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Updated: June 28, 2025
They were talking now, at tea-time, about the Widow Gale. Mary wanted to know how the poor thing was getting on. The Widow Gale had been rather badly shaken and she had bruised her poor old head and one hip. But she wouldn't fall out of bed again to-night. Rowcliffe had barricaded the bed with a chest of drawers. Afterward there must be a rail or something.
She thought and thought it over; and under all her thinking there lurked the desire to know whether Rowcliffe knew and how he was taking it, and under her desire the longing, imperious and irresistible, to see him. She would have to ask him to the house.
And when his fingers worked there, in their way, she covered them with her hand. "No," she said. "He's a nice baby. But I think they're the prettiest, don't you?" "Yes," said Rowcliffe. He was grave and curt. And Mary remembered that that was what Gwenda had blue eyes and dark hair. It was what Gwenda's children might have had, too. She felt that she had made him think of Gwenda.
Rowcliffe gathered that the entrance of Alice had better coincide with his departure. He followed the Vicar as he went to open the front door. Alice stood on the doorstep. She was not at first aware of him where he lingered in the half-darkness at the end of the passage. "Alice," said the Vicar, "Dr. Rowcliffe is here. You're just in time to say good-bye to him."
Mary twisted her brows in her perplexity. She was evidently thinking things. "Do you mean Steven Rowcliffe?" "No, dear lamb." It's only a woman. In fact, it's only me." Mary's face emptied itself of all expression; it became a blank screen suddenly put up before the disarray of hurrying, eager things, unclothed and unexpressed. "I'm going to stay with Mummy."
Gwenda Cartaret remained unaware of what was said. Rumor protected her by cutting her off from its own sources. And she had other consolations besides her ignorance. So long as she knew that Rowcliffe cared for her and always had cared, it did not seem to matter to her so much that he had married Mary.
Rowcliffe saw her on Wednesday and on Saturday, when he declared himself satisfied with her progress and a little surprised. So surprised was he that he said he would not come again unless he was sent for. And then in three days Alice slid back. But they were not to worry about her, she said. There was nothing the matter with her except that she was tired.
She plunged for another argument and found it. "What I can't stand is living with Papa." Ally agreed that this was rather more than plausible. The next person to be told was Rowcliffe. It was known in the village through the telegrams that Gwenda was going away. The postmistress told Mrs. Gale, who told Mrs. Blenkiron.
She's really more dangerous than I am, because she looks so meek and mild. But she'll beat you, too, if you begin bullying her." The Vicar raised his stricken head. "Gwenda," he said, "you're terrible." "No, Papa, I'm not terrible. I'm really awfully kind. I'm telling you these things for your good. Don't you worry. I shan't run very far after young Rowcliffe."
"Is it," she brought out, "because of Steven Rowcliffe?" "No. It's because of Ally." "Ally?" "Yes. Didn't Papa tell you about her?" "Not he. Did he tell you?" "No. It was Steven Rowcliffe." And she told Mary what Rowcliffe had said to her.
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