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

by G. P. R. James

The woods that surrounded the building on the other sides were, in fact, kept as pleasure-grounds. They were full of winding walks, cleanly and carefully swept, though the extent was very great; while underneath the beeches and the elms, on either side of those paths, grew up an abundance of wild flowers, the plain white strawberry, the graceful and beloved plant of the winds, the columbine, the violet, and the primrose.

One of those walks which led away towards the south, at a distance of half a mile from the house, divided into two. The left-hand branch, which followed the original direction, brought me to another broad walk, which faced the risen sun upon the edge of the wood; and while the fine beech-trees, sweeping down with their long branches like a penthouse, sheltered it entirely from the sun in the summer, and from the rain in the spring and the autumn, they did not at all obstruct the view over some sunny fields to another little wood beyond, over which again rose up Harbury Hill, the chief landmark of the country round about.

The other branch of the road took a direction somewhat to the west, and at the distance of about a quarter of a mile, or a little more, from the place where the two separated, it reached the wall of the kitchen-garden, which lay imbosomed in the deepest part of the wood, containing within itself a space of about two acres, surrounded by high brick walls on all sides. There were two doors in this wall, the one exactly opposite to the path we have mentioned, the other on the other side. Besides this, however, there was a way in and out through the back of one of the two gardeners' cottages, which were built against the wall in the inside.

On the outside of the wall all was fair and smooth, no building of any kind being suffered to deface the external appearance of that high and imposing mass of lichen-covered brickwork, except--alas! that there should be an exception to everything in this world--except one little solitary toolshed, of the ugliest and most anomalous aspect, stuck on like an imposthume on the face of the tall wall, and offending the eye on the very first approach to the garden. Many and many a time have I petitioned that it should be removed; but there was some impediment in the very nature of things, it would seem, which prevented the request from being attended to.

The tools that were kept therein were not, it would seem, a part and parcel of the gardener's utensils. They belonged to the woodmen, and, of course, the gardener would not give them admission within his domain. The place where the great bulk of the woodmen's tools were kept was at the opposite side of the wood, a mile and a half off. It was very handy to have the tools near; and it would seem, that for various reasons, the nature of which I could never find out, or, at least, not understand, there was no place whatsoever in the wood round about which was so convenient as that spot against the garden wall. Such, at least, was the report of the woodman; and, of course, as he was a very veracious person, and somewhat surly withal, I was bound to believe him, and say nothing more upon the subject.

Now let not the reader suppose that either in the long and vague proemium with which this chapter opens, and in which he will find hereafter some reference to the tale; or in this minute and curious description of the house and grounds, especially of the paths leading to the back walk and the garden, that I have been led away by the vain desire of reading homilies to those who will not hear, or of dwelling with a sort of doting pleasure upon scenes which I loved in my youth, and about which few care or are interested besides myself. Every author, whose fingers are worthy to hold a pen, has an object in each sentence that he writes; and--although in the multitude of characters which throng the world, and the difficulty of ascertaining men's real feelings from their outward appearances, it would be impossible to put the right direction upon each epistle--every half page of every book that is worth reading is addressed to some particular person or class of persons, who are supposed by the author to be capable of understanding and appreciating him. The description that we have given, however, has a more general purpose, and the reader is besought earnestly to remember every word of it, or, at all events, to put a piece of paper in the place, inasmuch as, without having that scene constantly before his eyes, and knowing and comprehending it all as well as if he had walked through it a hundred times, he cannot clearly and distinctly understand the matter that is to follow.

Having given an account of the place, it now behooves us to speak of those who inhabited it; and certainly, at the period I speak of--I do not mean that period within my own personal acquaintance with the spot--it offered anything but an illustration of the beautiful words of Hooker in his description of the celestial dwelling-places. Nevertheless, we shall make the quotation, if it were but for the pleasure of transcribing those beautiful words, independent of the splendid opposition which they afford to all that we are about to describe. "Angels," he says, "are spirits immaterial and intellectual. The glorious inhabitants of those sacred palaces, where there is nothing but light and immortality, no shadow of matter for tears, discontentments, griefs, and uncomfortable passions to work upon; but all joy, tranquillity, and peace, even for ever do dwell."

This may be taken for a grand description of everything which that dwelling was not. Beautiful as was the scene, and pleasant as all the accessories round about, there was seldom anything like peace and tranquillity within. The pheasants came strutting upon the lawns, the timid hare lost a part of her shyness, and scarcely deigned to stand erect and listen with elevated ears for the half-heard sound; the squirrel crossed from one plantation to another within twenty yards of the windows; all the habits of the sylvan world around spoke of peace and tranquillity. But peace was not within. The truth was, that the inmates of that dwelling were too busy in making war upon each other to turn their attacks upon the people of the woods without.

But it is time that we should enter into more specific details, and bring the characters, one by one, before the reader.

Sir Francis Tyrrell, the proprietor of that mansion and of some very large estates in that vicinity, was in possession, besides, of a baronetcy, derived in a direct line by himself from an ancestor who had received it at the time whereat that mixed breed between the baron and the knight was first propagated. His ancestry was also distinctly traceable through several centuries before, producing a great number of very ornamental people in former times, who shone in the tiltyard, the tournament, and the battle-field; and, in later times, more than one who had received the high distinction of swinging in effigy upon a signpost, either as the distinctive mark of the house, or a recommendation to the beer within.