True love is an unselfish passion; or, at all events--if the painful
doctrine of some philosophers be correct, and there be no affection of
the human mind without its share of selfishness--true love partakes
thereof as little or less than any other passion, and that share of
selfishness which it does admit, is of the noblest and most refined
kind. Yet we are inclined to believe that it is without selfishness;
for we cannot understand such a thing as being selfish by proxy. It
is, in fact, a contradiction in terms; and when we love another so
well as to be willing, ready, desirous of sacrificing our convenience,
our comfort, our safety, our happiness, ourselves for them, we may
admit the doctrine, that it gives us greater satisfaction to do so
than not, without admitting that we are selfish in so feeling.
It was about four o'clock in the morning, and Charles Tyrrell sat with
Lucy under the shelter of a projecting piece of rock, halfway up the
face of one of those cliffs which are common upon that coast, not very
difficult of ascent or descent, though enormously high, and presenting
perpendicular faces of rock in many parts. They are broken, at various
parts, by green flat slopes, by occasional trees and bushes, and by
steps or paths of sufficient breadth to enable two, if not three
people, to walk abreast.
The road which Hailes was to have taken toward the little village,
called Alcombe, passed up one of these paths, along the face of the
cliff. He had followed it, more than once, in former years, and had
imagined that he remembered it still; but such had not been the case;
and, after going on for some time, the whole party found that they
were decidedly astray.
Lucy, by this time, was exhausted and fatigued; and it was at length
determined, that while she sat and rested herself, Hailes should go
on, and endeavour to discover the right path. This was rendered the
more necessary by the coming on of a thunder-storm, which had been
threatening all night. The rain had only ceased for a time, to come
down in greater torrents, and was now mingled with vivid flashes of
lightning, illuminating the whole bay. The thunder, probably, would
not have been very loud, but it was echoed, and re-echoed, by the
cliffs and rocks around. While Charles Tyrrell, after having found a
place in which some projecting shelves of rock afforded Lucy a shelter
from the rain, sat beside her, and held her to his heart, striving to
cheer her with all that hope or fancy could suggest to brighten the
future, he thought not of himself, he thought not of the dangers of
his own situation, he thought of her alone; of all the perils, and
fatigues, and anxieties, to which she had exposed herself for his
sake; for her he looked forward to the future with apprehension and
anguish, and a thousand, and a thousand times, he cursed himself for
having given way to the spirit which tempted him to ask her to
accompany him.
Lucy spoke little, for her heart was very much depressed. She felt as
if the cup were not yet fully drained, as if there were more bitter
yet to be tasted, and her apprehensions for him she loved, trebled her
apprehensions for herself. She would not express any such feelings to
him, but she could not expel them from her own bosom, and they spread
out a cloud of sadness over her, that the moment, the scene, and the
circumstances in which they were placed, were not calculated at all to
dispel.
Nearly an hour and a half passed without the return of Hailes, and the
day began to break dull and heavy, with the rain still pouring down in
torrents, and the lightning, from time to time, flashing across the
sky. Both Lucy and Charles were beginning to wonder at the fisherman's
absence, and to calculate what they should do if he did not return
soon, when, at length, his foot was heard coming down toward them; but
he unfortunately brought them no good news.
"It is the oddest thing in the world," he said; "I can neither find
Alcombe, nor any one to tell me the way, and I think I must go back to
the place where we landed, in order to find my road rightly. I saw a
little church on the top of the hill, some way off, but that is not
it, for it lies down in the bottom of the punch-bowl, like."
"But if there is a church," said Charles Tyrrell, "there must be
houses near it, and we had better go on there, at all events, for Miss
Effingham is in absolute need of some repose. After she has rested
herself there for two or three hours, we can go on to the other place,
Wrexton, which the Captain mentioned, and, perhaps, can find some
conveyance."
This was, accordingly, agreed upon; and, after waiting a little, to
suffer the rain to decrease, which Hailes predicted it would do before
long, they took their way up to the top of the cliffs, and crossed the
downs by which those cliffs were surmounted, toward a small church,
which was now clearly to be seen at a little distance before them.
