And then, as the carriage passed, Rowcliffe’s youngest cousin did an odd thing.  She tossed the slipper over the bridge into the beck.

Harker had not time to comment on her action.  They were coming for him from the house.

Rowcliffe’s youngest sister-in-law had fainted away on the top landing.

Everybody remembered then that it was she who had been in love with him.

XLVIII

Alice had sent for Gwenda.

Three months had gone by since her sister’s wedding, and all her fears were gathered together in the fear of her father and of what was about to happen to her.

And before Gwenda could come to her, Rowcliffe and Mary had come to the Vicar in his study.  They had been a long time with him, and then Rowcliffe had gone out.  They had sent him to Upthorne.  And the two had gone into the dining-room and they had her before them there.

It was early in a dull evening in February.  The lamps were lit and in their yellow light Ally’s face showed a pale and quivering exaltation.  It was the face of a hunted and terrified thing that has gathered courage in desperation to turn and stand.  She defended herself with sullen defiance and denial.

It had come to that.  For Ned, the shepherd at Upthorne, had told what he had seen.  He had told it to Maggie, who told it to Mrs. Gale.  He had told it to the head-gamekeeper at Garthdale Manor, who had a tale of his own that he too had told.  And Dr. Harker had a tale.  Harker had taken his friend’s practice when Rowcliffe was away on his honeymoon.  He had seen Alice and Greatorex on the moors at night as he had driven home from Upthorne.  And he had told Rowcliffe what he had seen.  And Rowcliffe had told Mary and the Vicar.

And at the cottage down by the beck Essy Gale and her mother had spoken together, but what they had spoken and what they had heard they had kept secret.

“I haven’t been with him,” said Alice for the third time.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Ally—­there’s no use your saying that when you’ve been seen with him.”

It was Mary who spoke.

“I ha—­haven’t.”

“Don’t lie,” said the Vicar.

“I’m not.  They’re l-l-lying,” said Ally, shaken into stammering now.

“Who do you suppose would lie about it?” Mary said.

“Essy would.”

“Well—­I may tell you, Ally, that you’re wrong.  Essy’s kept your secret.  So has Mrs. Gale.  You ought to go down on your knees and thank the poor girl—­after what you did to her.”

“It was Essy.  I know.  She’s mad to marry him herself, so she goes lying about me.”

“Nobody’s lying about her,” said the Vicar, “but herself.  And she’s condemning herself with every word she says.  You’d better have left Essy out of it, my girl.”

“I tell you that she’s lying if she says she’s seen me with him.  She’s never seen me.”