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

by G. P. R. James

CHAPTER XVI.

We must pass over a brief space with but a slight sketch of its events. Charles Tyrrell stole daily some time, to spend with Lucy Effingham, and the rest of his time was chiefly spent in the sick chamber of his mother. Of Sir Francis he saw but little.

For several days, joy at his son's recovery, somewhat softened the temper of Sir Francis Tyrrell. But that amelioration soon wore off, and though Charles took an opportunity of telling him, simply and feelingly, how grateful he was for the kindness and anxiety he had shown respecting him during his illness, Sir Francis did not think him grateful enough, was piqued at the attention he showed his mother, alluded more than once with a sneer to what he called the cabal up stairs, and wondered when there would be a change in the ministry.

When Charles had thanked him for the anxiety he had shown respecting him in his illness, he had thanked him also for the consent he had given to his marriage with Lucy Effingham. Sir Francis cut him short, however: "You have nothing to thank me for," he replied sharply, "you chose for yourself, without putting any trust or confidence in me. It so happened that your choice chimed with my opinion; but I have a good deal more to say upon that subject, which shall be said hereafter, and which may not be quite so pleasant to you."

Charles very well understood from these words, that Sir Francis, as was frequently the case, wished to hold over his head, as a drawn sword, the vague expectation of some future retribution for having ventured to own his love, to Lucy herself, without making him acquainted therewith. As he had often experienced, however, that such vague menaces produced no effects, he did not make himself uneasy. But that which alarmed him more than anything which fell from his father's lips, was a certain degree of anxiety which he beheld constantly in the countenance of his mother, and her informing him more than once, that there was a matter which weighed much upon her mind, which she must tell him soon. She put it off, however, from day to day, and the disinclination she had to speak, served more than anything to confirm Charles in the belief that what she was about to tell him, was not only important, but painful in a great degree.

The fourth inmate of the house, for such Mr. Driesen seemed entirely to have become, had lost much of his good spirits, was grave, thoughtful, somewhat irritable. His books seemed no longer to have that charm for him, which they once had possessed, and he passed the greater part of the day, either in reading and answering letters, or in walking about the grounds with his hands in his pockets. He would, sometimes, indeed, amuse himself by throwing a stone at a squirrel, and succeeded in knocking one off a branch; but he did not pursue this long, and there was a restlessness about him, which seemed to show that he was ill or unhappy.

Such was the state of the family at Harbury Park, at the end of about nine days after Charles Tyrrell's return, when Sir Francis entered the room, one morning, while Mr. Driesen was sitting reading the newspaper, with the gathering of a coming storm upon his brow.

"Driesen," he said, "we have all been young men in our days, and so I suppose I must overlook it. But I am afraid that boy of mine, Charles, is playing the fool, and as far as Lucy Effingham is concerned, the blackguard too. He has twice ridden out for three or four hours at a time down to the seaside, and I hear there is a girl there that he goes to see. This shooting to which he has taken, within this day or two, has, I fancy, the same object. You know what a good shot he is, and yet he brings back very little game. There is evidently something going on, Driesen: I see his gun brought down, the gamekeepers waiting, and everything ready. Now it's an even chance, that he brings home no more than half a dozen partridges and a cock-sparrow after being out for four or five hours."

"There are two classes of consummate fools in the world," replied Mr. Driesen, "the fools that cannot open their eyes, and the fools that cannot shut them. The first are very annoying to everybody round them. But the second are very annoying to everybody else and themselves too. Pray, Tyrrell, take care of what you are about," and turning round, he went on with the newspaper, without waiting for any reply.

Sir Francis, however, would most likely have given him one spontaneously, for he was not a man to be called a fool without having his revenge. But his attention was turned in another way by the entrance of his son. Charles was dressed for shooting; but his countenance was very pale, and he was evidently a good deal agitated.

"I wish to speak with you, sir, for a moment," he said, addressing his father somewhat abruptly.