When they were not half a mile from it, their satisfaction was greatly
increased, by seeing a group of people near the church-door, and
several coming in and going out; but before they reached it the whole
had disappeared, taking their way, apparently, down the cliffs toward
the seaside. It was still raining, though not so hard as before; the
ground was wet and soft, and Lucy appeared chilly and unwell, although
the atmosphere was still warm and sultry; but, alas! no houses were to
be seen near the church, which was one of those buildings not uncommon
on the coast of England, that served both as a landmark to those at
sea, and a place of worship to those on land.
"Let us go into the church, at all events, Lucy, if we find it open,"
said Charles. "You can rest yourself there in safety, while I and
Hailes seek for some better place of shelter for you."
Lucy consented; for, to say the truth, she was too much fatigued to
proceed any farther; and, on approaching the church, they saw that the
door was half open. Charles unclosed it entirely, and led her in.
But the first sight that presented itself made them both draw hack. In
the middle of the aisle two or three low benches had been put, side to
side, so as to form a little sort of platform, over which was thrown a
large table-cloth, brought from the vestry; but underneath that cloth
was something stretched upon the benches, the outline of which was
seen through the table-cloth, leaving no earthly doubt that it covered
a dead body. Charles and Lucy, as we have said, both paused; but
Hailes walked on, saying, merely, as he passed them; "It's some poor
fellow who has been drowned last night in the storm. They always bring
'em to the churches, in this country, and put them down just so. I
should not wonder if it were one of the men out of that cursed cutter;
for she's struck on the reef, I'm very sure."
So saying, he walked to the benches and pulled back the table-cloth
from the dead man's face. Lucy turned away her head with a shudder,
but she was suddenly startled by hearing a loud exclamation, almost
amounting to a shout, from the fisherman, and by feeling Charles
Tyrrell suddenly dart forward from her side, as if something very
extraordinary had occurred. She too raised her eyes, and saw her lover
standing beside the little platform, with Hailes grasping him tight by
the arm, and pointing, with a face as pale as death, to the
countenance of the dead man before them. Charles Tyrrell too was very
pale, and, notwithstanding the horror of the sight they were looking
upon, she ran forward to his side, exclaiming:--
"What is the matter, Charles? For Heaven's sake, what is the matter?"
but as her eyes also fell upon the face of the corpse, the words died
away upon her lips, and she clung trembling to the arm of her lover;
for there before them, stretched out in death, lay the form of one
they had supposed to be dead many days before. It was that of
Lieutenant Hargrave, calm, still, and ashy. The part of the body which
Hailes had uncovered, displayed no clothing but a sailor's check
shirt; but the countenance was not to be mistaken, and not a little
was the agitation of the poor fisherman as he gazed upon the corpse,
scarcely able to persuade himself that what he beheld was real.
No one spoke for several minutes, till at length Hailes put forth his
hand, and touched the body with his finger; and then, as if Sir
Charles Tyrrell had been affected by the same fancies as himself, he
turned round, and said in a low voice:--
"It is flesh and blood, nevertheless."
"Certainly," replied Charles Tyrrell; "it is very extraordinary, there
can be no doubt."
"Well, hang me!" replied Hailes, "if I did not think it was his ghost,
when he came down after us to the boat, that night."
"Was it he who came down to the boat?" demanded Charles Tyrrell;
"would to God I had known that!"
"He!" exclaimed Hailes, "to be sure it was he. Who else should it be?
I thought it was his ghost, and expected to see it coming along the
water after us."
"This is a horrible sight for you, dear Lucy," said Charles, turning
toward her; "but, at all events, we draw comfort from this sad sight.
My innocence of anything that has been laid to my charge, may now be
easily proved, at least, so far as an explanation of where I was,
during the whole period of my absence from home, and how the blood
came upon my hands and coat, was wanting to the establishment of my
innocence before.[2] But come, dear Lucy," he continued, "this is not
a place in which you can remain; there must be some cottage in the
neighbourhood, where you can rest for a short time."
"I should think, sir," said Hailes, "that there must be fishermen's
houses hereabout; for this church, you see, tops the cliff, and when
one gets it in a line with the point of the nose, one knows that the
Hog's-back reef lies south and by east."
