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Updated: May 11, 2025
It covered his wife, Robina's case; it covered Essy's; he had dragged Alice's case as it were from under it; he had a secret fear that one day it might cover Gwendolen's. Gwendolen was the child who, he declared and believed, had always given him most trouble. "It oughtn't to be prayed," she had said. "You don't really think you can fool God that way, Papa?
The Vicar looked at her steadily, remorselessly, as she came. Essy's lowered eyelids had kept the stain of her tears. Her thick brown hair was loose and rumpled under her white cap. But she had put on a clean, starched apron. It stood out stiffly, billowing, from her waist. Essy had not always been so careless about her hair or so fastidious as to her aprons.
In another moment Essy came in. She had on a clean apron. She stood by the roll-top desk. It offered her a certain cover and support. Her brown eyes, liquid and gentle, gazed at him. But for all her gentleness there was a touch of defiance in her bearing. "Did you not hear me ring?" said the Vicar. "Naw, sir." Nothing more clear and pure than the candor of Essy's eyes. They disconcerted him.
"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.
And, loud through the quiet house, she heard the sound of crying and Essy's voice scolding her little son, avenging on him the cruelty of life. On Greffington Edge, under the risen moon, the white thorn-trees flowered in their glory. The following pages contain advertisements of Macmillan books by the same author, and new fiction. The Return of the Prodigal Cloth, 12mo. $1.35 net.
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.
Steven she says I took Essy's lover from her." "I didn't, Ally. She doesn't know what she's saying." "You did say it. She did, Steven. She said I ought to thank Essy for not splitting on me when I took her lover from her. As if she could talk when she took Steven from Gwenda." "Oh Steven!" Rowcliffe shook his head at Mary, frowning, as a sign to her not to mind what Alice said.
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.
"She's as pleased as Punch," said Gwenda. "It's a boy. Ally did you know that Essy's had a baby?" "I don't care if she has," said Ally violently. "It's got nothing to do with me. I wish you wouldn't talk about her beastly baby." As the Vicar came out of his study into the dining-room, he fixed his eyes upon his youngest daughter. "What's the matter with you?" he said.
And on the road to Upthorne, under the arches by the sinister towers, Alice Cartaret, crouching on her stone, sobbed and shivered. Not long after seven Essy's child was born. Just before ten the three sisters sat waiting, as they had always waited, bored and motionless, for the imminent catastrophe of Prayers. "I wonder how Essy's getting on," said Gwenda. "Poor little Essy!" Mary said.
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