"Well," exclaimed Sir Francis, staring him in the face, "if you come to speak, why don't you speak?"

"Because, sir," replied Charles, "I think on every account, what I have to say, ought to be said in private."

"Oh, nonsense," replied Sir Francis, "here is nobody but Driesen. Solemn conferences, my most sage and erudite son, always require protocols; and here is Driesen, shall put them down for us."

"Well, sir, if you insist upon it," replied Charles, "I must go on. What I came to speak to you about, was the subject of my mother."

"Well, sir, what of her?" interrupted Sir Francis, "I hope she is well this morning."

"Neither so well in mind or body, sir, as she might be," replied Charles, "but it is in reference to a conversation with you immediately previous to her illness, that she has desired me to speak with you."

"I suppose she has told you that that conversation produced her illness," exclaimed Sir Francis, sharply, "but you will learn, young man, some day, that women can falsify the truth."

"Nearly as well as men," added Mr. Driesen, suddenly rising, and moving toward the door. "You two fiery gentlemen make the room too hot for any cool and quiet person; so I shall quit it."

"And the house too, if you please, sir," said Sir Francis Tyrrell, in a loud tone.

But Mr. Driesen did not appear to hear him, and retired with the same steady step. He closed the door after him, and father and son were left alone.

What followed nobody has ever known. The gamekeepers came out and took their posts in the hall at the appointed time; the butler lingered about to open the door for Master Charles, whom he had loved from his infancy, and to give him his hat, and gloves, and gun; and Lady Tyrrell's footman, who had been sent down with a small note from her to her son, on finding that he was with Sir Francis, lingered beside the butler in the vestibule.

At first the conversation between Sir Francis and his son, whatever might be its nature, did not make itself heard beyond the precincts of the library; but gradually the voices of both were heard rising louder and louder, in that fierce fiery tone that could not be mistaken. The voice of Sir Francis became a shout, and the deep tones of Charles were heard replying like distant thunder. The servants looked at each other with dread and apprehension; for although but too often they had heard and witnessed the angry contentions which arose in that family, there seemed to be a deep conviction upon all of them that this was something more serious, more terrible than ever before occurred. The butler could resist it no longer, and put his ear to the key-hole.

"Good God!" he cried, after listening for a moment; "run, William, to Mr. Driesen; ask him to come here, for God's sake; for I am afraid of mischief. Tell him there has never been anything like this in the house before."

The man obeyed instantly; but before Mr. Driesen appeared, though to do him justice, he made as much speed as possible, the door of the library was thrown back, as if the hand that opened it would have dashed it from its hinges, and Charles Tyrrell appeared, as pale as death, with the exception of a small red spot in the centre of either cheek. The voice of Sir Francis Tyrrell was heard screaming after him, at the very highest pitch of passion; but the only words which were distinct were something about "Your father." They caught his son's ears, and instantly made him turn with flashing eyes and a quivering lip.

"My father!" he exclaimed, "do you call yourself my father, after the words you have just spoken? Out upon it!" And snatching his hat, gloves, and gun from the servant, he rushed forth into the open air.

The freshness seemed in a degree to recall him to himself, and seeing the gamekeepers following him with the dogs, he paused upon the lawn, saying, "Not to-day--not to-day; I shall not want you--I have no time left," and he dashed into the wood along the path, that very path which we have described in the beginning of this work, and which, some way farther on, divided into two, leading to the long walk of beech-trees, called the ladies' walk, on one hand, and to the walled kitchen garden in the middle of the wood, on the other.

In the meantime, Sir Francis Tyrrell had remained leaning with his hand upon the table, and trembling in every limb with passion. In a minute or two, however, he seemed seized with a sudden desire of following his son, and rushing out into the vestibule, he demanded his hat in a sharp tone. The man was as long in finding it as it was possible. He brought his master first one of his friend's and then one of his son's hats. But Sir Francis said nothing; for his thoughts were so intensely concentrated upon other subjects, that the petty obstacle was scarcely known.