Without waiting to hear any farther account of the bearings of the
coast, Charles Tyrrell led Lucy out of the church; but almost at the
moment that they passed the door, they perceived a group of people
approaching from the side of the cliff, bearing up, apparently,
another dead body from below. There was at the head of them an old
gentleman, dressed in black, with white hair, and a mild and amiable
expression of countenance, about whose whole appearance there was
something that indicated strongly the pastor of the parish. His face
at the moment was full of solemn feeling, and, from time to time, he
turned round to address a word or two to the sailors and fishermen,
who were carrying the body.
Behind that group, at a little distance, came a young gentleman in the
undress of the naval service; but the moment his eyes fell upon
Charles Tyrrell, he hastened up to the group which had gone on before
him, and had passed it by a step or two, before they reached the
church. The young baronet instantly recognised him as the lieutenant
commanding the cutter, with whom he had been brought in contact
several times before. From what had passed between himself and the
master of the schooner on the preceding night, he felt sure that the
meeting between them was likely to produce painful results, and he
nerved his mind for the worst.
"Dear Lucy," he said rapidly, and in a low voice, "I am afraid we must
not attempt to pursue our flight farther; but do not be alarmed, dear
girl; remember I have it now, I trust, in my power to prove myself
innocent beyond all doubt."
Before she could answer him, the young officer had approached, and
walking straight up to Charles Tyrrell, he bowed with a courteous and
gentlemanly air, saying:--
"I must not say that I am glad to see you, Sir Charles Tyrrell, for I
am afraid that a very painful duty must devolve upon me in
consequence."
Charles returned his bow, and replied gravely:--
"Not so painful to me, sir, perhaps, as you imagine; for a very
extraordinary circumstance has just taken place, which greatly alters
the complexion of my affairs."
"Anything which renders them better, sir," replied the officer, "of
course, must be satisfactory to me. I need not tell you, Sir Charles,
that, from all I know of you, I feel perfectly certain that you are
innocent of that which is laid to your charge, but, at the same time,
it becomes my duty, on recognising you, to carry you back to the place
from which you have made your escape."
Lucy looked up with anguish in Charles Tyrrell's countenance,
saying:--
"Oh, Charles, Charles, is it to end in this?"
"Do not be alarmed, dear Lucy," he said; "remember in how much better
a situation I am now placed, than when we came away; but I must
endeavour, as far as possible, to obtain for you, protection, comfort,
and assistance, till we meet again."
"Oh, let me go with you," exclaimed Lucy; "do not, do not part with
me, Charles; I must not, I cannot be separated from you now!"
"Dearest Lucy," he said, "it will but be for a short time. You are
already too much fatigued; you are wet, you are ill, you are unable to
bear a long journey under such circumstances."
By this time the clergyman had paused, and was looking on at what took
place with some degree of interest, and two or three of the sailors
and fishermen had gathered round, while the rest carried the body into
the church.
"Will you allow me to ask you one question, sir?" said Charles,
turning to the officer. "Am I, or am I not right, in supposing that I
have just now seen in that church, the body of Lieutenant Hargrave?"
"It is but too true, sir," replied the officer. "He would come off in
the boat last night, when we were unfortunate enough to get upon the
reef; and, as I told him, would be the case, he was drowned; the only
chance was staying by the ship till the wind went down. The first
thing we saw this morning, when we got off ourselves, was his body,
lying among the rocks, with that of one of the poor fellows who went
with him. The other we have not found yet."
"Then I am to understand you," said Charles Tyrrell, "that he was safe
and well on board your ship last night."
"Quite so," replied the lieutenant, with some expression of surprise,
at questions, the tendency of which he did not understand.
"But had he not been ill to your knowledge?" demanded Charles Tyrrell.
"Oh yes," replied the lieutenant; "three or four days before, he had
been very ill, up at a cottage, close by your park; and he had a
spitting of blood, for which he thought the sea would do him good. So
when he gave us information of the sailing of the schooner, he
insisted upon coming with me; though, to say the truth, I wished him
not.
