Charles Tyrrell; or, The Bitter Blood. Volumes I and II

by G. P. R. James

CHAPTER VII.

In the ordinary commerce of one human being with another, which takes place in the every-day routine of that dull machine which is called society, especially in large cities, we pass on through life, knowing little or nothing of the human beings with whom we are brought in temporary contact. A cynic said, that language was made to conceal our ideas; and he might have added, with equal truth, that the expression of the human countenance was intended to convey false impressions. A great part of the truth is not spoken, because there is no necessity for speaking it; another great part is swallowed up by conventional falsehoods; and the rest, or very nearly the rest, is buried under lies that the liars think cannot be discovered.

Thus, when we think of the great part of our ordinary acquaintance, and ask ourselves what are their views, purposes, opinions, thoughts, feelings, dispositions, characters, we may well say with the moralist, poet, and philosopher, "We know nothing." It is much to be feared, that if from society in general we were to take away all that is false in word, look, and action, we should have nothing but a pantomime in dumb show, performed by very stiff automatons.

Such, however, cannot be the case entirely with those who spend ten days together in a country house. There will come moments when the machinery is somewhat deranged; when the springs will appear; when the piece of mechanism will want winding-up; in short, I believe it to be very difficult for the most habitual actor on the world's stage to pass the whole of many days with an observant companion without some trait appearing, some slight indication taking place of the real man within, of the heart that beats, and the character that acts underneath the mask of our ordinary communications with the world.

At the end of ten days Mrs. Effingham was settled at the manor-house, and she was perfectly satisfied in regard to every point of the character of Sir Francis Tyrrell. She saw and knew, as she had before believed, that he was a man who would on no account commit a base, dishonourable, or dishonest action; that in everything appertaining to money, when separated and apart from other motives and passions, he was generous and liberal. But the violence, the irritability, the exasperating nature of his temper and disposition, it must be owned, went far beyond anything that she had expected or even believed possible. For Lady Tyrrell she was deeply sorry; and though she did not always think that lady acted wisely towards her husband, yet she was evidently the suffering party, and therefore engaged all Mrs. Effingham's best feelings in her behalf.

Some doubts in regard to her estimate of Charles Tyrrell's character would occasionally insinuate themselves into the mind of Mrs. Effingham. She saw that he possessed all his father's good qualities, and almost all his mother's, improved and directed by a mind of a higher tone, and by mingling, as a young man only can mingle, with the world. But she perceived, also, that no small portion of the fierce and fiery character of his father had descended to him. She marked it in the flashing of his eye; she heard it in the quivering of his voice; and she distinguished it in the sharp, uncompromising reply which burst from his lips when his mother was assailed; and she felt sure that in that noble and commanding form, already full of high and manly graces, there dwelt a passionate and eager spirit, difficult to control, and which might or might not, by habit and indulgence, assume a character like that of his father.

She hoped and trusted, indeed, that it was not so; for she saw that Charles was continually engaged in a struggle with himself, and she fully appreciated the powers of his mind and the feelingness of his heart. She doubted, however; she was not sure; and she thought of Lucy, and the chance that existed of her daughter, sweet, amiable, and gentle as she was, acting again the part of Lady Tyrrell, and withering like a flower scorched by the lightning.

When, however, she reflected and compared which of the two she would rather have for the husband of her daughter, Charles Tyrrell or Arthur Hargrave, she was inclined to clasp her hands together, and exclaim without hesitation, "Oh, Charles, by all means! With him there is always some hope; with him there is always some resource. It would be difficult, I should think, for a well-intentioned person to miss the means of either moving him by his feelings or convincing him by his reason. No, no," she added, "he can never become like his father; but I fear, I very much fear, lest the intense and fiery disposition which I see is so ungovernable within him, may lead him to acts which will bring misery on himself and on those that love him."

