Charles Tyrrell; or, The bitter blood

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Chapter I

Amokgst all the many fine and beautiful figures and modes of reasoning, that the universe in which we dwell has afibrded, for the illustration of the bright hope that is within us of a life renewed beyond the tomb, there is none more beautiful or more exquisite, that I know of, than that which is derived from the change of the seasons, — from the second life that bursts forth in spring in objects apparently dead ; and from the shadowing forth, in the renovation of every

B thing around us, of that after destiny which divine revelation calls upon our faith to believe shall yet be ours. The trees, that have faded and remained dark and grey through the long dreary lapse of winter, clothe themselves again in green in the spring sunshine, and every leaf and every hue speaks of life. The birds that were mute, sing again as tunefully as ever ; the flowers that were trampled down and faded, burst forth once more in freshness and in beauty ; the streams break from the icy chains that held them, and the glorious sun himself comes wandering back from his far journey, giving summer and warmth, and fertility and magnificence to every thing around. All that we see breathes of the same hope, every thing that we see rekindles into life.

But, on the other hand, there are things within us that awake no more ; there are feelings in our hearts that, passed away, return not ; there are thoughts that can never be thought again ; there are h^>e8 that, once put

CHARLES TYRRSLL. S

out, are put out for ever. Tbese are the tbingg that speak to us of death ! These are the things that would darken our hopes of immortality, were we not to draw from them inferences of a higher state of being, where love and confidence, and happiness are not deludons, — where the plant of enjoyment has not its root in the earth, mnd where the flowers of life wither not away. — There are certainly changes in our very nature which would fill our bosoms with many dark and awful doubts, did we not find, that in she wdl-regulated mind the bright and intoxicating dreams of early youth, the love that has been ernshed or thwarted, the confidence that has been a thousand times betrayed, may give place to firmer and more solid things, feelings not so exquisite, but more deep and powerful ; thou^ts not so brilliant, but more just and true, — did we not find that with proper cultivation the flowers made way for fruit ; — did we not find that every stage of existence would have, but for our own faults, its proper class of enjoymeotsy and that every stage but leads

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Ai a preparation? If we arc imnio it not well that we should find eartl ^ fade f If we are innnortal, is it n lat we should find earth^s hopes deceit If we are immortal, is it not well thi ould learn to regret the passing aws ;ht capabilities in our own nature, whic ire to be renewed, extended, multiplie ven ?

I flowers that have been torn up ca take root again on earth; but, nevei (, there does occasionally come a time do occasionally occur events by whici e pain and agony that our heart ha (d in disappointment of trust or expec I — is more, far more than made up ; anc b, perhaps, the same flower is not tc days of my early existence, not very far from the sea-coast, there stands a house with which is coDnected three or four legends, each of a very interesting^ character, but from which I dioose one as having reference to times and events within my own remembrance. It is a ▼ery large and convenient house, without any pretensions to architectural decoration, with no relationship to any style whatsoever, and constructed upon no principles except those implanted by nature, which teaches man to ocmstruct for himself a dwelling the best adapted to his own wants and conveniences. It had, in fact, at one time been a small house, built indeed with regard to no economy of space, but only with regard to the comfort of its first owners, who required but few apartments, yet made them as roomy as could be desired. It had been added to by about three generations, who, increasing in wealth and luxury, demanded more accommodation ; and thus, though on the one side of the building some degree of order and regularity was

{ ot the stories — on the otlier side the cen ])ostecl wherever pleasure or coi ce suggested; so that the nortliei was like a chiys first drawing of

in which a window and a door are pi rever a place is found open for them, the time I knew the building, it wi i with stucco on the outside, and i ance was as unlike a. place in whic Y or romance ever had been, or eve kdy to be enacted, as it is possible t ire. There was a cheerfulness about it f a bright white-washed unsentimenta

of appearance that spoke of blitb >7ful things; but, at the same time, i lieved from the harshness and vidgarit] rhich white-washed buildings are gene

CHARLES TYRfUaXL. 7

nobody expected them. It was embosoipedr too, ia a deep wood, which came up to three out of the four angles of the building, leaving long sunshiny lawns — only broken here and there by a fine tree with a garden seat beneath it — sweeping up to the three principal fronts of the house.

