“I hear.”
“To-morrow, George. Go to-morrow. She may fill up your place if you wait. Will you go early?”
“I bean’t going. I’m off to Hereford to-morrow; I’ve come down to say good-bye to ’e, Mary.”
“Oh! George Williams, will nothing turn you?” she entreated.
“Nothin’,” said the young man.
Looking at him she saw it was useless to try to move him. His face was hard, as she had first known it. There was a barred cell in Williams’ heart, and when he had entered into it, no one could draw him out, not even the woman he loved.
“If you be going to Hereford, you’ll be gone from me, the same as if you was at Great Masterhouse. It will be all one,” said Mary presently.
Not knowing how to explain himself, he did not reply. If he stayed on in his place it would mean a denial of the faith that was in him, a disloyalty to her. He did not so much as consider it, and it annoyed him that she should do so.
They had turned into a deep lane leading up to the higher ground. From a clump of thorn-trees further on the cuckoo was calling. When the lane ended, the two stopped and looked at Llangarth beneath their feet.
Mary’s heart was full; the world was too complicated for her, man too hard, and George was going. She had ruined him, not willingly, but none the less effectually. She glanced up at him and saw his look fixed on her. His eyes were soft in his hard face, and in them lay the weary knowledge of how far outside Paradise he stood. She made a step towards him, catching her breath.