She worked off her fears in action. Having given notice of the banns to Mr. Pratt, sent off Dr. Taylor to North Farthing, put up a special petition for Martin in her evening prayers, she went to bed and slept 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, expecting 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."
"What's the matter? What did the 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?"