow at once to his decision."

Charles Tyrrell felt proud of his friend, and perhaps Morrison was
himself in some degree affected by the knowledge that he was acting in
the presence of Charles Tyrrell.

Into the particulars of the examination that ensued, it is not,
perhaps, needful to enter minutely; at all events, not till we come to
the case of the fisherman, John Hailes, and of another, whom the young
lawyer set apart with him, in consequence of the answers which he
seemed to receive from them. It appeared very clear, as a matter of
fact, though perhaps not quite clearly proved, that William Hailes,
the elder brother of the fisherman, had had a considerable share in
smuggling the goods which had been seized. There were four or five
other men similarly situated; and as their cases were gone through,
one after the other, Charles Tyrrell could not help feeling convinced,
though very willing to believe them innocent, that sufficient grounds
existed for their committal, although he doubted whether a
condemnation would follow.

In regard to the last of these men, however, a dispute arose which
called forth his interference. None of the men had attempted any
defence or said anything, apparently acting under the directions of
their lawyer. But the last of this party was very anxious to vindicate
himself, and one of the constables seemed as anxious to prove him
guilty. The man said more than was necessary, certainly, upon his own
cause, and the constable who had taken him, standing beside him, chose
to comment on his words, and endeavoured to embarrass him even while
under examination before the magistrates.

Morrison then interposed, saying, "You had better stand back,
constable, and let the accuser answer for himself. Remember, Wilson,
you are not bound to say anything; and, if you take my advice, you
will be silent. Stand back, constable, I say; you are interfering in
an improper manner."

"Come, come, Master Morrison," cried the constable, who was one of a
sturdy, bull-headed race of men, even at that time forming a peculiar
class in the peasantry of England, but who have since increased and
multiplied to an amazing degree under the fostering care of new
game-laws and parish unions; "Come, come, Master Morrison, give us
none of your sauce I have as much right to meddle as you have, every
bit, so stand back yourself, for I sha'n't for none of you."

Morrison was turning coolly to appeal to the magistrates, being
accustomed to meet insolence of various kinds, and to deal with it
tranquilly. But such was not the case with Charles Tyrrell, who was
sitting at the moment at one end of the table, close to the prisoners,
as they were brought up one by one before the magistrate; and fixing
his eye upon the constable with a heightened colour, he said, "Stand
back!"

The man looked at him for an instant, as if irresolute; but then
replied, with dogged determination, "No, I sha'n't stand back!" and,
almost before the words were out of his mouth, he was grasped by the
collar of his coat, and sent reeling back into the midst of the group
behind him, with a countenance flaming with rage and discomfited
insolence.

"Charles, Charles," said Sir Francis Tyrrell, "command yourself, sir;
command yourself; such a display of violence and passion is very
unbecoming."

A smile ran over the countenances of the other magistrates at this
exhortation; but Charles, who felt that he had indeed given way more
than he ought to have done, instantly regained his temper, and
replied, "I beg your pardon, sir; I have done wrong; but the man was
insolent."

That insolence was but increased from the treatment he had met with.
But Charles, who found that his own temper was not sufficiently
placable to endure much more, left the matter to his father, on whom
the constable speedily turned; and Sir Francis, whose powers of
endurance were considerably less than those of his son, was in less
than two minutes in such a state of excitement, that the other
magistrates were obliged to interpose, and authoritatively to send the
man out of the room.

The baronet was then speedily calmed, and the business before them
proceeded in; but each of the persons present carried away their own
version of the scene which had taken place. A thousand stories were
built upon the foundation thus afforded, and the violence, rashness,
and intemperate passion of the Tyrrell family became, perhaps for the
hundredth time, a nine days' wonder in the county.

It was a peculiar feature in the character of Sir Francis Tyrrell,
that any irritation which he endured left an impression on his mind,
which lasted long in a sort of subdued and smothered state. If nothing
occurred again to blow it into a flame, the fire became gradually
extinct. But it showed itself, if that were not the case, by bursting
forth upon slight causes, and aggravating every motive of offence. It
also, even while kept under, made him bitterer, more severe, and more
sarcastic than at other times; but, on the present occasion, his
calmness only lasted for a very short period.

When the fisherman, John Hailes, was brought up to the table, with the
other person whom Morrison had set apart, the young lawyer immediately
commenced another method of proceeding, saying to the magistrates,
"Now, gentlemen, against these two men there is not a shadow of
evidence, as far as I can learn; and the accusation against them, when
stripped of its exaggerations, is, that the man, John Hailes, and this
other, named Henry Wilson, live upon the seashore, within a mile of
the place where the smuggled goods have been seized. Hailes, it is
true, is the brother of William Hailes, who lives nearer to the spot,
and who was seen, we are told, with a barrow-full of the shingles,
such as the goods were covered with; but even if it were proved--and
there is not a shadow of proof that such is the case--that William
Hailes smuggled the whole cargo with his own hands, that is not in the
slightest degree a proof that his brother had anything to do with it.
Unless, then, sufficient evidence be brought forward to show that
Hailes and his companion were immediately and directly implicated in
the transaction, I shall not only request you to discharge them
immediately, but shall also bring before your notice, when the case is
disposed of, the question of the assault committed upon them by the
constables who apprehended them."

Sir Francis Tyrrell fired up immediately. "You are aware, sir," he
said, with a frowning brow, "that they were apprehended in virtue of a
warrant signed by me upon information on oath."

"Then I have only to say, sir," replied Morrison, "that the person who
swore that oath committed perjury; and farther to observe, that the
fact of the warrant was not notified to them till after the assault
had been committed. It can be proved, that the moment the warrant was
produced, and the officers made their authority known, they met with
not the slightest resistance."

This was too much for Sir Francis Tyrrell, who answered with
domineering and angry contempt, which was only aggravated by another
cool but decided reply from the young lawyer. Everything that was
sarcastic, everything that was violent, everything that was insulting,
poured from his lips; and Charles, equally pained both for his father
and his friend, could hardly make himself heard through the torrent of
the baronet's eloquent vituperation. The moment that he did so,
however, his father turned upon him as an object on which he had very
frequently practised the peculiar sort of oratory in which he was
indulging; and nothing that could gall or mortify him was left unsaid
in the presence of the number of people who were then collected.

There was a terrible struggle in Charles Tyrrell's heart, and every
one present saw it in the changing of his colour from fiery red to
deadly pale, and the reverse, which took place two or three times
while his father went on. Every word that he himself uttered seemed to
lash the baronet into greater fury. He put no restraint upon himself
of any kind; his eyes were seen gleaming forth from under his
overhanging brows like live coals. His lips quivered, his nostrils
expanded, his hands clinched, and after going on for five or six
minutes without interruption, piling upon his son's head the wildest
and falsest accusations, insinuations, and reproaches, he actually was
forced to stop for want of breath and utterance.

Charles knew that his father would go on again as soon as he recovered
power; but he felt that he could endure no more, for he too trembled
with a struggle against himself; and taking advantage of the pause, he
rose from the table to quit the room. The baronet, however, could
hardly bear to lose the object of his indignation; and screaming,
rather than speaking, he exclaimed, "Speak, sir, speak. What have you
to say for yourself?"

Charles's resolution gave way, and he replied in a bitter tone, "I
have only to say that I grieve for my father's disgrace; one day he
will repent this conduct to his son;" and he instantly quitted the
room.

"You hear, gentlemen, you hear," exclaimed Sir Francis Tyrrell,
rolling his eyes from one of the magistrates to the other. "He
threatens his father! I suppose that some of these days he will
horsewhip me, to teach me the respect a father ought to entertain for
his son."

One of the magistrates made an attempt to mediate in favour of Charles
Tyrrell, but he speedily abandoned it, finding that the storm was
likely to fall upon himself; and, in order to avoid any more
irritation, he turned to the matter of the smuggling, and hurried
through the cases that remained as fast as possible. Sir Francis, in
the mood of the moment, would have committed anybody upon any evidence
whatsoever; but the other magistrates found themselves bound to oppose
such a proceeding; and John Hailes and his companion, with another man
against whom there was no evidence at all, were discharged.

Everard Morrison, coolly and undismayed by all that had passed, gave
notice that, as soon as he had collected evidence in regard to all the
facts, he should take proceedings against the parties concerned in the
arrest of John Hailes; but, fearful of a new tempest breaking forth,
one of the other magistrates begged him to defer anything he had to
say on the subject, to which he consented.

The rest of the business was then speedily arranged. Six of the
smugglers were sent to the county jail, and the room was soon cleared.
The magistrates immediately called for their horses and departed; and
Sir Francis Tyrrell, knowing by Mr. Driesen's calm, cynical smile,
that he had noted every word, and tone, and look during the fit of
passion in which he had indulged, and had rather enjoyed the scene
than otherwise, turned away from a man who, with all his causticity,
had never yet given him an opportunity of quarrelling with him, took
his hat and stick, and walked out into the park.

Mr. Driesen stood at the window, looking after him for a moment with a
bitter smile; then stretched himself at length upon a sofa, took up a
book, and, wrapped up in his own selfishness, forgot in two moments a
scene which, like everything else that did not affect him personally,
passed before his eyes like the performance of a play, without in the
slightest degree affecting his heart.

In the mean while Charles Tyrrell had retired to his own room. For
several minutes he buried his face in his hands, and struggled eagerly
to suppress the tumult of angry feelings that still remained in his
bosom. He used every motive, he recollected every inducement which
could be suggested by common sense and philosophy, or the far
surpassing power of religion: but the task was a long and a difficult
one; and he was leaning with his arm on the window-sill, gazing over
the park from the open window, when a servant entered the room and
informed him that one of the gentlemen who had been below had come up
to speak with him. Believing it to be one of the magistrates, and
supposing that he had come for the purpose of effecting a
reconciliation between him and his father, Charles ordered him to be
admitted immediately; but was surprised to see the young officer who
had appeared in command of the men belonging to the revenue cutter. He
closed the door carefully behind him, and advanced towards Charles
Tyrrell with a countenance expressive of candour and frankness, but,
at the same time, of some degree of embarrassment.

"I am sorry, Mr. Tyrrell," he said, "I am really sorry to trouble you
at such a moment as this, and upon such business. But, as I was coming
along just now with the men we had taken, I met an old friend and
messmate of mine, named Arthur Hargrave, who informed me that he had
had some words with you, and that you had struck him; finding that I
was coming on here, he asked me to do what, of course, I could not
refuse, namely, to seek an opportunity of speaking with you, and
demanding either an apology or immediate satisfaction of another
kind."

Charles Tyrrell was in no mood for making apologies, and he replied,
"I certainly did strike him, sir, and served him perfectly right. I
shall, therefore, make no apology whatsoever for having chastised a
person who deserved it. As he is an officer in his majesty's navy, I
find, I will give him at once that satisfaction which his conduct does
not merit; but as I am obliged to return to Oxford to-morrow, and, as
you see, have no inducement to remain here, I can give him no great
time for preparation, and will name, if you please, the hour of six
to-morrow morning."

"These things can never be settled too soon, when once they are
determined upon," replied the young officer: "and we will not fail to
be upon the ground, if you will name the spot."

"That is easily settled," replied Charles. "You see that hill," he
continued, pointing to Harbury Hill, the summit of which just peeped
over the trees of the park, and was visible at his windows. "It is a
good landmark for all the country round, so you cannot miss it. On the
top there is a flat piece of ground, it having been an old encampment.
We will meet there, if you please, at six precisely. I may have some
difficulty in finding a friend to accompany me upon the occasion, as
this neighbourhood is somewhat thin of gentlemen; but nothing shall
prevent my coming."

A few formal speeches of a courteous and civil character ended the
matter, and Charles, ushering his visiter to the door, closed it, and
remained alone, to think over the approaching event and the necessary
preparations. To whom could he apply, he asked himself. Where could he
find pistols, for he had none of his own. Everard Morrison, he doubted
not, was by this time gone; and even if he were not, Charles had
little doubt that, if he made known his circumstances to him, and
asked him to buy him pistols and accompany him to the field, the young
lawyer would positively refuse to do either, and would cause his
footsteps to be dogged by officers rather than assist him in a breach
of the peace.

The only two other young men in the neighbourhood with whom he was at
all intimate, he knew to be absent, and he paused thoughtfully over a
situation of some difficulty and discomfort. His mind then suddenly
reverted to Mr. Driesen. He would, it is true, have chosen any other
person upon the first impulse; but that gentleman, nevertheless, upon
second thoughts, appeared to him much more eligible than anybody he
could select.

Charles Tyrrell was going to do what he knew to be wrong; what, upon
every principle of reason and good feeling, he disapproved of, as the
most stupid and absurd, as well as the most barbarous and criminal of
worldly customs; and he felt, in a religious point of view, that he
not only required that mental preparation which every man must desire
before death, but that he had to ask of the Almighty, not only pardon
for sins past, but pardon for the very crime he was about to commit,
and which was likely to hurry him into the presence of God.

Mr. Driesen was a man without any religion, and, therefore, in all
these respects he could give Charles neither comfort nor direction;
but this was a matter with which his second could, of course, have
nothing to do, and in every other respect he was well calculated to
guide and assist him. He was a man of known courage; had some
experience in such affairs; was troubled with no scruple or hesitation
of any kind; and was prompt, active, and clear sighted. He could
easily obtain the pistols for him from the nearest large town, without
exciting suspicion in any one, and would, as Charles well knew, have
no hesitation in regard to exerting himself under such circumstances.

He accordingly rang the bell, and ordered the servant to ask Mr.
Driesen to speak with him; and in a few minutes after, that gentleman
appeared, with some surprise in his countenance at the summons.
Charles briefly explained to him the occurrences of the morning, and
Mr. Driesen accepted the office of second at once, rubbing his hands
with a certain degree of pleasure, though he declared duelling to be a
very foolish thing indeed at the same time.

"Early to begin, Charles, early to begin," he said. "I never went out
till I was six-and-twenty, and have not seen anything of the kind for
twenty-five years. There was room in the mean while, however, to do a
little business of the kind; but, upon my life, Charles, if you begin
thus early and go on thus hotly, you will get your brains blown out
some day. Six o'clock tomorrow, you say--Harbury Hill; well, I'll be
ready, and come and knock at your door. Is there anything I can do for
you in the mean while?"

"Why, I wish you to send for the pistols," said Charles, "without
letting any one know it."

"What! haven't you got pistols?" demanded Mr. Driesen, with as
much astonishment as if they were an indispensable ornament of a
toilet-table; "but never mind, I'll lend you mine: I never travel
without. There's no knowing when one may want them; and there can't be
better pistols. I'd give them to you, Charles (for at my age it is not
likely I shall want to use them), but they were sent me by a poor
friend of mine when he was dying; shot through the liver, poor fellow!
and I have a great regard for them. However, I will leave them to you
in my will. You Tyrrells should never be without such companions."

Scarcely ten words more were said upon the subject; and Mr. Driesen,
after ascertaining the difference between his watch and that of
Charles Tyrrell, wished his friend good-by, and went away to read his
book again.




CHAPTER XI.


Charles Tyrrell was up early on the following morning. He was one of
those who are born without the consciousness of fear. Though eager and
enthusiastic by nature, vehement and rapid in character, his was not
one of those weak-toned minds easily hurried on to violent actions, to
be regretted the next moment, or to unsustained daring, which
evaporates with the excitement of the hour. When he had struck an
officer in the king's service, he knew the consequences likely to
ensue, and he was quite as ready to meet those consequences after calm
reflection as at the moment when he had committed the act.

There was, indeed, only one condition under which Charles Tyrrell
regretted his actions, which was, when the impetuosity and vehemence
of his nature led him to do anything which his own heart condemned.
Such, however, was not the case in the present instance. He felt
solemnly that there was a chance of his meeting death in the encounter
to which he was voluntarily going. He felt that he might very likely
be torn, in a moment, from the side of a mother to whom he was the
only source of consolation, comfort, and support. He felt that he
might be taken, too, from one who had wakened in his bosom, for the
first time, the noblest, the most endearing, the most kindly of
affections; and, therefore, on two strong motives, he hoped and prayed
that life might be continued to him.

But those feelings were very different from apprehension of death. He
could not bring his mind to grasp the terror with which some people
regard that event. It seemed as if his mind were insusceptible of the
idea of danger, and he set about all his proceedings for going out to
meet Arthur Hargrave as calmly and tranquilly as he had made his
preparations on the preceding day for going to Oxford.

Weighing the chances, however, he sat down and wrote three brief notes
to the three persons whom he thought the most interested in his
existence. One was, as may well be supposed, to Lucy Effingham, and
another to his mother. The third was addressed to his father, and was
addressed to him in terms of affection and kindness, as if there had
never existed dispute or angry feelings between them. Before he ended
it, however, he spoke of his mother, and besought Sir Francis Tyrrell,
in terms which he thought would touch him, if read when the hand that
wrote them was cold in death, to render her life happier by a change
of conduct towards her.

When he had done it, Charles was well pleased that he had thought of
so doing; for he felt that there are events which form epochs in the
life of man, changing or influencing his very character itself; and he
believed that the death of an only son, under such circumstances,
might well form such an epoch in the life of Sir Francis and Lady
Tyrrell, and might teach him to control that violent and bitter
disposition which had rendered the existence of his wife an existence
of misery.

He had concluded the whole of these arrangements some time before Mr.
Driesen knocked at his door. That gentleman entered with a cheerful
face, carrying his pistol-case under his arm, and saying, "Early
rising, Charles, early rising; very good for the health this. A breeze
upon Harbury Hill will do us a great deal of good; but we shall find
it necessary, Charles, to jump out of your window, I think, for it
seems to me the only one open in the house; all the rest are as dark
as the pit of Acheron, or, to use a not less classical simile, as dark
as a dog's mouth. Those lazy jades of yours are never up before six
o'clock in the morning, so that, when I come down sometimes to seek
for a book in the library, I find them walking about, with their
brooms in their hands, like the apotheosis of a March wind, enveloped
in a cloud of dust. But I see you are ready, and so am I, and so are
the pistols; for I looked at them last night, and there is not a speck
upon them. You see I always cram them, Charles, when I put them into
their cases, with a piece of dry tow, wrapped up first in a piece of
chamois leather, and that wrapped up again in a piece of fine green
cloth. I have got little instruments made, too, for stopping the
touch-holes, so that not the slightest particle of flue or dust can
get in. But now we had better set off; for we must walk quietly, you
know; no running and scampering to-day."

Charles was quite willing to set out; and, unlocking one of the doors
which led into the courtyard for themselves, they proceeded calmly
towards Harbury Hill, Mr. Driesen himself carrying the pistols, for
which he seemed to have a high veneration and respect. The walk was
long and beautiful, the scenery varying every moment, the new-risen
sun lighting up hill and dale with all the fresh and varying
loveliness of morning, and the wind blowing the foliage about, and
carrying here and there a light cloud rapidly across the sky.

It was a scene to look upon, and to think of long life and manifold
enjoyments; and there was something in gazing upon it, and thinking of
death and departure from all known and habitual pleasures, which had
some thing solemn in it even to the heart of Charles Tyrrell.

Finding that they had plenty of time, Mr. Driesen insisted upon
Charles climbing the hill slowly, declaring that any great exertion
unsteadied the hand. He also made him quit the road, which was covered
with large, hard stones, and, mounting the bank, proceed over the
short soft turf which clothed the old Roman encampment.

Before they reached the top, however, he said, "They are there before
us; I saw a man's head at that corner. However, as we have fully five
minutes to the time, we need not hurry."

When they had reached the top, however, they found that the head which
Mr. Driesen had seen belonged to a no less innocent person than an old
shepherd, who, accompanied by his two faithful dogs, sat upon the brow
of the hill while his sheep fed quietly on the grassy side. There was
nobody else there; and when they had reached the flat top, Mr. Driesen
having laid down the pistol-case, put on his spectacles, and, mounting
upon a part of the old intrenchments, looked over the country to see
if their adversaries were coming.

"It's very odd," he said, "very odd indeed. One can see all
round here, and yet I can perceive nothing like them on any of
the roads. Well, we must wait;" and thereupon he took out his silk
pocket-handkerchief, and tied on his hat to prevent it being blown
away by the wind.

After waiting some short time longer, Charles began to be apprehensive
that his watch might have been slow, and that his opponent might have
been on the spot before him and gone away; under which supposition he
advanced to the shepherd, and asked him how long he had been there.

"Why, for this hour and a half, Master Charles," replied the man, who
knew him well; "I always set out pretty earlyish, and have been
sitting here ever since."

"Were there two gentlemen here then," said Charles, "just before we
came?"

"No, Master Charles, no," answered the man. "There's been nobody here
since I was here. What happened before I came I can't say: but there's
been nobody here since, not a living soul, except one of the two old
ravens that live in those trees there. He came, old boy, and swung
himself backward and forward on his feet, putting down his head, and
croaking as if he had got hold of a sheep. I thought it boded no good
to the old north country ram, that has been ailing like for the last
week; but he seems better to-day. No, Master Charles, not a living
soul but the old raven."

So far satisfied, Charles walked back to Mr. Driesen, whom he found
engaged in the humane and rational sport of pelting a lizard to death,
which he had found sunning itself among the stones. He left off,
however, as Charles Tyrrell approached, and said,

"This is very odd, Charles; it's near a quarter past the hour. Do you
think this can be a white feather, my boy? We must give 'em a little
more time, however; watches may differ, and, though mine goes well,
yet it may be found at fault when compared with one regulated by
observation taken from the deck of his majesty's revenue cutter,
the--what is she called, Charles?"

"I am sure I do not know," answered Charles Tyrrell; "but I think I
see somebody coming along the farther part of that road. Oh yes, it is
certainly; I saw him pass the trees."

Mr. Driesen now looked, and anxiously; but in a moment after he said,

"That's but a single person, and looks to me too little for a man.
It's a boy, Charles, it's a boy. He's making straight for the hill,
however; perhaps they've sent him on to say they're coming."

They watched the person who approached, and whom they could plainly
distinguish to be a boy of no very great age, as he came along the
road to the hill, and then mounted directly towards them. He was soon,
however, seen to be a mere country lad in a smock frock; and Mr.
Driesen, concluding that he was one of the shepherd's sons, or
something of that kind, was turning away, when the youth came up and
stared, with an inquiring countenance, first at him and then at
Charles.

"Are you one of the gentlemen I was to find upon the hill?" said the
boy, addressing the latter.

"I really do not know," replied Charles Tyrrell. "Pray, who told you
you would find anybody here?"

"Ay, that I can't tell either," replied the boy, "but he looked like a
sea-captain."

"What is that you've got in your hand, my man?" said Mr. Driesen; "I
dare say it is for us; let me look at it;" and, without ceremony, he
took from the reluctant hands of the boy a note, which he found to be
directed to ---- Tyrrell, Esq. "There, Charles, there," continued Mr.
Driesen, "that's for you. Let us hear what all this is about."

Charles took the note, which was wafered, and opened it, when he found
written within, in a hasty and nearly illegible manner,


"Sir,

"I am sorry to inform you that unexpected events will prevent my
friend Lieutenant Hargrave from giving you the meeting proposed for
this morning. I have not time to explain this matter farther; but have
only to add, that you will hear either from him or me in a few days,
and that I am,

"Sir,

"Your most obedient servant," &c., &c.

"White feather! Charles," said Mr. Driesen. "White feather, no doubt
of it! Well, you have done with the matter. If the fellow comes in
your way again, horsewhip him, that's all; but don't suffer yourself
to be tempted to meet him any more. Sometimes these cowardly fellows,
after hanging back for a time, screw themselves up to behave like
gentlemen; but you are not to be trifled with by such a scoundrel. You
have kept your engagement, and been to your time, and that's quite
enough. Hark you, my man," he continued, turning to the boy, "what did
they give you for bringing this note?"

"They gave me a shilling, sir," said the boy.

"Give it me," said Mr. Driesen. "There's half a crown for you instead.
Now I want you to do two things. If ever you meet that gentleman
again, tell him it would not pass current, and so you had the broad
arrow stamped upon it; and, here, take this mahogany case, and walk on
before us to that house that you see in the park beyond the trees
there. We are close behind you; but take no notice; give the case to
one of the servants, and tell him to put it in Mr. Driesen's room; Mr.
Driesen's room, mind!"

The boy pulled the front lock of his hair and took the pistol case;
and Driesen, turning to Charles, led the way homeward, saying, "Come,
Charles, come. My walk has given me an appetite, and I don't think it
has taken yours away, though something has taken away the stomach of
your adversary, seemingly. I shall go and coax Mrs. Housekeeper to
make me a cup of chocolate; for it wants an hour and a half to the
breakfast-time yet, and I should be starved if I were to wait so
long."

Charles determined he would do so likewise, and they accordingly
returned to the house with a more rapid pace than that with which they
had left it.

When there, Charles Tyrrell destroyed the notes that he had written,
and the whole party met at breakfast, he having once more prepared to
set out for Oxford immediately after. Sir Francis, in reality ashamed
of what had taken place the day before, but forcing down the throat of
his own conscience a persuasion that he had been very much ill treated
by his son, enshrouded himself in sullen dignity, read the newspaper,
and scarcely spoke to anyone. Lady Tyrrell was present, but sad at her
son's departure; and the burden of conversation devolved upon Mr.
Driesen, who, to do him but justice, bore it up stoutly.

When breakfast was over, Charles ordered his packages to be taken down
to the lodge, and bade his mother farewell. Lady Tyrrell melted into
tears, and retired immediately into her own room. Sir Francis shook
hands with his son, wished him good-by, and returned to his newspaper
again. Mr. Driesen accompanied Charles to the lodge, and left him
fully satisfied that he had established a hold upon the young man's
regard which he had never before possessed.

The coach came up in a few minutes, the luggage was taken up, Charles
mounted on the top, the horses started, and he was borne away from the
scenes which were endeared to him by early reflections, but still more
by the one sweet attaching tie of his love for Lucy Effingham.




CHAPTER XII.


"Nella strada della Licatia vi è una chiesetta mal fornita, ove suole
annidarsi uno dei romiti girovagi, ed anni sono vi abitava uno di
barba e pelo rosso, che si procacciava il vitto colle spontanee
limosine de' passaggieri, conforme a tutti i suoi antecessori. Teneva
egli un cane addestrato in maniera che ad un cenno quasi
indiscernibile investiva con gran furia i passaggieri, e ad un altro
cenno faceva mille ossequiosi atteggiamenti e giuocarelli."

So said our worthy old friend, the Canon Joseph Recupero, and therein
he afforded an excellent allegory, representing in faint colours the
passions of a violent and irritable man, which, at the lightest sign,
imperceptible in fact to any but his own eyes and to the feelings that
he acts upon, now rise into unprovoked aggression, now sink into
fondling and uncalled-for affection.

Ere Charles Tyrrell had been much more than a month at Oxford, he
received a letter from his father, commanding him imperatively to
return to Harbury Park, without assigning the slightest reason or
motive whatever for the conduct he thus pursued. On first reading
the letter, Charles was inclined--and what young mind is not so
inclined?--to give way to hope; to imagine that the purpose of his
father was, as Mr. Driesen had prognosticated, to propose to him that
union which he desired more than any other thing on earth, to offer to
him voluntarily all that he thought necessary to render him as happy
as he conceived it possible for a human being to be.

But when he came again to examine his father's letter, to weigh the
words and examine the expressions with accuracy, he found that there
was an acerbity, a bitterness, a mysteriousness about the whole
composition, which made him judge that the cloud would bear storm and
tempest rather than genial and refreshing showers.

Some difficulties, of course, arose in regard to his leaving Oxford so
soon after the commencement of the term; but these were speedily
obviated; and merely announcing his obedience beforehand, he set out
for Harbury Park.

We must notice, however, before we touch upon the events which took
place after his return, the circumstances which now surrounded the
society which he had left behind him. Lady Tyrrell had been more
unhappy than ever, and had had more cause for unhappiness; for Sir
Francis Tyrrell not having wished his son to go, and irritated at his
going, had vented a great part of that irritation, which he had not
thought fit to display towards Charles himself, upon those who were
nearest to him during his son's absence.

Lady Tyrrell was, of course, the first that suffered. She herself,
however, could retire to her own bedroom and let the storm blow by.
But the very absence of the person on whom Sir Francis thought that
his anger might be most justly expended, increased his irritation in a
high degree, and kept him in the state of an avalanche ready to
descend, but stayed by some trifling impediment, which only rendered
the accumulation greater.

It unfortunately so happened, also, that no one would give him any
cause for offence; that the servants ran like lightning to obey his
orders; that the horses themselves seemed to be more tractable and
easy under the consciousness of an impending catastrophe; and that Mr.
Driesen, with extraordinary skill and forethought, avoided the
slightest occasion of offence, though he did not fail to launch the
little biting sarcasms which, by showing him constantly prepared to
assail others, tended not a little to guard him from assault.

Through a long life, as we have said, Sir Francis and Mr. Driesen had
never quarrelled; and Sir Francis had generated in himself a sort of
affectionate regard towards Driesen, which, without respect or esteem,
or any of those qualities that seemed requisite to render regard
permanent, had outlived many trials, and rather increased than
diminished. It is true that Mr. Driesen was under some pecuniary
obligations to Sir Francis Tyrrell, and Sir Francis was too generous
in regard to such transactions not to feel that such a circumstance
ought to act as a check and control upon him. This was, indeed, the
only kind of restraint he knew, and it is but justice to point it out,
and to say that, on many occasions, it acted as a barrier, when, had
it not been for that, his wrath might have poured forth upon his
friend as well as upon his wife or son. As very rarely happens,
indeed, the existence of pecuniary obligations had given permanence to
the friendship of two men of very dissimilar characters and of no very
steadfast religious principles.

These causes still existed to prevent anything like a rupture between
Sir Francis Tyrrell and his friend; but in the course of that month a
change had come over Mr. Driesen which was sufficiently remarkable to
attract the attention of Sir Francis himself. He had become gloomy,
melancholy; had not taken pleasure in his books, but been thoughtful
in conversation; had not seemed to view all things in that quiet and
amusing light which he had been accustomed to do. Sir Francis saw that
such was the case; and as he had remarked a similar change in his
friend once before, and had discovered what was the cause, he divined
it easily at present, and said one morning, when they were alone,
"Driesen, you have been speculating, and have been unsuccessful. I see
it in the sharpness of your nose. You'll have to come to me soon, I am
sure, so you had better do so as soon as possible."

Mr. Driesen turned upon his heel, whistling a few bars of a loose
French song, and, without reply, walked out of the room.

"There goes a proud man, who scoff's at pride," muttered Sir Francis
Tyrrell to himself; and feeling himself superior to Mr. Driesen for
the moment, which was pleasant to him, as he did not do so in general,
he too whistled the same air, and proceeded to other matters.

