But the Vicar would not admit that it was wonderful at all. It was exactly what he had expected. He had never thought for a moment that there was anything seriously wrong with Alice--anything indeed in the least the matter with her.
Rowcliffe was silent. But he looked at the Vicar, and the Vicar did not even pretend not to understand his look.
"I know," he said, "the very serious view you took of her. But I think, my dear fellow, when you"ve seen her you"ll admit that you were mistaken."
Rowcliffe said there was nothing he desired more than to have been mistaken, but he was afraid he couldn"t admit it. Miss Cartaret"s state, when he last saw her, had been distinctly serious.
"You will perhaps admit that whatever danger there may have been then is over?"
"I haven"t seen her yet," said Rowcliffe. "But"--he looked at him--"I told you the thing was curable."
"That"s my point. What is there--what can there have been to cure her?"
Rowcliffe ignored the Vicar"s point.
"Can you date it--this recovery?"
"I date it," said the Vicar, "from the time her sister left. She seemed to pull herself together after that."
Rowcliffe said nothing. He was reviewing all his knowledge of the case. He considered Ally"s disastrous infatuation for himself. In the light of his knowledge her recovery was not only wonderful, it was incomprehensible. So incomprehensible that he was inclined to suspect her father of lying for some reason of his own. Family pride, no doubt. He had known instances.
The Vicar went on. He gave himself a long innings. "But that does not account for it altogether, though it may have started it. I really put it down to other things--the pure air--the quiet life--the absence of excitement--the regular _work_ that _takes_ her _out_ of herself----"
Here the Vicar fell into that solemn rhythm that marked the periods of his sermons.
He perorated. "The _simple_ following _out_ of _my_ prescription. You will remember" (he became suddenly cheery and conversational) "that it _was_ mine."
"It certainly wasn"t mine," said Rowcliffe.
He saw it all. _That_ was why the Vicar was so affable. That was why he was so serene.
And he wasn"t lying. His state of mind was obviously much too simple.
He was serenely certain of his facts.
By courteous movement of his hand the Vicar condoned Rowcliffe"s rudeness, which he attributed to professional pique very natural in the circ.u.mstances.
With admirable tact he changed the subject.
"I also wished to consult you about another matter. Nothing" (he again rea.s.sured the doctor"s nervousness) "to do with my family."
Rowcliffe was all attention.
"It"s about--it"s about that poor girl, Essy Gale."
"Essy," said Rowcliffe, "is very well and very happy."
The Vicar"s sudden rigidity implied that Essy had no business to be happy.
"If she is, it isn"t your friend Greatorex"s fault."
"I"m not so sure of that," said Rowcliffe.
"I suppose you know he has refused to marry her?"
"I understood as much. But who asked him to?"
"I did."
"My dear sir, if you don"t mind my saying so, I think you made a mistake--if you _want_ him to marry her. You know what he is."
"I do indeed. But a certain responsibility rests with the parson of the parish."
"You can"t be responsible for everything that goes on."
"Perhaps not--when the place is packed with nonconformists. Greatorex comes of bad dissenting stock. I can"t hope to have any influence with him."
He paused.
"But I"m told that _you_ have."
"Influence? Not I. I"ve a sneaking regard for Greatorex. He isn"t half a bad fellow if you take him the right way."
"Well, then, can"t you take him? Can"t you say a judicious word?"
"If it"s to ask him to marry Essy, that wouldn"t be very judicious, I"m afraid. He"ll marry her if he wants to, and if he doesn"t, he won"t."
"But, my dear Dr. Rowcliffe, think of the gross injustice to that poor girl."
"It might be a worse injustice if he married her. Why _should_ he marry her if he doesn"t want to, and if she doesn"t want it? There she is, perfectly content and happy with her baby. It"s been a little seedy lately, but it"s absolutely sound. A very fine baby indeed, and Essy knows it. There"s nothing wrong with the baby."
Rowcliffe continued, regardless of the Vicar"s stare: "She"s better off as she is than tied to a chap who isn"t a bit too sober.
Especially if he doesn"t care for her."
The Vicar rose and took up his usual defensive position on the hearth.
"Well, Dr. Rowcliffe, if those are your ideas of morality----?"
"They are not my ideas of morality, only my judgment of the individual case."
"Well--if that"s your judgment, after all, I think that the less you meddle with it the better."
"I never meddle," said Rowcliffe.
But the Vicar did not leave him. He had caught the sound of the opening and shutting of the gate. He listened.
His manner changed again to a complete affability.