Alas, she had been right. She would never forget it!
The man who drove saw that her face matched her mourning, and he left her to her thoughts, so that hardly a word passed between them until they were close upon the outskirts of the town. Then the driver, to whom the dull winter landscape, the lines of willows, and the low water-logged fields, were no novelty, pricked up his ears.
“Dang me!” he said, “they’ve started! There’s a fine rumpus in the town. Do you hear ’em, Miss? That’s a band I’m thinking?”
“I hope no one will be hurt.”
The man winked at his horse. “None of the right side, Miss,” he said slyly. “But it might be a hanging, front o’ Stafford gaol, by the roar! I met a tidy lot going in as I came out, a right tidy lot! I’m blest,” after listening a moment, “if they’re not coming this way!”
“I hope they won’t do anything to——”
“La, Miss,” the man answered, misreading her anxiety and interrupting her, “they’ll never touch us. And for the old nag, he’s yeomanry. He’d not start if he met a mile o’ funerals!”
Certainly the noise was growing. But the lift of the canal bridge and bank, which crossed the road a hundred yards before them, hid all of the town from them save a couple of church towers, some tiled roofs, and the brick gable of Hatton’s Works. The man whipped up his horse.
“Teach they Manchester chaps a trick!” he muttered. “Shouldn’t wonder if there’ll be work for the crowner out of this! Gee-up, old nag, let’s see what’s afoot! ’Pears to me,” as the shouting grew plainer, “we’ll be in at the death yet, Miss!”
Mary winced at the word, but if the man feared that she would refuse to go on, he was mistaken. On the contrary, she looked eagerly to the front as the old horse, urged by the whip, took the rise of the bridge at a canter, and, having reached the crown, relapsed into an absent-minded walk.