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

by G. P. R. James

And he proceeded to dictate a sort of codicil to his former will, by which he revoked the bequest of everything that he had left to his son, leaving the entailed estates as bare as possible. He then went on, and specified in detail what he left to Mr. Driesen. That gentleman put the whole into legal form as briefly as possible; and Sir Francis, sitting down, copied the document on a sheet of paper, tore the other copy into small pieces, and then ringing the bell, called up a sufficient number of servants as witnesses, with whose attestation he signed and sealed the paper. As soon as they were gone, he threw the paper over to Mr. Driesen, saying, "There."

But Mr. Driesen pushed it back again, replying in the same laconic style, "Keep it yourself; I'll have nothing to do with it."

Sir Francis Tyrrell made no rejoinder, but took it up, opened a drawer in the library table, put it therein, shut the drawer, locked it, and left the room, apparently well satisfied with what he had done.

"There's a nice father," said Mr. Driesen when Sir Francis departed; "a very nice father indeed; I may well thank my stars that I can never have such a one at my time of life."

But, after grinning for a moment at his own jest, deeper thoughts took possession of him; and when he remembered all that Sir Francis had left him by that will, strange and conflicting sensations took possession of his heart. He had never possessed more than a very moderate income, and that income he had contrived gradually to diminish very greatly; but now there was before him the prospect of possessing not thirty or forty thousand pounds as he had anticipated, but between six and seven thousand a year.

We shall follow, in regard to his thoughts on this occasion, the same course that we followed on his meditations when Sir Francis had left him before, though in the present instance he uttered but one sentence. That sentence, however, was quite sufficient to show to an inquiring mind some portion of all that was passing in his thoughts. He remained standing for many minutes with his hands clasped one over the other, and at length he said, turning upon his heel to go to his own room, "'Pon my honour, I do think there is such a thing as a devil!"

CHAPTER XIII.

We will now follow Sir Francis Tyrrell, as, with his passions all excited, he went out into the park, and wandered on, lashing himself into greater fury by the scourge of his own bitter thoughts. Man, uninfluenced by extraneous circumstances, will almost always be led to seek that peculiar scenery in the external world which harmonizes with the state of the world in his own heart at the time. Cheerfulness will affect the sunshine, gloom the shade, and Sir Francis Tyrrell naturally turned his steps to a part of the wood, where a number of old gnarled oaks, with rough and rugged contortions, spread a deep shadow over various parts of the ground, as uneven and wild looking as themselves.

He advanced towards it musing and pondering, biting his lip and knitting his brow, till he was suddenly aroused by the sound of a shot fired at some distance. The shooting season had by this time commenced, and there were undoubtedly a great number of poachers abroad; but the gun had evidently been fired afar off, and, if he had thought for a moment, he would have seen that it must have been beyond the precincts of his wood, and, very likely, beyond the bounds of the manor itself. His own gamekeepers, too, were out in all directions; and, if the shot was fired on the estate at all, it was most likely by one of them.

Sir Francis Tyrrell, however, was at that moment in no mood to give calm consideration to anything. He felt quite sure that it was the gun of a poacher which had been discharged. He believed that it was within the limits of the wood itself; and he was preparing a tremendous passion against the indolence and inactivity of his gamekeepers, when he suddenly saw through the trees, at a great distance, something which looked like a smock-frock. He instantly hastened towards it, becoming more and more convinced at every step that it was a countryman with a gun in his hand; but, to his surprise, this daring intruder did not seem to avoid him; and, on a nearer approach, the gun transformed itself into a thick stick, and the man was found to be a respectable old man from the coast, hale and strong indeed, but upward of seventy years of age.