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 UHWE^SITY OF CMiFOUNlA 
 ^ RIVERSIDE 
 
 EX LIBRIS 
 MARYA.MCDOEL KENLY
 
 JOAxNNA GODDEN
 
 BT TEE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 Tamarisk Town 
 The ChaliLenge to Sirius 
 Green Apple Harvest 
 The Four Roads 
 
 E. P. BUTTON & COMPANY
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 BY 
 
 SHEILA KAYE-SMITH 
 
 AUTHOR OF "tamarisk TOWN," ETC. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 
 
 681 FIFni AVENUE
 
 Copyright, 1922, 
 By E. P. Dutton & Company 
 
 All Rights Reserved 
 
 First printing January, 19SS 
 
 Second printing January, 1922 
 
 Third printing February, 1922 
 
 Fourth printing February, 1922 
 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED 
 STATES OF AMERICA
 
 TO 
 
 W. L. GEORGE
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PART ONE 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Shepherd's Hey 
 
 PART TWO 
 
 if y 
 
 First Love 
 
 PART THREE 
 The Little Sister ^"^^ 
 
 PART FOUR 
 Last Love s , , . . 239
 
 PART ONE 
 SHEPHERD'S HEY
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 PART I 
 SHEPHERD'S HEY 
 
 § 1 
 
 Three marshes spread across the triangle made by the 
 Royal Military Canal and the coasts of Sussex and Kent. 
 The Military Canal runs from Hythe to Rye, beside the 
 Military Road; between it and the flat, white beaches of the 
 channel lie Romney Marsh, Dunge Marsh and Walland 
 Marsh, from east to west. Walland Marsh is sectored by 
 the Kent Ditch, which draws huge, straggling diagrams here, 
 to preserve ancient rights of parishes and the monks of Can- 
 terbury. Dunge Marsh runs up into the apex of the triangle 
 at Dunge Ness, and adds to itself twenty feet of shingle 
 every year. Romney Marsh is the sixth continent and the 
 eighth wonder of the world. 
 
 The three marshes are much alike; indeed to the for- 
 eigner they are all a single spread of green, slatted with 
 watercourses. No river crosses them, for the Rothcr 
 curves close under Rye Hill, though these marshes were 
 made by its ancient mouth, when it was the River Limine 
 and ran into the Channel at Old Romney. There are a few 
 big watercourses — the New Sewer, the Yokes Sewer, the 
 White Kemp Sewer — there are a few white roads, and a 
 great many marsh villages— Brenzett, Ivychurch. I'^airCiold, 
 Snargatc, Snave — each little more than a church with a 
 farmhouse or two. Here and there, little deserted chapels 
 
 3
 
 4 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 lie out on the marsh, officeless since the days of the monks 
 of Canterbury ; and everywhere there are farms, with hun- 
 dreds of sheep grazing on the thick pastures. 
 
 Little Ansdore Farm was on Walland Marsh, three miles 
 from Rye, and about midway between the villages of Brod- 
 nyx and Pedlinge. It was a sea farm. There were no hop- 
 gardens, as on the farms inland, no white-cowled oasts, and 
 scarcely more than twelve acres under the plough. Three 
 hundred acres of pasture spread round Ansdore, dappled 
 over with the big Kent sheep — the road from Pedlinge to 
 Brodnyx w^ent through them, curling and looping and 
 doubling to the demands of the dykes. Just beyond Ped- 
 linge, it turned northward and crossed the South Eastern 
 Railway under the hills that used to be the coast of Eng- 
 land, long ago when the sea flowed up over the marsh to 
 the walls of Lympne and Rye ; then in less than a mile it 
 had crossed the line again, turning south ; for some time it 
 ran seawards, parallel with the Kent Ditch, then suddenly 
 went off at right angles and ran straight to the throws where 
 the Woolpack Inn watches the roads to Lydd and Apple- 
 dore. 
 
 On a dim afternoon towards the middle of October in the 
 year 1897, a funeral procession was turning off this road 
 into the drive of little Ansdore. The drive was thick with 
 shingle, and the mourning coaches lurched and rolled in 
 it, spoiling no doubt the decorum of their occupants. Any- 
 how, the first two to get out at the farmhouse door had lost 
 a little of that dignity proper to funerals. A fine young 
 woman of about twenty-three, dressed handsomely but 
 without much fashion in black crape and silk, jumped out 
 with a violence that sent her over-plumed black hat to a 
 rakish angle. In one black kid-gloved hand she grasped a 
 handkerchief with a huge black border, in the other a 
 Prayer-Book, so could not give any help to the little girl of 
 ten who stumbled out after her, with the result that the child 
 fell flat on the doorstep and cut her chin. She immediately 
 began to cry.
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 5 
 
 "Now be quiet, Ellen," said the elder roughly but not 
 unkindly, as she helped her up, and stuffing the black-bor- 
 dered handkerchief into her pocket, took out the everyday 
 one which she kept for use. "There, wipe your eyes, and be 
 a stout gal. Don't let all the company see you crying." 
 
 The last injunction evidently impressed Ellen, for she 
 stopped at once. Her sister had wiped the grit and the 
 little smear of blood off her chin, and stood in the doorway 
 holding her hand while one by one the other carriages drew 
 up and the occupants alighted. Not a word was spoken till 
 they had all assembled, then the young woman said : "Please 
 come in and have a cup of tea," and turning on her heel led 
 the way to the dining-room. 
 
 "Joanna," said little Ellen in a loud whisper, "may I 
 take off my hat?" 
 
 "No, that you mayn't." 
 
 "But the elastic's so tight — it's cutting my chin. Why 
 mayn't I?" 
 
 "You can't till the funeral's over." 
 
 "It is over. They've put Father in the ground." 
 
 "It isn't over till we've had tea, and you keep your hat 
 on till it's over." 
 
 For answer Ellen tore off her pork-pie hat and threw it 
 on the floor. Immediately Joanna had boxed her unpro- 
 tected ears, anrl the head of the procession was involved 
 in an ignominious scuffle. "You pick up that hat and put it 
 on," said Joanna, "or you shan't have any nice tea." 
 "You're a beast ! You're a brute," cried Ellen, weeping 
 loudly. Behind them stood rows of respectable marsh- 
 dwellers, gazing solemnly ahead as if the funeral service 
 were still in progress. In their hearts they were thinking 
 that it was just like Joanna Godden to have a terrification 
 like this when folk were expected to be serious. In the end, 
 Joanna picked u\> Ellen's hat, crammed it down rulhlessly 
 on her head, hind part before, and heaving her up under 
 her arm carried her into the dining-room. The rest of the 
 company followed, and were ushered into their places to
 
 6 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 the accompaniment of Ellen's shrieks, which they pretended 
 not to hear. 
 
 "Mr. Pratt, will you take the end of the table," said Jo- 
 anna to the scared little clergyman, who would almost have 
 preferred to sit under it rather than receive the honour 
 which Miss Godden's respect for his cloth dictated. "Mr. 
 Huxtable, will you sit by me?" Having thus settled her 
 aristocracy she turned to her equals and allotted places to 
 Vine of Birdskitchen, Furnese of Misleham, Southland of 
 Yoke's Court, and their wives. "Arthur Alee, you take my 
 left," and a tall young man with red hair, red whiskers, and 
 a face covered with freckles and tan, came sidling to her 
 elbow. 
 
 In front of Joanna a servant-girl had just set down a huge 
 black teapot, which had been stewing on the hob ever since 
 the funeral party had been sighted crossing the railway line 
 half a mile ofiF. Round it were two concentric rings of tea- 
 cups — good old Worcester china, except for a common three 
 which had been added for numbers' sake, and which Jo- 
 anna carefully bestowed upon herself, Ellen and Arthur 
 Alee. Ellen had stopped crying at the sight of the cakes 
 and jam and pots of "relish" which stretched down the 
 table in orderly lines, so the meal proceeded according to 
 the decent conventions of silence. Nobody spoke, except to 
 offer some eatable to somebody else. Joanna saw that no 
 cup or plate was empty. She ought really to have delegated 
 this duty to another, being presumably too closely wrapped 
 in grief to think of anybody's appetite but her own, but 
 Joanna never delegated anything, and her "a little more 
 tea, Mrs. Vine?" — "another of these cakes, Mr. Huxtable?" 
 — "just a little dash of relish, Mr. Pratt?" were constantly 
 breaking the stillness, and calling attention to her as she sat 
 behind the teapot, with her plumed hat still a little on one 
 side. 
 
 She was emphatically what men call a "fine woman," 
 with her firm, white neck, her broad shoulders, her deep 
 bosom and strong waist; she was tall, too, with large, useful
 
 I 
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 7 
 
 hands and feet. Her face was brown and slightly freckled, 
 with a warm colour on the cheeks ; the features were strong, 
 but any impression of heaviness was at once dispelled by a 
 pair of eager, living blue eyes. Big jet earrings dangled 
 from her ears, being matched by the double chain of beads 
 that hung over her crape-frilled bodice. Indeed, with her 
 plumes, her earrings, her necklace, her frills, though all 
 were of the decent and respectable bl..ck, she faintly shocked 
 the opinion of Walland Marsh, otherwise disposed in pity 
 to be lenient to Joanna Godden and her ways. 
 
 Owing to the absence of conversation, tea was not as long 
 drawn-out as might have been expected from the appetites. 
 Besides, everyone was in a hurry to be finished and hear 
 the reading of old Thomas Godden's will. Already several 
 interesting rumours were afloat, notably one that he had 
 left Ansdore to Joanna only on condition that she married 
 Arthur Alee within the year. "She's a mare that's never 
 been priiaperly broken in, and she wants a strong hand to 
 do it." Thus unchoicely Furnese of Misleham had ex- 
 pressed the wish that fathered such a thought. 
 
 So at the first possible moment after the last munch and 
 loud swallow with which old Grandfather Vine, who was 
 unfortunately the slowest as well as the largest eater, an- 
 nounced repletion, all the chairs were pushed back on the 
 drugget and a row of properly impassive faces confronted 
 Mr. Huxtable, the lawyer, as he took his stand by the win- 
 dow. Only Joanna remained sitting at the table, her warm 
 blue eyes seeming to reflect the evening's light, her arm 
 round little Ellen, who leaned against her lap. 
 
 The will was, after all, not so sensational as had been 
 hoped. It opened piously, as might have been expected of 
 Thomas Godden, who was as goofl an old man as ever met 
 death walking in a cornfitld tiiiafraid. It went on to leave 
 various small tokens of rcmcm])rance to those who had 
 known him — a mourning ring to Mr. Vine, Mr. Furnese and 
 Mr. Southland ; his two volumes of Robertson's Sermons, 
 and a book called "The Horse in Sickness and in Health"
 
 8 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 to Arthur Alee, which was a disappointment to those who 
 had expected the bequest to be his daughter Joanna. There 
 was fifty pounds for Mr. Samuel Huxtable of Huxtable, 
 Vidler and Huxtable, Solicitors, Watchbell Street, Rye ; five 
 pounds each for those farm hands in his employment at 
 the time of his death, with an extra ten pounds to "Nathan 
 Stuppeny, my carter, on account of his faithful services 
 both to me and to my father. And I give, devi"se and be- 
 queath the residue of my property, comprising the freehold 
 farm of Little Ansdore, in the parish of Pedlinge, Sussex, 
 with all lands and live and dead stock pertaining thereto 
 to my daughter Joanna Mary Godden. And I appoint the 
 said Joanna Mary Godden sole executrix of this my will." 
 
 When the reading was over the company remained star- 
 ing for a minute as decency required, then the door burst 
 open and a big servant-girl brought in a tray set with glasses 
 of whiskey and water for the men and spiced wine for the 
 women. These drink offerings were received with a sub- 
 dued hum of conversation — it was impossible to hear what 
 was said or even to distinguish who was saying it, but a 
 vague buzzing filled the room, as of imprisoned bees. In 
 the midst of it Ellen's voice rose suddenly strident. 
 
 "Joanna, may I take off my hat now?" 
 
 Her sister looked doubtful. The funeral was not cere- 
 monially complete till Grandfather Vine had done choking 
 over his heel-taps, but Ellen had undoubtedly endured a 
 good deal with remarkable patience — her virtue ought in 
 justice to be rewarded. Also Joanna noticed for the first 
 time that she was looking grotesque as well as uncomfort- 
 able, owing perhaps to the hat being still on hind part be- 
 fore. So the necessary dispensation was granted, and Ellen 
 further refreshed by a sip of her sister's wine. 
 
 The guests now took their departure, each being given a 
 memorial card of the deceased, with a fine black edge and 
 the picture of an urn upon it. Ellen also was given one, at 
 ner urgent request, and ran off in huge excitement with the
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 9 
 
 treasure. Joanna remained with Mr. Huxtable for a final 
 interview. 
 
 §2 
 
 "Well," he said, "I expect you'll want me to help you a 
 bit, Miss Joanna." 
 
 Joanna had sat down again at the end of the table — big, 
 tousled, overdressed, alive. Huxtable surveyed her ap- 
 provingly. "A damn fine woman," he said to himself, 
 "she'll marry before long." 
 
 "I'm sure I'm much obliged to you, Mr. Huxtable," said 
 Joanna, "there's many a little thing I'd like to talk over 
 with you." 
 
 "Well, now's your time, young lady. I shan't have to be 
 home for an hour or two yet. The first thing is, I suppose, 
 for me to find you a bailiff for this farm." 
 
 "No, thank you kindly. I'll manage that." 
 
 "What! Do you know of a man?" 
 
 "No — I mean I'll manage the farm." 
 
 "You ! My dear Miss Joanna . . ." 
 
 "Well, why not? I've been bred up to it from a child. I 
 used to do everything with poor Father." 
 
 As she said the last word her brightness became for a 
 moment dimmed, and tears swam into her eyes for the first 
 time since she had taken the ceremonial handkerchief away 
 from them. But the next minute she lighted up again. 
 
 "He showed me a lot — he showed me everything. I could 
 do it much better than a man who doesn't know our ways." 
 
 "But — " the lawyer hesitated, "but it isn't just a question 
 of knowledge. Miss Joanna ; it's a question of — how shall 
 I put it? — well, of authority. A woman is always at a dis- 
 advantage when she has to command men." 
 
 "I'd like to see the man I couldn't make mind me." 
 
 Huxtable grinned. "Oh, I've no doubt whatever that you 
 could get yourself obeyed; but the position — the whole 
 thing — you'd find it a great strain, and people aren't, as a
 
 10 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 rule, particularly helpful to a woman they see doing what 
 they call a man's job." 
 
 "I don't want anyone's help. I know my own business 
 and my poor father's ways. That's enough for me." 
 
 "Did your father ever say anything to you about this?" 
 
 "Oh, no — he being only fifty-one and never thinking he'd 
 be took for a long while yet. But I know it's what he'd 
 have wanted, or why did he trouble to show me everything? 
 And always talked to me about things as free as he did to 
 Fuller and Stuppeny." 
 
 "He would want you to do the best for yourself — he 
 wouldn't want you to take up a heavy burden just for his 
 sake." 
 
 "Oh, it ain't just for his sake, it's for my own. I don't 
 want a strange man messing around, and Ansdore's mine 
 and I'm proud of it." 
 
 Huxtable rubbed his large nose, from either side of which 
 his sharp little eyes looked disapprovingly at Joanna. He 
 admired her, but she maddened him by refusing to see the 
 obvious side of her femininity. 
 
 "Most young women of your age have other things to 
 think of besides farming. There's your sister, and then — 
 don't tell me that you won't soon be thinking of getting 
 married." 
 
 "Well, and if I do, it'll be time enough then to settle about 
 the farm. As for Ellen, I don't see what difference she 
 makes, except that I must see to things for her sake as well 
 as mine. It wouldn't help her much if I handed over this 
 place to a man who'd muddle it all up and maybe bring us to 
 the Auctioneer's. I've know . . . I've seen . , . they had 
 a bailiff in at Becket's House and he lost them three fields 
 of lucerne the first season and got the fluke into their sheep. 
 Why, even Sir Harry Trevor's taken to managing things 
 himself at North Farthing after the way he saw they were 
 going with that old Lambarde, and what he can do I can 
 do, seeing I wasn't brought up in a London square." 
 
 As Joanna's volubility grew, her voice rose, not shrilly as
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 11 
 
 with most women, but taking on a warm, hoarse note — • 
 her words seemed to be flung out hot as coals from a fire. 
 Mr. Huxtable grimaced. "She's a virago," he thought to 
 himself. He put up his hand suavely to induce silence, but 
 the eruption went on. 
 
 "I know all the men, too. They'd do for me what they 
 wouldn't do for a stranger. And if they won't, I know how 
 to settle 'em. I've been bursting with ideas about farming 
 all my life. Poor Father said only a week before he was 
 taken 'Pity you ain't a man, Joanna, with some of the no- 
 tions you've got.' Well, maybe it's a pity and maybe it 
 isn't, but what I've got to do now is to act up proper and 
 manage what is mine, and what you and other folks have 
 got to do is not to meddle with me." 
 
 "Come, come, my dear young lady, nobody's going to 
 meddle with you. You surely don't call it 'meddling' for 
 your father's lawyer, an old man who's known you all your 
 life, to offer you a few words of advice. You must go your 
 own way, and if it doesn't turn out as satisfactorily as you 
 expect, you can always change it." 
 
 "Reckon I can," said Joanna, "but I shan't have to. 
 Won't you take another whiskey, Mr. Huxtable?" 
 
 The lawyer accepted. Joanna Godden's temper might be 
 bad, but her whiskey was good. He wondered if the one 
 would make up for the other to Arthur Alee or whoever 
 had married her by this time next year. 
 
 Mr. Huxtable was not alone in his condemnation of Jo- 
 anna's choice. The whole neighborhocKl disapproved of it. 
 The joint parishes of Brodnyx and Pcdiinge had made up 
 their minds that Joanna Godden would now be compelled to 
 marry Arthur Alee and settle down to mind her own busi- 
 ness instead of what was obviously a man's ; and here she 
 was, still at large and her business more a man's than ever. 
 
 "She's a marc that's never been priiaperly broken in, and
 
 12 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 she wants a strong man to do it," said Furnese at the Wool- 
 pack. He had repeated this celebrated remark so often that 
 it had accjuired ahnost the status of a proverb. For three 
 nights Joanna had been the chief topic of conversation in 
 the Woolpack bar. If Arthur Alee appeared, a silence 
 would fall on the company, to be broken at last by some re- 
 mark on the price of wool or the Rye United's last match. 
 Everybody was sorry for Alee, everybody thought that 
 Thomas Godden had treated him badly by not making his 
 daughter marry him as a condition of her inheritance. 
 
 "Three times he's asked her, as I know for certain," said 
 Vennal, the tenant of Beggar's Bush. 
 
 "No, it's four," said Prickett, Joanna's neighbour at Great 
 Ansdore, "there was that time coming back from the Wild 
 Beast Show." 
 
 "I was counting that," said Vennal, "that and the one that 
 Mr. Vine's looker heard at Lydd market, and then that time 
 in the house." 
 
 "How do you know he asked her in the house? — that 
 makes five." 
 
 "I don't get that — once indoors and twice out, that's 
 three." 
 
 "Well, anyways, whether it's three or four or five, he's 
 asked her quite enough. It's time he had her now." 
 
 "He won't get her. She'll fly higher'n him now she's got 
 Ansdore. She'll be after young Edward Huxtable, or may- 
 be Parson himself, him having neglected to keep himself 
 married." 
 
 "Ha! Ha! It ud be valiant to see her married to liddle 
 Parson — she'd forget herself and pick him up under her 
 arm, same as she picks up her sister. But anyways I don't 
 think she'll get much by flying high. It's all fine enough 
 to talk of her having Ansdore, but whosumdever wants 
 Ansdore uU have to take Joanna Godden with it, and it 
 isn't every man who'd care to do that." 
 
 "Surelye. She's a mare that's never bin praaperly broken 
 in. D'you remember the time she came prancing into
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 13 
 
 Church with a bustle stuck on behind, and everyone staring 
 and fidgeting so as pore Mus' Pratt lost his place in the 
 Prayers and jumped all the way from the Belief to the 
 Royal Family?" 
 
 "And that time as she hit Job Piper over the head wud 
 a bunch of oziers just because he'd told her he knew more 
 about thatching than she did." 
 
 "Surelye, and knocked his hat off into the dyke, and then 
 bought him a new one, with a lining to it." 
 
 "And there was that time when — " 
 
 Several more anecdotes to the point were contributed by 
 the various patrons of the bar, before the conversation, hav- 
 ing described a full circle, returned to its original starting 
 point, and then set off again with its vitality apparently un- 
 diminished. It was more than a week before the summons 
 of Mr. Gain of Botolph's Bridge for driving his gig without 
 a light ousted Joanna from her central glory in the Wool- 
 pack's discussions. 
 
 At Ansdore itself the interest naturally lasted longer. 
 Joanna's dependents whether in yard or kitchen were re- 
 sentfully engrossed in the new conditions. 
 
 "So Joanna's going to run our farm for us, is she ?" said 
 the head man, old Stuppeny, "that'll be valiant, wud some 
 of the notions she has. She'll have our plaace sold up in a 
 twelve-month, surelye. Well, well, it's time maybe as I 
 went elsewheres — I've bin long enough at this job." 
 
 Old Stuppeny had made this remark at intervals for the 
 last sixty years, indeed ever since the day he had first come 
 as a tow-headed boy to scare sparrows from the fields of 
 Joanna's grandfather; .so no one gave it the attention that 
 should have been its due. Other people aired their griev- 
 ances instead. 
 
 "I woan't stand her meddling wud me and my sheep," 
 said Fuller the shepherd. 
 
 "It's her sheep, come to that," said Martha Tilden the 
 chickcn-girl. 
 
 Fuller dealt her a consuming glance out of eyes which
 
 14 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 the long distances of the marsh had made keen as the sea 
 wind. 
 
 "She doan't know nothing about sheep, and I've been a 
 looker after sheep since times when you and her was in 
 your cradles, so I woan't tiiake sass from neither of you." 
 
 "She'll meddle wud you, Martha, just as she'll meddle 
 wud the rest of us," said Broadhurst the cowman. 
 
 "She's meddled wud me for years — I'm used to it. It's 
 you men what's going to have your time now. Ha! Ha! 
 I'll be pleased watching it." 
 
 Martha's short, brightly-coloured face seemed ready to 
 break in two as she laughed with her mouth wide open. 
 
 "When she's had a terrification wud me and said things 
 as she's sorry for, she'll give me a gownd of hers or a fine 
 hat. Sometimes I think as I make more out of her tempers 
 than I do out of my good work what she pays me wages for." 
 
 "We^' if I wur a decent maid I'd be ashamed to wear any 
 of her Outlandish gowns or hats. The colours she chooses ! 
 Sometimes when I see her walking through a field near the 
 lambing time, I'm scared for my ewes, thinking they'll drop 
 their lambs out of fright. I can't help being thankful as 
 she's in black now for this season, though maybe I shudn't 
 ought to say it, seeing as we've lost a good Maaster, and one 
 as we'll all be tediously regretting in a week or two if we 
 aun't now. You take my word, Martha — next time she 
 gives you a gownd, you give it back to her and say as you 
 don't wear such things, being a respectable woman. It 
 aun't right, starting you like that on bad ways." 
 
 §4 
 
 There was only one house in the joint parishes where Jo- 
 anna had any honourable mention, and that was North Far- 
 thing House on the other side of the Kent Ditch. Here lived 
 Sir Harry Trevor, the second holder of a title won in bank- 
 ing enterprises, and lately fallen to low estate. The reason 
 could perhaps be seen on his good-looking face, with its
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 15 
 
 sensual, humorous mouth, roving eyes, and lurking air of 
 unfulfilled, undefeated youth. The taverns of the Three 
 Marshes had combined to give him a sensational past, and 
 further said that his two sons had forced him to settle at 
 Brodnyx with a view to preserving what was left of his 
 morals and their inheritance. The elder was in Holy Orders, 
 and belonged to a small community working in the East 
 End of London ; he seldom came to North Farthing House. 
 The younger, Martin, who had some indefinite job in the 
 City, was home for a few days that October. It was to him 
 his father said : 
 
 "I can't help admiring that girl Joanna Godden for her 
 pluck. Old Godden died suddenly two weeks ago, and now 
 she's given out that she'll run the farm herself, instead of 
 putting in a bailiff. Of course the neighbours disapproved, 
 they've got very strict notions round here as to Woman's 
 Sphere and all that sort of thing." 
 
 "Godden? Which farm's that?" 
 
 "Little Ansdore — just across the Ditch, in Pedlinge 
 parish. It's a big place, and I like her for taking it on." 
 
 "And for any other reason?" 
 
 "Lord, no ! She isn't at all the sort of woman I admire — • 
 a great big strapping wench, the kind this marsh breeds 
 twelve to the acre, like the sheep. Has it ever struck you, 
 Martin, that the women on Romney Marsh, in comparison 
 with the women one's used to and likes, are the same as the 
 Kent sheep in comparison with Southdowns — admirably 
 hardy and suited to the district and all that, but a bit tough 
 and coarse-flavoured?" 
 
 "I see that farming has already enlarged and refined your 
 stock of similes. I hope you aren't getting tired of it." 
 
 "No, not exactly. I'm interested in the jjlace now I man- 
 age it without that dolt Lambarde, and Hythc isn't too far 
 for the phaeton if I want to See Life. Besides, I haven't 
 quite got over the thrill of not being in debt and disgrace" 
 — he threw Martin a glance which might have conic from a 
 rebellious son to a censorious father. "But sometimes I
 
 16 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 wish there was less Moated Grange about it all. Damn it, 
 I'm always alone here ! Except when you or your reverend 
 brother come down to see how I'm behaving." 
 
 "Why don't you marry again?" 
 
 "I don't want to marry. Besides, whom the devil should 
 I marry round here? There's mighty few people of our 
 own class about, and those there are seem to have no daugh- 
 ters under forty." 
 
 Martin looked at him quizzically. 
 
 "Oh, yes, you young beast — I know what you're thinking. 
 You're thinking that forty's just the right age for me. 
 You're reminding me that I'm a trifle passe myself and 
 ought to marry something sere and yellow. But I tell you 
 I don't feel any older than twenty-five — never have, it's 
 my affliction — while you've never been younger than forty 
 in all your life. It's you who ought to marry middle-age" 
 — and he grimaced at Martin. 
 
 § 5 
 
 Joanna rather enjoyed being the centre of discussion. 
 She had none of the modest shrinking from being talked 
 about which might have affected some young women. She 
 was glad when Martha Tilden or another of the girls 
 brought her any overheard scraps. "Oh, that's what they 
 say, is it?" and she would laugh a big jolly laugh like a 
 boy's. 
 
 So far she had enjoyed being "Maaster" of Little Ans- 
 dore. It meant a lot of work and a lot of thought and a 
 lot of talking and interference, but Joanna shrank from 
 none of these things. She was healthy and vigorous and 
 intelligent, and was, moreover, quite unharr.pered by any 
 diffidence about teaching their work to people who had been 
 busy at it before she was born. 
 
 Still it was scarcely more than a fortnight since she had 
 taken on the government, and time had probably much to 
 show her yet. She had a moment of depression one mom-
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 17 
 
 ing, rising early as she always must, and pulling aside the 
 flowered curtain that covered her window. The prospect 
 was certainly not one to cheer ; even in sunshine the horizons 
 of the marsh were discouraging with their gospel of univer- 
 sal flatness, and this morning the sun was not yet up, and 
 a pale mist was drifting through the willows, thick and 
 congealed above the watercourses, thinner on the grazing 
 lands between them, so that one could see the dim shapes 
 of the sheep moving through it. Even in clear weather 
 only one other dwelling was visible from Little Ansdore, 
 and that was its fellow of Great Ansdore, about half a 
 mile away seawards. The sight of it never failed to make 
 Joanna contemptuous — for Great Ansdore had but fifty 
 acres of land compared with the three hundred of its Little 
 neighbour. Its Greatness was merely a matter of name and 
 tradition and had only one material aspect in the presenta- 
 tion to the living of Brodnyx-with-Pedlinge, which had 
 been with Great Ansdore since the passing of the monks 
 of Canterbury. 
 
 Today Great Ansdore was only a patch of grey rather 
 denser than its surroundings, and failed to inspire Joanna 
 with her usual sense of gloating. Her eyes were almost 
 sad as she stared out at it, her chin propped on her hands. 
 The window was shut, as every window in every farm and 
 cottage on the marsh was shut at night, though the ague 
 was now little more than a name on the lips of grand- 
 fathers. Therefore, the room in which two people had 
 slept was rather stuffy, though this in itself would hardly 
 account for Joanna's heaviness, since it was what she nat- 
 urally expected a bedroom to be in the morning. Such 
 vague sorrow was perplexing and disturbing to her prac- 
 tical emotions ; she hurriedly attributed it to "poor Father," 
 and the propriety of the sentiment allowed her tbe relief 
 of a few tears 
 
 Turning back into the room she unbuttoned her turkey- 
 red dressing-gown. prc]).-iratory to the business of washing 
 and dressing. Then her eye fell on Ellen still asleep in her
 
 18 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 little iron bedstead in the corner, and a glow of tenderness 
 passed like a lamp over her face. She went across to where 
 her sister slept, and laid her face for a moment beside hers 
 on the pillow. Ellen's breath came regularly from parted 
 lips — she looked adorable cuddled there, with her red cheeks, 
 like an apple in snow. Joanna, unable to resist the tempta- 
 tion, kissed her and woke her. 
 
 "Hullo, Jo — wha' time is it?" mumbled Ellen sleepily. 
 
 "Not time to get up yet. I'm not dressed." 
 
 She sat on the edge of the bed, stooping over her sister, 
 and her big rough plaits dangled in the child's face. 
 
 "Hullo, Jo — Hullo, old Jo," continued the drowsy mur- 
 mur. 
 
 "Go to sleep, you bad girl," said Joanna, forgetting that 
 she herself had roused her. 
 
 Ellen was not wide enough awake to have any conflicting 
 views on the subject, and she nestled down again with a 
 deep sigh. For the next ten minutes the room was full 
 of small sounds — the splashing of cold water in the basin, 
 the shuffle of coarse linen, the click of fastening stays, the 
 rhythmic swish of a hair brush. Then came two silent 
 minutes, while Joanna knelt with closed eyes and folded 
 hands beside her big, tumbled bed, and said the prayers 
 that her mother had taught her eighteen years ago — word 
 for word as she had said them when she was five, even to 
 the "make me a good girl" at the end. Then she jumped 
 up briskly and tore the sheet off the bed, throwing it with 
 the pillows on the floor, so that Grace Wickens the servant 
 should have no chance of making the bed without stripping 
 it, as was the way of her kind. 
 
 Grace was not up yet, of course. Joanna hit her door a 
 resounding thump as she passed it on her way to the kit- 
 chen. Here the dead ashes had been raked out overnight 
 and the fire laid according to custom. She lit the fire and 
 put the kettle on to boil ; she did not consider it beneath 
 her to perform these menial offices. She knew that every 
 hand was needed for the early morning work of a farm.
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 19 
 
 By the time she had finished, both Grace and Martha were 
 in the room, yawning and rubbing their eyes. 
 
 "That'll burn up nicely now," said Joanna, surveying the 
 fire. "You'd better put the fish-kettle on too, in case Broad- 
 hurst wants hot water for a mash. Bring me out a cup of 
 tea as soon as you can get it ready — I'll be somewhere in 
 the yard." 
 
 She put on an old coat of her father's over her black 
 dress, and went out, her nailed boots clattering on the 
 cobblestones. The men were up — they should have been 
 up an hour now — but no sounds of activity came from the 
 barns. The yard was in stillness, a little mist floating against 
 the walls, and the pervading greyness of the morning seemed 
 to be lit up by the huge blotches of yellow lichen that cov- 
 ered the slated roofs of barns and dwelling — the roofs were 
 all new ; having only for a year or two superseded the 
 old roofs of ozier thatch, but that queer golden rust had 
 almost hidden their substance, covering them as it covered 
 everything that was left exposed to salt-thick marsh air. 
 
 Joanna stood in the middle of the yard looking keenly 
 round her like a cat, then like a cat she pounced. The 
 interior of the latest-built barn was dimly lit by a couple 
 of windows under the roof — the light was just enough to 
 show inside the doorway five motionless figures, seated 
 about on the root-pile and the root-slicing machine. They 
 were Joanna's five farm-men, apparently wrapped in a 
 trance, from which her voice unpleasantly awoke them, 
 
 "Here, you — what d'you think you're doing?" 
 
 The five figures stiffened with perceptible indignation, 
 but they did not rise from their sitting posture as their 
 mistress advanced — or rather swooped — into their midst. 
 Joanna did not expect this. She paid a man fifteen shillings 
 a week for his labour and made no impossible demands of 
 his prejudices and private habits. 
 
 "I've been up an hour," she said, looking round on them, 
 "and here I find all of you sitting like a lot of sacks."
 
 20 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 "It's two hours since I've bin out o' my warm bed," said 
 old Stuppeny reproachfully. 
 
 "You'd be as much use in it as out, if this is how you 
 spend your time. No one's been to the pigs yet, and it 
 wants but half an hour to milking." 
 
 "We wur setting around fur Grace Wickens to bring 
 us out our tea," said Broadhurst. 
 
 "You thought maybe she wouldn't know her way across 
 the yard if you was on the other side of it? The tea ain't 
 ready yet — I tell you I haven't had any. It's a fine sight 
 to see a lot of strong, upstanding men lolling around wait- 
 ing for a cup of tea." 
 
 The scorn in Joanna's voice was withering, and a resent- 
 ful grumble arose, amidst which old Stuppeny's dedication 
 of himself to a new sphere was hoarsely discernible. How- 
 ever, the men scrambled to their feet and tramped off in 
 various directions; Joanna stopped Fuller the shepherd as 
 he went by. 
 
 "You'll be taking the wethers to Lydd this morning?" 
 
 "Surelye." 
 
 "How many are you taking?" 
 
 "Maybe two score." 
 
 "You can take the lot. It'll save us their grazing money 
 this winter, and we can start fattening the tegs in the 
 
 "There's but two score wethers fit for market." 
 
 "How d'you mean?" 
 
 "The others aun't fatted praaperly." 
 
 "Nonsense — you know we never give 'em cake or turnips, 
 so what does it matter?" 
 
 "They aun't fit." 
 
 "I tell you they'll do well enough. I don't expect to get 
 such prices for them as for that lot you've kept down in 
 the New Innings, but they won't fetch much under, for I 
 d'^clare they're good meat. If we keep them over the 
 winter, we'll have to send them inland and pay no end for 
 
 sprmg-
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 21 
 
 their grazing — and then maybe the price of mutton ull go 
 down in the Spring." 
 
 "It ud be a fool's job to taake them." 
 
 "You say that because you don't want to have to fetch 
 them up from the Salt Innings. I tell you you're getting 
 lazy, Fuller." 
 
 "My old Alaaster never called me that." 
 
 "Well, you work as well for me as you did for him, and 
 I won't call you lazy, neither." 
 
 She gave him a conciliatory grin, but Fuller had been 
 too deeply wounded for such easy balm. He turned and 
 walked away, a w'hole speech written in the rebellious hunch 
 of his shoulders. 
 
 "You'll get them beasts," she called after him. 
 
 "Surelye," — came in a protesting drawl. Then "Yup! 
 — Yup 1" — to the two sheep dogs couched on the doorstep. 
 
 §6 
 
 What with supervising the work and herding slackers, 
 getting her breakfast and packing off Ellen to the little 
 school she went to at Rye, Joanna found all too soon that 
 the market hour was upon her. It did not strike her to 
 shirk this part of a farmer's duty — she would drive into 
 Rye and into Lydd and into Roniney as her father had 
 always driven, inspecting beasts and watching prices. Soon 
 after ten o'clock she ran upstairs to make herself splendid, 
 as the occasion required. 
 
 By this time, the morning had lifted itself out of the 
 mist. Great sheets of blue covered the sky and were mir- 
 rored in the dykes — there was a soft golden glow about 
 the marsh, for the vivid green of the pastures was filmed 
 over with the brown of the withering seed-grasses, and the 
 big clumps of trees that protected every dwelling were 
 richly toned to rust through .scales of flame. Already there 
 were signs that the day would be hot, and Joanna sighed 
 to think that approaching winter had demanded that her
 
 11 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 new best black should be made of thick materials. She 
 hated black, too, and grimaced at her sombre frills, which 
 the mourning brooch and chain of jet beads could only 
 embellish, never lighten. But she would as soon have 
 thought of jumping out of the window as of discarding 
 her mourning a day before the traditions of the Marsh 
 decreed. She decided not to wear her brooch and chain — 
 the chain might swing and catch in the beasts' horns as she 
 inspected them, besides her values demanded that she 
 should be slightly more splendid in church than at market, 
 so her ornaments were reserved as a crowning decoration, 
 all except her mourning ring made of a lock of her father's 
 hair. 
 
 It w^as the first time she had been to market since his 
 death, and she knew that folks would stare, so she might 
 as well give them something to stare at. Outside the front 
 door, in the drive, old Stuppeny was holding the head of 
 Foxy her mare, harnessed to the neat trap that Thomas 
 Godden had bought early the same year. 
 
 "Hullo, Stuppeny — you ain't coming along like that !'* 
 and Joanna's eye swept fiercely up and down his manure- 
 caked trousers. 
 
 "I never knew as I wur coming along anywheres. Missus." 
 
 "You're coming along of me to the market. Surely you 
 don't expect a lady to drive by herself?" 
 
 Old Stuppeny muttered something unintelligible. 
 
 "You go and put on your black coat," continued Joanna. 
 
 "My Sunday coat !" shrieked Stuppeny. 
 
 "Yes — quick ! I can't wait here all day." 
 
 "But I can't put on my good coat wudout cleaning my- 
 self, and it'll taake me the best part o' the marnun to do 
 that." 
 
 Joanna saw the reasonableness of his objection. 
 
 "Oh, well, you can leave it this once, but another time 
 you remember and look decent. Today it'll do if you go 
 into the kitchen and ask Grace to take a brush to your 
 trousers — and listen here 1" she called after him as he
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 23 
 
 shambled off — "if she's making cocoa you can ask her to 
 give you a cup." 
 
 Grace evidently was making cocoa — a habit she had 
 whenever her mistress's back was turned — for Stuppeny 
 did not return for nearly a quarter of an hour. He looked 
 slightly more presentable as he climbed into the back of the 
 trap. It struck Joanna that she might be able to get him 
 a suit of livery second-hand. 
 
 "There isn't much he's good for at the farm now at his 
 age, so he may as well be the one to come along of me. 
 Broadhurst or Luck ud look a bit smarter, but it ud be hard 
 to spare them. , . . Stuppeny ud look different in a livery 
 coat with brass buttons . . . I'll look around for one if 
 I've time this afternoon." 
 
 It was nearly seven miles from Ansdore to Lydd. passing 
 the Woolpack, and the ragged gable of Midley Chapel — a 
 reproachful ruin among the reeds of the Wheelsgate Sewer. 
 Foxy went smartly, but every now and then they had to 
 slow down as they overtook and passed flocks of sheep and 
 cattle being herded along the road by drovers and shepherds 
 in dusty boots and dogs with red, lolling tongues. It was 
 after midday when the big elm wood which had been their 
 horizon for the last two miles suddenly turned, as if by 
 an enchanter's wand, into a fair-sized down of red roofs 
 and walls, with a great church tower raking above the 
 trees. 
 
 Joanna drove straight to the Crown, where Thomas God- 
 den had "put up" every market day for twenty years. She 
 ordered her dinner — boiled beef and carrots and jam roll 
 — and walked into the crowded coffee-room, where farmers 
 from every corner of the three marshes were already at 
 work with knife and fcjrk. Some of them knew her by 
 sight and stared, others knew her by acquaintance and 
 greeted her. while Arthur Alee jumped out of his chair, 
 clroj)ping his knife and sweeping his neighbour's bread off 
 the table. He was a little shocked and alarmed to see 
 Joanna the only woman in the room; he suggested that she
 
 24 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 should have her dinner in the landlady's parlour — "you'd 
 be quieter like, in there." 
 
 "I don't want to be quiet, thank you," said Joanna. 
 
 She felt thankful that none of the few empty chairs was 
 next Aloe's — she could never abide his fussing. She sat 
 down between Cobb of Slinches and a farmer from Snar- 
 gate way, and opened the conversation pleasantly on the 
 subject of liver-fluke in sheep. 
 
 When she had brought her meal to a close with a cup of 
 tea, she found Alee waiting for her in the hotel entrance. 
 
 "I never thought you'd come to market, Joanna." 
 
 "And why not, pray?" 
 
 The correct answer was — "because you don't know 
 enough about beasts," but Alee had the sense to find a 
 substitute. 
 
 "Because it ain't safe or seemly for a woman to come 
 alone and deal with men." 
 
 "And why not, again ? Are all you men going to swindle 
 me if you get the chance?" 
 
 Joanna's laugh always had a disintegrating effect on 
 Alee, with its loud warm tones and its revelation of her 
 pretty teeth — which were so white and even, except for 
 the small pointed canines. When she laughed she opened 
 her mouth wide and threw back her head on her short white 
 neck. Alee gropingly put out a hairy hand towards her, 
 which was his nearest approach to a caress. Joanna flicked 
 it away. 
 
 "Now a-done do, Arthur Alee" — dropping in her merri- 
 ment into the lower idiom of the marsh — "a-done do with 
 your croaking and your stroking both. Let me go my own 
 ways, for I know 'em better than you can." 
 
 "But these chaps — I don't like it — maybe, seeing you like 
 this amongst them, they'll get bold with you." 
 
 "Not they! How can you mention such a thing? There 
 was Mr. Cobb and Mr. Bates at dinner, talking to me as 
 respectful as church wardens, all about liver fluke, and then 
 by way of rot in the oats, passing on natural and civil to
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 25 
 
 the Isle of Wight disease in potatoes — if you see anything 
 bold in that . . . well then you're an old woman as sure 
 as I ain't." 
 
 A repetition of her laugh completed his disruption, and 
 he found himself there on the steps of the Crown begging 
 her to let him take over her market-day discussions as her 
 husband and deputy. 
 
 "Why should you go talking to farmers about Isle of 
 Wight disease and liver fluke, when you might be talking 
 to their wives about making puddings and stuffing mat- 
 tresses and such-like women's subjects." 
 
 "I talk about them too," said Joanna, "and I can't see 
 as I'd be any better for talking of nothing else." 
 
 What Alee had meant to convey to her was that he would 
 much rather hear her discussing the ailments of her chil- 
 dren than of her potatoes, but he was far too delicate- 
 minded to state this. He only looked at her sadly. 
 
 Joanna had not even troubled to refuse his proposal — 
 any more than a mother troubles to give a definite and 
 reasoned refusal to the child who asks for the moon. Find- 
 ing him silent, and feeling rather sorry for him, she sug- 
 gested that he should come round with her to the shops and 
 carry some of her parcels. 
 
 §7 
 
 She went first of all to a firm of housepainters, for she 
 meant to brighten up Ansdore. She disliked seeing tiie 
 place with no colour or oniauK-nt save that which the marsh 
 wind gave it of gold and rust. She would have the eaves 
 and the pipes painted a nice green — such as would show 
 up well at a distance. There was plenty of money, so why 
 should everything be drab? Alee discouraged her as well 
 as he was able — it was the wrong time of year for paint- 
 ing, and the old paint was still quite good. Joanna treated 
 his objections as she had treated his proposal — with 
 good-humoured, almost tender, indifference. She let him
 
 26 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 make his moan at the housepainters', then carelessly bore 
 him on to the furnishers', where she bought brightly- 
 flowered stuff for new curtains. Then he stood by while 
 at an outfitter's she inspected coats for Stuppeny, and 
 finally bought one of a fine mulberry colour "with brass 
 buttons all down the front." 
 
 She now returned to the market-place, and sought out 
 two farmers from the Iden district, with whom she made 
 arrangements for the winter keep of her lambs. Owing 
 to the scanty and salt pastures of winter, it had always 
 been the custom on the marsh to send the young sheep for 
 grazing on upland farms, and fetch them back in the spring 
 as tegs. Joanna disposed of her young flock between Relf 
 of Baron's Grange and Noakes of Mockbeggar, then, still 
 accompanied by Alee, strolled down to inspect the wethers 
 she had brought to the market. 
 
 On her way she met the farmer of Picknye Bush. 
 
 "Good day, Miss Godden — I've just come from buying 
 some tegs of yourn." 
 
 "My looker's settled with you, has he?" 
 
 "He said he had the power to sell as he thought proper 
 — otherways I was going to ask for you." 
 
 An angry flush drowned the freckles on Joanna's cheek. 
 
 "That's Fuller, the obstinate, thick-headed old man . . ." 
 
 Bates' round face fell a little. 
 
 "I'm sorry if there's bin any mistaake. After all, I aun't 
 got the beasts yet — two pound a head is the price he asked 
 and I paid. I call it a fair price, seeing the time of year 
 and the state of the meat market. But if your looker's bin 
 presuming and you aun't pleased, then I woan't call it a 
 deal." 
 
 "I'm pleased enough to sell you my beasts, and two 
 pounds is a fairish price. But I won't have Fuller fixing 
 things up over my head like this, and I'll tell him so. How 
 many of 'em did you buy, Mr. Bates?" 
 
 "I bought the lot — two score." 
 
 Joanna made a choking sound. Without another word,
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 27 
 
 she turned and walked off in the direction of the hurdles 
 where her sheep were penned, Bates and Alee following 
 her after one disconcerted look at each other. Fuller stood 
 beside the wethers, his two shaggy dogs couched at his 
 feet — he started when he suddenly saw his mistress burst 
 through the crowd, her black feathers nodding above her 
 angry face. 
 
 "Fuller!" she shouted, so loud that those who were 
 standing near turned round to see — "How many wether- 
 tegs have you brought to Lydd?" 
 Iwo score. 
 
 "How many did I tell you to bring?" 
 
 "The others wurn't fit, surelye." 
 
 "But didn't I tell you to bring them?" 
 
 "You did, but they wurn't fit." 
 
 "I said you were to bring them, no matter if you thought 
 em fit or not." 
 
 "They wurn't fit to be sold as meat." 
 
 "I tell you they were." 
 
 "No one shall say as Tom Fuller doan't bring fit meat to 
 market." 
 
 "You're an obstinate old fool. I tell you they were first- 
 class meat." 
 
 Men were pressing round, farmers and graziers and 
 butchers, drawn by the spectacle of Joanna Goddcn at war 
 with her looker in the middle of Lydd market. Alee touched 
 her arm appeal ingly — 
 
 "Come away, Joanna." he murmured. 
 
 She flung round at him. 
 
 "Keep clear — leave me to settle my own man." 
 
 There was a titter in the crowd. 
 
 "I know bad meat from good, surelye," continued Fuller, 
 feeling that popular sentiment was on his side — "T should 
 ought to, seeing as I wtir yiir father's looker before you 
 wur your father's daughter." 
 
 "You were my father's looker, but after this you shan't 
 be looker of mine. Since you won't mind what I say or
 
 28 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 take orders from me, you can leave my service this day 
 month." 
 
 There was a horror-stricken silence in the crowd — even 
 the lowest journeyman butcher realised the solemnity of 
 the occasion. 
 
 "You understand me?" said Joanna. 
 
 "Yes, Ma'am," came from Fuller in a crushed voice. 
 
 §8 
 
 By the same evening the news was all over Lydd market, 
 by the next it was all over the Three Marshes. Everyone 
 was repeating to everyone else how Joanna Godden of 
 Little Ansdore had got shut of her looker after twenty- 
 eight years' service, and her father not been dead a month. 
 
 "Enough to make him rise out of his grave," said the 
 Marsh. 
 
 The actual reasons for the turning away were variously 
 given — 
 
 "Just because he spuck up and told her as her pore father 
 wudn't hold wud her goings on," was the doctrine promul- 
 gated by the Woolpack ; but the general council sitting in 
 the bar of the Crown decreed that the trouble had arisen 
 out of Fuller's spirited refusal to sell some lambs that had 
 tic. Other pronouncements were that she had sassed Fuller 
 because he knew more about sheep than she did — or that 
 Fuller had sassed her for the same reason — that it wasn't 
 Joanna who had dismissed him, but he who had been regret- 
 fully obliged to give notice, owing to her meddling — that 
 all the hands at Ansdore were leaving on account of her 
 temper. 
 
 "He'll never get another plaace agaun, will pore old 
 Fuller — he'll end in the Union and be an everlasting shame 
 to her." 
 
 There was almost a feeling of disappointment when it 
 became known that Fuller — who was only forty-two, hav- 
 ing started his career at an early age — had been given a
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 29 
 
 most satisfactory job at Arpinge Farm inland, and some- 
 thing like consternation when it was further said and con- 
 firmed by Fuller himself that Joanna had given him an 
 excellent character. 
 
 "She'll never get another looker," became the changed 
 burden of the marsh. 
 
 But here again prophecy failed, for hardly had Joanna's 
 advertisement appeared simultaneously in the Rye Observer 
 and the Kentish Express than she had half a dozen appli- 
 cations from likely men. Martha Tilden brought the news 
 to Gasson's Stores, the general shop in Brodnyx. 
 
 "There she is, setting in her chair, talking to a young 
 chap what's come from Botolph's Bridge, and there's three 
 more waiting in the passage — she told Grace to give them 
 each a cup of cocoa when she was making it. And what 
 d'you think? Their looker's come over from Old Honey- 
 child, asking for the place, though he was sitting in the 
 Crown at Lydd only yesterday, as Sam Broadhurst told 
 me, saying as it was a shame to get shut of Fuller like that, 
 and as how Joanna deserved never to see another looker 
 again in her life." 
 
 "Which of the lot d'you think she'll take?" asked Gasson. 
 
 "I dunno. How should I say? Peter Relf from Old 
 Honeychild is a stout feller, and one of the other men told 
 me he'd got a character that made him blush, it was that 
 fine and flowery. But you never know with Joanna God- 
 den — maybe she'd sooner have a looker as knew nothing, 
 and then she could teach him. Ha! Ha!" 
 
 Meanwhile Joanna sat very erect in her kitchen chair, 
 interviewing the young chap from Botoljih's Bridge. 
 
 "You've only got a year's character from Mr. Gain?" 
 
 "Yes, Missus ..." a long pause during which some 
 mental process took place clumsily behind his low, sun- 
 burnt forehead . . . "but I've got these." 
 
 He hanfled Joanna one or two dirty scraps of paper on 
 which were written "characters" from earlier employers.
 
 30 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 Joanna read them. None was for longer than two years, 
 but they all spoke well of the young man before her. 
 
 "Then you've never been on the Marsh before you came 
 to Botolph's Bridge?" 
 
 "No, Missus." 
 
 "Sheep on the Marsh is very different from sheep inland." 
 
 "I know, Missus." 
 
 "But you think you're up to the job?" 
 
 "Yes, Missus." 
 
 Joanna stared at him critically. He was a fine young 
 fellow — slightly bowed already though he had given his 
 age as twenty-five, for the earth begins her work early in 
 a man's frame, and has power over the green tree as well 
 as the dry. But this stoop did not conceal his height and 
 strength and breadth, and somehow his bigness, combined 
 with his simplicity, his slow thought and slow tongue, ap- 
 pealed to Joanna, stirred something within her that was 
 almost tender. She handed him back his dirty "characters." 
 
 "Well, I must think it over. I've some other men to see, 
 but I'll write you a line to Botolph's Bridge and tell you 
 how I fix. You go now and ask Grace Wickens, my gal, 
 to give you a cup of hot cocoa." 
 
 Young Socknersh went, stooping his shock-head still 
 lower as he passed under the worn oak lintel of the kitchen 
 door. Joanna interviewed the shepherd from Honeychild, 
 a man from Slinches, another from Anvil Green inland, 
 and one from Chilleye, on Pevensey marsh beyond Marlin- 
 gate. She settled with none, but told each that she would 
 write. She spent the evening thinking them over. 
 
 No doubt Peter Relf from Honeychild was the best man 
 — the oldest and most experienced — but on the other hand 
 he wanted the most money, and probably also his own way, 
 after the disastrous precedent of Fuller. Joanna wasn't 
 going to have another looker who thought he knew better 
 than she did. Now, Dick Socknersh, he would mind her 
 properly, she felt sure. . . . Day from Slinches had the 
 longest "character" — fifteen years man and boy; but that
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 31 
 
 would only mean that he was set in their ways and wouldn't 
 take to hers — she wasn't going to start fattening her sheep 
 with turnips, coarsening the meat, not to please anyone. 
 . . . Now, Socknersh, having never been longer than two 
 years in a place wouldn't have got fixed in any bad habits. 
 ... As for Jenkins and Taylor, they weren't any good — 
 just common Southdown men — she might as well write off 
 to them at once. Her choice lay between Relf and Day and 
 Socknersh. She knew that she meant to have Socknersh — 
 he was not the best shepherd, but she liked him the best, 
 and he would mind her properly and take to her ways 
 . . . for a moment he seemed to stand before her, with 
 his head stooping among the rafters, his great shoulders 
 shutting out the window, his curious, brown, childlike eyes 
 fixed upon her face. Day was a scrubby little fellow, and 
 Relf had warts all over his hand. . . . But she wasn't 
 choosing Socknersh for his looks; she was choosing him 
 because he would work for her the best, not being set up 
 with "notions." Of course, she liked him the best, too, 
 but it would be more satisfactory from every practical point 
 of view to work with a man she liked than with a man 
 she did not like — Joanna liked a man to look a man, and 
 she did not mind if he was a bit of a child too. . . . Yes, 
 she would engage Socknersh ; his "characters," though 
 short, were most satisfactory — he was "good with sheep 
 and lambs," she could remember — "hard-working" — "pa- 
 tient." . . . She wrote to Botolph's Bridge that evening, 
 and engaged him to come to her at the end of the week. 
 
 § 9 
 
 Nothing happened to make her regret her choice. Sock- 
 nersh proved, as she had expected, a huml)le, hard-working 
 creature, who never disputed her orders, inflccd who some- 
 times turned to her for direction and advice. Stimulated 
 by his deference, she became even more of an oracle than
 
 32 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 she had hitherto professed. She looked up "The Sheep" 
 in her father's Farmer's Encyclopaedia of the year 1861, 
 and also read one or two more books upon his shelves. 
 From these she discovered that there was more in sheep- 
 breeding than was covered by the lore of the Three 
 Marshes, and her mind began to plunge adventurously 
 among Southdowns and Leicesters, Black-faced, Blue- 
 faced, and Cumberland sheep. She saw Ansdore famous 
 as a great sheep-breeding centre, with many thousands of 
 pounds coming annually to its mistress from meat and 
 wool. 
 
 She confided some of these ideas to Arthur Alee and a 
 few neighbouring farmers. One and all discouraged her, 
 and she told herself angrily that the yeomen were jealous 
 — as for Alee, it was just his usual silliness. She found 
 that she had a more appreciative listener in Dick Socknersh. 
 He received all her plans with deep respect, and sometimes 
 an admiring "Surelye, Missus," would come from his lips 
 that parted more readily for food than for speech. Joanna 
 found that she enjoyed seeking him out in the barn, or 
 turning off the road to where he stood leaning against his 
 crook with his dog against his legs. . . . 
 
 "You'd never believe the lot there is in sheep-keeping, 
 Socknersh ; and the wonders you can do if you have knowl- 
 edge and information. Now the folks around here, they're 
 middling sensible, but they ain't what you'd call clever. 
 They're stuck in their ways, as you might say. Now if you 
 open your mind properly, you can learn a lot of things out 
 of books. My poor father had some wonderful books upon 
 his shelves that are mine to read now, and you'd be sur- 
 prised at the lot I've learned out of 'em, even though I've 
 been sheep-raising all my life." 
 
 "Surelye. Missus." 
 
 "Now I'll tell you something about sheep-raising that 
 has never been done here all the hundreds of years there's 
 been sheep on the Marsh. And that's the proper crossing 
 of sheep. My book tells me that there's been useful new
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 33 
 
 breeds started that way and lots of money made. Now, 
 would you believe it, they've never tried crossing down 
 here on the Marsh, except just once or twice with South- 
 downs? — And that's silly, seeing as the Southdown is a 
 smaller sheep than ours, and I don't see any sense in bring- 
 ing down our fine big sheep that can stand all waters and 
 weathers. If I was to cross 'em, I'd sooner cross 'em with 
 rams bigger than themselves. I know they say that small 
 joints of mutton are all the style nowadays, but I like a 
 fine big animal — besides, think of the fleeces." 
 
 Socknersh apparently thought of them so profoundly that 
 he was choked of utterance, but Joanna could tell that he 
 was going to speak by the restless moving of his eyes under 
 their strangely long dark lashes and by the little husky 
 sounds he made in his throat. She stood watching him 
 with a smile on her face. 
 
 "Well, Socknersh — you were going to say ..." 
 
 "I wur going to say, Missus, as my maaster up at Garlinge 
 Green, whur I wur afore I took to the marsh at Botolph's 
 Bridge — my maaster, Mus' Pebsham, had a valiant set of 
 Spanish ship as big as liddle cattle ; you shud ought to 
 have seen them." 
 
 "Did he do any crossing with 'cm?" 
 
 "No, Missus — leastways not whiles I wur up at the 
 Green." 
 
 Joanna stared through the thick red sunset to the hori:^on. 
 Marvellous plans were forming in her head — part, they 
 seemed, of the fiery shapes that the clouds had raised in the 
 west beyond Rye hill. Those clouds walked forth as flocks 
 of shecf) — huge sheep under mountainous fleeces, the won- 
 der of the Marsh and the glory of Ansdore. . . . 
 
 "Socknersh ..." 
 
 "Yes, Missu.s." 
 
 She hesitated whether she should share with him her 
 new inspiration. It would be good to hear him say "Sure- 
 lye, Missus" in that admiring husky voice. He was the 
 only one of her farm-hands who, she felt, had any defer-
 
 34 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 ence towards her — any real loyalty, though he was the last 
 come. 
 
 "Socknersh, d'you think your Master up at Garlinge 
 would let me hire one or two rams to cross with my ewes? 
 — I might go up and have a look at 'em. I don't know as 
 I've ever seen a Spanish sheep. . . . Garlinge is up by 
 Court-at-Street, ain't it?" 
 
 "Yes, Missus. 'Tis an unaccountable way from here." 
 
 "I'd write first. What d'you think of the notion, Sock- 
 nersh? Don't you think that a cross between a Spanish 
 sheep and a Kent sheep ud be an uncommon fine animal?" 
 
 "Surelye, Missus." 
 
 That night Joanna dreamed that giant sheep as big as 
 bullocks were being herded on the Marsh by a giant shep- 
 herd. 
 
 § 10 
 
 Spring brought a blooming to Ansdore as well as to the 
 Marsh. Joanna had postponed, after all, her house-paint- 
 ing till the winter months of rotting sea mists were over. 
 But in April the ladders striped her house-front, and soon 
 her windows and doors began to start luridly out of their 
 surroundings of mellowed tiles and brick. After much 
 deliberation she had chosen yellow for her colour, taste- 
 fully picked out with green. She had always been partial 
 to yellow — it was a colour that "showed up" well, and she 
 was also influenced by the fact that there was no other 
 yellow-piped dwelling on the marsh. 
 
 Her neighbours disapproved of her choice for the same 
 reasons that had induced her to make it. They were 
 shocked by the fact that you could see her front door from 
 half a mile ofif on the Brodnyx Road ; it was just like 
 Joanna Godden to choose a colour that shrieked across the 
 landscape instead of merging itself unobtrusively into it. 
 But there was a still worse shock in store for public opinion, 
 and that was when she decided to repaint her waggons as 
 well as her house.
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 35 
 
 Hitherto there had been only one shape and colour of 
 waggon on the marsh — a plain low-sided trough of deep 
 sea-blue. The name was always painted in white on a 
 small black wooden square attached to the side. Thomas 
 Godden's waggons had been no departure from this rule. 
 It was left to his daughter to flout tradition and, by some 
 obscure process of local reasoning, bring discredit to her 
 dead father, by painting her waggons yellow instead of 
 blue. The evil went deeper than mere colour. Joanna 
 was a travelled woman, having once been to the Isle of 
 Wight, and it suddenly struck her that, since she was re- 
 painting, she might give her three waggons the high gondola- 
 shaped fronts that she had admired in the neighbourhood 
 of Shanklin and Ventnor. These she further beautified with 
 a rich, scrolled design, and her name in large, ornate let- 
 tering — "Joanna Godden. Little Ansdore. Walland 
 Marsh" — so that her waggons went forth upon the roads 
 very much as the old men o' war of King Edward's fleet 
 had sailed over that same country when it was fathoms 
 deep under the seas of Rye Bay. . . . With their towering, 
 decorated poops they were more like mad galleys of a bye- 
 gone age than sober waggons of a nineteenth century farm. 
 
 Her improvements gave her a sense of adventurous satis- 
 faction — her house with its yellow windows and doors, 
 with its new curtains of swaggering design — her high 
 pooped waggons — the coat with the brass buttons that old 
 Stuppeny wore when he drove behind her to market — her 
 dreams of giant sheep upon her innings — all appealed to 
 something fundamental in her which was big and boastful. 
 She even liked the gossip with which she was surrounded, 
 the looks that were turned ujion her when she drove into 
 Rye or Lydd or New Romney — the "there goes Joanna 
 Godden" of folk she passed. She had no acute sense of 
 their disapproval ; if she became aware of it she would 
 only repeat to herself that she would "show 'em the style" 
 — which she certainly did.
 
 36 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 § 11 
 
 Arthur Alee was very much upset by the gossip about 
 Joanna. 
 
 "All you've done since you started running Ansdore is 
 to get yourself talked about," he said sadly. 
 
 "Well, I don't mind that." 
 
 "No, but you should ought to. A woman should ought 
 to be modest and timid and not paint her house so's it 
 shows up five mile off — first your house, and then your 
 waggons — it'll be your face next." 
 
 "Arthur Alee, you're very rude, and till you learn to be 
 civil you can keep out of my house — the same as you can 
 see five mile off." 
 
 Alee, who really felt bitter and miserable, took her at 
 her word and kept away for nearly a fortnight. Joanna 
 was not sorry, for he had been highly disapproving on the 
 matter of the Spanish sheep, and she was anxious to carry 
 out her plan in his absence. A letter to Garlinge Green 
 had revealed the fact that Socknersh's late master had re- 
 moved to a farm near Northampton ; he still bred Spanish 
 sheep but the risk of Joanna's venture was increased by 
 the high price she would have to pay for railway transport 
 as well as in fees. However, once she had set her heart 
 on anything, she would let nothing stand in her way. vSock- 
 nersh was inclined to be aghast at all the money the affair 
 would cost, but Joanna soon talked him into an agreeable 
 "Surelye." 
 
 "We'll get it all back," she told him. "Our lambs ull 
 be the biggest at market, and ull fetch the biggest prices 
 too." 
 
 It pleased Joanna to talk of Socknersh and herself as 
 "we," though she would bitterly have resented an idea of 
 joint responsibility in the days of Fuller. The rites of 
 lambing and shearing had not dimmed her faith in the High 
 Priest she had chosen for Ansdore's most sacred mysteries 
 Socknersh was a man who was automatically "good with
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 37 
 
 sheep." The scared and trembling ewes seemed to see in 
 him a kind of affinity with themselves, and lay still under 
 his big, brown, quiet hands. He had not much "head," 
 but he had that queer inward kinship with animals which 
 is sometimes found in intensely simple natures, and Joanna 
 felt equal to managing the "head" part of the business for 
 both. It pleased her to think that the looker — who is always 
 the principal man on a farm such as Ansdore, where sheep- 
 rearing is the main business — deferred to her openly, before 
 the other hands, spoke to her with drawling respect, and 
 for ever followed her with his humble eyes. 
 
 She liked to feel those eyes upon her. All his strength 
 and bigness, all his manhood, huge and unaware, seemed 
 to lie deep in them like a monster coiled up under the sea. 
 When he looked at her, he seemed to lose that heavy 
 dumbness, that inarticulate stupidity which occasionally 
 stirred and vexed even her good disposition ; his mouth 
 might still be shut, but his eyes were fluent — they told her 
 not only of his manhood but of her womanhood besides. 
 
 Socknersh lived alone in the looker's cottage which had 
 always belonged to Ansdore. It stood away on the Kent 
 Innings, on the very brink of the Ditch which here gave 
 a great loop to allow a peninsula of Sussex to claim its 
 rights against the Kentish monks. It was a lonely little 
 cottage, all rusted over with lichen, and sometimes Joanna 
 felt sorry for Socknersh away there by himself beside the 
 Ditch. She sent him over a flock mattress and a woollen 
 blanket in case the old ague-spectre of the marsh still 
 haunted that desolate corner of water and reeds. 
 
 § 12 
 
 Towards the end of tliat Autumn, Joanna and Ellen 
 Godden came out of their mourning. As was usual on such 
 occasions, they chose a Sunday for their first appearance 
 in colours. Half mourning was not worn on the Marsh, 
 so there was no interval of grey and violet between Joanna's
 
 38 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 hearse-like costume of crape and nodding feathers and the 
 tan-coloured gown in which she astonished the twin parishes 
 of Brodnyx and Pedlinge on the first Sunday in November. 
 Her hat was of sage green and contained a bird unknown to 
 natural history. From her ears swung huge jade earrings, 
 in succession to the jet ones that had dangled against her 
 neck on Sundays for a year — she must have bought them, 
 for everyone knew that her mother, Anne Godden, had left 
 but one pair. 
 
 Altogether the sight of Joanna was so breathless that 
 a great many people never noticed Ellen or at best only 
 saw her hat as it went past the tops of their pews. Joanna 
 realised this, and being anxious that no one should miss 
 the sight of Ellen's new magenta pelisse with facings of 
 silver braid, she made her stand on the seat while the 
 psalms were sung. 
 
 The service was in Brodnyx church in the morning — in 
 the evening it would be at Pedlinge. Brodnyx had so far 
 escaped the restorer, and the pews were huge wooden boxes, 
 sometimes fitted with a table in the middle, while Sir Harry 
 Trevor's, which he never occupied, except when his sons 
 were at home, was further provided with a stove — all the 
 heating there was in the three aisles. There was also a 
 two-decker pulpit at the east end and over the dim little 
 altar hung an escutcheon of Royal George — the lion and 
 the unicorn fighting for the crown amid much scroll-work. 
 
 Like most churches on the marsh it was much too big 
 for its parish, and if the entire population of Brodnyx and 
 Pedlinge had crowded into it, it would not have been full. 
 This made Joanna and Ellen all the more conspicuous — 
 they w^re alone in their great horse-box of a pew, except 
 for many prayer-books and hassocks — there were as many 
 hassocks in Brodnyx church as there were sheep on the 
 Brodnyx innings. Joanna, as usual, behaved very devoutly 
 and did not look about her. She had an immense respect 
 for the Church, and always followed the service word for
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 39 
 
 word in her huge calf -bound Prayer-book, expecting Ellen 
 to do the same — an expectation which involved an immense 
 amount of scuffling and angry whispers in their pew. 
 
 However, though her eyes were on her book, she was 
 proudly conscious that everyone else's eyes were on her. 
 Even the Rector must have seen her — as indeed from his 
 elevated position on the bottom deck of the pulpit he could 
 scarcely help doing — and his distraction was marked by 
 occasional stutters and the intrusion of an evening Collect. 
 He was a nervous, deprecating little man, terribly scared 
 of his flock, and ruefully conscious of his own shortcomings 
 and the shortcomings of his church. Visiting priests had 
 told him that Brodnyx church was a disgrace, with its 
 false stresses of pew and pulpit and the lion and the unicorn 
 dancing above the throne of the King of kings — they said 
 he ought to have it restored. They did not trouble about 
 where the money was to come from, but Mr. Pratt knew 
 he could not get it out of his congregation, who did not 
 like to have things changed from the manner of their 
 fathers — indeed there had been complaints when he had 
 dislodged the owls that had nested under the gallery from 
 an immemorial rector's day. 
 
 The service came to an end with the singing of a hymn 
 to an accompaniment of grunts and wheezes from an 
 ancient harmonium and the dropping of pennies and three- 
 penny bits into a wooden plate. Then the congregation 
 hurried out to the civilities of the churchyard. 
 
 From outside Brodnyx church looked even more Georgian 
 and abandoned. Its three aisles were without ornament 
 or architecture; there was no tower, but beside it stood a 
 peculiar and unexplained erection, shaped like a pagoda, 
 in three tiers of black and battered tar-boarding. It had 
 a slight cant towards the church, and suggested nothing so 
 much as a disreputable Victorian widow, in tippet, mantle 
 and crinoline, seeking the support of a stone wall after a 
 carouse. 
 
 In the churchyard, among the graves the congregation
 
 40 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 assembled and talked of or to Joanna. It was noticeable 
 that the women judged her more kindly than the men. 
 
 "She can't help her taste," said Mrs. Vine, "and she's a 
 kind-hearted thing." 
 
 "If you ask me," said Mrs. Prickett, "her taste ain't so 
 bad if only she'd have things a bit quieter. But she's like 
 a child with her yallers and greens." 
 
 "She's more like an organist's monkey," said her hus- 
 band. "What ud I do if I ever saw you tricked out like 
 that, Mrs. Prickett?" 
 
 "Oh, I'd never wear such clothes, Master, as you know 
 well. But then I'm a different looking sort of woman. I 
 wouldn't go so far as to say them bright colours don't suit 
 Joanna Godden." 
 
 "I never thought much of her looks." 
 
 "Nor of her looker — he 1 he 1" joined in Furnese with a 
 glance in Joanna's direction. 
 
 She was talking to Dick Socknersh, who had been to 
 church with the other hands that could be spared from 
 the farm. She asked him if he had liked the sermon, and 
 then told him to get off home quickly and give the tegs 
 their swill. 
 
 "Reckon he don't know a teg from a tup," said Furnese. 
 
 "Oh, surel>^, Mr. Furnese, he aun't a bad looker. Jim 
 Harmer said he wur justabout wonderful with the ewes 
 at the shearing." 
 
 "Maybe — but he'd three sway-backed lambs at Rye mar- 
 ket on Thursday." 
 
 "Sway-backs !" 
 
 "Three. 'Twas a shame." 
 
 "But Joanna told me he was such a fine, wonderful man 
 with the sheep — as he'd got 'em to market about half as 
 tired and twice as quick as Fuller used to in his day." 
 
 "Ah, but then she's unaccountable set on young Sock- 
 nersh. He lets her do what she likes with her sheep, and 
 he's a stout figure of a man, too. Joanna Godden always 
 was partial to stout-looking men."
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 41 
 
 "But she'd never be such a fool as to get sweet on her 
 looker." 
 
 "Well, that's wot they're saying at the Woolpack." 
 
 "The Woolpack ! Did you ever hear of such a talk-hole 
 as you men get into when you're away from us ! They say 
 some unaccountable fine things at the Woolpack. I tell 
 you, Joanna ain't such a fool as to get sweet on Dick Sock- 
 nersh." 
 
 "She's been fool enough to cross Spanish sheep with her 
 own. Three rams she had sent all the way from furrin 
 parts by Northampton. I tell you, after that, she'd be fool 
 enough for anything." 
 
 "Maybe she'll do well by it." 
 
 "Maybe she'll do well by marrying Dick Socknersh. I 
 tell you, you doan't know naun about it, Missus. Who- 
 sumdever heard of such an outlandish, heathen, foolish 
 notion?" . . . 
 
 On the whole Joanna was delighted with the success of 
 her appearance. She walked home with Mrs. Southland 
 and Maggie Furnese, bridling a little under their glances, 
 while she discussed servants, and food-prices, and a new 
 way of pickling eggs. 
 
 She parted from them at Ansdore, and she and Ellen 
 went in to their Sunday's dinner of roast beef and York- 
 shire pudding. After this the day would proceed according 
 to the well-laid ceremonial that Joanna loved. Little Ellen, 
 with a pinafore tied over her Sabbath splendours, would 
 go into the kitchen to sit with the maids — get into their 
 laps, turn over their picture Bibles, examine their one or 
 two trinkets and strings of beads which they always brou.c;ht 
 into the kitchen on Sunday. Meanwhile Joanna would sit 
 in state in the parlour, her feet on a footstool, on her lap 
 a volume of Spurgeon's sermons. In the old days it had 
 always been her father who read sermons, but now he was 
 dead she had taken over this part of his duties with the rest, 
 and if the afternoon generally ended in sleep, sleep was a 
 necessary part of a well-kept Sabbath day.
 
