“Good-morning, sir,” said Tom, heartily. “Glad to see you looking so well.”
“Why—eh?—surely I must know that face,” said the squire. “It’s young Tom Bristow, if I’m not mistaken.”
“You are not mistaken, sir,” answered Tom.
“Then I’m very glad to see you, Tom—very,” said the squire, as he shook Tom warmly by the hand. “Your father was a man whom I liked and respected immensely. I can never forget his kindness and attention to my poor dear wife during her last illness—never. He did all that man could do to preserve her to me—but it was not to be. For your father’s sake, Tom, you will always find Titus Culpepper stand your friend.”
“It is very kind of you to say so, sir.”
“Not at all—not at all. So you’re back again at the old place, eh? Going to stop with us this time, I hope. You ought never to have left us, young sir, but have settled down quietly in your father’s shoes. Vagabondizing’s a bad thing for any young man.”
“I quite agree with you, sir,” said Tom, in a tone of assumed simplicity.
“Glad you’ve come round to my way of thinking at last. Knew you would. Well, if I can do anything for you in the way of helping you to get a decent living, you may command me fully. Think over what I’ve said, and come and dine with me at Pincote to-morrow at seven sharp.”
“It would be worth something,” said Tom to himself as he went on his way, “to know what the squire’s opinion about me really is; to have a glimpse at the portrait of me in all its details which he has evolved from his own inner consciousness. Strange that in a little town like this, where everybody knows everybody else’s business better than he knows his own, if a man venture to step out of the beaten track prescribed for him by custom and tradition, and is bold enough to strike out a path for himself, he is at once set down as being, of necessity, either a lunatic or a scapegrace—unless, indeed, his lunacy chance to win for him either a fortune or a name. And then how changed the tone!”
Next evening Tom found himself at Pincote. The squire introduced him in brief terms to his daughter, and then left the room for a few minutes, for which Tom did not thank him. “What can I say to Miss Culpepper that will be likely to interest her?” he asked himself. “Does she go in for private theatricals, or for ritualism and pet parsons? Does she believe in soup kitchens and visiting the poor, or would she rather talk about the new prima donna, and the last new poem?”