The Three Sisters Part 55

Johnny ran.

Alice went back to the chancel where Greatorex stood turning over the hymn books of the choir.

"Jim," she said, "that was Dr. Rowcliffe. Do you think he saw us?"

"It doesn't matter if he did," said Greatorex. "He'll not tell."

"He might tell Father."

Jim turned to her.

"And if he doos, Ally, yo' knaw what to saay."

"That's no good, Jim. I've told you so. You mustn't think of it."

"I shall think of it. I shall think of noothing else," said Greatorex.

The choir came in, aggrieved, and explaining that it wasn't six yet, not by the church clock.

XLIII

As Rowcliffe went back to his surgery he recalled two things he had forgotten. One was a little gray figure he had seen once or twice lately wandering through the fields about Upthorne Farm. The other was a certain interview he had had with Alice when she had come to ask him to get Greatorex to sing. That was in November, not long before the concert. He remembered the suggestion he had then made that Alice should turn her attention to reclaiming Greatorex. And, though he had no morbid sense of responsibility in the matter, it struck him with something like compunction that he had put Greatorex into Alice's head chiefly to distract her from throwing herself at his.

And then, he had gone and forgotten all about it.

He told himself now that he had been a fool not to think of it. And if he was a fool, what was to be said of the Vicar, under whose nose this singular form of choir practice had been going on for goodness knew how long?

It did not occur to the doctor that if his surgery day had been a Friday, which was choir practice day, he would have been certain to have thought of it. Neither was he aware that what he had observed this evening was only the unforeseen result of a perfectly innocent parochial arrangement. It had begun at Christmas and again at Easter, when it was understood that Greatorex, who was nervous about his voice, should turn up for practice ten minutes before the rest of the choir to try over his part in an anthem or cantata, so that, as Alice said, he might do himself justice.

Since Easter the ten minutes had grown to fifteen or even twenty. And twice in the last three weeks Greatorex, by collusion with Alice, had arrived a whole hour before his time. Still, there was nothing in this circ.u.mstance itself to alarm the Vicar. Choir practice was choir practice, a mysterious thing he never interfered with, knowing himself to be unmusical.

Rowcliffe had had good reason for refusing to urge Greatorex to marry Essy Gale. But what he had seen in Garth church made him determined to say something to Greatorex, after all.

He went on his northerly round the very next Sunday and timed it so that he overtook his man on his way home from church. He gave Greatorex a lift with the result (which he had calculated) that Greatorex gave him dinner, as he had done once or twice before. The after-dinner pipe made Jim peculiarly approachable, and Rowcliffe approached him suddenly and directly. "I say, Greatorex, why don't you marry? Not a bad thing for you, you know."

"Ay. Saw they tall me," said Greatorex amicably.

Rowcliffe went on to advise his marrying Essy, not on the grounds of morality or of justice to the girl (he was a tactful person), but on Greatorex's account, as the best thing Greatorex could do for himself.

"Yo mane," said Greatorex, "I ought to marry her?"

Rowcliffe said no, he wasn't going into that.

Greatorex was profoundly thoughtful.

Presently he said that he would speak to Essy.

He spoke to her that afternoon.

In the cottage down by the beck Essy sat by the hearth, nursing her baby. 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. 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.

"Thank yo'," he said stiffly and came in.

"I caan't get oop wi' t' baaby. But there's a chair soomwhere."

He found it and sat down.

"Are yo' woondering why I've coom, Essy?"

"Naw, Jim. I wasn't woondering about yo' at all."

Her voice was sweet and placable. She followed the direction of his eyes.

"'E's better. Ef thot's what yo've coom for."

"It isn' what I've coom for. 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! 'E's a nice woon t' taalk o' marryin', whan 'is awn wife caan't live wi' 'im, nor 'is awn daughter, neither. And 'oo alse talled yo'? 'Twasn' Moother?"

"Naw. It wasn' yore moother."