"I'll go without it. I can carry a toothbrush and a comb, and Mummy
will have heaps of nightgowns."
The Vicar leaned forward and hid his face in his hands before that
poignant evocation of Robina.
Gwenda saw that she had gone too far. She had a queer longing to go
down on her knees before him and drag his hands from his poor face
and ask him to forgive her. She struggled with and overcame the morbid
impulse.
The Vicar lifted his face, and for a moment they looked at each other
while he measured, visibly, his forces against hers.
She shook her head at him almost tenderly. He was purely pathetic to
her now.
"It's no use, Papa. You'd far better give it up. You know you can't
do it. You can't stop me. You can't stop Jim Greatorex. You can't even
stop Peacock. You don't want _another_ scandal in the parish."
He didn't.
"Oh, go your own way," he said, "and take the consequences."
"I _have_ taken them," said Gwenda.
She thought, "I wonder what he'd have said if I'd told him the truth?
But, if I had, he'd never have believed it."
The truth indeed was far beyond the Vicar's power of belief. He only
supposed (after some reflection) that Gwenda was going off in a huff,
because young Rowcliffe had failed to come to the scratch. He knew
what this running up to London and earning her own living meant--she!
He would have trusted Ally sooner. Gwenda was capable of anything.
And as he thought of what she might be capable of in London, he
sighed, "God help her!"
XL
It was May, five weeks since Gwenda had left Garthdale.
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