"It seems to me there was little show of crawling in the way he came," said Mary, with the ghost of a smile, and speaking only because her husband seemed to be expecting her to say something. Her brain was in a tumult as she wondered what would be the end of all this, and what would—what could poor Dorothy do for her own peace of mind and that of her father?
She feared that, should a sudden knowledge of the truth come to him, it might be his death-blow; and she made no doubt that if her hot-headed husband knew it, the young dragoon would scarcely be permitted to leave the house unscathed, if indeed he were not killed outright. And then she thought of a duel,—of its chances, and of her husband not being the one to survive.
At this a low cry escaped from her lips before she could prevent it; and her husband stepped closer to her side.
"It is nothing—nothing," she said brokenly, in response to his anxious questioning. "I was but thinking."
"Thinking of what, sweetheart?"
"If any harm should befall you," she answered.
"Why, what harm, think you, should come to me?" And he took her hands, holding them close, while he tried to look into her averted eyes.
"I—don't know," she said evasively. "These are such dreadful times that have come to us, that no one can tell what is like to happen. Oh," with a sudden impetuous burst, more suited to Dorothy than to her own calm self, "I wish there had never been such a nation as the English!"
When Joseph Devereux had done speaking, the young man turned his eyes from the pale face in which he seemed to have been searching for some hint or suggestion as to what he should now say.
That his quest was fruitless,—that he found nothing, no fleeting glance or expression, to indicate the girl's present feeling toward him, was apparent from the look of keen disappointment, well-nigh despair, that now settled upon his own face, making it almost ghastly in the uncertain light.