In the neat little parlour of the Falcon, with its well-sanded floor,
its polished, black mahogany table, its corner-cupboard with a glass
door, displaying sundry objects of interest and curiosity, from
odd-shaped tea-pots of rich old china, to apostle-spoons and
sugar-basins of the reign of Anne, whose pert and foolish motto of
"semper eadem," adopted because she was the weakest and most
vacillating of women, still ornamented the silver; in this neat
parlour, of a little neat country inn, sat Charles Tyrrell, waiting,
perhaps, with some impatience for the coming of Mr. Driesen. There
were traces upon his face of the sorrows through which he had passed.
He was paler, thinner, sterner, we may say more manly, than he had
appeared a month before; but yet within the last few days his
countenance had undergone another and a better change, a cloud had
been blown from off the sky: his face was clear of some part of its
anxiety. He was grave, perhaps sad; for the fire of such things as
those he had undergone, tempers the iron into steel, and makes it
harder for ever.
But at the same time there was the aspect of hope renewed in his
countenance, there was an expression of expectation and confidence,
and though he had been made aware of the nature of his father's will,
he looked up with a smile on seeing the door open, thinking to take
Mr. Driesen by the hand with pleasure.
It was not that gentleman, however, who entered, but the landlord of
the Falcon himself, who closed the door carefully behind him, and
advanced with a low bow and a respectful air.
"I have had both your notes taken, sir," he said; "one to the governor
of the prison, and the other to Harbury Park, by two boys, that nobody
would know as coming from here; but as you were good enough to tell
me, Sir Charles your intention, of remaining here until you give
yourself up again at the trial, I cannot help letting you know
directly, for fear of anything going amiss, something that came to my
hearing, and which may be of very great importance to you, if you can
but get at the truth of it."
"What is it, landlord?" said Charles Tyrrell, "I shall be very much
obliged to you for any information; for although I trust I can,
without doubt, now prove, both how the blood came upon my coat, and
where I was during the whole period of my absence from the house; so
that of my acquittal, there cannot be the slightest doubt, yet I shall
never rest satisfied, I shall never know a moment's real and complete
peace, till I have, discovered and shown forth in the eyes of the
whole world, whose was the hand that really killed my unfortunate
father."
"Why the matter is this, Sir Charles," said the landlord of the
Falcon, "there's old John Smithson, who lives about a mile and a half
off, between this and the sea, and whose son is now in jail about that
smuggling business, always shakes his head when the people talk about
you and the murder of Sir Francis, and has been heard to say, more
than once, that the judges should not condemn you for it, that he'd
rather die himself. I heard about this yesterday, and I don't know how
it was, but as if I had known that you would be coming here tonight,
though Heaven knows I knew nothing about it. I couldn't help going
down to the old man's cottage, just quietly, not as if I came to
inquire, and talking to him about it. I couldn't get him to say much
upon the subject, for he had heard that you had got out of prison, and
he said, that being the case, it was no matter to anybody. I asked
him, however, what he would do, if you should be caught and brought
back again. He said, that he would not tell me what he would do; but
that they should not hang you, for he would prevent that. I tried, as
much as I could, to get something more out of him, but it was all no
use. He would not say a word more, and I believe the only way to do
with him would be, to call him up upon the trial, and make him give
evidence."
"Did he know my father at all?" demanded Charles Tyrrell.
"Oh, he knew him well enough by sight, sir," replied the man; "for
when he was a fisherman, I've heard, he used to supply the family, and
was up every day at the house almost; and about three weeks ago, he
stopped here one afternoon, to take a glass of grog, and he had seen
your father that day about his son; for the old man was in a towering
passion, and vowed that Sir Francis had treated him no better than a
dog."
"Indeed," said Charles Tyrrell, "you don't suppose he could have done
it himself."
"Why no, sir, I don't mean to say that," replied the landlord. "He's a
stout old fellow, too; as young as if there were twenty years off his
age, and he has a devil of a spirit of his own. He always had; but
then he was always a very honest, upright man; one never heard of his
doing any thing that was wrong. Some twenty years ago, indeed, he was
taken up upon some smuggling business, and was in prison one day; but
he proved that it was all false together, and he caught the
customhouse officer some time after, and gave him such a licking that
he never went near him again. No, I don't think he did it; but it is
clear enough that he knows something about it, and will come forward
and say what he does know, if he thinks there's any chance of your
being condemned."
"Perhaps," said Charles Tyrrell, "it may be better for me to send for
him, and speak with him on the matter."
"I should think not, Sir Charles," replied the landlord. "The trial,
you see, is likely to come on in two or three days, and your best
plan, I should think, would be to lie quiet, and have old Smithson
brought up as a witness. You say that you are sure you can prove where
you were, and what you were doing at the time; but when he's brought
up he'll know nothing of that, and will tell all that he knows. But I
would keep the whole matter quiet and calm till then, for fear of
scaring other people, who may be brought into trouble by it."