During that month, it is but fair to say--especially when we are
speaking of a person of whom we are not very fond--that Mr. Driesen
laboured assiduously in all the intricate paths which his spirit was
fond of following, to induce Sir Francis Tyrrell to hurry forward
whatever measures he proposed for the purpose of uniting his son
Charles to Lucy Effingham. But whether it was that something had
occurred to open the eyes of Sir Francis himself to the real feelings
of Charles and Lucy towards each other, or whether it was that Mr.
Driesen, with all his skill, suffered his object to be too
perceptible, Sir Francis resisted in a manner which had not been
expected, and, at the end of the month, the matter was no farther
advanced than at the beginning.

Mr. Driesen was somewhat puzzled; and as he had sometimes found it an
excellent plan with Sir Francis Tyrrell to let things alone, and, as
he expressed it, to suffer his caprices to rack themselves clear, he
gave up all allusions to the subject in the end, and, even when Sir
Francis himself approached it, avoided it as much as possible. At the
same time, he went down to the old manor-house as often as he had a
decent excuse for so doing: and one day laughingly said to Sir Francis
Tyrrell, "'Pon my word, I think, if Lucy reaches the liberal age of
one-and-twenty without being married, I shall propose to her myself.
Her fortune would stop many a gap for the time being, and she'd make a
beautiful widow some eight or ten years hence."

"Do you intend to live eight or ten years, Driesen?" said Sir Francis
Tyrrell.

"I'll bet you any money I live longer than you," replied Mr. Driesen.

"What makes you think so?" said Sir Francis, sharply.

"Why," replied Mr. Driesen, "we are like two horses running a race. We
are much about the same age, Tyrrell; six off, eh? much about it in
bone and substance; but you carry weight, Tyrrell, and I don't. You've
a wife, and a son, and an estate, and a bad temper; and I'm wifeless,
childless, penniless, and pleasant; so I'll bet you what you like, as
I said, that I live longer than you. Come, Tyrrell, will you have it
for five thousand cool money, and say done; 'pon my soul, it would be
a great comfort to me, and you might die whenever you liked, for that
matter."

"I won't run you so hard as that, Driesen," replied Sir Francis, with
a grim smile; and almost immediately after a heavy frown gathered upon
his brow, while he added, "I'll tell you what, Driesen, you are likely
to come in for something better than you know of; for, on my soul, as
a gentleman and a man of honour, if what I've heard yesterday and
to-day be true, I'll leave you every farthing that I can leave away,
and cut that undeserving boy as close down as the law will let me."

Mr. Driesen stared, as well he might; for Sir Francis had been, as
usual when his son was absent, particularly affectionate in his
mention of him since Charles had gone to Oxford; and not one single
word had been said up to that moment which could afford, even to his
penetrating sagacity, just cause to imagine that Sir Francis Tyrrell
had discovered any new cause for offence in his son. Rapid was Mr.
Driesen in all his calculations, and one of his modes of proceeding
was instantly to suffer a vivid imagination to produce every possible
and probable cause for any mysterious circumstance which presented
itself, and then to apply to his judgment, seldom found wanting in
accuracy, to select the most probable from all the causes thus
produced.

Thus, in the present instance, he thought, "Charles has been kicking
this young Hargrave at Oxford; he has refused to fight him, according
to my advice; he has written to Lucy Effingham to tell her he is in
love with her, or he has written to his father to tell him the same
thing; or else he has got himself into some devilish scrape by his
fiery temper, which his father, of course, will never forgive, being
so lamblike himself. Well, if the old gentleman do but keep his word
and adhere to his resolution, which he is very likely to do, it will
deliver me from many a difficulty, out of which I don't see my way.
However, I must do my best at present to endeavour to persuade him not
to do the very thing that would be the most beneficial to me; in the
first place, because I really do not want to injure the boy; and in
the next place, because that's the very way to make Sir Francis adhere
to his resolution, if the youth is really in the wrong."

Acting accordingly upon this determination, Mr. Driesen applied
himself, in the first place, to learn from Sir Francis Tyrrell what
was the cause of this sudden fit of indignation with his son. For a
time the baronet was uncommunicative; but, by one means or another,
Driesen wormed out of him the fact that Charles Tyrrell had been
engaged in a duel with young Hargrave, and that the whole business
between him and their fair neighbour at the manor-house was known. Mr.
Driesen, however, could arrive at nothing more; for Sir Francis did
not and would not specify from whom he had received his information.
Nor did he himself feel quite sure of the facts, or to know the
particulars.

His friend, then, in pursuance of his resolution, set hard to work to
convince him that, even taking it for granted that the whole was true
which he had heard, he ought to overlook his son's fault, promote his
marriage, and applaud the duel. In the first place, however, he found
Sir Francis Tyrrell's whole opinions in regard to duelling suddenly,
but not the less completely, changed. He had on former occasions
declared a thousand times that fighting duels was one of the greatest
modern improvements; that it was very true the bravest men of
antiquity knew nothing of such a practice; but he added, it was simply
because such a thing as a gentleman was then uninvented; that the
discovery of that biped required duelling as a natural consequence;
and that it was absolutely necessary, as society was constituted at
present, to have the means of holding more than the mere law over the
heads of personages who might be inclined to forget civility.

Now, however, he was as eager on the contrary side of the question,
and advocated boldly all the adverse arguments. Duelling was the most
stupid and absurd practice that it was possible to conceive. The man
who called another out, as well as the man who received such a call,
was nine times out of ten an arrant coward. The very principle of the
matter was cowardly, as well as absurd; and he had hoped, he said,
that his son would not have shown himself to be so great and
lamentable a fool.

As Sir Francis had never been famous for his consistency, Mr. Driesen
did not attempt to throw in his teeth, otherwise than by a slight
sneer, his former opinions upon the same subject; but in regard to
Lucy Effingham, he pointed out to Sir Francis that he had really no
right to complain of his son falling in love with so beautiful a
person, when he himself had brought them together for the very
purpose.

In answer to this, Sir Francis Tyrrell said, grinning at him all the
time with a degree of spiteful scorn,

"Now you think that a very excellent argument, Driesen, don't you; and
you call yourself a philosopher and a logician. What right have you to
suppose that I am angry with him for falling in love with Lucy
Effingham? I am not angry with him for that, in the least. I think it
quite natural, and what I expected and wished; but what I expected and
wished also was, that my son should make me, in the first instance,
acquainted with his intentions and purpose, and not clandestinely seek
the hand of a person whom he might have obtained openly and
straightforwardly; but openness and straightforwardness are not a part
of his character, sir, to his father at least; and his father will
teach him that he is not to be contemned and made a fool of with
impunity. He shall learn better, whether he likes it or not; and
though the lesson may be a painful one to inflict or to receive, I
shall not hesitate to give it. And now, Driesen, I will tell you
something more," he continued. "Do not let me hear any more of these
arguments, for I know you are reasoning against your own conviction,
by doing which you will nor serve my son at all, and may make an
unpleasant difference towards yourself."

"I wasn't reasoning against my conviction, Tyrrell," said Mr. Driesen,
grinning at him in return; "But I was certainly reasoning against my
own interest, which is what a man seldom does in the world, let me
tell you. However, henceforth I shall hold my tongue upon the subject.
If you choose to leave your money away from your son, I don't see why
I shouldn't have it as well as another; and, to tell you the truth, if
you thought fit to do so, and could manage to die within a rational
time, thirty or forty thousand pounds would be very convenient, as
indeed a less sum would, for that rascal, Swearum, has called in his
mortgage, and threatens to foreclose. He tells me, too, he could
arrest me for interest if he liked, and I rather suspect that he tells
me true."

"He sha'n't do that, Driesen. He sha'n't do that!" replied Sir
Francis, who was, as we have said, a really generous man in regard to
pecuniary matters. "But I will go down directly to the manor," he
continued "and ascertain what truth there is in the news I have heard.
I have sent for the young scoundrel home already, though I dare say he
is by this time expelled from the University for this glorious
beginning of life which he chooses to make."

Mr. Driesen did not reply; for it was evident that, in Sir Francis
Tyrrell's state of mind at the moment, no argument would be effectual.
He saw him, then, take his hat and gloves, and set out for the manor
with the appearance of cool indifference which he usually put on,
taking up a book and stretching his leg over the back of one of the
chairs, as if not one word of any importance had been said during the
morning.

When Sir Francis was fairly out of the house, however, Mr. Driesen
laid down the book, raised himself, and took two or three slow turns
up and down the room, with his head bent forward and his eyes fixed
upon the carpet. Into the exact nature of his thoughts we shall not
inquire. It may be sufficient for us to give some of the broken
sentences in which, as was very common with him, he commented aloud
upon what was passing in his mind.

"Why should I care?" he said; "why should I care? better that I should
have it than any one else; it would put me at ease for the rest of my
life, and deliver me from the vile bondage of debts and embarrassment.
I can use it while I live, and give it back to the boy at my death;
all the better for him, too, not to have so much at first; and I know
the devilish determination of this maddest of a mad family; if he does
not leave it to me, he'll leave it to somebody else. 'Pon my soul,
it's a lucky thing that he can't communicate the disease like a mad
dog by the bite, for he's very well inclined to bite everybody he
meets with. What a rabid race we should have. I shall get myself
bitten some day; but, if ever we come to that, I think he'll meet with
his match. Now he'll tease poor Mrs. Effingham's soul out before he
comes up. I often think it would be a good thing if some of those on
whom he vents his ill-nature were to imitate the worthy man that was
hanged for knocking his great ancestor's brains out with an axe."

Thus reasoned Mr. Driesen with himself; and having at length settled
the whole matter in his own mind, he resumed his book, threw his legs
again over the selfsame chair which had supported them before, and was
still deep in his studies when Sir Francis returned. Mr. Driesen very
evidently heard by his step, and by the manner in which he threw down
the hat he had worn, with an echoing emptiness, among half a dozen
others strewed on a table placed in the hall to receive them, that his
violent mood was anything but diminished. Mr. Driesen, however, took
no notice, but went on with his book; and Sir Francis, after taking a
turn in the room, paused by the table and said, "It's all true,
Driesen, and more."

"Is it?" said Mr. Driesen, and went on reading.

"Come, Driesen, listen to me," exclaimed Sir Francis, "or it may be
worse for you. I have determined that I will do what I said, and put
the will in his hands the first thing I do on his arrival."

"Wait till to-morrow," said Mr. Driesen, looking up. "Wait till
to-morrow, and I'm sure you'll change your mind."

Sir Francis Tyrrell stamped his foot, saying and adding with a
blasphemous oath, "Never, Driesen, never! The boy has not only put no
confidence in his father in regard to a matter where he knew that
father would have promoted his wishes, but has gone and prevailed upon
Mrs. Effingham to be silent about the whole transaction; representing
to her, I am sure, though she does not say so, that Sir Francis
Tyrrell is a weak, unreasonable, foolish, passionate man. Now,
Driesen, you have studied the law; will you draw the will, or will you
not?"

"Oh! I will draw the will," replied Mr. Driesen, "and take my fee too;
and I'll tell you what, Tyrrell, if you intend to make me benefit by
it, you must write it all over in your own hand after I've drawn it,
for, of course, it would be unpleasant to have--"

"Oh, you draw it up, and I will write it over," replied Sir Francis;
"then take that sheet of paper, and now listen."

And he proceeded to dictate a sort of codicil to his former will, by
which he revoked the bequest of everything that he had left to his
son, leaving the entailed estates as bare as possible. He then went
on, and specified in detail what he left to Mr. Driesen. That
gentleman put the whole into legal form as briefly as possible; and
Sir Francis, sitting down, copied the document on a sheet of paper,
tore the other copy into small pieces, and then ringing the bell,
called up a sufficient number of servants as witnesses, with whose
attestation he signed and sealed the paper. As soon as they were gone,
he threw the paper over to Mr. Driesen, saying, "There."

But Mr. Driesen pushed it back again, replying in the same laconic
style, "Keep it yourself; I'll have nothing to do with it."

Sir Francis Tyrrell made no rejoinder, but took it up, opened a drawer
in the library table, put it therein, shut the drawer, locked it, and
left the room, apparently well satisfied with what he had done.

"There's a nice father," said Mr. Driesen when Sir Francis departed;
"a very nice father indeed; I may well thank my stars that I can never
have such a one at my time of life."

But, after grinning for a moment at his own jest, deeper thoughts took
possession of him; and when he remembered all that Sir Francis had
left him by that will, strange and conflicting sensations took
possession of his heart. He had never possessed more than a very
moderate income, and that income he had contrived gradually to
diminish very greatly; but now there was before him the prospect of
possessing not thirty or forty thousand pounds as he had anticipated,
but between six and seven thousand a year.

We shall follow, in regard to his thoughts on this occasion, the same
course that we followed on his meditations when Sir Francis had left
him before, though in the present instance he uttered but one
sentence. That sentence, however, was quite sufficient to show to an
inquiring mind some portion of all that was passing in his thoughts.
He remained standing for many minutes with his hands clasped one over
the other, and at length he said, turning upon his heel to go to his
own room, "'Pon my honour, I do think there is such a thing as a
devil!"




CHAPTER XIII.


We will now follow Sir Francis Tyrrell, as, with his passions all
excited, he went out into the park, and wandered on, lashing himself
into greater fury by the scourge of his own bitter thoughts. Man,
uninfluenced by extraneous circumstances, will almost always be led to
seek that peculiar scenery in the external world which harmonizes with
the state of the world in his own heart at the time. Cheerfulness will
affect the sunshine, gloom the shade, and Sir Francis Tyrrell
naturally turned his steps to a part of the wood, where a number of
old gnarled oaks, with rough and rugged contortions, spread a deep
shadow over various parts of the ground, as uneven and wild looking as
themselves.

He advanced towards it musing and pondering, biting his lip and
knitting his brow, till he was suddenly aroused by the sound of a shot
fired at some distance. The shooting season had by this time
commenced, and there were undoubtedly a great number of poachers
abroad; but the gun had evidently been fired afar off, and, if he had
thought for a moment, he would have seen that it must have been beyond
the precincts of his wood, and, very likely, beyond the bounds of the
manor itself. His own gamekeepers, too, were out in all directions;
and, if the shot was fired on the estate at all, it was most likely by
one of them.

Sir Francis Tyrrell, however, was at that moment in no mood to give
calm consideration to anything. He felt quite sure that it was the gun
of a poacher which had been discharged. He believed that it was within
the limits of the wood itself; and he was preparing a tremendous
passion against the indolence and inactivity of his gamekeepers, when
he suddenly saw through the trees, at a great distance, something
which looked like a smock-frock. He instantly hastened towards it,
becoming more and more convinced at every step that it was a
countryman with a gun in his hand; but, to his surprise, this daring
intruder did not seem to avoid him; and, on a nearer approach, the gun
transformed itself into a thick stick, and the man was found to be a
respectable old man from the coast, hale and strong indeed, but upward
of seventy years of age.

He advanced direct, as I have said, towards Sir Francis Tyrrell,
looking him in the face, and pulling off his hat with a respectful
bow. The baronet remembered to have seen him somewhere before, but
could not tell where. He was impatient because he did not recollect at
once; he was impatient because the man had not gratified him by
turning out a poacher; and he was impatient because he stood
respectfully in the middle of the way, waiting till Sir Francis began,
without announcing his own business at once.

"What do you want? What do you want?" he exclaimed, at length; "why
the devil don't you speak, and not stand bowing there."

"Why, I made bold, your honour," replied the countryman, "to come up
to speak to your honour about my poor boy of a son, who was sent to
prison, your honour, and I thought--"

"And who the devil is your son?" demanded Sir Francis; "how can I tell
who your son is, unless you tell me his name: Do you suppose I am to
know every old man's son in the country?"

"No, sir, no," replied the old man, "that would be a hard job indeed,
as you say: but I thought mayhap you might know my poor boy, John
Smithson, who was sent to jail some little time ago with the
smugglers. I thought you might recollect him mayhap, and me too,
seeing that I used always to serve the house with fish in your
father's time; ay, those were pleasant days!"

There are some people who might have been in a degree moved by this
appeal. There are some people who might have smiled at it, and there
are a great number who would quietly and reasonably have told the old
man, that his son being committed to jail, nothing could be done for
him by the magistrate but to leave him there to take his trial. Few,
very few are there, on the contrary, who would have acted as Sir
Francis Tyrrell acted. He flew into a violent and most outrageous
passion. He called the old fisherman a thousand times a fool and an
idiot; told him--not that he could not do anything for his son--but
that he would not; and added a hope that he might be transported at
least, as the law was weak enough not to hang the robbers of the
public revenue, though it hanged those who took a few shillings on the
highway.

The old man listened at first with surprise, and then with evident
indignation; but he did not follow the bad example of the gentleman
with whom he conversed, but gave way to no passion, retorted upon the
baronet none of his abusive language, and only replied from time to
time, "Well, that is a hard word! I didn't think to hear that,
howsover, at my time of life!"

Still, however, Sir Francis Tyrrell went on; and we have already
remarked that he was eloquent upon such occasions; but he did not
succeed in disturbing the calm tranquillity with which the old man
listened to him, and, of course, became but the more angry at such
being the case. He ended an oration, which would have done honour to a
Xantippe, by bidding the old man get out of his park, and never show
his face there again, otherwise he would order the servants to
horsewhip him.

The old man instantly put on his hat, and grasped his cudgel firmly
while he replied, "I should be sorry to see any gentleman so disgrace
himself by giving such an order as your honour mentions, and still
sorrier to see any of your powdered vallys attempt to execute it; for
I think, though I be past seventy, I could manage to thrash two or
three of them, master and men and all."

This still farther excited Sir Francis Tyrrell's indignation; and
though the old man began to move off as soon as he had delivered
himself of his oration, the baronet continued to load him with abuse,
finding no end to his copious vocabulary of harsh terms, till he was
suddenly surprised by seeing old Smithson stop and turn short upon
him. The old man used no threatening attitude, and nothing on his
countenance marked his anger but the gathering together of his heavy
white eyebrows as he marched straight up to the baronet.

"I'll tell you what, Sir Francis," he said, "you're a passionate man,
and a bad man; and if all be true that's said, you treat your own lady
and your son as bad as any one else. You'll repent all this some day
when you can't mend it. You'll repent it, I say; I'm thinking God has
tried you long enough, and it's time you should be taken away.
Remember, there's been more than one of your kidney has had his brains
knocked out, and what has happened to another may happen to you; so
now good-morning to you, master; if the boy must stay in prison, he
must, that's all."

Thus saying, he turned on his heel and left Sir Francis Tyrrell in a
state of bewildered fury that it is impossible to describe. He had not
sufficient command over himself to refrain from yielding to the most
lamentable display of impotent rage. He shook his clinched fists
together in the air; he stamped upon the ground; he almost foamed at
the mouth. He cursed and he blasphemed aloud; and, to crown all, with
an extravagance of horror that almost reached the ludicrous, he
declared that he wished they would murder him, that they might be
hanged afterward. Scarcely credible as this may seem, it was none the
less true; and for the moment, to such a height was carried his
vindictive rage, that he did really and sincerely feel what he said.

This adventure, as may naturally be supposed, did not tend to soften
or sweeten the mood of Sir Francis Tyrrell, and he returned to his own
abode more full of anger and violence than ever. He sought for
somebody to vent his irritated feelings upon; and it is not improbable
that, if Mr. Driesen had met him at that moment, he would have
quarrelled even with him, though, as we have thrice before remarked,
they had lived in constant acquaintanceship through a long life
without the violent passions of the one, or the utter want of
principle of the other, ever ending in a serious dispute between them.

It so happened, however, that Mr. Driesen was invariably out of the
way when Sir Francis Tyrrell's wrath was excited to such a pitch as to
be in absolute need of some outlet; and by this fortunate circumstance
as well as others, the worthy gentleman had uniformly contrived to
keep well with his friend. Mr. Driesen, then, had, as usual, gone
forth to walk; and as the necessity was strong upon him, Sir Francis
strode up stairs and sought the apartments of his unhappy wife. She
had no means of escape, and the moment she beheld him she read upon
the dark and troubled page of his countenance, a page which she had
studied with grief and agony for many a year, that some new suffering,
some still greater aggravation of sorrow was in store for her.

But there is a pitch at which endurance ends, and where the most timid
and the most gentle must resist. That point was reached between Lady
Tyrrell and her husband. She had long contemplated taking a step which
would decide her fate for the future; and the instant she beheld the
dark and lowering brow of her husband, she nerved all her energies,
she prepared her mind with the recollection of all the past, in order
to fulfil the resolution she had taken. She felt that to live with Sir
Francis Tyrrell longer was to live a living death. Her son had now
reached the period of manhood, for a very few days would see him of
age. It was as desirable for him as for her, that he should have
another home open to him where he might hope for peace and
tranquillity; and every thought strengthened her determination, and
gave her vigour and force to carry it into execution. Had anything
been wanting, the words with which Sir Francis Tyrrell opened their
interview would have been sufficient to render that resolution
irrevocable.

"I intrude upon your privacy, madam," he said, "for the purpose of
informing you that I have been made aware of the conduct which my son
Charles--doubtless under your wise consent, approbation, and
direction--has thought fit to pursue towards Miss Effingham; and I
wish you to know and fully understand the consequences which such
conduct naturally produces."

"I am really unaware, sir," replied Lady Tyrrell, "of what you allude
to. I hope and believe that Charles would do nothing towards Lucy
Effingham which could at all merit his father's displeasure."

"Indeed, madam," replied Sir Francis, "you are wonderfully innocent
and ignorant, doubtless; but you will excuse my feeling a difficulty
in believing your son has acted in the manner he has acted without
your approbation and consent. I, therefore, shall certainly look upon
you as an accessory in this business; and as you have enjoyed the
satisfaction of teaching your son through life the wise and just
lesson of despising his father and refusing him all confidence, it is
but right that you should be made aware of the fruits which such
lessons produce."

Lady Tyrrell rose from her chair with a look which Sir Francis Tyrrell
had never seen her assume before.

"One word, Sir Francis Tyrrell," she said, "before you proceed
farther. You accuse me now, as you have often previously done, of
things in regard to which I am perfectly innocent and ignorant. I have
never taught your son to disobey you, though your own conduct may have
taught him not to respect you, and may have alienated the affection of
a son full of strong feelings, as it has alienated the affection of a
wife, who might have been taught to love you dearly. More than
twenty-two years of my life have been sacrificed to you; my health, my
happiness, my comfort, my youth have been blasted and destroyed by the
ill-fated connexion which united me to you. For my son's sake I have
endured till now, but I will endure no longer; and I now tell you, Sir
Francis Tyrrell, that this must be the last altercation between us, as
it is high time that we should separate."

Sir Francis Tyrrell was certainly struck and surprised, for this
determination was not at all what he had expected from a woman whom he
fancied to be habitually his slave; but still there was far too much
pride in his nature to suffer him to show the slightest disappointment
or regret. On the contrary, he determined to punish and imbitter an
act that he could not prevent.

"Just as you please, madam," he replied; "it is an arrangement I have
long desired and coveted myself; but I, too, have been restrained by
consideration for my son, and should have proposed such a thing some
sixteen or seventeen years ago, had I not apprehended that I might
thereby have cast some doubts upon his legitimacy."

Lady Tyrrell gazed at him for a moment as if utterly confounded and
bewildered by astonishment and horror. She knew by sad experience that
there were few points of malignity to which passion would not carry
Sir Francis Tyrrell in his more violent moods; but, pure as light in
every word, and thought, and action, she had not believed that even
human malignity itself would have dared to risk an insinuation against
her honour. She gazed upon her husband, therefore--upon him to whom
that honour should have been most dear and sacred, while he made an
insinuation only the more terrible, because it was not direct--with
feelings that defy all description; while he, glaring at her from
under his heavy eyebrows, saw, and saw with satisfaction, that he had
succeeded in cutting her to the soul. The moment after, however, she
turned deadly pale, and, without replying a word to the base speech he
had just uttered, she fell fainting on the floor before him. For a
moment Sir Francis Tyrrell fancied she was dead, and he felt some
degree of apprehension, if not remorse; but the next instant he
perceived he had but cast her into a swoon, and thinking that but a
light punishment for the offence of resisting his will, he merely rang
the bell for Lady Tyrrell's maid, and told her to take care of her
mistress, for she had fainted.

"Poor thing!" said the woman when she saw her; and those words, with
the plaintive tone in which they were uttered, made Sir Francis
Tyrrell feel that he was generally hated, and acted, therefore, as
some retribution for the sufferings he inflicted. But such retribution
had only a tendency to harden, not to mitigate, his feelings. To know
that he was hated, made him seek to deserve hatred; and turning round
to the woman, he said, "You have warning to go!"

The woman had been with Lady Tyrrell for many years past; and, of a
naturally fearless disposition, she lost all awe when she lost
respect.

"I am my lady's servant, not yours, sir," she replied, "and take no
warning from you. I shall stay with her till she bids me go, and do my
best to comfort her, which you do not."

"We shall see, madam, we shall see," said Sir Francis Tyrrell, shaking
his finger at her, and left the room.




CHAPTER XIV.


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 espejo
    En que te solias mirar.

   "Siempre de mi recelaste
    Sobresalto de pesar
    Ahora de aqui adelante
    No 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.



END OF VOL. I.






CHARLES TYRRELL;

OR,

THE BITTER BLOOD.



BY

G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.

AUTHOR OF "THE HUGUENOT," "THE ROBBER," "MARY
OF BURGUNDY," &c., &c.



IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. II.




NEW YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS,
FRANKLIN SQUARE.
1855.






CHARLES TYRRELL.




CHAPTER XV.


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.




CHAPTER XVI.


We must pass over a brief space with but a slight sketch of its
events. Charles Tyrrell stole daily some time, to spend with Lucy
Effingham, and the rest of his time was chiefly spent in the sick
chamber of his mother. Of Sir Francis he saw but little.

For several days, joy at his son's recovery, somewhat softened the
temper of Sir Francis Tyrrell. But that amelioration soon wore off,
and though Charles took an opportunity of telling him, simply and
feelingly, how grateful he was for the kindness and anxiety he had
shown respecting him during his illness, Sir Francis did not think him
grateful enough, was piqued at the attention he showed his mother,
alluded more than once with a sneer to what he called the cabal up
stairs, and wondered when there would be a change in the ministry.

When Charles had thanked him for the anxiety he had shown respecting
him in his illness, he had thanked him also for the consent he had
given to his marriage with Lucy Effingham. Sir Francis cut him short,
however: "You have nothing to thank me for," he replied sharply, "you
chose for yourself, without putting any trust or confidence in me. It
so happened that your choice chimed with my opinion; but I have a good
deal more to say upon that subject, which shall be said hereafter, and
which may not be quite so pleasant to you."

Charles very well understood from these words, that Sir Francis, as
was frequently the case, wished to hold over his head, as a drawn
sword, the vague expectation of some future retribution for having
ventured to own his love, to Lucy herself, without making him
acquainted therewith. As he had often experienced, however, that such
vague menaces produced no effects, he did not make himself uneasy. But
that which alarmed him more than anything which fell from his father's
lips, was a certain degree of anxiety which he beheld constantly in
the countenance of his mother, and her informing him more than once,
that there was a matter which weighed much upon her mind, which she
must tell him soon. She put it off, however, from day to day, and the
disinclination she had to speak, served more than anything to confirm
Charles in the belief that what she was about to tell him, was not
only important, but painful in a great degree.

The fourth inmate of the house, for such Mr. Driesen seemed entirely
to have become, had lost much of his good spirits, was grave,
thoughtful, somewhat irritable. His books seemed no longer to have
that charm for him, which they once had possessed, and he passed the
greater part of the day, either in reading and answering letters, or
in walking about the grounds with his hands in his pockets. He would,
sometimes, indeed, amuse himself by throwing a stone at a squirrel,
and succeeded in knocking one off a branch; but he did not pursue this
long, and there was a restlessness about him, which seemed to show
that he was ill or unhappy.

Such was the state of the family at Harbury Park, at the end of about
nine days after Charles Tyrrell's return, when Sir Francis entered the
room, one morning, while Mr. Driesen was sitting reading the
newspaper, with the gathering of a coming storm upon his brow.

"Driesen," he said, "we have all been young men in our days, and so I
suppose I must overlook it. But I am afraid that boy of mine, Charles,
is playing the fool, and as far as Lucy Effingham is concerned, the
blackguard too. He has twice ridden out for three or four hours at a
time down to the seaside, and I hear there is a girl there that he
goes to see. This shooting to which he has taken, within this day or
two, has, I fancy, the same object. You know what a good shot he is,
and yet he brings back very little game. There is evidently something
going on, Driesen: I see his gun brought down, the gamekeepers
waiting, and everything ready. Now it's an even chance, that he brings
home no more than half a dozen partridges and a cock-sparrow after
being out for four or five hours."

"There are two classes of consummate fools in the world," replied Mr.
Driesen, "the fools that cannot open their eyes, and the fools that
cannot shut them. The first are very annoying to everybody round them.
But the second are very annoying to everybody else and themselves too.
Pray, Tyrrell, take care of what you are about," and turning round, he
went on with the newspaper, without waiting for any reply.

Sir Francis, however, would most likely have given him one
spontaneously, for he was not a man to be called a fool without having
his revenge. But his attention was turned in another way by the
entrance of his son. Charles was dressed for shooting; but his
countenance was very pale, and he was evidently a good deal agitated.

"I wish to speak with you, sir, for a moment," he said, addressing his
father somewhat abruptly.

"Well," exclaimed Sir Francis, staring him in the face, "if you come
to speak, why don't you speak?"

"Because, sir," replied Charles, "I think on every account, what I
have to say, ought to be said in private."

"Oh, nonsense," replied Sir Francis, "here is nobody but Driesen.
Solemn conferences, my most sage and erudite son, always require
protocols; and here is Driesen, shall put them down for us."

"Well, sir, if you insist upon it," replied Charles, "I must go on.
What I came to speak to you about, was the subject of my mother."

"Well, sir, what of her?" interrupted Sir Francis, "I hope she is well
this morning."

"Neither so well in mind or body, sir, as she might be," replied
Charles, "but it is in reference to a conversation with you
immediately previous to her illness, that she has desired me to speak
with you."

"I suppose she has told you that that conversation produced her
illness," exclaimed Sir Francis, sharply, "but you will learn, young
man, some day, that women can falsify the truth."

"Nearly as well as men," added Mr. Driesen, suddenly rising, and
moving toward the door. "You two fiery gentlemen make the room too hot
for any cool and quiet person; so I shall quit it."

"And the house too, if you please, sir," said Sir Francis Tyrrell, in
a loud tone.

But Mr. Driesen did not appear to hear him, and retired with the same
steady step. He closed the door after him, and father and son were
left alone.

What followed nobody has ever known. The gamekeepers came out and took
their posts in the hall at the appointed time; the butler lingered
about to open the door for Master Charles, whom he had loved from his
infancy, and to give him his hat, and gloves, and gun; and Lady
Tyrrell's footman, who had been sent down with a small note from her
to her son, on finding that he was with Sir Francis, lingered beside
the butler in the vestibule.

