Charles Tyrrell; or, The Bitter Blood. Volumes I and II

by G. P. R. James

He had scarcely finished, when Mr. Driesen knocked at his door, and feeling himself perfectly innocent, he opened it without hesitation.

Of the affair between Longly and young Hargrave he heard no more, till he himself became the tenant of a prison. But the news of what had occurred at Harbury park spread through the country, and was bruited in all the newspapers.

Before two days were over, Longly found that Charles had suffered a verdict of "Wilful murder" to be returned against him, and had allowed himself to be carried to prison, rather than declare where he had spent that time, which he, Longly, himself could but too well account for; and, moreover, that his hands and coat had appeared stained with blood, which he, Longly, himself had shed.

As soon as this was known to him, he sent off for young Morrison, and the result we have already seen.

Such was the tale that Charles Tyrrell had to tell to Lucy Effingham, as she sat beside him on the deck of the vessel; and in telling it, though he softened some of the circumstances as far as possible, and entered into none of the minute details which had pained and horrified himself, he told her enough to agitate her by very different emotions; by joy and satisfaction to find that there existed a power of proving his innocence beyond all doubt, yet mingled with horror and dismay by his account of scenes, into the passions producing which, a gentle woman's heart could but feebly enter.

CHAPTER XXI.

The morning passed over brightly and tranquilly, the sea was calm, the sky, with the exception of a few faint gray streaks scattered about it in different directions, was quite clear, the wind favourable, though not full, and nothing was seen over the face of the ocean, but a few scattering fishing boats, and the distant gleam of white sails making their way to various points upon the horizon. There was a quietness in the scene, a peaceful mildness in the aspect of the treacherous sea, which brought a calm to the bosom of Lucy Effingham and Charles Tyrrell. They felt as if the time which had passed before, had been a period of turmoil and vexation, of grief, care, and anguish, and as if now had begun another state, as if this was the first day of a tranquil existence.

Toward three o'clock, however, not exactly to windward, but somewhat more to the southeast, the blue of the sky which had extended at first clear and distinct from the zenith to the horizon, began to change to a sort of lead colour, as it approached the verge of the sea.

As the time went on, it grew deeper and deeper in hue, not separate, and defined from the rest of the sky, but blending into the blue as it approached the zenith, yet at the height of a few degrees above the waves presenting the colour of a dark cloud. Across this, too, there began to appear small detached masses of a cloud of a different colour, a whitish or silvery gray, and Hailes and the captain, who had passed the greater part of the day in walking up and down the deck, side by side, paused and looked out in that direction several times, commenting on what they saw with laconic briefness.

Another object, however, soon after attracted their attention, which was a vessel right to windward, with all sails set, and coming up apparently with a much stronger breeze than they themselves possessed. The captain of the ship watched the coming vessel for a minute or two through his telescope, and then handed it to Hailes, who watched her accurately, also, for some time, and then replied to something that the master had said to him, "Yes, she is," and added a very unnecessary oath.