The advice of the landlord seemed, to Charles Tyrrell, so judicious,
that he determined to follow it, if he found that Morrison, whom he
hoped to see early on the following morning, coincided with him in
opinion.
As he was about to reply, however, the quick sound of a horse's feet
was heard before the house, and Mr. Driesen entered the room in a
minute after.
"My dear Charles," he said, grasping both the young baronet's hands;
as soon as the door was shut, and they were alone, "You cannot think
how anxious I am about you. In the name of Heaven, what has made you
come back again, when you were once safe off?"
"First, let me thank you, my dear sir," said Charles, with true
feelings of gratitude for all the emotions of apprehension and anxiety
which Mr. Driesen's agitation evidently betrayed. "First, let me thank
you for all your exertions in my favour, and for all the really
fatherly interest that you have taken in me. Believe me, I am
sincerely grateful."
"Oh, nonsense, nonsense, my dear Charles!" cried Mr. Driesen, grasping
his hands, while his eyes filled with unwonted moisture. "Don't talk
about gratitude, and such stuff. If I could but know that you were in
safety, that would be enough. I should then be comparatively at
ease--though, who knows?" and he drew a deep sigh. "But tell me,
Charles, tell me, what has made you mad enough to come back here, at
the imminent risk that you run?"
"In the first place, because I could not well help myself," replied
Charles Tyrrell. "But, in the next, because I am now at liberty to
show both where I was during that whole morning, and how the stains of
blood came upon my shooting jacket."
Mr. Driesen seemed somewhat surprised, but he replied, almost
immediately:--
"But can you account for the time, Charles, before you saw the
gardener--can you account for the gun? I see by your face you cannot;
and it is upon that, the whole business will turn. I have spoken with
the lawyers myself, and they all agree that it will be held by the
judge and the jury, that if you committed the act at all, it was
before you passed through the garden. Indeed, indeed, Charles, you are
putting your head into a lion's mouth."
"And do you, then, believe me guilty?" demanded Charles Tyrrell, in a
sad tone.
Mr. Driesen instantly replied, vehemently, "No, Charles, no, Charles,
no. I do not believe you guilty, but I do believe that you may be held
so, unless, indeed, you could prove who it was committed the act."
"That may not be impossible either," replied Charles Tyrrell. "Indeed,
I have good hope that such may be the case, though I cannot explain
myself further, at present, upon the subject."
Mr. Driesen mused for several minutes, in silence, and then replied--
"Charles, you are deceiving yourself. You will sacrifice your own
life--you will break the heart of Lucy Effingham--you will render all
those that love you miserable. I see it plainly; I see it evidently.
You are running headlong to destruction. Let me entreat you; let me
conjure you, while there is yet time, to secure yourself, by flying
once more. Here is a fresh strong horse at the door; he will carry
you, easily, forty miles this night. You can be at a seaport before
to-morrow. You can hire a ship, and ere to-morrow night be safe in
France. If you want money, draw upon me for what you like; draw upon
me for all your father left me. Here, I will sign a bond for it, this
moment. I will sign an acknowledgment that I owe it to you--anything,
anything, Charles, but save yourself directly;" and in his eagerness
and anxiety, he grasped Charles Tyrrell's hands convulsively in his,
gazing in his face with an earnest look of entreaty.
"Thank you, thank you, my dear sir," replied Charles, very much
affected; "a thousand, and a thousand thanks, for all your kindness."
"Then do, Charles, do," cried Mr. Driesen, thinking that he had
prevailed. "Make haste; get some refreshment, and put your foot in the
stirrup. You are a bold horseman--you ride fast--you will soon----"
but Charles stopped him.
"I am sorry," he said, "my dear sir, that I cannot do what you
wish me. I was stopped on my journey by the commander of the
revenue-cutter, and I pledged my honour to him that I would return and
surrender myself to trial. I have already, too, given notice to the
governor of the jail, that such will be the case."
Mr. Driesen struck his hand against his forehead, and exclaimed,
"By ---- you are mad!--and I shall be called up to give evidence
against you; to prove how you had been quarrelling with your father;
to show that he was as mad as you are, and that you had scarcely any
resource but to put him out of the world. This is too much; this is
too much!" and he walked up and down the room in a terrible state of
agitation.
Charles was a good deal agitated, also; for Mr. Driesen, certainly,
put the matter in a new point of view to him. He had conceived that
the whole strength of the evidence against him lay in his refusing to
account for the time he had been absent after the gardener had seen
him, and to explain the marks of blood upon his shooting-jacket. He
now, however, saw that there were several other suspicious
circumstances against him, what he had no means of doing away. He knew
how slight a thing will turn the scale in criminal trials; how
uncertain, we may say how capricious, are the decisions of juries. But
still there was no course before him but to do as he had proposed to
do, and, consequently, ceasing to argue the matter at all with Mr.
