in a voice unlike his own, "I'll not bear it."

In answer to those words, forced from him by that which is deeper than
habit, Mrs. Pendyce's hand slipped from his arm and rested on the shiny
chintz covering of the sofa, patterned with green and crimson. Her soul
shrank from the violence in his voice.

"Wait here," she said. "I will go up and see."

To command was foreign to her nature, but Mr. Barter, with a look such
as a little rueful boy might give, obeyed.

When she was gone he stood listening at the door for some sound--for
any sound, even the sound of her dress--but there was none, for her
petticoat was of lawn, and the Rector was alone with a silence that he
could not bear. He began to pace the room in his thick boots, his hands
clenched behind him, his forehead butting the air, his lips folded; thus
a bull, penned for the first time, turns and turns, showing the whites
of its full eyes.

His thoughts drove here and there, fearful, angered, without guidance;
he did not pray. The words he had spoken so many times left him as
though of malice. "We are all in the hands of God!--we are all in the
hands of God!" Instead of them he could think of nothing but the old
saying Mr. Paramor had used in the Squire's dining-room, "There is
moderation in all things," and this with cruel irony kept humming in his
ears. "Moderation in all things--moderation in all things!" and his wife
lying there--his doing, and....

There was a sound. The Rector's face, so brown and red, could not grow
pale, but his great fists relaxed. Mrs. Pendyce was standing in the
doorway with a peculiar half-pitiful, half-excited smile.

"It's all right--a boy. 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
th