By the time he had got his hat, however, Mr. Driesen was at his side, and laid his hand upon his arm, saying, "Tyrrell, Tyrrell, listen to me!"

"I have no time to listen," replied Sir Francis, and pushed past him. Mr. Driesen, however, followed him beyond the door, and caught him by the arm again, saying:--

"Nay, but you shall listen to me, Tyrrell."

"Then you shall listen to me first, sir," replied Sir Francis, while his eyes flashed fire at feeling himself forcibly detained. "Let me tell you a secret, Mr. Driesen, which it may be convenient for you to know, let me tell you a secret!"

Mr. Driesen bent down his head to listen with a cynical smile upon his countenance; but whatever it was that Sir Francis said to him, it banished all smiles in a moment, and turned him very pale.

"I will not believe," he replied, "that you could act so ungentlemanly a part."

"You will see, sir, you will see," rejoined the baronet, with a menacing air, and breaking from him, he dashed into the wood by the selfsame path his son had taken.

When he was gone, Mr. Driesen stood in the midst of the lawn, putting his hand more than once to his head, as if the sun incommoded him. The butler who saw him, wisely ran and brought him his hat, which he took, still remaining in a deep fit of thought.

"You are right," he said at length, putting on the hat; "I had better go after them, for they are in a terrible state."

Thus saying, he walked on toward the corner of the wood, but there paused for a full minute, as if still undecided what to do. He then went on along the path, but not long after returned, and, walking into the library, paused for a moment in thought, and then went up to his own room; after which he soon came down again apparently quite satisfied that everything would resume its own course when the momentary storm had blown over.

About an hour after, while he was still sitting there, with the newspaper in his hand, Charles Tyrrell entered in haste and evident agitation. He said nothing to Mr. Driesen, who only looked up, for a moment, from the paper, but passed on to his own room, where he locked himself in, and remained for some time alone.

Not half an hour more had elapsed, when one of the gardeners was seen running across the lawn at full speed toward the house, and with the interval of a minute, five or six of the men-servants issued forth with the gardener, carrying a sofa between them. There was a great commotion in various parts of the house, a running to and fro, the voice of many tongues, and even the maids gathering round the door that opened into the front vestibule. All their eyes were turned in one particular direction, and at the end of about twenty minutes, the men were seen returning, bearing upon the sofa the form of some person, who seemed, from the sad and careful manner in which he was carried, to have received severe injuries.

When they arrived at the door, the men set down their burden, while the glass wings were thrown open; and there before the threshold of that dwelling, which his own violent passions had rendered miserable to all it contained, lay the body of Sir Francis Tyrrell, cold, still, inanimate, and already beginning to grow stiff. A small thin trickling stream of blood over the pillow of the sofa showed that the injury he had received, and which had caused his death, must have been inflicted on the back of his head, while a slight contusion on the forehead, together with some earthy stains upon the breast of his coat, evinced that he had fallen forward, and that the blow had come from behind.

Mr. Driesen had by this time come to the door, attracted thither apparently by the noise, and he now stood gazing upon the countenance of his dead friend, evidently much affected, but struggling against his feelings, and expressing neither sorrow nor surprise. All that he said was,

"Take the body into the library. Send for the coroner immediately, and bid the keepers scour the whole park and country round on horseback and on foot, to see for any stranger lurking about."

The butler gazed silently in his face for a moment, shut his teeth tight, and shook his head with a meaning sadness.

"Do as I bid you," answered Mr. Driesen, sharply; "and remember that every word now spoken is of importance. I know that his life was threatened some days ago by a man in the park, for he told me so."

The butler made no reply, but turned his eyes to one of the servants who came behind, and who was not engaged with the others in carrying the body of his master. The man had a gun in his hand, the cock of the right-hand barrel was down, and the white dust surrounding the pan showed that it had been recently discharged. A single glance was sufficient to show that it was the gun of Charles Tyrrell, the same gun that he had taken out with him in the morning. Mr. Driesen made no observation, however, but by a slight frown, and the body was carried into the library as he had directed.

