d of waiting and
inactivity far more than she had felt the actual shock. She had all the
weight on her shoulders of a sustained deception. She and Arthur had to
dress up a story 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 for 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 instinct realized that
her sister was not the sort to take desperate 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 Oepedaletti, a small place near San Remo,
and he wrote charmingly. 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 conspirator,
linked by a broad and kindly intuition with himself and Ellen against a
censorious world.

"You, who know Ellen so well, will realize 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 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 realize exactly what public
opinion is worth--if you yourself had bowed down to it