"I will show you in a moment, why I ask," continued Charles Tyrrell.
"But, in the meantime, I should wish to speak, for an instant, to this
reverend gentleman here present; and I should think that you know
sufficient of me, to trust to my word, when I assure you that I will
not make the slightest attempt to escape. But, as soon as I have made
arrangements for the comfort and protection of this young lady, will
return, and go with you wherever you please. Do you trust me?"
"Most implicitly," replied the young officer, bowing. "You are not a
man, sir, I know, to break your word," and, calling the sailors away,
he turned toward the church, and left Charles and Lucy standing with
the clergyman only.
"What can I do for you, my good sir?" said the clergyman, mildly;
"from what I have heard, I am led to suppose that I speak to Sir
Charles Tyrrell, whose name has, unfortunately, become too familiar to
us lately."
"Unfortunately, indeed, sir," replied Charles Tyrrell. "But luckily a
turn has taken place in these affairs, which will soon clear that name
from every imputation. The simple facts are these, sir. I was accused,
under circumstances of strong suspicion, of an awful and horrible
crime, of which I was perfectly innocent. There were two
circumstances, which seemed perfectly confirmatory of the accusation,
and in regard to which I was prevented from giving any explanation, by
the fear of involving others in still more dangerous affairs, than
that in which I was myself placed. The sight, however, which I have
had in this church, of the dead body of Lieutenant Hargrave,
altogether removes the obstacles which prevented me from proving my
innocence, and I willingly go back to take my trial. In the meantime,
however, this young lady requires protection, repose, and
consolation."
"Who is the young lady, sir?" demanded the clergyman. "I hope, nay, I
am sure you would not----"
"Hush, sir," said Charles. "Pray utter not a word that can even imply
a doubt or a suspicion. This young lady, before my father's death, was
engaged to me by the consent of all parties; and when, seeing no
prospect of clearing myself of a crime which had never entered my
thoughts, I made my escape from prison, she nobly and generously
agreed to accompany me in my flight. Our marriage was to take place as
soon as we reached a place of safety; and, to facilitate our union as
far as possible, her mother, ere she went, gave her full consent, in
writing, to our immediate marriage. Is it not so, my Lucy?"
Lucy had clung to him with her heart sinking with apprehension and
anxiety, and her face covered with blushes; and the old clergyman,
without increasing her emotion by gazing upon, had marked her changing
countenance, and its pure, high expression, from time to time, while
her lover spoke, explaining all the circumstances of their situation.
"I need no farther confirmation," said the good old man, at length, "I
need no farther confirmation than the lady's face. Come, my child," he
added, putting his hand gently on her arm, "be comforted. I trust that
all will yet go right, and you see that this gentleman himself now
thinks that he can easily clear himself. Be comforted; be comforted!"
he continued, seeing that his kind tone had moved her to tears; "all
will go right, depend upon it; and now tell me what I can do for you?"
"You are very kind, sir," replied Lucy, "but if it were possible, I
would much rather go back with him at once."
"Indeed, dear Lucy, you are not fit," said Charles; "you are worn out,
exhausted, chilled, and it would kill you. What I seek for her, sir,
is a place of repose, quiet, and protection, till she is able to
return to her mother, Mrs. Effingham."
"Indeed, young lady, Sir Charles is right," said the clergyman; "the
urgency of the case, and circumstances of which I am not aware, may
have rendered it quite right for your mother to consent to your
accompanying him without servant or companion."
"Pardon me," said Charles, "Miss Effingham's maid is now in the
schooner, from which we landed last night; but she was too ill to land
at that time; and, as our object was only to escape the search which
was likely to be made, we left her willingly enough, onboard; as,
indeed, she has been of no service, but only an incumbrance to us.
"I am glad, however," said the old man, "that she is there. It will be
much better, my poor young friend, that Miss Effingham should remain
here for a day or two, than accompany you back; going, as you must do,
I fear, a prisoner. I have a sister living with me, who has suffered
some sorrows herself, and can feel for others. I may promise for her
that she will be as a mother to this young lady, till we give her back
into the care of her own mother: or perhaps," he added, with a faint
smile, "to her husband. However, it will be much better for her to
remain; and what we can do to comfort her we will."
