There was never any fear that Abner would not work. It was only by violent exertion that he could keep any heat in his body, for his food was poor, and the winter, as old Drew had prophesied, severe. He toiled there in rain, in sleet, in snow, and in blinding mist. The pay was so poor that he knew he could not afford to miss a day, picking up stones with numbed and ragged fingers when no other labourers were afield. Every evening he walked home dead tired, scarcely knowing if his legs were his own, for the continual stooping took all sensation away from them.
Once, in the dusk, he lost his way, for he had tried to shorten his journey by a cross-cut. He found himself suddenly on the brink of the sea-crows’ pool, but not a bird was to be seen, for in winter they returned to their homes on the Cardigan coast. His memory of what had happened there was as hazy as that of a dream. It seemed to him that he had lived half a lifetime since that night. He stumbled down through the fog and passed the door of Badger’s cottage. A light burned in the window, and he thought he saw Susie moving in the parlour. He laughed to himself and damned her . . . damned all women. Another evening on his way home a dog-cart overtook him coming over the hills from Clun. It had passed him before he saw that its occupants were Marion Prosser and a young farmer named Maddy, whom Abner only knew by sight. They bowled by him at a good pace. He wondered if she had recognised him, for he had been in their sight for some time. If she had, she made no sign of having seen him. And again he hardened his heart against all women.
And yet, though he did not know it, the sight of Abner trudging homeward down the lane had awakened a palpitating interest in Marion’s heart, and inspired her with a sudden distaste for the man who was sitting in the trap beside her. She looked down on him from the height of the driver’s seat, seeing his mean shoulders, the thin nape of his neck, and his small foxy face in profile. She felt that she would like to lash at him with the whip that she held in her hand; but since she knew that ladylike young women did not do such things, she flicked him with the lash of her tongue instead.
‘That was Fellows, our cowman, Fred,’ she said, knowing that the name would wound him.
He gave an ugly laugh. ‘I know him. He had the face to come and ask me for work. I soon gave him the right-about!’
‘You!’ she cried scornfully. ‘You’re not fit to talk to him! He’s twice the man that you are.’
He flushed. ‘Look here, Marion, who the hell do you think you’re talking to?’ he said, clutching her arm with a show of strength.
‘Don’t!’ she cried. She wrenched herself free and slapped his face. The horse broke into a canter.
‘That’s not the way to get yourself married,’ he said.
She would not reply to his insult and they drove to The Dyke in an uncomfortable silence.