 42 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 § 13 
 
 When Christmas came that year, Joanna was inspired 
 to celebrate it with a party. The Christmas before she 
 had been in mourning, but in her father's day it had been 
 usual to invite a few respectable farmers to a respectable 
 revel, beginning with high tea, then proceeding through 
 whist to a hot supper. Joanna would have failed in her 
 duty to "poor Father" if she had not maintained this cus- 
 tom, and she would have failed in consistency to herself if 
 she had not improved upon it — embellished it with one or 
 two ornate touches, which lifted it out of its prosaic rut of 
 similarity to a dozen entertainments given at a dozen farms, 
 and made it a rather wonderful and terrible occasion to 
 most dwellers on the marsh. 
 
 To begin with, the invitations were not delivered, accord- 
 ing to custom, verbally in the churchyard after Morning 
 Prayer on Sunday — they were written on cards, as Mrs. 
 Saville of Dungemarsh Court wrote them, and distributed 
 through the unwonted and expensive medium of the post. 
 When their recipients had done exclaiming over the \vaste 
 of a penny stamp, they were further astonished to see the 
 word "Music" written in the corner — Joanna had stuck 
 very closely to her Dungemarsh Court model. What could 
 the music be? Was the Brodnyx Brass Band going to 
 play? Or had Joanna hired Miss Patty Southland, who 
 gave music lessons on the marsh? 
 
 She had done neither of these things. When her visitors 
 assembled, stuffed into her two parlours, while the eatables 
 were spread in a kitchen metamorphosed with decorations 
 of crinkled paper, they found, buttressed into a corner by 
 the freshly tuned piano, the Rye Quartet, consisting of the 
 piano-tuner himself, his wife who played the 'cello, and 
 his two daughters with fiddles and white pique frocks. At 
 first the music was rather an embarrassment, for while it 
 played eating and conversation were alike suspended, and 
 the guests stood with open mouths and cooling cups of tea
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 43 
 
 till Mr. Pliimmer's final chords released their tongues and 
 filled their mouths with awkward simultaneousness. How- 
 ever, after a time the general awe abated, and soon the 
 R} e Quartet was swamped in a terrific noise of tongues and 
 mastication. 
 
 Everyone was staring at Joanna's dress, for it was Low 
 — quite four inches of her skin must have shown between 
 its topmost frill and the base of her sturdy throat. The 
 sleeves stopped short at the elbow, showing a very soft, 
 white forearm, in contrast with brown, roughened hands. 
 Altogether it was a daring display, and one or two of the 
 Miss Vines and Southlands and Fumeses wondered "how 
 Joanna could do it." 
 
 Proudly conscious of the eyes fixed upon her, she moved 
 — or rather, it must be confessed, squeezed — about among 
 her guests. She had put on new manners with her new 
 clothes, and was full of a rather mincing civility. 
 
 "Pray, Mrs. Cobb, may I get you another cup of tea?" — 
 "Just one more piece of cake, Mr. Alee?" — "Oh, please, 
 Miss Prickett — just a leetle bit of ham." 
 
 Ellen followed her sister about, pulling at her skirt. She 
 was dressed in white, and her hair was crimped, and tied 
 with pink ribbons. At eight o'clock she was ordered up 
 to bed, and there was a great uproar, before, striking out 
 in all directions, she was carried upstairs under Joanna's 
 stalwart arm. The Rye Quartet tactfully started playing 
 to drown her screams, which continued for some time in 
 the room overhead. 
 
 The party did not break up till eleven, having spent five 
 hours standing squeezed like herrings under tiic Ansdore 
 beams, eating and drinking and talking, to the strains of 
 "The Blue Danube" and "See Me Dance the Polka." Local 
 opinion was a little bewildered by the entertainment — it 
 had been splendid, no doubt, anrl high class to an over- 
 whelming degree, but it had been distinctly uncomfortable, 
 even tiresome, and a great many people were uj^set by eat- 
 ing too much, since the refreshments had been served untir-
 
 44 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 ingly from six to eleven, while otliers had not had enough, 
 being nervous of eating their food so far from a table, and 
 clinging throughout the evening to their first helpings. 
 
 To Joanna, however, the evening was an uncriticised 
 success, and she was inspired to repeat it on a humbler 
 scale for the benefit of her servants. She knew that at 
 big houses there was often a servants' ball at Christmas, 
 and though she had no definite ambition to push herself 
 into the Manor class, she was anxious that Ansdore should 
 have every pomp and that things should be "done proper." 
 The mere solid comfort of prosperity was not enough 
 for her — she wanted the glitter and glamour of it as well, 
 she wanted her neighbours not only to realise it but to 
 exclaim about it. 
 
 Thus inspired she asked Prickett, Vine, Furnese and 
 other yeomen and tenants of the Marsh to send their hands, 
 men and maids, to Ansdore, for dancing and supper on 
 New Year's Eve. She found this celebration even more 
 thrilling than the earlier one. Somehow these humbler 
 preparations filled more of her time and thought than when 
 she had prepared to entertain her peers. She would not 
 wear her Low Dress, of course, but she would have her 
 pink one "done up" — a fall of lace and some beads sewn 
 on, for she must look her best. She saw herself opening 
 the ball with Dick Socknersh, her hand in his, his clumsy 
 arm round her waist. ... Of course old Stuppeny was 
 technically the head man at Ansdore, but he was too old 
 to dance — she would see he had plenty to eat and drink 
 instead — she would take the floor with Dick Socknersh, 
 and all eyes would be fixed upon her. 
 
 They certainly were, except when they dropped for a 
 wink at a neighbour. Joanna waltzing with Socknersh to 
 the trills of Mr. Elphick, the Brodnyx schoolmaster, seated 
 at the tinkling, ancient Collard, Joanna in her pink gown, 
 close fitting to her waist and then abnormally bunchy, with 
 her hair piled high and twisted with a strand of ribbon, 
 with her face flushed, her lips parted and her eyes bright.
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 45 
 
 was a sight from which no man and few women could 
 turn their eyes. Her vitality and happiness seemed to shine 
 from her skin, almost to light up the dark and heavy figure 
 of Socknersh in his Sunday blacks, as he staggered and 
 tumbled, for he could not dance. His big hand pawed at 
 her silken waist, while the other held hers crumpled in it 
 — his hair was greased with butter, and his skin with the 
 sweat of his endeavour as he turned her round. 
 
 That was the only time Joanna danced that night. For 
 the rest of the evening she went about among her guests, 
 seeing that all were well fed and had partners. As time 
 ■went on, gradually her brightness dimmed, and her eyes 
 became almost anxious as she searched among the dancers. 
 Each time she looked she seemed to see the same thing, 
 and each time she saw it, it was as if a fresh veil dropped 
 over her eyes. 
 
 At last, towards the end of the evening, she went up 
 again to Socknersh, 
 
 "Would you like me to dance this polka with you that's 
 coming?" 
 
 "Thank you. Missus — I'd be honoured, Missus — but I'm 
 promised to Martha Tilden." 
 
 "Martha! — You've danced with her nearly all the eve- 
 ning." 
 
 "She's bin middling kind to me, Missus, showing me the 
 steps and hops." 
 
 "Oh, well, since you've promised you must pay." 
 
 She turned her back on him, then suddenly smarted at 
 her own pettishness. 
 
 "You've the makings of a good dancer in you, if you'll 
 learn," she said over her shoulder. "I'm glad Martha's 
 teaching you." 
 
 § 14 
 
 Lambing was always late upon the Marsh. The wan 
 film of the winter grasses had faded off the April green 
 before the innings became noisy with bleating, and the
 
 46 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 new-born lambs could match their whiteness with the first 
 flowering of the blackthorn. 
 
 It was always an anxious time — though the marsh ewes 
 were hardy — and sleepless for shepherds, who from the 
 windows of their lonely lambing huts watched the yellow 
 spring-dazzle of the stars grow pale night after night. 
 They were bad hours to be awake, those hours of the April 
 dawn, for in them, the shepherds said, a strange call came 
 down from the country inland, straying scents of moss and 
 primroses reaching out towards the salt sea, calling men 
 away from the wind-stung levels and the tides and water- 
 courses, to where the little inland farms sleep in the shel- 
 tered hollows among the hop- vines, and the sunrise is warm 
 with scent of hidden flowers. 
 
 Dick Socknersh began to look wan and large-eyed under 
 the strain — he looked more haggard than the shepherd of 
 Yokes Court or the shepherd of Birdskitchen, though they 
 kept U.lt and vigil as long as he. His mistress, too, had 
 a fagged, sorrowful air, and soon it became known all over 
 the Three Marshes that Ansdore's lambing that year had 
 been a gigantic failure. 
 
 "It's her own fault," said Prickett at the Woolpack, "and 
 serve her right for getting shut of old Fuller, and then 
 getting stuck on this furrin heathen notion of Spanish 
 sheep. Anyone could have told her as the lambs ud be 
 too big and the ewes could never drop them safe — she 
 might have known it herself, surelye." 
 
 "It's her looker that should ought to have known better," 
 said Furnese. "Joanna Godden's a woman, fur all her 
 man's ways, and you can't expect her to have praaper 
 knowledge wud sheep." 
 
 "I wonder if she'll get shut of him after this," said Vine. 
 
 "Not she ! She don't see through him yet." 
 
 "She'll never see through him," said Prickett solemnly, 
 "the only kind of man a woman ever sees through is the 
 kind she don't like to look at." 
 
 Joanna certainly did not "see through" Dick Socknersh.
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 47 
 
 She knew that she was chiefly to blame for the tragedy 
 of her lambing, and when her reason told her that her 
 looker should have discouraged instead of obeyed and 
 abetted her, she rather angrily tossed the thought aside. 
 Socknersh had the sense to realise that she knew more about 
 sheep than he, and he had not understood that in this matter 
 she was walking out of her knowledge into experiment. 
 No one could have known that the scheme would turn out 
 so badly — the Spanish rams had not been so big after all, 
 only a little bigger than her ewes ... if anyone should 
 have foreseen trouble it was the Northampton farmer who 
 knew the size of Spanish lambs at birth, and from his 
 Kentish experience must also have some knowledge of 
 Romney Marsh sheep. 
 
 But though she succeeded in getting all the guilt off her 
 looker and some of it off herself, she was nevertheless 
 stricken by the greatness of the tragedy. It was not only 
 the financial losses in which she was involved, or the deri- 
 sion of her neighbours, or the fulfilment of their prophecy 
 — or even the fall of her own pride and the shattering of 
 that dream in which the giant sheep walked — there was 
 also an element of almost savage pity for the animals whom 
 her daring had betrayed. Those dead ewes, too stupid to 
 mate themselves profitably and now the victims of the 
 farm-socialism that had experimented with them. ... At 
 first she ordered Socknersh to save the ewes even at the 
 cost of the lambs, then when in the little looker's hut she 
 saw a ewe despairingly lick the fleece of its dead lamb, 
 an even deeper grief and pity smote her, and she burst 
 suddenly and stormily into tears. 
 
 Sinking on her knees on the dirty floor, she covered her 
 face, and rocked herself to and fro. Socknersh sat on his 
 three-legged stool, staring at her in silence. His forehead 
 crumpled slightly and his mouth twitched, as the slow 
 processes of his thought shook him. The air was thick with 
 the fumes of his brazier, from which an angry red glow 
 fell on Joanna as she knelt and wept.
 
 48 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 § 15 
 
 When the first sharpness of death had passed from those 
 days, Joanna's sanguine nature, her hopeful bumptiousness, 
 revived. Her pity for the dead lambs and her fellow- 
 feeling of compassion for the ewes would prevent her ever 
 dreaming of a new experiment, but already she was dream- 
 ing of a partial justification of the old one — her cross-bred 
 lambs would grow so big both in size and price that they 
 would, even in tht!" diminished numbers, pay for her daring 
 and proclaim its success to those who jeered and doubted. 
 
 Certainly those lambs which had survived their birth now 
 promised well. They were bigger than the pure-bred Kent 
 lambs, and seemed hardy enough. Joanna watched them 
 grow, and broke away from marsh tradition to the extent 
 of giving them cake — she was afraid they might turn boney. 
 
 As the Summer advanced, she pointed them out trium- 
 phantly to one or two farmers. They were fine animals, 
 she said, and justified her experiment, though she would 
 never repeat it on account of the cost ; she did not expect 
 to do more than cover her expenses. 
 
 "You'll be lucky if you do that," said Prickctt rather 
 brutally, "they look middling poor in wool." 
 
 Joanna was not discouraged, or even offended, for she 
 interpreted all Prickett's remarks in the light of Great 
 Ansdore's jealousy of Little Ansdore. 
 
 Later on Martha Tilden told her that they were saying 
 much the same at the Woolpack, 
 
 "I don't care what they say at the Woolpack," cried 
 Joanna, "and what business have you to know what they 
 say there? I don't like my gals hanging around pubs." 
 
 T didn't hang araound, Ma'am. 'Twas Socknersh toald 
 
 me. 
 
 "Socknersh had no business to tell you — it's no concern 
 of yours." 
 
 Martha put her hand over her mouth to hide a grin, but
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 49 
 
 Joanna could see it in her eyes and the dimples of her 
 cheeks. 
 
 A sudden anger seized her. 
 
 "I won't have you gossiping with Socknersh, neither — 
 you keep away from my men. I've often wondered why 
 the place looks in proper need of scrubbing, and now I 
 know. You can do your work or you can pack off. I 
 won't have you fooling around with my men." 
 
 "I doan't fool ariiound wud your men," cried Martha 
 indignantly. She was going to add "I leave that to you," 
 but she thought better of it, because for several reasons 
 she wanted to keep her place. 
 
 Joanna flounced off, and went to find Socknersh at the 
 shearing. In the shelter of some hurdles he and one or 
 two travelling shearers were busy with the ewes' fleeces. 
 She noticed that the animal Socknersh was working on lay 
 quiet between his feet, while the other men held theirs with 
 difficulty and many struggles. The July sunshine seemed 
 to hold the scene as it held the marsh in a steep of shining 
 stillness. The silence was broken by many small sounds — 
 the clip of the shears, the panting of the waiting sheep and 
 of the dogs that guarded them, and every now and then 
 the sudden scraping scuttle of the released victim as it 
 sprang up from the shearer's feet and dashed off to where 
 the shorn sheep huddled naked and ashamed together. 
 Joanna watched for a moment without speaking; then 
 suddenly she broke out : 
 
 "Socknersh, I hear it's said that the new lambs uU be 
 poor in wool." 
 
 "They're saying it, Missus, but it aun't true." 
 
 "I don't care if it's true or not. You shouldn't ought to 
 tell my gal Martha such things before you tell me." 
 
 Socknersh's eyes opened wide, and the other men looked 
 up from their work. 
 
 "Seemingly," continued Joanna, "everyone on this farm 
 hears everything bffr)rc I do, and it ain't right. Next time 
 you hear a lot of tedious gossip, Dick Socknersh, you come
 
 50 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 and tell me, and don't waste it on the gals, making them 
 idle." 
 
 She went away, her eyes bright with anger, and then 
 suddenly her heart smote her. Suppose Socknersh took 
 offence and gave notice. She had rebuked him publicly 
 before the hired shearers — it was enough to make any man 
 turn. But what should she do if he went? — lie must not 
 go. She would never get anyone like him. She almost 
 turned and went back, but had enough sense to stop — a 
 public apology would only make a worse scandal of a public 
 rebuke. She must wait and see him alone . . . the next 
 minute she knew further that she must not apologise, and 
 the minute after she knew further still — almost further 
 than she could bear — that in denying herself an apology 
 she was denying herself a luxury, that she wanted to apolo- 
 gise, to kneel at Socknersh's clay-baked feet and beg his 
 forgiveness, to humble herself before him by her penitence 
 so that he could exalt her by his pardon. . . , 
 
 "Good sakes ! Whatever's the matter with me ?" thought 
 Joanna. 
 
 § 16 
 
 Her apology took the discreet form of a side of bacon, 
 and Socknersh did not give notice — had evidently never 
 thought of it. Of course the shearers spread the story of 
 Joanna's outburst when they went on to SI inches and Birds- 
 kitchen and other farms, but no one was surprised that the 
 shepherd stayed on. 
 
 "He'd never be such a fool as to give up being looker 
 a day before she makes him Master," said Cobb of Slinches. 
 
 "And when he's Master," said Mrs. Cobb, "he'll get his 
 own back for her sassing him before Harmer and his men." 
 
 A few weeks later, Socknersh brought the first of the 
 cross-bred lambs to market at Rye, and Joanna's wonderful 
 sheep-breeding scheme was finally sealed a failure. The 
 lambs were not only poor in wool, but coarse in meat, and 
 the butchers would not deal, small mutton being the fashion.
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 51 
 
 Altogether, they fetched lower prices than the Kent lambs, 
 and the rumour of Ansdore's losses mounted to over four 
 hundred pounds. 
 
 Rumour was not very wide of the fact — what with hiring 
 fees, railway expenses, the loss of ewes and lambs at the 
 lambing, and the extra diet and care which panic had 
 undertaken for the survivors, the venture had put about 
 two hundred and sixty pounds on the debit side of Joanna's 
 accounts. She was able to meet her losses — her father had 
 died with a comfortable balance in Lewes Old Bank, and 
 she had always paid ready money, so was without any 
 encumbrance of debt — but Ansdore was bound to feel the 
 blow, which had shorn it of its fleece of pleasant profits. 
 Joanna was for the first time confronted by the need for 
 economy, and she hated economy with all the lavish, colour- 
 loving powers of her nature. Even now she would not bend 
 herself to retrenchment — not a man less in the yard, not 
 a girl less in the kitchen, as her neighbours had expected. 
 
 But the failure of the cross-bred lambs did not end the 
 tale of Ansdore's misadventures. There was a lot of dip- 
 ping for sheep-scab on the marsh that August, and it soon 
 became known that several of Joanna Godden's sheep and 
 lambs had died after the second dip. 
 
 "That's her valiant Socknersh again," said Prickett — 
 "guv 'em a double arsenic dip. Good sakes ! That woman 
 had better be quick and marry him before he does any more 
 harm as her looker." 
 
 "There's more than he gives a double arsenic dip, sure- 
 lye." 
 
 "Surelye — but they mixes the can a bit. Broadhurst 
 says as Socknersh's second dip was as strong as his fust." 
 
 The feeling about Socknersh's incapacity reached such 
 a point that more than one warning was given Joanna for 
 her father's sake, and one at least for her own, from Arthur 
 Alee. 
 
 "I shouldn't say it, Joanna, if it wasn't true, but a man
 
 52 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 who puts a sheep into poison wash twice in a fortnight 
 isn't fit to be anyone's looker." 
 
 "But we were dipping for sheep-scab — that takes some- 
 thing stronger than Keatings." 
 
 "Yes, but the point is, d'you see, that you give 'em the 
 first dip in arsenic stuff, and the next shouldn't ought to be 
 poison at all — there's a lot of good safe dips on the market, 
 that ull do very well for a second wash." 
 
 "Socknersh knows his business." 
 
 "He don't — that's why I'm speaking. Fuller ud never 
 have done what he's done. He's lost you a dozen prime 
 sheep on the top of all your other losses." 
 
 The reference was unfortunate. Joanna's cheekbones 
 darkened ominously. 
 
 "It's all very well for you to talk, Arthur Alee, for you 
 think no one can run Ansdore except yourself who'll never 
 get the chance. It's well known around, in spite of what 
 you say, that Socknersh is valiant with sheep — no one can 
 handle 'em as he can ; at the shearing Harmer and his men 
 were full of it — how the ewes ud keep quiet for him as 
 for nobody else — and 'twas the same at the lambing. It 
 wasn't his fault that the lambs died, but because that chap 
 at Northampton never told us what he should ought. . . . 
 I tell you, I've never had anyone like him for handling 
 sheep — they're quite different with him from what they 
 were with that rude old Fuller, barking after 'em like a 
 dog along the Brodnyx road and bringing 'em up to Rye 
 all raggled and draggled and dusty as mops ... he knows 
 how to manage sheep — he's like one of themselves." 
 
 "That's justabout it — he's like another sheep, so they 
 ain't scared of him, but he can do no more for 'em than 
 another sheep could, neither. He's ignorant — he's got no 
 sense nor know, or he'd never have let you breed with 
 them Spanishes, or given you a poisonous double-dip — and 
 he's always having sway-backs up at market, too, and tic 
 and hoose and fluke. . . . Oh, Joanna, if you're any bit 
 wise you'll get shut of him before he messes you all up.
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 53 
 
 And you know what folks say — they say you'd have got 
 shut of him months agone if you hadn't been so unaccounta- 
 ble set on him, so as they say — yes, they say one day you'll 
 marry him and make him Master of Ansdore." 
 
 Alce's face flamed as red as his whiskers and nearly as 
 red as Joanna's. For a moment she faced him speechless, 
 her mouth open. 
 
 "Oh, that's what they say, is it!" she broke out at last, 
 "they say I'd marry Dick Socknersh, who looks after my 
 sheep, and who's like a sheep himself. They think I'd 
 marry a man who's got no more'n two words on his tongue 
 and half that number of ideas in his head — who can't think 
 without it's giving him a headache — who comes of no class 
 of people — his father and mother were hedge people up at 
 Anvil Green — who gets eighteen bob a week as my looker 
 ^who— " 
 
 "Don't get so vrothered, Joanna. I'm only telling you 
 what folk say, and if you'll stop and think, you'll see they've 
 got some reason. Your looker's done things that no farmer 
 on this marsh ud put up with a month, and yet you keep 
 him on, you with all your fine ideas about farming and 
 running Ansdore as your poor father ud have had it . . . 
 and then he's a well set-up young man too, nice-looking 
 and stout as I won't deny, and you're a young woman that 
 I'd say was nice-looking too, and it's only natural folks 
 should talk when they see a pretty woman hanging on to 
 a handsome chap in spite of his having half bust her." 
 
 "He hasn't half bust me, nor a quarter, neither — and I 
 ain't hanging on to him, as you're elegant enough to say. 
 I keep him as my looker because he's valiant with the sheep 
 and manages 'em as if born to it, and because he minds 
 what I say and doesn't sass me back or meddle, as some I 
 could name. As for being set on him, I'm not so far below 
 myself as all that. You must think unaccountable low of 
 me, Arthur Alee, if you figure I'd get sweet on a man who's 
 courting my chicken gal, which is what Dick Socknersh is 
 doing."
 
 54 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 "Courting Martha Tilclen?" 
 
 "Yes, my chicken gal. And you think I'd look at him! — 
 I ! , . . You must think middling low of me, Arthur Alee 
 ... a man who's courting my chicken gal." 
 
 "I'd always thought as Martha Tilden — but you must 
 know best. Well, if he's courting her, I hope as he'll marry 
 her soon and show folks they're wrong about him and you." 
 
 "They should ought to be ashamed of themselves to need 
 showing. I look at a man who's courting my chicken gal ! 
 — I never ! I tell you what I'll do — I'll raise his wages, so 
 as he can marry her at once — my chicken gal — and so as 
 folk ull know that I'm satisfied with him as my looker." 
 
 And Joanna marched off up the drive, where this con- 
 versation had taken place. 
 
 § 17 
 
 She raised Socknersh's wages to twenty shillings the next 
 day, and it was not due to any wordy flow of his gratitude 
 that the name of Martha Tilden was not mentioned between 
 them. "Better leave it," thought Joanna to herself, "after 
 all, I'm not sure — and she's a slut. I'd sooner he married 
 a cleaner, steadier sort of gal." 
 
 Grace Wickens had already departed, her cocoa-making 
 tendencies having lately passed into mania — and her suc- 
 cessor was an older woman, a widow, who had fallen on 
 evil days. She was a woman of few words, and Joanna 
 wondered a little when one afternoon she said to her rather 
 anxiously "I'd lik to speak to you. Ma'am — in private, if 
 you please." 
 
 They went into the larder and Mrs. Tolhurst began : 
 
 "I hardly lik to say it to you, Miss Joanna, being a single 
 spinster . . ," 
 
 This was a bad beginning, for Joanna flamed at once at 
 the implication that her spinsterhood put her at any dis- 
 advantage as a woman of the world.
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 55 
 
 "Don't talk nonsense, Mrs. Tolhurst ; I may be unwed 
 as yet, but I'm none of your Misses." 
 
 "No, Ma'am — well, it's about this Martha Tilden— " 
 
 Joanna started. 
 
 "What about her?" 
 
 "Only, Ma'am, that she's six months gone." 
 
 There was no chair in the larder, or Joanna would have 
 fallen into it — instead she staggered back against the shelves, 
 with a great rattle of crockery. Her face was as white as 
 her own plates, and for a moment she could not speak. 
 
 "I made bold to tell you, Miss Joanna, for all the neigh- 
 bourhood's beginning to talk — and the gal getting near her 
 time and all. ... I thought maybe you'd have noticed. . . . 
 Don't be in such a terrilication about it, Miss Joanna. . . . 
 I'm sorry I told you — maybe I shud ought to have spuck 
 to the gal fust . . ." 
 
 "Don't be a fool ... the dirty slut ! — I'll learn her . . . 
 under my very roof — " 
 
 "Oh, no. Ma'am, 'twasn't under your roof — we shouldn't 
 have allowed it. She used to meet him in the field down 
 by Beggar's Bush . . ." 
 
 "Hold your tongue !" 
 
 Mrs. Tolhurst was offended ; she thought her mistress's 
 behaviour unwarranted either by modesty or indignation. 
 There were burning tears in Joanna's eyes as she flung her- 
 self out of the room. She was blind as she went down the 
 passage, twisting her apron furiously in her hands. 
 
 "Martha Tilden!" she called— "Martha Tilden!" 
 
 "Oh," she thought in her heart, "1 raised his wages so's 
 he could marry her — for months this has been going on 
 ... the field down by Beggar's Bush. . . . Oh, I could 
 kill her!" Then shouting into the yard — "Martha Tilden! 
 Martha Tilden !" 
 
 "I'm coming, Miss Joanna," Martha's soft drawly voice 
 increased her bitterness ; her own, compared with it, sounded 
 harsh, empty, incxj)cricnce(l. Martha's voice was full of 
 the secrets of Dick Socknersh's love.
 
 56 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 "Come into the dairy," she said hoarsely. 
 
 IMartha came and stood before her. She evidently knew 
 what was ahead, for she looked pale and a little scared, and 
 yet withal she had about her a strange air of confidence 
 . . . though not so strange, after all, since she carried Dick 
 Socknersh's child, and her memory was full of his caresses 
 and the secrets of his love . . . thus bravely could Joanna 
 herself have faced an angry world. , . . 
 
 "You leave my service at once," she said. 
 
 Martha began to cry. 
 
 "You know what for." 
 
 "Yes, Miss Joanna." 
 
 "I wonder you've had the impudence to go about as 
 you've done — eating my food and taking my wages, while 
 all the time you've been carrying on with my looker." 
 
 "Your looker? — No, Miss Joanna." 
 
 "What d'you mean?" 
 
 "I don't know what you mean, Ma'am — I've never had 
 naun to do wud Dick Socknersh if it's him you're thinking 
 of." 
 
 "Not Socknersh, but I . . . who is the man, then?" 
 
 "Well, it aun't no secret from anyone but you. Miss 
 Joanna, so I doan't mind telling you as my boy is Peter 
 Relf, their looker at Old Honeychild. We've bin walking 
 out ever sinst the day he came after your plaace as looker 
 here, and we'd be married now if he hadn't his old mother 
 and dad to keep, and got into some nasty silly trouble wud 
 them fellers wot put money on horses they've never seen. 
 , . . He doan't get more'n fifteen bob a week at Honey- 
 child, and he can't keep the old folk on less than eight, them 
 being always filling themselves with doctor's stuff. . . ." 
 
 Joanna was not listening to her — she sat amazed and 
 pale, her heart beating in heavy thuds of relief. Mixed 
 with her happiness there was a little shame, for she saw 
 that the mistake had arisen from her putting herself too 
 realistically in ATartha's place. Why had she jumped to 
 the conclusion that the girl's lover was Socknersh? It is
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 57 
 
 true that he had danced with her very often at the Christ- 
 mas party nine months ago, and once since then she had 
 scolded him for telHng the chicken-woman some news he 
 ought first to have told the Mistress ... but that was very 
 little in the way of evidence, and Martha had always been 
 running after boys. ... 
 
 Seeing her still silent, Martha began to cry again. 
 
 "I'm sure I'm unaccountable sorry, Miss Joanna, and 
 what's to become of me I don't know, nuther. Maybe I'm 
 a bad lot, but it's hard to love and wait on and on for the 
 wedding . . . and Pete was sure as he could do summat 
 wud a horse running in the Derby race, and at the Wool- 
 pack they told him it wur bound to win. . . . I've always 
 kept straight up till this, Ma'am, and a virtuous virgin for 
 all I do grin and laugh a lot . . . and many's the temp- 
 tation I've had, being a lone gal wudout father or 
 mother. . . ." 
 
 "Keep quiet, Martha, and have done with so much excuse. 
 You've been a very wicked gal, and you shouldn't ought to 
 think any different of yourself. But maybe I was too 
 quick, saying you were to go at once. You can finish your 
 month, seeing as you were monthly hired." 
 
 "Thank you. Miss Joanna, that'll give me time to look 
 around for another pliiace ; though — " bursting out crying 
 again — "I doan't see what good that'll do me, seeing as my 
 time's three months from hence." 
 
 A great softness had come over Joanna. There were 
 tears in her eyes as she looked at Martha, but they were 
 no longer tears of anger. 
 
 "Don't cry. child," she said kindly, "I'll see you don't 
 come to want." 
 
 "Oh, thank you, Miss Joanna . . . it's middling good of 
 you, and Pete will repay you when we're married and have 
 saavcd some tin." 
 
 "I'll do my best, for you've worked well on the whole, 
 and I shan't forget that Orpington hen you saved when 
 she was egg-bound. But don't you think, Martha," she
 
 58 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 added seriously, "that I'm holding with any of your goings- 
 on. I'm shocked and ashamed at you, for you've done some- 
 thing very wicked — something that's spoken against in the 
 Bible, and in church too — it's in the Ten Commandments. 
 I wonder you could kneel in your place and say 'Lord have 
 mercy upon us,' knowing what you'd been up to" — Martha's 
 tears flowed freely — "and it's sad to think you've kept 
 yourself straight for years as you say, and then gone 
 wrong at last, just because you hadn't patience to wait for 
 your lawful wedding . . . and all the scandal there's been 
 and ull be, and folks talking at you and at me . . . and 
 you be off now, and tell Mrs. Tolhurst you're to have the 
 cream on your milk and take it before it's skimmed." 
 
 § 18 
 
 For the rest of the day Joanna was in a strange fret — 
 dreams seemed to hang over life like mist, there was sor- 
 row in all she did, and yet a queer, suffocating joy. She 
 told herself that she was upset by Martha's revelation, but 
 at the same time she knew it had upset her not so much 
 in itself as in the disturbing new self-knowledge it had 
 brought. She could not hide from herself that she was 
 delighted, overjoyed to find that her shepherd did not love 
 her chicken-girl, that the thoughts she had thought about 
 them for nine months were but vain thoughts. 
 
 Was it true, then, that she was moving along that road 
 which the villagers had marked out for her — the road 
 which would end before the Lion and the Unicorn in Brod- 
 nyx church, with her looker as her bridegroom? — The 
 mere thought was preposterous to her pride. She, her 
 father's daughter, to marry his father's son ! — the suspicion 
 insulted her. She loved herself and Ansdore too well for 
 that . . . and Socknersh, fine fellow as he was, had no 
 mind and very little sense — he could scarcely read and 
 write, he was slow as an ox, and had common ways and
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 59 
 
 spoke the low marsh talk — he drank out of his saucer and 
 cut his bread with his pocket-knife — he spat in the yard — 
 How dared people think she would marry him? — that she 
 was so undignified, infatuated and unfastidious as to yoke 
 herself to a slow, common boor? Her indignation flamed 
 against the scan-dal-mongers . . . that Woolpack ! She'd 
 like to see their license taken away, and then perhaps decent 
 women's characters would be safe. . . . 
 
 But folk said it was queer she should keep on Socknersh 
 when he had done her such a lot of harm — they made sure 
 there must be something behind it. For the first time, 
 Joanna caught a glimpse of his shortcomings as a looker, 
 and in a moment of vision asked herself if it was really 
 true that he ought to have known about that dip. Was she 
 blinding herself to his incapacity simply because she liked 
 to have him about the place ? — to see his big stooping figure 
 blocked against the sunset — to see his queer eyes light up 
 with queer thoughts that were like a dog's thoughts or a 
 sheep's thoughts ... to watch his hands, big and heavy 
 and brown, with the earth worked into the skin . . . and 
 his neck, when he lifted his head, brown as his hands, and 
 like the trunk of an oak with roots of firm, beautiful muscle 
 in the field of his broad chest. . . . 
 
 Then Joanna was scared — she knew she ought not to 
 think of her looker so; and she told herself that she kept 
 him on only because he was the only man she'd ever had 
 about the place who had minded her properly. . . . 
 
 When evening came, she began to feel stifled in the 
 house, where she had been busy ironing curtains, and tying 
 on her ohl straw hat went out for a breath of air on the 
 road. There was a ligiit mist over the watercourses, 
 veiling the pollards and thorn trees and the reddening 
 thickets of Ansdore's bush — a flavour of salt was in it. for 
 the tides were high in the channels, and the sunset breeze 
 was blowing from Rye Bay. Northward, the Coa.st — as 
 the high bank marking the old shores of England before the 
 flood was still called — was dim, like a low line of clouds
 
 60 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 beyond the marsh. The sun hung red and rayless above 
 Beggar's Bush, a crimson ball of frost and fire. 
 
 A queer feeHng of sadness came to Joanna — queer, unac- 
 countable, yet seeming to drain itself from the very depths 
 of her body, and to belong not only to her flesh but to the 
 marsh around her, to the pastures with their tawny veil of 
 withered seed-grasses, to the thorn-bushes spotted with the 
 red haws, to the sky and to the sea, and the mists in which 
 they merged together. . . . 
 
 "I'll get shut of Socknersh," she said to herself — "I be- 
 lieve folks are right, and he's too like a sheep himself to 
 be any real use to them." 
 
 She walked on a little way, over the powdery Brodnyx 
 road. 
 
 "I'm silly — that's what I am. Who'd have thought it? 
 I'll send him off — but then folks ull say I'm afraid of 
 gossip." 
 
 She chewed the bitter cud of this idea over a hurrying 
 half mile, which took her across the railway and then 
 brought her back, close to the Kent Ditch. 
 
 "I can't afford to let the place come to any harm — besides, 
 what does it matter what people think or say of me? I 
 don't care. . . . But it'll be a mortal trouble getting another 
 looker and settling him to my ways — and I'll never get a 
 man who'll mind me as poor Socknersh used. I want a 
 man with a humble soul, but seemingly you can't get that 
 through advertising. . , ," 
 
 She had come to the bridge over the Kent Ditch, and 
 Sussex ended in a swamp of reeds. Looking southward 
 she saw the boundaries of her own land, the Kent Innings, 
 dotted with sheep, and the shepherd's cottage among them, 
 its roof standing out a bright orange under the fleece of 
 lichen that smothered the tiles. It suddenly struck her 
 that a good way out of her difficulty might be a straight 
 talk with Socknersh. He would probably be working in 
 his garden now, having those few evening hours as his own. 
 Straining her eyes into the shining thickness of mist and
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 61 
 
 sun, she thought she could see his blue shirt moving among 
 the bean-rows and hollyhocks round the little place. 
 
 "I'll go and see him and talk it out — I'll tell him that 
 if he won't have proper sense he must go. I've been soft, 
 putting up v^ith him all this time." 
 
 Being marsh bred, Joanna did not take what seemed the 
 obvious way to the cottage, across the low pastures by the 
 Kent Ditch; instead, she went back a few yards to where 
 a dyke ran under the road. She followed it out on the 
 marsh, and when it cut into another dyke she followed that, 
 walking on the bank beside the great teazle. A plank 
 bridge took her across between two willows, and after 
 some more such movements, like a pawn on a chessboard, 
 she had crossed three dykes and was at the shepherd's gate. 
 
 He was working at the further side of the garden and 
 did not see her till she called him. She had been to his 
 cottage only once before, when he complained of the roof 
 leaking, but Sockncrsh would not have shown surprise if 
 he had seen Old Goodman of the marsh tales standing at 
 his door. Joanna had stern, if somewhat arbitrary, notions 
 of propriety, and now not only did she refuse to come 
 inside the gate, but she made him come and stand outside 
 it, among the seed-grasses which were like the ghost of hay. 
 
 It struck her that she had timed her visit a little too late. 
 Already the brightness had gone from the sunset, leaving 
 a dull red ball hanging lustreless between the clouds. There 
 was no wind, but the air seemed to be moving slowly up 
 from the sea, heavy with mist and salt and the scent of 
 haws and blackberries, of dew-soaked grass and fleeces. 
 . . . Sockncrsh stood before her with his blue shirt open 
 at the neck. From him came a smell of earth and sweat 
 ... his clothes smelt of sheep. ... 
 
 She opened her mouth to tell him that she was highly 
 displeased with the way he had managed her flock since the 
 shearing, but instead she only said: 
 
 "Look 1" 
 
 Over the eastern rim of the marsh the moon had risen.
 
 62 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 a red, Ughtless disk, while the sun, red and lightless too, 
 hung in the west above Rye Hill. The sun and the moon 
 looked at each other across the marsh, and midway between 
 them, in the spell of their flushed, haunted glow, stood 
 Socknersh, big and stooping, like some lonely beast of the 
 earth and night. ... A strange fear touched Joanna — she 
 tottered, and his arm came out to save her. . . . 
 
 It was as if the marsh itself enfolded her, for his clothes 
 and skin were caked with the soil of it. . . . She opened 
 her eyes, and looking up into his saw her own face, infi- 
 nitely white and small, looking down at her out of them. 
 Joanna Godden looked at her out of Socknersh's eyes. She 
 stirred feebly, and she found that he had set her a little 
 way from him, still holding her by the shoulders, as if he 
 feared she would fall. 
 
 "Do you feel better, Missus?" 
 
 "I'm all right," she snapped. 
 
 "I beg your pardon if I took any liberty. Missus. But I 
 thought maybe you'd turned fainty-like." 
 
 "You thought wrong" — her anger was mounting — "I trod 
 on a mole-hill. You've messed my nice alpaca body — if you 
 can't help getting dirt all over yourself, you shouldn't ought 
 to touch a lady, even if she's in a swound." 
 
 "I'm middling sorry. Missus." 
 
 His voice was quite tranquil — it was like oil on the fire 
 of Joanna's wrath. 
 
 "Maybe you are, and so am I. You shouldn't ought to 
 have cotched hold of me like that. But it's all of a match 
 with the rest of your doings, you great stupid owl. You've 
 lost me more'n a dozen prime sheep by not mixing your 
 dip proper — after having lost me the best of my ewes and 
 Iambs with your ignorant notions — and now you go and 
 put finger marks over my new alpaca body, all because you 
 won't think, or keep yourself clean. You can take a 
 month's notice." 
 
 Socknersh stared at her with eyes and mouth wide open. 
 
 "A month's notice," she repeated, "it's what I came here
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 63 
 
 to give you. You're the tale of all the parish with your 
 ignorance. I'd meant to talk to you about it and give you 
 another chance, but now I see there'd be no sense in that, 
 and you can go at the end of your month." 
 
 "You'll give me a character, Missus?" 
 
 "I'll give you a prime character as a drover or a plough- 
 man or a carter or a dairyman or a housemaid or a curate 
 or anything you like except a looker. Why should I give 
 you eighteen shilling a week as my looker — twenty shilling, 
 as I've made it now — when my best wether could do what 
 you do quite as well and not take a penny for it? You've 
 got no more sense or know than a tup . . ." 
 
 She stopped, breathless, her cheeks and eyes burning, a 
 curious ache in her breast. The sun was gone now, only 
 the moon hung flushed in the foggy sky. Socknersh's face 
 was in darkness as he stood with his back to the east, but 
 she could see on his features a look of surprise and dismay 
 which suddenly struck her as pathetic in its helpless stu- 
 pidity. After all, this great hulking man was but a child, 
 and he was unhappy because he must go and give up his 
 snug cottage and the sheep he had learned to care for and 
 the kind mistress who gave him sides of bacon. . . . There 
 was a sudden strangling spasm in her throat, and his face 
 swam into the sky on a mist of tears, which welled up in 
 her voice as without another word she turned away. 
 
 His voice came after her piteously : 
 
 "Missus — Missus — but you raised my wages last week." 
 
 § 19 
 
 Ilcr tears were dry by the time she reached home, but in 
 the night they flowed again, accompanied by angry sobs, 
 which she choked in her pillow, for fear of waking little 
 Ellen. 
 
 She cried because she was humbled in her own eyes. It 
 was as if a veil had been torn from the last two years, and 
 she saw her motives at last. For two years she had endured
 
 64 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 an ignorant, inefficient servant simply because his strength 
 and good looks had enslaved her susceptible woman- 
 hood. . . . 
 
 Her father would never have acted as she had done ; he 
 would not have kept Socknersh a single month; he would 
 not have engaged him at all — both Relf of Honeychild and 
 Day of Slinches were more experienced men, with better 
 recommendations ; and yet she had chosen Socknersh — 
 because his brown eyes had held and drowned her judg- 
 ment as surely as they had held her image, so dwindled 
 and wan, when she looked into them that evening, between 
 the setting sun and the rising moon. 
 
 Then, after she had engaged him, he had shown just 
 enough natural capacity for her to blind herself with — his 
 curious affinity with the animals he tended had helped her 
 to forget the many occasions on which he had failed to 
 rise above them in intelligence. It had been left to others 
 to point out to her that a man might be good with sheep 
 simply because he was no better than a sheep himself. 
 
 And now she w^as humbled — in her own eyes, and also in 
 the eyes of her neighbours. She would have to confess 
 herself in the wrong. Everyone knew that she had just 
 raised Socknersh's wages, so there would be no good pre- 
 tending that she had known his shortcomings from the 
 first, but had put up with them as long as she could. 
 Everyone would guess that something had happened to 
 make her change her mind about him . . . there would be 
 some terrible talk at the Woolpack. 
 
 And there was Socknersh himself, poor fellow — the mar- 
 tyr of her impulses. She thrust her face deep into the pillow 
 when she thought of him. She had given him as sharp a 
 blow as his thick hide would ever let him suffer. She 
 would never forget that last look on his face. . . . 
 
 Then she began wondering why this should have come 
 upon her. Why should she have made a fool of herself 
 over Socknersh, when she had borne unmoved the court- 
 ship of Arthur Alee for seven years? Was it just because
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 65 
 
 Alee had red whiskers and red hands and red hair on his 
 hands, while Socknersh was dark and sweet of face and 
 limb? It was terrible to think that mere youth and come- 
 liness and virility should blind her judgment and strip her 
 of commonsense. Yet this was obviously the lesson she 
 must learn from today's disgrace. 
 
 Hot and tear-stained, she climbed out of bed, and paced 
 across the dark room to the grey blot of the window. She 
 forgot her distrust of the night air in all her misery of 
 throbbing head and heart, and flung back the casement, so 
 that the soft marsh wind came in, with rain upon it, and 
 her tears were mingled with the tears of the night. 
 
 "Oh, God !" she mourned to herself — "why didn't you 
 make me a man?"
 
 PART TWO 
 FIRST LOVE
 
 PART TWO 
 FIRST LOVE 
 
 § 1 
 
 It took Joanna nearly two years to recover from the 
 loss of her sheep. Some people would have done it earlier, 
 but she was not a clever economist. Where many women 
 on the marsh would have thrown themselves into an orgy 
 of retrenchment — ranging from the dismissal of a dairy- 
 maid to the substitution of a cheaper brand of tea — she 
 made no new occasions for thrift, and persevered but lamely 
 in the old ones. She was fond of spending — liked to see 
 things trim and bright ; she hated waste, especially when 
 others were guilty of it, but she found a positive support 
 in display. 
 
 She was also generous. Everybody knew that she had 
 paid Dick Socknersh thirty shillings for the two weeks that 
 he was out of work after leaving her — before he went as 
 cattleman to an inland farm — and she had found the money 
 for Martha Tildcn's wedding, and for her lying-in a month 
 afterwards; and some time later she had helped Peter Rclf 
 with ready cash to settle his debts and move himself and 
 his wife and baby to West Wittering, where he had the 
 offer of a place with three shillings a week more than they 
 gave at TToncychild. 
 
 She might have indulged herself still further in this way, 
 which gratified both her warm heart and her proud head, 
 if she had not wanted so much to send Ellen to a good 
 school. The school at Rye was all very well, attended by 
 the daughters of tradesmen and farmers, and taught by 
 
 69
 
 70 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 women Joanna recognised as ladies; but she had long 
 dreamed of sending her little sister to a really good school 
 at Folkestone — where Ellen would wear a ribbon round her 
 hat and go for walks in a long procession of two-and-two, 
 and be taught wonderful, showy and intricate things by 
 ladies with letters after their names — whom Joanna de- 
 spised because she felt sure they had never had a chance 
 of getting married. 
 
 She herself had been educated at the National School, 
 and from six to fourteen had trudged to and fro on the 
 Brodnyx road, learning to read and write and reckon and 
 say her catechism. . . . But this was not good enough for 
 Ellen. Joanna had made up her mind that Ellen should 
 be a lady ; she was pretty and lazy and had queer likes and 
 dislikes — all promising signs of vocation. She would never 
 learn to care for Ansdore, with its coarse and crowding 
 occupations, so there was no reason why she should grow 
 up like her sister in capable conunonness. Half uncon- 
 sciously Joanna had planned a future in which she ven- 
 tured and toiled, while Ellen wore a silk dress and sat on 
 the drawing-room sofa — that being the happiest lot she 
 could picture for anyone, though she would have loathed 
 it herself. 
 
 In a couple of years Ansdore's credit once more stood 
 high at Lewes Old Bank, and Ellen could be sent to a 
 select school at Folkestone — so select, indeed, that there 
 had been some difficulty about getting her father's daughter 
 into it. Joanna was surprised, as well as disgusted, that 
 the schoolmistress should give herself such airs, for she 
 was very plainly dressed, whereas Joanna had put on all 
 her most gorgeous apparel for the interview ; but she had 
 been very glad when her sister was finally accepted as a 
 pupil at Rose Hill House, for now she would have as 
 companions the daughters of clergymen and squires, and 
 learn, no doubt, to model herself on their refinement. She 
 might even be asked to their homes for her holidays, and, 
 making friends in their circle, take a short cut to silken
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 71 
 
 immobility on the drawing-room sofa by way of marriage. 
 . . . Joanna congratulated herself on having really done 
 very well for Ellen, though during the first weeks she 
 missed her sister terribly. She missed their quarrels and 
 caresses — she missed Ellen's daintiness at meals, though she 
 had often smacked it — she missed her strutting at her side 
 to church on Sunday — she missed her noisy, remonstrant 
 setting out to school every morning and her noisy, affection- 
 ate return — her heart ached when she looked at the little 
 empty bed in her room, and being sentimental she often 
 dropped a tear where she used to drop a kiss on Ellen's 
 pillow. 
 
 Nevertheless, she was proud of what she had done for 
 her little sister, and she was proud, too, of having restored 
 Ansdore to prosperity, not by stingeing and paring, but 
 by her double capacity for working hard herself and for 
 getting all the possible work out of others. If no one had 
 gone short under her roof, neither had anyone gone idle — 
 if the tea was strong and the butter was thick and there 
 was always prime bacon for breakfast on Sundays, so was 
 there also a great clatter on the stairs at five o'clock each 
 morning, a rattle of brooms and hiss and slop of scrubbing- 
 brushes — and the mistress with clogs on her feet and her 
 father's coat over her gown, poking her head into the maids' 
 room to see if they were up, hurrying the men over their 
 snacks, shouting commands across the yard, into the barns 
 or into the kitchen, and seemingly omnipresent to those 
 slackers who paused to rest or chat or "put their feet up." 
 
 That time had scarred her a little — put some lines into 
 the corners of her eyes and straightened the curling corners 
 of her mouth, but it had also heightened the rich, healthy 
 colour on her cheeks, enlarged her fine girth, her strength 
 of shoulder and depth of bosom. She did not look any 
 older, because she was so superbly healthy and superbly 
 proud. She knew that the neighbours were impressed by 
 Ansdore's thriving, when they had foretold its downfall 
 under her sway. . . . She had vindicated her place in her
 
 72 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 father's shoes, and best of all, she had expiated her folly 
 in the matter of Socknersh, and restored her credit not 
 only in the bar of the Woolpack, but in her own eyes. 
 
 §2 
 
 One afternoon, soon after Ellen had gone back to school 
 for her second year, when Joanna was making plum jam in 
 the kitchen and getting very hot and sharp-tongued in the 
 process, Mrs. Tolhurst saw a man go past the window on 
 his way to the front door. 
 
 "Lor, Miss! There's Parson!" she cried, and the next 
 minute came sounds of struggle with Joanna's rusty door- 
 bell. 
 
 "Go and see what he wants — take off that sacking apron 
 first — and if he wants to see me, put him into the par- 
 lour." 
 
 Mr. Pratt lacked "visiting" among many other accom- 
 plishments as a parish priest — the vast, strewn nature of 
 his parish partly excused him — and a call from him was not 
 the casual event it would have been in many places, but 
 startling and portentous, requiring fit celebration. 
 
 Joanna received him in state, supported by her father's 
 Bible and stuffed owls. She had kept him waiting while 
 she changed her gown, for like many people who are some- 
 times very splendid, she could also on occasion be ex- 
 tremely disreputable, and her jam-making costume was 
 quite unfit for the masculine eye, even though negligible. 
 Mr. Pratt had grown rather nervous waiting for her — he 
 had always been afraid of her, because of her big, breath- 
 less ways, and because he felt sure that she was one of the 
 many who criticised him. 
 
 "I — I've only come about a little thing — at least it's not 
 a little thing to me, but a very big thing — er-er — " 
 
 "What is it?" asked Joanna, a stuffed owl staring dis- 
 concertingly over each shoulder. 
 
 "For some time there's been complaints about the music
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 73 
 
 in church. Of course, I'm quite sure Mr. Elphick does 
 wonders, and the ladies of the choir are excellent — er — 
 gifted . . . I'm quite sure. But the harmonium — it's very- 
 old and quite a lot of the notes won't play , . . and the 
 bellows . . . Mr. Saunders came from Lydd and had a 
 look at it, but he says it's past repair — er — satisfactory 
 repair, and it ud really save money in the long run if we 
 bought a new one." 
 
 Joanna was a little shocked. She had listened to the 
 grunts and wheezes of the harmonium from her childhood, 
 and the idea of a new one disturbed her — it suggested 
 sacrilege and ritualism and the moving of landmarks. 
 
 "I like what we've got very well," she said truculently — 
 "It's done for us properly this thirty year." 
 
 "That's just it," said the Rector, "it's done so well that 
 I think we ought to let it retire from business, and appoint 
 something younger in its place . . . he ! he !" He looked 
 at her nervously to see if she had appreciated the joke, 
 but Joanna's humour was not of that order. 
 
 "I don't like the idea," she said. 
 
 Mr. Pratt miserably clasped and unclasped his hands. 
 He felt th^t one day he would be crushed between his pa- 
 rishioners' hatred of change and his fellow priests' insistence 
 on it — rumour said that the Squire's elder son, Father 
 Lawrence, was coming home at Christmas, and the poor 
 little Rector quailed to think of what he would say of the 
 harmonium if it was still in its place. 
 
 "I — er — Miss Goddcn — I feel our reputation is at stake. 
 Visitors, you know, come to our little church, and are 
 surprised to find us so far behind the times in our music. 
 At Pedlinge we've only got a piano, but I'm not worrying 
 about that now. Perhaps the harmonium might be patched 
 uj) enough for I'edlinge, where our services are not as yet 
 Fully Choral ... it all depends on how much money we 
 collect." 
 
 "IIow much do you want?" 
 
 "Well, I'm told that a cheap, good make would be thirty
 
 74 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 pounds. We want it to last us well, you see, as I don't 
 suppose we shall ever have a proper organ." 
 
 He handed her a little book in which he had entered the 
 names of subscribers. 
 
 "People have been very generous already, and I'm sure 
 if your name is on the list they will give better still." 
 
 The generosity of the neighbourhood amounted to five 
 shillings from Prickett of Great Ansdore, and half crowns 
 from Vine, Furnese, Vennal and a few others. As Joanna 
 studied it, she became possessed of two emotions — one was 
 a sense that since others, including Great Ansdore, had 
 given, she could not, in proper pride, hold back ; the other 
 was a queer savage pity for Mr. Pratt and his poor little 
 collection — scarcely a pound as the result of all his begging, 
 and yet he had called it generous. . . . 
 
 She immediately changed her mind about the scheme, and 
 going over to a side table where an ink-pot and pen reposed 
 on a woolly mat, she prepared to enter her name in the 
 little book. 
 
 "I'll give him ten shillings," she said to herself — "I'll 
 have given the most." 
 
 Mr. Pratt watched her. He found something stimulating 
 in the sight of her broad back and shoulders, her large 
 presence had invigorated him — somehow he felt self-con- 
 fident, as he had not felt for years, and he began to talk, 
 first about the harmonium and then about himself — he was 
 a widower with three pale little children, whom he dragged 
 up somehow on an income of two hundred a year. 
 
 Joanna was not listening. She was thinking to herself — 
 "My cheque-book is in the drawer. If I wrote him a 
 cheque, how grand it would look." 
 
 Finally she opened the drawer and took the cheques out. 
 After all, she could afford to be generous — she had nearly 
 a hundred pounds in Lewes Old Bank, put aside without 
 any scraping for future "improvements." How much could 
 she spare? A guinea — that would look handsome, among 
 all the miserable half-crowns. . . .
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 75 
 
 Mr. Pratt had seen the cheque-book, and a stutter came 
 into his speech — 
 
 "So good of you, Miss Godden ... to help me . . . en- 
 couraging, you know . . . been to so many places, a tiring 
 afternoon . . , feel rewarded." 
 
 She suddenly felt her throat grow tight ; the queer com- 
 passion had come back. She saw him trotting forlornly 
 round from farm to farm, begging small sums from people 
 much better off than himself, receiving denials or grudging 
 gifts ... his boots were all over dust, she had noticed 
 them on her carpet. Her face flushed, as she suddenly 
 dashed her pen into the ink, wrote out the cheque in her 
 careful, half-educated hand, and gave it to him. 
 
 "There — that'll save you from tramping any further." 
 
 She had written the cheque for the whole amount. 
 
 Mr. Pratt could not speak. He opened and shut his 
 mouth like a fish. Then suddenly he began to gabble, he 
 poured out thanks and assurances and deprecations in a 
 stammering torrent. His gratitude overwhelme<:l Joanna, 
 disgusted her. She lost her feeling of warmth and com- 
 passion — after all, what should she pity him for now that 
 he had got what he wanted, and much more easily than he 
 deserved? 
 
 "That's all right, Mr. Pratt. I'm sorry I can't wait any 
 longer now. I'm making jam." 
 
 She forgot his dusty boots and weary legs that had 
 scarcely had time to rest, she forgot that she had meant to 
 offer him a cup of tea. 
 
 "Good afternoon," she said, as he rose, with apologies 
 for keeping her. 
 
 She went with him to the door, snatched his hat olT the 
 peg and gave it to him, then crashed the door behind him, 
 her cheeks burning with a queer kind of shame. 
 
 § 3 
 For the next few days Joanna avoided Mr. Pratt ; she 
 could not tell why her munificence should make her dislike
 
 76 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 him, but it did. One day as she was walking through Ped- 
 linge she saw him standing in the middle of the road, talk- 
 ing to a young man whom on approach she recognised as 
 Martin Trevor, the Squire's second son. She could not 
 get out of his way, as the Pedlinge dyke was on one side 
 of the road and on the other were some cottages. To turn 
 back would be undignified, so she decided to pass them with 
 a distant and lordly bow. 
 
 Unfortunately for this, she could not resist the tempta- 
 tion to glance at Martin Trevor — she had not seen him 
 for some time, and it was surprising to meet him in the 
 middle of the week as he generally came home only for 
 week-ends. That glance was her undoing — a certain cor- 
 diality must have crept into it, inspired by his broad 
 shoulders and handsome, swarthy face, for Mr. Pratt was 
 immediately encouraged, and pounced. He broke away 
 from Trevor to Joanna's side. 
 
 "Oh, Miss Godden ... so glad to meet you. I — I never 
 thanked you properly last week for your generosity — your 
 munificence. Thought of writing, but somehow felt that 
 — felt that inadequate. . . . Mr. Trevor, Fve told you about 
 Miss Godden . . . our harmonium. . . ." 
 
 He had actually seized Joanna's hand. She pulled it 
 away. What a wretched, undersized little chap he was ! 
 She could have borne his gratitude if only he had been a 
 real man, tall and dark and straight like the young fellow 
 who was coming up to her. 
 
 "Please don't, Mr. Pratt. I wish you wouldn't make all 
 this tedious fuss." 
 
 She turned towards Martin Trevor with a greeting in 
 her eyes. But to her surprise she saw that he had fallen 
 back. The Rector had fallen back too, and the two men 
 stood together, as when she had first come up to them. 
 
 Joanna realised that she had missed the chance of an 
 introduction. Well, it didn't matter. She really couldn't 
 endure Mr. Pratt and his ghastly gratitude. She put her 
 stiffest bow into practice and walked on.
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 11 
 
 For the rest of the day she tried to account for young 
 Trevor's mid-week appearance. Her curiosity was soon 
 satisfied, though she was at a disadvantage in having no 
 male to bring her news from the Woolpack. However, she 
 made good use of other people's males, and by the same 
 evening was possessed of the whole story. Martin Trevor 
 had been ill in London with pleurisy, and the doctor said 
 his lungs were in danger and that he must give up office 
 work and lead an open-air life. He was going to live with 
 his father for a time, and help him farm North Farthing 
 House — they were taking in a bit more land there, and 
 buying sheep. 
 
 §4 
 
 That Autumn the Farmers' Club Dinner was held as 
 usual at the Woolpack. There had been some controversy 
 about asking Joanna — there was controversy every year, 
 but this year the difference lay in the issue, for the ayes 
 had it. 
 
 The reasons for this change were indefinite — on the 
 whole, no doubt, it was because people liked her better. 
 They had grown used to her at Ansdorc, where at first her 
 mastership had shocked them ; the scandal and contempt 
 aroused by the Socknersh episode were definitely dead, and 
 men took off their hats to the strenuousncss with which 
 she had pulled the farm together, and faced a crisis that 
 would have meant disaster to many of her neighbours. 
 Ansdore was one of the largest farms of the district, and 
 it was absurd that it should never be represented at the 
 Woolpack table merely on the ground that its master was 
 a woman. 
 
 Of course, many women wondered jiow Joanna could 
 face such a company of males, and suggestions were made 
 for admitting farmers' wives on this occasion. But Joanna 
 was not afraid, and when approached as to whether she 
 would like other women invited, or to bring a woman friend.
 
 78 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 she declared that she would be quite satisfied with the 
 inevitable presence of the landlord's wife. 
 
 She realised that she would be far more imposing as the 
 only woman guest, and made great preparations for a 
 proper display. Among these was included the buying of 
 a new gown at Folkestone. She thought that Folkestone, 
 being a port for the channel steamers, would be more likely 
 to have the latest French fashions than the nearer towns 
 of Bulverh_ythe and Marlingate. My ! But she would make 
 the Farmers' Club sit up. 
 
 The dressmaker at Folkestone tried to persuade her not 
 to have her sleeves lengthened or an extra fold of lace 
 arranged along the top of her bodice. 
 
 "Madam has such a lovely neck and arms — it's a pity to 
 cover them up — and it spoils the character of the gown. 
 Besides, Madam, this gown is not at all extreme — demmy- 
 toilet is what it really is." 
 
 "I tell you it won't do — I'm going to dine alone with 
 several gentlemen, and it wouldn't be seemly to show such 
 a lot of myself." 
 
 It ended, to the dressmaker's despair, in her draping her 
 shoulders in a lace scarf and wearing kid gloves to her 
 elbow ; but though these pruderies might have spoilt her 
 appearance at Dungemarsh Court, there was no doubt as 
 to its effectiveness at the Woolj)ack. The whole room held 
 its breath as she sailed in, with a rustic of amber silk skirts. 
 Her hair was piled high against a tortoise-shell comb, mak- 
 ing her statelier still. 
 
 Furnese of Misleham, who was chairman that year, came 
 gaping to greet her. The others stared and stood still. 
 Most of them were shocked, in spite of the scarf and the 
 long gloves, but then it was just like Joanna Godden to 
 swing bravely through an occasion into which most women 
 would have crept. She saw that she had made a sensation, 
 which she had expected and desired, and her physical mod- 
 esty being appeased, she had no objection to the men's 
 
 1
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 79 
 
 following eyes. She saw that Sir Harry Trevor was in 
 the room, with his son Martin. 
 
 It was the first time that the Squire had been to the 
 Farmers' Club Dinner. Up till then no one had taken him 
 seriously as a farmer. For a year or two after his arrival 
 in the neighbourhood he had managed the North Farthing 
 estate through a bailiff, and on the latter's turning out 
 unsatisfactory, had dismissed him, and at the same time 
 let off a good part of the land, keeping only a few acres 
 for cow-grazing round the house. Now, on his son's com- 
 ing home and requiring an outdoor life, he had given a 
 quarter's notice to the butcher-grazier to whom he had 
 sublet his innings, had bought fifty head of sheep, and 
 joined the Farmers' Club — which he knew would be a 
 practical step to his advantage, as it brought certain priv- 
 ileges in the way of marketing and hiring. Joanna was 
 glad to see him at the Woolpack, because she knew that 
 there was now a chance of the introduction she had unfor- 
 tunately missed in Pedlinge village a few weeks ago. She 
 had a slight market-day acquaintance with the Old Squire 
 — as the neighbourhood invariably called him, to his intense 
 annoyance — and now she greeted him with her broad smile. 
 
 "Good evening, Sir Harry." 
 
 "Good evening, Miss Goddcn. I'm pleased to see you 
 here. You're looking very well." 
 
 His bold tricky eyes swept over her, and somehow she 
 felt more gratified than by all the bulging glances of the 
 other men. 
 
 "I'm pleased to see you too. Sir Harry. I hear you've 
 joined the Club." 
 
 "Surclye — as a real farmer ought to say ; and so has my 
 son Martin — he's going to do nx)st of the work. Martin, 
 you've never met Miss Tioridcn. Let me introchice you." 
 
 Joanna's welcoming grin broke itself on the young man's 
 stiff bow. There was a moment's silence. 
 
 "He doesn't look as if a London doctor had threatened 
 him with consumption," said the Squire banteringly.
 
 80 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 "Sometimes I really don't think I believe it — I think he's 
 only come down here so's he can look after me." 
 
 JMartin made some conventional remark. He was a tall, 
 broadly built young man, with a dark healthy skin and that 
 generally robust air which sometimes accompanies extreme 
 delicacy in men. 
 
 "The doctor says he's been overworking," continued his 
 father, "and that he ought to try a year's out door life and 
 sea air. If you ask me, I should say he'd overdone a good 
 many things besides work" — he threw the boy a defiant, 
 malicious glance, rather like a child who gets a thrust into 
 an elder. "But Walland Marsh is as good a cure for over- 
 play as for overwork. Not much to keep him up late 
 hereabouts, is there Miss Godden?" 
 
 "I reckon it'll be twelve o'clock before any of us see our 
 pillows tonight," said Joanna. 
 
 "Tut ! Tut ! What terrible ways we're getting into, just 
 when I'm proposing the place as a rest-cure. How do you 
 feel, Miss Godden, being the only woman guest?" 
 
 "I like it." 
 
 "Bet you do — so do we." 
 
 Joanna laughed and bridled. She felt proud of her 
 position — she pictured every farmer's wife on the marsh 
 lying awake that night so that she could ask her husband 
 directly he came upstairs how Joanna Godden had looked, 
 what she had said, and what she had worn. 
 
 § 5 
 
 At dinner she sat on the Chairman's right. On her other 
 side, owing to some accident of push and shuffle, sat young 
 Martin Trevor. At first she had not thought his place 
 accidental, in spite of his rather stiff manner before they 
 sat down, but after a while she realised with a pang of 
 vexation that he was not particularly pleased to find him- 
 self next her. He replied without interest to her remarks 
 and then entered into conversation with his right-hand
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 81 
 
 neighbour on the subject of roots. Joanna was annoyed — 
 she could not put down his constraint to shyness, for he 
 did not at all strike her as a shy young man. Nor was he 
 being ungracious to Mr. Turner of Beckett's House, though 
 the latter could not talk of turnips half so entertainingly 
 as Joanna would have done. He obviously did not want 
 to speak to her. Why? — Because of what had happened 
 in Pedlinge all that time ago? She remembered how he 
 had drawn back ... he had not liked the way she had 
 spoken to Mr. Pratt. She had not liked it herself by the 
 time she got to the road's turn. But to think of him nurs- 
 ing his feelings all this time . . . and something she had 
 said to Mr. Pratt . . . considering that she had bought 
 them all a new harmonium . . . the lazy, stingy louts with 
 their half-crowns. . . . 
 
 She had lost her serenity, her sense of triumph — she felt 
 vaguely angry with the whole company, and snapped at 
 Arthur Alee when he spoke to her across the table. He 
 had asked after Ellen, knowing she had been to Folkestone. 
 
 "Ellen's fine — and learning such good manners as it 
 seems a shame to bring her into these parts at Christmas 
 for her to lose 'em." 
 
 "On the other hand, Miss Goddcn, she might impart 
 them to us," said the Squire from a little further down. 
 
 "She's learning how to dance and make curtsies right 
 down to the floor," said Joanna. 
 
 "Then she's fit to sec the Queen. You really mustn't 
 keep her away from us at Christmas — on the contrary we 
 ought to make some opportunities for watching her dance; 
 she must be as pretty as a s'prite." 
 
 "That she is," agreed Joanna, warming and mollified, 
 "and I've bought her a new gown that pulls out like an 
 accordion, so as she can wave her skirts about when she 
 dances." 
 
 "Well, the drawing-room at North Farthing would make 
 an excellent ball-room , . . we must see about that — eh, 
 Martin?"
 
 82 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 "It'll want a new floor laid down — there's rot under the 
 carpet," was his son's disheartening reply. But Joanna had 
 lost the smarting of her own wound in the glow of her 
 pride for Ellen, and she ate the rest of her dinner in good- 
 humoured contempt for Martin Trevor. 
 
 When the time for the speeches came her health was 
 proposed by the Chairman. 
 
 "Gentlemen," he said, "let us drink to — the Lady." 
 
 The chivalry of the Committee had prompted them to 
 offer her Southland to respond to this toast. But Joanna 
 had doubts of his powers as an orator, whereas she had 
 none of her own. She stood up, a glow of amber bright- 
 ness above all the black coats, and spoke of her gratification, 
 of her work at Ansdore and hopes for south-country farm- 
 ing. Her speech, as might have been expected, was highly 
 dogmatic. She devoted her last words to the marsh as a 
 grain-bearing district — on one or two farms, where pasture 
 had been broken, the yield in wheat had been found excel- 
 lent. Since that was so, why had so few farms hitherto 
 shown enterprise in this direction? There was no denying 
 that arable paid better than pasture, and the only excuse 
 for neglecting it was poverty of soil. It was obvious that 
 no such poverty existed here — on the contrary, the soil was 
 rich, and yet no crops were grown in it except roots and 
 here and there a few acres of beans or lucerne. It was the 
 old idea, she supposed, about breaking up grass. It was 
 time that old idea was bust — she herself would lead the 
 way at Ansdore next Spring. 
 
 As she was the guest of the evening, they heard her with 
 respect, which did not, however, survive her departure at 
 the introduction of pipes and port. 
 
 "Out on the rampage again, is she?" said Southland to 
 his neighbour. 
 
 "Well, if she busts that 'old idea' same as she bust the 
 other 'old idea' about crossing Kent sheep, all I can say is 
 that it's Ansdore she'll bust next."
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 83 
 
 "Whosumdever breaks pasture shall himself be broke," 
 said Vine oracularly. 
 
 "Surelye — surelye," assented the table. 
 
 "She's got pluck all the same," said Sir Harry, 
 
 But he was only an amateur. 
 
 "I don't hold for a woman to have pluck," said Vennal 
 of Beggar's Bush, "what d'you say, Mr. Alee?" 
 
 "I say nothing, Mr. Vennal." 
 
 "Pluck makes a woman think she can do without a man," 
 continued Vennal, "when everyone knows, and it's in Scrip- 
 ture, that she can't. Now Joanna Godden should ought to 
 have married drackly minute Thomas Godden died and 
 left her Ansdore, instead of which she's gone on plunging 
 like a heifer till she must be past eight and twenty as I 
 calculate — " 
 
 "Now, now, Mr. Vennal, we mustn't start anything per- 
 sonal of our lady guest," broke in Furnese from the Chair, 
 "we may take up her ideas or take 'em down, but while 
 she's the guest of this here Farmers' Club, which is till 
 eleven-thirty precise, we mustn't start arguing about her 
 age or matrimonious intentions. Anyways, I take it, that's 
 a job for our wives." 
 
 "Hear, hear — " and Joanna passed out of the conversa- 
 tion, for who was going to waste time cither taking up or 
 taking down a silly, tedious, foreign, unsensible notion like 
 ploughing grass? . . . 
 
 Indeed, it may be said that her glory had gone up in 
 smoke — the smoke of twenty long churchwarden pipes. 
 
 She had been obliged to leave the table just when it was 
 becoming most characteristic and convivial, and to retire 
 forlorn and chilly in her silken gown to the Woolpack par- 
 lour, where she and the landlady drank innumerable cups 
 of tea. It was an unwelcome reminder of the fact that 
 .she was a woman, anrl tliat no matter how she might shine 
 and impress the company for an hour, she did not really 
 belong to it. She was a guest, not a naembcr, of the 
 Farmers' Club, and though a guest has more honour, he
 
 84 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 has less fellowship and fun. It was for fellowship and fun 
 that she hungrily longed as she sat under the green lamp- 
 shade of the Woolpack's parlour, and discoursed on servants 
 and the price of turkeys with Mrs. Jupp, who was rather 
 constrained and absent-minded owing to her simultaneous 
 efforts to price Miss Godden's gown. Now and then a dull 
 roar of laughter came to her from the Club-room. What 
 were they talking about, Joanna wondered. Had there been 
 much debate over her remarks on breaking pasture? . . . 
 
 §6 
 
 On the whole, the Farmers' Club Dinner left behind it 
 a rankling trail — for one thing, it was not followed as she 
 had hoped and half expected by an invitation to join the 
 Farmers' Club. No, they would never have a woman priv- 
 ileged among them — she realised that, in spite of her suc- 
 cess, certain doors would always be shut on her. The men 
 would far rather open those doors ceremonially now and 
 then than allow her to go freely in and out. After all, 
 perhaps they were right — hadn't she got her own rooms 
 that they were shut out of ? . . . Women were always dif- 
 ferent from men, even if they did the same things . . , she 
 had heard people talk of "woman's sphere." What did that 
 mean? A husband and children, of course — any fool could 
 tell you that. When you had a husband and children, you 
 didn't go round knocking at the men's doors, but shut your- 
 self up snugly inside your own . . . you were warm and 
 cosy, and the firelight played on the ceiling. . . . But if 
 you were alone inside your room — with no husband or child 
 to keep you company . . . then it was terrible, worse than 
 being outside . . . and no wonder you went round to the 
 men's doors, and knocked on them and begged them to give 
 you a little company, or something to do to help you to 
 forget your empty room. . . . 
 
 "Well, I could marry Arthur Alee any day I liked," she 
 thought to herself.
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 85 
 
 But somehow that did not seem any solution to the prob- 
 lem. 
 
