“Very likely a fool would, but I didn’t happen to.” And, with the grin still on his features, the youth looked at the kneeling old man, very much as if he would have liked to give him a vigorous kick with his polished boot.
“No matter! I’ll ’tend to it,” said the squire, and went on with his blowing.
Byron smilingly withdrew.
“You never would have stood sich impudence from him,” said Mrs. Peternot, through the open door of a bedroom into which she had retired; “an’ why should ye from a nephew?”
The squire made no reply to this reasonable question, but, having kindled a fire and put on the pot, went out to take care of the horse. Byron meanwhile walked about the place with his fine clothes on, until supper was ready.
“Come, Byron,” then said the squire; and both went in and took seats at the little oilcloth-covered table. The supper consisted of boiled potatoes served with their skins on, thin slices of fried pork swimming in their own melted fat, and a heavy and sour kind of bread, which, by its quality and complexion, always reminded Byron of his Aunt Peternot, who seemed to have mixed up something of herself in the dough. He was blessed with a good appetite, however, and he ate heartily, notwithstanding his unpleasant consciousness of the fact—or was it only his imagination?—that the good woman watched with a begrudging scowl every morsel that went to his plate; seeming to say, “What! another tater! More bread! A second cup of tea, and sich big cups too! Seems to me I wouldn’t make a hog of myself, if I was visitin’ my uncle!”
It was never a cheerful household; on Sundays it was even less sociable than on other days, and on this particular Sunday afternoon, Byron thought the cloud which hung over it unusually heavy. Something seemed to trouble his uncle, who sat grim and silent, sipping his tea scalding hot, and working his massy jaws as if the pork and potatoes had done him an injury, and he was wreaking a gloomy vengeance upon them.
“Where are you going, Byron?” the squire asked, as his nephew was about leaving the house after supper.
“Thought I’d walk out,—didn’t know but I might call at Deacon Chatford’s by and by,—I hear they have a little singing there, Sunday evenings.”
Mrs. Peternot scowled at the young gentleman, then turned and scowled at her husband, and said in an undertone: “It’s that ’ere Annie Felton, the schoolmarm! He’s arter her,—jest like all the rest on ’em!”