Charles Tyrrell was up early on the following morning. He was one of those who are born without the consciousness of fear. Though eager and enthusiastic by nature, vehement and rapid in character, his was not one of those weak-toned minds easily hurried on to violent actions, to be regretted the next moment, or to unsustained daring, which evaporates with the excitement of the hour. When he had struck an officer in the king's service, he knew the consequences likely to ensue, and he was quite as ready to meet those consequences after calm reflection as at the moment when he had committed the act.
There was, indeed, only one condition under which Charles Tyrrell regretted his actions, which was, when the impetuosity and vehemence of his nature led him to do anything which his own heart condemned. Such, however, was not the case in the present instance. He felt solemnly that there was a chance of his meeting death in the encounter to which he was voluntarily going. He felt that he might very likely be torn, in a moment, from the side of a mother to whom he was the only source of consolation, comfort, and support. He felt that he might be taken, too, from one who had wakened in his bosom, for the first time, the noblest, the most endearing, the most kindly of affections; and, therefore, on two strong motives, he hoped and prayed that life might be continued to him.
But those feelings were very different from apprehension of death. He could not bring his mind to grasp the terror with which some people regard that event. It seemed as if his mind were insusceptible of the idea of danger, and he set about all his proceedings for going out to meet Arthur Hargrave as calmly and tranquilly as he had made his preparations on the preceding day for going to Oxford.
Weighing the chances, however, he sat down and wrote three brief notes to the three persons whom he thought the most interested in his existence. One was, as may well be supposed, to Lucy Effingham, and another to his mother. The third was addressed to his father, and was addressed to him in terms of affection and kindness, as if there had never existed dispute or angry feelings between them. Before he ended it, however, he spoke of his mother, and besought Sir Francis Tyrrell, in terms which he thought would touch him, if read when the hand that wrote them was cold in death, to render her life happier by a change of conduct towards her.
When he had done it, Charles was well pleased that he had thought of so doing; for he felt that there are events which form epochs in the life of man, changing or influencing his very character itself; and he believed that the death of an only son, under such circumstances, might well form such an epoch in the life of Sir Francis and Lady Tyrrell, and might teach him to control that violent and bitter disposition which had rendered the existence of his wife an existence of misery.
He had concluded the whole of these arrangements some time before Mr. Driesen knocked at his door. That gentleman entered with a cheerful face, carrying his pistol-case under his arm, and saying, "Early rising, Charles, early rising; very good for the health this. A breeze upon Harbury Hill will do us a great deal of good; but we shall find it necessary, Charles, to jump out of your window, I think, for it seems to me the only one open in the house; all the rest are as dark as the pit of Acheron, or, to use a not less classical simile, as dark as a dog's mouth. Those lazy jades of yours are never up before six o'clock in the morning, so that, when I come down sometimes to seek for a book in the library, I find them walking about, with their brooms in their hands, like the apotheosis of a March wind, enveloped in a cloud of dust. But I see you are ready, and so am I, and so are the pistols; for I looked at them last night, and there is not a speck upon them. You see I always cram them, Charles, when I put them into their cases, with a piece of dry tow, wrapped up first in a piece of chamois leather, and that wrapped up again in a piece of fine green cloth. I have got little instruments made, too, for stopping the touch-holes, so that not the slightest particle of flue or dust can get in. But now we had better set off; for we must walk quietly, you know; no running and scampering to-day."
Charles was quite willing to set out; and, unlocking one of the doors which led into the courtyard for themselves, they proceeded calmly towards Harbury Hill, Mr. Driesen himself carrying the pistols, for which he seemed to have a high veneration and respect. The walk was long and beautiful, the scenery varying every moment, the new-risen sun lighting up hill and dale with all the fresh and varying loveliness of morning, and the wind blowing the foliage about, and carrying here and there a light cloud rapidly across the sky.
It was a scene to look upon, and to think of long life and manifold enjoyments; and there was something in gazing upon it, and thinking of death and departure from all known and habitual pleasures, which had some thing solemn in it even to the heart of Charles Tyrrell.
