CHAPTER XXIV.
In the neat little parlour of the Falcon, with its well-sanded floor, its polished, black mahogany table, its corner-cupboard with a glass door, displaying sundry objects of interest and curiosity, from odd-shaped tea-pots of rich old china, to apostle-spoons and sugar-basins of the reign of Anne, whose pert and foolish motto of "semper eadem," adopted because she was the weakest and most vacillating of women, still ornamented the silver; in this neat parlour, of a little neat country inn, sat Charles Tyrrell, waiting, perhaps, with some impatience for the coming of Mr. Driesen. There were traces upon his face of the sorrows through which he had passed. He was paler, thinner, sterner, we may say more manly, than he had appeared a month before; but yet within the last few days his countenance had undergone another and a better change, a cloud had been blown from off the sky: his face was clear of some part of its anxiety. He was grave, perhaps sad; for the fire of such things as those he had undergone, tempers the iron into steel, and makes it harder for ever.
But at the same time there was the aspect of hope renewed in his countenance, there was an expression of expectation and confidence, and though he had been made aware of the nature of his father's will, he looked up with a smile on seeing the door open, thinking to take Mr. Driesen by the hand with pleasure.
It was not that gentleman, however, who entered, but the landlord of the Falcon himself, who closed the door carefully behind him, and advanced with a low bow and a respectful air.
"I have had both your notes taken, sir," he said; "one to the governor of the prison, and the other to Harbury Park, by two boys, that nobody would know as coming from here; but as you were good enough to tell me, Sir Charles your intention, of remaining here until you give yourself up again at the trial, I cannot help letting you know directly, for fear of anything going amiss, something that came to my hearing, and which may be of very great importance to you, if you can but get at the truth of it."
"What is it, landlord?" said Charles Tyrrell, "I shall be very much obliged to you for any information; for although I trust I can, without doubt, now prove, both how the blood came upon my coat, and where I was during the whole period of my absence from the house; so that of my acquittal, there cannot be the slightest doubt, yet I shall never rest satisfied, I shall never know a moment's real and complete peace, till I have, discovered and shown forth in the eyes of the whole world, whose was the hand that really killed my unfortunate father."
"Why the matter is this, Sir Charles," said the landlord of the Falcon, "there's old John Smithson, who lives about a mile and a half off, between this and the sea, and whose son is now in jail about that smuggling business, always shakes his head when the people talk about you and the murder of Sir Francis, and has been heard to say, more than once, that the judges should not condemn you for it, that he'd rather die himself. I heard about this yesterday, and I don't know how it was, but as if I had known that you would be coming here tonight, though Heaven knows I knew nothing about it. I couldn't help going down to the old man's cottage, just quietly, not as if I came to inquire, and talking to him about it. I couldn't get him to say much upon the subject, for he had heard that you had got out of prison, and he said, that being the case, it was no matter to anybody. I asked him, however, what he would do, if you should be caught and brought back again. He said, that he would not tell me what he would do; but that they should not hang you, for he would prevent that. I tried, as much as I could, to get something more out of him, but it was all no use. He would not say a word more, and I believe the only way to do with him would be, to call him up upon the trial, and make him give evidence."
"Did he know my father at all?" demanded Charles Tyrrell.
"Oh, he knew him well enough by sight, sir," replied the man; "for when he was a fisherman, I've heard, he used to supply the family, and was up every day at the house almost; and about three weeks ago, he stopped here one afternoon, to take a glass of grog, and he had seen your father that day about his son; for the old man was in a towering passion, and vowed that Sir Francis had treated him no better than a dog."
"Indeed," said Charles Tyrrell, "you don't suppose he could have done it himself."
"Why no, sir, I don't mean to say that," replied the landlord. "He's a stout old fellow, too; as young as if there were twenty years off his age, and he has a devil of a spirit of his own. He always had; but then he was always a very honest, upright man; one never heard of his doing any thing that was wrong. Some twenty years ago, indeed, he was taken up upon some smuggling business, and was in prison one day; but he proved that it was all false together, and he caught the customhouse officer some time after, and gave him such a licking that he never went near him again. No, I don't think he did it; but it is clear enough that he knows something about it, and will come forward and say what he does know, if he thinks there's any chance of your being condemned."
"Perhaps," said Charles Tyrrell, "it may be better for me to send for him, and speak with him on the matter."
"I should think not, Sir Charles," replied the landlord. "The trial, you see, is likely to come on in two or three days, and your best plan, I should think, would be to lie quiet, and have old Smithson brought up as a witness. You say that you are sure you can prove where you were, and what you were doing at the time; but when he's brought up he'll know nothing of that, and will tell all that he knows. But I would keep the whole matter quiet and calm till then, for fear of scaring other people, who may be brought into trouble by it."
