Although suspicion formed no part of the character of Charles Tyrrell,
to whom we now return, and though his whole mind was of a frank,
daring, and straightforward character, which admitted a few doubts
with regard to the motives or purposes of others, yet he could
scarcely refrain from giving credence to a suspicion which crossed his
mind that Mr. Driesen's vaticination regarding the delay of his
journey to Oxford must have had its rise in something which had passed
between that gentleman and his father on the preceding night.
Charles Tyrrell was wrong, however, as he soon found, not doing
justice to that acuteness with which Mr. Driesen was endowed in a very
extraordinary degree, and by which men possessed of great experience
in human character discover by slight, and, to others, almost
imperceptible indications, the conduct which particular persons are
likely to pursue long before that conduct is developed. This, however,
Charles had soon cause to admit; for the circumstances which caused
his father to recall him, and offered an excuse for detaining him
during that day from Oxford, had only arisen that very morning.
On his return he found Sir Francis in his dressing-gown, with his
sharp features sharpened by excitement, and his long, overhanging
black eyebrows looking blacker and more like a ragged thatch than
ever.
"I am sorry to find, sir," said Charles, "from what the servant says,
that you have met with some business which is likely to detain me from
Oxford. My place is taken by the coach, and I have a good many things
which I wish to settle and arrange at the University before the actual
commencement of the term."
"You are vastly eager to return, Charles," said his father; "lam
almost inclined to fear that there may be some particular attraction
there. But I should think that your father having occasion for you
here, might seem a sufficient motive for your stay. It is not for my
own pleasure, depend upon it, that I require you to remain. I can
always spare your society willingly, for as long a period as you like;
I am neither very much edified, very much instructed, nor very much
amused by your pleasant and agreeable conversation, so do not suppose,
my good sir, that my motives for detaining you are selfish: I have had
some consideration for you in this matter, and I therefore had a right
to trust that you would obey my directions willingly."
Charles Tyrrell bore this little spurt of parental tenderness in
perfect silence. He knew that reply was vain; that whatever he might
say to justify himself would but drive his father to show that he was
farther in the wrong, and perhaps end by producing some of those more
violent ebullitions which he was most anxious on every account to
avoid. When the alarum had run down, however, he paused a moment, and
then said, "May I ask what the matter is?"
"To consider, I suppose," replied Sir Francis Tyrrell, "whether it is
your will and pleasure to remain or not?"
"No, my dear sir, no," replied Charles, somewhat impatiently; "I am
perfectly prepared to remain, obeying your commands without any
consideration, merely asked as a matter of curiosity."
"Well, sir, do not put yourself in a passion," replied Sir Francis;
"you should learn, Charles, to be less captious and irritable,
especially when speaking to your father. However, it is not necessary
to enter into the subject for which I wish you to remain at present.
Information has just been sworn before me, upon oath, in regard to
some transactions which will be brought before me, I trust, by
eleven or twelve o'clock to-day. Some of the persons implicated, I
understand you take a very great interest in, and, therefore, I wished
that you should be present yourself, in order that you might feel
sure--as I know most young men are inclined to doubt their father's
judgment--that nothing harsh or unpleasant has been done."
To the allegation against young men in general, Charles Tyrrell did
not think fit to make any reply; and as he saw that Sir Francis chose
to be mysterious as well as dogmatical, he asked no farther questions,
leaving the matter to elucidate itself.
In order, however, to say something, and to make that subject
agreeable upon the only topic that was left him, he answered, "I am
very much obliged to you, sir, for your consideration; for though I
have every confidence in your judgment, and my presence can, of
course, alter in no degree what is to take place, yet I shall be glad,
of course, to be present, if there is anything to be brought forward
against people I take an interest in, merely in order to hear the
facts."
