Resting his chin on the handle of a crutch, he gazed at her almost protestingly.
“I always have to do these things,” he said, “and I am not clever enough, or old enough. I am only eleven.”
The mention of the number of his years was plainly not apologetic, but was a mere statement of his limitations. There the fact was, and he must make the best of it he could.
“Trying to make things easier--explaining things when she cannot think of excuses. To-day it is telling you what she is too frightened to tell you herself. I said to her that you must be told. It made her nervous and miserable, but I knew you must.”
“Yes, I must,” Betty answered. “I am glad she has you to depend on, Ughtred.”
His crutch grated on the floor and his boy eyes forbade her to believe that their sudden lustre was in any way connected with restrained emotion.
“I know I seem queer and like a little old man,” he said. “Mother cries about it sometimes. But it can't be helped. It is because she has never had anyone but me to help her. When I was very little, I found out how frightened and miserable she was. After his rages,” he used no name, “she used to run into my nursery and snatch me up in her arms and hide her face in my pinafore. Sometimes she stuffed it into her mouth and bit it to keep herself from screaming. Once--before I was seven--I ran into their room and shouted out, and tried to fight for her. He was going out, and had his riding whip in his hand, and he caught hold of me and struck me with it--until he was tired.”
He merely nodded his head shortly. She saw what the thing had been by the way his face lost colour.
“Of course he said it was because I was impudent, and needed punishment,” he said. “He said she had encouraged me in American impudence. It was worse for her than for me. She kneeled down and screamed out as if she was crazy, that she would give him what he wanted if he would stop.”
“Wait,” said Betty, drawing in her breath sharply. “'He,' is Sir Nigel? And he wanted something.”
“Tell me,” she demanded, “has he ever struck her?”
“Once,” he answered slowly, “before I was born--he struck her and she fell against something. That is why I am like this.” And he touched his shoulder.
The feeling which surged through Betty Vanderpoel's being forced her to go and stand with her face turned towards the windows, her hands holding each other tightly behind her back.