The advice of the landlord seemed, to Charles Tyrrell, so judicious, that he determined to follow it, if he found that Morrison, whom he hoped to see early on the following morning, coincided with him in opinion.
As he was about to reply, however, the quick sound of a horse's feet was heard before the house, and Mr. Driesen entered the room in a minute after.
"My dear Charles," he said, grasping both the young baronet's hands; as soon as the door was shut, and they were alone, "You cannot think how anxious I am about you. In the name of Heaven, what has made you come back again, when you were once safe off?"
"First, let me thank you, my dear sir," said Charles, with true feelings of gratitude for all the emotions of apprehension and anxiety which Mr. Driesen's agitation evidently betrayed. "First, let me thank you for all your exertions in my favour, and for all the really fatherly interest that you have taken in me. Believe me, I am sincerely grateful."
"Oh, nonsense, nonsense, my dear Charles!" cried Mr. Driesen, grasping his hands, while his eyes filled with unwonted moisture. "Don't talk about gratitude, and such stuff. If I could but know that you were in safety, that would be enough. I should then be comparatively at ease--though, who knows?" and he drew a deep sigh. "But tell me, Charles, tell me, what has made you mad enough to come back here, at the imminent risk that you run?"
"In the first place, because I could not well help myself," replied Charles Tyrrell. "But, in the next, because I am now at liberty to show both where I was during that whole morning, and how the stains of blood came upon my shooting jacket."
Mr. Driesen seemed somewhat surprised, but he replied, almost immediately:--
"But can you account for the time, Charles, before you saw the gardener--can you account for the gun? I see by your face you cannot; and it is upon that, the whole business will turn. I have spoken with the lawyers myself, and they all agree that it will be held by the judge and the jury, that if you committed the act at all, it was before you passed through the garden. Indeed, indeed, Charles, you are putting your head into a lion's mouth."
"And do you, then, believe me guilty?" demanded Charles Tyrrell, in a sad tone.
Mr. Driesen instantly replied, vehemently, "No, Charles, no, Charles, no. I do not believe you guilty, but I do believe that you may be held so, unless, indeed, you could prove who it was committed the act."
"That may not be impossible either," replied Charles Tyrrell. "Indeed, I have good hope that such may be the case, though I cannot explain myself further, at present, upon the subject."
Mr. Driesen mused for several minutes, in silence, and then replied--
"Charles, you are deceiving yourself. You will sacrifice your own life--you will break the heart of Lucy Effingham--you will render all those that love you miserable. I see it plainly; I see it evidently. You are running headlong to destruction. Let me entreat you; let me conjure you, while there is yet time, to secure yourself, by flying once more. Here is a fresh strong horse at the door; he will carry you, easily, forty miles this night. You can be at a seaport before to-morrow. You can hire a ship, and ere to-morrow night be safe in France. If you want money, draw upon me for what you like; draw upon me for all your father left me. Here, I will sign a bond for it, this moment. I will sign an acknowledgment that I owe it to you--anything, anything, Charles, but save yourself directly;" and in his eagerness and anxiety, he grasped Charles Tyrrell's hands convulsively in his, gazing in his face with an earnest look of entreaty.
"Thank you, thank you, my dear sir," replied Charles, very much affected; "a thousand, and a thousand thanks, for all your kindness."
"Then do, Charles, do," cried Mr. Driesen, thinking that he had prevailed. "Make haste; get some refreshment, and put your foot in the stirrup. You are a bold horseman--you ride fast--you will soon----" but Charles stopped him.
"I am sorry," he said, "my dear sir, that I cannot do what you wish me. I was stopped on my journey by the commander of the revenue-cutter, and I pledged my honour to him that I would return and surrender myself to trial. I have already, too, given notice to the governor of the jail, that such will be the case."
Mr. Driesen struck his hand against his forehead, and exclaimed, "By ---- you are mad!--and I shall be called up to give evidence against you; to prove how you had been quarrelling with your father; to show that he was as mad as you are, and that you had scarcely any resource but to put him out of the world. This is too much; this is too much!" and he walked up and down the room in a terrible state of agitation.
