He felt his incapacities keenly, and the brave holly-sprig in his buttonhole was no longer an expression of his mood but a mockery of it. In his self-abasement he did not suspect that she had been hard upon him, nor could he know how the sudden revelation of his masculinity had affected her as he came into the cottage. He had expected to take up their relationship where he had left it on the river-bank near the snow-men, not understanding that it was an abnormal one, risen from abnormal circumstances and passing with them.
He went through Crishowell looking neither to the right nor left and never slackening his pace, and he was remarked only by such idlers as were gathered round the blacksmith’s shop. At that hour of the morning, the village people had other things to think of besides their neighbours’ affairs; that was a pleasure reserved for the later part of the day. He rushed past the churchyard in which he had first seen Mary sitting by her father’s grave, and had watched the burial from under the yew. As he crossed a field on the way upwards, he saw Bumpett driving in his spring cart down the lane, his hat bobbing above the hedge with the jolting of the wheels in ruts, and though he heard the old man hailing him in his high-pitched voice, he pretended to be unconscious of it, and went on as though pursued. Presently the Pig-driver stood up in the cart and produced a sound which had in it such a note of distress that George pulled up in spite of himself, and turned his steps towards a low bit of hedge over which he might converse with his employer. He was rather surprised to find an elderly woman sitting beside Bumpett on the board which served as a driving-seat. The Pig-driver crossed his hands one over the other in spite of the reins in them and shrugged his shoulders slowly, smiling with the aspect of one who has an ample leisure in which to let loose his mind upon the world; the horse looked round with cocked ears to see what was happening. George noticed that the woman seemed agitated.
“Now, look you, Nannie,” began Bumpett cheerily, “I’ve a fine opinion o’ this young feller. S’pose we was to ax him what he thinks.”
Williams’ face darkened, for he was in no humour for trifling, and he knew by long experience that the old man’s expansiveness was to be met with caution. His malice was the only gratuitous thing about him, and he was liable to hand that round without stint at any moment.
“Don’t you!” exclaimed Nannie, half under her breath, twitching at her companion’s elbow. “Go on!” she cried to the horse, prodding it with the umbrella beside her; the beast made a step forward, but the Pig-driver was holding the reins tightly and progress was impossible.
“It’s no matter, none at all,” said Nannie. “Lord love me, I was an old foondy, brothering at you like that. Go you on, Mr. Bumpett, ’stead o’ putting foolery o’ that sort into the young man’s head.” And she grasped his sleeve again.
The Pig-driver only smiled more expansively, until his eyes were as pin-points in his face.
“How you do pug at me, Nannie, to be sure! Ah, women do take up strange notions, George, they do indeed,” he said wagging his head.
“I don’t know nothin’ about women. I must be movin’ on,” answered Williams shortly.
“Well, well. Time’s money wi’ you,” observed the Pig-driver, winking, “and there’s no lack of honest work for honest men. But bide you a minute. Here’s Mrs. Davies have got it that Rhys Walters is hidin’ away hereabouts. What do ye say? Hey? Did ’e ever hear the like o’ that now?”