Driesen, he only endeavoured to sooth the agitation which his friend
was suffering, and to express the gratitude that he felt for the deep
interest which he took in his welfare.
He found it all in vain, however. Mr. Driesen would but listen to one
subject, and he again and again returned to his suggestion of flight,
endeavouring, by all the sophistries of which he was so complete a
master, and by which he so continually deceived himself to prove that
there were particular circumstances in which a man was justified in
doing anything for his own preservation; that there was no such thing
as abstract right and wrong; that everything was relative, and
depended entirely on the circumstances. His reasoning, however, did
not convince Charles Tyrrell, in his own case, more than it would have
done in that of others, and he remained unshaken, even in the
slightest degree.
Mr. Driesen at length perceived that it was so, after spending nearly
an hour in vain arguments; and finding that any further reasoning
would be vain, he suddenly ceased, and became quite quiet.
"What is it, then, you wish me to do for you?" he said. "Why was it
that you sent for me? though you will not be advised--though you will
not be warned, I am ready to do anything for you that you may desire."
Charles again thanked him, and then replied:--
"What I wish you to do, is no very difficult task; I merely wish you
to communicate to my mother and to Mrs. Effingham, what has taken
place. Doubtless the latter has already heard from Lucy by this
night's post; but at all events, tell her that I left her daughter
safe and well, under the charge of a clergyman and his sister,
at ----, on the coast of Devonshire. At first, she was so dreadfully
fatigued, that I feared her health would suffer; and as no restraint
was put upon me, I remained a whole day to be sure that such was not
the case. After a night's good repose, however, she rose much better,
and I think that the hope of my soon being able to establish my
innocence, had no small share in making her get over so well, all the
dangers and discomforts which she had suffered."
"The hope of your proving your innocence!" said Mr. Driesen, with
melancholy bitterness. "She will be soon cured of that hope, I fear,
Charles Tyrrell. However, as you are determined, there is no use in
saying any more, and I shall now leave you. If I can do anything to
serve you, let me know it. If you wish to see me again, I will come;
otherwise, Charles, I shall not see you again till I see you at the
trial; for I am not the man I was, Charles. All this has shaken me; my
corporeal frame is injured. I do not know that even my intellect is
what it was. Good-by--good-by. I could be a boy, or a woman, and cry
for very spite, to think of your casting away your only chance of life
and happiness. If you had worn out existence, I could understand it;
if you were, as I am at the end of that part of life, which comprises
all that is bright and happy, and at the beginning of that part which
is made up altogether of desolation and decay, I could understand it;
for death is nothing but one jump into forgetfulness. But with youth,
and hope, and happiness before you, I cannot make out your motives.
However, fare you well, fare you well, and all I trust is, that chance
may better take care of you than you take care of yourself."
Charles Tyrrell bade him adieu, well knowing that, as all their views
and principles were different, there was not the slightest use of
entering into any argument upon the subject. He could not, indeed,
help feeling a regard for Mr. Driesen, who had of late shown him much
real kindness. He could not help acknowledging to himself that he had
a warm, kind heart, and when, therefore, he left him, he felt some
pain and grief, from which he could only free himself, by sitting down
to make notes of all the matters of which he had to speak with Everard
Morrison, on the following morning.
Mr. Driesen, in the meantime, turned his steps back toward Harbury
Park. He went slowly and sadly, indeed. Three or four times dismounted
from his horse, and walked on, holding the bridle over his arm, and
when he had returned, and sought his own chamber, his foot might be
heard pacing it, to and fro, during the greater part of the night. He
had usually breakfasted in the library, and he had not yet finished,
on the morning following his interview with Charles Tyrrell, when the
butler came in and told him that there was an old man without desired
to speak with him. Mr. Driesen asked who it was, and the butler
replied:--
"Why it is one Smithson, sir, who used to be a good deal about the
house, selling fish, some twenty years ago."
"Show him in," said Mr. Driesen; and the butler having done so, shut
the door.
The old man remained in conversation with Mr. Driesen for some time.
After he was gone, the butler opened the door, to see whether he
should take away the breakfast things; but Mr. Driesen was still
leaning with his arm upon the table, staring into the cups. In half an
hour after, he rang the bell, and all the servants remarked, with
surprise, that from that moment he was entirely changed. All his old
liveliness and activity returned. He was gay, cheerful, and happy,
writing, indeed, the greater part of the day, but bearing interruption
quite tranquilly, and having some gay and cheerful word to say to
everybody.