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Updated: May 28, 2025
The window of the Vicar's study raked the orchard. But that didn't matter, for the Vicar was not at home this Wednesday. The orchard waited for them. Two wicker-work armchairs and the little round tea-table were set out under the trees. Mary's knitting lay in one of the chairs. She had the habit of knitting while she talked, or while Rowcliffe talked and she listened.
Robina, answering by return of post, offered to pay half the curate's salary. Rowcliffe made himself responsible for the other half. Robina, in her compact little house in St. John's Wood, had become the prey of remorse. Her conscience had begun to bother her by suggesting that she ought to go back to her husband now that he was helpless and utterly inoffensive.
For the neighborhood that had received Mrs. Steven Rowcliffe had barred her sister. As long as Alice Greatorex lived at Upthorne Mary went in fear. This fear was so intolerable to her that at last she spoke of it to Rowcliffe. They were sitting together in his study after dinner. The two armchairs were always facing now, one on each side of the hearth.
She had not drunk a drop and he knew it, but she clutched her bottle with a febrile obstinacy. He had to loosen her little fingers one by one. He poured the liquid into the stable gutter and flung the bottle on to the dung heap in the mistal. "What were you doing wi' thot stoof?" he said. "I don't know. I was thinking of Papa." After that he never left her until Rowcliffe came.
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.
If Greatorex had his eye on Rowcliffe, Rowcliffe had his eye, though less continuously, on him. He did not know very much about Greatorex, after all, and he could not be sure that his man would turn up entirely sober. He was unaware of Greatorex's capacity for substituting one intoxication for another.
And Ally, passing through the village, had seen the strange man too. "Dr. Rowcliffe must be away," she said at tea-time. "I wonder if he'll be back by Wednesday." Wednesday, the last day in January, came, but Rowcliffe did not come. The strange man took his place in the surgery. Mrs. Gale brought the news into the Vicarage dining-room at four o'clock.
Rowcliffe looked at her, taking in her tallness, her slenderness, the lithe and beautiful line of her body, curved slightly backward as she leaned against the window wall. Never before and never again, afterwards, never, that was to say, for any other woman, did Rowcliffe feel what he felt then. It lacked, surprisingly, the element of surprise. "You like my north-country orchard?"
If he hadn't, it was only because there was no need to be precipitate. He felt rather than knew that she was sure of him. Plenty of time. Plenty of time. He was so sure of her. Plenty of time. The last week of January passed. Through the first weeks of February Rowcliffe was kept busy, for sickness was still in the Dale. Whether he required it or not, Rowcliffe had a respite from decision.
She had brought out the air; she had made it sing above the confusion of the bass and treble that evidently had had no clear understanding when they started; as for the bad bits, the tremendous crescendo chords that your hands must take at a flying leap or miss altogether, Rowcliffe had already assured her that they were impracticable anyhow; and Rowcliffe knew.
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