SQUIRE PETERNOT AT HOME.
AFTER dismissing the Huswick boys, Squire Peternot carried his bag of
coin into the room which served him as an office, where he had scarcely
time to place it in a corner beside a bureau, when there came a dull
thump at the kitchen door. He knew Mrs. Peternot’s signal, knocking with
the soft under-part of her feeble fist, and went to let her in.
She was a thin, wrinkled woman, dressed in black, with an expression of
countenance almost as stern and sour as that of the grim old squire
himself.
“Huh!” said she, scowling as she entered, “how happens it ye hain’t got
the fire agoin’ an’ the taters bilin’?”
“I’ve had somethin’ else to think on. Where’s Byron?” replied her
husband, shortly.
“Gone to the barn with the hoss, I s’pose. But he won’t unharness,—ketch
him!”
“I didn’t expect he would, with his Sunday clo’es on.”
“Sunday clo’es or any clo’es on, he don’t tech his fingers to anything
that’ll sile ’em, or that looks like work, if he can help it,” muttered
good Mrs. Peternot, laying off her black bonnet. “You never would allow
sich laziness in your own son, an’ why ye should in a nephew any more, I
can’t consait.”
“Byron is a sort of visitor,” said the squire. “And if I choose to favor
him,—now that we’ve nobody else to show favors to,—why shouldn’t I?”
“If you’d felt so indulgent towards _him_ when _he_ was alive, he might
be with us now,” replied the discontented wife, carefully doing up her
shawl before putting it away in its appropriate drawer.
By _him_ she meant their only son, whose bad habits had received so
little encouragement beneath the parental roof, that he had taken them
abroad with him and become their victim.
“Why must ye forever be gallin’ me with that subject?” said Peternot,
with a look of anguish. “You know I did what I thought was for the best.
Come, I’ll start the fire for ye, and put the pot on, if that’ll make ye
any better-natered.”
“I’m good-natered enough, but I should think somethin’ had riled you
up,” returned the lady. “What is it?”
“Boys have been in the melon-patch, for one thing.”
“Been in the melon-patch! when ye stayed to hum a’most a puppus to keep
watch on ’t!” And the good woman, having removed her Sunday cap, false
hair and all, turned her thin face and scowling brows, crowned by a few
thin gray locks, in amazement on her husband. “That’s a likely story!
was ye asleep, I wonder?”
Peternot made no reply, but went on kindling the fire in the open
fireplace, until his nephew came in.
“I took the horse to the barn; did you want the harness off?” said that
young gentleman, standing with his gloves and hat on, watching his
uncle.
There was a slight affectation of foppery about Byron,—something which
the plain people of the neighborhood called “soft”; and as Peternot, on
his rheumatic knees before the fire, looked up through the smoke and
ashes he was blowing into his face, and saw his dainty nephew stand
there gloved and grinning, something of his wife’s feeling towards that
nice young man came over him,—or was it only his impatience at the smoke
and ashes?
“Nat’rally, I want the harness off, arter the hoss has been standin’ in
’t a good part o’ the day!” he answered, crossly.
“Oh!” said Byron; “I rather thought so, but I didn’t know.”
“I should think any fool would know that!”
“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!”
“Byron,” said the squire, solemnly, “I’d like to speak with you before
you go out.” And he led the way to his office-room.
“Now what?” thought Byron, anxiously. “Is he going to tell me I’ve been
here about long enough, and had better pack up my trunk and clear?”
“Byron,” said the squire, closing the door behind them, “it’s a subject
I ought not to bring up on the Sabbath day, but it weighs upon my mind,
and I’ve concluded I’d better speak to you about it. See what you think
of this.” And he took from the corner behind the bureau the meal-bag
with its compact but weighty contents, which he set down with a heavy
chink before his nephew.
Byron, feeling greatly relieved, peeped curiously into the sack as
Peternot opened it. “By mighty!” said he, surprised at what he saw, and
thrusting in his hand. “Where did ye get this?”
In a few words the squire told the story. Byron in the mean time
carefully tested one of the coins, cutting it with his knife and ringing
it on the hearth.
“All right,” said he; “you’ve got possession. But what’s the use?
’Tain’t good for anything.”
“You think so?”
“I’m sure of it. Very well done, for counterfeiting,—but, of course!”
And Byron tossed the piece back into the bag with a smile of contempt.
“Wal, that’s jest the conclusion I’ve come to,” said the squire. “I
thought all along it might be bogus; and as soon as I got it fairly into
my hands, I was sartin on ’t. What provokes me is the trouble it
cost,—and more ’n all, the money them pesky Huswick boys gouged out of
me!” And the old man groaned.
By this time Mrs. Peternot, her curiosity excited regarding the
conference of uncle and nephew, came into the room, for an excuse
exclaiming, “Why, squire! what have you got the house shet up so tight
for?” and proceeded to open the window. “Massy on us! what ye got in the
bag?”
“I told ye I had somethin’ to think on, this arternoon,” said Peternot;
“and this is it.”
“It has cost him five dollars,” remarked Byron, pleasantly, “and it’s
worth, as old metal, about fifty cents!”
“Wal, you have been fooled, complete!” exclaimed the old lady. “I don’t
wonder ye kep’ it to yerself! Five dollars! have ye lost yer wits?”
“Come, come! I’m feelin’ uncomf’table enough about it, a’ready!” said
the squire. “But there’s a possibility, yet, that it may be good money.
Can’t tell. I should do jest so agin, under the sarcumstances, most
likely. Any way it’s better to have it in my possession, than to leave
bad boys to carry it off and pass it, as they undoubtedly would. I don’t
want it to make trouble ’twixt me and my neighbors, though; and, Byron,
if you are going over to the deacon’s, you might see what he has to say
about it; tell him it’s counterfeit, and that I thought so—kind o’
thought so—all along, but considered it my duty—you understand?”
Byron understood, and smilingly replied that he would “make it all
right” for his uncle.
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