The words brought Dorothy's grief to her once more. Then Mary broke down as well, and the two wept together, their heads touching each other on the pillow.
"And now whatever is to be done?" Mary said, as soon as her calmness returned,—a calmness filled with indignation and resentment. "Since this man is surely your husband, you must needs obey him, I suppose, if he insists upon it. And now that he is going away, it would seem natural for him to come here, despite his promise to wait until he was asked. And I should say he would be quite sure to demand that you go away with him. And," almost in terror, "for your father to hear of it for the first time in such a fashion, and from him!"
"Oh, Mary, don't talk in that way!" cried Dorothy, in affright, and clinging still closer to her.
"But never you fear, Dot," Mary said more encouragingly, "so long as Jack is here to look after you. That man will never dare seek to drag you from your father's house while Jack is about. And besides, the townspeople would never permit him to leave the place alive, should he attempt such a thing."
"I won't go—I'll never go!" Dorothy exclaimed passionately. "But—" Her voice took a different note, and she stopped.
"But—what?" asked Mary instantly, for she heard her husband's footsteps on the uncarpeted staircase.
"I don't want any harm to befall him," was the tremulous answer.
"Oh, Dot," Mary began in dismay, "can it be possible that, after all, you—"
But Dorothy interrupted her.
"Hush!" she whispered, "here comes Jack." Then beseechingly, "Oh, Mary, say once more that you'll not tell him yet."