The fourth front had once been the principal one; but, according to the plan of modem improvement, which in so many instances conceives that it ]»oduces all that can be desired by turning the back part of things foremost, that front had now been dedicated to the offices. From it, wound away a long wide avenue of fine old elm trees, like that which we see so frequently leading up to an antique French chateau ; and I remember, in my young days, I used to dispute with my. self in the summer and the winter, as I rode up the broad green road between the two rows, which looked the best and most conge* nial to the scene, those fine trees in the dark green fulness . of their midsummer clothing, or in the cold grey solemn bareness of the winter, when all the bright things that had decorated them through the rest of the year were cast down withering at their feet, like the passing pleasures of existence cast off fix>m a mind preparing for the tomb. I believe I then preferred the summer aspect, perhaps I might now find more harmony in the winter.

The woods that surrounded the building on the other sides were, in fact, kept as pleasure-grounds. They were full of winding walks, cleanly and carefully swept, though the extent was very great; while underneath the beeches and the elms, on either side of those paths, grew up an abundance of wild flowers, the plain white strawberry, the graceful and beloved plant of the woods, the columbine, the violet, and the primrose.

One of those walks which led away toward the south, at the distance of half a mile from the house, divided into two. The left-hand branch, which followed the original direction, brought one to another broad walk which faced

CHAIUJIS TlKBXLh. 9

the risea sun upon the .edf^ of the wood ; and, while the fine beech trees, sweeping down with their long branches hke a penthouse, sheltered it entirely from the sun in the sUok mer, and from the rain in the spring and the autumn, they did not at all obstruct the view over some sunny fields to another little wood beyond, over which again rose up Harbury Hill, the chief land-mark of the country round about.

The other branch of the road took a direction somewhat to the west, and at the distance of about a quarter of a mile, or a little more, from the place where the two separated, it reached the wall of the kitchengarden, which lay embosomed in the deepest part of the wood, containing within itself a space of about two acres, surrounded by high brick walls on all sides. Th^re were two doors in this wall, the one exactly opposite to the path we have mentioned, the other on the other side. Besides this, however, there was a way in and out through the back of

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10 OttAftUBS TYRRELL.

one of the two gardeners^ cottages, whieh were built against the wall in the inside.

On the outside of the wall all was fair and smooth, no building of any kind being suffered to deface the external appearance of that high and intiposing mass of lichen-covered brickwork, except — alas ! that there should be an exception to every thing in this world — ex« cept one little solitary tool-shed, of the ugliest and most anomalous aspect, stuck on like an impoBthume on the face of the tall wall, and offending the eye on the very first approach to the garden. Many and many a time have I petitioned that it should be removed, but there was some impediment in the very nature of things, it would seem, which prevented the request from being attended to.

The tools that were kept therein were not, it would seem, a part and parcel of the gardener's utensils. They belonged to the woodmen, and of course the gardener would not give them admission within his domain. The place where the great bulk of the woodmen's

CHAALB8 TTERBLL. U

tools were kept, was at the opposite side of the wood) a mile and a half off. It was very handy to have the tools near ; and it would seem that, for various reasons, the nature of which I could never find out, or, at least, not understand, there was no place whatsoever in the wood round about which was so convenient as that very spot against the garden wall* Sudi at least was the report of the woodman ; and of course^ as he was a very veracious person, and somewhat surly withal, I was bound to believe him, and say nothing mcnre upon the subject.

Mow let not the reader suppose, that either in the long and vague proemium with which this chapter opens, and in which he will find hereafter some reference to the tale; or in this minute and curious description of the house and grounds, especially of the paths leading to the back walk and the garden, that I have been led away by the vain desire of reading homilies to those who will not hear, or of dwelling with a sort of doting pleasure upon scenes which I loved in mj youth, and about which few care or are interested, besides myself. Every author, whose fingers are worthy to hold a pen, has an object in each sentence that he writes; and— - although in the multitude of characters which throng the world, and the difficulty of ascertaining men'^s real feelings from their outward appearances, it would be impossible to put the right direction upon each epistle — every half page of every book that is worth reading is addressed directly to some particular person, or class of persons, who are supposed by the author to be capable of understanding and appreciating him. The description that we have given, however, has a more general purpose, and the reader is besought earnestly to remember every word of it, or, at all events, to put a piece of paper in the place, inasmuch as without having that scene constantly before his eyes, and knowing and comprehending it all as well as if he had walked through it a hundred times.

be cannot clearly and distinctly understand the matter that is to follow.

