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

by G. P. R. James

The emphasis that she laid upon the word you was almost a sufficient answer to anything that Charles Tyrrell could desire to ask.

"I was foolish enough to believe it, Lucy," he said; "not that I believed such attachment would continue; but I thought that, for the time at least, it might be so. But, indeed, I have done many more foolish things than that," he continued, gaining confidence as he saw Lucy's eye sinking under his, while her hand remained unwithdrawn within his own; "such things that I fear you will hardly forgive, Miss Effingham."

"Indeed!" she said, looking up, apparently with some alarm: "I hope, Mr. Tyrrell, you have not given any countenance and authority to such a tale."

"No, oh no!" replied Charles. "It has never passed my lips, of course. But although I was foolish enough to give credit to it myself, I was still more foolish, and dared, in the face of that belief, to love where I had so little chance of being beloved in return. Was not that unpardonable, Lucy? If you can forgive the other, can you forgive this also?"

For a moment Lucy made no reply. Her lips moved, indeed, but they uttered no sound.. Her eyes continued fixed upon the ground. Her hand remained in his, and the only thing that varied was the colour in her cheek, which changed every moment. At length Charles Tyrrell saw two or three tears steal from her eyes and roll over her cheek.

"Lucy," he said, in a sad tone, "dear Lucy, you are unhappy; but if I--"

But she stopped him at once, looking up frankly in his face, saying, "Oh no; you are mistaken, Charles; I am very happy;" and the moment she had said it, agitation overcame everything else; she burst into a long flood of tears; but they were tears not to be mistaken, and Charles Tyrrell pressed her to his bosom with the hope, and the trust, and the full confidence of being loved, and loved alone.

Perhaps it is scarcely fair to enter so much into people's secrets, and to repeat so much of private conversation, which was certainly only intended for themselves. There was much to be spoken of between Lucy Effingham and Charles Tyrrell, and they gave up fully as much time as Charles had any business to spend in absence from the house, in the enjoyment of those first dear overflowings of mutual affection, which form, certainly, the sweetest of all the fountains that we meet with in our long journey across the desert of life.

They had not, indeed, time to dwell upon all the more important points of their situation, and therefore they contented themselves with dwelling upon the minor points. Lucy had to explain now she happened to be coming up through the park to sit a while with Lady Tyrrell, and console her for her son's departure, when she was overtaken in the wood by Arthur Hargrave, who had evidently been watching for her; and Charles, on his part, had to tell the cause of his journey's delay, and the message he had been charged to deliver to her mother.

Then Lucy again, with no very great knowledge of the world or worldly things, expressed a hope which, under her situation at the moment, seemed strange, that Charles would set out for Oxford without fail on the following morning; and on pressing her on the subject, he found that this sudden desire for his absence proceeded from a fear that he should meet with Arthur Hargrave again, and that their quarrel should go to still greater lengths. She knew, indeed, that, in point of mere strength, Charles Tyrrell was so far superior to his antagonist, as had been that day proved, that the other was not likely to provoke him in a similar manner; but she feared more serious consequences still, and did not possess a sufficient knowledge of such transactions to show her that the distance of a hundred miles or more would make no difference in regard to the results she apprehended.