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Rowcliffe drew back into the room. "It isn't Greatorex," he said. "It's Gwenda." "Who sent for her?" said the Vicar. "I did," said Ally. She had opened her eyes. "Thank God for that, anyhow," said Rowcliffe. Mary and her father looked at each other. Neither of them seemed to want to go out to Gwenda. It struck Rowcliffe that the Vicar was afraid.
She had been hounded to her marriage and conveyed with an appalling suddenness to Upthorne, that place of sinister and terrible suggestion, and the bed in which John Greatorex had died had been her marriage bed. Her mind, like a thing pursued and in deadly peril, took instantaneously a line. It doubled and dodged; it hid itself; its instinct was expert in disguises, in subterfuges and shifts.
"I shall think of it. I shall think of noothing else," said Greatorex. The choir came in, aggrieved, and explaining that it wasn't six yet, not by the church clock. As Rowcliffe went back to his surgery he recalled two things he had forgotten. One was a little gray figure he had seen once or twice lately wandering through the fields about Upthorne Farm.
"Once is enough with a low blackguard like Greatorex. And you were seen more than once. You've been seen with him after dark." He boomed. "There isn't a poor drunken slut in the village who's disgraced herself like you." Mary intervened. "Sh sh Papa. They'll hear you in the kitchen." "They'll hear her." "She can't help it." "She can help it if she likes.
She turned scornfully away, and no doubt enjoyed her triumph to the full. The next morning she went away. Mr. Greatorex had ceased to regard the advent of Christmas with much interest.
'He was a member of Parliament, too quite a little young one he said women would never be respected till they had the vote! Mr. Greatorex snorted, the other men smiled, and all the women, except Aunt Lydia, did the same. 'I remember telling him, Mrs. Heriot said, with marked severity, 'that he was too young to know what he was talking about.
"Shea does. T' kape yore baaby, Jim Greatorex." With that she left him. For the next three months Greatorex was more than ever uneasy in his soul. The Sunday after Maggie's outburst he had sat all morning and afternoon in his parlor with his father's Bible. He had not even tried to see Alice Cartaret.
Greatorex had been indulging his intellect at the expense of his heart. A man may have light in the brain and darkness in the heart. It were better to be an owl than a strong-eyed apteryx. He was on the path which naturally ends in blindness and unbelief.
I in my chamber all the evening looking over my Osborn's works and new Emanuel Thesaurus Patriarchae. So late to bed, having ate nothing to-day but a piece of bread and cheese at the ale-house with Greatorex, and some bread and butter at home. 24th. At home all day. There dined with me Sir William Batten and his lady and daughter, Sir W. Pen, Mr.
She stood before him, drawing on her gloves, fastening her squirrel collar and settling her chin in the warm fur with the movement of a small burrowing animal, a movement that captivated Greatorex. Then, deliberately and finally, she held out her hand. "Good-bye, Mr. Greatorex. It's all right, isn't it? You're coming to sing for him, you know, not for us." "I'm coomin'," said Greatorex.
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