‘No more it is, my son,’ Abner laughed. ‘Get on with it!’
‘They said you’d been caught out over at Redlake.’
‘Then it’s that bleeder Badger!’ said Abner. ‘Wait till I see the sod! That all?’
‘I didn’t hear no more,’ said Munn.
‘Well, kid,’ said Abner. ‘You keep clear of the women! Don’t you have naught to do with them!’
‘No fear,’ said Munn, with a smirk of his hare-lip.
Abner had meant to have the matter out with Mary, but when he thought it over he saw that nothing was to be gained by this. He understood her awkwardness, and, knowing the delicacy of her temper, left well alone. She, on her part, would have suffered an agony of shame in showing him George’s letter. After his final interview with Susie she noticed a change in him and wondered what had caused it. He began to spend his evenings again at Wolfpits, going out to talk in the stables with old Drew, picking baskets of fruit from the walled garden and working, more rarely, in their own tilled plot. She was curious to know what had happened, but kept her thoughts to herself, and was grateful at least for his forbearance.
She had heard no more of George, and though she had lived in fear of seeing old Mrs Malpas ever since Susie’s visit had told her that the new scandal was abroad, the weeks passed by and no outside intelligence penetrated the remoteness of Wolfpits. At times, when she saw Abner moving quietly about the heavy work of the house she was overwhelmed with a sensation which she persuaded herself was gratitude, and longed to burst through the convention of silence or commonplace that bound them. It would have been fairer, she thought, to open her heart to him, to stand face to face without a veil between. But she did not know what her own heart contained, or what the veil concealed, and her courage always failed her. Not only would her confession involve an abasement, a sacrifice of pride that she could not face, but Heaven only knew where it might lead. And yet, in spite of these things, they were almost happy.
One Wednesday evening early in August, just before the gang knocked off for the day, the clerk of the works came walking gingerly among the scattered culverts to the trench in which Abner and Munn were working. He carried a paper in his hand which he consulted with short-sighted eyes before he addressed them.
‘Fellows and Munn, isn’t it?’ he mumbled. ‘Munn and Fellows. Yes.’