As she crossed the passage, she caught sight of Mrs. Coast's frightened face, hovering like a ghost near the kitchen door. But she ignored its mute appeal and closed the front door behind her with exaggerated care.
Outside she walked with hurried steps along the path by the churchyard. Outraged virtue is a comfortable feeling. Coast had no right to speak to her like that. As if she wasn't ready to do anything for Anderby! Why, now that the Wold Farm was safe she had no stronger interest left in life than her care for the village. He could not help knowing how much she cared. It was common talk how she sat up all night when old Mrs. Watts had bronchitis, and how she drove every sick child in to hospital....
It was dinner-time now. She would be late and that was the schoolmaster's fault. She almost wished she had let John sign that testimonial and so get rid of the man. There would have been room in Leeds for him to lose himself. You could never get away from anyone in Anderby.
All the way down the path she assured herself that Coast was an awful man and that she was suffering from her difficult act of justice three years ago.
As she turned into the village street she began to feel uncomfortable. Was it, after all, so very important that she should keep the field? She who always laughed at sentiment, what did she hope to gain by it? A secret garden of romance? Or rather a convenient paddock where there were good mushrooms and running water? If ever she had loved John, it would have been different. She would have had a right to be sentimental. Still—she liked to pretend that once she had welcomed her lover like other women. The dream was so elusive that, without the field, it might vanish altogether.
And, anyway, Coast has no right to speak to her like that.
She wrapped herself in satisfaction, as in a soft, warm cloak.
The garden gate closed behind her with a clang.
She would not sell.