"We've gone on," he said, "father and son for hundreds of years. It's a
blow to me, Barter."
Again the Rector emitted that low sound.
"What will the village think?" said Mr. Pendyce; "and the farmers--I
mind that more than anything. Most of them knew my dear old father--not
that he was popular. It's a bitter thing."
The Rector said:
"Well, well, Pendyce, perhaps it won't come to that."
He looked a little shamefaced, and his light eyes were full of something
like contrition.
"How does Mrs. Pendyce take it?"
The Squire looked at him for the first time.
"Ah!" he said; "you never know anything about women. I'd as soon trust a
woman to be just as I'd--I'd finish that magnum; it'd give me gout in no
time."
The Rector emptied his glass.
"I've sent for George and my solicitor," pursued the Squire; "they'll be
here directly."
Mr. Barter pushed his chair back, and raising his right ankle on to his
left leg, clasped his hands round his right knee; then, leaning forward,
he stared up under his jutting brows at Mr. Pendyce. It was the attitude
in which he thought best.
Mr. Pendyce ran on:
"I've nursed the estate ever since it came to me; I've carried on the
tradition as best I could; I've not been as good a man, perhaps, as I
should have wished, but I've always tried to remember my old father's
words: 'I'm done for, Horry; the estate's in your hands now.
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