They were both silent for several moments, and through the open door of the conservatory they heard the voices of persons speaking in the drawing-room beyond. Lucy made no reply to what Charles Tyrrell had said. But her hand had rested in his, and he thought he felt it clasp upon his somewhat more closely than before, as if within her bosom, there were feelings which echoed the wishes and thoughts of his. They heard a step in the conservatory, and she said rapidly,
"I am your promised wife, Charles; and my view of such an engagement is, that I am as much bound to you for ever, as if I had made the promise at the altar, which I made in the woods of the park. I can never be any other man's wife, so long as you live. I can never refuse to be yours whenever you ask me to be so. Such have always been my feelings with regard to that engagement. Let that satisfy you. I have duties to fulfil toward my mother, or I would refuse to accompany you nowhere."
Ere she had well concluded these words, there was another figure in the walk beside themselves. It was that of Mrs. Effingham. She came forward toward them with a quick step, and held out both her hands joyfully to Charles Tyrrell.
"Welcome, Charles, welcome," she said, in a low voice. "I am convinced you have done wisely, for I have seen up at the park, Mr. ----, the barrister, who says, that although there is no doubt of your innocence, yet you run great risk by staying. But come into the drawing-room," she added, "I have told your friend to lock the door. We shall not be interrupted there, and this night air chills me."
Charles followed at once, still holding Lucy by the hand. The conservatory door was then locked, the curtains drawn over it, and all being thus made secure, the four persons there assembled stood and gazed upon each other, as if asking the still-recurring question in life, "The what next." Mrs. Effingham's eyes turned from Charles Tyrrell to her daughter, and from Lucy to him.
"Poor things," she said at length, "yours has been a sad fate, indeed. It is but the fate of few to know such early and such severe sorrows. But console yourselves, my children; it has been often remarked, even to a proverb, that a certain portion of grief and care is always allotted to our life, and that when the clouds are early, the sunshine comes late; and when the spring-time is all bright and shining, the autumn is full of storms. Your early days have been dark and cloudy, indeed, and I trust that the brighter part is yet to come."
"Oh, may it be a prophecy, dear lady," said Charles Tyrrell, taking her hand and raising it to his lips. "Oh, may it be a prophecy; for as I stand here, holding this dear, this beloved girl by the hand, and think of parting with her for a long and indefinite time, with dangers, and sorrows, and all the accidents of fate between us; when I think of all this, and my utter desolate solitude in a foreign land, without a friend, without a home, without an occupation--with my name stained and dishonoured--my fortune withheld from me--and with all the bright hopes that animated me but a few days ago, so completely crushed under foot, I feel almost inclined to cast away this scheme for saving myself, to return to the prison, and to take my chance of what may come--for the worst and most terrible death that could befall me, could scarcely be more terrible than such a parting as this."
Mrs. Effingham gazed upon his face for a moment, and then said,
"Tell me, Charles, is there a probability of your ever being able distinctly to prove yourself innocent, to the satisfaction of all men?--Mind, I do not doubt you in the least, or in any way; for when we visited you at the fisherman's cottage, I twice saw a person there bearing the appearance of a lady, and certainly not in the rank of those that surrounded you. There are also parts of your conduct on the day of your father's death which you do not choose to explain--right or wrong, I have combined these two circumstances in my mind together. But remember that I believe your whole motives, your whole conduct, to be upright and honourable--that I have not a doubt--that I have not a suspicion."
Everard Morrison advanced from the other side of the table, where he had been standing, and though there was a considerable and unusual glow upon his ordinarily pale cheeks, he spoke in his usual calm and impressive manner.