“But you don’t like to see me.”
“I do; but——”
“What’s wrong wi’ you, Mary? Speak out.”
“I’m feared of you, George.”
He swore under his breath.
“Promise you won’t ever speak like you did at the toll,” she faltered, “not ever again.”
Williams set his lips; his short space of prosperity had raised his spirit, and he was no longer so much inclined to accept reverses as natural events. For some time he had earned good wages, and he was already beginning to lessen his debt to Mrs. Walters; in a short time it would no longer exist. He was a different being from the Pig-driver’s sullen, dispirited servant. That hated bondage had crushed all the instincts of young manhood, and made him into a kind of machine for endurance. They now had freedom to rise in him, and he longed for a little joy beyond the mere joy of his release. He could not have framed it for himself, but he was craving for emotion, for femininity, for love, for children, for all that might be centred in the woman beside him. He picked up a stone and threw it smartly into the boughs of an elm-tree. It was a rebellious action.
“I can’t,” he said shortly, “and I won’t.”
“Then I can’t see you any more. You were to stand by me that day when—after—at the river, but it’s different now, it seems.”