"It May Be As Well To Tell You, Mrs. Moodie," Said He Sulkily, For
He Was Evidently Displeased By My Husband's Want Of Recognition On
His First Entrance, "That I Have Had No Dinner."
I signed to myself, for I well knew that our larder boasted of
no dainties; and from the animal expression of our guest's face,
I rightly judged that he was fond of good living.
By the time I had fried a rasher of salt pork, and made a pot of
dandelion coffee, the bread I had been preparing was baked; but
grown flour will not make light bread, and it was unusually heavy.
For the first time I felt heartily ashamed of our humble fare. I was
sure that he for whom it was provided was not one to pass it over in
benevolent silence. "He might be a gentleman," I thought, "but he
does not look like one;" and a confused idea of who he was, and
where Moodie had met him, began to float through my mind. I did not
like the appearance of the man, but I consoled myself that he was
only to stay for one night, and I could give up my bed for that one
night, and sleep on a bed on the floor by my sick husband. When I
re-entered the parlour to cover the table, I found Moodie fallen
asleep, and Mr. Malcolm reading. As I placed the tea-things on the
table, he raised his head, and regarded me with a gloomy stare. He
was a strange-looking creature; his features were tolerably regular,
his complexion dark, with a good colour, his very broad and round
head was covered with a perfect mass of close, black, curling hair,
which, in growth, texture, and hue, resembled the wiry, curly hide
of a water-dog. His eyes and mouth were both well-shaped, but gave,
by their sinister expression, an odious and doubtful meaning to the
whole of his physiognomy. The eyes were cold, insolent, and cruel,
and as green as the eyes of a cat. The mouth bespoke a sullen,
determined, and sneering disposition, as if it belonged to one
brutally obstinate, one who could not by any gentle means be
persuaded from his purpose. Such a man in a passion would have
been a terrible wild beast; but the current of his feelings seemed
to flow in a deep, sluggish channel, rather than in a violent or
impetuous one; and, like William Penn, when he reconnoitred his
unwelcome visitors through the keyhole of the door, I looked at my
strange guest, and liked him not. Perhaps my distant and constrained
manner made him painfully aware of the fact, for I am certain that,
from the first hour of our acquaintance, a deep-rooted antipathy
existed between us, which time seemed rather to strengthen than
diminish.
He ate of his meal sparingly, and with evident disgust, the only
remarks which dropped from him were -
"You make bad bread in the bush.
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