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

by G. P. R. James

We shall not pause to depict the joy that he felt at seeing her. We shall not dwell upon the gladness and rejoicing of his heart, that his father's full consent had been given to their marriage. That consent seemed to open his heart to new feelings, toward a parent, who had lost by his own fault, the first great tie, filial love, upon one full of every warm affection. He was unconscious that Sir Francis Tyrrell had come down to see him on the preceding night, and Mrs. Effingham, one of whose rules it was, to tell everything that might promote good and kindly feelings, and to be silent when she could not do so, painted the agitation and anxiety of Sir Francis Tyrrell in such terms, that for the first time in life, Charles Tyrrell really believed he was beloved by his father. His heart instantly beat warmly in return; but, alas! those feelings were soon destined to be drowned in others, dark and terrible, indeed.

On Lucy's visits to her lover, we shall dwell no more. They were repeated on the two following days, and on one of those, she again saw the same female figure retreat before her, which she had beheld on her first visit. Still Lucy was not jealous, for she was of a confiding nature. She could only love where she doubted not, and when she did love, her trust was not easily shaken.

On her third visit, Charles Tyrrell was rapidly recovering, up, and dressed, and sitting at the door of the cottage. The surgeon had given a sort of half consent to his going to Harbury park on the following day, and to say the truth, there was not the slightest reason, as far as his own health was concerned, why he should not have done so. Mrs. Effingham, however, held a moment's conversation with the surgeon apart, and that gentleman's opinion seemed to be considerably changed thereby. He felt Charles's pulse some time after they were gone, shook his head gravely, and expressed doubts as to the propriety of his attempting the journey.

Toward evening, when he returned again, after having been absent for some hours, he declared that he must not think of it; that there was a tendency to fever in his pulse, and various other signs and symptoms of not being so well, with which Charles's own sensations did not correspond in the least. He was persuaded, however, to submit, and it may scarcely be necessary to tell the reader, that the cause of all this was the health of Lady Tyrrell. The day on which Charles had first proposed to return, was the day on which the physicians had declared the crisis of her disease would take place, and on the following, day, Mrs. Effingham, who never shrunk from a painful task, and who undertook to tell Charles that his mother had been at the point of death, had the satisfaction of being enabled to add, that she was no longer considered in danger.

Still the news agitated Charles Tyrrell a great deal, and he now felt how ill he himself had been. He was only the more anxious, however, to return home as speedily as possible, and on the following day, he arrived at Harbury park, and took up his post by the sick bed of his mother. Lady Tyrrell recovered very slowly, Charles saw little of his father: and the day of his coming of age, which was the second after his return, passed without mark or rejoicing in a gloomy and melancholy house.

CHAPTER XVI.

We must pass over a brief space with but a slight sketch of its events. Charles Tyrrell stole daily some time, to spend with Lucy Effingham, and the rest of his time was chiefly spent in the sick chamber of his mother. Of Sir Francis he saw but little.

For several days, joy at his son's recovery, somewhat softened the temper of Sir Francis Tyrrell. But that amelioration soon wore off, and though Charles took an opportunity of telling him, simply and feelingly, how grateful he was for the kindness and anxiety he had shown respecting him during his illness, Sir Francis did not think him grateful enough, was piqued at the attention he showed his mother, alluded more than once with a sneer to what he called the cabal up stairs, and wondered when there would be a change in the ministry.

When Charles had thanked him for the anxiety he had shown respecting him in his illness, he had thanked him also for the consent he had given to his marriage with Lucy Effingham. Sir Francis cut him short, however: "You have nothing to thank me for," he replied sharply, "you chose for yourself, without putting any trust or confidence in me. It so happened that your choice chimed with my opinion; but I have a good deal more to say upon that subject, which shall be said hereafter, and which may not be quite so pleasant to you."

Charles very well understood from these words, that Sir Francis, as was frequently the case, wished to hold over his head, as a drawn sword, the vague expectation of some future retribution for having ventured to own his love, to Lucy herself, without making him acquainted therewith. As he had often experienced, however, that such vague menaces produced no effects, he did not make himself uneasy. But that which alarmed him more than anything which fell from his father's lips, was a certain degree of anxiety which he beheld constantly in the countenance of his mother, and her informing him more than once, that there was a matter which weighed much upon her mind, which she must tell him soon. She put it off, however, from day to day, and the disinclination she had to speak, served more than anything to confirm Charles in the belief that what she was about to tell him, was not only important, but painful in a great degree.