The Vicar had called Gwenda into his study one day.
"What's this I hear," he said, "of you and young Rowcliffe scampering
about all over the country?"
The Vicar had drawn a bow at a venture. He had not really heard
anything, but he had seen something; two forms scrambling hand in hand
up Karva; not too distant to be recognisable as young Rowcliffe and
his daughter Gwenda, yet too distant to be pleasing to the Vicar. It
was their distance that made them so improper.
"I don't know, Papa," said Gwenda.
"Perhaps you know what was said about your sister Alice? Do you want
the same thing to be said about you?"
"It won't be, Papa. Unless you say it yourself."
She had him there; for what was said about Alice had been said first
of all by him.
"What do you mean, Gwenda?"
"I mean that I'm a little different from Alice."
"Are you? _Are_ you? When you're doing the same thing?"
"Let me see. What _was_ the dreadful thing that Ally did? She ran
after young Rickards, didn't she? Well--if you'd really seen us
scampering you'd know that I'm generally running away from young
Rowcliffe and that young Rowcliffe is generally running after me. He
says it's as much as he can do to keep up with me."
"Gwenda," said the Vicar solemnly. "I won't have it."
"How do you propose to stop it, Papa?"
"You'll see how."
(It was thus that his god lured the Vicar to destruction. For he had
no plan. He knew that he couldn't move into another parish.)
"It's no good locking me up in my room," said Gwenda, "for I can get
out at the window. And you can't very well lock young Rowcliffe up in
his surgery."
"I can forbid him the house."
"That's no good either so long as he doesn't forbid me his."
"You can't go to him there, my girl."
"I can do anything when I'm driven."
The Vicar groaned.
"You're right," he said. "You _are_ different from Alice. You're worse
than she is--ten times worse. _You_'d stick at nothing. I've always
known it."
"So have I."
The Vicar leaned against the chimney-piece and hid his face in his
hands to shut out the shame of her.
And then Gwenda had pity on him.
"It's all right, Papa. I'm not going to Dr. Rowcliffe, because there's
no need. You're not going to lock him up in his surgery and you're not
going to forbid him the house. You're not going to do anything. You're
going to listen to me. It's not a bit of good trying to bully me.
You'll be beaten every time. You can bully Alice as much as you like.
You can bully her till she's ill. You can shut her up in her bedroom
and lock the door and I daresay she won't get out at the window. But
even Alice will beat you in the end. Of course there's Mary. But I
shouldn't try it on with Mary either. She's really more dangerous than
I am, because she looks so meek and mild. But she'll beat you, too, if
you begin bullying her."
The Vicar raised his stricken head.
"Gwenda," he said, "you're terrible."
"No, Papa, I'm not terrible. I'm really awfully kind. I'm telling you
these things for your good. Don't you worry. I shan't run very far
after young Rowcliffe."