CHAPTER XIV

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.