 She thought of one or two other men who had approached 
 her, but had been scared off before they had reached any 
 definite position of courtship. They were no good, either 
 — young Cobb of Slinches had married six months ago, and 
 Jack Abbot of Stock Bridge belonged to the Christian Be- 
 lievers, who kept Sunday on Saturday and in other ways 
 fathered confusion. Besides, she didn't want to marry just 
 anyone who would have her — some dull yeoman who would 
 take her away from Ansdore, or else come with all his 
 stupid, antiquated, man-made notions to sit forever on 
 her enterprising acres. She wanted her marriage to be 
 some big, romantic adventure — she wanted either to marry 
 someone above herself in birth and station, or else very 
 much below. She had touched the fringe of the latter 
 experience and found it disappointing, so she felt that she 
 would now prefer the other — she would like to marry some 
 man of the upper classes, a lawyer or a parson or a squire. 
 The two first were represented in her mind by Mr. Hux- 
 table and Mr. Pratt, and she did not linger over them, but 
 the image she had put up for the third was Martin Trevor 
 — dark, tall, well-born, comely and strong of frame, and 
 yet with that hidden delicacy, that weakness which Joanna 
 must have in a man if she was to love him. . . . 
 
 She had been a fool about Martin Trevor — she had man- 
 aged to put him against her at the start. Of course it was 
 silly of him to mind what she said to Mr. Pratt, but that 
 didn't alter the fact that she had l>cen stupid herself, that 
 she had failed to make a good impression just when she 
 most wanted to do so. Martin Trc-vor was the sort of 
 man she felt she could "take to," for in addition to his looks 
 he had the quality she prizerl in males — the quality of in- 
 experience ; he was not likely to meddle with her ways, 
 since he was only a beginner and would probably be glad 
 of her superior knowledge anrl judgment. He would give 
 her what she wanted — his good name and his good looks
 
 86 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 and her neighbours' envious confusion — and she would give 
 him what he wanted, her prosperity and her experience. 
 North Farthing House was poorer than Ansdore in spite 
 of late dinners and drawing-rooms — the Trevors could look 
 down on her from the point of view of birth and breeding 
 but not from any advantage more concrete. 
 
 As for herself, for her own warm, vigorous, vital per- 
 son — with that curious naivety which was part of her un- 
 awakened state, it never occurred to her to throw herself 
 into the balance when Ansdore was already making North 
 Farthing kick the beam. She thought of taking a husband 
 as she thought of taking a farm-hand — as a m.atter of bar- 
 gaining, of offering substantial benefits in exchange for 
 substantial services. If in a secondary way she was moved 
 by romantic considerations, that was also true of her engage- 
 ment of her male servants. Just as she saw her future 
 husband in his possibilities as a farm-hand, in his relations 
 to Ansdore, so she could not help seeing every farm-hand 
 in his possibilities as a husband, in his relations to herself. 
 
 §7 
 
 Martin Trevor would have been surprised had he known 
 himself the object of so much intention. His attitude 
 towards Joanna was one of indifference based on dislike — 
 her behaviour towards Mr. Pratt had disgusted him at the 
 start, but his antipathy was not all built on that foundation. 
 During the months he had been at home, he had heard a 
 good deal about her — indeed he had found her rather a 
 dominant personality on the Marsh — and what he had heard 
 had not helped turn him from his first predisposition against 
 her. 
 
 As a young boy he had shared his brother's veneration 
 of the Madonna, and though, when he grew up, his natural 
 romanticism had not led him his brother's way, the boyish 
 ideal had remained, and unconsciously all his later attitude
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 87 
 
 towards women was tinged with it. Joanna was certainly 
 not the Madonna type, and all Martin's soul revolted from 
 her broad, bustling ways — everywhere he went he heard 
 stories of her busyness and her bluflF, of "what she had 
 said to old Southland," or "the sass she had given Vine." 
 She seemed to him to be an arrant, pushing baggage, run- 
 ning after notoriety and display. Her rudeness to Mr. 
 Pratt was only part of the general parcel. He looked upon 
 her as sexless, too, and he hated women to be sexless — his 
 Madonna was not after Memling but after Raphael. 
 Though he heard constant gossip about her farming activi- 
 ties and her dealings at market, he heard none about her 
 passions, the likelier subject. All he knew was that she 
 had been expected for years to marry Arthur Alee, but 
 had not done so, and that she had also been expected at 
 one time to marry her looker, but had not done so. The 
 root of such romances must be poor indeed if this was all 
 the flower that gossip could give them. 
 
 Altogether, he was prejudiced against Joanna Godden, 
 and the prejudice did not go deep enough to beget interest. 
 He was not interested in her, and did not expect her to be 
 interested in him ; therefore it was with great surprise, not 
 to say consternation, that one morning at New Romncy 
 Market he saw her bearing down upon him with the light 
 of battle in her eye. 
 
 "Good morning, Mr. Trevor." 
 
 "Good morning, Miss Godden." 
 
 "Fine weather." 
 
 "Fine weather." 
 
 He would have passed on, but she barred the way, rather 
 an imposing figure in her bottle-grccn driving coat, with a 
 fur toque pressed down over the flying chestnut of her 
 hair. Her cheeks were not so much coloured as stained 
 deep with the sun and wind of Walland Marsh, and though 
 it was November, a mass of little freckles smudged and 
 scattered over her skin. It had not occurred to him before 
 that she was even a good-looking creature.
 
 88 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 "I'm thinking, Mr. Trevor," she said deliberately, "that 
 you and me aren't liking each other as much as we should 
 ought." 
 
 "Really, Miss Godden. I don't see why you need say 
 that." 
 
 "Well, we don't like each other, do we? Leastways, you 
 don't like me. Now — " lifting a large, well-shaped hand — 
 "you needn't gainsay me, for I know what you think. You 
 think I was middling rude to Mr. Pratt in Pedlinge Street 
 that day I first met you — and so I think myself, and I'm 
 sorry, and Mr. Pratt knows it. He came around two weeks 
 back to ask about Milly Pump, my chicken gal, getting con- 
 firmed, and I told him I liked him and his ways so much 
 that he could confirm the lot, gals and men — even old Stup- 
 peny who says he's been done already, but I say it don't 
 matter, since he's so old that it's sure to have worn off by 
 this time." 
 
 Martin stared at her with his mouth open. 
 
 "So I say as I've done proper by Mr. Pratt," she con- 
 tinued, her voice rising to a husky flurry, "for I'll have to 
 give 'em all a day off to get confirmed in, and that'll be a 
 tedious affair for me. However, I don't grudge it, if it'll 
 make things up between us — between you and me, I'm 
 meaning." 
 
 "But, I — I — that is, you've made a mistake — your be- 
 haviour to Mr. Pratt is no concern of mine." 
 
 He was getting terribly embarrassed — this dreadful 
 woman, what would she say next? Unconsciously yielding 
 to a nervous habit, he took off his cap and violently rubbed 
 up his hair the wrong way. The action somehow' appealed 
 to Joanna. 
 
 "But it is your concern, I reckon — you've shown me plain 
 that it is. I could see you were offended at the Farmers' 
 Dinner." 
 
 A qualm of compunction smote Martin. 
 
 "You're showing me that I've been jolly rude." 
 
 "Well, I won't say you haven't," said Joanna affably.
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 89 
 
 "Still you've had reason. I reckon no one ud like me better 
 for behaving rude to Mr. Pratt. . . ." 
 
 "Oh, damn Mr. Pratt!" cried Martin, completely losing 
 his head — "I tell you I don't care tuppence what you or 
 anyone says or does to him." 
 
 "Then you should ought to care, Mr. Trevor," said 
 Joanna staidly, "not that I've any right to tell you, seeing 
 how I've behaved. But at least I gave him a harmonium 
 first — it's only that I couldn't abide the fuss he made of 
 his thanks. I like doing things for folks, but I can't abide 
 their making fools of themselves and me over it." 
 
 Trevor had become miserably conscious that they were 
 standing in the middle of the road, that Joanna was not 
 inconspicuous, and if she had been, her voice would have 
 made up for it. lie could see people — gaitered farmers, 
 clay-booted farm-hands — staring at them from the pave- 
 ment. He suddenly felt himself — not without justification 
 — the chief spectacle of Romney market-day. 
 
 "Please don't think about it any more, Miss Goddcn," 
 he said hurriedly. "I certainly should never presume to 
 question anj-thing you ever said or did to Mr. Pratt or 
 anybody else. And, if you'll excuse me, I must go on — 
 I'm a farmer now, you know," with a ghastly attempt at 
 a smile, "and I've plenty of business in the market." 
 
 "Reckon you have," said Joanna, her voice suddenly fall- 
 ing flat. 
 
 He snatched ofT his cap and left her standing in the 
 middle of the street, 
 
 §8 
 
 lie did not let himself think of licr for an hour or more 
 — the episode struck liim as grotesque and he preferred 
 not to dwell on it. But after he had done his business of 
 buying a farm horse, with the hclj) of Mr. SoiUlilanrl who^ 
 was befriending his inexjiericncc, he found himself laugh- 
 ing quietly, and he suddenly knew that he was laughing
 
 90 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 over the interview with Joanna. And directly he had 
 laughed, he was quaintly smitten with a sense of pathos — 
 her bustle and self-confidence which hitherto had roused 
 his dislike, now showed as something rather pathetic, a 
 mere trapping of feminine weakness which would deceive 
 no one who saw them at close quarters. Under her loud 
 voice, her almost barbaric appearance, her queerly truculent 
 manner, was a naive mixture of child and woman — soft, 
 simple, eager to please. He knew of no other woman who 
 would have given herself away quite so directly and nat- 
 urally as she had . . . and his manhood was flattered. He 
 was far from suspecting the practical nature of her inten- 
 tions, but he could see that she liked him, and wanted to 
 stand in his favour. She was not sexless, after all. This 
 realisation softened and predisposed him; he felt a little 
 contrite, too — he remembered how her voice had suddenly 
 dragged and fallen fiat at his abrupt farewell . . . she was 
 disappointed in his reception of her offers of peace — she 
 had been incapable of appreciating the attitude his sophisti- 
 cation was bound to take up in the face of such an outburst. 
 She had proved herself, too, a generous soul — frankly 
 owning herself in the wrong and trying by every means 
 to make atonement . . . few women would have been at 
 once so frank and so practical in their repentance. That 
 he suspected the repentance was largely for his sake did 
 not diminish his respect of it. When he met Joanna God- 
 den again, he would be nice to her. 
 
 The opportunity was given him sooner than he expected. 
 Walking up the High Street in quest of some quiet place 
 for luncheon — every shop and inn seemed full of thick 
 smells of pipes and beer and thick noises of agricultural 
 and political discussion conducted with the mouth full — 
 he saw Miss Godden's trap waiting for her outside the New 
 Inn. He recognised her equipage, not so much from its 
 make or from the fat cob in the shafts, as from the figure 
 of old Stuppeny dozing at Smiler's head. Old Stuppeny 
 went everywhere with Miss Godden, being now quite unfit
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 91 
 
 for work on the farm. His appearance was peculiar, for 
 he seemed, like New Romney church tower, to be built in 
 stages. He wore, as a farm-labourer of the older sort, a 
 semi-clerical hat, which with his long white beard gave him 
 down to the middle of his chest resemblance to that type 
 still haunting the chapels of marsh villages and known as 
 Aged Evangelist — from his chest to his knees, he was mul- 
 berry coat and brass buttons. Miss Joanna Godden's coach- 
 man, though as the vapours of the marsh had shaped him 
 into a shepherd's crook, his uniform lost some of its effect. 
 Downwards from the bottom of his coat he was just a 
 farm-labourer, with feet of clay and corduroy trousers tied 
 with string. 
 
 His presence showed that Miss Godden was inside the 
 New Inn, eating her dinner, probably finishing it, or he 
 would not have brought the trap around. It was just like 
 her, thought Martin, with a tolerant twist to his smile, to 
 go to the most public and crowded place in Romney for 
 her meal, instead of shrinking into the decent quiet of some 
 shop. But Joanna Godden had done more for herself in 
 that interview than she had thought, for though she still 
 repelled, she was no longer uninteresting. Martin gave up 
 searching for that quiet meal, and walked into the New Inn. 
 He found Joanna sitting at a table by herself, finishing 
 a cup of tea. The big table was edged on both sides with 
 farmers, graziers and butchers, while the small tables were 
 also occupied, so there was not much need for his apologies 
 as he sat down opposite her. Her face kindled at once — 
 "I'm sorry I'm .so near finished." 
 
 She was a grudgeless soul, and Martin almost liked her. 
 "Have you done much business today?" 
 "Not much. I'm going home as soon as I've had my 
 dinner. Are you stopping long?" 
 
 "Till I've done a bit of shopping" — he found himself 
 slipping into the homeliness of her tongue — "I want a good 
 spade and some harness." 
 
 "I'll tell you a good shop for harness. . . ." Joanna
 
 92 . JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 loved enlightening ignorance and guiding inexperience, and 
 Avhile Martin's chop and potatoes were being brought she 
 held forth on different makes of harness and called spades 
 spades untiringl3^ He listened without rancour, for he 
 was beginning to like her very much. His liking was 
 largely physical — he wouldn't have believed a month ago 
 that he should ever find Joanna Godden attractive, but 
 today the melting of his prejudice seemed to come chiefly 
 from her warm beauty, from the rich colouring of her face 
 and the flying sunniness of her hair, from her wide mouth 
 with its wide smile, from the broad, strong set of her 
 shoulders, and the sturdy tenderness of her breast. 
 
 She saw that he had changed. His manner was different, 
 more cordial and simple — the difference between his cold- 
 ness and his warmth was greater than in many, for like 
 most romantics he had found himself compelled at an early 
 age to put on armour, and the armour was stiff and dis- 
 guising in proportion to the lightness and grace of the body 
 within. Not that he and Joanna talked of light and grace- 
 ful things . . . they talked, after spades and harness, of 
 horses and sheep, and of her ideas on breaking up grass, 
 which was to be a practical scheme at Ansdore that Spring, 
 in spite of the neighbours, of the progress of the new rail- 
 way from Lydd to Appledore, of the advantages and dis- 
 advantages of growing lucerne. But the barrier was down 
 between them, and he knew that they were free, if they 
 chose, to go on from horses and sheep and railways and 
 crops to more daring, intimate things, and because of that 
 same freedom they stuck to the homely topics, like people 
 who are free to leave the fireside but wait till the sun is 
 warmer on the grass. 
 
 He had begun his apple-tart before she rose. 
 
 "Well, I must be getting back now. Goodbye, Mr. Tre- 
 vor. If you should ever happen to pass Ansdore, drop in 
 and I'll give you a cup of tea." 
 
 He was well aware that the whole room had heard this 
 valediction. He saw some of the men smiling at each
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 93 
 
 other, but he was not annoyed. He rose and went with 
 her to the door, where she hugged herself into her big 
 driving coat. Something about her made him feel big 
 enough to ignore the small gossip of the marsh. 
 
 §9 
 
 He liked her now — he told himself that she was good 
 common stuff. She was like some sterling homespun piece, 
 strong and sweet-smelling — she was like a plot of the marsh 
 earth, soft and rich and alive. He had forgotten her 
 barbaric tendency, the eccentricity of looks and conduct 
 which had at first repelled him — that aspect had melted in 
 the unsuspected warmth and softness he had found in her. 
 Pie had been mistaken as to her sexlessness — she was alive 
 all through. She was still far removed from his type, but 
 her fundamental simplicity had brought her nearer to it, 
 and in time his good will would bring her the rest of the 
 way. Anyhow, he would look forward to meeting her 
 again — perhaps he would call at Ansdore, as she had 
 proposed. 
 
 Joanna was not blind to her triumph, and it carried her 
 beyond her actual attainment into the fulfilment of her 
 hopes. She saw Martin Trevor already as her suitor — 
 respectful, interested, receptive of her wisdom in the mat- 
 ter of spades. She rejoiced in her courage in having taken 
 the first step — she would not have much further to go now. 
 Now that she had overcome his initial dislike, the advan- 
 tages of the alliance must be obvious to liini. She looked 
 into the future, and between the present moment and the 
 consummated union of North Farthing and Ansdore, she 
 saw thrilling, half-dim, personal adventures for Martin and 
 Joanna . . . the touch of his hands would be quite different 
 from the touch of Arthur Alce's . . . and his lips — she 
 had never wanted a man's lips before, except perhaps 
 Socknersh's for one wild, misbegotten minute . . . she held 
 in her heart the picture of Martin's well-cut, sensitive
 
 94 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 mouth, so unlike the usual mouths of Brodnyx and Pedlinge, 
 which were either coarse-lipped or no-lipped . . . Martin's 
 mouth was wonderful — it would be like fire on hers. . . . 
 
 Thus Joanna rummaged in her small stock of experience, 
 and of the fragments built a dream. Her plans were not 
 now all concrete — they glowed a little, though dimly, for 
 her memory held no great store, and her imagination was 
 the imagination of Walland Marsh, as a barndoor fowl to 
 the birds that fly. She might have dreamed more if her 
 mind had not been occupied with the practical matter of 
 welcoming Ellen home for her Christmas holidays. 
 
 Ellen arrived on Thomas-day, and already seemed in 
 some strange way to have grown apart from the life of 
 Ansdore. As Joanna eagerly kissed her on the platform at 
 Rye, there seemed something alien in her soft cool cheek, 
 in the smoothness of her hair under the dark boater hat 
 with its deviced hat-band. 
 
 "Hullo, Joanna," she said. 
 
 "Hullo, dearie. I've just about been pining to get you 
 back. How are you? — how's your dancing?" — This as she 
 bundled up beside her in the trap, while the porter helped 
 old Stuppeny with her trunk. 
 
 "I can dance the waltz and the polka." 
 
 "That's fine — I've promised the folks around here that 
 you shall show 'em what you can do." 
 
 She gave Ellen another warm, proud hug, and this time 
 the child's coolness melted a little. She rubbed her im- 
 maculate cheek against her sister's sleeve — 
 
 "Good old Jo . . ." 
 
 Thus they drove home at peace together. 
 
 The peace was shattered many times between that day 
 and Christmas. Ellen had forgotten what it was like to be 
 slapped and what it was like to receive big smacking kisses 
 at odd encounters in yard or passage — she resented both 
 equally. "You're like an old bear, Jo — an awful old bear." 
 She had picked up at school a new vocabulary, of which 
 the word "awful," used to express every quality of pleasure
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 95 
 
 or pain, was a fair sample. Joanna sometimes could not 
 understand her — sometimes she understood too well. 
 
 "I sent you to school to be made a little lady of, and here 
 you come back speaking worse than a national child." 
 
 "All the girls talk like that at school." 
 
 "Then seemingly it was a waste to send you there, since 
 you could have learned bad manners cheaper at home." 
 
 "But the mistresses don't allow it," said Ellen, in hasty 
 fear of being taken away, "you get a bad mark if you say 
 'damn.' " 
 
 "I should just about think you did, and I'd give you a 
 good spanking too. I never heard such language — no, not 
 even at the Woolpack." 
 
 Ellen gave her peculiar, alien smile. i 
 
 "You're awfully old-fashioned, Jo." 
 
 "Old-fashioned, am I, because I don't go against my 
 catechism and take the Lord's name in vain?" 
 
 "Yes, you do — every time you say 'Lord sakes' you take 
 the Lord's name in vain, and it's common into tlie bargain." 
 
 Here Joanna lost her temper and boxed Ellen's ears, 
 
 "You dare say I'm common ! So that's what you learn 
 at school? — to come home and call your sister common. 
 Well, if I'm common, you're cominon too, since we're the 
 same blood." 
 
 "I never said you were common," sobbed Ellen — "and 
 you really are a beast, hitting me about. No wonder I like, 
 school better than home if that's how you treat me." 
 
 Joanna declared with violence if that was how she 
 felt she should never see school again, whereupon Ellen 
 screamed and sobbed herself into a pale, quiet, tragic state — 
 lying back in her chair, her face patchy with crying, her 
 head falling queerly sideways like a broken doll's — till 
 Joanna, scared and contrite, assured her that she had not 
 meant her threat seriously, and that Ellen .should stop at 
 school as long as she was a good girl and minded her 
 sister. 
 
 This sort of thing had happened every holiday, but Uiere
 
 96 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 were also brighter aspects, and on the whole Joanna was 
 proud of her little sister and pleased with the results of 
 the step she had taken. Ellen could not only dance and 
 drop beautiful curtsies, but she could play tunes on the 
 piano, and recite poetry. She could ask for things in 
 French at table, could give startling information about the 
 Kings of England and the exports and imports of Jamaica, 
 and above all accomplishments, she showed a welcome 
 alacrity to display them, so that her sister could always 
 rely on her for credit and glory. 
 
 "When Martin Trevor comes, I'll make her say her piece." 
 
 § 10 
 
 Martin came on Christmas Day. He knew that the feast 
 would lend a special significance to the visit, but he did 
 not care; for in absence he had idealised Joanna into a 
 fit subject for flirtation. He had no longer any wish to 
 meet her on the level footing of friendship — besides, he 
 was already beginning to feel lonely on the marsh, to long 
 for the glow of some romance to warm the fogs that filled 
 his landscape. In spite of his father's jeers, he was no 
 monk, and generally had some sentimental adventure keep- 
 ing his soul alive — but he was fastidious and rather bizarre 
 in his likings, and since he had come to North Farthing, 
 no one, either in his own class or out of it, had appealed 
 to him, except Joanna Godden. 
 
 She owed part of her attraction to the surviving salt 
 of his dislike. There was still a savour of antagonism in 
 his liking of her. Also his curiosity was still unsatisfied. 
 Was that undercurrent of softness genuine? Was she 
 really simple and tender under her hard flaunting? Was 
 she passionate under her ignorance and naivety? Only 
 experiment could show him, and he meant to investigate, 
 not merely for the barren satisfaction of his curiosity, but 
 for the satisfaction of his manhood which was bound up 
 with a question.
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 97 
 
 When he arrived, Joanna was still in church — on Christ- 
 mas Day as on other selected festivals, she always "stayed 
 the Sacrament," and did not come out till nearly one. He 
 went to meet her, and waited for her some ten minutes in the 
 little churchyard which was a vivid green with the Christmas 
 rains. The day was clear and curiously soft for the sea- 
 son, even on the Marsh where the winters are usually mild. 
 The sky was a delicate blue, washed with queer, flat clouds 
 — the whole country of the Marsh seemed faintly luminous, 
 holding the sunshine in its greens and browns. Beside the 
 dyke which flows by Brodnyx village stood a big thorn tree, 
 still bright with haws. It made a vivid red patch in the 
 foreground, one touch of Christmas in a landscape which 
 otherwise suggested October — especially in the sunshine, 
 which poured in a warm shower on to the altar tomb where 
 Martin sat. 
 
 He grew dreamy with waiting — his thoughts seemed to 
 melt into the softness of the day, to be part of the still 
 air and misty sunshine, just as the triple-barned church with 
 its grotesque tower was part. . . . He could feel the great 
 marsh stretching around him, the lonely miles of Walland 
 and Dunge and Romncy, once the sea's bed, now lately inned 
 for man and his small dwellings, his keepings and his cares, 
 perhaps one day to return to the same deep from which it 
 had come. People said that the bells of Broomhill church — 
 drowned in the great floods which had changed the Rothcr's 
 mouth — still rang under the sea. If the sea came to 
 Brodnyx, would Brodnyx bells ring on? — And Pedlingc? 
 And Brcnzett? And Fairfield? y\nd all the little churches 
 of Thomas a Beckct on their mounds? — What a ringing 
 there would be. 
 
 He woke out of his day-dream at the sound of foot- 
 steps — the people were coming out, and glancing up he 
 saw Joanna a few yards off. She looked surprised to see 
 him, but also she made no attempt to hide her pleasure — 
 
 "Mr. Trevor 1 You here?"
 
 98 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 "I came over to Ansdore to wish you a happy Christmas, 
 and they told me you were still in church." 
 
 "Yes — I stopped for Communion — " her mouth fell into 
 a serious, reminiscent line, "you didn't come to the first 
 service, neither?" 
 
 "No, my brother's at home, and he took charge of my 
 father's spiritual welfare — they went off to church at 
 Udimore, and I was too lazy to follow them." 
 
 "I'm sorry you didn't come here — they used my harmo- 
 nium for the first time, and it was valiant." 
 
 He smiled at her adjective. 
 
 "I'll come another day and hear your valiant harmonium. 
 I suppose you think everybody should go to church?" 
 
 "My father went and I reckon I'll keep on going." 
 
 "You always do as your father did?" 
 
 "In most ways." 
 
 "But not in all — I hear startling tales of new-shaped 
 waggons and other adventures, to say nothing of your 
 breaking up grass next spring." 
 
 "Well, if you don't see any diflference between breaking 
 up grass and giving up church . . ." 
 
 "They are both a revolt from habit." 
 
 "Now, don't you talk like that — it ain't seemly. I don't 
 like hearing a man make a mock of good things, and going 
 to church is a good thing, as I should ought to know, 
 having just come out of it." 
 
 "I'm sorry," said Martin humbly, and for some reason 
 he felt ashamed. They were walking now along the 
 Pedlinge road, and the whole marsh, so broad and simple, 
 seemed to join in her rebuke of him. 
 
 She saw his contrite look, and repented of her sharpness. 
 
 "Come along home and have a bit of our Christmas 
 dinner." 
 
 Martin stuttered — he had not expected such an invita- 
 tion, and it alarmed him. 
 
 "W'e all have dinner together on Christmas Day," con- 
 tinued Joanna, "men and gals, old Stuppeny, Mrs. Tolhurst,
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 99 
 
 everybody — we'd take it kindly if you'd join us. But — 
 I'm forgetting — you'll be having your own dinner at home." 
 
 "We shan't have ours till the evening." 
 
 "Oh — late dinner" — her tone became faintly reverential 
 — "it ud never do if we had that. The old folk, like Stup- 
 peny and such, ud find their stomachs keep them awake. 
 We've got two turkeys and a goose and plum puddings 
 and mince pies, to say nothing of the oranges and nuts — 
 that ain't the kind of food to go to bed with." 
 
 "I agree," said Martin, smiling. 
 
 "Then you'll come and have dinner at Ansdore?" 
 
 They had reached the first crossing of the railway line, 
 and if he was going back to North Farthing he should turn 
 here. lie could easily make an excuse — no man really 
 wanted to eat two Christmas dinners — but his flutter was 
 gone, and he found an attraction in the communal meal to 
 which she was inviting him. He would like to see the old 
 folk at their feast, the old folk who had been born on the 
 marsh, who had grown wrinkled with its sun and reddened 
 with its wind and bent with their labours in its damp soil. 
 There would be Joanna too — he would get a close glimpse 
 of her. It was true that he would be j)ulling the cord 
 between them a little tighter, but already she was drawing 
 him and he was coming willingly. Today he had found 
 in her an unsuspected streak of goodness, a sound, sweet 
 core which he had not looked for under his paradox of 
 softness and brutality. ... It would be worth while com- 
 mitting himself with Joanna Goddcn. 
 
 § 11 
 
 Dinner on Christmas Day was always in the kitchen at 
 Ansdore. When Joanna reached home with Martin, the 
 two tables, set end to end, were laid — with newly ironed 
 cloths and newly polished knives, but with the second-best 
 china only, since many of the guests were clumsy. Joanna
 
 100 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 wished there had been time to get out the best china, but 
 there was not. 
 
 Ellen came flying to meet them, in a white serge frock 
 tied with a red sash. 
 
 "Arthur Alee has come, Jo — we're all waiting. Is Mr. 
 Trevor coming too?" and she put her head on one side, 
 looking up at him through her long fringe. 
 
 "Yes, duckie. Mr. Trevor's dropped in to taste our tur- 
 key and plum pudding — to see if they ain't better than his 
 own tonight." 
 
 "Is he going to have another turkey and plum pudding 
 tonight? How greedy !" 
 
 "Be quiet, you sassy little cat — " and Joanna's hand 
 swooped, missing Ellen's head only by the sudden duck 
 she gave it. 
 
 "Leave me alone, Joanna — you might keep your temper 
 just for Christmas Day." 
 
 "I won't have you sass strangers." 
 
 "I wasn't sassing." 
 
 "You was." 
 
 "I wasn't." 
 
 Martin felt scared. 
 
 "I hope you don't mean me by the stranger," he said, 
 taking up lightness as a weapon, "I think I know you well 
 enough to be sassed — not that I call that sassing." 
 
 "Well, it's good of you not to mind," said Joanna, "per- 
 sonally I've great ideas of manners, and Ellen's brought 
 back some queer ones from her school, though others she's 
 learned are beautiful. Fancy, she never sat down to dinner 
 without a serviette." 
 
 "Never," said Ellen emphatically. 
 
 Martin appeared suitably impressed. He thought Ellen 
 a pretty little thing, strangely exotic beside her sister. 
 
 Dinner was ready in the kitchen, and they all went in, 
 Joanna having taken off her coat and hat and smoothed 
 her hair. Before they sat down there were introductions 
 to Arthur Alee and to Luck and Broadhurst and Stuppcny
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 101 
 
 and the other farm people. The relation between em- 
 ployers and employed was at once more patriarchal and less 
 sharply defined at Ansdore than it was at North Farthing 
 — Martin tried to picture his father sitting down to dinner 
 with the carter and the looker and the housemaid. ... It 
 was beyond imagination, yet Joanna did it quite naturally. 
 Of course, there was a smaller gulf between her and her 
 people — the social grades were inclined to fuse on the 
 marsh, and the farmer was only just better than his looker 
 — ^but on the other hand, she seemed to have far more 
 authority. . . . 
 
 "Now, hold your tongues while I say grace," she cried. 
 
 Joanna carved the turkeys, refusing to deputise either to 
 Martin or to Alee. At the same time she led a general kind 
 of conversation. The Christmas feast was to be communal 
 in spirit as well as in fact — ^there were to be no formalities 
 above the salt or mutterings below it. The new harmonium 
 provided a good topic, for everyone had heard it, except 
 Mrs. Tolhurst who had stayed to keep watch over Ansdore, 
 cheering herself with the prospect of carols in the evening. 
 
 "It sounded best in the psalms," said Wilson, Joanna's 
 looker since Socknersh's day — "oh, the lovely grunts it 
 made when it said — 'Thou art my Son, this day have I 
 begotten thee !' " 
 
 "So it did," said Broadhurst, "but I liked it best in the 
 Herald Angels." 
 
 "I liked it all through," said Milly Pump, the chicken 
 girl, "and thought Mr. Elphick middling clever to make 
 it sound as if it wur playing two different tunes at the same 
 time." 
 
 "Was that how it sounded?" asked Mrs. Tolhurst wist- 
 fully, "maybe they'll have it for the carols tonight." 
 
 "Surclye," said old Stuppony, "you'd never have carols 
 wudout a harmonister. I'd lik myself to go and hear it, 
 but doubt if I git so far wud so much good victual inside 
 mc."
 
 102 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 "No, you won't — not half so far," said Joanna briskly, 
 "you stop at home and keep quiet after this, or you'll be 
 having bad dreams tonight." 
 
 "I never do but have one kind o' dream," said old Stup- 
 peny, "I dream as I'm setting by the fire and a young gal 
 brings me a cup of cocoa. 'Tis but an old dream, but reckon 
 the Lord God sends the old dreams to the old folk — all them 
 new dreams that are about on the marsh, they goes to the 
 young uns." 
 
 "Well, you've no call to complain of your dreams, Stup- 
 peny," said Wilson, " 'tisn't everyone who has the luck to 
 dream regular of a pretty young gal. Leastways, I guess 
 she's pretty, though you aun't said it." 
 
 "I doan't take much count on her looks — 'tis the cocoa 
 I'm after, though it aun't often as the Lord God lets the 
 dream stay till I've drunk my cup. Sometimes 'tis my 
 daughter Nannie wot brings it, but most times 'tis just 
 some unacquainted female." 
 
 "Oh, you sorry old dog," said Wilson, and the table 
 laughed deep-throatedly, or giggled, according to sex. Old 
 Stuppeny looked pleased. His dream, for some reason un- 
 known to himself, never failed to raise a laugh, and gen- 
 erally produced a cup of cocoa sooner or later from one of 
 the girls. 
 
 Martin did not join in the discussion — ^he felt that his 
 presence slightly damped the company, and for him to talk 
 might spoil their chances of forgetting him. He watched 
 Miss Godden as she ate and laughed and kept the conver- 
 sation rolling — he also watched Arthur Alee, trying to use 
 this man's devotion as a clue to what was left of Joanna's 
 mystery. Alee struck him as a dull fellow, and he put 
 down his faithfulness to the fact that having once fallen 
 into love as into a rut he had lain there like a sheep on its 
 back ever since. He could see that Alee did not altogether 
 approve of his own choice — her vigour and flame, her 
 quick temi>er, her free airs — she was really too big for these 
 people ; and yet she was so essentially one with them . . .
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 103 
 
 their roots mingled in the same soil, the rich, damp, hardy 
 soil of the marsh. 
 
 His attitude towards her was undergoing its second and 
 final change. Now he knew that he would never want to 
 fllirt with her. He did not want her tentatively or tem- 
 porarily. He still wanted her adventurously, but her 
 adventure was not the adventure of siege and capture but 
 of peaceful holding. Like the earth, she would give her 
 best not to the man w^ho galloped over her, but to the man 
 who chose her for his home and settlement. Thus he would 
 hold her, or not at all. Very likely after today he would 
 renounce her — he had not yet gone too far, his eyes were 
 still undazzled, and he could see the difficulties and limita- 
 tions in which he was involving himself by such a choice. 
 He was a gentleman and a townsman — he trod her country 
 only as a stranger, and he knew that in spite of the love 
 which the marsh had made him give it in the few months 
 of his dwelling, his thoughts still worked for years ahead, 
 when better health and circumstances would allow him to 
 go back to the town, to a quick and crowded life. Could 
 he then swear himself to the slow blank life of the Three 
 Marshes, where events move deliberately as a plough ? To 
 the empty landscape, to the flat miles? He would have to 
 love her enough to endure the empty flatness thit framed 
 her. He could never take her away, any more than he 
 could take away Ansdore or North Farthing. He must 
 make a renunciation for her sake — could he do so? And 
 after all, she was common stuff — a farmer's daughter, bred 
 at the National School. By taking her he would be making 
 just a yokel of himself. , . . Yet was it worth clinging to 
 his simulacrum of gentility — boosted up by his father's 
 title and a few dead rites, such as the late dinner which 
 had impressed her so much. The only real difference 
 between the Goddcns and the Trevors was that the former 
 knew their job and the latter didn't. 
 
 All this thinking did not make either for much talk or 
 much appetite, and Joanna was disappointed. She let fall
 
 104 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 one or two remarks on farming and outside matters, think- 
 ing that perhaps the conversation was too homely and 
 intimate for him, but he responded only languidly. 
 
 "A penny for your thoughts, Mr. Trevor," said Ellen 
 pertly. 
 
 "You eat your pudding," said Joanna. 
 
 It occurred to her that perhaps Martin was disgusted 
 by the homeliness of the meal — after all, he was gentry, 
 and it was unusual for gentry to sit down to dinner with 
 a crowd of farm-hands. . . . No doubt at home he had 
 wine-glasses and a servant-girl to hand the dishes. She 
 made a resolution to ask him again and provide both these 
 luxuries. Today she would take him into the parlour and 
 make Ellen show off her accomplishments, which would 
 help put a varnish of gentility on the general coarseness 
 of the entertainment. She wished she had asked Mr. 
 Pratt — she had thought of doing so, but finally decided 
 against it. 
 
 So when the company had done shovelling the stilton 
 cheese into their mouths with their knives, she announced 
 that she and Mr. Trevor would have their cups of tea in 
 the parlour, and told Milly to go quick and light the fire. 
 
 Ellen was most satisfactorily equal to this part of the 
 occasion. She recited the "Curfew Shall Not Ring To- 
 night," and played Haydn's Gipsy Rondo. Joanna began 
 to feel complacent once more. 
 
 "I made up my mind she should go to a good school," she 
 said when her sister had run back to what festivities lin- 
 gered in the kitchen, "and really it's wonderful what they've 
 taught her. She'll grow up to be a lady." 
 
 It seemed to Martin that she stressed the last word rather 
 wistfully, and the next moment she added — 
 
 "There's not many of your sort on the marsh." 
 
 "How do you mean — my sort?" 
 
 "Gentlefolk." 
 
 "Oh, we don't trouble to call ourselves gentlefolk. My 
 father and I are just plain farmers now."
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 105 
 
 "But you don't really belong to us — you're the like of 
 the Savilles at Dungemarsh Court, and the clergy families." 
 
 "Is that where you put us? — We'd find our lives jolly 
 dull if we shut ourselves up in that set. I can tell you that 
 I've enjoyed myself far more here today than ever at the 
 Court or the Rectory. Besides, Miss Godden, your position 
 on Walland Marsh is very much better than ours. You're 
 a great personage, you know." 
 
 "Reckon folks talk about me," said Joanna proudly. 
 "Maybe you've heard 'em." 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 "You've heard about me and Arthur Alee?" 
 
 "I've heard some gossip." 
 
 "Don't you believe it. I'm fond of Arthur, but he ain't 
 my style — and I could do better for myself. . . ." 
 
 She paused — her words seemed to hang in the flickering 
 warmth of the room. She was waiting for him to speak, 
 and he felt a little shocked and repelled. She was angling 
 for him — he had never suspected that. 
 
 "I must go," he said, standing up. 
 
 "So soon?" 
 
 "Yes — tradition sends one home on Christmas Day." 
 
 He moved towards the door, and she followed him, 
 glowing and majestic in the shadows of the firclit room. 
 Outside, the sky was washed with a strange, fiery green, 
 in which the new-kindled stars hung like lamps. 
 
 They stood for a moment on the threshold, the warm, 
 red house behind them, before them the star-hung width 
 anrl emptiness of the Marsh. Martin blocked the sky for 
 Joanna, as he turned and held out his hand. Then, on the 
 brink of love, she hesitated. A memory smote her — of 
 herself standing before another mrm who blocked the sky, 
 and in whose eyes sat the small, enslaved image of herself. 
 Was she just being a fool again ? — Ought she to draw back 
 while she harl still the power, before she became his slave, 
 Mr. little thing, and all her bigness was drowned in his eyes. 
 She knew that whatever she gave him now could never be
 
 106 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 taken back. Here stood the master of the mistress of 
 Ansdore. 
 
 As for Martin, his thoughts were of another kind. 
 
 "Goodbye," he said, renouncing her — for her boldness 
 and her commonness and all that she would mean of change 
 and of foregoing — "Goodbye, Joanna." 
 
 He had not meant to say her name, but it had come, and 
 with it all the departing adventure of love. She seemed 
 to fall towards him, to lean suddenly like a tree in a gale — 
 he smelt a fresh, sweet smell of clean cotton underclothing, 
 of a plain soap, of free unperfumed hair . . . then she was 
 in his arms, and he was kissing her warm, shy mouth, feel- 
 ing that for this moment he had been born. 
 
 § 12 
 
 "Well, where have you been?" asked Sir Harry, as his 
 son walked in at the hall door soon after six. 
 
 "I've been having dinner with Joanna Godden." 
 
 "The deuce you have." 
 
 "I looked in to see her this morning and she asked me 
 to stay." 
 
 "You've stayed long enough — your saintly brother's had 
 to do the milking." 
 
 "Where's Dennett ?" 
 
 "Gone to the carols with the rest. Confounded nuisance, 
 these primitive religious impulses of an elemental people — 
 always seem to require an outlet at an hour when other 
 people want their meals." 
 
 "They'll be back in time for dinner." 
 
 "I d' -"bt it, and cook's gone too — and Tom Saville's 
 cominc^. 'ai know." 
 
 "We'i I'd better go and see after the milking." 
 
 "Don't worry. I've finished," and a dark round head 
 came r'^und the door, followed by a hunched figure in a 
 cloak, from the folds of which it deprecatingly held out a 
 pint ju"^.
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 107 
 
 "V/hat'sthat?" 
 
 "The results of half an hour's milking. I know I should 
 have got more, but I think the cows found me unsympa- 
 thetic." 
 
 Martin burst out laughing. Ordinarily he would have 
 felt annoyed at the prospect of having to go milking at this 
 hour, but tonight he was expansive and good-humoured 
 towards all beasts and men. 
 
 He laughed again — 
 
 "I don't know that the cows have any particular fancy 
 for me, but I'll go and see what I can do." 
 
 "I'm sorry not to have succeeded better," said his brother. 
 
 The elder Trevor was only two years older than Martin, 
 but his looks gave him more. His features were blunter, 
 more humorous, and his face was already lined, while 
 his hands looked work-worn. He wore a rough grey cas- 
 sock buttoned up to his chin. 
 
 "You should have preached to them," said Sir Harry, 
 "like St. Francis of something or other. You should have 
 called them your sisters and they'd have showered down 
 their milk in gallons. What's the good of being a monk 
 if you can't work miracles?" 
 
 "I leave that to St. Francis Dennett — I'm (juilc convinced 
 that cows are milked only supernaturally, and I find it very 
 difficult even to be natural with them. Perhaps Martin 
 will take me in hand and show me that much." 
 
 "I don't think I need. I hear the servants coming in." 
 
 "Thank God," exclaimed Sir Harry, "now ju-rhaps we 
 shall get our food cooked. Martin's already hari dinner, 
 Lawrence — he had it with Joanna Godden. Martin, 1 don't 
 know that I like you having dinner with Joanna (if)ddcn. 
 It marks you — they'll talk about it at the Wooli)ack for 
 weeks, and it'll probably end in your having to marry her 
 to make her an hr)nest woman." 
 
 "That's what I mean to do — to marry her." 
 
 The words broke out of him. He had certainly not 
 meant to tell his father anything just yet. Apart from his
 
 108 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 natural reserve, Sir Harry was not the man he would have 
 chosen for such confidences till they became inevitable. 
 The fact that his father was still emotionally young and 
 had love affairs of his own gave him feelings of repugnance 
 and irritation — he could have endured the conventionally 
 paternal praise or blame, but he was vaguely outraged by 
 the queer basis of equality from which Sir Harry dealt with 
 his experiences. But now the truth was out. What would 
 they say, these two? — The old rake who refused to turn 
 his back on youth and love and the triple-vowed religious 
 who had renounced both before he had enjoyed either. 
 
 Sir Harry was the first to speak. 
 
 "Martin, I am an old man, who will soon be forced to 
 dye his hair, and really my constitution is not equal to these 
 shocks. What on earth makes you think you want to 
 marry Joanna Godden?'* 
 
 "I love her." 
 
 "A most desperate situation. But surely marriage is 
 rather a drastic remedy." 
 
 "Well, don't let's talk about it any longer. I'm going 
 to dress — Saville will be here in a quarter of an hour." 
 
 "But I must talk about it. Hang it all, I'm your father 
 — I'm the father of both of you, though you don't like it 
 a bit and would rather forget it. Martin, you mustn't marry 
 Joanna Godden however much you love her. It would be 
 a silly mistake — ^she's not your equal, and she's not your 
 type. Have you asked her?" 
 
 "Practically." 
 
 "Oh, that's all right, then. It doesn't matter asking a 
 woman practically as long as you don't ask her literally." 
 
 "Father, please don't talk about it." 
 
 "I will talk about it. Lawrence, do you know what this 
 idiot's letting himself in for. Have you seen Joanna God- 
 den ? Why, she'd never do for him. She's a big, bouncing 
 female, and her stays creak." 
 
 "Be quiet, Father. You make me furious." 
 
 "Yes, you'll be disrespectful to me in a minute. That
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 109 
 
 would be very sad, and the breaking of a noble record. Of 
 course it's presumptuous of me to want a lady for my 
 daughter-in-law, and perhaps you're right to chuck away 
 the poor remains of our dignity — they were hardly worth 
 keeping." 
 
 "I've thought over that," said Martin. He saw now 
 that having recklessly started the subject he could not put 
 it aside till it had been fought out. "I've thought over 
 that, and I've come to the conclusion that Joanna's worth 
 any sacrifice I can make for her." 
 
 "But not marriage — why must you ask her to marry 
 you? You don't really know her. You'll cool off." 
 
 "I shan't." 
 
 "What about your health, Martin?" asked Lawrence, 
 "are you fit and able to marry ? You know what the doctor 
 said." 
 
 "He said I might go off into consumption if I hung on 
 in town — that beastly atmosphere at Wright's, and all the 
 racket. . . . But there's nothing actually wrong with me, 
 I'm perfectly fit down here. I'll last for ever in this place, 
 and I tell you it's been a ghastly thought till now — knowing 
 that I must either stop here, away from all my friends 
 and interests, or else shorten my life. But now, I don't 
 care — when I marry Joanna Godden, I'll take root, I'll 
 belong to the marsh, I'll be at home. You don't know 
 Joanna Godden, Lawrence — if you did I believe you'd like 
 her. She's so sane and simple — she's so warm and alive ; 
 and she's good, too — when I met her today, she had just 
 been to Communion. She'll help me to live — at last I'll 
 be able to live the best life for me, body and soul, down 
 here in the sea air, with no town rubbish. . . ." 
 
 "It sounds a good thing," said Lawrence. "After all, 
 Father, there really isn't much use trying to keep up the 
 state of the Trevors and all that now. . . ." 
 
 "No, there isn't — especially when this evening's guest will 
 arrive in two minutes to find us sitting round in din and 
 darkness and dissension, all because we've been too Inisy
 
 no JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 discussing our heir's betrothal to a neighbouring goose-girl 
 to trouble about such fripperies as dressing for dinner. Of 
 course, now Lawrence elects to take Martin's part, there's 
 no good my trying to stand against the two of you. I've 
 always been under your heels, ever since you were old 
 enough to boss me. Let the state of the Trevors go — Mar- 
 tin, marry Joanna Godden and we will come to you for our 
 mangolds — Lawrence, if you were not hindered by your 
 vows, I should suggest your marrying one of the Miss 
 Southlands or the Miss Vines, and then we could have a 
 picturesque double wedding. As for me, I will build on 
 more solid foundations than either of you, and marry my 
 cook." 
 
 With which threat he departed to groom himself. 
 
 "He'll be all right," said Martin, "he likes Joanna Godden 
 really." 
 
 "So do L She sounds a good sort. Will you take me 
 to see her before I go?" 
 
 "Certainly. I want you to meet her. When you do, 
 you'll see that I'm not doing anything rash, even from the 
 worldly point of view. She comes of a fine old yeoman 
 stock, and she's of far more consequence on the marsh than 
 any of us." 
 
 "I can't see that the social question is of much impor- 
 tance. As long as your tastes and your ideas aren't too 
 different. ..." 
 
 "I'm afraid they are, rather. But somehow we seem to 
 complement each other. She's so solid and so sane — 
 there's something barbaric about her too . . . it's queer." 
 
 "I've seen her. She's a fine-looking girl — a bit older 
 than you, isn't she?" 
 
 "Five years. Against it, of course — but then I'm so 
 much older than she is in most ways. She's a practical 
 woman of business — knows more about farming than I 
 shall ever know in my life — but in matters of life and love, 
 she's a child. . . ." 
 
 "I should almost have thought it better the other way
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 111 
 
 round — that you should know about the business and she 
 about the love. But then in such matters I too am a child." 
 lie smiled disarmingly, but Martin felt ruffled — partly 
 because his brother's voluntary abstention from experience 
 always annoyed him, and partly because he knew that in 
 this case the child was right and the man wrong. 
 
 § 13 
 
 In the engagement of Joanna Godden to Martin Trevor, 
 Walland Marsh had its biggest sensation for years. Indeed 
 it could be said that nothing so startling had happened 
 since the Rother changed its mouth. The feelings of those 
 far-back marsh-dwellers who had awakened one morning 
 to find the Kentish river swirling past their doors at Broom- 
 hill might aptly be compared with those of the farms round 
 the Wool pack, who woke to find that Joanna Godden was 
 not going just to jog on her final choice between Arthur 
 Alee and old maidenhood, but had swept aside to make 
 an excellent, fine marriage. 
 
 "She's been working for this all along," said Prickett 
 disdainfully. 
 
 "I don't see that she's had the chance to work much," 
 said Vine, "she hasn't seen the young chap more than three 
 or four times." 
 
 "Bates' looker saw them at Romney once," said South- 
 land, "having their dinner together; but that time at the 
 Farmers' Club he'd barely speak to her." 
 
 "Well, she's got herself talked about over two men that 
 she hasn't took, and now she's took a man that she hasn't 
 got herself talked about over." 
 
 "Anyways, I'm glad of it." said Furnese, "she's a mare 
 that's never been praaperly broken in, and now at last she's 
 got a man to do it." 
 
 "Poor feller, Alee. I wonder how he'll take it." 
 
 Alee took it very well. For a week he did not come to 
 Ansdore, then he appeared with Joanna's first wedding-
 
 112 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 present in the shape of a silver tea-service which had be- 
 longed to his mother. 
 
 "Maybe it's a bit early yet for wedding-presents. They 
 say you won't be married till next fall. But I've always 
 wanted you to have this tea-set of Mother's — it's real 
 silver, as you can see by the lion on it — a teapot and milk 
 jug and sugar bowl ; many's the time I've seen you in my 
 mind's eye, setting like a queen and pouring my tea out of 
 it. Since it can't be my tea, it may as well be another's." 
 
 "There'll always be a cup for you, Arthur," said Joanna 
 graciously. 
 
 "Thanks," said Arthur in a stricken voice. 
 
 Joanna could not feel as sorry for Alee as she ought and 
 w'ould have liked. All her emotions, whether of joy or 
 sorrow, seemed to be poured into the wonderful new life 
 that Martin had given her. A new life had begun for her 
 on Christmas Day — in fact, it would be true to say that a 
 new Joanna had begun. Something in her was broken, 
 melted, changed out of all recognition — she was softer, 
 weaker, more excited, more tender. She had lost much 
 of her old swagger, her old cocksureness, for Martin had 
 utterly surprised and tamed her. She had come to him in 
 a scheming spirit of politics and he had kept her in a spirit 
 of devotion. She had come to him as Ansdore to North 
 Farthing — ^but he had stripped her of Ansdore, and she 
 was just Joanna Godden who had waited twenty-eight 
 years for love. 
 
 Yet, perhaps because she had waited so long, she was 
 now a little afraid. She had hitherto met love only in the 
 dim forms of Arthur Alee and Dick Socknersh, with still 
 more hazy images in the courtships of Abbot and Cobb. 
 Now Martin was showing her love as no dim flicker of 
 candlelight or domestic lamplight, but as a bright, eager 
 fire. She loved his kisses, the clasp of his strong arms, 
 the stability of his chest and shoulders — but sometimes 
 his passion startled her, and she had queer, shy withdrawals. 
 Yet these were never more than temporary and superficial ;
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 113 
 
 her own passions were slowly awaking, and moreover had 
 their roots in a sweet, sane instinct of vocation and com- 
 mon sense. 
 
 On the whole, though, she was happiest in the quieter 
 ways of love — the meals together, the fireside talks, the 
 meetings in lonely places, the queer, half-laughing secrets, 
 the stolen glances in company. She made a great fuss of 
 his bodily needs — she was convinced that he did not get 
 properly fed or looked after at home, and was always pre- 
 paring him little snacks and surprises. For her sake, 
 Martin swallowed innumerable cups of milk and wrapped 
 his chin in chokey mufflers. 
 
 She had her prouder moments too. On her finger glit- 
 tered a gorgeous band of brilliants and sapphires which 
 she had chosen for her engagement ring, and it was noticed 
 that Joanna Godden now always drove with her gloves off. 
 She had insisted on driving Martin round the marsh to 
 call on her friends — to show him to Mrs. Southland, Mrs. 
 Vine, and Mrs. Prickett, to say nothing of their husbands 
 who had always said no man in his senses would marry 
 Joanna Godden. Well, not merely a man but a gentleman 
 was going to do it — a gentleman who had his clothes made 
 for him at a London tailor's instead of buying them ready- 
 made at Lydd or Romney or Rye, who had — he confessed 
 it, though he never wore it — a top hat in his possession, 
 who ate late dinner and always smelt of good tobacco and 
 shaving soap . . . such thoughts would bring the old Jo- 
 anna back, for one fierce moment of gloating. 
 
 Ilcr reception by North Farthing House had done nothing 
 to spoil her triumph. Martin's father and brother had both 
 accepted her — the latter willingly, since he believed that 
 she would be a sane and stabilising influence in Martin's 
 life, hitherto over-restless and mood-ridden. lie looked 
 upon his brother as a thwarted romantic, whose sophisti- 
 cation had debarred him from finding a natural outlet in 
 religion. He saw in his love for Joanna the chance of a 
 return to nature and romance, since he loved a thing at
 
 114 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 once simple and adventurous, homely and splendid — which 
 was how religion appeared to Father Lawrence. He had 
 liked Joanna very much on their meeting, and she liked 
 him too, though as she told him frankly she "didn't hold 
 with Jesoots." 
 
 As for Sir Harry, he too liked Joanna, and was too well- 
 bred and fond of women to show himself ungracious about 
 that which he could not prevent. 
 
 "I've surrendered, Martin. I can't help myself. You'll 
 bring down my grey hairs in sorrow to the dyer's, but I 
 am all beautiful resignation. Indeed I think I shall offer 
 myself as best man, and flirt dutifully with Ellen Godden, 
 who I suppose will be chief bridesmaid. Your brother shall 
 himself perform the ceremony. What could your family 
 do more?" 
 
 "What indeed?" laughed Martin. He felt warm-hearted 
 towards all men now — he could forgive both his father for 
 having had too much experience and his brother for having 
 had too little. 
 
 § 14 
 
 The actual date of the wedding was not fixed till two 
 months had run. Though essentially adult and practical 
 in all matters of business and daily life, Joanna was still 
 emotionally adolescent, and her betrothed state satisfied 
 her as it would never have done if her feelings had been 
 as old as her years. Also this deferring of love had helped 
 other things to get a hold on her — Martin was astonished 
 to find her swayed by such considerations as sowing and 
 shearing and marketing — "I can't fix up anything till I've 
 got my spring sowings done" — "that ud be in the middle 
 of the shearing" — "I'd sooner wait till I'm through the 
 Autumn markets." 
 
 He discovered that she thought "next fall" the best time 
 for the wedding — "I'll have got everything clear by then, 
 and I'll know how the new ploughs have borne." He fought 
 her and beat her back into June — "after the hay." He was
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 115 
 
 rather angry with her for thinking about these things, they 
 expressed a side of her which he would have Hked to ignore. 
 He did not care for a "managing" woman, and he could 
 still see, in spite of her new moments of surrender, that 
 Joanna eternally would "manage." But in spite of this, 
 his love for her grew daily, as he discovered daily her 
 warmth and breadth and tenderness, her growing capacity 
 for passion. Once or twice he told her to let the sowings 
 and the shearings be damned, and come and get married 
 to him quietly without any fuss at the registrar's. But 
 Joanna was shocked at the idea of getting married any- 
 where but in church — she could not believe a marriage legal 
 which the Lion and the Unicorn had not blessed. Also he 
 discovered that she rejoiced in fuss, and thought June 
 almost too early for the preparations she wanted to make. 
 
 "I'm going to show 'em what a wedding's like," she re- 
 marked ominously — "I'm going to do everything in the 
 real, proper, slap-up style. I'm going to have a white dress 
 and a veil and carriages and bridesmaids and favours — " 
 this was the old Joanna — "you don't mind, do you, Mar- 
 tin ?" this was the new. 
 
 Of course he could not say he minded. She was like an 
 eager child, anxious for notice and display. He would 
 endure the wedding for her sake. He also would endure 
 for her sake to live at Ansdore ; after a few weeks he saw 
 that nothing else could happen. It would be ridiculous 
 for Joanna to uproot herself from her prosperous establish- 
 ment and settle in some new place just because in spirit he 
 shrank from becoming "Mr. Joanna Goddcn." She had 
 said that "Martin and Joanna Trevor" should be painted 
 on the scrolled name-boards of her waggons, but he knew 
 thnt on the farm and in the markct-j^lace they would not 
 be on an equal footing, whatever they were in the home. 
 As farmer and manager she would outshine him, whose 
 tastes and interests and experiences were so difFercnt. 
 Never mind — he would have more time to give to the be- 
 loved pursuit of exploring the secret, shy, marsh country —
 
 116 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 he would do all Joanna's business afield, in the far market 
 towns of New Romney and Dymchurch, and the farms 
 away in Kent or under the Coast at Ruckinge and Ware- 
 home. 
 
 Meanwhile, he spent a great deal of his time at Ansdore. 
 He liked the life of the place with its mixture of extrava- 
 gance and simplicity, democracy and tyranny. Fortunately, 
 he was approved of Ellen — indeed he sometimes found 
 her patronage excessive. He thought her spoilt and afifected, 
 and might almost have come to dislike her if she had not 
 been such a pretty, subtle little thing, and if she had not 
 interested and amused him by her sharp contrasts with her 
 sister. He was now also amused by the conflicts between 
 the two, which at first had shocked him. He liked to see 
 Joanna's skin go pink as she faced Ellen in a torment of 
 loving anger and rattled the fierce words of? her tongue, 
 while Ellen tripped and skipped and evaded and generally 
 triumphed by virtue of a certain fundamental coolness. 
 "It will be interesting to watch that girl growing up," he 
 thought. 
 
 § 15 
 
 As the year slid through the fogs into the Spring, he 
 persuaded Joanna to come with him on his rambles on the 
 marsh. He was astonished to find how little she knew of 
 her own country, of that dim flat land which was once 
 under the sea. She knew it only as the hunting ground 
 of her importance. It was at Yokes Court that she bought 
 her roots, and from Becket's House her looker had come; 
 Lydd and Rye and Romney were only market-towns — you 
 did best in cattle at Rye, but the other two were proper 
 for sheep; Old Honeychild was just a farm where she had 
 bought some good spades and dibbles at an auction ; at 
 Misleham they had once had foot-and-mouth disease — she 
 had gone to Picknye Bush for the character of Milly Pump, 
 her chicken girl. . . .
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 117 
 
 He told her of the smugglers and owlers who had used 
 the Woolpack as their headquarters long ago, riding by 
 moonlight to the cross-roads, with their mouths full of 
 slang — cant talk of "mackerel" and "fencing" and "hornies" 
 and "Oliver's glim" — 
 
 "Well, if they talked worse there then than they talk 
 now, they must have talked very bad indeed," was all 
 Joanna found to say. 
 
 He told her of the old monks of Canterbury who had 
 covered the marsh with the altars of Thomas a Becket — 
 
 "We got shut of 'em all on the fifth of November," said 
 Joanna, "as we sing around here on bonfire nights — and 'A 
 halfpenny loaf to feed the Pope, a pennorth of cheese to 
 choke him,' as we say." 
 
 All the same he enjoyed the expeditions that they had 
 together in her trap, driving out on some windy-skied 
 March day, to fill the hours snatched from her activities 
 at Ansdore and his muddlings at North Farthing with all 
 the sea-green sunny breadth of Walland, and still more 
 divinely with Walland's secret places — the shelter of tall 
 reeds by the Yokes Sewer, or of a thorn thicket making a 
 tent of white blossom and spindled shadows in the midst 
 of the open land. 
 
 Sometimes,' they crossed the Rhee Wall on to Romney 
 Marsh, and he showed her the great church at Ivychurch, 
 which could have swallowed up in \t^ nave llu^ two small 
 farms that make the village. He took her into the church 
 at New Romney and showed her the marks of the Oreat 
 Flood, discolouring the i)illars for four feet from the ground. 
 
 "Doesn't it thrill you? — Doesn't it excite you?" he teased 
 her, as they stood together in the nave, the church smelling 
 faintly of hearthstones. 
 
 "Mow long ago did it hap])cn ?" 
 
 "In the year of our Lord twelve hundred and eighty- 
 seven the Kentish river changed his mouth, and after swill- 
 ing out Romney Sands and drowning all the marsh from 
 Honeychild to the Wricks, did make himself a new mouth
 
 118 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 ill Rye Bay, with which mouth he swallowed the fifty 
 taverns and twelve churches of Broomhill, and — " 
 
 "Oh, have done talking that silly way — it's like the Bihle, 
 only there's no good in it." 
 
 Her red mouth was close to his in the shadows of the 
 church — he kissed it. . . . 
 
 "Child!" 
 
 "Oh, Martin—" 
 
 She was faintly shocked because he had kissed her in 
 church, so he drew her to him, tilting back her chin. 
 
 "You mustn't" . . . but she had lost the power of gain- 
 saying him now, and made no effort to release herself. He 
 held her up against the pillar and gave her mouth another 
 idolatrous kiss before he let her go. 
 
 "If it happened all that w^hile back, they might at least 
 have got the marks off by this time," she said, tucking away 
 her loosened hair. 
 
 Martin laughed aloud — her little reactions of common- 
 sense after their passionate moments never failed to amuse 
 and delight him. 
 
 "You'd have had it off with your broom, and that's all you 
 think about it. But look here, child — what if it happened 
 again ?" 
 
 "It can't." 
 
 "How do you know ?" 
 
 "It can't— I know it." 
 
 "But if it happened then it could happen again." 
 
 "There ain't been a flood on the Marsh in my day, nor 
 in my poor father's day, neither. Sometimes in February 
 the White Kemp brims a bit, but I've never known the 
 roads covered. You're full of old tales. And now let's 
 go out, for laughing and love-making ain't the way to be- 
 have in church." 
 
 "The best way to behave in church is to get married." 
 
 She blushed faintly and her eyes filled with tears. 
 
 They went out, and had dinner at the New Inn, which 
 held the memory of their first meal together, in that huge,
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 119 
 
 sag-roofed dining-room, then so crowded, now empty except 
 for themselves. Joanna was still given to holding forth 
 on such subjects as harness and spades, and today she gave 
 Martin nearly as much practical advice as on that first occa- 
 sion. 
 
 "Now, don't you waste your money on a driller — we don't 
 give our sheep turnips on the marsh. It's an inland notion. 
 The grass here is worth a field of roots. You stick to graz- 
 ing and you'll keep your money in your pocket and never 
 send coarse mutton to the butcher." 
 
 He did not resent her advice, for he was learning humility. 
 Her superior knowledge and experience of all practical 
 matters was beginning to lose its sting. She was in his 
 eyes so adorable a creature that he could forgive her for 
 being dominant. The diiTerences in their natures were no 
 longer incompatibilities, but gifts which they brought each 
 other — he brought her gifts of knowledge and imagination 
 and emotion, and she brought him gifts of stability and 
 simplicity and a certain saving commonness. And all these 
 gifts were fused in the glow of personality, in a kind bodily 
 warmth, in a romantic familiarity which sometimes found 
 its expression in shyness and teasing. 
 
 They loved each other. 
 
 § 16 
 
 Martin had always wanted to go out on the cape at Dunge 
 Ness, that tongue of desolate land which rakes out from 
 Dunge Marsh into the sea, slowly moving every year twenty 
 feet towards France. Joanna had a profoimd contempt 
 of Dunge Ness — "not enough grazing on it for one sheep" 
 — but Martin's curiosity mastered her indifference and she 
 promised to drive him out there some day. She had been 
 once before with her father, on some forgotten errand to 
 the Hope and Anchor Inn. 
 
 It was an afternoon in May when they set out, bowling 
 through Pedlinge in the dog cart behind Smiler's jogging
 
 120 JOx^NNA GODDEN 
 
 heels. Joanna wore her bottle-green driving ccat, with a 
 small, close-fitting hat, since Martin, to her surprise and 
 disappointment, disliked her best hat with the feathers. He 
 sat by her, unconsciously huddling to her side, with his hand 
 thrust under her arm and occasionally pressing it — she had 
 told him that she could suffer that much of a caress without 
 detriment to her driving. 
 
 It was a bright, scented day, heavily coloured with green 
 and gold and white ; for the new grass was up in the pas- 
 tures, releasing the farmer from many anxious cares, and 
 the buttercups were thick both on the grazing lands and on 
 the innings where the young hay stood, still green ; the water 
 courses were marked with the thick dumpings of the may, 
 walls of green-teased white streaking here and there across 
 the pastures, while under the boughs the thick green water 
 lay scummed with white ranunculus, and edged with a gaudy 
 splashing of yellow irises, torches among the never silent 
 reeds. Above it all the sky was misty and full of shadows, 
 a low soft cloud, occasionally pierced with sunlight. 
 
 "It'll rain before night," said Joanna. 
 
 "What makes you think that ?" 
 
 "The way of the wind, and those clouds moving low — 
 and the way you see Rye hill all clear with the houses on 
 it — and the way the sheep are grazing with their heads to 
 leeward." 
 
 "Do you think they know ?" 
 
 "Of course they know. You'd be surprised at the things 
 beasts know, Martin." 
 
 "Well, it won't matter if it does rain — we'll be home 
 before night. I'm glad we're going down on the Ness — I'm 
 sure it's wonderful." 
 
 "It's a tedious hole." 
 
 "That's what you think." 
 
 "I know — I've been there." 
 
 "Then it's very sweet of you to come again with me." 
 
 "It'll be different with you." 
 
 She was driving him by way of Broomhill, for that was
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 121 
 
 another place which had fired his imagination, though to 
 her it too was a tedious hole. Martin could not forget the 
 Broomliill of old days — the glamour of taverns and churches 
 and streets lay over the few desolate houses and ugly little 
 new church which huddled under the battered sea-wall. 
 Great reedy pools still remained from the thirteenth century- 
 floods, brackish on the flat seashore, where the staked keddle 
 nets showed that the mackerel were beginning to come into 
 Rye Bay. 
 
 "Nothing but fisher-folk around here," said Joanna con- 
 temptuously — "you'll see 'em all in the Summer, men, women 
 and children, with heaps of mackerel that they pack in boxes 
 for London and such places — so much mackerel they get 
 that there's nothing else ate in the place for the season, and 
 yet if you want fish-guts for manure they make you pay 
 inland prices, and do your own carting." 
 
 "I think it's a delicious place," he retorted, teasing her, 
 "I've a mind to bring you here for our hone\mioon." 
 
 "Martin, you'd never ! You told me you were taking me 
 to foreign parts, and I've told Mrs. Southland and Mrs. 
 Furncse and Maudie Vine and half a dozen more all about 
 my going to Paris and seeing the sights and hearing French 
 spoken." 
 
 "Yes — perhaps it would be better to go abroad ; Broom- 
 hill is wonderful, but you in Paris will be more wonderful 
 than Broomhill — even in the days before the fiood." 
 
 "I want to see the Eiffel Tower — where they make the 
 lemonade — and I want to buy myself something really chick 
 in the way of hats." 
 
 "Joanna — do you know the hat which suits you best?" 
 
 "Which?" she asked eagerly, with some hoi)e for the 
 feathers. 
 
 "The straw hat you tie on over your hair when you go 
 out to the chickens first thing in the morning." 
 
 "That old thing! Why! My! Lor! Martin! That's an 
 old basket that I tie under my chin with a neckcrcher of 
 poor father's."
 
 122 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 "It suits you better than any hat in the Rue de la Paix — 
 it's brown and golden like yourself, and your hair comes 
 creeping and curling from under it, and there's a shadow 
 on your face, over your eyes — the shadow stops just above 
 your mouth — your mouth is all of your face that I can see 
 dearly, and it's your mouth that I love most. . . ." 
 
 He suddenly kissed it, ignoring her business with the 
 reins and the chances of the road, pulling her round in her 
 seat and covering her face with his, so that his eyelashes 
 stroked her cheek. She drew her hands up sharply to her 
 breast, and with the jerk the horse stopped. 
 
 For a few moments they stayed so, then he released her 
 and they moved on. Neither of them spoke ; the tears were 
 in Joanna's eyes and in her heart was a devouring tender- 
 ness that made it ache. The trap lurched in the deep ruts 
 of the road, which now had become a mass of shingle and 
 gravel, skirting the beach. Queer sea plants grew in the 
 ruts, the little white sea-campions with their fat seed-boxes 
 filled the furrows of the road as with a foam— it seemed 
 a pity and a shame to crush them, and one could tell by 
 their fresh growth how long it was since wheels had passed 
 that way. 
 
 At Jury's Gap, a long white-daubed coastguard station 
 marked the end of the road. Only a foot-track ran out to 
 the Ness. They left the horse and trap at the station and 
 went on afoot. 
 
 "I told you it was a tedious place," said Joanna. Like 
 a great many busy people she did not like walking, which 
 she always looked upon as a waste of time. Martin could 
 seldom persuade her to come for a long walk. 
 
 It was a long walk up the Ness, and the going was bad, 
 owing to the shingle. The sea-campion grew everywhere, 
 and in sunny corners the yellow-horned poppy put little 
 spots of colour into a landscape of pinkish grey. The sea 
 was the same colour as the land, for the sun had sunk away 
 into the low thick heavens, leaving the sea an unrelieved, 
 tossed dun waste.
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 123 
 
 The wind came tearing across Rye Bay with a moan, 
 lifting all the waves into little sharp bitter crests. 
 
 "We'll get the rain," said Joanna sagely. 
 
 "I don't care if we do," said Martin, 
 
 "You haven't brought your overcoat." 
 
 "Never mind that." 
 
 "I do mind." 
 
 His robust appearance — ^his broad back and shoulders, 
 thick, vigorous and swarthy skin — only magnified his pathos 
 in her eyes. It was pitiful that this great thing should be 
 so frail. . . . He could pick her up with both hands on 
 her waist, and hold her up before him, the big Joanna — 
 and yet she must take care of him. 
 
 § 17 
 
 An hour's walking brought them to the end of the Ness 
 — to a strange forsaken country of coastguard stations and 
 lonely taverns and shingle tracks. The lighthouse stood 
 only a few feet above the sea. at the end of the point, and 
 immediately before it the water dropped to sinister, glaucous 
 depths. 
 
 "Well, it ain't much to see," said Joanna. 
 
 "It's wonderful," said Martin — "it's terrible." 
 
 He stood looking out to sea, into the channel streaked 
 with green and grey, as if he would draw France out of 
 the southward fogs. He felt halfway to France . . . here 
 on the end of this lonely crane, with water each side of 
 him and ahead, and behind him llu- shingle which was the 
 uttermost of Kent. 
 
 "Joanna — don't ynu fed it too?" 
 
 "Yes — maybe T do. It's queer and lonesome — I'm glad 
 I've got you, Martin." 
 
 She suddenly came close to him and put out her arms, 
 hiding her face against his heart, 
 
 'Child— what is" it?" 
 
 «/
 
 124 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 "I dunno. Maybe it's this place, but I feel scared. Oh, 
 Martin, you'll never leave me? You'll always be good to 
 me? . . ." 
 
 "I . . . oh, my own precious thing." 
 
 He held her close to him and they both trembled — she 
 with her first fear of those undcfinable forces and associa- 
 tions which go to make the mystery of place, he with the 
 passion of his faithfulness, of his vows of devotion, too 
 fierce and sacrificial even to express. 
 
 "Let's go and have tea," she said, suddenly disengaging 
 herself, "I'll get the creeps if we stop out here on the beach 
 much longer — reckon I've got 'em now, and I never was 
 the one to be silly like that, I told you it was a tedious 
 hole." 
 
 They went to the Britannia, on the eastern side of the 
 hill. The inn looked surprised to see them, but agreed to 
 put the kettle on. They sat together in a little queer, dim 
 room, smelling of tar and fish, and bright with the flames of 
 wreck- wood. Joanna had soon lost her fears — she talked 
 animatedly, telling him of the progress of her spring wheat; 
 of the dead owl that had fallen out of the beams of Brenzett 
 church during morning prayers last Sunday, of the shocking 
 way they had managed their lambing at Beggars' Bush, of 
 King Edward's Coronation that was coming off in June. 
 
 "I know of something else that's coming off in June," 
 said Martin. 
 
 "Our wedding?" 
 
 "Surelye." 
 
 "I'm going into Folkestone next week, to that shop where 
 I bought my party gown." 
 
 "And I am going to Mr. Pratt, to tell him to put up our 
 banns, or we shan't have time to be cried three times before 
 the first of June." 
 
 "The first! — I told you the twenty-fourth." 
 
 "But I'm not going to wait till the twenty-fourth. You 
 promised me June." 
 
 "But I shan't have got in my hay, and the shearers are
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 125 
 
 coming on the fourteenth — you have to look weeks ahead, 
 and that was the only date Harmer had free." 
 
 "Joanna." 
 
 Her name was a summons, almost stern, and she looked 
 up. She was still sitting at the table, stirring the last of 
 her tea. He sat under the window on an old sea-chest, and 
 had just lit his pipe. 
 
 "Come here, Joanna." 
 
