“Now look here,” he said, like one trembling on the borders of a great outburst of passion, “if you let Dick Heritage come fooling about you here, I’ll shoot him through the head. Now you understand.”
Freda looked up with a sudden flash of haughtiness.
“I am going back to the convent, Crispin, and these gentlemen are nothing to me. But if I were going to stay in this house, I should see whom I liked, for I should be the mistress here.”
If she had stabbed him he would not have been more surprised. He held his pipe in his hand, and stared at her, unable at first to find words. She, on her side, felt very uncomfortable as soon as the outburst had escaped her. She felt that a confession had slipped out against her will, and she hung her head, and looked into the fire, hoping that the glow would hide her flaming cheeks.
“So you would be mistress here, would you?” he said. “And you intend to go back to the convent? And I suppose you think your father’s wishes nothing.”
“I don’t know what they were; and I shall never know now!”
“Well, I’ll tell you. His wishes were that you should remain here, and call yourself mistress if you like, while I go away to manage his property abroad for him.”
“But, Crispin, what could I do here? I should be miserable. I should like a nun’s life, but not a hermit’s!”
“Oh, well, you’ll get used to it. Your father had a troop of pensioners in the town here: you will have them to look after.”
“Crispin,” she said suddenly after a pause, in a whisper, “who do you think it was that killed Blewitt?”