“But it’s true!” whispered Freda eagerly, “it’s true: I know it, I feel it. Go on, go on.”
“Well, at any rate that was only part of what he felt, remember; for he’s done things he had better have left undone for a good many years now. He also felt that a girl would be in the way here with her prying eyes—as it has proved; and between the wish to see you and the wish not to see you, he was quite unmanned. In fact, he’s not been the same man since you’ve been about: it’s Crispin who has become master.”
Nell said this with sorrow rather than with pride. She paused, and Freda urged her to go on:
“And on that day, when you were coming to let me in——?” she suggested.
“Ah, yes. Suddenly he made up his mind to let you in himself, and he said: ‘Don’t let her know who I am; I shan’t.’ ‘I shan’t say anything, sir, you may be sure,’ I said. And with that I walked back to my kitchen, and he let you in, and you took him for Crispin, as you know. And ever since then he’s been in two minds, now making believe to be dead, so that he might get away quietly, and now bent on staying here, whatever happened.”
“Whatever happened!” repeated Freda. “Why, what should happen, Mrs. Bean?”
The housekeeper rose, and made answer very abruptly:
“I suppose you have some nerve, or you wouldn’t have got down on the scaur by yourself to-night! Well, come with me, then.”
She opened the door, and led the girl back to the sick-room, where John Thurley lay quietly enough, looking up at the old-fashioned bed-draperies, and muttering to himself in a low voice from time to time. Leaving Freda by the door, with a significant sign to be silent, Nell went up to the bedside, and put her hand on the sick man’s forehead.
“Are you better now?” she asked gently.