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

by G. P. R. James

Thus, when we think of the great part of our ordinary acquaintance, and ask ourselves what are their views, purposes, opinions, thoughts, feelings, dispositions, characters, we may well say with the moralist, poet, and philosopher, "We know nothing." It is much to be feared, that if from society in general we were to take away all that is false in word, look, and action, we should have nothing but a pantomime in dumb show, performed by very stiff automatons.

Such, however, cannot be the case entirely with those who spend ten days together in a country house. There will come moments when the machinery is somewhat deranged; when the springs will appear; when the piece of mechanism will want winding-up; in short, I believe it to be very difficult for the most habitual actor on the world's stage to pass the whole of many days with an observant companion without some trait appearing, some slight indication taking place of the real man within, of the heart that beats, and the character that acts underneath the mask of our ordinary communications with the world.

At the end of ten days Mrs. Effingham was settled at the manor-house, and she was perfectly satisfied in regard to every point of the character of Sir Francis Tyrrell. She saw and knew, as she had before believed, that he was a man who would on no account commit a base, dishonourable, or dishonest action; that in everything appertaining to money, when separated and apart from other motives and passions, he was generous and liberal. But the violence, the irritability, the exasperating nature of his temper and disposition, it must be owned, went far beyond anything that she had expected or even believed possible. For Lady Tyrrell she was deeply sorry; and though she did not always think that lady acted wisely towards her husband, yet she was evidently the suffering party, and therefore engaged all Mrs. Effingham's best feelings in her behalf.

Some doubts in regard to her estimate of Charles Tyrrell's character would occasionally insinuate themselves into the mind of Mrs. Effingham. She saw that he possessed all his father's good qualities, and almost all his mother's, improved and directed by a mind of a higher tone, and by mingling, as a young man only can mingle, with the world. But she perceived, also, that no small portion of the fierce and fiery character of his father had descended to him. She marked it in the flashing of his eye; she heard it in the quivering of his voice; and she distinguished it in the sharp, uncompromising reply which burst from his lips when his mother was assailed; and she felt sure that in that noble and commanding form, already full of high and manly graces, there dwelt a passionate and eager spirit, difficult to control, and which might or might not, by habit and indulgence, assume a character like that of his father.

She hoped and trusted, indeed, that it was not so; for she saw that Charles was continually engaged in a struggle with himself, and she fully appreciated the powers of his mind and the feelingness of his heart. She doubted, however; she was not sure; and she thought of Lucy, and the chance that existed of her daughter, sweet, amiable, and gentle as she was, acting again the part of Lady Tyrrell, and withering like a flower scorched by the lightning.

When, however, she reflected and compared which of the two she would rather have for the husband of her daughter, Charles Tyrrell or Arthur Hargrave, she was inclined to clasp her hands together, and exclaim without hesitation, "Oh, Charles, by all means! With him there is always some hope; with him there is always some resource. It would be difficult, I should think, for a well-intentioned person to miss the means of either moving him by his feelings or convincing him by his reason. No, no," she added, "he can never become like his father; but I fear, I very much fear, lest the intense and fiery disposition which I see is so ungovernable within him, may lead him to acts which will bring misery on himself and on those that love him."

What were the feelings of Lucy Effingham herself, and what the view which she took of the characters of Sir Francis Tyrrell's family, we shall not pause to inquire. She had attached herself greatly to Lady Tyrrell, and with her winning sweetness had wound herself so closely round that lady's heart, that, ere she left Harbury Park, its mistress looked upon her almost as a daughter.

The fourth personage which formed the society that Mrs. Effingham and her daughter left behind when they proceeded to take up their abode at the manor-house, was abhorred and disliked by both; but Mr. Driesen did not, or would not, or could not, find it out. He was plentifully furnished, as we have had occasion to show, with that most serviceable and comforting of properties, self-conceit. People might disagree with him in all his views, oppose him in argument, or frankly acknowledge their dislike for the principles he inculcated, without affecting his opinion of himself in the least. He believed, in general, that the only thing for which anybody argued was victory. He thought, with the utmost confidence, that he was always victorious, and believed (as was indeed the case) that he was always more or less eloquent, and therefore concluded that his opponents must be convinced, and admire, even if they did not like him.

At all events, his love of himself was an impregnable citadel which nothing could storm. He had seldom, if ever, ventured out of it, it is true, to attack any one else violently, though once or twice he had done so in younger days, and had shown himself decidedly a man of courage: valuing the life of this world very little, though he believed that there was none other beyond the grave, and not at all scrupulous of risking it for the purpose of punishing any one who very deeply offended him.

These were rare cases, however, and, on the whole, Mr. Driesen was considered a good-tempered and placable man; and those who did not see very deeply had been heard to observe, that it was a pity such a good-humoured fellow as Driesen, so talented and so amusing, should be utterly unprincipled. However, one great source of his good humour was his self-conceit, which seldom, if ever, suffered him to take offence, and this, therefore, prevented him from seeing that Lucy Effingham shrank from him whenever it was possible to do so without rudeness, and that Mrs. Effingham received all the civilities and attentions that he paid her with coldness which would have repelled any other man.