"Go and give the orders I mentioned," continued Mr. Driesen, speaking to the butler, as soon as they had set down the body, "while I go and inform Mr. Tyrrell, who has been in some time."

"Indeed! sir," exclaimed the butler, "I did not see him come in."

"But I did," replied Mr. Driesen; "he passed through the library some time ago, and went to his own room."

Thus saying he ascended the stairs, and knocked at the door of Charles Tyrrell's room.

"Come in!" said the young gentleman in a calm voice: but on turning the handle of the door, Mr. Driesen found that it was locked. Charles, however, unlocked it instantly, and on looking toward the washing-stand, Mr. Driesen saw that he had been washing his hands, and that the water was bloody.

"Charles," he said, fixing his eyes upon him, "I have some very bad news for you."

Charles Tyrrell turned very pale, but he replied nothing, and Mr. Driesen went on. "Your father has been found dead in the wood, apparently murdered."

"Good God!" exclaimed Charles Tyrrell. "Where was he found?"

"That I cannot say!" replied Mr. Driesen, "but they have just brought home the body, and I thought it right to come and inform you of the facts myself, especially as you and Sir Francis had quarrelled so violently in the morning, had gone out together, at least one following the other closely, and as your gun seems to have been found by the men very close to the dead body--"

Charles Tyrrell instantly strode past him to the door; but Mr. Driesen laid his hand upon his arm, and stopped him, saying in answer to the look of indignation which came upon the young man's countenance, "Charles, I do not in the least suspect you; but these men below evidently do, and I have said what I have said, because it is right you should be aware and upon your guard. There may be circumstances of suspicion attached to the most perfect innocence, and in such circumstances it is absolutely necessary to be guarded. I speak to you as a friend, Charles Tyrrell, who wishes you well most sincerely. All I say is, be on your guard, remembering, that though perfectly innocent, you may be placed in a painful situation by the least imprudence."

Still Charles Tyrrell made no reply; but opened the door, walked out with a firm step, descended the stairs, round the foot of which the greater part of the servants of the house were collected, and demanded,--"Where is the body of my father?"

The butler pointed to the library without speaking, and Charles Tyrrell at once went in.

The sight that met his eye, however, seemed to strike and affect him deeply. There lay the parent with whom he had passed the greater part of his life in struggles and contentions, which had indeed embittered it terribly! There he lay! but with all those strong and fiery passions quelled forever; the fierce lightning of the eye gone out, the sarcastic sneer cleared away from the lip, and nothing left upon the countenance to denote the fierce and menacing spirit which had once dwelt therein, except the stern frown which had become so habitual on the brow as to affect the muscles themselves and leave a deep indentation, that even death could not do away. There he lay, calmer than he had ever been seen in life, and as his son gazed upon him, and marked the small trickling stream of blood, which had oozed forth and stained the sofa on which he lay, all but the terrible fact was forgotten, and the quarrels, the contentions, the violence of the past were like faintly-remembered dreams.

A crowd of emotions, many of which he had never felt toward his father before, rushed at once upon Charles Tyrrell's mind, and clasping his hands together in agony, the tears rolled silently on his cheeks.

Several of the servants followed him into the room, though Mr. Driesen had remained without, and as soon as the young gentleman had recovered some degree of composure, he questioned them at length upon all the particulars connected with the discovery of his father's body. He then asked if the coroner had been sent for, and finding that such had been the case, he retired to communicate the event to his mother.

We shall not attempt to depict the feelings of Lady Tyrrell, nor pause to trace any further the events of that day, as the imagination of the reader may easily supply the facts which did not in any degree tend to promote the ultimate result.

