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

by G. P. R. James

CHAPTER XXIII.

We must now return, with the reader's good leave, to the spot from which we first set out, and to an individual whom we have not spoken of for some time--the desolate mansion of Harbury Park, and the unprincipled, but not altogether heartless friend of its last proprietor.

The sad and awful funeral of Sir Frances Tyrrell took place while his son was still a prisoner within the walls of the county jail, accused, upon strong presumptive evidence, of the murder of his own father. As Sir Francis had no near relation living but his son, Mr. Driesen acted the part of chief mourner. An immense number of the country gentlemen, from the neighbouring parts of the different counties, however, attended; and, as was very customary, in those times, a large body of the tenantry of the deceased.

A peculiar and painful feeling, totally independent and distinct from the general sensation of awe which is experienced by all men of feeling, in committing to the dust the remains of one of our frail brethren of earth, pervaded the whole assembly. It approached the bounds of superstition, and derived intensity and grandeur from the very indistinctness which no one present would suffer his thoughts or his reason to fathom and remove. There seemed to be a fate about the family to which the dead man belonged--a sort of dark and painful destiny, which produced in all minds a gloomy, and, if we may so term it, an anxious feeling. That feeling was expressed in a few words, by an old and wealthy farmer, who could well-nigh remember three generations in that house, when, on arriving to attend the funeral, he met a neighbour of nearly the same age as himself.

"Ay," he said, "ay, another of these Tyrrells gone down to a bloody grave!"

Such was the feeling of every one there present. It was, that the fate which dogged the family, had taken another victim; that it was only the working out of some dark, unseen combination of causes, which ever had, and ever would produce horrible catastrophes in the devoted race.

When the funeral was over, and the coffin deposited in the vault, the principal gentry returned to the house to be present at the opening of the will. The farmers in general separated at the door of the churchyard; but the two old yeomen whom we have mentioned, remained, conversing over the event, while an aged man, whom we have already once before brought to the notice of the reader, named Smithson, sat, on a tombstone hard by, listening to their discourse.

"Ay," said one of the farmers, "there is but one of them left now. They seldom go beyond one."

"There won't be one long either, I think," replied the other farmer. "The father is gone, and the son won't be long before he follows, and then none will be left."

"He's a promising lad, too," said the other farmer, "and seems as if he had got some fresh blood in his veins; for he's frank and free, and though somewhat quick, is good-humoured, too. It's a pity he should be lost, he might have mended the matter. But do you think they'll really hang him, Master Jobson!"

"As sure as I'm alive," replied the other farmer, "there's no hope else."

"They sha'n't!" muttered a voice close by them, but the farmers, without noticing, went on.

"There can be no doubt you see that he killed him," continued the yeoman who had last spoke. "That he didn't," said the same voice.

"What are you sitting cockering there about old Smithson?" said the other farmer, attracted by the noise, though to say the truth, he was himself full ten years older than the fisherman whom he addressed. "Come away, Master Jobson, the old fool's half crazy, I believe;" and so saying, they walked away to their horses, which were tied at the churchyard gate, and proceeded on their road homeward.

We shall not follow them, but turn at once to the library at Harbury Park, where some forty people were assembled, comprising the lawyers of the late Sir Francis Tyrrell, who had come down from London, for the purpose of aiding in the examination of the deceased gentleman's papers. Lady Raymond had declined to be present; but had deputed, upon her part, the young lawyer, Everard Morrison, to witness the opening of the will; a proceeding which was declared very extraordinary by several persons, as it was well known that she had not seen the young lawyer for years, and had only known him as a schoolboy companion of her son. The first place that was opened was a strong iron chest, which stood under one of the bookcases in the library. Nothing, however, was found in it, but a considerable sum of money, some keys, some cases, and the title-deeds of a small farm which Sir Francis had lately bought. "As far as I remember," said the eldest of the two lawyers, "when I drew the will of the late Sir Francis Tyrrell, in the year of our Lord, one thousand seven hundred and ---- he put it, with a number of other valuable papers, into one of the drawers of this library table. Butler, where is the key, do you know?"

"He generally put the key in the strong box, Sir," replied the butler. "It's a patent key, and I think this is it; but I'm not quite sure."

"If it be in the strong box, and be a patent key," said the lawyer, "that must be the key; for in the box there is no other patent key."

