Later in consultation at the market with a group of other young farmers, Bert delivered his message.
"Nay, she'll not give way, she says. Ay, but she do talk! She's a rare woman, is Mrs. Robson, but not the sort I'd like to have about t' house days and nights out. She's a bit unchancy like."
He would have thought her yet more "unchancy" could he have seen her outside John's bedroom, hesitating on the dark landing, clasping and unclasping her hands while her breath came in quick, gasping sobs.
During the last ten days her life had become a jagged patch work of moments when, composed and self-confident in the presence of others, she met the increasing difficulties of the labour question, and the moments when alone she wrestled sobbing and abandoned with her doubts and fears and shames.
There were three things to be remembered directly she opened John's door. First, she must give him the doctor's message about getting up. Secondly, she must satisfy his querulous curiosity about Bert. Thirdly, she must avoid if possible all topics which might recall to his mind the scene in the wheat-field.
She pulled herself together and entered the room.
John lay still and sullen on the great bed. His beard had grown thick and straggling and his rumpled hair and restless eyes did not increase his comeliness. But he was better. It had been a slight stroke.
"The doctor says you can get up next Saturday."
"About time too. I never saw such tomfoolery, keeping me here just before harvest for a touch of sunstroke. Who's been up to the house, honey?"
"Bert Armstrong came for a bit of advice about harvesters. He's not a bad sort of boy, John, but I think he finds the responsibility of farming a bit too much for him after his father's death."