Charles Tyrrell; or, The Bitter Blood. Volumes I and II

by G. P. R. James

"I called to you, Charles, from the window," said the modern philosopher, "and you would not hear me, as is always the case when one wants to do a man a service. There is nothing on earth so deaf as a man that you wish to assist or to counsel; a post, why a post is all ears compared to it."

"I really did not know," replied Charles Tyrrell, "that you had any particular wish to assist or to counsel me, as I was not at all aware that I was in need either of counsel or assistance. However, if you will advise me as to what ought to be the price of small beer, I shall be obliged to you, as the wine I got at Oxford during the last term was so bad that I shall have no more of it."

"Why, the value of small beer," replied Mr. Driesen, curling his snout, "is just equal to the value of small jokes multiplied by four; a quart of one to a gallon of the other, Charles, eh? Why, you are emulous of your father, which I certainly did not think to see in your harmonious little family. But, to put aside all such sour and bitter figures, you do want both counsel and assistance; and though I do not mean to say that ninety-nine people out of a hundred would not be better calculated to give it to you than I am, because our views and opinions upon so many subjects differ, yet, as you have nobody else in the world near you who has anything like experience or judgment, wit, wisdom, or common sense, except, indeed, persons whom I know you do not choose to apply to, you had better take up with mine than none. I did not expect you to ask it; but, when it is offered, you can take it or reject it, as you think best."

He spoke with a degree of frankness that Charles Tyrrell had seldom heard him use, and he replied, "I am really very much obliged to you, Mr. Driesen, and will, of course, hear with respect and attention whatever advice you think fit to give me; but you must take the trouble of telling me upon which subject it is to be, for I confess myself ignorant."

"Of course I will, of course I will," replied Mr. Driesen; "for I intend it to be what the ancients used to call a free gift: now, if I were to expect you to give me your confidence in return, it would be a matter of trade, traffic, barter, commerce. You would value it more, doubtless, but I care nothing about that. I will, in the first place, set out then by telling you the points of your situation on which you require advice and assistance, some of which you know, and some of which you don't. But let us go up and down the walk, for my old blood does not run so quickly as once it did, and I am rather chilly."

Charles Tyrrell followed his suggestion; and having made his pause just sufficiently long to be impressive, Mr. Driesen went on.

"In the first place, Charles, you are in love." Charles Tyrrell coloured a little, more from surprise than any other feeling; but the other proceeded: "In the next place, you know your father, and are puzzled how to act in the business. I saw it all in your face last night when you came in from handing Miss Effingham into the carriage; so do not say a word, but let me go on. In the next place," continued Mr. Driesen, "you are not going to Oxford to-day--"

"Indeed," replied Charles Tyrrell, "you are quite mistaken. Everything is packed up and ready, and, whenever the coach passes, I intend to get up and go to Oxford."

"You intend," said Mr. Driesen, with a grim smile; "I never said you did not intend, I only said you are not going; and the very fact of your fully intending it is one of the reasons why you won't go. Your father thinks that you are getting too fond of Oxford; that you like being away from home. Here you are going two days before it is necessary; I am quite sure you would like to remain those two days here now, only you are ashamed of saying so, because you fixed the day for going back on the very day you came. However, your father won't let you go. He thinks you wish it, and the consequence, you know, is certain. He will take hold of the very first excuse for making you stay. See if he does not. I am not very sure that he will let you go at all; but that is doubtful. However, you can prevent it at once, if you like, by strongly pressing to go."

"You mistake, my good sir," replied Charles Tyrrell; "such means I will never consent to use with my father, even supposing I did not wish to go; but certainly, on the contrary, I do wish to go, and to remain till I have taken a degree of some kind."