We must pass over a brief space with but a slight sketch of its
events. Charles Tyrrell stole daily some time, to spend with Lucy
Effingham, and the rest of his time was chiefly spent in the sick
chamber of his mother. Of Sir Francis he saw but little.
For several days, joy at his son's recovery, somewhat softened the
temper of Sir Francis Tyrrell. But that amelioration soon wore off,
and though Charles took an opportunity of telling him, simply and
feelingly, how grateful he was for the kindness and anxiety he had
shown respecting him during his illness, Sir Francis did not think him
grateful enough, was piqued at the attention he showed his mother,
alluded more than once with a sneer to what he called the cabal up
stairs, and wondered when there would be a change in the ministry.
When Charles had thanked him for the anxiety he had shown respecting
him in his illness, he had thanked him also for the consent he had
given to his marriage with Lucy Effingham. Sir Francis cut him short,
however: "You have nothing to thank me for," he replied sharply, "you
chose for yourself, without putting any trust or confidence in me. It
so happened that your choice chimed with my opinion; but I have a good
deal more to say upon that subject, which shall be said hereafter, and
which may not be quite so pleasant to you."
Charles very well understood from these words, that Sir Francis, as
was frequently the case, wished to hold over his head, as a drawn
sword, the vague expectation of some future retribution for having
ventured to own his love, to Lucy herself, without making him
acquainted therewith. As he had often experienced, however, that such
vague menaces produced no effects, he did not make himself uneasy. But
that which alarmed him more than anything which fell from his father's
lips, was a certain degree of anxiety which he beheld constantly in
the countenance of his mother, and her informing him more than once,
that there was a matter which weighed much upon her mind, which she
must tell him soon. She put it off, however, from day to day, and the
disinclination she had to speak, served more than anything to confirm
Charles in the belief that what she was about to tell him, was not
only important, but painful in a great degree.
The fourth inmate of the house, for such Mr. Driesen seemed entirely
to have become, had lost much of his good spirits, was grave,
thoughtful, somewhat irritable. His books seemed no longer to have
that charm for him, which they once had possessed, and he passed the
greater part of the day, either in reading and answering letters, or
in walking about the grounds with his hands in his pockets. He would,
sometimes, indeed, amuse himself by throwing a stone at a squirrel,
and succeeded in knocking one off a branch; but he did not pursue this
long, and there was a restlessness about him, which seemed to show
that he was ill or unhappy.
Such was the state of the family at Harbury Park, at the end of about
nine days after Charles Tyrrell's return, when Sir Francis entered the
room, one morning, while Mr. Driesen was sitting reading the
newspaper, with the gathering of a coming storm upon his brow.
"Driesen," he said, "we have all been young men in our days, and so I
suppose I must overlook it. But I am afraid that boy of mine, Charles,
is playing the fool, and as far as Lucy Effingham is concerned, the
blackguard too. He has twice ridden out for three or four hours at a
time down to the seaside, and I hear there is a girl there that he
goes to see. This shooting to which he has taken, within this day or
two, has, I fancy, the same object. You know what a good shot he is,
and yet he brings back very little game. There is evidently something
going on, Driesen: I see his gun brought down, the gamekeepers
waiting, and everything ready. Now it's an even chance, that he brings
home no more than half a dozen partridges and a cock-sparrow after
being out for four or five hours."
"There are two classes of consummate fools in the world," replied Mr.
Driesen, "the fools that cannot open their eyes, and the fools that
cannot shut them. The first are very annoying to everybody round them.
But the second are very annoying to everybody else and themselves too.
Pray, Tyrrell, take care of what you are about," and turning round, he
went on with the newspaper, without waiting for any reply.
Sir Francis, however, would most likely have given him one
spontaneously, for he was not a man to be called a fool without having
his revenge. But his attention was turned in another way by the
entrance of his son. Charles was dressed for shooting; but his
countenance was very pale, and he was evidently a good deal agitated.
"I wish to speak with you, sir, for a moment," he said, addressing his
father somewhat abruptly.
"Well," exclaimed Sir Francis, staring him in the face, "if you come
to speak, why don't you speak?"