 She came obediently, and sat beside him, and he put his 
 arm round her. The blue and ruddy flicker of the wreck- 
 wood lit up the dark day. 
 
 "I've been thinking a lot about this, and I know now — • 
 there is only one thing between us, and that's Ansdore." 
 
 "How d'you mean? It ain't between us." 
 
 "It is — again and again you seem to be putting Ansdore 
 in the place of our love. What other woman on God's 
 earth would put off her marriage to fit in with the sheep- 
 shearing?" 
 
 "I ain't putting it off. We haven't fixed the day yet, and 
 I'm just telling you to fix a day that's suitable and con- 
 venient." 
 
 "You know I always meant to marry you the first week 
 in June." 
 
 "And you know, as I've told you, that I can't take the 
 time off then." 
 
 "The time off! You're not a servant. You can leave 
 Ansdore any day you choose." 
 
 "Not when the shearing's on. You don't understand, 
 Martin — I can't have all the shearers up and nobody to look 
 after 'em." 
 
 "What about your looker? — or Broadhurst? You don't 
 trust anybody but yourself." 
 
 "You're justabout right — I don't." 
 
 "Don't you trust me?" 
 
 "Not to shear sheep." 
 
 Martin laughed ruefully.
 
 126 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 "You're very sensible, Joanna — unshakably so. But I'm 
 not asking you to trust me with the sheep, but to trust me 
 with yourself. Don't misunderstand me, dear. I'm not 
 asking you to marry me at the beginning of the month just 
 because I haven't the patience to wait till the end. It isn't 
 that, I swear it. But don't you see that if you fix our mar- 
 riage to fit in with the farm-work, it'll simply be beginning 
 things in the wrong way? As we begin we shall have to 
 go on, and we can't go on settling and ordering our life 
 according to Ansdore's requirements — it's a wrong prin- 
 ciple. Think, darling," and he drew her close against his 
 heart, "we shall want to see our children — and will you 
 refuse, just because that would mean that you would have 
 to lie up and keep quiet and not go about doing all your 
 own business?" 
 
 Joanna shivered. 
 
 "Oh, Martin, don't talk of such things." 
 
 'Why not?" 
 
 She had given him some frank and graphic details about 
 the accouchement of her favourite cow, and he did not 
 understand that the subject became different when it was 
 human and personal. 
 
 "Because I — because we ain't married yet." 
 
 "Joanna, you little prude !" 
 
 She saw that he was displeased and drew closer to him, 
 slipping her arms round his neck, so that he could feel 
 the roughness of her work-worn hands against it. 
 
 "I'm not shocked — only it's so wonderful — I can't abear 
 talking of it. . . . Martin, if we had one ... I should 
 justabout die of joy. . . ." 
 
 He gripped her to him fiercely, unable to speak. Some- 
 how it seemed as if he had just seen deeper into Joanna 
 than during all the rest of his courtship. He moved his 
 lips over her bright straying hair — her face was hidden in 
 his sleeve. 
 
 "Then we'll stop at Mr. Pratt's on our way home and 
 ask him to put up the banns at once?"
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 127 
 
 "Oh, no—" lifting herself sharply— "I didn't mean that." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Well, it won't make any difference to our marriage, 
 being married three weeks later — but it'll make an unac- 
 countable difference to my wool prices if the shearers don't 
 do their job proper — and then there's the hay," 
 
 "On the contrary, child — it will make a difference to our 
 marriage. We shall have started with Ansdore between 
 us." 
 
 "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 as 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 muflled 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 footsteps 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 justabout ruined." 
 
 She was not qiu'tc happy, for she felt that Martin was 
 displeased with her, thouf^h he made no reproaches. lie 
 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 i)roper and the tegs not scared out of their 
 lives?
 
 128 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 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 dis- 
 tances, 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 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 unrea- 
 sonable 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. Today was only 
 Tuesday, and any day up till Saturday would do for put- 
 ting 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
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 129 
 
 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 dykes the willows 
 tossed their branches and the thorn-trees rattled. 
 
 "It'll freshen up the grass," 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 oft the reins and pressed his as it lay wann 
 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 con- 
 ceive 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 fussincss 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 difl not sec 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, some- 
 times more than once, and they always had at least one 
 meal together. She bro<'iflcd about him too, for she could 
 not rid herself of the thought that she had failed him in
 
 130 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 her refusal to be married before the shearing. He was dis- 
 appointed — 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 door- 
 ways, 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 realised 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 cocks 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 b'^at 
 Ansdore out of her love. She cried a little, for she wislied
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 131 
 
 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 dircly necessary ; and she 
 would see Martin tomorrow — he had promised to come to 
 Ansdore straight from the station. 
 
 So instead of writing her letter, she went and washed 
 the tears oft 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-glasses 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 — / know better." 
 
 "I saw Mrs. Lambardc after church on Sunday," said 
 Joanna, "and she wasn't expecting Elsie then." 
 
 "Elsie went before her box did," said Milly Pump, "Rill 
 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 tomorrow morning." 
 
 "Well, he's come this afternoon. Broadhurst met him 
 driving from Rye station."
 
 132 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 "Then he's sure to be over tonight. You get the wine- 
 glasses out, Mrs. Tolhurst, and spread in the dining-room." 
 
 She rose up from table, once more apart from her ser- 
 vants. 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 night- 
 dresses buttoning to the chin, stiff petticoats, and what she 
 called "petticoat bodies," fastening down the front with 
 linen buttons, 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 glass 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 sur- 
 render 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 Tues- 
 day night, but Joanna, the marsh-born, had never cared for 
 weather. She merely laced on her heavy boots and bundled
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 133 
 
 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. 
 
 She was now ready, and all she had to do was to run 
 down and tell Airs. Tolhurst that if Mr. Martin called 
 while she was out he was to be asked to wait. She was 
 not really afraid of missing him, for there were few short 
 cuts on the marsh, where the long way round of the road 
 was often the only way — but she hoped she would reach 
 North Farthing before he left it, she did not want anything 
 to be taken from her surrender, it must be absolute and 
 complete . . . the fires of her own sacrifice were kindled 
 and were burning her heart. 
 
 § 20 
 
 She did not meet Martin on the Brodnyx Road ; only the 
 wind was with her, and the rain. She turned aside to North 
 Farthing between the Woolpack and the village, and still 
 she did not meet him — and now she really thought that she 
 woulfl arrive in time. On either side of the track she fol- 
 lowed, Martin's sheep were grazing — that was his land, 
 those were his dykes and willows, ahead of her were the 
 lighted windows of his house. She wondered what he 
 would say when he saw her. Would he be much surprised? 
 She had come to North Farthing once or twice before, but 
 not very often. If he was not surprised to sec her, he 
 would be sur])riscd when she told him why she had come. 
 She pictured how he would receive her news — with his 
 arms round her, with his kisses on her mouth. 
 
 Her arrival was a check — the formalities of her be- 
 trothcfl's house never failed to upset her. To berMti with, 
 she had to face that impertinent upstart of a Nell Kaddish,
 
 134 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 all tricked out in a black dress and white apron and cap 
 and collar and cuffs, and she only a cowman's daughter 
 with a face like a plum, and no sense or notions at all till 
 she came to Farthing, since when, as everyone knew, her 
 skirts had grown shorter and her nose whiter and her hair 
 frizzier and her ways more knowing. 
 
 "Good evening, Nell," said Joanna, covering her embar- 
 rassment with patronage, "is Mr, Martin at home?" 
 
 "Yes, he is," said Nell, "he came back this afternoon." 
 
 "I know that, of course. I want to see him, please." 
 
 "I'm not sure if he's gone up to bed. Come in, and I'll 
 go and look." 
 
 "Up to bed!" 
 
 "Yes, he's feeling poorly. That's w^hy he came home." 
 
 "Poorly, what's the matter?" Joanna pushed past Nell 
 into the house. 
 
 "I dunno — a cold or cough. He told me to bring him 
 some tea and put a hot brick in his bed. Sir Harry ain't 
 in yet." 
 
 Joanna marched up the hall to the door of Martin's study. 
 She stopped and listened for a moment, but could hear 
 nothing except the beating of her own heart. Then, without 
 knocking, she went in. The room was ruddy and dim with 
 firelight, and at first she thought it was empty, but the next 
 minute she saw Martin huddled in an arm chair, a tea-tray 
 on a low stool beside him. 
 
 "Martin !" 
 
 He started up out of a kind of sleep, and blinked at her. 
 
 "Jo! Is that you?" 
 
 "Yes. I've come over to tell you I'll marry you whenever 
 you want. Martin dear, what's the matter? Are you ill?" 
 
 "It's nothing much — I've caught cold, and thought I'd 
 better come home. Colds always make me feel wretched." 
 
 She could see that he was anxious about himself, and in 
 her pity she forgave him for having ignored her surrender. 
 She knelt down beside him, and took both his restless hands. 
 
 "Have you had your tea, dear?"
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 135 
 
 "No. I asked her to bring it, and then I sort of fell 
 asleep. . . ." 
 
 "I'll give it to you." 
 
 She poured out his tea, giving him a hot black cup, with 
 plenty of sugar, as they like it on the marsh. He drank it 
 eagerly, and felt better. 
 
 "Jo, how good of you to come over and see me. Who 
 told you I was back?" 
 
 "I heard it from Milly Pump, and she heard it from 
 Broadhurst." 
 
 "I meant to send a message round to you. I hope I'll be 
 all right tomorrow." 
 
 "Reckon you will, dear. . . . Martin, you heard what I 
 said — about marrying you when you want?" 
 
 "Do you mean it ?" 
 
 "Of course I mean it — I came over a-purpose to tell you. 
 While you was away I did some thinking, and I found that 
 Ansdore doesn't matter to me what it used. It's only you 
 that matters now." 
 
 She was crouching at his feet, and he stooped over her, 
 taking her in his arms, drawing her back between his 
 knees — 
 
 "You noble, beloved thing ..." 
 
 The burning touch of his lips and face reminded her that 
 he was ill, so the consecration of her sacrifice lost a little 
 of its joy. 
 
 "You're feverish — you should ought to go to bed." 
 
 "I'm going — when I've had another cup of tea. Will you 
 give me another, chikl?" 
 
 "I've a mind to go home through Brodnyx anrl ask Dr. 
 Taylor to call arounrl." 
 
 "Oh, I don't think I'm bad enough for ,i doctor — I catch 
 cold easily, and I was wet through the other night." 
 
 "Was it that!" Her voice shook with consternation. 
 
 "I expect so — but don't fret, darling Jo. It's nothing. 
 I'll be qtiite right tomorrow — I feel better already." 
 
 "I think you should ought to see a doctor, though. I'll
 
 136 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 call in on my way back. I'll call in on Mr. Pratt, too, and 
 tell him to start crying us next Sunday." 
 
 "That's my business — I'll go tomorrow. But are you 
 sure, darling, you can make such a sacrifice? I'm afraid 
 I've been a selfish beast, and I'm spoiling your plans." 
 
 "Oh no, you ain't. I feel now as if I wanted to get mar- 
 ried more'n anything wotsumdever. The shearing ull do 
 proper — the men know their job — and Broadhurst ull see 
 to the hay. They dursn't muck things up, knowing as I'll 
 be home to see to it by July." 
 
 "To say nothing of me," said Martin, pinching her ear. 
 
 "To say nothing of you." 
 
 "Joanna, you've got on the old hat. . . ." 
 
 "I put it on special." 
 
 "Bless you." 
 
 He pulled her down to the arm of his chair, and for a 
 moment they huddled together, cheek on cheek. The open- 
 ing of the door made Joanna spring virtuously upright. It 
 was Sir Harry. 
 
 "Hullo, Joanna ! — ^you here. Hullo. Martin ! The lovely 
 Raddish says you've come home middling queer. I hope 
 that doesn't mean anything serious." 
 
 "I've got some sort of a chill, and I feel a beast. So I 
 thought I'd better come home." 
 
 "I've given him his tea," said Joanna, "and now he should 
 ought to go to bed." 
 
 Sir Harry looked at her. She struck him as an odd 
 figure, in her velvet gown and basket hat, thick boots and 
 man's overcoat. The more he saw of her, the less could 
 he think what to make of her as a daughter-in-law ; but 
 tonight he was thankful for her capable managing — men- 
 tally and physically he was always clumsy with Martin in 
 illness. He found it hard to adapt himself to the occasional 
 weakness of this being who dominated him in other ways. 
 
 "Do you think he's feverish?" 
 
 Joanna felt Martin's hands again. 
 
 "I guess he is. Maybe he wants a dose — or a cup of herb
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 137 
 
 tea does good, they say. But I'll ask Doctor to come around. 
 Martin, I'm going now this drackly minute, and I'll call 
 in at Mr. Taylor's and at Mr. Pratt's." 
 
 "Wait till tomorrow, and I'll see Pratt," said Martin, 
 unable to rid himself of the idea that a bride should nnd 
 such an errand embarrassing. 
 
 "I'd sooner go myself tonight. Anyways you mustn't go 
 traipsing around, even if you feel better tomorrow. I'll 
 settle everything, so don't you fret." 
 
 She took his face between her hands, and kissed him as 
 if he was a child. 
 
 "Good night, my duck. You get off to bed and keep 
 warm." 
 
 § 21 
 
 She worked off her fears in action. Having given notice 
 of the banns to Mr. Pratt, sent cl Dr. Taylor to North 
 Farthing, put up a special petition for Martin in her evening 
 prayers, she went to bed and sle[)t soundly. She was not 
 an anxious soul, and a man's illness never struck her as 
 particularly alarming. Men were hard creatures — whose 
 weaknesses were of mind and character rather than of 
 body — and though Martin was softer than some, she could 
 not quite discount his broad back and shoulders, his strong, 
 swinging arms. 
 
 She drove over to North Farthing soon after breakfast, 
 ex])ccting to find him, in spite of her injunctions, about and 
 waiting for her. 
 
 "The day's warm, and maybe he won't hurt if he drives 
 on with me to Honeychild" — the thought of him there beside 
 her was so strong that she could almost feel his hand lying 
 pressed between her arm and her heart. 
 
 But when she came to the house she found only Sir Harry 
 prowling in the hall. 
 
 "I'm glad you've come, Joanna. I'm anxious about 
 Martin."
 
 138 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 "What's the matter ? What did Doctor say ?" 
 
 "He said there's congestion of the lung or something. 
 Martin took a fit of the shivers after you'd gone, and of 
 course it made him worse when the doctor said the magic 
 word 'lung.' He's always been hipped about himself, you 
 know." 
 
 "I'd better go and see him." 
 
 She hitched the reins, and climbed down out of the trap 
 — stumbling awkwardly as she alighted, for she had begun 
 to tremble. 
 
 "You don't think he's very bad, do you ?" 
 
 "Can't say. I wish Taylor ud come. He said he'd be 
 here again this morning." 
 
 Plis voice was sharp and complaining, for anything pain- 
 ful always made him exasperated. Martin lying ill in bed, 
 Martin shivering and in pain and in a funk was so unlike 
 the rather superior being whom he liked to pretend bullied 
 him, that he felt upset and rather shocked. He gave a sigh 
 of relief as Joanna ran upstairs — he told himself that she 
 was a good practical sort of woman, and handsome when 
 she was properly dressed. 
 
 She had never been upstairs in North Farthing House 
 before, but she found Martin's room after only one false 
 entry — which surprised the guilty Raddish sitting at Sir 
 Harry's dressing-table and smearing his hair cream on her 
 ignoble head. The blinds in Martin's room were down, 
 and he was half-sitting, half-lying in bed, with his head 
 turned away from her. 
 
 "That you, Father? — has Taylor come?" 
 
 No, it's me, dearie. I've come to see what I can do for 
 you." 
 
 The sight of him huddled there in the pillows, restless, 
 comfortless, neglected, wrung her heart. Hitherto her love 
 for Martin had been singularly devoid of intimacy. They 
 had kissed each other, they had eaten dinner and tea and 
 supper together, they had explored the three marshes in 
 each other's company, but she had scarcely ever been to
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 139 
 
 his house, never seen him asleep, and in normal circum- 
 stances would have perished rather than gone into his bed- 
 room. Today when she saw him there, lying on his wide, 
 tumbled bed, among his littered belongings — his clothes 
 strewn untidily on the floor, his books on their shelves, his 
 pictures that struck her rigidity as indecent, his photographs 
 of people who had touched his life, some perhaps closely, 
 but were unknown to her, she had a queer sense of the 
 revelation of poor, pathetic secrets. This, then, was Martin 
 when he was away from her — untidy, sensual, forlorn, as 
 all men were . . . she bent down and kissed him. 
 
 "Lovely Jo" ... he yielded childish, burning lips, then 
 drew away — "No, you mustn't kiss me — it might be bad 
 for you." 
 
 "Gammon, dear. 'Tis only a chill." 
 
 She saw that he was in a bate about himself, so after her 
 tender beginnings, she became rough. She made him sit 
 up while she shook his pillows, then she made him lie flat 
 and tucked the sheet round him strenuously ; she scolded 
 him for leaving his clothes lying about on the floor. She 
 felt as if her love for him was only just beginning — the 
 last four months seemed cold and formal compared with 
 these moments of warm personal service. She brought him 
 water for his hands, and scrubbed his face with a sponge 
 to his intense discomfort. She was bawling downstairs to 
 the unlucky Raddish to put the kettle on for some herb 
 tea — since an intimate cross-examination revealed that he 
 had not had the recommended dose — when the doctor ar- 
 rived and came upstairs with Sir Harry. 
 
 He imdid a good deal of Joanna's good work — he ordered 
 the blind to be let down again, and he refused to hack her 
 up in her injunctions to the [)aticnt to lie flat — on the con- 
 trary he sent for more pillows, and Martin had to confess 
 to feeling easier when he was pro[)iiC(l up against them 
 with a rug round his shoulders. He then announced that 
 he would send for a nurse from Rye. 
 
 "Oh, but I can manage," cried Joanna — "let me nurse
 
 140 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 him. I can come and stop here, and nurse him day and 
 night." 
 
 "I am sure there is no one whom he'd rather have than 
 you, Miss Godden," said Dr. Taylor gallantly, "but of course 
 you are not professional, and pneumonia wants thoroughly 
 experienced nursing — the nurse counts more than the doctor 
 in a case like this." 
 
 "Pneumonia ! Is that what's the matter with him ?" 
 They had left Martin's room, and the three of them were 
 standing in the hall. 
 
 "I'm afraid that's it — only in the right lung so far." 
 "But you can stop it — you won't let him get worse. 
 Pneumonia ! . . ." 
 
 The word was full of a sinister horror to her, suggesting 
 suffocation — agony. And Martin's chest had always been 
 weak — the weak part of his strong body. She should have 
 thought of that . . . thought of it three nights ago when, 
 all through her, he had been soaked with the wind-driven 
 rain . . , just like a drowned rat he had looked when they 
 came to Ansdore, his cap dripping, the water running down 
 his neck. , . . No, no, it could not be that — he couldn't 
 have caught pneumonia just through getting wet that time 
 — she had got wet a dunnamany times and not been tup- 
 pence the worse . . . his lungs were not weak in that way 
 — it was the London fogs that had disagreed with them, 
 the doctor had said so, and had sent him away from town, 
 to the marsh and the rain. . . . He had been in London for 
 the last two days, and the fog had got into his poor chest 
 again — that was all, and now that he was home on the 
 marsh, he would soon be well — of course he would soon be 
 well — she was a fool to fret. And now she would go up- 
 stairs and sit with him till the nurse came ; it was her last 
 chance of doing those little tender, rough, intimate things 
 for him . . . till they were married — oh, she wouldn't let 
 him fling his clothes about like that when they were mar- 
 ried ! Meantime she would go up, and see that he swallowed 
 every drop of the herb tea — that was the stuff to give any-
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 141 
 
 one who was ill on the marsh, no matter what the doctor 
 said . . . rheumatism, bronchitis, colic, it cured them all. 
 
 § 22 
 
 Martin was very ill. The herb tea did not cure him, non 
 did the stuff the doctor gave him. Nor did the starched, 
 crackling nurse, who turned Joanna out of the room and 
 exasperatingly spoke of Martin as "my patient." 
 
 Joanna had lunch with Sir Harry, who in the stress of 
 anxiety was turning into something very like a father, and 
 afterwards drove off in her trap to Rye, having forgotten 
 all about the Honeychild errand. She went to the f ruiterers^ 
 and ordered grapes and peaches. 
 
 "But you won't get them anywhere now, Miss Godden. 
 It's just between seasons — in another month. . . ." 
 
 "I must have 'em now," said Joanna truculently, "I 
 don't care what I pay." 
 
 It ended in the telephone at the Post Office being put 
 into hysteric action, and a London shop admonished to 
 send down peaches and grapes to Rye station by passenger 
 train that afternoon. 
 
 The knowledge of Martin's illness was all over Walland 
 Marsh by the evening. All the marsh knew about the doctor 
 and the nurse and the peaches and grapes from London. 
 The next morning they knew that he was worse, and that 
 his brother had been sent for — heather Lawrence arrived 
 on Saturday night, driving in the carrier's cart from Rye 
 station. On Sunday morning people met on their way to 
 church, and shook their heads as they told each other the 
 latest news from North Farthing — double pneumonia, an 
 abscess on the lung. . . . Nell Raddish said his face was 
 blue . . . the Old Squire was quite ui)set . . . the nurse 
 was like a heathen, raging at the cook. . . . Joanna Godden ? 
 — she sat all day in Mr. Martin's study, waiting to be sent 
 for upstairs, but she'd only seen him once. . . .
 
 142 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 Then, when tongues at last were quiet in church, just 
 before the Second Lesson Mr, Pratt read out — 
 
 "I publish the banns of marriage between Martin Arbuth- 
 not Trevor, bachelor, of this parish, and Joanna Mary God- 
 den, spinster, of the parish of Pedlinge. This is for the 
 first time of asking. If any of you know any just cause 
 or impediment why these persons should not be joined 
 together in holy matrimony, ye are to declare it." 
 
 § 23 
 
 Martin died early on Monday morning. Joanna was with 
 him at the last, and to the last she did not believe that he 
 would die — because he had given up worrying about him- 
 self, so she was sure he must feel better. Three hours 
 before he died he held both her hands and looked at her 
 once more like a man out of his eyes. . . . "Lovely Jo," 
 he said. 
 
 She had lain down in most of her clothes as usual, in the 
 little spare room, and between two and three o'clock in the 
 morning the nurse had roused her. 
 
 "You're wanted . . . but I'm not sure if he'll know you." 
 
 He didn't. He knew none of them — his mind seemed to 
 have gone away and left his body to fight its last fight alone. 
 
 "He doesn't feel anything," they said to her, when Martin 
 gasped and struggled — "but don't stay if you'd rather not." 
 
 "I'd rather stay," said Joanna, "he may know me. Mar- 
 tin . . ." she called to him, "Martin — I'm here — I'm Jo — " 
 but it was like calling to someone who is already far away 
 down a long road. 
 
 There was a faint, sweet smell of oil in the room — Father 
 Lawrence had administered the last rites of Holy Church. 
 His romance and Martin's had met at his brother's death- 
 bed. . . . "Go forth, Christian soul, from this world, in the 
 Name of God — in the name of the Angels and Archangels 
 — in the name of the Patriarchs, Prophets, Apostles, Evan- 
 gelists, Martyrs, Confessors, Virgins, and of all the Saints
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 143 
 
 of God ; let thine habitation today be in peace and thine 
 abode in Holy Sion" . . . "Martin, it's only me, it's only 
 Jo" . . . thus the two voices mingled, and he heard neither. 
 The cold morning lit up the window square, and the 
 window rattled with the breeze of Rye Bay. Joanna felt 
 someone take her hand and lead her towards the door. 
 "He's all right now," said Lawrence's voice — "it's over. 
 
 Somebody was giving her a glass of wine — she was 
 sitting in the dining-room, staring unmoved at Nell Rad- 
 dish's guilt revealed in a breakfast-table laid over night. 
 Lawrence and Sir Harry were both with her, being kind 
 to her, forgetting their own grief in trying to comfort her. 
 But Joanna only wanted to go home. Suddenly she felt 
 lonely and scared in this fine house, with its thick carpets 
 and mahogany and silver — now that Martin was not here 
 to befriend her in it. She did not belong — she was an out- 
 sider, and she wanted to go away. 
 
 She asked for the trap, and they tried to persuade her 
 to stay and have some breakfast, but she repeated doggedly 
 — "I want to go." Lawrence went and fetched the trap 
 round, for the men were not about yet. The morning had 
 not really come — only the cold twilight, empty and howling 
 with wind, with a great drifting sky of fading stars. 
 
 Lawrence went with her to the door, and kissed her — 
 "Goodbye, dear Jo — Father or I will come and see you 
 soon." She was surprised at the kiss, for he had never 
 kissed her before, though the Squire had taken full advan- 
 tage of their relationship — she had supposed it wasn't right 
 for Jesoots. 
 
 She did not know what she said to him — probalily notliing. 
 There was a terrible silence in her heart. She heard Sniiler's 
 hoofs upon the road — clop, clop, clop. But they did not 
 break the silence within . . . oh, Martin, Martin, put your 
 hand under my arm, against my heart — maybe that'll stop 
 it aching. 
 
 Thoughts of Martin crowding upon her, filling the empty
 
 144 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 heart with memories. . . . Martin sitting on the tombstone 
 outside Brodnyx church on Christmas Day, Martin holding 
 her in his arms on the threshold of Ansdore. . . . Martin 
 kissing her in New Romney church, bending her back 
 against the pillar stained with the old floods . . . that 
 drive through Broomhill — how he had teased her! — "we'll 
 come here for our honeymoon" . . . Dunge Ness, the moan- 
 ing sea, the wind, her fear, his arms . . . the warm kitchen 
 of the Britannia, with the light of the wreck-wood fire, the 
 tea-cups on the table, "we shall want to see our children." 
 . . . No, no, you mustn't say that — not now, not now. . . . 
 Remember instead how we quarrelled, how he tried to get 
 between me and Ansdore, so that I forgot Ansdore, and 
 gave it up for his sake ; but it's all I've got now. I gave up 
 Ansdore to Martin, and now I've lost Martin and got Ans- 
 dore. I've got three hundred acres and four hundred sheep 
 and three hundred pounds at interest in Lewes Old Bank. 
 But I've lost Martin. I've done valiant for Ansdore, bet- 
 ter'n ever I hoped — poor Father ud be proud of me. But 
 my heart's broken. I don't like remembering — it hurts — 
 I must forget. 
 
 Colour had come into the dawn. The marsh was slowly 
 turning from a strange papery grey to green. The sky 
 changed from white to blue, and suddenly became smeared 
 with ruddy clouds. At once the watercourses lit up, streak- 
 ing across the green in fiery slats — ^the shaking boughs of 
 the willows became full of fire, and at the turn of the road 
 the windows of Ansdore shone as if it were burning. 
 
 There it stood at the road's bend, its roofs a fiery yellow 
 with the swarming sea-lichen, its solid walls flushed faintly 
 pink in the sunrise, its windows squares of amber and flame. 
 It was as a house lit up and welcoming. It seemed to shout 
 to Joanna as she came to it clop, clop along the road. 
 
 "Come back — come home to me — I'm glad to see you 
 again. You forgot me for five days, but you won't forget 
 me any more — for I'm all that you've got now."
 
 PART THREE 
 THE LITTLE SISTER
 
 PART III 
 THE LITTLE SISTER 
 
 § 1 
 
 For many months Ansdore was a piece of wreckage to 
 which a drowning woman clung. Joanna's ship had found- 
 ered — the high-castled, seaworthy ship of her life — and she 
 drifted through the dark seas, clinging only to this which 
 had once been so splendid in the midst of her decks, but 
 was now mere wreckage, the least thing saved. If she let 
 go she would drown. So she trailed after Ansdore, and 
 at last it brought her a kind of anchorage, not in her native 
 land, but at least in no unkind country of adoption. During 
 the last weeks of Martin's wooing, she had withdrawn her- 
 self a little from the business of the farm, into a kind of 
 overlordship, from which she was far more free to detach 
 herself than from personal service. Now she went back 
 to work with her hands — she did not want free hours, either 
 for his company or for her own dreams; she rose early, 
 because she waked early and must rise when she waked, and 
 she went round waking the girls, hustling the men, putting 
 her own hand to the milking or the cooking, more sharp- 
 tongucd than ever, less tolerant, but more terribly alive, 
 with a kind of burning, consuming life that vexed all those 
 about her. 
 
 "She spicks short wud me," said old Stuppeny, "and I've 
 toald her as she mun look around fur a new head man. 
 This time I'm going." 
 
 147
 
 148 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 "She's a scold," said Broadhurst, "and reckon the young 
 chap saaved himself a tedious life by dying." 
 
 "Reckon her heart's broke," said Mrs. Tolhurst. 
 
 "Her temper's broke," said Milly Pump. 
 
 They were unsympathetic, because she expressed her 
 grief in terms of fierce activity instead of in the lackadaisical 
 ways of tradition. If Joanna had taken to her bed on her 
 return from North Farthing House that early time, and 
 had sent for the doctor, and shown all the credited symp- 
 toms of a broken heart, they would have pitied her and 
 served her and borne with her. But, instead, she had come 
 back hustling and scolding, and they could not see that she 
 did so because not merely her heart but her whole self was 
 broken, and that she was just flying and rattling about like 
 a broken thing. So instead of pitying her, they grumbled 
 and threatened to leave her service — in fact, Milly Pump 
 actually did so, and was succeeded by Mene Tekel Fagge, 
 the daughter of Bibliolatious parents at Northlade. 
 
 Ansdore throve on its mistress's frenzy. That Autumn 
 Joanna had four hundred pounds in Lewes Old Bank, the 
 result of her splendid markets and of her new ploughs, 
 which had borne eight bushels to the acre. She had tri- 
 umphed gloriously over everyone who had foretold her 
 ruin through breaking up pasture ; strong-minded farmers 
 could scarcely bear to drive along that lap of the Brodnyx 
 road which ran through Joanna's wheat, springing slim and 
 strong and heavy-eared as from Lothian soil — if there had 
 been another way from Brodnyx to Rye market they would 
 have taken it ; indeed it was rumoured that on one occasion 
 Vine had gone by train from Appledore because he couldn't 
 abear the sight of Joanna Godden's ploughs. 
 
 This rumour, when it reached her, brought her a faint 
 thrill. It was the beginning of a slow process of re-identi- 
 fication of herself with her own activities, which till then 
 had been as some furious raging outside the house. She 
 began to picture new acts of discomfiting adventure, new 
 roads which should be shut to Vine through envy. Ansdore
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 149 
 
 was all she had, so she must make it much. When she had 
 given it and herself to Martin she had had all the marsh 
 and all the world to plant with her love; but since he was 
 gone and had left her gifts behind him, she had just a few 
 acres to plant with wheat — and her harvest should be bread 
 alone. 
 
 §2 
 
 But her black months had changed her — not outwardly 
 very much, but leaving wounds in her heart. Martin had 
 woken in her too many needs for her to be able to go back 
 quietly into the old life of unfulfilled content. He had 
 shown her a vision of herself as complete woman, mother 
 and wife, of a Joanna Godden bigger than Ansdore. She 
 could no longer be the Joanna Godden whose highest am- 
 bition was to be admitted member of the Farmers' Qub. 
 He had also woken in her certain simple cravings — for a 
 man's strong arm round her and his shoulder under her 
 cheek. She had now to make the humiliating discovery that 
 the husk of such a need can remain after the creating spirit 
 has left it. In the course of the next year, she had one or 
 two small, rather undignified flirtations with neighbouring 
 farmers — there was young Gain over at Botolph's Bridge, 
 and Ernest Noakes of Bclgar. They did not last long, and 
 she finally abandoned both in disgust, but a side of her, 
 always active unconsciously, was now disturbingly awake, 
 requiring more concrete satisfactions than the veiled, self- 
 deceiving episode of Socknersh. 
 
 She was ashamed of this. And it made her withdraw 
 from comforts she might have had. She never went to 
 North Farthing House, where she could have talked about 
 Martin with the one person who — as it happened — would 
 have understood her treacheries. Lawrence came to see 
 her once at the end of September, but she was grufif and 
 silent. She recoiled from his efforts to break the barriers 
 between life and death ; he wanted her to give ATartin her 
 thoughts and her prayers just as if he was alive, but she
 
 150 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 "didn't hold with praying for the dead" — the Lion and the 
 Unicorn would certainly disapprove of such an act ; and 
 Martin was now robed in white, with a crown on his head 
 and a harp in his hand and a new song in his mouth — he 
 had no need for the prayers of Joanna Godden's unfaithful 
 lips. As for her thoughts, by the same token she could not 
 think of him as he was now ; that radiant being in glistening 
 white was beyond the soft approaches of imagination — 
 robed and crowned, he could scarcely be expected to remem- 
 ber himself in a tweed suit and muddy boots kissing a 
 flushed and hot Joanna on the lonely innings by Beggar's 
 Bush. No, Martin was gone — gone beyond thought and 
 prayer — gone to sing hymns for ever and ever — he who 
 could never abide them on earth — gone to forget Joanna in 
 the company of angels — pictured uncomfortably by her as 
 females, who would be sure to tell him that she had let 
 Thomas Gain kiss her in the barn over at Botolph's Bridge. 
 She could not think of him as he was now, remote and 
 white, and she could bear still less to think of him as he 
 had been once, warm and loving, with his caressing hands 
 and untidy hair, with his flushed check pressed against hers, 
 and the good smell of his clothes — with his living mouth 
 closing slowly down on hers . . . no, earth was even sharper 
 than heaven. All she had of him in which her memory and 
 her love could find rest were those few common things they 
 keep to remember their dead by on the marsh — a memorial 
 card, thickly edged with black, which she had had printed 
 at her own expense, since apparently such things were no 
 part of the mourning of North Farthing House ; his photo- 
 graph in a black frame ; his grave in Brodnyx churchyard, 
 in the shadow of the black, three-hooded tower, and not 
 very far from the altar-tomb on which he had sat and waited 
 for her that Christmas morning. 
 
 § 3 
 In the fall of the next year, she found that once again 
 she had something to engross her outside Ansdore. Ellen
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 151 
 
 was to leave school thai Christmas. The little sister was 
 now seventeen, and endowed with all the grace and learning 
 that forty pounds a term can buy. During the last year, 
 she and Joanna had seen comparatively little of each other. 
 She had received one or two invitations from her school 
 friends to spend her holidays with them — a fine testimonial, 
 thought Joanna, to her manners and accomplishments — and 
 her sister had been only too glad that she should go, that 
 she should be put out of the shadow of a grief which had 
 grown too black even for her sentimental school-girl sym- 
 pathy, so gushing and caressing in the first weeks of her 
 poor Joanna's mourning. 
 
 But things were different now — Martin's memory was 
 laid. She told herself that it was because she was too busy 
 that she had not gone as usual to the Harvest Festival at 
 New Romncy, to sing hymns beside the pillar marked with 
 the old floods. She was beginning to forget. She could 
 think and she could love. She longed to have Ellen back 
 again, to love and spoil and chasten. She was glad that 
 she was leaving school, and would make no fugitive visit 
 to Ansdorc. Immediately her mind leapt to pre])arations — • 
 her sister was too big to sleep any more in tlic little bed 
 at the foot of her own, she must have a new bed . . . and 
 suddenly Joanna thought of a new room, a project which 
 would mop up all her overflowing energies for the next 
 month. 
 
 It should be a surprise for Ellen. She sent for painters 
 and paper-hangers, and chose a wonderful new wall-paper 
 of climbing chrysanthemums, rose and blue in colour and 
 tied with large bows of goM ribbon — real, shining gold. 
 The paint she chose was a delicate fawn, ])icked out with 
 rose and blue. She bought yarfls of flowered cretonne for 
 the bed and window curtains, and iiad the mahogany furni- 
 ture moved in from the spare bedroom. The carpet she 
 bought brand new — it was a sea of stormy crimson, with 
 fawn-coloured islands riotcfl over with roses and blue tulips. 
 Joanna had never enjoyed herself so much since she lost
 
 152 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 Martin, as she did now, choosing all the rich colours, and 
 splendid solid furniture. The room cost her nearly forty 
 pounds, for she had to buy new furniture for the spare 
 bedroom, having given Ellen the mahogany. 
 
 As a final touch, she hung the walls with pictures. There 
 was a large photograph of Ventnor Church, Isle of Wight, 
 and another of Furness Abbey in an Oxford frame ; there 
 was "Don't Touch" and "Mother's Boy" from Pears' Christ- 
 mas Annual, and two texts, properly expounded with robins. 
 To crown all, there was her father's certificate of enrolment 
 in the Ancient Order of Bufifaloes, sacrificed from her own 
 room, and hung proudly in the place of honour over Ellen's 
 bed. 
 
 Her sister came at Thomas-tide, and Joanna drove in to 
 meet her at Rye. Brodnyx had now a station of its own 
 on the new light railway from Appledore to Lydd, but 
 Joanna still went to Rye. She loved the spanking miles, 
 the hard white lick of road that fiew under her wheels as 
 she drove through Pedlinge, and then, swinging round the 
 throws, flung out on the Straight Mile. She trotted under 
 the Land Gate, feeling pleasantly that all the town was 
 watching her from shop and street. Her old love of swag- 
 ger had come back, with perhaps a slight touch of defiance. 
 
 At the station, she had to wake old Stuppeny out of his 
 slumber on the back seat, and put him in his proper place 
 at Smiler's head, while she went on the platform. The 
 train was just due, and she had not passed many remarks 
 with the ticket-collector — a comely young fellow whom she 
 liked for his build and the sauciness of his tongue — before 
 it arrived. As it steamed in, her heart began to beat anx- 
 iously — she bit her lip, and actually looked nervous. Ellen 
 was the only person in the world who could make her feel 
 shy and ill at ease, and Ellen had only lately acquired this 
 power; but there had been a constraint about their meetings
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 153 
 
 for the last year. During the last year, Ellen had become 
 terribly good-mannered and grown up, and somehow that 
 first glimpse of the elegant maiden whom her toil and sacri- 
 fice had created out of little Ellen Godden of Ansdore, 
 never failed to give Joanna a queer sense of awkwardness 
 and inferiority. 
 
 Today Ellen was more impressive, more "different" than 
 ever. She had been allowed to buy new clothes before leav- 
 ing Folkestone, and her long blue coat and neat little hat 
 made Joanna, for the first time in her life, feel tawdry and 
 savage in her fur and feathers. Her sister stepped down 
 from her third-class carriage as a queen from her throne, 
 beckoned to Rye's one porter, and without a word pointed 
 back into the compartment, from which he removed a hand- 
 bag; whereat she graciously gave him twopence and pro- 
 ceeded to greet Joanna. 
 
 "Dear Jo," she murmured, filling her embrace with a soft 
 perfume of hair, which somehow stifled the "Hello, duckie" 
 on the other's tongue. 
 
 Joanna found herself turning to Rye's one porter with 
 enquiries after his wife and little boy, doing her best to 
 take the chill off the proceedings. She wished that Ellen 
 wouldn't give herself these airs. It is true that they always 
 wore off, as Ansdore reasserted itself in old clothes and 
 squabbles, but Joanna resented her first impressions. 
 
 However, her sister thawerl a little on the drive home — 
 she was curious about the affairs of Brodnyx and Pedlinge, 
 for her time in two worlds was at an end, and Ansclore was 
 henceforth to give her its horizons. 
 
 "Will there be any parties at Christmas?" she asked. 
 
 "Sure to be," said Joanna, "I'll be giving one myself, and 
 Mrs. Vine was telling me only yesterday as she's a mind 
 to have some neighbours in for whist." 
 
 "Won't there be any dancing?" 
 
 "Oh, it's that what you're after, is it?" said Joanna 
 proudly. 
 
 "Mabel and Pauline arc going to heaps of dances this
 
 154 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 Christmas — and Alyra West is coming out. Mayn't I come 
 out, Joanna?" 
 
 "Come out o' what, dearie ?" 
 
 "Oh, you know — put up my hair and go to balls." 
 
 "You can put your hair up any day you please — I put 
 mine up at fifteen, and you're turned seventeen now. As 
 for balls. . . ." 
 
 She broke off, a little at a loss as to how she was to 
 supply this deficiency. It would scarcely be possible for 
 her to break into the enclosures of Dungemarsh Court — 
 especially since she had allowed herself to drop away from 
 North Farthing House . . . she had been a fool to do that 
 — Sir Harry might have helped her now. But then . . . 
 her lips tightened. . . . Anyhow, he would not be at home 
 for Christmas — since Martin's death he had sublet the farm 
 and was a good deal away ; people said he had "come into" 
 some money, left him by a former mistress, who had died 
 more grateful than he deserved. 
 
 "I'll do the best I can for you, duck," said Joanna, "you 
 shall have your bit of dancing — and anyways I've got a 
 fine, big surprise for you when we're home." 
 
 "What sort of a surprise?" 
 
 "That's telling." 
 
 Ellen, in spite of her dignity, was child enough to be 
 intensely excited at the idea of a secret, and the rest of the 
 drive was spent in baffled question and provoking answer. 
 
 "I believe it's something for me to wear," she said finally, 
 as they climbed out of the trap at the front door — "a ring, 
 Joanna. . . , I've always wanted a ring." 
 
 "It's better than a ring," said Joanna, "leastways it's 
 bigger," and she laughed to herself. 
 
 She led th^ way upstairs, while Mrs. Tolhurst and old 
 Stuppeny waltzed recriminatingly with Ellen's box. 
 
 "Where are you taking me?" asked her sister, pausing 
 with her hand on the door-knob of Joanna's bedroom. 
 
 "Never you mind — come on." 
 
 Would Mene Tekel, she wondered, have remembered to
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 155^ 
 
 set the lamps, so that the room should not depend on the 
 faint gutter lamps of sunset to display its glories? She 
 opened the door, and was reassured — a fury of light and 
 colour leapt out — rose, blue, green, buff, and the port-wine 
 red of Mahogany. The pink curtains were drawn, but there 
 was no fire in the grate — for fires in bedrooms were un- 
 known at Ansdorc — but a Christmas-like effect was given 
 by sprigs of holly stuck in the picture-frames, and a string 
 of paper-flowers hung from the bed-tester to the top of the 
 big woolly bcU-rope by the mantelpiece. Joanna heard her 
 sister gasp. 
 
 "It's yours, Ellen — your new room. I've given it to you 
 — all to yourself. There's the spare mahogany furniture, 
 and the best pictures, and poor Father's Buffalo Certificate." 
 
 The triumj)h of her own achievement melted away the 
 last of her uneasiness — she seized Ellen in her arms and 
 kissed her, knocking her hat over one ear. 
 
 "See, you've got new curtains — eighteen pence a yard 
 . . . and that's Mother's text — 'Inasmuch' . . . and I've 
 bought a new soap-dish at Gasson's — it doesn't quite go 
 with the basin, but they've both got roses on 'em . . . and 
 you won't mind there being a few of my gowns in the ward- 
 robe — only the skirts — I've got room for the bodices in my 
 drawers . . . that's the basket armchair out of the dining- 
 room, with a new cover that Mcne Tekel fixed for it . . . 
 the clock's out of the spare room — it don't go, but it looks 
 fine on the mantel])iece. . . . Say, duckic, are you pleased? 
 — are you pleased with your old Jo?" 
 
 "Oh, Joanna . . . thank you," said Ellen, 
 
 "Well, I'll have to be leaving you now — that gal's got a 
 rabbit pie in the oven for our tea, anrl I must go and have 
 a look at her crust. You unpack and clean yourself — and 
 be careful not to spoil anything." 
 
 § 5 
 Supper that night was rather a quiet meal. Something 
 about Ellen drove Joanna back into her ohl sense of estrange-
 
 156 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 ment. Her sister made her think of a Hly on a thundery 
 day. She wore a clinging dress of dull green stuff, which 
 sheathed her delicate figure like a lily bract — her throat rose 
 out of it like a lily stalk, and her face, with its small fea- 
 tures and soft skin, was the face of a white flower. About 
 her clung a dim atmosphere of the languid and exotic, like 
 the lily's scent which is so unlike the lily. 
 
 "Ellen," broke out Joanna, with a glance down at her 
 own high, tight bosom, "don't you ever wear stays ?" 
 
 "No — Miss Collins and the gym mistress both say it's 
 unhealthy." 
 
 "Unhealthy ! And don't they ever wear none them- 
 selves ?" 
 
 "Never, They look much better without — besides, small 
 waists are going out of fashion." 
 
 "But . . . Ellen ... it ain't seemly — to show the natural 
 shape of your body as you're doing." 
 
 "I've been told my figure's a very good one." 
 
 "And whoever dared make such a remark to you?" 
 'It was a compliment." 
 
 "I don't call it any compliment to say such things to a 
 young gal. Besides, what right have you to go showing 
 what you was meant to hide?" 
 
 "I'm not showing anything I was meant to hide. My 
 figure isn't nearly so pronounced as yours — if I had your 
 figure, I couldn't wear this sort of frock." 
 
 "My figure is as God made it" — which it certainly was 
 not — "and I was brought up to be the shape of a woman, 
 in proper stays, and not the shape of a heathen statue. I'd 
 be ashamed for any of the folk round here to see you like 
 that — and if Arthur Alee, or any other man, came in, I'd 
 either have to send you out or wrap the table-cover round 
 you." 
 
 Ellen took refuge in a haughty silence, and Joanna began 
 to feel uneasy and depressed. She thought that Ellen was 
 "fast," Was this what she had learned at school — to flout 
 the standards of her home?
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 157 
 
 § 6 
 
 The next morning Joanna overslept herself, in conse- 
 quence of a restless hour during the first part of the night. 
 As a result, it had struck half past seven before she went 
 into her sister's room. She was not the kind of person who 
 knocks at doors, and burst in to find Ellen, inadequately 
 clothed in funny little garments, doing something very 
 busily inside the cupboard. 
 
 "PIullo, duckie! And how did you sleep in your lovely 
 bed?" 
 
 She was once more aglow with the vitality and triumph 
 of her own being, but the next moment she experienced a 
 vague sense of chill — something was the matter with the 
 room, something had happened to it. It had lost its sense 
 of cheerful riot, and wore a chastened, hang-dog air. In a 
 si)asm of consternation Joanna realised that Ellen had been 
 tampering with it. 
 
 "What have you done? — Where's my pictures? — Where've 
 you put the winder curtains?" she cried at last. 
 
 Ellen stiffened herself and tried not to look guilty. 
 
 "I'm just trying to find room for my own things." 
 
 Joanna stared about her. 
 
 "Where's Father's Buflfalo Certificate?" 
 
 "I've put it in the cupboard." 
 
 "In the cupboard! — heather's . . . and I'm blessed if you 
 haven't taken down the curtains." 
 
 "They clash with the carpet — it quite hurts me to look 
 at them. Really, Joanna, if this is my room, you oughtn't 
 to mind what I do in it." 
 
 "Your room, indeed ! — You've got some sass ! — And I 
 spending morc'n forty j)Ounfl fixing it up for you. I've 
 given you new wall paper and new carpet and new curtains 
 and all the best pictures, and took an unaccountable lot of 
 trouble, anrl now you go and mess it up." 
 
 "I haven't messed it up. On the contrary" — Ellen's 
 vexation was breaking through her sense of guilt — "I'm
 
 158 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 doing the best I can to make it look decent. Since you say 
 you've done it specially for me and spent all that money 
 on it, I think at least you might have consulted my taste 
 a little." 
 
 "And -whcit is your taste, Ma'am?" 
 
 "A bit quieter than yours," said Ellen saucily. "There 
 are about six different shades of red and pink in this room." 
 
 "And what shades would you have chosen, may 1 be so 
 bold as to ask?" Joanna's voice dragged ominously with 
 patience — "the same shade as your last night's gownd, 
 which is the colour of the mould on jam? I'll have the 
 colours I like in my own house — I'm sick of your dentical, 
 die-away notions. You come home from school, thinking 
 you know everything, when all you've learned is to despise 
 my best pictures, and say my curtains clash with the carpet, 
 when I chose 'em for a nice match. I tell you what. Ma'am 
 — you can justabout put them curtains back, and them 
 pictures, and that Certificate of poor Father's that you're 
 so ashamed of." 
 
 "I want to put my own pictures up," said Ellen dog- 
 gedly. "If I've got to live with your carpet and wall- 
 paper, I don't see why I shouldn't have my own pictures." 
 
 Joanna swept her eye contemptuously over "The Vigil," 
 *'Sir Galahad," "The Blessed Damozel," and one or two 
 other schoolgirl favourites that were lying on the bed. 
 
 "You can stick those up as well — there ain't such a lot." 
 
 "But can't you see, Joanna, that there are too many 
 pictures on the wall already? It's simply crowded with 
 them. Really, you're an obstinate old beast," and Ellen 
 began to cry. 
 
 Joanna fought back in herself certain symptoms of re- 
 lenting. She could not bear to see Ellen cry, but on the 
 other hand she had "fixed up" this room for Ellen, she 
 had had it furnished and decorated for her, and now Ellen 
 must and should appreciate it — she should not be allowed 
 to disguise and bowdlerise it to suit the unwelcome tastes 
 she. had acquired at school. The sight of her father's
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 159 
 
 Buffalo Certificate, lying face downwards on the cupboard 
 floor, gave strength to her flagging purpose. 
 
 "You pick that up and hang it in its proper place." 
 
 "I won't." 
 
 "You will." 
 
 "I won't — why should I have that hideous thing over my 
 bed?" 
 
 "Because it was your father's and you should ought to 
 be proud of it." 
 
 "It's some low drinking society he belonged to, and I'm 
 not proud — I'm ashamed." 
 
 Joanna boxed her ears. 
 
 "You don't deserve to be his daughter, Ellen Godden, 
 speaking so. It's you that's bringing us all to shame — ^ 
 thank goodness you've left school, where you learned all 
 that tedious, proud nonsense. You hang those pictures up 
 again, and those curtains, and you'll keep this room just 
 what I've made it for you." 
 
 Ellen was weeping bitterly now, but her sacrilege had 
 hardened Joanna's heart. She did not leave the room till 
 the deposed dynasty of curtains and pictures was restored, 
 with Poor Father's certificate once more in its place of 
 honour. Then she marched out. 
 
 §7 
 
 The days till Christmas were full of strain. Joanna had 
 won her victory, but she did not find it a satisfying one. 
 Ellen's position in the Ansdore household was that of a 
 sulky rebel — resentful, plaintive, a nurse of hard memories 
 — too close to be ignored, too hostile to be trusted. 
 
 The tyrant groaned unrk-r the heel of her victim. She 
 was used to quarrels, but this was her first experience of 
 a prolonged estrangement. It had been all very well to- 
 box Ellen's ears as a child, and have her shins kicked in 
 return, and then an hour or two later be nursing her on 
 her lap to the tune of "'ITiere was an Old Woman," or
 
 160 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 "Little Boy Blue" . . . But this dragged-out antagonism 
 wore down her spirits into a long sadness — it was the 
 wrong start for that happy home she had planned, in which 
 Ellen, the little sister, was to absorb that overflowing love 
 which had once been Martin's, but which his memory could 
 not hold in all its power. 
 
 It seemed as if she would be forced to acknowledge 
 Ellen's education as another of her failures. She had sent 
 her to school to be made a lady of, but the finished article 
 was nearly as disappointing as the cross-bred lambs of 
 Socknersh's unlucky day. If Ellen had wanted to lie abed 
 of a morning, never to do a hand's turn of work, or had 
 demanded a table napkin at all her meals, Joanna would 
 have humoured her and bragged about her. But, on the 
 contrary, her sister had learned habits of early rising at 
 school, and if left to herself would have been busy all day 
 with piano or pencil or needle of the finer sort. Also she 
 found more fault with the beauties of Ansdore's best par- 
 lour than the rigors of its kitchen ; there lay the sting — 
 her revolt was not against the toils and austerities of the 
 farm's life, but against its glories and comelinesses. She 
 despised Ansdore for its very splendours, just as she de- 
 spised her sister's best clothes more than her old ones. 
 
 By Christmas Day things had righted themselves a little, 
 Ellen was too young to sulk more than a day or two, and 
 she began to forget her grievances in the excitement of the 
 festival. There was the usual communal mid-day dinner, 
 with Arthur Alee back in his old place at Joanna's right 
 hand. Alee had behaved like a gentleman, and refused to 
 take back the silver tea-set, his premature wedding-gift. 
 Then in the evening, Joanna gave a party, at which young 
 Vines and Southlands and Furneses offered their sheepish 
 admiration to her sister Ellen. Of course, everyone was 
 agreed that Ellen Godden gave herself lamentable airs, but 
 she appealed to her neighbours' curiosity through her queer, 
 languid ways, and the young men found her undeniably 
 beautiful — she had a thick, creamy skin, into which her
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 161 
 
 childhood's roses sometimes came as a dim flush, and the 
 younger generation of the Three Marshes was inclined to 
 revolt from the standards of its fathers. 
 
 So young Stacey Vine kissed her daringly under the 
 mistletoe at the passage bend, and was rewarded with a 
 gasp of sweet scent, which made him talk a lot at the 
 W'oolpack. While Tom Southland, a man of few words, 
 went home and closed with his father's ofter of a partner- 
 ship in his firm, which hitherto he had thought of setting 
 aside in favour of an escape to Australia. Ellen wa« 
 pleased at the time, but a night's thought made her scornful. 
 
 "Don't you know any really nice people?" she asked 
 Joanna. "Why did you send me to school with gentlemen's 
 daughters if you just meant me to mix with common people 
 when I came out ?" 
 
 "You can mix with any gentlefolk you can find to mix 
 with. I myself have been engaged to marry a gentleman's 
 son, and his father would have come to my party if he 
 hadn't been away for Christmas." 
 
 She felt angry and sore with Ellen, but she was bound 
 to admit that her grievance had a certain justification. 
 After all, she had always meant her to be a lady, and now, 
 she supposed, she was merely behaving like one. She cast 
 about her for means of introducing her sister into the 
 spheres she coveted ... if only Sir Harry Trevor would 
 come home! But she gathered there was little prospect of 
 that for some time. Then she thought of Mr. Pratt, the 
 Rector. ... It was the first time that she had ever con- 
 sidered him as a social asset — his poverty, his inefficiency 
 and self -depreciation had quite outweighed his gentility in 
 her ideas ; he had existed only as the Voice of the Church 
 on Walland Marsh, and the sj>asmodic respect she paid him 
 was for his office alone. V>\\t now she began to remember 
 that he was an educated man and a gentleman, who might 
 supply the want in her sister's life without in any way 
 encouraging those more undesirable "notions" she had 
 picked up at school.
 
 162 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 Accordingly, Mr. Pratt, hitherto neglected, was invited 
 to Ansdore with a frequency and enthusiasm that com- 
 pletely turned his head. He spoiled the whole scheme by 
 misinterpreting its motive, and after about the ninth tea- 
 party, became buoyed with insane and presumptuous hopes, 
 and proposed to Joanna. She was overwhelmed, and did 
 not scruple to overwhelm him with anger and consternation. 
 It was not that she did not consider the Rectory a fit match 
 for Ansdore, even with only two hundred a year attached 
 to it, but she was furious that Mr. Pratt should think it 
 possible that she could fancy him as a man — "a little rabbity 
 chap like him, turned fifty, and scarce a hair on him. If 
 he wants another wife at his age, he should get an old 
 maid like Miss Gasson or a hopeful widder like Mrs. Woods 
 — not a woman who's had real men to love her, and ud 
 never look at anything but a real, stout feller." 
 
 However, she confided the proposal to Ellen, for she 
 wanted her sister to know that she had had an offer from 
 a clergyman, and also that she was still considered desirable 
 — for once or twice Ellen had thrown out troubling hints 
 that she thought her sister middle-aged. Of course she 
 was turned thirty now, and hard weather and other hard 
 things had made her inclined to look older, by reddening 
 and lining her face. But she had splendid eyes, hair and 
 teeth, and neither the grace nor the energy of youth had 
 left her body, which had coarsened into something rather 
 magnificent, tall and strong, plump without stoutness, clean- 
 limbed without angularity. 
 
 She could certainly now have had her pick among the 
 unmarried farmers — which could not have been said when 
 she first set up her mastership at Ansdore. Since those 
 times men had learned to tolerate her swaggering ways, 
 also her love affair with Martin had made her more normal, 
 more of a soft, accessible woman. Arthur Alee was no 
 longer the only suitor at Ansdore — it was well known that 
 Sam Turner, who had lately moved from inland to North- 
 lade, was wanting to have her, and Hugh Vennal would
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 163 
 
 have been glad to bring her as his second wife to Beggar's 
 Bush. Joanna was proud of these attachments, and saw 
 to it that they were not obscure — also, one or two of the 
 men, particularly Vennal, she liked for themselves, for 
 their vitality and "set-upness" ; but she shied away from 
 the prospect of marriage. Martin had shown her all that 
 it meant in the way of renunciation, and she felt that she 
 could make its sacrifices for no one less than Martin. 
 Also, the frustration of her hopes and the inadequacy of 
 her memories had produced in her a queer antipathy to 
 marriage — a starting aside. Her single state began to have 
 for her a certain worth in itself, a respectable rigour like 
 a pair of stays. For a year or so after Martin's death, 
 she had maintained her solace of secret kisses, but in time 
 she had come to withdraw even from these, and by now 
 the full force of her vitality was pouring itself into her 
 life at Ansdore, its ambitions and business, her love for 
 Ellen, and her own pride. 
 
 §8 
 
 Ellen secretly despised Joanna's suitors, just as she se- 
 cretly despised all Joanna's best and most splendid things. 
 They were a dull lot, driving her sister home on market-day, 
 or sitting for hours in the parlour with Arthur Alce's 
 mother's silver tea-set. It was always "Good evening, Miss 
 Goddcn," "Good evening, Mr. Turner" — "Fine weather for 
 roots" — "A bit dry for the grazing." It was not thus that 
 Ellen Goddcn understood love. Besides, tliese men looked 
 oafs, in spite of the fine build of some of them — they were 
 not so bad in their working clothes, with their leggings and 
 velveteen breeches, but in their Sunday best, which they 
 always wore on these occasions, they looked clumsy and 
 ridiculous, their broad black coats in the cut of yester-year 
 and smelling of camphor, their high-winged collars scraping 
 and reddening their necks ... in their presence Ellen was
 
 164 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 rather sidling and sweet, but away from them in the riotous 
 privacy of her new bedroom, she laughed to herself and 
 jeered. 
 
 She had admirers of her own, but she soon grew tired of 
 them — would have grown tired sooner if Joanna had not 
 clucked and shoo'd them away, thus giving them the gla- 
 mour of the forbidden thing. Joanna looked upon them all 
 as detrimentals, presumptuously lifting up their eyes to 
 Ansdore's wealth and Ellen's beauty. 
 
 "When you fall in love, you can take a stout yeoman 
 with a bit of money, if you can't find a real gentleman same 
 as I did. Howsumever, you're too young to go meddling 
 with such things just yet. You be a good girl, Ellen Godden, 
 and keep your back straight, and don't let the boys kiss 
 you." 
 
 Ellen had no particular pleasure in letting the boys kiss 
 her — she was a cold-blooded little thing — but, she asked 
 herself, what else was there to do in a desert like Walland 
 Marsh? The Marsh mocked her every morning as she 
 looked out of her window at the flat miles between Ans- 
 dore and Dunge Ness. This was her home — this wilderness 
 of straight dykes and crooked roads, every mile of which 
 was a repetition of the mile before it. There was never any 
 change in that landscape, except such as came from the 
 sky — cloud-shadows shaking like swift wings across the 
 swamp of buttercups and sunshine, mists lying in strange 
 islands by the Sewers, rain turning all things grey, and the 
 wind, as it were, made visible in a queer flying look put 
 on by the pastures when the storm came groaning inland 
 from Rye Bay . . . with a great wailing of wind and slash 
 of rain and a howl and shudder through all the house. 
 
 She found those months of Spring and Summer very 
 dreary. She disliked the ways of Ansdore ; she met no one 
 but common and vulgar people, who took it for granted 
 that she was just one of themselves. Of course she had 
 lived through more or less the same experiences during her 
 holidays, but then the contact had not been so close or so
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 165 
 
 prolonged, and there had always been the prospect of school 
 to sustain her. 
 
 But now schooldays were over, and seemed very far 
 away. Ellen felt cut off from the life and interests of those 
 happy years. She had hoped to receive invitations to go 
 and stay with the friends she had made at school ; but months 
 went by and none came. Her school-friends were being 
 absorbed by a life very different from her own, and she 
 was sensitive enough to realise that parents who had not 
 minded her associating with their daughters while they were 
 still at school, would not care for their grown-up lives to 
 be linked together. At first letters were eagerly written and 
 constantly received, but in time even this comfort failed, 
 as ways became still further divided, and Ellen found her- 
 self faced with the alternative of complete isolation or such 
 friendships as she could make on the marsh. 
 
 She chose the latter. Though she would have preferred 
 the humblest seat in a drawing-room to the place of honour 
 in a farm-house kitchen, she found a certain pleasure in 
 impressing the rude inhabitants of Brodnyx and Pedlinge 
 with her breeding and taste. She accepted invitations to 
 "drop in after church," or to take tea, and scratched up 
 rather uncertain friendships with the sisters of the boys 
 who admired her. 
 
 Joanna watched her rather anxiously. She tried to per- 
 suade herself that Ellen was happy and no longer craved 
 for the alien soil from which she had been uprooted. But 
 there was no denying her own disappointment. A lady 
 was not the wonderful being Joanna Godden had always 
 imagined. Ellen refused to sit in imi)ressive idleness on the 
 parlour .sofa, not because she disapproved of idleness, but 
 because she disapproved of the parlour and the sofa. She 
 despised Joanna's admirers, those stout, excellent men she 
 v/as so proud of, who had asked her in marriage, "as no 
 one ull ever ask you, Ellen Godden, if you give yourself 
 such airs." And worst of all, .she despised her sister . . . 
 her old Jo, on whose back she had ridden, in whose arms
 
 166 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 she had slept. . . . Those three years of polite education 
 seemed to have wiped out all the fifteen years of happy, 
 homely childhood. Sometimes Joanna wished she had never 
 sent her to a grand school. All they had done there was to 
 stufif her head with nonsense. It would have been better, 
 after all, if she had gone to the National, and learned to 
 say her Catechism instead of to despise her home. 
 
 One day early in October the Vines asked Ellen to go 
 with them into Rye and visit Lord John Sanger's Menagerie. 
 
 Joanna was delighted that her sister should go — a wild 
 beast show was the ideal of entertainment on the Three 
 Marshes. 
 
 "You can put on your best gown, Ellen — the blue one 
 Miss Gasson made you. You've never been to Lord John 
 Sanger's before, have you? I'd like to go myself, but 
 Wednesday's the day for Romney, and I justabout can't 
 miss this market. I hear they're sending up some heifers 
 from Orgarswick, and there'll be sharp bidding. ... I envy 
 you going to a wild beast show. I haven't been since Arthur 
 Alee took me in '93. That was the first time he asked me 
 to marry him. I've never had the time to go since, though 
 Sanger's been twice since then, and they had Buffalo Bill 
 in Cadborough meadow. ... I reckon you'll see some fine 
 riding and some funny clowns — and there'll be stalls where 
 you can buy things, and maybe a place where you can get 
 a cup of tea. You go and enjoy yourself, duckie." 
 
 Ellen smiled a wan smile. 
 
 On Monday night the news came to the Vines that their 
 eldest son, Bill, who was in an accountant's office at Maid- 
 stone, had died suddenly of peritonitis. Of course Wednes- 
 day's jaunt was impossible, and Joanna talked as if young 
 Bill's untimely end had been an act of premeditated spite. 
 
 "If only he'd waited till Thursday — even Wednesday 
 morning ud have done . . . the telegram wouldn't have got
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 167 
 
 to them till after they'd left the house, and Ellen ud have 
 had her treat." 
 
 Ellen bore the deprivation remarkably well, but Joanna 
 fumed and champed. "I call it a shame," she said to Arthur 
 Alee, — "an unaccountable shame, spoiHng the poor child's 
 pleasure. It's seldom she gets anything she likes, with all 
 her refined notions, but here you have, as you might say, 
 amusement and instruction combined. If only I hadn't got 
 that tedious market . . . but go I must ; it's not a job I 
 can give to Broadhurst, bidding for them heifers — and I 
 mean to have 'em. I hear Furnese is after 'em, but he 
 can't bid up to me." 
 
 "Would you like me to take Ellen to the wild-beast show?" 
 said Arthur Alee. 
 
 "Oh, Arthur — that's middling kind of you, that's neigh- 
 bourly. But aren't you going into Romney yourself?" 
 
 "I've nothing particular to go for. I don't want to buy. 
 If I went it ud only be to look at stock." 
 
 "Well, I'd take it as a real kindness if you'd drive in Ellen 
 to Rye on Wednesday. The show's there only for the one 
 day, and nobody else is going up from these parts save the 
 Cobbs, and I don't want Ellen to go along with them 'cos 
 of that Tom Cobb what's come back and up to no good." 
 
 "I'm only too pleased to do anything for you, Joanna, as 
 you know well." 
 
 "Yes, I know it well. You've been a hem good neighbour 
 to me, Arthur." 
 
 "A neighbour ain't so good as I'd like to be." 
 
 "Oh, don't you git started on that again — I thought you'd 
 done." 
 
 "I'll never have done of that." 
 
 Joanna looked vexed. Alec's wooing had grown stale, 
 and no longer gratified her. She ccnild not hclj) comparing 
 his sanrly-haircd sedatencss with her memories of Martin's 
 fire and youth — that dead sweetheart had made it impos- 
 sible for her to look at a man who was not eager anrl virile ; 
 her admirers were now all, except for him, younger than
 
 168 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 herself. She hkecl his friendship, his society, his ready and 
 unselfish support, but she could not bear to think of him 
 as a suitor, and there was almost disdain in her eyes. 
 
 "I don't like to hear such talk from you," she said coldly. 
 Then she remembered the silver tea-set which he had never 
 taken back, and the offer he had made just now. . . . "Not 
 but that you ain't a good friend to me, Arthur — my best." 
 
 A faint pink crept under his freckles and tan. 
 
 "Well, I reckon that should ought to be enough for me — 
 to hear you say that." 
 
 "I do say it. And now I'll go and tell Ellen you're taking 
 her into Rye for tlie show. She'll be a happy girl." 
 
 3 10 
 
 Ellen was not quite so happy as her sister expected. Her 
 sum of spectacular bliss stood in Shakespearian plays which 
 she had seen, and in "Monsieur Beaucaire" which she had 
 not. A wild beast show with its inevitable accompaniment 
 of dust and chokiness and noise would give her no pleasure 
 at all, and the slight interest which had lain in the escort of 
 the Vines with the amorous Staccy was now removed. She 
 did not want Arthur Alce's company. Her sister's admirer 
 struck her as a dull dog. 
 
 "I won't trouble him," she said, "I'm sure he doesn't 
 really want to go." 
 
 "Reckon he does," said Joanna, "he wants to go anywhere 
 that pleases me." 
 
 This did not help to reconcile Ellen. 
 
 "Well, I don't want to be taken anywhere just to pleafe 
 you." 
 
 "It pleases you too, don't it ?" 
 
 "No, it doesn't. I don't care twopence about fairs and 
 shows, and Arthur Alee bores me." 
 
 This double blasphemy temporarily deprived Joanna of 
 speech.
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 169 
 
 "If he's only taking me to please you," continued Ellen, 
 "he can just leave me at home to please myself." 
 
 "What nonsense !" cried her sister — "here have I been 
 racking around for hours just to fix a way of getting you 
 to the Show, and now you say you don't care about it." 
 
 "Well, I don't." 
 
 "Then you should ought to. I never saw such airs as 
 you give yourself. Not care about Sanger's World Wide 
 Show ! — I tell you, you justabout shall go to it, Ma'am, 
 whether you care about it or not, and Arthur Alee shall 
 take you." 
 
 Thus the treat was arranged, and on Wednesday after- 
 noon Alee drove to the door in his high, two-wheeled dog- 
 cart, and Ellen climbed up beside him, under the supervision 
 of Mrs. Tolhurst, whom Joanna, before setting out for 
 market, had commissioned to "see as she went." Not that 
 Joanna could really bring herself to believe that Ellen was 
 truthful in saying she did not care about the show, but she 
 thought it possible that sheer contrariness might keep her 
 away. 
 
 Ellen was wearing her darkest, demurest clothes, in em- 
 phatic contrast to the ribbons and laces in which Brodnyx 
 and Pcdlinge usually went to the fair. Her hair was neatly 
 coiled under her little, trim black hat, and she wore dark 
 suede gloves and buckled shoes. Alee felt afraid of her, 
 especially as during the drive she never opened her mouth 
 except in brief response to some remark of his. 
 
 Ellen despised Arthur Alee — she did not like his looks, 
 his old-fashioned side-whiskers and Gladstone collars, or 
 the amount of hair and freckles that covered the exposed 
 portions of his skin. She despised him, too, for his devo- 
 tion to Joanna ; she did not understand how a man could 
 be inspired with a lifelong love for Joanna, who seemed to 
 her unattractive — coarse and bouncing. She also a little 
 resented this devotion, the way it was accepted as an estab- 
 lished fact in the neighbourhood, a standing simi to Joanna's 
 credit. Of course she was fond of her sister — she could
 
 170 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 not help it — but she would have forgiven her more easily 
 for her ruthless domineering, if she had not also had the 
 advantage in romance. An admirer who sighed hopelessly 
 after you all your life was still to Ellen the summit of desire 
 — it was fortunate that she could despise Alee so thoroughly 
 in his person, or else she might have found herself jealous 
 of her sister. 
 
 They arrived at Sanger's in good time for the afternoon 
 performance, and their seats were the best in the tent. Alee, 
 ever mindful of Joanna, bought Ellen an orange and a bag 
 of bulls'-eyes. During the performance he was too much 
 engrossed to notice her much — the elephants, the clowns, 
 the lovely ladies, were as fresh and wonderful to him as to 
 any child present, though as a busy farmer he had long ago 
 discarded such entertainments and would not have gone 
 today if it had not been for Ellen, or rather for her sister. 
 When the interval came, however, he had time to notice his 
 companion, and it seemed to him that she drooped. 
 
 "Are you feeling it hot in here ?" 
 
 "Yes — it's very close." 
 
 He did not offer to take her out — it did not strike him 
 that she could want to leave. 
 
 "You haven't sucked your orange — that'll freshen you a 
 bit." 
 
 Ellen looked at her orange. 
 
 "Let me peel it for you," said Alee, noticing h^r gloved 
 hands. 
 
 "Thanks very much — but I can't eat it here ; there's no- 
 where to put the skin and pips." 
 
 "What about the floor ? Reckon they sweep out the saw- 
 dust after each performance." 
 
 "I'm sure I hope they do," said Ellen, whose next-door 
 neighbour had spat at intervals between his kne^es, "but 
 really, I'd rather keep the orange till I get home." 
 
 At that moment the ring-master came in to start the second 
 half of the entertainment, and Alee turned away from Ellen. 
 He was unconscious of her till the band played "God Save
 
 JOANNA GODDEISr 171 
 
 the King," and there was a great scraping of feet as the 
 audience turned to go out. 
 
 "We'll go and have a cup of tea," said Alee. 
 
 He took her into the refreshment tent, and blundered 
 as far as offering her a twopenny ice-cream at the ice-cream 
 stall. He was beginning to realise that she took her pleas- 
 ures differently from most girls he knew ; he felt disap- 
 pointed and ill at ease with her — it would be dreadful if 
 she went home and told Joanna she had not enjoyed herself. 
 
 "What would you like to do now?" he asked when they 
 had emptied their tea-cups and eaten their stale buns in the 
 midst of a great steaming, munching squash — "there's swings 
 and stalls and a merry-go-round — and I hear the Fat Lady's 
 the biggest they've had yet in Rye ; but maybe you don't 
 care for that sort of thing?" 
 
 "No, I don't think I do, and I'm feeling rather tired. We 
 ought to be starting back before long." 
 
 "Oh, not till you've seen all the sights. Joanna ud never 
 forgive me if I didn't show you the sights. We'll just stroll 
 around, and then we'll go to the Crown and have the trap 
 put to." 
 
 Ellen submitted — she was a bom submitter, whose resent- 
 ful and watchful submission had come almost to the pitch 
 of art. She accompanied Alee to the swings, though she 
 would not go up in them, and to the merry-go-round, though 
 she would not ride in it. 
 
