Now, however, when she looked around her, and thought of the past and the present, the feeling excited by the view of things connected with happiness gone by, was nothing but that sickening sensation, mingled of regret and despair, which takes possession of the mind of youth, when first dark disappointment falls upon it. Hers was not, indeed, a spirit to yield, and give itself up to sorrow without a struggle. She had much firmness and determination of character, mingled with gentleness of heart and sweetness of disposition, and she had struggled long, powerfully, and successfully to keep down, as far as possible, every expression of her grief, so as not to lay a deeper load upon the mind of her mother, already depressed with anxieties, and cares, and sorrows, not a few.
"I am young," thought Lucy, "and can bear my share; but into her cup so many woes have lately been poured, that it is near the overflowing."
Thus, when her mother was present, Lucy had power, for her sake, to stop almost every expression of her grief. But when she was alone as now, when Mrs. Effingham had gone up to the park, to spend the evening in consoling Lady Tyrrell, the motive, the great motive for self-command was gone, and she sat with her head bent down over the book, and her eyes fixed upon it: but those eyes sightless of any word that it contained, and from time to time, pouring forth tears, which fell upon the page, and left it as if it had been lying open under a spring-shower.
It need not be said, that her thoughts were of Charles Tyrrell, of their blighted hopes, of their happiness destroyed, of his probable fate, of the awful question, whether he was really guilty or not. She had remarked often, very often, the fiery impetuosity of his nature;--she had heard, and heard exaggerated, many an anecdote of his passionate boyhood;--she had seen how continually his father irritated him, till human nature could scarcely bear it any longer;--and she had heard of the terrible dispute, and its still more terrible cause, which had taken place between the father and the son on that fatal day; and she asked herself, again and again, whether it were really possible that, driven into actual phrensy by his father still pursuing him, Charles Tyrrell might not have raised his hand against that father's life.
She had never spoken with her mother on the subject, for she knew that if she did, she could no longer command her feelings. The letter which Charles Tyrrell had sent to her, had only reached her on that very morning, and in it he had made no allusion whatever to his guilt or innocence. It was filled throughout with words of deep and burning affection. He had felt as if, in writing it, he were pouring forth, for the first, and perhaps the last time, all the deep and energetic passion of his heart. The awful situation in which he was placed--the terrible scenes through which he had gone--the mighty importance of every moment, as it then passed by, seemed to raise, and elevate, and strengthen, and excite, till love assumed more than love's own eloquence, and the soft words of affection became sublime.
She had read it. She had determined to answer it; she had determined also to beseech her mother to let her go and visit him in prison. But she had felt also that she could neither trust herself to do the one or the other during that day; for the letter had itself unnerved her, and she required some time to recover strength and calmness sufficient to speak with her mother on the subject.
When Mrs. Effingham had set out for the park, Lucy had determined to employ the evening in struggling to overcome her feelings. But it was with her, as is too often the case when we sit down with such a determination, alone, and unaided by other motives; we are ourselves overcome in the struggle, and our feelings triumph over us rather than we over them. She had given way; her whole thoughts had turned to grief and despondency, and the evening that she thus passed alone was sadder, darker, more despairing, than any that she had passed since the fatal event which had interrupted all her prospects of happiness.
She thus sat then, with her head bent over the book, and her eyes filling again with tears, though she had dried them often, when she thought she heard a noise in the conservatory, which joined the drawing-room on the southern side, and extended up to the plantation which led away toward the park. It was as if something had struck against the window; and, after listening some time with a beating heart, to hear if it returned again, Lucy opened the glass doors, and going into the green-house, gazed out through the windows upon the night. The round, yellow, autumnal moon was shining clear and bright in the sky, and she could see everything upon the lawn and slopes that surrounded the old manor house; the sparkling stream that flowed along at the foot of the declivity, the Grey stone bridge with its Gothic arches and massy piers, and the square tower of the old church beyond, almost as clearly as if it had been day. There was no moving object to be seen in any direction: but she thought she heard a rustling in the shrubbery close by, and with some degree of fear, but more surprise, she retreated into the drawing-room as speedily as possible, closing the doors behind her.
A moment or two after, there came a loud ring of the house-bell, and she thought, "That must be mamma returned; but it is odd, I did not hear the carriage."
The next moment, however, the butler appeared, saying,