He pressed his lips
together.
The Squire rose.
"Come now, Barter!" he said.
The Rector blushed. He hated tale-bearing--that is, of course, in the
case of a man; the case of a woman was different--and just as, when he
went to Bellew he had been careful not to give George away, so now he
was still more on his guard.
"No, no, Pendyce."
The Squire began to pace the room, and Mr. Barter felt something stir
against his foot; the spaniel John emerging at the end, just where the
moonlight shone, a symbol of all that was subservient to the Squire,
gazed up at his master with tragic eyes. 'Here, again,' they seemed to
say, 'is something to disturb me!'
The Squire broke the silence.
"I've always counted on you, Barter; I count on you as I would on my own
brother. Come, now, what's this about George?"
'After all,' thought the Rector, 'it's his father!'--"I know nothing but
what they say," he blurted forth; "they talk of his having lost a lot of
money. I dare say it's all nonsense. I never set much store by rumour.
And if he's sold the horse, well, so much the better. He won't be
tempted to gamble again."
But Horace Pendyce made no answer. A single thought possessed his
bewildered, angry mind:
'My son a gambler! Worsted Skeynes in the hands of a gambler!'
The Rector rose.
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