"Because, sir," replied Charles, "I think on every account, what I
have to say, ought to be said in private."
"Oh, nonsense," replied Sir Francis, "here is nobody but Driesen.
Solemn conferences, my most sage and erudite son, always require
protocols; and here is Driesen, shall put them down for us."
"Well, sir, if you insist upon it," replied Charles, "I must go on.
What I came to speak to you about, was the subject of my mother."
"Well, sir, what of her?" interrupted Sir Francis, "I hope she is well
this morning."
"Neither so well in mind or body, sir, as she might be," replied
Charles, "but it is in reference to a conversation with you
immediately previous to her illness, that she has desired me to speak
with you."
"I suppose she has told you that that conversation produced her
illness," exclaimed Sir Francis, sharply, "but you will learn, young
man, some day, that women can falsify the truth."
"Nearly as well as men," added Mr. Driesen, suddenly rising, and
moving toward the door. "You two fiery gentlemen make the room too hot
for any cool and quiet person; so I shall quit it."
"And the house too, if you please, sir," said Sir Francis Tyrrell, in
a loud tone.
But Mr. Driesen did not appear to hear him, and retired with the same
steady step. He closed the door after him, and father and son were
left alone.
What followed nobody has ever known. The gamekeepers came out and took
their posts in the hall at the appointed time; the butler lingered
about to open the door for Master Charles, whom he had loved from his
infancy, and to give him his hat, and gloves, and gun; and Lady
Tyrrell's footman, who had been sent down with a small note from her
to her son, on finding that he was with Sir Francis, lingered beside
the butler in the vestibule.
At first the conversation between Sir Francis and his son, whatever
might be its nature, did not make itself heard beyond the precincts of
the library; but gradually the voices of both were heard rising louder
and louder, in that fierce fiery tone that could not be mistaken. The
voice of Sir Francis became a shout, and the deep tones of Charles
were heard replying like distant thunder. The servants looked at each
other with dread and apprehension; for although but too often they had
heard and witnessed the angry contentions which arose in that family,
there seemed to be a deep conviction upon all of them that this was
something more serious, more terrible than ever before occurred. The
butler could resist it no longer, and put his ear to the key-hole.
"Good God!" he cried, after listening for a moment; "run, William, to
Mr. Driesen; ask him to come here, for God's sake; for I am afraid of
mischief. Tell him there has never been anything like this in the
house before."
The man obeyed instantly; but before Mr. Driesen appeared, though to
do him justice, he made as much speed as possible, the door of the
library was thrown back, as if the hand that opened it would have
dashed it from its hinges, and Charles Tyrrell appeared, as pale as
death, with the exception of a small red spot in the centre of either
cheek. The voice of Sir Francis Tyrrell was heard screaming after him,
at the very highest pitch of passion; but the only words which were
distinct were something about "Your father." They caught his son's
ears, and instantly made him turn with flashing eyes and a quivering
lip.
"My father!" he exclaimed, "do you call yourself my father, after the
words you have just spoken? Out upon it!" And snatching his hat,
gloves, and gun from the servant, he rushed forth into the open air.
The freshness seemed in a degree to recall him to himself, and seeing
the gamekeepers following him with the dogs, he paused upon the lawn,
saying, "Not to-day--not to-day; I shall not want you--I have no time
left," and he dashed into the wood along the path, that very path
which we have described in the beginning of this work, and which,
some way farther on, divided into two, leading to the long walk of
beech-trees, called the ladies' walk, on one hand, and to the walled
kitchen garden in the middle of the wood, on the other.
In the meantime, Sir Francis Tyrrell had remained leaning with his
hand upon the table, and trembling in every limb with passion. In a
minute or two, however, he seemed seized with a sudden desire of
following his son, and rushing out into the vestibule, he demanded his
hat in a sharp tone. The man was as long in finding it as it was
possible. He brought his master first one of his friend's and then one
of his son's hats. But Sir Francis said nothing; for his thoughts were
so intensely concentrated upon other subjects, that the petty obstacle
was scarcely known.
