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.