There seemed so little to take hold of in this reply that he trusted
his father would let it pass unquestioned; but Sir Francis was by no
means in a mood to suffer anything to escape him, and, in consequence,
he pounced upon his son's expression of a belief that his presence
could not alter at all what was likely to take place, and, of course,
he was the more angry upon the subject, as there was nothing to be
angry about. He showed clearly and distinctly that the very idea was
insulting to him, that he should have detained his son from Oxford to
be present at an examination in which he could take no part, and to
witness proceedings which he could in no degree alter. The thing was
too absurd, he said, to be put forward except for the express purpose
of annoying him, and on this copious theme he went on for nearly half
an hour, proceeding slowly in his toilet while he did so, and
interrupting constantly the act of dressing for the purpose of showing
his son how much he was in error.
Charles heard him in perfect silence; not without being a good deal
irritated indeed, and feeling his own fiery nature rising up to
resist; but he struggled against himself and conquered, though we must
acknowledge that the effect upon his mind was to render it irritable
and out of sorts for some time after. He thanked his stars, however,
when at length he heard the breakfast-bell ring before he had given
way to anything that he felt; and his father hearing it also, and not
being nearly ready, yet valuing himself highly upon his punctuality,
hurried Charles rapidly out of the room to make breakfast, saying,
that he knew very well that Lady Tyrrell would not be down. Charles
Tyrrell knew the contrary, being perfectly assured that, on the last
morning of his stay at Harbury Park, his mother would not fail to be
at the breakfast-table, well or ill.
He accordingly found her there on his arrival, and before even Mr.
Driesen appeared he had an opportunity of explaining to Lady Tyrrell
that his journey was put off, and also of giving her a hint of the
sort of mood in which his father seemed to be. The moment that she
heard what were the facts, Lady Tyrrell determined to make her escape
from the breakfast-table, and got away before Sir Francis appeared.
As soon as he came down, however, he began to remark on her absence,
saying, that he did think, on that day at least, she might have been
down. "I suppose she chooses to be unwell," he continued, "but I do
think she might have put that off till another morning, when she knew
that you were going to Oxford for two or three months."
"I have just seen my mother for a moment, sir," replied Charles, "and
told her I was not going. Though she was unwell, she intended to have
been at breakfast if my departure had not been disarranged."
What the reply of Sir Francis might have been cannot be told, for his
ingenuity in discovering matter of offence when he wished it was
almost superhuman; but at that moment Mr. Driesen entered, with his
gay, good-humoured air, apparently thinking of the merest trifles in
the world, but all the time remarking everything around him, down to
the least motion and gesture of his companions, with a shrewdness that
placed the greater part of their thoughts at his disposal. He
instantly saw that the father and son were not upon the most placable
grounds in the world, and he cut across the subject with a gay sally,
and a happy quotation from a Greek author; and then insisted upon Sir
Francis giving his opinion upon an obscure epigram which he declared
to be written by Martial, but which, in truth, he had himself
manufactured between the door and the breakfast-table.
This gave some change to the feelings with which the morning had
commenced, and matters passed on very quietly till about eleven
o'clock. At that hour, however, Sir Francis began to be irritable and
anxious regarding the return of the constables and officers whom he
had despatched in the morning. They had not made their appearance,
however, though he twice rang the bell to inquire if "the people" had
come. The reply was still in the negative, and he found that up to
half past eleven no one had arrived, nor had two messengers returned
whom he had sent to call for the assistance of two brother magistrates
who lived at some distance.
As time went by he became still more anxious and irritable, and it
soon appeared that he had promised Mrs. Effingham to come down to the
manor-house at twelve o'clock, in order to speak with her in regard to
some improvements and alterations which she had proposed. His
punctuality in regard to time he believed to be almost proverbial in
the neighbourhood, and he would not have forfeited that reputation for
a great deal; but yet it became evident that he could not fulfil his
engagement; and after a great deal of hesitation, and many hints to
his son, which Charles did not choose to take, he proposed to him
straightforwardly to go down to the manor-house, and explain to Mrs.
Effingham why he could not come.
"I must remain," he said, "to receive the magistrates, and it is very
evident now that I cannot get away from them in time."
Charles had laid out for himself a walk down to the manor-house in the
afternoon, and had thought that, very likely, if he could persuade
Lady Tyrrell to go down with him at that hour, Lucy might be induced
to take a drive or a ride with them. He therefore was not at all
disposed to cut himself off from going in the evening by going in the
morning, when a great probability existed of his neither seeing Mrs.
