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.