"I am sure of it," said Charles, "I am sure of it. Can we not conduct
her to some place of repose at once?"
"My poor vicarage is not far off," replied the clergyman, "but I think
you said to the officer of the cutter, that you would join him in the
church. Let me guide the young lady down to my house, and provide for
her comfort, while you go and speak to him."
"But you will not leave me, Charles!" said Lucy, clinging to him. "You
will not let them take you away without seeing me again."
"Certainly not, dear Lucy," he replied, "do not be alarmed, dearest; I
will see you again immediately; and remember, my beloved, when I do
go, I go but to establish my innocence, and to come back, free and
happy, to claim my Lucy as my own."
"I believe I am very foolish," replied Lucy, taking the arm the old
clergyman offered her, "but all that I have gone through seems to have
weakened my mind as well as my body. I trust to your promise, however,
Charles; I know you would not deceive me."
"Not by a thought, dear Lucy," he replied; and bidding her a temporary
adieu, he turned to the church, where he found the lieutenant
standing, with the sailors and fishermen, at the end of the aisle,
near the door.
"You mentioned, Sir Charles," said the young officer, as soon as he
saw him, "that there was something which you wished to point out to me
in regard to poor Hargrave; and I have, therefore, not suffered the
body to be touched till you arrived."
"I will show you in a moment," replied Charles Tyrrell, advancing to
the place where the body lay; "but I wish every one to witness, and to
take note, exactly, of what they see, as the state of this body may be
of much importance hereafter. The lieutenant beckoned up the men, and
Charles Tyrrell untied the black silk handkerchief that was round the
dead man's neck, and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt, throwing it
far back. The moment that he did so a small wound was perceived, just
above the collar-bone. It could scarcely be said to be in the neck,
and lay not half a finger's breadth from the windpipe. The whole flesh
and skin around was discoloured, as if from a severe bruise, and there
were marks of dressings and surgical applications, which had,
probably, been washed away by the sea-water. But little, if any,
inflammation appeared to have followed the wound, and in every other
respect the appearance of the dead man was healthy and vigorous.
"That is very odd, indeed," said the lieutenant, after having gazed
for a minute. "He never said anything to me, upon the subject; but he
seems to have had a gunshot in the throat, which must have gone very
near to kill him."
"A pistolshot, not a gunshot," replied Charles Tyrrell; "and every one
who was present thought that it had killed him; for he lay before my
eyes as like a dead man as he now lies there."
"It is very odd, indeed," said the young officer; "but yet I don't
quite understand how this should have prevented you, Sir Charles, from
explaining where you were, and what you were doing, which I saw, by
the newspapers, you would not do. I could have proved that he gave you
provocation enough if you had shot him twenty times over."
"I had no hand in shooting him," replied Charles Tyrrell; "but I
happened to be accidentally present when it was done, and I would not
mention the fact, because I was afraid that it might draw down
destruction upon the head of several persons who were engaged in the
business; and nothing, should have induced me to say one word upon the
subject, if we had not now proof positive that he was alive and well
long after the event."
"Was it done fairly?" asked the lieutenant, laconically.
"As fairly as such a thing can be done," replied Charles Tyrrell. "He
had the first shot, and he was at a considerable distance from his
antagonist. How far, exactly, I cannot say; for I did not choose to be
present, and was going off the ground as fast as possible, when the
shots were fired."
"This is all very strange," continued the lieutenant; "if it were all
fair, why should you mind!"
"I will tell you why, in a moment," replied Charles; "because, in
regard to that practice of duelling, our English law is either
iniquitous itself, or iniquitous in its administration--perhaps both
But, at all events, put it to yourself.--Suppose a man, considered by
the forms of society in an inferior station, were to receive from an
officer in the service of the king, either in his own person, or in
the person of his child, a gross insult and a bitter injury, and were
to call that man to account, as you or I should do----"
"Why, a thousand chances to one," said the officer, "the man who had
been blackguard enough to give the offence, would be blackguard enough
to refuse the satisfaction?"
