It was the last week in June.
Mary Cartaret sat in the door of the cottage by the beck. And in her
lap she held Essy's baby. Essy had run in to the last cottage in the
row to look after her great aunt, the Widow Gale, who had fallen out
of bed in the night.
The Widow Gale, in her solitude, had formed the habit of falling out
of bed. 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.
She smiled at him as he went by.
"I'm making myself useful," she said.
"Oh, more than that!"
His impression was that Mary had made herself beautiful. He looked
back over his shoulder and laughed as he hurried on.
Up till now it hadn't occurred to him that Mary could be beautiful.
But it didn't puzzle him. He knew how she had achieved that momentary
effect.
He knew and he was to remember. For the effect repeated itself.
As he came back Mary was standing in the path, holding the baby in her
arms. She was looking, she said, for Essy. Would Essy be coming soon?
Rowcliffe did not answer all at once. He stood contemplating the
picture. It wasn't all Mary. The baby did his part. He had been
"short-coated" that month, and his thighs, crushed and delicately
creased, showed rose red against the white rose of Mary's arm. She
leaned her head, brooding tenderly, to his, and his head (he was a
dark baby) was dusk to her flame.