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

by G. P. R. James

Mr. Driesen was descended from a family originally German, but which had been settled for many centuries in England. He was possessed of a small property, which, during his youth, afforded him quite sufficient to live upon in comfort without pursuing any profession in order to make it larger. He had studied the law, but he never attempted to practise it; and had devoted himself, during many years, to the pursuit of that sort of philosophy which prepared the way for, and ushered in, not so much the French revolution as the horrors and impieties which accompanied an act that might have passed over, perhaps, innocuously, had not the whole moral and religious foundations of society been previously shaken in France by the efforts of men who fancied they were pursuing wisdom, when, in fact, they were pursuing vanity.

Mr. Driesen was a man of talent, however, and a man of learning. He was a profound Greek scholar, a tolerable mathematician, a clear and cutting reasoner, but artful as a sophist; and, aided by his own vanity, deceiving himself while he deceived others. He was fond of all sorts of startling propositions; feared to shock no feelings or opinions, however respectable or however well founded; and he was, moreover, full of rich stores of rare and unusual knowledge, and of reading in works which are sealed to the eye of most men. His memory was unfailing, his fluency great, and he could thus bring to bear upon any subject arguments and quotations startling from their novelty and confounding from their multitude. He made a boast of being without any fixed principle, and Sir Francis Tyrrell did not esteem him at all the less on that account, not being overburdened with principle himself.

But there was one secret in his partiality for Mr. Driesen, which was, that his friend was in the custom of comparing him to the famous Mirabeau, whom they had both known in France, in their youth, during the period of his utmost power over the National Assembly. The comparison was not altogether without justice. But it was to Mirabeau's father, the old Marquis de Mirabeau, that Sir Francis Tyrrell bore a strong resemblance rather than to the son. However that might be, the comparison flattered him, and he was fond of the society of Mr. Driesen, who, without bearing by any means a good character for morality, did not, on the contrary, bear a very bad one. He, on his part, had contrived by various means to diminish his own patrimony considerably, and therefore the luxuries of Sir Francis Tyrrell's house were not disagreeable to him; nor, indeed, if the current tales were true, the occasional assistance of Sir Francis Tyrrell's purse.

Although there had never existed any very great acquaintance between him and his friend's son; and though, on the part of Charles, there had always been a feeling of antipathy, which he could scarcely explain to himself; in the present instance, no sooner did Mr. Driesen discover who had been his companion in the night-coach, than he advanced to shake hands with him with a warm and friendly air, which Charles Tyrrell could not make up his mind to repel. They sat down together to supper with the rest of the travellers, and the conversation between the two acquaintances took a turn the least likely in the world to be taken between two travellers in a stagecoach. It neither referred to politics, nor war, nor locomotion, nor the supper that was before them; but it referred to Greek and Latin poets, to Hesiod, to Euripides, to Lucan; or else, turning to more modern, but not less unusual topics under such circumstances, commented upon Clement Marot, or inquired into the authenticity of the poems attributed to Clotilde de Surville.

The company round about opened their eyes and looked aghast, or opened their mouths and devoured their supper in silence; but the conversation did not certainly receive that direction from an intention on the part of either of the two to excite astonishment in the listeners. It is very probable that neither of them had the slightest intention of giving it the direction which it took. It very often happens that a single chance word; the most remote or trifling accident; some circumstance scarcely noted even by ourselves; the fall of a spoon, or the change of a plate, or any other insignificant occurrence, will set that rapid flyer, thought, winging her way through the endless regions of imagination and memory, leading after her words and even feelings into directions the most remote from the occurrences which first gave them rise. A single word, a single tone, a single look, is often sufficient, not only to carry us away into trains of idea and conversation quite different from all that we had proposed to follow, but more, far more! to throw open the gates of a new fate before us, and lead us onward to our destiny through narrow, tortuous, and darkling tracts, which we would never otherwise have trod.

If any one had a design in leading the conversation in the direction which we have mentioned, it was Mr. Driesen; and it might be so, for these were not only subjects of which he was fond himself, as a clever and a learned man, but they were also those on which he fancied that his young acquaintance, all hot from Oxford, would be prompt to speak, especially as he had learned that Charles Tyrrell had devoted himself earnestly to study.

Eager in all things, and with a taste naturally fine and cultivated, Charles Tyrrell followed the lead willingly, and, ending his supper before the rest, he still carried it on, though Mr. Driesen himself soon showed a disposition to profit by the good things set before him, and took care of the corporeal part of his being at the expense of the supper.

At length, perceiving such to be the case, Charles Tyrrell ceased; and, thinking the time long, turned to the door to see if the horses were not yet put to. Just as he was entering the passage on quitting the supper-room, the opposite door opened, and a lady came partly out, bearing a light in her hand. She was turning her head to speak to some one within the room, and at first all that Charles Tyrrell could see was a beautiful figure, graceful in every line; but more peculiarly graceful from the manner in which the head was turned, showing the beautiful hair, fine, full, and glossy as silk, gathered up into a knot at the back of the head, from which one or two curls escaped, and fell upon the fair neck below. The form and the attitude were beautiful, but that attitude lasted only for a moment; for the first step of Charles Tyrrell made her turn round, not with any quick and nervous start, but quietly and slowly, to see who it was so near; and the moment she had seen the stranger, she withdrew again quietly into the room and closed the door, probably divining that the members of the supper party belonging to the stagecoach were about to resume their journey, and resolving to let them depart ere she proceeded whithersoever she was going.

The single moment, however, during which she had turned towards him, had been sufficient to show Charles Tyrrell one of the loveliest faces he had ever beheld. It is nearly in vain to describe beauty; for the pen will not trace the same definite lines as the pencil, and the imagination of those who read will not be fettered down to the reality, like the imagination of those who see. Nor, indeed, although Charles obtained a full sight of that beautiful face, was the idea that he formed of it accurate. He fancied that her eyes were black, when, in truth, they were deep blue; but that mistake might proceed from their being shadowed by the great length of the thick black eyelashes. He fancied, too, that the hair was nearly black, when, in fact, it was of the rich brown of a chestnut just separated from its green covering; but that might proceed from its being of a very deep tint of that brown, and from the position of the light which she carried.

Every one has felt, and more than one poet besides Lord Byron has expressed the peculiar sensations which we experience when some bright and beautiful form crosses our path for a moment, and then leaves us without our seeing it any more. A shooting star, though but the meteor of a bright electric night, seems often more brilliant than the orbs that hold their place crowned with eternal splendour, and Charles Tyrrell thought that face the most beautiful, that form the most graceful, that he had ever beheld. There was, besides, a certain feeling of mystery about her rapid appearance and disappearance. It seemed to be a vision of loveliness given to him alone. It touched and woke imagination; and advancing to the door of the inn with very different thoughts from those which he had come from the supper-room, he gazed up towards the heavens, all sparkling with their everlasting fires, and fixing upon one bright planet which had not yet set, but remained pouring its calm light more tranquilly and equally than the rest, among all the radiant things that surrounded it, he thought that it was like her whom he had just seen, and, plunging into the dreams of fancy, he revelled in sweet reveries till it was time to depart.