Effingham nor her daughter. He ventured to say, then, "Cannot you send
a servant with a note, sir? Mrs. Effingham may think it strange my
breaking in upon them at this hour."
Sir Francis drew himself up with marked politeness. "I beg your
pardon, sir," he said; "I forgot that I ought not to make my son a
messenger; or perhaps it is that he sees his father has a particular
regard for Mrs. and Miss Effingham, and therefore wishes to mark his
own difference of opinion."
"Indeed, my dear sir, you do me wrong," replied Charles. "I have a
very great esteem for Mrs. Effingham and her daughter; I am sure my
whole conduct towards them ought to show you that such was the case."
Mr. Driesen made a villanous face at him from the bow window, in which
he sat sunning himself, which, if put into words, would probably have
been, "You are going too far; you are showing your hand."
Charles, however, did not choose to play any double part in the
matter, and he replied, "I am quite ready to go, sir, if you wish me;
but I thought I only remained here to be present at the proceedings
which are now likely, it seems, to take place while I am away."
"Oh, we will wait for your invaluable presence," replied Sir Francis.
"We will not proceed without your sapient counsel and advice, depend
upon it. There are many preliminaries to be gone through. I have to
receive the other magistrates, for I do not choose to act in this
matter by myself. I have several other things to communicate to them,
and besides, who would venture to proceed in the absence of Mr.
Charles Tyrrell? No, no, if you will condescend to walk to Mrs.
Effingham's, and explain to her why I cannot come, we will, by all
means, wait till you return."
Charles Tyrrell made no reply, but quitted the room, took his hat, and
issued out into the park, to seek his way by the shortest path to Mrs.
Effingham's.
As soon as he was out of the house, he felt glad that he had been
sent; for the fresh air, the glorious sunshine, the sweet, bright,
calm aspect of nature, were a solace and a refreshment to a mind which
had been harassed throughout the whole morning with petty irritations.
As soon as he had reached the angle of the wood, close to the house,
and was beneath the cool checkered shade of the green boughs, he
pulled off his hat to let the reviving influence of the air play round
his heated temples, and neither walking very quickly nor very slowly,
moved on towards the other side of the park, endeavouring to fill his
mind with thoughts unlike those which had so lately occupied him.
The path was wide and nicely kept, but it had been purposely rendered
tortuous, and, though often approaching to the verge of the woods
where they joined the wide, open deer-park, it still remained beneath
the shelter of the trees, which prevented any one from seeing along it
for more than twenty or thirty yards in advance; occasionally indeed,
in spots where the trees were thinner, one could catch a glimpse of
the onward course of the path at some distance; but it was only
momentary, and everything had been done which the art of gardening
could do, to give a sort of mysterious and lonely effect to the green
light and shade which poured in upon it.
As Charles Tyrrell walked along, and when he had reached a spot about
half way between his own dwelling and the manor-house, he thought he
heard some one speaking, and, raising his eyes, saw through the boles
of the trees at some distance before him one or two figures, he could
not well distinguish which, coming rapidly along as if towards him.
They were hidden in a moment by the other trees, and Charles,
advancing more rapidly with some degree of curiosity--excited! why or
by what he could not tell--plainly distinguished the voice of Lucy
Effingham before he had proceeded twenty yards farther, saying in a
loud and angry tone, "I insist upon your leaving me directly, sir. I
am not now unprotected, and, depend upon it, you shall have cause to
regret such conduct."
Charles quickened his pace; his heart beat high, and the next moment
Lucy stood before him at the distance of about twenty yards. She was
followed close by a very handsome young man, dressed in the garb of a
sailor; and the moment that she beheld Charles Tyrrell, she darted
forward like lightning, with a cry of delight, and clung to his arm.
Charles gently withdrew it from her, saying, "Wait one moment; don't
be alarmed;" and, leaning against a tree for support, she saw him
advance to the person who had been following her, speak a few words to
him in an under voice, and then, at one blow, knock him headlong down
upon the ground. She now screamed violently in order to bring
assistance; but Charles suffered the other to rise, and the next
moment, without anything farther taking place, except some low spoken
words, which she did not hear, they separated.
