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Updated: May 23, 2025
Mr Morfe shut up the score, dismissed his delirium, and looked at the clock, quite prepared to see it pointing to twenty-nine and a half minutes past nine. Instead, the clock pointed to only twenty-two minutes past nine. "By Jove!" he exclaimed. He went nearer. "By Jove!" he exclaimed again rather more loudly. "I do believe that clock's stopped!" It had.
That brought her to his side with her soft cry. For a moment he lay rigid and still. Then he turned and put his arm round her. The light streamed on them where they lay. Through the open doorway of the loft they heard the cry of the sheep coming down into the pasture. Greatorex got up and slid the door softly to. Morfe Fair was over and the farmers were going home.
Somebody had said it to her before then. Years before. She remembered. It was Ally. A year passed. It was June again. For more than a year there had been rumors of changes in Morfe. The doctor talked of going. He was always talking of going and nobody had yet believed that he would go. This time, they said, he was serious, it had been a toss-up whether he stayed or went. But in the end he stayed.
She had been shopping in the village. Mary, bowed forward as she struggled with an upward slope, was not aware of Gwenda. But Gwenda was aware of Mary, and, not being in the mood for her, she struck off the road on to the moor and descended upon Morfe by the steep lane that leads from Karva into Rathdale.
The little publicans and shop-keepers of Morfe did not offend it; neither did the peasants and the farmers; they were part of the place; generations of them had been born in those gray houses, built from the gaunt ribs of the hills; whereas the presence of the summer visitors was an outrage to the silent and solitary country that his instincts inscrutably adored.
The long streaming net shivered with the trembling of her hands. The wedding was at two o'clock. The church was crowded, so were the churchyard and the road beside the Vicarage and the bridge over the beck. Morfe and Greffington had emptied themselves into Garthdale. It was only when it was all over that somebody noticed that Jim Greatorex was not there with the village choir.
Mary walked towards that end of the drawing-room with a vague notion of helping him, and then Eva did the same, and then Mary walked back, and then Mr Morfe happily put his hand on the Vision of Cleopatra.
It never occurred to her to wonder what Mary had been doing in Morfe, so evident was it that she had been shopping. The doctor was at home, but he was engaged, at the moment, in the surgery. The maid-servant asked if she would wait. She waited in the little cold and formal dining-room that looked through two windows on to the Green.
She wondered what it would be like. Aunt Bella said it was a dead-and-alive place. Morfe Morfe. It did sound rather as if people died in it. Aunt Bella was angry with Mrs. Waugh and Miss Frewin for making Mamma go there. But Aunt Bella had never liked Mrs. Waugh and Miss Frewin. That was because they had been Mamma's friends at school and not Aunt Bella's.
Some day she'll die and she'll never have said or thought one unkind thing in all her poor, dreadful little life.... Why didn't I go to tea with her on Wednesday?" On Wednesday her mind had revolted against its destiny of hunger. She had hated Morfe.
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