At first the conversation between Sir Francis and his son, whatever
might be its nature, did not make itself heard beyond the precincts of
the library; but gradually the voices of both were heard rising louder
and louder, in that fierce fiery tone that could not be mistaken. The
voice of Sir Francis became a shout, and the deep tones of Charles
were heard replying like distant thunder. The servants looked at each
other with dread and apprehension; for although but too often they had
heard and witnessed the angry contentions which arose in that family,
there seemed to be a deep conviction upon all of them that this was
something more serious, more terrible than ever before occurred. The
butler could resist it no longer, and put his ear to the key-hole.

"Good God!" he cried, after listening for a moment; "run, William, to
Mr. Driesen; ask him to come here, for God's sake; for I am afraid of
mischief. Tell him there has never been anything like this in the
house before."

The man obeyed instantly; but before Mr. Driesen appeared, though to
do him justice, he made as much speed as possible, the door of the
library was thrown back, as if the hand that opened it would have
dashed it from its hinges, and Charles Tyrrell appeared, as pale as
death, with the exception of a small red spot in the centre of either
cheek. The voice of Sir Francis Tyrrell was heard screaming after him,
at the very highest pitch of passion; but the only words which were
distinct were something about "Your father." They caught his son's
ears, and instantly made him turn with flashing eyes and a quivering
lip.

"My father!" he exclaimed, "do you call yourself my father, after the
words you have just spoken? Out upon it!" And snatching his hat,
gloves, and gun from the servant, he rushed forth into the open air.

The freshness seemed in a degree to recall him to himself, and seeing
the gamekeepers following him with the dogs, he paused upon the lawn,
saying, "Not to-day--not to-day; I shall not want you--I have no time
left," and he dashed into the wood along the path, that very path
which we have described in the beginning of this work, and which,
some way farther on, divided into two, leading to the long walk of
beech-trees, called the ladies' walk, on one hand, and to the walled
kitchen garden in the middle of the wood, on the other.

In the meantime, Sir Francis Tyrrell had remained leaning with his
hand upon the table, and trembling in every limb with passion. In a
minute or two, however, he seemed seized with a sudden desire of
following his son, and rushing out into the vestibule, he demanded his
hat in a sharp tone. The man was as long in finding it as it was
possible. He brought his master first one of his friend's and then one
of his son's hats. But Sir Francis said nothing; for his thoughts were
so intensely concentrated upon other subjects, that the petty obstacle
was scarcely known.

By the time he had got his hat, however, Mr. Driesen was at his side,
and laid his hand upon his arm, saying, "Tyrrell, Tyrrell, listen to
me!"

"I have no time to listen," replied Sir Francis, and pushed past him.
Mr. Driesen, however, followed him beyond the door, and caught him by
the arm again, saying:--

"Nay, but you _shall_ listen to me, Tyrrell."

"Then you shall listen to me first, sir," replied Sir Francis, while
his eyes flashed fire at feeling himself forcibly detained. "Let me
tell you a secret, Mr. Driesen, which it may be convenient for you to
know, let me tell you a secret!"

Mr. Driesen bent down his head to listen with a cynical smile upon his
countenance; but whatever it was that Sir Francis said to him, it
banished all smiles in a moment, and turned him very pale.

"I will not believe," he replied, "that you could act so ungentlemanly
a part."

"You will see, sir, you will see," rejoined the baronet, with a
menacing air, and breaking from him, he dashed into the wood by the
selfsame path his son had taken.

When he was gone, Mr. Driesen stood in the midst of the lawn, putting
his hand more than once to his head, as if the sun incommoded him. The
butler who saw him, wisely ran and brought him his hat, which he took,
still remaining in a deep fit of thought.

"You are right," he said at length, putting on the hat; "I had better
go after them, for they are in a terrible state."

Thus saying, he walked on toward the corner of the wood, but there
paused for a full minute, as if still undecided what to do. He then
went on along the path, but not long after returned, and, walking into
the library, paused for a moment in thought, and then went up to his
own room; after which he soon came down again apparently quite
satisfied that everything would resume its own course when the
momentary storm had blown over.

About an hour after, while he was still sitting there, with the
newspaper in his hand, Charles Tyrrell entered in haste and evident
agitation. He said nothing to Mr. Driesen, who only looked up, for a
moment, from the paper, but passed on to his own room, where he locked
himself in, and remained for some time alone.

Not half an hour more had elapsed, when one of the gardeners was seen
running across the lawn at full speed toward the house, and with the
interval of a minute, five or six of the men-servants issued forth
with the gardener, carrying a sofa between them. There was a great
commotion in various parts of the house, a running to and fro, the
voice of many tongues, and even the maids gathering round the door
that opened into the front vestibule. All their eyes were turned in
one particular direction, and at the end of about twenty minutes, the
men were seen returning, bearing upon the sofa the form of some
person, who seemed, from the sad and careful manner in which he was
carried, to have received severe injuries.

When they arrived at the door, the men set down their burden, while
the glass wings were thrown open; and there before the threshold of
that dwelling, which his own violent passions had rendered miserable
to all it contained, lay the body of Sir Francis Tyrrell, cold, still,
inanimate, and already beginning to grow stiff. A small thin trickling
stream of blood over the pillow of the sofa showed that the injury he
had received, and which had caused his death, must have been inflicted
on the back of his head, while a slight contusion on the forehead,
together with some earthy stains upon the breast of his coat, evinced
that he had fallen forward, and that the blow had come from behind.

Mr. Driesen had by this time come to the door, attracted thither
apparently by the noise, and he now stood gazing upon the countenance
of his dead friend, evidently much affected, but struggling against
his feelings, and expressing neither sorrow nor surprise. All that he
said was,

"Take the body into the library. Send for the coroner immediately, and
bid the keepers scour the whole park and country round on horseback
and on foot, to see for any stranger lurking about."

The butler gazed silently in his face for a moment, shut his teeth
tight, and shook his head with a meaning sadness.

"Do as I bid you," answered Mr. Driesen, sharply; "and remember that
every word now spoken is of importance. I know that his life was
threatened some days ago by a man in the park, for he told me so."

The butler made no reply, but turned his eyes to one of the servants
who came behind, and who was not engaged with the others in carrying
the body of his master. The man had a gun in his hand, the cock of the
right-hand barrel was down, and the white dust surrounding the pan
showed that it had been recently discharged. A single glance was
sufficient to show that it was the gun of Charles Tyrrell, the same
gun that he had taken out with him in the morning. Mr. Driesen made no
observation, however, but by a slight frown, and the body was carried
into the library as he had directed.

"Go and give the orders I mentioned," continued Mr. Driesen, speaking
to the butler, as soon as they had set down the body, "while I go and
inform Mr. Tyrrell, who has been in some time."

"Indeed! sir," exclaimed the butler, "I did not see him come in."

"But I did," replied Mr. Driesen; "he passed through the library some
time ago, and went to his own room."

Thus saying he ascended the stairs, and knocked at the door of Charles
Tyrrell's room.

"Come in!" said the young gentleman in a calm voice: but on
turning the handle of the door, Mr. Driesen found that it was locked.
Charles, however, unlocked it instantly, and on looking toward the
washing-stand, Mr. Driesen saw that he had been washing his hands, and
that the water was bloody.

"Charles," he said, fixing his eyes upon him, "I have some very bad
news for you."

Charles Tyrrell turned very pale, but he replied nothing, and Mr.
Driesen went on. "Your father has been found dead in the wood,
apparently murdered."

"Good God!" exclaimed Charles Tyrrell. "Where was he found?"

"That I cannot say!" replied Mr. Driesen, "but they have just brought
home the body, and I thought it right to come and inform you of the
facts myself, especially as you and Sir Francis had quarrelled so
violently in the morning, had gone out together, at least one
following the other closely, and as your gun seems to have been found
by the men very close to the dead body--"

Charles Tyrrell instantly strode past him to the door; but Mr. Driesen
laid his hand upon his arm, and stopped him, saying in answer to the
look of indignation which came upon the young man's countenance,
"Charles, I do not in the least suspect you; but these men below
evidently do, and I have said what I have said, because it is right
you should be aware and upon your guard. There may be circumstances of
suspicion attached to the most perfect innocence, and in such
circumstances it is absolutely necessary to be guarded. I speak to you
as a friend, Charles Tyrrell, who wishes you well most sincerely. All
I say is, be on your guard, remembering, that though perfectly
innocent, you may be placed in a painful situation by the least
imprudence."

Still Charles Tyrrell made no reply; but opened the door, walked out
with a firm step, descended the stairs, round the foot of which the
greater part of the servants of the house were collected, and
demanded,--"Where is the body of my father?"

The butler pointed to the library without speaking, and Charles
Tyrrell at once went in.

The sight that met his eye, however, seemed to strike and affect him
deeply. There lay the parent with whom he had passed the greater part
of his life in struggles and contentions, which had indeed embittered
it terribly! There he lay! but with all those strong and fiery
passions quelled forever; the fierce lightning of the eye gone out,
the sarcastic sneer cleared away from the lip, and nothing left upon
the countenance to denote the fierce and menacing spirit which had
once dwelt therein, except the stern frown which had become so
habitual on the brow as to affect the muscles themselves and leave a
deep indentation, that even death could not do away. There he lay,
calmer than he had ever been seen in life, and as his son gazed upon
him, and marked the small trickling stream of blood, which had oozed
forth and stained the sofa on which he lay, all but the terrible fact
was forgotten, and the quarrels, the contentions, the violence of the
past were like faintly-remembered dreams.

A crowd of emotions, many of which he had never felt toward his father
before, rushed at once upon Charles Tyrrell's mind, and clasping his
hands together in agony, the tears rolled silently on his cheeks.

Several of the servants followed him into the room, though Mr. Driesen
had remained without, and as soon as the young gentleman had recovered
some degree of composure, he questioned them at length upon all the
particulars connected with the discovery of his father's body. He then
asked if the coroner had been sent for, and finding that such had been
the case, he retired to communicate the event to his mother.

We shall not attempt to depict the feelings of Lady Tyrrell, nor pause
to trace any further the events of that day, as the imagination of the
reader may easily supply the facts which did not in any degree tend to
promote the ultimate result.

Early on the following morning, however, a coroner's jury assembled at
Harbury Park, and after having been sworn, proceeded to view the body,
which was recognised by several of the persons present, who had known
the deceased gentleman under various circumstances. After having gazed
at it for some time, and made several remarks, as impertinent and
insignificant as the remarks of coroner's juries generally are, the
jury again returned to the drawing-room, and commenced their
investigation of the facts. The coroner himself was a sensible man,
and a man of good feelings, and consequently the inquiry was conducted
with as much decency and propriety of demeanour as possible.

In the first place, he besought the jury emphatically, to dismiss from
their minds any rumour which they might have heard, previously to
their entering the house. To look upon the case solely in reference to
the evidence that was laid before them, and to remember that they had
power to adjourn as often as necessary, in order to gain additional
information, so that their verdict might be calm and deliberate, and
not pronounced without full conviction.

At the suggestion of the coroner, the first person examined, was the
gardener who had first discovered the body, and had called the
servants to carry it to the house. He declared, that, being as usual
about to go up to the house for orders from the housekeeper, he had
come out of the walled garden, by the door which opened into the path
leading to the mansion. At first he had remarked nothing
extraordinary, but just as he had passed the tool shed--which we have
noticed before as defacing the outside of the high walls--he had seen
a gun lying on the ground, and thinking that it was most likely that
of some poacher, who had been pursued by the keepers, and dropped it
in his flight, he took a step out of the way to lift it, when beyond
the next tree he saw some thing like the body of a man, and on
approaching, beheld his master. He was lying on the ground, he said,
with his face buried in the leaves of the wild plants, and a large
rugged wound in the back of his head, which he described in a manner
that we shall not dwell upon; suffice it that he must have died
instantly, as the whole charge of the gun at the distance of a very
few yards had been lodged in the brain. There seemed to have been no
struggle, he said, for the ground was not at all beaten up, he must
have had his hat on when he was shot, from the fact of a considerable
part of the charge having passed through it. There was a great deal of
blood upon the ground round about, he added; but no traces of
footmarks of any kind, the ground being hard and dry. Horrified at
what he had seen, he ran as fast as he could to the house, and brought
up a number of servants to aid in removing the body, and had taken
them to the spot where the body remained just as he had seen it.

After he had concluded his own account, the coroner questioned him, as
to whom he had seen in the garden or the park during the course of the
day; and the only one of the family he had seen, had been his young
master, who, about an hour before the body was discovered, had entered
the garden by the door leading from the mansion, had looked about
eagerly for a minute or two, and then crossing the garden had tried
the opposite door, which was locked. The gardener who was at the other
end of the ground, and saw this proceeding, advanced for the purpose
of opening the door; but before he reached it, his young master was
away among the apple-trees and other thick plants, and he did not see
him any more.

These particulars it is to be remarked, were drawn forth by the
questions of the coroner, and were evidently detailed unwillingly; and
when the man had concluded, the coroner told him to quit the room; but
not the house, as he might very probably be called upon again to give
further evidence.

The other servants were then examined, and their testimony confirmed
in all respects the gardener's account of the finding of the body. The
only further fact of importance that was produced by their examination
was, that the gun which had been found near Sir Francis Tyrrell, was
one belonging to his son Charles, with which he had gone out that very
morning. This immediately pointed suspicion, and the butler, who
proved that the gun was the same which he had given to his young
master, when he was going out, was ordered to remain.

The coroner then looked to the jury in silence, as if to see whether
they would ask any further questions or not. No one spoke, however,
and he himself paused and seemed to hesitate. At length, however, he
murmured to himself, "It must be done!" and he began a series of
questions addressed to the butler, calculated to elicit all the
particulars of the quarrel between Sir Francis Tyrrell and his son in
the morning.

Though the man softened the whole business as much as he could,
without falsifying the facts, it became evident to the jury that
Charles Tyrrell and his father had quarrelled severely, more so,
indeed, than they had ever been known to do before; that the son had
gone forth with his gun in his hand; that the father had followed him,
and had never returned alive.

"Was the gun charged or not, when you gave it to your master!"
demanded the coroner.

"I have always charged it for him since he was a boy, sir," replied
the butler, "and did so yesterday morning also."

While this examination had been proceeding, Mr. Driesen had been in
the room; but Charles Tyrrell had been voluntarily absent, and as the
former had been mentioned several times by the servants, the coroner
next proceeded to examine him.

He told as much as he knew of the quarrel between Sir Francis and his
son in the morning, stating everything with his usual clear precision;
and then he detailed how the servants had come to seek him, fearing
some violence would take place on the part of Sir Francis toward his
son. When he came down, he said, he found the baronet excited to a
greater pitch than he had ever beheld, and he further stated, that on
attempting to stop him from going after his son, Sir Francis had told
him in a low voice, that it was his intention not only to deprive
Charles of everything that he legally could, but to destroy the title
deeds of his entailed estates rather than that his son should possess
them. He had remonstrated, he said, and pointed out that it would be
most ungentlemanly so to do; but that Sir Francis had broken away from
him, intimating that his resolution was not to be shaken. He had
followed him, he added, along the path he had taken in the wood till
it had separated into two, and then not knowing which branch Sir
Francis had pursued, and not seeing him upon either, he had returned
to the house, trusting that either the father would not overtake the
son, or that the quarrel between them, as had been frequently the case
within his own knowledge before, would pass away and be forgotten.

He seemed inclined to pause here, but the coroner proceeded: "I
think," he said, "one of the servants informed us, that you were the
first person who notified to the present Sir Charles Tyrrell the awful
event which had occurred in his family. Be so good as to detail what
took place upon that occasion."

Mr. Driesen did so; but not altogether sincerely. He stated broadly
the fact of having gone up to Charles Tyrrell's room, and informed him
that his father had been found murdered in the wood, and he dwelt much
upon the surprise and horror which that young gentleman had seemed to
feel, and which could not be affected. He also added that the servants
had informed him, that Charles Tyrrell, on going into the room where
his father's body lay, had been affected even to tears.

The servants were then recalled to prove these facts; but the coroner
thought fit to question several of them in such a manner as to
ascertain that there had been spots of fresh blood found upon Charles
Tyrrell's shooting jacket, and that the water in which he had washed
his hands after his return home, had been apparently bloody. The
latter facts, as well as the fact of the door having been locked, Mr.
Driesen had taken care to conceal; but it tended directly to increase
the suspicions of the jury against Charles Tyrrell in a very great
degree, and when the servants were again dismissed, the coroner sent
at once to that young gentleman, in order to notify to him that his
evidence would be required before the jury.

Charles immediately obeyed the summons, and the coroner, after a short
pause, during which he seemed embarrassed by painful emotions, and
feelings for the young man himself, he said: "I grieve very much, Sir
Charles, to have to call you at all upon this painful business, and
still more to have to caution you that there are circumstances
connected with your conduct during yesterday, which may prove of such
very great importance to yourself at an after period, that it will be
well for you to weigh every word, and not to speak anything the
tendency of which you have not fully considered."

The young gentleman merely bowed his head, and the coroner then asked
him to go on, and to detail as much as he thought fit of the events
which occurred to himself during the preceding day.

Charles replied at once: "Were it independent, sir, of the death of my
father, that day would be, from various other events, the most painful
of my life. On the morning of that day, which I had appointed for
shooting, my mother explained to me the particulars of a discussion of
a most unhappy kind, which had taken place between herself and my
father, and which had ended in an agreement to separate for ever.
Illness had prevented her previously from executing her resolution,
but she deputed me to inform my father that that resolution was
unchanged and to arrange with him the necessary preliminaries.

"I mention these painful facts to account for the serious dispute
which ensued between my father and myself upon the subject. His
conduct and his language became so violent, that feeling my own temper
every moment giving way, I left him, and went out into the park. As I
had intended to shoot, everything had been prepared for that purpose,
and I took my gun from the hands of the servant quite unconsciously.
The keepers were waiting without with the dogs, but feeling that I was
in no state to enjoy such an amusement, I told them I should not want
them, and walked on. I still had the gun in my hand, and kept it till
I reached the door of the garden, when finding that it put me to
inconvenience, I leaned it against the wall under the tool shed, and
walked on, intending to take it up as I came back again. I forgot it,
however, entirely, and returned to the house without it, nor thought
of it more till I heard that it had been found near the dead body of
my unhappy father. That father I never saw again from the time I left
him in the library, at about half past eleven o'clock, till the time
he was brought home a corpse. This, I believe, is all that I have to
state. But any question which may be asked me I am very willing to
answer, provided it affects myself alone."

"In the first place, then," asked the coroner, "will you permit me to
inquire if there is any one on whom your own suspicions fix as the
perpetrator of this horrid act?"

"On none," replied Charles Tyrrell, "in particular. My father informed
me, and I understand, also informed Mr. Driesen, here present, that he
had been threatened by some man in the wood a week or two ago, while I
was still at Oxford. The particulars I never heard, but most likely
Mr. Driesen, who was here at the time, can give them to you."

The coroner turned to Mr. Driesen, who was still in the room. But that
gentleman replied: "I cannot, indeed, give any information of an
accurate kind. Sir Francis Tyrrell returned one day in a state of very
great excitement, and at dinner informed me that he had met with an
old man in the wood, with whom he had quarrelled, and who had
thereupon menaced him with the same fate which had befallen one of his
ancestors, who had his brains knocked out. He added, that it would be
some pleasure if they did murder him, to know that they would be
hanged for it; but he did not add the old man's name, nor mention many
of the particulars."

The coroner paused, and then again addressing Charles Tyrrell, he
said: "You mean distinctly, sir, to state that you did not meet your
father in the wood, nor see him at all again till after his death?"

"Most distinctly," replied Charles; "I never saw him after I left the
library, at about half past eleven o'clock."

"Did you see any one else in the course of your walk?" demanded the
coroner.

"Yes, several people," replied Charles Tyrrell. "I was out more than
an hour, and saw a number of different persons."

"Who might they be?" the coroner demanded, "as far as you can
recollect."

"In the first place, I saw the head-gardener," replied Charles, "for
I went into the garden, intending to pass through it to the other side
of the wood, and he was on the left hand side, at the extreme end."

"Did you pass through it?" demanded the coroner.

"I did pass through it," replied Charles Tyrrell, "but not directly.
Finding the door locked on the opposite side, I turned to the
gardener's house, which is near, and passed through it, there being a
way from it into the wood."

The coroner looked round to the jury with a well-satisfied smile, glad
to find that the young gentleman's account corresponded exactly with
the gardener's.

"Pray, who else did you meet in the course of your walk," he
continued.

"Oh, several people," replied Charles Tyrrell, vaguely; "I saw
woodcutters, the gardener's wife, a man lopping some trees, one of the
fishermen who occasionally come up to the house, and generally pass by
what is called the park stile."

"Did you speak with any of these persons?" demanded the coroner. "And
if so, what might be the nature of your conversation with them?"

"I did speak with some of them," replied Charles Tyrrell, colouring a
good deal. "But with regard to the nature of my conversation, with
them, in one instance at least, I must decline stating it. I do so,
because it concerned others as well as myself, and related to matters
which I have no right to mention."

"I should think, sir," replied the coroner, "that no one would object
to your stating the conversation you held with them, considering the
circumstances in which you are placed, and I am very desirous, indeed,
Sir Charles Tyrrell, that you should be explicit; for the jury are
anxious to arrive at a calm and just conclusion, and I fear, under
present circumstances, that our decision must be a very painful one."

"Whatever is your decision, sir," replied Charles Tyrrell, "it cannot
induce me to violate confidence reposed in me, or to repeat
conversation, which might produce injury to others."

"Had that conversation anything to do with the present case?" demanded
the coroner. Charles Tyrrell replied in the negative, and the coroner
went on in the same kindly tone which he had used throughout.

"There are several things to be explained, sir," he said, "which must
be left for you to do, or not, as you think fit, but only let me point
them out to you, and observe that if you will satisfactorily account
for them, it may spare a great deal of pain to all parties. There can
be no doubt that the unfortunate gentleman, the causes of whose death
we are about to investigate, was killed by the gun, which you carried
out in the morning, that he went out to seek you, and that the
feelings of both were highly irritated at the time. You say that you
never saw him after leaving the house, that you laid down your gun
against the wall of the garden, and entering the garden itself,
proceeded in a direction leading away from the spot where the murder
was committed; so far you are borne out by the testimony of the
gardener, and if you can account for the time which afterward elapsed,
showing any of the persons that you spoke with, or who can prove that
they saw you under such circumstances, as to establish that you
could not have been on the spot at the time Sir Francis Tyrrell was
killed--even if you give us strong probabilities to suppose that such
was the case, we are very willing to take your previous high
character, and the natural affections of human nature into
consideration, and give you every benefit of doubt. It may be also
necessary for you to account satisfactorily for the blood which
appeared on your shooting jacket and on your hands, as you say that
you laid down your gun, without having discharged it at any of the
ordinary objects of field sport. Let me beg you to consider the matter
well, and make such a reply as will save unpleasant results."

Charles Tyrrell paused for a moment and thought deeply, first turning
his eyes toward the jury, and then toward Mr. Driesen, as if he would
fain have asked his advice; and there can be no doubt that his heart
was terribly agitated at that moment, for if it had been horrible to
him beyond all endurance, to lie even under the suspicion of having
raised his hand against his father's life; what was it to run the risk
of having the suspicion confirmed, perpetuated, and put upon record
for ever, by the verdict of a coroner's jury?

After maintaining silence, however, for nearly five minutes, he said,
"I am very sorry to be obliged to reply, that in regard to neither of
these points can I satisfy you. I am bound in honour to be silent, and
silent I must be, let the risk be what it may to myself."

"This is very strange and very painful," said the coroner. "But,
gentlemen, our duty must be done. Is the evidence sufficient to
satisfy you?"

The jury assented, and the coroner went on--"Then I have only to point
out to you," he continued, "that it has been proved by various
witnesses, that a violent quarrel existed between Sir Francis Tyrrell
and his son, that his son went out first and Sir Francis Tyrrell
followed, for the avowed purpose of continuing the discussion which
had begun in the morning. The son was seen shortly after in the
immediate neighbourhood of the spot where his father's dead body was
found, was absent some time from the house, and returned without his
gun, but with his hands and clothes bloody; that the period of his
absence is not accounted for, nor the marks of blood explained; that
his father's body was found close to the garden which he had entered;
that the gun which he had carried out with him, was found discharged
close to the body, and that the death of the late baronet had
evidently taken place by the discharge of a gun, loaded with small
shot, within a few feet of the back of his head. Gentlemen, I do not
presume to point out in any way, the verdict to which you must come,
but now leave it to you to say, what course shall be pursued, whether
you will adjourn for more evidence, or proceed at once to a verdict."

The jury consulted for a single moment apart, and then the foreman
said, "There is no occasion at all, sir, to adjourn. We think the
evidence quite sufficient, and we are unanimous in our verdict." The
coroner then demanded the verdict in the usual manner, and the foreman
replied at once, "Wilful murder against Sir Charles Tyrrell of Harbury
Park."

There was a good deal of bustle and excitement in the room as soon as
the words were spoken, though every one had seen to what point the
investigation was tending. The only person who was perfectly still was
Charles Tyrrell himself, who, though deadly pale, showed no other sign
of agitation.

The coroner instantly proceeded to draw up a warrant, and before he
left the house, put it into the hands of one of the constables.

Mr. Driesen advanced, and spoke a few words to the prisoner, in a low
voice and in a kindly manner. But all the rest of those present, stood
aloof, gazing on him with feelings in which awe and horror swallowed
up entirely everything like sympathy and compassion.

Charles Tyrrell found himself alone, desolate and abandoned in his
paternal mansion. A weary sickness of heart came over him, a
recklessness, a despair. He longed to see and take leave of his
mother, before he was hurried to a prison. He longed to write, if it
were but a few lines, to Lucy Effingham. But he had not strength or
energy left for anything, and in a few minutes, the carriage was
brought round, which was to convey him to the jail, and getting in
between two constables, he was carried rapidly away to the abode of
guilt and misery.




CHAPTER XVII.


By a small dull lamp in the best chamber of the prison, which however
was bad enough, sat Charles Tyrrell about four nights after the period
at which we last left him. The passing of the intermediate lapse of
time had wrought a terrible change in his appearance; the rosy hue of
health had fled; the fulness and roundness of youth had given place to
the sharp lines of care and sorrow; and the quick and fiery eye was
dull and heavy, having none of the light which used to beam from it in
former days. The handsome features, the fine noble expression of
countenance was indeed still there, but in everything else, Charles
Tyrrell was an altered being. It was not, indeed, confinement that had
produced this change, but grief, for the room was on the first floor
of the prison, and as airy as any it contained.

In those days, great discretionary power was intrusted to the
governors of such places, and it so luckily happened for the prisoner
in the present instance that the governor owed his place to the
interest of the Tyrrell family, and always retained for them great
veneration and respect. There was something, too, in the whole
demeanour of Charles Tyrrell which had impressed him from the first
with a belief of his perfect innocence; and, as the time before his
trial was not likely to be long, the assizes being just about to
commence when this unfortunate occurrence took place, he determined to
make him as comfortable as possible and do everything in his power to
make him forget his imprisonment. Thus the young gentleman had pen,
and ink, and paper by him, books in abundance, and everything which
could occupy his mind, and turn his attention to less painful
subjects.

He had heard from his mother, who had summoned up great courage and
resolution upon the occasion, and was labouring diligently to provide
means for his defence; and he had written two letters, to neither of
which however, he had received any answer. The one was to Lucy
Effingham, and the other to Everard Morrison. Charles Tyrrell,
however, neither doubted the affection of the one, nor the friendship
of the other. But he was anxious and uneasy. He feared that the
horrible events which had occurred might have made Lucy ill, and he
longed too for assurances that she did not regret having connected, by
the bond of affection, her fate with one who seemed to have been of
late marked out for mischance and unhappiness.

There are few minds that can endure calmly an enforced solitude. We
may encounter evil and dangers without shrinking or fear. We may
undergo sorrows and pains with firmness and resolution. In almost all
cases where freedom is left, and a communion with our fellow-men,
imagination links itself with hope sooner or later, and carries us on
to brighter scenes and happier days. But in the solitude of a prison,
gloom and despondency are the companions of fancy. She takes none of
her suggestions from the bright storehouses of hope; she sits and
ponders with us over bitter memories or spreads out the sombre future
like a pall.

Charles Tyrrell strove energetically to nerve his mind, and to resist
the suggestions of despair. But which way could he look? what could he
do? if he thought at all, what were the images presented to his mind?
His dead father murdered and followed to the grave by menials alone:
his mother with her heart torn and agonized, forcing herself from the
bed of sickness to exert herself on his behalf, while every word that
she must hear, and every act that she must do, could but serve to
wring her heart more painfully, and call up every fearful impression
of the past and the future: his promised bride, her he loved better
than anything else on earth, with all her young happiness blighted,
all her bright prospects gone, mourning ineffectually over his fate,
and sorrowing for his ruined character and wounded name: and then the
future, the dark, inscrutable, terrible future, that vast interminable
cloud, filled with objects that we know not, but which to the eyes of
Charles Tyrrell, rolled into every frightful form, and assumed every
dark and threatening hue.

With these things and such as these were his thoughts busy about
eleven o'clock on the fourth night of his imprisonment, when one of
the turnkeys opened the door and Everard Morrison presented himself.
Charles advanced and grasped his hand eagerly, saying, "I thought you
would come, Morrison, I have been longing for you, to consult with you
on various matters."

Morrison was very pale, and there was an anxious and excited look
about him, which Charles Tyrrell had seldom seen.

"We are all selfish, Sir Charles," he said; replying to his friend in
the respectful tone which he always used, "we are all selfish; and I
have been occupied for two days after your note arrived in business of
my own; but now let us speak upon your business, Sir Charles."

But Charles Tyrrell required a friend, and the formality with which
the other spoke, pained him.

"Do not call me Sir Charles," he said; and forgetting the restraint he
had considerately put upon himself in former times, he went on, "I, at
least, Morrison, have ever retained for you the same regard which we
mutually entertained at school. I have sought you! I have courted you,
as far as it was decent or proper for me to do so, and I have not even
been offended by coldness, which might have offended others. Why you
have acted so, I cannot tell: but--"

"I will tell you at once why I have acted so," replied Everard
Morrison, taking his hand and grasping it affectionately, "I have
acted so deliberately even at the risk of offending you. My father,
when he heard of the intimacy between us, laid before me a picture of
my fortunes such as they were, and he showed me, that there were two
paths for me to follow: either to seek associations above myself, and
take my chance of rising by patronage and assistance to eminence in my
profession and to society of a high grade; or to content myself with
the middle class, in which I was born, apply myself under him to
diligent study and constant exertion, to choose calm mediocrity, and
tranquil competence, rather than to accumulate wants and wishes,
necessities and cares even while I strove to amend my condition. My
choice was easily formed. I chose the humbler path, because I believed
it would prove the happier; and the only real sacrifice that I made,
was the sacrifice of your society, Tyrrell. I had forgotten none of
our boyish friendship; I have forgotten none of it now. Every kind act
that you have done me, every generous or noble feeling which I had
remarked in your nature have ever been present to me through life. I
at one time, indeed, thought that I could effect a compromise, and
still cultivate your friendship, without stepping out of my own
station. One visit to Harbury Park, however, convinced me that that
could not be; for although you were everything that was kind and
friendly, your father treated me as the small attorney's son. That
trial made me resolve to guard my own demeanour toward you with a sort
of iron respect, which I have observed up to the present moment. It
was that made me call you Sir Charles; but the matter is now altered.
Tyrrell. I can serve you. I can be something more to you than the
small attorney. I can be your zealous, your true, I trust, your
successful friend. But you must put full confidence in me, Tyrrell."

