It often happens to us in life, at least to those people, whose
feelings are very deep and strong, that the consequence of some great
and sudden joy, or some quick and scarcely expected deliverance from
evil or danger, has any effect rather than that of exhilarating, or
renewing expectations, or reviving hope.
When Charles Tyrrell cast himself back in the carriage which was to
bear him away to her he so dearly loved, it was with a feeling of deep
depression. The news of Lucy's sickness, had come upon him suddenly,
in the midst of his joy, like a funeral crossing some gay procession;
and he felt as if it were too much to expect, or hope for, that he
should be suddenly delivered from all the pangs and anxieties that had
lately surrounded his path, without some terrible drawback, without
some drop of intense bitter mingling in the sweetness of his cup. A
feeling, which he could scarcely refrain from calling a presentiment,
that his Lucy would be snatched from him; and that while he regained
life, she who made life so dear, would be taken away.
Nor long after he had entered the carriage night came on; but though
he had rested not at all the night before, no sleep now visited his
eyelids, and he watched with feverish anxiety, the passing from stage
to stage, conjuring up every dark and bitter anticipation, every
terrible prospect and gloomy image, thinking the horses tardy, though
they went at full speed, and the time wasted in waking the people at
the inns, and changing the horses, almost interminable.
Day dawned at length, but he was still far from his journey's end, and
weary hour after hour went by, till he almost fancied the milestones
along the road were themselves deceiving him.
It was about four o'clock in the afternoon, when coming down one of
the wooded slopes of Devonshire, with the dark blue sea, rising to
meet the eye above the trees in the valley, he saw the little church
crowning the hill above, and the few scattered white houses, which
constituted the village, round the clergyman's house. It was a neat
and pretty building, though very small. There was a garden before the
door filled with autumn flowers, and that sweetest of all importations
from foreign lands, the monthly rose, clustering the porch and
spreading round the windows. The casements were almost all open, and
the sunshine was upon the dwelling.
There is much, very much, in the aspect of a place to which we are
going. The whole of Charles's journey had offered him nothing but
images of despair; but the sight of that house, and its flowers, and
its sunshine, showed him that hope was not altogether extinguished in
his bosom.
As the carriage and four drove up, there was a head put out of one of
the upper windows, and, without ringing or knocking, a servant ran to
open the door, and the little gate.
"How is Miss Effingham?" demanded Charles instantly.
"She is better, sir," replied the maid.
Charles put his hand to his heart, and paused for a moment, for he
felt as if he should have fallen.
"Where is she?" he demanded at length, "where is she? I may go up, I'm
sure."
The servant ran up stairs before him, but he overtook her as she
reached the top, and himself knocked at the door which she was
opening.
"May I come in?" he said; "may I come in? It is Charles."
"Oh, yes, come in, come in, dearest, Charles," said the voice of Lucy,
herself. "Come in," repeated the voice of Mrs. Effingham, and Charles
was in the room in a moment. Lucy was sitting up in bed, with her
mother beside her. She was pale, and had evidently been very ill; but
there was life, and hope, and joy in her eyes, and Charles, springing
forward, threw his arms around her, and pressed her to his bosom.
"I shall soon be well now, Charles," said Lucy, as soon as she could
dry her tears. "Your step upon the stairs, Charles, was better than
the finest drug that ever was imported from foreign lands. I shall
soon be well now!"
She kept her word, and was soon well. The cloud that had hung over the
early day of Charles Tyrrell was wafted away. In his youth he had
drank the bitter cup to the dregs, and the rest of his life passed in
sunshine and sweetness. Lucy made him happy, and having learned so
many severe lessons by experience, Charles acquired that command over
himself, and taught it to his children, which had been possessed by
none of his family before him.
He entertained, however, a sort of antipathy toward the spot where so
much misery had befallen him, and he proposed to Lucy, and she
willingly agreed, that he, being the last in the entail, should sell
the property of Harbury Park, and purchase another in the
neighbourhood of the spot where they were reunited after so painful a
separation.
In that park, however, and in the scenes around it, I have spent many
a happy day in sunshiny hours of my youth, and there collected, many
years ago, the details of that history which I have now given. The
Tyrrell family are still recollected by a multitude of persons living
around, and it seems to be a general opinion, that the sort of spell
which conducted so many of them to a bloody grave, had been broken by
the trial and acquittal of Sir Charles Tyrrell.
Young Morrison, alas! no longer young, is still alive, and affords
daily a good example of what an honest, upright, well-intentioned
lawyer can do for the defence, protection, and assistance of his
neighbours. Poor Captain Longly I remember well, with his hair as
white as snow, but nourishing to the last, with scrupulous care, the
long pig-tail, in which consisted the glory of his person. Hailes, his
wife, and children, removed to Devonshire, and he became the commander
of Sir Charles Tyrrell's yacht.
And now, having, as my admirable friend, Landor, says, "Not only tried
to give the ball, but swept out the ballroom," I will bid my readers
farewell; and, with the light and happy hearts of virtue and honour,
wish them a fair repose.
FOOTNOTES
[Footnote 1: These letters of license, were granted constantly by the
French Government, during the whole of the war, even at the very
period of the strictest non-intercourse system, established by
Napoleon.]
[Footnote 2: This was probably before the famous act of Lord
Ellenborough was passed.]
[Footnote 3: This incident of a man being apparently killed by a wound
in the throat, which ultimately proved very trifling, occurred within
the knowledge of the author.]
THE END.