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Updated: May 10, 2025
He was arrested both by the astounding statement and by something unusually placable in her tone. He stared at her as his way was. Then, suddenly, he had a light on it. "Gwenda, there must be something behind all this. You'd better tell me straight out what's happened." "Nothing has happened." "You know what I mean. We've spoken about this before.
They talked of the Vicar's good days and his bad days, that was all. For in this house where time had ceased they talked incessantly of time. And there were several times during the night which were his times also. The Vicar had desired supremacy in his Vicarage and he was at last supreme. He was supreme over his daughter Gwenda. The stubborn, intractable creature was at his feet.
Only by the consummate restraint of his manner did he show how impossible he had found the Vicar, while his face betrayed a grave preoccupation in which the Vicar counted not at all. Mary began to talk to him about the weather. Neither she nor Gwenda dared ask him what he thought of Alice. And in ten minutes he was gone. The Vicar went with him to the gate.
She knew that something followed from it, but she refused to see it. Her mind thrust from it the conclusion. "Then it's Gwenda that he cares for." She said to herself, "After all I'm married to him." And as she said it she thrust up her chin in a gesture of assurance and defiance. In the chair that faced her Rowcliffe shifted his position.
"Come in, Gwenda," said the Vicar with exaggerated suavity. She came in and closed the door. Then she saw Alice. She took the hand that Rowcliffe held out to her without looking at him. She was looking at Alice. Alice gave a low cry and struggled to her feet. "I thought you were never coming," she said. Gwenda held her in her arms. She faced them. "What have you been doing to her all of you?"
And of this expression on her father's face Gwenda understood nothing, divined nothing, knew nothing but that she loathed it. "You may know what's the matter with her," she said, "but can you cure it?" "Can he?" said the Vicar. The next day, which was a Tuesday, Alice was up and about again.
She had a new Bradshaw in her hand. "Peacock gave me this," said Mary. "He said you ordered it." "So I did," said Gwenda. "What on earth for?" "To look up trains in." "Why is anybody coming?" "Does anybody ever come?" Mary's face admitted her absurdity. "Then" she made it out almost with difficulty "somebody must be going away." "How clever you are. Somebody is going away."
"If I could live on air!" said Alice. "You can you do to a very large extent. You certainly can't live without it." Downstairs he lingered. But he refused the tea that Gwenda offered him. He said he hadn't time. Patients were waiting for him. "But I'll look in next Wednesday, if I may." "At teatime?" "Very well at teatime." "How's Alice?" said the Vicar when he returned from Upthorne.
The next afternoon when he returned from the hunt, he brought a fresh item of news for his niece, for he pitied the girl lying there inactive, a state of existence which above all others would have galled him beyond measure. "I called up at the farm, Gwenda, and saw our young friend with the lion locks. He said his arm was quite well and he didn't know why Dr.
She bit her lip. She knew that whatever she did she must not show temper. "Did Gwenda send for you?" Her voice was quiet. "She did not." He strode out of the house. After that he never told her when he was going up to Garthdale toward nightfall. He was sometimes driven to lie.
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