n July, however, she was not able to walk so far as Crickabella, and
was forced to pass all her days in the garden, gazing at the shimmering
line of the hills opposite. Granfa Champion used to spend much time in
her company, and was continually having to be restrained from violent
digging in the heat. During August picture post-cards often arrived
from girls spending their holidays at Margate or Brighton, postcards
that gave no news beyond, "Having a fine old time. Hope you're alright,"
but, inasmuch as they showed that there was still a thought of Jenny in
the great world outside, very welcome.

August dragged on with parched days, and cold twilights murmurous with
the first rustle of autumn. Jenny began to work herself up into a state
of nervous apprehension, brooding over childbirth, its pain and secrecy
of purpose and ultimate responsibilities. She could no longer tolerate
the comments passed upon her by Mrs. Trewhella nor the furtive
inquisitiveness of Zachary. She gave up sitting at dinner with the rest
of the household, and was humored in this fad more perhaps from policy
than any consideration of affection. The only pleasure of these hot
insufferable days of waiting was the knowledge that Zachary was banished
from her room, that once more, as of old, May would sleep beside her.
There was a new experience from the revival of the partnership because
now, unlike the old theater days, Jenny would often be the first in bed
and able to lie there watching in the candlelight May's shadow glance
hugely about the irregular ceiling, like Valerie's shadow long since in
the Glasgow bedroom. Where was Valerie now? But where was anybody in her
history? Ghosts, every one of them, where she was concerned.

Chapter XL: _Harvest Home_

All day long the whirr of the reaper and binder had rattled from distant
fields in a monotone of sound broken at regular intervals by guttural
cries when the horses at a corner turned on their tracks, and later in
the afternoon by desultory gunshots, when from the golden triangle of
wheat rabbits darted over the fresh stubble. All day long Jenny, obeying
some deep instinct, prepared for the ordeal. The sun blazed over the
spread harvest; the fields crackled with heat; the blue sky seemed to
close upon the earth, and not even from the whole length of Trewinnard
Sands was heard a solitary ripple of the tide. In the garden the
claret-colored dahlias hung down their tight, uncomfortable flowers