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.
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,
"There is a gentleman of the name of Morrison, Miss Lucy, below, who
wishes to see you immediately."
"Morrison," said Lucy, thoughtfully, "it must be a mistake, Harris.
You must mean he wants mamma. I know nobody of the name of Morrison."
"No, Miss Lucy," replied the butler; "he asked for you and you only,
and I have heard that he was a friend and school-fellow of poor Mr.
Tyrrell--Sir Charles Tyrrell, indeed, as I should now call him."
Lucy turned a little pale with agitation, but she directed the butler
to show the gentleman in; and in another minute Everard Morrison was
standing before her.
He was pale and somewhat haggard; but perfectly calm and composed.
"I beg pardon, Miss Effingham," he said, without sitting down, though
she had pointed to a chair, "for intruding upon you in this manner,
and at this moment,"--as he spoke, he turned his head over his
shoulder, to see that the butler had shut the door--"but I do not know
whether you are aware," he proceeded, "that I had the honour of being
a schoolfellow of Sir Charles Tyrrell."
Lucy could only bow, for she was too much agitated to reply.
"I am forced to be abrupt," continued Morrison, "for there is no time
to be lost. Sir Charles Tyrrell is, as you know, accused of a horrible
crime. There are particular facts, which I cannot explain to you at
present, which would prevent him from proving his innocence, except at
the expense, and indeed utter destruction of two other persons. Under
these circumstances he has judged it better to attempt to escape."
Lucy clasped her hands together, exclaiming, "Good God, has he
succeeded?"
"He has, Miss Effingham," replied Everard Morrison, lowering his
voice; "he has made his way out of the prison, and is now within a
hundred yards of this house."
Lucy sunk back in her chair and grasped the edge of the table, as if
to prevent her from falling to the ground so greatly was she agitated
by contending feelings, fear, apprehension, anxiety, and joy.
"I beg pardon," continued Morrison, "at being obliged to agitate you
in this manner. But Sir Charles cannot, without seeing you once more,
quit this country, which it is necessary for him to do for a time,
till the other two persons whom I have spoken of are placed in safety.
He dare not come into the house, as any one of your servants seeing
him, would lead to his being traced, and the road he has taken
discovered, which I have used every precaution to conceal. But if you
would venture to pass through the conservatory into the shrubbery walk
beyond, you will find him there waiting for you. He has two or three
times tried to make you hear through the conservatory, but finding it
vain, I ventured to come in myself."
"I will go directly," cried Lucy, starting up, "I will go directly,"
and she turned toward the conservatory door without the slightest
hesitation.
"I will remain here," said Morrison, "in case of any of the servants
coming in; but pray, Miss Effingham, beseech Sir Charles to be quick,
and to remember that the boat is waiting."
Lucy paused for a moment, to say,
"I expect my mother to return every minute. But you may tell her all,
Mr. Morrison."
Thus saying, she left him, and entering the conservatory, unlocked the
door that led out into the shrubbery, and walked on. Ere she had taken
ten steps, however, she heard the laurels rustle a little before her,
and her heart beat so dreadfully, that she feared she would have
fallen to the ground. In another moment, however, the arms of Charles
Tyrrell were round her, and while she wept profusely with the tears of
many mingled emotions, he pressed her again and again to his heart,
with feelings of unmixed joy.
"My Lucy, my dear, my beloved," he cried, "do I--do I see you once
more?"
Lucy dried her eyes, and gazed up in his face by the moonlight.
"You are very pale, and very haggard, Charles," she said. "Oh, what
you must have suffered."
"Suffered, indeed, dear Lucy," he said; "I had not known that the
heart of man could endure so much, without breaking."
"But you are innocent, Charles," she said, "oh, yes, I am sure you are
innocent. Yet tell me so. Oh, yes, tell me so, and set my heart quite
at rest!"
"Have you doubted it, Lucy?" exclaimed Charles, in a reproachful tone;
"do you doubt it, Lucy?"
She lifted her deep blue eyes to his face, and gazed at him tenderly,
confidingly, but thoughtfully; while he bent down his eyes upon her
with a look of deep and earnest affection, yet characterized by the
strong emotions of the moment, and by some degree of reproachful
sadness. But all was clear and noble, and open in that countenance,
and Lucy, as she gazed, could not entertain a shadow of a doubt.