What were the feelings of Lucy Effingham herself, and what the view which she took of the characters of Sir Francis Tyrrell's family, we shall not pause to inquire. She had attached herself greatly to Lady Tyrrell, and with her winning sweetness had wound herself so closely round that lady's heart, that, ere she left Harbury Park, its mistress looked upon her almost as a daughter.

The fourth personage which formed the society that Mrs. Effingham and her daughter left behind when they proceeded to take up their abode at the manor-house, was abhorred and disliked by both; but Mr. Driesen did not, or would not, or could not, find it out. He was plentifully furnished, as we have had occasion to show, with that most serviceable and comforting of properties, self-conceit. People might disagree with him in all his views, oppose him in argument, or frankly acknowledge their dislike for the principles he inculcated, without affecting his opinion of himself in the least. He believed, in general, that the only thing for which anybody argued was victory. He thought, with the utmost confidence, that he was always victorious, and believed (as was indeed the case) that he was always more or less eloquent, and therefore concluded that his opponents must be convinced, and admire, even if they did not like him.

At all events, his love of himself was an impregnable citadel which nothing could storm. He had seldom, if ever, ventured out of it, it is true, to attack any one else violently, though once or twice he had done so in younger days, and had shown himself decidedly a man of courage: valuing the life of this world very little, though he believed that there was none other beyond the grave, and not at all scrupulous of risking it for the purpose of punishing any one who very deeply offended him.

These were rare cases, however, and, on the whole, Mr. Driesen was considered a good-tempered and placable man; and those who did not see very deeply had been heard to observe, that it was a pity such a good-humoured fellow as Driesen, so talented and so amusing, should be utterly unprincipled. However, one great source of his good humour was his self-conceit, which seldom, if ever, suffered him to take offence, and this, therefore, prevented him from seeing that Lucy Effingham shrank from him whenever it was possible to do so without rudeness, and that Mrs. Effingham received all the civilities and attentions that he paid her with coldness which would have repelled any other man.

We must now come to inquire into the most important point of all, namely, with what feelings Charles Tyrrell saw Lucy Effingham quit his father's house. He had thought her exquisitely beautiful from the first. The grace which marked all her movements, and which seemed to spring from a graceful mind, had not been lost to him either. There had been also constant traits appearing of a kind and gentle heart; and without attempting anything like display--for one of the most marked and distinguishing characteristics of Lucy's mind was a retiring, though not, perhaps, a timid modesty--she had suffered so much to appear during her stay at Harbury Park, that Charles could not doubt her mind had been as highly cultivated by her parents as it had been richly endowed by Heaven. All this he had seen as a mere observer; and, never forgetting what his mother had said in regard to Arthur Hargrave, he fancied that he looked upon the whole merely as a spectator, and that he examined, appreciated, and admired Lucy Effingham merely as his father's guest and his mother's affectionate friend.

Thus it went on till she had quitted the Park and taken up her abode at the manor-house, and then Charles felt a vacancy and a want far more strongly than he had expected. The house seemed to have lost its sunshine; the Park, beautiful as it was, appeared cold and damp; the melodious sound of her voice, too, which he had not thought of while she was there, was now remembered when it was no longer heard.

All these, and a thousand other feelings, came upon him at the breakfast-table on the morning after their departure. He recollected, however, before breakfast was over, that it would be but civil to go down and inquire for Mrs. Effingham and her daughter, and to ascertain whether they were comfortable in their new abode. He accordingly did so, and by some strange combination of circumstances, which Sir Francis Tyrrell, and Mr. Driesen, and Lady Tyrrell all observed it so happened that not a day passed without there being some very valid motive and excellent good reason why Charles Tyrrell should go down to the manor-house, unless it happened to be on a day when he was aware that Mrs. Effingham and her daughter, or Lucy alone, were to be with Lady Tyrrell.

