But the great woman shook her head. She felt tired, she said, with the heat. So Mrs. Furnese drove, and Joanna sat silently beside her, watching her thick brown hand on the reins, with the wedding ring embedded deep in the gnarled finger.

"Reckon she's properly upset with that case," thought the married woman to herself, "and sarve her right for bringing it. She could easily have paid them missionaries, with all the money she had. But it was ever Joanna's way to make a terrification."

They jogged on over the winding, white ribbon of road--through Brodnyx village, past the huge barn-like church which had both inspired and reproached her faith, with its black, caped tower canting over it, on to Walland Marsh, to the cross roads at the Woolpack--My, how they would talk at the Woolpack!... but she would be far away by then ... where?...

She didn't know, she would think of that later--when she had told Ellen. Oh, there would be trouble--there would be the worst she'd ever have to swallow--when she told Ellen....

--35

Joanna saw Ansdore looking at her through the chaffy haze of the August afternoon. It stewed like an apple in the sunshine, and a faint smell of apples came from it, as its great orchard dragged its boughs in the gra.s.s. They were reaping the Gate Field close to the house--the hum of the reaper came to her, and seemed in some mysterious way to be the voice of Ansdore itself, droning in the sunshine and stillness. She felt her throat tighten, and winked the tears from her eyes.

She could see Ellen coming down the drive, a cool, white, belted figure, with trim white feet. From her bedroom window Ellen had seen the Misleham gig turn in at the gate, and had at once recognized the golden blot beside Mrs. Furnese as her sister Joanna.

"Hullo, Jo! I never expected you back to-day. Did you send a wire? For if you did, I never got it."

"No, I didn't telegraph. Where's Mene Tekel? Tell her to come around with Nan and carry up my box. Mrs. Furnese, ma'am, I hope you'll step in and drink a cup of tea."

Joanna climbed down and kissed Ellen--her cheek was warm and moist, and her hair hung rough about her ears, over one of which the orange toque, many times set right, had come down in a final confusion. Ellen on the other hand was as cool as she was white--and her hair lay smooth under a black velvet fillet. Of late it seemed as if her face had acquired a brooding air; it had lost its exotic look, it was dreamy, almost virginal. Joanna felt her sister's kiss like snow.

"Is tea ready?"

"No--it's only half-past three. But you can have it at once. You look tired. Why didn't you send a wire, and I'd have had the trap to meet you."

"I never troubled, and I've managed well enough. Ain't you coming in, Mrs. Furnese?"

"No, thank you, Miss G.o.dden--much obliged all the same. I've my man's tea to get, and these fowls to see to."

She felt that the sisters would want to be alone. Joanna would tell Ellen all about her failure, and Mene Tekel and Nan would overhear as much as they could, and tell Broadhurst and Crouch and the other men, who would tell the Woolpack bar, where Mr. Furnese would hear it and bring it home to Mrs. Furnese.... So her best way of learning the truth about the Appeal and exactly how many thousands Joanna had lost depended on her going home as quickly as possible.

Joanna, was glad to be alone. She went with Ellen into the cool parlour, drinking in the relief of its solid comfort compared with the gimcrackiness of the parlour at Lewisham.

"I'm sorry about your Appeal," said Ellen--"I saw in to-day's paper that you've lost it."

Joanna had forgotten all about the Appeal--it seemed twenty-four years ago instead of twenty-four hours that she had come out of the Law Courts and seen Bertie standing there with the pigeons strutting about his feet--but she welcomed it as a part explanation of her appearance, which she saw now was deplorable, and her state of mind, which she found impossible to disguise.

"Yes, it's terrible--I'm tedious upset."

"I suppose you've lost a lot of money."

"Not more than I can afford to pay"--the old Joanna came out and boasted for a minute.

"That's one comfort."

Joanna looked at her sister and opened her mouth, but shut it as Mene Tekel came in with the tea tray and Arthur Alce's good silver service.

Mene set the tea as silently as the defects of her respiratory apparatus would admit, and once again Joanna sighed with relief as she thought of the clatter made by Her at Lewisham.... Oh, there was no denying that she had a good house and good servants and had done altogether well for herself until in a fit of wickedness she had bust it all.

