Peacock stood with his hands in his breeches’ pockets.  An old straw hat was on his head, his little eyes were turned towards the ground; and his cob, which he had tied to what his father had left standing of the fence, had his eyes, too, turned towards the ground, for he was eating grass.  Mr. Pendyce’s fight with his burning stable had stuck in the farmer’s “gizzard” ever since.  He felt that he was forgetting it day by day—­would soon forget it altogether.  He felt the old sacred doubts inherited from his fathers rising every hour within him.  And so he had come up to see what looking at the gap would do for his sense of gratitude.  At sight of the Squire his little eyes turned here and there, as a pig’s eyes turn when it receives a blow behind.  That Mr. Pendyce should have chosen this moment to come up was as though Providence, that knoweth all things, knew the natural thing for Mr. Pendyce to do.

“Afternoon, Squire.  Dry weather; rain’s badly wanted.  I’ll get no feed if this goes on.”

Mr. Pendyce answered: 

“Afternoon, Peacock.  Why, your fields are first-rate for grass.”

They hastily turned their eyes away, for at that moment they could not bear to see each other.

There was a silence; then Peacock said: 

“What about those gates of mine, Squire?” and his voice quavered, as though gratitude might yet get the better of him.

The Squire’s irritable glance swept over the unfenced space to right and left, and the thought flashed through his mind: 

’Suppose I were to give the beggar those gates, would he—­would he let me enclose the Scotton again?’

He looked at that square, bearded man, and the infallible instinct, christened so wickedly by Mr. Paramor, guided him.

“What’s wrong with your gates, man, I should like to know?”

Peacock looked at him full this time; there was no longer any quaver in his voice, but a sort of rough good-humour.

“Wy, the ‘arf o’ them’s as rotten as matchwood!” he said; and he took a breath of relief, for he knew that gratitude was dead within his soul.

“Well, I wish mine at the home farm were half as good.  Come, John!” and, touching the mare with his heel, Mr. Pendyce turned; but before he had gone a dozen paces he was back.

“Mrs. Peacock well, I hope?  Mrs. Pendyce has gone up to London.”

And touching his hat, without waiting for Peacock’s answer, he rode away.  He took the lane past Peacock’s farm across the home paddocks, emerging on the cricket-ground, a field of his own which he had caused to be converted.

The return match with Coldingham was going on, and, motionless on his horse, the Squire stopped to watch.  A tall figure in the “long field” came leisurely towards him.  It was the Hon. Geoffrey Winlow.  Mr. Pendyce subdued an impulse to turn the mare and ride away.

“We’re going to give you a licking, Squire!  How’s Mrs. Pendyce?  My wife sent her love.”