"What nonsense."

"Well, I can't argue with you--you must do as you like. My wife is a very strong-willed person, who will keep her husband in proper order.

But he loves her enough to bear it."

He kissed her gently, and they both stood up. At the same time there was a sharp scud of rain against the window.

--18

The journey home was quieter and dimmer than the journey out. Their voices and footsteps were m.u.f.fled in the roar of the wind, which had risen from sorrow to anger. The rain beat in their faces as they walked arm in arm over the shingle. They could not hurry, for at every step their feet sank.

"I said it was a tedious hole," reiterated Joanna, "and now perhaps you'll believe me--the folk here walk with boards on their feet, what they call backstays. Our shoes will be just about ruined."

She was not quite happy, for she felt that Martin was displeased with her, though he made no reproaches. He did not like her to arrange their wedding day to fit in with the shearing. But what else could she do? If she was away when the shearers came, there'd be no end to their goings on with the girls, and besides, who'd see that the work was done proper and the tegs not scared out of their lives?

It was only six o'clock, but a premature darkness was falling as the clouds dropped over Dunge Marsh, and the rain hung like a curtain over Rye Bay, blotting out all distances, showing them nothing but the crumbling, uncertain track. In half an hour they were both wet through to their shoulders, for the rain came down with all the drench of May.

Joanna could see that Martin was beginning to be worried about himself--he was worried about her too, but he was more preoccupied with his own health than other men she knew, the only way in which he occasionally betrayed the weak foundations of his stalwart looks.

"The worst of it is, we'll have to sit for an hour in the dog-cart after we get to Jury's Gap. You'll catch your death of cold, Joanna."

"Not I! I often say I'm like our Romney sheep--I can stand all winds and waters. But you're not used to it like I am--you should ought to have brought your overcoat."

"How was I to know it would turn out like this?"

"I told you it would rain."

"But not till after we'd started."

Joanna said nothing. She accepted Martin's rather unreasonable displeasure without protest, for she felt guilty about other things. Was he right, after all, when he said that she was putting Ansdore between them?... She did not feel that she was, any more than she was putting Ansdore between herself and Ellen. But she hated him to have the thought. Should she give in and tell him he could call on Mr. Pratt on their way home?... No, there was plenty of time to make up her mind about that. To-day was only Tuesday, and any day up till Sat.u.r.day would do for putting in notice of banns ... she must think things over before committing herself ... it wasn't only the shearers--there was the hay....

Thus they came, walking apart in their own thoughts, to Jury's Gap. In a few moments the horse was put to, and they were lurching in the ruts of the road to Broomhill. The air was full of the sound of hissing rain, as it fell on the shingle and in the sea and on the great brackish pools of the old flood. Round the pools were thick beds of reeds, shivering and moaning, while along the d.y.k.es the willows tossed their branches and the thorn-trees rattled.

"It'll freshen up the gra.s.s," said Joanna, trying to cheer Martin.

"I was a fool not to bring my overcoat," he grumbled.

Then suddenly her heart went out to him more than ever, because he was fractious and fretting about himself. She took one hand off the reins and pressed his as it lay warm between her arm and her side.

"Reckon you're my own silly child," she said in a low voice.

"I'm sorry, Jo," he replied humbly, "I know I'm being a beast and worrying you. But I'm worried about you too--you're as wet as I am."

"No, I'm not. I've got my coat. I'm not at all worried about myself--nor about you, neither." She could not conceive of a man taking cold through a wetting.

She had planned for him to come back to supper with her at Ansdore, but with that fussiness which seemed so strange and pathetic, he insisted on going straight back to North Farthing to change his clothes.

"You get into a hot bath with some mustard," he said to her, meaning what he would do himself.

"Ha! ha!" laughed Joanna, at such an idea.

--19

She did not see Martin for the next two days. He had promised to go up to London for the first night of a friend's play, and was staying till Friday morning. She missed him very much--he used to come to Ansdore every day, sometimes more than once, and they always had at least one meal together. She brooded about him too, for she could not rid herself of the thought that she had failed him in her refusal to be married before the shearing. He was disappointed--he could not understand....

She looked round on Ansdore almost distrustfully ... was it true that she loved it too much? The farm looked very lonely and bare, with the mist hanging in the doorways, and the rain hissing into the midden, while the bush--as the trees were called which sheltered nearly every marsh dwelling--sighed and tossed above the barn-roofs. She suddenly realized that she did not love it as much as she used.

The knowledge came like a slap. She suddenly knew that for the last four months her love for Martin had been eating into her love for Ansdore....