Having given an account of the places it now behoves us to speak of those who iuha- Uted it; and certainly at the period I speak of, — I do not mean that period within ray own personal acquaintance with the spot, — it offered anything but an illustration of the beautiful words of Hooker in his description of the celestial dwelling places. Nevertheless, we shall make the quotation, if it were but for the pleasure of transcribing those beautiful words, independent of the splendid opposition which they afford to all that we are about to describe. ** Angels,^ he says, **are spirits immaterial and intellectual. The glorious inhabitants of those sacred palaces, where there is nothing but light and immortality, no shadow of matter for tears, discontenU ments, griefs, and uncomfortable passions to work upon; but all joy, tranquillity, and peace, even for ever do dwell.'^

This may be taken for a grand description of every thing which that dwelling was not. Beautiful as was the scene, and pleasant as all the accessories round about, there was seldom anything like peace and tranquillity within. The pheasants came strutting upon the lawns, the timid hare lost a part of her shyness, and scarcely deigned to stand erect and listen with elevated ears for the half-heard sound ; the squirrel crossed from one plantation to another within twenty yards of the windows; all the habits of the sylvan world around spoke of peace and tranquillity. But peace was not within. The truth was, that the inmates of that dwelling were too busy in making war upon each other to turn their attacks upon the people of the woods without.

But it is time that we should enter into more specific details, and bring the characters, one by one, before the reader.

Sir Francis Tyrrell, the proprietor of that mansion and of some very large estates in the vicinity, was in possession, besides, of a baronetcy, derived in a direct line by him-

CHARLES TTRRKLL. 15

self from an ancestor who had received it at the time whereat that mixed breed between the Baron and the Knight was first propagated. His ancestry was also distinctly traceable through several centuries before, producing a great number of very ornamental people in former times, who shone in the tiltyard, the tournament, and the battle field ; and, in latter times, more than one who had received the high distinction of swinging in effigy upon a sign-post, either as the distinctive mark of the house, cnr a recommendation to the beer within.

There were various of his progenitors, indeed, whose names were but lightly touched upon in the family history : they were not omitted, as that would have caused a breadi in the line; but bdonging to that numerous class of persons who may be best described by saying the less said about them the better^ those who compiled the genealogy had been cautious in dealing with them. Deeper in- ▼esdgatimis, however, would have shown that these membeny who met with scanty mention, had generally encountered fates more or less tragical; one had been killed by a blow of an axe, received from a woodman ; another had been almost torn to pieces by a mob at the end of the reign of James II, and died of the injuries received; three or four of them had been killed in duels, and one had been shot by a soldier under his command, who was afterwards executed for the offence. All these were certainly mentioned by the genealogist, and in some instances their la* mentable fate was commented on with praises of their virtues, &c. But the causes of those duels, the provocation given to the soldier, the wpodman, and the mob, were not mentioned. There were three in the line whose birth and death alone were recorded ; and it was shrewdly suspected by those who understood such matters, that one, if not two, of these had perished by . the hands of a functionary of the law, while the other, or others, were supposed to have taken their departure unsummoned to their long account.

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On looking nearer still, it was found tiiat^ is the whole race, there was a fierce and furi* oas disposition, an impetuous and ungovernable temper, which, combined with a general &aTles8ne8s of character, and heedlessness of consequeDces, formed that very moral consti- ^tioQ which was best calculated to lead them iDto dangers, difficulties, and even crimes. The man who had been killed by the axe» °^ been proved to have exasperated the unfortunate woodman to such a degree by his

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intemperate violence and domineering pride, that a jury could not be found to condemn the slayer, though an inquest had brt)ugbt in < verdict of murder upon the slain.

The same conduct was shown to have been the ease in r^ard to him who was torn to pieces by the mob, he having, in his magisterial capacity, done any thing but attempt to calm and quiet the sedition, but, on the contrary, had done all that he could to exasperate, to irritate, and to drive into madness. Iliis was put forth, indeed, by his biographer as a bold and valiant proceeding on hi^^ part; but there were others who thoughC^ that it was only an evidence of the same fu — rious, irritable, scornful disposition which had made itself so remarkable in the race.

The father of Sir Francis Tyrrell had differed very little from his ancestors. He had been a bold, fearless, overbearing, and tyrannical man ; a soldier in his youth, a fox-hunter in his latter days; a despot in his magisterial capacity, an irritating neighbour, and an insufferable master of his house. He had been a very handsome man withal; and, in order to prove his disregard for personal beauty, he had married a young lady of the neighbourhood of considerable fortune, biit who certainly possessed few personal attractions. As a girl, she had been silent, calm, unobtrusive, apparently thoughtful; in person, little, dark, pale, with small keen black eyes, and a somewhat pointed nose. Her voice had been sharp, but not very musical ; and there was something in her whole demeanour which made the old clergyman of the parish, who had known her from her yoQtb, and who was, moreover, somewhat waggishly disposed, declare, when he heard of the marriage about to take place, that he vas excessively glad of it, for that she was just the wife for Sir John Tyrrell.

