We must now come to inquire into the most important point of all, namely, with what feelings Charles Tyrrell saw Lucy Effingham quit his father's house. He had thought her exquisitely beautiful from the first. The grace which marked all her movements, and which seemed to spring from a graceful mind, had not been lost to him either. There had been also constant traits appearing of a kind and gentle heart; and without attempting anything like display--for one of the most marked and distinguishing characteristics of Lucy's mind was a retiring, though not, perhaps, a timid modesty--she had suffered so much to appear during her stay at Harbury Park, that Charles could not doubt her mind had been as highly cultivated by her parents as it had been richly endowed by Heaven. All this he had seen as a mere observer; and, never forgetting what his mother had said in regard to Arthur Hargrave, he fancied that he looked upon the whole merely as a spectator, and that he examined, appreciated, and admired Lucy Effingham merely as his father's guest and his mother's affectionate friend.
Thus it went on till she had quitted the Park and taken up her abode at the manor-house, and then Charles felt a vacancy and a want far more strongly than he had expected. The house seemed to have lost its sunshine; the Park, beautiful as it was, appeared cold and damp; the melodious sound of her voice, too, which he had not thought of while she was there, was now remembered when it was no longer heard.
All these, and a thousand other feelings, came upon him at the breakfast-table on the morning after their departure. He recollected, however, before breakfast was over, that it would be but civil to go down and inquire for Mrs. Effingham and her daughter, and to ascertain whether they were comfortable in their new abode. He accordingly did so, and by some strange combination of circumstances, which Sir Francis Tyrrell, and Mr. Driesen, and Lady Tyrrell all observed it so happened that not a day passed without there being some very valid motive and excellent good reason why Charles Tyrrell should go down to the manor-house, unless it happened to be on a day when he was aware that Mrs. Effingham and her daughter, or Lucy alone, were to be with Lady Tyrrell.
Once Charles thought of it himself, and for a single instant a doubt crossed his bosom as to what his feelings might become; but he laughed it off in a moment. The causes that took him to the manor-house seemed so natural, that there was no fear, he thought, of his feelings becoming anything but what they were already. Indeed, there was no great necessity that they should; for by this time Charles Tyrrell was as much in love with Lucy Effingham as he well could be. The very consequence of his being so much in love was, that he went on, confident he was not so at all; and how long he would have remained in this state of ignorance would be difficult to determine, if the period of his return to Oxford had not rapidly approached, bringing with it thoughts and reflections which made him look more accurately into his own heart.
He put off the hour of examination, indeed, till the very evening before the day fixed for his departure. But on that evening Mrs. Effingham and Lucy dined at the Park; and although there occurred not one event which we could take hold of to write it down as a legitimate cause why Charles Tyrrell should feel differently after that evening, yet upon the whole the passing of it had the effect of making him determine to sift his own sensations to the bottom. Of course, there was a certain impression upon the whole party at the Park, caused by his approaching departure. Lady Tyrrell felt it very bitterly, as she always did, and did not scruple to suffer that feeling to appear.
But it was the effect upon Lucy Effingham that principally moved Charles Tyrrell. She said not a word but such as she was accustomed to say: no one single incident took place to show that there was a difference in her feelings; and yet a certain softness, a degree of sadness coloured her thoughts, and was heard in the tone of her voice, which Charles Tyrrell did remark. He was anything but vain, and would never, probably, have applied what he did remark to himself, had not hope been busy with imagination, and imagination with Lucy Effingham. But, as it was so, he did remark, in addition to the softness and sadness of Lucy's tone and manner, that the softness and sadness were always somewhat increased after his approaching departure had been mentioned.
As he gazed upon her, too, he thought that she was lovelier than ever. As he stood beside her while she sang, her voice seemed to him melody itself; and when he put her into the carriage which was to bear her away, the thrill which ran through his heart as she shook hands with him and bade him farewell, made him pause for a moment in the vestibule ere he returned to the rest of the world.
As soon as he had retired to his own room, Charles began his commune with his own heart. The interrogatory, as far as the actual facts were concerned, was soon at an end; for when he asked himself if he loved Lucy Effingham really, truly, and sincerely, his heart answered "yes" at once.
There were other questions, however, to be asked, referring only to probabilities. The first question was whether there existed any chance of obtaining het love in return, notwithstanding the previous attachment which she entertained towards Arthur Hargrave. This was a difficult problem to solve; for though there were hopes, from the friendship with which Lucy Effingham seemed to regard him, and from her demeanour during that evening, which made his heart beat high, yet there had been nothing so decided in word, or even in manner, as to justify him in any very sanguine expectations. Love and hope, however, are almost inseparable: and the smiling goddess first produced one argument from her store, and then another, to show him that there was no reason to despair. In the first place, Lucy had seen this young man, this Lieutenant Hargrave, not very often, according to his mother's account; in the next place, she knew that he was disapproved, disliked, and contemned by all whom she had cause to esteem; and, in the third place, she had made no resistance to the will of her parents, nor proffered a word of opposition. In short, he settled it in his own mind that there was hope for him; but then came the question, could he be satisfied with that portion of affection which he could hope to gain from a heart that had loved before. He asked himself if it were possible that any heart could love really twice; and he felt inclined to answer in words almost equally strong, but not so beautiful, as those of Walter Savage Landor, when the great poet says:
"Tell me: if ever, Eros! are revealed
Thy secrets to the earth: have they been true
To any love who speak about the first?
What! shall these holier lights, like twinkling stars
In the few hours assigned them, change their place,
And, when comes ampler splendour, disappear?
Idler I am; and pardon, not reply,
Implore from thee, thus questioned. Well I know
Thou strikest, like Olympian Jove, but once."