Feeling that she had in some sense wronged him, though but slightly,
she cast her arms around him, and again leaning her fair face upon his
bosom, she said,
"No, Charles--no, no, no! I do no doubt you. I know, I feel, that you
are innocent."
"As innocent as you are, Lucy," replied Charles Tyrrell. "As I have
hope in heaven, Lucy--as I love you truly and well--as I look for the
continuance of your love--and as I place my whole hopes in this life
on your affection--I never saw my unfortunate father from the moment
that I left him in the library, till the moment I saw him lying dead
in the same room."
"I believe you, Charles, from my heart," replied Lucy; "indeed, I have
never really doubted you. I have, indeed, asked my heart whether it
was possible; and in so doing I have thought of all your impetuosity,
and your fieriness, Charles. But I have remembered your noble nature,
and the restraint I have often seen you put upon yourself; and the
reply has still been, no, it is impossible."
"Hark," said Charles Tyrrell. "There are carriage-wheels. That must be
your mother, Lucy, returned."
"Oh, mind not that," said Lucy, "mind not that. I know you ought to
go, and yet, I cannot part with you so soon. It is terrible, terrible,
Charles, to see you leave me under such circumstances, and after such
a brief moment as this. It is very, very terrible, Charles, and who
knows when or how I shall see you again."
"Would to God, you could go with me," cried Charles Tyrrell, pressing
her to his heart. "Oh, Lucy! Lucy! what a fancy has come up before my
eyes!"
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.
"Madam," he said, "you are quite right. I will take upon me to answer
for my friend. Those two circumstances are connected with each other.
That lady that you saw is one very dear, perhaps too dear to my own
heart, and now, madam, to answer your question distinctly and closely,
without putting him to the pain of saying a word upon a subject which
he may think right not even to allude to; I will tell you that if he
so choose to act, he could at once prove his innocence to the whole
world; that he will be able to do so beyond all doubt, at an after
period; but that he could not do so now, without bringing certain
destruction upon the heads of two other persons, and committing a
great breach of trust. The facts I know from others, revealed to me as
a legal adviser, and I put it to him, himself, yesterday, with full
permission to do so, whether he would break the trust reposed in him,
and save his life at the expense of others; or run the risk--the
imminent risk of death. Madam, he chose like Charles Tyrrell, and to
those who know him, that is enough."
"I thought so, I was sure of it," cried Mrs. Effingham, while Lucy
gazed up in the face of her lover with her eyes dimmed with tears.
"And you must be the sacrifice!" continued Mrs. Effingham, after a
pause, gazing upon Charles with feelings of deep interest and
compassion. "You must be the sacrifice to your own noble and kindly
heart. Would to God that you were married to Lucy, that she might go
with you, and be your consolation and your comfort."
Charles Tyrrell took Mrs. Effingham's hands in his, and gazed into her
face for a moment.
"I fear I am very selfish," he said at length, "for I am so tempted to
ask you to let her go with me, that though I know you require comfort
too, I can scarcely refrain."
"But Charles, Charles," exclaimed Mrs. Effingham, pale and very much
agitated, "she is not yet your wife. She considers herself as much
bound to you as if she were. I know she does--I have always taught her
to do so. She will never be any other's but yours. She shall be yours
whenever you claim her."
"Oh, dear Mrs. Effingham," said Charles, "that it were so, indeed! and
not merely in name. I would claim her now--even now. But I know I am
acting selfishly. I know I am acting wrongly. I should be exposing her
to peril, and dangers, and discomforts, and it is better that I should
go now at once, and leave love, and hope, and happiness in my native
land behind me. It is better that I should go," and he dropped the
hand that he held in his.
"But, Lucy," said Mrs. Effingham, turning to her daughter, "have you
thought of this?--Have you heard of this? What do you say, my child,
for my brain is bewildered, and I scarcely know what I am doing."
"I say, my dear mother," she replied earnestly, "that there is but one
thing on earth that would stop me from going with him; neither perils,
nor dangers, nor discomforts, nor, if it must be so, the sorrows of a
life itself."