Charles Tyrrell then immediately came up to her, and though his face
was a good deal flushed and his eyes still flashing, he applied
himself gently and tenderly to sooth her. When she was a little
calmed, he said, "How can I apologize to you, Miss Effingham, for the
manner in which I have been obliged to treat a person in your
presence, who, perhaps, may at one time have been dear to you?"
"To me, Mr. Tyrrell!" exclaimed Lucy, with unfeigned astonishment in
every feature. "To me! Good God, what could make you dream of such a
thing? I hate and abhor him, and have always done so."
"He told me his name was Hargrave!" exclaimed Charles, in equal
surprise.
"So it is," replied Lucy, alternately blushing and turning pale,
merely with agitation. "If you have heard anything of him, as I
suppose you have, it can but be that he has persecuted me in a most
unmanly manner; insulted my poor father not long before his death, and
deprived me of the power of going out of our house in Northumberland
without distress and annoyance."
She spoke eagerly, and Charles Tyrrell could not doubt that she spoke
sincerely, for bright candour and frankness were in every line of her
countenance, and her heightened colour and her beaming eye seemed to
say that she looked upon the very thought of loving such a man as
injurious to her. To Charles her words, her look, her manner, were all
a relief. It seemed as if a load were taken from his heart, and he had
by no means such command over his countenance as not to look the joy
he felt, or over his conduct as not to express the hope to which her
words gave rise.
"Oh, Miss Effingham," he said, "you do not know, you cannot conceive,
you can form not even an idea, of the joy, the satisfaction that your
words afford me."
The change of his manner and of his countenance, the sparkling hope
that lit up his look, could hardly be mistaken, even though Lucy was a
novice in such things. If she had been agitated by a mixture of fear
and annoyance before, new emotions now took possession of her. She
looked no more up in the face of Charles Tyrrell; she dropped her eyes
towards the ground; the colour became still more heightened in her
cheek, and spread over her whole face, and Charles felt the hand, that
he had taken to draw her arm within his own, trembling with agitation
in his grasp.
All he saw, however, gave him hope, as well as all that he had heard.
"Oh, Lucy," he said, "I have been deeply mistaken. I have bitterly and
painfully deceived myself during the last month. It has been reported,
and the report reached my ears, that you were attached to this man, to
this Lieutenant Hargrave."
"Good Heaven!" exclaimed Lucy, "who could spread such a report? Surely
he could not have the wickedness to say such a thing himself, when he
knew how I contemned and reprobated him; when he knew that his return
had made me break off my acquaintance with his sister. But, now I
think of it, it was more likely his sister herself, who, I remember,
in her wild and thoughtless way, declared one day before some other
people that I was in love with her brother, because I praised, without
knowing them to be his, some drawings that all the rest were
condemning. But could _you_--could _you_ suppose that I could love
such a man?"
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.
Although Charles found it more difficult than he had imagined to quiet
Lucy's apprehensions, yet he succeeded eventually in doing so, binding
himself by promise to return to the University as soon as his father
would permit him; and the question then became, whether he should go
on to the manor-house, protecting Lucy by the way from all chance of
farther annoyance, or she should return with him to Harbury Park. The
former plan was adopted, and it were vain to say that they were not
somewhat long on their way to the manor. The half hour, however, they
thus spent was as sweet to the heart of Charles Tyrrell as it could
be; for it gave him every assurance that man could receive from woman
of the whole affection of Lucy Effingham being his.
As they were just issuing out of the park and entering the grounds of
the manor-house, however, Lucy paused for a moment and said, "Of
course I must tell my mother."
Charles himself could have wished for a little delay, being well
aware, from what he had seen of Mrs. Effingham, that she would hold
herself bound in honour immediately to make known the facts to Sir
Francis and Lady Tyrrell. But, although the idea suggested itself of
requesting Lucy not to mention the explanation which had taken place
between them for a day or two, he could not make up his mind to ask
one, from whom he trusted himself to meet unbounded confidence, to
show any want of confidence to such a mother as hers.
