The table had been spread with
substantial eatables nearly two hours before he presented himself- a
tall, stout man of sixty, with a face in which the knit brow and
rather hard glance seemed contradicted by the slack and feeble
mouth. His person showed marks of habitual neglect, his dress was
slovenly; and yet there was something in the presence of the old
Squire distinguishable from that of the ordinary farmers in the
parish, who were perhaps every whit as refined as he, but, having
slouched their way through life with a consciousness of being in the
vicinity of their 'betters', wanted that self-possession and
authoritativeness of voice and carriage which belonged to a man who
thought of superiors as remote existences, with whom he had personally
little more to do than with America or the stars. The Squire had
been used to parish homage all his life, used to the pre-supposition
that his family, his tankards, and everything that was his, were the
oldest and best; and as he never associated with any gentry higher
than himself, his opinion was not disturbed by comparison.
He glanced at his son as he entered the room, and said, 'What, sir!
haven't you had your breakfast yet?' but there was no pleasant morning
greeting between them; not because of any unfriendliness, but
because the sweet flower of courtesy is not a growth of such homes
as the Red House.
'Yes, sir,' said Godfrey, 'I've had my breakfast, but I was waiting
to speak to you.
Pages:
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108