He was changed no less remarkably in his affections.  He was utterly indifferent to Mary, whom he had been fond of.  He yearned for Alice, whom he had hated.  And he clung incessantly to Gwenda, whom he had feared.

When he looked round in his strange and awful gentleness and said, “Where’s Ally?” his voice was the voice of a mother calling for her child.  And when he said, “Where’s Gwenda?” it was the voice of a child calling for its mother.

And as he continually thought that Alice was at the Vicarage when she was at Upthorne, so he was convinced that Gwenda had left him when she was there.

* * * * *

Rowcliffe judged that this confusion of the Vicar’s would be favorable to his experiment.

And it was.

When Mr. Cartaret saw his youngest daughter for the first time since their violent rupture he gazed at her tranquilly and said, “And where have you been all this time?”

“Not very far, Papa.”

He smiled sweetly.

“I thought you’d run away from your poor old father.  Let me see—­was it Ally?  My memory’s going.  No.  It was Gwenda who ran away.  Wasn’t it Gwenda?”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Well—­she must come back again.  I can’t do without Gwenda.”

“She has come back, Papa.”

“She’s always coming hack.  But she’ll go away again.  Where is she?”

“I’m here, Papa dear.”

“Here one minute,” said the Vicar, “and gone the next.”

“No—­no.  I’m not going.  I shall never go away and leave you.”

“So you say,” said the Vicar.  “So you say.”

He looked round uneasily.

“It’s time for Ally to go to bed.  Has Essy brought her milk?”

His head bowed to his breast.  He fell into a doze.  Ally watched.

And in the outer room Gwenda and Steven Rowcliffe talked together.

“Steven—­he’s always going on like that.  It breaks my heart.”

“I know, dear, I know.”

“Do you think he’ll ever remember?”

“I don’t know.  I don’t think so.”

Then they sat together without speaking.  She was thinking:  “How good he is.  Surely I may love him for his goodness?” And he that the old man in there had solved his problem, but that his own had been taken out of his hands.

And he saw no solution.

If the Vicar had gone away and taken Gwenda with him, that would have solved it.  God knew he had been willing enough to solve it that way.

But here they were, flung together, thrust toward each other when they should have torn themselves apart; tied, both of them, to a place they could not leave.  Week in, week out, he would be obliged to see her whether he would or no.  And when her tired face rebuked his senses, she drew him by her tenderness; she held him by her goodness.  There was only one thing for him to do—­to clear out.  It was his plain and simple duty.  If it hadn’t been for Alice and for that old man he would have done it.  But, because of them, it was his still plainer and simpler duty to stay where he was, to stick to her and see her through.