The Three Sisters

by May Sinclair

XXVII

The next day at dusk, Essy Gale slipped out to her mother's cottage down by the beck.

Mrs. Gale had just cleared the table after her tea, had washed up the tea-things and was putting them away in the cupboard when Essy entered. She looked round sharply, inimically.

Essy stood by the doorway, shamefaced.

"Moother," she said softly, "I want to speaak to yo."

Mrs. 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. And up to the last possible moment, even to her daughter, she was determined to ignore what had happened.

But she knew and Essy knew that she knew.

"Doan yo saay it, Assy. Doan yo saay it."

Essy said nothing.

"D'yo 'ear mae speaakin' to yo? Caann't yo aanswer? Is it thot, Assy?
Is it thot?"

"Yas, moother, yo knaw 'tis thot."

"An' yo dare to coom 'ear and tell mae! Yo dirty 'oossy! Toorn an' lat's 'ave a look at yo."

Now that the innocence of her face was gone, Mrs. Gale had a stern duty to perform by Essy.

"They've gien yo t' saack?"

"T' Vicar give it mae."

"Troost'im! Whan did 'e gie it yo?"

"Yasterda'."

"T'moonth's nawtice?"

"Naw. I aassked 'im t' kape me anoother two moonths an' 'e woonna.
I aassked 'im t' kape me over Christmas an' 'e woonna. I'm to leaave
Saturda'."

"Did yo expact 'im t' kape yo, yo gawpie? Did yo think you'd nowt to do but t' laay oop at t' Vicarage an' 'ave th yoong laadies t' do yore wark for yo, an' t' waait on yo 'and an' foot? Miss Gwanda t' mak' yore bafe-tae an' chicken jally and t' Vicar t' daandle t' baaby?

"'Oo's goan t' kape yo? Mae? I woonna kape yo an' I canna' kape yo. Yo ain' t' baaby! I doan' waant naw squeechin', squallin' brats mookin' oop t' plaace as faast as I clanes it, An' 'E woonna kape yo—ef yo're raakonin' on 'im. Yo need na tall mae oo t' maan is. I knaw."

"'Tis'n 'im, Moother. 'Tis'n 'im."

"Yo lil blaack liar! 'Tis 'im. Ooo alse could it bae? Yo selly! Whatten arth possessed yo t' goa an' tak oop wi' Jim Greatorex? Ef yo mun get into trooble yo medda chawsen battern Jim. What for did I tak' yo from t' Farm an' put yo into t' Vicarage ef 't wasn't t' get yo out o' Jimmy's road? 'E'll naver maarry yo. Nat 'e! Did 'e saay as 'e'd maarry yo? Naw, I warrant yo did na waat fer thot. Yo was mad t' roon affter 'im afore 'e called yo. Yo dirty cat!"

That last taunt drew blood. Essy spoke up.

"Naw, naw. 'E looved mae. 'E wanted mae bad."

"'E wanted yo? Coorse 'e wanted yo. Yo sud na 'ave gien in to 'im, yo softie. D'yo think yo're the only woon thot's tampted? Look at mae. I could 'a got into trooble saven times to yore woonce, ef I 'ad'n kaped my 'ead an' respected mysel. Yore Jim Greatorex! Ef a maan like Jim 'ad laaid a 'and on mae, 'e'd a got soomthin' t' remamber afore I'd 'a gien in to 'im. An' yo've naw 'scuse for disgracin' yoresel. Yo was brought oop ralegious an' respactable. Did yo aver 'ear saw mooch aa a bad woord?"

"It's doon, Moother, it's doon. There's naw good taalkin'."

"Eh! Yo saay it's doon, it's doon, an' yo think nowt o' 't. An' nowt yo think o' t' trooble yo're brengin' on mae. I sooppawse yo'll be tallin' mae naxt yo looved 'im! Yo looved'im!"

At that Essy began to cry, softly, in her manner.

"Doan' yo tall mae thot taale."

Mrs. Gale suddenly paused in her tirade and began to poke the fire with fury.

