It came over him with the very shutting of the door not only that there never was a man so cursed in his children (that thought had occurred to him before) but that, of the three, Gwenda was the one in whom the curse was, so to speak, most active, through whom it was most likely to fall on him at any moment. In Alice it could be averted.
He knew, he had always known, how to deal with Alice. And it would be hard to say exactly where it lurked in Mary. Therefore, in his times of profoundest self-commiseration, the Vicar overlooked the existence of his daughter Mary. He was an artist in gloom and Mary"s sweetness and goodness spoiled the picture. But in Gwenda the curse was imminent and at the same time incalculable. Alice"s behavior could be fairly predicted and provided for. There was no knowing what Gwenda would do next. The fear of what she might do hung forever over his head, and it made him jumpy.
And yet in this sense of cursedness the Vicar had found shelter for his self-esteem.
And now his fear, his n.o.ble and righteous fear of what Gwenda might do, his conviction that she would do something, disguised more than ever his humiliating fear of Gwenda. She was, as he had said, terrible. There was no dealing with Gwenda; there never had been.
Patience failed before her will and wisdom before the deadly thrust of her intelligence. She had stabbed him in several places before she had left the room.
The outcome of his brooding (it would have shocked the Vicar if he could have traced its genesis) was an extraordinary revulsion in Rowcliffe"s favor. So far from shutting the Vicarage door in the young man"s face, the Vicar was, positively he was, inclined to open it.
He couldn"t stand the idea of other people marrying since he wasn"t really married himself, and couldn"t be as long as Robina persisted in being alive (thus cruelly was he held up by that unscrupulous and pitiless woman) and the idea of any of his daughters marrying was peculiarly disagreeable to him. He didn"t know why it was disagreeable, and it would have shocked him unspeakably if you had told him why. And if you had asked him he would have had half a dozen n.o.ble and righteous reasons ready for you at his finger-ends. But the Vicar with his eyes shut could see clearly that if Gwenda married Rowcliffe the unpleasant event would have its compensation. He would be rid of an everlasting source of unpleasantness at home. He didn"t say to himself that his egoism would be rid of an everlasting fear. He said that if Rowcliffe married Gwenda he would keep her straight.
And then another consoling thought struck him.
He could deal with Alice more effectually than ever. Neither Mary nor Alice knew what he knew. They hadn"t dreamed that it was Gwenda that young Rowcliffe wanted. He would use his knowledge to bring Alice to her senses.
It was on a Wednesday that he dealt with her.
He was coming in some hours earlier than usual from his rounds when she delivered herself into his hands by appearing at the foot of the staircase with her hair extravagantly dressed, and wearing what he took, rightly, to be a new blue gown.
He opened the study door, and, with a treacherous smile, invited her to enter. Then he looked at her.
"Is that another new dress you"ve got on?" he inquired, still with his bland treachery.
"Yes, Papa," said Alice. "Do you like it?"
The Vicar drew himself up, squared his shoulders and smiled again, not quite so blandly. His att.i.tude gave him a sensation of exquisite and powerful virility.
"Do I like it? I should, perhaps, if I were a millionaire."
"It didn"t cost so much as all that," said Alice.
"I"m not asking you what it cost. But I think you must have antic.i.p.ated your next allowance."
Alice stared with wide eyes of innocence.
"What if I did? It won"t make any difference in the long run."
The Vicar, with his hands plunged in his trousers pockets, jerked forward at her from the waist. It was his gesture when he thrust.
"For all the difference it"ll make to _you_, my dear child, you might have spared yourself the trouble and expense."
He paused.
"Has young Rowcliffe been here to-day?"
"No," said Alice defiantly, "he hasn"t."
"You expected him?"
"I daresay Mary did."
"I"m not asking what Mary did. Did you expect him or did you not?"
"He _said_ he might turn up."
"He said he might turn up. You expected him. And he hasn"t turned up.
And you can"t think why. Isn"t that so?"
"I don"t know what you mean, Papa."
"I mean, my child, that you"re living in a fool"s paradise."
"I haven"t a notion what you mean by _that_."
"Perhaps Gwenda can enlighten you."
The color died in Ally"s scared face.
"I can"t see," she said, "what Gwenda"s got to do with it."
"She"s got something to do with young Rowcliffe"s not turning up, I think. I met the two of them half way between Upthorne and Bar Hill at half past four."
He took out his watch.
"And it"s ten past six now."
He sat down, turning his chair so as not to see her face. He did not, at the moment, care to look at her.
"You might go and ask Mrs. Gale to send me in a cup of tea."
Alice went out.
x.x.xIV
"It"s a quarter past six now," she said to herself. "They must come back from Bar Hill by Upthorne. I shall meet them at Upthorne if I start now."
She slipped her rough coat over the new gown and started.
Her fear drove her, and she went up the hill at an impossible pace.
She trembled, staggered, stood still and went on again.
The twilight of the unborn moon was like the horrible twilight of dreams. She walked as she had walked in nightmares, with knees, weak as water, that sank under her at every step.