Finding that they had plenty of time, Mr. Driesen insisted upon Charles climbing the hill slowly, declaring that any great exertion unsteadied the hand. He also made him quit the road, which was covered with large, hard stones, and, mounting the bank, proceed over the short soft turf which clothed the old Roman encampment.
Before they reached the top, however, he said, "They are there before us; I saw a man's head at that corner. However, as we have fully five minutes to the time, we need not hurry."
When they had reached the top, however, they found that the head which Mr. Driesen had seen belonged to a no less innocent person than an old shepherd, who, accompanied by his two faithful dogs, sat upon the brow of the hill while his sheep fed quietly on the grassy side. There was nobody else there; and when they had reached the flat top, Mr. Driesen having laid down the pistol-case, put on his spectacles, and, mounting upon a part of the old intrenchments, looked over the country to see if their adversaries were coming.
"It's very odd," he said, "very odd indeed. One can see all round here, and yet I can perceive nothing like them on any of the roads. Well, we must wait;" and thereupon he took out his silk pocket-handkerchief, and tied on his hat to prevent it being blown away by the wind.
After waiting some short time longer, Charles began to be apprehensive that his watch might have been slow, and that his opponent might have been on the spot before him and gone away; under which supposition he advanced to the shepherd, and asked him how long he had been there.
"Why, for this hour and a half, Master Charles," replied the man, who knew him well; "I always set out pretty earlyish, and have been sitting here ever since."
"Were there two gentlemen here then," said Charles, "just before we came?"
"No, Master Charles, no," answered the man. "There's been nobody here since I was here. What happened before I came I can't say: but there's been nobody here since, not a living soul, except one of the two old ravens that live in those trees there. He came, old boy, and swung himself backward and forward on his feet, putting down his head, and croaking as if he had got hold of a sheep. I thought it boded no good to the old north country ram, that has been ailing like for the last week; but he seems better to-day. No, Master Charles, not a living soul but the old raven."
So far satisfied, Charles walked back to Mr. Driesen, whom he found engaged in the humane and rational sport of pelting a lizard to death, which he had found sunning itself among the stones. He left off, however, as Charles Tyrrell approached, and said,
"This is very odd, Charles; it's near a quarter past the hour. Do you think this can be a white feather, my boy? We must give 'em a little more time, however; watches may differ, and, though mine goes well, yet it may be found at fault when compared with one regulated by observation taken from the deck of his majesty's revenue cutter, the--what is she called, Charles?"
"I am sure I do not know," answered Charles Tyrrell; "but I think I see somebody coming along the farther part of that road. Oh yes, it is certainly; I saw him pass the trees."
Mr. Driesen now looked, and anxiously; but in a moment after he said,
"That's but a single person, and looks to me too little for a man. It's a boy, Charles, it's a boy. He's making straight for the hill, however; perhaps they've sent him on to say they're coming."
They watched the person who approached, and whom they could plainly distinguish to be a boy of no very great age, as he came along the road to the hill, and then mounted directly towards them. He was soon, however, seen to be a mere country lad in a smock frock; and Mr. Driesen, concluding that he was one of the shepherd's sons, or something of that kind, was turning away, when the youth came up and stared, with an inquiring countenance, first at him and then at Charles.
"Are you one of the gentlemen I was to find upon the hill?" said the boy, addressing the latter.
"I really do not know," replied Charles Tyrrell. "Pray, who told you you would find anybody here?"
"Ay, that I can't tell either," replied the boy, "but he looked like a sea-captain."
"What is that you've got in your hand, my man?" said Mr. Driesen; "I dare say it is for us; let me look at it;" and, without ceremony, he took from the reluctant hands of the boy a note, which he found to be directed to ---- Tyrrell, Esq. "There, Charles, there," continued Mr. Driesen, "that's for you. Let us hear what all this is about."
