Henry’s father—George Trenchard—was “splendid”—that, thought Henry, was the only possible word—and the boy, surveying other persons’ fathers, wondered why Katherine, Millicent, and himself should have been chosen out of all the world to be so favoured.
George Trenchard, at this time about sixty years of age, was over six feet in height and broad in proportion. He was growing too stout; his hair was grey and the top of his head bald; his eyes were brown and absent-minded, his mouth large with a lurking humour in its curves; his cheeks were fat and round and there was the beginning of a double chin. He walked, always, in a rambling, rolling kind of way, like a sea-captain on shore, still balancing himself to the swing of his vessel, his hands deep sunk in his trouser-pockets. Henry had been privileged, sometimes, to see him, when, absorbed in the evolution of an essay or the Chapter of some book (he is, of course, one of our foremost authorities on the early Nineteenth Century period of English Literature, especially Hazlitt and De Quincey) he rolled up and down his study, with his head back, his hand sunk in his pockets, whistling a little tune ... very wonderful he seemed to Henry then.
He was the most completely careless of optimists, refused to be brought down to any stern fact whatever, hated any strong emotion or stringent relations with anyone, treated his wife and children as the most delightful accidents against whom he had, most happily tumbled; his kindness of heart was equalled only by the lightning speed with which he forgot the benefits that he had conferred and the persons upon whom he had conferred them ... like a happy bird, he went carolling through life. Alone, of all living beings, his daughter Katherine had bound him to her with cords; for the rest, he loved and forgot them all.
Now, on this family occasion of his father’s birthday—his father was eighty-seven to-day—he was absolutely happy. He was proud of his family when any definite occasion, such as this, compelled him to think of it; he considered that it had all been a very jolly, pleasant dinner, that there would certainly follow a very jolly, pleasant evening. He liked, especially, to have his brother, Timothy, with him—he loved them all, bless their hearts—he felt, as he assured them, “Not a day more than twenty.”
“How do you really think Father is, George?” asked Timothy.
“Sound as a bell,” said Henry’s father, “getting deaf of course—must expect that—but it’s my belief that the harder his hearing the brighter his eyes—never knew anyone so sharp. Nothing escapes him, ’pon my soul.”
“Well,” said George Trenchard, “I think it a most satisfactory thing that here we should all be again—healthy, happy, sound as so many bells—lively as crickets—not a happier family in England.”
“Don’t say that, George,” said Uncle Tim, “most unlucky.”
“Nonsense,” said George Trenchard, brushing Uncle Tim aside like a fly, “Nonsense. We’re a happy family, a healthy family and a united family.”
“I drink my gratitude to the God of Family Life, who-ever He is....” He finished his glass of Port. “Here, Timothy, have another glass. It’s a Port in a million, so it is.”