"Come on, Donelle! See, it is raining, you must wear this heavy coat, it will quite cover you. Come!"
Tom had appropriated her, taken command. His face was almost terrible in its set purpose.
She followed him mutely, obediently, as any little hill woman might have done. Her face was ghastly, but she did not tremble. Side by side they made their way to Father Mantelle's; the rain poured upon them, their steps sloughed in the soft earth, and behind them trudged Nick, looking old and forsaken!
Father Mantelle did his duty—as he saw it. He made sure that Tom fully understood what he was undertaking; he made sure that Donelle was wiser than he had believed her. He winced as she confessed that her love for Mam'selle Morey had, after full comprehension of their relation, brought her back and kept her silent. She had known about herself all along.
"And that's why," Tom put in, "that we insist upon silence now. I'm going to run things hereafter."
And so Father Mantelle married them and put the blessing of the Church upon them.
It was quite dark when they left the priest's house; dark and still storming in the quiet, persistent way that spring knows.
"Was Mam'selle going to leave you in the house with—with that man to-night?" Tom asked suddenly.
"No—I was going to Marcel's. But, Tom, I must go and feed the animals." Almost Donelle had forgotten the helpless creatures. She was terribly afraid that she might encounter the man she most dreaded in the world, for he was quite one of the family and often made his own meal when Jo and Donelle were away. But if he had gone to the wood-cabin first, she argued, he would not come to the little white house. Of that she felt sure!
So she and Tom fed the animals and made them safe for the night. In doing the homely, familiar tasks Donelle felt a certain peace, but she had not yet recovered from her terrible shock; she was spiritually numb.