"Yes—maybe I 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?"
"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 undefinable forces and associations 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 bill. 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 wreckwood. 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 Beggar's 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?"