"Well, I must be getting back."

"Where are you staying?"

"The Palace Hotel."

What ho! She must have some money.

"May I walk back with you?"

"Oh, thanks," said Joanna--"it ain't far."

They walked, rather awkwardly silent, the few hundred yards to the hotel. Joanna stopped and held out her hand. She suddenly realized that she did not want to say good-bye to the young man. Their acquaintanceship had been most shockingly begun--Ellen must never know--but she did not want it to end. She felt, somehow, that he just meant to say good-bye and go off, without any plans for another meeting.

She must take action herself.

"Won't you come and have dinner--I mean lunch--with me to-morrow?"

She scanned his face eagerly as she spoke. It suddenly struck her what a terrible thing it would be if he went out of her life now after having just come into it--come back into it, she had almost said, for she could not rid herself of that strange sense of Martin's return, of a second spring.

But she need not have been afraid. He was not the man to refuse his chances.

"Thanks no end--I'll be honoured."

"Then I'll expect you. One o'clock, and ask for Miss G.o.dden."

--14

Joanna had a nearly sleepless night. The torment of her mind would not allow her to rest. At times she was overwhelmed with shame at what she had done--taken up with a strange man at the band, like any low servant girl on her evening out--My! but she'd have given it to Mene Tekel if she dared behave so! At other times she drifted on a dark sweet river of thought ... every detail of the boy's appearance haunted her with disturbing charm--his eyes, black and soft like Martin's--his mouth which was coa.r.s.er and sulkier than Martin's, yet made her feel all disquieted ... the hair which rolled like Martin's hair from his forehead--dear hair she used to tug.... Oh, he's the man I could love--he's my sort--he's the kind I like.... And I don't even know his name.... But he talks like Martin--knows all about old places when they were new--queer he should talk about them floods.... Romney Church, you can see the marks on the pillars.... I can't bear to think of that.... I wonder what he'll say when he comes to-morrow?--Maybe he'll find me too old--I'm ten year older than him if I'm a day.... I must dress myself up smart--I'm glad I brought my purple body.... Martin liked me in the old basket hat I fed the fowls in ... but I was slimmer then.... I'm getting on now ... he won't like me as well by daylight as he did in the dark--and properly I'll deserve it, carrying on like that. I've half a mind not to be in--I'll leave a polite message, saying "Miss G.o.dden's compliments, but she's had to go home, owing to one of her cows having a miscarriage." I'll be wise to go home to-morrow--reckon I ain't fit to be trusted alone.

But a quarter to one the next day saw her in all the splendour of her "purple body," standing before her mirror, trying to make up her mind whether to wear her big hat or her little one. The little hat was smarter and had cost more money, but the big hat put a becoming shadow over her eyes, and hid those little lines that were straying from the corners.... For the first time Joanna had begun to realize that clothes should have other qualities besides mere splendour. Hitherto she had never thought of clothes in any definite relation to herself, as enhancing, veiling, suggesting, or softening the beauty which was Joanna G.o.dden. But to-day she chose warily--her hat for shadow, her shoes for grace, her amber necklace because she must have that touch of barbarism which suited her best--an unconscious process this--and her amber earrings, because they matched her necklace, and because in the mirror she could see the brighter colours of her hair swinging in them. At the last minute she changed her "purple body" for one of rich chestnut-coloured silk. This was so far her best inspiration, for it toned not only with the amber beads, but with her skin and hair. As she turned to leave the room she was like a great glowing amber bead herself, all brown and gold, with rich red lights and gleams of yellow ... then just as she was going out she had her last and best inspiration of all. She suddenly went back into the room, and before the mirror tore off the swathe of cream lace she wore round her throat. The short thick column of her neck rose out of her golden blouse. She burned to her ears, but walked resolutely from the room.

Her young man was waiting for her in the lounge, and she saw his rather blank face light up when she appeared. She had been successful, then ...

the realization gave her confidence, and more beauty. During the meal which followed, he re-cast a little of that opinion he had formed of her the night before. She was younger than he had thought, probably only a little over thirty, and far better looking than he had gathered from a first impression. Joanna was that rather rare type of woman who invariably looks her best in sunshine--the dusk had hidden from him her really lovely colouring of skin and eyes and hair; here at her little table by the window her face seemed almost a condensation of the warm, ruddy light which poured in from the sea. Her eyes, with the queer childlike depths behind their feminine hardness, her eager mouth and splendid teeth, the scatter of freckles over her nose, all combined to hold him in a queer enchantment of youth. There was a curious, delightful freshness about her ... and she was a d.a.m.n fine woman, too.

The night before he had gathered that she was of overwhelming respectability, but now he had his doubts about that also. She certainly seemed of a more oncoming disposition than he had thought, though there was something nave and virginal about her forwardness. Her acquaintance might prove more entertaining than he had supposed. He fixed his eyes on her uncovered throat; she blushed deeply, and put her hand up.

Their talk was very much on the same lines as the night before. He discovered that she had a zest for hearing him discourse on old places--she drank in all he had to say about the old days of Marlingate, when it was just a red fishing-village asleep between two hills. He told her how the new town had been built northward and westward, in the days of the great Monypenny, whose statue now stares blindly out to sea. He was a man naturally interested in topography and generally "read up" the places he visited, but he had never before found a woman who cared to listen to that sort of stuff.

