In the ordinary commerce of one human being with another, which takes
place in the every-day routine of that dull machine which is called
society, especially in large cities, we pass on through life, knowing
little or nothing of the human beings with whom we are brought in
temporary contact. A cynic said, that language was made to conceal our
ideas; and he might have added, with equal truth, that the expression
of the human countenance was intended to convey false impressions. A
great part of the truth is not spoken, because there is no necessity
for speaking it; another great part is swallowed up by conventional
falsehoods; and the rest, or very nearly the rest, is buried under
lies that the liars think cannot be discovered.
Thus, when we think of the great part of our ordinary acquaintance,
and ask ourselves what are their views, purposes, opinions, thoughts,
feelings, dispositions, characters, we may well say with the moralist,
poet, and philosopher, "We know nothing." It is much to be feared,
that if from society in general we were to take away all that is false
in word, look, and action, we should have nothing but a pantomime in
dumb show, performed by very stiff automatons.
Such, however, cannot be the case entirely with those who spend ten
days together in a country house. There will come moments when the
machinery is somewhat deranged; when the springs will appear; when the
piece of mechanism will want winding-up; in short, I believe it to be
very difficult for the most habitual actor on the world's stage to
pass the whole of many days with an observant companion without some
trait appearing, some slight indication taking place of the real man
within, of the heart that beats, and the character that acts
underneath the mask of our ordinary communications with the world.
At the end of ten days Mrs. Effingham was settled at the manor-house,
and she was perfectly satisfied in regard to every point of the
character of Sir Francis Tyrrell. She saw and knew, as she had before
believed, that he was a man who would on no account commit a base,
dishonourable, or dishonest action; that in everything appertaining to
money, when separated and apart from other motives and passions, he
was generous and liberal. But the violence, the irritability, the
exasperating nature of his temper and disposition, it must be owned,
went far beyond anything that she had expected or even believed
possible. For Lady Tyrrell she was deeply sorry; and though she did
not always think that lady acted wisely towards her husband, yet she
was evidently the suffering party, and therefore engaged all Mrs.
Effingham's best feelings in her behalf.
Some doubts in regard to her estimate of Charles Tyrrell's character
would occasionally insinuate themselves into the mind of Mrs.
Effingham. She saw that he possessed all his father's good qualities,
and almost all his mother's, improved and directed by a mind of a
higher tone, and by mingling, as a young man only can mingle, with the
world. But she perceived, also, that no small portion of the fierce
and fiery character of his father had descended to him. She marked it
in the flashing of his eye; she heard it in the quivering of his
voice; and she distinguished it in the sharp, uncompromising reply
which burst from his lips when his mother was assailed; and she felt
sure that in that noble and commanding form, already full of high and
manly graces, there dwelt a passionate and eager spirit, difficult to
control, and which might or might not, by habit and indulgence, assume
a character like that of his father.
She hoped and trusted, indeed, that it was not so; for she saw that
Charles was continually engaged in a struggle with himself, and she
fully appreciated the powers of his mind and the feelingness of his
heart. She doubted, however; she was not sure; and she thought of
Lucy, and the chance that existed of her daughter, sweet, amiable, and
gentle as she was, acting again the part of Lady Tyrrell, and
withering like a flower scorched by the lightning.
When, however, she reflected and compared which of the two she would
rather have for the husband of her daughter, Charles Tyrrell or Arthur
Hargrave, she was inclined to clasp her hands together, and exclaim
without hesitation, "Oh, Charles, by all means! With him there is
always some hope; with him there is always some resource. It would be
difficult, I should think, for a well-intentioned person to miss the
means of either moving him by his feelings or convincing him by his
reason. No, no," she added, "he can never become like his father; but
I fear, I very much fear, lest the intense and fiery disposition which
I see is so ungovernable within him, may lead him to acts which will
bring misery on himself and on those that love him."
What were the feelings of Lucy Effingham herself, and what the view
which she took of the characters of Sir Francis Tyrrell's family, we
shall not pause to inquire. She had attached herself greatly to Lady
Tyrrell, and with her winning sweetness had wound herself so closely
round that lady's heart, that, ere she left Harbury Park, its mistress
looked upon her almost as a daughter.
The fourth personage which formed the society that Mrs. Effingham and
her daughter left behind when they proceeded to take up their abode at
the manor-house, was abhorred and disliked by both; but Mr. Driesen
did not, or would not, or could not, find it out. He was plentifully
furnished, as we have had occasion to show, with that most serviceable
and comforting of properties, self-conceit. People might disagree with
him in all his views, oppose him in argument, or frankly acknowledge
their dislike for the principles he inculcated, without affecting his
opinion of himself in the least. He believed, in general, that the
only thing for which anybody argued was victory. He thought, with the
utmost confidence, that he was always victorious, and believed (as was
indeed the case) that he was always more or less eloquent, and
therefore concluded that his opponents must be convinced, and admire,
even if they did not like him.
