"Well," he said, "I have bad news for you, my friend. Will you forgive
me? I have seen your father and had words with him."
"Eh?"
"I said nothing to you before," went on the other, sitting down beside
him. "I knew you would not have it so, but I went to see for myself and
to put a question or two. He is your father, but he has also been my
friend. That gives me rights, you see!"
"Tell me," said Robin heavily.
It appeared that Anthony, who was a precise as well as an ardent young
man, had had scruples about trusting to hearsay. Certainly it was
rumoured far and wide that the squire of Matstead had done as he had
said he would do, and gone to church; but Mr. Anthony was one of those
spirits who will always have things, as they say, from the
fountain-head; partly from instincts of justice, partly, no doubt, for
the pleasure of making direct observations to the principals concerned.
This was what he had done in this case. He had ridden, without a word to
any, up to Matstead, and had demanded to be led to the squire; and there
and then, refusing to sit down till he was answered, had put his
question. There had been a scene. The squire had referred to puppies who
wanted drowning, to young sparks, and to such illustrative similes; and
Anthony, in spite of his youthful years, had flared out about turncoats
and lick-spittles. There had been a very pretty ending: the squire had
shouted for his servants and Anthony for his, and the two parties had
eyed one another, growling like dogs, until bloodshed seemed imminent.
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