"It's enoof t' sicken t' cat!"

She snatched the kettle that stood upon the hob; she stamped out to the scullery and re-filled it at the tap. She returned, stamping, and set it with violence upon the fire.

She tore out of the cupboard a teapot, a cup and a saucer, a loaf on a plate and a jar of dripping. Still with violence (slightly modulated to spare the comparative fragility of the objects she was handling) she dashed them one by one upon the table where Essy, with elbows planted, propped her head upon her hands and wept.

Mrs. Gale sat down herself in the chair facing her, and kept one eye on the kettle and the other on her daughter. From time to time mutterings came from her, breaking the sad rhythm of Essy's sobs.

"Eh dear! I'd like t' knaw what I've doon t' ave this trooble!"—

—"'Tis enoof t' raaise yore pore feyther clane out of 'is graave!"—

—"'E'd sooner 'ave seed yo in yore coffin, Assy."—

She rose and took down the tea-caddy from the chimney-piece and flung a reckless measure into the tea-pot.

"Ef 'e'd 'a been a-livin', 'E'd a killed yo. Thot's what 'e'd 'a doon."

As she said it she grasped the kettle and poured the boiling water into the tea-pot.

She set the tea-pot before Essy.

"There's a coop of tae. An' there's bread an' drippin'. Yo'll drink it oop."

But Essy, desolated, shook her head.

"Wall," said Mrs. Gale. "I doan' want ter look at yo. 'T mak's mae seek."

As if utterly revolted by the sight of her daughter, she turned from her and left the kitchen by the staircase door.

Her ponderous stamping could be heard going up the staircase and on the floor overhead. There was a sound as of drawers opening and shutting and of a heavy box being dragged from under the bed.

Essy poured herself out a cup of tea, tried to drink it, choked and pushed it from her.

She was still weeping when her mother came to her.

Mrs. Gale came softly.

All alone in the room overhead she had evidently been doing something that had pleased her. The ghost of a smile still haunted her bleak face. She carried on her arm tenderly a pile of little garments.

These she began to spread out on the table before Essy, having first removed the tea-things.

"There!" she said. "'Tis the lil cleathes fer t' baaby. Look, Assy, my deear—there's t' lil rawb, wi' t' lil slaves, so pretty—an' t' flanny petticut—an' t' lil vasst—see. 'Tis t' lil things I maade fer 'ee afore tha was born."

But Essy pushed them from her. She was weeping violently now.

"Taake 'em away!" she cried. "I doan' want t' look at 'em."

Mrs. Gale sat and stared at her.

"Coom," she said, "tha moos'n' taake it saw 'ard, like."

Between the sobs Essy looked up with her shining eyes. She whispered.

"Will yo kape mae, Moother?"

"I sail 'ave t' kape yo. There's nawbody 'll keer mooch fer thot job but yore moother."

But Essy still wept. Once started on the way of weeping, she couldn't stop.

Then, all of a sudden, Mrs. Gale's face became distorted.

She got up and put her hand heavily on her daughter's shoulder.

"There, there, Assy, loove," she said. "Doan' tha taake on thot road.
It's doon, an' it caann't be oondoon."

She stood there in a heavy silence. Now and again she patted the heaving shoulder, marking time to Essy's sobs. Then she spoke.

"Tha'll feel batter whan t' lil baaby cooms."

Profoundly disturbed and resentful of her own emotion Mrs. Gale seized upon the tea-pot as a pretext and shut herself up with it in the scullery.

* * * * *

Essy, staggering, rose and dried her eyes. For a moment or so she stared idly at the square window with the blue-black night behind it.

Then she looked down. She smiled faintly. One by one she took the little garments spread out in front of her. She folded them in a pile.

Her face was still and dreamy.

She opened the scullery door and looked in.

"Good-night, Moother."

"Good-night, Assy."

* * * * *

It was striking seven as she passed the church.

Above the strokes of the hour she heard through the half-open door a sound of organ playing and of a big voice singing.

And she began to weep again. She knew the singer, and the player too.