‘I think I must have dropped off,’ he said. ‘Why, look at the clock!’ He kissed her good-night.
‘By the way,’ he said, ‘I saw young Fred Maddy over at Craven Arms. He talked about riding over for tea Sunday. He’s doing pretty well, is Fred Maddy, since his father died.’
He stood blinking at her curiously; but she made him no reply.
‘Will you put out the light in the kitchen, dad, and see to the doors?’ she said.
Next morning, when he had listened to Abner’s own version of Daisy’s death and stood for a few moments in contemplation of the carcass, Mr Prosser told him without offering any explanation that he would not be wanted at The Dyke after the end of the week. Abner took it for granted that the loss of the cow explained his dismissal. It was a piece of bad luck, and no more was to be said for it. The blow was a heavy one, for he had felt that his position on the farm was secure and that the fortunes of Wolfpits were safe for the winter. He would have to begin his search for work all over again, and this at a time when the demand for labour was at its lowest. What made him particularly savage was the look of triumph that he now saw on Harris’s face. No doubt the ploughman had managed to put a word in against him with Mr Prosser. Well, a man who had taken such a hammering as Harris got on the night of the harvest home had a right to get his own back, particularly when fortune had given his enemy a trip.
What puzzled Abner more was the strangeness of Marion’s attitude. He did not attach any great importance to her breakdown in the farm kitchen and the tender moment that followed: that was the kind of thing that might happen with any woman: but he did find it rather shabby of her to abandon him as soon as he was down on his luck, for he had always felt that she was his friend and supporter, and knew, indeed, that he had owed his job to her from the beginning. Still, he believed that it was in keeping with human—and even more with feminine nature—to kick a man when he was down. The school in which he had been brought up had left him with few romantic illusions: so, instead of brooding over her defection, he went on steadily with his work until the day of his departure.
On the last evening they met, for one moment only. She came into the byre at milking-time and took up her old station in the doorway, watching him as he worked. He looked round and found her standing there: it was too dark for him to see her face. She handed him the pails in silence, and when he had finished and stood wiping his hands on his trousers, she said, almost timidly:
‘This is the last time.’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘and I’m sorry to go.’
‘I’m sorry too,’ she said, though she could not be sure that she was speaking the truth. ‘You’ve been a great help to us.’