"Why, you don't think me guilty!" exclaimed Charles Tyrrell.

"Oh no," answered Morrison, "I think you innocent; nay more, Tyrrell,
I know you to be innocent; for I know the very spot on which you stood
at the moment your father's murder must have taken place."

"Do you know who did it?" exclaimed Charles eagerly, grasping his
hand, and gazing intently upon his countenance.

"No, I do not," replied Morrison; "I cannot even form an idea."

"Then we are as much at sea as ever," erred Charles Tyrrell; "for
unless we can clearly show some one to have been guilty, this stigma,
let me prove what I will, will always lie heavy upon me."

"There is something more to be thought of, Tyrrell," said Everard
Morrison, "something far more important. It is to save a life."

"Life I care not for," replied Charles Tyrrell, "at least not half so
much as honour. But surely they would never think of condemning me in
want of more substantial proof than that which already exists."

"Men have been brought to the scaffold on half as much;" replied
Everard Morrison; "and you see, Tyrrell, there is no time to act. I
have been over myself to Harbury. I have seen all the witnesses; and
I, as a lawyer, tell you the case is strong against you. I strove to
ascertain whether the gardener could positively state the time that
you were in the garden, whether you had the gun with you then or not,
and whether he had heard the report of a gun after you had passed
through the garden. But he had not observed if you had anything in
your hand or not, could not tell the exact time of day with any
precision, and had heard several guns in the course of the morning, of
which he took no notice. The evidence, Tyrrell, is all against you,
and you have but one choice."

He spoke earnestly and solemnly, and presented to Charles Tyrrell's
eyes his probable fate in a far more awful point of view than that in
which he had hitherto seen it.

"Good God!" thought the unfortunate young gentleman, "to stand in the
spring-time of youth upon a public scaffold, condemned to die for the
murder of my own father, gazed upon, hooted at perhaps by an abhorring
multitude, and by an awful and degrading death, to end a life in which
I have known so little happiness, to leave the heart of a mother
broken, and to scatter untimely sorrows on the bright morning of one
whom I love more than life."

It was horrible, very horrible, and he gazed eagerly and painfully in
the countenance of his friend, as that friend placed boldly before his
eyes the fate that was likely to befall him.

"I know, Charles Tyrrell," added Morrison, when he found his companion
did not reply, "I know that you do not fear death; but I know that you
fear disgrace, dishonour, and a blackened name. Once the fatal ordeal
over--once the appearance of your guilt sealed completely by your
condemnation and death, and there will be scarcely a motive, scarcely
an object, scarcely a means, to remove the load from your memory and
cast it upon another. Tyrrell, I tell you again, you have but a
chance!"

"And what chance is that?" demanded Charles Tyrrell. "I see none."

"Oh yes, there is," answered Morrison; "you know there is, Tyrrell.
You must either say where you were during the whole time you were
absent from the mansion. You must account for the blood upon your
hands and clothes. You must tell the whole story in short."

"And what will be the consequence if I do?" demanded Charles Tyrrell.
"You seem to know more, Morrison, than you say; if I do, tell me, what
will be the consequences."

Everard Morrison looked steadfastly in his face, and clasped his hands
tight together.

"Why do you ask me?" he said, "why do you ask me? But as you do ask
me, I must tell you. You will save your own life. You will do much,
though not all, to clear your own name. But you will doom two others
to the gibbet."

"Then God be my friend," said Charles Tyrrell, "for I will not do it!"

Everard Morrison cast himself upon hid bosom, and wept like a child.

"Noble, generous creature!" he cried, "but still, Charles, still think
what you are doing. I am commissioned to tell you, that you are at
liberty to do as you please; that nothing shall be denied; that
nothing shall be concealed that you may choose to reveal."

"No, no, Morrison," cried Charles Tyrrell, putting him back from him
with his hand, "Morrison, do not tempt me! No, I would rather die an
honest man, than live a scoundrel! though such a death is terrible,
indeed."

"But you have not heard the alternative," replied Morrison.

"Is there any other but death?" demanded Charles Tyrrell.

"Yes, there is," replied Morrison. "It is a hazardous and most
dangerous one. But yet it can be tried, and I am willing to run my
share of the risk, which will even be greater than yours."

"What is it, Morrison?" demanded Charles, "I fear no risks myself; in
fact, in my situation, all risks vanish."

"That is true," replied Morrison, "and you are no worse, at all
events, than you were before. The alternative is, to attempt to
escape."

"But shall I not, by the very effort," demanded Charles, "whether
successful or unsuccessful, establish the truth of the charge against
me, and deprive myself of the power of ever proving my innocence?"

"No," replied Morrison, "no, far from it. On the contrary, you give
yourself the only opportunity, for you gain time. If you stay, as far
as I can see, you stay for certain death; if you can accomplish your
flight, you give us an opportunity, in the first place, of laying out
plans for detecting the real murderer. In the second place, you give
time for another person, whom we will not name, to escape; but who is
now so strictly watched, on other accounts, that he dare not ride out
by night, for fear of creating suspicion. As soon as he is safe from
pursuit, you can explain the whole, and I will take care that
everything shall be done to make your explanation clear, sure and
convincing. Suspicion indeed will hang upon you till the real murderer
be found; but, in the meantime, your own life will be saved; the
danger will be removed from others, a great part of the suspicion
against yourself will be done away, and you will be placed beyond all
risk, if we can but effect the escape."

Charles Tyrrell took one or two turns up and down the room ere he
replied; but he answered at length,

"It is well worth the trial, Morrison. I like not the thoughts of
compromising you; but if I can escape without so doing, it is worth
running any risk to accomplish it, I am fully convinced."

"Fear not for me," replied Morrison, "I will take my chance willingly,
and of course I shall use the greatest precautions to prevent
implicating myself in any degree further than I can help, inasmuch as
my staying in security here is of the greatest importance to you and
others. Sit down, then, at once, and write two notes, one to your
mother, begging her to act in any way that I shall direct her, if you
are not afraid of placing such great trust in me; the other must be
addressed to Miss Effingham, expressing an extreme desire to see her."

"I have every confidence in you, Everard," replied Charles Tyrrell;
"but indeed I cannot ask Lucy to come here. I would not for the world
that she should come to such a place."

"She shall never see your note," replied Morrison; "it is for other
eyes; not hers, that I want it. You are of course closely watched. One
of these who watch you we can deceive, and I think we can bribe the
others, not to aid, indeed, but to connive, and that is all that we
require."

"I do not understand your plan at all," replied Charles Tyrrell; "but
I put every trust in you, and will write the notes directly. If you
want money to bribe the people, I have plenty upon me; for my mother
sent me the day before yesterday a very large supply."

"I wonder the governor let you have it," replied Morrison, "but give
me a hundred pounds. I may as well begin operations to-night."

Charles Tyrrell followed his directions implicitly in everything. He
had known him from boyhood, and he knew that there was no doubting
him. He therefore wrote the notes and placed them in his hands
together with the money, and Morrison looked satisfied and even
joyful.

"I cannot insure success," he said. "But we have a chance and a good
one. I will not tell you my plan, as perhaps it is well you should be
ignorant of it, till it is executed. Only be prompt to do exactly what
you are told at once, and without question; and under no circumstances
venture any exclamations of surprise."

Charles smiled with a melancholy look, as he replied, "I think after
what has occurred to me within the last few days, Everard, that I have
no right to utter an exclamation of surprise at anything. But I will
do exactly as I am told, and endeavour to be quick and ready."

"Well, then, good night," replied Everard, "for I will not know what
sleep is, till I have arranged all this business."

Thus saying, he left him, and the night passed over with Charles
Tyrrell in sleepless anxiety.

On the following day, however, at about one o'clock, Everard
re-appeared; bringing with him a famous barrister, who had obtained a
high reputation for eliciting truth in criminal cases, even when
concealed by the most impervious art. On introducing him, Everard said
with a meaning smile, "I have had the honour, Sir Charles Tyrrell, of
giving your retaining fees, which as usual have been graciously
received, and now have the pleasure of introducing to you Mr. ----,
who will advise with you on your defence, better than I can do. I have
only to say, that you must be well aware of the necessity of making
your counsel fully aware of all the particulars of your case."

What took place between Charles Tyrrell and the barrister, is needless
to recapitulate. The learned gentleman thought a very good case could
be made in favour of his client, and seized all the particulars with a
rapidity and precision, which, perhaps, none but lawyers are capable
of displaying. Everard Morrison took his leave at the same time with
the barrister, and departed, merely pausing to say to his friend,
"Don't go to bed till you hear more."

The governor, who really took an interest in the young baronet, was
standing in the lobby when the two lawyers came out, and knowing them
both well, he nodded familiarly to the barrister, saying: "I hope,
sir, you'll be able to make a good case for poor Sir Charles."

"Oh, beyond all doubt," replied the barrister. "The young man is as
innocent as you or I, my good friend. One sees it in his every look,
and his every word. But he'll be hanged to a dead certainty, or I
don't know an assize jury!"

Thus saying he wished him good-by, and walked on with young Morrison.

The rest of the day was spent by Charles Tyrrell almost in solitude.
The governour visited him once, and hoped he had everything to make
him comfortable; and the turnkeys bringing in his food, and inquiring
if he wanted anything, produced the only interruptions to his own sad
thoughts, till about half past nine o'clock at night, when the
governor came in to say that he had just had a note from Mr. Morrison
saying, there was a lady at the Crown inn, wished very much to see Sir
Charles Tyrrell, if it were but for a few minutes.

"Good God! it is Lucy," cried Charles Tyrrell, remembering the note
that he had given on the preceding day; but he added instantly; "She
should not have come at night."

"Why you know it pleases many ladies better, sir, replied the
governor; for they don't like to be seen coming into a prison, and a
crowd is apt to gather about at the gate. But I am sure I have no
objection to your seeing her if you like. Mr. Morrison says he does
not know who the ladies are; but I dare say that the young lady that
we have heard of down at the Manor, is the one that wants to come."

"Of course now that she _is_ come," said Charles Tyrrell, "I should
like much to see her;" and after a few more words of the same kind,
the governor went away to send a message to the inn.

In five minutes after, the door was opened by one of the turnkeys, and
a female figure entered dressed in the very height of the fashion. She
looked round her, with some degree of bewilderment apparently, through
the thick black veil that covered her bonnet. But from the dress, from
the whole appearance, and from the height, Charles Tyrrell saw at once
that it was not Lucy Effingham. He advanced toward her, however, and
took her hand, and the turnkey who had paused to witness the meeting,
closed the door.

The moment he had done so, the veil was lifted, and to Charles
Tyrrell's utter surprise, he saw the countenance of the good
fisherman's wife, Mrs. Hailes, whose child he had saved from great
peril when the boat drifted out to sea.




CHAPTER XVIII.


It wanted about a quarter to eleven o'clock at night, and Lucy
Effingham sat alone, in the drawing-room of the old manor house,
leaning her fair face upon her hand, and bending her head over a book
which, however, she did not read. There were all the old accustomed
objects about her, the things with which she had herself taken a
delight to decorate the abode of her mother, and the ornaments which
had been collected there before they arrived, to make the house look
pleasant to their eyes, by him who had now gone down to a cold and
bloody grave. She had thought the place when she first saw it a little
paradise; every object in that drawing-room, she had noted and
approved; the large China jars, the few fine and deep-toned paintings,
the exquisite bronzes scattered here and there, the tables of
marqueterie and mosaic, and all those thousand little ornaments which,
either for their rarity, or their beauty, convey, through the eye,
pleasant impressions to the mind, even while busied more intently with
other things.

Now, however, when she looked around her, and thought of the past and
the present, the feeling excited by the view of things connected with
happiness gone by, was nothing but that sickening sensation, mingled
of regret and despair, which takes possession of the mind of youth,
when first dark disappointment falls upon it. Hers was not, indeed, a
spirit to yield, and give itself up to sorrow without a struggle. She
had much firmness and determination of character, mingled with
gentleness of heart and sweetness of disposition, and she had
struggled long, powerfully, and successfully to keep down, as far as
possible, every expression of her grief, so as not to lay a deeper
load upon the mind of her mother, already depressed with anxieties,
and cares, and sorrows, not a few.

"I am young," thought Lucy, "and can bear my share; but into her cup
so many woes have lately been poured, that it is near the
overflowing."

Thus, when her mother was present, Lucy had power, for her sake, to
stop almost every expression of her grief. But when she was alone as
now, when Mrs. Effingham had gone up to the park, to spend the
evening in consoling Lady Tyrrell, the motive, the great motive for
self-command was gone, and she sat with her head bent down over the
book, and her eyes fixed upon it: but those eyes sightless of any word
that it contained, and from time to time, pouring forth tears, which
fell upon the page, and left it as if it had been lying open under a
spring-shower.

It need not be said, that her thoughts were of Charles Tyrrell, of
their blighted hopes, of their happiness destroyed, of his probable
fate, of the awful question, whether he was really guilty or not.
She had remarked often, very often, the fiery impetuosity of his
nature;--she had heard, and heard exaggerated, many an anecdote of his
passionate boyhood;--she had seen how continually his father irritated
him, till human nature could scarcely bear it any longer;--and she had
heard of the terrible dispute, and its still more terrible cause,
which had taken place between the father and the son on that fatal
day; and she asked herself, again and again, whether it were really
possible that, driven into actual phrensy by his father still pursuing
him, Charles Tyrrell might not have raised his hand against that
father's life.

She had never spoken with her mother on the subject, for she knew that
if she did, she could no longer command her feelings. The letter which
Charles Tyrrell had sent to her, had only reached her on that very
morning, and in it he had made no allusion whatever to his guilt or
innocence. It was filled throughout with words of deep and burning
affection. He had felt as if, in writing it, he were pouring forth,
for the first, and perhaps the last time, all the deep and energetic
passion of his heart. The awful situation in which he was placed--the
terrible scenes through which he had gone--the mighty importance of
every moment, as it then passed by, seemed to raise, and elevate, and
strengthen, and excite, till love assumed more than love's own
eloquence, and the soft words of affection became sublime.

She had read it. She had determined to answer it; she had determined
also to beseech her mother to let her go and visit him in prison. But
she had felt also that she could neither trust herself to do the one
or the other during that day; for the letter had itself unnerved her,
and she required some time to recover strength and calmness sufficient
to speak with her mother on the subject.

When Mrs. Effingham had set out for the park, Lucy had determined to
employ the evening in struggling to overcome her feelings. But it was
with her, as is too often the case when we sit down with such a
determination, alone, and unaided by other motives; we are ourselves
overcome in the struggle, and our feelings triumph over us rather than
we over them. She had given way; her whole thoughts had turned to
grief and despondency, and the evening that she thus passed alone was
sadder, darker, more despairing, than any that she had passed since
the fatal event which had interrupted all her prospects of happiness.

She thus sat then, with her head bent over the book, and her eyes
filling again with tears, though she had dried them often, when she
thought she heard a noise in the conservatory, which joined the
drawing-room on the southern side, and extended up to the plantation
which led away toward the park. It was as if something had struck
against the window; and, after listening some time with a beating
heart, to hear if it returned again, Lucy opened the glass doors, and
going into the green-house, gazed out through the windows upon the
night. The round, yellow, autumnal moon was shining clear and bright
in the sky, and she could see everything upon the lawn and slopes that
surrounded the old manor house; the sparkling stream that flowed along
at the foot of the declivity, the Grey stone bridge with its Gothic
arches and massy piers, and the square tower of the old church beyond,
almost as clearly as if it had been day. There was no moving object to
be seen in any direction: but she thought she heard a rustling in the
shrubbery close by, and with some degree of fear, but more surprise,
she retreated into the drawing-room as speedily as possible, closing
the doors behind her.

A moment or two after, there came a loud ring of the house-bell, and
she thought, "That must be mamma returned; but it is odd, I did not
hear the carriage."

The next moment, however, the butler appeared, saying,

"There is a gentleman of the name of Morrison, Miss Lucy, below, who
wishes to see you immediately."

"Morrison," said Lucy, thoughtfully, "it must be a mistake, Harris.
You must mean he wants mamma. I know nobody of the name of Morrison."

"No, Miss Lucy," replied the butler; "he asked for you and you only,
and I have heard that he was a friend and school-fellow of poor Mr.
Tyrrell--Sir Charles Tyrrell, indeed, as I should now call him."

Lucy turned a little pale with agitation, but she directed the butler
to show the gentleman in; and in another minute Everard Morrison was
standing before her.

He was pale and somewhat haggard; but perfectly calm and composed.

"I beg pardon, Miss Effingham," he said, without sitting down, though
she had pointed to a chair, "for intruding upon you in this manner,
and at this moment,"--as he spoke, he turned his head over his
shoulder, to see that the butler had shut the door--"but I do not know
whether you are aware," he proceeded, "that I had the honour of being
a schoolfellow of Sir Charles Tyrrell."

Lucy could only bow, for she was too much agitated to reply.

"I am forced to be abrupt," continued Morrison, "for there is no time
to be lost. Sir Charles Tyrrell is, as you know, accused of a horrible
crime. There are particular facts, which I cannot explain to you at
present, which would prevent him from proving his innocence, except at
the expense, and indeed utter destruction of two other persons. Under
these circumstances he has judged it better to attempt to escape."

Lucy clasped her hands together, exclaiming, "Good God, has he
succeeded?"

"He has, Miss Effingham," replied Everard Morrison, lowering his
voice; "he has made his way out of the prison, and is now within a
hundred yards of this house."

Lucy sunk back in her chair and grasped the edge of the table, as if
to prevent her from falling to the ground so greatly was she agitated
by contending feelings, fear, apprehension, anxiety, and joy.

"I beg pardon," continued Morrison, "at being obliged to agitate you
in this manner. But Sir Charles cannot, without seeing you once more,
quit this country, which it is necessary for him to do for a time,
till the other two persons whom I have spoken of are placed in safety.
He dare not come into the house, as any one of your servants seeing
him, would lead to his being traced, and the road he has taken
discovered, which I have used every precaution to conceal. But if you
would venture to pass through the conservatory into the shrubbery walk
beyond, you will find him there waiting for you. He has two or three
times tried to make you hear through the conservatory, but finding it
vain, I ventured to come in myself."

"I will go directly," cried Lucy, starting up, "I will go directly,"
and she turned toward the conservatory door without the slightest
hesitation.

"I will remain here," said Morrison, "in case of any of the servants
coming in; but pray, Miss Effingham, beseech Sir Charles to be quick,
and to remember that the boat is waiting."

Lucy paused for a moment, to say,

"I expect my mother to return every minute. But you may tell her all,
Mr. Morrison."

Thus saying, she left him, and entering the conservatory, unlocked the
door that led out into the shrubbery, and walked on. Ere she had taken
ten steps, however, she heard the laurels rustle a little before her,
and her heart beat so dreadfully, that she feared she would have
fallen to the ground. In another moment, however, the arms of Charles
Tyrrell were round her, and while she wept profusely with the tears of
many mingled emotions, he pressed her again and again to his heart,
with feelings of unmixed joy.

"My Lucy, my dear, my beloved," he cried, "do I--do I see you once
more?"

Lucy dried her eyes, and gazed up in his face by the moonlight.

"You are very pale, and very haggard, Charles," she said. "Oh, what
you must have suffered."

"Suffered, indeed, dear Lucy," he said; "I had not known that the
heart of man could endure so much, without breaking."

"But you are innocent, Charles," she said, "oh, yes, I am sure you are
innocent. Yet tell me so. Oh, yes, tell me so, and set my heart quite
at rest!"

"Have you doubted it, Lucy?" exclaimed Charles, in a reproachful tone;
"do you doubt it, Lucy?"

She lifted her deep blue eyes to his face, and gazed at him tenderly,
confidingly, but thoughtfully; while he bent down his eyes upon her
with a look of deep and earnest affection, yet characterized by the
strong emotions of the moment, and by some degree of reproachful
sadness. But all was clear and noble, and open in that countenance,
and Lucy, as she gazed, could not entertain a shadow of a doubt.
Feeling that she had in some sense wronged him, though but slightly,
she cast her arms around him, and again leaning her fair face upon his
bosom, she said,

"No, Charles--no, no, no! I do no doubt you. I know, I feel, that you
are innocent."

"As innocent as you are, Lucy," replied Charles Tyrrell. "As I have
hope in heaven, Lucy--as I love you truly and well--as I look for the
continuance of your love--and as I place my whole hopes in this life
on your affection--I never saw my unfortunate father from the moment
that I left him in the library, till the moment I saw him lying dead
in the same room."

"I believe you, Charles, from my heart," replied Lucy; "indeed, I have
never really doubted you. I have, indeed, asked my heart whether it
was possible; and in so doing I have thought of all your impetuosity,
and your fieriness, Charles. But I have remembered your noble nature,
and the restraint I have often seen you put upon yourself; and the
reply has still been, no, it is impossible."

"Hark," said Charles Tyrrell. "There are carriage-wheels. That must be
your mother, Lucy, returned."

"Oh, mind not that," said Lucy, "mind not that. I know you ought to
go, and yet, I cannot part with you so soon. It is terrible, terrible,
Charles, to see you leave me under such circumstances, and after such
a brief moment as this. It is very, very terrible, Charles, and who
knows when or how I shall see you again."

"Would to God, you could go with me," cried Charles Tyrrell, pressing
her to his heart. "Oh, Lucy! Lucy! what a fancy has come up before my
eyes!"

They were both silent for several moments, and through the open door
of the conservatory they heard the voices of persons speaking in the
drawing-room beyond. Lucy made no reply to what Charles Tyrrell had
said. But her hand had rested in his, and he thought he felt it clasp
upon his somewhat more closely than before, as if within her bosom,
there were feelings which echoed the wishes and thoughts of his. They
heard a step in the conservatory, and she said rapidly,

"I am your promised wife, Charles; and my view of such an engagement
is, that I am as much bound to you for ever, as if I had made the
promise at the altar, which I made in the woods of the park. I can
never be any other man's wife, so long as you live. I can never refuse
to be yours whenever you ask me to be so. Such have always been my
feelings with regard to that engagement. Let that satisfy you. I have
duties to fulfil toward my mother, or I would refuse to accompany you
nowhere."

Ere she had well concluded these words, there was another figure in
the walk beside themselves. It was that of Mrs. Effingham. She came
forward toward them with a quick step, and held out both her hands
joyfully to Charles Tyrrell.

"Welcome, Charles, welcome," she said, in a low voice. "I am convinced
you have done wisely, for I have seen up at the park, Mr. ----, the
barrister, who says, that although there is no doubt of your
innocence, yet you run great risk by staying. But come into the
drawing-room," she added, "I have told your friend to lock the door.
We shall not be interrupted there, and this night air chills me."

Charles followed at once, still holding Lucy by the hand. The
conservatory door was then locked, the curtains drawn over it, and all
being thus made secure, the four persons there assembled stood and
gazed upon each other, as if asking the still-recurring question in
life, "The what next." Mrs. Effingham's eyes turned from Charles
Tyrrell to her daughter, and from Lucy to him.

"Poor things," she said at length, "yours has been a sad fate, indeed.
It is but the fate of few to know such early and such severe sorrows.
But console yourselves, my children; it has been often remarked, even
to a proverb, that a certain portion of grief and care is always
allotted to our life, and that when the clouds are early, the sunshine
comes late; and when the spring-time is all bright and shining, the
autumn is full of storms. Your early days have been dark and cloudy,
indeed, and I trust that the brighter part is yet to come."

"Oh, may it be a prophecy, dear lady," said Charles Tyrrell, taking
her hand and raising it to his lips. "Oh, may it be a prophecy; for as
I stand here, holding this dear, this beloved girl by the hand, and
think of parting with her for a long and indefinite time, with
dangers, and sorrows, and all the accidents of fate between us; when I
think of all this, and my utter desolate solitude in a foreign land,
without a friend, without a home, without an occupation--with my name
stained and dishonoured--my fortune withheld from me--and with all the
bright hopes that animated me but a few days ago, so completely
crushed under foot, I feel almost inclined to cast away this scheme
for saving myself, to return to the prison, and to take my chance of
what may come--for the worst and most terrible death that could befall
me, could scarcely be more terrible than such a parting as this."

Mrs. Effingham gazed upon his face for a moment, and then said,

"Tell me, Charles, is there a probability of your ever being able
distinctly to prove yourself innocent, to the satisfaction of all
men?--Mind, I do not doubt you in the least, or in any way; for when
we visited you at the fisherman's cottage, I twice saw a person there
bearing the appearance of a lady, and certainly not in the rank of
those that surrounded you. There are also parts of your conduct on the
day of your father's death which you do not choose to explain--right
or wrong, I have combined these two circumstances in my mind together.
But remember that I believe your whole motives, your whole conduct, to
be upright and honourable--that I have not a doubt--that I have not a
suspicion."

Everard Morrison advanced from the other side of the table, where he
had been standing, and though there was a considerable and unusual
glow upon his ordinarily pale cheeks, he spoke in his usual calm and
impressive manner.

"Madam," he said, "you are quite right. I will take upon me to answer
for my friend. Those two circumstances are connected with each other.
That lady that you saw is one very dear, perhaps too dear to my own
heart, and now, madam, to answer your question distinctly and closely,
without putting him to the pain of saying a word upon a subject which
he may think right not even to allude to; I will tell you that if he
so choose to act, he could at once prove his innocence to the whole
world; that he will be able to do so beyond all doubt, at an after
period; but that he could not do so now, without bringing certain
destruction upon the heads of two other persons, and committing a
great breach of trust. The facts I know from others, revealed to me as
a legal adviser, and I put it to him, himself, yesterday, with full
permission to do so, whether he would break the trust reposed in him,
and save his life at the expense of others; or run the risk--the
imminent risk of death. Madam, he chose like Charles Tyrrell, and to
those who know him, that is enough."

"I thought so, I was sure of it," cried Mrs. Effingham, while Lucy
gazed up in the face of her lover with her eyes dimmed with tears.

"And you must be the sacrifice!" continued Mrs. Effingham, after a
pause, gazing upon Charles with feelings of deep interest and
compassion. "You must be the sacrifice to your own noble and kindly
heart. Would to God that you were married to Lucy, that she might go
with you, and be your consolation and your comfort."

Charles Tyrrell took Mrs. Effingham's hands in his, and gazed into her
face for a moment.

"I fear I am very selfish," he said at length, "for I am so tempted to
ask you to let her go with me, that though I know you require comfort
too, I can scarcely refrain."

"But Charles, Charles," exclaimed Mrs. Effingham, pale and very much
agitated, "she is not yet your wife. She considers herself as much
bound to you as if she were. I know she does--I have always taught her
to do so. She will never be any other's but yours. She shall be yours
whenever you claim her."

"Oh, dear Mrs. Effingham," said Charles, "that it were so, indeed! and
not merely in name. I would claim her now--even now. But I know I am
acting selfishly. I know I am acting wrongly. I should be exposing her
to peril, and dangers, and discomforts, and it is better that I should
go now at once, and leave love, and hope, and happiness in my native
land behind me. It is better that I should go," and he dropped the
hand that he held in his.

"But, Lucy," said Mrs. Effingham, turning to her daughter, "have you
thought of this?--Have you heard of this? What do you say, my child,
for my brain is bewildered, and I scarcely know what I am doing."

"I say, my dear mother," she replied earnestly, "that there is but one
thing on earth that would stop me from going with him; neither perils,
nor dangers, nor discomforts, nor, if it must be so, the sorrows of a
life itself."

"What then?" demanded Mrs. Effingham.

"My mother!" replied Lucy. "To leave her to sadness, to solitude and
discomfort; that--that is the only obstacle that I think ought to
stand in my way."

"It should not stand in the way for a moment," replied Mrs. Effingham,
"were it not for other things. But think, Lucy, think of the
world--think of what the good and wise, as well as the vicious and
malevolent, would say."

"For that, my dear mother," replied Lucy, "I should care
little--secure in the approbation of my own heart. When Charles spoke
of such a thing--he did not ask me, but merely spoke of it a moment
ago--I thought over it all earnestly. I asked myself, were these times
of trouble, such as took place in the French Revolution, or in our own
Great Rebellion, and he were forced to fly so suddenly, should I not
do right to go with him? should I not be applauded for so doing? Who
could doubt that I should? How much more need for me to go with him
now, when he has so much more need of comfort. Would the world, which
says so little against the woman who, in disobedience to her parents,
or in opposition to her friends, flies from her home, to be married in
Scotland, would it blame me, for crossing the sea, to unite myself to
the man to whom I was engaged before, with the consent of all; would
it blame me, when I have so much higher objects--so much better
purposes in view--when I neither oppose those who love me, nor enter
into a family unwilling to receive me; when I go to share the sorrows,
and the poverty, and the exile of the only man that I ever loved; and
if it did blame me, ought I to value its blame? If it did censure me,
should I care for its censure?"

"No, my dear child," replied Mrs. Effingham, "in that you are right.
In such cases as these, perhaps, removed from all the ordinary
considerations of life, we must cast off ordinary considerations, and
for once, think abstractedly of what is just and noble, without
considering the world, though that consideration of the world is in
almost all instances, a woman's best and surest safeguard. Lucy, I
will put no restraint upon you. I will not say do it; for the
responsibility is too awful even for me, who do not often shrink from
responsibilities. You shall follow the dictates of your own judgment,
and of your own heart. Think not of me for one moment, my child. I and
poor Lady Tyrrell will console one another, and will, if you so
decide, join you as soon as may be."

Lucy paused for a moment without reply. A thousand new and strange
sensations--a thousand anxious and painful thoughts crowded her bosom,
and might be seen written in legible characters upon her countenance.
The last thing that appeared there was the rushing up of the bright,
warm, eloquent, blood, suffusing forehead, and cheeks, and neck, with
a deep and painful blush, while she held out her hand to Charles
Tyrrell, and casting the other arm round her mother's neck, hid her
face upon her bosom, and once more burst into tears. Mrs. Effingham
pressed her to her heart, and looking upon Charles with a melancholy
glance, she said,

"Oh, Charles, Charles! when, with frank and noble confidence, you
first told me of your love for Lucy, I promised that, in the coming
time, I would repay that confidence to the full; but I little thought
that I should ever have to put such a great--such an awful trust in
you! But I can trust you--surely, surely I can trust you with the
safety, with the happiness, with the honour of my child!"