Charles took the note, which was wafered, and opened it, when he found written within, in a hasty and nearly illegible manner,
"Sir,
"I am sorry to inform you that unexpected events will prevent my friend Lieutenant Hargrave from giving you the meeting proposed for this morning. I have not time to explain this matter farther; but have only to add, that you will hear either from him or me in a few days, and that I am,
"Sir,
"Your most obedient servant," &c., &c./
"White feather! Charles," said Mr. Driesen. "White feather, no doubt of it! Well, you have done with the matter. If the fellow comes in your way again, horsewhip him, that's all; but don't suffer yourself to be tempted to meet him any more. Sometimes these cowardly fellows, after hanging back for a time, screw themselves up to behave like gentlemen; but you are not to be trifled with by such a scoundrel. You have kept your engagement, and been to your time, and that's quite enough. Hark you, my man," he continued, turning to the boy, "what did they give you for bringing this note?"
"They gave me a shilling, sir," said the boy.
"Give it me," said Mr. Driesen. "There's half a crown for you instead. Now I want you to do two things. If ever you meet that gentleman again, tell him it would not pass current, and so you had the broad arrow stamped upon it; and, here, take this mahogany case, and walk on before us to that house that you see in the park beyond the trees there. We are close behind you; but take no notice; give the case to one of the servants, and tell him to put it in Mr. Driesen's room; Mr. Driesen's room, mind!"
The boy pulled the front lock of his hair and took the pistol case; and Driesen, turning to Charles, led the way homeward, saying, "Come, Charles, come. My walk has given me an appetite, and I don't think it has taken yours away, though something has taken away the stomach of your adversary, seemingly. I shall go and coax Mrs. Housekeeper to make me a cup of chocolate; for it wants an hour and a half to the breakfast-time yet, and I should be starved if I were to wait so long."
Charles determined he would do so likewise, and they accordingly returned to the house with a more rapid pace than that with which they had left it.
When there, Charles Tyrrell destroyed the notes that he had written, and the whole party met at breakfast, he having once more prepared to set out for Oxford immediately after. Sir Francis, in reality ashamed of what had taken place the day before, but forcing down the throat of his own conscience a persuasion that he had been very much ill treated by his son, enshrouded himself in sullen dignity, read the newspaper, and scarcely spoke to anyone. Lady Tyrrell was present, but sad at her son's departure; and the burden of conversation devolved upon Mr. Driesen, who, to do him but justice, bore it up stoutly.
When breakfast was over, Charles ordered his packages to be taken down to the lodge, and bade his mother farewell. Lady Tyrrell melted into tears, and retired immediately into her own room. Sir Francis shook hands with his son, wished him good-by, and returned to his newspaper again. Mr. Driesen accompanied Charles to the lodge, and left him fully satisfied that he had established a hold upon the young man's regard which he had never before possessed.
The coach came up in a few minutes, the luggage was taken up, Charles mounted on the top, the horses started, and he was borne away from the scenes which were endeared to him by early reflections, but still more by the one sweet attaching tie of his love for Lucy Effingham.
"Nella strada della Licatia vi รจ una chiesetta mal fornita, ove suole annidarsi uno dei romiti girovagi, ed anni sono vi abitava uno di barba e pelo rosso, che si procacciava il vitto colle spontanee limosine de' passaggieri, conforme a tutti i suoi antecessori. Teneva egli un cane addestrato in maniera che ad un cenno quasi indiscernibile investiva con gran furia i passaggieri, e ad un altro cenno faceva mille ossequiosi atteggiamenti e giuocarelli."
So said our worthy old friend, the Canon Joseph Recupero, and therein he afforded an excellent allegory, representing in faint colours the passions of a violent and irritable man, which, at the lightest sign, imperceptible in fact to any but his own eyes and to the feelings that he acts upon, now rise into unprovoked aggression, now sink into fondling and uncalled-for affection.
Ere Charles Tyrrell had been much more than a month at Oxford, he received a letter from his father, commanding him imperatively to return to Harbury Park, without assigning the slightest reason or motive whatever for the conduct he thus pursued. On first reading the letter, Charles was inclined--and what young mind is not so inclined?--to give way to hope; to imagine that the purpose of his father was, as Mr. Driesen had prognosticated, to propose to him that union which he desired more than any other thing on earth, to offer to him voluntarily all that he thought necessary to render him as happy as he conceived it possible for a human being to be.
