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

by G. P. R. James

When he was gone, Mr. Driesen stood in the midst of the lawn, putting his hand more than once to his head, as if the sun incommoded him. The butler who saw him, wisely ran and brought him his hat, which he took, still remaining in a deep fit of thought.

"You are right," he said at length, putting on the hat; "I had better go after them, for they are in a terrible state."

Thus saying, he walked on toward the corner of the wood, but there paused for a full minute, as if still undecided what to do. He then went on along the path, but not long after returned, and, walking into the library, paused for a moment in thought, and then went up to his own room; after which he soon came down again apparently quite satisfied that everything would resume its own course when the momentary storm had blown over.

About an hour after, while he was still sitting there, with the newspaper in his hand, Charles Tyrrell entered in haste and evident agitation. He said nothing to Mr. Driesen, who only looked up, for a moment, from the paper, but passed on to his own room, where he locked himself in, and remained for some time alone.

Not half an hour more had elapsed, when one of the gardeners was seen running across the lawn at full speed toward the house, and with the interval of a minute, five or six of the men-servants issued forth with the gardener, carrying a sofa between them. There was a great commotion in various parts of the house, a running to and fro, the voice of many tongues, and even the maids gathering round the door that opened into the front vestibule. All their eyes were turned in one particular direction, and at the end of about twenty minutes, the men were seen returning, bearing upon the sofa the form of some person, who seemed, from the sad and careful manner in which he was carried, to have received severe injuries.

When they arrived at the door, the men set down their burden, while the glass wings were thrown open; and there before the threshold of that dwelling, which his own violent passions had rendered miserable to all it contained, lay the body of Sir Francis Tyrrell, cold, still, inanimate, and already beginning to grow stiff. A small thin trickling stream of blood over the pillow of the sofa showed that the injury he had received, and which had caused his death, must have been inflicted on the back of his head, while a slight contusion on the forehead, together with some earthy stains upon the breast of his coat, evinced that he had fallen forward, and that the blow had come from behind.

Mr. Driesen had by this time come to the door, attracted thither apparently by the noise, and he now stood gazing upon the countenance of his dead friend, evidently much affected, but struggling against his feelings, and expressing neither sorrow nor surprise. All that he said was,

"Take the body into the library. Send for the coroner immediately, and bid the keepers scour the whole park and country round on horseback and on foot, to see for any stranger lurking about."

The butler gazed silently in his face for a moment, shut his teeth tight, and shook his head with a meaning sadness.

"Do as I bid you," answered Mr. Driesen, sharply; "and remember that every word now spoken is of importance. I know that his life was threatened some days ago by a man in the park, for he told me so."