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

by G. P. R. James

"I'll tell you what, Sir Francis," he said, "you're a passionate man, and a bad man; and if all be true that's said, you treat your own lady and your son as bad as any one else. You'll repent all this some day when you can't mend it. You'll repent it, I say; I'm thinking God has tried you long enough, and it's time you should be taken away. Remember, there's been more than one of your kidney has had his brains knocked out, and what has happened to another may happen to you; so now good-morning to you, master; if the boy must stay in prison, he must, that's all."

Thus saying, he turned on his heel and left Sir Francis Tyrrell in a state of bewildered fury that it is impossible to describe. He had not sufficient command over himself to refrain from yielding to the most lamentable display of impotent rage. He shook his clinched fists together in the air; he stamped upon the ground; he almost foamed at the mouth. He cursed and he blasphemed aloud; and, to crown all, with an extravagance of horror that almost reached the ludicrous, he declared that he wished they would murder him, that they might be hanged afterward. Scarcely credible as this may seem, it was none the less true; and for the moment, to such a height was carried his vindictive rage, that he did really and sincerely feel what he said.

This adventure, as may naturally be supposed, did not tend to soften or sweeten the mood of Sir Francis Tyrrell, and he returned to his own abode more full of anger and violence than ever. He sought for somebody to vent his irritated feelings upon; and it is not improbable that, if Mr. Driesen had met him at that moment, he would have quarrelled even with him, though, as we have thrice before remarked, they had lived in constant acquaintanceship through a long life without the violent passions of the one, or the utter want of principle of the other, ever ending in a serious dispute between them.

It so happened, however, that Mr. Driesen was invariably out of the way when Sir Francis Tyrrell's wrath was excited to such a pitch as to be in absolute need of some outlet; and by this fortunate circumstance as well as others, the worthy gentleman had uniformly contrived to keep well with his friend. Mr. Driesen, then, had, as usual, gone forth to walk; and as the necessity was strong upon him, Sir Francis strode up stairs and sought the apartments of his unhappy wife. She had no means of escape, and the moment she beheld him she read upon the dark and troubled page of his countenance, a page which she had studied with grief and agony for many a year, that some new suffering, some still greater aggravation of sorrow was in store for her.

But there is a pitch at which endurance ends, and where the most timid and the most gentle must resist. That point was reached between Lady Tyrrell and her husband. She had long contemplated taking a step which would decide her fate for the future; and the instant she beheld the dark and lowering brow of her husband, she nerved all her energies, she prepared her mind with the recollection of all the past, in order to fulfil the resolution she had taken. She felt that to live with Sir Francis Tyrrell longer was to live a living death. Her son had now reached the period of manhood, for a very few days would see him of age. It was as desirable for him as for her, that he should have another home open to him where he might hope for peace and tranquillity; and every thought strengthened her determination, and gave her vigour and force to carry it into execution. Had anything been wanting, the words with which Sir Francis Tyrrell opened their interview would have been sufficient to render that resolution irrevocable.

"I intrude upon your privacy, madam," he said, "for the purpose of informing you that I have been made aware of the conduct which my son Charles--doubtless under your wise consent, approbation, and direction--has thought fit to pursue towards Miss Effingham; and I wish you to know and fully understand the consequences which such conduct naturally produces."

"I am really unaware, sir," replied Lady Tyrrell, "of what you allude to. I hope and believe that Charles would do nothing towards Lucy Effingham which could at all merit his father's displeasure."

"Indeed, madam," replied Sir Francis, "you are wonderfully innocent and ignorant, doubtless; but you will excuse my feeling a difficulty in believing your son has acted in the manner he has acted without your approbation and consent. I, therefore, shall certainly look upon you as an accessory in this business; and as you have enjoyed the satisfaction of teaching your son through life the wise and just lesson of despising his father and refusing him all confidence, it is but right that you should be made aware of the fruits which such lessons produce."

Lady Tyrrell rose from her chair with a look which Sir Francis Tyrrell had never seen her assume before.

"One word, Sir Francis Tyrrell," she said, "before you proceed farther. You accuse me now, as you have often previously done, of things in regard to which I am perfectly innocent and ignorant. I have never taught your son to disobey you, though your own conduct may have taught him not to respect you, and may have alienated the affection of a son full of strong feelings, as it has alienated the affection of a wife, who might have been taught to love you dearly. More than twenty-two years of my life have been sacrificed to you; my health, my happiness, my comfort, my youth have been blasted and destroyed by the ill-fated connexion which united me to you. For my son's sake I have endured till now, but I will endure no longer; and I now tell you, Sir Francis Tyrrell, that this must be the last altercation between us, as it is high time that we should separate."