But when he came again to examine his father's letter, to weigh the words and examine the expressions with accuracy, he found that there was an acerbity, a bitterness, a mysteriousness about the whole composition, which made him judge that the cloud would bear storm and tempest rather than genial and refreshing showers.
Some difficulties, of course, arose in regard to his leaving Oxford so soon after the commencement of the term; but these were speedily obviated; and merely announcing his obedience beforehand, he set out for Harbury Park.
We must notice, however, before we touch upon the events which took place after his return, the circumstances which now surrounded the society which he had left behind him. Lady Tyrrell had been more unhappy than ever, and had had more cause for unhappiness; for Sir Francis Tyrrell not having wished his son to go, and irritated at his going, had vented a great part of that irritation, which he had not thought fit to display towards Charles himself, upon those who were nearest to him during his son's absence.
Lady Tyrrell was, of course, the first that suffered. She herself, however, could retire to her own bedroom and let the storm blow by. But the very absence of the person on whom Sir Francis thought that his anger might be most justly expended, increased his irritation in a high degree, and kept him in the state of an avalanche ready to descend, but stayed by some trifling impediment, which only rendered the accumulation greater.
It unfortunately so happened, also, that no one would give him any cause for offence; that the servants ran like lightning to obey his orders; that the horses themselves seemed to be more tractable and easy under the consciousness of an impending catastrophe; and that Mr. Driesen, with extraordinary skill and forethought, avoided the slightest occasion of offence, though he did not fail to launch the little biting sarcasms which, by showing him constantly prepared to assail others, tended not a little to guard him from assault.
Through a long life, as we have said, Sir Francis and Mr. Driesen had never quarrelled; and Sir Francis had generated in himself a sort of affectionate regard towards Driesen, which, without respect or esteem, or any of those qualities that seemed requisite to render regard permanent, had outlived many trials, and rather increased than diminished. It is true that Mr. Driesen was under some pecuniary obligations to Sir Francis Tyrrell, and Sir Francis was too generous in regard to such transactions not to feel that such a circumstance ought to act as a check and control upon him. This was, indeed, the only kind of restraint he knew, and it is but justice to point it out, and to say that, on many occasions, it acted as a barrier, when, had it not been for that, his wrath might have poured forth upon his friend as well as upon his wife or son. As very rarely happens, indeed, the existence of pecuniary obligations had given permanence to the friendship of two men of very dissimilar characters and of no very steadfast religious principles.
These causes still existed to prevent anything like a rupture between Sir Francis Tyrrell and his friend; but in the course of that month a change had come over Mr. Driesen which was sufficiently remarkable to attract the attention of Sir Francis himself. He had become gloomy, melancholy; had not taken pleasure in his books, but been thoughtful in conversation; had not seemed to view all things in that quiet and amusing light which he had been accustomed to do. Sir Francis saw that such was the case; and as he had remarked a similar change in his friend once before, and had discovered what was the cause, he divined it easily at present, and said one morning, when they were alone, "Driesen, you have been speculating, and have been unsuccessful. I see it in the sharpness of your nose. You'll have to come to me soon, I am sure, so you had better do so as soon as possible."
Mr. Driesen turned upon his heel, whistling a few bars of a loose French song, and, without reply, walked out of the room.
"There goes a proud man, who scoff's at pride," muttered Sir Francis Tyrrell to himself; and feeling himself superior to Mr. Driesen for the moment, which was pleasant to him, as he did not do so in general, he too whistled the same air, and proceeded to other matters.
During that month, it is but fair to say--especially when we are speaking of a person of whom we are not very fond--that Mr. Driesen laboured assiduously in all the intricate paths which his spirit was fond of following, to induce Sir Francis Tyrrell to hurry forward whatever measures he proposed for the purpose of uniting his son Charles to Lucy Effingham. But whether it was that something had occurred to open the eyes of Sir Francis himself to the real feelings of Charles and Lucy towards each other, or whether it was that Mr. Driesen, with all his skill, suffered his object to be too perceptible, Sir Francis resisted in a manner which had not been expected, and, at the end of the month, the matter was no farther advanced than at the beginning.
