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.