These causes still existed to prevent anything like a rupture between Sir Francis Tyrrell and his friend; but in the course of that month a change had come over Mr. Driesen which was sufficiently remarkable to attract the attention of Sir Francis himself. He had become gloomy, melancholy; had not taken pleasure in his books, but been thoughtful in conversation; had not seemed to view all things in that quiet and amusing light which he had been accustomed to do. Sir Francis saw that such was the case; and as he had remarked a similar change in his friend once before, and had discovered what was the cause, he divined it easily at present, and said one morning, when they were alone, "Driesen, you have been speculating, and have been unsuccessful. I see it in the sharpness of your nose. You'll have to come to me soon, I am sure, so you had better do so as soon as possible."
Mr. Driesen turned upon his heel, whistling a few bars of a loose French song, and, without reply, walked out of the room.
"There goes a proud man, who scoff's at pride," muttered Sir Francis Tyrrell to himself; and feeling himself superior to Mr. Driesen for the moment, which was pleasant to him, as he did not do so in general, he too whistled the same air, and proceeded to other matters.
During that month, it is but fair to say--especially when we are speaking of a person of whom we are not very fond--that Mr. Driesen laboured assiduously in all the intricate paths which his spirit was fond of following, to induce Sir Francis Tyrrell to hurry forward whatever measures he proposed for the purpose of uniting his son Charles to Lucy Effingham. But whether it was that something had occurred to open the eyes of Sir Francis himself to the real feelings of Charles and Lucy towards each other, or whether it was that Mr. Driesen, with all his skill, suffered his object to be too perceptible, Sir Francis resisted in a manner which had not been expected, and, at the end of the month, the matter was no farther advanced than at the beginning.
Mr. Driesen was somewhat puzzled; and as he had sometimes found it an excellent plan with Sir Francis Tyrrell to let things alone, and, as he expressed it, to suffer his caprices to rack themselves clear, he gave up all allusions to the subject in the end, and, even when Sir Francis himself approached it, avoided it as much as possible. At the same time, he went down to the old manor-house as often as he had a decent excuse for so doing: and one day laughingly said to Sir Francis Tyrrell, "'Pon my word, I think, if Lucy reaches the liberal age of one-and-twenty without being married, I shall propose to her myself. Her fortune would stop many a gap for the time being, and she'd make a beautiful widow some eight or ten years hence."
"Do you intend to live eight or ten years, Driesen?" said Sir Francis Tyrrell.
"I'll bet you any money I live longer than you," replied Mr. Driesen.
"What makes you think so?" said Sir Francis, sharply.
"Why," replied Mr. Driesen, "we are like two horses running a race. We are much about the same age, Tyrrell; six off, eh? much about it in bone and substance; but you carry weight, Tyrrell, and I don't. You've a wife, and a son, and an estate, and a bad temper; and I'm wifeless, childless, penniless, and pleasant; so I'll bet you what you like, as I said, that I live longer than you. Come, Tyrrell, will you have it for five thousand cool money, and say done; 'pon my soul, it would be a great comfort to me, and you might die whenever you liked, for that matter."
"I won't run you so hard as that, Driesen," replied Sir Francis, with a grim smile; and almost immediately after a heavy frown gathered upon his brow, while he added, "I'll tell you what, Driesen, you are likely to come in for something better than you know of; for, on my soul, as a gentleman and a man of honour, if what I've heard yesterday and to-day be true, I'll leave you every farthing that I can leave away, and cut that undeserving boy as close down as the law will let me."