Charles was a good deal agitated, also; for Mr. Driesen, certainly, put the matter in a new point of view to him. He had conceived that the whole strength of the evidence against him lay in his refusing to account for the time he had been absent after the gardener had seen him, and to explain the marks of blood upon his shooting-jacket. He now, however, saw that there were several other suspicious circumstances against him, what he had no means of doing away. He knew how slight a thing will turn the scale in criminal trials; how uncertain, we may say how capricious, are the decisions of juries. But still there was no course before him but to do as he had proposed to do, and, consequently, ceasing to argue the matter at all with Mr. Driesen, he only endeavoured to sooth the agitation which his friend was suffering, and to express the gratitude that he felt for the deep interest which he took in his welfare.
He found it all in vain, however. Mr. Driesen would but listen to one subject, and he again and again returned to his suggestion of flight, endeavouring, by all the sophistries of which he was so complete a master, and by which he so continually deceived himself to prove that there were particular circumstances in which a man was justified in doing anything for his own preservation; that there was no such thing as abstract right and wrong; that everything was relative, and depended entirely on the circumstances. His reasoning, however, did not convince Charles Tyrrell, in his own case, more than it would have done in that of others, and he remained unshaken, even in the slightest degree.
Mr. Driesen at length perceived that it was so, after spending nearly an hour in vain arguments; and finding that any further reasoning would be vain, he suddenly ceased, and became quite quiet.
"What is it, then, you wish me to do for you?" he said. "Why was it that you sent for me? though you will not be advised--though you will not be warned, I am ready to do anything for you that you may desire."
Charles again thanked him, and then replied:--
"What I wish you to do, is no very difficult task; I merely wish you to communicate to my mother and to Mrs. Effingham, what has taken place. Doubtless the latter has already heard from Lucy by this night's post; but at all events, tell her that I left her daughter safe and well, under the charge of a clergyman and his sister, at ----, on the coast of Devonshire. At first, she was so dreadfully fatigued, that I feared her health would suffer; and as no restraint was put upon me, I remained a whole day to be sure that such was not the case. After a night's good repose, however, she rose much better, and I think that the hope of my soon being able to establish my innocence, had no small share in making her get over so well, all the dangers and discomforts which she had suffered."
"The hope of your proving your innocence!" said Mr. Driesen, with melancholy bitterness. "She will be soon cured of that hope, I fear, Charles Tyrrell. However, as you are determined, there is no use in saying any more, and I shall now leave you. If I can do anything to serve you, let me know it. If you wish to see me again, I will come; otherwise, Charles, I shall not see you again till I see you at the trial; for I am not the man I was, Charles. All this has shaken me; my corporeal frame is injured. I do not know that even my intellect is what it was. Good-by--good-by. I could be a boy, or a woman, and cry for very spite, to think of your casting away your only chance of life and happiness. If you had worn out existence, I could understand it; if you were, as I am at the end of that part of life, which comprises all that is bright and happy, and at the beginning of that part which is made up altogether of desolation and decay, I could understand it; for death is nothing but one jump into forgetfulness. But with youth, and hope, and happiness before you, I cannot make out your motives. However, fare you well, fare you well, and all I trust is, that chance may better take care of you than you take care of yourself."
Charles Tyrrell bade him adieu, well knowing that, as all their views and principles were different, there was not the slightest use of entering into any argument upon the subject. He could not, indeed, help feeling a regard for Mr. Driesen, who had of late shown him much real kindness. He could not help acknowledging to himself that he had a warm, kind heart, and when, therefore, he left him, he felt some pain and grief, from which he could only free himself, by sitting down to make notes of all the matters of which he had to speak with Everard Morrison, on the following morning.
Mr. Driesen, in the meantime, turned his steps back toward Harbury Park. He went slowly and sadly, indeed. Three or four times dismounted from his horse, and walked on, holding the bridle over his arm, and when he had returned, and sought his own chamber, his foot might be heard pacing it, to and fro, during the greater part of the night. He had usually breakfasted in the library, and he had not yet finished, on the morning following his interview with Charles Tyrrell, when the butler came in and told him that there was an old man without desired to speak with him. Mr. Driesen asked who it was, and the butler replied:--
"Why it is one Smithson, sir, who used to be a good deal about the house, selling fish, some twenty years ago."
"Show him in," said Mr. Driesen; and the butler having done so, shut the door.
The old man remained in conversation with Mr. Driesen for some time. After he was gone, the butler opened the door, to see whether he should take away the breakfast things; but Mr. Driesen was still leaning with his arm upon the table, staring into the cups. In half an hour after, he rang the bell, and all the servants remarked, with surprise, that from that moment he was entirely changed. All his old liveliness and activity returned. He was gay, cheerful, and happy, writing, indeed, the greater part of the day, but bearing interruption quite tranquilly, and having some gay and cheerful word to say to everybody.