Throughout life we are constantly holding long conversations without saying a word, for the expression of the countenance is just as much a language as that which hangs upon our tongue; and though the one and the other are often equally deceitful, yet we are constantly endeavouring to correct the falsehood and mistakes of either by the commentary of the other.
Charles Tyrrell instantly saw that she did not recollect in the least having seen him on the preceding night; but she saw that he knew who she was and that he seemed very well pleased to see her; and she therefore gathered from that circumstance that he was Sir Francis Tyrrell's son, though there was certainly four years difference between his real age and that which she had fancied it to be, and at least six in appearance. Charles Tyrrell bowed, and, though he saw it was unnecessary, informed her who he was, and then led her to the drawing-room, where his mother received her kindly.
A strange house, strange people, and a novel situation in every respect, of course, had their effect upon a young and inexperienced girl, who, though not precisely of the character which is called timid, was yet naturally modest and retiring in all her feelings, and full of high and noble principles, which would, if called upon, have enabled her to take a strong, a vigorous part in any situation of difficulty. She was, however, grave and reserved through the greater part of the evening, and till they retired to rest Charles Tyrrell did not hear again that cheerful tone which had struck his ear in the inn at Hertford Bridge.
Lady Tyrrell accompanied her guests to their apartments, and Charles remained a moment or two before he himself retired to his own room. To him his father made no observation; but, almost as soon as the ladies were gone, he turned to Mr. Driesen, saying, "She is very beautiful indeed."
"Which do you mean," demanded Mr. Driesen; "the mother or the daughter?"
"Oh, I meant the daughter, of course," replied Sir Francis: "I had seen the mother often before; but I had no idea that Lucy, whom I remember a plain child, would have turned out so beautiful."
"She puts me in mind," said Mr. Driesen, in reply, "of a piece of French porcelain, all rosy, red, and clear white, and ultramarine blue."
There was a sneer upon his lip as he spoke, and Charles Tyrrell, who felt the simile to be unjust in everything but the mere terms, inasmuch as nothing could be more beautifully shaded and harmonized than the colouring of Lucy Effingham's complexion, turned round and quitted the drawing-room.
Immediately after he was gone, Sir Francis proceeded to read Mr. Driesen a lecture upon the impolicy of decrying Lucy Effingham's beauty, knowing, so well as he did, the project formed for uniting her to his son. "I can tell you, Driesen," he added, "that young man is harder to deal with than you know; to use the late King of Spain's expression, 'he is as obstinate as an Aragonese mule.'"
"My dear sir, he is your son!" replied Mr. Driesen, with a cynical bow; "but, begging your pardon, I said what I did quite advisedly. She is a great deal too pretty for him to acknowledge the justice of what I said. He is even now gone up to his room, not only excessively angry at me for saying it, but thinking Lucy Effingham ten times as beautiful as he did the minute before, simply because I compared her to a French flowerpot. He will, in all probability, dream of her all night, and will rise to-morrow morning fully prepared to tilt his wit against mine in her defence."