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

by G. P. R. James

CHAPTER XI.

Charles Tyrrell was up early on the following morning. He was one of those who are born without the consciousness of fear. Though eager and enthusiastic by nature, vehement and rapid in character, his was not one of those weak-toned minds easily hurried on to violent actions, to be regretted the next moment, or to unsustained daring, which evaporates with the excitement of the hour. When he had struck an officer in the king's service, he knew the consequences likely to ensue, and he was quite as ready to meet those consequences after calm reflection as at the moment when he had committed the act.

There was, indeed, only one condition under which Charles Tyrrell regretted his actions, which was, when the impetuosity and vehemence of his nature led him to do anything which his own heart condemned. Such, however, was not the case in the present instance. He felt solemnly that there was a chance of his meeting death in the encounter to which he was voluntarily going. He felt that he might very likely be torn, in a moment, from the side of a mother to whom he was the only source of consolation, comfort, and support. He felt that he might be taken, too, from one who had wakened in his bosom, for the first time, the noblest, the most endearing, the most kindly of affections; and, therefore, on two strong motives, he hoped and prayed that life might be continued to him.

But those feelings were very different from apprehension of death. He could not bring his mind to grasp the terror with which some people regard that event. It seemed as if his mind were insusceptible of the idea of danger, and he set about all his proceedings for going out to meet Arthur Hargrave as calmly and tranquilly as he had made his preparations on the preceding day for going to Oxford.

Weighing the chances, however, he sat down and wrote three brief notes to the three persons whom he thought the most interested in his existence. One was, as may well be supposed, to Lucy Effingham, and another to his mother. The third was addressed to his father, and was addressed to him in terms of affection and kindness, as if there had never existed dispute or angry feelings between them. Before he ended it, however, he spoke of his mother, and besought Sir Francis Tyrrell, in terms which he thought would touch him, if read when the hand that wrote them was cold in death, to render her life happier by a change of conduct towards her.

When he had done it, Charles was well pleased that he had thought of so doing; for he felt that there are events which form epochs in the life of man, changing or influencing his very character itself; and he believed that the death of an only son, under such circumstances, might well form such an epoch in the life of Sir Francis and Lady Tyrrell, and might teach him to control that violent and bitter disposition which had rendered the existence of his wife an existence of misery.

He had concluded the whole of these arrangements some time before Mr. Driesen knocked at his door. That gentleman entered with a cheerful face, carrying his pistol-case under his arm, and saying, "Early rising, Charles, early rising; very good for the health this. A breeze upon Harbury Hill will do us a great deal of good; but we shall find it necessary, Charles, to jump out of your window, I think, for it seems to me the only one open in the house; all the rest are as dark as the pit of Acheron, or, to use a not less classical simile, as dark as a dog's mouth. Those lazy jades of yours are never up before six o'clock in the morning, so that, when I come down sometimes to seek for a book in the library, I find them walking about, with their brooms in their hands, like the apotheosis of a March wind, enveloped in a cloud of dust. But I see you are ready, and so am I, and so are the pistols; for I looked at them last night, and there is not a speck upon them. You see I always cram them, Charles, when I put them into their cases, with a piece of dry tow, wrapped up first in a piece of chamois leather, and that wrapped up again in a piece of fine green cloth. I have got little instruments made, too, for stopping the touch-holes, so that not the slightest particle of flue or dust can get in. But now we had better set off; for we must walk quietly, you know; no running and scampering to-day."

Charles was quite willing to set out; and, unlocking one of the doors which led into the courtyard for themselves, they proceeded calmly towards Harbury Hill, Mr. Driesen himself carrying the pistols, for which he seemed to have a high veneration and respect. The walk was long and beautiful, the scenery varying every moment, the new-risen sun lighting up hill and dale with all the fresh and varying loveliness of morning, and the wind blowing the foliage about, and carrying here and there a light cloud rapidly across the sky.

It was a scene to look upon, and to think of long life and manifold enjoyments; and there was something in gazing upon it, and thinking of death and departure from all known and habitual pleasures, which had some thing solemn in it even to the heart of Charles Tyrrell.

Finding that they had plenty of time, Mr. Driesen insisted upon Charles climbing the hill slowly, declaring that any great exertion unsteadied the hand. He also made him quit the road, which was covered with large, hard stones, and, mounting the bank, proceed over the short soft turf which clothed the old Roman encampment.