Early on the following morning, however, a coroner's jury assembled at Harbury Park, and after having been sworn, proceeded to view the body, which was recognised by several of the persons present, who had known the deceased gentleman under various circumstances. After having gazed at it for some time, and made several remarks, as impertinent and insignificant as the remarks of coroner's juries generally are, the jury again returned to the drawing-room, and commenced their investigation of the facts. The coroner himself was a sensible man, and a man of good feelings, and consequently the inquiry was conducted with as much decency and propriety of demeanour as possible.

In the first place, he besought the jury emphatically, to dismiss from their minds any rumour which they might have heard, previously to their entering the house. To look upon the case solely in reference to the evidence that was laid before them, and to remember that they had power to adjourn as often as necessary, in order to gain additional information, so that their verdict might be calm and deliberate, and not pronounced without full conviction.

At the suggestion of the coroner, the first person examined, was the gardener who had first discovered the body, and had called the servants to carry it to the house. He declared, that, being as usual about to go up to the house for orders from the housekeeper, he had come out of the walled garden, by the door which opened into the path leading to the mansion. At first he had remarked nothing extraordinary, but just as he had passed the tool shed--which we have noticed before as defacing the outside of the high walls--he had seen a gun lying on the ground, and thinking that it was most likely that of some poacher, who had been pursued by the keepers, and dropped it in his flight, he took a step out of the way to lift it, when beyond the next tree he saw some thing like the body of a man, and on approaching, beheld his master. He was lying on the ground, he said, with his face buried in the leaves of the wild plants, and a large rugged wound in the back of his head, which he described in a manner that we shall not dwell upon; suffice it that he must have died instantly, as the whole charge of the gun at the distance of a very few yards had been lodged in the brain. There seemed to have been no struggle, he said, for the ground was not at all beaten up, he must have had his hat on when he was shot, from the fact of a considerable part of the charge having passed through it. There was a great deal of blood upon the ground round about, he added; but no traces of footmarks of any kind, the ground being hard and dry. Horrified at what he had seen, he ran as fast as he could to the house, and brought up a number of servants to aid in removing the body, and had taken them to the spot where the body remained just as he had seen it.

After he had concluded his own account, the coroner questioned him, as to whom he had seen in the garden or the park during the course of the day; and the only one of the family he had seen, had been his young master, who, about an hour before the body was discovered, had entered the garden by the door leading from the mansion, had looked about eagerly for a minute or two, and then crossing the garden had tried the opposite door, which was locked. The gardener who was at the other end of the ground, and saw this proceeding, advanced for the purpose of opening the door; but before he reached it, his young master was away among the apple-trees and other thick plants, and he did not see him any more.

These particulars it is to be remarked, were drawn forth by the questions of the coroner, and were evidently detailed unwillingly; and when the man had concluded, the coroner told him to quit the room; but not the house, as he might very probably be called upon again to give further evidence.

The other servants were then examined, and their testimony confirmed in all respects the gardener's account of the finding of the body. The only further fact of importance that was produced by their examination was, that the gun which had been found near Sir Francis Tyrrell, was one belonging to his son Charles, with which he had gone out that very morning. This immediately pointed suspicion, and the butler, who proved that the gun was the same which he had given to his young master, when he was going out, was ordered to remain.

The coroner then looked to the jury in silence, as if to see whether they would ask any further questions or not. No one spoke, however, and he himself paused and seemed to hesitate. At length, however, he murmured to himself, "It must be done!" and he began a series of questions addressed to the butler, calculated to elicit all the particulars of the quarrel between Sir Francis Tyrrell and his son in the morning.

Though the man softened the whole business as much as he could, without falsifying the facts, it became evident to the jury that Charles Tyrrell and his father had quarrelled severely, more so, indeed, than they had ever been known to do before; that the son had gone forth with his gun in his hand; that the father had followed him, and had never returned alive.

"Was the gun charged or not, when you gave it to your master!" demanded the coroner.

"I have always charged it for him since he was a boy, sir," replied the butler, "and did so yesterday morning also."