"Believe me, believe me, Mrs. Effingham!" replied Charles, "as soon as
ever we reach the French shore, Lucy shall become mine by a right
which none can dispute. Pure, and innocent, and bright as she is, I do
not believe that there is mortal man, who would have the impious
courage, even in thought, to ruin that purity, or sully that
brightness. I know that our marriage can be instantly celebrated in
France, though we are now at war with that country, and the very first
letter that Lucy writes to you, it shall be as Lucy Tyrrell."

Still, however, Lucy clung to Mrs. Effingham, and raising her eyes to
her face, she exclaimed,

"Oh, my mother, my dear mother! how can I leave you? Charles, Charles,
ought I to be so selfish?"

"It is I, that am selfish, I fear," said Charles Tyrrell; "for while I
own, Lucy, that I would almost bear death itself, rather than part
with you, under circumstances of such uncertainty, yet I feel that it
is cruel to Mrs. Effingham, to take you from her even now."

"Think not of me, Lucy; think not of me, Charles," said Mrs.
Effingham. "You know what I can bear, and how I can bear it. If you
think it your duty to go with him--and, perhaps, notwithstanding all
dictates of worldly prudence, I may think so, too--act as you would
act if I were not in existence; let me not in the least impede you. I
shall do quite well; and he certainly needs you with him, more than I
do; for I do believe, Lucy, that to a noble and an uncorrupted heart,
the love and society of a pure and virtuous woman, is not only a
consolation under all circumstances, but a safeguard and a support."

Everard Morrison had, in the meanwhile, remained silent, but now,
though he understood and made every allowance for the natural
hesitation of Lucy under such circumstances, he felt that precious
moments must not be lost for slight causes, and taking a step forward,
he said,

"Dear Miss Effingham, you are decided to go. I have said nothing
hitherto in opposition to Tyrrell's scheme, for where you are willing
to risk so much, who shall talk of any other hazards? Let me, however,
now remind you, that every moment is precious. The tide serves just
one hour before daylight, the cutter will be off the point at that
hour, a very short time, therefore, remains for your preparation; and
even during that time, Sir Charles ought to leave you; for though we
have taken every precaution to prevent them from tracing us hitherto,
and to mislead them in regard to the course we have taken, yet there
is that natural connexion between this place and our escaped prisoner,
that suspicion will instantly look in this direction. Should any
search of the house be made while he is still here, no possible means
of escape would be left. He must, therefore, go on alone, leaving me
to conduct you to the spot where we shall find him."

It very often happens in life, that our decisions are made for us, by
other persons, taking it for granted that we have made them. Such,
however, was not exactly the case in the present instance; for Lucy
had determined already to go, and all that Everard Morrison said, only
tended to hasten her arrangements for that purpose: If any shade of
indecision was left, it was only expressed by her gazing alternately
at Charles Tyrrell and at her mother, while the young lawyer was
speaking. When he had done, however, she put her hand in that of
Charles Tyrrell, saying,

"I will go with you, Charles. Now go on as fast as possible. I will
lose no time, and will join you as speedily as I can. I may be
agitated, Charles, I may be terrified, but I have no earthly doubt
that I am doing right, and therefore I will not fear. Do not stay here
longer, Mr. Morrison is quite right. They may seek you, and what a
terrible thing it would be if they were to find you here. Every sound
that I hear makes me tremble. In a very few hours I will be with
you--God bless you, Charles, God bless you. Go, and leave me for the
present."

Charles Tyrrell tore himself away, and pursued his journey alone, and
fortunate, as it proved for him, that he did so. As soon as he was
gone, Lucy hastened away, by her mother's directions, to make what
preparations the time admitted, and Mrs. Effingham, instantly turning
to Morrison, said,

"The next matter to be considered, Mr. Morrison, is, how we are to
prepare Lucy's maid to accompany her mistress."

Morrison started, and was somewhat surprised, as he had not calculated
at all upon Lucy taking anybody with her. He strongly objected,
however, to the least hint being given to the maid in regard to
Charles Tyrrell's escape, although Mrs. Effingham guaranteed her
fidelity, assuring him that the woman had been in her family for many
years, having been in the first instance her daughter's nurse. He
represented the risk, however, so strongly, that Mrs. Effingham said,
at length,

"Well, since such is your opinion, I must go and persuade the woman to
go with Lucy without knowing why or wherefore. I think I shall be able
to do so; and it may, also, Mr. Morrison," she said, "be necessary to
add all the money I have in the house to their little stock; for such
a flight as this cannot be accomplished without great expense, and we
cannot tell how long their absence from this country may be
prolonged."

"Sir Charles Tyrrell has already with him a very considerable sum,"
replied Morrison, "which I procured from his mother in contemplation
of this business. It is necessary, however, to be fully prepared in
such respects; but I think if you have any jewels which you could give
your daughter, it would be even better than money; for a large sum of
gold would be cumbrous, and I do not well know whether the notes,
which form now our principal money, can be used in France without
great loss while we remain at war with that country."

"That can be easily managed," replied Mrs. Effingham, "I have some
valuable jewels, which I have not worn for many years, and which will
go into a very small space. I will now, however, see about all these
things, and prepare the maid to accompany her mistress."

Thus saying, she left him, and Morrison, whose presence of mind and
acuteness extended to the minute details of everything, instantly went
into the conservatory, closed the door by which Charles Tyrrell had
gone out, locked and bolted it, drew down the curtain, closed the door
between the drawing-room and the conservatory, locked it also, and
placed the key on a small nail by the side of the door, where he saw
another key hanging.

He then sat down, took out a number of law papers from his pocket,
made no scruple to borrow a sheet of paper from the writing-book on
the table, and having folded it neatly down into proper form, was, in
two minutes after Mrs. Effingham had left him, busily engaged in
making an abstract of one of the documents which he had spread out
before him. His only thought in so doing was, "I may as well employ
the time this way as any other;" but the fact of his so doing proved
of great advantage.

He had written one page, and was half way down the second, when a loud
ringing was heard at the bell. Before any of the servants could
appear, though they run to open the door with habitual quickness, the
ringing was repeated, and when the footman arrived at the door,
followed by the butler, three or four men, presented themselves,
headed by the governor of the county jail. As soon as the door was
open, the governor demanded sharply,

"Has any gentleman been here to-night, to visit the family?"

"Yes, sir," replied the butler, at once advancing, "there has; but I
should like to know why you ask?"

"Because, sir," replied the other, "I am governor of the county jail,
from which a prisoner has made his escape this night, and we have
traced him here. What is the gentleman's name that has been here?"

"His name is Morrison, sir," replied the butler.

"Then there was somebody with him," said the governor.

"No, that's not true," replied the butler, in a frank tone, that
admitted scarcely of a doubt, "there is no one but himself and our own
family that has entered these doors to-night. Of that I'll take my
oath. He is in the drawing-room now, on business with my mistress, and
will tell you so himself. I will go and call him."

"Stop! stop! my good fellow," cried the governor, "you don't stir a
step. Take care of these good fellows, constable, while I go in. I
must intrude upon the ladies at all risks. Is that the drawing-room
door?"

"No, sir," replied the butler, "that's the anteroom door, but it leads
to the drawing-room. Go if you like, you'll only be thought a saucy
companion for your pains; and if my mistress blames me, it's not my
fault, you know."

Without making any reply, the governor walked straight forward and
threw open the anteroom door. The door beyond was partly open, so that
he could see into the drawing-room at once, and there was no
possibility of anybody in it making their escape without being
perceived. There, however, sat Everard Morrison alone at the table,
with half a dozen large law papers spread all over it, the pen in his
hand, the abstract he was making lying before him, and the ink still
wet upon three or four lines preceding.

As the governor entered, he lifted up his head to see who it was; but
his countenance betrayed nothing which could excite suspicion. The
whole appearance of the room, and of the young lawyer himself, was so
natural, and so little calculated to awaken or confirm suspicion, that
the governor at once began to fear he had been misled, especially as
he had been guided in that direction principally by his own
suspicions.

It was necessary, however, to say something on the occasion, and he,
therefore, burst forth, saying,

"Very pretty this, Mister Morrison, very pretty this."

"What do you mean, governor?" said Morrison, in his usual calm tone.
"What is very pretty? I don't understand you."

"Why here you send a woman to me," said the governor, "asking
admission to Sir Charles Tyrrell, and giving me to understand that it
is Miss Effingham, and she turns out no such person, and lets him get
out in her cloak."

"I never gave you to understand that it was Miss Effingham," cried the
young lawyer; "quite on the contrary; in my note to you, I told you I
did not know who she was. I wrote in a great hurry, as I had to come
here to-night; but I took care to tell you that, I am sure. If it had
been either Mrs. or Miss Effingham, they would have come to me of
course, and I should have put their names down in the note. But I took
especial pains, on the contrary, to say that the lady who had written
to me, was at the inn, and that I could not tell who she was, in order
that you might act upon your own responsibility."

"Precious responsibility business I seem to have made of it," said the
governor. "Why I shall be turned out of my post."

"Pooh! nonsense," replied Everard Morrison; "any man may be deceived.
But who is this lady, for she must have stayed behind?"

"Lady!" exclaimed the governor. "She's no lady; some common woman, who
speaks as broad as a wagon-wheel. But she won't tell who she is; and
when I told her that she would be kept in there all her life till she
did, all she said was, she would take a day to consider of it; so I
thought the best way would be to come on here at once."

"And pray, what do you want here?" demanded Everard Morrison coolly,
as if the governor's coming there was the most extraordinary thing in
the world.

"Why, I thought I should find him here most likely," replied the
governor. "It was natural that he should come here, rather than go up
to the park, where he was sure to be laid hold of."

"More natural that he should go up to London, than do either," replied
Morrison. "I'm sure if I had helped him out, I should have advised him
to come here by no means"--which happened to be really the case, as
Everard had strongly counselled him not to come to the manor at
all--"However, governor," he continued, "I can assure you that he is
not here, for I have been here a long time, upon business with Mrs.
Effingham, as you see, and I must have known it if he were. Mrs.
Effingham and her daughter have both been with me, till within these
ten minutes, and I pledge you my word of honour, that Sir Charles
Tyrrell is not here, so you had better not disturb the ladies, for you
can trust to my word you know very well."

"Why I think I can, Mr. Morrison," replied the governor; "but then
what had I better do, do you think?"

"Why, that's hardly a fair question, governor," replied Morrison. "We
lawyers, you know, are never fond of advising a man to break out, for
we of course lose everything by such means; but now that he has got
out, of course I wish him safe through it; and then, on the other
hand, I should not like to give you wrong advice, so I shall give you
none. Only one thing you may be sure of, you won't find him up at the
park, for he is a great deal too clearheaded to linger about places,
where everybody knows him, and where the first cottager might take
hold of him, and get the reward which is likely to be offered."

There was so much reason in what the young lawyer said, that the
governor was greatly influenced by it. He resolved, however, to send
up a constable to the park, to make some sort of search, in order that
it might not be said, he had neglected any effort to recover the
prisoner. With the same view, also, he asked,

"Where does that glass-door lead, Mr. Morrison, do you know?"

"Why, I fancy to the conservatory," replied Morrison.

"I should like just to take a look into it, however," said the
governor. "I don't think you'd cheat me, Mr. Morrison; but I should
like just to say I had made some search."

"Oh, search if you like," replied Morrison, rising, and going toward
the conservatory; "but I give you my word of honour that if he is in
this house, it is without my knowledge, and without the knowledge of
either Mrs. Effingham or her daughter. But let us make haste then, if
you want to look into the conservatory; for if Mrs. Effingham comes
down, as she said she would in a minute, we shall both of us look
foolish, you know."

The conservatory-door was then opened, and the governor went in: but
the place bore so much the appearance of not having been opened since
it was closed for the night, that the look of everything, the calm
tranquillity of the young lawyer, the surly frankness of the butler,
the evidence of legal business going on which the table displayed,
thoroughly convinced the governor that he had made a mistake; and he
was in the act of retiring to return to the county-town, and pursue
his search in some other direction, when Mrs. Effingham herself
appeared, and drawing herself up with an air of cold dignity, looked
first to the governor and then to Everard, as if for an explanation of
his presence. Morrison instantly interposed, not wishing to plunge
Mrs. Effingham into the quagmire of explanations, wherein the
best-compounded stories are apt to flounder, and get themselves
caught.

"This is merely a gentleman, madam, who came to me upon some
business," he said. "I will see you early to-morrow, governor, good
night, good night;" and the governor retired, without adding anything
more.

When he was gone Mrs. Effingham sunk into a chair, and pressed her
hand upon her heart, which beat violently. Morrison, however,
explained the whole to her, and told her that he believed the governor
was completely deceived.

"We must take two precautions, however," he added, "when we ourselves
set out; one is, to ascertain that the same number of persons that the
governor brought with him have repassed the lodge-gates; the other to
ensure that there is no one watching in the field at the end of the
park-stile. How long do you think it will be, ere Miss Effingham is
ready?"

"Not half an hour," replied Mrs. Effingham.

"Well, then, I will go and see myself," replied Everard. "But pray, my
dear madam, in the meantime, put her in mind that she has no time to
lose; for there is a walk of nearly six miles before her, and Tyrrell
ought to be out at sea before daybreak."

"She will be ready in less than half an hour," repeated Mrs.
Effingham; and the young lawyer proceeded to ascertain that all the
avenues were clear.




CHAPTER XIX.


The moon had somewhat declined by the time that Charles Tyrrell left
the manor house; but she was still high enough in the sky to show him
every object as he went along; and a lingering unwillingness to quit
the place of his birth and of his youth, without taking one last look
at the dwelling in which his mother still was, and in which, perhaps,
the body of his father still lay, led him back into the park, which,
indeed, afforded as short a way as any other, to the spot whither his
steps were bent. He knew, indeed, that he must not suffer himself to
be seen; for though he did not think that any of the servants would
betray him, yet imprudence might do as much as treachery, and he
therefore resolved merely to stand under the shadow of the wood, near
the spot where the buckwheat was laid out for the young pheasants, and
to be able to tell his mother, when he wrote, that he had come to gaze
up at her windows, and speak an unheard farewell ere he went.

He accomplished his intention in safety; the house was all closed, and
the only lights that were seen, streamed through the chinks of the
window-shutters in his mother's room. He gazed up thereat for some
time, and then praying God to bless and protect her, he turned upon
his steps, and proceeded along the path to the spot which we have
before mentioned, where the walk separated into two. There he paused,
and hesitated.

He had a strong inclination, indeed, to visit the garden-gate, near
which his father had been murdered, and to ponder over that bloody
spot, as if it could give any tidings of the real assassin. He knew,
however, that every moment was precious, and that there might be
various arrangements to make before he went on board the ship which
was to convey him to a foreign country. He therefore refrained, and
turned upon the other path, which led to the end of the lady-walk, as
it was called, and crossing it, brought the passenger by a small neat
stile into the open fields beyond.

We have before described that walk of fine and sweeping beech-trees
planted on one side of the broad gravel, and bending down like a
penthouse over it, but yet leaving a beautiful view over the fields on
the other side. The moon was shining clear upon the country beyond,
and had so far declined as to pour its light under the branches of the
beech-trees, and as Charles Tyrrell approached the extreme end, and
still stood under the shadow, he saw that the walk was not entirely
solitary, for about halfway down appeared the figure of a man walking
slowly up toward him. Who it was he could not distinguish, at that
distance, but he perceived that the arms were crossed upon the chest,
and the head bent down, as if the eyes were fixed upon the ground.
After advancing for about a hundred yards toward him, the figure
stopped, and gazed out upon the moonlight; then clasped his hands
together, and advanced again in a meditative manner. As it came
closer, Charles recognised the figure of Mr. Driesen, and thought to
himself:--

"I suppose he has come to attend the funeral, for surely even his cool
nonchalance would not permit him to stay in the house all this time
after my father's death. However, he has acted in a friendly manner by
me in all this sad business, and also about Lucy, so that, perhaps, he
might stay, thinking he could be of use."

The cause of Mr. Driesen's stay was, not long after, explained to
Charles Tyrrell, for the will, which had been drawn up sometime before
his return from college, was found in the drawer of the library-table,
and conveyed to Mr. Driesen everything except the entailed estates,
and the jointure of Lady Tyrrell. Besides an immense property in land
and money which thus fell to him, all the plate, the furniture, the
books, the cattle, the horses of Harbury-park were his also, and
nothing but the bare walls of the house remained to the young heir or
his mother.

Charles Tyrrell did not know this at the time, though he learned it
before that night was over; and he only looked upon Mr. Driesen as one
whose principles, or rather want of principles, he could not approve,
but who often acted kindly and justly from natural goodness of
feeling.

Driesen gradually approached, unconscious that any one was near; but
notwithstanding the good fortune which had befallen him, his whole air
was melancholy, his whole carriage dejected, and as he turned again
near the spot where Charles Tyrrell stood, the latter heard him utter
a deep, long-drawn sigh. When he was nearly at the other end of the
walk, which, as we have said, was of great length, Charles crossed it,
suddenly passed over the stile, and took his way into the fields.

Turning short to the right, before he reached Harbury-hill, at the
distance of about three miles from the park, he entered the woods
which surrounded the dwelling of Captain Long; but, avoiding that
house, he followed the left-hand path, which kept close to the edge of
the wood, till it brought him into one of those long ravines, which,
as we have said, ran down here and there to the seashore.

Following this, he was soon upon the beach, and walking rapidly on,
under the cliffs, so as to be as much in shade as possible, he reached
the house of good John Hailes, the fisherman, and knocked gently at
the door.

"Who is there?" said a voice from within, without opening the door.
"What do you want, at this time of night?"

"It is I, Hailes. It is I," said Charles Tyrrell "Let me in, quick."

The door was immediately opened, and closed as soon as Charles Tyrrell
had entered. He now found himself once more in the fisherman's
cottage, surrounded by the family group that he had left there, but
with the sad absence of the mother.

"Thank you, Hailes, thank you," he said, shaking the honest fisherman
by the hand, "thank you for all that you have done for me. But,
indeed, indeed, I am grieved that your wife should put herself in such
circumstances, on my account."

"You are out, you are out!" said Hailes, "and that's quite enough.
Here you are a free man upon the seashore, and they'll not keep her in
above a day. My neighbour's wife'll take care of the babies, and I'm
sure the ladies up at the house will be kind to them. But I thought
Master Morrison was coming with you."

"He will be here in a short time, Hailes, I trust," replied Charles
Tyrrell; "he is only waiting for Miss Effingham."

"Ay, I thought how it would be," said Hailes; "I thought she would not
let you go alone. But none of us'll be obliged to stay in foreign
parts long."

"Why, my poor fellow, what chance is there of your returning?" said
Charles Tyrrell. "I'm afraid you do not understand the law upon that
matter. You'll be looked upon quite as guilty as the other, for in
such cases the law makes no distinction. But has there been no inquiry
made yet? Has there been no examination into the affair; if not, why
have you not both of you, got away sooner?"

"Why, as to this business," replied Hailes, "there has been no inquiry
at all yet, and I could get away when I liked; but then, you see,
they're watching him there like cats, about that smuggling business.
They well know I had nothing to do with it, and could pay nothing if
they were to skin me; but they think if they can once get him into the
exchequer they'll squeeze him till he's as dry as the skin of a
dog-fish; so he cannot walk a step without having some ill-looking
fellow at his heels in a minute, and he dare not put out his boat for
fear of their being after him."

"And where is Miss Longly?" demanded Charles Tyrrell. "I wish to God
we could persuade Morrison, before we go, to think differently of her
conduct."

"She has gone back to her father," said Hailes; "whenever he heard the
word that _that_ scoundrel spoke when he was dying, he took her back
again with all his heart; and as for Master Morrison, if he would not
take her back too, and be fonder of her than ever, he's not worth
having her, I say."

"Why, what did he tell you, then?" said Charles Tyrrell, "that must
have been after I left you. From her own story, and the artless manner
in which she told it, I am perfectly sure that her motive was
innocent, though her conduct was certainly imprudent. But what did he
say? for, when I left you, he seemed quite dead, and he had certainly
said nothing before."

"Ay, ay, but he came to life twice before we got him to old Jimmy
Harrison's cottage, and he vowed upon his life and soul, as he was a
dying man, that she was quite innocent."

"Yes, I heard him say that, beforehand," replied Charles Tyrrell; "but
that would not be enough to satisfy Morrison, I fear."

"Ay, ay, but he told more of the story," continued Hailes. "He said
that her coming to meet him was not at all to go off with him, as he
wanted to make her, but because he had proved to her, that he could
ruin her father at a word, having got an insight, while he was staying
there, into all that Captain Long was doing in the smuggling line. He
acknowledged that he wrote to her, to meet him in the wood, at the top
of the hill, if she would save her father from ruin, and told her
that, if she came, he would show her how she might completely screen
him. The way which he proposed to her to do, when she did meet him,
was to go off with him to Guernsey to marry him though he would never
have married her, if he had once got her there, I doubt. But, however,
she would not go, and when he tried to force her, she screamed, and
brought the other young officer to help her, who wouldn't consent to
any such work."

"That I heard from the officer himself," said Charles Tyrrell; "and if
we can but get Morrison to believe this, all will be well. I wish she
were here herself, that he might see her when he comes."

"Why, you see," said Hailes, "that would be easy done, for if Longly
knew that you were here, he'd come down himself, I know, if he could;
for Master Morrison told both of us, yesterday, when he came down here
to speak to my wife about going up to the prison, that when he had
given you leave to tell all you had seen, you said you would rather
die than say one word to get us into trouble, so he is bound to do
anything that you choose to tell him."

"We'll make an effort for it, however," said Charles Tyrrell. "It is
very late. Do you think if I were to send we should find them still
up?"

"That you would," replied Hailes, "that you would; for Longly said he
would not go to bed, till I sent up my boy Jim here, to tell him that
you were safe."

"Well, then, my good boy," said Charles Tyrrell laying his hand on the
boy's head, "run up, as fast as you can, to Mr. Longly's, tell him
that I am here, and that I wish very much he would come down and speak
with me, bringing his daughter with him. If he can't come himself, see
if Miss Longly can come. She'll not be afraid to come through the wood
with you."

"Oh no, that she won't," said the boy. "I suppose I'm not to tell
anybody else but Captain Longly, that you are here?"

"On no account, whatever," replied Charles Tyrrell; and the boy's
father added, "Keep a sharp _look_ out, that you're not watched, Jim,
and be as fast as you can."

The boy then went away, and when the door was closed behind him,
Charles Tyrrell sat down upon the edge of the bed on which he had
spent so many a painful and weary hour: but the conversation between
him and Hailes was not continuously resumed. The youngest of the
children, who had been awake when the young gentleman arrived, had now
fallen asleep as it sat, and the father lifted it to the bed, and laid
it thereon, without even rousing it from its slumbers.

For nearly an hour then, Charles and his companion sat without
speaking, in the silent gloom of expectation. Nothing was heard but
the low sighing of the wind along the sea, and the dash of the waves
upon the shore, and nothing interrupted the stillness but a single
broken question, and an answer as brief as possible.

At length, somewhat after one o'clock in the morning, there came a
gentle tap at the door, and Hailes, looking out at the cottage-window,
said,

"There's a woman, so I may open the door."

The moment it was opened, Hannah Longly glided in with the boy, and
advanced joyfully toward Charles Tyrrell. All the little coquetry of
her manner and appearance was gone, and anxiety, grief, and suffering,
had given a higher, and more intellectual character to a countenance
which had always been beautiful.

"Oh, I am so glad to see you free, Sir Charles," she said, "and so is
my father, to hear that you are so. He told me to say, that he dare
not come down, as there are people constantly watching him, but that
you might tell me anything you had to say, and only to lay your
commands upon him, and they should be obeyed."

"Why, to tell you the truth, Miss Longly," replied Charles Tyrrell,
"it was you I wanted to speak to more than him. Will you forgive me,
for interfering a little with your affairs?"

"I am sure you never do so, but in kindness, Sir Charles," she
replied, "and as I am very unhappy, and have no one but my poor
father, who takes any interest in me, I shall thank you most deeply
for any counsel and assistance."

"Well, then," replied Charles Tyrrell, "to say the truth, I sent to
seek you, because my friend Everard Morrison, will be here very
speedily, and I do wish to see you on happy terms, once more before I
go."

Hannah blushed a good deal, and seemed very much embarrassed.

"Indeed," she said, "I'm afraid I cannot wait--I ought to go very
soon--indeed, I ought. I did not know he was coming," and evidently in
great agitation, she burst into tears.

Charles Tyrrell took her hand kindly, saying,

"Come, come, do not be agitated my dear young lady. We are all, at
this moment, placed in circumstances of an extraordinary and trying
kind, and we must not attempt to act, or even to think as we would in
the smooth intercourse of ordinary life."

"Oh, but you do not know, Sir Charles," she said, "or you would not
wish me to stay. You do not know that he sent a letter, proposing to
me, and after I had unfortunately written back what I thought was
right, came all this terrible business and my father's anger with me,
and then Mr. Morrison sent me a cold and cutting letter, telling me
that, as circumstances were altered, he set me quite free of all
engagements to him--you do not know all this, or I'm sure you would
not wish me to stay."

"I do know it all," replied Charles, "and yet I wish you to stay very
much, Miss Longly. Everard still loves you dearly, and if I am not
mistaken, so you do him."

She cast down her eyes, but replied nothing, and Charles Tyrrell went
on,

"I must not have you throw away your happiness for the want of a
little explanation. You will acknowledge, I am sure, that your
conduct, unexplained, might well seem strange and wrong."

"Oh, some part of it was certainly wrong," she said; "I did what was
very wrong. I coquetted with that base young man, when I really loved
another. I let vanity and foolishness get the better of me, Sir
Charles, and bitterly have I been punished. But I never entertained a
thought of doing any real evil, and when I went down to meet him, it
was with the thought of doing what was my duty, and what was right
alone; for by that time, I had learned to hate him, and to despise
myself for ever having given him any encouragement. My father would
not hear me, when I wanted to explain, and I was always afraid of
mentioning to anybody else what was the pretence on which he lured me
there, for fear of betraying my father's secrets."

"Well then," replied Charles Tyrrell, "for your own sake and for
Everard's, take a strong resolution; explain all this to him that you
have explained to me. By means that you do not know, I can confirm
every word that you say. Cast away pride, Miss Longly; remember that
your happiness and his are both at stake, and that happiness, once
cast away, is seldom--very seldom, if ever, regained."

"Ay, that is what I fear," replied Hannah, "I fear that it never can
be regained. Do you think, then, that he is unhappy, Sir Charles?"

"I am sure of it," replied Charles; "I have seen it, and, I know it,
Miss Longly. I know that he is not only unhappy, but will be unhappy
throughout his whole life, if you do not candidly and kindly remove
the serious cause for unhappiness that he has, by explaining to him
the conduct of one whom he still sincerely loves."

"Oh, if I thought he really loved me, and was unhappy," replied Hannah
Longly, "I would do anything to make him happy. I would tell him all.
I would lay open to him my whole heart."

"That is all that is necessary," answered Charles Tyrrell. "Stay then
till he comes, and then tell him all. Let him see that you do love
him; make him understand that you have never loved anybody else."

"But how could I begin," she said; "oh, I could never begin. He will
come and look cold, and take no notice of me, and I should die of
shame and grief."

"No, no," replied Charles Tyrrell, "he will do no such thing. But at
all events let me begin the conversation with him. When they come, you
go into the next room. You shall hear every word I say, and will find
that I do not do anything to lower you, or to wound your pride."

"Oh, never mind pride," cried Hannah Longly; "never mind pride. I have
no pride now, Sir Charles Tyrrell. I once, indeed, had too much, and
very weak pride it must have been; for a fortnight's sorrow has
crushed it all entirely. Say anything you think fit, I know you will
say what is right, and neither fear to humble me nor to wound my
pride. Only let him know that I am innocent of any evil or any evil
intent, and that though for a single day I have acted foolishly, yet
it was with no intent of doing harm, and was soon repented of."

"Hark," said Hailes, before she had well done, "I hear a step upon the
shingles. Jim, run round into the other room, where it is dark, and
look out of the window. I don't like to take out the board if I can
help it, for then the light streams out, and some of those fellows on
watch at the top of the cliff may see and wonder what we are doing at
this time of night."

The boy obeyed and returned in a minute, while the step was still
distinctly heard moving slowly along upon the loose stones.

"It is a man in a wrap rascal," said the boy, "and I think he has got
a cutlass under it, from what I see. But he's not coming near here,
and is walking away to the eastward."

"That's awkward," said Hailes, "for that is just the way they're
coming."

A long and anxious pause succeeded, and not a word was spoken by any
one; each listening attentively long after the sound of the steps had
died away. Nothing farther was heard for some time, however, and
Hailes, after going into the next room to look out, returned, saying,
that the beach was then all clear.

"The moon is just going down," he said, "which is all the better for
us. But I hope this young lady won't be long, for before an hour's
over, we ought to be afloat."

"Who do you take with you in the boat?" demanded Charles Tyrrell.

"Nobody," said Hailes. "You must lend a hand yourself, sir. I dare not
trust anybody, unless I'm forced to it; for though the folks next door
are just like ourselves, you know, yet they are not quite ourselves
either."

A moment after, quick steps were heard upon the beach, and then came a
quick tap at the door. Hannah Longly darted into the next room like
lightning, and in another instant, Lucy Effingham, pale, agitated, and
fatigued, was in Charles Tyrrell's arms. She shed no tears, however,
though there were the traces of many upon her cheeks; but the only
words she could speak, were,

"Oh, Charles, I hope I am not doing wrong!"

She had been followed into the cottage, by Morrison, and the
maid-servant, whose bewildered look evidently showed, that,
notwithstanding all Mrs. Effingham's care, she was not fully prepared
for the situation in which she was placed.

"We have been delayed for half an hour," said Morrison, "fearing to
pass a man who kept walking up and down upon the beach just opposite
the path where we were coming down. Luckily, Miss Effingham saw him
before he had seen us, and we waited till he went away round the
point."

"You are terrified, my Lucy," said Charles. "I think we had better go
off as soon as possible. You will feel yourself more in security, when
you are on board the ship."

"I shall never feel myself in security," replied Lucy, "till we have
safely landed in France. You are going there direct, Charles, are you
not?"

"No, miss," replied Hailes, "we must go first to Guernsey where the
ship's going; but not because she's going there either, for she would
go anywhere we liked; but at Guernsey, you see, we're just as safe as
if we were in France, and my brother, poor Bill, has a number of
friends there, and so has Captain Long, for the matter of that. But
however we must go to get passports, or letters of license, or
whatever they call them, to go into France, or we should risk being
made prisoners, you know. The captain of of the ship, indeed, has a
letter[1] of license for Bourdeaux, where he often gets a good cargo
of claret wine."

