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Updated: June 17, 2025
He'd never manage a man like Peacock and you encourage him! He ought to marry and settle down." Mrs. Pendyce, the flush dying in her cheeks, said: "George is very like poor Hubert." Horace Pendyce drew his watch from beneath his pillow. "Ah!" But he refrained from adding, "Your people!" for Hubert Totteridge had not been dead a year. "Ten minutes to eight!
"What a nice place you have here, darling!" "There's room to walk about." Mrs. Pendyce remembered the sound she had heard of pacing to and fro. From his not asking her how she had found out where he lived she knew that he must have guessed where she had been, that there was nothing for either of them to tell the other.
As to George, he's no more fit at present to manage it than you are; he'd make a loss of thousands." "I'm afraid George is too much in London. That's the reason I wondered whether I'm afraid he sees too much of " Mrs. Pendyce stopped; a flush suffused her cheeks; she had pinched herself violently beneath the bedclothes. "George," said Mr. Pendyce, pursuing his own thoughts, "has no gumption.
Pendyce never for a moment allowed it to escape his mind that the man Peacock was at the bottom of it all; for it was his way to discredit all principles as ground of action, and to refer everything to facts and persons; except, indeed, when he acted himself, when he would somewhat proudly admit that it was on principle.
Outside his wife's room he met his children's old nurse. She was standing on the mat, with her hands to her ears, and the tears were rolling down her face. "Oh, sir!" she said "oh, sir!" The Rector glared. "Woman!" he cried "woman!" He covered his ears and rushed downstairs again. There was a lady in the hall. It was Mrs. Pendyce, and he ran to her, as a hurt child runs to its mother.
Pendyce had listened, as he had formed the habit of listening to Edmund Paramor, in silence. He now looked up and said: "It's all that red-haired ruffian's spite. I don't know what you were about to stir things up, Vigil. You must have put him on the scent." He looked moodily at Gregory. Mr. Barter, too, looked at Gregory with a sort of half-ashamed defiance.
Her thumb and fingers unclosed; the white parcel dropped, floated a second, and then disappeared. Mrs. Pendyce looked round her with a start. A young man with a beard, whose face was familiar, was raising his hat. "So your son was in," he said. "I'm very glad. I must thank you again for standing to me just that minute; it made all the difference.
Pendyce fixed her eyes on her lap. "You see, Grig," she began, "she was here a good deal before she left the Firs, and, of course, she's related to me though it's very distant. With those horrid cases, you never know what will happen. Horace is certain to say that she ought to go back to her husband; or, if that's impossible, he'll say she ought to think of Society.
She beat the knocker with all her force. The door yielded, and in the space stood George. Choking back a sob, Mrs. Pendyce went in. He banged the door behind her. For a full minute she did not speak, possessed still by that strange terror and by a sort of shame. She did not even look at her son, but cast timid glances round his room.
Pendyce rushed into the porch covering her ears with her hands. 'How long will it last? she thought. 'I'm so frightened!... A very old manservant, whose face was all puckers, opened the door suddenly to peer out at the storm, but seeing Mrs. Pendyce, he peered at her instead. "Is Captain Bellew at home?" "Yes, ma'am. The Captain's in the study. We don't use the drawing-room now.
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