By the time he had got his hat, however, Mr. Driesen was at his side,
and laid his hand upon his arm, saying, "Tyrrell, Tyrrell, listen to
me!"
"I have no time to listen," replied Sir Francis, and pushed past him.
Mr. Driesen, however, followed him beyond the door, and caught him by
the arm again, saying:--
"Nay, but you _shall_ listen to me, Tyrrell."
"Then you shall listen to me first, sir," replied Sir Francis, while
his eyes flashed fire at feeling himself forcibly detained. "Let me
tell you a secret, Mr. Driesen, which it may be convenient for you to
know, let me tell you a secret!"
Mr. Driesen bent down his head to listen with a cynical smile upon his
countenance; but whatever it was that Sir Francis said to him, it
banished all smiles in a moment, and turned him very pale.
"I will not believe," he replied, "that you could act so ungentlemanly
a part."
"You will see, sir, you will see," rejoined the baronet, with a
menacing air, and breaking from him, he dashed into the wood by the
selfsame path his son had taken.
When he was gone, Mr. Driesen stood in the midst of the lawn, putting
his hand more than once to his head, as if the sun incommoded him. The
butler who saw him, wisely ran and brought him his hat, which he took,
still remaining in a deep fit of thought.
"You are right," he said at length, putting on the hat; "I had better
go after them, for they are in a terrible state."
Thus saying, he walked on toward the corner of the wood, but there
paused for a full minute, as if still undecided what to do. He then
went on along the path, but not long after returned, and, walking into
the library, paused for a moment in thought, and then went up to his
own room; after which he soon came down again apparently quite
satisfied that everything would resume its own course when the
momentary storm had blown over.
About an hour after, while he was still sitting there, with the
newspaper in his hand, Charles Tyrrell entered in haste and evident
agitation. He said nothing to Mr. Driesen, who only looked up, for a
moment, from the paper, but passed on to his own room, where he locked
himself in, and remained for some time alone.
Not half an hour more had elapsed, when one of the gardeners was seen
running across the lawn at full speed toward the house, and with the
interval of a minute, five or six of the men-servants issued forth
with the gardener, carrying a sofa between them. There was a great
commotion in various parts of the house, a running to and fro, the
voice of many tongues, and even the maids gathering round the door
that opened into the front vestibule. All their eyes were turned in
one particular direction, and at the end of about twenty minutes, the
men were seen returning, bearing upon the sofa the form of some
person, who seemed, from the sad and careful manner in which he was
carried, to have received severe injuries.
When they arrived at the door, the men set down their burden, while
the glass wings were thrown open; and there before the threshold of
that dwelling, which his own violent passions had rendered miserable
to all it contained, lay the body of Sir Francis Tyrrell, cold, still,
inanimate, and already beginning to grow stiff. A small thin trickling
stream of blood over the pillow of the sofa showed that the injury he
had received, and which had caused his death, must have been inflicted
on the back of his head, while a slight contusion on the forehead,
together with some earthy stains upon the breast of his coat, evinced
that he had fallen forward, and that the blow had come from behind.
Mr. Driesen had by this time come to the door, attracted thither
apparently by the noise, and he now stood gazing upon the countenance
of his dead friend, evidently much affected, but struggling against
his feelings, and expressing neither sorrow nor surprise. All that he
said was,
"Take the body into the library. Send for the coroner immediately, and
bid the keepers scour the whole park and country round on horseback
and on foot, to see for any stranger lurking about."
The butler gazed silently in his face for a moment, shut his teeth
tight, and shook his head with a meaning sadness.
"Do as I bid you," answered Mr. Driesen, sharply; "and remember that
every word now spoken is of importance. I know that his life was
threatened some days ago by a man in the park, for he told me so."
The butler made no reply, but turned his eyes to one of the servants
who came behind, and who was not engaged with the others in carrying
the body of his master. The man had a gun in his hand, the cock of the
right-hand barrel was down, and the white dust surrounding the pan
showed that it had been recently discharged. A single glance was
sufficient to show that it was the gun of Charles Tyrrell, the same
gun that he had taken out with him in the morning. Mr. Driesen made no
observation, however, but by a slight frown, and the body was carried
into the library as he had directed.
