Charles Tyrrell; or, The Bitter Blood. Volumes I and II

by G. P. R. James

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 Crœsus 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."