“Is not that somewhat of a paradox?”
“Hardly so, I think. Men like Mr. Culpepper, with their conservatism, and their traditions of a past—which, it should not be forgotten, was not a past, but a present, when they were young people, and is, consequently, not so very antiquated—with their faith in old institutions, old modes of thought, old friendships, and—and old wine, are simply invaluable in this shifty, restless, out-of-breath era in which we live. They are like the roots of grass and tangle which bind together the sandhills on a windy shore. They conserve for us the essence of an experience which dates from years before we were born; which will sweeten our lives, if we know how to use it: as yonder pot-pourri of faded rose-leaves sweetens this room, and whispers to us that, in summers long ago, flowers as sweet bloomed and faded, as those which blossom for us to-day and will fade and leave us to-morrow.”
“When you are as old as papa, Mr. Bristow,” said Jane, with a laugh, “I believe you will be just as conservative and full of prejudices as he is.”
“I hope so, I’m sure,” said Tom, earnestly. “Only, my prejudices will differ in some degree from his—as his would doubtless differ in degree from those of his father—because I happen to have been born some thirty years later in the world’s history.”
At this moment the servant ushered in Mr. Cope the banker, and Mr. Edward Cope the banker’s son. Jane rose, and introduced Tom to them as “Mr. Bristow, a friend of papa’s.” The banker’s son stared at Tom for a moment, nodded his bull head, and then drawing a chair up to the piano, proceeded to take possession of Jane with an air of proprietorship which brought the colour for a moment into that young lady’s face.
The banker himself was more affable, in the pompous way that was habitual with him. He never remembered to have heard the name of Bristow before, but being a friend of the squire, the young man was probably worth cultivating, and, in any case, there was nothing lost by a little politeness. So Mr. Cope cleared his throat, and planting himself like a colossus before the vacant grate, entered with becoming seriousness upon the state of the weather and the prospects of the crops. When the squire came in, five minutes later, Tom and the banker were chatting together, as if they had known each other for years.
They all went in to dinner. Over the soup, said the squire to Mr. Cope: “You were telling me, the other day, that one of your fellows at the bank died a week or two ago?”
“Yes: young Musgrave. Clever young man. Great loss to the firm.”
“Well, if you have not filled up the place it might, perhaps, suit our young friend here,” indicating Tom, “if you like to take him on my recommendation. I don’t know whether Jenny introduced him properly, but he’s the son of Dr. Bristow, who attended my wife in her last illness. I respected his father, and I like the lad, and would gladly do something for him.”
The banker was scandalized. It might almost be said that he was horrified. To think that he had been invited to meet, and, worse than that, had talked on terms of perfect equality with, a young man who was in want of an ordinary clerkship—who would, doubtless, be glad of a stool in the back office of his bank! It was monstrous—it was disgusting! But it was just the sort of inconsiderate conduct that might be expected from a man like Culpepper. His manner towards Tom froze in a moment.