"Go and give the orders I mentioned," continued Mr. Driesen, speaking
to the butler, as soon as they had set down the body, "while I go and
inform Mr. Tyrrell, who has been in some time."
"Indeed! sir," exclaimed the butler, "I did not see him come in."
"But I did," replied Mr. Driesen; "he passed through the library some
time ago, and went to his own room."
Thus saying he ascended the stairs, and knocked at the door of Charles
Tyrrell's room.
"Come in!" said the young gentleman in a calm voice: but on
turning the handle of the door, Mr. Driesen found that it was locked.
Charles, however, unlocked it instantly, and on looking toward the
washing-stand, Mr. Driesen saw that he had been washing his hands, and
that the water was bloody.
"Charles," he said, fixing his eyes upon him, "I have some very bad
news for you."
Charles Tyrrell turned very pale, but he replied nothing, and Mr.
Driesen went on. "Your father has been found dead in the wood,
apparently murdered."
"Good God!" exclaimed Charles Tyrrell. "Where was he found?"
"That I cannot say!" replied Mr. Driesen, "but they have just brought
home the body, and I thought it right to come and inform you of the
facts myself, especially as you and Sir Francis had quarrelled so
violently in the morning, had gone out together, at least one
following the other closely, and as your gun seems to have been found
by the men very close to the dead body--"
Charles Tyrrell instantly strode past him to the door; but Mr. Driesen
laid his hand upon his arm, and stopped him, saying in answer to the
look of indignation which came upon the young man's countenance,
"Charles, I do not in the least suspect you; but these men below
evidently do, and I have said what I have said, because it is right
you should be aware and upon your guard. There may be circumstances of
suspicion attached to the most perfect innocence, and in such
circumstances it is absolutely necessary to be guarded. I speak to you
as a friend, Charles Tyrrell, who wishes you well most sincerely. All
I say is, be on your guard, remembering, that though perfectly
innocent, you may be placed in a painful situation by the least
imprudence."
Still Charles Tyrrell made no reply; but opened the door, walked out
with a firm step, descended the stairs, round the foot of which the
greater part of the servants of the house were collected, and
demanded,--"Where is the body of my father?"
The butler pointed to the library without speaking, and Charles
Tyrrell at once went in.
The sight that met his eye, however, seemed to strike and affect him
deeply. There lay the parent with whom he had passed the greater part
of his life in struggles and contentions, which had indeed embittered
it terribly! There he lay! but with all those strong and fiery
passions quelled forever; the fierce lightning of the eye gone out,
the sarcastic sneer cleared away from the lip, and nothing left upon
the countenance to denote the fierce and menacing spirit which had
once dwelt therein, except the stern frown which had become so
habitual on the brow as to affect the muscles themselves and leave a
deep indentation, that even death could not do away. There he lay,
calmer than he had ever been seen in life, and as his son gazed upon
him, and marked the small trickling stream of blood, which had oozed
forth and stained the sofa on which he lay, all but the terrible fact
was forgotten, and the quarrels, the contentions, the violence of the
past were like faintly-remembered dreams.
A crowd of emotions, many of which he had never felt toward his father
before, rushed at once upon Charles Tyrrell's mind, and clasping his
hands together in agony, the tears rolled silently on his cheeks.
Several of the servants followed him into the room, though Mr. Driesen
had remained without, and as soon as the young gentleman had recovered
some degree of composure, he questioned them at length upon all the
particulars connected with the discovery of his father's body. He then
asked if the coroner had been sent for, and finding that such had been
the case, he retired to communicate the event to his mother.
We shall not attempt to depict the feelings of Lady Tyrrell, nor pause
to trace any further the events of that day, as the imagination of the
reader may easily supply the facts which did not in any degree tend to
promote the ultimate result.
