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Updated: June 28, 2025
It was odd, but in the moment of his recoil from that imminent contact Rowcliffe remembered the little red-haired nurse. Not that there was much resemblance; for, though the little nurse was sweet, she was not altogether innocent, neither was she what good people like Mary Cartaret would call good.
They were not concerned with Gwenda or with Rowcliffe. After her little spurt of indignation she had ceased to think about Gwenda or Rowcliffe either. Mary's news had made her think about herself, and her thoughts were miserable.
In all this terrible business of Alice, the Vicar felt that his son-in-law had been a comfort to him. "Rowcliffe," he said suddenly, "I feel very queer." "I don't wonder, sir. I should go to bed if I were you." "I shall. Presently." The one-sided flush deepened and darkened as he brooded. It fascinated Rowcliffe. "I think it would be better," said the Vicar slowly, "if I left the parish.
Mary looked at the clock. Rowcliffe left the surgery at four-thirty. It was now five minutes past. She wondered: Did he know, then, or did he not know? Would Gwenda have written to him? Was it because she had not written that he was looking bad, or was it because she had written and he knew?
Rowcliffe laid her on the sofa and put a cushion under her head. When he tried to loosen her gown at her throat she screamed. "It's all right, Ally, it's all right." "Is it? Is it?" The Vicar hissed at him. "It won't be unless you leave her to me. If you go on bullying her much longer I won't answer for the consequences. You surely don't want " "It's all right, Ally. Lie quiet, there like that.
That was how the fight went on, with Steven Rowcliffe on John Greatorex's side and Mrs. Gale for the pneumonia. It was ten to one against John Greatorex and the doctor, for John Greatorex was most of the time unconscious and the doctor called but once or twice a day, while Mrs. Gale was always there to shut the windows as fast as he opened them.
For if her father had sent for Rowcliffe it could only mean that she was really dying. Nothing else nothing short of that would have made him send. And of course that was what she wanted, that Rowcliffe should see her die. He wouldn't forget her then. He would be compelled to think of her. "You will see him, won't you, Ally?" Ally smiled her little triumphant and mysterious smile.
Rowcliffe took off the light overcoat he wore and tried to put it on her. But Mary wouldn't let him. She looked at his clothes, at the round dinner jacket with its silk collar and at the beautiful evening trousers with their braided seams. He insisted. She refused. He insisted still, and compromised by laying the overcoat round both of them.
Walmgate leads straight to the bridge over the Foss, and just beyond we come to fine old Merchants' Hall, established in 1373 by John de Rowcliffe. The panelled rooms and the chapel, built early in the fifteenth century, and many interesting details, are beautiful survivals of the days when the trade guilds of the city flourished.
In the length and breadth of the Dale there wasn't another woman who would not have done the same. She was secure from criticism. If she didn't know how to nurse pneumonia, who did? Seeing that her own husband had died of it. Young Rowcliffe was a dalesman and he knew his people. In six months his face had grown stiff in the struggle with them.
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