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Updated: June 12, 2025
Alice was capable of some things; but Gwenda was capable of anything. Suddenly, to Gwenda's surprise, her father sighed; a dislocating sigh. It came between the Benediction and the Lord's Prayer. For, even as he invoked the blessing Mr. Cartaret suddenly felt sorry for himself again. His children were no good to him. By which he meant that his third wife, Robina, was no good.
And it was borne in upon Rowcliffe as he sat there and talked to them that this quiet and tranquillity had come to them with Gwenda's going. She was a restless creature, and she had infected them with her unrest. They had peace from her now. Only for him there could be no peace from Gwenda. He could feel her in the room. Through the open door she came and went restless, restless!
The rustling of the brown leaves and the whispering of the wind in the trees added their own enticements, which required all Gwenda's firmness to resist. "No, uncle," she would say, shaking her finger at him. "Yesterday and Monday you made me neglect my studies. You mustn't come again this week to tempt me out. I have promised Miss Howells to be industrious.
"My dear, Steven wouldn't like that. Oh, what a mess my hair's in!" She turned to the glass and smoothed her disordered waves and coils, while she kept her eyes fixed on Gwenda's image there, appraising her clothes, her slenderness and straightness, the set of her head on her shoulders, the air that she kept up of almost insolent adolescence.
Need I tell you what that is, Miss Vaughan?" Gwenda's head bent lower, and there was a vivid glow on her cheek as she answered: "Your life here must be so full of brightness, the scenes around you are so lovely, it is no wonder if they follow you into your dreams. But but, Mr. Owen, I will not pretend to misunderstand you." "You understand me, and yet you are not angry with me?
As for Gwenda's accepting such a post, that proved nothing as against his view of her. It only proved, what he had always known, that you could never tell what Gwenda would do next. And because nothing could be said with any dignity, the Vicar had said nothing as he rose and went into his study. It was there, hidden from his daughters' scrutiny, that he pondered these things.
Jones's visits to Nantmyny were very frequent during the following week, for Gwenda's foot had been rather severely crushed, and the pain was acute; but being a girl of great spirit she bore it patiently, though it entailed many long hours of wearisome confinement to the house and sofa.
But they had been checked in their advances by Gwenda's palpable recoil. She had no time to give to callers. Her father had taken all her time. The callers considered themselves absolved from calling. Slowly, month by month, the Vicarage was drawn back into its silence and its loneliness. It assumed, more and more, its aspect of half-sinister, half-sordid tragedy.
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