"I will go in with you, Lucy," he said, at length, "and tell your
mother all that I feel upon the occasion. We run great risks by being
frank and open in this business: I will not conceal from you, Lucy,
that we shall most likely bring upon ourselves grief and anxiety for
some time by such conduct; but neither will I ask you, on any account,
to act otherwise. We must bear what we cannot prevent; and if Lucy
loves me as I love her, we shall be happy in the end."
He did, accordingly, go into the manor-house, and was shown into the
room where Mrs. Effingham was, while Lucy, seized with a sudden fit of
timidity, even towards her own mother, took refuge in her chamber.
Mrs. Effingham was not a little surprised to see Charles Tyrrell, whom
she imagined far on his way to Oxford; but he scarcely gave her time
to express that surprise, telling her, first, the cause of his
father's not coming, and then entering rapidly upon all that had
occurred between him and Lucy, and upon the subject of their mutual
love for each other. He told her how he had been tempted to ask Lucy
not to mention the matter for some days. He assured her of his perfect
certainty that Sir Francis Tyrrell, if suffered to pursue his own
course, would propose a marriage between them very soon. But he
assured her also, that if his father were made acquainted with the
fact of his having himself proposed to Lucy, even in a moment of such
excitement as that in which he did first tell her of his affection,
Sir Francis would throw obstacles in the way which might bring misery,
distress, and disappointment upon them.
He spoke rapidly and eagerly, refusing to sit down, and leaning on the
table before Mrs. Effingham; while she, on her part, was agitated by
various different feelings at the different parts of his hurried
details. Anger, indignation, and apprehension were the first feelings
she experienced on hearing of the appearance of Arthur Hargrave. A
slight degree of surprise appeared upon her fine countenance when she
heard how willingly Lucy had received the addresses of Charles
Tyrrell.
"I have been deceived in this matter myself, my dear young gentleman,"
she said; "Lucy is perfectly incapable of falsehood or concealment of
any kind; and though I informed Lady Tyrrell, and gave her leave to
inform you of what I suspected to be the case in this matter, yet I
told her that I had never asked Lucy herself, because I thought it
unfair to press her upon the matter when her father and myself were
quite decided in our determination. I took my impression, too, of
Lucy's feelings from the positive assurance of a person whose opinion
I ought to have doubted, and who, doubtless, received hers from the
sister of this young man."
As Charles went on, however, to tell all that had occurred, a slight
smile, in which pleasure had its share, hung upon Mrs. Effingham's lip
at finding how entirely her daughter and Charles Tyrrell relied upon
her consent being given to their union. They never, indeed,
entertained a doubt upon the subject, and the confidence of affection
was well calculated to give the mother pleasure.
When the young gentleman, however, came to speak upon the character
and probable conduct of his father Mrs. Effingham found matter for
more serious thoughts. She was deeply gratified with the perfect
candour and openness of Charles's behaviour; but it placed her in a
somewhat difficult situation, from which she saw no relief but in his
immediately returning to Oxford; and, after he had ceased speaking,
she remained for a minute or two in deep thought before she replied.
The answer even then was elicited by his saying, "Well, dear Mrs.
Effingham, I must now return, as I have been absent twice as long as I
ought to have been; but I was resolved to tell you at once all that I
thought upon the subject, and leave you to act as you think fit."
"No, Charles," she said, "we must act together. I am fully sensible of
your candour, and deeply grateful for your confidence, and you shall
find me willing to acknowledge it by actions as well as words; for I
will suffer no punctilios, no feelings of pride whatsoever, now or at
any future period, to stand in the way of your happiness, if it is to
consist in your union with Lucy: I think, however, that you are
somewhat inclined to do your father injustice. I know that his temper
is extraordinary, and his violence, as we have ourselves seen two or
three times, quite unreasonable. But, still, I do not think that he
would act merely for the perverse pleasure of contradicting your
wishes."
Charles shook his head with a melancholy smile. "You do not know him,
my dear madam," he said. "It is my firm conviction, that if nothing is
said to my father about this business, he himself will propose a
marriage between me and Lucy, which I know he desires; but that, if he
be told that I love her now, he will throw a thousand obstacles in the
way of our union, if he do not oppose it altogether."