At all events, his love of himself was an impregnable citadel which
nothing could storm. He had seldom, if ever, ventured out of it, it is
true, to attack any one else violently, though once or twice he had
done so in younger days, and had shown himself decidedly a man of
courage: valuing the life of this world very little, though he
believed that there was none other beyond the grave, and not at all
scrupulous of risking it for the purpose of punishing any one who very
deeply offended him.
These were rare cases, however, and, on the whole, Mr. Driesen was
considered a good-tempered and placable man; and those who did not see
very deeply had been heard to observe, that it was a pity such a
good-humoured fellow as Driesen, so talented and so amusing, should be
utterly unprincipled. However, one great source of his good humour was
his self-conceit, which seldom, if ever, suffered him to take offence,
and this, therefore, prevented him from seeing that Lucy Effingham
shrank from him whenever it was possible to do so without rudeness,
and that Mrs. Effingham received all the civilities and attentions
that he paid her with coldness which would have repelled any other
man.
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."
But Charles Tyrrell loved, and though he would have given worlds that
Lucy Effingham had never felt one feeling of attachment to another;
though he knew, if he would have owned it, that her having done so
would be a bitter drop in his cup through life, even if she accepted
him willingly; though he could not have denied, if he had still gone
on to question himself closely, that no signs of affection to himself,
in after life would ever convince him that she loved him as fully, as
truly, as entirely as if she had never loved another, yet Charles
Tyrrell loved, and the hope of possessing Lucy Effingham was
sufficient to make him stride over every objection.
All this being settled, and his determination taken, the next thing to
be considered was the course which he should pursue. He was not yet of
age; but a few months only were wanting, and he felt that, when they
were past, he should be in a different position, and enabled to treat
the matter in a different manner. He was sure that there was a certain
perversity in the disposition of Sir Francis, which would make his
expressed wish to marry Lucy Effingham the very reason why the baronet
would throw obstacles in the way, though he had been himself the first
to seek the alliance.
In regard to his mother, after all that had passed between them, upon
the subject, after what had been said of Lucy Effingham's first
attachment, and their both agreeing that he never could be satisfied
with anything but affection in its first young strength, he felt a
degree of shame, a sort of shyness as to mentioning his changed views
and purposes.
Under these circumstances he determined to set out for Oxford without
informing either his father or his mother of the state of his
feelings. He was too upright and straightforward to affect towards his
father any dislike to one whom he loved and admired as he did Lucy,
although he well knew that such would be the means to hurry on Sir
Francis into some irrevocable step towards the promotion of their
marriage; but he felt himself quite justified in saying nothing on the
subject, and returning to Oxford as if with unconcern, and he
consequently determined to do so the next day.
At the same time, however, his was by far too eager a nature to leave
the affections of Lucy Effingham to be lost or won during his absence
without an effort; and he therefore resolved to acquaint his mother by
letter with feelings which he did not choose to speak, and to induce
her to make known those feelings to Lucy, and to endeavour to
ascertain more accurately the state of her affection in return.
All those resolutions and determinations were formed with great and
calm deliberation before he lay down to rest; but, unfortunately,
while he had been resolving one way, Fate had been resolving another,
and not one single thing that he determined upon that night did he
succeed in executing.
Thoughts such as those that occupied him are very matutinal in their
activity, and before five o'clock on the following morning Charles
Tyrrell was up and dressed. The vehicle that was to convey him did not
pass the gates of the Park till about eleven o'clock, and he would
have had time, if he had chosen so to act; to go down and see Lucy
once more, and learn his fate from her own lips. He did not choose to
do so, however; but, to fill up the hours till breakfast time, he
determined to wander about the park, and in the spots where he had
more than once passed some of the sweetest moments of existence in her
society, to call up the delicious dream of the past, now that he was
just about to place between it and hope's bright vision of the future
an interval which seemed to him a long, long lapse of weary hours and
dull realities.
Opening the doors for himself--for, though it was daylight, none of
the servants were yet up--he went out upon the lawn and gazed around
him on the sparkling aspect of reawakening nature. Beauty, and peace,
and harmony were over all the scene; many a glossy pheasant was
strutting about here and there within the precincts of a spot where
guns were never heard, and only jostled from their path by some old
familiar hare, grown fat and gray on immunity and abundant food, or
else startled to a half flight by the rush of the rapid squirrel
darting across the lawn to some opposite tree.
