It was Sunday afternoon, the last Sunday of August, the first since
that evening (it was a Thursday) when Steven Rowcliffe had dined at
the Vicarage. Mary had announced her engagement the next day.
The news had an extraordinary effect on Alice and the Vicar.
Mary had come to her father in his study on Friday evening after
Prayers. She informed him of the bare fact in the curtest manner,
without preface or apology or explanation. A terrible scene had
followed; at least the Vicar's part in it had been terrible. Nothing
he had ever said to Gwenda could compare with what he then said to
Mary. Alice's behavior he had been prepared for. He had expected
anything from Gwenda; but from Mary he had not expected this. It was
her treachery he resented, the treachery of a creature he had depended
on and trusted. He absolutely forbade the engagement. He said it was
unheard of. He spoke of her "conduct" as if it had been disgraceful or
improper. He declared that "that fellow" Rowcliffe should never come
inside his house again. He bullied and threatened and bullied again.
And through it all Mary sat calm and quiet and submissive. The
expression of the qualities he had relied on, her sweetness and
goodness, never left her face. She replied to his violence, "Yes,
Papa. Very well, Papa, I see." But, as Gwenda had warned him, bully as
he would, Mary beat him in the end.
She looked meekly down at the hearth-rug and said, "I know how you
feel about it, Papa dear. I understand all you've got to say and I'm
sorry. But it isn't any good. You know it isn't just as well as I do."
It might have been Gwenda who spoke to him, only that Gwenda could
never have looked meek.
The Vicar had not recovered from the shock. He was convinced that
he never would recover from it. But on that Sunday he had found a
temporary oblivion, dozing in his study between two services.
There had been no scene like that with Alice. But what had passed
between the sisters had been even worse.
Mary had gone straight from the study to Ally's room. Ally was
undressing.
Ally received the news in a cruel silence. She looked coldly, sternly
almost, and steadily at Mary.
"You needn't have told me that," she said at last. "I could see what
you were doing the other night."
"What _I_ was doing?"
"Yes, you. I don't imagine Steven Rowcliffe did it"
"Really Ally--what do you suppose I did?"
"I don't know what it was. But I know you did something and I know
that--whatever it was--_I_ wouldn't have done it."
And Mary answered quietly. "If I were you, Ally, I wouldn't show my
feelings quite so plainly."
And Ally looked at her again.
"It's not _my_ feelings--" she said.