Charles Tyrrell whispered a word or two to Lucy, which brought the
colour again into her cheeks; but she looked at him with the full,
confiding glance of love, and replied at once,

"Oh, Charles, I have no fear on earth in those respects. I would trust
myself anywhere--everywhere with you. I have not a doubt--I have not a
hesitation. But we had better make haste, had we not, for I thought I
saw the day beginning to dawn?"

"There is one thing, however," said Charles Tyrrell, "which I have to
do before we go. Morrison, it concerns you. In the first place, you
must beg my mother to take especial care of Hailes's wife and family,
and to see that they want none of those comforts which they would have
had, if he had remained to supply them by his industry. In the next
place, Morrison, let me speak one word of yourself."

"Oh, there is no fear of me," replied Morrison, with a smile,
mistaking his meaning. "I am a lawyer, you know, Tyrrell, and
accustomed to tricks of all kinds; so that I have taken such
precautions as quite to secure myself. They can prove nothing against
me."

"You mistake me, Everard," replied his friend. "It is a matter of even
greater importance I wish to speak of. It is a matter on which depends
your happiness for life."

Morrison made a sign, as if he would have stopped him, and turned away
his head, but Charles Tyrrell continued, without heeding the distaste
he evinced for the subject.

"Nay, nay, Morrison," he said, "you have shown me great and
disinterested friendship--you have rendered me a most important
service, and so also must I act to you. Let me ask you one question,
Morrison."

"What is it?" said Morrison: "but, indeed, Tyrrell, arguments upon
such subjects as you are going to speak of, are of no use. My line of
conduct is determined on."

"Determined then, I fear, for your own unhappiness," replied Charles
Tyrrell; "but, however, my question is this: If a person whom you
dearly love, should do some act, which you, without knowing all the
circumstances, were to judge wrong, and you were thereupon, to treat a
person who loves you, harshly and unkindly, what would be your conduct
afterward, on discovering that that person had acted with the best and
highest motives, and on the purest and most straightforward views?"

"Were such a case applicable to me," replied Morrison, "I would take
her to my heart at once, or rather fall upon my knees and beseech her
to pardon me. But such, however, cannot be the case with me; even her
own father, Tyrrell, even her own father----"

"Judged of her as wrongly as you did, Morrison," replied Charles
Tyrrell.

Lucy had looked on with interest, and with that peculiar talent which
women so eminently possess for discovering, almost by intuition, the
particulars of everything that relates to love, she had formed a very
accurate idea of the principal circumstances to which Charles Tyrrell
alluded. Charles, who saw her face full of intelligence as he spoke,
whispered a word or two to her, and without reply, she glided into the
next room, while he went on still addressing Morrison.

"I think, Everard," he said, "that you know me well enough, to be sure
that no consideration on earth--no mistaking kindness--no weak view of
removing dissension would induce me to say one word that is not
strictly consonant with truth. I now tell you, and pledge you my word
of honour, partly from my own personal knowledge--partly from what
Hailes, here present, has told me, that you have been entirely
mistaken and deceived, in regard to the behaviour of Miss Longly, and
here she is to answer for herself at once. It is my full opinion,
Everard, that you owe her an apology, for she has suffered much, and
greatly for that in which she was not all in fault."

While he was speaking, the voice of Lucy Effingham was heard
persuading, though with great difficulty, Hannah Longly to come forth
from the other room. She succeeded, however, in leading her out, half
clinging to her for support--half-drawing back in shame and
apprehension.

The moment he saw her, Morrison's feelings were not, indeed, changed,
because it was with those very feelings that he had to struggle, in
doing what he believed to be a duty to himself--but all those feeling
revived in full force, at the sight of her he loved so much, and he
advanced at once immediately toward her, for no eloquence that Charles
Tyrrell could have used at that moment, would have been half so
efficacious in pleading the cause of Hannah Longly, as the young
lawyer's own heart. He held out his hand to her, and Hannah, with many
a deep blush, put hers in his.

"What is this mistake, Hannah," he said, "which has deceived both your
father and me, and made me very unhappy?"

"My father is undeceived now," said Hannah, "and so would you, too, if
you had listened to me."

Hannah Longly seemed to feel that she had regained her power, and
perhaps, there was a little inclination in her heart to use it, in
order to punish her lover, even for doubting her. But her heart had
been chastened by adversity; and though she might have triumphed a
little in former days, under such circumstances, she now checked even
the inclination to do so, and determined to be happy herself, in the
reconciliation which she was sure would take place, and to make him
so, too, as far as she could.

Morrison, however, felt that he was in some degree, put upon his
trial, and of course, began his defence.

"I was told, Hannah," he said, "and told even by your father, that you
had gone out secretly and alone, to meet one of the most profligate
and worthless of men, a man who degraded the character of an officer
in the navy, to become a spy as well as an informer, to betray the
very person of whose hospitality he partook, and whom you well knew,
at the time you saw him, dared not set his foot within your father's
doors--that you went out to meet him, I say."

"But, why did I go out to meet him?" demanded Hannah, eagerly; "did
they tell you that? No, Everard, because even at that time, my father
would not hear me; even when I did send him word, he would not believe
me till he heard it from the man's own mouth. But the reason I did go
was because he wrote to me, to say, that there was only one means of
saving my father from being utterly ruined by what he called extents
from the Exchequer, which I had often heard my father too speak of
with apprehension. He said that there was only one means to save him,
and that if I would come out to meet him at the place he mentioned, he
would tell me what that means was. I was foolish to believe him, I
acknowledge; but I saw by what had taken place on the very day I got
his note, by poor William Hailes, and all the rest, being dragged away
to prison, how much power he had to do harm when he liked it; and I
did go to meet him, I acknowledge: but when he told me that the only
means to save my father, was to go with him to Guernsey, to be married
to him there"--she looked steadily in the young lawyer's face for a
moment, and then added--"when he told me this, I thought of Everard
Morrison; and I refused to go, let the consequences to me and mine be
what they would--I may have been foolish, Everard, I know I have been
silly and weak in many things, but in this, at least, I do not think I
was in the wrong."

Morrison threw his arms round her, and kissed her cheek.

"I have done you wrong, Hannah," he said, "I have done you wrong--I
want no confirmation of your story but your own word. I believe you
fully, and I beg your pardon for ever having doubted you."

"You-may have confirmation enough, Master Morrison," said Hailes, "for
I heard that young scoundrel acknowledge the whole of the story, just
before he----"

Charles Tyrrell held up his finger, quickly exclaiming, "Hush!" and
Hailes remembering that neither Hannah herself--nor Lucy--nor the
maid, were acquainted with the facts to which he was about to allude,
paused abruptly, only adding, "well I heard him acknowledge it, every
word, that's enough, and so did Captain Longly."

"And I heard a portion of it, though not the whole," said Charles
Tyrrell, "from the officer of the cutter, who told me that if it had
not been for his interposition, that young scoundrel would have forced
her down to the boat."

"And I," added Hannah, "can produce the letter which he wrote to me,
if you are at all incredulous, Everard, a letter that he dare not
deny."

"He'll not deny or acknowledge anything more," muttered Hailes to
himself; and Everard replied,

"I am not at all incredulous, dear Hannah, I believe every word you
speak, and I will try to make amends for ever having doubted you."

There now came a momentary pause, and Hailes looked at Charles
Tyrrell, saying--

"I think we had better be getting under weigh, sir. We have lost a
good deal of time, and the ship is lying to for you."

As he spoke, the poor fellow turned his eyes upon his children, the
one still sleeping on the bed, the other as much awake as ever; and
then, going into the inner room, to kiss the infant that was in its
cradle, he came out with his eyes somewhat red. He then stooped down
and spoke a few words in a low tone to his eldest boy, kissed his
forehead, and prayed God to bless him.

The boy, who seemed to understand it all, was drowned in tears; but he
spoke calmly to his father, saying:--

"I would rather have gone with you, father; but if I can help my
mother, of course I will stay."

"Who's to take care of the others, Jem," said his father, "till your
mother comes back? Look to them well, Jem, and be a good boy; and I'll
very soon come back to you, or you shall come to me. Now stay here
every one, while I and Mr., that is Sir Charles Tyrrell, go and get
the boat fully afloat."

Charles accompanied him at once. The moon had gone down when they
issued forth upon the beach; the sun had not risen, and though there
were some slight gray streaks upon the horizon's edge toward the east,
the world was all in darkness; for a haze prevented even the stars
from being seen, so that it was in vain Charles and his companion
gazed out on either side along the beach, to ascertain if it were now
solitary. They found the boat very nearly afloat, and seeing that a
slight effort was all that was required to launch it into the waves,
they returned immediately for Lucy and the maid.

The small packages which they had brought with them, with some
different articles of dress belonging to Charles Tyrrell, which
Everard Morrison had had the forethought to prepare and send to the
cottage, were first brought down and thrown into the boat, and then
pressing Morrison's hand Charles Tyrrell bade him good-by, and left
him to escort Hannah at once to her own home, without waiting at the
cottage, lest the departure of the boat should attract attention, and
the cottage be searched.

Lucy had been very much agitated in parting with her mother; but,
perhaps, the most agitating moment of all had now arrived, when she
had to quit her native land, to bid adieu to every former scene and
association--to break the tie between herself and all that she had
loved and cherished in the former portion of her existence; to begin a
new and unknown state of being, with clouds of the darkest hue and
most threatening character in every part of the sky. Though she did
not weep, she trembled violently as Charles Tyrrell led her down to
the beach.

Her maid was very much agitated, too; but the woman was blessed with
one of those minds which have the consolation of trifles, and a packet
missing, for which she had to run back to the cottage, was an
inestimable benefit to her.

When they reached the margin of the sea, Charles took Lucy in his arms
like a child, and carried her through the water to the boat. Hailes
performed the same office for the maid, and then the good fisherman
lingered for a moment, once more to kiss and call a blessing on his
boy.

But a sound that he heard upon the beach caused him to cut his
farewell short. It was that of a quick step coming along the shingles
and the form of a man was clearly discerned, running with all speed
toward them. The fisherman run into the water to the boat as fast as
possible, and he and Charles Tyrrell using their united strength to
push her off, she was afloat in a moment. The boy had run back to the
cottage, but the man who had been seen approaching came up at full
speed, shouting:--

"Boat, ahoy! boat, ahoy! I want to go off to the ship."

"Perhaps he really does," said Charles Tyrrell.

"Push off, push off," said Hailes in a low voice, and with an agitated
manner; but, then immediately shouted in a louder tone, "I will take
you when I come back again;" but still, while the boat got rapidly out
to sea, he looked back toward the shore, and then much to the surprise
of Charles Tyrrell, said, "He's not coming--he's not coming!"

"He's not coming!" echoed Charles Tyrrell. "What do you mean, Hailes?
he would be drowned."

Hailes made no answer, and Charles Tyrrell applied himself to comfort
and support his fair Lucy. Agitation, terror, and sorrow had by this
time completely overpowered her, and while Charles supported her with
his arm, and held her hand in his, she leaned her head upon his bosom,
and for several minutes indulged in silent tears. The sea, however,
was by no means rough; the gray of the morning was changing into
purple; the haze which had obscured the sky cleared away, and a bright
star was seen walking in beauty before the coming sun.

"Look, dear Lucy, look!" said Charles Tyrrell, pointing to the star on
which she turned her dewy eyes at his bidding, "surely that is hope."




CHAPTER XX.


The sun had risen high, the day was bright and beautiful; the green
sea was just curled by a light breeze, and the schooner (of which by
the way, Captain Longly was undoubtedly a principal owner) skimmed
quickly but easily over the waters. Having no nautical knowledge, we
shall leave all the particulars of the sailing of the ship to the
imagination of our readers, which, in all probability, will do much
more for it than anything that we could do, and confine our attention
solely to the persons in whose fate we have already endeavoured to
interest the world.

Charles Tyrrell and Lucy had been received by the master of the
schooner with every sort of bluff attention and respect. A high price
had been agreed upon for their passage--a strong recommendation had
come from the much reverenced Captain Longly, and Lucy and her lover
now sat together near the side of the vessel, while the maid down
stairs, with a predetermination of being sick, was indulging her fancy
in that respect, and good John Hailes walked up and down the deck as a
passenger, and for the first time in his life, perhaps, turned his
eyes to the receding shores of his native land with grief, regret, and
hopelessness.

When they had thus gone on some way, and their escape seemed perfectly
certain, Charles Tyrrell beckoned Hailes toward him, and spoke to him
for a moment in a low voice. The man replied aloud:--

"Oh! yes, yes, sir, certainly. God bless you, sir, we are too grateful
to you a great deal, for having hidden the matter for such a time, at
the risk of your own life, to wish you to hide it any longer. Both I
and Captain Longly told Master Morrison to say, you might do just as
you pleased, but I'm sure my young lady here ought to know. I wonder
you did not tell her before."

"I had taken the resolution," replied Charles Tyrrell, "not to tell
anybody one word till either I was out of England, or you and Longly
were. But, however, I may tell her now without any breach of
confidence."

He then resumed his seat by Lucy Effingham, and told her for the first
time the history of his adventures on that day, when, after a violent
dispute with his father, he left Sir Francis in the library and
hurried away into the park, as we have before shown.

The tale is not very long, but it required various other little
incidents to be mingled with it, and we shall not relate it therefore
exactly in Charles Tyrrell's own words, but endeavour to abbreviate it
as much as possible.

While lying ill at the cottage of Hailes, the fisherman, Charles
Tyrrell had been as kindly tended by Hannah Longly, as by any other of
the inhabitants of the fisherman's abode, and as he recovered, he
heard from Hailes himself a considerable part of her history, which he
instantly connected in his own mind with what the officer of the
revenue-cutter had told him concerning Lieutenant Hargrave's attempt
to carry her off. He found that she was, now an exile from the house
of her father, whose indignation at her having listened for a moment
to a spy, and an informer, as he termed young Hargrave, was so great,
that he vowed she should never enter his doors again. Nothing was said
respecting Everard Morrison; and Charles Tyrrell, believing that
although Hannah might possibly have acted rather imprudently, she was
not near so much to blame as to call upon her head so severe a
punishment, determined to do what he could to reconcile Longly to his
daughter, by telling him what he had heard of her conduct from the
officer of the revenue-cutter.

As soon as he was well enough to ride out, he visited Longly's house
several times, but found his undertaking much more difficult to
accomplish than he had anticipated. Sometimes Longly could not be
found, and at another time there was somebody else present; and even
when Charles, at length, had an opportunity of speaking with him in
private, he met with a far greater degree of stern and dogged
resistance in the old sailor than he had expected.

From him, however, he learned two things somewhat important in their
way--in the first place, that Lieutenant Hargrave had been hovering
around that neighbourhood ever since the duel; which fact confirmed
his suspicions, as to the quarter from whence his father, Sir Francis
Tyrrell, had derived intelligence of an event which was unknown in
Oxford; and in the second place, that on the very day previous to her
meeting with young Hargrave, Hannah had received and accepted a
proposal from his own friend Everard Morrison, with which her father
had been highly delighted.

Captain Longly, however, now swore that he would not let her marry an
honest man like Morrison, even if Everard himself were still inclined
to take her, and there were mingled with Longly's speeches, in regard
to him he called that Jackanapes Hargrave, dark hints of some purposes
of revenge upon him, which somewhat alarmed Charles Tyrrell.

To interfere between Everard and Hannah, was a thing that Charles
Tyrrell would never have dreamed of attempting, unless fully and
entirely convinced that she had not behaved ill. But still he laboured
hard to reconcile her to her father, feeling that the harshness of his
conduct was likely to drive her to evil by despair.

He seemed to make some impression upon Longly at length, and ere he
left him the day before the fatal catastrophe of the death of Sir
Francis Tyrrell, the old Captain shook him heartily by the hand, and
thanked him for what he had done.

"I'll tell you what, Mr. Tyrrell," he said, "I am going to send down
to John Hailes', at whose house the girl is this afternoon, and I'll
hear what Hailes says about the matter--so you see, I'm coming up
close to the park to-morrow, about a little business, and if you'll
meet me just at the park-stile, at half-past eleven o'clock,
exactly--I'll tell you the last word of my mind, as you take an
interest in the silly girl. Mind, don't be later than half-past
eleven, for I've got business to settle in a quarter of an hour or so
afterward, and must be off."

Charles Tyrrell promised; and as it struck him, that if Longly and his
daughter could once be brought to meet again, they might easily be
reconciled; he wrote a note to Hailes immediately, and sent it to his
cottage, telling him of his wishes; informing him that Longly had
promised to meet him at the park-stile, and begging him to bring
Hannah Longly there, in the hope of reconciling her to her father.

Two things, however, prevented Hailes from following his direction;
the first of which was, that Hailes himself could not read a word of
the letter, and was obliged to apply to Hannah to read it for him; and
she, terrified at her father's anger, refused to go without his
knowledge.

The second was, that Hailes, that night, had a conversation with
Longly himself, which precluded the possibility of his obeying. That
conversation, though we certainly cannot do full justice to it, we
shall attempt to give, at least in part, as it was somewhat curious
and characteristic.

"Well, old John Hailes," said Longly, as soon as the other entered his
abode, "I want you to lend a hand in a matter, to-morrow, that,
mayhap, you never meddled with before in your life."

"What is it, Captain?" demanded Hailes; "anything that I can do to
serve you, I'm sure I will, with all my heart and soul."

"Why, the matter is this, Hailes," said Longly, "I'll not live a
minute longer than I can help, without having my revenge on that
fellow Hargrave; and I'm resolved to have satisfaction like a
gentleman. Why shouldn't I, as well as another, though I fought my own
ship and he fought the king's, and d----d badly too, if all stories
were true. However, I know well enough, that if I were to sit down,
like another, and write him a note, saying, 'Mr. Longly's compliments
to Lieutenant Hargrave, looks upon him as a scoundrel, and will be
obliged to him, to give him satisfaction'--he'd shirk the business,
and talk about his being a king's officer; so I just copied out what I
saw in a newspaper, and sent him, saying, 'If Lieutenant Hargrave will
be under the park-wall of Sir Francis Tyrrell's park, at twelve
o'clock, tomorrow, precisely, he will hear of something to his
advantage;' and I wrote down below, 'If he doesn't like coming alone,
he can bring a friend with him.' I gave it to a shrewd boy to carry,
and told him not to tell him who it came from; and the little rascal
made up a story for himself, and told him it was a lady had given it
to him. So he'll come, you may be sure, Hailes, and if once I get him
under the park-wall, he shall have his choice of the pistols, and
stand a long-shot, or I'll know the reason why. So I want you, John,
to come and be a witness, and see that I do everything fair, and let
him have his shot before I take mine."

Hailes agreed, very willingly, to go: for without attempting to define
the idea in his own mind, of absolutely killing Lieutenant Hargrave,
the good fisherman could not have conceived a more pleasurable
excursion than one, the object of which was to punish a person whom he
considered as a most odious villain.

The matter was all arranged, and Longly set out, to be at the
park-stile, which was at some distance from the spot he had appointed
for his meeting with Hargrave, in time to hold the conference he
proposed with Charles Tyrrell.

That gentleman, as we have seen, was delayed some time by the dispute
with his father, and some time longer by finding the door of the
garden, through which he had intended to take his way, locked, and the
key taken out, instead of being, as usual, wide open. When he arrived
at the park-stile, then, he found nobody on the spot; but he heard
some voices talking loudly, at some distance, and fearing that Hannah
and her father had met, without any person present, who might have
sufficient influence to bring about a reconciliation between them, he
hastened on, as fast as possible, toward the spot from which the
sounds appeared to come.

What was his surprise, when on arriving at the ground, he found
Longly, with a pistol in one hand, insisting upon Lieutenant Hargrave
taking the other, which he held out to him, and John Hailes standing
by, with the pistol-case, an extraordinary and not very expert second.
Hargrave was as pale as death, and as Charles came up, he heard him
say:--

"Sir, your design is to murder me, I see it clearly--to murder me for
doing my duty as a British officer, and giving information of a gang
of smugglers, of which you are the head. You may commit the murder, if
you will; but it shall be all upon your head; for I will not
countenance it by taking the pistol. I have done my duty, and that is
enough; and I must take the consequences."

"Come, come, Master Lieutenant, that won't do," replied Captain
Longly. "What I demand satisfaction for, is for nothing to do with the
smuggling, but for coming to my house and trying to seduce my
daughter, and making her go away to meet you in the wood."

"I declare to Heaven," cried young Hargrave, "she's as innocent as you
are."

"Ay, ay, innocent enough, I dare say," replied Longly; "if I thought
she wasn't, I'd pitch her into the sea. But it's not for want of your
trying to make her otherwise, and that's what I demand satisfaction
for."

"You demand satisfaction?" cried Hargrave, his blood beginning to get
up; "what right have you to ask for satisfaction of a king's officer?
Oh, here is Mr. Tyrrell come, I suppose, to aid and abet in this
business."

But Longly replied at once, without taking any notice of Charles
Tyrrell for the moment--

"What right have I to demand satisfaction!" he said, looking for the
time really dignified, "I'll tell you what right I have, Mr. Hargrave;
first, I have fought the enemies of my country oftener and better than
yourself; next, you have come, of your own goodwill, to dine at my
table; you have borrowed money out of my purse; you have shaken my
hand, and owned that I was a good friend to you; and if I was good
enough to be your friend, when you behaved well, I am quite good
enough to be your adversary, now that you have behaved ill; so you
sha'n't slink off under your quality, like a lousy Dutch lugger under
British colours. Mr. Tyrrell, you didn't come to your time; but I'll
talk to you in a minute, after I've settled with this fellow."

"Longly, Longly, think what you are doing," said Charles Tyrrell,
coming up closer, "you are very much in the wrong, depend upon it."

"Why, do you, too, mean to say that I am not as much entitled to
satisfaction as any gentleman among you all?" demanded Longly. "I'll
tell you what, Mr. Tyrrell----"

But Charles Tyrrell interrupted him.

"I do not mean to say that you have no right. If we have a title to
make fools of ourselves at all, I'm sure I do not see why one person
should not do it, as well as another; but the matter is this, Longly:
here, in the case of Mr. Hargrave, you have two offences mingled up
together, and you never can separate them, either in your mind, or in
the eye of the law. He, I understand, informed against you, in regard
to some matter of smuggling, which has not been proved, and though he
may have behaved very ill in other respects, yet depend upon it, it
will always be considered that you sought revenge for that offence,
and if you shoot him, you'll be hung, to a certainty."

"I don't care a ----," replied Longly, "I say it's about his conduct
to my daughter, that I've brought him here, and he shall fight me, or
I, and John Hailes here, will turn him round, and kick him from this
spot to the town, and all down the High street, which will be a
pleasant thing, won't it, for one of the king's officers, as he calls
himself, so you may stay and see if you like it, for what I've said
I'll do."

"Oh, I shall certainly not stay a moment longer," replied Charles
Tyrrell, "I cannot prevent you; but I have warned you how wrong you
are;" and turning on his heel, he walked back toward the stile, over
which he had come, just as Lieutenant Hargrave, who was growing angry,
was chiming in with a reply not at all likely to soothe the
indignation of the other.

Before Charles Tyrrell had gone a hundred yards, however, he heard
some one exclaim, "Make ready! present! fire!" which was instantly
followed by the discharge of a pistol. He could not resist the
temptation to turn round and look, and he beheld Longly and his
adversary, standing at the distance of about twelve yards from each
other. A pistol was in Lieutenant Hargrave's hand, and his arm dropped
by his side as if he had just discharged it. At the same time Longly's
arm was extended, and at the very moment that Charles Tyrrell turned
round, there came a flash from the pistol, a quick report, and
Lieutenant Hargrave staggered, fell upon his knee, struggled up again,
and then fell back at full length upon the ground.

Charles immediately ran up, and joined Longly and Hailes, who had
gathered round the body. The unfortunate young man drew one or two
convulsive gasps after Charles Tyrrell arrived, but he uttered not a
word, and though he once or twice opened his eyes, it was evidently
with no consciousness of anything that surrounded him. In a moment
after, he gave a sharp shudder, the small remains of colour in his
once florid countenance was succeeded by an awful ashy paleness, and
though it was afterward found as we have seen from Hailes's account,
that he revived twice before the spirit finally departed, Charles
Tyrrell and his companions were fully convinced that he was dead at
that very time.

They all gazed on him for a moment as he lay stretched upon the grass,
and then Longly turned to the young gentleman saying:--

"Now, Mr. Tyrrell, if you think as you did just now, you have nothing
to do but to go and send down people to take us up. As for any wrong
I've done, my heart's at rest; I've given him the first shot at
myself, and if he was such a fool and such a coward as not to be able
to hit such a great grampus as I am, that's not my fault. But he's had
fair play and a good distance, and so help me God, when I come to lie
like him, as I have thought of nothing throughout this morning, but
his shameful conduct to my poor motherless girl; so now go if you will
and send down constables for us, for if I'm to be hanged, I've had
something for it at least."

"No, no, Longly," replied Charles Tyrrell, holding out his hand to
him, "I will betray no man, and give you my honour, unless I am put
upon my oath against you, will never say one word of what I have seen
this day. I am sorry for you, Longly, for I fear the time will come
that you will bitterly repent what you have done."

"Not I, not I!" replied Longly, "I have done nothing but what's right,
and what he well deserved; but I always knew you were a gentleman and
a man of honour, Mr. Tyrrell, and I'm very much obliged to you, for
you see if you hold your tongue, nobody need know anything about this
business. There's a man here, living not many hundred yards off, in
whom I can trust, and if we can but get the body there without being
caught, we can stow it away, and nothing more be said about it."

A slight shudder came over Charles Tyrrell's frame, and he replied:--

"With that, of course, I can have nothing to do, Longly, but in
everything else you may depend upon me. I will in no degree betray
you, for I feel for you, even though I think you are wrong."

"No, no;" replied Longly, "of course you can have nothing to do with
the business, so the sooner you are gone the better. God bless you,
sir, and make you happy."

And without reply, Charles Tyrrell turned once more, and hurrying
along under the park-wall, re-entered the domain, not by the stile at
which he was to have met Longly, but by that which led to the end of
the lady-walk.

With his mind filled with painful images from what he had seen, he
returned to the house and traversed the library, as we have before
seen without speaking to Mr. Driesen, or, indeed, holding
communication with any one, till he had entered his own room and
locked the door, that he might have a few minutes to calm his mind,
and think, without interruption, over what had occurred.

He had remained there for some time, before he perceived that in
raising up the head and shoulders of the unhappy young man, whom he
had just seen slain, both his hands and shooting-jacket had been
stained with blood, and though he did not think it necessary to take
any means of removing the spots from the shooting-jacket, he washed
his hands with a feeling of horror and disgust at finding them dabbled
all over with human gore.

He had scarcely finished, when Mr. Driesen knocked at his door, and
feeling himself perfectly innocent, he opened it without hesitation.

Of the affair between Longly and young Hargrave he heard no more, till
he himself became the tenant of a prison. But the news of what had
occurred at Harbury park spread through the country, and was bruited
in all the newspapers.

Before two days were over, Longly found that Charles had suffered a
verdict of "Wilful murder" to be returned against him, and had allowed
himself to be carried to prison, rather than declare where he had
spent that time, which he, Longly, himself could but too well account
for; and, moreover, that his hands and coat had appeared stained with
blood, which he, Longly, himself had shed.

As soon as this was known to him, he sent off for young Morrison, and
the result we have already seen.

Such was the tale that Charles Tyrrell had to tell to Lucy Effingham,
as she sat beside him on the deck of the vessel; and in telling it,
though he softened some of the circumstances as far as possible, and
entered into none of the minute details which had pained and horrified
himself, he told her enough to agitate her by very different emotions;
by joy and satisfaction to find that there existed a power of proving
his innocence beyond all doubt, yet mingled with horror and dismay by
his account of scenes, into the passions producing which, a gentle
woman's heart could but feebly enter.




CHAPTER XXI.


The morning passed over brightly and tranquilly, the sea was calm, the
sky, with the exception of a few faint gray streaks scattered about it
in different directions, was quite clear, the wind favourable, though
not full, and nothing was seen over the face of the ocean, but a few
scattering fishing boats, and the distant gleam of white sails making
their way to various points upon the horizon. There was a quietness in
the scene, a peaceful mildness in the aspect of the treacherous sea,
which brought a calm to the bosom of Lucy Effingham and Charles
Tyrrell. They felt as if the time which had passed before, had been a
period of turmoil and vexation, of grief, care, and anguish, and as if
now had begun another state, as if this was the first day of a
tranquil existence.

Toward three o'clock, however, not exactly to windward, but somewhat
more to the southeast, the blue of the sky which had extended at first
clear and distinct from the zenith to the horizon, began to change to
a sort of lead colour, as it approached the verge of the sea.

As the time went on, it grew deeper and deeper in hue, not separate,
and defined from the rest of the sky, but blending into the blue as it
approached the zenith, yet at the height of a few degrees above the
waves presenting the colour of a dark cloud. Across this, too, there
began to appear small detached masses of a cloud of a different
colour, a whitish or silvery gray, and Hailes and the captain, who had
passed the greater part of the day in walking up and down the deck,
side by side, paused and looked out in that direction several times,
commenting on what they saw with laconic briefness.

Another object, however, soon after attracted their attention, which
was a vessel right to windward, with all sails set, and coming up
apparently with a much stronger breeze than they themselves possessed.
The captain of the ship watched the coming vessel for a minute or two
through his telescope, and then handed it to Hailes, who watched her
accurately, also, for some time, and then replied to something that
the master had said to him, "Yes, she is," and added a very
unnecessary oath.

The captain again took the glass, and after having resumed his
examination for some time he turned round and gave orders for making
more sail. These orders were promptly obeyed, and ere they had been
executed long the wind began to freshen. The sea at the same time
became somewhat rougher, and the schooner cut through the water with
far greater rapidity.

Charles Tyrrell began to be a little apprehensive, judging, from what
he remarked, that the captain found greater reason to hurry his
voyage, than he had at first anticipated. Leaving Lucy for a moment,
he approached Hailes, and asked him in a low tone, what vessel that
was they had been looking at.

"She is the revenue-cutter," said Hailes; "at least I think so, by the
cut of her sails."

"Is there any chance of their coming up with us?" demanded Charles
Tyrrell.

"Oh, bless you, no, sir," replied he. "As for sailing, we'll out-sail
any cutter in the service; but I have heard say, that she'll go nearer
to the wind, than any vessel that ever was seen, and you see it's
looking a little dirty to the southeast."