The opening of the door, the aspect even of man, the great destroyer
of all things, did not disturb the tenants of the wood. One or two of
the hares crouched down as if asleep indeed; but those who had passed
many years there undisturbed showed no farther sign of apprehension
than by standing up high on their hind feet, and with their ears
projecting in all sorts of ways, seeming to inquire who it was that
had got up as early as themselves. Having satisfied themselves of that
fact, the utmost that they condescended to do was to hop a few steps
farther from the house; and Charles Tyrrell was proceeding on his
walk, when a window above was opened, and the voice of Mr. Driesen
pronounced his name.
Now of all people on earth, perhaps Mr. Driesen was the last whom
Charles Tyrrell would have chosen to be his companion at a moment when
such feelings as those that agitated him then were busy in his bosom,
he therefore affected a deafness to Mr. Driesen's call, and, without
taking the slightest notice, walked on quietly into the wood. Ere he
had been absent from the house half an hour, however, and while he was
yet walking up that long straight walk of beeches, from which, as we
have said, Harbury Hill was visible, and which we have fully described
in the first or second chapter of this book, he was joined by Mr.
Driesen, who, coming straight up to him, gave him no opportunity of
escaping.
"I called to you, Charles, from the window," said the modern
philosopher, "and you would not hear me, as is always the case when
one wants to do a man a service. There is nothing on earth so deaf as
a man that you wish to assist or to counsel; a post, why a post is all
ears compared to it."
"I really did not know," replied Charles Tyrrell, "that you had any
particular wish to assist or to counsel me, as I was not at all aware
that I was in need either of counsel or assistance. However, if you
will advise me as to what ought to be the price of small beer, I shall
be obliged to you, as the wine I got at Oxford during the last term
was so bad that I shall have no more of it."
"Why, the value of small beer," replied Mr. Driesen, curling his
snout, "is just equal to the value of small jokes multiplied by four;
a quart of one to a gallon of the other, Charles, eh? Why, you are
emulous of your father, which I certainly did not think to see in your
harmonious little family. But, to put aside all such sour and bitter
figures, you do want both counsel and assistance; and though I do not
mean to say that ninety-nine people out of a hundred would not be
better calculated to give it to you than I am, because our views and
opinions upon so many subjects differ, yet, as you have nobody else in
the world near you who has anything like experience or judgment, wit,
wisdom, or common sense, except, indeed, persons whom I know you do
not choose to apply to, you had better take up with mine than none. I
did not expect you to ask it; but, when it is offered, you can take it
or reject it, as you think best."
He spoke with a degree of frankness that Charles Tyrrell had seldom
heard him use, and he replied, "I am really very much obliged to you,
Mr. Driesen, and will, of course, hear with respect and attention
whatever advice you think fit to give me; but you must take the
trouble of telling me upon which subject it is to be, for I confess
myself ignorant."
"Of course I will, of course I will," replied Mr. Driesen; "for I
intend it to be what the ancients used to call a free gift: now, if I
were to expect you to give me your confidence in return, it would be a
matter of trade, traffic, barter, commerce. You would value it more,
doubtless, but I care nothing about that. I will, in the first place,
set out then by telling you the points of your situation on which you
require advice and assistance, some of which you know, and some of
which you don't. But let us go up and down the walk, for my old blood
does not run so quickly as once it did, and I am rather chilly."
Charles Tyrrell followed his suggestion; and having made his pause
just sufficiently long to be impressive, Mr. Driesen went on.
"In the first place, Charles, you are in love." Charles Tyrrell
coloured a little, more from surprise than any other feeling; but the
other proceeded: "In the next place, you know your father, and are
puzzled how to act in the business. I saw it all in your face last
night when you came in from handing Miss Effingham into the carriage;
so do not say a word, but let me go on. In the next place," continued
Mr. Driesen, "you are not going to Oxford to-day--"
"Indeed," replied Charles Tyrrell, "you are quite mistaken. Everything
is packed up and ready, and, whenever the coach passes, I intend to
get up and go to Oxford."
"You intend," said Mr. Driesen, with a grim smile; "I never said you
did not intend, I only said you are not going; and the very fact of
your fully intending it is one of the reasons why you won't go. Your
father thinks that you are getting too fond of Oxford; that you like
being away from home. Here you are going two days before it is
necessary; I am quite sure you would like to remain those two days
here now, only you are ashamed of saying so, because you fixed the day
for going back on the very day you came. However, your father won't
let you go. He thinks you wish it, and the consequence, you know, is
certain. He will take hold of the very first excuse for making you
stay. See if he does not. I am not very sure that he will let you go
at all; but that is doubtful. However, you can prevent it at once, if
you like, by strongly pressing to go."