"True," replied Charles Tyrrell; "but suppose that they met in such a
situation that the satisfaction could not be well refused; that the
person, considered as the inferior, were to put pistols into the hands
of the superior, and insist upon that atonement which could not be
denied if they had been considered as equals: supposing that, under
these circumstances, they fought what is termed a duel, and the
officer in the king's service was killed, only one witness being
present, and that a person coming willingly with the inferior, what
would be the result then?"
"Why, I am very much afraid," said the young officer, "that the poor
fellow would be hanged."
"But, if we add to all this," said Charles Tyrrell, "that, besides the
insult and the injury which I have before spoken of, the king's
officer was supposed to have laid an information against the man who
shot him and the witness brought to the ground, for any offence you
like to imagine, so that revenge might be attributed to the inferior
as the cause of his conduct: suppose that a fourth person had
accidentally been present, and, although fully convinced that the
inferior had but one motive, namely, to punish an aggravated and
shameful insult, had warned him that he was committing an illegal act,
which would be construed into murder, what would be the consequence to
the inferior, if the facts were discovered? What ought to be the
conduct of the witness, accidentally present, if fully convinced of
the honesty, uprightness, and high motives of the survivor?"
"I take you, sir, I take you," replied the young officer. "I
understand it all; I see how it is; but, for that matter Hargrave had
no right to refuse to fight Captain Longly. A man who stands upon such
nice distinctions, is either a coward, or no gentleman. I should not
mind fighting Captain Longly myself, for that matter; and Hargrave
certainly did behave very badly to Miss Longly, even from his own
account."
"Remember," said Charles Tyrrell; "remember, I have named no names.
The case, as I have put it, regarding the unwilling witness, is
entirely my own; but before I even now mention the names of the other
persons, I must speak with my lawyer, and ascertain that there is no
danger to them. In the meantime, however, I wish most earnestly, that
if you have time, you would take measures to put precisely upon record
the state in which this body has been found, and all the facts
concerning the last days of this unhappy young man."
"That I will; that I will," replied the lieutenant; "I shall have
plenty of time, unfortunately, for you see I must stay to see if
anything can be saved from the vessel when the tide goes down. Then,
of course, I must go to town, to demand a court-martial, though I
don't think they can say I did wrong. She was carrying on as gallantly
as possible, and I had plenty of room, when, you see, the mast came by
the board, and before anything could be done we were on the reef. The
best thing to be done in this business, is to send for a surgeon, and
have the body properly examined. But, on my soul, I do not know what
to do with you, Sir Charles. I think you have acted a most honourable
and upright part, and yet, I suppose what I ought to do is to send for
an officer to go back with you to prison. I cannot, and I ought not,
to let you get off, you know."
Charles Tyrrell smiled at the young officer's embarrassment, but he
hastened to relieve him, by saying:--
"Make yourself not the least uneasy, on that account. I have not the
slightest desire to get off, I can assure you. My only view and object
is, at present, to go back, as fast as possible, myself, and to get
the trial over, and my own character cleared, as I now can do, without
a moment's delay. As long as I believed that this young man had been
killed, and that my only means of exculpation, if I used it, would be
employed to the destruction of others, I was anxious, as you may
easily suppose, to escape to another country, till such time as it was
possible for me to prove my own innocence without the destruction of
two honest men. Now, however, the establishment of my own character,
is my first object; and I give you my word, that if you were not here,
or had not recognised me, I would go back, and surrender myself at
once."
"Well, then," replied the lieutenant, "I think that is the best thing
that you can do now. Of course it will be much more pleasant for you
to go back alone, than in custody. The assizes have begun, I believe,
and if you'll pledge me your word of honour, that you will surrender
to take your trial, as people do in duels, and things of that kind, I
shan't say anything more of the matter, unless you call me as a
witness."
"Which, of course, I shall do," replied Charles Tyrrell; "but most
willingly, and most thankfully, do I pledge you my word of honour; for
you may easily conceive that the custody of a constable, or the
confinement of a prison, can afford but too little consolation, under
circumstances already too painful."