After luncheon, drinking coffee in the lounge, they became more personal and intimate. He told her about himself. His name was Albert Hill--his father was dead, and he lived with his mother and sister at Lewisham. He had a good position as clerk in a firm of carpet-makers. He was twenty-five years old, and doing well. Joanna became confidential in her turn. Her confidences mostly concerned the prosperity of her farm, the magnitude of its acreage, the success of this year's lambing and last year's harvest, but they also included a few sentimental adventures--she had had ever so many offers of marriage, including one from a clergyman, and she had once been engaged to a baronet's son.

He wondered if she was pitching him a yarn, but did not think so; if she was, she would surely do better for herself than a three hundred acre farm, and an apparently unlimited dominion over the bodies and souls of clergymen. By this time he was liking her very much, and as he understood she had only two days more at Marlingate, he asked her to go to the pier theatre with him the next evening.

Joanna accepted, feeling that she was committing herself to a desperate deed. But she was reckless now--she, as well as Hill, thought of those two poor days which were all she had left. She must do something in those two days to bind him, for she knew that she could not let him go from her--she knew that she loved again.

--15

She did not love as she had loved the first time. Then she had loved with a calmness and an acceptance which were impossible to her now. She had trusted fate and trusted the beloved, but now she was unsure of both. She was restless and tormented, and absorbed as she had never been in Martin. Her love consumed every other emotion, mental or physical--it would not let her sleep or eat or listen to music. It kept her whole being concentrated on the new force that had disturbed it--she could think of nothing but Albert Hill, and her thoughts were haggard and anxious, picturing their friendship at a standstill, failing, and lost.... Oh, she must not lose him--she could not bear to lose him--she must bind him somehow in the short time she had left.

There were intervals in which she became uneasily conscious of her folly. He was thirteen years younger than she--it was ridiculous. She was a fool, after all the opportunities she'd had, to fall in love with a mere boy. But she knew in her heart that it was his youth she wanted most, partly because it was Martin's youth, partly because it called to something in her which was not youth, nor yet belonged to age--something which was wise, tender and possessive--something which had never yet been satisfied.

Luckily she had health robust enough to endure the preyings of her mind, and did not bear her conflict on her face when Hill called for her the next evening. She had been inspired to wear the same clothes as before--having once pleased, she thought perhaps she would be wise not to take any risks with the purple body, and as for an evening gown, Joanna would have felt like a bad woman in a book if she had worn one.

But she was still guiltily without her collar.

He took her to a small restaurant on the sea-front, where half a dozen couples sat at little rosily lit tables. Joanna was pleased--she was beginning faintly to enjoy the impropriety of her existence ... dinner in a restyrong--with wine--that would be something to hold in her heart against Ellen, next time that young person became superior. Joanna did not really like wine--a gla.s.s of stout at her meals, or pale ale in the hot weather, was all she took as a rule--but there was a subtle fascination in putting her lips to the red gla.s.s full of broken lights, and feeling the wine like fire against them, while her eyes gazed over the brim at Hill ... he gazed at her over the brim of his, and somehow when their eyes met thus over their gla.s.ses, over the red wine, it was more than when they just met across the table, in the pauses of their talk. It seemed to her that he was more lover-like to-night--his words seemed to hover round her, to caress her, and she was not surprised when she felt his foot press hers under the table, though she hastily drew her own away.

After dinner, he took her on the pier. "East Lynne" was being played in the Pavilion, and they had two of the best seats. Joanna was terribly thrilled and a little shocked--she was also, at the proper time, overcome with emotion. When little Willie lay dying, it was more than she could bear ... poor little chap, it made your heart ache to see him--even though he was called Miss Maidie Ma.s.serene on the programme, and when not in bed stuck out in parts of his sailor suit which little boys do not usually stick out in. His poor mother, too ... the tears rolled down Joanna's face, and her throat was speechless and swollen ...

something seemed to be tugging at her heart ... she grew ashamed, almost frightened. It was a positive relief when the curtain came down, and rose again to show that little Willie had done likewise and stood bowing right and left in his night-shirt.

Still the tears would furtively trickle ... what a fool she was getting--it must be the wine. My, but she had a weak head ... she must never take another gla.s.s. Then suddenly, in the darkness, she felt a hand take hers, pick it up, set it on a person's knee ... her hand lay palm downwards on his knee, and his own lay over it--she began to tremble and her heart turned to water. The tears ran on and on.

... They were outside, the cool sea wind blew over them, and in the wind was the roar of the sea. Without a word they slipped out of the stream of people heading for the pier gates, and went to the railing, where they stood looking down on the black water.

"Why are you crying, dear?" asked Hill tenderly, as his arm crept round her.

"I dunno--I'm not the one to cry. But that little chap ... and his poor mother ..."

"You soft-hearted darling." ... He held her close, in all her gracious and supple warmth, which even the fierceness of her stays could not quite keep from him. Oh, she was the dearest thing, so crude and yet so soft ... how glad he was he had not drawn back at the beginning, as he had half thought of doing ... she was the loveliest woman, adorable--mature, yet unsophisticated ... she was like a quince, ripe and golden red, yet with a delicious tartness.

"Joanna," he breathed, his mouth close to the tawny, flying anthers of her hair--"Do you think you could love me?"

He felt her hair stroke his lips, as she turned her head. He saw her eyes bright with tears and pa.s.sion. Then suddenly she broke from him--

"I can't--I can't ... it's more than I can bear."

He came after her, overtaking her just before the gate.

"Darling thing, what's the matter?--You ain't afraid?"

"No--no--it isn't that. Only I can't bear ... beginning to feel it ...

again."

"Again?"

"Yes--I told you a bit ... I can't tell you any more."

"But the chap's dead."

"Yes."

"Hang it all, we're alive ..." and she surrendered to his living mouth.