While the girl was still sitting in the window-seat crouching in an attitude of deep depression, the door of her father’s room softly opened, and Nell came up to her. She looked worried but spoke very gently.
“This is a bad business,” she began. “It’s one of my lord and master’s tricks, no doubt. And the worst of it is that when Crispin takes a job like this on hand, he doesn’t generally stop till he’s finished it.”
“But can’t you prevent him? Can’t you persuade him that he’s hurt this poor man enough?” asked Freda anxiously.
Nell shook her head.
“My dear,” said she, “since you’ve found out so much you may as well know the rest. Crispin’s a bad man, but a moderately good husband. If I were to interfere with him in any way, he would not be at all a better man, and he’d be a much worse husband. Those are the terms we live upon: I hold my tongue to him, and he holds his to me.”
“Then you won’t take care of this poor man any longer?”
“Yes, I will as long as I can. What he will most want is—watching. You understand?”
“Yes,” said Freda, trembling.
“The wound isn’t dangerous, I think if he’s kept quiet. And I’m used to nursing. Who is he?”
Freda hesitated. But the truth could not be concealed from Nell much longer, so at last she faltered: