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It isn't hard work. Only " She broke off. "It's time for you to go." "Steve! Steve!" Rowcliffe's youngest cousin was calling from the study window. "Come along. Mary's ready." "All right," he shouted. "I'm coming." But he stood still there at the end of the orchard under the gray wall. "Good-bye, Steven." Gwenda put out her hand. He held her with his troubled eyes. He did not see her hand.
The tubes of Rowcliffe's queer, new-fangled stethescope, appearing out of his coat pocket, sent them into ecstacies of mirth. They always made the same little joke about it; they called the stethescope his telephone. But of course he didn't want to marry them. There was the very old lady on the east side, who had had one stroke and was expecting another every day.
That's a good girl. Nobody's going to worry you any more." He was kneeling by the sofa, pressing his hand to her forehead. Ally still sobbed convulsively, but she lay quiet. She closed her eyes under Rowcliffe's soothing hand. "You might go and see if you can find some salvolatile, Mary," he said. Mary went. The Vicar, who had turned his back on this scene, went, also, into his study.
Gwenda in Peacock's trap had left the town before she heard behind her the clanking hoofs of Rowcliffe's little brown horse. She thought, "He will pass in another minute. I shall see him." But she did not see him. All the way up Rathdale to Morfe the sound of the wheels and of the clanking hoofs pursued her, and Rowcliffe still hung back. He did not want to pass her.
Above the strokes of the hour she heard through the half-open door a sound of organ playing and of a big voice singing. And she began to weep again. She knew the singer, and the player too. Christmas was over and gone. It was the last week in January. All through December Rowcliffe's visits to the Vicarage had continued. But in January they ceased. That was not to be wondered at.
By courteous movement of his hand the Vicar condoned Rowcliffe's rudeness, which he attributed to professional pique very natural in the circumstances. With admirable tact he changed the subject. "I also wished to consult you about another matter. Rowcliffe was all attention. "It's about it's about that poor girl, Essy Gale." "Essy," said Rowcliffe, "is very well and very happy."
It came over her that she was sitting in Rowcliffe's room like this for the last time. Then her heart dragged and tore at her, as if it fought against her will to die. But it never occurred to her that this dying of hers was willed by her. It seemed foredoomed, inevitable. And now she was looking up in Rowcliffe's face and smiling at him as he brought her her tea. "That's right," he said.
But Steven Rowcliffe's professional reputation served him well. He counted. People who had begun by trusting him had ended by liking him, and in two years' time his social value had become apparent. And as Mrs. Steven Rowcliffe Mary had a social value too. But while Steven, who had always had it, took it for granted and never thought about it, Mary could think of nothing else.
Now that her father's need of her was intermittent she was alive to the tightness of the tie. It had been less intolerable when it had bound her tighter; when she hadn't had a moment; when it had dragged her all the time. Its slackening was torture. She pulled then, and was jerked on her chain. It was not only that Rowcliffe's outburst had waked her and made her cruelly aware.
The curate lodged in the village at the Blenkirons' over Rowcliffe's surgery, and from that vantage ground he lay in wait for Rowcliffe. He watched his movements. He was ready at any moment to fling open his door and spring upon Rowcliffe with ardor and enthusiasm. It was as if he wanted to prove to him how heartily he forgave him for being Mrs. Rowcliffe's husband.
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