 "There's Ellen Godden out with her sister's young man,'* 
 said a woman's voice in the crowd. 
 
 "Maybe he'll take the young girl now he can't get the old 
 'un," a man answered her. 
 
 "Oh, Arthur Alee ull never change from Joanna Godden." 
 
 "But the sister's a dear lidflle thing, better worth having 
 to my mitid." 
 
 "Still I'll never believe. . . ." 
 
 The voices were lost in the crowd, and Ellen never knew 
 who had spoken, but for the first time that afternoon her 
 boredom was relieved. It was rather pleasant to have any-
 
 172 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 one think that Arthur Alee was turning to her from Joanna 
 ... it would be a triumph indeed if he actually did turn 
 , . . for the first time she began to take an interest in him. 
 
 The crowd was very thick, and Alee offered her his arm. 
 
 "Hook on to me, or maybe I'll lose you." 
 
 Ellen did as he told her, and after a time he felt her 
 weight increase. 
 
 "Reckon you're middling tired." 
 
 He looked down on her with a sudden pity — her little 
 hand was like a kitten under his arm. 
 
 "Yes, I am rather tired." It was no pretence — such an 
 afternoon, without the stimulant and sustenance of enjoy- 
 ment, was exhausting indeed. 
 
 "Then we'll go home — reckon we've seen everything." 
 
 He piloted her out of the crush, and they went to the 
 Crown, where the trap was soon put to. Ellen sat droop- 
 ing along the Straight Mile. 
 
 "Lord, but you're hem tired," said Alee, looking down at 
 her. 
 
 "I've got a little headache — I had it when I started." 
 
 "Then you shouldn't ought to have come." 
 
 "Joanna said I was to." 
 
 "You should have told her about your head." 
 
 "I did — but she said I must come all the same. I said 
 I was sure you wouldn't mind, but she wouldn't let me off." 
 
 "Joanna's valiant for getting her own way. Still, it was 
 hard on you, liddle girl, making you come — I shouldn't have 
 taken offence." 
 
 "I know you wouldn't. But Jo's so masterful. She 
 always wants me to enjoy myself in her way, and being 
 strong, she doesn't understand people who aren't." 
 
 "That's so, I reckon. Still your sister's a fine woman, 
 Ellen — the best I've known." 
 
 "I'm sure she is," snapped Ellen. 
 
 "But she shouldn't ought to have made you come this 
 afternoon, since you were feeling poorly." 
 
 "Don't let out I said anything to you about it, Arthur —
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 173 
 
 It might make her angry. Oh, don't make her angry with 
 
 me."" 
 
 § 11 
 
 During the next few weeks it seemed to Joanna that her 
 sister was a Httle more alert. She went out more among 
 the neighbours, and when Joanna's friends came to see her, 
 she no longer sulked remotely, but came into the parlour, 
 and was willing to play the piano and talk and be enter- 
 taining. Indeed, once or twice when Joanna was busy she 
 had sat with Arthur Alee after tea and made herself most 
 agreeable — so he said. 
 
 The fact was that Ellen had a new interest in life. Those 
 words sown casually in her thoughts at the Show were 
 bearing remarkable fruit. She had pondered them well, 
 and weighed her chances, and come to the conclusion that 
 it would be a fine and not impossible thing to win Arthur 
 Alee from Joanna to herself. 
 
 She did not see why she should not be able to do so. She 
 was prettier than her sister, younger, more accomplished, 
 better educated. Alee on his side must be tired of wooing 
 without response. When he saw there was a chance of 
 Ellen, he would surely take it ;and then — what a triumph ! 
 How people would talk and marvel when they saw Joanna 
 Goddcn's life-long admirer turn from her to her little 
 sister! They would be forced to acknowledge Ellen as a 
 superior and enchanting person. Of course there was the 
 disadvantage that she did not particularly want Arthur Alee, 
 but her schemings did not take her as far as matrimony. 
 
 She was shrewd enough to see that the best way to cap- 
 ture Alee was to make herself as unlike her sister as possible. 
 With him she was like a little soft cat, languid and sleek, 
 or else delicately playful. She appealed to his protecting 
 strength, and in time made him realise that she was unhappy 
 in her home-life and suffered uiuler her sister's tyranny. 
 She had hoped that this might help detach him from 
 Joanna, but his affection was of that passive, tenacious kind
 
 174 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 which tacitly accepts all the faults of the beloved. He was 
 always ready to sympathise with Ellen, and once or twice 
 expostulated with Joanna — but his loyalty showed no signs 
 of wavering. 
 
 As time went on, Ellen began to like him more in himself. 
 She grew accustomed to his red hair and freckles, and when 
 he was in his everyday kit of gaiters and breeches and broad- 
 cloth, she did not find him unattractive. Moreover, she 
 could not fail to appreciate his fundamental qualities of 
 generosity and gentleness — he was like a big, faithful, gentle 
 dog, a red-haired collie, following and serving. 
 
 § 12 
 
 The weeks went by, and Ellen still persevered. But she 
 was disappointed in results. She had thought that Alce's 
 subjection would not take very long, she had not expected 
 the matter to drag. It was the fault of his crass stupidity 
 — he was unable to see what she was after, he looked upon 
 her just as a little girl, Joanna's little sister, and was good 
 to her for Joanna's sake. 
 
 This was humiliating, and Ellen fretted and chafed at her 
 inability to make him see. She was no siren, and was with- 
 out either the parts or the experience for a definite attack 
 on his senses. She worked as an amateur and a schoolgirl, 
 with only a certain fundamental shrewdness to guide her; 
 she was doubtless becoming closer friends with Alee — he 
 liked to sit and talk to her after tea, and often gave her lifts 
 in his trap — but he used their intimacy chiefly to confide in 
 her his love and admiration for her sister, which was not 
 what Ellen wanted. 
 
 The first person to see what was happening was Joanna 
 herself. She had been glad for some time of Ellen's in- 
 creased friendliness with Alee, but had put it down to 
 nothing more than the comradeship of that happy day at 
 Lord John Sanger's show. Then something in Ellen's look 
 as she spoke to Arthur, in her manner as she spoke of him, 
 made her suspicious — and one Sunday evening, walking
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 175 
 
 home from Church, she became sure. The service had been 
 at Pedhnge, in the queer barn-like church whose walls in- 
 side were painted crimson ; and directly it was over Ellen 
 had taken charge of Alee, v/ho was coming back to supper 
 with them. Alee usually went to his parish church at Old 
 Romney, but had accepted Ellen's invitation to accompany 
 the Goddens that day, and now Ellen seemed anxious that 
 he should not walk with her and Joanna, but had taken him 
 on ahead, leaving Joanna to walk with the Southlands. 
 
 The elder sister watched them — Alee a little oafish in 
 his Sunday blacks, Ellen wearing her new Spring hat with 
 the daisies. As she spoke to him she lifted her face on her 
 graceful neck like a swan, and her voice was eager and 
 rather secret. Joanna lost the thread of Mrs. Southland's 
 reminiscences of her last dairy girl, and she watched Ellen, 
 watched her hands, watched the shrug of her shoulders 
 under her gown — the girl's whole body seemed to be moving, 
 not restlessly or jerkily, but with a queer soft ripple. 
 
 Then Joanna suddenly said to herself — "She loves him. 
 Ellen wants Arthur Alee." Her first emotion was of anger, 
 a resolve to stop this impudence ; but the next minute she 
 pitied instead — Ellen, with her fragile beauty, her little die- 
 away airs, would never be able to get Arthur Alee from 
 Joanna, to whom he belonged. He was hers, both by choice 
 and habit, and Ellen would never get him. Then from pity, 
 she passed into tenderness — she was sorry Ellen could not 
 get Arthur, could not have him when she wanted him, while 
 Joanna, who could have him, did not want him. It would 
 be a good thing for her, too. Alec was steady and well- 
 established — he was not like those mucky young Vines and 
 Southlands. Ellen would be safe to marry him. It was a 
 pity she hadn't a chance. 
 
 Joanna looked almost sentimentally at ihe couple ahead — 
 then she suddenly made up her mind. "If I spoke to Arthur 
 Alee, I believe I could make him do it." She could make 
 Arthur do most things, and she did not .see why he should 
 stop at this. Of course she did not want Ellen to marry
 
 176 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 him or anybody, but now she had once come to think of it 
 she could see plainly, in spite of herself, that marriage would 
 be a good thing for her sister. She was being forced up 
 against the fact that her schemes for Ellen had failed — 
 school-life had spoiled her, home-life was making both her 
 and home miserable. The best thing she could do would 
 be to marry, but she must marry a good man and true — 
 Alee was both good and true, and moreover his marriage 
 would set Joanna free from his hang-dog devotion, of which 
 she was beginning to grow heartily tired. She appreciated 
 his friendship and his usefulness, but they could both sur- 
 vive, and she would at the same time be free of his senti- 
 mental lapses, the constant danger of a declaration. Yes, 
 Ellen should have him — she would make a present of him 
 to Ellen. 
 
 § 13 
 
 "Arthur, I want a word with you." 
 
 They were alone in the parlour, Ellen having been dis- 
 patched resentfully on an errand to Great Ansdore. 
 
 "About them wethers?" 
 
 "No — it's a different thing. Arthur, have you noticed 
 that Ellen's sweet on you?" 
 
 Joanna's approach to a subject was ever direct, but this 
 time she seemed to have taken the breath out of Arthur's 
 body. 
 
 "Ellen . . , sweet on me?" he gasped. 
 
 "Yes, you blind-eyed owl. I've seen it for a dunnamany 
 weeks." 
 
 "But — Ellen? That liddle girl ud never care an onion 
 for a dull, dry chap lik me." 
 
 "Reckon she would. You ain't such a bad chap, Arthur, 
 though I could never bring myself to take you." 
 
 "Well, I must say I haven't noticed anything, or maybe 
 I'd have spoken to you about it. I'm unaccountable sorry, 
 Jo, and I'll do all I can to help you stop it."
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 177 
 
 "I'm not sure I want to stop it. I was thinking only this 
 evening as it wouldn't be a bad plan if you married Ellen." 
 
 "But, Jo, I don't want to marry anybody but you." 
 
 "Reckon that's middling stupid of you, for I'll never marry 
 you, Arthur Alee — never!" 
 
 "Then I don't want nobody." 
 
 "Oh, yes, you do. You'll be a fool if you don't marry 
 and get a wife to look after you and your house, which has 
 wanted new window-blinds this eighteen month. You can't 
 have me, so you may as well have Ellen — she's next best to 
 me, I reckon, and she's middling sweet on you." 
 
 "Ellen's a dear liddle thing, as I've always said against 
 them that said otherwise — but I've never thought of marry- 
 ing her, and reckon she don't want to marry me, she'd sooner 
 marry a stout young Southland or young Vine." 
 
 "She ain't going to marry any young Vine. When she 
 marries I'll see she marries a steady, faithful, solid chap, 
 and you're the best I know." 
 
 "It's kind of you to say it, but reckon it wouldn't be a 
 good thing for me to marry one sister when I love the other." 
 
 "But you'll never get the other, not till the moon's cheese, 
 so there's no sense in vrothering about that. And I want 
 Ellen to marry you, Arthur, since she's after you. I never 
 meant her to marry yet awhiles, but reckon I can't make 
 her happy at home — I've tried and I can't — so you may as 
 well try." 
 
 "It ud be difficult to make Ellen happy — she's a queer 
 lirldle dentical thing." 
 
 "I know, but marriage is a wonderful soborcr-down. 
 She'll be happy once she gets a man and a house of her 
 
 own." 
 
 "I'm not so sure. Anyways I'm not the man for her. 
 She should ought to marry a gentleman." 
 
 "Well, there ain't none for her to marry, nor likely to be 
 none. She'll go sour if she has to stand . . . and she wants 
 you, Arthur. I wouldn't be asking you this if I hadn't seen
 
 178 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 she wanted you, and seen too as the best thing as could 
 happen to her would be for her to marry you." 
 
 "I'm sure she'll never take me." 
 
 *'You can but ask her." 
 
 "She'll say 'No'." 
 
 "Reckon she won't — but if she does, there'll be no harm 
 in asking her." 
 
 "You queer me, Jo — it seems a foolish thing to marry 
 Ellen when I want to marry you." 
 
 "But I tell you, you can never marry me. You're a stupid 
 man, Arthur, who won't see things as they are. You go 
 hankering after whom you can't get, and all the time you 
 might get someone who's hankering after you. It's a lamen- 
 table waste, I say, and I'll never be pleased if you don't 
 ask Ellen. It ain't often I ask you to do anything to please 
 me, and this is no hard thing. Ellen's a fine match — a pretty 
 girl, and clever, and well-taught — she'll play the piano to 
 your friends. And I'll see as she has a bit of money with 
 her. You'll do well for yourself by taking her, and I tell 
 you, Arthur, I'm sick and tired of your dangling after me," 
 
 § 14 
 
 Joanna had many more conversations with Arthur Alee, 
 and in the end bore down his objections. She used her 
 tongue to such good purpose that by next Sunday he had 
 come to see that Ellen wanted him, and that for him to 
 marry her would be the best thing for everyone — Joanna, 
 Ellen and himself. After all, it wasn't as if he had the 
 slightest chance of Joanna — she had made that abundantly 
 clear, and his devotion did not feed on hope so much as 
 on a stale content in being famous throughout three marshes 
 as her rejected suitor. Perhaps it was not amiss that her 
 sudden call should stir him into a more active and vital 
 service. 
 
 In the simplicity of his heart, he saw nothing outrageous 
 in her demands. She was troubled and anxious about Ellen,
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 179 
 
 and had a right to expect him to help her solve this problem 
 in the best way that had occurred to her. As for Ellen 
 herself, now his attention had been called to the matter, 
 he could see that she admired him and sought him out. Why 
 she should do so was as much a mystery as ever — he could 
 not think why so soft and dainty and beautiful a creature 
 should want to marry a homely chap like himself. But he 
 did not doubt the facts, and when, at the beginning of the 
 second week, he proposed to her, he was much less sur- 
 prised at her acceptance than she was herself. 
 
 Ellen had never meant to accept him — all she had wanted 
 had been the mere proclaimable fact of his surrender; but 
 during the last weeks the focus of her plans had shifted — 
 they had come to mean more than the gratification of her 
 vanity. The denial of what she sought, the dragging of her 
 schemes, the growing sense of hopelessness, had made her 
 see just exactly how much she wanted. She would really 
 like to marry Alec — the slight physical antipathy with which 
 she had started had now disappeared, and she felt that she 
 would not object to him as a lover. He was, moreover, an 
 excellent match — better than any young Vines or South- 
 lands or Furncses ; as his wife she would be important and 
 well-to-do, her triumjjh would be sealed, open and cele- 
 brated. . . . She would moreover be free. That was the 
 strong hidden growth that had heaved uj) her flat little plans 
 of a mere victory in tattle — if she married she would be her 
 own mistress, free for ever of Jcianna's tyranny. She could 
 do what she liked with Alee — she would be able to go where 
 .she liked, know whom she liked, wear what she liked; 
 whereas with Joanna all these things were ruthlessly de- 
 creed. Of course she was fond of Jo, but she was tired 
 of living with her — you couldn't call your soul your own — 
 she would never be happy till she had made herself inde- 
 pendent of Jo, and only marriage would do that. She was 
 tired of sulking and submitting — she could make a better 
 life for herself over at Donkey Street than .she could at 
 Ansdore. Of course if she waited, she might get somebody
 
 180 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 better, but she might have to wait a long time, and she did 
 not care for waiting. She was not old or patient or calcu- 
 lating enough to be a really successful schemer ; her plans 
 carried her this time only as far as a triumph over Joanna 
 and an escape from Ansdore. 
 
 §15 
 
 Certainly her triumph was a great one. Brodnyx and 
 Pedlinge had never expected such a thing. Their attitude 
 had hitherto been that of the man at the fair, who would 
 rather distrust appearances than believe Arthur Alee could 
 change from Joanna Godden to her sister Ellen. It would 
 have been as easy to think of the sunset changing from Rye 
 to Court-at-Street. 
 
 There was a general opinion that Joanna had been injured 
 — though no one really doubted her sincerity when she said 
 that she would never have taken Arthur. Her evident 
 pleasure in the wedding was considered magnanimous — it 
 was also a little disappointing to Ellen. Not that she wanted 
 Joanna to be miserable, but she would have liked her to be 
 rather more sensible of her sister's triumph, to regret rather 
 more the honour that had been taken from her. The bear's 
 hug with which her sister had greeted her announcement, the 
 eager way in which she had urged and hustled preparations 
 for the wedding, all seemed a little incongruous and humil- 
 iating. . . . Joanna should at least have had some moments 
 of realising her fallen state. 
 
 However, what she missed at home Ellen received abroad. 
 Some neighbours were evidently ofifended, especially those 
 who had sons to mate. Mrs. Vine had been very stiff when 
 Ellen called with Alee. 
 
 "Well, Arthur" — ignoring the bride-to-be — "I always felt 
 certain you would marry Ansdore, but it was the head I 
 thought you'd take and not the tail." 
 
 "Oh. the tail's good enough for me," said Arthur, which 
 Ellen thought clumsy of him.
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 181 
 
 Having taken the step, Arthur was curiously satisfied. 
 His obedience in renouncing Joanna seemed to have brought 
 him closer to her than all his long wooing. Besides, he was 
 growing very fond of little Ellen — her soft, clinging ways 
 and little sleek airs, appealed to him as those of a small 
 following animal would, and he was proud of her cleverness, 
 and of her prettiness, which now he had come to see, though 
 for a long time he had not appreciated it, because it was 
 so different from Joanna's healthy red and brown. 
 
 lie took her round to the farms, not only in her own 
 neighbourhood, but those near Donkey Street, over on Rom- 
 ney Marsh, across the Rhee Wall. In her honour he bought 
 a new trap, and Ellen drove beside him in it, sitting very 
 demure and straight. People said — "There goes Ellen God- 
 den, who's marrying her sister's young man," and sometimes 
 Ellen heard them. 
 
 She inspected Donkey Street, which was a low, plain, 
 oblong house, covered with grey stucco, against which 
 flamed the orange of its lichencd roof. It had been built 
 in Queen Anne's time, and enlarged and stuccoed over about 
 fifty years ago. It was a good, solid house, less rambling 
 than Ansdore, but the kitchens were a little damp. 
 
 Alee bought new linen and new furniture. lie had some 
 nice pieces of old furniture too, which Ellen was very proud 
 of. She felt she could make quite a pleasant country house 
 of Donkey Street. In spite of Joanna's protests, Alee let 
 her have her own way about styles and colours, and her 
 parlour was quite unlike anything ever seen on the Marsh 
 outside North Farthing and Dungemarsh Court. There 
 was no centre table and no cabinet, but a deep, comfortable 
 sofa which Ellen called a chesterfield, and a "cosy corner," 
 and a sheraton bureau, and a sheraton china-cupboard with 
 glass doors. The carpet was purple, without any pattern 
 on it, and the cushions were purple and black. For several 
 days those black cushions wrre the talk of the Woolpack 
 bar and every farm. It reminded Joanna a little of the 
 frenzy that had greeted the first appearance of her yellow
 
 182 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 waggons, and for the first time she felt a little jealous of 
 Ellen. 
 
 She sometimes, too, had moments of depression at the 
 thought of losing her sister, of being once more alone at 
 Ansdore, but having once made up her mind that Ellen 
 was to marry Arthur Alee, she was anxious to carry through 
 the scheme as quickly and magnificently as possible. The 
 wedding was fixed for May, and was to be the most won- 
 derful wedding in the experience of the three marshes of 
 Walland, Dunge and Romney. For a month Joanna's trap 
 spanked daily along the Straight Mile, taking her and Ellen 
 either into Rye to the confectioner's — for Joanna had too 
 true a local instinct to do as her sister wanted and order 
 the cake from London — or to the station for Folkestone 
 where the clothes for both sisters were being bought. They 
 had many a squabble over the clothes — Ellen pleaded pas- 
 sionately for the soft, silken undergarments in the Robertson 
 Street windov/s, for the little lace-trimmed drawers and 
 chemises ... it was cruel and bigoted of Joanna to buy 
 yards and yards of calico for nightgowns and "petticoat 
 bodies," with trimmings of untearable embroidery. It was 
 also painful to be obliged to wear a saxe-blue going-away 
 dress when she wanted an olive green, but Ellen reflected 
 that she was submitting for the last time, and anyhow she 
 was spared the worst by the fact that the wedding-gown 
 must be white — not much scope for Joanna there. 
 
 § 16 
 
 The day before the wedding Joanna felt unusually nerv- 
 ous and restless. The preparations had been carried through 
 so vigorously that everything was ready — there was nothing 
 to do, no finishing touch, and into her mind came a sudden 
 blank and alarm. All that evening she was unable to 
 settle down either to work or rest — Ellen had gone to bed 
 tarly, convinced of the good effect of sleep on her com- 
 plexion, and Joanna prowled unhappily from room to room.
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 183 
 
 glancing about mechanically for dust which she knew could 
 not be there . . . the farm was just a collection of gleam- 
 ing surfaces and crackling chintzes and gay, dashing colours. 
 Everything was as she wished it, yet did not please her. 
 
 She went into her room. On the little spare bed which 
 had once been Ellen's lay a mass of tissue paper, veiling a 
 marvellous gown of brown and orange shot silk, the colour 
 of the sunburn on her cheeks, which she was to wear to- 
 morrow when she gave the bride away. In vain had Ellen 
 protested and said it would look ridiculous if she came down 
 the aisle with her sister — Joanna had insisted on her pre- 
 rogative. "It isn't as if we had any he-cousins fit to look 
 at — I'll cut a better figger than either Tom or Pete Stans- 
 bury, and what right has either of them to give you away, 
 I'd like to know?" Ellen had miserably suggested Sam 
 Huxtable, but Joanna had fixed herself in her mind's eye, 
 swaggering, rustling and flaming up Pedlinge aisle, with 
 the little drooping lily of the bride upon her arm. "Who 
 giveth this woman to be married to this man?" Mr. Pratt 
 would say — "I do," Joanna would answer. Everyone would 
 stare at Joanna, and remember that Arthur Alee had loved 
 her for years before he loved her sister — she was certainly 
 "giving" Ellen to him in a double sense. 
 
 She would be just as grand and important at this wedding 
 as she could possibly have been at her own, yet tonight the 
 prospect had ceased to thrill her. Was it because in this 
 her first idleness she realised she was giving away something 
 she wanted to keep? Or because she saw that, after all, 
 being grand and imj)ortant at another person's wedding is 
 not as good a thing even as being humble at your own? 
 
 "Well, it might have been my own if I'd liked," she said 
 to herself, but even that consideration failed to cheer her. 
 
 She went over to the chest of drawers. On it stood Mar- 
 tin's photogra[)h in a black velvet frame adorned with a 
 small metal shield on which were engraved the words "Not 
 lost but gone before." The photograph was a little faded 
 — Martin's eyes had lost some of their appealing darkness
 
 184 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 and the curves of the mouth she had loved were dim. . . . 
 She put her face close to the faded face in the photograph, 
 and looked at it. Gradually it blurred in a mist of tears, 
 and she could feel her heart beating very slowly, as if each 
 beat were an effort. . . . 
 
 Then suddenly she found herself thinking about Ellen in 
 a new way, with a new, strange anxiety. Martin's fading 
 face seemed to have taught her about Ellen, about some 
 preparation for the wedding which might have been left 
 out, in spite of all the care and order of the burnished house. 
 Did she really love Arthur Alee? — Did she really know 
 what she was doing — what love meant ? 
 
 Joanna put down the photograph and straightened her 
 back. She thought of her sister alone for the last time in 
 her big flowery bedroom, lying down for the last time in 
 the rose-curtained, mahogany bed, for her last night's rest 
 under Ansdore's roof. It was the night on which, if she 
 had not been motherless, her mother would have gone to 
 her with love and advice. Surely on this night of all nights 
 it was not for Joanna to shirk the mother's part. 
 
 Her heaviness had gone, for its secret cause had been 
 displayed — no doubt this anxiety and this question had 
 lurked with her all the evening, following her from room 
 to room. She did not hesitate, but went down the passage 
 to Ellen's door, which she opened as usual without knocking. 
 
 "Not in bed yet, duckie?" 
 
 Ellen was sitting on the bolster, in her little old plain 
 linen nightdress buttoning to her neck, two long plaits hang- 
 ing over her shoulders. The light of the rose-shaded lamp 
 streamed on the flowery walls and floor of her compulsory 
 bower, showing the curtains and pictures and vases and 
 Father's Buffalo Certificate — showing also her packed and 
 corded trunks, lying there like big, blobbed seals on her 
 articles of emancipation. 
 
 "Hullo," she said to Joanna, "I'm just going to get in." 
 She did not seem particularly pleased to see her. 
 
 "You pop under the clothes, and I'll tuck you up. There's
 
 JO.INNA GODDEN 185 
 
 something i want to speak to you about if 3^ou ain't too 
 sleepy." 
 
 "About what ?" 
 
 "About this wedding of yours." 
 
 "You've spoken to me about nothing else for weeks and 
 months." 
 
 "But I want to speak to you different and most particular. 
 Duckie, are you quite sure you love Arthur Alee?" 
 
 "Of course I'm sure, or I shouldn't be marrying him." 
 
 "There's an unaccountable lot of reasons why any gal ud 
 snap at Arthur. He's got a good name and a good establish- 
 ment, and he's as mild-mannered and obliging as a cow." 
 
 Ellen looked disconcerted at hearing her bridegroom thus 
 defined. 
 
 "If that's all I saw in him I shouldn't have said 'yes.' 
 I like him — he's got a kind heart and good manners, and 
 he won't interfere with mc — he'll let me do as I please." 
 
 "But that ain't enough — it ain't enough for you just to 
 like him. Do you love him? — It's struck me all of a sudden, 
 Ellen, I've never made sure of that, and it ud be a lamentable 
 job if you was to get married to Arthur without loving 
 him." 
 
 "But I do love him — I've told you. And may I ask, Jo, 
 what you'd have done now if I'd said I didn't? It's rather 
 late for breaking off the match." 
 
 Joanna had never contcmi)lated such a thing. It would 
 be difficult to say exactly how far her plans had stretched, 
 probably no further than the arc^umcnt and moral suasion 
 which would forcibly comjicl Ellen to love if she did not 
 love already. 
 
 "No, no — I'd never have you break it off — with the 
 carriages and the breakfast ordered, and my new gownd, 
 and your troossoo and all. . . . But, Ellen, if you 7va)it to 
 change your mind. ... I mean, if you feel, thinking honest, 
 that you don't love Arthur ... for pity's sake say so now 
 before it's too late. I'll stand by you — I'll face the racket 
 — I'd sooner you did anything than — "
 
 186 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 "Oh, don't be an ass, Jo. Of course I don't want to 
 change my mind. I know what I'm doing, and I'm very 
 fond of Arthur — I love him, if you want the word. I Hke 
 being with him, and I even Hke it when he kisses me. So 
 you needn't worry." 
 
 "Marriage is more than just being kissed and having a 
 man about the house." 
 
 "I know it is." 
 
 Something in the way she said it made Joanna see she 
 was abysmally ignorant. 
 
 "Is there anything you'd like to ask me, dearie?" 
 
 "Nothing you could possibly know anything about." 
 
 Joanna turned on her. 
 
 "I'll learn you to sass me. You dare say such a thing !" 
 
 "Well, Jo — you're not married, and there are some things 
 you don't know." 
 
 "That's right — call me an old maid! I tell you I could 
 have made a better marriage than you, my girl. ... I could 
 have made the very marriage you're making, for the matter 
 of that." 
 
 She stood up, preparing to go in anger. Then suddenly 
 as she looked down on Ellen, fragile and lily-white among 
 the bed-clothes, her heart smote her and she relented. This 
 was Ellen's last night at home. 
 
 "Don't let's grumble at each other. I know you and I 
 haven't quite hit it off, my dear, and I'm sorry, as I counted 
 a lot on us being at Ansdore together. I thought maybe 
 we'd be at Ansdore together all our lives. Howsumever, I 
 reckon things are better as they are — it was my own fault, 
 trying to make a lady of you, and I'm glad it's all well ended. 
 Only see as it's truly well ended, dear — for Arthur's sake 
 as well as yours. He's a good chap and deserves the best 
 of you." 
 
 Ellen was still angry, but something about Joanna as she 
 stooped over the bed, her features obscure in the lamplight, 
 her shadow dim and monstrous on the ceiling, made a
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 187 
 
 sudden, almost reproachful appeal. A rush of genuine feel- 
 ing made her stretch out her arms. 
 Jo. . . . 
 
 Joanna stooped and caught her to her heart, and for a 
 moment, the last moment, the big and the little sister were 
 as in times of old. 
 
 § 17 
 
 Ellen's wedding was the most wonderful that Brodnyx 
 and Pedlinge had seen for years. It was a pity that the 
 law of the land required it to take place in Pedlinge church, 
 which was comparatively small and mean, and which indeed 
 Joanna could never feel was so established as the church 
 at Brodnyx, because it had only the old harmonium, and 
 queer paintings of angels instead of the lion and the unicorn. 
 
 However, Mr. Elphick ground and sweated wonders out 
 of "the old harmonister," as it was affectionately called by 
 the two parishes, and everyone was too busy staring at the 
 bride and the bride's sister to notice whether angels or King 
 George the Third presided over the altar. 
 
 Joanna had all the success that she had longed for and 
 expected. She walked down the aisle with Ellen white and 
 drooping on her arm, like a sunflower escorting a lily. 
 When Mr. Pratt said "Who giveth this woman to be mar- 
 ried to this man ?" she answered "I do" in a voice that seemed 
 to shake the church. Afterwards, she took her handker- 
 chief out of her pocket and cried a little, as is seemly at 
 weddings. 
 
 Turner of Northlade was Arthur Alec's best man, and 
 there were four bridesmaids dressed in ])ink — Maudie Vine, 
 Gertrude Prickett, Maggie Southland and Ivy Cobb. They 
 carried bouquets of roses with lots of spirea, and wore 
 golden hearts, "the gift of the bridegroom." Altogether the 
 brilliance of the comi)any made up for the deficiencies of its 
 barn-like setting and the ineffectiveness of Mr. Pratt, who, 
 discomposed by tiie enveloping presence of Joanna, blun- 
 dered more hopelessly than ever, so that, as Joanna said
 
 188 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 afterwards, she was glad when it was all finished without 
 anyone getting married besides the bride and bridegroom. 
 
 After the cereniony there was a breakfast at Ansdore, 
 with a wedding-cake and ices and champagne, and waiters 
 hired from the George Hotel at Rye. Ellen stood at the 
 end of the room shaking hands with a long procession of 
 Pricketts, Vines, Furneses, Southlands, Bateses, Turners, 
 Cobbs. . . . She looked a little tired and droopy, for she had 
 had a trying day, with Joanna fussing and fighting her ever 
 since six in the morning; and now she felt resentfully that 
 her sister had snatched the splendours of the occasion from 
 her to herself — it did not seem right that Joanna should 
 be the most glowing, conspicuous, triumphant object in the 
 room, and Ellen, unable to protest, sulked languishingly. 
 
 However, if the bride did not seem as proud and happy 
 as she might, the bridegroom made up for it. There was 
 something almost spiritual in the look of Arthur Alce's eyes, 
 as he stood beside Ellen, his arm held stiffly for the repose 
 of hers, his great choker collar scraping his chin, lilies of 
 the valley and camellias sprouting from his buttonhole, a 
 pair of lemon kid gloves — split at the first attempt, so he 
 could only hold them — clutched in his moist hand. He 
 looked devout, exalted, as he armed his little bride and 
 watched her sister. 
 
 "Arthur Alee looks pleased enough," said Furnese to Mrs. 
 Bates — "reckon he sees he's got the best of the family." 
 
 "Maybe he's thankful now that Joanna wouldn't take 
 him." 
 
 Neither of them noticed that the glow was in Alce's eyes 
 chiefly when they rested on Joanna. 
 
 He knew that today he had pleased her better than he had 
 ever pleased her before. Today she had said to him "God 
 bless you, Arthur — you're the best friend I have, or am like 
 to have, neither." Today he had made himself her kins- 
 man, with a dozen new opportunities of service. Chief 
 among these was the dear little girl on his arm — how pretty 
 and sweet she was! How he would love her and cherish
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 189 
 
 her as he had promised Mr. Pratt ! Well, thank God, he 
 had done Joanna one good turn, and himself not such a bad 
 one, neither. How clever she had been to think of his 
 marrying Ellen ! He would never have thought of it him- 
 self ; yet he now saw clearly that it was a wonderful notion 
 — nothing could be better. Joanna was valiant for notions 
 . . . Alee had had one glass of champagne. 
 
 At about four o'clock, Joanna dashed into the circle 
 round the bride, and took Ellen away upstairs, to put on 
 her travelling dress of saxe-blue satin — the last humiliation 
 she would have to endure from Ansdore. The honeymoon 
 was being spent at Canterbury, cautiously chosen by Arthur 
 as a place he'd been to once and so knew the lie of a bit. 
 Ellen had wanted to go to Wales, or to the Lakes, but 
 Joanna had sternly forbidden such outrageous pinings — 
 "Arthur's got two cows calving next week — what are you 
 thinking of, Ellen Godden?" 
 
 The bridal couple drove away amidst much hilarity, in- 
 spired by unaccustomed champagne and expressed in rice 
 and confetti. After they had gone, the guests still lingered, 
 feasting at the littered tables, or re-inspecting and re-valu- 
 ing the presents which had been laid out, after the best 
 style, in the dining-room. Sir Harry Trevor had sent Ellen 
 a little pearl pendant, though he had been unable to accept 
 Joanna's invitation and come to the wedding himself — he 
 wrote from a London address and hinted vaguely that he 
 might never come back to North Farthing House, which had 
 been let furnished. His gift was the chief centre of interest 
 — when Mrs. Vine had done comparing her elect ro-i)lated 
 cruet most favorably with the one presented by Mrs. Fur- 
 nese and the ignoble china object that Mrs. Cobb had h,ul 
 the meanness to send, and Mrs. Bates had recovered from 
 the shock of finding that her tea-cosy was the exact same 
 shape and pattern as the one given by Mrs. Gain. People 
 thought it odfl that the C^Id Squire should send pearls to 
 Ellen Godden — something for the table would have been 
 much more seemly.
 
 190 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 Joanna had grown weary — her shoulders drooped under 
 her golden gown, she tossed back her head and yawned 
 against the back of her hand. She was tired of it all, and 
 wanted them to go. "What were they staying for? They 
 must know the price of everything pretty well by this time 
 and have eaten enough to save their suppers. She was no 
 polished hostess, concealing her boredom, and the company 
 began soon to melt away. Traps lurched over the shingle 
 of Ansdore's drive, the Pricketts walked off across the 
 innings to Great Ansdore, guests from Rye packed into 
 two hired wagonettes, and the cousins from the Isle of 
 Wight drove back to the George, where, as there were 
 eight of them and they refused to be separated, Joanna was 
 munificently entertaining them instead of under her own 
 roof. 
 
 When the last was gone, she turned back into the house, 
 where Mrs. Tolhurst stood ready with her broom to begin 
 an immediate sweep-up after the waiters, whom she looked 
 upon as the chief source of the disorder. A queer feeling 
 came over Joanna, a feeling of loneliness, of craving, and 
 she fell in all her glory of feathers and silk upon Mrs. 
 Tolhurst's alpaca bosom. Gone were those arbitrary and 
 often doubtful distinctions between them, and the mistress 
 enjoyed the luxury of a good cry in her servant's arms. 
 
 § 18 
 
 Ellen's marriage broke into Joanna's life quite as dev- 
 astatingly as Martin's death. Though for more than three 
 years her sister had been away at school, with an ever- 
 widening gulf of temperament between herself and the 
 farm, and though since her return she had been little better 
 at times than a rebellious and sulky stranger, nevertheless 
 she was a part of Ansdore, a part of Joanna's life there, and 
 the elder sister found it difficult to adjust things to her 
 absence. 
 
 Of course Ellen had not gone very far — Donkey Street
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 191 
 
 was not five miles from Ansdore, though in a different 
 parish and a different county. But the chasm between them 
 was enormous — it was queer to think that a mere change 
 of roof-tree could niake such a difference. No doubt the 
 reason was that with Ellen it had involved an entire change 
 of habit. While she lived with Joanna, she had been bound 
 both by the peculiarities of her sister's nature, and her own, 
 to accept her way of living. She had submitted, not be- 
 cause she was weak or gentle-minded but because submis- 
 sion was an effective weapon of her warfare; now, having 
 no further use for it, she ruled instead and was another 
 person. She was, besides, a married woman, and the fact 
 made all the difference to Ellen herself. She felt herself 
 immeasurably older and wiser than Joanna, her teacher 
 and tyrant. Her sister's life seemed to be puerile. . . . 
 Ellen had at last read the riddle of the universe and the 
 secret of wisdom. 
 
 The sisters' relations were also a little strained over 
 Arthur Alee. Joanna resented the authority that Ellen 
 assumed — it took some time to show her that Arthur was 
 no longer hers. She objected when Ellen made him shave 
 off his moustache and whiskers ; he looked ten years young- 
 er and a far handsomer man, but he was no longer the 
 traditional Arthur Alee of Joanna's history, and she resent- 
 ed it. Ellen on her part resented the way Joanna still made 
 use of him, sending him to run errands and make enquiries 
 for her just as she used in the old days before his marriage. 
 "Arthur, I hear there's sonic g<x)d pigs going at Honeychild 
 auction — I can't miss market at Lydd. but you might call 
 around and have a look for me." Or "Arthur, I've a look- 
 er's boy coming from Abbot's Court — you might go there 
 for his characters, I haven't time, with the butter making 
 today and Mcne Tekel such an owl." 
 
 Ellen rebelled at seeing her husband ordered about, and 
 more than once "told off" her sister, but Joanna had no 
 intention of abandoning her just claims on Arthur, and the 
 man himself was pig-headed — "I mun do what I can for
 
 192 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 her, just as I used." Ellen could make him shave off his 
 whiskers, she could even make him on occasion young and 
 fond and frolicsome, but she could not make him stop serv- 
 ing Joanna, or, had she only known it, stop loving her. 
 Arthur was perfectly happy as Ellen's husband, and made 
 her, as Joanna had foretold, an exemplary one, but his love 
 for Joanna seemed to grow rather than diminish as he cared 
 for and worked for and protected her sister. It seemed to 
 feed and thrive on his love for Ellen — it gave him a won- 
 derful sense of action and effectiveness, and people said 
 what a lot of good marriage had done Arthur Alee, and 
 that he was no longer the dull chap he used to be. 
 
 § 19 
 
 It had done Ellen a lot of good too. During the next 
 year she blossomed and expanded. She lost some of her 
 white looks. The state of marriage suited her thoroughly 
 well. Being her own mistress and at the same time having 
 a man to take care of her, having an important and com- 
 fortable house of her own, ordering about her own servants 
 and spending her husband's money, such things made her 
 life pleasant, and checked the growth of peevishness that 
 had budded at Ansdore. 
 
 During the first months of her marriage, Joanna went 
 fairly often to see her, one reason being the ache which 
 Ellen's absence had left in her heart — she wanted to see 
 her sister, sit with her, hear her news. Another was the 
 feeling that Ellen, a beginner in the ways of life and house- 
 hold management, still needed her help and guidance. 
 Ellen soon undeceived her on this point. "I really know 
 hoA^ to manage my own house, Joanna," she said once or 
 twice when the other commented and advised, and Joanna 
 had been unable to enforce her ideas, owing to the fact that 
 she seldom saw Ellen above once or twice a week. Her 
 sister could do what she liked in her absence, and it was 
 extraordinary how definite and cocksure the girl was about
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 193 
 
 things she should have approached in the spirit of meek- 
 ness and dependence on her elders. 
 
 "I count my linen after it is aired — it comes in at such 
 an inconvenient time that I can't attend to it then. The 
 ^irls can easily hang it out on the horse — really, Joanna, one 
 must trust people to do something." 
 
 "Well, then, don't blame me when you're a pillow-case 
 short." 
 
 "I certainly shan't blame you," said Ellen coolly 
 
 Joanna felt put out and injured. It hurt her to see that 
 Ellen did not want her supervision — she had looked forward 
 to managing Donkey Street as well as Ansdore. She tried 
 to get a hold on Ellen through Arthur Alee. "Arthur, it's 
 your duty to see Ellen don't leave the bread-making to that 
 cook-gal of hers. I never heard of such a notion — her 
 laying on the sofa while the gal wastes coal and flour." . . . 
 "Arthur, Ellen needs a new churn — let her get a Wallis. 
 It's a shame for her to be buying new cushions when her 
 churn's an old butter-spoiler I wouldn't use if I was dead — 
 Arthur, you're there with her, and you can make her do 
 what I say." 
 
 But Arthur could not, any more than Joanna, make Ellen 
 do what she did not want. He had always been a mild- 
 mannered man, and he foimd Ellen, in her different way, 
 quite as difficult to stand up to as her sister. 
 
 "I'm not going to have Jo meddling with my affairs," 
 she would say with a toss of her head. 
 
 § 20 
 
 Another thing that worried Joanna was the fact that the 
 passing year brought no expectations to Donkey Street. 
 One of her haj)picst anticipations in connection with Ellen's 
 marriage was her having a dear little baby whom Joanna 
 could hug and spoil anrl teach. Perhaps it would he a little 
 girl, and she would feel like having Ellen ovct again. 
 
 She was bitterly disappointed when Ellen showed no
 
 If 
 
 194 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 signs of obliging her quickly, and indeed quite shocked by 
 her sister's expressed indifference on the matter. 
 
 "I don't care about children, Jo, and I'm over young to 
 have one of my own." 
 
 "Young! You're rising tv^^enty, and Mother was but 
 eighteen when I was born." 
 
 "Well, anyhow, I don't see why I should have a child 
 just because you want one." 
 
 "I don't want one. For shame to say such things, Ellen 
 Alee." 
 
 "You want me to have one then, for your benefit." 
 
 "Don't you want one yourself?" 
 
 *No — not now. I've told you I don't care for children," 
 
 'Then you should ought to ! Dear little mites ! — It's a 
 shame to talk like that. Oh, what wouldn't I give, Ellen, to 
 have a child of yours in my arms." 
 
 "Why don't you marry and have one of your own?" 
 
 Joanna coloured. 
 
 "I don't want to marry." 
 
 "But you ought to marry if that's how you feel. Why 
 don't you take a decent fellow like, say, Sam Turner, even 
 if you don't love him, just so that you may have a child 
 of your own? You're getting on, you know, Joanna — 
 nearly thirty-four — you haven't much time to waste." 
 
 "Well, it ain't my fault," said Joanna tearfully, "that I 
 couldn't marry the man I wanted to. I'd have been mar- 
 ried more'n five year now if he hadn't been took. And it's 
 sorter spoiled the taste for me, as you might say. I don't 
 feel inclined to get married — it don't take my fancy, and 
 I don't see how I'm ever going to bring myself to do it. 
 That's why it ud be so fine for me if you had a little one, 
 Ellen — as I could hold and kiss and care for and feel just 
 as if it was my own." 
 
 "Thanks," said Ellen.
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 195 
 
 § 21 
 
 The winding up of her plans for her sister made it neces- 
 sary that Joanna should cast about for fresh schemes to 
 absorb her energies. The farm came to her rescue in this 
 fresh, more subtle collapse, and she turned to it as vigorous- 
 ly as she had turned after Martin's death, and with an in- 
 crease of that vague feeling of bitterness which had salted 
 her relations with it ever since. 
 
 A strong rumour was blowing on the marsh that shortly 
 Great Ansdore would come into the market, Joanna's 
 schemes at once were given their focus. She would buy 
 Great Ansdore if she had the chance. She had always 
 resented its presence, so inaptly named, on the fringe of 
 Little Ansdore's greatness. If she bought it, she would 
 not be adding more than fifty acres to her own, but it was 
 good land — Prickett was a fool not to have made more of it 
 — and the possession carried with it manorial rights, in- 
 cluding the presentation of the living of Brodnyx with 
 Pedlinge. When Joanna owned Great Ansdore in addition 
 to her own thriving and established patrimony, she would 
 be a big personage on the Three Marshes, almost "county." 
 No tenant or yeoman from Dynchurch to Winchelsea, from 
 Romncy to the coast, would dare withhold his respect — she 
 might even at last be admitted a member of the Farmer's 
 Club. . . . 
 
 It was characteristic of her that, with this purchase in 
 view, she made no efforts to save money. She set to make 
 it instead, and her money-making was all of the developing, 
 adventurous kind — she ploughed more grass, and decided 
 to keep three times the number of cows and open a milk- 
 round. 
 
 As a general practice, only a few cows were kept on the 
 marsh farms, for, owing to the .shallowness of the dykes, it 
 was difficult to prevent them straying. However, Joanna 
 boldly decided to fence all the Further Innings. She could 
 spare that amount of grazing, and though she would have
 
 196 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 to keep down the numbers of her sheep till after she had 
 bought Great Ansdore, she expected to make more money 
 out of the milk and dairy produce — she might even in time 
 open a dairy business in Rye. This would involve the 
 engaging of an extra girl for the dairy and chickens, and 
 an extra man to help Broadhurst with the cows, but Joanna 
 was undaunted. She enjoyed a gamble, when it was not 
 merely a question of luck, but also in part a matter of re- 
 source and planning and hard driving pace. 
 
 "There's Joanna Godden saving her tin to buy Great 
 Ansdore," said Bates of Picknye Bush to Cobb of Slinches, 
 as they watched her choosing her shorthorns at Romney. 
 She had Arthur Alee beside her, and he was, as in the be- 
 ginning, trying to persuade her to be a little smaller in her 
 ideas, but, as in the beginning, she would not listen. 
 
 "Setting up cow-keeping now, is she? — Will she make as 
 much a valiant wonder of that as she did with her sheep? 
 Ha ! Ha !" 
 
 "Ha ! Ha !" The two men laughed and winked and 
 rubbed their noses, for they liked to remember the doleful 
 tale of Joanna's first adventure at Ansdore; it made them 
 able to survey more equably her steady rise in glory ever 
 since. 
 
 It was obvious to Walland Marsh that, on the whole, her 
 big ideas had succeeded where the smaller, more cautious 
 ones of her neighbours had failed. Of course she had been 
 lucky — luckier than she deserved — but she was beginning 
 to make men wonder if after all there wasn't policy in 
 paying a big price for a good thing, rather than in obeying 
 the rules of haggle which maintained on other farms. Ans- 
 dore certainly spent half as much again as Birdskitchen or 
 Beggar's Bush or Mislcham or Yokes Court, but then it 
 had nearly twice as much to show for it. Joanna was not 
 the woman who would fail to keep pace with her own pros- 
 perity — her swelling credit was not recorded merely in her 
 pass-book ; it was visible, indeed dazzling, to every eye. 
 
 She had bought a new trap and mare — a very smart turn-
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 197 
 
 out, with rubber tires and chocolate-coloured upholstery, 
 while the mare herself had blood in her, and a bit of the 
 devil too, and upset the sleepy, chumbling rows of farmers' 
 horses waiting for their owners in the streets of Lydd or 
 Rye. Old Stuppeny had died in the winter following 
 Ellen's marriage, and had been lavishly buried, with a tomb- 
 stone, and an obituary notice in the Rye Observer, at 
 Joanna's expense. In his place she had now one of those 
 good-looking, rather saucy-eyed young men, whom she liked 
 to have about her in a menial capacity. He wore a choco- 
 late-coloured livery made by a tailor in Alarlingate, and 
 sat on the seat behind Joanna with his arms folded across 
 his chest, as she spanked along the Straight Mile. 
 
 Joanna was now thirty-three years old, and in some ways 
 looked older than her age, in others younger. Her skin, 
 richly weather-beaten into reds and browns, and her strong, 
 well-developed figure in its old-fashioned stays, made her 
 look older than her eyes, which had an expectant, childish 
 gravity in their brightness, and than her mouth, which was 
 still a young woman's mouth, large, eager, full-lipped, with 
 strong little white teeth. Her hair was beautiful — it had 
 no sleekness, but, even in its coils, looked rough and abun- 
 dant, and it had the same rich, apple-red colours in it as her 
 skin. 
 
 She still had plenty of admirers, for the years had made 
 her more rather than less desirable in herself, and men had 
 grown used to her independence among them. Moreover, 
 she was a "catch," a maid with money, and this may have 
 influenced the decorous, well-considered offers she had 
 about this time from farmers inland as well as on the Marsh. 
 She refused them decidedly — nevertheless, it was obvious 
 that she was well-plcascfl to have been asked; these solid, 
 estimable proposals testified to a quality in her life which 
 had not been there before. 
 
 Yes — she had done well for herself on the whole, she 
 thought. Looking back over her life, over the ten years 
 she had ruled at y\nsdore, she .saw success consistently re-
 
 198 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 warding hard work and high ambition. She saw, too, 
 strange gaps — parts of the road which had grown dim in 
 her memory, parts where probably there had been a turning, 
 where she might have left this well-laid, direct and beaten 
 highway for more romantic field-paths. It was queer, when 
 she came to think of it, that nothing in her life had been 
 really successful except Ansdore, that directly she had 
 turned off her high-road she had become at once as it were 
 bogged and lantern-led. Socknersh . . , Martin . . . Ellen 
 . . . there had been bye-ways, dim paths leading into queer 
 unknown fields, a strange beautiful land, which now she 
 would never know. 
 
 § 22 
 
 Ellen watched her sister's thriving. "She's almost a 
 lady," she said to herself, "and it's wasted on her." She 
 was inclined to be dissatisfied with her own position in local 
 society. When she had first married, she had not thought 
 it would be difficult to get herself accepted as "county" in 
 the new neighbourhood, but she had soon discovered that 
 she had had far more consequence as Joanna Godden's sis- 
 ter than she would ever have as Arthur Alce's wife. Even 
 in those days Little Ansdore had been a farm of the first 
 importance, and Joanna was at least notorious where she 
 was not celebrated; but Donkey Street held comparatively 
 humble rank in a district overshadowed by Dungemarsh 
 Court, and Arthur was not the man to push himself into 
 consideration, though Ellen had agreed that half her mar- 
 riage portion should be spent on the improvement of his 
 farm. 
 
 No one of any consequence had called upon her, though 
 her drawing-room, with its black cushions and Watts pic- 
 tures, was more fit to receive the well-born and well-bred 
 than Joanna's disgraceful parlour of oleographs and 
 aspidestras and stuffed owls. The Parson had "visited" 
 Mrs. Alee a few weeks after her arrival, but a "visit" is
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 199 
 
 not a call, and when at the end of three months his wife still 
 ignored her existence, Ellen made Arthur come over with 
 her to Brodnyx and Pedlinge on the Sundays she felt in- 
 clined to go to church, saying that she did not care for their 
 ways at Romney, where they had a lot of ceremonial canter- 
 ing round the alms-dish. 
 
 It was bitter for her to have to watch Joanna's steady rise 
 in importance — the only respect in which she felt bitter 
 towards her sister, since it was the only respect in which 
 she felt inferior to her. After a time, Joanna discovered 
 this. At first she had enjoyed pouring out her triumphs to 
 Ellen on her visits to Donkey Street, or on the rarer occa- 
 sions when Ellen visited Ansdore. 
 
 "Yes, my dear, I've made up my mind. I'm going to 
 give a dinner party — a late-dinner party. I shall ask the 
 people to come at seven, and then not have dinner till the 
 quarter, so as there'll be no chance of the food being kept 
 waiting. I shall have soup and meat and a pudding, and 
 wine to drink." 
 
 "Who are you going to invite?" asked Ellen, with a curl 
 of her lip. 
 
 "Why, didn't I tell you? Sir Harry Trevor's coming 
 back to North Farthing next month. Mrs. Tolhurst got it 
 from Peter Crouch, who had it from the Woolpack yester- 
 day. He's coming down with his married sister, Mrs. 
 Williams, and I'll ask Mr. Pratt, so as there'll be two gentle- 
 men and two ladies. I'd ask you, Ellen, only I know 
 Arthur hasn't got an evening suit.'* 
 
 "Thanks, I don't care about dinner-parties. Who's i.'^oing 
 to do your waiting?" 
 
 "Mene Tekel. She's going to wear a cap, and stand in 
 the room all the time." 
 
 "I hope that you'll be able to hear yourselves talk through 
 her breathing." 
 
 It struck Joanna that Ellen was not very cordial. 
 
 "I believe you want to come," she said, "and I tell you. 
 duckie, I'll try and manage it. It doesn't matter about
 
 200 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 Arthur not having proper clothes — I'll put 'evening dress 
 optional' on the invitations." 
 
 "I shouldn't do that," said Ellen, and laughed in a way 
 that made Joanna feel uncomfortable. "I really don't want 
 to come in the least — it would be very dreary driving to and 
 fro." 
 
 "Then what's the matter, dearie?" 
 
 "Matter ? There's nothing the matter." 
 
 But Joanna knew that Ellen felt sore, and failing to dis- 
 cover the reason herself at last applied to Arthur Alee. 
 
 "If you ask me," said Arthur, "it's because she's only a 
 farmer's wife." 
 
 "Why should that upset her all of a sudden?" 
 
 "Well, folks don't give her the consequence she'd like; 
 and now she sees you having gentry at your table. . . ." 
 
 "I'd have had her at it too, only she didn't want to come, 
 and you haven't got the proper clothes, Arthur; if you take 
 my advice, you'll go into Lydd this very day and buy your- 
 self an evening suit." 
 
 "Ellen won't let me. She says I'd look a clown in it." 
 
 "Ellen's getting very short. What's happened to her 
 these days?" 
 
 "It's only that she likes gentlefolk and is fit to mix with 
 them; and after all, Jo, I'm nothing but a pore common 
 man." 
 
 "I hope you don't complain of her, Arthur?" 
 
 "Oh, no — I've no complaints — don't you think it. And 
 don't you go saying anything to her, Jo." 
 
 "Then what am I to do about it? I won't have her 
 troubling you, nor herself, neither. I tell you what I'll do — 
 look here ! — I — I — " Joanna gave a loud sacrificial gulp — 
 "I'll make it middle-day dinner instead of late, and then you 
 won't have to wear evening dress, and Ellen can come and 
 meet the old Squire. She should ought to, seeing as he 
 gave her a pearl locket when she was married. It won't 
 be near so fine as having it in the evening, but I don't want
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 201 
 
 neither her nor you to be upset — and I can always call it 
 'lunch.' ..." 
 
 § 23 
 
 As the result of Joanna's self-denial, Ellen and Arthur 
 were able to meet Sir Harry Trevor and his sister at 
 luncheon at Ansdore. The luncheon did not differ in any 
 respect from the dinner as at first proposed. There was 
 soup — much to Ellen's annoyance, as Arthur had never been 
 able to master the etiquette of its consumption — and a leg 
 of mutton and roast fowls, and a large fig pudding, washed 
 down with some really good wine, for Joanna had asked 
 the wine-merchant at Rye uncompromisingly for his best — 
 "I don't mind what I pay so long as it's that" — and had 
 been served accordingly. Mene Tekel waited, with creak- 
 ing stays and shoes, and loud breaths down the visitors' 
 necks as she thrust vegetable dishes and sauce-boats at 
 perilous angles over their shoulders, 
 
 Ellen provided a piquant contrast to her surroundings. 
 As she sat there in her soft grey dress, with her eyes cast 
 down under her little town hat, with her quiet voice, and 
 languid, noiseless movements, anything more unlike the 
 average farmer's wife of the district was difficult to imagine. 
 Joanna felt annoyed with her for dressing up all quiet as a 
 water-hen, but she could sec that, in spite of it, her sacrifice 
 in having her party transferred from the glamorous evening 
 hour, had been justified. Both the old Squire and his sister 
 were obviously interested in Ellen Alee — he in the naive 
 unguarded way of the male, she more subtly and not with- 
 out a dash of patronage. 
 
 Mrs. Williams always took an interest in any woman she 
 thought downtrodden, as her intuition told her Ellen was, 
 by that coarse, hairy creature, Arthur Alee. She herself 
 had disposed of an unsatisfactory husband with great de- 
 cision and resource, and, ju-rhaps as a thank-offering, had 
 devoted the rrst of her life to woman's ematicipation. She 
 travelled about the country lecturing for a well-known
 
 202 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 suffrage society, and was bitterly disappointed in Joanna 
 Godden because she expressed herself quite satisfied without 
 the vote. 
 
 "But don't you feel it humiliating to see your carter and 
 your cowman and your shepherd boy all go up to Rye to 
 vote on polling-day, while you, who own this farm., and 
 have such a stake in the country, aren't allowed to do so?" 
 
 "It only means as I've got eight votes instead of one," 
 said Joanna, "and don't have the trouble of going to the 
 poll, neither. Not one of my men would dare vote but as I 
 told him, so reckon I do better than most at the elections." 
 
 IMrs. Williams told Joanna that it was such opinions 
 which were keeping back the country from some goal un- 
 specified. 
 
 "Besides, you have to think of other women, Miss Godden 
 — other women who aren't so fortunate and independent as 
 yourself." 
 
 She gave a long glance at Ellen, whose downcast eyelids 
 flickered. 
 
 "I don't care about other women," said Joanna, "if they 
 won't stand up for themselves, I can't help them. It's easy 
 enough to stand up to a man. I don't think much of men, 
 neither. I like 'em, but I can't think any shakes of their 
 doings. That's why I'd sooner they did their own voting 
 and mine too. Now, Mene Tekel, can't you see the Squire's 
 ate all his cabbage? — You hand him the dish again — not 
 under his chin — he don't want to eat out of it — but low 
 down, so as he can get hold of the spoon. , . ." 
 
 Joanna looked upon her luncheon party as a great success, 
 and her pleasure was increased by the fact that soon after 
 it Sir Harry Trevor and his sister paid a ceremonial call on 
 Ellen at Donkey Street. 
 
 "Now she'll be pleased," thought Joanna, "it's always 
 what she's been hankering after — having gentlefolk call on 
 her and leave their cards. It ain't my fault it hasn't hap- 
 pened earlier. . . . I'm unaccountable glad she met them 
 at my house. It'll learn her to think prouder of me."
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 203 
 
 § 24 
 
 That Spring and Summer Sir Harry Trevor was a good 
 deal at North Farthing, and it was rumoured on the marsh 
 that he had run through the money so magnanimously left 
 him and had been driven home to economise. Joanna did 
 not see as much of him as in the old days — he had given up 
 his attempts at farming, and had let ofif all the North 
 Farthing land except the actual garden and paddock. He 
 came to see her once or twice, and she went about as rarely 
 to see him. It struck her that he had changed in many 
 ways, and she wondered a little where he had been and 
 what he had done during the last four years. He did not 
 look any older. Some queer rather unpleasant lines had 
 traced themselves at the corners of his mouth and eyes, 
 but strangely enough, though they added to his character- 
 istic air of humorous sophistication, they also added to his 
 youth, for they were lines of desire, of feeling . . . perhaps 
 in his four years of absence from the marsh he had learned 
 how to feel at last, and had found youth instead of age 
 in the commotions which feeling brings. Though he must 
 be fifty-five, he looked scarcely more than forty — and he 
 had a queer, weak, loose emotional air about him, that she 
 found it hard to account for. 
 
 In the circumstances she did not press invitations upon 
 him, she had no time to waste on men who did not appreci- 
 ate her as a woman — which the Scjuire, in spite of his 
 susceptibility, obviously faik-rl to do. I'rom July to Sep- 
 tember she met him only once, and that was at Ellen's. 
 Neither did she see very much of Ellen that Summer — her 
 life was too full of hard work, as a substitute for economy. 
 
 Curiously enough next time she went to sec her sister 
 Sir Harry was there again. 
 
 "Ilullo ! I always seem to be meeting you here," she said 
 — "and nowhere else — you never come to see me now." 
 
 Sir llarry grinned. 
 
 "You're always so mortal busy, Jo — I'd feel in your way.
 
 204 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 Now this little woman never seems to have much to do. 
 You're a lazy Httle thing. Ellen — I don't believe you ever 
 move off the sofa, except to the piano." 
 
 Joanna was surprised to see him on such familiar terms 
 with her sister — "Ellen," indeed ! He'd no right to call her 
 that. 
 
 "Mrs. Alee hasn't nothing beyond her housework to do — • 
 and any woman worth her keep ull get shut of that in the 
 morning. Now I've got everything on my hands — and I've 
 no good, kind Arthur to look after me neither," and Joanna 
 beamed on Arthur Alee as he stirred his tea at the end of 
 the table. 
 
 "And jolly thankful you are that you haven't," said the 
 Squire. "Own up, Joanna and say that the last thing you'd 
 want in life would be someone to look after you." 
 
 "Well, it strikes me," said Joanna, "as most of the people 
 I meet want looking after themselves, and it ud be justabout 
 waste for any of 'em to start looking after me." 
 
 Arthur Alee unexpectedly murmured something that 
 sounded like "Hear, hear." 
 
 When Joanna left, he brought round her trap, as the 
 saucy-eyed young groom was having a day off in Rye. 
 
 "How've your turnips done?" he asked. 
 
 "Not so good as last year, but the wurzels are fine." 
 
 "Mine might be doing better," — he stood fumbling with 
 a trace-buckle. 
 
 "Has that come loose?" asked Joanna. 
 
 "Nun-no. I hope your little lady liked her oats." 
 
 "She looks in good heart— watch her tugging. You've 
 undone that buckle, Arthur." 
 
 "So I have — I was just fidgeting." 
 
 He fastened the strap again, his fingers moving clumsily 
 and slowly. It struck her that he was trying to gain time, 
 that he wanted to tell her something. 
 
 "Anything the matter, Arthur ?" 
 
 "Nothing— why ?" 
 
 "Oh, it struck me you looked worried."
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 205 
 
 "What should I be worried about?" 
 
 "There's a lot of things you might be worried about. 
 What did you tell me about your wurzels?" 
 
 "They're not so bad." 
 
 "Then I can't see as there's any need for you to look 
 glum." 
 
 "No more there ain't," said Arthur in the voice of a man 
 making a desperate decision. 
 
 § 25 
 
 It was not till nearly a month later that Joanna heard 
 that people were "talking" about Ellen and Sir Harry. 
 Gossip generally took some time to reach her, owing to her 
 sex, which was not privileged to frequent the Woolpack 
 bar, where rumours invariably had a large private circula- 
 tion before they were finally published at some auction or 
 market. She resented this disability, but in spite of the 
 general daring of her outlook and behaviour, nothing would 
 have induced her to enter the Woolpack save by the discreet 
 door of the landlady's parlour, where she occasionally 
 sipped a glass of ale. However, she had means of acquir- 
 ing knowledge, though not so quickly as those women who 
 were provided with husbands and sons. On this occasion 
 Mene Tckel Fagge brought the news, through the looker 
 at Slinches, with whom she was walking out. 
 
 "That'll do, Mene," said Joanna to her handmaiden, "you 
 always was the one to pick up idle talcs, and Uansay sIkwUI 
 ought to be ashamed of himself, drinking and talking the 
 way he docs. Now you go and tell Peter Crouch to bring 
 me round the trap." 
 
 She drove off to Donkey Street, carrying her scandal to 
 its source. She was extremely angry — not that for one 
 moment she believed in the truth of those accusations 
 brought against her sister, but Ellen was just the sort of 
 girl, with her airs and notions, to get herself talked about 
 at the Woolpack, and it was disgraceful to have such things
 
 206 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 said about one, even if one was guiltless. There was a 
 prickly heat of shame in Joanna's blood as she hustled the 
 mare over the white loops of the Romney road. 
 
 The encounter with Ellen made her angrier still. 
 
 "I don't care what they say," said her sister, "why should 
 I mind what a public-house bar says against me?" 
 
 "Well, you should ought to mind — it's shameful." 
 
 "They've said plenty against you," 
 
 "Not that sort of thing." 
 
 "I'd rather have that sort of thing said about me than 
 some." 
 
 "Ellen!" 
 
 "Well, the Squire's isn't a bad name to have coupled with 
 mine, if they must couple somebody's." 
 
 "I wonder you ain't afraid of being struck dead, talking 
 like that — ^you with the most kind, good-tempered and law- 
 ful husband that ever was." 
 
 "Do you imagine that I'm disloyal to Arthur?" 
 
 "Howsumever could you think I'd dream of such a 
 thing?" 
 
 "Well, it's the way you're talking." 
 
 "It ain't." 
 
 "Then why are you angry?" 
 
 "Because you shouldn't ought to get gossiped about like 
 that." 
 
 "It isn't my fault." 
 
 "It is. You shouldn't ought to have Sir Harry about the 
 place as much as you do. The last two times I've been 
 here, he's been too." 
 
 "I like him — he amuses me." 
 
 "I like him too, but he ain't worth nothing, and he's got 
 a bad name. You get shut of him, Ellen — I know him, and 
 I know a bit about him; he ain't the sort of man to have 
 coming to your house when folks are talking." 
 
 "You have him to yours — whenever you can get him." 
 
 "But then I'm a single woman, and he being a single man 
 there's no harm in it."
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 207 
 
 "Do you think a married woman should know no man 
 but her husband?" 
 
 "What did she marry a husband for ?" 
 
 "Really, Joanna , . . however, there's no use arguing 
 with you. I'm sorry you're annoyed at the gossip, but to 
 keep out of the gossip here one would have to live like a 
 cabbage. You haven't exactly kept out of it yourself." 
 
 "Have done do with telling me that. They only talk 
 about me because I'm more go-ahead than any of 'em, and 
 make more money. Anyone may talk about you that way 
 and I shan't mind. But to have it said at the Woolpack 
 as you, a married wife, let's a man like Sir Harry be forever 
 hanging around your house . . ." 
 
 "Are you jealous?" said Ellen softly. "Poor old Jo — I'm 
 sorry if I've taken another of your men." 
 
 Joanna opened her mouth and stared at her. At first she 
 hardly understood, then, suddenly grasping what was in 
 Ellen's mind, she took in her breath for a torrential explana- 
 tion of the whole matter. But the next minute she realised 
 that this was hardly the moment to say anything which 
 would prejudice her sister against Arthur Alee. If Ellen 
 would value him more as a robbery, then let her persist in 
 her delusion. The effort of silence was so great, that 
 Joanna became purjjle and ajKjpIcctic — with a wild, grab- 
 bing gesture she turned away, and burst out of the house 
 into the drive, where her trap was waiting. 
 
 § 26 
 
 The n( xt morning Menc Tckel brought fresh news from 
 the Woolpack, and this time it was of a difTercnt quality, 
 Warranted to allay the seething of Joanna's moral sense. 
 Sir Harry Trevor had sold North I-'arthiiig to a retired 
 bootmaker. He was going to the South of France for the 
 winter, and was then coming back to his sister's flat in Lon- 
 don, while she went for a lecturing tour in the United 
 States. The Woolpack was very definitely and minutely
 
 208 JOANNA GO.DDEN 
 
 informed as to his doings, and had built its knowledge into 
 the theory that he must have had some more money left 
 him. 
 
 Joanna was delighted — she forgave Sir Harry, and Ellen 
 too, which was a hard matter. None the less, as November 
 approached through the showers and floods, she felt a little 
 anxious lest he should delay his going or perhaps even re- 
 voke the bootmaker from Deal, with two van-loads of furni- 
 ture, and his wife and four grown-up daughters — all as ugly 
 as roots, said the Woolpack. The Squire's furniture was 
 sold by auction at Dover, from which port his sailing was in 
 due course guaranteed by credible eye-witnesses. Joanna 
 once more breathed freely. No one could talk about him 
 and Ellen now — that disgraceful scandal, which seemed to 
 lower Ellen to the level of marsh dairy-girls in trouble, and 
 had about it too that strange luciferian flavour of "the sins 
 of Society," that scandal had been killed, and its dead body 
 taken away in the Dover mail. 
 
 Now that he was gone, and no longer a source of danger 
 to her family's reputation, she found herself liking Sir 
 Harry again. He had always been friendly, and though she 
 fundamentally disapproved of his "ways," she was woman 
 enough to be thrilled by his lurid reputation. Moreover he 
 provided a link, her last living link, with Martin's days — 
 now that strange women kept rabbits in the backyards of 
 North Farthing and the rooms were full of the Deal boot- 
 maker's resplendent suites, that time of dew and gold and 
 dreams seemed to have faded still further off. For many 
 years it had lain far away on the horizon, but now it 
 seemed to have faded off the earth altogether, and to live 
 only in the sunset sky or in the dim moon-risings, which 
 sometimes woke her out of her sleep with a start, as if she 
 slipped on the verge of some troubling memory. 
 
 This kindlier state of affairs lasted for about six weeks, 
 during which Joanna saw very little of Ellen. She was at 
 rest about her sister, for the fact that Ellen might be feeling 
 lonely and unhappy at the departure of her friend did not
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 209 
 
 trouble her in the least; such emotions, so vile in their 
 source, could not call for any sympathy. Besides, she was 
 busy, hunting for a new carter to work under Broadhurst, 
 whose undertakings, since the establishment of the milk- 
 round, had almost come to equal those of the looker in activ- 
 ity and importance. 
 
 She was just about to set out one morning for a farm near 
 Brenzett, when she saw Arthur Alee come up to the door 
 on horseback. 
 
 "Hullo, Jo!" he called rather anxiously through the 
 window, "have you got Ellen?" 
 
 "I ? — No. Why should I have her, pray ?" 
 
 "Because I ain't got her." 
 
 "What d'you mean? Get down, Arthur, and come and 
 talk to me in here. Don't let everyone hear you shouting 
 like that." 
 
 Arthur hitched his horse to the paling and came in. 
 
 "I thought maybe I'd find her here," he said, "I ain't seen 
 her since breakfast." 
 
 "There's other places she could have gone besides here. 
 Maybe she's gone shopping in Romney and forgot to tell 
 you." 
 
 "It's queer her starting oft like that without a word — 
 and she's took her liddle bag and a few bits of things with 
 her too." 
 
 "What things? — Arthur! Why couldn't you tell me that 
 before?" 
 
 "I was going to . . . I'm feeling a bit anxious, Jo . . . 
 I've a feeling she's gone after that old Squire." 
 
 "You dare say such a thing! Arthur, I'm ashamed of 
 you, believing such a thing of your wife and my sister." 
 
 "Well, she was unaccountable set on him." 
 
 "Nonsense! He just amused her. It's you whose wife 
 she is." 
 
 "She's scarce given me a word more'n in the way of busi- 
 ness, as you might say, this last three month. And she 
 won't let me touch her."
 
 210 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 "Why didn't you tell me this before?" 
 
 "I didn't want to trouble you, and I thought maybe it was 
 a private matter." 
 
 "You should have ought to tell me the drackly minute 
 Ellen started not to treat you proper. I'd have spoken to 
 her . . . Now we're in for a valiant terrification." 
 
 "I'm unaccountable sorry, Jo." 
 
 "How long has she been gone ?" 
 
 "Since around nine. I went out to see the tegs, counting 
 them up to go inland, and when I came in for my dinner the 
 gal told me as Ellen had gone out soon after breakfast, and 
 had told her to see as I got my dinner, as she wouldn't be 
 back." 
 
 "Why didn't you start after her at once ?" 
 
 "Well, I made sure as she'd gone to you. Then I began 
 to think over things and put 'em together, and I found she'd 
 taken her liddle bag, and I got scared. I never liked her 
 seeing such a lot of that man." 
 
 "Then why didn't you stop it?" 
 
 "How could I ?" 
 
 "I could have— and the way people talked ... I'd have 
 locked her up sooner than . . . well, it's too late now . . . 
 the boat went at twelve. Oh, Arthur, why didn't you watch 
 her properly? Why did you let her go like that? Think 
 of it! What's to become of her— away in foreign parts 
 with a man who ain't her husband ... my liddle Ellen 
 ... oh, it's turble — turble — " 
 
 Her speech suddenly roughened into the Doric of the 
 Marsh, and she sat down heavily, dropping her head to her 
 knees. 
 
 "Joanna— don't, don't . . . don't take on, Jo." 
 
 He had not seen her cry before, and now she frightened 
 him. Her shoulders heaved, and great panting sobs shook 
 her broad back. 
 
 "My liddle Ellen ... my treasure, my duckie ... oh, 
 why have you left us? . . . You could have come back to
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 211 
 
 me if you didn't like it . . . oh, Ellen, where are you? 
 . . . Come back . . ." 
 