"What then?" demanded Mrs. Effingham.
"My mother!" replied Lucy. "To leave her to sadness, to solitude and
discomfort; that--that is the only obstacle that I think ought to
stand in my way."
"It should not stand in the way for a moment," replied Mrs. Effingham,
"were it not for other things. But think, Lucy, think of the
world--think of what the good and wise, as well as the vicious and
malevolent, would say."
"For that, my dear mother," replied Lucy, "I should care
little--secure in the approbation of my own heart. When Charles spoke
of such a thing--he did not ask me, but merely spoke of it a moment
ago--I thought over it all earnestly. I asked myself, were these times
of trouble, such as took place in the French Revolution, or in our own
Great Rebellion, and he were forced to fly so suddenly, should I not
do right to go with him? should I not be applauded for so doing? Who
could doubt that I should? How much more need for me to go with him
now, when he has so much more need of comfort. Would the world, which
says so little against the woman who, in disobedience to her parents,
or in opposition to her friends, flies from her home, to be married in
Scotland, would it blame me, for crossing the sea, to unite myself to
the man to whom I was engaged before, with the consent of all; would
it blame me, when I have so much higher objects--so much better
purposes in view--when I neither oppose those who love me, nor enter
into a family unwilling to receive me; when I go to share the sorrows,
and the poverty, and the exile of the only man that I ever loved; and
if it did blame me, ought I to value its blame? If it did censure me,
should I care for its censure?"
"No, my dear child," replied Mrs. Effingham, "in that you are right.
In such cases as these, perhaps, removed from all the ordinary
considerations of life, we must cast off ordinary considerations, and
for once, think abstractedly of what is just and noble, without
considering the world, though that consideration of the world is in
almost all instances, a woman's best and surest safeguard. Lucy, I
will put no restraint upon you. I will not say do it; for the
responsibility is too awful even for me, who do not often shrink from
responsibilities. You shall follow the dictates of your own judgment,
and of your own heart. Think not of me for one moment, my child. I and
poor Lady Tyrrell will console one another, and will, if you so
decide, join you as soon as may be."
Lucy paused for a moment without reply. A thousand new and strange
sensations--a thousand anxious and painful thoughts crowded her bosom,
and might be seen written in legible characters upon her countenance.
The last thing that appeared there was the rushing up of the bright,
warm, eloquent, blood, suffusing forehead, and cheeks, and neck, with
a deep and painful blush, while she held out her hand to Charles
Tyrrell, and casting the other arm round her mother's neck, hid her
face upon her bosom, and once more burst into tears. Mrs. Effingham
pressed her to her heart, and looking upon Charles with a melancholy
glance, she said,
"Oh, Charles, Charles! when, with frank and noble confidence, you
first told me of your love for Lucy, I promised that, in the coming
time, I would repay that confidence to the full; but I little thought
that I should ever have to put such a great--such an awful trust in
you! But I can trust you--surely, surely I can trust you with the
safety, with the happiness, with the honour of my child!"
"Believe me, believe me, Mrs. Effingham!" replied Charles, "as soon as
ever we reach the French shore, Lucy shall become mine by a right
which none can dispute. Pure, and innocent, and bright as she is, I do
not believe that there is mortal man, who would have the impious
courage, even in thought, to ruin that purity, or sully that
brightness. I know that our marriage can be instantly celebrated in
France, though we are now at war with that country, and the very first
letter that Lucy writes to you, it shall be as Lucy Tyrrell."
Still, however, Lucy clung to Mrs. Effingham, and raising her eyes to
her face, she exclaimed,
"Oh, my mother, my dear mother! how can I leave you? Charles, Charles,
ought I to be so selfish?"
"It is I, that am selfish, I fear," said Charles Tyrrell; "for while I
own, Lucy, that I would almost bear death itself, rather than part
with you, under circumstances of such uncertainty, yet I feel that it
is cruel to Mrs. Effingham, to take you from her even now."
"Think not of me, Lucy; think not of me, Charles," said Mrs.