With this sage and logical exposition the lawyer took forth the key, and tried it in the drawers of the library table. It fitted exactly. But as nothing which one seeks was ever yet found in the first drawer one opens, the drawer which the lawyer tried was found empty. The second, however, afforded a rich harvest; for in it were found more than a dozen papers, of different kinds; the one at the top was endorsed in the hand of Sir Francis Tyrrell himself,--"Codicil to my last will and testament." Two or three of minor interest intervened, and then came another "codicil to my last will and testament;" and immediately beneath the last will and testament itself.

As few of those persons present expected to derive any benefit from the will of Sir Francis Tyrrell, the passion which was principally stirred among them was curiosity. Mr. Driesen, however, felt a little anxious, as we may well believe, when he found that there were two codicils to the will, when he had imagined that there was only one. His anxiety was soon relieved, however; for though the lawyer spent as much time as possible in reading the first will and the first codicil, yet, as the will only went to bequeath a few legacies, leaving the whole bulk of his property to go to the natural heirs, and the first codicil merely referred to the disposal of a sum amounting to one hundred and ten pounds, thirteen shillings. They were neither of them very lengthy.

When the second codicil was read, it was found to be dated a few days before the death of the deceased, and conveyed to Mr. Driesen everything of every description which could be separated from the entailed estates.

The reading of this codicil produced upon the minds of the great bulk of the hearers a twofold effect; the first was wonderful--the second, miraculous. In the first place, there was not a single individual in the room who did not feel perfectly convinced that he had divined, years before, that Mr. Driesen would ultimately be the heir of all that Sir Francis could leave him. They had seen it--they had known it--they had been sure of it. The second effect was, that, in the estimation of forty honest and independent men, by the reading of less than forty cabalistic lines, written on a sheet of bath paper, and called a codicil, Mr. Driesen was in one moment transformed, transmuted, and metamorphosed, from an unprincipled vagabond and a sneering infidel, into a highly respectable, worthy, and well-meaning man.

In the meantime, however, the subject of this wonderful transformation, though not thinking at all of those who surrounded him, was conscious of a sudden and extraordinary change in himself, but of a very different kind from that which was going on in his favour in the estimation of others. He, who, through life, had scoffed at everything like the display of feeling or sentiment--he, who had considered a tear as a proof of weakness, and agitation, under any circumstances, as a minor kind of idiocy, was now moved to the very heart, and agitated beyond all restraint. He trembled while the codicil was reading; his countenance became pale, and when one of the persons present, who was slightly acquainted with him, came up to shake hands with him, and congratulate him on the vast accession of fortune which had fallen to him, he struggled in vain for a reply, and ended by bursting into tears.

"It is too much," he said, "it is too much," and without waiting for any more, he turned away abruptly, sought his own room, and shut himself up there for several hours.

When he came forth he had recovered his composure. He conferred with the lawyers, and sent them off to London, charged with his especial business. He wrote several letters in great haste; and he then sent to request permission to wait upon Lady Tyrrell. This, however, she declined, saying she was unfit to receive anybody; but begging that he would make any communication which he thought of importance, by letter. He immediately sat down, and wrote to her the following note, which must not be omitted in tracing the character of one whom we have had to speak of somewhat unfavorably. It was to the following effect:--

"Dear Madan,

"Mr. Morrison has doubtless communicated to you the nature of the will, and codicils thereunto attached, which have been read this day, and I cannot help concluding that that communication must have been extremely disagreeable and painful to you, well knowing, both that I do not stand so high in your esteem as I did in that of your late husband, and that I had no title whatsoever to expect the generosity which he has displayed toward me.

"To alleviate, as far as possible, the pain which you may feel on account of the loss sustained by your son, in consequence of this will, I beg to inform you, that I have immediately made my own will, leaving to Charles, who, I trust, and feel sure, will be able to clear himself before many days are over, the whole of the property left to me by his father, together with the little patrimony which I myself possess.

"I have only farther to add, that I am,

"Dear Madam,

"Your faithful servant,

"H. Driesen."

Lady Tyrrell returned a polite but brief answer, written in a hand, which betrayed, in every line, the deep and terrible emotions under which she had been lately suffering. Mr. Driesen deciphered it with difficulty, but he found that it contained a request, that he would remain at Harbury Park till the fate of its heir was decided, and take charge and cognizance of everything, as it was Lady Tyrrell's intention, as soon as she could quit her room, to go to stay with Mrs. Effingham, at the Manor House.

