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."