While this examination had been proceeding, Mr. Driesen had been in the room; but Charles Tyrrell had been voluntarily absent, and as the former had been mentioned several times by the servants, the coroner next proceeded to examine him.

He told as much as he knew of the quarrel between Sir Francis and his son in the morning, stating everything with his usual clear precision; and then he detailed how the servants had come to seek him, fearing some violence would take place on the part of Sir Francis toward his son. When he came down, he said, he found the baronet excited to a greater pitch than he had ever beheld, and he further stated, that on attempting to stop him from going after his son, Sir Francis had told him in a low voice, that it was his intention not only to deprive Charles of everything that he legally could, but to destroy the title deeds of his entailed estates rather than that his son should possess them. He had remonstrated, he said, and pointed out that it would be most ungentlemanly so to do; but that Sir Francis had broken away from him, intimating that his resolution was not to be shaken. He had followed him, he added, along the path he had taken in the wood till it had separated into two, and then not knowing which branch Sir Francis had pursued, and not seeing him upon either, he had returned to the house, trusting that either the father would not overtake the son, or that the quarrel between them, as had been frequently the case within his own knowledge before, would pass away and be forgotten.

He seemed inclined to pause here, but the coroner proceeded: "I think," he said, "one of the servants informed us, that you were the first person who notified to the present Sir Charles Tyrrell the awful event which had occurred in his family. Be so good as to detail what took place upon that occasion."

Mr. Driesen did so; but not altogether sincerely. He stated broadly the fact of having gone up to Charles Tyrrell's room, and informed him that his father had been found murdered in the wood, and he dwelt much upon the surprise and horror which that young gentleman had seemed to feel, and which could not be affected. He also added that the servants had informed him, that Charles Tyrrell, on going into the room where his father's body lay, had been affected even to tears.

The servants were then recalled to prove these facts; but the coroner thought fit to question several of them in such a manner as to ascertain that there had been spots of fresh blood found upon Charles Tyrrell's shooting jacket, and that the water in which he had washed his hands after his return home, had been apparently bloody. The latter facts, as well as the fact of the door having been locked, Mr. Driesen had taken care to conceal; but it tended directly to increase the suspicions of the jury against Charles Tyrrell in a very great degree, and when the servants were again dismissed, the coroner sent at once to that young gentleman, in order to notify to him that his evidence would be required before the jury.

Charles immediately obeyed the summons, and the coroner, after a short pause, during which he seemed embarrassed by painful emotions, and feelings for the young man himself, he said: "I grieve very much, Sir Charles, to have to call you at all upon this painful business, and still more to have to caution you that there are circumstances connected with your conduct during yesterday, which may prove of such very great importance to yourself at an after period, that it will be well for you to weigh every word, and not to speak anything the tendency of which you have not fully considered."

The young gentleman merely bowed his head, and the coroner then asked him to go on, and to detail as much as he thought fit of the events which occurred to himself during the preceding day.

Charles replied at once: "Were it independent, sir, of the death of my father, that day would be, from various other events, the most painful of my life. On the morning of that day, which I had appointed for shooting, my mother explained to me the particulars of a discussion of a most unhappy kind, which had taken place between herself and my father, and which had ended in an agreement to separate for ever. Illness had prevented her previously from executing her resolution, but she deputed me to inform my father that that resolution was unchanged and to arrange with him the necessary preliminaries.

"I mention these painful facts to account for the serious dispute which ensued between my father and myself upon the subject. His conduct and his language became so violent, that feeling my own temper every moment giving way, I left him, and went out into the park. As I had intended to shoot, everything had been prepared for that purpose, and I took my gun from the hands of the servant quite unconsciously. The keepers were waiting without with the dogs, but feeling that I was in no state to enjoy such an amusement, I told them I should not want them, and walked on. I still had the gun in my hand, and kept it till I reached the door of the garden, when finding that it put me to inconvenience, I leaned it against the wall under the tool shed, and walked on, intending to take it up as I came back again. I forgot it, however, entirely, and returned to the house without it, nor thought of it more till I heard that it had been found near the dead body of my unhappy father. That father I never saw again from the time I left him in the library, at about half past eleven o'clock, till the time he was brought home a corpse. This, I believe, is all that I have to state. But any question which may be asked me I am very willing to answer, provided it affects myself alone."