Once Charles thought of it himself, and for a single instant a doubt crossed his bosom as to what his feelings might become; but he laughed it off in a moment. The causes that took him to the manor-house seemed so natural, that there was no fear, he thought, of his feelings becoming anything but what they were already. Indeed, there was no great necessity that they should; for by this time Charles Tyrrell was as much in love with Lucy Effingham as he well could be. The very consequence of his being so much in love was, that he went on, confident he was not so at all; and how long he would have remained in this state of ignorance would be difficult to determine, if the period of his return to Oxford had not rapidly approached, bringing with it thoughts and reflections which made him look more accurately into his own heart.

He put off the hour of examination, indeed, till the very evening before the day fixed for his departure. But on that evening Mrs. Effingham and Lucy dined at the Park; and although there occurred not one event which we could take hold of to write it down as a legitimate cause why Charles Tyrrell should feel differently after that evening, yet upon the whole the passing of it had the effect of making him determine to sift his own sensations to the bottom. Of course, there was a certain impression upon the whole party at the Park, caused by his approaching departure. Lady Tyrrell felt it very bitterly, as she always did, and did not scruple to suffer that feeling to appear.

But it was the effect upon Lucy Effingham that principally moved Charles Tyrrell. She said not a word but such as she was accustomed to say: no one single incident took place to show that there was a difference in her feelings; and yet a certain softness, a degree of sadness coloured her thoughts, and was heard in the tone of her voice, which Charles Tyrrell did remark. He was anything but vain, and would never, probably, have applied what he did remark to himself, had not hope been busy with imagination, and imagination with Lucy Effingham. But, as it was so, he did remark, in addition to the softness and sadness of Lucy's tone and manner, that the softness and sadness were always somewhat increased after his approaching departure had been mentioned.

As he gazed upon her, too, he thought that she was lovelier than ever. As he stood beside her while she sang, her voice seemed to him melody itself; and when he put her into the carriage which was to bear her away, the thrill which ran through his heart as she shook hands with him and bade him farewell, made him pause for a moment in the vestibule ere he returned to the rest of the world.

As soon as he had retired to his own room, Charles began his commune with his own heart. The interrogatory, as far as the actual facts were concerned, was soon at an end; for when he asked himself if he loved Lucy Effingham really, truly, and sincerely, his heart answered "yes" at once.

There were other questions, however, to be asked, referring only to probabilities. The first question was whether there existed any chance of obtaining het love in return, notwithstanding the previous attachment which she entertained towards Arthur Hargrave. This was a difficult problem to solve; for though there were hopes, from the friendship with which Lucy Effingham seemed to regard him, and from her demeanour during that evening, which made his heart beat high, yet there had been nothing so decided in word, or even in manner, as to justify him in any very sanguine expectations. Love and hope, however, are almost inseparable: and the smiling goddess first produced one argument from her store, and then another, to show him that there was no reason to despair. In the first place, Lucy had seen this young man, this Lieutenant Hargrave, not very often, according to his mother's account; in the next place, she knew that he was disapproved, disliked, and contemned by all whom she had cause to esteem; and, in the third place, she had made no resistance to the will of her parents, nor proffered a word of opposition. In short, he settled it in his own mind that there was hope for him; but then came the question, could he be satisfied with that portion of affection which he could hope to gain from a heart that had loved before. He asked himself if it were possible that any heart could love really twice; and he felt inclined to answer in words almost equally strong, but not so beautiful, as those of Walter Savage Landor, when the great poet says:

"Tell me: if ever, Eros! are revealed
Thy secrets to the earth: have they been true
To any love who speak about the first?
What! shall these holier lights, like twinkling stars
In the few hours assigned them, change their place,
And, when comes ampler splendour, disappear?
Idler I am; and pardon, not reply,
Implore from thee, thus questioned. Well I know
Thou strikest, like Olympian Jove, but once."