When they were once fairly married, more of the lady'^s character appeared ; not that she ever became more loquacious or loud-tongued than she had been before ; but Sir John very icxHi found that she had always ready for any of his furious breakings forth of passion a calm, quiet, stinging reply, in which she seemed to combine with diabolical ingenuity every thing that was most disagreeable for him to hear, and to compress it into the fewest possible words. She had a particular art, too, of modulating her voice, so that in the midst of one of his most furious and noisy fits of rage, her low quiet tones made themselves distinctly beard, and not one biting word was lost to his

'j so CHARLES TYRRELL.

Sir John was not a man to be frustrated even by this sort of warfare, and he carried it on with his lady through the whole of his life ; but he was a candid man, and used occasionally to acknowledge that his furious speeches and behaviour, compared with the quiet words and demeanour of his wife, were as a drubbing with a crab stick to a cut with a scythe.

The offspring of this hopeful union was Sir Francis Tyrrell, and well might his biographer declare that he combined in his own person all the virtues and qualities of his father and his mother : for, to an ungovernable tempn*, such as had descended to him from his ancestors, he added a sarcastic bitterness peculiarly his own.

Sir Francis Tyrrell was a learned and a literary man; in person somewhat below the middle size, dark in complexion, with sharp features and overhanging eye-brows, which, at the time I choose for opening this tale, were grizzled with some long grey hairs,

"^^hich from time to time he industriously p>ulled out with tweezers, while they with a pertinacity worthy of him from whom they spraDgy regularly grew up again longer and greyer and more prominent than ever. He wrote a good deal at various times, and produced works marked by very superior talents ; and he also formed frequent theories which were by no means always correct, but which all displayed genius of a certain kind, and considerable^ originality, if not perversity of thought Of these works and these theories Sir Francis was not a little vain, and this was one of the most irritable points in his character. He could bear to be touched upon almost all other subjects but those ; or rather we might say, that though it was not without danger that any one touched him upon any subject, upon these he became quite furious.

His £unily were totally without what the phrenologists call the organ of veneration. They had little respect for any thing, and set out with having no respect for themselves.

fiS CHARLES TYIIJEL£LL.

This they concealed in their own case, of course, as far as possible; but this want of respect never failed to make itself manifest both in words and deeds, when it referred to any member of their own family. Thus, Sir Francis was heard to declare that his father was one of the greatest fools that ever lived, and on being asked why, replied, ^^ For marrying my mother.^

^^ A man puts a lemon to a bottle of spirits,^^ he said, *^ and people call him k sensible fellow, and go to drink punch with him ; but if a man were to eat a whole lemon, plain people would say he was mad.*^

Again, on the occasion of his own marriage, he set out upon the principle of finding some* body the direct reverse of her who had been chosen by his father, declaring that he looked upon it as a duty to his children. Such an event, he said, as the marriage of his father and mother was sufficient to serve ten generations, and that he would do his best to dilute the quintessence of bitterness which had been hence produced. He chose, accordingly, a young lady from a distant part of the country, possessed of little or no fortune, of a gay and happy disposition ; who had been brought up in great subjection to the will of parents that were really kind to her, and who had a fund of gentle and kindly feelings and good principles, but who was somewhat imprudent and incautious of speech, and of a timid as well as of an affectionate nature. From the first flight of Sir Francis Tyrrell, she had rather disliked him than otherwise. He had gained a little by attention upon her good graces, and upon her esteem by some philanthropic doctrines which he put forth, with no desire indeed of deceiving her or others, but solely because they were theories for which he had a fondness, and in which his vanity was concerned.

His progress in her favour, however, had not arrived beyond the dangerous point of indifference, when he proposed himself to her parents as her future husband. She shrank from the very idea ; but he was wealthy, bore a fair reputation, had, indeed, acquired a high character as a man of honour and integrity, and her parents pressed her so urgently to accept him, that she who was accustomed to yield to them in all things, yielded to them in this a]so, and she became the wife of a man that she did not love ; though it is but fair to say, that there was no other person for whom she had any decided preference.

