Chapter XIII: Part 13

She'd do as he said, too. She'd go home and take up things where she'd put them down. It would be hard--much harder than he thought. Perhaps he didn't grasp all that she was doing in giving up marriage, the one thing that could ever make her respect herself again. Well, she couldn't help that--she must just do without respecting herself--that's all. Anything would be better than shutting up herself and Albert together in prison, till they hated each other. It would be very hard for her, who had always been so proud of herself, to live without even respecting herself. But she should have thought of that earlier. She remembered Lawrence's words--"I will go softly all my days in the bitterness of my soul".... Well, she'd do her best, and perhaps God would forgive her, and then when she died she'd go to heaven, and be with Martin for ever and ever, in spite of all the bad things she'd done....

She got out at Appledore and took the light railway to Brodnyx. She did not feel inclined for the walk from Rye. The little train was nearly empty, and Joanna had a carriage to herself. She settled herself comfortably in a corner--it was good to be coming home, even as things were. The day was very sunny and still. The blue sky was slightly misted--a yellow haze which smelt of chaff and corn smudged together the sky and the marsh and the distant sea. The farms with their red and yellow roofs were like ripe apples lying in the grass.

Yes, the Marsh was the best place to live on, and the Marsh ways were the best ways, and the man who had loved her on the Marsh was the best man and the best lover.... She wondered what Ellen would say when she heard she had broken off her engagement. Ellen had never thought much of Bertie--she had thought Joanna was a fool to see such a lot in him; and Ellen had been right--her eyes and her head were clearer than her poor sister's.... She expected she would be home in time for tea--Ellen would be terrible surprised to see her; if she'd had any sense she'd have sent her a telegram.

The little train had a strange air of friendliness as it jogged across Romney Marsh. It ran familiarly through farmyards and back gardens, it meekly let the motor-cars race it and pass it as it clanked beside the roads. The line was single all the way, except for a mile outside Brodnyx station, where it made a loop to let the up-train pass. The up-train was late--they had been too long loading up the fish at Dungeness, or there was a reaping machine being brought from Lydd. For some minutes Joanna's train stayed halted in the sunshine, in the very midst of the Three Marshes. Miles of sun-swamped green spread on either side--the carriage was full of sunshine--it was bright and stuffy like a greenhouse. Joanna felt drowsy, she lay back in her corner blinking at the sun--she was all quiet now. A blue-bottle droned against the window, and the little engine droned, like an impatient fly--it was all very still, very hot, very peaceful....

Then suddenly something stirred within her--stirred physically. In some mysterious way she seemed to come alive. She sat up, pressing her hand to her side. A flood of colour went up into her face--her body trembled, and the tears started in her eyes ... she felt herself choking with wild fear, and wild joy.

§34

Oh, she understood now. She understood, and she was certain. She knew now--she knew, and she was frightened ... oh, she was frightened ... now everything was over with her indeed.

Joanna nearly fainted. She fell in a heap against the window, looking more than ever, as the sunshine poured on her, like a great golden, broken flower. She felt herself choking and managed to right herself--the window was down, and a faint puff of air came in from the sea, lifting her hair as she leaned back against the wooden wall of the carriage, her mouth a little open.... She felt better now, but still so frightened.... She was done for, she was finished--there would not be any more talk of going back and picking up things where she had let them drop. She would have to marry Bertie--there was no help for it, she would send him a telegram from Brodnyx station. Oh, that this should have happened!... And she had been feeling so much easier in her mind--she had almost begun to feel happy again, thinking of the old home and the old life. And now she knew that they had gone for ever--the old home and the old life. She had cut herself away from both--she would have to marry Albert, to shut her little clerk in prison after all, and herself with him. She would have to humble herself before him, she would have to promise to go and live with him in London, do all she possibly could to make his marriage easy for him. He did not want to marry her, and she did not want to marry him, but there was no help for it, they must marry now, because of what their love had given them before it died.

