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And then it struck her that she had better go down at once and see Essy's baby. It was only five and twenty past four. The Vicar was right. Rowcliffe did not want to be seen or heard of at the Vicarage. He did not want to see or hear of the Vicarage or of Gwenda Cartaret again.
The young man's right arm threw him off; his left arm remained round Alice. "It's yo' s'all nat tooch her, Mr. Cartaret," he said. "Ef yo' coom between her an' mae I s'all 'ave t' kill yo'. I'd think nowt of it. Dawn't yo' bae freetened, my laass," he murmured tenderly. The next instant he was fierce again. "An' look yo' 'ere, Mr. Cartaret. It was yo' who aassked mae t' marry Assy.
Let me get it right. I've seen Miss Cartaret. You are Miss Gwendolen Cartaret. And the lady I am to see is ? "My youngest sister, Alice." "Now I understand. I wondered how you managed those four miles. Tell me about her." She began. She was vivid and terse. He saw that she made short cuts to the root of the matter. He showed himself keen and shrewd.
"Yo'd better coom into t' parlor, Miss Cartaret. It'll be more coomfortable for you." She rose and followed him. She had been long enough in Garth to know that if you are asked to go into the parlor you must go. Otherwise you risk offending the kind gods of the hearth and threshold. The parlor was a long low room that continued the line of the house to its southern end.
So formal and so cold, so utterly impersonal was the air of the doctor's mahogany furniture that her fear left her. It was as if the furniture assured her that she would not really see Rowcliffe; as for knowing him, she needn't worry. She had sent in her card, printed for convenience with the names of the three sisters: Miss Cartaret. Miss Gwendolen Cartaret. Miss Alice Cartaret.
"Look here Miss Cartaret if you can get Jim Greatorex to sing for you, if you can get him to take an interest in the concert or in any mortal thing besides beer and whisky, you'll be doing the best day's work you ever did in your life." "Do you think I could?" she said. "I think you could probably do anything with him if you gave your mind to it." He meant it. He meant it.
The diabolic thing raged through the shut house, knowing that it went unchallenged, that its utmost violence was licensed until the day after the concert. Rowcliffe heard it whenever he drove past the Vicarage on his way over the moors. He was annoyed with Gwendolen Cartaret.
Rowcliffe had whole hours on his hands that he could have spent with Gwenda now, if he had known. And as yet he did not altogether know. There was something about Gwenda Cartaret for which Rowcliffe with all his sureness and all his experience was unprepared.
Greatorex did not think of God as likely to take his getting drunk very seriously, any more than he had seemed to take Maggie and Essy seriously. For Greatorex measured God's reprobation by his own repentance. His real offense against God was his offense against Alice Cartaret. He had got drunk in order to forget it. But that resource would henceforth be denied him.
Moon or no moon he saw that it was not his moment. What Gwenda had to do she did quickly. She wrote to the third Mrs. Cartaret that night. She told her nothing except that she wanted to get something to do in London and to get it as soon as possible, and she asked her stepmother if she could put her up for a week or two until she got it. And would Mummy mind wiring Yes or No on Saturday morning?
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