She married Sir Francis Tyrrell with the full desire and determination to love him as much as she could, and to make him as happy as it was in her power to do, and there were a variety of circumstances which combined to render the iSrst two years of their union tole* rably happy. In the first place, there were novelty and passion upon his side; in the next place, her very gentleness was a fortress to her upon which it was difficult to begin an attack ; in the third place, her mildness and placability were something so new to the conceptions of Sir Francis, that they made him feel more or less ashamed of his own violence till he became more familiar with the qualities vhkh at first disarmed him.

But he was one of those who did not like to letd, but rather preferred to drive or to gQsd;and, from the very first moment that some dight remonstrance on the part of Lady Tyrrell, with regard to something in which he bad no business to interfere, gave the ^ghtest suspicion of opposition to his will, ^ violent, the sarcastic, the bitter, the selfish spirit rose up with delight, unfettered; and the system of domineering and tyranny '^^gsn in full force. The parents of the lady u?ed to see her apparent happiness, but not ^0 witness its reverse. Her mother died bef<>fe she had been married six months, and "^ father scarcely survived two years. Perhaps a suspicion of the truth troubled his ^th-bed, but we cannot say.

Unless we listen to the voice of the better 'prit within us, prosperity and age generally lead forward selfishness between them ; and then that selfishness, who has hidden herself bashfully in the presence of the more generous feelings of youth, rushes forward with daring impudence and blindfolds our eyes lest we should see her deformity. Such was the case with Sir Francis Tyrrell. There was no counterbalancing power to check or to control. His feelings of religion, if he had any, were not active ; he had speculated away the greater part of his morality. He would not, indeed, have done anything that was glaringly and universally admitted to be evil ; first, because his vanity would not consent to his incurring the reputation of a vicious man ; and, secondly, because his passions did not particularly take that course. But of the moralities of life, which go hand-in-hand with the charities of life, he had no conception. To trample upon those who were prostrate before him— to make his own house a hell, and to act the part of ruling fiend himself — to cast every kind of aspersion and imputation* true or hhe, upon every one that offended him, and many tbat never offended him at all — to be suspi- ^^lous, jealouB, irritable without cause — to dk>w no opinion to prevail but his own — to ^^ a very different measure to himself and oihersr— to exact the utmost, and to grant the least^to be avaricious while he was ostentatious—censorious when he affected to be candid, and harshly severe to every one while he aasained the language of philanthropy, he considered to be no wrong, and sat down ^uh the conviction that he was a very good ^ virtuous man.

^he effect upon his wife was, that for a time she sank into a state of timid and cheer- *^ despair, from which she at length rallied "^*^ to make ineffectual resistance. When he accused her of things she had never comfitted, and purposes she had never enter- ^^^, she would now rouse herself to repel uncharge; but still, having the worst in ar- S^^'^t, and cut to the heart by sarcasms and '^uations, she would have recourse to flight ^ ber own chamber, and end the day in tears.

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CHARLES TYRRELL.

When he was simply violent, she had the good sense to sit in quiet and make no reply.

But under all these cruel circumstances her health was daily injured, and she who had been full of bloom, and life, and health, became pale, and worn, and thin, and unequal to the least exertion. Sir Francis and Lady Tyrrell had but one child, a son, who was born in the second year of their marriage; but of that son, for various reasons, it will be necessary to speak apart.

CHARLES TYRRELL.

Chapter II

It is a terrible thing when youth — the time of sport and enjoyment, the period which nature has set apart for acquiring knowledge, and power, and expansion, and for tasting all the multitude of sweet and magnificent things which crowd the creation, in their first freshness and with the zest of novelty — is clouded with storms or drenched with tears. It is not so terrible by any means when the mere ills of fortune afflict us ; for they are light things to the buoyancy of youth, and are soon thrown off by the heart which has not learned the foresight of fresh sorrows. The body habituates itself more easily to any thing than so CHARLES TYRRELL.

(he mind, and privations twice or thrice endured, are privations no longer. But it is a terrible thing, indeed, when — in those warm days of youth when the heart is all affection, the mind longing for thrilling sympathies, the soul eager to love and be beloved— the faults, the vices, or the circumstances of others, cut us off from those sweet natural ties with which nature, as with a wreath of flowers, has garlanded our early days ; when we have either lost and regret, or known but to contemn, the kindred whose veins flow with the same blood as our own, or the parents who gave us being.