"Very well, honey. You know best."
This would be her life, thought Mary. She would always have John's large and ineffective figure beside her. His "Very well, honey, you know best," would greet every decision that she made. She would always have long days at Anderby and short hours by the sea, and the homeward road winding before her in the fading light. There would always be the dull absence of expectation that rewards those who have realized their ambitions, and, later, there would be failing energy and old age.... Well, at least she had two possessions which made all that endurable. The kingdom of Anderby was, after all, still hers, in spite of Sarah and John and Coast and Hunting, and that fierce, indefinable power which David called progress. The other thing—she opened her eyes more widely in the windy dusk, and even then the colour rose to her cheeks and her heart beat faster—the other thing was the knowledge that somewhere David was alive and working. Though she might not, no, did not now even wish to see him, yet, from time to time the force of his vitality would quicken her through his writings, through chance news of his activities, through the memories to which she turned again and again when other thoughts were still. She might still amuse herself by pretending to hear his voice offering help again from the darkness of the road, or by rehearsing imaginary scenes to herself, scenes that would follow his return, many years afterwards, to visit her at Anderby. And she would confess what a narrow, complacent fool she had been, and they would laugh together over everything—even that incident in the cornfield ... no, perhaps not that. They would never speak of that. All the same, the quiet dream meadow where John had wooed her was driven now from her imagination by the picture of a wheat-field, hot and golden, and the scent of poppies and ripening corn upon the air.
Suddenly she raised her head. The scent of wheat and poppies? This familiar, acrid smell that the wind blew against her nostrils? "Can you smell something, John?" she asked.
He sniffed the air.
"Ay. Something's burning. Probably they're burning hedge-clippings somewhere."
"You don't burn hedge-clippings just after harvest."
A bicycle bell rang furiously just under the horse's nose. He swerved aside.
"Where are your lights?" called Mary. "It's past lighting time."
A voice answered from the road. "That you, Mrs. Robson?" Then, almost before she had time to reply, it called, "Then hurry back. I'm off to fetch t' fire-engine. Your stacks are afire."
She stopped for no inquiry, but leaning low and plucking the whip from its socket she sent the pony forward at a gallop.