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Updated: June 19, 2025
Suddenly the charm that had sustained him ceased to work. Under it he had been sitting in suspense, waiting for something, knowing and not daring to own to himself what it was he waited for. The suspense and the waiting seemed all part of the original excitement. Then Alice Cartaret came up the room. Her passage had been obscured and obstructed by the crowd of villagers at the door.
Once a month, kneeling at the same altar rails, he received the bread and wine from the hands of his ritualistic curate, Mr. Grierson. It was his uttermost abasement. But, whether he was abased or exalted, the parish was proud of its Vicar. He had shown grit. His parishioners respected the indestructible instinct that had made him hold on. For Mr. Cartaret was better, incredibly better.
But Greatorex was on his knees before her, lighting the fire. "You'll 'ave wet feet coomin' over t' moor. Cauld, too, yo'll be." She sat and watched him. He was deft with his great hands, like a woman, over his fire-lighting. "There she's burning fine." He rose, turning triumphantly on his hearth as the flame leaped in the grate. "Yo'll let me mak' yo' a coop of tae, Miss Cartaret."
Grierson a ritualist, which was only less abominable than being a non-conformist, but he had been foisted on him without his knowledge or will. The Vicar had simply waked up one day out of his confused twilight to a state of fearful lucidity and found the young man there. Worse than all it was through the third Mrs. Cartaret that he had got there.
As he watched her he thought, "If I was to touch her I should break her." Then the conversation began. "I was sorry," he said, "to hear yo was so poorly, Miss Cartaret." "I'm all right now. You can see I'm all right." He shook his head. "I saw yo' a moonth ago, and I didn't think then I sud aver see yo' at Oopthorne again." He paused. "'E's a woonderful maan, Dr. Rawcliffe." "He is," said Alice.
As it was, her infidelity condemned him to a celibacy for which, as she knew, he was utterly unsuited. Therefore he thought of her as a cruel and unscrupulous woman. And when he thought of her he became more sorry for himself than ever. Now, oddly enough, the Grande Polonaise had set Mr. Cartaret thinking of Robina. It was not that Robina had ever played it. Robina did not play.
Here, if you tire of shrimping on the wide stretch of sands, it is possible to desert Normandy by the little steamer that during the summer plies between this point and Gorey in Jersey. Modern influences have given Cartaret a more civilised flavour than it had a few years ago, and it now has something of the aspect of a watering-place.
Unable to leave his cabin, Mr Cooper, his first officer, took charge of the ship. When he began to recover, a favourite dog, belonging to Mr Forster, was killed to supply him with fresh meat and broth. The first land made was Easter Island, which had been in vain looked for by Byron, Cartaret, and Bougainville.
He was not going to get drunk any more, because he knew that if he did Alice Cartaret wouldn't marry him. Greatorex would have made a happy saint. But he was a most lugubrious sinner. The train from Durlingham rolled slowly into Reyburn station. Gwenda Cartaret leaned from the window of a third class carriage and looked up and down the platform.
"'Woman, where are those thine accusers? hath no man condemned thee? "She said, 'No man, Lord. And Jesus said unto her, 'Neither do I condemn thee." Mr. Cartaret lowered his voice and his eyes as he read, for he felt Gwendolen's eyes upon him. But he recovered himself on the final charge. "'Go'" now he came to think of it, that was what he had said to Essy "'and sin no more."
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