Charles returned to Lucy, not more at ease than before; but she seemed
to have no idea of danger and, feeling no sickness, enjoyed the sight
of the waves dashing past the schooner's sides, as she cut her way
straight through the midst of them. Charles Tyrrell, of course, said
nothing to rouse her apprehensions; but he could not refrain, from
time to time, from turning his eyes to the vessel that was following,
and which he felt sure was gaining upon them in some degree. As the
wind freshened every moment, however, and more sail was set, the
schooner made greater and greater way through the water; but the
motion of the vessel was greatly increased, and the captain advised
the young lady to go below. Lucy assured him that she was very well;
but he replied,

"You'll soon have to go down, ma'am, however; for I think it'll rain
before night--ay, and very soon, too."

The captain's words were prophetic, for ere half an hour more was over
it did begin to rain, blowing at the same time very hard, so that the
spray was dashed over the whole deck, and rendered it no longer a
pleasant station for a lady.

As it now wanted not long to night, Lucy agreed to go down into the
cabin, though the heat below was oppressive, and she felt a greater
degree of confidence and security, when she saw what was passing
around her. She gave way to no weak fears, however, though the novelty
of her situation, the extreme motion of the vessel, the gale that was
beginning to blow hard upon shore, and various other circumstances
which she might have remarked, might well have afforded cause for
apprehension, to a person by nature less timid than herself. But Lucy
had, as we have said, much command over her own mind; and though her
imagination was quick, she would not suffer it to dwell upon any
circumstances that might unnerve her; but, both for the sake of
Charles Tyrrell and herself, would give way to nothing but hope,
unless it were that more confident trust in Providence, which never
abandoned her.

After remaining with her some time in the cabin, which was rendered
less pleasant, or rather more unpleasant than it otherwise would have
been, by the piteous sighings and groanings of the maid, Charles
Tyrrell, went again upon deck, to see how everything was going on. He
found both Hailes and the master looking somewhat anxious, and, on
questioning the former more closely, he found that the vessel, which
was still distinctly to be seen following, was ascertained to be the
revenue-cutter, and that she was decidedly in chase of them. The wind
had shifted a little, and blew stronger than ever, and though we
cannot describe the man[oe]uvre which the king's ship was performing,
in the proper nautical language, yet we can tell the impression which
Hailes's account produced upon the mind of Charles Tyrrell, and which
was, that the cutter, by some peculiar quality in her sailing, was
trying to get out farther to sea than the schooner, and to keep her
nearer the land with a lee shore and a strong wind.

Hailes, however, rubbed his hands, when he concluded his account,
saying,

"We'll beat them yet; for you see this schooner will go through what
they can't go through, for the life of them."

Charles Tyrrell, however, went down to Lucy with a heavy heart. He saw
that there were evidently greater danger and discomforts awaiting his
course than he had anticipated, and he blamed himself severely for
having persuaded Lucy to take a share in such a fate as that which
seemed likely to befall him.

It was now beginning to turn dark, the ship keeling fearfully, with
the press of canvass, and the strength of the wind, and it was
impossible for Lucy to conceal from herself that it was blowing a
gale, that they were going with the most tremendous rapidity, and that
there was a terrible sea running.

Charles endeavoured to amuse her as much as he could, and talked upon
every subject that he thought would interest her, speaking with hope
and expectation of the morrow, and pointing tenderly, and yet
ardently, to the time when she should become his own, and the
happiness of each, be linked for ever, with that of the other. Of
course this was the subject of all others, the most likely to interest
them both; but still he could not help seeing that sometimes when a
sharp sea struck the ship, and made every timber in the whole frame
thereof quiver, Lucy fixed an anxious gaze upon his face, as if she
would fain have inquired, Is there any danger? At length, toward nine
o'clock, he said, "Well, dear Lucy, I will go up and see how we are
going on. It is a very rough night for so young a sailor as you are;
but do not be alarmed, my beloved; I feel confident that we shall get
through it all."

On arriving upon the deck, Charles found the night, indeed,
tremendous. It was raining hard, the wind was coming in sharp, heavy
gusts, the shore was seen distinctly, within no very great distance of
the ship, and the schooner itself was bounding on through the waters,
like some terrified bird cutting through the air in full flight. The
night was not so dark as might have been expected, however; for the
full moon, though hidden by the clouds, still gave some degree of
light, and Charles Tyrrell, looking out for the vessel, which he had
seen in chase of them, thought he could distinguish it farther out to
sea, than that which bore him; but much nearer than it had appeared
before.

He had scarcely been five minutes upon deck, however, when he was
confirmed in the supposition, by a bright flash seen in that
direction, followed by the heavy roar of a cannon, mingling with the
sobbing of the wind.

"Ay, fire away," said Hailes, "fire away. We'll see you at the bottom
first. This is an awkward job, Mr. Tyrrell," he said, "a devilish
awkward job."

"It's a terrible night, indeed," replied Charles Tyrrell; "but do you
think there is any immediate danger of the ship?"

"Oh, it's not the night at all," replied Hailes. "It's bad enough, to
be sure; but I've gone through twenty worse nights than this; but it
is that cursed cutter. You see all we could do, she's got the better
of us. If we can get round the nose, you see, and across the bay,
without getting aground on the spit, we shall do well enough, and send
her to the devil. But the wind's blowing dead ashore. She can go far
nearer to the wind than we can, and I doubt very much whether she
won't drive us into the bay; and there, you know, she has us safe."

"And what is to be done then?" demanded Charles Tyrrell.

"Why, that is what I don't know, sir," replied Hailes; "but I think
you had better come and speak to the Captain, and ask him. He's at the
wheel."

Charles Tyrrell accordingly walked up with Hailes, and put his
question as briefly as possible; for he saw that all the master's
energies were at work, and required also in the steering of the ship.

"What is to be done, Captain!" he said.

"Why, upon my soul, sir," replied the captain, "I don't know. I've
done my best for you, and no man can do more. I've risked the ship in
a way she was never risked before. If we get round the nose, I am
afraid it is all that we can possibly do. Unless the wind changes
within ten minutes, I see no chance whatever of getting across the
bay. Give me two points to the eastward, and I will do it, if all the
cutters in the world were to try to stop me; but with the wind where
it now is, the thing's next to impossible."

"But if you are driven into the bay," said Charles Tyrrell, "let me
know what----"

"The only thing for you to do, sir," said the captain, "will be, to
get into the boat with the lady and Hailes, land as fast as possible,
and get across the headland to the little town of Wrexton, as early as
possible to-morrow morning. I will lie to in the bay all night. The
next morning the cutter'll send her boats aboard, and make a search,
but your being out of the ship, I don't care, for I've got no cargo;
and then, as soon, as that is over, and she's sailed, I'll come round,
and lay to off Wrexton for you."

"Then do you think," said Charles Tyrrell, "that the ship is in
pursuit of me?"

"To be sure, sir--to be sure," replied the captain. "The smuggling is
the thing they'll talk about, but it's you they're after; for they
know very well I've no cargo. Mayhap, indeed, they think Captain
Longly's on board, knowing that he's a part owner, and looking after
him very sharp, I understand just now."

"Breakers ahead! breakers ahead!" cried a loud voice from the bow of
the vessel, and the captain slightly depressed the wheel.

"I'll talk to you in a minute, sir," he said, and Charles Tyrrell,
looking forward, saw indeed that it was a moment, when the whole
attention of the man at the helm was required, to steer the vessel in
safety. Right before the ship was a long ridge of white foam,
stretching out far into the sea, while on the leeward bow there was
indeed a space where no such formidable appearance presented itself;
but then, at a distance, so short that it appeared scarcely a hundred
yards from the schooner, rose, in the shape of a promontory, a pile of
gigantic, black cliffs to the northwest, against which the waves were
dashing with fearful violence, and sending up the foam in white
flashes over the dark, awful face of the rock. The wind was still
blowing a gale from the south, and the ship heeling so, that even the
sailors could not keep their feet, without holding; the deck of the
vessel was literally under water, as she cut through, rather than rose
over the waves, and straight on upon the breakers the captain seemed
to be directing their course.

Not a word was now spoken by any one, and it was an awful moment, till
at length, the loud voice of the captain shouted forth, "Now stand to
your tackle!"

The roaring of the breakers a-head, and the dashing of the waves upon
the cliffs to the south, was distinctly heard above the howling of the
wind; but as the captain spoke, by a rapid movement of his hands upon
the wheel, the course of the vessel was altered, her head brought
round more to the rock, and shooting through the deep water, like an
arrow from a bow, she left the breakers to windward, and neared the
point of the promontory.

There was another anxious pause, as she cut her way, on coming nearer
and nearer to the rock; but the captain's eye was fixed upon it, and
rushing on with awful rapidity, she passed at what seemed less than
half a cable's length; and to the relief of all who watched, the line
of coast on the other side of the promontory was seen running off to
the northeast, in the form of a deep and sheltered bay.

"There," said the captain, when the point was rounded--"there! there
is not a vessel on this coast would have done that but the Hannah.
Here Tom, take the helm!" and without resuming his conversation with
Charles Tyrrell, he took a night-glass and looked out to windward
after the cutter.

"Well, it is wonderful!" he said at length, "I can't think it natural
to see anything going almost right in the teeth of the wind. But I can
tell that fellow what--if he have not got the devil on board, he'll be
upon the hog's back before an hour's over. Howsoever, sir," he
continued, turning to his passenger, "there is no time to be lost for
you. As soon as we get a little under the lee of the land, I'll have
the boat out, to take you, and Hailes, and the lady, ashore. Get away
across the country as quickly as you can, to Wrexton. There you'll
find a little bit of an inn, where you can stay till I send the boat
for you again. Better go down and tell her, for five minutes will
bring us into smooth water; and if that fellow clears the hog's back,
which I don't think he will, he'll be overhauling us as soon as he
gets into the bay."

Charles Tyrrell needed no second bidding, but hurried down, to prepare
Lucy for this new change. He found her pale and agitated, but still
firm, and ready to follow at once any wish that he might express.
While left alone in solitude to her own thoughts, everything around
her had, indeed, appeared terrific; the rushing and dashing of the
waves against the side of the ship, the excessive heeling of the
vessel, the frequent strokes of the waves, which seemed as if they
would have rent her from stem to stern, the howling of the wind, the
rattling of the cordage, had all been heard, as she sat and listened,
and had filled her mind with apprehensions of the darkest character.

All this reconciled her, however, wonderfully to the idea of landing
again so speedily. Already the water was smoother, and the wind less
felt, and she hurried the few preparations that were necessary,
desiring the maid to rise and accompany her, which she doubted not
that she would do with the greatest alacrity and willingness. The
woman, however, showed, not the slightest inclination to stir.
Overpowered with sea-sickness, the most selfish of all maladies, she
said she could not rise, and she would not; and if she were to die,
that she would rather lie and die where she was, than go in a little
boat, at that time of night and be drowned.

There was no time to argue with her, for the sound of lowering the
boat was already heard, and Charles supported Lucy up to the deck,
while Hailes loaded himself with those things which were absolutely
necessary to her comfort.

When they arrived upon the deck of the ship, the whole scene was
comparatively tranquil--sheltered from the force of the winds,
by the high lands, forming one side of the bay, which we have
beforementioned, the schooner was running along rapidly, indeed, but
easily, the sea was much calmer, and the rain had ceased. It was
oppressively warm, and the clouds, rolling together in large masses,
seemed to portend a thunder-storm, but still they occasionally broke
away, and afforded from time to time a glimpse of the moon, setting
large and dark coloured, on the western verge of the horizon.

Few words were spoken by any party, and, as the boat was by this time
alongside, Charles Tyrrell led Lucy toward it, and with the aid of
Hailes, and the captain, placed her safely in it without much
difficulty; though the sea would have looked terrific to any eyes,
which had not immediately before contemplated that which was running
on the outside of the bay.

She was scarcely seated, and agitated a good deal by the darkness, the
pitching of the boat, and all the appalling circumstances around her
when the sudden sound of a cannon came booming over the water. Lucy
stared, and turned to Charles Tyrrell, as if for explanation.

"We are just in time, my beloved," he said, "that is I suppose a shot
to bring the schooner to;" but ere the men in the boat had rowed a
hundred yards, a second gun was heard, and then another shortly after,
and Hailes was heard to mutter to himself,

"That's the cutter upon the hog's back, or I never heard minute-guns
before--serves them right--serves them right. They wanted to run us
ashore, and now they've got ashore themselves."

Charles Tyrrell made no observation, for he could not but feel pain
and anxiety at the thought of the king's vessel, and all that it
contained, having struck upon the awful reef which they had passed so
closely. He knew, too, that Lucy would feel the same, and he therefore
refrained from explaining the probable cause of the sounds that they
heard, which were repeated from minute to minute, as the boat rowed on
toward the shore.

Every stroke of the oars, however, as the boat entered a little bay
within the larger one, brought them into smoother water, and at
length, when they were a few oars length off the shore, no one would
have known that a storm was raging over the open sea, had it not been
for the rapid moving of the clouds, chequered dimly with light and
darkness in the sky over head, and the sharp whistling of the wind,
which made itself heard above the cliffs.

Their landing was, therefore, effected with ease and safety, and Lucy
could not help acknowledging to her own heart, that she was relieved
and rejoiced, even more than she had expected, on finding her foot
once more upon the firm land.

"Now you know your way to Alcombe, Master Hailes," said one of the men
in the boat, "you can't well miss it."

Hailes only replied by an "ay! ay!" and the boat pushed off again as
fast as possible toward the ship.




CHAPTER XXII.


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."




CHAPTER XXIII.


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 MADAM,

"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 called
_shabbiness_, 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:--


"MY DEAR MR. DRIESEN,

"I wish to see you immediately, as I have come back, on various
accounts, to stand my trial; but do not intend to surrender myself
till the day on which it is to take place. If you will come down then
to the little public-house, called the Falcon, in the village of
Motstone, any time to-night or to-morrow morning, you will find,

"Your's,

"CHARLES TYRRELL."


"Have a horse saddled directly," said Mr. Driesen, turning to the
servant who waited, with looks of some surprise. "Have a horse saddled
immediately, and brought round to the door."

The servant hastened to obey, and as soon as he was gone, Mr. Driesen
walked up and down the room for several minutes in a state of great
agitation.

"Come back to stand his trial!" he exclaimed. "He is mad. He will be
hanged to a certainty. What in the name of Heaven can be done!
Nothing, I am afraid; yet I must do my best, for this is terrible."

Then as he revolved all the circumstances of Charles Tyrrell's case,
ignorant as he was of what had been discovered since the young baronet
had made his escape in the schooner, he became more and more
convinced, that if he executed his purpose and really stood his trial,
he would but seal his own destruction.

"It is ruin, it is ruin"--he continued, walking up and down the room
in great agitation. "He must be persuaded to return, to go back again
before his coming is known, and yet, after all"--he continued, pausing
and fixing his eyes upon a spot on the floor, "what signifies it?
death is but a little thing; the extinction of a state of being,
containing in itself more pangs than enjoyment, the only real pain of
death is to the coward! Long sickness, indeed, may make it horrible.
It is in the preceding things that death is painful--the act, itself,
can be nothing--a mere bugbear of the imagination--and then how
pleasant to lie down for a long sleep; to lie down as we do at night
after a weary day; filled with cares, and anxieties, and pangs: to lie
down with the blessing of knowing that we shall never wake again, to
go through the same cares, and griefs, and sorrows, to endure the same
pangs, and labours, and fatigues! Those must have been cunning
fellows, that invented the bugbear of a future state, otherwise one
half of the world would not go on till fifty. I wonder I have not cut
my throat years ago. I suppose it is because I've had such good
health, and no pain in life--I wonder if hanging is an easy
death--laudanum they say is painful. Charcoal? the French are fond of
charcoal. To think that a little carbon should be a remedy for all
diseases!"

"The horse, sir," said a servant, opening the door, and Mr. Driesen
walking out took his hat and gloves, flung himself on the horse's
back, and cantered quickly through the park.




CHAPTER XXIV.


In the neat little parlour of the Falcon, with its well-sanded floor,
its polished, black mahogany table, its corner-cupboard with a glass
door, displaying sundry objects of interest and curiosity, from
odd-shaped tea-pots of rich old china, to apostle-spoons and
sugar-basins of the reign of Anne, whose pert and foolish motto of
"semper eadem," adopted because she was the weakest and most
vacillating of women, still ornamented the silver; in this neat
parlour, of a little neat country inn, sat Charles Tyrrell, waiting,
perhaps, with some impatience for the coming of Mr. Driesen. There
were traces upon his face of the sorrows through which he had passed.
He was paler, thinner, sterner, we may say more manly, than he had
appeared a month before; but yet within the last few days his
countenance had undergone another and a better change, a cloud had
been blown from off the sky: his face was clear of some part of its
anxiety. He was grave, perhaps sad; for the fire of such things as
those he had undergone, tempers the iron into steel, and makes it
harder for ever.

But at the same time there was the aspect of hope renewed in his
countenance, there was an expression of expectation and confidence,
and though he had been made aware of the nature of his father's will,
he looked up with a smile on seeing the door open, thinking to take
Mr. Driesen by the hand with pleasure.

It was not that gentleman, however, who entered, but the landlord of
the Falcon himself, who closed the door carefully behind him, and
advanced with a low bow and a respectful air.

"I have had both your notes taken, sir," he said; "one to the governor
of the prison, and the other to Harbury Park, by two boys, that nobody
would know as coming from here; but as you were good enough to tell
me, Sir Charles your intention, of remaining here until you give
yourself up again at the trial, I cannot help letting you know
directly, for fear of anything going amiss, something that came to my
hearing, and which may be of very great importance to you, if you can
but get at the truth of it."

"What is it, landlord?" said Charles Tyrrell, "I shall be very much
obliged to you for any information; for although I trust I can,
without doubt, now prove, both how the blood came upon my coat, and
where I was during the whole period of my absence from the house; so
that of my acquittal, there cannot be the slightest doubt, yet I shall
never rest satisfied, I shall never know a moment's real and complete
peace, till I have, discovered and shown forth in the eyes of the
whole world, whose was the hand that really killed my unfortunate
father."

"Why the matter is this, Sir Charles," said the landlord of the
Falcon, "there's old John Smithson, who lives about a mile and a half
off, between this and the sea, and whose son is now in jail about that
smuggling business, always shakes his head when the people talk about
you and the murder of Sir Francis, and has been heard to say, more
than once, that the judges should not condemn you for it, that he'd
rather die himself. I heard about this yesterday, and I don't know how
it was, but as if I had known that you would be coming here tonight,
though Heaven knows I knew nothing about it. I couldn't help going
down to the old man's cottage, just quietly, not as if I came to
inquire, and talking to him about it. I couldn't get him to say much
upon the subject, for he had heard that you had got out of prison, and
he said, that being the case, it was no matter to anybody. I asked
him, however, what he would do, if you should be caught and brought
back again. He said, that he would not tell me what he would do; but
that they should not hang you, for he would prevent that. I tried, as
much as I could, to get something more out of him, but it was all no
use. He would not say a word more, and I believe the only way to do
with him would be, to call him up upon the trial, and make him give
evidence."

"Did he know my father at all?" demanded Charles Tyrrell.

"Oh, he knew him well enough by sight, sir," replied the man; "for
when he was a fisherman, I've heard, he used to supply the family, and
was up every day at the house almost; and about three weeks ago, he
stopped here one afternoon, to take a glass of grog, and he had seen
your father that day about his son; for the old man was in a towering
passion, and vowed that Sir Francis had treated him no better than a
dog."

"Indeed," said Charles Tyrrell, "you don't suppose he could have done
it himself."

"Why no, sir, I don't mean to say that," replied the landlord. "He's a
stout old fellow, too; as young as if there were twenty years off his
age, and he has a devil of a spirit of his own. He always had; but
then he was always a very honest, upright man; one never heard of his
doing any thing that was wrong. Some twenty years ago, indeed, he was
taken up upon some smuggling business, and was in prison one day; but
he proved that it was all false together, and he caught the
customhouse officer some time after, and gave him such a licking that
he never went near him again. No, I don't think he did it; but it is
clear enough that he knows something about it, and will come forward
and say what he does know, if he thinks there's any chance of your
being condemned."

"Perhaps," said Charles Tyrrell, "it may be better for me to send for
him, and speak with him on the matter."

"I should think not, Sir Charles," replied the landlord. "The trial,
you see, is likely to come on in two or three days, and your best
plan, I should think, would be to lie quiet, and have old Smithson
brought up as a witness. You say that you are sure you can prove where
you were, and what you were doing at the time; but when he's brought
up he'll know nothing of that, and will tell all that he knows. But I
would keep the whole matter quiet and calm till then, for fear of
scaring other people, who may be brought into trouble by it."

The advice of the landlord seemed, to Charles Tyrrell, so judicious,
that he determined to follow it, if he found that Morrison, whom he
hoped to see early on the following morning, coincided with him in
opinion.

As he was about to reply, however, the quick sound of a horse's feet
was heard before the house, and Mr. Driesen entered the room in a
minute after.

"My dear Charles," he said, grasping both the young baronet's hands;
as soon as the door was shut, and they were alone, "You cannot think
how anxious I am about you. In the name of Heaven, what has made you
come back again, when you were once safe off?"

"First, let me thank you, my dear sir," said Charles, with true
feelings of gratitude for all the emotions of apprehension and anxiety
which Mr. Driesen's agitation evidently betrayed. "First, let me thank
you for all your exertions in my favour, and for all the really
fatherly interest that you have taken in me. Believe me, I am
sincerely grateful."

"Oh, nonsense, nonsense, my dear Charles!" cried Mr. Driesen, grasping
his hands, while his eyes filled with unwonted moisture. "Don't talk
about gratitude, and such stuff. If I could but know that you were in
safety, that would be enough. I should then be comparatively at
ease--though, who knows?" and he drew a deep sigh. "But tell me,
Charles, tell me, what has made you mad enough to come back here, at
the imminent risk that you run?"

"In the first place, because I could not well help myself," replied
Charles Tyrrell. "But, in the next, because I am now at liberty to
show both where I was during that whole morning, and how the stains of
blood came upon my shooting jacket."

Mr. Driesen seemed somewhat surprised, but he replied, almost
immediately:--

"But can you account for the time, Charles, before you saw the
gardener--can you account for the gun? I see by your face you cannot;
and it is upon that, the whole business will turn. I have spoken with
the lawyers myself, and they all agree that it will be held by the
judge and the jury, that if you committed the act at all, it was
before you passed through the garden. Indeed, indeed, Charles, you are
putting your head into a lion's mouth."

"And do you, then, believe me guilty?" demanded Charles Tyrrell, in a
sad tone.

Mr. Driesen instantly replied, vehemently, "No, Charles, no, Charles,
no. I do not believe you guilty, but I do believe that you may be held
so, unless, indeed, you could prove who it was committed the act."

"That may not be impossible either," replied Charles Tyrrell. "Indeed,
I have good hope that such may be the case, though I cannot explain
myself further, at present, upon the subject."

Mr. Driesen mused for several minutes, in silence, and then replied--

"Charles, you are deceiving yourself. You will sacrifice your own
life--you will break the heart of Lucy Effingham--you will render all
those that love you miserable. I see it plainly; I see it evidently.
You are running headlong to destruction. Let me entreat you; let me
conjure you, while there is yet time, to secure yourself, by flying
once more. Here is a fresh strong horse at the door; he will carry
you, easily, forty miles this night. You can be at a seaport before
to-morrow. You can hire a ship, and ere to-morrow night be safe in
France. If you want money, draw upon me for what you like; draw upon
me for all your father left me. Here, I will sign a bond for it, this
moment. I will sign an acknowledgment that I owe it to you--anything,
anything, Charles, but save yourself directly;" and in his eagerness
and anxiety, he grasped Charles Tyrrell's hands convulsively in his,
gazing in his face with an earnest look of entreaty.

"Thank you, thank you, my dear sir," replied Charles, very much
affected; "a thousand, and a thousand thanks, for all your kindness."

"Then do, Charles, do," cried Mr. Driesen, thinking that he had
prevailed. "Make haste; get some refreshment, and put your foot in the
stirrup. You are a bold horseman--you ride fast--you will soon----"
but Charles stopped him.

"I am sorry," he said, "my dear sir, that I cannot do what you
wish me. I was stopped on my journey by the commander of the
revenue-cutter, and I pledged my honour to him that I would return and
surrender myself to trial. I have already, too, given notice to the
governor of the jail, that such will be the case."

Mr. Driesen struck his hand against his forehead, and exclaimed,
"By ---- you are mad!--and I shall be called up to give evidence
against you; to prove how you had been quarrelling with your father;
to show that he was as mad as you are, and that you had scarcely any
resource but to put him out of the world. This is too much; this is
too much!" and he walked up and down the room in a terrible state of
agitation.

Charles was a good deal agitated, also; for Mr. Driesen, certainly,
put the matter in a new point of view to him. He had conceived that
the whole strength of the evidence against him lay in his refusing to
account for the time he had been absent after the gardener had seen
him, and to explain the marks of blood upon his shooting-jacket. He
now, however, saw that there were several other suspicious
circumstances against him, what he had no means of doing away. He knew
how slight a thing will turn the scale in criminal trials; how
uncertain, we may say how capricious, are the decisions of juries. But
still there was no course before him but to do as he had proposed to
do, and, consequently, ceasing to argue the matter at all with Mr.
Driesen, he only endeavoured to sooth the agitation which his friend
was suffering, and to express the gratitude that he felt for the deep
interest which he took in his welfare.

He found it all in vain, however. Mr. Driesen would but listen to one
subject, and he again and again returned to his suggestion of flight,
endeavouring, by all the sophistries of which he was so complete a
master, and by which he so continually deceived himself to prove that
there were particular circumstances in which a man was justified in
doing anything for his own preservation; that there was no such thing
as abstract right and wrong; that everything was relative, and
depended entirely on the circumstances. His reasoning, however, did
not convince Charles Tyrrell, in his own case, more than it would have
done in that of others, and he remained unshaken, even in the
slightest degree.

Mr. Driesen at length perceived that it was so, after spending nearly
an hour in vain arguments; and finding that any further reasoning
would be vain, he suddenly ceased, and became quite quiet.

"What is it, then, you wish me to do for you?" he said. "Why was it
that you sent for me? though you will not be advised--though you will
not be warned, I am ready to do anything for you that you may desire."

Charles again thanked him, and then replied:--

"What I wish you to do, is no very difficult task; I merely wish you
to communicate to my mother and to Mrs. Effingham, what has taken
place. Doubtless the latter has already heard from Lucy by this
night's post; but at all events, tell her that I left her daughter
safe and well, under the charge of a clergyman and his sister,
at ----, on the coast of Devonshire. At first, she was so dreadfully
fatigued, that I feared her health would suffer; and as no restraint
was put upon me, I remained a whole day to be sure that such was not
the case. After a night's good repose, however, she rose much better,
and I think that the hope of my soon being able to establish my
innocence, had no small share in making her get over so well, all the
dangers and discomforts which she had suffered."

"The hope of your proving your innocence!" said Mr. Driesen, with
melancholy bitterness. "She will be soon cured of that hope, I fear,
Charles Tyrrell. However, as you are determined, there is no use in
saying any more, and I shall now leave you. If I can do anything to
serve you, let me know it. If you wish to see me again, I will come;
otherwise, Charles, I shall not see you again till I see you at the
trial; for I am not the man I was, Charles. All this has shaken me; my
corporeal frame is injured. I do not know that even my intellect is
what it was. Good-by--good-by. I could be a boy, or a woman, and cry
for very spite, to think of your casting away your only chance of life
and happiness. If you had worn out existence, I could understand it;
if you were, as I am at the end of that part of life, which comprises
all that is bright and happy, and at the beginning of that part which
is made up altogether of desolation and decay, I could understand it;
for death is nothing but one jump into forgetfulness. But with youth,
and hope, and happiness before you, I cannot make out your motives.
However, fare you well, fare you well, and all I trust is, that chance
may better take care of you than you take care of yourself."

Charles Tyrrell bade him adieu, well knowing that, as all their views
and principles were different, there was not the slightest use of
entering into any argument upon the subject. He could not, indeed,
help feeling a regard for Mr. Driesen, who had of late shown him much
real kindness. He could not help acknowledging to himself that he had
a warm, kind heart, and when, therefore, he left him, he felt some
pain and grief, from which he could only free himself, by sitting down
to make notes of all the matters of which he had to speak with Everard
Morrison, on the following morning.

Mr. Driesen, in the meantime, turned his steps back toward Harbury
Park. He went slowly and sadly, indeed. Three or four times dismounted
from his horse, and walked on, holding the bridle over his arm, and
when he had returned, and sought his own chamber, his foot might be
heard pacing it, to and fro, during the greater part of the night. He
had usually breakfasted in the library, and he had not yet finished,
on the morning following his interview with Charles Tyrrell, when the
butler came in and told him that there was an old man without desired
to speak with him. Mr. Driesen asked who it was, and the butler
replied:--

"Why it is one Smithson, sir, who used to be a good deal about the
house, selling fish, some twenty years ago."

"Show him in," said Mr. Driesen; and the butler having done so, shut
the door.

The old man remained in conversation with Mr. Driesen for some time.
After he was gone, the butler opened the door, to see whether he
should take away the breakfast things; but Mr. Driesen was still
leaning with his arm upon the table, staring into the cups. In half an
hour after, he rang the bell, and all the servants remarked, with
surprise, that from that moment he was entirely changed. All his old
liveliness and activity returned. He was gay, cheerful, and happy,
writing, indeed, the greater part of the day, but bearing interruption
quite tranquilly, and having some gay and cheerful word to say to
everybody.




CHAPTER XXV.


Before mid-day, on the following morning, Everard Morrison was at the
door of the Falcon, but he was not alone. The large form of Captain
Longly not unaccompanied by the pigtail, appeared mounted upon a
short-legged, sturdy, little pony; and as Charles, who happened to be
at the window at the moment of their arrival, perceived the old
seaman, he felt no slight satisfaction at being the first to bear him
the news of Lieutenant Hargrave's real fate. To Morrison, Charles had
only communicated the fact, that he had been overtaken by the
commander of the revenue-cutter, and had promised to return in order
to undergo his trial, and he was, therefore, sure that the news he had
in store, had not been anticipated.

The countenances of both Morrison and Longly, however, were not a
little gloomy, as they entered the chamber in which the young baronet
was, and, after the first salutation, Morrison broke forth with, "This
is most unfortunate, indeed, Sir Charles; but as Mr. Longly was with
me when your note came, I thought it but right to communicate its
contents to him, and he determined to come with me, to tell you
himself what he has resolved upon doing."