She had no tears for this new tragedy. She leaned forward in her seat, her hands clasped between her knees, her eyes staring blankly at the carriage wall as if she saw there her future written ... herself and Albert growing old together, or rather herself growing old while Albert lived through his eager, selfish youth--herself and Albert shut up together ... how he would scold her, how he would reproach her--he would say "You have brought me to this," and in time he would come to hate her, his fellow-prisoner who had shut the door on both of them--and he would hate her child ... they would never have married except for the child, so he would hate her child, scold it, make it miserable ... it would grow up in an unhappy home, with parents who did not love each other, who owed it a grudge for coming to them--her child, her precious child....

Still in her heart, alive under all the fear, was that thrill of divine joy which had come to her in the first moment of realization. Terror, shame, despair--none of them could kill it, for that joy was a part of her being, part of the new being which had quickened in her. It belonged to them both--it was the secret they shared ... joy, unutterable joy. Yes, she was glad she was going to have this child--she would still be glad even in the prison-house of marriage, she would still be glad even in the desert of no-marriage, every tongue wagging, every finger pointing, every heart despising. Nothing could take her joy from her--make her less than joyful mother....

Then as the joy grew and rose above the fear, she knew that she could never let fear drive her into bondage. Nothing should make a sacrifice of joy to shame--to save herself she would not bring up her child in the sorrow and degradation of a loveless home.... If she had been strong enough to give up the thought of marriage for the sake of Bertie's liberty and her own self-respect, she could be strong enough now to turn from her only hope of reputation for the sake of the new life which was joy within her. It would be the worst, most shattering thing she had ever yet endured, but she would go through with it for the love of the unborn. Joanna was not so unsophisticated as to fail to realize the difficulties and complications of her resolve--how much her child would suffer for want of a father's name; memories of lapsed dairymaids had stressed in her experience the necessity of a marriage no matter how close to the birth. But she did not rate these difficulties higher than the misery of such a home as hers and Albert's would be. Better anything than that. Joanna had no illusions about Albert now--he'd have led her a dog's life if she had married him in the first course of things; now it would be even worse, and her child should not suffer that.

No, she would do her best. Possibly she could arrange things so as to protect, at least to a certain extent, the name her baby was to bear. She would have to give up Ansdore, of course--leave Walland Marsh ... her spirit quailed, but she braced it fiercely. She was going through with this--it was the only thing Lawrence had told her that she could do--go softly all her days--to the very end. That end was farther and bitterer than either he or she had imagined then, but she would not have to go all the way alone. A child--that was what she had always wanted; she had tried to fill her heart with other things, with Ansdore, with Ellen, with men ... but what she had always wanted had been a child--she saw that now. Her child should have been born in easy, honourable circumstances, with a kind father--Arthur Alce, perhaps, since it could not be Martin Trevor. But the circumstances of its birth were her doing, and it was she who would face them. The circumstances only were her sin and shame, her undying regret--since she knew she could not keep them entirely to herself--the rest was joy and thrilling, vital peace.

The little train pulled itself together, and ran on into Brodnyx station. Joanna climbed down on the wooden platform, and signalled to the porter-stationmaster to take out her box.

"What, you back, Miss Godden!" he said, "we wasn't expecting you."

"No, I've come back pretty sudden. Do you know if there's any traps going over Pedlinge way?"

"There's Mrs. Furnese come over to fetch a crate of fowls. Maybe she'd give you a lift."

"I'll ask her," said Joanna.

Mrs. Furnese, too, was much surprised to see her back, but she said nothing about it, partly because she was a woman of few words, and partly because they'd all seen in the paper this morning that Joanna had lost her case--and reckon she must be properly upset. Maybe that was why she had come back....

"Would you like to drive?" she asked Joanna, when they had taken their seats in Misleham's ancient gig, with the crate of fowls behind them. She felt rather shy of handling the reins under Joanna Godden's eye, for everyone knew that Joanna drove like a Jehu, something tur'ble.

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 grass. 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 Godden--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, coarse 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 Godden. 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."

It was years since she had really let herself think of him, but now strange barriers of thought had broken down, and she seemed to go to and fro quite easily into the past. Whether it was her love for Bertie whom in her blindness she had thought like him, or her meeting with Lawrence, or the new hope within her, she did not trouble to ask--but that strange, long forbidding was gone. She was free to remember all their going out and coming in together, his sweet fiery kisses, the ways of the Marsh that he had made wonderful. Throughout her being there was a strange sense of release--broken, utterly done and finished as she was from the worldly point of view, there was in her heart a springing hope, a sweet softness--she could indeed go softly at last.

