CHAPTER XXVII.
It often happens to us in life, at least to those people, whose feelings are very deep and strong, that the consequence of some great and sudden joy, or some quick and scarcely expected deliverance from evil or danger, has any effect rather than that of exhilarating, or renewing expectations, or reviving hope.
When Charles Tyrrell cast himself back in the carriage which was to bear him away to her he so dearly loved, it was with a feeling of deep depression. The news of Lucy's sickness, had come upon him suddenly, in the midst of his joy, like a funeral crossing some gay procession; and he felt as if it were too much to expect, or hope for, that he should be suddenly delivered from all the pangs and anxieties that had lately surrounded his path, without some terrible drawback, without some drop of intense bitter mingling in the sweetness of his cup. A feeling, which he could scarcely refrain from calling a presentiment, that his Lucy would be snatched from him; and that while he regained life, she who made life so dear, would be taken away.
Nor long after he had entered the carriage night came on; but though he had rested not at all the night before, no sleep now visited his eyelids, and he watched with feverish anxiety, the passing from stage to stage, conjuring up every dark and bitter anticipation, every terrible prospect and gloomy image, thinking the horses tardy, though they went at full speed, and the time wasted in waking the people at the inns, and changing the horses, almost interminable.
Day dawned at length, but he was still far from his journey's end, and weary hour after hour went by, till he almost fancied the milestones along the road were themselves deceiving him.
It was about four o'clock in the afternoon, when coming down one of the wooded slopes of Devonshire, with the dark blue sea, rising to meet the eye above the trees in the valley, he saw the little church crowning the hill above, and the few scattered white houses, which constituted the village, round the clergyman's house. It was a neat and pretty building, though very small. There was a garden before the door filled with autumn flowers, and that sweetest of all importations from foreign lands, the monthly rose, clustering the porch and spreading round the windows. The casements were almost all open, and the sunshine was upon the dwelling.
There is much, very much, in the aspect of a place to which we are going. The whole of Charles's journey had offered him nothing but images of despair; but the sight of that house, and its flowers, and its sunshine, showed him that hope was not altogether extinguished in his bosom.
As the carriage and four drove up, there was a head put out of one of the upper windows, and, without ringing or knocking, a servant ran to open the door, and the little gate.
"How is Miss Effingham?" demanded Charles instantly.
"She is better, sir," replied the maid.
Charles put his hand to his heart, and paused for a moment, for he felt as if he should have fallen.
"Where is she?" he demanded at length, "where is she? I may go up, I'm sure."
The servant ran up stairs before him, but he overtook her as she reached the top, and himself knocked at the door which she was opening.
"May I come in?" he said; "may I come in? It is Charles."
"Oh, yes, come in, come in, dearest, Charles," said the voice of Lucy, herself. "Come in," repeated the voice of Mrs. Effingham, and Charles was in the room in a moment. Lucy was sitting up in bed, with her mother beside her. She was pale, and had evidently been very ill; but there was life, and hope, and joy in her eyes, and Charles, springing forward, threw his arms around her, and pressed her to his bosom.
"I shall soon be well now, Charles," said Lucy, as soon as she could dry her tears. "Your step upon the stairs, Charles, was better than the finest drug that ever was imported from foreign lands. I shall soon be well now!"
She kept her word, and was soon well. The cloud that had hung over the early day of Charles Tyrrell was wafted away. In his youth he had drank the bitter cup to the dregs, and the rest of his life passed in sunshine and sweetness. Lucy made him happy, and having learned so many severe lessons by experience, Charles acquired that command over himself, and taught it to his children, which had been possessed by none of his family before him.
He entertained, however, a sort of antipathy toward the spot where so much misery had befallen him, and he proposed to Lucy, and she willingly agreed, that he, being the last in the entail, should sell the property of Harbury Park, and purchase another in the neighbourhood of the spot where they were reunited after so painful a separation.
In that park, however, and in the scenes around it, I have spent many a happy day in sunshiny hours of my youth, and there collected, many years ago, the details of that history which I have now given. The Tyrrell family are still recollected by a multitude of persons living around, and it seems to be a general opinion, that the sort of spell which conducted so many of them to a bloody grave, had been broken by the trial and acquittal of Sir Charles Tyrrell.
Young Morrison, alas! no longer young, is still alive, and affords daily a good example of what an honest, upright, well-intentioned lawyer can do for the defence, protection, and assistance of his neighbours. Poor Captain Longly I remember well, with his hair as white as snow, but nourishing to the last, with scrupulous care, the long pig-tail, in which consisted the glory of his person. Hailes, his wife, and children, removed to Devonshire, and he became the commander of Sir Charles Tyrrell's yacht.
And now, having, as my admirable friend, Landor, says, "Not only tried to give the ball, but swept out the ballroom," I will bid my readers farewell; and, with the light and happy hearts of virtue and honour, wish them a fair repose.