Mr. Driesen agreed to remain, though he had notified his intention of leaving the Park on the following day; and, left alone, and in comparative idleness, he bestirred himself, with active zeal, to discover any circumstances, which might tend to throw a favourable light upon the case of Charles Tyrrell. His conduct, in this respect, and, indeed, his demeanour altogether, since the death of Sir Francis Tyrrell, had an extraordinary effect in his favour with the old servants of the house, who had previously looked upon him with a degree of dislike, bordering on contempt. They had regarded him, indeed, as assort of intrusive hanger-on, who came alone for what he could get; who looked upon Sir Francis Tyrrell's house as a very convenient abode, and who cared for none of the family in reality, but only regarded his own person. Little acts, of what they called shabbiness, were frequently told of him, among themselves, and not many days before the event occurred which changed the whole face of affairs at Harbury Park, one of the footmen, having used the letter which came by the post as a sort of telescope, before he delivered it to Mr. Driesen, declared, while he rubbed his hands with satisfaction, that they should soon be delivered from the old snarler, as there was a man in London threatening to arrest him.

Now, however, all feelings were changed, for servants are much more acute observers than those who are acting before their eyes know. They now saw the active energy with which Mr. Driesen was labouring to collect evidence in favour of Charles Tyrrell; they saw that his whole mind was bent upon that object during the day, and they judged, and judged rightly, that he had no small regard for the young baronet, and no slight anxiety for the result of the trial. At night, too, they remarked, when he sat down to dinner, or rang for his solitary coffee, that there was a deep gloom and sadness upon a countenance, which had never before changed from its usual calm self-satisfaction, except to assume a smile, more or less, blended with sarcasm. They saw him stand long before the full-length picture of Sir Francis Tyrrell, over the drawing-room mantel-piece, and gaze upon it earnestly; and they once more judged, and judged rightly, that, however strangely he might occasionally show his feelings, and however much he might school them all away, he was naturally a man of some strong affections.

Mr. Driesen, therefore, suddenly found himself served with respect and zeal; the servants came for his orders, and ventured to talk to him of "poor Master Charles," and of what could be done for him; but Mr. Driesen mistook the motive, and thought that it was the change of circumstances which produced this alteration, not a change in the estimation of his own character. On the evening of the funeral, Mr. Driesen endeavoured to read as he was wont to do. No ordinary book would suit him however; Machiavelli had no charms; Voltaire could not engage his attention; in forcing himself to read a few pages of the Philosophical Dictionary, he felt like an eagle chasing a butterfly--he felt how vain it all is--he felt, in short, how empty and insufficient are the subtilest reasonings of the human mind, when brought in opposition with the mighty feelings of the human heart--he felt that there is a deeper, a stronger, a more majestic philosophy planted ineradically in our bosoms by the hand of God, on which the philosophy, that can clothe itself in words, acts as iron on the diamond. He then tried Bayle and Hobbes--but the one was dust, and the other was ashes.

His last attempt was upon a manuscript book, in which he had collected passages from Plato, and scraps attributed to Epicurus, and many another choice extract, comprising all the most questionable doctrines of Pagan speculators. Neither would that suit him at the moment. He felt that his mental stomach was not of its usual ostrich tone, and that he could not bolt cast-iron.

As the last resource, he took up his hat and walked out into the park, sauntering in the moonlight over the open lawns, but avoiding the deeper walks in the woods, which in their gloomy shade assimilated more than he desired with the tone of his feelings at that time. The following night the same mood continued, only he maintained the struggle with his books a shorter time, and going out between nine and ten, walked for more than an hour and a half up and down the lady-walk, with his thoughts indeed not in the same state of turmoil and confusion, with all that had occurred during the last week, as they had been on the preceding night; but still sad, gloomy, and disturbed. Many was the sigh to which he gave way--many was the little gesture of despondency, or impatience of God's will, which he suffered to appear, little knowing that during a part of the time at least, another eye was upon him, as we have shown before.

It was late when he returned to the house, and the servant who came to give him admittance, exclaimed with a joyful look as he entered, "Oh, sir, do you know what has happened; Master Charles has escaped from prison!"

Mr. Driesen started and gazed in the man's countenance, demanding, in a low tone, "Is he here?"

"Oh! no sir!" answered the servant, "but a constable has been up from the governor of the prison, who is searching Mrs. Effingham's. He said the governor would not come up himself, for he did not think my young master would come here; and the man saw clearly enough that we had not seen him by our faces. He said, however, he had orders to hang about the park, and see whether he came there."

