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Updated: June 23, 2025
Mr Loggerheads took his coat off, and Mary Morfe watched him as he did so. He made a pretty figure. He was something of a dandy. The lapels of the overcoat would have showed that, not to mention the correctly severe necktie. All his clothes, in fact, had "cut and style," even to his boots. In the Five Towns many a young man is a dandy down to the edge of his trousers, but not down to the ground.
In the ordinary course it is not considered outrageous to enter a drawing-room even at nine o'clock at night with the permission and encouragement of the servant in charge of portals. But the case of the Morfes was peculiar. Mr Morfe was a bachelor aged forty-two, and looked older. Mary Morfe was a spinster aged thirty-eight, and looked thirty-seven.
The lights of Morfe on its high platform made the pattern of a coronet and pendants on the darkness; the small, scattered lights of the village below, the village they were making for, showed as if dropped out of the pattern on the hill. One larger light burned in the room that was their marriage chamber.
And she saw Morfe, gray as iron, on its hill, bearing the square crown and the triple pendants of its lights; she saw the long straight line of Greffington Edge, hiding the secret moon, and Karva with the ashen west behind it.
He had sighted Mary Cartaret two or three times in the village, and once, on the moor below Upthorne, a figure that he recognised as Alice; he had also overtaken Mary on her bicycle, and once he had seen her at a shop door on Morfe Green. He was grateful to her for her absorption while he saw through it. He had always known that Mary was a person of tact.
He opened the score for Eva's inspection, and began to hum passages and to point out others, and Eva also began to hum, and they hummed in concert, at intervals exclaiming against the wantonness with which Havergal Brian had invented difficulties. Eva glanced at the clock. "You're all right," Mr Morfe assured her somewhat impatiently.
The horses pushed at Mamma and you tried to hold back their noses, but she sank down and slid away from you sideways under the wheel. Or she would come into this room and find her in it. At first she would be glad to see that Mamma was still there; then she would be unhappy and afraid. She would go on to a clear thought: if Mamma was still there, then she had got back somehow to Morfe.
She would have stretched the way out indefinitely if she could; she would have piled Garthdale Moor on Greffington Edge and Karva on the top of them and put them between Garth and Morfe, so violent was her fear of Steven Rowcliffe. She had no longer any desire to see him or to be seen by him. He had seen her twice too often, and too early and too late.
And all the time her youth had been waiting for her at the other end, at the turn of the unknown road, at thirty-nine. All through the autumn and winter Richard Nicholson had kept on writing. Her poems would be out on the tenth of April. On the third the note came. "Shall I still find you at Morfe if I come down this week-end? "You will never find me anywhere else. "I shall bike from Durlingham.
Nicky was talking on about it, excitedly, as he used to talk on about his pleasures when he was a child. If Dad'll let us have the racing car, we'll go down to Morfe. We can do it in a day." "My dear boy," Anthony said, "don't you know I've lent the house to the Red Cross, and let the shooting?" "I don't care. There's the little house in the village we can have.
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