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

by G. P. R. James

But Charles Tyrrell loved, and though he would have given worlds that Lucy Effingham had never felt one feeling of attachment to another; though he knew, if he would have owned it, that her having done so would be a bitter drop in his cup through life, even if she accepted him willingly; though he could not have denied, if he had still gone on to question himself closely, that no signs of affection to himself, in after life would ever convince him that she loved him as fully, as truly, as entirely as if she had never loved another, yet Charles Tyrrell loved, and the hope of possessing Lucy Effingham was sufficient to make him stride over every objection.

All this being settled, and his determination taken, the next thing to be considered was the course which he should pursue. He was not yet of age; but a few months only were wanting, and he felt that, when they were past, he should be in a different position, and enabled to treat the matter in a different manner. He was sure that there was a certain perversity in the disposition of Sir Francis, which would make his expressed wish to marry Lucy Effingham the very reason why the baronet would throw obstacles in the way, though he had been himself the first to seek the alliance.

In regard to his mother, after all that had passed between them, upon the subject, after what had been said of Lucy Effingham's first attachment, and their both agreeing that he never could be satisfied with anything but affection in its first young strength, he felt a degree of shame, a sort of shyness as to mentioning his changed views and purposes.

Under these circumstances he determined to set out for Oxford without informing either his father or his mother of the state of his feelings. He was too upright and straightforward to affect towards his father any dislike to one whom he loved and admired as he did Lucy, although he well knew that such would be the means to hurry on Sir Francis into some irrevocable step towards the promotion of their marriage; but he felt himself quite justified in saying nothing on the subject, and returning to Oxford as if with unconcern, and he consequently determined to do so the next day.

At the same time, however, his was by far too eager a nature to leave the affections of Lucy Effingham to be lost or won during his absence without an effort; and he therefore resolved to acquaint his mother by letter with feelings which he did not choose to speak, and to induce her to make known those feelings to Lucy, and to endeavour to ascertain more accurately the state of her affection in return.

All those resolutions and determinations were formed with great and calm deliberation before he lay down to rest; but, unfortunately, while he had been resolving one way, Fate had been resolving another, and not one single thing that he determined upon that night did he succeed in executing.

Thoughts such as those that occupied him are very matutinal in their activity, and before five o'clock on the following morning Charles Tyrrell was up and dressed. The vehicle that was to convey him did not pass the gates of the Park till about eleven o'clock, and he would have had time, if he had chosen so to act; to go down and see Lucy once more, and learn his fate from her own lips. He did not choose to do so, however; but, to fill up the hours till breakfast time, he determined to wander about the park, and in the spots where he had more than once passed some of the sweetest moments of existence in her society, to call up the delicious dream of the past, now that he was just about to place between it and hope's bright vision of the future an interval which seemed to him a long, long lapse of weary hours and dull realities.

Opening the doors for himself--for, though it was daylight, none of the servants were yet up--he went out upon the lawn and gazed around him on the sparkling aspect of reawakening nature. Beauty, and peace, and harmony were over all the scene; many a glossy pheasant was strutting about here and there within the precincts of a spot where guns were never heard, and only jostled from their path by some old familiar hare, grown fat and gray on immunity and abundant food, or else startled to a half flight by the rush of the rapid squirrel darting across the lawn to some opposite tree.

The opening of the door, the aspect even of man, the great destroyer of all things, did not disturb the tenants of the wood. One or two of the hares crouched down as if asleep indeed; but those who had passed many years there undisturbed showed no farther sign of apprehension than by standing up high on their hind feet, and with their ears projecting in all sorts of ways, seeming to inquire who it was that had got up as early as themselves. Having satisfied themselves of that fact, the utmost that they condescended to do was to hop a few steps farther from the house; and Charles Tyrrell was proceeding on his walk, when a window above was opened, and the voice of Mr. Driesen pronounced his name.

Now of all people on earth, perhaps Mr. Driesen was the last whom Charles Tyrrell would have chosen to be his companion at a moment when such feelings as those that agitated him then were busy in his bosom, he therefore affected a deafness to Mr. Driesen's call, and, without taking the slightest notice, walked on quietly into the wood. Ere he had been absent from the house half an hour, however, and while he was yet walking up that long straight walk of beeches, from which, as we have said, Harbury Hill was visible, and which we have fully described in the first or second chapter of this book, he was joined by Mr. Driesen, who, coming straight up to him, gave him no opportunity of escaping.