Perhaps he thought the smell of wealth a promising cure for such fits of insubordination as I had exhibited.  My occasional absences on my own account were winked at.  On my return the squire was sour and snappish, I cheerful and complaisant; I grew cold, and he solicitous; he would drink my health with a challenge to heartiness, and I drank to him heartily and he relapsed to a fit of sulks, informing me, that in his time young men knew when they were well off, and asking me whether I was up to any young men’s villanies, had any concealed debts perchance, because, if so—­Oh! he knew the ways of youngsters, especially when they fell into bad hands:  the list of bad titles rumbled on in an underbreath like cowardly thunder:—­well, to cut the matter short, because, if so, his cheque-book was at my service; didn’t I know that, eh?  Not being immediately distressed by debt, I did not exhibit the gush of gratitude, and my sedate ‘Thank you, sir,’ confused his appeal for some sentimental show of affection.

I am sure the poor old man suffered pangs of jealousy; I could even at times see into his breast and pity him.  He wanted little more than to be managed; but a youth when he perceives absurdity in opposition to him chafes at it as much as if he were unaware that it is laughable.  Had the squire talked to me in those days seriously and fairly of my father’s character, I should have abandoned my system of defence to plead for him as before a judge.  By that time I had gained the knowledge that my father was totally of a different construction from other men.  I wished the squire to own simply to his loveable nature.  I could have told him women did.  Without citing my dear aunt Dorothy, or so humble a creature as the devoted Mrs. Waddy, he had sincere friends among women, who esteemed him, and were staunch adherents to his cause; and if the widow of the City knight, Lady Sampleman, aimed openly at being something more, she was not the less his friend.  Nor was it only his powerful animation, generosity, and grace that won them.

There occurred when I was a little past twenty, already much in his confidence, one of those strange crucial events which try a man publicly, and bring out whatever can be said for and against him.  A young Welsh heiress fell in love with him.  She was, I think, seven or eight months younger than myself, a handsome, intelligent, high-spirited girl, rather wanting in polish, and perhaps in the protecting sense of decorum.  She was well-born, of course—­she was Welsh.  She was really well-bred too, though somewhat brusque.  The young lady fell hopelessly in love with my father at Bath.  She gave out that he was not to be for one moment accused of having encouraged her by secret addresses.  It was her unsolicited avowal—­thought by my aunt Dorothy immodest, not by me—­that she preferred him to all living men.  Her name was Anna Penrhys.  The squire one morning received a letter from her family, requesting him to furnish them with information as to the antecedents of a gentleman calling himself Augustus Fitz-George Frederick William Richmond Guelph Roy, for purposes which would, they assured him, warrant the inquiry.  He was for throwing the letter aside, shouting that he thanked his God he was unacquainted with anybody on earth with such an infernal list of names as that.  Roy!  Who knew anything of Roy?