She pulled up the blind.  The darkness was up against the house, thick and close to the pane.  She threw open the window, and the night entered palpably like slow water, black and sweet and cool.

From the unseen road came the noise of wheels and of a horse that in trotting clanked forever one shoe against another.

It was young Rowcliffe, the new doctor, driving over from Morthe to Upthorne on the Moor, where John Greatorex lay dying.

The pale light of his lamps swept over the low garden wall.

Suddenly the four hoofs screamed, grinding together in the slide of their halt.  The doctor had jerked his horse up by the Vicarage gate.

The door at the back opened and shut again, suddenly, sharply, as if in fear.

A voice swung out like a mournful bell into the night.  A dalesman’s voice; such a voice as the lonely land fashions sometimes for its own delight, drawling and tender, hushed by the hills and charged with the infinite, mysterious sadness of their beauty.

It belonged to young Greatorex and it came from the doorway of the Vicarage yard.

“That yo, Dr. Rawcliffe?  I wuss joost gawn oop t’road t’ see ef yo wuss coomin’.”

“Of course I was coming.”

The new doctor was short and stern with young Greatorex.

The two voices, the soft and the stern, spoke together for a moment, low, inaudible.  Then young Greatorex’s voice was heard again, and in its softness there was the furtive note of shame.

“I joost looked in to Vicarage to leave woord with Paason.”

The noise of the wheels and hoofs began again, the iron shoes clanked together and struck out the rhythm that the sisters knew.

And with the first beat of it, and with the sound of the two voices in the road, life, secret and silent, stirred in their blood and nerves.  It quivered like a hunting thing held on the leash.

V

Their stillness, their immobility were now intense.  And not one spoke a word to the other.

All three of them were thinking.

Mary thought, “Wednesday is his day.  On Wednesday I will go into the village and see all my sick people.  Then I shall see him.  And he will see me.  He will see that I am kind and sweet and womanly.”  She thought, “That is the sort of woman that a man wants.”  But she did not know what she was thinking.

Gwenda thought, “I will go out on to the moor again.  I don’t care if I am late for Prayers.  He will see me when he drives back and he will wonder who is that wild, strong girl who walks by herself on the moor at night and isn’t afraid.  He has seen me three times, and every time he has looked at me as if he wondered.  In five minutes I shall go.”  She thought (for she knew what she was thinking), “I shall do nothing of the sort.  I don’t care whether he sees me or not.  I don’t care if I never see him again.  I don’t care.”