Charles Terrell was about to reply, but Longly instantly took up the
tale, and, after having pulled the waistband of his breeches as far up
as possible, and rolled something which was in his mouth into his
cheek, he went on, "You see, Sir Charles, it is not fair that one man
should suffer for another--not that I would ever have let you suffer
for me, though you were honourable enough to keep your word with me,
even to death, which must be a satisfaction to you--but now, as the
case goes, you have done your best, and have tried to get away, and
can't: and so, I am resolved, sir, on the trial, to come forward, and
to tell all, do you see. In the first place, it rests hard upon my
mind, and I can't bear up against this wind;--next, you see, sir, I
would a deal rather be hanged at once, and have done with it, than go
on, never knowing one day, whether I shall not be hanged the next;
but, as for that, however, Mr. Everard here thinks he can get me off,
because, you see, we can prove, by that young scoundrel's letter to my
poor Hannah, that it was a trap he laid for her, and so I might well
be angry; and then that smuggling has blown over, for all the men were
acquitted at six o'clock, last night; so, if they can prove nothing
against them, they can prove nothing against me;--and it is likely to
be manslaughter at the worst. However, you see, Sir Charles, I do not
so much care how it goes, because, before that, my Hannah is going to
be married to as noble a young fellow, though I say it to his face, as
ever lived, who loves her dearly, and she him--so she is taken care
of; but, nevertheless, even it were not so, I should not let you be
hanged for me, any how."

Although this oration, on the part of good Captain Longly, might be a
little out of form and propriety of speech, it served to convey to
Charles Tyrrell, a great deal of information, regarding matters of
some interest, and to afford him a very fair picture of the honest
seaman's feelings. He would indeed have interrupted him, in order to
save him one moment of unnecessary pain, but when Captain Longly was
once set going, it was no easy thing to stop him, till he had
exhausted what he had to say; every appearance that he saw of a wish
to cut him short, only making him raise his voice, and repeat, in a
louder tone, what he had just been saying.

When he was done, however, Charles took the hand, which Longly held
out to him as a sort of full stop at the end of the sentence; and
replied, "I am much obliged to you, Mr. Longly, for your frankness and
generous thoughts in this matter; but I have some news for you, that
will surprise you, much more than it does me to find that Mr. Longly
is always ready to do what is right and honourable. You fully believe
that you killed Lieutenant Hargrave."

"To be sure!" exclaimed Longly, "though I have never been able to get
that old scoundrel, Jenkins, to tell me what he did with the body. He
winks his eye, and says it is all safe; but I can't get any more out
of him. He'll be obliged to tell now, however."

"It will be unnecessary," replied Charles Tyrrell, "for I can tell
you, that Lieutenant Hargrave was alive and well on board the
revenue-cutter, not four days ago, and now lies buried in a small
church-yard in Devonshire, having been drowned while trying to get off
from the cutter, which struck on a reef called the Hog's-back."

Longly smacked his hand upon his thigh, till the place rang again, and
then exclaimed, "Ay, that's what's the meaning of all that winking.
But I can scarcely believe my ears--Did you see him yourself, sir? Can
you swear it was him, and not his ghost?"

"I saw him with my own eyes," replied Charles; "but besides that
proof, I have the acknowledgment of the commander of the cutter, his
own friend, who had him on board, and did not even know that anything
was the matter with him, but a spitting of blood, till I showed him
the wound of the ball in the throat of the corpse, after he was
drowned."[3]

Longly shook himself, much in the way of a Newfoundland dog, when he
comes out of the water, exclaiming, "Well, that is something off my
head--now you are quite safe, Sir Charles!"

"I am not quite sure," replied Charles Tyrrell, "two doubts have been
put into my mind, by Mr. Driesen, last night, and I must speak with
you, Morrison, on the subject."

He then proceeded to explain to Everard Morrison the circumstances
which Mr. Driesen had mentioned, and the opinion which he had said the
council had expressed, regarding the period at which the murder must
have been committed; and he was somewhat pained to see that the young
lawyer entertained a somewhat similar view of the case to Mr. Driesen.
Morrison's opinion, however, was more favourable in some respects; but
it was founded upon a shrewd view of human nature, especially when
appearing, as it does, in such bodies as juries.

"Were the case to come before them, now," he said, "exactly as it
really stands, the fact of the quarrel, of the gun, and the gardener
having seen you, precisely in the same direction as that in which the
body was found, without any other extraneous circumstances being mixed
up with the matter, I should say, with Mr. Driesen, that your case
bore a very ominous aspect; but the very circumstance of there having
been various other suspicious matters against you, brought before the
coroner's jury, and a prepossession having thus been created against
you, will, in the present instance, tell greatly in your favour. You
will now be able to explain all those circumstances in a manner most
honourable to yourself, and the reaction will be so great, that the
jury will think you have disproved the whole case against you, because
you have disproved a part. The evidence of Mr. Longly and Hailes, too,
need, as far as I see, in no degree implicate themselves, though,
doubtless, the examining counsel will do the best they can to get to
the bottom of the matter."

Upon a hint from Charles Tyrrell, that he wished to speak with
Morrison alone, Captain Longly shortly after left them, and the
circumstances regarding the old man, Smithson, came under discussion.
Notwithstanding the view which the landlord of the inn had taken, and
to which Charles Tyrrell had coincided, Morrison judged it better to
go down himself to Smithson's cottage, and see if he could elicit any
intimation of the real nature and character of the evidence he was
willing to give. When he arrived at the cottage, however old Smithson
was not at home, and Morrison had to wait for some time, ere he made
his appearance. When he did come, at length, nothing was to be gained
from him. He remained perversely silent, saying,

"Never you mind. I'll be there to give evidence, and I'll tell the
truth, let come of it what may. That's all that anybody can expect. I
won't say a word of it beforehand, for anybody, that's enough."

Finding it utterly in vain to urge him upon the subject, Morrison left
him, and reported his want of success to the young baronet. He then
promised him to ride over to the manor-house direct, in order to
prepare the mind of Lady Tyrrell for a visit from her son, who
proposed, as soon as it was dark, to go over to see his mother, with
whom he had had no interview since the terrible day of his father's
death.

Everard Morrison at once proceeded to execute this commission, and on
arriving at the manor-house, he found Lady Tyrrell, Mrs. Effingham,
and Mr. Driesen, in conversation together, and apparently in much
higher spirits than he could have anticipated.

"Oh, Mr. Morrison," said Lady Tyrrell, when he entered, "here is our
good friend, Mr. Driesen, has brought us tidings which have raised the
spirits of the whole party. He gives me the most positive assurances
that our poor Charles is certain of acquittal."

"Indeed," said Morrison, gravely, for he imagined that Mr. Driesen had
been buoying up Lady Tyrrell's spirits with hopes that he did not
himself entertain, and disapproving of all such policy, he determined
to do nothing to encourage it. "Indeed, I had fancied, that Mr.
Driesen took a rather more gloomy view of the matter."

"My good friend," replied Mr. Driesen, with a slight curl of the lip,
"if you remember rightly, yesterday was a cloudy day, and to-day the
sun shines, as you see: if I had said yesterday, 'What a fine
morning,' you would have stared: to-day, if I were to say, 'How cold
and gloomy,' you would stare as much. Now the time that has passed
sufficient to drive away the clouds from the sky, may have brought
matter to remove the clouds from my mind, too; and something has
occurred this morning, which makes me say confidently to Lady Tyrrell,
that she has no cause for the slightest apprehension, and that
Charles's innocence will be established beyond all manner of doubt."

Morrison listened with no inconsiderable degree of surprise, and, if
we must own the truth, with some suspicion. Now as he was, though a
lawyer, by no means naturally suspicious, his doubts arose from two
circumstances. In the first place, from the little he had seen of Mr.
Driesen, he by no means was inclined to like or trust that gentleman;
and he had, indeed, made up his mind, that Mr. Driesen, as to his real
character and feelings, systematically attempted to deceive all the
world, beginning with himself. There was some truth in this, although
it was too general, perhaps. But in the next place, as regarded the
matter in question at the moment, he remarked that Mr. Driesen's
illustration of his change of opinion, was forced, unnatural, and
wordy, and quite contrary to his usual tone and pointed manner of
expressing himself. He determined, therefore, if possible, to unravel
the mystery, and therefore replied:--

"I am very happy to hear, sir, what you say; but of course, as
employed in defending Sir Charles Tyrrell, I should be very glad to
hear upon what grounds you found your new-risen expectations of such a
favourable result."

"There now," cried Mr. Driesen, smiling; "there now. He comes with his
grave face, and his lawyer-like logic, to destroy all that I have been
doing to console you two ladies. But do not let him, my dear Lady
Tyrrell; do not let him: for if he were the very worst lawyer that
ever was born--which Heaven forbid I should insinuate," and he made
Everard Morrison a low bow, "I defy him to spoil the case of my good
friend, Charles, who is as certain of being acquitted as I am of
living till tomorrow morning, which I'm sure I hope I shall do, as I
have no less than seven letters to write, some upon business, which
might be put off very well upon the eve of a journey to the other
world; but some mere letters of politeness, and the good folks would
think me rude if I were to go without writing them."

As he ended, he whistled two or three bars of an air, and then
suddenly turning to Mrs. Effingham, and seeming to recollect himself,
he said:--

"I beg pardon, my dear lady, for presuming to whistle in your
presence; but that whistling lilibullero is a bad trick, which I
caught of my uncle Toby. I always do it when there's a cat or a lawyer
in the room--no offence, Mr. Morrison! for I was bred a lawyer myself,
you know."

"And pray, my good sir," said Morrison, "how did you manage then, if
you always whistle lilibullero when there's a lawyer in the room?"

"Why, I did nothing but whistle all day long, with my hands in my
pockets," replied Mr. Driesen, not at all put out of countenance; "so
I was obliged to give up the law, my good sir, otherwise I should have
whistled myself away altogether. As it was, I had whistled myself into
the shape and likeness of a flagelet, as you now see."

While this conversation had been going on, Morrison had been turning
in his own mind all the circumstances connected with the case of
Charles Tyrrell, and endeavouring to fix upon some particular, which
might give a clew to the sudden change which had taken place in Mr.
Driesen's opinion of the case. He recollected at length, that when he
had gone down to see Smithson in the morning, the old fisherman had
been absent, and that he had come back to his house, by the road,
which led from Harbury park. When Mr. Driesen had finished his reply,
therefore, he said somewhat abruptly:--

"I suppose the truth is, Mr. Driesen, that you have had old Smithson
with you this morning."

For a moment or two, Mr. Driesen made no reply, but fixed his eyes
full and keenly upon him. He then answered,

"Yes, Mr. Morrison. The truth is, I have. What then, pray?"

"Why, nothing, Mr. Driesen," replied Morrison, "only that I now know
the cause of your change of opinion in regard to Sir Charles Tyrrell's
case, and the good spirits you seem to be in this morning."

Mr. Driesen gazed upon him for a moment or two, with a withering
sneer, and then replied, rising,

"You know nothing about it! Good morning, Mrs. Effingham--good
morning, Lady Tyrrell. I leave this wise young gentleman to
demonstrate to you satisfactorily, that the moon is made of green
cheese, or at least is inhabited by an old single gentleman like
myself, with a bundle of sticks upon his back. But make your mind
quite easy, nevertheless, for Charles will be acquitted for all that."

Thus saying, he left them, and Morrison saw him go without any
expression of anger, merely saying,

"Good Mr. Driesen is evidently rejoiced at the prospect of Sir
Charles's speedy acquittal, and proud of possessing a little knowledge
more than I nave been able to extract this morning from the witness
whom he has seen. I think, however, Lady Tyrrell, you may trust with
some degree of confidence to what he says, for now that I know the
cause of his change of opinion in some degree, I am inclined to
suppose that it has not taken place without good grounds."

"That is very satisfactory to me, Mr. Morrison," said Mrs. Effingham;
"for I confess I have this morning been in great great doubt and
difficulty what to do. I have received a letter from Devonshire,
informing me that my poor Lucy is very unwell. The medical men there
say, not dangerously at present; but of course, I am anxious to set
off immediately to be with her; and yet I did not like to go without
being able to bear her good news of Charles, which I know would be the
best medicine she could receive."

"I think, my dear madam," replied Morrison, "that you may set off with
all safety, and assure her that though nothing on earth is so
uncertain, of course, as the law, yet there is every probability of
Charles establishing his innocence beyond a doubt. I think so the
more from what Mr. Driesen had just said; but even before I heard
that, I was inclined to entertain very great, though not perfectly
confident hopes of a favourable result."

"If you think so," said Mrs. Effingham, "I will set off immediately. I
understood that the trial was to take place to-morrow, and in a few
lines in Lucy's own hand, she begged me not to come till it was over;
but if you think that the result is very nearly certain, I will go at
once."

Everard expressed his opinion, that she might go in safety, and
consequently she set off as soon as horses could be procured.

She found Lucy much more seriously ill than she had expected. She had
kept up, and exerted herself, to appear well till Charles Tyrrell had
left her; but from that moment had become worse, and all the effects
of the fatigue, and grief, and cold, and anxiety, that she had
undergone, told upon her health, and reduced her to a situation of
great danger. She was slightly better than she had been on the day
that her mother arrived, and the fresh hopes which Mrs. Effingham
brought her, tended to give a favourable turn to her malady.

We must now, however, pause, and once more go back to the scenes in
which our tale first began, in order to show how far those hopes were
realized or disappointed.




CHAPTER XXVI.


It was the morning of the trial, and the session-house was, as may be
supposed crowded almost to suffocation, for the case of Charles
Tyrrell had excited a degree of interest through the whole country
round, unequalled in the memory of man. The whole history of the
Tyrrell family, as we have given it in the beginning of this book, was
buzzed about, with a thousand additions and improvements, from
imagination, malice, and that love of the marvellous, which makes
liars of one third, and fools of another third of the world.

Among the lower classes an impression seemed to prevail, that young
Charles Tyrrell would certainly be condemned, not, indeed, from a
general belief of his guilt, for that belief was by no means general;
but from an impression that the sort of fate which seemed to dog his
family, was about to bring it to an end in his own person, and,
indeed, more than one of the jurors was affected by this sort of
feeling, and went into the box with an impression that they had very
little to do, but listen to the witnesses, and condemn the prisoner.

As soon as the trial was called on, Charles Tyrrell surrendered
himself, and appeared at the bar. He was very pale, and his
countenance was calm and firm, but grave, and even sad. There was,
however, a noble expression on that face, an upright and manly
character in his whole demeanour; a tranquillity, not at all
approaching boldness, which produced a universal impression in his
favour, and made one of those general murmurs run through the court,
which nearly always evince some sudden change in the popular feeling.

The judge, in this instance, did not command silence, as he had been
led to believe, by all he had heard since he came into the town, that
a prepossession existed against the young baronet, and he was not
sorry to see that prepossession counteracted by the favourable
impression of his personal appearance.

On the first formalities being gone through, Charles Tyrrell pleaded
"Not Guilty!" in a clear and distinct voice, and looked round the
court with a calm, firm glance, which confirmed the feeling excited in
his favour.

The counsel who conducted the cause for the crown, was one of those
wise and conscientious men, who suffer no degree of passion to mingle
with the exercise of their functions. We have occasionally, indeed,
persons at the bar, who, when called upon to act the awful part of
public accuser, suffer their own vanity to be implicated in the
success of their cause, and strive, not so much to elicit truth, as to
establish the case they have undertaken. Such, however, was not the
character of the gentleman who appeared against Charles Tyrrell. He
uttered not one word that was calculated to produce prejudice in the
minds of the jury. He stated clearly and distinctly the evidence he
had to produce against the prisoner at the bar. He pointed out in mild
terms, the inferences which were to be drawn from the witnesses, and
he ended by expressing a hope that the prisoner would be able to
produce such evidence, on his own part, as would relieve the minds of
the jury from any doubt as to the fact of his innocence.

He then called several of the servants of Harbury park, whose evidence
tended to show on the present occasion, as it had done at the
coroner's inquest, that a severe quarrel had taken place between
Charles Tyrrell and his father; that the former had gone out with his
gun in his hand, and had been followed by the latter; that the
prisoner had been seen passing through the garden shortly after;
that his father had been found murdered within a few yards of the
garden-gate, by the discharge of a gun, loaded with small shot, into
the back of his head; that the gun of the prisoner with which he had
gone out, had been found discharged within a few yards of the dead
body; and that his clothes had been spotted with blood, and his hands
had also been bloody when he returned home; that he himself had
declared that he had not discharged the gun at any game, and had
refused to account for the time of his absence, or the blood that
appeared upon his clothes.

When the servants had been examined, and it was found that no attempt
was made whatsoever to cross-examine them, or shake their evidence, a
considerable degree of agitation was manifested in the court, and the
impression was decidedly unfavourable to the prisoner. The counsel
then went on to say:--

"I will now proceed to call a most important witness upon this
business;" and the name of Mr. Driesen was accordingly called. That
gentleman, however, did not appear; and, after a considerable pause,
some discussion took place as to what was to be the course of
proceeding. The counsel for the prosecution, however, at length said,
that although Mr. Driesen's evidence was important, as confirming the
testimony of the other witnesses, yet that it was far more desirable
that he should have been present, in order to give an opportunity to
the counsel for the defence, of cross-examining him, than on any other
account; but that, if his learned friend thought fit to let the
testimony of that witness stand, as it had been given before the
coroner, he was quite willing himself, to say that he considered his
case complete.

The counsel for the defence then replied, that he was perfectly
willing it should be so, as in all probability he should not have
cross-examined Mr. Driesen, even if he had been present, inasmuch as
all the facts stated by the witnesses were perfectly true, and not
denied by the prisoner at the bar.

This admission created a new sensation in the court, accompanied by so
loud a buz, that the judge was obliged to interfere, to enforce
silence; and while he was so doing, a sealed paper was handed to his
clerk, and then to himself. He immediately looked at the address, tore
it open, and read, making a sign to the counsel for the defence to
pause, ere he called any witnesses.

The paper was long and took some time to read; and when he had done,
the judge spoke a few words to the clerk, who sent the beadle
immediately out of court. The beadle returned in a minute or two with
a reply, and the judge after seeming to hesitate for a moment as to
what course he should pursue, bowed to the counsel for the defence,
and said:--

"You had better go on, Mr. Plaistow. This is very important, and I
will communicate it to you afterward; but I must think over some
precedents, to judge how we must deal with it."

The counsel then immediately called, as the first witness, our
good friend, Captain Longly, whose evidence was to the following
effect:--That from a certain hour, which he stated with nautical
precision, up to a certain other hour, the prisoner at the bar, Sir
Charles Tyrrell, had been with him, and with two other persons, one
named John Hailes, and the other known by the name of Lieutenant
Hargrave, under the wall at the back of Harbury-park. He, Sir Charles
Tyrrell, having agreed to meet him on private business at the
park-stile, some few minutes before. He went on to say, that the
park-stile at which Sir Charles Tyrrell was to have met him, lay in
such a direction, that the straight course for the prisoner to pursue
from the house to the stile, was through the garden; and by an
ingenious question the counsel elicited from him, without any breach
of the law of evidence, that, comparing the period at which Sir
Charles Tyrrell was known to have left his father's house, with the
time that he actually joined him under the park-wall, and comparing
the distance between the two places, he, Sir Charles, must have walked
with the very greatest rapidity to have accomplished it at all.

The evidence was so clear, so exact, so conclusive, in regard to the
facts which it went to establish, that a well-pleased murmur ran
through the court; and the counsel, who had received a hint from
Morrison not to press Captain Longly farther than necessary, upon his
occupation at the time, judged that he might leave the matter there,
especially as he might elicit any other facts from Hailes at an after
period, if he found it requisite.

The counsel for the prosecution, however, was not to be so satisfied;
and as it fell to one of the junior counsel to cross-examine this
witness, he did in a less mild and considerate manner than his leader
might have done.

"Now, Mr. Longly," he said, "or Captain Long, as I am told you are
called, you have given very good evidence; but I have got a question
or two to ask you, and be so good as to remember, that you are upon
your oath. Now, Mr. Longly, alias Captain Long ----"

"Make haste," said Longly, bluffly; "for though they call me Captain
Long, as you say, I am fond of short questions and short answers."

"Well, then, Captain Long," he continued, "be so good as to explain to
us, if it is not an impertinent question, what you were doing at the
time the prisoner at the bar was with you as you have stated."

"Why, I think it _is_ an impertinent question, Mr. Parchment-face,"
replied Captain Long, who did not at all admire the demeanour of his
cross-examiner. "I came here to give evidence of what he was doing,
not what I was doing, and so I say it is an impertinent question, and
I shan't answer it."

"Then the Court must compel you," replied the lawyer

"I am afraid you must put your question in another form," said the
judge. The lawyer bowed, and tried it in a different shape.

"Pray, then," he said, "what was Sir Charles Tyrrell, the prisoner at
the bar, doing at the time that he was with you, you have just
stated?"

Captain Long, however, was not a man to be easily outdone, and he
replied:--

"Why, part of the time he was walking up under the park-wall toward
me; part of the time he was talking to me, and part of the time he was
walking away again; part of the time he was turning to look at what we
were about; part of the time he was coming back again to us, and part
of the time he was going back to his own house;" and Captain Long put
his hands behind his back, and looked the lawyer straight in the face,
while a general and unbecoming titter ran through the court.

"Silence!" exclaimed the judge; "this is very indecent! I do not,
however, think our learned brother can press the witness to say
anything that might criminate himself."

"I have no objection, my lord," replied Longly, turning toward the
judge, "to say anything in the world, if I am asked in a civil way, do
you see; but if he tries to brow-beat me, he shall find himself
mistaken."

"You must respect the court, sir," replied the judge. "We will not
suffer you to be brow-beat, but you must remember the awful nature of
the proceeding in which we are engaged. The life of a fellow-creature
is at stake--a terrible crime has been committed, and the law must be
satisfied. Have you any objection, Mr. Longly, to answer the court
what was the business you were engaged in during the time that the
prisoner at the bar was with you. You are not obliged, however, to say
anything to criminate yourself, therefore, let your answer be
considerate."

Longly paused for a moment, ere he replied, and turned his eyes toward
Everard Morrison; but then, slapping his knee after his own peculiar
fashion, he answered, "Well, I don't care! It must be told one day, so
it shall out now. Why, my lord, you see I was fighting a duel! There
is no harm in that, I take it. There's not a man among you," and he
looked around the court, "there's not a man among you that wouldn't
fight, too, if a scoundrel were to come and attempt to kidnap your
child--to take your daughter away against her will, and under false
pretences. That's what I fought for."

The movement produced in court by Longly's words, was indescribable,
and even the judge was affected; but still greater was the sensation
when the old seaman went on to describe the whole that had taken
place, the provocation given, the conduct of young Hargrave and that
of Charles Tyrrell, and ended by declaring that the young baronet had
determined to stand his trial, and even die, rather than betray the
trust reposed in him.

The words that he used, in any other man's mouth, would, probably,
have produced little or no effect; but there was something in the
simplicity which, mingled with Longly's shrewdness, and in the
contrast between the bold ingenuity with which he frustrated the
efforts of the counsel to extract his secret, and the straightforward
candour with which he afterward told it, all at once, that gave point
to every word.

In answer to some further questions from the court, in reference to
the ultimate fate of Hargrave, he said:--

"Why, my lord, I thought the scoundrel was as dead as a stock-fish;
but I have heard since that he got quite well, and was drowned when
the cutter got ashore on the Hog's-back. But you see, as soon as I
heard that, I went and asked old Jenkins, with whom I had left him;
and I made him tell me the truth; and then I found that it was only a
faint that he was in. He went on fainting that way all day; but he got
better afore the next morning, and then he made old Jenkins swear he
would not tell but that he was dead. He had some deviltry or another
in hand, depend upon it, by pretending to be dead when he was living;
but, howsoever, he's as dead as a mackerel now, that's clear."

"This matter must be inquired into further," said the judge; "but, in
the meantime, I hope the witness will remember the dangerous situation
he not only brought himself, but others, by giving way to a spirit of
revenge:" and he proceeded to read Longly a lecture, to which the
other listened with great attention, being far more edified by the
full wig and furred gown, than by those absurd conceits wherewith our
gentlemen of the bar are compelled to disfigure themselves.

When Longly had been suffered to go down, the good fisherman, John
Hailes, was called, and confirmed, in every particular, the evidence
of the preceding witness.

His account of the duel between Longly and Lieutenant Hargrave,
delivered in homely language, and stripped of every shade of the
imaginative, made a smile run through the court; but while he went on
the jury were consulting together, without attending; and as soon as
he had done, the foreman addressed the judge, saying:--

"I do not think, my lord, that the case need go on. We are all agreed
in regard to our verdict, and it is only putting Sir Charles Tyrrell
to unnecessary pain to proceed further."

A momentary smile of satisfaction passed over Sir Charles Tyrrell's
countenance as he heard the words spoken which placed his fate beyond
doubt; but he turned at once to the judge, saying:--

"I feel grateful, my lord, for the consideration of the jury; but I
much wish the trial to go on to the end. A most horrible imputation
has been cast upon me; and I would fain not quit this bar without my
character standing as clear as before the occurrence of those awful
events which brought me here. There remains one more witness to be
examined in my defence; I am totally ignorant of the evidence he is
about to give, but from what he has been heard to say, I am inclined
to believe that we may, by his means, be enabled to fix the guilt upon
the real murderer of my unhappy parent."

"It is most important that his evidence should be taken," said the
judge; "and, under every point of view, I think it better, also, that
the trial should go on to its usual conclusion."

The degree of mystery attached to the evidence about to be given,
revived at once the attention of the jury, which had begun to flag;
and when John Smithson was called up, every eye in the court was fixed
upon the old man, with an inquiring gaze. He appeared, however,
quite calm and unabashed; advancing steadily and sternly into the
witness-box, as if impressed with a strong and engrossing sense of
what he was about to do, and prepared to act as he thought right,
without wavering or hesitation. The counsel, indeed, felt some
difficulty, as to how to shape his questions, for the old man firmly
refused, to the very last moment, to give the slightest indication of
what he had to tell.

At length, however, after the oath was administered, which he took
with an aspect of solemn feeling, the question was put, "Where were
you on the day, and about the time of the murder of the late Sir
Francis Tyrrell?"

"I was in Harbury Park!" replied the old man, boldly, "within fifty
yards of the door in the garden-wall, on the side toward the house."

Every ear was now attention, and Charles Tyrrell leaned forward to
gaze upon the witness more fully, while the counsel proceeded,

"Did you see the prisoner at the bar, there at that time?" was the
next question.

"I rather believe I did," replied the old man, "but I am not sure, for
the person that I saw, and that I took to be him, was just going into
the garden as I came up, and banged the door after him sharply."

"What did you see next?" demanded the counsel.

"Why, before I could think whether I should go on to the house, as I
was going," answered Smithson, "or whether I should run after Master
Charles, and ask him to speak a good word for me with his father; I
saw Sir Francis coming along the walk from the house, at a quick rate,
but not so quick as his son had gone, and there was another person
following him, about twenty steps behind, going quicker than he was. I
had never seen that person before at that time, but he called twice
after Sir Francis Tyrrell, saying the second time, 'You must hear me,
and may, therefore, as well stop! By ---- I believe you are insane!'
Sir Francis was just at that moment, at the door of the garden, and he
turned round and said, as the other came up--'Insane am I? You shall
find that I am sane enough to make you a beggar before a week be over,
and to free myself from a viper that has been feeding upon me for many
a year!' They were now close together, and the other answered, 'You
wish, I suppose, to make me think you scoundrel as well as madman!'
and then Sir Francis lifted the stick that was in his hand, as if to
strike the other; but the other caught hold of it, and being the
tallest and strongest, dragged it away from him, and threw it among
the plants, not far from the tool-house.

"Sir Francis ran after it, saying something I did not rightly hear,
and just at that minute, the other seemed to see a gun leaning against
the garden wall, for he snatched it up, put it to his shoulder as Sir
Francis was looking for the stick, and fired. Sir Francis fell down
upon his face, and never moved or spoke, and the other threw down the
gun, and took one look round him. It was all done in a minute!"

"When he looked round, did he not see you?" demanded the counsel.

"No, he could not do that," replied the old man; "they might both,
perhaps, have seen me if they had looked as they came up, for I was
then only among the trees, at a short distance; but when I saw what
was going on, I got behind a thin bush. However, after giving one look
round, and one look at the man he had shot: but without touching him,
mind: he set out for the house, as hard as he could go."

"And now, Mr. Smithson," said the counsel, "I must ask you, on your
oath, have you ever seen the person you saw murder Sir Francis
Tyrrell, since?"

"Why, yes, I have," replied the old man; "I saw him afterward, first
at the funeral, where he who had killed him, went as chief mourner,
while the son, who had not killed him, was a prisoner in this jail!"
There was a dead silence through the court. "The next time I saw him,
I watched him out of the house, and asked a groom his name, and the
groom told me it was Mr. Driesen; and the last time I saw him, was at
Harbury Park, yesterday morning, when I went up to tell him what I
intended to do, for I don't think it fair to take any man by
surprise."

The counsel was going to interrupt him with another question; but the
look of the judge so plainly said, let him go on, that he paused, and
the old man proceeded as if he were telling a tale.

"He seemed very much surprised like," he continued, "when I told him I
had seen all; but not frightened either, though I thought he would
have been much frightened, indeed; but he said no, that it was all
quite true that I said; that he had had quite provocation enough, to
justify him in what he had done; that he considered it a good to
society to put such a man as Sir Francis Tyrrell out of the way, and
that he wondered it had not been done years before. So I said, I
thought so, too, and that was the reason I had never told anybody what
I had seen; for he had aggravated me not long before, till I had well
nigh knocked his brains out; but that now the young gentleman's life
was in danger, and so I must tell the whole. So then again he said I
was quite right, that if I had not been there to do it, he would have
told the whole himself; but that as I was going to tell the whole,
there was no need for him to do it, and he would, therefore, take
himself out of harm's way."

"Out of harm's way, indeed!" said the judge. "Pray, did he tell you,
witness, how he intended to take himself out of harm's way?"

"No, sir," replied the old man; "but I suppose in a cutter, that would
be shortest."

"He has found a shorter still," answered the judge, with a sigh. "This
is, altogether, as awful a case as I ever had the pain to have brought
before me. A paper has been put into my hands, addressed to myself,
since the beginning of the trial, with which I anticipated some
difficulty in dealing. But from the turn which the evidence has taken,
I think it but right and necessary, that the jury should have the
advantage of its contents, in order that not the slightest doubt may
remain upon the case, although, even as it stands at present, their
duty would be very straight forward. It is addressed to me by a person
signing himself, Henry Driesen; and I have just been informed, that it
was found this morning on his dressing-table at Harbury Park, with
directions to deliver it immediately, the unhappy writer having been
found dead in his bed, with strong reason to suppose that he had
poisoned himself, with distilled laurel leaves."

When Smithson had first mentioned, that the person who had killed his
father, was the same who had acted the part of chief mourner at the
funeral, Charles Tyrrell had covered his eyes with his hands, and
leant forward upon the bar. But when the announcement was made by the
judge, of the terrible end of his career, the young baronet withdrew
his hands, and gazed up with a painful and even more horror-struck
glance than before. In the meanwhile, however, the paper, which was
written by Mr. Driesen, was handed to the clerk, who read as
follows:--


"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.




CHAPTER XXVII.


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.



FOOTNOTES

[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.]



THE END.