"You mistake, my good sir," replied Charles Tyrrell; "such means I
will never consent to use with my father, even supposing I did not
wish to go; but certainly, on the contrary, I do wish to go, and to
remain till I have taken a degree of some kind."
"Well, so be it then," replied Mr. Driesen; "and though in love and
war all things are fair, I suppose you will be equally scrupulous
about the means of obtaining your father's consent to your marriage."
"Certainly, equally scrupulous," replied Charles, "inasmuch as not
affecting to oppose the very things that I desire."
"Well, well," answered Mr. Driesen, "I have told you the facts, and
now I come to give you the advice. In the first place, never dream of
saying one word to Sir Francis about your attachment till he proposes
the marriage to you himself, which he will do ere long, depend upon
it."
"I do not intend to mention anything upon the subject to him," replied
Charles Tyrrell. "As you are come so clearly to the point, Mr.
Driesen, in regard to my father's conduct towards myself, I do not
scruple to acknowledge that I know no cause for placing in my father
that implicit confidence, which, under any other circumstances, I
should be most anxious to do. If he should think fit to propose to me
a marriage with a person I love, of course, such an event would be
doubly pleasing. But should he not do so, I shall not, of course,
consider myself bound to speak with him at all upon the subject till
the time arrives when it may be fit for me to marry at all, which, of
course, I do not regard as the case at present."
"So far, so well," replied his companion; "but take my advice, my
young friend; do not let him see the slightest inclination on your
part towards such a marriage; an inclination which was somewhat too
evident last night. If you will but be careful till you go to
Oxford--that is, if your father lets you go at all--and will leave the
rest to me, I will undertake that, before a month is over, your father
shall have so committed himself in regard to your marriage with Lucy
Effingham, that his sense of honour will prevent him from ever
retracting."
"Pray, how long do you intend to remain here, Mr. Driesen?" demanded
Charles, considering only what the worthy gentleman proposed to
perform, without in the slightest degree recollecting that the
question might be an awkward one.
Whether Mr. Driesen took it up in an unpleasant sense or not, it did
not in the least put him out of countenance, as, indeed, nothing ever
did. He replied, however:
"Why, you see, Charles, your father's cook is an excellent one; his
mutton very fine; excellent fish from the sea and from the river;
better wine nowhere in Europe; and as comfortable a bed as one would
wish to sleep in: all these are circumstances to be considered when
one is asked how long one intends to stay. I should think that my
adhesiveness might last another month."
Charles Tyrrell could not help smiling at the great coolness with
which Mr. Driesen treated the matter; but he replied, "I did not mean
at all to put an impertinent question, but only to know how much time
you would nave to give to the object you proposed. In anything you may
think fit to do, of course, I cannot interfere, and I will not deny,
as I know that you have very great influence with my father, that
nothing would give me so much gratification as if my father did
propose this affair to me himself, and in such terms as would bind him
to give it his speedy sanction."
"Much more reasonable, indeed, than could be expected of a Tyrrell,"
cried Mr. Driesen; "why, Charles, you will discredit your family.
However, put your mind at ease. I will undertake that your father
shall do what you wish, and that very speedily, if you will but be
careful, and for the next two or three days let him remain in
ignorance of your feelings upon the subject."
"Depend upon it, my dear sir," replied Charles Tyrrell, "depend upon
it, you are mistaken; and that I shall go to Oxford to-day without
opposition."
"Poo, poo, Charles!" said Mr. Driesen; "I have known your father for
thirty years too well to be mistaken in what he intends to do. You
will soon see, and judge by that how right I am regarding all the
rest. As far as we have gone yet, Charles, I have been acting quite
disinterestedly, and out of regard for my friend's son, as well as for
my friend himself, who does not always know his own interests. I do
not mean to say that the day will not come when I may ask a favour of
you in return; but that period, I should think, is far distant.
However, if ever it should, you will remember what I do for you on the
present occasion, and, if I know you right, you will be very willing
to return it."
"That I will, Mr. Driesen," replied Charles, warmly, for the other had
touched exactly the right point; but before he could proceed any
farther, either in thanks or professions, he saw a servant at the
other end of the walk apparently seeking him, and in a minute or two
after the man came up and told him that Sir Francis wished to see him
immediately, as there had occurred important business which he feared
might prevent the journey to Oxford that day. Mr. Driesen grinned
slightly, and, with the servant following, accompanied Charles into
the house.