“I knew,” she said, “it was all over.”

And the solemn white moon came up, the moon that Gwenda loved; it came up over Greffington Edge and looked at them.

XLV

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.”