 Arthur stood motionless beside her, his frame rigid, his 
 protuberant blue eyes staring through the window at the 
 horizon. He longed to take Joanna in his arms, caress and 
 comfort her, but he knew that he must not. 
 
 "Cheer up," he said at last in a husky voice, "maybe it 
 ain't so bad as you think. Maybe I'll find her at home 
 when I get back to Donkey Street." 
 
 "Not if she took her bag. Oh, whatsumever shall we do? 
 — whatsumever shall we do?" 
 
 "We can but wait. If she don't come back, maybe she'll 
 send me a letter." 
 
 "It queers me how you can speak so light of it." 
 
 "I speak light?" 
 
 "Yes. You don't seem to tumble to it." 
 
 "Reckon I do tumble to it, but what can we do ?" 
 
 "You shouldn't ought to have left her alone all that time 
 from breakfast till dinner — if you'd gone after her at the 
 start you could have brought her back. You should ought 
 to have kicked Sir Harry out of Donkey Street before the 
 start. I'd have done it surely. Reckon I love Ellen more'n 
 you." 
 
 "Reckon you do, Jo. I tell you, I ought never to have 
 married her — since it was you I cared for all along." 
 
 "Hold your tongue, Arthur. I'm ashamed of you to 
 choose this time to say such an immoral thing." 
 
 "It ain't immoral— it's the truth." 
 
 "Well, it shouldn't ought to be the truth. When you 
 married Ellen, you'd no btisiness to go on caring for me. I 
 guess all this is a judgment on you, caring for a woman 
 when you'd married her sister." 
 
 "You ain't yourself, Jo," said Arthur sadly, "and there's 
 no sense argmng with you. I'll go away till you've got over 
 it. Maybe I'll have some news for you tomorrow morn- 
 mg.
 
 212 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 § 27 
 
 Tomorrow morning he had a letter from Ellen herself. 
 He brought it at once to a strangely drooping and weary- 
 eyed Joanna, and read it again over her shoulder. 
 
 "Dear Arthur," it ran — 
 
 "I'm afraid this will hurt you and Joanna terribly, but I 
 expect you have already guessed what has happened. I am 
 on my way to San Remo, to join Sir Harry Trevor, and I 
 am never coming back, because I know now that I ought not 
 to have married you. I do not ask you to forgive me, and 
 I'm sure Joanna won't, but I had to think of my own hap- 
 piness, and I never was a good wife to you. Believe me, I 
 have done my best — I said 'Goodbye for ever' to Harry six 
 weeks ago, but ever since then my life has been one long 
 misery ; I cannot live without him. 
 
 "Ellen." 
 
 t^^ 
 
 'Well, it's only told us what we knew already," said 
 Joanna with a gulp, "but now we're sure we can do better 
 than just talk about it." 
 
 "What can we do?" 
 
 "We can get the old Squire's address from somebody — 
 Mrs. Williams or the people at North Farthing House — 
 and then send a telegram after her, telling her to come 
 back." 
 
 "That won't be much use." 
 
 "It'll be something, anyway. Maybe when she gets out 
 there in foreign parts she won't be so pleased — or maybe he 
 never asked her to come and he'll have changed his mind 
 about her. We must try and get her back. Where have 
 you told your folk she's gone to ?" 
 
 "I've told 'em she's gone to stop with you." 
 
 "Well, I can't pretend she's here. You might have 
 thought of something better, Arthur.'* 
 
 "I can't think of nothing else."
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 213 
 
 "You justabout try. If only we can get her somewheres 
 for a week, so as to have time to write and tell her as all 
 will be forgiven and you'll take her back . . ." 
 
 Arthur looked mutinous. 
 
 "I don't know as I want her back." 
 
 "Arthur, you must. Otherways, everybody ull have to 
 know what's happened." 
 
 "But she didn't like being with me, or she wouldn't have 
 gone away." 
 
 "She liked it well enough, or she wouldn't have stayed 
 with you two year. Arthur, you must have her back, you 
 justabout must. You send her a telegram saying as you'll 
 have her back if only she'll come this once, before folks 
 find out where she's gone." 
 
 Arthur's resistance gradually failed before Joanna's en- 
 treaties and persuasions. He could not withstand Jo when 
 her grey eyes were all dull with tears, and her voice was 
 hoarse and frantic. For some months now his marriage 
 had seemed to him a wrong and immoral thing, but he 
 rather sorrowfully told himself that having made the first 
 false step he could not now turn round and come back, even 
 if Ellen herself had broken away. He rode off to find out 
 the Squire's address and send his wife the summoning and 
 forgiving telegram. 
 
 § 28 
 
 It was not perhaps surprising that, in spite of a lavish 
 and exceedingly expensive offer of forgiveness, Ellen did 
 not come home. Over a week passed without even an 
 acknowledgment of the telegram, which she must have 
 found reproachfully awaiting her arrival — the symbol of 
 Walland Marsh pursuing her into the remoteness of a new 
 life and a strange country. 
 
 As might have been expected Joanna felt this period of 
 waiting and inactivity far more than she had felt the actual 
 shock. She had all the weight on her shoulders of a sus- 
 tained deception. She and Arthur had to dress up a story
 
 214 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 to deceive the neighbourhood, and they gave out that Ellen 
 was in London, staying with Mrs. Williams — her husband 
 had forbidden her to go, so she had run away, and now 
 there would have to be some give and take on both sides 
 before she could come back. Joanna had been inspired 
 to circulate this legend by the discovery that Ellen actually 
 had taken a ticket to London. She had probably guessed 
 the sensation that her taking a ticket to Dover would arouse 
 at the local station, so had gone first to London and travelled 
 down by the boat express. It was all very cunning, and 
 Joanna thought she saw the old Squire's experienced hand 
 in it. Of course it might be true that he had not persuaded 
 Ellen to come out to him, but that she had gone to him on 
 a sudden impulse. . . . But even Joanna's plunging in- 
 stinct realised that her sister was not the sort to take des- 
 perate risks for love's sake, and the whole thing had about 
 it a sly, concerted air, which made her think that Sir Harry 
 was not only privy, but a prime mover. 
 
 After some ten days of anxiety, self -consciousness, shame 
 and exasperation, these suspicions were confirmed by a 
 letter from the Squire himself. He wrote from Oepeda- 
 letti, a small place near San Remo, and he wrote charm- 
 ingly. No other adverb could qualify the peculiarly suave, 
 tactful, humorous and gracious style in which not only he 
 flung a mantle of romance over his and Ellen's behaviour 
 (which till then, judged by the standards of Ansdore had 
 been just drably "wicked"), but by some mysterious means 
 brought in Joanna as a third cons])irator, linked by a broad 
 and kindly intuition with himself and Ellen against a 
 censorious world. 
 
 "You who know Ellen so well, will realise that she has 
 never till now had her birthright. You did your best for her, 
 but both of you were bounded north, south, east and west by 
 Walland Marsh. I wish you could see her now, beside me 
 on the terrace — she is like a little finch in the sunshine of its 
 first spring day. Her only trouble is her fear of you, her
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 215 
 
 fear that you will not understand. But I tell her I would 
 trust you first of all the world to do that. As a woman of 
 the world, you must realise exactly what public opinion is 
 worth — if you yourself had bowed down to it, where would 
 you be now ? Ellen is only doing now what you did for 
 yourself eleven years ago." 
 
 Joanna's feelings were divided between gratification at 
 the flattery she never could resist, and a fierce resentment at 
 the insult offered her in supposing she could ever wink at 
 such "goings on." The more indignant emotions pre- 
 dominated in the letter she wrote Sir Harry, for she knew 
 well enough that the flattery was not sincere — he was mere- 
 ly out to propitiate. 
 
 Her feelings tov/ards Ellen were exceedingly bitter, and 
 the letter she wrote her was a rough one : — 
 
 "You're nothing but a baggage. It makes no difference 
 that you wear fine clothes and shoes that he's bought you to 
 your shame. You're just every bit as low as Martha Tilden 
 whom I got shut of ten year ago for no worse than you've 
 done." 
 
 Nevertheless, she insisted that Ellen should come home. 
 She guaranteed Arthur's forgiveness, and — somewhat rash- 
 ly — the neighbours' discretion. "I've told them you're in 
 London with Mrs. Williams. But that won't hold .^ood 
 much more than another week. So be quick and come 
 home, before it's too late." 
 
 Unfortunately the facts of Ellen's absence were already 
 bofjinninj:^ to U-ak otit. Pcoi)lc' did not believe in the London 
 story. Had not the old Squire's visits to Donkey Street 
 been the tattle of the Marsh for six months? She was 
 condemned not only at the Woolpack, but at the three 
 markets of Rye, Lydd and Romney. Joanna was furious. 
 
 "It's just that Post Office," she exclaimed, and the remark 
 was not quite unjust. The contents of telegrams had al-
 
 216 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 ways had an alarming way of spreading themselves over the 
 district, and Joanna felt sure that Miss Gasson would have 
 both made and published her own conclusions on the large 
 amount of foreign correspondence now received at Ansdore. 
 Ellen herself was the next to write. She wrote impeni- 
 tently and decidedly. She would never come back, so there 
 was no good either Joanna or Arthur expecting it. She 
 had left Donkey Street because she could not endure its 
 cramped ways any longer, and it was unreasonable to expect 
 her to return. 
 
 "If Arthur has any feeling for me left, he will divorce 
 me. He can easily do it, and then we shall both be free to 
 re-marry." 
 
 "Reckon she thinks the old Squire ud like to marry 
 her," said Alee, "I'd be glad if I thought so well of him." 
 
 "He can't marry her, seeing as she's your wife." 
 
 "If we were divorced, she wouldn't be." 
 
 "She would. You were made man and wife in Pedlinge 
 church, as I saw with my own eyes, and I'll never believe 
 as what was done then can be undone just by having some 
 stuff written in the papers." 
 
 "It's a lawyer's business," said Arthur. 
 
 "I can't see that," said Joanna — "a Parson married you, 
 so reckon a Parson must unmarry you." 
 
 "He wouldn't do it. It's a lawyer's job." 
 
 "I'd thank my looker if he went about undoing my cart- 
 er's work. Those lawyers want to put their heads in every- 
 where. And as for Ellen, all I can say is, it's just like her 
 wanting the Ten Commandments altered to suit her con- 
 venience. Reckon they ain't refined and high-class enough 
 for her. But she may ask for a divorce till she's black in 
 the face — she shan't get it." 
 
 So Ellen had to remain — very much against the grain, 
 for she was fundamentally respectable — a breaker of the 
 law. She wrote once or twice more on the subject, appeal-
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 217 
 
 ing to Arthur, since Joanna's reply had shown her exactly 
 how much quarter she could expect. But Arthur was not 
 to be won, for apart from Joanna's domination, and his 
 own unsophisticated beliefs in the permanence of marriage, 
 his suspicions were roused by the old Squire's silence on 
 the matter. At no point did he join his appeals and argu- 
 ments with Ellen's, though he had been ready enough to 
 write to excuse and explain. . . . No, Arthur felt that love 
 and wisdom lay not in sanctifying Ellen in her new ways 
 with the blessing of the law, but in leaving the old open 
 for her to come back to when the new should perhaps grow 
 hard. "That chap uU get shut of her — I don't trust him — 
 and then she'll want to come back to me or Jo." 
 
 So he wrote with boring reiteration of his willingness to 
 receive her home again as soon as she chose to return, and 
 assured her that he and Joanna had still managed to keep 
 the secret of her departure, so that she need not fear scorn- 
 ful tongues. They had given the marsh to understand that 
 no settlement having been arrived at, Ellen had accom- 
 panied Mrs. Williams to the South of France, hoping that 
 things would have improved on her return. This would 
 account for the foreign post-marks, and both he and Joanna 
 were more proud of their cunning than was quite warrant- 
 able from its results. 
 
 §29 
 
 That winter brought Great Ansrlore at last into the mar- 
 ket. It would have come in before had not Joanna so 
 rashly bragged of her intention to buy it. As it was — "I 
 guess I'll get a bit more out of the old gal by holding on," 
 said Prickett disrespectfully, and he held on till Joanna's 
 impatience about equalled his extremity; whereupon he 
 sold it to her for not over fifty per cent, more than he would 
 have asked had lie not known of her ambition. She paid 
 the price manfully, and Prickett went out with his fev/ 
 sticks. 
 
 The Woolpack was inclined to be contemptuous.
 
 218 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 "Five thousand pounds for Prickett's old shacks, and his 
 mouldy pastures that are all burdock and fluke. If Joanna 
 Godden had had any know, she could have beaten him down 
 fifteen hundred — he was bound to sell, and she was a fool 
 not to make him sell at her price." 
 
 But when Joanna wanted a thing she did not mind paying 
 for it, and she had wanted Great Ansdore very much, 
 though no one knew better than she that it was shacky and 
 mouldy. For long it had mocked with its proud title the 
 triumphs of Little Ansdore. Now the whole manor of 
 Ansdore was hers, Great and Little, and wilh it she held the 
 living of Brodnyx and Pedlinge — it was she, of her own 
 might, who would appoint the next Rector, and for some 
 time she imagined that she had it in her power to turn out 
 Mr. Pratt. 
 
 She at once set to work, putting her new domain in 
 order. Some of the pasture she grubbed up for spring 
 sowings, the rest she drained by cutting a new channel from 
 the Kent Ditch to the White Kemp Sewer. She re-roofed 
 the barns with slate, and painted and re-tiled the dwelling- 
 house. This last she decided to let to some family of 
 gentlepeople, while herself keeping on the farm and the 
 barns. The dwelling-house of Little Ansdore, though more 
 flat and spreading, was in every way superior to that of 
 Great Ansdore, which was rather new and inclined to gim- 
 crackiness, having been built on the site of the first dwell- 
 ing, burnt down somewhere in the Eighties. Besides, she 
 loved Little Ansdore for its associations — under its roof she 
 had been born and her father had been born, under its roof 
 she had known love and sorrow and denial and victory ; 
 she could not bear to think of leaving it. The queer, low 
 house, with its mixture of spaciousness and crookedness, 
 its huge, sag-ceilinged rooms and narrow, twisting passages, 
 was almost a personality to her now, one of the Godden 
 family, the last of kin that had remained kind. 
 
 Her activities were merciful in crowding what would 
 otherwise have been a sorrowful period of emptiness and
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 219 
 
 anxiety. It is true that Ellen's behaviour had done much 
 to spoil her triumph, both in the neighbourhood and in her 
 own eyes, but she had not time to be thinking of it always. 
 Visits to Rye, either to her lawyers or to the decorators and 
 paper-hangers, the engaging of extra hands, both temporary 
 and permanent for the extra work, the supervising of 
 labourers and workmen whom she never could trust to do 
 their job without her ... all these crowded her cares into 
 a few hours of evening or an occasionally wakeful night. 
 
 But every now and then she must suffer. Sometimes she 
 would be overwhelmed, in the midst of all her triumphant 
 business, v/ith a sense of personal failure. She had suc- 
 ceeded where most women are hopeless failures, but where 
 so many women are successful and satisfied, she had failed 
 and gone empty. She had no home, beyond what was in- 
 volved in the walls of this ancient dwelling, the womb and 
 grave of her existence — she had lost the man she loved, had 
 been unable to settle herself comfortably with another, and 
 now she had lost Ellen, the little sister, who had managed 
 to hold at least a part of that over-running love, which since 
 Martin's death had had only broken cisterns to flow into. 
 
 The last catastrophe now loomed the largest. Joanna 
 no longer shed tears for Martin, but she shed many for 
 Ellen, either into her own [)illow, or into the flowery quilt 
 of the flowery room which inconscqucntly she held sacred 
 to the memory of the girl who had despised it. Her grief 
 for Ellen was mixed with anxiety and with shame. What 
 would become of her? Joanna could not, would not, be- 
 lieve that she wouhl never come back. Yet what if she 
 came? ... In Joanna's eyes, and in the eyes of all the 
 neighbourhood, Ellen had committed a crime which raised 
 a barrier between her and ordinary folk. Between Ellen 
 and her sister now stood the wall of strange, new conditions 
 — conditions that could ignore the sonorous Thou Shalt 
 Not, which Jr)anna never saw apart from Mr. Pratt in his 
 surplice and hood, standing under the Lion and the Uni- 
 corn, while all the farmers and householders of the marsh
 
 220 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 murmured into their Prayer Books — "Lord have mercy up- 
 on us, and incHne our hearts to keep this law." She could 
 not think of Ellen without this picture rising up between 
 them, and sometimes in church she would be overwhelmed 
 with a bitter shame, and in the lonely enclosure of her great 
 cattle-box pew would stuff her fingers into her ears, so that 
 she should not hear the dreadful words of her sister's con- 
 demnation. 
 
 She had moments, too, of an even bitterer shame — 
 strange, terrible, and mercifully rare times when her atti- 
 tude towards Ellen was not of judgment or of care or 
 of longing, but of envy. Sometimes she would be over- 
 whelmed with a sense of Ellen's happiness in being loved, 
 even if the love was unlawful. She had never felt this 
 during the years that her sister had lived with Alee; the 
 thought of his affection had brought her nothing but hap- 
 piness and content. Now, on sinister occasions, she would 
 find herself thinking of Ellen cherished and spoiled, pro- 
 tected and caressed, living the life of love — and a desperate 
 longing would come to her to enjoy what her sister enjoyed, 
 to be kissed and stroked and made much of and taken care 
 of, to see some man laying schemes and taking risks for 
 her . . . sometimes she felt that she would like to see all 
 the fulness of her life at Ansdore, all her honour on the 
 three marshes, blown to the winds if only in their stead she 
 could have just ordinary human love, with or without the 
 law. 
 
 Poor Joanna was overwhelmed with horror at herself — 
 sometimes she thought she must be possessed by a devil. 
 She must be very wicked — in her heart just as wicked as 
 Ellen. What could she do to cast out this dumb, tearing 
 spirit ? — Should she marry one of her admirers on the 
 marsh, and trust to his humdrum devotion to satisfy her 
 devouring need? Even in her despair and panic she knew 
 that she could not do this. It was love that she must have 
 — ^the same sort of love that she had given Martin ; that 
 alone could bring her the joys she now envied in her sister.
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 221 
 
 And love — how shall it be found? — Who shall go out to 
 seek it? 
 
 §30 
 
 Towards the Spring, Ellen wrote again, breaking the 
 silence of several weeks. She wrote in a different tone — 
 some change had passed over her. She no longer asked 
 Arthur to divorce her — on the contrary she hinted her 
 thanks for his magnanimity in not having done so. Evi- 
 dently she no longer counted on marrying Sir Harry 
 Trevor, perhaps, even, she did not wish to. But in one 
 point she had not changed — she was not coming back to her 
 husband. 
 
 "I couldn't bear to live that life again, especially after 
 what's happened. It's not his fault — it's simply that I'm 
 different. If he wants his freedom, I suggest that he 
 should let me divorce him — it could easily be arranged. He 
 should go and see a really good lawyer in London.'* 
 
 Yes — Ellen spoke truly when she said that she was "dif- 
 ferent." Her cavalier dealings with this situation, the glib 
 way she spoke of divorce, the insult she flung at the re- 
 spectable form of Huxtablc, Vidlcr and Tluxtablc by sug- 
 gesting that Arthur should consult "a really good lawyer in 
 London," all showed how far she had travelled from the 
 ways of Walland Marsh. 
 
 "What's she after now?" asked Joanna. 
 
 "Reckon they're getting tired of each other." 
 
 ".She don't say so." 
 
 "No — she wants to find out which way the land lays 
 first." 
 
 "I'll write and tell her she can come back and live along 
 of me, if she won't go to you." 
 
 "Then I'll have to be leaving those parts — I couldn't be 
 at Donkey Street and her at Ansdore."
 
 222 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 "Reckon you could — she can go out of the way when you 
 call." 
 
 "It wouldn't be seemly." 
 
 "Where ud you go?" 
 
 "I've no notion. But reckon all this ain't the question 
 yet. Ellen won't come back to you no more than she'll 
 come back to me." 
 
 "She'll justabout have to come if she gets shut of the old 
 Squire, seeing as she's got no more than twelve pounds a 
 year of her own. Reckon poor Father was a wise man 
 when he left Ansdore to me and not to both of us — you'd 
 almost think he'd guessed what she was coming to." 
 
 Joanna wrote to Ellen and made her offer. Her sister 
 wrote back at great length, and rather pathetically — 
 "Harry" was going on to Venice, and she did not think 
 she would go with him — "when one gets to know a person, 
 Jo, one sometimes finds they are not quite what one thought 
 them." She would like to be by herself for a bit. but she 
 did not want to come back to Ansdore, even if Arthur went 
 away — "it would be very awkward after what has hap- 
 pened." She begged Jo to be generous and make her some 
 small allowance — "Harry would provide for me if he hadn't 
 had such terrible bad luck — he never was very well off, you 
 know, and he can't manage unless we keep together. I 
 know you wouldn't like me to be tied to him just by money 
 considerations." 
 
 Joanna was bewildered by the letter. She could have 
 imderstood Ellen turning in horror and loathing from the 
 partner of her guilt, but she could not understand this wary 
 and matter-of-fact separation. What was her sister made 
 of? "Harry would provide for me" . . . would she really 
 have accepted such a provision? Joanna's ears grew red. 
 "I'll make her come home," she exclaimed savagely — ^"she'll 
 have to come if she's got no money." 
 
 "Maybe she'll stop along of him," said Arthur. 
 
 "Then let her — I don't care. But she shan't have my 
 money to live on by herself in foreign parts, taking up with
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 223 
 
 any man that comes her way ; for I don't trust her now — 1 
 reckon she's lost to shame." 
 
 She wrote Eilen to this effect, and, not surprisingly, 
 received no answer. She felt hard and desperate — the 
 thought that she was perhaps binding her sister to her mis- 
 doing gave her only occasional spasms of remorse. Some- 
 times she would feel as if all her being and all her history, 
 Ansdore and her father's memory, disowned her sister^ 
 and that she could never take her back into her life again, 
 however penitent — "She's mocked at our good ways — she's 
 loose, she's low." At other times her heart melted towards 
 Ellen in weakness, and she knew within herself that no 
 matter what she did, she would always be her little sister, 
 her child, her darling, whom all her life she had cherished 
 and could never cast out. 
 
 She said nothing about these swaying feelings to Arthur 
 — she had of late grown far more secretive about herself — 
 as for him, he took things as they came. He found a 
 wondrous quiet in this time when he was allowed to serve 
 Joanna as in days of old. He did not think of marrying 
 her — he knew that even if it was true that the lawyers could 
 set aside Parson's word, Joanna would not take him now, 
 any more than she would have taken him five or ten or 
 fifteen years ago; she did not think about him in that way. 
 On the other hand she appreciated his company and his 
 services. He called at Ansdore twice or thrice a week, 
 and ran her errands for her. It was almost like old times, 
 and in his heart he knew and was ashamed to know that 
 he hoped Ellen would never come back. If she came back 
 either to him or to Joanna, these days of quiet happiness 
 would end. Meant imr, lir could not think of it — he was 
 Joanna's servant, and when she could not be in two places 
 at once it was his joy and privilege to be in one of them. 
 "I could live like this for ever, surely," he said to him- 
 self, as he sat stirring his solitary cup of tea at Donkey 
 Street, knowing that he was to call at Ansdore the next 
 morning.
 
 224 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 That was the morning he met Joanna in the drive, hat- 
 less, and holding a piece of pap^r in her hand. 
 
 "I've heard from Ellen — she's telegraphed from Venice 
 — she's coming home." 
 
 §31 
 
 Now that she knew Ellen was coming, Joanna had 
 nothing in her heart but joy and angry love. Ellen was 
 coming back, at last, after many wanderings — and she saw 
 now that these wanderings included the years of her life 
 with Alee — she was coming back to Ansdore and the old 
 home. Joanna forgot how much she had hated it, would 
 not think that this precious return was merely the action of 
 a woman without resources. She gave herself up to the 
 joy of preparing a welcome — as splendidly and elaborately 
 as she had prepared for her sister's return from school. 
 This time, however, she went further, and actually made 
 some concessions to Ellen's taste. She remembered that 
 she liked dull die-away colours "like the mould on jam," so 
 she took down the pink curtains and folded away the pink 
 bedspread, and put in their places material that the shop at 
 Rye assured her was "art green" — which, in combination 
 with the crimson, flowery walls and floor contrived most 
 effectually to suggest a scum of grey-green mould on a pot 
 of especially vivid strawberry jam. 
 
 But she was angry too — her heart burned to think not 
 only of Ellen's sin but of the casual way in which she 
 treated it. "I won't have none of her loose notions here," 
 said Joanna grimly. She made up her mind to give her 
 sister a good talking to, to convince her of the way in which 
 her goings-on struck decent folk; but she would not do it 
 at the start — "I'll give her time to settle down a bit first." 
 
 During the few days which elapsed between Ellen's tele- 
 gram and her arrival, Joanna saw nothing of Alee. She 
 had one letter from him, in which he told her that he had 
 been over to Fairfield to look at the plough she was speak- 
 ing of, but that it was old stuff and would be of no use to
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 225 
 
 her. He did not even mention Ellen's name. She won- 
 dered if he was making any plans for leaving Donkey 
 Street — she hoped he would not be such a fool as to go. 
 He and Ellen could easily keep out of each other's way. 
 Still, if Ellen wouldn't stay unless he went, she would 
 rather have Ellen than Alee . . . He would have to sell 
 Donkey Street, or perhaps he might let it off for a little time. 
 April had just become May when Ellen returned to Ans- 
 dore. It had been a rainy Spring, and great pools were 
 on the marshes, overflows from the dykes and channels, 
 clear mirrors green from the grass beneath their shallows 
 and the green rainy skies that hung above them. Here and 
 there they reflected white clumps and walls of hawthorn, 
 with the pale yellowish gleam of the buttercups in the pas- 
 tures. The two sisters, driving back from Rye, looked 
 round on the green twilight of the marsh with indifferent 
 eyes. Joanna had ceased to look for any beauty in her 
 surroundings since Martin's days — the small gift of sight 
 that he had given her had gone out with the light of his 
 own eyes, and this evening all she saw was the flooded 
 pastures, which meant poor grazing for her tegs due to 
 come down from the Coast, and her lambs new-born on 
 the Kent Innings. As for Ellen, the marsh had always 
 stood with her for unrelieved boredom. Its eternal flat- 
 ness — the monotony of its roads winding through an un- 
 varying landscape of reeds and dykes and grazings, past 
 farms each of which was almost exactly like the one before 
 it, with red walls and orange roofs and a bush of elms and 
 oaks — the wearisome repetition of its seasons — the mists 
 and floods of Winter, the may and buttercups of Spring, the 
 hay and meadow-sweet and wild carrot of the Summer 
 months, the bleakness and winds of Autumn — all this was 
 typical of her life there, water-bound, cut off from all her 
 heart's desire of variety and beauty and elegance, of the life 
 to which she must now return because her attempt to live 
 another had failed and left her stranded on a slag-heap 
 of disillusion from which even Ansdore was a refuge.
 
 226 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 Ellen sat very trim and erect beside Joanna in the trap. 
 She wore a neat grey coat and skirt, obviously not of local, 
 nor indeed of English, make, and a little toque of flowers. 
 She had taken Joanna's breath away on Rye platform; it 
 had been very much like old times when she came home for 
 the holidays and checked the impulse of her sister's love by 
 a baffling quality of self -containment. Joanna, basing her 
 expectations on the Bible story of the Prodigal Son rather 
 than on the experiences of the past Winter, had looked for 
 a subdued penitent, surfeited with husks, who, if not 
 actually casting herself at her sister's feet and ofifering her- 
 self as her servant, would at least have a hang-dog air and 
 express her gratitude for so much forgiveness. Instead of 
 which Ellen had said — "Hullo, Jo — it's good to see you 
 again," and offered her a cool, delicately powdered cheek, 
 which Joanna's warm lips had kissed with a queer, sad 
 sense of repulse and humiliation. Before they had been 
 together long, it was she who wore the hang-dog air — for 
 some unconscionable reason she felt in the wrong, and 
 found herself asking her sister polite, nervous questions 
 about the journey. 
 
 This attitude prevailed throughout the evening — on the 
 drive home, and at the excellent supper they sat down to : a 
 stuffed capon and a bottle of wine, truly a genteel feast of 
 reconciliation — ^but Joanna had grown more aristocratic in 
 her feeding since she bought Great Ansdore. Ellen spoke 
 about her journey — she had had a smooth crossing, but had 
 felt rather ill in the train. It was a long way from Venice 
 — yes, you came through France, and Switzerland too . . . 
 the St. Gothard tunnel . , . twenty minutes — well, I never! 
 . . . Yes, a bit smoky — you had to keep the windows shut 
 . . . she preferred French to Italian cooking — she did not 
 like all that oil . . . oh, yes, foreigners were very polite 
 when they knew you, but not to strangers . . . just the 
 opposite from England, where people are polite to strangers
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 227 
 
 and rude to their friends. Joanna had never spoken or 
 heard so many generalities in her life. 
 
 At the end of supper she felt quite tired, what with say- 
 ing one thing with her tongue and another in her heart. 
 Sometimes she felt that she must say something to break 
 down this unreality, which was between them like a wall 
 of ice — at other times she felt angry, and it was Ellen she 
 wanted to break down, to force out of her superior refuge, 
 and show up to her own self as just a common sinner re- 
 ceiving common forgiveness. But there was something 
 about Ellen which made this impossible — something about 
 her manner, with its cold poise, something about her face, 
 which had indefinitely changed — it looked paler, wider, and 
 there were secrets at the corners of her mouth. 
 
 This was not the first time that Joanna had seen her 
 sister calm and collected while she herself was flustered — 
 but this evening a sense of her own awkwardness helped to 
 put her at a still greater disadvantage. She found herself 
 making inane remarks, hesitating and stuttering — she grew 
 sulky and silent, and at last suggested that Ellen would like 
 to go to bed. 
 
 Her sister seemed glad enough, and they went upstairs 
 together. But even the sight of her old bedroom, where 
 the last year of her maidenhood had been sj)ent, even the 
 sight of the new curtains chastening its exuberance with 
 their dim austerity, did not dissolve Ellen's terrible, cold 
 sparkle — her frozen fire. 
 
 "Goofl night." .said Joanna. 
 
 "Good night," said Ellen, "may I have some hot water?" 
 
 "I'll tell the gal," said Joanna tamely, and went out. 
 
 § 32 
 
 When she was alone in her own room she seemed to come 
 to herself. She felt ashamed of having been so baffled by 
 Ellen, of having received her on those terms. She could
 
 228 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 not bear to think of Ellen living on in the house, so terribly 
 at an advantage. If she let things stay as they were, she 
 was tacitly acknowledging some indefinite superiority which 
 her sister had won through sin. All the time she was say- 
 ing nothing she felt that Ellen was saying in her heart — "I 
 have been away to foreign parts ; I have been loved by a 
 man I don't belong to; I have Seen Life; I have stopped at 
 hotels; I have met people of a kind you haven't even spoken 
 to . . ." That was what Ellen was saying, instead of 
 what Joanna thought she ought to say, which was — "I'm 
 no better than a dairy girl in trouble, than Martha Tilden 
 whom you sacked when I was a youngster, and it's unac- 
 countable good of you to have me home." 
 
 Joanna was not the kind to waste her emotions in the 
 sphere of thought. She burst out of the room, and nearly 
 knocked over Mene Tekel, who was on her way to Ellen 
 with a jug of hot water. 
 
 "Give that to me,'" she said, and went to her sister's door, 
 at which she was still sufficiently demoralised to knock. 
 
 "Come in," said Ellen. 
 
 "I've brought you your hot water." 
 
 "Thank you very much — I hope it hasn't been a trouble." 
 
 Ellen was standing by the bed in a pretty lilac silk wrap- 
 per, her hair tucked away under a little lace cap. Joanna 
 wore her dressing gown of turkey-red flannel, and her hair 
 hung down her back in two great rough plaits. For a 
 moment she stared disapprovingly at her sister, whom she 
 thought looked "French," then she suddenly felt ashamed 
 of herself and her ugly and shapeless coverings. This 
 made her angry, and she burst out — 
 
 "Ellen Alee, I want a word with you." 
 
 "Sit down, Jo," said Ellen sweetly. 
 
 Joanna flounced on to the rosy, slippery chintz of Ellen's 
 sofa. Ellen sat down on the bed. 
 
 "What do you want to say to me ?" 
 
 "An unaccountable lot of things."
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 229 
 
 "Must they all be said tonight? — Fm very sleepy." 
 
 "Well, you must justabout keep awake. I can't let it 
 stay over any longer. Here you've been back five hour, 
 and not a word passed between us." 
 
 "On the contrary, we have had some intelligent conversa- 
 tion for the first time in our lives." 
 
 "You call that rot about furriners 'intelligent conversa- 
 tion' ? Well, all I can say is that it's like you — all pretence. 
 One ud think you'd just come back from a pleasure-trip 
 abroad instead of from a wicked life that you should ought 
 to be ashamed of." 
 
 For the first time a flush darkened the heavy whiteness 
 of Ellen's skin. 
 
 "So you want to rake up the past? It's exactly like you, 
 Jo — 'having things out,' I suppose you'd call it. How 
 many times in our lives have you and I 'had things out'? — 
 And what good has it ever done us?" 
 
 "I can't go on all pretending like this — I can't go on 
 pretending I think you an honest woman when I don't — I 
 can't go on saying 'it's a fine day' when Fm wondering how 
 you'll fare in the Day of Judgment." 
 
 "Porjr old Jo," said Ellen, "you'd have had an easier life 
 if you hadn't lived, as they say, so close to nature. It's 
 just what you call pretences and others call good manners 
 that make life bearable for some people." 
 
 "Yes, for 'some people' I daresay — people whose charac- 
 ters won't stand any straight talking." 
 
 ".Straight talking is always so rude — no one ever seems 
 to rcfiuirc it on pleasant occasions." 
 
 "That's all nonsense. Von always was a squeamish, 
 obstrcpulous little thing, Ellen. It's only natural that 
 having you back in my hou.se — as I'm more than glad to do 
 — I should want to know how you stand. What made you 
 come to me sudden like that?" 
 
 "Can't you guess ? It's rather unpleasant for me to have 
 to tell you."
 
 230 ^OANNA GODDEN 
 
 "Reckon it was that man," — somehow Sir Harry's name 
 had become vaguely improper, Joanna felt unable to pro- 
 nounce it — "then you've made up your mind not to marry 
 him," she finished. 
 
 "How can I marry him, seeing I'm somebody else's wife?" 
 
 "I'm glad to hear you say such a proper thing. It ain't 
 what you was saying at the start. Then you wanted a 
 divorce and all sorts of foreign notions . . . what's made 
 you change round?" 
 
 "Well, Arthur wouldn't give me a divorce, for one thing. 
 For another — as I told you in my letter, one often doesn't 
 know people till one's lived with them — besides, he's too old 
 for me." 
 
 "He'll never never see sixty again." 
 
 "He will," said Ellen indignantly — "he was only fifty- 
 five in March." 
 
 "That's thirty year more'n you." 
 
 "I've told you he's too old for me." 
 
 "You might have found out that at the start — he was 
 only six months younger then." 
 
 "There's a great many things I might have done at the 
 start," said Ellen bitterly — "but I tell you, Joanna, life 
 isn't quite the simple thing you imagine. There was I, 
 married to a man utterly uncongenial — " 
 
 "He wasn't ! You're not to miscall Arthur — he's the best 
 man alive." 
 
 "I don't deny it — perhaps that is why I found him un- 
 congenial. Anyhow, we were quite unsuitcd to each other 
 — we hadn't an idea in common." 
 
 "You liked him well enough when you married him." 
 
 "I've told you before that it's difficult to know anyone 
 thoroughly till one's lived with them." 
 
 "Then at that rate, who's to get married — eh?" 
 
 "I don't know," said Ellen wearily — "all I know is that 
 I've made two bad mistakes over two dififerent men, and I 
 think the least you can do is to let me forget it — as far as
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 231 
 
 I'm able — and not come here baiting me when I'm dog 
 tired, and absolutely down and out . . ." 
 
 She bowed her face into her hands, and burst into tears. 
 Joanna flung her arms around her — 
 
 "Oh, don't you cry, duckie — don't — I didn't mean to bait 
 you. Only I was getting so mortal vexed at you and me 
 walking round each other like two cats and never getting a 
 straight word." 
 
 "Jo" . . . said Ellen. 
 
 Her face was hidden in her sister's shoulder, and her 
 whole body had drooped against Joanna's side, utterly 
 weary after three days of travel and disillusioned loneliness. 
 
 "Reckon I'm glad you've come back, dearie — and I won't 
 ask you any more questions. I'm a cross-grained, can- 
 tankerous old thing, but you'll stop along of me a bit, 
 won't you?" 
 
 "Yes," said Ellen, "you're all I've got in the world." 
 
 "Arthur ud take you back any day you ask it," said 
 Joanna, thinking this a good time for mediation. 
 
 "No — no!" cried Ellen, beginning to cry again — "I won't 
 stay if you try to make me go back to Arthur. If he had 
 the slightest feeling for me he would let me divorce him." 
 
 "How could you? — seeing that he's been a pattern all 
 his life." 
 
 "He needn't do anything wrong — he need only pretend 
 to. The lawyers ud fix it up." 
 
 Ellen was getting French again. Joanna pushed her off 
 her shoulder. 
 
 "Really Ellen Alee, I'm ashamed of you — that you should 
 speak such words! What upsets me most is that you don't 
 seem to see how wrong you've done. Don't you never read 
 your Bible any more?" 
 
 "No." sobbed Ellen. 
 
 "Well, there's lots in the Bible about people like you — 
 you're called by your right name there, and it ain't a pretty 
 one. Some are spoken uncominnn hard of. nnd some were 
 forgiven because they loved much. Seemingly you haven't
 
 232 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 loved much, so I don't see how you expect to be forgiven. 
 And there's lots in the Prayer Book too . . . the Bible and 
 the Prayer Book both say you've done wrong, and you 
 don't seem to mind — all you think of is how you can get 
 out of your trouble. Reckon you're like a child that's done 
 wrong and thinks of nothing but coaxing round so as not 
 to be punished." 
 
 "I have been punished." 
 
 "Not half what you deserve." 
 
 "It's all very well for you to say that — you don't under- 
 stand ; and, what's more, you never will. You're a hard 
 woman, Jo — because you've never had the temptations that 
 ordinary women have to fight against." 
 
 "How dare you say that ? — Temptation ! — Reckon I 
 know ..." a sudden memory of those painful and humili- 
 ating moments when she had fought with those strange 
 powers and discontents, made Joanna turn hot with shame. 
 The realization that she had come very close to Ellen's sin 
 in her heart did not make her more relenting towards the 
 sinner — on the contrary, she hardened. 
 
 "Anyways, I've said enough to you for tonight." 
 
 "I hope you don't mean to say more tomorrow," 
 
 "No — I don't know that I do. Reckon you're right, and 
 we don't get any good from 'having things out.' Seemingly 
 we speak with different tongues, and think with different 
 hearts." 
 
 She stood up, and her huge shadow sped over the ceiling, 
 hanging over Ellen as she crouched on the sofa. Then she 
 stalked out of the room, almost majestic in her turkey-red 
 dressing-gown. 
 
 §33 
 
 Ellen kept very close to the house during the next few 
 days. Her face wore a demure, sullen expression — towards 
 Joanna she was quiet and sweet, and evidently anxious that 
 there should be no further opening of hearts between them. 
 She was very polite to the maids — she won their good
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 233 
 
 opinion by making her bed herself, so that they should not 
 have any extra work on her account. 
 
 Perhaps it was this domestic good opinion which was at 
 the bottom of the milder turn which the gossip about her 
 took at this time. Naturally tongues had been busy ever 
 since it became known that Joanna was expecting her back 
 — Sir Harry Trevor had got shut of her for the baggage 
 she was . . . she had got shut of Sir Harry Trevor for the 
 blackguard he was . . . she had travelled back as some- 
 body's maid, to pay her fare . . . she had brought her own 
 French maid as far as Calais . . . she had walked from 
 Dover . . . she had brought four trunks full of French 
 clothes. These conflicting rumours must have killed each 
 Other, for a few days after her return the Woolpack was 
 saying that after all there might be something in Joanna's 
 tale of a trip with Mrs. Williams — of course everyone knew 
 that both Ellen and the old Squire had been at San Remo, 
 but now it was suddenly discovered that Mrs. Williams had 
 been there too — anyway, there was no knowing that she 
 hadn't, and Ellen Alec didn't look the sort that ud go to a 
 furrin place alone with a man. Mrs. Vine had seen her 
 through the parlour window, and her face was as white as 
 chalk — not a scrap of paint on it. Mr. Southland had met 
 her on the Brodnyx Road, and slie had bowed to him polite 
 and stately — no shrinking from an honest man's eye. Ac- 
 cording to the Woolpack, if you sinned as Ellen was re- 
 ported to have sinned, you were either brazen or thoroughly 
 ashamed of yourself, and Ellen by being neither, did much 
 to soften public opinion, and make it incline towards the 
 official explanatirm of her absence. 
 
 This tendency increased when it became known that Ar- 
 thur Alee was leaving Donkey Street. The Woolpack held 
 that if Ellen had been guilty, Alec would not put himself in 
 the wrong by going away. He wotild either have remained 
 as the visible rebuke of her misconduct, or he would have 
 bundled Ellen herself off to some distant part of the king- 
 dom, such as the Isle of Wight, where the Goddens had
 
 234 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 cousins. By leaving the neighbourhood he gave colour to 
 the mysteriously started rumour that he was not so easy to 
 get on with as you'd think , . . after all it's never a safe 
 thing for a girl to marry her sister's sweetheart . . . prob- 
 ably Alee had been hankering after his old love and Ellen 
 resented it . . . the Woolpack suddenly discovered that 
 Alee was leaving not so much on Ellen's account as on 
 Joanna's — he'd b^en unable to get off with the old love, 
 even when he'd got on with the new, and now that the new 
 was off too . . . well, there was nothing for it but for 
 Arthur Alee to be off. He was going to his brother, who 
 had a big farm in the shires — a proper farm, with great 
 fields each of which was nearly as big as a marsh farm, 
 fifty, seventy, a hundred acres even. 
 
 § 34 
 
 Joanna bitterly resented Arthur's going, but she could 
 not prevent it, for if he stayed Ellen threatened to go 
 herself. 
 
 "I'll get a post as lady's maid sooner than stay on here 
 with you and Arthur. Have you absolutely no delicacy, 
 Jo? — Can't you see how awkward it'll be for me if every- 
 where I go I run the risk of meeting him? Besides, you'll 
 be always plaguing me to go back to him, and I tell you 
 I'll never do that — never." 
 
 Arthur, too, did not seem anxious to stay. He saw that 
 if Ellen was at Ansdore he could not be continually running 
 to and fro on his errands for Joanna. That tranquil life of 
 service was gone, and he did not care for the thought of 
 exile at Donkey Street, a shutting of himself into his parish 
 of Old Romney, with the Kent Ditch between him and 
 Joanna like a prison wall. 
 
 When Joanna told him what Ellen had said, he accepted 
 it meekly — 
 
 "That's right, Joanna — I must go." 
 
 "But that uU be terrible hard for you, Arthur." 
 
 He looked at her.
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 235 
 
 "Reckon it will." 
 
 "Where ull you go ?" 
 
 "Oh, I can go to Tom's." 
 
 "That's right away in foreign parts, ain't it?'* 
 
 "Yes — ^beyond Leicester." 
 
 "Where they do the hunting." 
 
 "Surelye." 
 
 "What's he farm?" 
 
 "Grain mostly — and he's done well with his sheep. He'd 
 be glad to have me for a bit." 
 
 "What'll you do with Donkey Street?" 
 
 "Let it off for a bit." 
 
 "Don't you sell." 
 
 "Not 1 1" 
 
 "You'll be meaning to come back?" 
 
 "I'll be hoping." 
 
 Joanna gazed at him for a few moments in silence, and a 
 change came into her voice — 
 
 "Arthur, you're doing all this because of me?" 
 
 "I'm doing it for you, Joatlna." 
 
 "Well — I don't feel I've any call — I haven't any right 
 ... I mean, if Ellen don't like you here, she must go her- 
 self ... it ain't fair on you — you at Donkey Street for 
 more'n twenty year , . ." 
 
 "Don't you trouble about that. A change won't hurt me. 
 Reckon cither Ellen or me ull have to go and it ud break 
 your heart if it was Ellen." 
 
 "Why can't you both stay? Ellen ull have to stay if I 
 make her. I don't believe a word of what she says about 
 going as lady's maid — she hasn't got the grit — nor the char- 
 acter neither, though she doesn't seem to think of that." 
 
 "It ud be unaccountable awkward, Jo — and it ud set 
 Ellen against both of us, and bring yon trouble. Maybe if 
 I go she'll take a difforent view of things. T shan't let off 
 the place for longer than three year . . . it'll give her a 
 chance to think different, and then maybe we can fix up 
 something . . ."
 
 236 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 Joanna fastened on to these words, both for her own 
 comfort in Arthur's loss, and for the quieting of her con- 
 science which told her that it was preposterous that he 
 should leave Donkey Street so that she could keep Ellen 
 at Ansdore. Of course, if she did her duty she would pack 
 Ellen off to the Isle of Wight, so that Arthur could stay. 
 The fact was, however, that she wanted the guilty, ungra- 
 cious Ellen more than she wanted the upright, devoted 
 Arthur — she was glad to know of any terms on which her 
 sister would consent to remain under her roof — it seemed 
 almost too good to be true to think that once more she had 
 the little sister home . . . 
 
 So she signed the warrant for Arthur's exile, which was 
 to do so much to spread the more favourable opinion of 
 Ellen Alee that had mysteriously crept into being since her 
 return. He let off Donkey Street on a three years' lease to 
 young Jim Honisett, the greengrocer's son at Rye, who had 
 recently married and whose wish to set up as is-vmer would 
 naturally be to the advantage of his father's shop. He let 
 his furniture with it too — Ellen's black cushions and the 
 piano he had bought her with the money he got for the 
 steer. . . . He himself would take nothing to his brother, 
 who kept house in a very big way, the same as he farmed. 
 . . . "Reckon I should ought to learn a thing or two about 
 grain-growing that'll be useful to me when I come back," 
 said Arthur stoutly. 
 
 He had come to say goodbye to Joanna on a June evening 
 just before the quarter day. The hot scents of hay-making 
 came in through the open parlour window, and they were 
 free, for Ellen had gone with Mr. and Mrs. Southland to 
 Rye for the afternoon — of late she had accepted one or two 
 small invitations from the neighbours. Joanna poured Ar- 
 thur out a cup of tea from the silver teapot he had given 
 her as a wedding present six years ago. 
 
 "Well, Arthur — reckon it'll be a long time before you 
 and me have tea again together." 
 
 "Reckon it will."
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 237 
 
 "Howsumever, I shall always think of you when I pour 
 it out of your teapot — which will be every clay that I don't 
 have it in the kitchen." 
 
 "Thank you, Jo." 
 
 "And you'll write and tell me how you're getting on?" 
 
 "Reckon I will." 
 
 "Maybe you'll send me some samples of those oats your 
 brother did so well with. I'm not over pleased with that 
 Barbacklaw, and ud make a change if I could find better." 
 
 "I'll be sure and send." 
 
 Joanna told him of an inspiration she had had with re- 
 gard to the poorer innings of Great Ansdore — she was 
 going to put down fish-guts for manure — it had done won- 
 ders with some rough land over by Botolph's Bridge — 
 "Reckon it'll half stink the tenants out, but they're at the 
 beginning of a seven year lease, so they can't help them- 
 selves much." She held forth at great length, and Arthur 
 listened, holding his cup and saucer carefully on his knee 
 with his big freckled hands. His eyes were fixed on Joanna, 
 on the strong-featured, high-coloured face he thought so 
 much more beautiful than Ellen's with its delicate lines and 
 pale, petal-like skin. . . . Yes, Joanna was the girl all along 
 — the one for looks, the one for character — give him Joanna 
 every time, with her red and brown face, and thick brown 
 hair, and her high, deep bosom, and sturdy, comfortable 
 waist . . . why couldn't he have had Joanna, instead of 
 what he'd got, which was nothing? For the first time in his 
 life Arthur Alec came near to questioning the ways of 
 Providence. Reckon it was the last thing he would ever do 
 for her — this going away. He wa.sn't likely to come back, 
 though he did talk of it, just to keep uj) their spirits. He 
 would probably settle down in the shires — go into partner- 
 ship with his brother — run a bigger place than T)()nkcy 
 Street, than Ansdore even. 
 
 "Well, T must be going now. There's still a great lot of 
 things to be tidied up." 
 
 lie rose, awkwardly setting down his cup. Joanna rose
 
 238 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 too. The sunset, rusty with the evening sea-mist, poured 
 over her goodly form as she stood against the window, 
 making its outlines dim and fiery and her hair like a burn- 
 ing crown. 
 
 "I shall miss you, Arthur." 
 
 He did not speak, and she held out her hand. 
 
 "Goodbye." 
 
 He could not say it — instead he pulled her towards him 
 by the hand he held. 
 
 "Jo— I must." 
 
 "Arthur— no !" 
 
 But it was too late — he had kissed her. 
 
 "That's the first time you done it," she said reproachfully. 
 
 "Because it's the last. You aren't angry, are you?" 
 
 "I ? — no. But, Arthur, you mustn't forget you're mar- 
 ried to Ellen." 
 
 "Am I like to forget it? — And seeing all the dunnamany 
 kisses she's given another man, reckon she won't grudge me 
 this one poor kiss I've given the woman I've loved without 
 clasp or kiss for fifteen year." 
 
 For the first time she heard in his voice both bitterness 
 and passion, and at that moment the man himself seemed 
 curiously to come alive and to compel. . . . But Joanna 
 was not going to dally with temptation in the unaccustomed 
 shape of Arthur Alee. She pushed open the door. 
 
 "Have they brought round Ranger? — Hi! Peter Crouch! 
 — Yes, there he is. You'll have a good ride home, Arthur." 
 
 "But there'll be rain tomorrow." 
 
 "I don't think it. The sky's all red at the rims." 
 
 "The wind's shifted." 
 
 "So it has. But the glass is high. Reckon it'll hold ofT 
 till you're in the shires, and then our weather won't trouble 
 you." 
 
 She watched him ride off, standing in the doorway till 
 the loops of the Brodnyx road carried him into the rusty 
 fog that was coming from the sea.
 
 PART IV 
 LAST LOVE
 
 PART IV 
 LAST LOVE 
 
 § 1 
 
 Time passed on, healing the wounds of the marsh. At 
 Donkey Street, tlie neighbours were beginning to get used 
 to young lionisett and his bride, at Rye and Lydd and 
 Romney the farmers had given up expecting Arthur Alee 
 to come round the corner on his grey horse, with samples 
 of wheat or prices of tegs. At Ansdore, too, the breach 
 was healed. Joanna and Ellen lived quietly together, shar- 
 ing their common life without explosions. Joanna had 
 given up all idea of "having things out" with Ellen. There 
 was always a bit of pathos about Joanna's surrenders, and 
 in this case Ellen had certainly beaten her. It was rather 
 difficult to say exactly to what the younger sister owed her 
 victory, but undoubtedly she had won it, and their life was 
 in a measure based upon it. Joanna accepted her sister — 
 past and all ; she accepted lur little calm assumptions of 
 respectability together with those more expected tendencies 
 towards the "French." When Ellen had first come back, 
 she had been surprised and resentful to see how much she 
 took for granted in the way of acceptance, not only from 
 Joanna but from the neighbours. According to her ideas, 
 Ellen should have kept in shamed seclusion till piiblic opin- 
 ion called her out of it, and she had been alarmed at her 
 asstmiptions, fearing rcbufT, just as she had nlmo'^t feared 
 heaven's lightning stroke for that demure little figure in her 
 pew on Sunday, murmuring "Lord have mercy" without 
 tremor or blush. 
 
 241
 
 242 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 But heaven had not smitten and the neighbours had not 
 snubbed. In some mysterious way Ellen had won accept- 
 ance from the latter, whatever her secret relations with 
 the former may have been. The stories about her grew 
 ever more and more charitable. The Woolpack pronounced 
 that Arthur Alee would not have gone away "if it had been 
 all on her side," and it was now certainly known that Mrs. 
 Williams had been at San Remo. . . . Ellen's manner was 
 found pleasing — "quiet but afTable." Indeed, in this re- 
 spect she had much improved. The Southlands took her 
 up, forgiving her treatment of their boy, now comfortably 
 married to the daughter of a big Folkestone shopkeeper. 
 They found her neither brazen nor shamefaced — and she'd 
 been as shocked as any honest woman at Lady Mountain's 
 trial in the Sunday papers ... if folk only knew her real 
 story, they'd probably find . . . 
 
 In fact, Ellen was determined to get her character back. 
 
 She knew within herself that she owed a great deal to 
 Joanna's protection — for Joanna was the chief power in the 
 parishes of Brodnyx and Pedlinge, both personally and 
 territorially. Ellen had been wise beyond the wisdom of 
 despair when she came home. She was not unhappy in her 
 life at Ansdore, for her escapade had given her a queer ad- 
 vantage over her sister, and she now found that she could, 
 to a certain extent, mould the household routine to her 
 comfort. She was no longer entirely dominated, and only 
 a small amount of independence was enough to satisfy her, 
 a bom submitter, to whom contrivance was more than rule. 
 She wanted only freedom for her tastes and pleasures, and 
 Joanna did not now strive to impose her own upon her. 
 Occasionally, the younger woman complained of her lot, 
 bound to a man whom she no longer cared for, wearing 
 only the fetters of her wifehood — she still hankered for a 
 divorce, though Arthur must be respondent. This always 
 woke Joanna to rage, but Ellen's feelings did not often rise 
 to the surface, and on the whole the sisters were happy in 
 their life together — more peaceful because they were more
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 243 
 
 detached than in the old days. Ellen invariably wore black, 
 hoping that strangers and newcomers would take her for 
 a widow. 
 
 This she actually became towards the close of the year 
 1910. Arthur did a fair amount of hunting with his brother 
 in the shires, and one day his horse came down at a fence, 
 throwing him badly and fracturing his skull. He died the 
 same night without regaining consciousness — death had 
 treated him better on the whole than life, for he died with- 
 out pain or indignity, riding to hounds like any squire. He 
 left a comfortable little fortune, too — Donkey Street and 
 its two hundred acres — and he left it all to Joanna. 
 
 Secretly he had made his will anew soon after going to 
 the shires, and in it he had indulged himself, ignoring 
 reality and perhaps duty. Evidently he had had no expec- 
 tations of a return to married life with Ellen, and in this 
 new testament he ignored her entirely, as if she had not 
 been. Joanna was his wife, inheriting all that was his, of 
 land and money and live and dead stock — "My true, trusty 
 friend, Joanna Godden." 
 
 Ellen was furious, and Joanna herself was a little 
 shocked. She understood Arthur's motives — she guessed 
 that one of his reasons for passing over Ellen had been his 
 anxiety to leave her sister rlcpendcnt on her, knowing her 
 fear that she would take flight. But this exaltation of her 
 by his death to the place she had refused to occupy during 
 his life, gave her a queer sense of stnart and shame. Eor 
 the first time it struck her that she might not have treated 
 Arthur quite well. . . . 
 
 However, she did not sympathise with Ellen's indig- 
 nation — 
 
 "You shoulfln't ought to have expected a penny, the way 
 you treated him." 
 
 "I don't see why he shouldn't have left me at least some 
 furniture, seeing there was about five hundred pounds of 
 my money in that farm. He's done rather well out of me
 
 244 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 on the whole — making me no allowance whatever when he 
 was alive." 
 
 "Because I wouldn't let him make it — I've got some pride 
 if you haven't." 
 
 "Your pride doesn't stop you taking what ought to have 
 been mine." 
 
 " 'Ought to' ... I never heard such words. Not that 
 I'm pleased he should make it all over to me, but it ain't 
 my doing." 
 
 Ellen looked at her fixedly out of her eyes which were 
 like the shallow floods. 
 
 "Are you quite sure? Are you quite sure, Joanna, that 
 you honestly played a sister's part by me while I was away ?" 
 
 "What d'you mean?" 
 
 "I mean, Arthur seems to have got a lot fonder of you 
 while I was away than he — er — seemed to be before." 
 
 Joanna gaped at her. 
 
 "Of course it was only natural," continued Ellen 
 smoothly — "I know I treated him badly — ^but don't you think 
 you needn't have taken advantage of that?" 
 
 "Well, I'm beat . . . look here, Ellen . . , that man was 
 mine from the first, and I gave him over to you, and I 
 never took him back nor wanted him, neither." 
 
 "How generous of you, Jo, to have 'given him over' 
 to me." 
 
 A little maddening smile twisted the corners of her 
 mouth, and Joanna remembered that now Arthur was dead 
 and there was no hope of Ellen going back to him, she need 
 not spare her secret. 
 
 "Yes, I gave him to you," she said bluntly — "I saw you 
 wanted him, and I didn't want him myself, so I said to him 
 'Arthur, look here, you take her' — and he said to me — 'I'd 
 sooner have you, Jo' — but I said, 'You won't have me even 
 if you wait till the moon's cheese, so there's no good hoping 
 for that. You take the little sister and please me' — and he 
 said, 'I'll do it to please you, Jo.' That's the very thing 
 that happened, and I'm sorry it happened now — and I never
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 245 
 
 told you before, because I thought it ud put you against 
 him, and I wanted you to go back to him, being his wife; 
 but now he's dead, and you may as well know, seeing the 
 upstart notions you've got." 
 
 She looked fiercely at Ellen, to watch the effect of the 
 blow, but was disconcerted to see that the little maddening 
 smile still lingered. There were dimples at the flexing 
 corners of her sister's mouth, and now they were little wells 
 of disbelieving laughter. Ellen did not believe her — she 
 had told her long-guarded secret and her sister did not 
 believe it. She thought it just something Joanna had made 
 up to salve her pride — and nothing would ever make her 
 believe it, for she was a woman who had been loved and 
 knew that she was well worth lovins:. 
 
 §2 
 
 Both Ellen and Joanna were a little afraid that Arthur's 
 treatment of his widow might disestablish her in public 
 opinion. People would think that she must have behaved 
 unaccountable badly to be served out like that. But the 
 effects were not so disastrous as might have been expected. 
 Ellen, poor and forlorn, in her graceful weeds, without 
 complaining or resentful words, soon won the neighbours' 
 compassion. It wasn't right of Alee to have treated her so 
 — showed an unforgiving nature — if only the real story 
 could be known, most likely folks would see. . . . There 
 was also a mild scandal at his treatment of Joanna. "Well, 
 even if he loved her all the time when he was married to 
 her sister, he needn't have been so brazen about it. . . . 
 Always cared for Joanna more'n he ought and showed it 
 more'n he ought." 
 
 Joanna was not worricrl by these remarks — she brushed 
 them aside. Tier character was gossip-proof, whereas 
 Ellen's was not. therefore it was best that the stones should 
 be thrown at her rather than at her sister. She at once 
 went practically to work with Donkey Street. She did not
 
 246 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 wish to keep it — it was too remote from Ansdore to be 
 easily workable, and she was content with her own thriving 
 estate. She sold Donkey Street with all its stock, and de- 
 cided to lay out the money in improvements of her land. 
 She would drain the water-logged innings by the Kent 
 Ditch, she would buy a steam plough and make the neigh- 
 bourhood sit up — she would start cattle-breeding. She had 
 no Qualms in thus spending the money on the farm, instead 
 of on Ellen. Her sister rather plaintively pointed out that 
 the invested capital would have brought her in a comfort- 
 able small income — "and then I needn't be such a burden 
 to you, Joanna dear." 
 
 "You ain't a burden to me," said Joanna. 
 
 She could not bear to think of Ellen becoming independ- 
 ent and leaving her. But Ellen was far better contented 
 with her life at home than she wisely let it appear. Ans- 
 dore was a manor now — the largest estate not only in 
 Brodnyx and Pedlinge, but on Walland Marsh ; indeed the 
 whole of the Three Marshes had little to beat it with. 
 Moreover, Ellen was beginning to get her own way in the 
 house — her bedroom was no longer a compulsory bower of 
 roses, but softly cream-coloured and purple-hung. She had 
 persuaded Joanna to have a bathroom fitted up, with hot 
 and cold water and other glories, and though she had been 
 unable to induce her to banish her father's Bible and the 
 stuffed owls from the parlour, she had been allowed to 
 supplement — and practically annihilate — them with the no- 
 torious black cushions from Donkey Street. Joanna was a 
 little proud to have these famous decorations on the prem- 
 ises, to be indoors what her yellow waggons were outdoors, 
 symbols of daring and progress. 
 
 On the whole, this substantial house, with its wide lands, 
 respectable furniture and swarming servants, was one to be 
 proud of. Ellen's position as Squire Joanna Godden's sister 
 was much better than if she were living by herself in some 
 small place on a small income. Her brief adventure into 
 what she thought was a life of fashionable gaiety had dis-
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 247 
 
 couraged and disillusioned her — she was slowly slipping 
 back into the conventions of her class and surroundings. 
 Ansdore was no longer either a prison or a refuge, it was 
 beginning to be a home — not permanent, of course, for she 
 was now a free woman and would marry again, but a good 
 home to rest in and re-establish herself. 
 
 Thanks to Ellen's contrivance and to the progress of 
 Joanna's own ambition — rising out of its fulfilment in the 
 sphere of the material into the sphere of style and manners 
 — the sisters now lived the lives of two well-to-do ladies. 
 They had late dinner every night — only soup and meat and 
 pudding, still definitely neither supper nor high tea. Joanna 
 changed for it into smart, stiff silk blouses, with a great 
 deal of lace and guipure about them, while Ellen wore a 
 rest-gown of drifting black charmeuse. Mene Tekel was 
 promoted from the dairy to be Ansdore's first parlourmaid, 
 and wore a cap and apron, and waited at table. Ellen 
 would have liked to keep Mene Tekel in her place and 
 engage a smart town girl, whose hands were not the colour 
 of beet-roots and whose breathing could not be heard 
 through a closed door ; but Joanna stood firm — Mene had 
 been her faithful servant for more than seven years, and it 
 wasn't right that she should have a girl from the town pro- 
 moted over her. P.csifles, Joanna did not like town girls — 
 with town speech ihnt rebuked her own and white hands 
 that made her want to ]n\t her own large brown ones under 
 the table. 
 
 Early the next year Mr. Praft faded out. TTc could not 
 be said to have done anything so drrimatic as to die, though 
 ihe green marsh-lnrf of P.rodnyx churchynrd was broken 
 to make him a bed, nnrl llv little bell rocked in the bosom of 
 the drunken Victorian widow who was P.rodnyx church- 
 steeple, sending a forlorn note out over the marsh. Various 
 Attnts in various stages of r'^signed poverty bore off his 
 family to separate destinations, and the great Rectory house
 
 248 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 which had for so long mocked his two hundred a year, stood 
 empty, waiting to swallow up its next victim. 
 
 Only in Joanna Godden's breast did any stir remain. For 
 her at least the fading out of Mr. Pratt had been drama, 
 the final scene of her importance; for it was now her task 
 to appoint his successor in the living of Brodnyx with 
 Pedlinge. Ever since she had found out that she could not 
 get rid of Mr. Pratt, she had been in terror lest this crown- 
 ing triumph might be denied her, and the largeness of her 
 funeral wreath and the lavishness of her mourning — extin- 
 guishing all the relations in their dyed blacks — had testified 
 to the warmth of her gratitude to the late Rector for so 
 considerately dying. 
 
 She felt exceedingly important, and the feeling was in- 
 creased by the applications she received for the living. 
 Clergymen wrote from different parts of the country; they 
 told her that they were orthodox — as if she had imagined 
 a clergyman could be otherwise — that they were acceptable 
 preachers, that they were good with Boy Scouts. One or 
 two she interviewed and disliked, because they had bad 
 teeth or large families — one or two turned the tables on 
 her and refused to have anything to do with a living en- 
 cumbered by so large a Rectory and so small an endowment. 
 Joanna felt insulted, though she was not responsible for 
 either. She resolved not to consider any applicants, but to 
 make her own choice outside their ranks. This was a 
 difficult matter, for her sphere was hardly clerical, and she 
 knew no clergy except those on the marsh. None of these 
 she liked, because they were for the most part elderly and 
 went about on bicycles, also she wanted to dazzle her society 
 with a new importation. 
 
 The Archdeacon wrote to her, suggesting that she might 
 be glad of some counsel in filling the vacancy, and giving 
 her the names of two men whom he thought suitable. 
 Joanna was furious — she would brook no interference from 
 Archdeacons, and wrote the gentleman a letter which must 
 have been unique in his archidiaconal experience. All the
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 249 
 
 same she began to feel worried — she was beginning to doubt 
 if she had the same qualifications for choosing a clergyman 
 as she had for choosing a looker or a dairy-girl. She knew 
 the sort of man she liked as a man, and more vaguely the 
 sort of man she liked as a parson, she also was patriotically 
 anxious to find somebody adequate to the honours and 
 obligations of the living. Nobody she saw or heard of 
 seemed to come up to her double standard of man and min- 
 ister, and she was beginning to wonder to what extent she 
 could compromise her pride by writing — not to the Arch- 
 deacon, but over his head to the Bishop — when she saw in 
 the local paper that Father Lawrence, of the Society of 
 Sacred Pity, was preaching a course of sermons in Mar- 
 lingate. 
 
 Immediately memories came back to her, so far and pale 
 that they were more like the memories of dreams than of 
 anything which had actually happened. She saw a small 
 dark figure standing with its back to the aw\ikening light 
 and bidding godspeed to all that was vital and beautiful and 
 more-than-herself in her life. . . . "Go, Christian soul" — 
 while she in the depths of her broken heart had cried "stay, 
 slay !" But he had obeyed the Priest rather than the Lover, 
 he had gone and not stayed . . . and afterwards the priest 
 had tried to hold him for her in futurity — "think of Martin, 
 l)ray for Martin," but the Lover had let him slip, because 
 she could not think and dared not pray, and he had fallen 
 back from her into his silent home in the past. 
 
 The old wound could still hurt, for a moment it seemed 
 as if her whole body was pain because of it. Successful, 
 important, thriving Joanna Goddcn could still suffer be- 
 cause eight years ago she had not been allowed to make the 
 sacrifice of all that she now held so triumphantly. This 
 mere namo of Martin's brother had pricked her heart, and 
 she sufldenly wanted to get closer to the past than she couM 
 get with her memorial-card and photograph and tombston^. 
 Even Sir Harry Trevor, ironic link with faithful love, was 
 gone now — there was only Lawrence. She would like to
 
 250 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 see him — not to talk to him of Martin, she couldn't bear 
 that and there would be something vaguely improper about 
 it — but he was a clergyman, for all he disguised the fact by 
 calling himself a priest, and she would ofter him the living 
 of Brodnyx with Pedlinge and let the neighbourhood sit up 
 as much as it liked. 
 
 §4 
 
 Father Lawrence came to see her one April day when the 
 young lambs were bleating on the sheltered innings and 
 making bright clean spots of white beside the ewes' fog- 
 soiled fleeces, when the tegs had come down from their 
 winter keep inland, and the sunset fell in long golden slats 
 across the first water-green grass of Spring. The years had 
 aged him more than they had aged Joanna — the marks on 
 her face were chiefly weather marks, tokens of her exposure 
 to marsh suns and winds, and of her own ruthless applica- 
 tions of yellow soap. Behind them was a little of the hard- 
 ness which comes when a woman has to fight many battles 
 and has won her victories largely through the sacrifice of 
 her resources. The lines on his face were mostly those of 
 his own humour and other people's sorrows, he had exposed 
 himself perhaps not enough to the weather and too much to 
 the world, so that where she had fine lines and a funda- 
 mental hardness, he had heavy lines like the furrows of a 
 ploughshare, and a softness beneath them like the fruitful 
 soil that the share turns up. 
 
 Joanna received him in state, with Arthur Alce's teapot 
 and her best pink silk blouse with the lace insertion. 
 Ellen, for fairly obvious reasons, preferred not to be pres- 
 ent. Joanna was terrified lest he should begin to talk of 
 Martin, so after she had conformed to local etiquette by 
 enquiring after his health and abusing the weather, she 
 offered him the living of Brodnyx-with-Pedlinge and a slice 
 of cake almost in the same breath. 
 
 She was surprised and a little hurt when he refused the
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 251 
 
 former. As a member of a religious community he could 
 not hold preferment, and he had no vocation to settled 
 Christianity. 
 
 "I shouldn't be at all good as a country clergyman. Be- 
 sides, Jo" — he had at once slipped into the brotherliness of 
 their old relations — "I know you; you wouldn't like my 
 ways. You'd always be up at me, teaching me better, and 
 then I should be up at you, and possibly we shouldn't stay 
 quite such good friends as we are now." 
 
 "I shouldn't mind your ways. Reckon it might do the 
 folks round here a proper lot of good to be prayed over 
 same as you — I mean I'd like to see a few of 'em prayed 
 over when they were dying and couldn't help themselves. 
 Serve them right, I say, for not praying when they're alive, 
 and some who won't put their noses in church except for a 
 harvest thanksgiving. No, if you'll only come here, Lau- 
 rence, you may do what you like in the way of prayers and 
 such. I shan't interfere as long as you don't trouble us 
 with the Pope, whom I never could abide after all I've 
 heard of him, wanting to blow up the Established Church 
 in London and making people kiss his toe, which I'd never 
 do, not if he was to burn me alive." 
 
 "Well, if that's the only limit to your toleration I think 
 I could help you, even though I can't come myself. I know 
 one or two excellent priests who would do endless good in 
 a place like this." 
 
 Joanna suddenly felt her imagination gloat and kindle at 
 the thought of Brodnyx and P'edlingc compelled to holiness 
 — all those wicked old men who wouldn't go to church, but 
 expected their Christmas puddings just the same, those hob- 
 bledehoys who loafed against gate-posts the whole of Sun- 
 day, those vain hussies who giggled behind their handker- 
 chiefs all the service through — it would be fine to see them 
 hustled about and taught their manners. ... it would be 
 valiant sport to see 'cm made to behave, as Mr. Pratt had 
 never been able to make them. She with her half-crown in 
 the plate and her quarterly communion need have no
 
 252 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 qualms, and she would enjoy seeing the fear of God put 
 into other folk. 
 
 So Lawrence's visit was fruitful after all — a friend of 
 his had been ordered to give up his hard work in a slum 
 parish and find a country vocation. He promised that this 
 friend should write to Joanna. 
 
 "But I must see him, too," she said. 
 
 They were standing at the open door, and the religious in 
 his black habit was like a cut paper silhouette against the 
 long streaks of fading purple cloud. 
 
 "I remember," he said, "that you always were particular 
 about a man's looks. How Martin's must have delighted 
 you 1" 
 
 His tongue did not falter over the loved, forbidden name 
 — he spoke it quite naturally and conversationally, as if 
 glad that he could introduce it at last into their business. 
 
 Joanna's body stiffened, but he did not see it, for he was 
 gazing at the young creeper's budding trail over the door. 
 
 "I hope you have a good photograph of him," he con- 
 tinued — "I know that a very good photograph was taken of 
 him a year before he died — much better than any of the 
 earlier ones. I hope you have one of those." 
 
 "Yes, I have," said Joanna gruffly. From shock she had 
 passed into a thrilling anger. How calmly he had spoken 
 the dear name, how unblushingly he had said the outra- 
 geous word "died" ! How brazen, thoughtless, cruel he was 
 about it all ! — tearing the veil from her sorrow, talking as if 
 her dead lived . . . she felt exposed, indecent, and she 
 hated him, all the more because mixed with her hatred was 
 a kind of disapproving envy, a resentment that he should 
 be free to remember where she was bound to forget. . . . 
 
 He saw her hand clench slowly at her side, and for the 
 first time became aware of her state of mind. 
 
 "Goodbye, Jo," he said kindly—Til tell Palmer to write 
 to you." 
 
 "Thanks, but I don't promise to take him," was her un- 
 gracious fling.
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 253 
 
 "No — why should you? And of course he may have 
 already made his plans. Goodbye, and thank you for your 
 great kindness in ofifering the living to me — it was very 
 noble of you considering what your family has suffered 
 from mine." 
 