The tears were in her eyes as she climbed out of bed and knelt down beside it. It was weeks since she had said her prayers--not since that night when Bertie had come into her room. But now that her heart was quite melted she wanted to ask God to help her and forgive her.

"Oh, please God, forgive me. I know I been wicked, but I'm unaccountable sorry. And I'm going through with it. Please help my child--don't let it get hurt for my fault. Help me to do my best and not grumble, seeing as it's all my own wickedness; and I'm sorry I broke the Ten Commandments. 'Lord have mercy upon us and write all these thy laws in our hearts, we beseech thee.'"

This liturgical outburst seemed wondrously to heal Joanna--it seemed to link her up again with the centre of her religion--Brodnyx church, with the big pews, and the hassocks, and the Lion and the Unicorn over the north door--she felt readmitted into the congregation of the faithful, and her heart was full of thankfulness and loyalty. She rose from her knees, climbed into bed, and curled up on her side. Ten minutes later she was sound asleep.

§37

The next morning after breakfast, Joanna faced Ellen in the dining-room.

"Ellen," she said--"I'm going to sell Ansdore."

"You're what?"

"I'm going to put up this place for auction in September."

"Joanna!"

Ellen stared at her in amazement, alarm, and some sympathy.

"I'm driving in to tell Edward Huxtable about it this morning. Not that I trust him, after the mess he made of my case; howsumever, I can look after him in this business, and the auctioneer, too."

"But, my dear, I thought you said you'd plenty of money to meet your losses."

"So I have. That's not why I'm selling."

"Then why on earth ..."

The colour mounted to Joanna's face. She looked at her sister's delicate, thoughtful face, with its air of quiet happiness. The room was full of sunshine, and Ellen was all in white.

"Ellen, I'm going to tell you something ... because you're my sister. And I trust you not to let another living soul know what I've told you. As I kept your secret four years ago, so now you can keep mine."

Ellen's face lost a little of its repose--suddenly, for a moment, she looked like the Ellen of "four years ago."

"Really, Joanna, you might refrain from raking up the past."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to rake up nothing. I've no right--seeing as what I want to tell you is that I'm just the same as you."

Ellen turned white.

"What do you mean?" she cried furiously.

"I mean--I'm going to have a child."

Ellen stared at her without speaking, her mouth fell open; then her face began working in a curious way.

"I know I been wicked," continued Joanna, in a dull, level voice--"but it's too late to help that now. The only thing now is to do the best I can, and that is to get out of here."

"Do you know what you're talking about?" said Ellen.

"Yes--I know right enough. It's true what I'm telling you. I didn't know for certain till yesterday."

"Are you quite sure?"

"Certain sure."

"But--" Ellen drummed with her fingers on the table, her hands were shaking, her colour came and went.

"Joanna--is it Albert's child?"

"Of course it is."

"Then why--why in God's name did you break off the engagement?"

"I tell you I didn't know till yesterday. I'd been scared once or twice, but he told me it was all right."

"Does he know?"

"He doesn't."

"Then he must be told"--Ellen sprang to her feet--"Joanna, what a fool you are! You must send him a wire at once and tell him to come down here. You must marry him."

"That I won't!"

"But you're mad--really, you've no choice in the matter. You must marry him at once."

"I tell you I'll never do that."

"If you don't ... can't you see what'll happen?--are you an absolute fool? If you don't marry this man, your child will be illegitimate, you'll be kicked out of decent society, and you'll bring us all to ruin and disgrace."

Ellen burst into tears. Joanna fought back her own.

"Listen to me, Ellen."

But Ellen sobbed brokenly on. It was as if her own past had risen from its grave and laid cold hands upon her, just when she thought it was safely buried for ever.

"Don't you see what'll happen if you refuse to marry this man?--It'll ruin me--it'll spoil my marriage. Tip ... Good God! he's risen to a good deal, seeing the ideas most Englishmen have ... but now you--you--"

"Ellen, you don't mean as Tip ull get shut of you because of me?"