But Charles Tyrrell loved, and though he would have given worlds that Lucy Effingham had never felt one feeling of attachment to another; though he knew, if he would have owned it, that her having done so would be a bitter drop in his cup through life, even if she accepted him willingly; though he could not have denied, if he had still gone on to question himself closely, that no signs of affection to himself, in after life would ever convince him that she loved him as fully, as truly, as entirely as if she had never loved another, yet Charles Tyrrell loved, and the hope of possessing Lucy Effingham was sufficient to make him stride over every objection.

All this being settled, and his determination taken, the next thing to be considered was the course which he should pursue. He was not yet of age; but a few months only were wanting, and he felt that, when they were past, he should be in a different position, and enabled to treat the matter in a different manner. He was sure that there was a certain perversity in the disposition of Sir Francis, which would make his expressed wish to marry Lucy Effingham the very reason why the baronet would throw obstacles in the way, though he had been himself the first to seek the alliance.

In regard to his mother, after all that had passed between them, upon the subject, after what had been said of Lucy Effingham's first attachment, and their both agreeing that he never could be satisfied with anything but affection in its first young strength, he felt a degree of shame, a sort of shyness as to mentioning his changed views and purposes.

Under these circumstances he determined to set out for Oxford without informing either his father or his mother of the state of his feelings. He was too upright and straightforward to affect towards his father any dislike to one whom he loved and admired as he did Lucy, although he well knew that such would be the means to hurry on Sir Francis into some irrevocable step towards the promotion of their marriage; but he felt himself quite justified in saying nothing on the subject, and returning to Oxford as if with unconcern, and he consequently determined to do so the next day.

At the same time, however, his was by far too eager a nature to leave the affections of Lucy Effingham to be lost or won during his absence without an effort; and he therefore resolved to acquaint his mother by letter with feelings which he did not choose to speak, and to induce her to make known those feelings to Lucy, and to endeavour to ascertain more accurately the state of her affection in return.

All those resolutions and determinations were formed with great and calm deliberation before he lay down to rest; but, unfortunately, while he had been resolving one way, Fate had been resolving another, and not one single thing that he determined upon that night did he succeed in executing.

Thoughts such as those that occupied him are very matutinal in their activity, and before five o'clock on the following morning Charles Tyrrell was up and dressed. The vehicle that was to convey him did not pass the gates of the Park till about eleven o'clock, and he would have had time, if he had chosen so to act; to go down and see Lucy once more, and learn his fate from her own lips. He did not choose to do so, however; but, to fill up the hours till breakfast time, he determined to wander about the park, and in the spots where he had more than once passed some of the sweetest moments of existence in her society, to call up the delicious dream of the past, now that he was just about to place between it and hope's bright vision of the future an interval which seemed to him a long, long lapse of weary hours and dull realities.

Opening the doors for himself--for, though it was daylight, none of the servants were yet up--he went out upon the lawn and gazed around him on the sparkling aspect of reawakening nature. Beauty, and peace, and harmony were over all the scene; many a glossy pheasant was strutting about here and there within the precincts of a spot where guns were never heard, and only jostled from their path by some old familiar hare, grown fat and gray on immunity and abundant food, or else startled to a half flight by the rush of the rapid squirrel darting across the lawn to some opposite tree.

The opening of the door, the aspect even of man, the great destroyer of all things, did not disturb the tenants of the wood. One or two of the hares crouched down as if asleep indeed; but those who had passed many years there undisturbed showed no farther sign of apprehension than by standing up high on their hind feet, and with their ears projecting in all sorts of ways, seeming to inquire who it was that had got up as early as themselves. Having satisfied themselves of that fact, the utmost that they condescended to do was to hop a few steps farther from the house; and Charles Tyrrell was proceeding on his walk, when a window above was opened, and the voice of Mr. Driesen pronounced his name.

Now of all people on earth, perhaps Mr. Driesen was the last whom Charles Tyrrell would have chosen to be his companion at a moment when such feelings as those that agitated him then were busy in his bosom, he therefore affected a deafness to Mr. Driesen's call, and, without taking the slightest notice, walked on quietly into the wood. Ere he had been absent from the house half an hour, however, and while he was yet walking up that long straight walk of beeches, from which, as we have said, Harbury Hill was visible, and which we have fully described in the first or second chapter of this book, he was joined by Mr. Driesen, who, coming straight up to him, gave him no opportunity of escaping.

