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Updated: May 23, 2025
You would be like Aunt Lavvy. You would live in Morfe with Mamma for years and years as Aunt Lavvy had lived with Grandmamma. First you would be like Dorsy Heron; then like Louisa Wright; then like Aunt Lavvy. No; when you were forty-five you would go like Aunt Charlotte. Anyhow, she had filled in the time between October and March when the Sutcliffes came back.
The light from the west poured itself in vivid green down the valley below them, broke itself into purple on Karva Hill to the north above Morfe, and was beaten back in subtle blue and violet from the stone rampart of the Edge. Nicholas had been developing, in fancy, the strategic resources of the country. Guns on Renton Moor, guns along Greffington Edge, on Sarrack Moor.
They arrived in the gloom of this patch, safe from all human inquisitiveness, and then Richard Morfe warmly kissed Eva Harracles in the mathematical centre of those lips of hers. And Eva Harracles showed no resentment of any kind, nor even shame. Yet she had been very carefully brought up.
Happily, owing to a rise in the value of a land and a fortunate investment, she is in fairly well-to-do circumstances. As she said one day to an acquaintance, "It's a good thing I can afford to keep a tight hand on things." Mr Morfe and Mary Morfe, his sister, were sitting on either side of their drawing-room fire, on a Friday evening in November, when they heard a ring at the front door.
Mary Morfe's expression conveyed the fact that in her opinion Eva Harracles' evening call was a vain thing, too lightly undertaken, and conceivably lacking in the nicest discretion. Whereupon Mr Morfe was evidently struck by the advisability of completely changing the subject. And he did change it.
Such was the clear course. But he dared scarcely suggest it. He dared scarcely suggest it because of his sister. He was afraid of Mary. The names of Richard Morfe and Eva Harracles had already been coupled in the mouth of gossip.
Eva's father was a colliery manager who lived on the outskirts of Silverhays. "I've got a piece of news," said Eva. "Yes?" said Mary Morfe Mr Morfe was taciturn. He stooped to nourish the fire. "About Mr Loggerheads," said Eva, and stared straight at Mary Morfe. "About Mr Loggerheads!" Mary Morfe echoed, and stared back at Eva.
Nice Uncle Victor, buying the house from Papa and making Dan live with them. That was to keep him from drinking. Uncle Victor was hurt because Papa and Mamma would go to Morfe when he wanted you all to live with him. But you couldn't imagine Emilius and Victor living together or Mamma and Aunt Lavvy. Bristol to Paddington. This time next week it would be King's Cross to Reyburn for Morfe.
She was aware of something underneath it, something that was growing more and more beautiful every minute. She was trying to smash this thing lest it should grow more beautiful than she could bear. "You see how I score by being shut up in Morfe. When I do get out it's no end of an adventure." Suddenly she left off trying to smash the silence.
Her unsubmissive silence roused his temper. "I won't have him sent for do you hear?" And he made up his mind that he would go over to Morfe again and give young Rowcliffe a hint. It was to give him a hint that he had called on Monday. But the Vicar did not call again in Morfe. For before he could brace himself to the effort Alice was well again.
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