The Vicar had been fidgeting in his study, getting up and sitting
down, and looking at the clock every two minutes. Gwenda had told
him that she wanted to speak to him, and he had stipulated that the
interview should be after prayer time, for he knew that he was going
to be upset. He never allowed family disturbances, if he could help
it, to interfere with the attitude he kept up before his Maker.
He knew perfectly well she was going to tell him of her engagement to
young Rowcliffe; and though he had been prepared for the news any time
for the last three months he had to pull himself together to receive
it. He would have to pretend that he was pleased about it when he
wasn't pleased at all. He was, in fact, intensely sorry for himself.
It had dawned on him that, with Alice left a permanent invalid on his
hands, he couldn't really afford to part with Gwenda. She might be
terrible in the house, but in her way--a way he didn't altogether
approve of--she was useful in the parish. She would cover more of it
in an afternoon than Mary could in a month of Sundays.
But, though the idea of Gwenda's marrying was disagreeable to him for
so many reasons, he was not going to forbid it absolutely. He was
only going to insist that she should wait. It was only reasonable
and decent that she should wait until Alice got either better or bad
enough to be put under restraint.
The Vicar's pity for himself reached its climax when he considered
that awful alternative. He had been considering it ever since
Rowcliffe had spoken to him about Alice.
It was just like Gwenda to go and get engaged at such a moment, when
he was beside himself.
But he smoothed his face into a smile when she appeared.
"Well, what is it? What is this great thing you've come to tell me?"
It struck him that for the first time in her life Gwenda looked
embarrassed; as well she might be.
"Oh--it isn't very great, Papa. It's only that I'm going away."
"Going--_away_?"
"I don't mean out of the country. Only to London."
"Ha! Going to London--" He rolled it ruminatingly on his tongue.
"Well, if that's all you've come to say, it's very simple. You can't
go."
He bent his knees with the little self-liberating gesture that he had
when he put his foot down.
"But," said Gwenda, "I'm going."
He raised his eyebrows.
"And why is this the first time I've heard of it?"
"Because I want to go without any bother, since I'm going to go."
"Oh--consideration for me, I suppose?"
"For both of us. I don't want you to worry."
"That's why you've chosen a time when I'm worried out of my wits
already."
"I know, Papa. That's why I'm going."
He was arrested both by the astounding statement and by something
unusually placable in her tone. He stared at her as his way was.
Then, suddenly, he had a light on it.
"Gwenda, there must be something behind all this. You'd better tell me
straight out what's happened."
"Nothing has happened."
"You know what I mean. We've spoken about this before. Is there
anything between you and young Rowcliffe."
"Nothing. Nothing whatever of the sort you mean."
"You're sure there hasn't been"--he paused discreetly for his
word--"some misunderstanding?"
"Quite sure. There isn't anything to misunderstand. I'm going because
I want to go. There are too many of us at home."
"Too many of you--in the state your sister's in?"
"That's exactly why I'm going. I'm trying to tell you. Ally'll go on
being ill as long as there are three of us knocking about the house.
You'll find she'll buck up like anything when I'm gone. There's
nothing the matter with her, really."
"That may be your opinion. It isn't Rowcliffe's."
"I know it isn't. But it soon will be. It was your own idea a little
while ago."
"Ye--es; before this last attack, perhaps. D'you know what Rowcliffe
thinks of her?"
"Yes. But I know a lot more about Ally than he does. So do you."
"Well--"
They were sitting down to it now.
"But I can't afford to keep you if you go away."
"Of course you can't. You won't have to keep me. I'm going to keep
myself."
Again he stared. This was preposterous.
"It's all right, Papa. It's all settled."
"By whom?"
"By me."
"You've found something to do in London?"
"Not yet. I'm going to look--"
"And what," inquired the Vicar with an even suaver irony, "_can_ you
do?"
"I can be somebody's secretary."
"Whose?"
"Oh," said Gwenda airily, "anybody's."
"And--if I may ask--what will you do, and where do you propose to
stay, while you're looking for him?" (He felt that he expressed
himself with perspicacity.)
"That's all arranged. I'm going to Mummy."
The Vicar was silent with the shock of it.
"I'm sorry, Papa," said Gwenda; "but there's nowhere else to go to."
"If you go there," said Mr. Cartaret, "you will certainly not come
back here."
All that had passed till now had been mere skirmishing. The real
battle had begun.
Gwenda set her face to it.
"I shall not be coming back in any case," she said.
"That question can stand over till you've gone."
"I shall be gone on Friday by the three train."
"I shall not allow you to go--by any train."
"How are you going to stop me?"
He had not considered it.
"You don't suppose I'm going to give you any money to go with?"
"You needn't. I've got heaps."
"And how are you going to get your luggage to the station?"
"Oh--the usual way."
"There'll be no way if I forbid Peacock to carry it--or you."
"Can you forbid Jim Greatorex? _He_'ll take me like a shot."
"I can put your luggage under lock and key."
He was still stern, though, he was aware that the discussion was
descending to sheer foolishness.
"I'll go without it. I can carry a toothbrush and a comb, and Mummy
will have heaps of nightgowns."
The Vicar leaned forward and hid his face in his hands before that
poignant evocation of Robina.
Gwenda saw that she had gone too far. She had a queer longing to go
down on her knees before him and drag his hands from his poor face
and ask him to forgive her. She struggled with and overcame the morbid
impulse.
The Vicar lifted his face, and for a moment they looked at each other
while he measured, visibly, his forces against hers.
She shook her head at him almost tenderly. He was purely pathetic to
her now.
"It's no use, Papa. You'd far better give it up. You know you can't
do it. You can't stop me. You can't stop Jim Greatorex. You can't even
stop Peacock. You don't want _another_ scandal in the parish."
He didn't.
"Oh, go your own way," he said, "and take the consequences."
"I _have_ taken them," said Gwenda.
She thought, "I wonder what he'd have said if I'd told him the truth?
But, if I had, he'd never have believed it."
The truth indeed was far beyond the Vicar's power of belief. He only
supposed (after some reflection) that Gwenda was going off in a huff,
because young Rowcliffe had failed to come to the scratch. He knew
what this running up to London and earning her own living meant--she!
He would have trusted Ally sooner. Gwenda was capable of anything.
And as he thought of what she might be capable of in London, he
sighed, "God help her!"