Effingham. "You know what I can bear, and how I can bear it. If you
think it your duty to go with him--and, perhaps, notwithstanding all
dictates of worldly prudence, I may think so, too--act as you would
act if I were not in existence; let me not in the least impede you. I
shall do quite well; and he certainly needs you with him, more than I
do; for I do believe, Lucy, that to a noble and an uncorrupted heart,
the love and society of a pure and virtuous woman, is not only a
consolation under all circumstances, but a safeguard and a support."
Everard Morrison had, in the meanwhile, remained silent, but now,
though he understood and made every allowance for the natural
hesitation of Lucy under such circumstances, he felt that precious
moments must not be lost for slight causes, and taking a step forward,
he said,
"Dear Miss Effingham, you are decided to go. I have said nothing
hitherto in opposition to Tyrrell's scheme, for where you are willing
to risk so much, who shall talk of any other hazards? Let me, however,
now remind you, that every moment is precious. The tide serves just
one hour before daylight, the cutter will be off the point at that
hour, a very short time, therefore, remains for your preparation; and
even during that time, Sir Charles ought to leave you; for though we
have taken every precaution to prevent them from tracing us hitherto,
and to mislead them in regard to the course we have taken, yet there
is that natural connexion between this place and our escaped prisoner,
that suspicion will instantly look in this direction. Should any
search of the house be made while he is still here, no possible means
of escape would be left. He must, therefore, go on alone, leaving me
to conduct you to the spot where we shall find him."
It very often happens in life, that our decisions are made for us, by
other persons, taking it for granted that we have made them. Such,
however, was not exactly the case in the present instance; for Lucy
had determined already to go, and all that Everard Morrison said, only
tended to hasten her arrangements for that purpose: If any shade of
indecision was left, it was only expressed by her gazing alternately
at Charles Tyrrell and at her mother, while the young lawyer was
speaking. When he had done, however, she put her hand in that of
Charles Tyrrell, saying,
"I will go with you, Charles. Now go on as fast as possible. I will
lose no time, and will join you as speedily as I can. I may be
agitated, Charles, I may be terrified, but I have no earthly doubt
that I am doing right, and therefore I will not fear. Do not stay here
longer, Mr. Morrison is quite right. They may seek you, and what a
terrible thing it would be if they were to find you here. Every sound
that I hear makes me tremble. In a very few hours I will be with
you--God bless you, Charles, God bless you. Go, and leave me for the
present."
Charles Tyrrell tore himself away, and pursued his journey alone, and
fortunate, as it proved for him, that he did so. As soon as he was
gone, Lucy hastened away, by her mother's directions, to make what
preparations the time admitted, and Mrs. Effingham, instantly turning
to Morrison, said,
"The next matter to be considered, Mr. Morrison, is, how we are to
prepare Lucy's maid to accompany her mistress."
Morrison started, and was somewhat surprised, as he had not calculated
at all upon Lucy taking anybody with her. He strongly objected,
however, to the least hint being given to the maid in regard to
Charles Tyrrell's escape, although Mrs. Effingham guaranteed her
fidelity, assuring him that the woman had been in her family for many
years, having been in the first instance her daughter's nurse. He
represented the risk, however, so strongly, that Mrs. Effingham said,
at length,
"Well, since such is your opinion, I must go and persuade the woman to
go with Lucy without knowing why or wherefore. I think I shall be able
to do so; and it may, also, Mr. Morrison," she said, "be necessary to
add all the money I have in the house to their little stock; for such
a flight as this cannot be accomplished without great expense, and we
cannot tell how long their absence from this country may be
prolonged."
"Sir Charles Tyrrell has already with him a very considerable sum,"
replied Morrison, "which I procured from his mother in contemplation
of this business. It is necessary, however, to be fully prepared in
such respects; but I think if you have any jewels which you could give
your daughter, it would be even better than money; for a large sum of
gold would be cumbrous, and I do not well know whether the notes,
which form now our principal money, can be used in France without
great loss while we remain at war with that country."
"That can be easily managed," replied Mrs. Effingham, "I have some
valuable jewels, which I have not worn for many years, and which will
go into a very small space. I will now, however, see about all these
things, and prepare the maid to accompany her mistress."
