Mary sat erect, her hands tightly clasped, the colour drained from her face. The cart rattled up to the bridge. One or two of the men standing in the road gave way and nodded a sheepish "Good night." Mary looked across them straight to David, where he stood with his figure darkly outlined against a transparent evening sky.
For a flashing minute she caught and seemed to hold his eyes. She thought he stopped speaking, but only for an instant. Then the pony sped past, trotting cheerfully up the street. Mary sat very still in the cart.
"Wasn't that the young fellow who was staying with us.—Rossitur?" asked John. "My eyes aren't so good as they might be. I can't see very well in this light."
"Yes, I think it was."
"What's he up to here, I wonder? With Hunting too. I don't like that chap, Mary."
"Who—Rossitur?"
"No. I've got nothing against Rossitur. He's a bit of a clatterbrain, but he's young. He'll learn sense. I mean that man Hunting. He's civil spoken all right. And the union's all right, I suppose. They've got 'em in other places. I expect we've got to put up with it."
"I suppose so."
What was David doing there? thought Mary. Why had he come again? He was a journalist. Journalists didn't wander round the country-side preaching in the villages, except, of course, when they needed a rest or—a wild hope caught and held her spellbound—when a particular inclination drew them.
"I was talking to Willerby at the market this afternoon. He's not a bad chap, Mary, though he's no farmer. He says he's used to unions in the West Riding where he came from. Where the masters and the men get on all right, they don't seem to give much trouble. I suppose we were bound to get them here one day."