"I called to you, Charles, from the window," said the modern philosopher, "and you would not hear me, as is always the case when one wants to do a man a service. There is nothing on earth so deaf as a man that you wish to assist or to counsel; a post, why a post is all ears compared to it."

"I really did not know," replied Charles Tyrrell, "that you had any particular wish to assist or to counsel me, as I was not at all aware that I was in need either of counsel or assistance. However, if you will advise me as to what ought to be the price of small beer, I shall be obliged to you, as the wine I got at Oxford during the last term was so bad that I shall have no more of it."

"Why, the value of small beer," replied Mr. Driesen, curling his snout, "is just equal to the value of small jokes multiplied by four; a quart of one to a gallon of the other, Charles, eh? Why, you are emulous of your father, which I certainly did not think to see in your harmonious little family. But, to put aside all such sour and bitter figures, you do want both counsel and assistance; and though I do not mean to say that ninety-nine people out of a hundred would not be better calculated to give it to you than I am, because our views and opinions upon so many subjects differ, yet, as you have nobody else in the world near you who has anything like experience or judgment, wit, wisdom, or common sense, except, indeed, persons whom I know you do not choose to apply to, you had better take up with mine than none. I did not expect you to ask it; but, when it is offered, you can take it or reject it, as you think best."

He spoke with a degree of frankness that Charles Tyrrell had seldom heard him use, and he replied, "I am really very much obliged to you, Mr. Driesen, and will, of course, hear with respect and attention whatever advice you think fit to give me; but you must take the trouble of telling me upon which subject it is to be, for I confess myself ignorant."

"Of course I will, of course I will," replied Mr. Driesen; "for I intend it to be what the ancients used to call a free gift: now, if I were to expect you to give me your confidence in return, it would be a matter of trade, traffic, barter, commerce. You would value it more, doubtless, but I care nothing about that. I will, in the first place, set out then by telling you the points of your situation on which you require advice and assistance, some of which you know, and some of which you don't. But let us go up and down the walk, for my old blood does not run so quickly as once it did, and I am rather chilly."

Charles Tyrrell followed his suggestion; and having made his pause just sufficiently long to be impressive, Mr. Driesen went on.

"In the first place, Charles, you are in love." Charles Tyrrell coloured a little, more from surprise than any other feeling; but the other proceeded: "In the next place, you know your father, and are puzzled how to act in the business. I saw it all in your face last night when you came in from handing Miss Effingham into the carriage; so do not say a word, but let me go on. In the next place," continued Mr. Driesen, "you are not going to Oxford to-day--"

"Indeed," replied Charles Tyrrell, "you are quite mistaken. Everything is packed up and ready, and, whenever the coach passes, I intend to get up and go to Oxford."

"You intend," said Mr. Driesen, with a grim smile; "I never said you did not intend, I only said you are not going; and the very fact of your fully intending it is one of the reasons why you won't go. Your father thinks that you are getting too fond of Oxford; that you like being away from home. Here you are going two days before it is necessary; I am quite sure you would like to remain those two days here now, only you are ashamed of saying so, because you fixed the day for going back on the very day you came. However, your father won't let you go. He thinks you wish it, and the consequence, you know, is certain. He will take hold of the very first excuse for making you stay. See if he does not. I am not very sure that he will let you go at all; but that is doubtful. However, you can prevent it at once, if you like, by strongly pressing to go."

"You mistake, my good sir," replied Charles Tyrrell; "such means I will never consent to use with my father, even supposing I did not wish to go; but certainly, on the contrary, I do wish to go, and to remain till I have taken a degree of some kind."

"Well, so be it then," replied Mr. Driesen; "and though in love and war all things are fair, I suppose you will be equally scrupulous about the means of obtaining your father's consent to your marriage."