"This is very singular," said Mrs. Effingham; but, at the same time,
she knew that it was in some degree true; and, after thinking for a
few moments, she replied, "Well, Charles, the only thing that I can do
is this. I have certainly no right to interfere between you and your
father. You must communicate to him your views and wishes when you
think fit; but I cannot, of course, suffer any communication between
you and Lucy to go on, after what has taken place, till you have made
such a communication to your father. I must not even have you write to
each other; and if you go to Oxford immediately, and judge it best to
delay the communication till you return, I can say nothing against it.
In the mean time, however, it will be absolutely necessary for me to
state the facts to Lady Tyrrell, and you must not suffer yourself to
be tempted by any circumstance to hold any communication with Lucy
till your father is fully informed. Listen to me, Charles," she
continued, seeing him about to reply. "To make your mind easy, and to
repay the confidence you have placed in me, I will say that if, when
your father is informed of your attachment, he refuses to sanction it,
solely from caprice or ill humour, and assigns no reasonable or
legitimate cause for so doing, I will not oppose your union with Lucy
Effingham as soon as you are both of age."
"Nor shut me out from her society, Mrs. Effingham?" said Charles.
"Not when you are of age to judge for yourself," replied Mrs.
Effingham, "provided always the motives assigned by your father are
capricious and unreasonable. We speak frankly to each other, Charles,
and I know that you are not one either to encroach or to misunderstand
me."
"Oh, no, no, indeed," he answered; "a thousand thanks, dear Mrs.
Effingham. If possible, I will certainly set off for Oxford to-morrow,
and, in the mean time, I trust Lucy will not forget me."
"Her heart would not be worth having if she did," replied Mrs.
Effingham. "But there is one thing I want myself to speak to you upon.
You are not without your father's defects, Charles. You are impetuous
passionate, violent, to a great degree. I have a right to tell you
this, Charles, now that my daughter's happiness is likely to be placed
in your keeping."
"Oh, but, dear madam, I could never be violent or passionate towards
such a creature as Lucy," replied Charles Tyrrell.
"All men think so when they first love," replied Mrs. Effingham. "They
look upon love as one of those famous specifics which we see daily
advertised, and think that it will cure all moral maladies; but a
short trial shows them the reverse. Even supposing that it be as you
say, Charles, still Lucy's happiness may be greatly affected by your
violence toward others. If she love as she will love, her existence
will become one with her husband's. Every act of his that lessens his
dignity, sinks him in the esteem of others, brings him in danger, or
calls upon him reproach, will be painful, agonizing, fearful to her."
Charles took Mrs. Effingham's hand and pressed his lips upon it. "You
give me," he said, "a new, a strong, an overpowering motive for
gaining self-command, and depend upon it, Mrs. Effingham, I will
struggle vigorously; but even now you must not suppose that I do not
put a great restraint upon myself."
"I know you do," replied Mrs. Effingham; "I have seen it in a thousand
instances, and therefore it is that I place so much confidence in you,
Charles. You see the evil of a violent and passionate disposition, and
strive against it. Your father neither sees nor knows it. I am not
sure that he is not proud of being ill-tempered; for many men, I
believe, think that energy of mind must be combined with violence of
passion. But still I cannot help thinking, Charles, that you gave way
more than necessary to-day, in acting towards this young man, this
Arthur Hargrave, as I gather that you have done. To protect Lucy was
right and just, even if you had not been her lover; but you might have
done so, it seems to me, without knocking him down, risking, thereby,
evil consequences to yourself, which, I hope, are not likely to take
place."
Charles smiled. "Perhaps, if I had not taken him for the favoured
lover," he said, "I might have treated him more gently. But there is
no reason to be apprehensive of any farther consequences; all that can
be said is, that I found a strange man, dressed as a sailor, in my
father's park, and insulting my father's ward, and that I knocked him
down accordingly; so there is nothing likely to ensue."
"I think not, either," replied Mrs. Effingham; "for it is an
impression upon my mind, that a man who insults or persecutes a woman,
will sooner or later prove himself a coward in his dealings with man;
so now, good-by!"