"In the first place, then," asked the coroner, "will you permit me to inquire if there is any one on whom your own suspicions fix as the perpetrator of this horrid act?"

"On none," replied Charles Tyrrell, "in particular. My father informed me, and I understand, also informed Mr. Driesen, here present, that he had been threatened by some man in the wood a week or two ago, while I was still at Oxford. The particulars I never heard, but most likely Mr. Driesen, who was here at the time, can give them to you."

The coroner turned to Mr. Driesen, who was still in the room. But that gentleman replied: "I cannot, indeed, give any information of an accurate kind. Sir Francis Tyrrell returned one day in a state of very great excitement, and at dinner informed me that he had met with an old man in the wood, with whom he had quarrelled, and who had thereupon menaced him with the same fate which had befallen one of his ancestors, who had his brains knocked out. He added, that it would be some pleasure if they did murder him, to know that they would be hanged for it; but he did not add the old man's name, nor mention many of the particulars."

The coroner paused, and then again addressing Charles Tyrrell, he said: "You mean distinctly, sir, to state that you did not meet your father in the wood, nor see him at all again till after his death?"

"Most distinctly," replied Charles; "I never saw him after I left the library, at about half past eleven o'clock."

"Did you see any one else in the course of your walk?" demanded the coroner.

"Yes, several people," replied Charles Tyrrell. "I was out more than an hour, and saw a number of different persons."

"Who might they be?" the coroner demanded, "as far as you can recollect."

"In the first place, I saw the head-gardener," replied Charles, "for I went into the garden, intending to pass through it to the other side of the wood, and he was on the left hand side, at the extreme end."

"Did you pass through it?" demanded the coroner.

"I did pass through it," replied Charles Tyrrell, "but not directly. Finding the door locked on the opposite side, I turned to the gardener's house, which is near, and passed through it, there being a way from it into the wood."

The coroner looked round to the jury with a well-satisfied smile, glad to find that the young gentleman's account corresponded exactly with the gardener's.

"Pray, who else did you meet in the course of your walk," he continued.

"Oh, several people," replied Charles Tyrrell, vaguely; "I saw woodcutters, the gardener's wife, a man lopping some trees, one of the fishermen who occasionally come up to the house, and generally pass by what is called the park stile."

"Did you speak with any of these persons?" demanded the coroner. "And if so, what might be the nature of your conversation with them?"

"I did speak with some of them," replied Charles Tyrrell, colouring a good deal. "But with regard to the nature of my conversation, with them, in one instance at least, I must decline stating it. I do so, because it concerned others as well as myself, and related to matters which I have no right to mention."

"I should think, sir," replied the coroner, "that no one would object to your stating the conversation you held with them, considering the circumstances in which you are placed, and I am very desirous, indeed, Sir Charles Tyrrell, that you should be explicit; for the jury are anxious to arrive at a calm and just conclusion, and I fear, under present circumstances, that our decision must be a very painful one."

"Whatever is your decision, sir," replied Charles Tyrrell, "it cannot induce me to violate confidence reposed in me, or to repeat conversation, which might produce injury to others."

"Had that conversation anything to do with the present case?" demanded the coroner. Charles Tyrrell replied in the negative, and the coroner went on in the same kindly tone which he had used throughout.