"Certainly, equally scrupulous," replied Charles, "inasmuch as not affecting to oppose the very things that I desire."

"Well, well," answered Mr. Driesen, "I have told you the facts, and now I come to give you the advice. In the first place, never dream of saying one word to Sir Francis about your attachment till he proposes the marriage to you himself, which he will do ere long, depend upon it."

"I do not intend to mention anything upon the subject to him," replied Charles Tyrrell. "As you are come so clearly to the point, Mr. Driesen, in regard to my father's conduct towards myself, I do not scruple to acknowledge that I know no cause for placing in my father that implicit confidence, which, under any other circumstances, I should be most anxious to do. If he should think fit to propose to me a marriage with a person I love, of course, such an event would be doubly pleasing. But should he not do so, I shall not, of course, consider myself bound to speak with him at all upon the subject till the time arrives when it may be fit for me to marry at all, which, of course, I do not regard as the case at present."

"So far, so well," replied his companion; "but take my advice, my young friend; do not let him see the slightest inclination on your part towards such a marriage; an inclination which was somewhat too evident last night. If you will but be careful till you go to Oxford--that is, if your father lets you go at all--and will leave the rest to me, I will undertake that, before a month is over, your father shall have so committed himself in regard to your marriage with Lucy Effingham, that his sense of honour will prevent him from ever retracting."

"Pray, how long do you intend to remain here, Mr. Driesen?" demanded Charles, considering only what the worthy gentleman proposed to perform, without in the slightest degree recollecting that the question might be an awkward one.

Whether Mr. Driesen took it up in an unpleasant sense or not, it did not in the least put him out of countenance, as, indeed, nothing ever did. He replied, however:

"Why, you see, Charles, your father's cook is an excellent one; his mutton very fine; excellent fish from the sea and from the river; better wine nowhere in Europe; and as comfortable a bed as one would wish to sleep in: all these are circumstances to be considered when one is asked how long one intends to stay. I should think that my adhesiveness might last another month."

Charles Tyrrell could not help smiling at the great coolness with which Mr. Driesen treated the matter; but he replied, "I did not mean at all to put an impertinent question, but only to know how much time you would nave to give to the object you proposed. In anything you may think fit to do, of course, I cannot interfere, and I will not deny, as I know that you have very great influence with my father, that nothing would give me so much gratification as if my father did propose this affair to me himself, and in such terms as would bind him to give it his speedy sanction."

"Much more reasonable, indeed, than could be expected of a Tyrrell," cried Mr. Driesen; "why, Charles, you will discredit your family. However, put your mind at ease. I will undertake that your father shall do what you wish, and that very speedily, if you will but be careful, and for the next two or three days let him remain in ignorance of your feelings upon the subject."

"Depend upon it, my dear sir," replied Charles Tyrrell, "depend upon it, you are mistaken; and that I shall go to Oxford to-day without opposition."

"Poo, poo, Charles!" said Mr. Driesen; "I have known your father for thirty years too well to be mistaken in what he intends to do. You will soon see, and judge by that how right I am regarding all the rest. As far as we have gone yet, Charles, I have been acting quite disinterestedly, and out of regard for my friend's son, as well as for my friend himself, who does not always know his own interests. I do not mean to say that the day will not come when I may ask a favour of you in return; but that period, I should think, is far distant. However, if ever it should, you will remember what I do for you on the present occasion, and, if I know you right, you will be very willing to return it."

"That I will, Mr. Driesen," replied Charles, warmly, for the other had touched exactly the right point; but before he could proceed any farther, either in thanks or professions, he saw a servant at the other end of the walk apparently seeking him, and in a minute or two after the man came up and told him that Sir Francis wished to see him immediately, as there had occurred important business which he feared might prevent the journey to Oxford that day. Mr. Driesen grinned slightly, and, with the servant following, accompanied Charles into the house.