"My word, she's a fawce little thing," the landlady would say
to Brangwen.
"Ay," he answered, not encouraging comments on the child.
Then there followed the present of a biscuit, or of cake, which
Anna accepted as her dues.
"What does she say, that I'm a fawce little thing?" the small
girl asked afterwards.
"She means you're a sharp-shins."
Anna hesitated. She did not understand. Then she laughed at
some absurdity she found.
Soon he took her every week to market with him. "I can come,
can't I?" she asked every Saturday, or Thursday morning, when he
made himself look fine in his dress of a gentleman farmer. And
his face clouded at having to refuse her.
So at last, he overcame his own shyness, and tucked her
beside him. They drove into Nottingham and put up at the "Black
Swan". So far all right. Then he wanted to leave her at the inn.
But he saw her face, and knew it was impossible. So he mustered
his courage, and set off with her, holding her hand, to the
cattle-market.
She stared in bewilderment, flitting silent at his side. But
in the cattle-market she shrank from the press of men, all men,
all in heavy, filthy boots, and leathern leggins. And the road
underfoot was all nasty with cow-muck. And it frightened her to
see the cattle in the square pens, so many horns, and so little
enclosure, and such a madness of men and a yelling of drovers.
Also she felt her father was embarrassed by her, and
ill-at-ease.
He brought her a cake at the refreshment-booth, and set her
on a seat. A man hailed him.
"Good morning, Tom. That thine, then?"--and the
bearded farmer jerked his head at Anna.
"Ay," said Brangwen, deprecating.
"I did-na know tha'd one that old."
"No, it's my missis's."
"Oh, that's it!" And the man looked at Anna as if she were
some odd little cattle. She glowered with black eyes.
Brangwen left her there, in charge of the barman, whilst he
went to see about the selling of some young stirks. Farmers,
butchers, drovers, dirty, uncouth men from whom she shrank
instinctively stared down at her as she sat on her seat, then
went to get their drink, talking in unabated tones. All was big
and violent about her.
"Whose child met that be?" they asked of the barman.
"It belongs to Tom Brangwen."
The child sat on in neglect, watching the door for her
father. He never came; many, many men came, but not he, and she
sat like a shadow. She knew one did not cry in such a place. And
every man looked at her inquisitively, she shut herself away
from them.
A deep, gathering coldness of isolation took hold on her. He
was never coming back. She sat on, frozen, unmoving.