Early on the following morning, however, a coroner's jury assembled at
Harbury Park, and after having been sworn, proceeded to view the body,
which was recognised by several of the persons present, who had known
the deceased gentleman under various circumstances. After having gazed
at it for some time, and made several remarks, as impertinent and
insignificant as the remarks of coroner's juries generally are, the
jury again returned to the drawing-room, and commenced their
investigation of the facts. The coroner himself was a sensible man,
and a man of good feelings, and consequently the inquiry was conducted
with as much decency and propriety of demeanour as possible.
In the first place, he besought the jury emphatically, to dismiss from
their minds any rumour which they might have heard, previously to
their entering the house. To look upon the case solely in reference to
the evidence that was laid before them, and to remember that they had
power to adjourn as often as necessary, in order to gain additional
information, so that their verdict might be calm and deliberate, and
not pronounced without full conviction.
At the suggestion of the coroner, the first person examined, was the
gardener who had first discovered the body, and had called the
servants to carry it to the house. He declared, that, being as usual
about to go up to the house for orders from the housekeeper, he had
come out of the walled garden, by the door which opened into the path
leading to the mansion. At first he had remarked nothing
extraordinary, but just as he had passed the tool shed--which we have
noticed before as defacing the outside of the high walls--he had seen
a gun lying on the ground, and thinking that it was most likely that
of some poacher, who had been pursued by the keepers, and dropped it
in his flight, he took a step out of the way to lift it, when beyond
the next tree he saw some thing like the body of a man, and on
approaching, beheld his master. He was lying on the ground, he said,
with his face buried in the leaves of the wild plants, and a large
rugged wound in the back of his head, which he described in a manner
that we shall not dwell upon; suffice it that he must have died
instantly, as the whole charge of the gun at the distance of a very
few yards had been lodged in the brain. There seemed to have been no
struggle, he said, for the ground was not at all beaten up, he must
have had his hat on when he was shot, from the fact of a considerable
part of the charge having passed through it. There was a great deal of
blood upon the ground round about, he added; but no traces of
footmarks of any kind, the ground being hard and dry. Horrified at
what he had seen, he ran as fast as he could to the house, and brought
up a number of servants to aid in removing the body, and had taken
them to the spot where the body remained just as he had seen it.
After he had concluded his own account, the coroner questioned him, as
to whom he had seen in the garden or the park during the course of the
day; and the only one of the family he had seen, had been his young
master, who, about an hour before the body was discovered, had entered
the garden by the door leading from the mansion, had looked about
eagerly for a minute or two, and then crossing the garden had tried
the opposite door, which was locked. The gardener who was at the other
end of the ground, and saw this proceeding, advanced for the purpose
of opening the door; but before he reached it, his young master was
away among the apple-trees and other thick plants, and he did not see
him any more.
These particulars it is to be remarked, were drawn forth by the
questions of the coroner, and were evidently detailed unwillingly; and
when the man had concluded, the coroner told him to quit the room; but
not the house, as he might very probably be called upon again to give
further evidence.
The other servants were then examined, and their testimony confirmed
in all respects the gardener's account of the finding of the body. The
only further fact of importance that was produced by their examination
was, that the gun which had been found near Sir Francis Tyrrell, was
one belonging to his son Charles, with which he had gone out that very
morning. This immediately pointed suspicion, and the butler, who
proved that the gun was the same which he had given to his young
master, when he was going out, was ordered to remain.
The coroner then looked to the jury in silence, as if to see whether
they would ask any further questions or not. No one spoke, however,
and he himself paused and seemed to hesitate. At length, however, he
murmured to himself, "It must be done!" and he began a series of
questions addressed to the butler, calculated to elicit all the
particulars of the quarrel between Sir Francis Tyrrell and his son in
the morning.
Though the man softened the whole business as much as he could,
without falsifying the facts, it became evident to the jury that
Charles Tyrrell and his father had quarrelled severely, more so,
indeed, than they had ever been known to do before; that the son had
gone forth with his gun in his hand; that the father had followed him,
and had never returned alive.
"Was the gun charged or not, when you gave it to your master!"
demanded the coroner.
"I have always charged it for him since he was a boy, sir," replied
the butler, "and did so yesterday morning also."