She would not tell Ellen to-night. She would wait till to-morrow morning, when she'd had a good sleep. She felt tired now, and would cry the minute Ellen began.... But she'd let her know about the breaking off of her engagement--that would prepare the way, like.

"Ellen," she said, after she had drunk her tea--"one reason I'm so upset is that I've just broken off my marriage with my intended."

"Joanna!"

Ellen put down her cup and stared at her. In her anxiety to hide her emotion, Joanna had spoken more in anger than in sorrow, so her sister's pity was checked.

"What ever made you do that!"

"We found we didn't suit."

"Well, my dear, I must say the difference in your age made me rather anxious. Thirteen years on the woman's side is rather a lot, you know.

But I knew you'd always liked boys, so I hoped for the best."

"Well, it's all over now."

"Poor old Joanna, it must have been dreadful for you--on the top of your failure in the courts, too; but I'm sure you were wise to break it off.

Only the most absolute certainty could have justified such a marriage."

She smiled to herself. When she said "absolute certainty" she was thinking of Tip.

"Well, I've got a bit of a headache," said Joanna rising--"I think I'll go and have a lay down."

"Do, dear. Would you like me to come up with you and help you undress?"

"No thanks. I'll do by myself. You might ask the girl to bring me up a jug of hot water. Reckon I shan't be any worse for a good wash."

--36

Much as Joanna was inclined to boast of her new bathroom at Ansdore, she did not personally make much use of it, having perhaps a secret fear of its unfriendly whiteness, and a love of the homely, steaming jug which had been the fount of her ablutions since her babyhood's tub was given up. This evening she removed the day's grime from herself by a gradual and excessively modest process, and about one and a half pints of hot water. Then she twisted her hair into two ropes, put on a clean night-gown, and got into bed.

Her body's peace between the cool, coa.r.s.e sheets seemed to thrill to her soul. She felt at home and at rest. It was funny being in bed at that time in the afternoon--scarcely past four o'clock--it was funny, but it was good. The sunshine was coming into the room, a spill of misty gold on the floor and furniture, and from where she lay she could see the green boundaries of the Marsh. Oh, it would be terrible when she saw that Marsh no more ... the tears rose, and she turned her face to the pillow. It was all over now--all her ambition, all her success, all the greatness of Joanna G.o.dden. She had made Ansdore great and prosperous though she was a woman, and then she had lost it because she was a woman.... Words that she had uttered long ago came back into her mind.

She saw herself standing in the dairy, in front of Martha Tilden, whose face she had forgotten. She was saying: "It's sad to think you've kept yourself straight for years and then gone wrong at last...."

Yes, it was sad ... and now she was being punished for it; but wrapped up in her punishment, sweetening its very heart, was a comfort she did not deserve. Ansdore was slowly fading in her thoughts, as it had always faded in the presence of any vital instinct, whether of love or death. Ansdore could never be to her what her child would be--none of her men, except perhaps Martin, could have been to her what her child would be.... "If it's a boy I'll call it Martin--if it's a girl I'll call it Ellen," he said to herself. Then she doubted whether Ellen would appreciate the compliment ... but she would not let herself think of Ellen to-night. That was to-morrow's evil.

"I'll have to make some sort of a plan, though--I'll have to sell this place and give Ellen a share of it. And me--where ull I go?"

She must go pretty far, so that when the child came Brodnyx and Pedlinge would not get to know about it. She would have to go at least as far as Brighton ... then she remembered Martha Relf and her lodgings at Chichester--"that wouldn't be bad, to go to Martha just for a start. Me leaving Ansdore for the same reason as she left it thirteen year ago ...

that's queer. The mistress who got shut of her, coming to her and saying--'Look here, Martha, take me in, so's I can have my child in peace same as you had yours' ... I should ought to get some stout money for this farm--eight thousand pounds if it's eightpence--though reckon the Government ull want about half of it and we'll have all that terrification started again ... howsumever, I guess I'll get enough of it to live on, even when Ellen has her bit ... and maybe the folk around here ull think I'm sold up because my case has bust me, and that'll save me something of their talk."

Well, well, she was doing the best she could--though Lawrence on his blind, obedient way to Africa was scarcely going on a farther, lonelier journey than that on which Joanna was setting out.

"Oh, Martin," she whispered, lifting her eyes to his picture on her chest of drawers--"I wish I could feel you close."