Thus saying, she left him, and Morrison, whose presence of mind and
acuteness extended to the minute details of everything, instantly went
into the conservatory, closed the door by which Charles Tyrrell had
gone out, locked and bolted it, drew down the curtain, closed the door
between the drawing-room and the conservatory, locked it also, and
placed the key on a small nail by the side of the door, where he saw
another key hanging.
He then sat down, took out a number of law papers from his pocket,
made no scruple to borrow a sheet of paper from the writing-book on
the table, and having folded it neatly down into proper form, was, in
two minutes after Mrs. Effingham had left him, busily engaged in
making an abstract of one of the documents which he had spread out
before him. His only thought in so doing was, "I may as well employ
the time this way as any other;" but the fact of his so doing proved
of great advantage.
He had written one page, and was half way down the second, when a loud
ringing was heard at the bell. Before any of the servants could
appear, though they run to open the door with habitual quickness, the
ringing was repeated, and when the footman arrived at the door,
followed by the butler, three or four men, presented themselves,
headed by the governor of the county jail. As soon as the door was
open, the governor demanded sharply,
"Has any gentleman been here to-night, to visit the family?"
"Yes, sir," replied the butler, at once advancing, "there has; but I
should like to know why you ask?"
"Because, sir," replied the other, "I am governor of the county jail,
from which a prisoner has made his escape this night, and we have
traced him here. What is the gentleman's name that has been here?"
"His name is Morrison, sir," replied the butler.
"Then there was somebody with him," said the governor.
"No, that's not true," replied the butler, in a frank tone, that
admitted scarcely of a doubt, "there is no one but himself and our own
family that has entered these doors to-night. Of that I'll take my
oath. He is in the drawing-room now, on business with my mistress, and
will tell you so himself. I will go and call him."
"Stop! stop! my good fellow," cried the governor, "you don't stir a
step. Take care of these good fellows, constable, while I go in. I
must intrude upon the ladies at all risks. Is that the drawing-room
door?"
"No, sir," replied the butler, "that's the anteroom door, but it leads
to the drawing-room. Go if you like, you'll only be thought a saucy
companion for your pains; and if my mistress blames me, it's not my
fault, you know."
Without making any reply, the governor walked straight forward and
threw open the anteroom door. The door beyond was partly open, so that
he could see into the drawing-room at once, and there was no
possibility of anybody in it making their escape without being
perceived. There, however, sat Everard Morrison alone at the table,
with half a dozen large law papers spread all over it, the pen in his
hand, the abstract he was making lying before him, and the ink still
wet upon three or four lines preceding.
As the governor entered, he lifted up his head to see who it was; but
his countenance betrayed nothing which could excite suspicion. The
whole appearance of the room, and of the young lawyer himself, was so
natural, and so little calculated to awaken or confirm suspicion, that
the governor at once began to fear he had been misled, especially as
he had been guided in that direction principally by his own
suspicions.
It was necessary, however, to say something on the occasion, and he,
therefore, burst forth, saying,
"Very pretty this, Mister Morrison, very pretty this."
"What do you mean, governor?" said Morrison, in his usual calm tone.
"What is very pretty? I don't understand you."
"Why here you send a woman to me," said the governor, "asking
admission to Sir Charles Tyrrell, and giving me to understand that it
is Miss Effingham, and she turns out no such person, and lets him get
out in her cloak."
"I never gave you to understand that it was Miss Effingham," cried the
young lawyer; "quite on the contrary; in my note to you, I told you I
did not know who she was. I wrote in a great hurry, as I had to come
here to-night; but I took care to tell you that, I am sure. If it had
been either Mrs. or Miss Effingham, they would have come to me of
course, and I should have put their names down in the note. But I took
especial pains, on the contrary, to say that the lady who had written
to me, was at the inn, and that I could not tell who she was, in order
that you might act upon your own responsibility."
"Precious responsibility business I seem to have made of it," said the
governor. "Why I shall be turned out of my post."
"Pooh! nonsense," replied Everard Morrison; "any man may be deceived.
But who is this lady, for she must have stayed behind?"
"Lady!" exclaimed the governor. "She's no lady; some common woman, who
speaks as broad as a wagon-wheel. But she won't tell who she is; and
when I told her that she would be kept in there all her life till she
did, all she said was, she would take a day to consider of it; so I
thought the best way would be to come on here at once."
