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

by G. P. R. James

Lady Tyrrell and Mrs. Effingham very willingly agreed to go into the cottage, for they were both tired; and here new thanks awaited Charles Tyrrell; for the mother, having recovered from the first overpowering emotions of the moment, was now voluble, and even eloquent, in her gratitude. Lady Tyrrell was pleased and affected, as well as Mrs. Effingham, and Lucy turned to the window and looked out upon the sea, which for some reason looked dull and indistinct to her eyes. Charles, however, was overpowered, and would willingly have escaped; but he was relieved, as well as the whole party, in some degree, by the good father, John Hailes, cutting across his wife, as if he suddenly recollected something, and planting himself abruptly before Charles, with the words, "I'll thank you, sir, to tell me what's your name."

This speech caused a general smile, and the fisherman proceeded to comment upon it in explanation, saying, "You see, sir, the reason why I ask is, that I had forgotten it, and so had my wife, when you were here before, and I was afraid that we should both forget it again, and you should go away without our knowing who it was that saved our poor boy from the worst luck that can happen to any one, being turned adrift in an empty boat."

"My name is Tyrrell," replied Charles; "and I am the son of your neighbour here, Sir Francis Tyrrell; but you really owe me nothing, my good friend, for no one could see a child in such a situation without helping him."

"That don't matter, sir," replied Hailes; "the man that did it's the man for me; so I am very much obliged to you; and if ever it should be that even you should want a helping hand in your turn, why, here's John Hailes."

While this conversation had been going on, the poor boy that was sick had been looking up in Charles Tyrrell's face with a pair of large, intelligent, dark eyes, as if he sought to catch his every look. He was apparently about ten years old, and a good-looking boy, but very pale from what he had suffered; and Charles, to put an end to all farther expressions of gratitude, went up and spoke to him about the accident he had met with. The boy answered sensibly and clearly; but when he had done, he added, in a low voice, "Thank you, sir, for saving poor little Johnny. I am sure I should have died if he'd gone out to sea and nobody with him."

By this time the people from the other cottage had brought in the little boy, who was, it seems, as much a pet of theirs as of his own family: and the two sturdy fishermen were standing leaning against the lintels of the door, looking into the cottage, which was by this time wellnigh full.

There was nothing, perhaps, very moving in the scene which she had witnessed; but yet it had agitated Lady Tyrrell, who was weak in health; and now, finding the numbers too much for her, she rose and wished the cottagers "good-by," giving the little boy some money, with a friendly warning never to go and play in the empty boat again. They then returned home, and, for the time, this little adventure--and an adventure is always, abstractedly, a desirable thing in a country house out of the sporting season--produced nothing but matter for conversation and amusement while Mrs. Effingham and Lucy remained at the Park.

Their departure, however, was now speedily approaching, and the greater insight which Mrs. Effingham daily obtained of the temper and disposition of Sir Francis Tyrrell made her hasten her preparations as far as possible, to settle herself in the manor-house with all speed.

CHAPTER VII.

In the ordinary commerce of one human being with another, which takes place in the every-day routine of that dull machine which is called society, especially in large cities, we pass on through life, knowing little or nothing of the human beings with whom we are brought in temporary contact. A cynic said, that language was made to conceal our ideas; and he might have added, with equal truth, that the expression of the human countenance was intended to convey false impressions. A great part of the truth is not spoken, because there is no necessity for speaking it; another great part is swallowed up by conventional falsehoods; and the rest, or very nearly the rest, is buried under lies that the liars think cannot be discovered.