It is doubtful whether Titus Culpepper had ever been more astonished in the whole course of his life than he was at the present moment. For a little while he seemed utterly at a loss for words, but when he did speak, his words were not lacking in force.
“Bristow, you are a confounded fool!” he said with emphasis.
“I have been told that many times before.”
“You are a confounded fool—but you are a gentleman.”
Tom merely bowed.
“You propose to give me back the title deeds of Knockley Holt, after having found what may literally be termed a gold mine there—eh?”
“I don’t propose to do it, sir. I have done it already. There are the title deeds,” pointing to the table. “There is the deed of sale,” pointing to the fire-grate.
“And do you think, sir,” said the Squire, with dignity, “that Titus Culpepper is the man to accept such a romantic piece of generosity from one who is little more than a boy! Not so.—It would be impossible for me to forgive myself, were I to do anything of the kind The property is fairly and legally yours, and yours it must remain.”
“It shall not, sir! By heaven! I will not have it. There are the title deeds. Do with them as you will.” He buttoned his coat, and took up his hat, and turned to leave the room.
“Stop, Bristow, stop!” said the Squire, as he rose from his chair. Tom halted with the handle of the door in his hand, but he did not go back to the table.