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

by G. P. R. James

"She is speaking with her maid," replied Mrs. Effingham, "and will be here immediately. I have been lately somewhat of an invalid, and therefore came in from the night air at once."

Charles Tyrrell was young, and hesitated whether he should or should not go out to the carriage door to meet Miss Effingham. He would have done so to any other person; but the hint which Lady Tyrrell had given him of the purposes of his father, and a doubt whether those purposes might not be suspected or known both by Mrs. Effingham and her daughter, made him hesitate. That hesitation was increased by seeing the eyes of Mrs. Effingham fixed steadfastly upon him, with some degree of surprise, perhaps, but still with a scrutinizing and examining look.

A hint from his mother, however, made him turn towards the door for the purpose of doing what was courteous, at all events; and as soon as he had left the room, Mrs. Effingham said, in some surprise to Sir Francis, "I thought your son was much younger! He seems two or three-and-twenty. I fancied him much younger than Lucy."

A well-pleased smile came over the countenance of Lady Tyrrell, and Sir Francis answered, "That was, I suppose, because, in writing, I called him the boy; but that is only a form of speech, you know. He is not of age, yet, however, thank Heaven, for I am sure he is not fit to take care of himself. Few men have sufficient wit to keep themselves from running their head against a wall till they are thirty at least. Permit me, madam, to introduce my friend Mr. Driesen; though, I believe, you already are acquainted with him."

Mrs. Effingham drew herself up, saying coldly, "I have had the honour of seeing Mr. Driesen before."

That gentleman, however, was not one easily repelled, and throughout the whole of that night he devoted himself assiduously to paying court to the fair widow. Whatever were her feelings towards him, whatever was her opinion of his character, it cannot but be acknowledged that she, as well as others on whom he chose to employ his art, was compelled to listen, and could not help finding something agreeable in his conversation, for he was one of those endowed with the rare power called eloquence. It is true that he misemployed one of the noblest gifts of Heaven; but still he possessed it, and by means of it he could sweeten the poison he was too fond of offering to others.

While the brief conversation which we have noticed was taking place, however, Charles Tyrrell had left the drawing-room, and proceeded through the glass doors which separated the inner corridors from the entrance hall, thinking to himself, with that injustice which naturally follows prepossession, either for or against, "This young lady seems to be giving herself vast trouble to ensure the safety of her caps and bonnets."

As he entered the vestibule, however, he saw the person he sought speaking eagerly to one who seemed her maid, while a man-servant in a travelling dress held up a long basket, such as plants are sometimes carried in, and two or three of the servants stood round and assisted. He heard, at the same time, a sweet, musical voice, which was not altogether strange to him, saying, "I hope they are not broke, Margaret. You know how fond my mother is of them, and I would rather that anything else had been injured than these flowers."

"There is but one of them hurt, Miss Lucy," said the man-servant; "and I will get some of the people to show me the way down to the house to-morrow morning, so as to have them planted at once."

Lucy Effingham examined the plants for a moment, and then telling the man to do as he proposed, turned round to enter the house. She had not remarked the approach of Charles Tyrrell, and he had remained a step behind her, waiting till she had given her orders. In the time that had elapsed, however, he had made a discovery by the tone of her voice, which, it must be acknowledged, was not at all unpleasant to him. When she did turn round, therefore, he was not at all surprised to see the face and form of the young lady he had seen the night before at the pretty little inn of Hertford Bridge. Lucy, on her part, did not recognise him; for on the preceding evening she had seen him but for a single instant, and had withdrawn and shut the door before she was conscious of anything except that there was some stranger going along the passage.