“I shall be all right when I get there.”

“But what do you think you’re going to do in Canada?  It’s not as if you’d got anything to go for.”

“I shall find something.  I shall work on somebody’s ranch first and learn Canadian farming.  Then I shall look out for land and buy it.  I’ve got stacks of money.  All Grandpapa Everitt’s, and the money for the farm.  Stacks.  I shall get on all right.”

“When did you think of all this?”

“Last night.”

“I see.  I made you.”

“No.  I made myself.  After all, it’s the easiest way.”

“For you, or me?”

“For both of us.  Honestly, it’s the only straight thing.  I ought to have done it long ago.”

“It means never seeing each other again.  You’ll never come back.”

“Never while we’re young.  When we’re both old, too old to feel any more, then I’ll come back some day, and we’ll be friends.”

And still his will beat against hers in vain, till at last he stopped; sick and exhausted.

They went together down the ploughed land into the pastures, and through the pastures to the mill water.  In the opposite field they could see the brown roof and walls of the shelter.

“What are you going to plant in the Seven Acres field?”

“Barley,” he said.

“You can’t.  It was barley last year.”

“Was it?”

They were silent then.  Jerrold struggled with his feeling of deadly sickness.  Anne couldn’t trust herself to speak.  At the Barrow Farm gate they parted.

ii

Maisie’s eyes looked at him across the table, wondering.  Her little drooping mouth was half open with anxiety, as if any minute she was going to say something.  The looking-glass had shown him his haggard and discoloured face, a face to frighten her.  He tried to eat, but the sight and smell of hot roast mutton sickened him.

“Oh, Jerrold, can’t you eat it?”

“No, I can’t.  I’m sorry.”

“There’s some cold chicken.  Will you have that?”

“No, thanks.”

“Try and eat something.”

“I can’t.  I feel sick.”

“Don’t sit up, then.  Go and lie down.”

“I will if you don’t mind.”

He went to his room and was sick.  He lay down on his bed and tried to sleep.  His head ached violently and every movement made him heave; he couldn’t sleep; he couldn’t lie still; and presently he got up and went out again, up to the Far Acres field to the ploughing.  He couldn’t overcome the physical sickness of his misery, but he could force himself to move, to tramp up and down the stiff furrows, watching the tractor; he kept himself going by the sheer strength of his will.  The rattle and clank of the tractor ground into his head, making it ache again.  He was stunned with great blows of noise and pain, so that he couldn’t think.  He didn’t want to think; he was glad of the abominable sensations that stopped him.  He went from field to field, avoiding the boundaries of the Barrow Farm lest he should see Anne.