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

by G. P. R. James

Lady Tyrrell heard the carriage like the rest, and was the first to speak upon the subject. The feeling that it was impossible to avoid the daily strife with her husband had engendered carelessness, but not awe; his tyranny having, like all other tyranny, taught her, to resist.

"There is the sound of a carriage," she said, fixing her eyes full upon her husband. "Do you expect any company to-night, Sir Francis."

"To-night or to-morrow," replied Sir Francis, "I expect Mrs. and Miss Effingham, Lady Tyrrell."

He was about to add something bitter; but as he particularly wished that Lady Tyrrell should not show towards his new guests any distaste for their society, he commanded himself sufficiently to stop short. Nor was it unusual with him, indeed, so to do; for he was one of those who loved the condition better than the reputation of a domestic tyrant, and, when any strangers were present, he contrived, as far as possible, to veil the natural badness of his temper under the garb of formal courtesy towards his wife and son.

Lady Tyrrell thought that it might have been as well to inform her that such guests were so speedily expected, and she had every inclination either to say so, or to quit the room and leave Sir Francis to receive them himself. She looked at her son, however, and one or two ideas crossed her mind which prevented her from giving way to a wrong impulse. She recollected that a painful scene might be the consequence between Sir Francis and herself. She recollected that it was the first day of her son's return, and that such a scene might, on that very day, call up one of those bitter quarrels between father and son which she had more than once seen take place on her account. She remembered, too, the purposes with which she had set out in married life, and the efforts which she had often made to conquer harshness by gentleness, and overcome bad conduct by good. However ineffectual she had found it, she resolved once more to try the more generous course, and in everything to act towards Mrs. Effingham as a lady, with courtesy if she could not affect kindness.

Lady Tyrrell laid down her work and rose. Sir Francis frowned, not knowing what was to follow; but she said, "If you think that is Mrs. Effingham. Sir Francis, I had better go out to receive her, considering that she is a stranger, and come from a long journey."

The face of Sir Francis Tyrrell changed in a moment, and Charles's heart smote him for not having felt at once what was the conduct which his mother ought to pursue. Lady Tyrrell moved towards the door, which was, as we have said, partly open; but, before she reached it, the servant threw it wide, announcing Mrs. Effingham.

The next moment that lady entered, and certainly bore nothing in her appearance which could inspire any feeling of coldness or dislike. She was tall, though not quite so tall as Lady Tyrrell, and dressed in widow's mourning; but the close cap and the dull crape could not conceal that she was very beautiful. Yes, even yet, though past the season of youth, extremely beautiful. Her hair, which had once been bright and glossy as woven sunbeams, was now, indeed, carefully hidden; but there were the fine, straight features; the calm, expressive eyes; broad, clear forehead; the beautiful mouth and fine teeth; the oval face, which was not without the expression of sorrow; but even sorrow as well as time had treated it leniently. She was entering a strange house, to meet people only one of whom she had ever seen before, under circumstances very different from those to which she had been accustomed; but yet there was a grave calmness about her which seemed to say, "Wrapped up in deeper thoughts and feelings, I set all trifling inconveniences at defiance."

There was something in her appearance which--why or wherefore she could scarcely tell--changed Lady Tyrrell's feelings to her in a moment, not entirely, indeed, but in a very great degree. What was it that she expected to see in Mrs. Effingham? It was, in fact, anything but what she did see. It was a gay widow, that darkest and most anomalous of all natural chimeras. Now, the whole of Mrs. Effingham's appearance bespoke her the very reverse. There was not the slightest trickery about her dress. It was the plain, unbecoming dress of the widow, as unbecoming as it could be rendered. There was no affectation about her manner. It was sad even under an effort to be cheerful. She smiled, indeed, but it was the ripple over a dark, deep sea, and Lady Tyrrell found that she had misconstrued her husband's words, or that they had pictured Mrs. Effingham very ill. She instantly extended her hand to her.

Mrs. Effingham took it quietly, saying, "Lady Tyrrell, I suppose;" but, by this time, Sir Francis Tyrrell had advanced, and he now proceeded not only to welcome his fair guest, but to introduce her and Lady Tyrrell to each other with formal courtesy and politeness. The introduction of his son followed; but almost at the same moment Lady Tyrrell asked, "Where is Miss Effingham? Has she not accompanied you?"