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Updated: May 28, 2025
Her lips parted as if they said, "I am only waiting to know what I am to do. I will do what you like, only tell me." Rowcliffe stood by the bedroom door, which he had opened for her to pass through again. His eyes, summoning their powerful pathos, implored forgiveness. Mary, utterly submissive, passed through. He followed Gwendolen Cartaret downstairs to the dining-room.
"You will perhaps admit that whatever danger there may have been then is over?" "I haven't seen her yet," said Rowcliffe. "But" he looked at him "I told you the thing was curable." "That's my point. What is there what can there have been to cure her?" Rowcliffe ignored the Vicar's point. "Can you date it this recovery?" "I date it," said the Vicar, "from the time her sister left.
It was all beautiful what Ally's brain did, all noble, all marvelously pure. They were all of sacrifice, of self-immolation, of beautiful and noble things done for Rowcliffe, of suffering for Rowcliffe, of dying for him. All without Rowcliffe being very palpably and positively there.
"Well, then let me see can you come to tea on Friday? Or Monday? Father'll be at home both days." And Rowcliffe said thanks, he'd come on Friday. Mary went on to the cottage and Rowcliffe to his surgery. He wondered why she hadn't said a word about Gwenda. He supposed it was because she knew that there was nothing she could say that would not hurt him.
It gave her the same subtle and mysterious joy that she had had on the night she and Rowcliffe walked together and saw the thorn-trees on Greffington Edge white under the hidden moon. The gray Farm-house was changed, for Jim Greatorex had got on. He had built himself another granary on the north side of the mistal. He built it long and low, of hewn stone, with a corrugated iron roof.
She couldn't afford to part with her fear yet. Rowcliffe was distressed at the failure of his experiment. He told Greatorex that there was nothing to be done but to wait patiently till June. Then perhaps they would see. In his own mind he had very little hope. He said to himself that he didn't like the turn Ally's obsession had taken. It was too morbid.
He put the thought of her from him. After tea the Vicar took him into his study. If Rowcliffe had a moment to spare, he would like, he said, to talk to him. Rowcliffe looked at his watch. The idea of being talked to frightened him. The Vicar observed his nervousness. "It's about my daughter Alice," he said. And it was.
It had blown hard all day, and now the wind had dropped, but it had left darkness and commotion in the sky. The west was a solid mass of cloud that drifted slowly in the wake of the departing storm, its hindmost part shredded to mist before the path of the hidden moon. For, mercifully, the moon was hidden. Rowcliffe knew his moment. He meditated the fraction of a second too long.
"For what I think of you is that you'd never say a thing you didn't really mean." They parted at the turn of the road, where, as he again reminded her, he had seen her first. Going home by himself over the moor, Rowcliffe wondered whether he hadn't missed his opportunity. He might have told her that he cared for her. He might have asked her if she cared.
These two persons and four or five others had known ever since Sunday that the Vicar's daughter was going away; and the Vicar did not know it yet. And Mrs. Blenkiron told Rowcliffe on the Wednesday before Alice told him. For it was Alice who told him, and not Gwenda. Gwenda was not at home when he called at the Vicarage at three o'clock. But he heard from Alice that she would be back at four.
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