She would have gladly walked over to see Lady Tyrrell, but a sense of propriety prevented her from so doing, till something more had passed on a subject so near to her heart; and Mrs. Effingham had ordered her carriage to drive out in a different direction, when Lucy's maid, while assisting her to dress for the expedition, informed her that the London night coach had been upset that morning, and two or three of the passengers had been killed. Such tidings, horrible in themselves, had at that moment a greater effect upon Lucy Effingham's mind than they would have had at any other time. Her heart was unnerved, and rendered more susceptible of every painful impression. Her anxiety had reached that precise point where it does not give strength and energy, but weakens; and though she had not the slightest idea that Charles Tyrrell was likely to travel down to Harbury Park before three weeks had passed, yet the information struck her with new and sudden apprehensions which she could by no means banish. Leaving her toilet half concluded, she ran to tell her mother what had occurred; but Mrs. Effingham did not seem to share in her fears; and toward evening, hearing nothing more upon the subject, she grew more tranquil. Just as night was falling, however, the butler entered the room, and with the sad, but important face wherewith a servant generally communicates disagreeable intelligence, he began in the prescribed form: "I beg pardon, madam, but I am afraid there's a terrible accident happened." "Do you mean in regard to the coach, Harris?" demanded his mistress. "We heard that in the morning." "No, ma'am," replied the man, "I mean that, indeed; but I mean that about young Mr. Tyrrell, too." Mrs. Effingham held up her hand to stop him, but it was too late. "Let him go on, mamma. Let him go on," cried Lucy, "I have heard too much or too little. Speak, Harris, is he killed?" and she gazed on him fixedly, though with a face as pale as death, endeavouring to read on his countenance whether what he was about to say was the whole unvarnished truth. The man who had known her from her infancy now guessed at once, both from her look and manner, and from that of Mrs. Effingham, how it went with her young heart, and he hastened to relieve her of at least part of the apprehension which he had cast upon her. "Oh, no, Miss Effingham," he said, "Mr. Charles is not killed. Don't be afraid. He was hurt a good deal, and was taken into one of the fishermen's cottages, down on the shore, which was the nearest place they could find, though that was many miles off the park. But he is not killed, and they say there is no doubt he will recover. I am quite sure of the fact, for I happened to be at the gate just now, as one of the fishermen came by who was going up to carry the news to the park; and he stopped to tell me the whole story."