As long as she continued under Martha's care she could rest in peace, free from the dread of the drunken step on the stair or the rude bursting in of her chamber door.

Free, too, from other deadly terrors which had pursued her, and of which she could not even think without a shudder, for try as she could she never forgot Dalton's willingness to turn their home into a gamblers' resort.
That he would force her to return to him for any other purpose she did not believe.

He had no legal hold upon her--such as an Englishman has upon his wife--and, as he had pawned everything of value she possessed and most of her clothes, she could be of no further use to him, except by applying to her father or to her friends for pecuniary relief.

This, as she had told him, she would rather die than do, and from the oaths he had muttered at the time she was convinced he believed her.
All she wanted now was to earn her bread, help Martha with her rent, and, when the day's work was over, creep into her arms and rest.
And yet, while it was true that Stephen's visit had been responsible for her nervous breakdown, it was not for the reason that Martha supposed.
His reference to her private affairs had of course offended her, and justly so, but there was something else which hurt her far more--a something in the old ship-chandler's manner when he spoke to her which forced to the front a question ever present in her mind, whatever her task and however tender the ministrations of the old nurse; one that during all her sojourn under this kindly roof had haunted her, like a nightmare.
And it was this.

What did the look mean that she sometimes surprised in Martha's eyes--the same look she had detected in Stephen's?
Were they looks of pity or were they--and she shuddered--looks of scorn?
This was the nightmare which had haunted her, the problem she could not fathom.
And because she could not fathom it, she had passed a wakeful night, and this long, unhappy day.