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

by G. P. R. James

The moon had somewhat declined by the time that Charles Tyrrell left the manor house; but she was still high enough in the sky to show him every object as he went along; and a lingering unwillingness to quit the place of his birth and of his youth, without taking one last look at the dwelling in which his mother still was, and in which, perhaps, the body of his father still lay, led him back into the park, which, indeed, afforded as short a way as any other, to the spot whither his steps were bent. He knew, indeed, that he must not suffer himself to be seen; for though he did not think that any of the servants would betray him, yet imprudence might do as much as treachery, and he therefore resolved merely to stand under the shadow of the wood, near the spot where the buckwheat was laid out for the young pheasants, and to be able to tell his mother, when he wrote, that he had come to gaze up at her windows, and speak an unheard farewell ere he went.

He accomplished his intention in safety; the house was all closed, and the only lights that were seen, streamed through the chinks of the window-shutters in his mother's room. He gazed up thereat for some time, and then praying God to bless and protect her, he turned upon his steps, and proceeded along the path to the spot which we have before mentioned, where the walk separated into two. There he paused, and hesitated.

He had a strong inclination, indeed, to visit the garden-gate, near which his father had been murdered, and to ponder over that bloody spot, as if it could give any tidings of the real assassin. He knew, however, that every moment was precious, and that there might be various arrangements to make before he went on board the ship which was to convey him to a foreign country. He therefore refrained, and turned upon the other path, which led to the end of the lady-walk, as it was called, and crossing it, brought the passenger by a small neat stile into the open fields beyond.

We have before described that walk of fine and sweeping beech-trees planted on one side of the broad gravel, and bending down like a penthouse over it, but yet leaving a beautiful view over the fields on the other side. The moon was shining clear upon the country beyond, and had so far declined as to pour its light under the branches of the beech-trees, and as Charles Tyrrell approached the extreme end, and still stood under the shadow, he saw that the walk was not entirely solitary, for about halfway down appeared the figure of a man walking slowly up toward him. Who it was he could not distinguish, at that distance, but he perceived that the arms were crossed upon the chest, and the head bent down, as if the eyes were fixed upon the ground. After advancing for about a hundred yards toward him, the figure stopped, and gazed out upon the moonlight; then clasped his hands together, and advanced again in a meditative manner. As it came closer, Charles recognised the figure of Mr. Driesen, and thought to himself:--

"I suppose he has come to attend the funeral, for surely even his cool nonchalance would not permit him to stay in the house all this time after my father's death. However, he has acted in a friendly manner by me in all this sad business, and also about Lucy, so that, perhaps, he might stay, thinking he could be of use."

The cause of Mr. Driesen's stay was, not long after, explained to Charles Tyrrell, for the will, which had been drawn up sometime before his return from college, was found in the drawer of the library-table, and conveyed to Mr. Driesen everything except the entailed estates, and the jointure of Lady Tyrrell. Besides an immense property in land and money which thus fell to him, all the plate, the furniture, the books, the cattle, the horses of Harbury-park were his also, and nothing but the bare walls of the house remained to the young heir or his mother.

Charles Tyrrell did not know this at the time, though he learned it before that night was over; and he only looked upon Mr. Driesen as one whose principles, or rather want of principles, he could not approve, but who often acted kindly and justly from natural goodness of feeling.

Driesen gradually approached, unconscious that any one was near; but notwithstanding the good fortune which had befallen him, his whole air was melancholy, his whole carriage dejected, and as he turned again near the spot where Charles Tyrrell stood, the latter heard him utter a deep, long-drawn sigh. When he was nearly at the other end of the walk, which, as we have said, was of great length, Charles crossed it, suddenly passed over the stile, and took his way into the fields.

Turning short to the right, before he reached Harbury-hill, at the distance of about three miles from the park, he entered the woods which surrounded the dwelling of Captain Long; but, avoiding that house, he followed the left-hand path, which kept close to the edge of the wood, till it brought him into one of those long ravines, which, as we have said, ran down here and there to the seashore.

Following this, he was soon upon the beach, and walking rapidly on, under the cliffs, so as to be as much in shade as possible, he reached the house of good John Hailes, the fisherman, and knocked gently at the door.