The poor dear has had a dreadful time!"
The Rector looked at her, but did not speak; then abruptly he brushed
past her in the doorway, hurried into his study and locked the door.
Then, and then only, he kneeled down, and remained there many minutes,
thinking of nothing.
CHAPTER XII
THE SQUIRE MAKES UP HIS MIND
That same evening at nine o'clock, sitting over the last glass of a
pint of port, Mr. Barter felt an irresistible longing for enjoyment, an
impulse towards expansion and his fellow-men.
Taking his hat and buttoning his coat--for though the June evening was
fine the easterly breeze was eager--he walked towards the village.
Like an emblem of that path to God of which he spoke on Sundays, the
grey road between trim hedges threaded the shadow of the elm-trees where
the rooks had long since gone to bed. A scent of wood-smoke clung in
the air; the cottages appeared, the forge, the little shops facing the
village green. Lights in the doors and windows deepened; a breeze, which
hardly stirred the chestnut leaves, fled with a gentle rustling through
the aspens. Houses and trees, houses and trees! Shelter through the past
and through the days to come!
The Rector stopped the first man he saw.
"Fine weather for the hay, Aiken! How's your wife doing--a girl? Ah, ha!
You want some boys! You heard of our event at the Rectory? I'm thankful
to say----"
From man to man and house to house he soothed his thirst for fellowship,
for the lost sense of dignity that should efface again the scar of
suffering.
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