"There are several things to be explained, sir," he said, "which must be left for you to do, or not, as you think fit, but only let me point them out to you, and observe that if you will satisfactorily account for them, it may spare a great deal of pain to all parties. There can be no doubt that the unfortunate gentleman, the causes of whose death we are about to investigate, was killed by the gun, which you carried out in the morning, that he went out to seek you, and that the feelings of both were highly irritated at the time. You say that you never saw him after leaving the house, that you laid down your gun against the wall of the garden, and entering the garden itself, proceeded in a direction leading away from the spot where the murder was committed; so far you are borne out by the testimony of the gardener, and if you can account for the time which afterward elapsed, showing any of the persons that you spoke with, or who can prove that they saw you under such circumstances, as to establish that you could not have been on the spot at the time Sir Francis Tyrrell was killed--even if you give us strong probabilities to suppose that such was the case, we are very willing to take your previous high character, and the natural affections of human nature into consideration, and give you every benefit of doubt. It may be also necessary for you to account satisfactorily for the blood which appeared on your shooting jacket and on your hands, as you say that you laid down your gun, without having discharged it at any of the ordinary objects of field sport. Let me beg you to consider the matter well, and make such a reply as will save unpleasant results."

Charles Tyrrell paused for a moment and thought deeply, first turning his eyes toward the jury, and then toward Mr. Driesen, as if he would fain have asked his advice; and there can be no doubt that his heart was terribly agitated at that moment, for if it had been horrible to him beyond all endurance, to lie even under the suspicion of having raised his hand against his father's life; what was it to run the risk of having the suspicion confirmed, perpetuated, and put upon record for ever, by the verdict of a coroner's jury?

After maintaining silence, however, for nearly five minutes, he said, "I am very sorry to be obliged to reply, that in regard to neither of these points can I satisfy you. I am bound in honour to be silent, and silent I must be, let the risk be what it may to myself."

"This is very strange and very painful," said the coroner. "But, gentlemen, our duty must be done. Is the evidence sufficient to satisfy you?"

The jury assented, and the coroner went on--"Then I have only to point out to you," he continued, "that it has been proved by various witnesses, that a violent quarrel existed between Sir Francis Tyrrell and his son, that his son went out first and Sir Francis Tyrrell followed, for the avowed purpose of continuing the discussion which had begun in the morning. The son was seen shortly after in the immediate neighbourhood of the spot where his father's dead body was found, was absent some time from the house, and returned without his gun, but with his hands and clothes bloody; that the period of his absence is not accounted for, nor the marks of blood explained; that his father's body was found close to the garden which he had entered; that the gun which he had carried out with him, was found discharged close to the body, and that the death of the late baronet had evidently taken place by the discharge of a gun, loaded with small shot, within a few feet of the back of his head. Gentlemen, I do not presume to point out in any way, the verdict to which you must come, but now leave it to you to say, what course shall be pursued, whether you will adjourn for more evidence, or proceed at once to a verdict."

The jury consulted for a single moment apart, and then the foreman said, "There is no occasion at all, sir, to adjourn. We think the evidence quite sufficient, and we are unanimous in our verdict." The coroner then demanded the verdict in the usual manner, and the foreman replied at once, "Wilful murder against Sir Charles Tyrrell of Harbury Park."

There was a good deal of bustle and excitement in the room as soon as the words were spoken, though every one had seen to what point the investigation was tending. The only person who was perfectly still was Charles Tyrrell himself, who, though deadly pale, showed no other sign of agitation.

The coroner instantly proceeded to draw up a warrant, and before he left the house, put it into the hands of one of the constables.

Mr. Driesen advanced, and spoke a few words to the prisoner, in a low voice and in a kindly manner. But all the rest of those present, stood aloof, gazing on him with feelings in which awe and horror swallowed up entirely everything like sympathy and compassion.

Charles Tyrrell found himself alone, desolate and abandoned in his paternal mansion. A weary sickness of heart came over him, a recklessness, a despair. He longed to see and take leave of his mother, before he was hurried to a prison. He longed to write, if it were but a few lines, to Lucy Effingham. But he had not strength or energy left for anything, and in a few minutes, the carriage was brought round, which was to convey him to the jail, and getting in between two constables, he was carried rapidly away to the abode of guilt and misery.