“You have your station.  Very good,” said Tom, not caring to notice the imputation; “you owe the greater part of it to your having made a most fortunate marriage, for which I respect you, as a practical man.  Let your poetry be what it may (and people tell me that it is really very beautiful), your match shows me that you are a clever, and therefore a successful person.”

“Do you take me for a sordid schemer, like yourself?  I loved what was worthy of me, and won it because I deserved it.”

“Then, having won it, treat it as it deserves,” said Tom, with a cool searching look, before which Vavasour’s eyes fell again.  “Understand me, Mr. John Briggs; it is of no consequence to me what you call yourself:  but it is of consequence to me that I should not have a patient in my parish whom I cannot cure; for I cannot cure broken hearts, though they will be simple enough to come to me for medicine.”

“You shall have no chance!  You shall never enter my house!  You shall not ruin me, sir, by your bills!”

Tom made no answer to this fresh insult.  He had another game to play.

“Take care what you say, Briggs; remember that, after all, you are in my power, and I had better remind you plainly of the fact.”

“And you mean to make me your tool?  I will die first?”

“I believe that,” said Tom, who was very near adding, “that he should be sorry to work with such tools.”

“My tools are my lancet and my drugs,” said he, quietly, “and all I have to say refers to them.  It suits my purpose to become the principal medical man in this neighbourhood—­”

“And I am to tout for introductions for you?”

“You are to be so very kind as to allow me to finish my sentence, just as you would allow any other gentleman; and because I wish for practice, and patients, and power, you will be so kind as to treat me henceforth as one high-minded man would treat another, to whom he is obliged.  For you know, John Briggs, as well as I,” said Tom, drawing himself up to his full height, “look me in the face, if you can, ere you deny it, that I was, while you knew me, as honourable a man, and as kind-hearted a man, as you ever were; and that now—­considering the circumstances under which we meet,—­you have more reason to trust me, than I have, prima facie, to trust you.”

Vavasour answered not a word.

“Good-bye, then,” said Tom, drawing aside from the step; “Mrs. Vavasour will be anxious about you.  And mind!  With regard to her first of all, sir, and then with regard to other matters—­as long, and only as long, as you remember that you are John Briggs of Whitbury, I shall be the first to forget it.  There is my hand, for old acquaintance’ sake.”

Vavasour took the proffered hand coldly, paused a moment, and then wrung it in silence, and hurried away home.