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"Is thot truth, Essy?" "It's Gawd's truth." He put out his hand and caressed the child's downy head as if it was the head of some young animal. "I wish I could do more fer 'im, Essy. I will, maaybe, soom daay." "I wouldn' lat yo'. I wouldn' tooch yo're mooney now ef I could goa out t' wark an' look affter 'im too. I wouldn' tooch a panny of it, I wouldn'." "Dawn' yo' saay thot, Essy.
Essy's back and the back of the baby's head were toward the door, which stood open, the day being still warm. Greatorex stood there a moment looking at them before he tapped on the door. He felt no tenderness for either of them, only a sullen pity that was half resentment. As if she had heard his footsteps and known them, Essy spoke without looking round. "Yo' can coom in ef yo' want," she said.
I've soomthing to saay to yo', Essy." "There's nat mooch good yo're saayin' anything, Jim. I knaw all yo' 'ave t' saay." "Yo'll 'ave t' 'ear it, Essy, whether yo' knaw it or not. They're tallin' mae I ought to marry yo'." Essy's eyes flashed. "Who's tallin' yo'?" "T' Vicar, for woon." "T' Vicar!
She had taken her daughter's place for the time being. She was a just woman and she bore no grudge against the Vicar on Essy's account. He had done no more than he was obliged to do. Essy had given trouble enough in the Vicarage, and she had received a month's wages that she hadn't worked for. Mrs. Gale was working double to make up for it.
Gale struck an attitude of astonishment and fear, although she had expected Essy to come at such an hour and with such a look, and only wondered that she had not come four months ago. "Yo're nat goain' t' saay as yo've got yoresel into trooble?" For four months Mrs. Gale had preserved an innocent face before her neighbors and she desired to preserve it to the last possible moment.
It was Essy whom he relied on for responses that were responses and not mere mumblings and mutterings. She was Wesleyan, the one faithful, the one devout person in his household. To-night there was nothing but a mumbling and a muttering. And that was Mary. She was the only one who was joining in the Lord's Prayer. Essy had failed him. Prayers over, there was nothing to sit up for.
Gwenda seated herself familiarly on the arm of the chair he had left. "You'll have to, I'm afraid," she said. "Please take your head out of the desk, Papa. There's no use behaving like an ostrich. I can see you all the time. The trouble is, you know, that you won't think. And you must think. How's Essy going to do without those two months' wages she might have had?
But this time she had hurt her head, and Essy had gone for the doctor and had met Miss Mary in the village and Mary had come with her to help. For by good luck better luck than the Widow Gale deserved it was a Wednesday. Rowcliffe had sent word that he would come at three. It was three now. And as he passed along the narrow path he saw Mary Cartaret in the doorway with the baby in her lap.
It had always waited for her; but she was afraid of it now, afraid of what it might have in store for her. It shared her fear as it crouched there, like a beaten thing, with its huddled houses, naked and blackened as if fire had passed over them. And Essy Gale stood at the Vicarage gate and waited. She had her child at her side. The two were looking for Gwenda.
"I don't know what you're talking about." "Ally there's no use your saying that when you've been seen with him." It was Mary who spoke. "I ha haven't." "Don't lie," said the Vicar. "I'm not. They're l-l-lying," said Ally, shaken into stammering now. "Who do you suppose would lie about it?" Mary said. "Essy would." "Well I may tell you, Ally, that you're wrong. Essy's kept your secret. So has Mrs.
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