Mr. Driesen was somewhat puzzled; and as he had sometimes found it an excellent plan with Sir Francis Tyrrell to let things alone, and, as he expressed it, to suffer his caprices to rack themselves clear, he gave up all allusions to the subject in the end, and, even when Sir Francis himself approached it, avoided it as much as possible. At the same time, he went down to the old manor-house as often as he had a decent excuse for so doing: and one day laughingly said to Sir Francis Tyrrell, "'Pon my word, I think, if Lucy reaches the liberal age of one-and-twenty without being married, I shall propose to her myself. Her fortune would stop many a gap for the time being, and she'd make a beautiful widow some eight or ten years hence."
"Do you intend to live eight or ten years, Driesen?" said Sir Francis Tyrrell.
"I'll bet you any money I live longer than you," replied Mr. Driesen.
"What makes you think so?" said Sir Francis, sharply.
"Why," replied Mr. Driesen, "we are like two horses running a race. We are much about the same age, Tyrrell; six off, eh? much about it in bone and substance; but you carry weight, Tyrrell, and I don't. You've a wife, and a son, and an estate, and a bad temper; and I'm wifeless, childless, penniless, and pleasant; so I'll bet you what you like, as I said, that I live longer than you. Come, Tyrrell, will you have it for five thousand cool money, and say done; 'pon my soul, it would be a great comfort to me, and you might die whenever you liked, for that matter."
"I won't run you so hard as that, Driesen," replied Sir Francis, with a grim smile; and almost immediately after a heavy frown gathered upon his brow, while he added, "I'll tell you what, Driesen, you are likely to come in for something better than you know of; for, on my soul, as a gentleman and a man of honour, if what I've heard yesterday and to-day be true, I'll leave you every farthing that I can leave away, and cut that undeserving boy as close down as the law will let me."
Mr. Driesen stared, as well he might; for Sir Francis had been, as usual when his son was absent, particularly affectionate in his mention of him since Charles had gone to Oxford; and not one single word had been said up to that moment which could afford, even to his penetrating sagacity, just cause to imagine that Sir Francis Tyrrell had discovered any new cause for offence in his son. Rapid was Mr. Driesen in all his calculations, and one of his modes of proceeding was instantly to suffer a vivid imagination to produce every possible and probable cause for any mysterious circumstance which presented itself, and then to apply to his judgment, seldom found wanting in accuracy, to select the most probable from all the causes thus produced.
Thus, in the present instance, he thought, "Charles has been kicking this young Hargrave at Oxford; he has refused to fight him, according to my advice; he has written to Lucy Effingham to tell her he is in love with her, or he has written to his father to tell him the same thing; or else he has got himself into some devilish scrape by his fiery temper, which his father, of course, will never forgive, being so lamblike himself. Well, if the old gentleman do but keep his word and adhere to his resolution, which he is very likely to do, it will deliver me from many a difficulty, out of which I don't see my way. However, I must do my best at present to endeavour to persuade him not to do the very thing that would be the most beneficial to me; in the first place, because I really do not want to injure the boy; and in the next place, because that's the very way to make Sir Francis adhere to his resolution, if the youth is really in the wrong."
Acting accordingly upon this determination, Mr. Driesen applied himself, in the first place, to learn from Sir Francis Tyrrell what was the cause of this sudden fit of indignation with his son. For a time the baronet was uncommunicative; but, by one means or another, Driesen wormed out of him the fact that Charles Tyrrell had been engaged in a duel with young Hargrave, and that the whole business between him and their fair neighbour at the manor-house was known. Mr. Driesen, however, could arrive at nothing more; for Sir Francis did not and would not specify from whom he had received his information. Nor did he himself feel quite sure of the facts, or to know the particulars.
