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Updated: June 2, 2025
There's something there." "Ay;" he assented. "There med bae soomthing. Sall we goa oop t' fealds?" The Three Fields looked over the back of Upthorne Farm. Naked and gray, the great stone barn looked over the Three Fields. A narrow track led to it, through the gaps, slantwise, from the gate of the mistal. Above the fields the barren, ruined hillside ended and the moor began.
The long gray house at Upthorne looks over the marshes of the high land above Garth. It stands alone, cut off by the marshes from the network of gray walls that links the village to the hill farms. The light in its upper window burned till dawn, a sign to the brooding and solitary land.
Where are you off to?" "Upthorne. Anywhere." "May I come too?" "If you want to." "Of course I want to." "Have you had any tea?" "No." "Weren't they in?" "I didn't stop to ask." "Why not?" "Because I saw you stampeding on in front of me, and I swore I'd overtake you before you got round that corner. And I have overtaken you." "Shall we go back? We've time." He frowned. "No. I never turn back.
And he had recovered large tracts of memory, all, apparently, but the one spot submerged in the catastrophe that had brought about his stroke. He was aware of events and of their couplings and of their sequences in time, though the origin of some things was not clear to him. Thus he knew that Alice was married and living at Upthorne, though he had forgotten why.
From the unseen road came the noise of wheels and of a horse that in trotting clanked forever one shoe against another. It was young Rowcliffe, the new doctor, driving over from Morthe to Upthorne on the Moor, where John Greatorex lay dying. The pale light of his lamps swept over the low garden wall. Suddenly the four hoofs screamed, grinding together in the slide of their halt.
And Greatorex was entering it every day, for news of him to take to Alice at Upthorne. Gwenda had come back and would never go again, and it was she and not Mary who had proved herself devoted. And it was not his wisdom but Greatorex's scandalous passion for her that had saved Alice. As for leaving the parish because of the scandal, the Vicar would never leave it now.
T' think that 'is poor feyther's not in 'is graave aboove a moonth, an' 'e singin' fit t' eave barn roof off! They should tak' an' shoot 'im oop in t' owd powder magazine," said Mrs. Gale. "Well but it's a wonderful voice," said Gwenda Cartaret. "I've never heard another like it, and I know something about voices," Alice said. They had gone up to Upthorne to ask Mrs.
In her soul she knew that she was done for if she once admitted and gave in to her fear of Upthorne and of her husband's house, or if she were ever to feel again her fear of Greatorex, which was the most intolerable of all her fears.
"That'll give her something else to think about," he said to himself. "And it'll take her all her time." The next Sunday, early in the afternoon, Alice went, all by herself, to Upthorne. Hitherto she had disliked going to Upthorne by herself. She had no very subtle feeling for the aspects of things; but there was something about the road to Upthorne that repelled her.
When she had all the rest of the week to walk in she would set out on Wednesdays before teatime and continue until long after dark. He had missed her twice now. And on the third Wednesday he saw her swinging up the hill toward Upthorne as he, leaving his surgery, came round the corner of the village by the bridge. "I believe," he thought, "she's doing it on purpose. To avoid me."
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