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.