His friend, then, in pursuance of his resolution, set hard to work to convince him that, even taking it for granted that the whole was true which he had heard, he ought to overlook his son's fault, promote his marriage, and applaud the duel. In the first place, however, he found Sir Francis Tyrrell's whole opinions in regard to duelling suddenly, but not the less completely, changed. He had on former occasions declared a thousand times that fighting duels was one of the greatest modern improvements; that it was very true the bravest men of antiquity knew nothing of such a practice; but he added, it was simply because such a thing as a gentleman was then uninvented; that the discovery of that biped required duelling as a natural consequence; and that it was absolutely necessary, as society was constituted at present, to have the means of holding more than the mere law over the heads of personages who might be inclined to forget civility.
Now, however, he was as eager on the contrary side of the question, and advocated boldly all the adverse arguments. Duelling was the most stupid and absurd practice that it was possible to conceive. The man who called another out, as well as the man who received such a call, was nine times out of ten an arrant coward. The very principle of the matter was cowardly, as well as absurd; and he had hoped, he said, that his son would not have shown himself to be so great and lamentable a fool.
As Sir Francis had never been famous for his consistency, Mr. Driesen did not attempt to throw in his teeth, otherwise than by a slight sneer, his former opinions upon the same subject; but in regard to Lucy Effingham, he pointed out to Sir Francis that he had really no right to complain of his son falling in love with so beautiful a person, when he himself had brought them together for the very purpose.
In answer to this, Sir Francis Tyrrell said, grinning at him all the time with a degree of spiteful scorn,
"Now you think that a very excellent argument, Driesen, don't you; and you call yourself a philosopher and a logician. What right have you to suppose that I am angry with him for falling in love with Lucy Effingham? I am not angry with him for that, in the least. I think it quite natural, and what I expected and wished; but what I expected and wished also was, that my son should make me, in the first instance, acquainted with his intentions and purpose, and not clandestinely seek the hand of a person whom he might have obtained openly and straightforwardly; but openness and straightforwardness are not a part of his character, sir, to his father at least; and his father will teach him that he is not to be contemned and made a fool of with impunity. He shall learn better, whether he likes it or not; and though the lesson may be a painful one to inflict or to receive, I shall not hesitate to give it. And now, Driesen, I will tell you something more," he continued. "Do not let me hear any more of these arguments, for I know you are reasoning against your own conviction, by doing which you will nor serve my son at all, and may make an unpleasant difference towards yourself."
"I wasn't reasoning against my conviction, Tyrrell," said Mr. Driesen, grinning at him in return; "But I was certainly reasoning against my own interest, which is what a man seldom does in the world, let me tell you. However, henceforth I shall hold my tongue upon the subject. If you choose to leave your money away from your son, I don't see why I shouldn't have it as well as another; and, to tell you the truth, if you thought fit to do so, and could manage to die within a rational time, thirty or forty thousand pounds would be very convenient, as indeed a less sum would, for that rascal, Swearum, has called in his mortgage, and threatens to foreclose. He tells me, too, he could arrest me for interest if he liked, and I rather suspect that he tells me true."
"He sha'n't do that, Driesen. He sha'n't do that!" replied Sir Francis, who was, as we have said, a really generous man in regard to pecuniary matters. "But I will go down directly to the manor," he continued "and ascertain what truth there is in the news I have heard. I have sent for the young scoundrel home already, though I dare say he is by this time expelled from the University for this glorious beginning of life which he chooses to make."
Mr. Driesen did not reply; for it was evident that, in Sir Francis Tyrrell's state of mind at the moment, no argument would be effectual. He saw him, then, take his hat and gloves, and set out for the manor with the appearance of cool indifference which he usually put on, taking up a book and stretching his leg over the back of one of the chairs, as if not one word of any importance had been said during the morning.
When Sir Francis was fairly out of the house, however, Mr. Driesen laid down the book, raised himself, and took two or three slow turns up and down the room, with his head bent forward and his eyes fixed upon the carpet. Into the exact nature of his thoughts we shall not inquire. It may be sufficient for us to give some of the broken sentences in which, as was very common with him, he commented aloud upon what was passing in his mind.
