After some further questions and answers, the butler retired, and Lucy advanced at once to her mother with a look of beseeching anxiety. "Oh, mamma," she said, "let us go to him." "Quite impossible, my dear Lucy," replied Mrs. Effingham. "Circumstanced as you are, quite impossible!" "But dear mamma," replied Lucy, more earnestly than perhaps she had ever pressed a request before, "it is the very circumstances in which I stand toward him which should make me go. Unless he were to set me free," she added with a blushing countenance, "I shall ever look upon myself as pledged to be his wife. Who, who then should be with him if I am to be absent?" "But you forget, Lucy," replied Mrs. Effingham, "his father! Sir Francis has in no manner expressed his approbation of your future marriage with his son; and I cannot consent to your going, unless Sir Francis himself were to wish it. We must bear even the suspense, Lucy, and the only thing that can be done, is for me to go up and see what I can do to comfort poor Lady Tyrrell. Console yourself as well as you can, my dear Lucy, till I return, and never lose your hope, and trust in Him whose right is our full faith and unmurmuring submission." As soon as the carriage could be brought round, Mrs. Effingham fulfilled her intention. But on arriving at Harbury park, she found that Lady Tyrrell had been ill in bed for the last two days--a brain fever the doctor called it; and her delirium ran so high, that she did not recognise any one. While she was hesitating what to do, the voice of Sir Francis Tyrrell himself was heard, demanding eagerly if that was the carriage. The servant informed that it was not, but that it was Mrs. Effingham who had called to inquire after Lady Tyrrell. The baronet was at the door of the carriage in a moment, and soon found that Mrs. Effingham was already acquainted with the event that had occurred. He was dreadfully agitated, but his agitation had always anger as a sort of safety-valve, and now a great part of it flew off in wrath. He was excessively angry that the coach had been overturned, and though he knew nothing of the matter, he vowed that it must have been entirely the coachman's stupidity and folly, and that the punishment of having been killed on the spot was only what he deserved. He was equally angry with Charles Tyrrell for having been hurt, and here he was upon surer ground, for he proved to a demonstration, that if he had been in the inside of the coach where he ought to have been, he would not have suffered so severely. He was angry that the intelligence had not been conveyed to him sooner, though the coachman had been killed and the guard had his leg broke, and they were the only two persons about the vehicle, who knew his son's name and family.