And yet in this sense of cursedness the Vicar had found shelter for his self-esteem.

And now his fear, his noble 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 noble 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 attitude 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 anticipated your next allowance.”