"Why should I care?" he said; "why should I care? better that I should have it than any one else; it would put me at ease for the rest of my life, and deliver me from the vile bondage of debts and embarrassment. I can use it while I live, and give it back to the boy at my death; all the better for him, too, not to have so much at first; and I know the devilish determination of this maddest of a mad family; if he does not leave it to me, he'll leave it to somebody else. 'Pon my soul, it's a lucky thing that he can't communicate the disease like a mad dog by the bite, for he's very well inclined to bite everybody he meets with. What a rabid race we should have. I shall get myself bitten some day; but, if ever we come to that, I think he'll meet with his match. Now he'll tease poor Mrs. Effingham's soul out before he comes up. I often think it would be a good thing if some of those on whom he vents his ill-nature were to imitate the worthy man that was hanged for knocking his great ancestor's brains out with an axe."
Thus reasoned Mr. Driesen with himself; and having at length settled the whole matter in his own mind, he resumed his book, threw his legs again over the selfsame chair which had supported them before, and was still deep in his studies when Sir Francis returned. Mr. Driesen very evidently heard by his step, and by the manner in which he threw down the hat he had worn, with an echoing emptiness, among half a dozen others strewed on a table placed in the hall to receive them, that his violent mood was anything but diminished. Mr. Driesen, however, took no notice, but went on with his book; and Sir Francis, after taking a turn in the room, paused by the table and said, "It's all true, Driesen, and more."
"Is it?" said Mr. Driesen, and went on reading.
"Come, Driesen, listen to me," exclaimed Sir Francis, "or it may be worse for you. I have determined that I will do what I said, and put the will in his hands the first thing I do on his arrival."
"Wait till to-morrow," said Mr. Driesen, looking up. "Wait till to-morrow, and I'm sure you'll change your mind."
Sir Francis Tyrrell stamped his foot, saying and adding with a blasphemous oath, "Never, Driesen, never! The boy has not only put no confidence in his father in regard to a matter where he knew that father would have promoted his wishes, but has gone and prevailed upon Mrs. Effingham to be silent about the whole transaction; representing to her, I am sure, though she does not say so, that Sir Francis Tyrrell is a weak, unreasonable, foolish, passionate man. Now, Driesen, you have studied the law; will you draw the will, or will you not?"
"Oh! I will draw the will," replied Mr. Driesen, "and take my fee too; and I'll tell you what, Tyrrell, if you intend to make me benefit by it, you must write it all over in your own hand after I've drawn it, for, of course, it would be unpleasant to have--"
"Oh, you draw it up, and I will write it over," replied Sir Francis; "then take that sheet of paper, and now listen."
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!"
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.
He advanced direct, as I have said, towards Sir Francis Tyrrell, looking him in the face, and pulling off his hat with a respectful bow. The baronet remembered to have seen him somewhere before, but could not tell where. He was impatient because he did not recollect at once; he was impatient because the man had not gratified him by turning out a poacher; and he was impatient because he stood respectfully in the middle of the way, waiting till Sir Francis began, without announcing his own business at once.
"What do you want? What do you want?" he exclaimed, at length; "why the devil don't you speak, and not stand bowing there."
"Why, I made bold, your honour," replied the countryman, "to come up to speak to your honour about my poor boy of a son, who was sent to prison, your honour, and I thought--"
"And who the devil is your son?" demanded Sir Francis; "how can I tell who your son is, unless you tell me his name: Do you suppose I am to know every old man's son in the country?"
"No, sir, no," replied the old man, "that would be a hard job indeed, as you say: but I thought mayhap you might know my poor boy, John Smithson, who was sent to jail some little time ago with the smugglers. I thought you might recollect him mayhap, and me too, seeing that I used always to serve the house with fish in your father's time; ay, those were pleasant days!"
There are some people who might have been in a degree moved by this appeal. There are some people who might have smiled at it, and there are a great number who would quietly and reasonably have told the old man, that his son being committed to jail, nothing could be done for him by the magistrate but to leave him there to take his trial. Few, very few are there, on the contrary, who would have acted as Sir Francis Tyrrell acted. He flew into a violent and most outrageous passion. He called the old fisherman a thousand times a fool and an idiot; told him--not that he could not do anything for his son--but that he would not; and added a hope that he might be transported at least, as the law was weak enough not to hang the robbers of the public revenue, though it hanged those who took a few shillings on the highway.
