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Updated: June 7, 2025
Glanville paused for a few moments, and then added, while his cheek blushed, and his voice seemed somewhat hesitating and embarrassed "You remember Mr. Tyrrell, at Paris?" "Yes," said I "he is, at present, in London, and " Glanville started as if he had been shot. "No, no," he exclaimed, wildly "he died at Paris, from want from starvation."
Tyrrell lived to tell his tale. It was probably a true one, though many doubted it. The Frenchman had quarrelled with the king, men said, and had murdered him from revenge. Just why he should have murdered so powerful a friend and patron, for a taunt passed in jest, was far from evident.
"You are my earliest friend," said I, when I had read this soothing epistle; "and I will not flinch from the place you assign me: but I tell you fairly and frankly, that I would sooner cut off my right hand than suffer it to give this note to Sir John Tyrrell."
The outcome, therefore, of this attempt at friendship was that the two nations had been placed farther apart than ever. The dates of this discussion, it will be observed, almost corresponded with the period covered by the Tyrrell visit to America. He now proposed that President Wilson should take up the broken threads of the rapprochement and attempt to bring them together again.
Then he gave a wistful look at the ami de la maison, as if commending the guests to him, and receiving a nod in return, retired. "I fear we are too early," said Lady Tyrrell. "Fact is," said the familiar, whose name Julius was trying to remember, "there's been a catastrophe; cook forgot to order the turkey, went to bed last night in hysterics, and blew out the gas instead of turning it off.
The Levices occupied one of the cottages, the other being used by a pair of belated turtle-doves, the wife a blushing dot of a woman, the husband an overgrown youth who bent over her in their walks like a devoted weeping-willow; there was a young man with a consumptive cough, a natty little stenographer off on a solitary vacation, and the golden-haired Tyrrell family, little and big, for Papa Tyrrell could not enjoy his hard-earned rest without one and all.
Who says that the aristocracy are proud? Here was a lady by birth a Tyrrell, and descended from the great Sir Walter that shot King Rufus, and in whose veins ran the blood of him who murdered the little princes in the Tower, going every day to see what dainty dishes she could prepare for Samuel Brown, a mountebank!
"He attempted to push by us but Thornton seized him by the arm there was a stout struggle, in which, as yet, I had no share at last, Tyrrell got loose from Thornton, and I seized him he set spurs to his horse, which was a very spirited and strong animal it reared upwards, and very nearly brought me and my horse to the ground at that instant, Thornton struck the unfortunate man a violent blow across the head with the butt end of his heavy whip Sir John's hat had fallen before in the struggle, and the blow was so stunning that it felled him upon the spot.
"Meanwhile I had taken the name and disguise under favour of which you met me at Paris, and Thornton had introduced me to Tyrrell as a young Englishman of great wealth and still greater inexperience.
In fact, I gathered from his conversation, that Tyrrell had spoken of Gertrude as an unhappy female whom he himself had seduced, and would now be rid of. I thank you, Pelham, for that frown, but keep your indignation till a fitter season for it.
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