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.