Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: September 5, 2025
Jimmy's face, not Maurice Jourdain's. That was in September. October passed. She began to wonder when he would come again. He came on the last day of November. "Maurice, you're keeping something from me. Something's happened. Something's made you unhappy." "Yes. Something's made me unhappy." The Garthdale road. Before them, on the rise, the white highway showed like a sickle curving into the moor.
It knew why Alice Cartaret had gone wrong with Greatorex. It knew what Gwenda Cartaret had gone for when she went away. It knew why and how Dr. Rowcliffe had married Mary Cartaret. And it knew why, night after night, he was to be seen coming and going on the Garthdale road. The village knew more about Rowcliffe and Gwenda Cartaret than Rowcliffe's wife knew.
The six fell upon him with cries of joy and affection. They were his mother, his paternal uncle and aunt, his two youngest cousins, and Dr. Harker, his best friend and colleague who had taken his place in January when he had been ill. They had all come down from Leeds for Rowcliffe's wedding. Rowcliffe's trap and Peacock's from Garthdale stood side by side in the station-yard.
I only came down for Mary's wedding." He smiled. "You won't come for anything but a wedding?" "A funeral might fetch me." "Well, Gwenda, I can't say you look as if London agreed with you particularly." "I can't say you look as if Garthdale agreed very well with you." "I'm only tired tired to death." "I'm sorry." "I want a holiday. And I'm going to get one for a month.
It had come upon her at first sight as they drove between twilight and night from Reyburn through Rathdale into Garthdale. It was when they had left the wooded land behind them and the moors lifted up their naked shoulders, one after another, darker than dark, into a sky already whitening above the hidden moon.
Through all Garthdale and Rathdale, in the Manors and the Lodges and the Granges, in the farmhouses and the cottages, in the inns and little shops, there was a stir of pity and compassion. The people who had left off calling at the Vicarage called again with sympathy and kind inquiries. They were inclined to forget how impossible the Cartarets had been. They were sorry for Gwenda.
Down the Back Lane and through the gap in the lower fields, along the flagged path to the Bottom Lane and through the Rathdale fields to the river. Over the stepping stones. She took the stones at a striding run. He followed, running and laughing. Up the Rathdale fields to Renton Moor. Not up the schoolhouse lane, or on the Garthdale Road, or along the fields by the beck.
Garthdale in front of it, Rathdale at its side, meeting in the fields below its bridge. Morfe was beautiful. She loved it with love at first sight, faithless to Ilford. Straight, naked houses. Grey walls of houses, enclosing the wide oblong Green. Dark grey stone roofs, close-clipped lest the wind should lift them.
If there wasn't any actual harm done, and maybe there wasn't, the doctor had been running into danger. He was up at Garthdale more than he need be now that the old Vicar was about again. And they had been seen together. The head gamekeeper at Garthdale had caught them more than once out on the moor, and after dark too. It was said in the little houses that it wasn't the doctor's fault.
They had turned their shoulders to each other, hostile in their misery. Gwenda was sorry for them. The gray road dipped and turned and plunged them to the bottom of Garthdale. The small, scattering lights of the village waited for her in the hollow, with something humble and sad and familiar in their setting. They too stung her with that poignant and secret sense of recognition.
Word Of The Day
Others Looking