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Updated: June 4, 2025
Sometimes the cow swung round her white face and looked at Dan, sometimes she lashed him gently with her tail. Ned leaned against the stall post and watched. "Thot's t' road, thot's t' road. Yo're the foorst straanger she a' let milk 'er. She's a narvous cow. 'Er teats is tander." When the milking was done Dan put on his well-fitting coat and they went home over Karva to the schoolhouse lane.
And they crouched together under the wall, sitting closer so that the coat might cover them. It thundered and lightened. The rain pelted them from the high batteries of Karva. And Rowcliffe drew Mary closer. She laughed like a happy child. Rowcliffe sighed. It was after he had sighed that he kissed her under the cover of the coat.
She walked the four miles, going across the moor under Karva and loitering by the way, and it was past six before she reached Morfe. She was shown into the room that was once Rowcliffe's study. It had been Mary's drawing-room ever since last year when the second child was born and they turned the big room over the dining-room into a day nursery.
"All right. Let's." He was like that. When he was in the house he wanted to be on the moor; when he was on the moor he wanted to be back in the house. They started to go home, and he turned again towards Karva. They went on till they came to the round pit sunk below the track. They rested there, sitting on the stones at the bottom of the pit. "Mary," he said, "I can't stay here.
"What's this I hear," he said, "of you and young Rowcliffe scampering about all over the country?" The Vicar had drawn a bow at a venture. He had not really heard anything, but he had seen something; two forms scrambling hand in hand up Karva; not too distant to be recognisable as young Rowcliffe and his daughter Gwenda, yet too distant to be pleasing to the Vicar.
Every now and then Mark had looked at her over his shoulder and said, "Poor Minx." It was as if he said, "I'm sorry, but you see how it is. I can't help it." And just here, where the moor track touched the road, she had left them, clearing the water-courses, and had gone up towards Karva.
Outside the village, the schoolhouse lane, a green trench sunk between stone walls, went up and up, turning three times. At the top of the last turn a gate. When you had got through the gate you were free. It led on to the wide, flat half-ring of moor that lay under Karva. The moor and the high mound of the hill were free; they had slipped from the net of the walls.
She was going up the schoolhouse lane towards Karva, because Roddy and she had gone that way together on Friday, his last evening. It was Sunday now; six o'clock: the time he used to bring Papa home. His ship would have left Queenstown, it would be steering to the west. She wondered how much he had really minded going.
He made himself think these things of her because they gave him unspeakable consolation. All the way back to Morfe he thought them, while on his right hand Karva rose and receded and rose again, and changed at every turn its aspect and its form.
Not up Greffington Edge or Karva. Because of Lindley Vickers and Maurice Jourdain; and Roddy and Mark. No. She was humbugging herself. Not up Karva because of her secret happiness. She didn't want to mix him up with that or with the self that had felt it. She wanted to keep him in the clear spaces of her mind, away from her memories, away from her emotions.
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