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 predominated in the letter she wrote Sir Harry, for she knew well enough that the flattery was not sincere—­he was merely out to propitiate.

Her feelings towards 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 rashly—­the neighbours’ discretion.  “I’ve told them you’re in London with Mrs. Williams.  But that won’t hold good 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 beginning to leak out.  People 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 that Post Office,” she exclaimed, and the remark was not quite unjust.  The contents of telegrams had always had an alarming way of spreading themselves over the district, and Joanna felt sure that Miss Godfrey 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 impenitently 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 Alce, “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 carter’s work.  Those lawyers want to put their heads in everywhere.  And as for Ellen, all I can say is, it’s just like her wanting the Ten Commandments altered to suit her convenience.  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.”