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Updated: September 5, 2025
"I'm going up to Garthdale to see your father." Her eyes flinched. "You saw him yesterday." "I did." "Is he worse?" He hesitated. Lying had not as yet come lightly to him. "I'm not easy about him," he said. She was not satisfied. She had caught the hesitation. "Can't you tell me," she persisted, "if he's worse?" He looked at her calmly. "I can't tell you till I've seen him." That roused her.
One day she taxed him with it. Rowcliffe had tried to excuse his early morning temper on the plea that he was "beastly tired." "Tired?" she had said. "Of course you're tired if you went up to Garthdale last night." She added, "It isn't necessary." He was silent and she knew that she was on his trail. Two evenings later she caught him as he was leaving the house. "Where are you going?" she said.
"Is it? I've lost count." "I should think you did lose count!" "I'm sorry, Molly. I couldn't come." "You talk as if you had engagements every day in Garthdale." "If it comes to that, it's months since you've been to us." "It's different for me. I have engagements. And I've my husband and children too. Steven hates it if I'm out when he comes home." "And Papa hates it if I'm out."
It had come to that. For Ned, the shepherd at Upthorne, had told what he had seen. He had told it to Maggie, who told it to Mrs. Gale. He had told it to the head-gamekeeper at Garthdale Manor, who had a tale of his own that he too had told. And Dr. Harker had a tale. Harker had taken his friend's practice when Rowcliffe was away on his honeymoon.
For the Vicar of Greffington had applied to the Additional Curates Aid Society for a grant on behalf of his afflicted brother, the Vicar of Garthdale, and he had applied in vain. There was a prejudice against the Vicar of Garthdale. But the Vicar of Greffington did not relax his efforts. He applied to young Mrs. Rowcliffe, and young Mrs. Rowcliffe applied to her step-mother, and not in vain.
"Because you can't expect him to keep on running up to Garthdale when Papa's all right." "I don't expect him." "Well then !" said Mary with the air of having exhausted all plausible interpretations. "If I were offended," said Gwenda, "should I be here?" The appearance of the tea-tray and the parlormaid absolved Mary from the embarrassing compulsion to reply.
Grierson's practices would wake them up in Garthdale. They needed waking. She had added that Mr. Grierson was well connected, well behaved and extremely good-looking. Even charity couldn't subdue the merry devil in Robina. "I can't see," said Mary reading Robina's letter, "what Mr. Grierson's good looks have got to do with it." Rowcliffe's face darkened. He thought he could see. But Mr.
Gwenda was capable of anything. And as he thought of what she might be capable of in London, he sighed, "God help her!" It was May, five weeks since Gwenda had left Garthdale. Five Wednesdays came and went and Rowcliffe had not been seen or heard of at the Vicarage. It struck even the Vicar that considerably more had passed between his daughter and the doctor than Gwenda had been willing to admit.
Of course you don't remember, but we've met several times before." "Where?" "I'll show you where. Anyhow, that's your hill, isn't it?" "How did you know it was?" "Because I've seen you there. The first time I ever saw you No, that was a bit farther on. At the bend of the road. We're coming to it." They came. "Just here," he said. And now they were in sight of Garthdale.
She wished that something would happen so that she might tell Mamma about it. She tried to think of something, something to say that would interest Mamma. "I met Mr. James on the Garthdale Road. Walking like anything." "Did you?" Mamma was not interested in Mr. James. She wondered, "Why can't I think of things like other people?" She had a sense of defeat, of mournful incapacity.
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