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 circumstance 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."
"An' 'twasn' mae, Jim, and navver will bae."
"'Twas Dr. Rawcliffe."
"'E? 'E's anoother. 'Ooo's 'e married? Miss Gwanda? Nat' e!"
"Yo' let t' doctor bae, Essy. 'E's right enoof. Saw I ought t' marry
yo'. But I'm nat goain' to."
"'Ave yo' coom t' tall mae thot? 'S ef I didn' knaw it. 'Ave I avver
aassked yo' t' marry mae?"
"Haw, Essy."
"Yo' _can_ aassk mae; yo'll bae saafe enoof. Fer I wawn't 'ave yo'.
Woonce I med 'a' been maad enoof. I med 'a' said yes t' yo'. But I'd
saay naw to-day."
At that he smiled.
"Yo' wouldn' 'ave a good-fer-noothin' falla like mae, would yo, laass?
Look yo'--it's nat that I couldn' 'ave married yo'. I could 'ave
married yo' right enoof. An' it's nat thot I dawn' think yo' pretty.
Yo're pretty enoof fer me. It's--it's--I caan't rightly tall whot it
is."
"Dawn' tall mae. I dawn' want t' knaw."
He looked hard at her.
"I might marry yo' yat," he said. "But yo' knaw you wouldn' bae happy
wi' mae. I sud bae crool t' yo'. Nat because I wanted t' bae crool,
but because I couldn' halp mysel. Theer'd bae soomthin' alse I sud bae
thinkin' on and wantin' all t' while."
"I knaw. I knaw. I wouldn' lat yo', Jim. I wouldn' lat yo'."
"I knaw there's t' baaby an' all. It's hard on yo', Essy. But--I dawn'
knaw--I ned bae crool to t' baaby, too."
Then she looked up at him, but with more incredulity than reproach.
"Yo' wudn'," she said. "Yo' cudn' bae crool t' lil Jimmy."
He scowled.
"Yo've called 'im thot, Essy?"
"An' why sudn' I call 'im? 'E's a right to thot naame, annyhow. Yo'
caann't taake thot awaay from 'im."
"I dawn' want t' taake it away from 'im. But I wish yo' 'adn'. I wish
you 'adn', Essy."
"Why 'alf t' lads in t' village is called Jimmy. Yo're called Jimmy
yourself, coom t' thot."