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

by G. P. R. James

"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.