While this examination had been proceeding, Mr. Driesen had been in
the room; but Charles Tyrrell had been voluntarily absent, and as the
former had been mentioned several times by the servants, the coroner
next proceeded to examine him.
He told as much as he knew of the quarrel between Sir Francis and his
son in the morning, stating everything with his usual clear precision;
and then he detailed how the servants had come to seek him, fearing
some violence would take place on the part of Sir Francis toward his
son. When he came down, he said, he found the baronet excited to a
greater pitch than he had ever beheld, and he further stated, that on
attempting to stop him from going after his son, Sir Francis had told
him in a low voice, that it was his intention not only to deprive
Charles of everything that he legally could, but to destroy the title
deeds of his entailed estates rather than that his son should possess
them. He had remonstrated, he said, and pointed out that it would be
most ungentlemanly so to do; but that Sir Francis had broken away from
him, intimating that his resolution was not to be shaken. He had
followed him, he added, along the path he had taken in the wood till
it had separated into two, and then not knowing which branch Sir
Francis had pursued, and not seeing him upon either, he had returned
to the house, trusting that either the father would not overtake the
son, or that the quarrel between them, as had been frequently the case
within his own knowledge before, would pass away and be forgotten.
He seemed inclined to pause here, but the coroner proceeded: "I
think," he said, "one of the servants informed us, that you were the
first person who notified to the present Sir Charles Tyrrell the awful
event which had occurred in his family. Be so good as to detail what
took place upon that occasion."
Mr. Driesen did so; but not altogether sincerely. He stated broadly
the fact of having gone up to Charles Tyrrell's room, and informed him
that his father had been found murdered in the wood, and he dwelt much
upon the surprise and horror which that young gentleman had seemed to
feel, and which could not be affected. He also added that the servants
had informed him, that Charles Tyrrell, on going into the room where
his father's body lay, had been affected even to tears.
The servants were then recalled to prove these facts; but the coroner
thought fit to question several of them in such a manner as to
ascertain that there had been spots of fresh blood found upon Charles
Tyrrell's shooting jacket, and that the water in which he had washed
his hands after his return home, had been apparently bloody. The
latter facts, as well as the fact of the door having been locked, Mr.
Driesen had taken care to conceal; but it tended directly to increase
the suspicions of the jury against Charles Tyrrell in a very great
degree, and when the servants were again dismissed, the coroner sent
at once to that young gentleman, in order to notify to him that his
evidence would be required before the jury.
Charles immediately obeyed the summons, and the coroner, after a short
pause, during which he seemed embarrassed by painful emotions, and
feelings for the young man himself, he said: "I grieve very much, Sir
Charles, to have to call you at all upon this painful business, and
still more to have to caution you that there are circumstances
connected with your conduct during yesterday, which may prove of such
very great importance to yourself at an after period, that it will be
well for you to weigh every word, and not to speak anything the
tendency of which you have not fully considered."
The young gentleman merely bowed his head, and the coroner then asked
him to go on, and to detail as much as he thought fit of the events
which occurred to himself during the preceding day.
Charles replied at once: "Were it independent, sir, of the death of my
father, that day would be, from various other events, the most painful
of my life. On the morning of that day, which I had appointed for
shooting, my mother explained to me the particulars of a discussion of
a most unhappy kind, which had taken place between herself and my
father, and which had ended in an agreement to separate for ever.
Illness had prevented her previously from executing her resolution,
but she deputed me to inform my father that that resolution was
unchanged and to arrange with him the necessary preliminaries.
"I mention these painful facts to account for the serious dispute
which ensued between my father and myself upon the subject. His
conduct and his language became so violent, that feeling my own temper
every moment giving way, I left him, and went out into the park. As I
had intended to shoot, everything had been prepared for that purpose,
and I took my gun from the hands of the servant quite unconsciously.
The keepers were waiting without with the dogs, but feeling that I was
in no state to enjoy such an amusement, I told them I should not want
them, and walked on. I still had the gun in my hand, and kept it till
I reached the door of the garden, when finding that it put me to
inconvenience, I leaned it against the wall under the tool shed, and
walked on, intending to take it up as I came back again. I forgot it,
however, entirely, and returned to the house without it, nor thought
of it more till I heard that it had been found near the dead body of
my unhappy father. That father I never saw again from the time I left
him in the library, at about half past eleven o'clock, till the time
he was brought home a corpse. This, I believe, is all that I have to
state. But any question which may be asked me I am very willing to
answer, provided it affects myself alone."
