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

by G. P. R. James

Charles Tyrrell had a potent aversion to mysteries of every kind, and an avowed animosity, not a little mingled with contempt, for those who made them unnecessarily. To Mr. Driesen's answer, then, he offered not the slightest rejoinder; and, unwilling to gratify him by letting him see that his curiosity was excited in the least degree, he instantly turned the conversation to some indifferent subject, talked of the weather and the high road, the old heavy Blue coach and the horses that drew it, and of anything, in short, but that in regard to which he was really inclined to inquire.

In the mean while the coach rolled on, and bore him nearer and nearer to his home. At one particular point the road commanded a view of the old manor-house; and Charles, looking out of the window, saw it gleaming out from among the trees. Though it was lost again almost instantly, and he could catch none of the particulars, there was an indefinable look of freshness about it, an air of renovation, which showed him that it was greatly changed. A little farther on, the coach rolled past the lodge, and it, too, had undergone improvement; but that was not all. There was a servant in mourning livery standing at the gate, and looking out at the pretty country scene before his eyes with an expression which seemed to show that the whole scene was new to him. The suit which he wore showed that he was not a servant of Sir Francis Tyrrell; but Charles saw the small, keen black eyes of Mr. Driesen wandering over his face, and he took no more notice than if the servant had been a post at the gate of some house which he had never seen before. About three quarters of a mile farther the coach stopped at the lodge of the Park, and Charles Tyrrell and his companion alighted, leaving the inside passengers to tell strange stories of the violent temper and uncontrollable passions which were considered in that neighbourhood as a part of the inheritance of the Tyrrell family.

On entering his paternal mansion, Charles found his father apparently in a more placable mood than usual; but it certainly seemed as if the coming of Mr. Driesen afforded him greater pleasure than the visit of his son. His mother was not present; and after spending a few minutes in the library with Sir Francis Tyrrell, Charles rose to seek his mother.

"You are in vast haste, Charles," said his father; "but I suppose it is of great importance that you should make Lady Tyrrell aware how soon young men at college learn to know everything better than their father. You can seek her in her own room, where you will most likely find her."

Charles's lip quivered and his nostril expanded. "I seek my mother, sir," he replied, with a look of indignation that he could not well control, "to inquire after her health, and to tell her about mine." And though some other bitter words sprang up to his lips, he had the good sense to remember that it was the first day of his return home, and to repress them before they found utterance.

In order to make sure of his own temper, he left the room at once; but could hear, as he shut the door, Mr. Driesen's low, sarcastic laugh, and fancy pictured the figure of his father and the skeptic amusing themselves with the anger which had been excited in his bosom. He smothered that anger as far as he could, however, and hoped to leave no trace of it ere he reached his mother's apartment; but, at all events, his feelings were, of course, turned into gall and bitterness by this first occurrence in his father's house.

Lady Tyrrell received him with joy; and as she gazed upon the countenance of her son, with proud feelings at the noble and manly aspect which his whole person was beginning to assume, she felt that there was yet one tie between her and life, one bright spot for affection to rest upon in the great desert of "this side the grave." Their meeting was full of tenderness and affection, and in the first overflowing of their feelings Charles forgot Mr. Driesen, and all that he had told him of changes, improvements, and plans.

At length, however, after having passed about an hour with his mother in telling her all that he had done at Oxford, hiding, indeed, everything that was painful, and only displaying that which was pleasant, his eye lighted upon his father and the sophist crossing the lawn before his mother's windows, and slowly walking on towards that part of the wood through which a tortuous pathway led to the grounds of the old manor-house. His journey in the coach, and all that had been said, then rose upon remembrance, and he said, "I forgot, my dear mother, to tell you that fellow Driesen had come down in the coach with me."

"I knew he was coming, my dear Charles," replied his mother; "I heard your father mention it to one of the servants, telling him to get Mr. Driesen's room ready; for it has gone on till the blue room at the top of the staircase is called Mr. Driesen's room now."

Charles replied nothing, though his mother paused. After a short time, Lady Tyrrell went on: "I grieve that that man is so much here, Charles; he is a dangerous, a bad, and an unprincipled man; and I should grieve still more if your character were anything but what it is; but I feel certain that, notwithstanding all his art and all his eloquence, both of which are undoubtedly very great, Mr. Driesen could no sooner lead you than he could make oil and water mix."