"No, of course I don't. But it's asking too much of him--it isn't fair to him ... he'll think he's marrying into a fine family!"--and Ellen's tears broke into some not very pleasant laughter--"both of us ... Oh, he was sweet about me, he understood--but now you--you!--Whatever made you do it, Joanna?"

"I dunno ... I loved him, and I was mad."

"I think it's horrible of you--perfectly horrible. I'd absolutely no idea you were that sort of woman--I thought at least you were decent and respectable.... A man you were engaged to, too. Oh, I know what you're thinking--you're thinking I'm in the same boat as you are, but I tell you I'm not. I was a married woman--I couldn't have married my lover, I'd a right to take what I could get. But you could have married yours--you were going to marry him. But you lost your head--like a common servant--like the girl you sacked years ago when you thought I was too young to understand anything about it. And I never landed myself with a child--at least there was some possibility of wiping out what I'd done when it proved a mistake, some chance of living it down--and I've done it, I've won my way back, and now you come along and disgrace me all over again, and the man I love ..."

Never had Ellen's voice been so like Joanna's. It had risen to a hoarse note where it hung suspended--anyone now would know that they were sisters.

"I tell you I'm sorry, Ellen. But I can't do nothing bout it."

"Yes, you can. You can marry this man, Hill--then no one need ever know, Tip need never know--"

"Reckon that wouldn't keep them from knowing. They'd see as I was getting married in a hurry--not an invitation out and my troossoo not half ready--and then they'd count the months till the baby came. No, I tell you, it'll be much better if I go away. Everyone ull think as I'm bust, through having lost my case, and I'll go right away--Chichester, I'd thought of going to, where Martha Relf is--and when the baby comes, no one till be a bit the wiser."

"Of course they will. They'll know all about it--everything gets known here, and you've never in your life been able to keep a secret. If you marry, people won't talk in the same way--it'll be only guessing, anyhow. You needn't be down here when the baby's born--and at least Tip needn't know. Joanna, if you love me, if you ever loved me, you'll send a wire to this man and tell him that you've changed your mind and must see him--you can easily make up the quarrel, whatever it was."

"Maybe he wouldn't marry me now, even if I did wire."

"Nonsense--he'd have to."

"Well, he won't be asked."

Joanna was stiffening with grief. She had not expected to have this battle with Ellen; she had been prepared for abuse and upbraiding, but not for argument--it had not struck her that her sister would demand the rehabilitation she herself refused.

"You're perfectly shameless," sobbed Ellen. "My God! It ud take a woman like you to brazen through a thing like this. Swanking, swaggering, you've always been ... well, I bet you'll find this too much even for your swagger--you don't know what you're letting yourself in for.... I can tell you a little, for I've known, I've felt, what people can be.... I've had to face them--when you wouldn't let Arthur give me my divorce."

"Well, I'll just about have to face 'em, that's all. I done wrong, and I don't ask not to be punished."

"You're an absolute fool. And if you won't do anything for your own sake, you might at least do something for mine. I tell you, I'm not like you--I do think of other people--and for Tip's sake I can't have everyone talking about you, and may be my own story raked up again. I won't have him punished for his goodness. If you won't marry and be respectable, I tell you, you needn't think I'll ever let you see me again."

"But, Ellen, supposing even there is talk--you and Tip won't be here to hear it. You'll be married by then and away in Wiltshire. Tip need never know."

"How can he help knowing, as long as you've got a tongue in your head? And what'll he think you're doing at Chichester?--No, I tell you, Joanna, unless you marry Hill, you can say good-bye to me"--she was speaking quite calmly now--"I don't want to be hard and unsisterly, but I happen to love the man who's going to be my husband better than anyone in the world. He's been good, and I'm not going to have his goodness put upon. He's marrying a woman who's had trouble and scandal in her life, but at least he's not going to have the shame of that woman's sister. So you can choose between me and yourself."

"It ain't between you and myself. It's between you and my child. It's for my child's sake I won't marry Bertie Hill."