"In the first place, then," asked the coroner, "will you permit me to
inquire if there is any one on whom your own suspicions fix as the
perpetrator of this horrid act?"
"On none," replied Charles Tyrrell, "in particular. My father informed
me, and I understand, also informed Mr. Driesen, here present, that he
had been threatened by some man in the wood a week or two ago, while I
was still at Oxford. The particulars I never heard, but most likely
Mr. Driesen, who was here at the time, can give them to you."
The coroner turned to Mr. Driesen, who was still in the room. But that
gentleman replied: "I cannot, indeed, give any information of an
accurate kind. Sir Francis Tyrrell returned one day in a state of very
great excitement, and at dinner informed me that he had met with an
old man in the wood, with whom he had quarrelled, and who had
thereupon menaced him with the same fate which had befallen one of his
ancestors, who had his brains knocked out. He added, that it would be
some pleasure if they did murder him, to know that they would be
hanged for it; but he did not add the old man's name, nor mention many
of the particulars."
The coroner paused, and then again addressing Charles Tyrrell, he
said: "You mean distinctly, sir, to state that you did not meet your
father in the wood, nor see him at all again till after his death?"
"Most distinctly," replied Charles; "I never saw him after I left the
library, at about half past eleven o'clock."
"Did you see any one else in the course of your walk?" demanded the
coroner.
"Yes, several people," replied Charles Tyrrell. "I was out more than
an hour, and saw a number of different persons."
"Who might they be?" the coroner demanded, "as far as you can
recollect."
"In the first place, I saw the head-gardener," replied Charles, "for
I went into the garden, intending to pass through it to the other side
of the wood, and he was on the left hand side, at the extreme end."
"Did you pass through it?" demanded the coroner.
"I did pass through it," replied Charles Tyrrell, "but not directly.
Finding the door locked on the opposite side, I turned to the
gardener's house, which is near, and passed through it, there being a
way from it into the wood."
The coroner looked round to the jury with a well-satisfied smile, glad
to find that the young gentleman's account corresponded exactly with
the gardener's.
"Pray, who else did you meet in the course of your walk," he
continued.
"Oh, several people," replied Charles Tyrrell, vaguely; "I saw
woodcutters, the gardener's wife, a man lopping some trees, one of the
fishermen who occasionally come up to the house, and generally pass by
what is called the park stile."
"Did you speak with any of these persons?" demanded the coroner. "And
if so, what might be the nature of your conversation with them?"
"I did speak with some of them," replied Charles Tyrrell, colouring a
good deal. "But with regard to the nature of my conversation, with
them, in one instance at least, I must decline stating it. I do so,
because it concerned others as well as myself, and related to matters
which I have no right to mention."
"I should think, sir," replied the coroner, "that no one would object
to your stating the conversation you held with them, considering the
circumstances in which you are placed, and I am very desirous, indeed,
Sir Charles Tyrrell, that you should be explicit; for the jury are
anxious to arrive at a calm and just conclusion, and I fear, under
present circumstances, that our decision must be a very painful one."
"Whatever is your decision, sir," replied Charles Tyrrell, "it cannot
induce me to violate confidence reposed in me, or to repeat
conversation, which might produce injury to others."
"Had that conversation anything to do with the present case?" demanded
the coroner. Charles Tyrrell replied in the negative, and the coroner
went on in the same kindly tone which he had used throughout.