It was like the sun shining on a fire and putting it out--now that the sun had gone she saw that her hearth was cold. It was for Martin she had sown her spring wheat, for Martin she had broken up twelve acres of pasture by the Kent Ditch, for Martin she would shear her sheep and cut her hay....

Then since it was all for Martin, what an owl she was to sacrifice him to it, to put it before his wants and needs. He wanted her, he needed her, and she was offering him bales of wool and c.o.c.ks of hay. Of course in this matter she was right and he was wrong--it would be much better to wait just a week or two till after the shearing and the hay-making--but for the first time Joanna saw that even right could surrender. Even though she was right, she could give way to him, bend her will to his. After all, nothing really mattered except his love, his good favour--better that she should muddle her shearing and her crops than the first significant weeks of their married life. He should put his dear foot upon her neck--for the last of her pride was gone in that discovery of the dripping day, the discovery that her plans, her ambitions, her life, herself, had their worth only in the knowledge that they belonged to him.

It was on Thursday afternoon that Joanna finally beat Ansdore out of her love. She cried a little, for she wished that it had happened earlier, before Martin went away. Still, it was his going that had shown her at last clearly where she belonged. She thought of writing and telling him of her surrender, but like most of her kind she shrank from writing letters except when direly necessary; and she would see Martin to-morrow--he had promised to come to Ansdore straight from the station.

So instead of writing her letter, she went and washed the tears off her face over the sink and sat down to a cup of tea and a piece of bread and dripping with Mrs. Tolhurst and Milly Pump. When Ellen was at home Joanna was lofty and exclusive, and had her meals in the dining-room--she did not think it right that her little sister, with all her new accomplishments and elegancies, should lead the common, kitchen life--also, of course, when Martin came they sat down in state, with pink wine-gla.s.ses beside their tumblers. But when she was alone she much preferred a friendly meal with Milly and Mrs. Tolhurst--she even joined them in pouring her tea into her saucer, and sat with it cooling on her spread fingers, her elbow on the cloth. She unbent from mistress to fellow-worker, and they talked the scandal of a dozen farms.

"It's as I said, at Yokes Court," said Mrs. Tolhurst--"there's no good young Mus' Southland saying as the girl's mother sent for her--_I_ know better."

"I saw Mrs. Lambarde after church on Sunday," said Joanna, "and she wasn't expecting Elsie then."

"Elsie went before her box did," said Milly Pump, "Bill Piper fetched it along after her, as he told me himself."

"I'm sure it's Tom Southland," said Joanna.

"Surelye," said Mrs. Tolhurst, "and all the more as he's been saying at the Woolpack that the Old Squire's been hanging around after the girl--which reminds me, Miss Joanna, as I hear Mus' Martin's back this afternoon."

"This afternoon! He said to-morrow morning."

"Well, he's come this afternoon. Broadhurst met him driving from Rye station."

"Then he's sure to be over to-night. You get the wine-gla.s.ses out, Mrs.

Tolhurst, and spread in the dining-room."

She rose up from table, once more apart from her servants. Her brain was humming with surprised joy--Martin was back, she would soon see him, he would be sure to come to her. And then she would tell him of her surrender, and the cloud would be gone from their love.

With beating heart she ran upstairs to change her dress and tidy herself, for he might come at any moment. There was a red-brown velvet dress he particularly liked--she pulled it out of her drawer and smoothed its folds. Her drawers were crammed and heavy with the garments she was to wear as Martin's wife; there were silk blouses bought at smart shops in Folkestone and Marlingate; there was a pair of buckled shoes--size eight; there were piles of neat longcloth and calico underclothing, demure nightdresses b.u.t.toning to the chin, stiff petticoats, and what she called "petticoat bodies," fastening down the front with linen b.u.t.tons, and with tiny, shy frills of embroidery at the neck and armholes.

She put on the brown dress, and piled up her hair against the big comb.

She looked at herself in the gla.s.s by the light of the candles she had put to light up the rainy evening. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright, and her hair and her dress were the same soft, burning colour.... When would Martin come?

Then suddenly she thought of something even better than his coming. She thought of herself going over to North Farthing House and telling him that she had changed her mind and that she was his just as soon as ever he wanted her.... Her breath came fast at the inspiration--it would be better than waiting for him here; it gave to her surrender the spectacular touch which hitherto it had lacked and her nature demanded.

The rain was coming down the wind almost as fiercely and as fast as it had come on Tuesday night, but Joanna the marsh-born had never cared for weather. She merely laced on her heavy boots and bundled into her father's overcoat. Then she put out a hand for an old hat, and suddenly she remembered the hat Martin had said he liked her in above all others.

It was an old rush basket, soft and shapeless with age, and she tied it over her head with her father's red and white spotted handkerchief.