"Oh, beyond all doubt," replied the barrister. "The young man is as innocent as you or I, my good friend. One sees it in his every look, and his every word. But he'll be hanged to a dead certainty, or I don't know an assize jury!"
Thus saying he wished him good-by, and walked on with young Morrison.
The rest of the day was spent by Charles Tyrrell almost in solitude. The governour visited him once, and hoped he had everything to make him comfortable; and the turnkeys bringing in his food, and inquiring if he wanted anything, produced the only interruptions to his own sad thoughts, till about half past nine o'clock at night, when the governor came in to say that he had just had a note from Mr. Morrison saying, there was a lady at the Crown inn, wished very much to see Sir Charles Tyrrell, if it were but for a few minutes.
"Good God! it is Lucy," cried Charles Tyrrell, remembering the note that he had given on the preceding day; but he added instantly; "She should not have come at night."
"Why you know it pleases many ladies better, sir, replied the governor; for they don't like to be seen coming into a prison, and a crowd is apt to gather about at the gate. But I am sure I have no objection to your seeing her if you like. Mr. Morrison says he does not know who the ladies are; but I dare say that the young lady that we have heard of down at the Manor, is the one that wants to come."
"Of course now that she is come," said Charles Tyrrell, "I should like much to see her;" and after a few more words of the same kind, the governor went away to send a message to the inn.
In five minutes after, the door was opened by one of the turnkeys, and a female figure entered dressed in the very height of the fashion. She looked round her, with some degree of bewilderment apparently, through the thick black veil that covered her bonnet. But from the dress, from the whole appearance, and from the height, Charles Tyrrell saw at once that it was not Lucy Effingham. He advanced toward her, however, and took her hand, and the turnkey who had paused to witness the meeting, closed the door.
The moment he had done so, the veil was lifted, and to Charles Tyrrell's utter surprise, he saw the countenance of the good fisherman's wife, Mrs. Hailes, whose child he had saved from great peril when the boat drifted out to sea.
CHAPTER XVIII.
It wanted about a quarter to eleven o'clock at night, and Lucy Effingham sat alone, in the drawing-room of the old manor house, leaning her fair face upon her hand, and bending her head over a book which, however, she did not read. There were all the old accustomed objects about her, the things with which she had herself taken a delight to decorate the abode of her mother, and the ornaments which had been collected there before they arrived, to make the house look pleasant to their eyes, by him who had now gone down to a cold and bloody grave. She had thought the place when she first saw it a little paradise; every object in that drawing-room, she had noted and approved; the large China jars, the few fine and deep-toned paintings, the exquisite bronzes scattered here and there, the tables of marqueterie and mosaic, and all those thousand little ornaments which, either for their rarity, or their beauty, convey, through the eye, pleasant impressions to the mind, even while busied more intently with other things.