"My dear Joanna, are you quite an ass? Can't you see that the person who will suffer most for all this is your child? I didn't bring in that argument before, as I didn't think it would appeal to you--but surely you see that the position of an illegitimate child ..."

"Is much better than the child of folk who don't love each other, and have only married because it was coming. I'm scared myself, and I can scare Bert, and we can get married--but what'll that be? He don't love me--I don't love him. He don't want to marry me--I don't want to marry him. He'll never forgive me, and all our lives he'll be throwing it up to me--and he'll be hating the child, seeing as it's only because of it we're married, and he'll make it miserable. Oh, you don't know Bertie as I know him--I don't say as it's all his fault, poor boy, I reckon his mother didn't raise him properly--but you should hear him speak to his mother and sister, and know what he'd be as a husband and father. I tell you, he ain't fit to be the father of a child."

"And are you fit to be the mother?" Ellen sneered.

"Maybe I ain't. But the point is, I am the mother, nothing can change that. And reckon I can fight, and keep the worst off. Oh, I know it ain't easy, and it ain't right; and I'll suffer for it, and the worst till be that my child ull have to suffer too. But I tell you it shan't suffer more than I can help. Reckon I shan't manage so badly. I'll raise it among strangers, and I'll have a nice little bit of money to live on, coming to me from the farm, even when I've paid you a share, as I shall, as is fitting. I'll give my child every chance I can."

"Then it's a choice between your child and me. If you do this mad thing, Joanna, you'll have to go. I can't have you ever coming near me and Tip--it isn't only for my own sake--it's for his."

"Reckon we're both hurting each other for somebody else's sake. But I ain't angry with you, Ellen, same as you're angry with me."

"I am angry with you--I can't help it. You go and do this utterly silly and horrible thing, and then instead of making the best you can of it for everybody's sake, you go on blundering worse and worse. Such utter ignorance of the world ... such utter ignorance of your own self ... how d'you think you're going to manage without Ansdore? Why, it's your very life--you'll be utterly lost without it. Think of yourself, starting an entirely new life at your age--nearly forty. It's impossible. You don't know what you're letting yourself in for. But you'll find out when it's too late, and then both you and your unfortunate child ull have to suffer."

"If I married Bert I couldn't keep on Ansdore. He wouldn't marry me unless I came to London--I know that now. He's set on business. I'd have to go and live with him in a street ... then we'd both be miserable, all three be miserable. Now if I go off alone, maybe later on I can get a bit of land, and run another farm in foreign parts--by Chichester or Southampton--just a little one, to keep me busy. Reckon that ud be fine and healthy for my child ..."

"Your child seems to be the only thing you care about. Really to hear you talk, one ud almost think you were glad."

"I am glad."

Ellen sprang to her feet.

"There's no good going on with this conversation. You're quite without feeling and quite without shame. I don't know if you'll come to your senses later, and not perhaps feel quite so _glad_ that you have ruined your life, disgraced your family, broken my heart, brought shame and trouble into the life of a good and decent man. But at present I'm sick of you."

She walked towards the door.

"Ellen," cried Joanna--"don't go away like that--don't think that of me. I ain't glad in that way."

But Ellen would not turn or speak. She went out of the door with a queer, white draggled look about her.

"Ellen," cried Joanna a second time, but she knew it was no good....

Well, she was alone now, if ever a woman was.

She stood staring straight in front of her, out of the little flower-pot obscured window, into the far distances of the Marsh. Once more the Marsh wore its strange, occasional look of being under the sea, but this time it was her own tears that had drowned it.

"Child--what if the old floods came again?" she seemed to hear Martin's voice as it had spoken in a far-off, half forgotten time.... He had talked to her about those old floods, he had said they might come again, and she had said they couldn't.... My! How they used to argue together in those days. He had said that if the floods came back to drown the Marsh, all the church bells would ring under the sea....

She liked thinking of Martin in this way--it comforted her. It made her feel as if, now that everything had been taken from her, the past so long lost had been given back. And not the past only, for if her memories lived, her hopes lived too--not even Ellen's bitterness could kill them.... There she stood, nearly forty years old, on the threshold of an entirely new life--her lover, her sister, her farm, her home, her good name, all lost. But the past and the future still were hers.