 He had carefully avoided all reference to his father, but 
 he now realised that he had kept the wrong silence. It was 
 the man who had brought her happiness, not the man who 
 had brought her shame, that she was unable to speak of. 
 
 "Oh, don't you think of that — it wasn't your doing" — 
 she melted towards him now she had a genuine cause for 
 indignation — "and we've come through it better than we 
 hoped, and some of us deserved." 
 
 Lawrence gave her an odd smile, which made his face 
 with its innumerable lines and pouches look rather like a 
 gargoyle's. Then he walked off bareheaded into the twi- 
 light. 
 
 Ellen was intensely relieved when she heard that he had 
 refused the living, and a little indignant with Joanna for 
 having offered it to him. 
 
 "You don't seem to realise how very awkward it would 
 have been for me — I don't want to have anything more to 
 do with that family." 
 
 "I daresay not," said Joanna grimly, "but that ain't no 
 reason why this parish shouldn't have a good parson. Law- 
 rence ud have made the people projicrly mind their ways. 
 And it ain't becoming in you, I'>llen Alee, to let your own 
 misdoings stand between folk and what's good for 'em." 
 
 Ellen accepted the rebuke good-humouredly. She had 
 grown more mellow of late, and was settling into her life at 
 Ansdore as she had never settled since she went to school. 
 She relished her widowed state, for it involved the delec- 
 table business of looking about for a second busbanfl. She 
 was resolved to act with great deliberation. This time there
 
 254 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 should be no hustling into matrimony. It seemed to her 
 now as if that precipitate talcing of Arthur Alee had been 
 at the bottom of all her troubles ; she had been only a poor 
 little schoolgirl, a raw contriver, hurling herself out of the 
 frying-pan of Ansdore's tyranny into the fire of Donkey 
 Street's dulness. She knew better now — besides, the in- 
 creased freedom and comfort of her conditions did not in- 
 volve the same urgency of escape. 
 
 She made up her mind that she would not take anyone o£ 
 the farming classes ; this time she would marry a gentleman 
 — but a decent sort. She did not enjoy all her memories 
 of Sir Harry Trevor. She would not take up with that 
 kind of man again, any more than with a dull fellow like 
 poor Arthur. 
 
 She had far better opportunities than in the old days. 
 The exaltation of Ansdore from farm to manor had turned 
 many keys, and Joanna now received calls from doctors' 
 and clergymen's wives, who had hitherto ignored her ex- 
 cept commercially. It was at Fairfield Vicarage that Ellen 
 met the wife of a major at Lydd camp, and through her 
 came to turn the heads of various subalterns. The young 
 officers from Lydd paid frequent visits to Ansdore, which 
 was a novelty to both the sisters, who hitherto had had no 
 dealings with military society. Ellen was far too prudent 
 to engage herself to any of these boys ; she waited for a 
 major or a captain at least. But she enjoyed their society, 
 and knew that their visits gave her consequence in the 
 neighbourhood. She was invariably discreet in her be- 
 haviour, and was much reproached by them for her cold- 
 ness, which they attributed to Joanna, who watched over 
 her like a dragon, convinced that the moment she relaxed 
 her guard her sister would inevitably return to her wicked 
 past. 
 
 Ellen would have felt sore and insulted if she had not 
 the comfort of knowing in her heart that Joanna was 
 secretly envious — a little hurt that these personable young 
 men came to Ansdore for Ellen alone. They liked Joanna,
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 255 
 
 in spite of her interference ; they said she was a good sort, 
 and spoke of her among themselves as "the old girl" and 
 "Joanna God-dam." But none of them thought of turning 
 from Ellen to her sister — she was too weather-beaten for 
 them, too big and bouncing — over-ripe. Ellen pale as a 
 flower, with wide lips like rose-leaves and narrow, brood- 
 ing eyes, with her languor, and faint suggestions of the 
 exotic, all the mystery with which fate had chosen to veil 
 the common secret which was Ellen Alee . . . she could 
 now have the luxury of pitying her sister, of seeing her- 
 self possessed of what her tyrant Joanna had not, and 
 longed for. . . . Slowly she was gaining the advantage, 
 her side of the wheel was mounting while Joanna's went 
 down ; in spite of the elder woman's success and substance 
 the younger was unmistakably winning ascendancy over her. 
 
 §6 
 
 PTer pity made her kind. She no longer squabbled, com- 
 plained or resented. She took Joanna's occasionally insult- 
 ing behaviour in good part. She even wished that she 
 would marry — not one of the subalterns, for they were not 
 her sort, but some decent small squire or parson. When the 
 new Rector first came to Brodnyx she had great hopes of 
 fixing a match between him and Jo — for Ellen was now so 
 respectable that she had become a matchmaker. But she 
 was disappointed — indeed they both were, for Joanna had 
 liked the looks of Mr. Pratt's successor, and though she 
 did not go so far as to dream of matrimony — which was 
 still below her horizons — she would have much appreciated 
 his wooing. 
 
 But it soon became known that the new "Rector had 
 strange views on the subject of clerical marriage — in fact, 
 he shocked his patron in many ways. He was a larpje, 
 heavy, pnlc-faced young man, with strange, sleek qualities 
 that appealed to her throuj::jh their unaccustomcdness. . . . 
 But he was scarcely a sleek man in office, and under his
 
 256 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 drawling, lethargic manner there was an energy that 
 struck her as shocking and out of place. He was like 
 Lawrence, speaking forbidden words and of hidden things. 
 In church he preached embarrassing perfections — she could 
 no longer feel that she had attained the limits of church- 
 manship with her weekly half crown and her quarterly 
 communion. He turned her young people's heads with 
 strange glimpses of beauty and obligation. 
 
 In fact, poor Joanna was deprived of the spectacle she 
 had looked forward to with such zest — that of a parish 
 made to amend itself while she looked on from the detach- 
 ment of her own high standard. She was made to feel 
 just as uncomfortable as any wicked old man or giggling 
 huzzy. . . . She was all the more aggrieved because, though 
 Mr. Palmer had displeased her, she could not get rid of him 
 as she would have got rid of her looker in the same circum- 
 stances. "If I take a looker and he don't please me, I 
 can sack him — the gal I engage I can get shut of at a 
 month's warning, but a parson seemingly is the only kind 
 you can put in and not put out." 
 
 Then to crown all, he took away the Lion and the Unicorn 
 from their eternal dance above the Altar of God, and in 
 their place he put tall candles, casting queer red gleams 
 into daylight. . . . Joanna could bear no more ; she swal- 
 lowed her pride which for the first few months of inno- 
 vation had made her treat the new Rector merely with 
 distant rudeness, and descended upon him in the three 
 rooms of Brodnyx Rectory which he inhabited with cheer- 
 ful contempt of the rest of its howling vastness. 
 
 She emerged from the encounter strangely subdued. Mr. 
 Palmer had been polite, even sympathetic, but he had plain- 
 ly shown her the indifference (to use no cruder term) that 
 he felt for her as an ecclesiastical authority. He was not 
 going to put the Lion and the Unicorn back in their old 
 place, they belonged to a byegone age which was now for- 
 gotten, to a bad old language which had lost its meaning. 
 The utmost he would do was to consent to hang them up
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 257 
 
 over the door, so that they could bless Joanna's going out 
 and coming in. With this she had to be content. 
 
 Poor Joanna ! The episode was more than a passing out- 
 rage and humiliation — it was ominous, it gave her a queer 
 sense of downfall. With her beloved symbol, something 
 which was part of herself seemed also to have been dis- 
 ^-Qssessed. She became conscious that she was losing 
 authority. She realised that for long she had been weak- 
 ening in regard to Ellen, and now she was unable to stand 
 up to this heavy, sleek young man whom her patronage 
 had appointed. . . . The Lion and the Unicorn had from 
 childhood been her sign of power — they were her theology 
 in oleograph, they stood for the Church of England as by 
 Law Established, large Rectory houses, respectable and 
 respectful clergymen, "dearly beloved brethren" on Sunday 
 mornings, and a nice nap after dinner. And now they were 
 gone, and in their place was a queer Jesuitry of kyries and 
 candles, and a gospel which kicked and goaded and would 
 not allow one to sleep. . . . 
 
 It began to be noticed at the Wool pack that Joanna was 
 losing heart. "She's lost her spring," they said at the bar — 
 "she's got all she wanted, and now .she's feeling dull" — 
 "she's never had what she wanted and now she's feeling 
 tired" — "Her sister's beat her and Parson's beat her — 
 she can't be properly herself." There was some talk about 
 making her an honorary member of the Farmers' Club, 
 but it never got beyond talk — the traditions of that exclu- 
 sive body were too strong to admit her even now. 
 
 To Joanna it seemed as if life had newly and powerfully 
 armed itself against her. Her love for Ellen was making 
 her soft, she was letting her sister rule. And not only at 
 home but abroad she was losing her power. Both Church 
 and State had taken to themselves new arrogances. The 
 Church had lost its comfortable atmosphere of Sunday
 
 258 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 beef — and now the State, which hitherto had existed only 
 for that most excellent purpose of making people behave 
 themselves, had lifted itself up against Joanna Godden. 
 
 Lloyd George's Finance Act had caught her in its toils, 
 she was being overwhelmed with terrible forms and sched- 
 ules, searching into her profits, making strange enquiries 
 as to minerals, muddling her with long words. Then out 
 of all the muddle and welter finally emerged the startling 
 fact that the Government expected to have twenty per 
 cent, of her profits on the sale of Donkey Street. 
 
 She was indignant and furious. She considered that the 
 Government had been grossly treacherous, unjust and dis- 
 respectful to poor Arthur's memory. It was Arthur who 
 had done so well with his land that she had been able to 
 sell it to Honisett at such a valiant price. She had spent 
 all the money on improvements, too — she was not like some 
 people who bought motor cars and took trips to Paris. She 
 had not bought a motor car but a motor plough, the only 
 one in the district — the Government could come and see 
 it themselves if they liked. It was well worth looking at. 
 
 Thus she delivered herself to young Edward Huxtable, 
 who now managed his father's business at Rye. 
 
 "But I'm afraid it's all fair and square, Miss Joanna," 
 said her lawyer — "there's no doubt about the land's value 
 or what you sold it for, and I don't see that you are en- 
 titled to any exemption." 
 
 "Why not ?— if I'm not entitled, who is ?" 
 
 Joanna sat looking very large and flushed in the Huxtable 
 office in Watchbell Street. She felt almost on the verge 
 of tears, for it seemed to her that she was the victim of 
 the grossest injustice which also involved the grossest dis- 
 respect to poor Arthur, who would turn in his grave if 
 he knew that the Government were trying to take his legacy 
 from her. 
 
 "What are lawyers for?" she continued hotly. "You can 
 turn most things inside out — why can't you do this? Can't 
 I go to County Court about it ?"
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 259 
 
 Edward Huxtable consulted the act. ..." 'Notice of 
 objection may be served on the Commissioners within sixty- 
 days. If they do not allow the objection, the petitioner 
 may appeal to a referee under the act, and an appeal by 
 either the petitioner or the Commissioners lies from the 
 referee to the High Court, or where the site value does 
 not exceed £500, to the County Court.' I suppose yours 
 is worth more than £500?'' 
 
 "I should just about think it is — it's worth something 
 more like five thousand if the truth was known." 
 
 "Well, I shouldn't enlarge on that. Do you think it 
 worth while to serve an objection? No doubt there are 
 grounds on which we could appeal, but they aren't very 
 good, and candidly I think we'd lose. It would cost you 
 a great deal of money, too, before you'd finished." 
 
 "I don't care about that. I'm not going to sit down 
 quiet and have my rightful belongings taken from me." 
 
 Edward Huxtable considered that he had done his duty 
 in warning Joanna — lots of lawyers wouldn't have troubled 
 to do that — and after all the old girl had heaps of money 
 to lose. She might as well have her fun and he his fee. 
 
 "Well, anyhow we'll go as far as the Commissioners. 
 If I were you, I shouldn't apply for total exemption, but 
 for a rebate. We might do something with allowances. 
 Let me see, what did you sell for?" 
 
 He finally prepared an involved case, partly depending 
 on the death duties that had already been paid when 
 Joanna inherited Alce's farm, and which he said ought to 
 be considered in calculating increment value. Joanna would 
 not have confessed for worlds that she did not understand 
 the grounds of her appeal, though she wished Edward 
 Huxtable would let her make at least some reference to 
 her steam tractor, and thus win her victory on moral 
 grounds, instead of just through some lawyer's mess. But, 
 moral appeal or lawyer's mess, her case should go to the 
 Commissioners, and if necessary to the High Court. Just 
 because she knew that in her own home and parish the
 
 260 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 fighting spirit was failing her, Joanna resolved to fight 
 this battle outside it without counting the cost. 
 
 §8 
 
 That autumn she had her first twinge of rheumatism. 
 The days of the marsh ague were over, but the dread 
 "rheumatiz" still twisted comparatively young bones. Jo- 
 anna had escaped till a later age than many, for her work 
 lay mostly in dry kitchens and bricked yards, and she had 
 had little personal contact with the soil, that odorous sponge 
 of the marsh earth, rank with the soakings of sea-fogs 
 and land-fogs. 
 
 Like most healthy people, she made a tremendous fuss 
 once she was laid up. Mene Tekel and Mrs. Tolhurst were 
 kept flying up and down stairs with hot bricks and poultices 
 and that particularly noxious brew of camomile tea which 
 she looked upon as the cure of every ill. Ellen would come 
 now and then and sit on her bed, and wander round the 
 room playing with Joanna's ornaments — she wore a little 
 satisfied smile on her face, and about her was a queer air 
 of restlessness and contentment which baffled and annoyed 
 her sister. 
 
 The officers from Lydd did not now come so often to 
 Ansdore. Ellen's most constant visitor at this time was 
 the son of the people who had taken Great Ansdore dwel- 
 ling-house. Tip Ernley had just come back from Australia ; 
 he did not like colonial life and was looking round for 
 something to do at home. He was a county cricketer, an 
 exceedingly nice-looking young man, and his people were 
 a good sort of people, an old West Sussex family fallen 
 into straitened circumstances. 
 
 On his account Joanna came downstairs sooner than she 
 ought. She could not get rid of her distrust of Ellen, the 
 conviction that once her sister was left to herself sh^ 
 would be up to all sorts of mischief. Ellen had behaved 
 impossibly once and therefore, according to Joanna, there
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 261 
 
 was no guarantee that she would not go on behaving im- 
 possibly to the end of time. So she came down to play the 
 dragon to Tip Ernley as she had played the dragon to the 
 young lieutenants of the summer. There was not much for 
 her to do — she saw at once that the boy was different from 
 the officers, a simple-minded creature, strong, gentle and 
 clean-living, with deferential eyes and manners. Joanna 
 liked him at first sight, and relented. They had tea together, 
 and a game of three-handed bridge afterwards^ — Ellen had 
 taught her sister to play bridge. 
 
 Then as the evening wore on, and the mists crept up 
 from the White Kemp Sewer to muffle the windows of 
 Ansdore and make Joanna's bones twinge and ache, she 
 knew that she had come down too late. These young 
 people had had time enough to settle their hearts' business 
 in a little less than a week, and Joanna God-dam could not 
 scare them apart. Of course there was nothing to fear — 
 this fine, shy man would make no assault on Ellen Alce's 
 frailty, it was merely a case of Ellen Alee becoming Ellen 
 Ernley, if he could be persuaded to overlook her "past" — 
 a matter which Joanna thought important and doubtful. 
 But the elder sister's heart twinged and ached as much as 
 her bones. There was not only the thought that she might 
 lose Ellen once more, and have to go back to her lonely 
 living . . . her heart was sick to think that again love had 
 come under her roof and had not visited her. Love . . . 
 love . . . for Ellen — no more for Joanna Goddcn. Per- 
 haps now it was too late. She was getting on, past thirty- 
 seven — romance never came as late at that on Walland 
 Marsh, unless occasionally to widows. Then, since it was 
 too late, why did she so passionately long for it? — Why 
 had not her heart grown old with her years? 
 
 § 9 
 
 During the next few weeks Joanna watched the young 
 romance grow and sweeten. Ellen was becoming almost
 
 262 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 girlish again, or rather, girlish as she had never been. The 
 curves of her mouth grew softer and her voice lost its 
 even tones — she had moments of languor and moments 
 of a queer lightness. Great and Little Ansdore were now 
 on very good terms, and during that Winter there was an 
 exchange of dinners and bridge. Joanna could now, as she 
 expressed it, give a dinner-party with the best of 'em. 
 Nothing more splendid could be imagined than Joanna 
 Godden sitting at the head of her table, wearing her 
 Folkestone-made gown of apricot charmeuse, adapted to 
 her modesty by means of some rich gold lace ; Ellen had 
 induced her to bind her hair with a gold ribbon, and from 
 her ears great gold ear-rings hung nearly to her shoulders, 
 giving the usual florid touch to her stateliness. Ellen, in 
 contrast, wore iris-tinted gowns that displayed nacreous 
 arms and shoulders, and her hair passed in dark shining 
 locks over her little unadorned ears. 
 
 Joanna was annoyed because Ellen never told her any- 
 thing about herself and Tip Ernley. She wanted to know 
 in what declared relation they stood to each other. She 
 hoped Ellen was being straight with him, as she was obvi- 
 ously not being with her. She did not think they were 
 definitely engaged — Surely they would have let her know 
 that. Perhaps he was waiting till he had found some 
 satisfactory job and could afford to keep a wife. She told 
 herself angrily that if only they would confide in her she 
 would help the young pair . . . they were spoiling their 
 own chances by keeping her out of their secrets. It never 
 struck her that Ernley would rather not be beholden to her, 
 whatever Ellen might feel on the matter. 
 
 His father and mother — well-bred, cordial people — and 
 his maiden sister, of about Joanna's age, never seemed to see 
 anything remarkable in the way Ellen and Tip always went 
 off together after dinner, while the others settled down to 
 their bridge. It seemed to Joanna a grossly improper pro- 
 ceeding if they were not engaged. But all Mr. and Mrs. 
 Ernley would say was — "Quite right too — it's just as well
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 263 
 
 when young people aren't too fond of cards." Joanna her- 
 self was- growing to be quite fond of cards, though in her 
 heart she did not think that for sheer excitement bridge 
 was half as good as beggar-my-neighbour, which she used 
 to play witli Mene Tekel, in the old days before she and 
 Mene both became dignified, the one as mistress, the other 
 as maid. She enjoyed her bridge — but often the game 
 would be quite spoilt by the thought of Ellen and Tip in 
 some secluded corner. He must be making love to her, or 
 they wouldn't go off alone together like that ... I go no 
 trumps ... if they wanted just ordinary talk they could 
 stay in here, we wouldn't trouble 'em if they sat over there 
 on the sofa ... me to play, is it? ... I wonder if she 
 lets him kiss her . . . oh, I beg your pardon, I'm sure. . . . 
 
 Johanna had no more returns of rheumatism that Winter. 
 Scared and infuriated by her one experience, she took 
 great care of herself, and that Winter was drier than usual, 
 with crisp days of cold sunshine, and a skin of ice on the 
 sewers. Once or twice there was a fall of snow, and 
 even Joanna saw beauty in those days of a blue and white 
 sky hanging above the dazzling white spread of the three 
 marshes, Walland, Dunge and I'lomney, one huge white 
 plain, streaked with the water courses black under their 
 ice, like bars of iron. Somehow the sight hurt her; all 
 beautiful things hurt her strangely now — whether it was 
 the snow-laden marsh, or the first scents of Spring in the 
 evenings of February, or even Ellen's face like a broad, 
 pale flower. 
 
 She felt low-spirited and out of sorts that turn of the 
 year. It was worse than rheumat'sm. . . . Then she sud- 
 denly conceived the idea that it was the rheumatism "driven 
 inside her." Joanna had heard many terrible tales of peo- 
 ple who had perished through quite ordinary complaints, 
 like measles, being mysteriously "driven inside." It was 
 a symptom of her low condition that she should worry 
 about her health, which till then had never given her a 
 minute's preoccupation. She consulted "The Family Doc-
 
 264 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 tor," and realised the number of diseases she might be 
 suffering from besides suppressed rheumatism — cancer, 
 consumption, kidney disease, diabetes, appendicitis, asthma, 
 arthritis, she seemed to have them all, and in a fit of panic 
 she decided to consult a physician in the flesh. 
 
 So she drove off to see Dr. Taylor in her smart chocolate- 
 coloured trap, behind her chocolate-coloured mare, with 
 her groom in chocolate-coloured livery on the seat behind 
 her. She intended to buy a car if she won her case at the 
 High Court — for to the High Court it had gone, both the 
 Commissioners and their referee having shown themselves 
 blind to her claim of justice. 
 
 The doctor listened respectfully to the long list of her 
 symptoms and to her own diagnosis of them. No, he did 
 not think it was the rheumatism driven inside her. . . . He 
 asked her a great many questions, some of which she 
 thought indelicate. 
 
 "You're thoroughly run down," he said at last — "been 
 doing too much — you've done a lot, you know." 
 
 "Reckon I have," said Joanna — "but I'm a young woman 
 yet," — there was a slight touch of defiance in her last 
 words. 
 
 "Oh, age has nothing to do with it. We're liable to 
 overwork ourselves at all ages. Over-work and worry. . . . 
 What you need is a thorough rest of mind and body. I 
 recommend a change." 
 
 "You mean I should ought to go away?" 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 "But I haven't been away for twenty year." 
 
 "That's just it. You've let yourself get into a groove. 
 You want a thorough change of air, scene and society. I 
 recommend that you go away to some cheerful gay water- 
 ing place, where there's plenty going on and you'll meet 
 new people." 
 
 "But what'll become of Ansdore?" 
 
 "Surely it can get on without you for a few weeks?" 
 
 **I can't go till the lambing's finished."
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 265 
 
 "When will that be?" 
 
 "Not till after Easter." 
 
 "Well, Easter is a very good time to go away. Do take 
 my advice about this, Miss Godden. You'll never be really 
 well and happy if you keep in a groove. . . ." 
 
 "Groove !'' snorted Joanna. 
 
 § 10 
 
 She was so much annoyed with him for having twice 
 referred to Ansdore as a "groove" that at first she felt 
 inclined not to take his advice. But even to Joanna this 
 was unsatisfactory as a revenge — "If I stay at home, maybe 
 I'll get worse, and then he'll be coming over to see me in 
 my 'groove' and getting eight-and-six each time for it." 
 It would certainly be better to go away and punish the 
 doctor by a complete return to health. Besides, she was 
 awed by the magnitude of the prescription. It was a great 
 thing on the marsh to be sent away for change of air, in- 
 stead of just getting a bottle of stufif to take three times 
 daily after meals. . . . She'd go, and make a splash of it. 
 
 Then the question arose — where should she go? She 
 coulfl go to her cousins in the Isle of Wight, but they were 
 a poor lot. She could go to Chichester, where Martha 
 Relf, the girl who had been with her when she first took 
 over Ansdore and had behaved so wickedly with the looker 
 at Iloneychild, now kept furnishcfl rooms as a respectable 
 widow. Martha, who was still grateful to Joanna, had 
 written and asked her to come and try her accommoda- 
 tion. . . . But by no kinfl of process coulfl Chichester be 
 thought of as a "cheerful watering-place," and Joanna was 
 rcpolvod to carry out her prescription to the letter. 
 
 "Why don't you go to a really good place?" suggestcfl 
 Ellen — ^"Bath or Matlock or Leamington. You could stay 
 at a hydro, if you liked." 
 
 But these were all too far — Joanna did not want to be 
 beyond the summons of Ansdore, which she could scarcely
 
 266 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 believe would survive her absence. Also, to her horror, she 
 discovered that nothing would induce Ellen to accompany 
 her. 
 
 "But I can't go without you !" she cried dismally — "it 
 wouldn't be seemly — it wouldn't be proper." 
 
 "What nonsense, Jo. Surely a woman of your age can 
 stop anywhere by herself." 
 
 "Oh, indeed, can she, Ma'am? And what about a woman 
 of your age? — It's you I don't like leaving alone here." 
 
 "That's absurd of you. I'm a married woman, and quite 
 able to look after myself. Besides, I've Mrs. Tolhurst with 
 me, and the Emleys are quite close." 
 
 "Oh, yes, the Ernleys !" snifYed Joanna with a toss of 
 her head. She felt that now was a fitting opportunity for 
 Ellen to disclose her exact relations with the family, but 
 surprisingly her sister took no advantage of the opening 
 thus made, 
 
 "You'd much better go alone, Joanna — it won't do you 
 half so much good if I go with you. We're getting on 
 each other's nerves, you know we are. At least I'm getting 
 on yours. You'll be much happier among entirely new 
 people." 
 
 It ended in Joanna taking rooms at the Palace Hotel, 
 Marlingate. No persuasions would make her go further 
 off. She was convinced that neither Ansdore nor Ellen 
 could exist, at least decorously, without her, and she must 
 be within easy reach of both. The fortnight between the 
 booking of her room and her setting out she spent in 
 mingled fretfulness and swagger. She fretted about 
 Ansdore, and nearly drove her carter and her looker frantic 
 with her last injunctions; she fretted about Ellen, and cau- 
 tioned Mrs. Tolhurst to keep a strict watch over her — 
 "She's not to go up to late-dinner at Great Ansdore with- 
 out you fetch her home." On the other hand, she swag- 
 gered tremendously about the expensive and fashionable 
 trip she was making. Her room was on the first floor of 
 the hotel and would cost her twelve-and-six a night. She
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 267 
 
 had taken it for a week, "but I told them I'd stay a fort- 
 night if I was satisfied, so reckon they'll do all they can. 
 I'll have breakfast in bed" — she added, as a climax. 
 
 § 11 
 
 In spite of this Joanna could not help feeling a little 
 nervous and lonely when she found herself at the Palace 
 Hotel. It was so very different from the New Inn at 
 Romney, or the George at Rye, or any other substantial 
 farmers' ordinary where she ate her dinner on market days. 
 Of course she had been to the Lord Warden at Folkestone 
 — whatever place Joanna visited, whether Brodnyx or 
 Folkestone, she went to the best hotel — so she was not 
 uninitiated in the mysteries of hotel menus and lifts and 
 hall porters, and other phenomena that alarm the simple- 
 minded ; but that was many years ago, and it was more 
 years still since she had slept away from Ansdore, out of 
 her own big bed with its feather mattress and flowered 
 curtains, so unlike this narrow hotel arrangement, all box 
 mattress and brass knobs. 
 
 The first night she lay miserably awake, wishing she 
 had never come. She felt shy and lonely and scared and 
 homesick. After the dead stillness of Ansdore, a stillness 
 which broodcfl unbroken till dawn, which was the voice of 
 a thick darkness, she found even this quiet seaside hotel 
 full of disturbing noise. The hum of the lift ascending 
 far into the night, the occasional wheels and footsteps on 
 the parade, the restless heaving roar of the sea, all disturbed 
 the small slumbers that her sense of alarm and strangeness 
 would let her enjoy. She told herself she would never 
 sleep a wink in this rackety place, and would have sought 
 comfort in the resolution to go home the next morning, if 
 she had not had Ellen to face, and the servants anfl the 
 neighbours to whom she had boasted so much. 
 
 However, when daylight came, and stmshine, and her 
 breakfast-in-bed, with its shining dish covers and appetis-
 
 268 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 ing smells, she felt quite different, and ate her bacon and 
 eggs with appetite and a thrilling sense of her own impor- 
 tance. The waitress, for want of a definite order, had 
 brought her coffee, which somehow made her feel very 
 rakish and continental, though she would have much pre- 
 ferred tea. When she had finished breakfast, she wrote 
 a letter to Ellen describing all her experiences with as much 
 fulness as was compatible with that strange inhibition 
 which always accompanied her taking up of the pen, and 
 distinguished her letters so remarkably from the feats of 
 her tongue. 
 
 When she had written the letter and posted it adven- 
 turously in the hotel letter box, she went out on the parade 
 to listen to the band. It was Easter week, and there were 
 still a great many people about, couples sitting round the 
 bandstand more deeply absorbed in each other than in 
 the music. Joanna paid two-pence for a chair, having 
 ascertained that there were no more expensive seats to be 
 had, and at the end of an hour felt consumedly bored. 
 The music was bright and popular enough, but she was not 
 musical, and soon grew tired of listening to "tunes." Also 
 something about the music made her feel uncomfortable — 
 the same dim yet searching discomfort she had when she 
 looked at the young couples in the sun . . . the young 
 girls in their shady hats and silk stockings, the young men 
 in their flannels and blazers. They were all part of a 
 whole to which she did not belong, of which the music 
 was part . . . and the sea, and the sun, and the other vis- 
 itors at the hotel, the very servants of the hotel . . . and 
 Ellen at Ansdore ... all day she was adding fresh parts 
 to that great whole, outside which she seemed to exist 
 alone. 
 
 "Fm getting fanciful," she thought— "this place hasn't 
 done me a bit of good yet." 
 
 She devoted herself to the difficult art of filling up her 
 day. Accustomed to having every moment occupied, she 
 could hardly cope with the vast stretch of idle hours. After
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 269 
 
 a day or two she found herself obliged to give up having- 
 breakfast in bed. From force of habit she woke every 
 morning at five, and could not endure the long wait in her 
 room. If the weather was fine, she usually went for a 
 walk on the sea-front, from Rock-a-Nore to the Monypenny 
 statue. Nothing would induce her to bathe, though even 
 at that hour and season the water was full of young men 
 and women rather shockingly enjoying themselves and each 
 other. After breakfast she wrote laborious letters ta 
 Broadhurst, Wilson, Mrs. Tolhurst, Ellen, Mene Tekel — 
 she had never written so many letters in her life, but every 
 day she thought of some fresh thing that would be left 
 undone if she did not write about it. When she had fin- 
 ished her letters, she went out and listened respectfully to 
 the band. The afternoon was generally given up to some 
 excursion or char-a-banc drive, and the day finished rather 
 somnolently in the lounge. 
 
 She did not get far beyond civilities with the other vis- 
 itors in the hotel. More than one had spoken to her, at- 
 tracted by this handsome, striking, and probably wealthy 
 woman — through Ellen's influence her appearance had been 
 purged of what was merely startling — but they either took 
 fright at her broad marsh accent . . . "she must be some- 
 body's cook come into a fortune" ... or more funda- 
 mental incompatibility of outlook kept them at a distance. 
 Johanna was not the person for niceties of hotel accjuaint- 
 anceship — she was too garrulous, too overwhelming, too 
 boastful. Also, she failed to realise that all states of soci- 
 ety are not equally interested in the price of wheat, that 
 certain details of sheep-breeding seem indelicate to the 
 uninitiated, and that strangers do not really care how many 
 acres one possesses, how many servants one keeps, or the 
 exact price one paid for one's latest churn. 
 
 § 12 
 
 The last few days of her stay brought her a rather igno- 
 minious sense of relief. In her secret heart she was eagerly
 
 270 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 waiting till she should be back at Ansdore, eating her din- 
 ner with Ellen, sleeping in her own bed, ordering about her 
 own servants. She would enjoy, too, telling everyone about 
 her exploits, all the excursions she had been, the food she 
 had eaten, the fine folk she had spoken to in the lounge, 
 the handsome amount she had spent in tips. . . . They 
 would all ask her whether she felt much the better for her 
 holiday, and she was uncertain what to answer them. A 
 complete recovery might make her less interesting; on the 
 other hand she did not want anyone to think she had come 
 back half-cured because of the expense . . . that was just 
 the sort of thing Mrs. Southland would imagi^ie, and 
 Southland would take it straight to the Woolpack. 
 
 Her own feelings gave her no clue. Her appetite had 
 much improved, but, against that, she was sleeping badly — 
 which she partly attributed to the "noise" — and was grow- 
 ing, probably on account of her idle days, increasingly rest- 
 less. She found it difficult to settle down to anything — 
 the hours in the hotel lounge after dinner, which used to 
 be comfortably drowsy after the day of sea-air, were now 
 a long stretch of boredom, from which she went up early 
 to bed, knowing that she would not sleep. The Band 
 played on the Parade every evening, but Joanna consid- 
 ered that it would be unseemly for her to go out alone in 
 Marlingate after dark. Though she would have walked 
 out on the Brodnyx road at midnight without placing the 
 slightest strain, either on her courage or sense of decorum, 
 the well-lighted streets of a town became to her vaguely dan- 
 gerous and indecorous after dusk had fallen. "It wouldn't 
 be seemly," she repeated to herself in the loneliness and 
 dulness of the lounge, and went desperately to bed. 
 
 However, two nights before going away she could bear 
 it no longer. After a warm April day a purple starry 
 evening hung over the sea. The water itself was a deep, 
 glaucous grey, holding strange lights besides the golden 
 path of the moon. Beachy Head stood out purple against 
 the fading amber of the west, in the east All Holland Hill
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 271 
 
 was hung with a crown of stars, which seemed to be mir- 
 rored in the lights of the fisher-boats off Rock-a-Nore. . . . 
 It was impossible to think of such an evening spent in the 
 stuffy, lonely lounge, with heavy curtains shutting out the 
 opal and the amethyst of night. 
 
 She had not had time to dress for dinner, having come 
 home late from a char-a-banc drive to Pevensey, and the cir- 
 cumstance seemed slightly to mitigate the daring of a stroll. 
 In her neat tailor-made coat and skirt and black hat with 
 the cocks' plumes she might perhaps walk to and fro just 
 a little in front of the hotel. She went out, and was a 
 trifle reassured by the light which still lingered in the sky 
 and on the sea — it was not quite dark yet, and there was 
 a respectable-looking lot of people about — she recognised 
 a lady staying in the hotel, and would have joined her, but 
 the lady, whom she had already scared, saw her coming, 
 and dodged off in the direction of the Marine Gardens. 
 
 The band began to play, a waltz from "A Persian Prin- 
 cess." Joanna felt once more in her blood the strange stir 
 of the music she could not understand. It would be nice 
 to dance . . . queer that she had never danced as a girl. 
 She stood for a moment irresolute, then walked towards 
 the bandstand, and sat down on one of the Corporation 
 benches, outside the crowd that had grouped round the 
 musicians. It was very much the same sort of crowd as in 
 \hc morning, but it was less covert in its ways — hands were 
 linked, even here and there waists entwined. . . . Such 
 details began to stand out of the dim, purplesccnt mass of 
 the twilight people . . . night was the time for love. They 
 had come out into the darkness to make love to each other 
 — their voices smnulcd different from in the day, more 
 dragging, more tender. . . . 
 
 She began to think of the times, which now seepied so 
 far off, when she herself had sought a man's kisses. Half- 
 ashamed she went back to stolen meetings — in a barn — 
 behind a rick — in the elvish shadow of some skewblown 
 thorn. Just kisses . . . not love, for love had been dead
 
 212 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 in her then. . . . But those kisses had been sweet, she re- 
 membered them, she could feel them on her lips . . . oh, 
 she could love again now — she could give and take kisses 
 now. 
 
 The band was playing a rich, thick, drawling melody, full 
 of the purple night and the warm air. The lovers round 
 the band-stand seemed to sway to it and draw closer to 
 each other. Joanna looked down into her lap, for her eyes 
 were full of tears. She regretted passionately the days 
 that were past — those light loves which had not been able 
 to live in the shadow of Martin's memory. Oh, why had 
 he taught her to love and then made it impossible for her 
 ever to love again? — till it was too late, till she was a 
 middle-aged woman to whom no man came. ... It was 
 not likely that anyone would want her now — her light 
 lovers all lived now in substantial wedlock, the well-to-do 
 farmers who had proposed to her in the respectful way 
 of business had now taken to themselves other wives. The 
 young men looked to women of their own age, to Ellen's 
 pale, soft beauty . . . once again she envied Ellen her 
 loves, good and evil, and shame was in her heart. Then 
 she lifted her eyes and saw Martin coming towards her. 
 
 § 13 
 
 In the darkness, lit only now by the lamp-dazzled moon- 
 light, and in the midst of her own tears, the man before 
 her was exactly like Martin, in build, gait, colouring and 
 expression. Her moment of recognition stood out clear, 
 quite distinct from the realisation of impossibility which 
 afterwards engulfed it. She unclasped her hands and half 
 rose in her seat — the next minute she fell back. "Reckon 
 I'm crazy," she thought to herself. 
 
 Then she was startled to realise that the man had sat 
 down beside her. Her heart beat quickly. Though she 
 no longer confused him with Martin, the image of Martin
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 273 
 
 persisted in her mind . . . how wonderfully like him he 
 was . . . the very way he walked. . . . 
 
 "I saw you give me the glad eye . . ." not the way he 
 talked, certainly. 
 
 There was rather a terrible silence. 
 
 "Are you going to pretend you didn't?" 
 
 Joanna turned on him the tear-filled eyes he had con- 
 sidered glad. She blinked the tears out recklessly on to 
 her check, and opened her mouth to reduce him to the level 
 of the creeping things upon the earth. . . . But the mouth 
 remained open and speechless. She could not look him in 
 the face and still feel angry. Though now she would no 
 longer have taken him for Martin, the resemblance still 
 seemed to her startling. He had the same rich eyes — • 
 with an added trifle of impudence — under the same veiling, 
 womanish lashes, the same black sweep of hair from a 
 rather low forehead, the same graceful setting of the head, 
 though he had not Martin's breadth of shoulder or deceiv- 
 ing air of strength. 
 
 Her hesitation gave him his opportimity. 
 
 "You ain't going to scold me, are you? I couldn't 
 help it." 
 
 His unlovely, Cockney voice had in it a stroking quality. 
 It stirred something in the depths of Joanna's heart. Once 
 again she tried to speak and could not. 
 
 "It's such a lovely night — just the .sort of night you feel 
 lonely, unless you've got someone very nice with you." 
 
 This was terribly true. 
 
 "And you did give me the glad eye, you know." 
 
 "I didn't mean to." She had found her voice at last. 
 "I — I tliotight you were someone else ; at least I — " 
 
 "Arc you expecting a friend ?" 
 
 "Oh, no — no one. It was a mistake." 
 
 "Then mayn't I stay and talk to you — just for a bit. 
 I'm here all alone, you know — a fortnight's holiday. I 
 don't know anyone." 
 
 By this time he had dragged all her features out of the
 
 274 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 darkness, and saw that she was not quite what he had first 
 taken her for. He had never thought she was a girl — his 
 taste was for maturity — but he had not imagined her of 
 the obviously well-to-do and respectable class to which 
 she evidently belonged. He saw now that her clothes were 
 of a fashionable cut, that she had about her a generally 
 expensive air, and at the same time he knew enough to 
 tell that she was not what he called a lady. He found her 
 rather difficult to place. Perhaps she was a wealthy mil- 
 liner on a holiday . . . but, her accent — you could lean 
 up against it . . . well, anyhow she was a damn fine 
 woman, 
 
 "What do you think of the band?" he asked, subtly 
 altering the tone of the conversation which he saw now 
 had been pitched too low. 
 
 "I think it a proper fine band." 
 
 "So it is. They're going to play 'The Merry Widow' 
 next — ever seen it?" 
 
 "No, never. I was never at a play but once, which they 
 did at the Monastery at Rye in aid of Lady Buller's Fund 
 when we was fighting the Boers. 'Our Flat' it was called, 
 and all done by respectable people — not an actor or an 
 actress among 'em." 
 
 What on earth had he picked up? 
 
 "Do you live at Rye?" 
 
 "I live two mile out of it — Ansdore's the name of my 
 place — Ansdore Manor, seeing as now I've got both Great 
 and Little Ansdore, and the living's in my gift. I put in 
 a new parson last year." 
 
 This must be a remarkable woman, unless she was telling 
 him the tale. 
 
 "I went over to Rye on Sunday," he said. "Quaint old 
 place, isn't it? Funny to think it used to be on the sea- 
 shore. They say there once was a battle between the 
 French and English fleets where it's all dry marsh now." 
 
 Joanna thrilled again — that was like Martin, telling her 
 things, old things about the marsh. The conversation was
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 275 
 
 certainly being conducted on very decorous lines. She 
 began to lose the feeling of impropriety which had dis- 
 turbed her at first. They sat talking about the neighbour- 
 hood, the weather, and — under Joanna's guidance — the 
 prospects of the harvest, for another ten minutes, at the 
 end of which the band went off for their "interval." 
 
 The cessation of the music and scattering of the crowd 
 recalled Joanna to a sense of her position. She realised 
 also that it was quite dark — the last redeeming ray had left 
 the sky. She stood up — 
 
 "Well, I must be getting back." 
 
 "Where are you staying?" 
 
 "The Palace Hotel." 
 
 What ho 1 She must have some money. 
 
 "Alay 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 realised that she did not want to say goodbye 
 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 goodbye 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 tomorrow ?" 
 
 She scanned his face eagerly as she spoke. It suddenly 
 struck her what a tcrriijlc 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 her- 
 self 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 
 Godden."
 
 276 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 § 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 I 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 
 coarser 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 — lie'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 tomorrow? — Maybe he'll find me too old — 
 I'm ten years 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 Godden's compliments, but she's 
 had to go home, owing to one of her cows having a mis- 
 carriage." I'll be wise to go home tomorrow — 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 mir- 
 ror, trying to make up her mind whether to wear her big 
 hat or her little one. The little hat was the smartest and 
 had cost the most money, but the big hat put a becoming
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 277 
 
 shadow over her eyes, hid those little lines that were stray- 
 ing from the corners. . . . For the first time Joanna had 
 begun to realise 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 Godden. But today 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 mir- 
 ror she could see the brighter colours of her hair swinging in 
 them. At the last minute she changed her "purple body" into 
 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 apj^cared. 
 She had been successful, then . . . the realisation 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 bctter- 
 IcKjking than he had gathered from a first impression. 
 Joanna was that rather rare type of woman who invariably 
 looks her best in stmshine — 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
 
 278 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 from the sea. Her eyes, with the queer childlike depths 
 behind their feminine hardness, her eager mouth and splen- 
 did teeth, the scatter of freckles over her nose, all com- 
 bined to hold him in a queer enchantment of youth. There 
 was a curious, delightful freshness about her . . . and she 
 was a damn fine woman, too. 
 
 The night before he had gathered that she was of over- 
 whelming respectability, but now he had his doubts about 
 that also. She certainly seemed of a more oncoming dis- 
 position than he had thought, though there was something 
 naive and virginal about her forwardness. Her acquaint- 
 ance might prove more entertaining than he had supposed. 
 He fixed his eyes on her uncovered throat; she blushed 
 deeply, and put up her hand. 
 
 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 stufl. 
 
 After luncheon, drinking coffee in the lounge, they be- 
 came 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 adven- 
 tures — she had had ever so many offers of marriage, in-
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 279 
 
 eluding 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 clergy- 
 men. 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 friendshij) 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 con- 
 scious of her folly. He was thirteen years younger than 
 she — it was ridiculous. She was a fool, after all the n[ipnr- 
 tunities she'd had, to fall in love with a mere boy. But she
 
 280 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 knew in her heart that it was his youth she wanted most, 
 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 prey- 
 ings 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 im- 
 propriety 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 glass 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 glass 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 glasses, 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 tonight — 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.
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 281 
 
 When Little Willy 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 Masserene 
 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 Willy 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 glass. 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 down- 
 wards 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 
 dying . . . and his poor Mother . . ." 
 
 "You soft-hearted darling." ... lie held her close, in 
 all her gracious and supple warmth, which even the fierce- 
 ness 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 harl 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, and yet with a delicious tartness.
 
 282 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 "Joanna," he breathed, his mouth close to the tawny, fly- 
 ing 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 passion. Then sud- 
 denly 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. 
 
 § 16 
 
 That night she slept, and the next morning she felt 
 calmer. Some queer, submerged struggle seemed to be over. 
 As a matter of fact her affair was more uncertain than 
 ever. After Albert's kiss, they had had no discussion and 
 very little conversation. He had taken her back to the 
 hotel, and had kissed her again — this time on the warm, 
 submissive mouth she lifted to him. He had said — "I'll 
 come and see you at Ansdore — I've got another week." And 
 she had said — nothing. She did not know if he wanted to 
 marry her, or even if she wanted to marry him. She did 
 not worry about how — or if — she should explain him to 
 Ellen. All her cravings and uncertainties were swallowed 
 up in a great quiet, a strange quiet which was somehow all 
 the turmoil of her being expressed in silence. 
 
 The next day he was true to his promise, and saw her 
 off — sitting decorously in her first-class carriage "For 
 Ladies Only." 
 
 "You'll come and see me at Ansdore?" she said, as the
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 283 
 
 moment of departure drew near, and he said nothing about 
 last night's promise. 
 
 "Do you really want me to come?" 
 
 "Reckon I do." 
 
 "I'll come then." 
 
 "Which day?" 
 
 "Say Monday, or Tuesday." 
 
 "Come on Monday, by this train — and I'll meet you at the 
 station in my trap. I've got a fine stepper." 
 
 "Right you are. I'll come on Monday. It's kind of you 
 to want me so much." 
 
 "I do want you." 
 
 Her warm, glowing face in the frame of the window in- 
 vited him, and they kissed. Funny, thought Hill to himself, 
 the fuss she had made at first, and she was all over him 
 now. . . . But women were always like that — wantons by 
 nature and prudes by grace, and it was wonderful what a 
 poor fight grace generally made of it. 
 
 Joanna, unaware that she had betrayed herself and 
 womankind, leaned back comfortably in the train as it slid 
 out of the station. .She was in a happy dream, hardly 
 aware of her surroundings. Mechanically she watched the 
 great stucco amphitheatre of Marlingate glide past the win- 
 dow — then the rcrl throbbing darkness of a tunnel . . . 
 and the town was gone, like a bad dream, giving place to 
 the tiny tilled fields and century-old hedges of the south- 
 eastern weald. Then gradually these sloped and lost them- 
 selves in marsh — first only a green tongue running into the 
 weald along tlic bed of the I>rcde River, then spreading 
 north and south and east and west, from the cUfT-line of 
 England's ancient coast to the sand line of England's coast 
 today, from the si)ires of the monks of Battle to the spires 
 of the monks of Canterbury. 
 
 Joanna was roused automatically by this return to her old 
 surrounflings. She began to think of her trap waiting for 
 her outside Rye station. She wondered if Ellen would have 
 come to meet her. Yes, there she was on the platform
 
 284 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 . . . wearing a green frock, too. She'd come out of her 
 blacks. Joanna thrilled to a faint shock. She wondered 
 how many other revolutions Ellen had carried out in her 
 absence. 
 
 "Well, old Jo. . . ." It seemed to her that Ellen's kiss 
 was warmer than usual. Or was it only that her own heart 
 was so warm. , . . 
 
 Ellen found her remarkably silent. She had expected an 
 outpouring of Joanna's adventures, achievements and tri- 
 umphs, combined with a desperate catechism as to just how 
 much ruin had befallen Ansdore while she was away. In- 
 stead of which Joanna seemed for the first time in Ellen's 
 experience, a little dreamy. She had but little to say to 
 Rye's one porter or to Peter Crouch the groom. She climbed 
 up on the front seat of the trap, and took the reins. 
 
 "You're looking well," said Ellen — "I can see your 
 change has done you good." 
 
 "Reckon it has, my dear." 
 
 "Were you comfortable at the hotel ?" 
 
 This, if anything, should have started Joanna off, but all 
 she said was — 
 
 "It wasn't a bad place." 
 
 — "Well, if you don't want to talk about your own af- 
 fairs," said Ellen to herself — "you can listen to mine, for a 
 change. Joanna" — she added aloud — "I came to meet you, 
 because I've got something special to tell you." 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 "Perhaps you can guess." 
 
 Joanna dreamily shook her head. 
 
 "Well, I'm thinking of getting married again." 
 
 "Married !" 
 
 "Yes — it's eighteen months since poor Arthur died,** 
 sighed the devoted widow, "and — perhaps you've noticed — 
 Tip Ernley's been getting very fond of me." 
 
 "Yes, I had noticed ... I was wondering why you 
 didn't tell." 
 
 "There was nothing to tell. He couldn't propose to me
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 28S 
 
 till he had something definite to do. Now he's just been 
 offered the post of agent on the Duke of Wiltshire's estate 
 — a perfectly splendid position. Of course I told him all 
 about my first marriage" — she glanced challengingly at her 
 sister — "but he's a perfect dear, and he saw at once I'd 
 been more sinned against than sinning. We're going to be 
 married this Summer." 
 "I'm unaccountable glad." 
 Ellen gave her a queer look. 
 "You take it very calmly, Jo." 
 "Well, I'd been expecting it all along." 
 "You won't mind my going away and leaving you?" 
 "Reckon you'll have to go where your husband goes." 
 — "What on earth's happened?" thought Ellen to her- 
 self — "She's positively meek." 
 The next minute she knew. 
 
 "Ellen," said Joanna, as they swung into the Straight 
 Mile, "I've got a friend coming to spend the day on Mon- 
 day — a Mr. Hill that I met in Marlingate." 
 
 § 17 
 
 For the next few days Joanna was restless and nervous ; 
 she could not be busy with Ansdore, even after a fortnight's 
 absence. The truth in her heart was that she found Ans- 
 dore rather flat. Wilson's pride in the growth of the yomig 
 lambs, Broadhurst's anxiety about Spot's calving ami his 
 pre-occupation with the Suffolk dray-horse Joanna was to 
 buy at Ashford fair that year, all seemed irrelevant to the 
 main purpose of life. The main stream of her life had 
 suddenly been turned undcrgrDund — it ran under Ansdorc's 
 wide innings — on Monday it would come again to the sur- 
 face, and take her away from Ansdore. 
 
 The outwarrl events of Monday were nf)t exciting. 
 Joanna drove into Rye with Peter Crouch behind her. and 
 met Albert Hill with a decorous handshake on the platform.
 
 286 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 During the drive home, and indeed during most of his visit, 
 his attitude towards her was scarcely more than ordinary 
 friendship. In the afternoon, when Ellen had gone out 
 with Tip Ernley, he gave her a few kisses, but without 
 much passion. She began to feel disquieted. Had he 
 changed ? Was there someone else he liked ? At all costs 
 she must hold him — she must not let him go. 
 
 The truth was that Hill felt uncertain how he stood — he 
 was bewildered in his mind. What was she driving at? 
 Surely she did not think of marriage — the difference in 
 their ages was far too great. But what else could she be 
 thinking of? He gathered that she was invincibly respect- 
 able — and yet he was not sure. ... In spite of her de- 
 corum, she had queer, unguarded ways. He had met no 
 one exactly like her, though he was a man of wide and not 
 very edifying experience. The tactics which had started his 
 friendship with Joanna he had learned at the shorthand and 
 typewriting college where he had learned his clerking job — 
 and they had brought him a rummage of adventures, some 
 transient, some sticky, some dirty, some glamourous. He 
 had met girls of a fairly good class — for his looks caused 
 much to be forgiven him — as well as the typists, shop-girls 
 and waitresses of his more usual association. But he had 
 never met anyone quite like Joanna — so simple yet so swag- 
 gering, so solid yet so ardent, so rigid yet so unguarded, so 
 superior and yet, he told himself, so lacking in refinement. 
 She attracted him enormously . . . but he was not the sort 
 of man to waste his time. 
 
 "When do you go back to London?" she asked. 
 
 "Wednesday morning." 
 
 She sighed deeply, leaning against him on the sofa. 
 
 "Is this all the holiday you'll get this year?" 
 
 "No — I've Whitsun coming — Friday to Tuesday. I might 
 run down to Marlingatc. . . ." 
 
 He watched her carefully. 
 
 "Oh, that ud be fine. You'd come and see me here?" 
 
 "Of course — if you asked me."
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 287 
 
 "If I asked you," she repeated in a sudden, trembling 
 scorn. 
 
 Her head drooped to his breast, and he took her in his 
 arms, holding her across him — all her magnificent weight 
 upon his knees. Oh, she was a lovely creature ... as he 
 kissed her firm, shy mouth it seemed to him as if her whole 
 body was a challenge. A queer kind of antagonism seized 
 him — prude or rake, she should get her lesson from him 
 all right. 
 
 § 18 
 
 When he had gone Joanna said to Ellen — 
 
 "D'you think it would be seemly if I asked Mr. Hill here 
 to stay ?" 
 
 "Of course it would be 'seemly,' Jo. I'm a married 
 woman. But would he be able to come ? He's in business 
 somewhere, isn't he ?" 
 
 "Yes, but he could get away for Whitsun." 
 
 "Then ask him by all means. But . . ." 
 
 She looked at her quickly and teasingly. 
 
 "But what ?" 
 
 "Jo, do you care about this man?'' 
 
 "What d'you mean? Why should I care? — Or, leastways, 
 why shouldn't I?" 
 
 "No reason at all. He's a good bit younger than you arc, 
 but then T always fancied that if you married it ud ])e a 
 man younger than yourself." 
 
 "Who said I was going to marry him?" 
 
 "No one. But if you care . . ." 
 
 "I never said I did." 
 
 "Oh, you're impossible." said Ellon with a little shrug. 
 
 She picked up a book from the table, but Joanna coulrl 
 not let the conversation drop. 
 
 "What d'you think of Mr. Hill, Ellen? Does he remind 
 you of anyone particular?" 
 
 "No, not at the moment."
 
 288 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 "Hasn't it ever struck you he's a bit like my Martin 
 Trevor?" 
 
 Her tongue no longer stammered at the name. 
 
 "Your Martin Trevor! Jo, what nonsense, he's not a bit 
 like him." 
 
 "He's the living image — the way his hair grows out of his 
 forehead, and his dark, saucy eyes. . . ." 
 
 "Well, I was only a little girl when you were engaged to 
 Martin Trevor, but as I remember him he was quite dif- 
 ferent from Mr. Hill. He belonged to another class, for 
 one thing. . . . He was a gentleman." 
 
 "And you think Mr. Hill ain't a gentleman?" 
 
 "My dear Joanna ! Of course he's not — he doesn't pro- 
 fess to be." 
 
 "He's got a good position as a clerk. Some clerks are 
 gentlemen." 
 
 "But this one isn't." 
 
 "How do you know ?" 
 
 "Because I happen to be engaged to someone who is." 
 
 "That ain't any reason for miscalling my friends." 
 
 "I'm not 'miscalling' anyone. . . . Oh, hang it all, Jo, 
 don't let's quarrel about men at our time of life. I'm sorry 
 if I said anything you don't like about Mr. Hill. Of course 
 I don't know him as well as you do." 
 
 § 19 
 
 So Joanna wrote to Albert Hill in her big, cramped hand- 
 writing, on the expensive yet unostentatious note-paper 
 which Ellen had decreed, inviting him to come and spend 
 Whitsuntide at Ansdore. 
 
 His answer did not come for three or four days, during 
 which, as he meant she should, she suffered many doubts 
 and anxieties. Was he coming? Did he care for her? — 
 Or had he just been fooling? She had never felt like this 
 about a man before. She had loved, but love had never 
 held her in the same bondage — perhaps because till now she
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 289 
 
 had always had certainties. Her affair with Martin, her 
 only real love affair, had been a certainty ; Arthur Alce's 
 devotion had been a most faithful certainty ; the men who 
 had comforted her bereavement had also in their different 
 ways been certainties. Albert Hill was the only man who 
 had ever eluded her, played with her or vexed her. She 
 knew that she attracted him, but she also guessed dimly that 
 he feared to bind himself. As for her, she was now deter- 
 mined. She loved him and must marry him. Character- 
 istically she had swept aside the drawbacks of their different 
 ages and circumstances, and saw nothing but the man she 
 loved — the man who was for her the return of first love, 
 youth and spring. A common little tawdry-minded clerk 
 some might have called him, but to Joanna he was all things 
 — fulfilment, lover and child, and also a Sign and a Second 
 Coming. 
 
 She could think of nothing else. Once again Ansdore 
 was failing her, as it always failed her in any crisis of emo- 
 tion — Ansdore could never be big enough to fill her heart. 
 But she valued it because of the consequence it must give 
 her in young Hill's eyes, and she was impressed by the idea 
 that her own extra age and importance gave her the rights 
 of approach normally belonging to the man. . . . Queens 
 always invited consorts to share their thrones, and she was 
 a queen, opening her gates to the man she loved. There 
 could be no question of her leaving her house for his — he 
 was only a little clerk earning two pounds a week, and she 
 was Squire of the Manor. Possibly this very fact made 
 him hesitate, fear to presume. . . . Well, she must show 
 him he was wrong, anrl this Whitsuntide was her oppor- 
 tunity. But she wished that she could feel more queenly in 
 her mind — less abject, craving anrl troubled. In outward 
 circumstances she was his queen, but in her heart she was 
 his slave. 
 
 She plunged into an orgy of preparation. Mrs. Tolhurst 
 and Mene Tekel and the new girl from Windpumps who 
 now reinforced the household were nearly driven off their
 
 290 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 legs. Ellen spared the wretched man much in the way of 
 feather-beds — just one down mattress would be enough, 
 town people weren't used to sleeping on feathers. She also 
 chastened the scheme of decoration, and substituted fresh 
 flowers for the pampas grasses which Joanna thought the 
 noblest adornment possible for a spare bedroom. On the 
 whole Ellen behaved very well about Albert Hill — she 
 worked her best to give him a favourable impression of 
 Ansdore as a household, and when he came she saw that he 
 and her sister were as much alone together as possible. 
 
 "He isn't at all the sort of brother-in-law I'd like you to 
 have, my dear," she said to Tip, "but if you'd seen some of 
 the men Joanna's taken up with you'd realise it might have 
 been much worse. I'm told she once had a most hectic ro- 
 mance with her own shepherd . . . she's frightfully im- 
 pressionable, you know." 
 
 "Is she really?" said Tip in his slow, well-bred voice. 
 "I shouldn't have thought that." 
 
 "No, because — dear old Jo ! It's so funny — she's quite 
 without art. But she's always been frightfully keen on 
 men, though she never could attract the right sort ; and for 
 some reason or other — to do with the farm, I suppose — 
 she's never been keen on marriage. Now lately I've been 
 thinking she really ought to marry — lately she's been getting 
 quite queer — detraquce — and I do think she ought to settle 
 down." 
 
 "But Hill's much younger than she is." 
 
 "Joanna would never care for anyone older. She's al- 
 ways liked boys — it's because she wants to be sure of being 
 boss, I suppose. I know for a fact she's turned down nearly 
 half a dozen good, respectable, well-to-do farmers of her 
 own age or older than herself. And yet I've sometimes 
 felt nervous about her and Peter Crouch, the groom. . . . 
 Oh, I tell you, Jo's queer, and I'll be thankful if she marries 
 Bertie Hill, even though he is off the mark. After all, 
 Tip — " and Ellen looked charming — "Jo and I aren't real 
 ladies, you know."
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 291 
 
 § 20 
 
 Albert was able to get off on the Friday afternoon, and 
 arrived at Ansdore in time for the splendours of late dinner 
 and a bath in the new bathroom. There was no doubt 
 about it, thought he, that he was on a good thing, which- 
 ever way it ended. She must have pots of money . . . 
 everything of the very best . . . and her sister marrying no 
 end of a swell — Ernley who played for Sussex, and was 
 obviously topnotch in every other way. Perhaps he 
 wouldn't be such a fool, after all, if he married her. He 
 would be a country gentleman with plenty of money and a 
 horse to ride — better than living single till, with luck, he 
 got a rise, and married inevitably one of his female ac- 
 quaintance, to live in the suburbs on an income of three 
 hundred. . . . And she was such a splendid creature — 
 otherwise he would not have thought of it — but in attraction 
 she could give points to any girl, and her beauty, having 
 flowered late, would probably last a good while longer. . . . 
 
 But — that night as he sat at his bedroom window, smok- 
 ing a succession of Gold Flake cigarettes, he saw many 
 other aspects of the situation. The deadly quiet of Ansdore 
 in the night, with all the blackness of the Marsh waiting for 
 the unriscn moon, was to him a symbol of what his life 
 would be if he married Joanna. lie would perish if he got 
 stuck in a hole like this, and yet — he thus far acknowledged 
 her qucenship — he could never ask her to come out of it. 
 He could not picture her living in streets — she wouldn't fit 
 — but then, neither would he fit down here. lie liked streets 
 and gaiety and noise and i)icture-palaccs. ... If she'd 
 been younger he might have risked it, but at her age — thir- 
 teen years older than he (she had told him her age in an 
 expansive moment) — it was really impossible. But, damn 
 it all ! She was gorgeous — and he'd rather have her than 
 any younger woman. He couldn't make her out — she must 
 see the folly of marriage as well as he . . . then why was 
 she encouraging him like this? — Leading him on into an im-
 
 292 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 possible situation? Gradually he was drifting back into 
 antagonism — he felt urged to conquest, not merely for the 
 gratification of his vanity or even for the attainment of his 
 desire, but for the satisfaction of seeing her humbled, all her 
 pride and glow and glory at his feet, like a tiger-lily in the 
 dust. 
 
 The next day Joanna drove him into Lydd, and in the 
 afternoon took him inland, to Ruckinge and Warchorne. 
 These drives were another reconstruction of her life with 
 Martin, though now she no longer loved Albert only in his 
 second-coming aspect. She loved him passionately and 
 childishly for himself — the free spring of his hair from his 
 forehead, not merely because it had also been Martin's but 
 because it was his — the impudence as well as the softness of 
 his eyes, the sulkiness as well as the sensitiveness of his 
 mouth, the unlike as well as the like. She loved his quick, 
 Cockney accent, his Cockney oaths when he forgot himself 
 — the way he always said "Yeyss" instead of "yes" — his 
 little assumptions of vanity in socks and tie. She loved a 
 queer blend of Albert and Martin, the real and the imagi- 
 nary, substance and dream. 
 
 As for him, he was enjoying himself. Driving about the 
 country with a fine woman like Joanna, with privileges con- 
 tinually on the increase, was satisfactory even if no more 
 than an interlude. 
 
 "Where shall we go tomorrow ?" he asked her, as they sat 
 in the parlour after dinner, leaving the garden to Ellen 
 and Tip. 
 
 "Tomorrow? Why, that's Sunday." 
 
 "But can't we go anywhere on Sunday ?" 
 
 "To church, of course." 
 
 "But won't you take me out for another lovely drive? I 
 was hoping we could go out all day tomorrow. It's going 
 to be ever so fine." 
 
 "Maybe, but T was brought up to go to church on Sun- 
 days, and on Whit Sunday of all other Sundays."
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 293 
 
 "But this Sunday's going to be different from all other 
 Sundays — and from all other Whit Sundays. . . ." 
 
 He looked at her meaningly out of his bold, melting eyes, 
 and she surrendered. She could not deny him in this matter 
 any more than in most others. . . . She could not disap- 
 point him any more than she could disappoint a child. He 
 should have his drive — she would take him over to New 
 Romney, even though it was written "Neither thou nor 
 thine ox nor thine ass nor the stranger that is within thy 
 gates." 
 
 § 21 
 
 So the next morning when Brodnyx bells were ringing 
 in the east she drove off through Pedlinge on her way to 
 Broomhill level. She felt rather uneasy and ashamed, 
 especially when she passed the churchgoing people. It was 
 the first time in her life that she had voluntarily missed 
 going to church — for hundreds of Sundays she had walked 
 along that flat white lick of road, her big Prayer Book in 
 her hand, and had gone under that ancient porch to kneel in 
 her huge cattlc-jjcn [)cw with its abounding hassocks. Even 
 the removal of the Lion and the Unicorn, and the transfor- 
 mation of her comfortable, established religion into a dis- 
 quieting mystery, had not made her allegiance falter. She 
 still loved Brodnyx church, even now when hassocks were 
 no longer its chief ecclesiastical ornament. She thought 
 regretfully of her empty place and shamefully of her neigh- 
 bours' comments on it. 
 
 It was a sunless day, with grey clouds hanging over a 
 dull green marsh, streaked with channels of green water. 
 The air was still and heavy with the scent of may and 
 meadowsweet and ri])ening hayseed. They drove as far as 
 the crlges of Dunge Marsh, then turned eastward along the 
 shingle road which runs across the root of the Ness to Lydd. 
 The little mare's chocolate flanks were all a-sweat, and 
 Joanna thoutjht it better to bait at Lydd and rest during 
 the heat of the day.
 
 294 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 "You'd never think it was Whitsun," said Albert, looking 
 out of the inn window at the sunny, empty street. "You 
 don't seem to get much of a crowd down here. Rum old 
 place, ain't it?" 
 
 Already Joanna was beginning to notice a difference be- 
 tween his outlook and Martin's. 
 
 "What d'you do with yourself out here all day?" he 
 continued. 
 
 "I've plenty to do." 
 
 "Well, it seems to agree with you — I never saw anyone 
 look finer. You're really a wonder, old thing." 
 
 He picked up the large hand lying on the table-cloth and 
 kissed it back and palm. From any other man, even from 
 Martin himself, she would have received the caress quite 
 simply, been proud and contented, but now it brought her 
 into a strange trouble. She leaned towards him, falling 
 upon his shoulder, her face against his neck. She wanted 
 his kisses, and he gave them to her. 
 
 At about three o'clock they set out again. The sun was 
 just as hot, but the air was cooler, for it had lost its stillness 
 and blew in rippling gusts from the sea. Joanna resolved 
 not to go on to New Romney, as they had waited too long 
 at Lydd ; so she took the road that goes to Ivychurch, past 
 Midley chapel, one of the ruined shrines of the monks of 
 Canterbury — grey walls huddled against a white tower of 
 hawthorn in which the voices of the birds tinkled like little 
 bells. 
 
 She was now beginning to feel more happy and self- 
 confident, but she was still preoccupied, though with a new 
 situation. They had now been alone together for five hours, 
 and Albert had not said a word about the marriage on 
 which her hopes were set. Her ideas as to her own right 
 of initiative had undergone a change. He was in all matters 
 of love so infinitely more experienced than she was that she 
 could no longer imagine herself taking the lead. Hitherto 
 she had considered herself as experienced and capable in 
 love as in other things — had she not been engaged for five
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 295 
 
 months? Had she not received at least half a dozen offers 
 of marriage? But Albert had "learned her different." His 
 sure, almost careless touch abashed her, and the occasional 
 fragments of autobiography which he let fall, showed her 
 that she was a limited and ignorant recluse compared to 
 this boy of twenty-five. In matters of money and achieve- 
 ment she might brag, but in matters of love she was 
 strangely subservient to him, because in such matters he had 
 everything to teach her. 
 
 They stopped for tea at Ivychurch; the little inn and the 
 big church beside the New Sewer were hazed over in a 
 cloud of floating sunshine and dust. She had been here 
 before with Martin, and after tea she and Albert went into 
 the church and looked round them. But she realised that 
 his interest in old places was not the same as Martin's. He 
 called things "quaint" and "rummy," and quoted anything 
 he had read about them in the guide-book, but he could not 
 make them come alive in a strange re-born youth — he could 
 not make her feci the beauty of the great sea on which the 
 French ships had ridden, or the splendours of the marsh 
 before the Flood, with all its towns and taverns and steeples. 
 Unconsciously she missed this appeal to her sleeping imagi- 
 nation, and her bringing of him into the great church, which 
 could have held all the village in its aisles, was an effort to 
 supply what was lacking. 
 
 But Albert's attitude toward the church was critical and 
 unsatisfactory. It was much too big for the village. It was 
 ridiculous . . . that little clump of chairs in all that huge 
 emptiness . . . what a waste of money, paying a parson to 
 idle away his time among a dozen people ! . . . "How 
 Dreadful is this Place" ran the painted legend over the 
 arches. . . . Joanna trembled. 
 
 They came out on the further side of the churchyard, 
 where a little path leads away into the hawthorns of the 
 New Sewer. A faint sunshine was spotting it through the 
 branches, and suddenly Joanna's heart grew warm and 
 heavy with love. She wanted some sheltered corner where
 
 296 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 she could hold his hand, feel his rough coat-sleeve under her 
 cheek — or, dearer still, carry his head on her bosom, that 
 heavenly weight of a man's head, with the coarse, springing 
 hair to pull and stroke. . . . She put her arm into his. 
 
 "Bertie, let's go and sit over there in the shade." 
 
 He smiled at the innocence of her contrivance. 
 
 "Shall wc?" he said, teasing her — "won't it make us late 
 for dinner?" 
 
 "We don't have dinner on Sundays — we have supper at 
 eight, so as to let the gals go to church." 
 
 Her eyes looked, serious and troubled, into his. He 
 pressed her hand. 
 
 "You darling thing." 
 
 They moved away out of the shadow of the church, fol- 
 lowing the little path down to the channel's bank. The 
 water was of a clear, limpid green, new-flushed with the 
 tide, with a faint stickle moving down it, carrying the white, 
 fallen petals of the may. The banks were rich with loose- 
 strife and meadowsweet, and as they walked on, the arching 
 of ha.wthorn and willow made of the stream and the path 
 beside it a little tunnel of shade and scent. 
 
 The distant farmyard sounds which spoke of Ivychurch 
 behind them gradually faded into a thick silence. Joanna 
 could feel Bertie leaning against her as they walked, he was 
 playing with her hand, locking and unlocking her fingers 
 with his. Weren't men queer . . . the sudden way they 
 melted at a touch? Martin had been like that — losing his 
 funny sulks. . . . And now Bertie was just the same. She 
 felt convinced that in one moment ... in two ... he 
 would ask her to be his wife. . . . 
 
 "Let's sit down for a bit," she suggested. 
 
 They sat down by the water side, crushing the meadow- 
 sweet till its sickliness grew almost fierce with bruising. 
 She sidled into his arms, and her own crept round him. 
 "Bertie . . ." she whispered. Her heart was throbbing 
 quickly and, as it were, very high — in her throat — choking
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 297 
 
 her. She began to tremble. Looking up she saw his eyes 
 above her, gazing down at her out of a mist — everything 
 seemed misty, trees and sky and sunshine and his dear face. 
 . . . She was holding him very tight, so tight that she could 
 feel his collar-bones bruising her arms. He was kissing her 
 now, and his kisses were like blows. She suddenly became 
 afraid, and struggled. 
 
 "Jo, Jo — don't be a fool — don't put me off, now . . . you 
 can't, I tell you." 
 
 But she had come to herself. 
 
 "No — let me go. I . . . it's late — I've got to go home." 
 
 She was strong enough to push him from her, and scram- 
 bled to her feet. They both stood facing each other in the 
 trodden streamside flowers. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," he said at last. 
 
 "Oh, it doesn't matter." She was ashamed. 
 
 § 22 
 
 She was frightened, too — never in her life had she 
 imagined that she could drift so far as she had drifted in 
 those few seconds. She was still trembling as she led the 
 way back to the church. She could hear hiin treading after 
 her, and as she thought of him her heart smote her. She 
 felt as if she had hurt him — oh, what had she done to him? 
 What had she denied him? What had she given him to 
 think? 
 
 As they climbed into the trap she could tell that he was 
 sulking. lie looked at her half-defiant ly from under his 
 long lashes, and the corners of his mouth were turned down 
 like a child's. The drive home was constrained and nearly 
 silent. Joanna tried to talk about the grazings they had 
 broken at Yokes Court, in imitation of her own successful 
 grain-growing, about her Appeal to the High Court whicli 
 was to be heard that Summer, and the inotor-car she would 
 buy if it was successful — but it was obvious that they both
 
 298 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 were thinking of something else. For the last part of the 
 drive, from Brodnyx to Ansdore, neither of them spoke a 
 word. 
 
 The sunset was scattering the clouds ahead and filling the 
 spaces with lakes of gold.- The dykes turned to gold, and a 
 golden film lay over the pastures and the reeds. The sun 
 wheeled slowly north, and a huge, shadowy horse and trap 
 began to run beside them along the embankment of the 
 White Kemp Sewer. They turned up Ansdore's drive, now 
 neatly gravelled and gated, and a flood of light burst over 
 the gables of the house, pouring on Joanna as she climbed 
 down over the wheel. She required no help, and she knew 
 it, but she felt his hands pressing her waist ; she started 
 away, and she saw him laugh — mocking her. She nearly 
 cried. 
 
 The rest of that evening was awkward and unhappy. 
 She had a vague feeling in her heart that she had treated 
 Albert badly, and yet . . . the strange thing was that she 
 shrank from an explanation. It had always been her habit 
 to "have things out" on all occasions, and many a misunder- 
 standing had been strengthened thereby. But tonight she 
 could not bear the thought of being left alone with Albert. 
 For one thing, she was curiously vague as to the situation — 
 was she to blame or was he ? Had she gone too far or not 
 far enough? What was the matter, after all? There was 
 nothing to lay hold of. . . . Joanna was unused to this 
 nebulous state of mind ; it made her head ache, and she was 
 glad when the time came to go to bed. 
 
