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Updated: May 23, 2025
He turned in it as a dog turns in his kennel, feeling for a place to stretch himself. He said, "Where's your mother? I want her." Mary went to find her. She knew the house: the flagged passage from the front door. The dining-room on the right. The drawing-room on the left. In there the chairs and tables drew together to complain of Morfe.
"Oh!" said Mr Loggerheads, when he saw Mary Morfe. For the cashier of the Bursley branch of the Birmingham and Sheffield Bank it was not a very able speech, but it was all he could accomplish. And Miss Mary Morfe said: "Oh!" Then Miss Morfe, to whom it did at last occur that something must be done, produced an invitation: "Do come in!" And she added, "Richard has just gone out."
It had received the dangerous sanction of the soul. She turned off the high road at the point where, three months ago, she had seen Mary cycling up the hill from Morfe. Now, as then, she descended upon Morfe by the stony lane from the moor below Karva. It came over her that she was too late, that she would see rows of yellow blinds drawn down in the long front of Rowcliffe's house.
The door of the Morfe drawing-room opened into Mamma's old bedroom at Five Elms, and when she came to the foot of the bed she saw her father standing there. He looked at her with a mocking, ironic animosity, so that she knew he was alive. She thought: "It's all right. I only dreamed he was dead. I shall tell Mamma."
As if nothing had happened she hung about Horn's yard and the Back Lane, waiting for young Horn. She smiled her trusting smile again. As long as you lived in Morfe you would remember. Mary didn't blame her mother and Dan for their awful attitude.
In the big houses they didn't remember Gwenda Cartaret. They only remembered to forget her. But in the little shops and in the little houses in Morfe there had been continual whispering. They said that even after Dr. Rowcliffe's marriage to that nice wife of his, who was her own sister, the two had been carrying on.
"I can't stop," said she, glancing at the clock immediately in front of her eyes. "I must catch the last car for Silverhays." "You've got twenty minutes yet," said Mr Morfe. "Because," said Eva, "I don't want that walk from Turnhill to Silverhays on a dark night like this." "No, I should think not, indeed!" said Mary Morfe. "You've got a full twenty minutes," Mr Morfe repeated.
And Steven Rowcliffe's eyes, so disastrous to the young ladies in Leeds, saw nobody in Morfe whom he could possibly want to marry. The village of Morfe is built in a square round its green.
She was a tall, agreeable creature of fewer than thirty years, dark, almost handsome, with fine lips and eyes, and an effective large hat and a good muff. In every physical way a marked contrast to the thin, prim, desiccated brother and sister. Richard Morfe flushed faintly. Mary Morfe grew more pallid.
It didn't seem likely that Victor would have done anything of the sort; any more than Uncle Edward would have let Aunt Bella give him an overcoat lined with black jennet. They were waiting for Roddy to come back from the doctor's. Before Uncle Victor left Morfe he had made Roddy promise that for Mamma's satisfaction he would go and be overhauled.
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