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Updated: June 19, 2025
And up to the end and to the end of the end Rowcliffe never knew that, though he had been made subject to a sequence of relentless inhibitions and of suggestions overpowering in their nature and persistently sustained, it was ultimately by aid of that one incongruous and irresistible association that Mary Cartaret had cast her spell. He had never really come under it until that moment.
She settled her chin again, tucked her hands away in the squirrel muff and went quickly toward the door. He followed. "Let me putt Daasy in t' trap, Miss Cartaret, and drive yo' home." "I wouldn't think of it. Thank you all the same." She was in the kitchen now, on the outer threshold. He followed her there. "Miss Cartaret " She turned. "Well?" His face was flushed to the eyes.
The harbour has two other lights and, although it can only be entered at certain tides, the little port contrives to carry on a considerable export trade of farm produce, most of it being consumed in the Channel Islands. The railway goes on to its terminus at Cartaret, a nicely situated little seaside village close to the cape of the same name.
This time it was Beethoven, the Pathetic Sonata. Mr. Cartaret sat in his study, manfully enduring the Pathetic Sonata. He was no musician and he did not certainly know when Alice went wrong; therefore, except that it had some nasty loud moments, he could not honestly say that the First Movement was disturbing. Besides, he had scored. He had made Alice change her tune.
When Mary mentioned it on Friday, in the evening of that disgraceful day, he said that he had had enough of Rowcliffe and he didn't want to hear any more about the fellow. Mr. Cartaret had signified that his second daughter's name was not to be mentioned, either. But, becoming as his attitude was, he had not been able to keep it up. Mummy had got it for her.
Twice a week or more in those five weeks he had to pass the little gray house above the churchyard; twice a week or more the small shy window in its gable end looked sidelong at him as he went by. But he always pretended not to see it. And if anybody in the village spoke to him of Gwenda Cartaret he pretended not to hear, so that presently they left off speaking.
And on the road to Upthorne, under the arches by the sinister towers, Alice Cartaret, crouching on her stone, sobbed and shivered. Not long after seven Essy's child was born. Just before ten the three sisters sat waiting, as they had always waited, bored and motionless, for the imminent catastrophe of Prayers. "I wonder how Essy's getting on," said Gwenda. "Poor little Essy!" Mary said.
They all looked at Gwenda. "Who told you that?" said Mr. Cartaret by way of saying something. "Mrs. Gale." "When did she tell you?" "Yesterday, when I was up at the farm." "What were you doing at the farm?" "Nothing. I went to see if I could do anything." She said to herself, "Why does he go on at us like this?" Aloud she said, "It was time some of us went." She had him there.
His whole face and all its features smiled. He was smiling at Alice now, as if struck all of a sudden by her smallness. "I've come to ask a favor, Mr. Greatorex," said Alice. "Ay," said Greatorex. He said it as if ladies called every day to ask him favors. "Will you coom in, Miss Cartaret?"
She raised her chin. There was a more determined look on her small, her rather insignificant face than he would have thought to see there. She rose. "Very well," she said superbly. "I'll do it." He held out his hand. "I don't say, Miss Cartaret, that you'll reclaim him." "Nor I. But if you want me to, I'll try." They parted on it. Rowcliffe smiled as he closed the surgery door behind him.
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