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Mary began to talk of the weather and of Essy and of Essy's baby, as if her eyes had never seen anything at all. Then, just as they parted, she said, "When are you coming to see us again?" as if he had been to see them only the other day. He said he would come as soon as he was asked. And Mary reflected, as one arranging a multitude of engagements.
"I'm afraid, my girl, it never will be all over, as long as you regard your sin as lightly as you do." Essy did not see the Vicar's face thrust toward her. She was sidling to the door. She had her hand on the doorknob. "Come back," said the Vicar. "I have something else to say to you." Essy came no nearer. She remained standing by the door. "Who is the man, Essy?"
"Please " she implored her. But Essy was angry. Her face flamed and she banged down the dishes she was drying. "I sail not drink it. What should I want your milk for? You can pour it in t' pig's bucket." And the milk would be left by the scullery window till it turned sour and Essy poured it into the pig's bucket that stood under the sink.
But she remembered that Gwenda had given her son his first little Sunday suit; and that, before Jimmy came, when Essy was in bed, crying with the face-ache, she had knocked at her door and said, "What is it, Essy? Can I do anything for you?" She could hear her saying it now. Essy's memory was like that. She had thought of Gwenda just then because she heard the sound of Dr.
There was nothing but Prayer-time to look forward to. He began to fidget again. He filled his pipe and thought better about smoking it. Then he rang the bell for his glass of water. After more delay than was at all necessary Essy appeared, bringing the glass of water on a plate. She came in, soft-footed, almost furtive, she who used to enter so suddenly and unabashed.
At ten o'clock Essy Gale, the maid-servant, would come in from the kitchen and the Vicar from the inner room. And Essy would put the Bible and Prayer-book on the table, and the Vicar would read Prayers. That was all they were waiting for. It was all that could happen. It happened every night at ten o'clock. Alice spoke next. "What day of the month is it?" "The thirtieth." Mary answered.
Cartaret said to himself that the tune Alice was playing was an abominable tune and must be stopped at once. He went into the drawing-room to stop it. And Essy, in the kitchen, raised her head and dried her eyes on her apron. "If you must make a noise," said Mr. Cartaret, "be good enough to make one that is less disturbing." He stood in the doorway staring at his daughter Alice.
He had recovered from his ailment and lay in her lap, gurgling and squinting at the fire. He wore the robe that Mrs. Gale had brought to Essy five months ago. Essy had turned it up above his knees, and smiling softly she watched his little pink feet curling and uncurling as she held them to the fire.
The Vicar's sudden rigidity implied that Essy had no business to be happy. "If she is, it isn't your friend Greatorex's fault." "I'm not so sure of that," said Rowcliffe. "I suppose you know he has refused to marry her?" "I understood as much. But who asked him to?" "I did." "My dear sir, if you don't mind my saying so, I think you made a mistake if you want him to marry her. You know what he is."
Propped on her pillows, with her slender arms stretched out before her on the counterpane, she waited. Her sullenness was gone. She had nothing but sweetness for Mary and for Essy. Even to her father she was sweet. She could afford it. Her instinct was now sure. From time to time a smile flickered on her small face like a light almost of triumph.
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