"There are several things to be explained, sir," he said, "which must
be left for you to do, or not, as you think fit, but only let me point
them out to you, and observe that if you will satisfactorily account
for them, it may spare a great deal of pain to all parties. There can
be no doubt that the unfortunate gentleman, the causes of whose death
we are about to investigate, was killed by the gun, which you carried
out in the morning, that he went out to seek you, and that the
feelings of both were highly irritated at the time. You say that you
never saw him after leaving the house, that you laid down your gun
against the wall of the garden, and entering the garden itself,
proceeded in a direction leading away from the spot where the murder
was committed; so far you are borne out by the testimony of the
gardener, and if you can account for the time which afterward elapsed,
showing any of the persons that you spoke with, or who can prove that
they saw you under such circumstances, as to establish that you
could not have been on the spot at the time Sir Francis Tyrrell was
killed--even if you give us strong probabilities to suppose that such
was the case, we are very willing to take your previous high
character, and the natural affections of human nature into
consideration, and give you every benefit of doubt. It may be also
necessary for you to account satisfactorily for the blood which
appeared on your shooting jacket and on your hands, as you say that
you laid down your gun, without having discharged it at any of the
ordinary objects of field sport. Let me beg you to consider the matter
well, and make such a reply as will save unpleasant results."
Charles Tyrrell paused for a moment and thought deeply, first turning
his eyes toward the jury, and then toward Mr. Driesen, as if he would
fain have asked his advice; and there can be no doubt that his heart
was terribly agitated at that moment, for if it had been horrible to
him beyond all endurance, to lie even under the suspicion of having
raised his hand against his father's life; what was it to run the risk
of having the suspicion confirmed, perpetuated, and put upon record
for ever, by the verdict of a coroner's jury?
After maintaining silence, however, for nearly five minutes, he said,
"I am very sorry to be obliged to reply, that in regard to neither of
these points can I satisfy you. I am bound in honour to be silent, and
silent I must be, let the risk be what it may to myself."
"This is very strange and very painful," said the coroner. "But,
gentlemen, our duty must be done. Is the evidence sufficient to
satisfy you?"
The jury assented, and the coroner went on--"Then I have only to point
out to you," he continued, "that it has been proved by various
witnesses, that a violent quarrel existed between Sir Francis Tyrrell
and his son, that his son went out first and Sir Francis Tyrrell
followed, for the avowed purpose of continuing the discussion which
had begun in the morning. The son was seen shortly after in the
immediate neighbourhood of the spot where his father's dead body was
found, was absent some time from the house, and returned without his
gun, but with his hands and clothes bloody; that the period of his
absence is not accounted for, nor the marks of blood explained; that
his father's body was found close to the garden which he had entered;
that the gun which he had carried out with him, was found discharged
close to the body, and that the death of the late baronet had
evidently taken place by the discharge of a gun, loaded with small
shot, within a few feet of the back of his head. Gentlemen, I do not
presume to point out in any way, the verdict to which you must come,
but now leave it to you to say, what course shall be pursued, whether
you will adjourn for more evidence, or proceed at once to a verdict."
The jury consulted for a single moment apart, and then the foreman
said, "There is no occasion at all, sir, to adjourn. We think the
evidence quite sufficient, and we are unanimous in our verdict." The
coroner then demanded the verdict in the usual manner, and the foreman
replied at once, "Wilful murder against Sir Charles Tyrrell of Harbury
Park."
There was a good deal of bustle and excitement in the room as soon as
the words were spoken, though every one had seen to what point the
investigation was tending. The only person who was perfectly still was
Charles Tyrrell himself, who, though deadly pale, showed no other sign
of agitation.
The coroner instantly proceeded to draw up a warrant, and before he
left the house, put it into the hands of one of the constables.
Mr. Driesen advanced, and spoke a few words to the prisoner, in a low
voice and in a kindly manner. But all the rest of those present, stood
aloof, gazing on him with feelings in which awe and horror swallowed
up entirely everything like sympathy and compassion.
Charles Tyrrell found himself alone, desolate and abandoned in his
paternal mansion. A weary sickness of heart came over him, a
recklessness, a despair. He longed to see and take leave of his
mother, before he was hurried to a prison. He longed to write, if it
were but a few lines, to Lucy Effingham. But he had not strength or
energy left for anything, and in a few minutes, the carriage was
brought round, which was to convey him to the jail, and getting in
between two constables, he was carried rapidly away to the abode of
guilt and misery.