LVI
But one day in April, in the fourth year of her marriage, Mary sent for Gwenda.
Rowcliffe was out on his rounds. She had thought of that. She was fond of having Gwenda with her in Rowcliffe's absence, when she could talk to her about him in a way that assumed his complete indifference to Gwenda and utter devotion to herself. Gwenda was used to this habit of Mary's and thought nothing of it.
She found her in Rowcliffe's study, the room that she knew better than any other in his house. The window was closed. The panes cut up the colors of the orchard and framed them in small squares.
Mary received her with a gentle voice and a show of tenderness. She said very little. They had tea together, and when Gwenda would have gone Mary kept her.
She still said very little. She seemed to brood over some happy secret.
Presently she spoke. She told her secret.
And when she had told it she turned her eyes to Gwenda with a look of subtle penetration and of triumph.
"At last," she said,—"After three years."
And she added, "I knew you would be glad."
"I am glad," said Gwenda.
She was glad. She was determined to be glad. She looked glad. And she kissed Mary and said again that she was very glad.
But as she walked back the four miles up Garthdale under Karva, she felt an aching at her heart which was odd considering how glad she was.
She said to herself, "I will be glad. I want Mary to be happy. Why shouldn't I be glad? It's not as if it could make any difference."