The old man listened at first with surprise, and then with evident indignation; but he did not follow the bad example of the gentleman with whom he conversed, but gave way to no passion, retorted upon the baronet none of his abusive language, and only replied from time to time, "Well, that is a hard word! I didn't think to hear that, howsover, at my time of life!"
Still, however, Sir Francis Tyrrell went on; and we have already remarked that he was eloquent upon such occasions; but he did not succeed in disturbing the calm tranquillity with which the old man listened to him, and, of course, became but the more angry at such being the case. He ended an oration, which would have done honour to a Xantippe, by bidding the old man get out of his park, and never show his face there again, otherwise he would order the servants to horsewhip him.
The old man instantly put on his hat, and grasped his cudgel firmly while he replied, "I should be sorry to see any gentleman so disgrace himself by giving such an order as your honour mentions, and still sorrier to see any of your powdered vallys attempt to execute it; for I think, though I be past seventy, I could manage to thrash two or three of them, master and men and all."
This still farther excited Sir Francis Tyrrell's indignation; and though the old man began to move off as soon as he had delivered himself of his oration, the baronet continued to load him with abuse, finding no end to his copious vocabulary of harsh terms, till he was suddenly surprised by seeing old Smithson stop and turn short upon him. The old man used no threatening attitude, and nothing on his countenance marked his anger but the gathering together of his heavy white eyebrows as he marched straight up to the baronet.
"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."
Sir Francis Tyrrell was certainly struck and surprised, for this determination was not at all what he had expected from a woman whom he fancied to be habitually his slave; but still there was far too much pride in his nature to suffer him to show the slightest disappointment or regret. On the contrary, he determined to punish and imbitter an act that he could not prevent.
"Just as you please, madam," he replied; "it is an arrangement I have long desired and coveted myself; but I, too, have been restrained by consideration for my son, and should have proposed such a thing some sixteen or seventeen years ago, had I not apprehended that I might thereby have cast some doubts upon his legitimacy."
Lady Tyrrell gazed at him for a moment as if utterly confounded and bewildered by astonishment and horror. She knew by sad experience that there were few points of malignity to which passion would not carry Sir Francis Tyrrell in his more violent moods; but, pure as light in every word, and thought, and action, she had not believed that even human malignity itself would have dared to risk an insinuation against her honour. She gazed upon her husband, therefore--upon him to whom that honour should have been most dear and sacred, while he made an insinuation only the more terrible, because it was not direct--with feelings that defy all description; while he, glaring at her from under his heavy eyebrows, saw, and saw with satisfaction, that he had succeeded in cutting her to the soul. The moment after, however, she turned deadly pale, and, without replying a word to the base speech he had just uttered, she fell fainting on the floor before him. For a moment Sir Francis Tyrrell fancied she was dead, and he felt some degree of apprehension, if not remorse; but the next instant he perceived he had but cast her into a swoon, and thinking that but a light punishment for the offence of resisting his will, he merely rang the bell for Lady Tyrrell's maid, and told her to take care of her mistress, for she had fainted.
"Poor thing!" said the woman when she saw her; and those words, with the plaintive tone in which they were uttered, made Sir Francis Tyrrell feel that he was generally hated, and acted, therefore, as some retribution for the sufferings he inflicted. But such retribution had only a tendency to harden, not to mitigate, his feelings. To know that he was hated, made him seek to deserve hatred; and turning round to the woman, he said, "You have warning to go!"
The woman had been with Lady Tyrrell for many years past; and, of a naturally fearless disposition, she lost all awe when she lost respect.
"I am my lady's servant, not yours, sir," she replied, "and take no warning from you. I shall stay with her till she bids me go, and do my best to comfort her, which you do not."
"We shall see, madam, we shall see," said Sir Francis Tyrrell, shaking his finger at her, and left the room.