"Send one of the gamekeepers to take him as a poacher, directly," said Mr. Driesen. "Bid Wise go: he is deaf, and will not attend to what the man says. The object is, to get him out of the way for two or three hours."

The servant seemed to understand in a moment, the gamekeepers were sent out, the unfortunate constable seized, upon the pretence that he was poaching, and spent several hours in durance, till Mr. Driesen thought that he might in safety be set at liberty.

We are already aware, however, that Charles Tyrrell met with no interruption in effecting his flight, and we shall therefore pause no longer upon the indignation of the constable, or upon the anger of the governor of the prison. Mr. Driesen, for his part, appeared highly delighted that the escape had taken place, and walked up and down the room the greater part of the night, in a state of agitation unusual with him.

On the following morning, however, he relapsed into gloom and sadness, and so strange was the effect produced upon him by the agitation of mind, to which he was so little accustomed, that his corporeal health seemed to suffer. It was in vain that the cook employed her utmost skill; he seemed to loathe his food, and could scarcely prevail upon himself to eat above two or three mouthfuls at a time. His taste indeed for wine was not gone, and he drank willingly and much of the choicest produce of Sir Francis Tyrrell's cellar. It seemed, however, to heat without exhilarating him. He had always been meager, but he now became thinner than ever. He learned to stoop a good deal, and his footsteps were remarked to be wavering and uneven. The mourning suit, too, which he wore, ill made, in the haste of the moment, made him look thinner and worse in health, than might otherwise have been the case; and many who saw him took the opportunity of moralizing, and making themselves wise in their own conceit, by showing the unfruitfulness of wealth, as displayed in the case of Mr. Driesen, who had scarcely become possessed of riches when health, the more inestimable blessing, was denied him.

At length, however, one night as he was sitting down about to take his coffee, a note was put into his hand, the contents of which made him start, and turn pale. He read it over twice, however, and it may be as well to give here the few words which produced that effect. It began:--

"My dear Mr. Driesen,

"I wish to see you immediately, as I have come back, on various accounts, to stand my trial; but do not intend to surrender myself till the day on which it is to take place. If you will come down then to the little public-house, called the Falcon, in the village of Motstone, any time to-night or to-morrow morning, you will find,

"Your's,

"Charles Tyrrell."

"Have a horse saddled directly," said Mr. Driesen, turning to the servant who waited, with looks of some surprise. "Have a horse saddled immediately, and brought round to the door."

The servant hastened to obey, and as soon as he was gone, Mr. Driesen walked up and down the room for several minutes in a state of great agitation.

"Come back to stand his trial!" he exclaimed. "He is mad. He will be hanged to a certainty. What in the name of Heaven can be done! Nothing, I am afraid; yet I must do my best, for this is terrible."

Then as he revolved all the circumstances of Charles Tyrrell's case, ignorant as he was of what had been discovered since the young baronet had made his escape in the schooner, he became more and more convinced, that if he executed his purpose and really stood his trial, he would but seal his own destruction.

"It is ruin, it is ruin"--he continued, walking up and down the room in great agitation. "He must be persuaded to return, to go back again before his coming is known, and yet, after all"--he continued, pausing and fixing his eyes upon a spot on the floor, "what signifies it? death is but a little thing; the extinction of a state of being, containing in itself more pangs than enjoyment, the only real pain of death is to the coward! Long sickness, indeed, may make it horrible. It is in the preceding things that death is painful--the act, itself, can be nothing--a mere bugbear of the imagination--and then how pleasant to lie down for a long sleep; to lie down as we do at night after a weary day; filled with cares, and anxieties, and pangs: to lie down with the blessing of knowing that we shall never wake again, to go through the same cares, and griefs, and sorrows, to endure the same pangs, and labours, and fatigues! Those must have been cunning fellows, that invented the bugbear of a future state, otherwise one half of the world would not go on till fifty. I wonder I have not cut my throat years ago. I suppose it is because I've had such good health, and no pain in life--I wonder if hanging is an easy death--laudanum they say is painful. Charcoal? the French are fond of charcoal. To think that a little carbon should be a remedy for all diseases!"

"The horse, sir," said a servant, opening the door, and Mr. Driesen walking out took his hat and gloves, flung himself on the horse's back, and cantered quickly through the park.