 With a blessed sense of relief she felt the whitewashed 
 thickness of her bedroom walls between her and the rest of 
 the house. She did not trouble to light her candle. Her 
 room was in darkness, except for one splash of light re- 
 flected from her mirror which held the moon. She went 
 over to the window and looked out. The marsh swam in a 
 yellow, misty lake of moonlight. There was a strange air 
 of unsubstantiality about it — the earth was not the solid 
 earth, the watercourses were moonlight rather than water,
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 299 
 
 the light was water rather than light, the trees were 
 shadows. . . , 
 
 "Ah-h-h," said Joanna Godden. 
 
 She lifted her arms to her head with a gesture of weari- 
 ness — as she took out the pins, her hair fell on her shoulders 
 in great hanks and masses, golden and unsubstantial as the 
 moon. 
 
 Slowly and draggingly she began to unfasten her clothes 
 — they fell off her, and lay like a pool round her feet. She 
 plunged into her stifif cotton nightgown, buttoning it at neck 
 and wrists. Then she knelt by her bed and said her prayers 
 — the same prayers that she had said ever since she was five. 
 
 The moonlight was coming straight into the room — show- 
 ing its familiar corners. There was no trace of Ellen in 
 this room — nothing that was "artistic" or "in good taste." 
 A lively pattern covered everything that could be so covered, 
 but Joanna's sentimental love of old associations had spared 
 the original furniture — the wide feather bed, the oaken 
 chest of drawers, the wash-stand which was just a great 
 chest covered with a towel. Over her bed hung Poor 
 Father's Buffalo Certificate, the cherished symbol of all 
 that was solid and prosperous and reputable in life. 
 
 She lay in bed. After she got in she realised that she had 
 forgotten to i)lait her hair, but she felt too languid for the 
 efTort. Ilcr hair spread round her on the pillow like a re- 
 proach. For some mysterious reason her tears began to 
 fall. Her life seemed to reproach her. She saw all her 
 life stretching behind her from a moment — the moment 
 when she had stood before Socknersh, her shepherd, seeing 
 him dark against the sky, between the sun :\n(\ moon. That 
 was when Men, properly speaking, had begun for her — and 
 it was fifteen years since then — and where was she now? 
 Still at Ansdore, still without her man. 
 
 Albert had not asked her to marry him, nor, she felt des- 
 perately, did he mean to. If he did. he would surely have 
 spoken today. And now besides, he was angry with her, 
 disappointed, estranged. She had upset him by turning cold
 
 300 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 like that all of a sudden. . , , But what was she saying? 
 Why, of course she had been quite right. She should ought 
 to have been cold from the start. That was her mistake — 
 letting the thing start when it could have no seemly ending 
 ... a boy like that, nearly young enough to be her son 
 . . . and yet she had been unable to deny him, she had let 
 him kiss her and court her — make love to her. . . . Worse 
 than that, she had made love to him, thrown herself at him, 
 pursued him with her love, refused to let him go . . . and 
 all the other things she had done — changing for his sake 
 from her decent ways . . . breaking the Sabbath, taking off 
 her neck-band. She had been getting irreligious and im- 
 modest, and now she was unhappy and it served her right. 
 
 The house was quite still ; everyone had gone to bed, and 
 the moon filled the middle of the window, splashing the 
 bed, and Joanna in it, and the walls, and the sagging beams 
 of the ceiling. She thought of getting up to pull down the 
 blind, but had no more energy to do that than to bind her 
 hair. She wanted desperately to go to sleep. She lay on 
 her side, her head burrowed down into the pillow, her hands 
 clenched under her chin. Her bed was next the door, and 
 beyond the door, against the wall at right angles to it, was 
 her chest of drawers, with Martin's photograph in its black 
 frame, and the photograph of his tombstone in a frame with 
 a lily worked on it. Her eyes strained towards them in the 
 darkness . . , oh, Martin — Martin, why did I ever forget 
 you? . . , But I never forgot you . . . Martin, I've never 
 had my man. . , . I've got money, two farms, lovely clothes 
 — I'm just as good as a lady . . . but I've never had my 
 man. . . . Seemingly I'll go down into the grave without 
 him . . . but oh, I do want . . , the thing I was born 
 for. . , . 
 
 Sobs shook her broad shoulders as she lay there in the 
 moonlis^ht. But they did not relieve her — her sobs ploughed 
 deep into her soul . . . they turned strange furrows. . . . 
 Oh. she was a bad woman, who deserved no happiness. 
 She'd always known it.
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 301 
 
 She lifted her head, straining her eyes through the dark- 
 ness and tears to gaze at Martin's photograph as if it were 
 the Serpent in the Wilderness. Perhaps all this had come 
 upon her because she had been untrue to his memory — and 
 yet what had so appealed to her about Bertie was that he 
 was like Martin, though Ellen said he wasn't — well, perhaps 
 he wasn't. . . . But what was happening now ? Something 
 had come between her and the photograph on the chest of 
 drawers. With a sudden chill at her heart, she realised that 
 it was the door opening. 
 
 "Who's there?" she cried in a hoarse angry whisper. 
 
 "Don't be frightened, dear — don't be frightened, my 
 sweet Jo — " said Bertie Hill. 
 
 §23 
 
 She could not think — she could only feel. It was morn- 
 ing — that white light was morning, though it was like the 
 moon. Under it the marsh lay like a land under the sea — 
 it must have looked like this when the keels of the French 
 boats swam over it, high above Ansdore, and Brodnyx, and 
 Pedlinge, lying like red apples far beneath, at the bottom of 
 the sea. That was nonsense . . . but she could not think 
 this morning, she could only feel. 
 
 He had not been gone an hour, but she must find him. 
 She must be with him — just feel him near her. She must 
 see his head against the window, hear the heavy, slow 
 sounds of his moving. She slipped on her clothes and 
 twisted up her hair, and went down into the empty, stirless 
 house. No one was about — even her own people were in 
 bed. The sun was not yet up, but. the white dawn was 
 pouring into the house, through the windows, through the 
 chinks. Joanna stood in the midst of it. Then she opened 
 the door and went oiit into the yard, which was a pool of 
 cold light, ringed round with barns and buildings antl reed- 
 thatched haystacks. It was queer hr>w this cold, still, trem- 
 bling dawn hurt her — seemed to flow into her, to be part of
 
 302 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 herself, and yet to wound. . . . She had never felt like this 
 before — she could never have imagined that love would 
 make her feel like this, would make her see beauty in her 
 forsaken yard at dawn — not only see but feel that beauty, 
 physically, as pain. Her heart wounded her — her knees 
 were failing — she went back into the house. 
 
 A wooden chair stood in the passage outside the kitchen 
 door, and she sat down on it. She was still unable to think, 
 and she knew now that she did not want to think — it might 
 make her afraid. She wanted only to remember. . . . He 
 had called her the loveliest, sweetest, most beautiful woman 
 in the world. . . . She repeated his words over and over 
 again, calling up the look with which he had said them , . . 
 oh, those eyes of his — slanty, saucy, secret, loving eyes. . . . 
 
 She wondered why he did not come down. She could not 
 imagine that he had turned into bed and gone to sleep — 
 that he did not know she was sitting here waiting for him 
 in the dawn. For a moment she thought of going up and 
 knocking at his door — then she heard a thud of footsteps 
 and creaking of boards, which announced that Mcnc Tckel 
 and Nan Gregory of Windpumps were stirring in their bed- 
 room. In an incredibly short time they were coming down- 
 stairs, tying apronstrings and screwing up hair as they went, 
 and making a terrific stump past the door behind which they 
 imagined their mistress w^as in bed. It was a great shock to 
 them to find that she was downstairs before them — they 
 weren't more than five minutes late. 
 
 "Hurry up, gals," said Joanna, "and get that kettle boil- 
 ing for the men. I hear Broadhurst about in the yard. 
 Mene Tekel, see as there's no clinkers left in the grate; 
 Mrs. Alee never got her bath yesterday evening before din- 
 ner as she expects it. When did you do the flues last?" 
 
 She set her household about its business — her dreams 
 could not live in the atmosphere of antagonistic suspicion 
 in which she had always viewed the younger members of 
 her own sex. She was firmly convinced that neither Nan 
 nor Mene would do a stroke of work if she was not "at
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 303 
 
 them" ; the same opinion appHed in a lesser degree to the 
 men in the yard. So till Ansdore's early breakfast ap- 
 peared amid much hustling and scolding, Joanna had no 
 time to think about her lover, or continue the dreams so 
 strangely and gloriously begun in the sunless dawn. 
 
 Bertie was late for breakfast, and came down apologising 
 for having overslept himself. But he had a warm, sleepy, 
 rumpled look about him which made her forgive him. He 
 was like a little boy — her little boy . . . she dropped her 
 eyelids over her tears. 
 
 After breakfast, as soon as they were alone, she stole into 
 his arms and held close to him, without embrace, her hands 
 just clasped over her breast on which her chin had fallen. 
 He tried to raise her burning, blushing face, but she turned 
 it to his shoulder. 
 
 § 24 
 
 Albert Hill went back to London on Tuesday, but he 
 came down again the following week-end, and the next, and 
 the next, and then his engagement to Joanna was made 
 public. 
 
 In this respect the trick was hers. The affair had ended 
 in a committal which he had not expected, but his own vic- 
 tory was too substantial for him to regret any development 
 of it to her advantage. Besides, he had seen the impossi- 
 bility of conducting the aflfair on any other lines, both on 
 account of the circumstances in which she lived and of her 
 passionate distress when she realised that lie did not con- 
 sider marriage an inevitable consequence of their relation. 
 It was his only way of keeping her — and he could not let 
 her go. She was adorable, and the years between them 
 meant nothing — her beauty had wiped thc?Ti out. He could 
 think of her only as the ageless woman he loved, who 
 shared the passion of his own youth and in it was forever 
 young. 
 
 On the practical side, too, he was better reconciled. He 
 felt a pang of regret when he thought of London and its
 
 304 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 work and pleasures, of his chances of a "rise" — which his 
 superiors had hinted was now imminent — of a head clerk- 
 ship, perhaps eventually of a partnership and a tight mar- 
 riage into the business — since his Whitsuntide visit to 
 Ansdore he had met the junior partner's daughter and 
 found her as susceptible to his charms as most young 
 women. But after all his position as Joanna Godden's 
 husband would be better even than that of a partner in 
 the firm of Sherwood and Son. What was Sherwood's 
 but a firm of carpet-makers? — a small firm of carpet- 
 makers. As Joanna's husband he would be a Country Gen- 
 tleman, perhaps even a County Gentleman. He saw himself 
 going out with his gun . . . following the hounds in a pink 
 coat. . . . He forgot that he could neither shoot nor ride. 
 
 Meantime his position as Joanna's lover was not an un- 
 enviable one. She adored and spoiled him like a child. 
 She pressed gifts uix)n him — a gold wrist-watch, a real 
 panama hat, silk socks in gorgeous colours, boxes and 
 boxes of the best Turkish and Egyptian cigarettes — she 
 could not give him enough to show her love and delight 
 in him. 
 
 At first he had been a little embarrassed by this outpour- 
 ing, but he was used to receiving presents from women, 
 and he knew that Joanna had plenty of money to spend, 
 and really got as much pleasure out of her gifts as he did. 
 They atoned for the poverty of her letters. She was no 
 letter-writer. Her feelings were as cramped as her hand- 
 writing by the time she had got them down on paper ; in- 
 deed, Joanna herself was wondrously expressed in that 
 big, unformed, constricted handwriting, black yet uncertain, 
 sprawling yet constrained, in which she recorded such 
 facts as "Dot has calfed at last" or "Broadhurst will be 
 61 come Monday" or — as an utmost concession — "I love 
 you dear." 
 
 However, too great a strain was not put on this frail 
 link, for he came down to Ansdore almost every week-end, 
 from Saturday afternoon to early Monday morning. He
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 305 
 
 tried to persuade her to come up to London and stay at 
 his mother's house — he had vague hopes that perhaps an 
 experience of London might persuade her to settle there 
 (she could afford a fine house over at Blackheath, or even 
 in town itself, if she chose). But Joanna had a solid 
 prejudice against London — the utmost she would consent 
 to was to promise to come up and stay with Albert's mother 
 when her appeal was heard at the High Court at the be- 
 ginning of August. Edward Huxtable had done his best 
 to convince her that her presence was unnecessary, but 
 she did not trust either him or the excellent counsel he 
 had engaged. She made up her mind to attend in person, 
 and look after him properly. 
 
 §25 
 
 The attitude of Erodnyx and Pedlingc towards this new 
 crisis in Joanna Godden's life was at first uncertain. The 
 first impression was that she had suddenly taken fright 
 at the prospect of old-maidenhood, and had grabbed the 
 first man she could get, even though he was young enough 
 to be her son. 
 
 "He ain't twenty-one till Michaelmas," said Vine at the 
 Woolpack. 
 
 "She always liked 'em young," said Furnese. 
 
 "Well, if she'd married Arthur Alee when she fust had 
 the chance, instead of hanging around atifl wasting time 
 the way she's done, by now she could have had a man of 
 her intended's age for a son instead of a husband." 
 
 "Reckon it wouldn't have been llu- same thing." 
 
 "No — it would have been a better thing," said Vine. 
 
 When it became known thai Joanna's motive was not 
 despair but love, public ()i)inion turned against her. Albert's 
 manner among the marsh ])eoplc was unff)rtunatc. In his 
 mind he had always stressed his bride's connections 
 through Ellen — the Ernleys, a fine old county family, he 
 found it very satisfying to slap Tip Ernley on the back
 
 306 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 and call him "Ole man." He had deliberately shut his eyes 
 to the other side of her acquaintance, those marsh families, 
 the Southlands, Furneses, Vines, Cobbs and Bateses, to 
 whom she was bound by far stronger, older ties than any 
 which held her to Great Ansdore. He treated these people 
 as her and his inferiors — unlike Martin Trevor, he would 
 not submit to being driven round and shown off to Misle- 
 ham, Picknye Bush, or Slinches. ... It was small wonder 
 that respectable families became indignant at such airs. 
 
 "What does he think himself, I'd like to know? He's 
 nothing but a clerk — such as I'd never see my boy." 
 
 "And soon he won't be even that — he'll just be living on 
 Joanna." 
 
 "She's going to keep him at Ansdore?" 
 
 "Surelye. She'll never move out now." 
 
 "But what's she want to marry for, at her age, and a 
 boy like that?" 
 
 "She's getting an old fool, I reckon." 
 
 §26 
 
 The date of the wedding was not yet fixed, though Sep- 
 tember was spoken of rather vaguely, and this time the 
 hesitation came from the bridegroom. As on the occasion 
 of her first engagement, Joanna had made difficulties with 
 the shearing and hay-making, so now Albert contrived and 
 shifted in his anxiety to fit in his marriage with other plans. 
 
 He had, it appeared, as far back as last Christmas, ar- 
 ranged for a week's tour in August with the Polytechnic 
 to Lovely Lucerne. In vain Joanna promised him a lib- 
 eral allowance of "Foreign Parts" for their honeymoon — 
 Bertie's little soul hankered after the Polytechnic, his pals 
 who were going with him, and the kindred spirits he would 
 meet at the chalets. Going on his honeymoon as Joanna 
 Godden's husband was a different matter and could not 
 take the place of such an excursion. 
 
 Joanna did not press him. She was terribly afraid of
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 307 
 
 scaring him off. It had occurred to her more than once 
 that his bonds held him far more lightly than she was held 
 by hers. And the prospect of marriage was now an abso- 
 lute necessity if she was to endure her memories. Mar- 
 riage alone could hallow and remake Joanna Godden. 
 Sometimes, as love became less of a drug and a bewilder- 
 ment, her thoughts awoke, and she would be overwhelmed 
 by an almost incredulous horror at herself. Could this 
 be Joanna Godden, who had turned away her dairy-girl 
 for loose behaviour, who had been so shocked at the adven- 
 tures of her sister Ellen? She could never be shocked at 
 anyone again, seeing that she herself was just as bad and 
 worse than anyone she knew. . . . Oh, life was queer — 
 there was no denying. It took you by surprise in a way 
 you'd never think — it made you do things so different from 
 your proper notions that afterwards you could hardly be- 
 lieve it was you that had done them — it gave you joy that 
 should ought to have been sorrow . . . and pain as you'd 
 never think. 
 
 As the Summer pas.sed and the time for her visit to town 
 drew near, Joanna began to grow nervous and restless. She 
 did not like the idea of going to a place like London, though 
 she dared not confess her fears to the travelled Ellen or 
 the metropolitan Bertie. She felt vaguelv that "no g0(Kl 
 would come of it" — she had lived thirty-eight years without 
 setting foot in London, and it seemed like tempting Prov- 
 idence to go there now. . . . 
 
 However she resigned herself to the journey — indeed 
 when the time came, she undertook it more carelessly than 
 she had undertaken the venture of her journey to Marlin- 
 gate. Her one thought was of Albert, and .she gave over 
 Ansdore almost nonchalantly to her carter and her looker, 
 and abandoned Ellen to Tip Ernley with scarcely a doubt 
 as to her moral welfare. 
 
 Bertie met her at Charing Cross, and escorted her the 
 rest of the way. He found it hard to realise that she had 
 never been to London before, and it annoyed him a little.
 
 308 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 It would have been all very well, he told himself, in a shy 
 village maiden of eighteen, but in a woman of Joanna's 
 age and temperament it was ridiculous. However, he was 
 relieved to find that she had none of the manners of a 
 country cousin. Her self-confidence prevented her being 
 flustered by strange surroundings; her clothes were fash- 
 ionable and well-cut, perhaps a bit too showy for a woman 
 of her type, she tipped lavishly, and was not afraid of 
 porters. Neither did she, as he feared at first, demand a 
 four-wheeler instead of a taxi. On the contrary, she 
 insisted on driving all the way to Lewisham, instead of 
 taking another train, and enlarged on the five-seater touring 
 car she would buy when she had won her Case. 
 
 "I hope to goodness you will win it, ole girl," said Bertie 
 as he slipped his arm round her — "I've a sort of feeling 
 that you ought to touch wood." 
 
 "I'll win it if there's justice in England." 
 
 "But perhaps there ain't." 
 
 "I must win," repeated Joanna doggedly — "You sec, it 
 was like this. . , ." 
 
 Not for the first time she proceeded to recount the sale 
 of Donkey Street and the way she had applied the money. 
 He wished she wouldn't talk about that sort of thing the 
 first hour they were together. 
 
 "I quite see, darling," he exclaimed in the middle of 
 the narrative, and shut her mouth with a kiss. 
 
 "Oh, Bertie, you mustn't." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "We're in a cab — people will see." 
 
 "They won't — they can't see in — and I'm not going to 
 drive all this way without kissing you." 
 
 He took hold of her. 
 
 "I won't have it — it ain't seemly." 
 
 But he had got a good hold of her, and did as he liked. 
 
 Joanna was horrified and ashamed. A motor bus had 
 just glided past the cab and she felt that the eyes of all
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 309 
 
 the occupants were upon her. She managed to push Albert 
 away, and sat very erect beside him, with a red face. 
 "It ain't seemly," she muttered under her breath. 
 Bertie was vexed with her. He assumed an attitude 
 intended to convey displeasure. Joanna felt unhappy, and 
 anxious to conciliate him, but she was aware that any recon- 
 ciliation was bound to lead to a repetition of that conduct 
 so eminently shocking to the occupants of passing motor 
 buses. "I don't like London folk to think I don't know 
 how to behave when I come up to town," she said to 
 herself. 
 
 Luckily, just as the situation was becoming unbearable, 
 and her respectability on the verge of collapsing in the 
 cause of peace, they stopped at the gate of The Elms, 
 Raymond Avenue, Lewisham. Bertie's annoyance was 
 swallowed up in the double anxiety of introducing her to 
 his family and his family to her. On both counts he felt 
 a little gloomy, for he did not think much of his mother 
 and sister and did not expect Joanna to think much of 
 them. At the same time there was no denying that Jo 
 was and looked a good bit older than he, and his mother 
 and sister were quite capable of thinking he was marrying 
 her for her money. She was looking rather worn and 
 dragged this afternoon, after her unaccustomed railway 
 journey — sometimes you really wouldn't take her for more 
 than thirty, but today she was looking her full age. 
 "Mother— Agatha— this is Jo." 
 
 Joanna swooped down on the old lady with a loud kiss. 
 "Pleased to meet you," said Mrs. Hill in a subdued voice. 
 She was very short and small and frail-looking, and wore 
 a cap — for the same reason no doubt that she kept an 
 aspidistra in the dining-room window, went to church at 
 eleven o'clock on Sundays, and had given birth to Agatha 
 and Albert. 
 
 Agatha was evidently within a year or two of her broth- 
 er's age, and she had his large, melting eyes, and his hair 
 that sprang in a dark semi-circle from a low forehead.
 
 310 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 She was most elegantly dressed in a peek-a-boo blouse, 
 hobble skirt, and high heeled shoes. 
 
 "Pleased to meet you," she said, and Joanna kissed 
 her too. 
 
 "Is tea ready?" asked Bertie. 
 
 "It will be in a minute, dear — I can hear Her getting it." 
 
 They could all do that, but Bertie seemed annoyed that 
 they should be kept waiting. 
 
 "You might have had it ready," he said, "I expect you're 
 tired, Jo." 
 
 "Oh, not so terrible, thanks," said Joanna, who felt sorry 
 for her future mother-in-law, being asked to keep tea 
 stewing in the pot against the uncertain arrival of travellers. 
 But, as it happened, she did feel rather tired, and was glad 
 w^hen the door was suddenly kicked open and a large tea- 
 tray was brought in and set down violently on a side table. 
 
 "Cream and sugar?" said Mrs. Hill nervously. 
 
 "Yes, thank you," said Joanna. She felt a little dis- 
 concerted by this new household of which she found her- 
 self a member. She wondered what Bertie's mother and 
 sister thought of his middle-aged bride. 
 
 For a time they all sat round in silence. Joanna covertly 
 surveyed the drawing-room. It was not unlike the parlour 
 at Ansdore, but everything looked cheaper — they couldn't 
 have given more than ten pound for their carpet, and she 
 knew those fire irons — six and eleven-three the set at the 
 ironmongers. These valuations helped to restore her self- 
 confidence and support the inspection which Agatha was 
 conducting on her side. "Reckon the price of my clothes 
 ud buy everything in this room," she thought to herself. 
 
 "Did you have a comfortable journey. Miss Godden?" 
 asked Mrs. Hill. 
 
 "You needn't call her Miss Godden, Ma," said Albert, 
 "she's going to be one of the family." 
 
 "I had a fine journey," said Joanna, drowning Mrs. 
 Hill's apologetic twitter, "the train came the whole of sixty 
 miles with only one stop."
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 311 
 
 Agatha giggled, and Bertie stabbed her with a furious 
 glance. 
 
 "Did you make this tea?" he asked. 
 
 "No— She made it." 
 
 "I might have thought as much. That girl can't make 
 tea any better than the cat. You really might make it your- 
 self when we have visitors." 
 
 "I hadn't time. I've only just come in." 
 
 "You seem to be out a great deal." 
 
 "I've my living to get." 
 
 Joanna played with her teaspoon. She felt ill at ease, 
 though it would be difficult to say why. She had quarrelled 
 too often with Ellen to be surprised at any family disagree- 
 ments — it was not ten years since she thought nothing of 
 smacking Ellen before a disconcerted public. What was 
 there different — and there was something different — about 
 this wrangle between a brother and sister, that it should 
 upset her so — upset her so much that for some unaccount- 
 able reason she should feel the tears running out of her 
 eyes ? 
 
 On solemn ceremonial occasions Joanna always wore a 
 veil, and this was now pushed up in several folds, to facil- 
 itate tea-drinking. She could feel the tears wetting it, so 
 that it stuck to her cheeks under her eyes. She was furious 
 with herself, but she could not stop the tears — she felt 
 oddly weak and shaken. Agatha had flounced off with 
 the teapot to make a fresh brew, Albert was leaning gloom- 
 ily back in his chair with his hands in his pockets, Mrs. 
 Hill was murmuring — "I hope you like fancy-work — I am 
 very fond of fancy-work — I have made a worsted kitten." 
 Joanna could feel the tears soaking through her veil, run- 
 ning down her cheeks — she could not stop them — and the 
 next moment she heard Bertie's voice, high and aggrieved — 
 "What are you crying for, Jo?" 
 
 Directly she heard it. it seemed to be the thing she had 
 been dreadinr^ most. She could bear no more, and burst 
 into passionate weeping.
 
 312 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 They all gathered round her, Agatha with the new tea- 
 pot, Mrs. Hill with her worsted, Bertie patting her on the 
 back and asking what was the matter. 
 
 "I don't know," she sobbed — "I expect I'm tired, and I 
 ain't used to travelling." 
 
 "Yes, I expect you must be tired — have a fresh cup of 
 tea," said Agatha kindly. 
 
 "And then go upstairs and have a good lay down," said 
 Mrs. Hill. 
 
 Joanna felt vaguely that Albert was ashamed of her. She 
 was certainly ashamed of herself and of this entirely new, 
 surprising conduct. 
 
 §27 
 
 By supper that night she had recovered, and remembered 
 her breakdown rather as a bad dream, but neither that 
 evening nor the next day could she quite shake off the 
 feeling of strangeness and depression. She had never 
 imagined that she would like town life, but she had thought 
 that the unpleasantness of living in streets would be lost in 
 the companionship of the man she loved — and she was dis- 
 appointed to find that this was not so. Bertie, indeed, 
 rather added to than took away from her uneasiness. He 
 did not seem to fit into the Hill household any better than 
 she did — in fact, none of the members fitted. Bertie and 
 Agatha clashed openly, and Mrs. Hill was lost. The house 
 was like a broken machine, full of disconnected parts, 
 which rattled and fell about, Joanna was used to family 
 quarrels, but she was not used to family disunion — more- 
 over, though she would have allowed much between brother 
 and sister, she had certainly very definite notions as to 
 the respect due to a mother. Both Bertie and Agatha were 
 continually suppressing and finding fault with Mrs. Hill, 
 and of the two Bertie was the worse offender, Joanna 
 could not excuse him, even to her own all-too-ready heart. 
 The only thing she could say was that it was most likely 
 !Mrs. Hill's own fault — her not having raised him properly.
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 313 
 
 Every day he went off to his office in Fetter Lane, leaving 
 Joanna to the unrelieved society of his mother, for which 
 he apologised profusely. Indeed she found her days a 
 little dreary, for the old lady was not entertaining, and she 
 dared not go about much by herself in so metropolitan a 
 place as Lewisham. Every morning she and her future 
 mother-in-law went out shopping — that is to say they bought 
 half-pounds and quarter-pounds of various commodities 
 which Joanna at Ansdore would have laid in by the bushel 
 and hundredweight. They would buy tea at one grocer's, 
 and then walk down two streets to buy cocoa from another, 
 because he sold it cheaper than the shop where they had 
 bought the tea. The late Mr. Hill had left his widow very 
 badly off — indeed she could not have lived at all except 
 for what her children gave her out of their salaries. To 
 her dismay, Joanna discovered that while Agatha, in spite 
 of silk stockings and Merry Widow hats, gave her mother 
 a pound out of the weekly thirty shillings she earned as a 
 typist, Albert gave her only ten shillings a week — ^his bare 
 expenses. 
 
 "He says he doesn't see why he should pay more for 
 living at home than he'd pay in digs — thcjugh, as a matter 
 of fact I don't know anyone who'd take him for as little 
 as that, even for only bed and breakfast." 
 
 "Rut what docs he do with the rest of the money?" 
 
 "Oh, he has a lot of expenses, my dear — belongs to all 
 sorts of grand clubs, and goes abroad every year with the 
 Polytechnic, or even Cook's. Besides, he has lady friends 
 that he takes about — used to, 1 should say, for of course 
 he's done with all that now — but he was always the boy 
 for taking ladies out — and never would demean himself 
 to anything less than a Corner House." 
 
 "But he should ought to treat you proper, all the same," 
 said Joanna. 
 
 .She felt sorry and angry, and also, in some vague way. 
 that it was her j)art to set matters ri^ht — that the wotuid in 
 her love would be healed if she could act where Bertie was
 
 314 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 remiss. But Mrs, Hill would not let her open her fat purse 
 on her account — "No, dear; we never let a friend oblige 
 us." Joanna, who was not tactful, persisted, and the old 
 lady became very frozen and genteel. 
 
 Bertie's hours were not long at the office. He was gen- 
 erally back at six, and took Joanna out — up to town, where 
 they had dinner and then went on to some theatre or picture 
 palace, the costs of the expedition being defrayed out of 
 her own pocket. She had never had so much dissipation 
 in her life — she saw "The Merry Widow," "A Persian 
 Princess" and all the musical comedies. Albert did not 
 patronise the more serious drama, and for Joanna the 
 British stage became synonymous with flufify heads and 
 whirling legs and jokes she could not understand. The 
 late hours made her feel very tired, and on their way home 
 Albert would find her sleepy and unresponsive. They 
 always went by taxi from Lewisham station, and instead of 
 taking their passionate opportunities of the darkness, she 
 would sink her heavy head against his breast, holding his 
 arm with both her tired hands. "Let me be, dear, let me 
 be," she would murmur when he tried to rouse her — "this 
 is what I love best." 
 
 She told herself that it was because she was so tired that 
 she often felt depressed and wakeful at nights. Raymond 
 Avenue was not noisy, indeed it was nearly as quiet as 
 Ansdore, but on some nights Joanna lay awake from Bertie's 
 last kiss till the crashing entrance of the Girl to pull up her 
 blinds in the morning. At nights, sometimes, a terrible 
 clearness came to her. This visit to her lover's house was 
 showing her more of his character than she had learned 
 in all the rest of their acquaintance. She could not bear 
 to realise that he was selfish and small-minded — though, 
 now she came to think of it, she had always been aware of 
 it in some degree. She had never pretended to herself that 
 he was good and noble — she had loved him for something 
 quite different — because he was young and had brought her 
 back her own youth, because he had a handsome face and
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 315 
 
 soft, dark eyes, because in spite of all his cheek and know- 
 ingness he had in her sight a queer, appealing innocence. . . . 
 He was Hke a child, even if it was a spoilt, selfish child. 
 When she held his dark head in the crook of her arm, he 
 was her child, her little boy. . . . And perhaps one day 
 she would hold, through her love for him, a real child 
 there, a child who was really innocent and helpless and 
 weak — a child without grossness to scare her or hardness 
 to wound her — her own child, born of her body. 
 
 But though she loved him, this constant expression of 
 his worst points could not fail to give her a feeling of chill. 
 Was this the way he would behave in their home when 
 they were married? Would he speak to her as he spoke 
 to his mother? Would he speak to their children so? . . . 
 She could not bear to think it, and yet she could not believe 
 that marriage would change him all through. What if 
 their marriage made them both miserable? — made them 
 like some couples she had known on the marsh, nagging 
 and hating each other. Was she a fool to think of marry- 
 ing him? — all that difference in their age . . . only perfect 
 love could make up for it . . . and he did not like the 
 idea of living in the country — he was set on his business — 
 his "career," as he called it. . . . She did not think he 
 wanted to marry her as much as she wanted to marry 
 him. , . . Was it right to take him away from his work, 
 which he was doing so well at, and bring him to live down 
 at Ansdore ? — My, but he would properly scare her folk 
 with some of his ways. 
 
 However, it was now too late to draw back. She must 
 go on with what she had begun. At all costs she must 
 marry — not merely because she loved him, but because 
 only marriage could hallow and silence the j)asl. With all 
 the traditions of her race and type upon her, Joanna could 
 not face the wild harvest of love. Her wild oats must be 
 decently gathered into the barn, even if they gave her bitter 
 bread to cat.
 
 316 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 §28 
 
 The case of Godden versus Inland Revenue Commis- 
 sioners was heard at the High Court when Joanna had been 
 at Lewisham about ten days. Albert tried to dissuade her 
 from being present. 
 
 "I can't go with you, and I don't see how you can go 
 alone." 
 
 "I shall be right enough." 
 
 "Yet you won't even go down the High Street by your- 
 self — I never met anyone so inconsistent." 
 
 "It's my appeal," said Joanna. 
 
 "But there's no need for you to attend. Can't you trust 
 anyone to do anything without you ?" 
 
 "Not Edward Huxtable," said Joanna decidedly. 
 
 "Then why did you choose him for your lawyer?" 
 
 "He's the best I know." 
 
 Bertie opened his mouth to carry the argument further, 
 but laughed instead. 
 
 "You are a funny ole girl — so silly and so sensible, so 
 hard and so soft, such hot stuff and so respectable. . . ." He 
 kissed her at each item of the catalogue— "I can't half 
 make you out." 
 
 However, he agreed to take her up to town when he went 
 himself, and deposited her at the entrance of the Law 
 Courts — a solid, impressive figure in her close-fitting tan 
 coat and skirt and high, feathered toque, with the cere- 
 monial veil pulled down over her face. 
 
 Beneath her imposing exterior she felt more than a little 
 scared and lost. Godden seemed a poor thing compared 
 to all this might of Inland Revenue Commissioners, spread- 
 ing about her in passage and hall and tower. . . . The law 
 had suddenly become formidable, as it had never been 
 in Edward Huxtable's office. . . . However, she was for- 
 tunate in finding him, with the help of one or two police- 
 men, and the sight of him comforted her with its sug-
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 317 
 
 gestion of home and Watchbell Street, and her trap wait- 
 ing in the sunshine outside the ancient door of the Huxtable 
 dwelling. 
 
 Her Appeal was not heard till the afternoon, and in the 
 luncheon interval he took her to some decorous dining- 
 rooms — such as Joanna had never conceived could exist in 
 London, so reminiscent were they of the George and the 
 Ship and the New and the Crown and other of her market- 
 day haunts. They ate beef and cabbage and jam roly poly, 
 and discussed the chances of the day. Huxtable said he 
 had "a pretty case" — "a very pretty case — you'll be sur- 
 prised, Miss Joanna, to see what I've made of it." 
 
 And so she was. Indeed, if she hadn't heard the opening 
 she would never have known it was her case at all. She 
 listened in ever-increasing bewilderment and dismay. 
 
 In spite of her disapiwintment in the matter of the Com- 
 missioners and their Referee, she had always looked upon 
 her cause as one so glaringly righteous that it had only to 
 be pleaded before any just judge to be at once established. 
 But now . . . the horror was, that it was no longer her 
 cause at all. This was not Joanna Goddcn coming boldly 
 to the Law of England to obtain redress from her grievous 
 oppression by pettifogging clerks — it was just a miserable 
 dispute between the Commissioners of Inland Revenue and 
 the Lessor of Property under the Act. It was full of in- 
 comprehensible jargon about Increment Value, Original Site 
 Value, Assessable Site Value, Land Value Duty, Estate 
 Duty, Redemption of Land Tax. and many more such terms 
 among which the names of Donkey Street and Little Ansdore 
 appeared occasionally and almost frivolously, just to show 
 Joanna that the matter was her concern. In his efforts to 
 substantiate an almost hopeless case Edward Huxtable had 
 coiled most of the 1910 Einance Act round himself, and 
 the day's procecflings consisted of the same being uncoiled 
 and stripped off him. exposing his utter nakedness in the 
 eyes of the law. When the last remnant of protective jar- 
 gon had been torn away, Joanna knew that her Appeal had
 
 318 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 been dismissed — and she would have to pay the Duty and 
 also the expenses of the action. 
 
 The only comfort that remained was the thought of what 
 she would say to Edward Huxtable when she could get 
 hold of him. They had a brief, eruptive interview in the 
 passage. 
 
 "You take my money for making a mess like that," 
 stormed Joanna — "I tell you, you shan't have it — ^you can 
 amuse yourself bringing another action for it." 
 
 "Hush, my dear lady — hush ! Don't talk so loud. I've 
 done my best for you, I assure you. I warned you not to 
 bring the action in the first instance, but when I saw you 
 were determined to bring it, I resolved to stand by you, 
 and get you through if possible. I briefed excellent coun- 
 sel, and really made out a very pretty little case for you." 
 
 "Ho! Did you? — And never once mentioned my steam 
 plough. I tell you when I heard all this rubbish your 
 feller spoke I'd have given the case against him myself. 
 It wasn't my Case at all. My Case is that I'm a hard- 
 working woman, who's made herself a good position by 
 being a bit smarter than other folk. I have a gentleman 
 friend who cares for me straight and solid for fifteen years, 
 and when he dies he leaves me his farm and everything 
 he's got. I sell the farm, and get good money for it, which 
 I don't spend on motor cars like some folk, but on more 
 improvements on my own farm. I make my property more 
 valuable, and I've got to pay for it, if you please. Why, 
 they should ought to pay me. What's farming coming to, 
 I'd like to know, if we've got to pay for bettering our- 
 selves? The Government ud like to see all farmers in the 
 workhouse — and there we'll soon be, if they go on at this 
 rate. And it's the disrespectfulness to poor Arthur too — 
 he left Donkey Street to me — not a bit to me and the rest 
 to them. But there they go, wanting to take most of it 
 in Death Duty. The best Death Duty I know is to do 
 what the dead ask us and not what they'd turn in their 
 graves if they knew of. And poor Arthur who did every-
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 319 
 
 thing in the world for me, even down to marrying my sister 
 Ellen. . . ." 
 
 Edward Huxtable managed to escape. 
 
 "Drat that woman," he said to himself — "she's a terror. 
 However, I suppose I've got to be thankful she didn't 
 try to get any of that off her chest in Court — she's quite 
 capable of it. Damn it all ! She's a monstrosity — and 
 going to be married too . . . well, there are some heroes 
 left in the world." 
 
 §29 
 
 Bertie was waiting for Joanna outside the Law Courts. 
 In the stillness of the August evening and the yellow dusty 
 sunshine, he looked almost contemplative, standing there 
 with bowed head, looking down at his hands which were 
 folded on his stick, while one or two pigeons strutted about 
 at his feet. Joanna's heart melted at the sight of him. She 
 went up to him, and touched his arm. 
 
 "Hullo, ole girl. So here you are. How did it go off?" 
 
 "I've lost." 
 
 "Damn ! That's bad." 
 
 She saw that he was vexed, and a sharp touch of sorrow 
 was added to her sense of outrage and disai)pnintment. 
 
 "Yes, it was given against me. It's all that Edward IIux- 
 table's fault. Would you believe mc, but he never made 
 out a proper case at all for me, but just a lawyer's mess, 
 what the Judge was quite right not to hold with." 
 
 "Have you lost much money?" 
 
 "A proper lot — but I shan't let Edward Huxtable get 
 any of it. If he wants his fees, he'll justabout have to 
 bring another action." 
 
 "Don't be a fool, Joanna — you'll have to pay the costs if 
 they've been given against you. You'll only land yourself 
 in a worse hole by making a fuss." 
 
 They were walking westward towards the theatres and 
 the restaurants. Joanna felt that Bertie was angry with 
 her — he was angry with her for losing her case, just as
 
 320 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 she was angry with Edward Huxtable. This was too 
 much — the tears rose in her eyes. 
 
 "Will this do you much damage?" he asked. "In pocket, 
 I mean." 
 
 "Oh, I — I'll have to sell out an investment or two, but 
 it won't do any real hurt to Ansdore. Howsumever, I'll 
 have to go without my motor car." 
 
 "It was rather silly of you to bring the action." 
 
 "How, silly?" 
 
 "Well, you can't have had much of a case, or you wouldn't 
 have lost it like this in an hour's hearing." 
 
 "Stuff and nonsense ! I'd a valiant case, if only that fool 
 Edward Huxtable hadn't been anxious to show how many 
 hard words he knew, instead of just telling the judge about 
 my improvements and that." 
 
 "Really, Joanna, you might give up talking about your 
 improvements. They've nothing to do with the matter at 
 all. Can't you see that, as the Government wanted the 
 money, it's nothing to them if you spent it on a steam plough 
 or on a new hat? As a matter of fact, you might just as 
 well have bought your motor car — then at least we'd have 
 that. Now you say you've given up the idea." 
 
 "Unless you make some money and buy it" — pain made 
 Joanna snap. 
 
 "Yes — that's right, start twitting me because it's you 
 who have the money. I know you have, and you've always 
 known I haven't — I've never deceived you. I suppose you 
 think I'm glad to be coming to live with you, to give up 
 a fine commercial career for your sake. I tell you, any 
 other man with my feelings would have made you choose 
 between me and Ansdore — but I give up everything for 
 your sake, and that's how you pay me — by despising me." 
 
 "Oh, don't, Bertie," said Joanna. She felt that she could 
 bear no more. 
 
 They had come into Piccadilly, and the light was still 
 warm — it was not yet dinner-time, but Joanna, who had 
 had no tea, felt suddenly weak and faint.
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 321 
 
 "Let's go in there, dear," she said, as they reached the 
 Popular Cafe — "and have a cup of tea. And don't let's 
 quarrel, for I can't bear it." 
 
 He looked down at her drawn face and pity smote him. 
 
 "Poor ole girl — aren't you feeling well?" 
 
 "Not very — I'm tired-like — sitting listening to all that 
 rubbish." 
 
 "Well, let's have an early dinner, and then go to a music 
 hall. You've never been to one yet, have you?" 
 
 "No," said Joanna. She would much rather have gone 
 straight home, but this was not the time to press her own 
 wishes. She was only too glad to have Bertie amicable and 
 smiling again — she realised that they had only just escaped 
 a serious quarrel. 
 
 The dinner, and the wine that accompanied it, made her 
 feel better and more cheerful. She talked a good deal — 
 even too much, for half a glass of claret had its potent ef- 
 fect on her fatigue. She looked flushed and untidy, for she 
 had spent a long day in her hat and outdoor clothes, and 
 her troubles had taken her thoughts off her appearance — 
 she badly needed a few minutes before the looking-glass. 
 As Albert watched her, he gave up his idea of taking her to 
 the Palace, which he told himself would be full of smart 
 people, and decided on the Alhambra Music Hall — then 
 from the Alhambra he dropped to the Holborn Empire. 
 . . . Really it was annoying of Jo to come out with him 
 looking like this — she ought to realise that .she was not a 
 young girl who could afford to let things slip. He had told 
 her several times that her hat was on one side. . . . And 
 those big earrings she wore . . . she ought to go in for 
 something quieter at her age. Her get-up had always been 
 too much on the showy side, and she was too indejiendcnt 
 of those helps to nature which much younger and better- 
 looking women than herself were only too glad to use. . . . 
 He liked to see a woman take out a powder-puff and flick 
 it over her face in little dainty sweeps. . . . 
 
 These reflections did not put him in a good humour for
 
 322 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 the evening's entertainment. They went by 'bus to the Hol- 
 born Empire where the first house had already started. 
 Joanna felt a little repulsed by the big, rowdy audience, 
 smoking and eating oranges and joining in the choruses of 
 the songs. Her brief experience of the dress circle at Daly's 
 or the Queen's had not prepared her for anything so charac- 
 teristic as an English music-hall, with its half-participating 
 audience — "Hurrah for Daise !" as Daisy Dormer took the 
 boards to sing, with her shoulders hunched up to the brim 
 of her enormous hat, a heartrending song about her mother. 
 
 Joanna watched Bertie as he lounged beside her. She 
 knew that he was sulking — the mere fact that he was enter- 
 taining her cheaply, by 'bus and music-hall instead of taxi 
 and theatre, pointed to his displeasure. She wondered if 
 he was enjoying this queer show, which struck her alter- 
 nately as inexpressibly beautiful and inexpressibly vulgar. 
 The lovely ladies like big handsome barmaids who sang 
 serious songs in evening dress and diamonds, apparently in 
 the vicinity of Clapham High Street or the Monument, were 
 merely incomprehensible. She could not understand what 
 they were doing. The comedians she found amusing, when 
 they did not shock her — Bertie had explained to her one or 
 two of the jokes she could not understand. The "song- 
 scenas" and acrobatic displays filled her with rapture. She 
 would have liked that sort of thing the whole time. . . . 
 Albert said it was a dull show, he grumbled at everything, 
 especially the turns Joanna liked. But gradually the warm, 
 friendly, vulgar atmosphere of the place infected him — he 
 joined in one or two of the choruses, and seemed almost to 
 forget about Joanna. 
 
 She watched him as he leaned back in his seat, singing — 
 
 "Take me back to Pompeii — 
 To Pompey-ompey-i — " 
 
 In the dim red light of the place, he looked incredibly 
 young. She could see only his profile — the backward sweep 
 of glistening, pomaded hair, the little short straight nose,
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 323 
 
 the sensual, fretful lips — and as she watched him she was 
 smitten with a queer sense of pity. This was no strong 
 man, no lover and husband — just a little clerk she was going 
 to shut up in prison — a little singing clerk. She felt a brute 
 — she put out her hand and slid it under his arm, against 
 his warm side. 
 
 "To Pompey-ompey-I — " 
 
 sang Bert. 
 
 § 30 
 
 The curtain came down and the lights went up for the 
 Interval. A brass band played very loud. Joanna was be- 
 ginning to have a bit of a headache, but she said nothing — 
 she did not want him to leave on her account — or to find 
 that he did not think of leaving. . . , She felt very hot, and 
 fanned herself with her programme. Most of the audience 
 were hot. 
 
 "Joanna," said Bert, "don't you ever use powder?" 
 
 "Powder ! What d'you mean ?" 
 
 "Face-powder — what most girls use. Your skin wouldn't 
 get rcfl and shiny like that if you had some powder on it." 
 
 "I'd never dream of using such a thing. I'd be ashamed." 
 
 "Why be ashamed of looking decent ?" 
 
 "I wouldn't look decent — I'd look like a hussy. Some- 
 times when I see these gals' faces I — " 
 
 "Kcally, Jo, to hear you speak one xul think you were the 
 only virtuous woman left in England. But there are just 
 one or two things in your career, my child, which don't 
 quite bear out that notion." 
 
 Joanna's heart gave a sudden bourwl, then seemed to 
 freeze. 
 
 She leaned forward in her cliair, staring at the advertise- 
 ments on the curtain. I'crtie j)ut his arm round her — "I 
 say, ole girl, you ain't angry with mc, are you?" She made 
 no reply — she could not speak ; too much was happening in 
 her thoughts — had happened, rather, for her mind was now
 
 324 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 quite made up. A vast, half-conscious process seemed sud- 
 denly to have settled itself, leaving her quite clear-headed 
 and calm. 
 
 "You ain't angry with me, are you?" repeated Bert. 
 "No — " said Joanna — "I'm not angry with you." 
 He had been cruel and selfish when she was in trouble, 
 he had shown no tenderness for her physical fatigue, and 
 now at last he had taunted her with the loss of her honour 
 for his sake. But she was not angry with him. ... It was 
 only that now she knew she could never, never marry him. 
 
 §31 
 
 That night she slept heavily — the deep sleep of physical 
 exhaustion and mental decision. The unconscious striving 
 of her soul no longer woke her to ask her hard questions. 
 Her mind was made up, and her conflict was at an end. 
 
 She woke at the full day, when down on Walland Marsh 
 all the world was awake, but here the city and the house 
 still slept, and rose with her eyes and heart full of tragic 
 purpose. She dressed quickly, then packed her box — all the 
 gay, grand things she had brought to make her lover proud 
 of her. Then she sat down at her dressing-table, and 
 wrote — 
 
 "Dear Bertie: 
 
 "When you get this I shall have gone for good. I see 
 now that we were not meant for each other. I am very 
 sorry if this gives you pain. But it is all for the best. 
 
 "Your sincere friend, 
 
 "Joanna Godden." 
 
 By this time it was half -past seven by the good gold watch 
 which poor Father had left her. Joanna's plan was to go 
 downstairs, put her letter on the hall table, and bribe the 
 girl to help her down with her box and call a cab. before 
 any of the others appeared. She did not want to have to
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 325 
 
 face Albert, with inevitable argument and possible re- 
 proaches. Her bruised heart ached too much to be able to 
 endure any more from him — angry and wounded, it beat 
 her side. 
 
 She carried out her scheme quite successfully as far as 
 the cab itself, and then was betrayed. Poor Father's watch, 
 that huge emblem of worth and respectability, hanging with 
 its gold chain and seals upon her breast, had a rare but em- 
 barrassing habit of stopping for half an hour or so, as if to 
 rest its ancient works. This is what it had done today — 
 instead of half-past seven, the time was eight, and as the 
 girl and the cabman carried Joanna's box out of the door, 
 Bertie appeared at the head of the steep little stairs. 
 
 "Hullo, Joanna!" he called out in surprise — "Where on 
 earth are you going?" 
 
 Here was trouble. For a moment Joanna quailed, but 
 she recovered herself and answered — 
 
 "I'm going home." 
 
 "Home! — What d'you mean? — Whatever for?" 
 
 The box was on the taxi, and the driver stood holding 
 the door open. 
 
 "I made up my mind last night. I can't stay here any 
 longer. Thank you, Alice, you needn't wait." She put a 
 sovereign into the girl's hand. 
 
 "Come into the dining-room," said Albert. 
 
 He opened the door for her and they both went in. 
 
 "It's no good, Bertie — I can't stand it any longer," said 
 Joanna, "it's as plain as a pike as you and me were never 
 meant to marry, anrl the best thing to do is to say goodbye 
 before it's too late." 
 
 He stared at her in silence. 
 
 "I made up my mind last night," she continued, "but I 
 wouldn't say anything about it till this morning, and then I 
 thought I'd slip off rjuict. I've left a letter to you that I 
 wrote." 
 
 "But why — why are you going?" 
 
 "Well, it's pretty plain, ain't it, that we haven't been get-
 
 326 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 ting along so well as we should ought since I came here. 
 You and me were never meant for each other — we don't fit 
 — and the last few days it's been all trouble — and there's 
 been things I could hardly bear. , . ." 
 
 Her voice broke. 
 
 "I'm sorry I've offended you" — he spoke stiffly — "but 
 since you came here it's struck me, too, that things were 
 different. I must say, Joanna, you don't seem to have con- 
 sidered the difficulties of my position." 
 
 "I have — and that's one reason why I'm going. I don't 
 want to take you away from your business and your career, 
 as you say; I know you don't want to come and live at 
 Ansdore. . . ." 
 
 "If you really loved me, and still felt like that about my 
 prospects, you'd rather give up Ansdore than turn me down 
 as you're doing." 
 
 "I do love you" — she said doggedly, "but I couldn't give 
 up my farm for you and come and live with you in London 
 — because if I did, reckon I shouldn't love you much longer. 
 These last ten days have shown me more than anything 
 before that you'd make anyone you lived with miserable, 
 and if I hadn't my farm to take my thoughts oflf I'd just- 
 about die of shame and sorrow." 
 
 He flushed angrily. 
 
 "Really, Joanna — what do you mean? I've given you as 
 good a time as I knew how." 
 
 "Most likely. But all the while you were giving me that 
 good time you were showing me how little you cared for 
 me. Oh, it isn't as if I hadn't been in love before and seen 
 how good a man can be. ... I don't want to say hard 
 things to you, my dear, but there's been times when you've 
 hurt me as no man could hurt a woman he really loved. 
 And I've lived in your home and seen how you treat your 
 poor mother, and your sister — and I tell you the truth, 
 though it hurts me — you ain't man enough for me." 
 
 "Well, if that's how you feel about me, we had certainly 
 better not go on."
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 327 
 
 "Don't be angry with me, dear. Reckon it was all a mis- 
 take from the start — I'm too old for you." 
 
 "Then it's a pity we went as far as this. What'll Mother 
 and Agatha think when they hear you've turned me down? 
 They're cats enough to imagine all sorts of things. Why 
 do you dash ofi' like this as if I was the plague? If you 
 must break off our engagement, you must, though I don't 
 want you to — I love you, even though you don't love me — 
 but you might at least do it decently. Think of what they'll 
 say when they come down and find you've bolted." 
 
 "I'm sorry, Bertie. But I couldn't bear to stick on here 
 another hour. You may tell them any story about me you 
 like. But I can't stay. I must think of myself a bit, since 
 I've no one else to do it for me." 
 
 His face was like a sulky child's. He looked at the floor, 
 and kicked the wainscot. 
 
 "Well, I think you're treating me very badly, Joanna. 
 Hang it all, I love you — and I think you're a damn fine 
 woman — I really do — and I don't care if you are a bit older 
 — I don't like girls." 
 
 "You won't think me fine in another ten years — and as 
 for loving me, don't talk nonsense ; you don't love me, or I 
 shouldn't be going. Now let me go." 
 
 Her voice was hard, because her self-control was failing 
 her. She tore open the door, and jnishcd him violently 
 aside when he tried to stand in her way. 
 
 "Let me go — I'm shut of you. I tell you, you ain't man 
 enough for me." 
 
 5 32 
 
 She had told tlic cabman to drive to Charing Cross Sta- 
 tion, as she felt unequal to the complications of travelling 
 from Lewisham. It was a long drive, and all the way 
 Joanna sat and cried. She seemed to have cried a great 
 deal lately — her nature had melted in a strange way, and 
 the tears she had so seldom shed as a girl wore now con- 
 tinually ready to fall — but she had never cried as much as
 
 328 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 she cried this morning. By the time she reached Charing 
 Cross she was in desperate need of that powder-puff Bertie 
 had urged her to possess. 
 
 So this was the end — the end of the great romance which 
 should have given her girlhood back to her, but which in- 
 stead seemed to have shut her into a lonely and regretful 
 middle-age. All her shining pride in herself was gone — she 
 saw herself as one who has irrevocably lost all that makes 
 life worth living . . . pride and love. She knew that Bertie 
 did not love her — in his heart he was glad that she was 
 going — all he was sorry for was the manner of it, which 
 might bring him disgrace. But he would soon get over 
 that, and then he would be thankful he was free, and 
 eventually he would marry some younger woman than her- 
 self . . . and she? Yes, she still loved him — but it would 
 not be for long. She could feel her love for him slowly 
 dying in her heart. It was scarcely more than pity now— 
 pity for the little singing clerk whom she had caught and 
 would have put in a cage if he had not fluttered so terribly 
 in her hands. 
 
 When she arrived at Charing Cross a feeling of desola- 
 tion was upon her. A porter came to fetch her box, but 
 Joanna — the great Joanna Godden who put terror into the 
 markets of three towns — shrank back into the taxi, loath to 
 leave its comfortable shelter for the effort and racket of the 
 station. A dark, handsome, rather elderly man, was coming 
 out of one of the archways. Their eyes met and he at once 
 turned his away, but Joanna leapt for him — 
 
 "Sir Harry! Sir Harry Trevor! Don't you know me?" 
 
 — Only too well, but he had not exactly expected her to 
 claim acquaintance. He felt bewildered when Joanna 
 pushed her way to him through the crowd and wrung his 
 hand as if he was her only friend. 
 
 "Oh, Sir Harry, reckon I'm glad to see you !" 
 
 "I— I—" stuttered the baronet. 
 
 He looked rather flushed and sodden, and the dyeing of 
 his hair was more obvious than it had been.
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 329 
 
 "Fancy meeting you !" gasped Joanna. 
 
 "Er — how are you, Miss Godden?" 
 
 "Do you know when there's a train to Rye?" 
 
 "I'm sorry, I don't. I've just been saying goodbye to my 
 son Lawrence — he's off to Africa or somewhere, but I 
 couldn't wait till his train came in. I've got to go over to 
 St. Pancras and catch the 10.50 for the North." 
 
 "Lawrence 1" 
 
 Thank goodness, that had put her on another scent — now 
 she would let him go. 
 
 "Yes — he's in the station. You'll see him if you're quick." 
 
 Joanna turned away, and he saw that the tears were nm- 
 ning down her face. The woman had been drinking — that 
 accounted for it all . . . well, he wished Lawrence joy of 
 her. It would do him good to have a drunken woman fall- 
 ing on his neck on a public platform. 
 
 The porter said there would not be a train for Rye for 
 another hour. He suggested that Joanna should put her 
 luggage in the cloak-room and go and get herself a cup of 
 tea — the porter knew the difference between a drunken 
 woman and one who is merely faint from trouble and want 
 of her breakfast. But Joanna's mind was obsessed by the 
 thought of Lawrence — her brother-in-law as she still called 
 him in her heart — she wanted to see him — she remembered 
 his kindness long ago . . . and in her sorrow she was going 
 back to the sorrow of those days . . . somehow she felt as 
 if Martin had just died, as if she had just come out of 
 North Farthing 1 louse, alone, as she had come then — and 
 now Lawrence was here, as he had been then, to kiss her and 
 say "Dear Jo". . . . 
 
 "What platform does the train for Africa start from?" 
 she asked the porter. 
 
 "Well, lady, T can't rightly say. The only boat-train from 
 here this morning gors to Folkestone, and that's off — hut 
 most likely the gentleman ud be going from Waterloo, and 
 the trains for Waterloo start from number seven." 
 
 The porter took her to number seven, and at the barrier
 
 330 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 she caught sight of a familiar figure sitting on a bench. 
 Father Lawrence's bullet head showed above the folds of 
 his cloak ; by his side was a big shapeless bundle and his 
 eyes were fixed on the station roof. He started violently 
 when a large woman suddenly sat down beside him and 
 burst into tears. 
 
 "Lawrence !" sobbed Joanna — "Lawrence 1" 
 
 "Joanna 1" 
 
 He was too startled to say anything more, but the mo- 
 ment did not admit of much conversation. Joanna sat 
 beside him, bent over her knees, her big shoulders shaking 
 with sobs which were not always silent. Lawrence made 
 himself as large as he could, but he could not hide her from 
 the public stare, for nature had not made her inconspicuous, 
 and her taste in clothes would have defeated nature if it 
 had. Her orange toque had fallen sideways on her tawny 
 hair — she was like a big, broken sunflower. 
 
 "My dear Jo," he said gently, after a time — "let me go 
 and get you a drink of water." 
 
 "No — don't leave me." 
 
 "Then let me ask someone to go." 
 
 "No— no. . . . Oh, I'm all right— it's only that I felt so 
 glad at seeing you again." 
 
 Lawrence was surprised. 
 
 "It makes me think of that other time when you were 
 kind — I remember when Martin died . . . oh, I can't help 
 wishing sometimes he was dead — that he'd died right at the 
 start — or I had." 
 
 "My dear. . . ." 
 
 "Oh, when Martin died, at least it was finished ; but this 
 time it ain't finished — it's like something broken." She 
 clasped her hands, in their brown kid gloves, against her 
 heart. 
 
 "Won't you tell me what's happened? This isn't Martin 
 you're talking about?" 
 
 "No. But I thought he was like Martin — that's what 
 made me take to him at the start. I looked up and I saw
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 331 
 
 him, and I said to myself 'that's Martin' — it gave me quite 
 a jump." 
 
 The Waterloo train was in the station and the people on 
 the platform surged towards it, leaving Lawrence and 
 Joanna stranded on their seat. Lawrence looked at the 
 train for a minute, then shook his head, as if in answer to 
 some question he had asked himself. 
 
 "Look here, Jo," he said, "won't you tell me what's hap- 
 pened ? I can't quite understand you as it is. Don't tell me 
 anything you'd rather not." 
 
 Joanna sat upright and swallowed violently. 
 
 "It's like this," she said. "I've just broken off my engage- 
 ment to marry — maybe you didn't know I was engaged to 
 be married?" 
 
 "No, I didn't." 
 
 "Well, I was. I was engaged to a young chap — a young 
 chap in an office. I met him at Marlingate, when I was 
 staying there that time. I thought he was like Martin — 
 that's what made me take to him at the first. But he wasn't 
 like Martin — not really in his looks and never in his ways. 
 And at last it got morc'n I could bear, and I broke with him 
 this morning and came away — and I reckon he ain't sorry, 
 neither. . . . I'm thirteen year older than him." 
 
 Her tears began to flow again, but the platform was tem- 
 porarily deserted. Lawrence waited for her to go on — he 
 suspected a tragedy which had not yet been revealed. 
 
 "Oh, my heart's broke," she continued — "reckon I'm done 
 for, and there's nothing left for me." 
 
 "But, Jo — is this — this affair quite finished? Perhaps. 
 ... I mean to say, quarrels can be made up, you know." 
 
 "Not this one," said Joanna. "It's been too much. For 
 days I've watched him getting tired of mc, and last night he 
 turned on me because for his sake I'd done what no woman 
 should do." 
 
 The words were no sooner out of her mouth than she was 
 dismayed. She had not meant to say them. Would Law- 
 rence understand ? What would he think of her? — a clergy-
 
 332 JOANNA GODDEN J 
 
 man. . . . She turned on him a face crimson and suffused 
 with tears, to meet a gaze as serene as ever. Then sud- 
 denly a new feeling came to her — something apart from 
 horror at herself and shame at his knowing, and yet linked 
 strangely with them both — something which was tenderer 
 than any shame and yet more ruthless. . . . Her last guard 
 broke down. 
 
 "Lawrence — I've been wicked, I've been bad — I'm sorry 
 — Lawrence. . . ." 
 
 "Tell me as little or as much as you like, dear Jo." 
 
 Joanna gripped his arm; she had driven him into the 
 corner of the seat, where he sat with his bundle on his lap, 
 his ear bent to her mouth, while she crowded up against 
 him, pouring out her tale. Every now and then he said 
 gently — "Sh-sh-sh" — when he thought that her confession 
 was penetrating the further recesses of Charing Cross. . . . 
 /"Oh, Lawrence, I feel so bad — I feel so wicked — I never 
 should have thought it of myself. I didn't feel wicked at 
 first, but I did afterwards. Oh, Lawrence, tell me what 
 I'm to do." 
 
 His professional instinct taught him to treat the situation 
 with simplicity, but he guessed that Joanna would not ap- 
 preciate the quiet dealings of the confessional. He had 
 always liked Joanna, always admired her, and he liked and 
 admired her no less now, but he really knew very little of 
 her — her life had crossed his only on three different, brief 
 occasions : when she was engaged to his brother, when she 
 was anxious to appoint a Rector to the living in her gift, 
 and now when as a broken-hearted woman she relieved 
 herself of a burden of sorrow. 
 
 "Lawrence — tell me what to do." 
 
 "Dear Jo — I'm not quite sure. ... I don't know what 
 you want, you see. What I should want first myself would 
 be absolution." 
 
 "Oh. don't you try none of your Jesoot tricks on me — I 
 couldn't bear it." 
 
 "Very well. Then I think there's only one thing you can
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 333 
 
 do, and that is to go home and take up your life where you 
 left it, with a very humble heart. 'I shall go softly all my 
 days in the bitterness of my soul.' " 
 
 Joanna gulped. 
 
 "And be very thankful, too." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 "For your repentance." 
 
 "Well, reckon I do feel sorry — and reckon too I done 
 something to be sorry for. . . . Oh, Lawrence, what a 
 wicked owl I've been ! If you'd told me six year ago as I'd 
 ever come to this I'd have had a fit on the ground." 
 
 Lawrence looked round him nervously. W^hatever Jo- 
 anna's objections to private penance, she was curiously 
 indifferent to confessing her sins to all mankind in Charing 
 Cross Station. The platform was becoming crowded again, 
 and already their confessional had been invaded — a woman 
 with a baby was sitting on the end of it. 
 
 "Your train will be starting soon," said Lawrence — "let's 
 go and find you something to eat." 
 
 § 33 
 
 Joanna felt better after she had had a good cup of coflfee 
 and a poached egg. .She was surprised afterwards to find 
 she had eaten so much. Lawrence sat with her while she 
 ate, then took her to find her porter, her luggage and her 
 train. 
 
 "But won't you lose your train to Africa?" asked Joanna. 
 
 "I'm only going as far as Waterloo this morning, and 
 there's a train every ten minutes." 
 
 "When do you start for Africa?" 
 
 "I think tonight." 
 
 "I wish you weren't going there. Why are you going?" 
 
 "Because I'm sent." 
 
 "When will you come back ?" 
 
 "I don't know — perhaps never."
 
 334 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 "I'm middling sorry you're going. What a place to send 
 you to ! — all among niggers." 
 
 She was getting more like herself. He stood at the car- 
 riage door, talking to her of indifferent things till the train 
 started. The whistle blew, and the train began to glide out 
 of the station. Joanna waved her hand to the grey figure, 
 standing on the platform beside the tramp's bundle which 
 was all that would go with it to the ends of the earth. She 
 did not know whether she pitied Lawrence or envied him. 
 
 "Reckon he's got some queer notions," she said to herself. 
 
 She leaned back in the carriage, feeling more at ease than 
 she had felt for weeks. She was travelling third class, for 
 one of Lawrence's notions was that everybody did so, and 
 when Joanna had given him her purse to buy her ticket it 
 had never struck him that she did not consider third-class 
 travel "seemly" in one of her sex and position. However, 
 the carriage was comfortable, and occupied only by two 
 well-conducted females. Yes — she was certainly feeling 
 better. She would never have thought that merely telling 
 her story to Lawrence would have made such a difference. 
 But a great burden had been lifted off her heart. . . , He 
 was a good chap, Lawrence, for all his queer ways — such 
 as ud make you think he wasn't gentry if you didn't know 
 who his father was and his brother had been — and no no- 
 tion how to behave himself as a clergyman, neither — any- 
 way she hoped he'd get safe to Africa and that the nig- 
 gers wouldn't eat him . . . though she'd heard of such 
 things. . . . 
 
 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
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 335 
 
 so proud of herself, to live without even respecting herself 
 — But she should have thought of that earlier. She remem- 
 bered 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 to 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 car- 
 riage 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 rii>e 
 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 terribly 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 Komncy 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 loarling up the 
 fish at Dunge Ness, or there was a reaping machine being 
 brought from Lydd. For some minutes Joanna's train.
 
 336 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 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 fright- 
 ened . . . 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
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 337 
 
 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 pos- 
 sibly 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 for- 
 ward 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 to- 
 gether, 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 re- 
 proach 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 them both — 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 miser- 
 able ... it would grow up in an unhappy home, with par- 
 ents 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 fc^ar, was that thrill 
 of divine joy which had come to her in the first moment of 
 realisation. 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 mairiagc, 
 she would still be glad even in the desert of no-marriage, 
 every tongue wagging, every finger pointing, every heart 
 despising. Nothing could take lier joy from her — make her 
 less than joyful mother. . . . 
 
 Then as the joy grew and rose above the fear, she knew
 
 338 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 that she could never let fear drive her into bondage. Noth- 
 ing should make a sacrifice of joy to shame — to save herself 
 she would not bring up her child in the sorrow and degrada- 
 tion 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 realise 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 any- 
 thing 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 further 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 Alee, perhaps, since it could not be Martin 
 Trevor. But the circumstances of its birth were her doing,
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 339 
 
 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 Mislcham's ancient gig, with the 
 crate of fowls behind them. She felt rather shy of han- 
 dling the reins under Joanna Goddcn's eye, for everyone 
 knew that Joanna drove like Jehu, something tur'blc. 
 
 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 bring- 
 ing it. She could easily have paid them missionaries, with 
 all the money she had. But it was ever Joanna's way to 
 make a tcrrification." 
 
 They jogged on over the winding, white ribbon of road —
 
 340 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 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 crossroads 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 chaflfy 
 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 recognised the golden blot beside Mrs. 
 Furnese as her sister Joanna. 
 
 "Hullo, Jo ! I never expected you back today. 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. Fur- 
 nese, 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 

 
 JOANNA GODDEN 341 
 
 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 Broad- 
 hurst 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 com- 
 fort compared with the gimcrackiness of the parlour at 
 Lewisham. 
 
 "I'm sorry about your aj^peal," said Ellen — "I saw in 
 today's paper that you've lost it." 
 
 Joanna had forgotten all about the appeal — it seemed 
 twenly-four years ago instead of twenty-four hours that 
 she had come out of the law-cf)ur(s anrl seen Bertie stand- 
 ing there with the pigeons strutting round 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 nfforc] to pay" — the old Joanna 
 came out and boasted for a minute.
 
 342 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 "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 respira- 
 tory 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 tonight. She would wait till 
 tomorrow 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 engage- 
 ment — that would prepare the way, like. 
 
 "Ellen," she said, after she had drunk her tea — "one rea- 
 son 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 cer- 
 tainty could have justified such a marriage." 
 
 She smiled to herself. When she said "absolute cer- 
 tainty" 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."
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 343 
 
 "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 bath- 
 room 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 nightgown, 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 sun- 
 shine 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 ter- 
 rible 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 pros- 
 perous though she was a woman, and then she had lost it 
 because she was a woman. . . . Worfis that she had uttered 
 long ago came back into her mind. She saw herself stand- 
 ing in the dairy, in front of Martha Tildcn, 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
 
 344 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 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," she said to 
 herself. Then she doubted whether Ellen would appreciate 
 the compliment . . . but she would not let herself think of 
 Ellen tonight. That was tomorrow'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 
 w^ould 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 . . . '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 further, lonelier journey than that on which 
 Joanna was setting out. 
 
 "Oh, Martin," she whispered, lifting her eyes to his pic- 
 ture on her chest of drawers — "I wish I could feel you 
 close." 
 
 It was years since she had really let herself think o* him,
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 345 
 
 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 Bert 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 Com- 
 mandments, but please forgive me. 'Lord have mercy upon 
 us and write all these thy laws in our hearts, we beseech 
 thee.' For Qirist's sake. Amen." 
 
 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 llic faithful, 
 and her heart was full of thankfulness and loyalty. She 
 rose from lier knees, climbed into bccl, and curled up ors 
 her side. Ten minutes later she was sound asleep.
 
 346 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 § 34 
 
 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 busi- 
 ness, 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 happi- 
 ness. 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. 
 
 ^T mean — I'm going to have a child." 
 
 i
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 347 
 
 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 get out of here." 
 "Do you know what you're talking about?" said Ellen. 
 "Yes — I know right enough. It's true what Fm 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 Bertie'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 sec 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 so- 
 ciety, 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
 
 348 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 had risen from its grave and laid cold hands upon her, just 
 when she thought it was safely buried forever. 
 
 "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 ab- 
 solutely 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 possi- 
 bility of wiping out what I'd done when it proved a mis- 
 take, 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 anything 
 about it."
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 349 
 
 "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 hav- 
 ing lost my case, and I'll go right away — Qiichester, I'd 
 thought of going to, where Martha Relf is — and when the 
 baby comes, no one ull be a bit the wiser." 
 
 "Of course they will. They'll know all about it — every- 
 thing 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 sec 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 stififening 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 Ellon. "My Ciod ! 
 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 p<"nple 
 can be . . . I've had to face them — when you wouldn't 
 let Arthur give me my divorce." 
 
 "Well. I'll justabout have to face 'em, that's all. I done 
 wrong, and I don't ask not to be punished."
 
 350 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 "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 
 maybe my own story raked up again. I won't have him 
 punished for his goodness. If you won't marry and be re- 
 spectable, 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." w^ 
 
 "How can he help knowing, as long as you've got a tongue 
 in your head? And what'U he think you're doing at Chi- 
 chester? No, I tell you, Joanna, unless you marry Hill, 
 you can say goodbye 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 throwinc^ 
 it up to me — and he'll be hating the child, seeing as it's only
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 351 
 
 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 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, noth- 
 ing 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 ull be that my child ull have 
 to suffer too. But I tell you it shan't suft'er 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 mak- 
 ing 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 its 
 too late, and then both you and your unfortunate child ull 
 have to suffer." 
 
 "If I married Bert I couldn't keep on Ansdore. lie
 
 352 JOANNA GODDEN 
 
 wouldn't marry me miless 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 furrin 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 davs. He had said that if the floods came back to
 
 JOANNA GODDEN 353 
 
 drown the marsh, all the church bells would ring under the 
 
 SCa* • • • 
 
 She liked thinking of Martin in this way — it comforted 
 her. It made her feel as if, now that her present and future 
 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,
 
 . 

 
 I
 
 
 I
 
 OCT 3 1979 
 
 DATE DUE 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 t 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 CAYLORO 
 
 
 
 ritlNTCO IN U.« A 
 
 I 
 
 V
 
 5 
 
 PR6021 A93J6 1922 
 . ^ Kaye-Smith, Sheila, 1887- 
 
 Lf-J t^ 1.956. 
 
 Joanna Godden, 
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 AA 000 601 425 2 
 
 3 12 
 
 00195 6380