"And pray, what do you want here?" demanded Everard Morrison coolly,
as if the governor's coming there was the most extraordinary thing in
the world.
"Why, I thought I should find him here most likely," replied the
governor. "It was natural that he should come here, rather than go up
to the park, where he was sure to be laid hold of."
"More natural that he should go up to London, than do either," replied
Morrison. "I'm sure if I had helped him out, I should have advised him
to come here by no means"--which happened to be really the case, as
Everard had strongly counselled him not to come to the manor at
all--"However, governor," he continued, "I can assure you that he is
not here, for I have been here a long time, upon business with Mrs.
Effingham, as you see, and I must have known it if he were. Mrs.
Effingham and her daughter have both been with me, till within these
ten minutes, and I pledge you my word of honour, that Sir Charles
Tyrrell is not here, so you had better not disturb the ladies, for you
can trust to my word you know very well."
"Why I think I can, Mr. Morrison," replied the governor; "but then
what had I better do, do you think?"
"Why, that's hardly a fair question, governor," replied Morrison. "We
lawyers, you know, are never fond of advising a man to break out, for
we of course lose everything by such means; but now that he has got
out, of course I wish him safe through it; and then, on the other
hand, I should not like to give you wrong advice, so I shall give you
none. Only one thing you may be sure of, you won't find him up at the
park, for he is a great deal too clearheaded to linger about places,
where everybody knows him, and where the first cottager might take
hold of him, and get the reward which is likely to be offered."
There was so much reason in what the young lawyer said, that the
governor was greatly influenced by it. He resolved, however, to send
up a constable to the park, to make some sort of search, in order that
it might not be said, he had neglected any effort to recover the
prisoner. With the same view, also, he asked,
"Where does that glass-door lead, Mr. Morrison, do you know?"
"Why, I fancy to the conservatory," replied Morrison.
"I should like just to take a look into it, however," said the
governor. "I don't think you'd cheat me, Mr. Morrison; but I should
like just to say I had made some search."
"Oh, search if you like," replied Morrison, rising, and going toward
the conservatory; "but I give you my word of honour that if he is in
this house, it is without my knowledge, and without the knowledge of
either Mrs. Effingham or her daughter. But let us make haste then, if
you want to look into the conservatory; for if Mrs. Effingham comes
down, as she said she would in a minute, we shall both of us look
foolish, you know."
The conservatory-door was then opened, and the governor went in: but
the place bore so much the appearance of not having been opened since
it was closed for the night, that the look of everything, the calm
tranquillity of the young lawyer, the surly frankness of the butler,
the evidence of legal business going on which the table displayed,
thoroughly convinced the governor that he had made a mistake; and he
was in the act of retiring to return to the county-town, and pursue
his search in some other direction, when Mrs. Effingham herself
appeared, and drawing herself up with an air of cold dignity, looked
first to the governor and then to Everard, as if for an explanation of
his presence. Morrison instantly interposed, not wishing to plunge
Mrs. Effingham into the quagmire of explanations, wherein the
best-compounded stories are apt to flounder, and get themselves
caught.
"This is merely a gentleman, madam, who came to me upon some
business," he said. "I will see you early to-morrow, governor, good
night, good night;" and the governor retired, without adding anything
more.
When he was gone Mrs. Effingham sunk into a chair, and pressed her
hand upon her heart, which beat violently. Morrison, however,
explained the whole to her, and told her that he believed the governor
was completely deceived.
"We must take two precautions, however," he added, "when we ourselves
set out; one is, to ascertain that the same number of persons that the
governor brought with him have repassed the lodge-gates; the other to
ensure that there is no one watching in the field at the end of the
park-stile. How long do you think it will be, ere Miss Effingham is
ready?"
"Not half an hour," replied Mrs. Effingham.
"Well, then, I will go and see myself," replied Everard. "But pray, my
dear madam, in the meantime, put her in mind that she has no time to
lose; for there is a walk of nearly six miles before her, and Tyrrell
ought to be out at sea before daybreak."
"She will be ready in less than half an hour," repeated Mrs.
Effingham; and the young lawyer proceeded to ascertain that all the
avenues were clear.