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

by G. P. R. James

The jury consulted for a single moment apart, and then the foreman said, "There is no occasion at all, sir, to adjourn. We think the evidence quite sufficient, and we are unanimous in our verdict." The coroner then demanded the verdict in the usual manner, and the foreman replied at once, "Wilful murder against Sir Charles Tyrrell of Harbury Park."

There was a good deal of bustle and excitement in the room as soon as the words were spoken, though every one had seen to what point the investigation was tending. The only person who was perfectly still was Charles Tyrrell himself, who, though deadly pale, showed no other sign of agitation.

The coroner instantly proceeded to draw up a warrant, and before he left the house, put it into the hands of one of the constables.

Mr. Driesen advanced, and spoke a few words to the prisoner, in a low voice and in a kindly manner. But all the rest of those present, stood aloof, gazing on him with feelings in which awe and horror swallowed up entirely everything like sympathy and compassion.

Charles Tyrrell found himself alone, desolate and abandoned in his paternal mansion. A weary sickness of heart came over him, a recklessness, a despair. He longed to see and take leave of his mother, before he was hurried to a prison. He longed to write, if it were but a few lines, to Lucy Effingham. But he had not strength or energy left for anything, and in a few minutes, the carriage was brought round, which was to convey him to the jail, and getting in between two constables, he was carried rapidly away to the abode of guilt and misery.

CHAPTER XVII.

By a small dull lamp in the best chamber of the prison, which however was bad enough, sat Charles Tyrrell about four nights after the period at which we last left him. The passing of the intermediate lapse of time had wrought a terrible change in his appearance; the rosy hue of health had fled; the fulness and roundness of youth had given place to the sharp lines of care and sorrow; and the quick and fiery eye was dull and heavy, having none of the light which used to beam from it in former days. The handsome features, the fine noble expression of countenance was indeed still there, but in everything else, Charles Tyrrell was an altered being. It was not, indeed, confinement that had produced this change, but grief, for the room was on the first floor of the prison, and as airy as any it contained.

In those days, great discretionary power was intrusted to the governors of such places, and it so luckily happened for the prisoner in the present instance that the governor owed his place to the interest of the Tyrrell family, and always retained for them great veneration and respect. There was something, too, in the whole demeanour of Charles Tyrrell which had impressed him from the first with a belief of his perfect innocence; and, as the time before his trial was not likely to be long, the assizes being just about to commence when this unfortunate occurrence took place, he determined to make him as comfortable as possible and do everything in his power to make him forget his imprisonment. Thus the young gentleman had pen, and ink, and paper by him, books in abundance, and everything which could occupy his mind, and turn his attention to less painful subjects.

He had heard from his mother, who had summoned up great courage and resolution upon the occasion, and was labouring diligently to provide means for his defence; and he had written two letters, to neither of which however, he had received any answer. The one was to Lucy Effingham, and the other to Everard Morrison. Charles Tyrrell, however, neither doubted the affection of the one, nor the friendship of the other. But he was anxious and uneasy. He feared that the horrible events which had occurred might have made Lucy ill, and he longed too for assurances that she did not regret having connected, by the bond of affection, her fate with one who seemed to have been of late marked out for mischance and unhappiness.

There are few minds that can endure calmly an enforced solitude. We may encounter evil and dangers without shrinking or fear. We may undergo sorrows and pains with firmness and resolution. In almost all cases where freedom is left, and a communion with our fellow-men, imagination links itself with hope sooner or later, and carries us on to brighter scenes and happier days. But in the solitude of a prison, gloom and despondency are the companions of fancy. She takes none of her suggestions from the bright storehouses of hope; she sits and ponders with us over bitter memories or spreads out the sombre future like a pall.