His mute misery appealed to her desire for action. Besides, it was all part of her plan of life by which she must speak to foreman, she must pacify Mike, she must in short be Mrs. Robson of Anderby Wold.
She invented trivial pretexts for working in the kitchen that she might be the first to hear an ominous knock at the door. With her sleeves rolled above her elbows she stood for hours, her hands deep in flour, a self constituted vanguard to repel the attacks of John's enemies.
"You're very busy these days, honey," he remarked with his slow smile as Mary rose from the table and began to replace her large white apron.
She was busy with the buttons and for a moment did not answer.
"There's a lot of fruit to bottle," she said at last. "Sarah Bannister has sent me some more damsons from the low orchard."
"Must you do it to-night? You look a bit fagged out."
He rarely commented on her appearance. She wondered if it had altered lately. That would not be surprising.
"Oh, I'm all right, and you see the fruit was picked in the wet, and will go bad if I don't bottle it at once. Sarah said I should."
"Didn't you say we were going over there?"
"Yes, Sarah's letter is on the mantelpiece if you want to see it. She asked us to go on Wednesday and stay for tea."