It was Freda’s turn to laugh now.
“Oh,” she cried, “then I knew him better than you after all. For he loved one woman so well that he could never bear to look at another after she died. And he left his own daughter among women, nothing but women. And I believe that all those years he wouldn’t see me because he thought I could never be good enough for her daughter. I was lame, you see,” she added softly.
There was a long, long pause. Freda had managed to get on the right side of rough Crispin. For he suddenly startled her by taking her in his right arm with a sweeping embrace which nearly took her off her feet, while he said huskily:
“Come in, there’s a dear child; you’re cold. You’re quite right, I’ll be good to you for the sake of—— Well, for your own sake!”
He half led, half carried her along under the gallery and into the house. Mrs. Bean, who was standing at the back door with rather an anxious look upon her face, seemed relieved to see that they returned in amity. Crispin took the girl into a long, low-ceilinged room, where the furniture, in holland bags, was stacked up against the walls. He led her before a large oil-painting of a lady, the charm of whose gracious beauty, even the old-fashioned fourth-rate portrait-painter had not been able wholly to destroy.
“I suppose you can guess who that is,” said Crispin.
“My mother,” said Freda softly.
“I believe the Captain thought a lot of this picture once. But for the last few years his memory had grown a bit dim, and he remembered bitter things better than sweet ones.”
Freda drew a little nearer to Crispin. She perceived by his tone how strong the sympathy had been between him and her father. She gave a little sigh, and they instinctively turned to each other and exchanged glances of growing liking and confidence as they went down the long room and crossed the hall to the dining-room. Crispin turned up the lamp, and was about to refill his pipe when it occurred to him to turn to the girl and say:
“You won’t be able to stand this indoors, I suppose?”