Mrs. Day's Daughters Part 38

The Manchester man had nothing encouraging to say on that theme. Indeed, his utterances on any subject they had all found to be irritatingly constrained and limited of late.

He made use to-night of an oft-repeated phrase of his when talk had been made of Mrs. Day's difficulties. "I know nothing of the grocery line. It's altogether distinct from the drapery, of course."

"I wish you'd gone in for grocery, Mr. Gibbon. Then you could have helped us."

"You've heard, I suppose, I've fixed it up with the Governor, the way I spoke to you about? You've heard I'm to be taken into partners.h.i.+p at Michaelmas?"

"I am very glad."

"I wonder if you are?"

"Why not? Of course."

"You remember what you said about the fine house I was to live in?"

"When are you going to take it, Mr. Gibbon?"

"When will you come to live in it, Miss Deleah?"

She was sitting in a low chair and leaning negligently upon the table, her cheek in her hand, her fingers lost in the ma.s.ses of her black waving hair, her eyes turned with polite interest upon his face. She dropped them now, and looked at the tablecloth without speaking.

"When?" he repeated, and was breathless again in the horrible way she remembered.

"I told you: I am not going to live in it at all, Mr. Gibbon."

He leaned towards her, throwing himself forward on his arms that were folded upon the table; she felt his eyes glowering upon her down-bent face: "Oh, yes, Miss Deleah!" he implored.

"I told you before," she said; and then distressedly like a child wearied by importunities, "Oh I wish you--I wish every one would leave me alone!"

It was all very well to be pretty and admired, but not much gratification, thanks to Bessie's jealousy, and untoward circ.u.mstances, had Deleah experienced so far from looks or lovers.

There was a young a.s.sistant music-master, coming twice a week to Miss Chaplin's, who had taken to blus.h.i.+ng and paling when Deleah spoke to him.

To her great embarra.s.sment a rosebud or a spray of forget-me-not would be found deposited on the chair in which she sat to play propriety when the pupils took their lessons. On the days when with great difficulty she managed to elude Reggie, a lout of a grammar-school sixth-form boy, whose name even she did not know, would watch her exit from the school, and stalk at her heels, keeping sentinel over her, in a way that she felt was making her ridiculous, to her own door. She had caught Mr. Pretty peeping between the biscuit tins to watch her down the street. He would leave any customer he was serving to rush forward with hateful a.s.siduousness with a stool for her to sit on, as soon as she entered the shop. He would entice Franky, who had a great admiration for Mr. Pretty, to sit in the cellar with him of evenings to talk about the younger sister. There was Reggie always pestering; and now here again were the unwelcome attentions of the Honourable Charles.

"I do so much wish you would all leave me alone!"

"How can I leave you alone when I so much love you, Deleah."

"Oh!" said Deleah, impatiently sighing.

She knew how young ladies comported themselves under such circ.u.mstances in the delightful books of her dear Anthony Trollope; but she was neither angry, nor frightened, nor particularly shy; nor did she feel the inclination to throw herself into any man's arms, and to rest her head on his shoulder. She was uncomfortable under these declarations of love, and felt that she was being made ludicrous; that was all.

"You know it, don't you, Deleah?"

"Yes. I know it; since you tell me so."

"And believe in it? Believe in my desperate love?"

"I am sure you don't tell stories, Mr. Gibbon."

"Well?"

"I think it is a pity."

"Why?"

"I think you might love some one else."

"No! I want you."

"You can't have me," said Deleah, pettishly, and feeling more hopelessly inadequate than ever.

"I can," Gibbon said, and he said it quite fiercely. "I can! I can! I can!

Do you hear?"

"I think I will go to bed." Deleah sprang up; she so longed for flight; she looked anxiously to the closed door which was on his side of the table.

Gibbon also rose to his feet. "Look at me, Deleah," he said. She looked, and saw the paleness of his face. It made her sick as well as sorry to see how pale the man had become. "Does this mean Mr. Reginald Forcus?"

"Certainly not!"

"You are not engaged to him?"

"Certainly not!"

"Look at me; keep on looking." His eyes held hers, she was compelled to look. "Do you like him better than me? He is the best chance, out and out; but for all that he mayn't be the best man. Do you like him the best?"

"I don't know that I do."

"Now. I've something else to ask you."

"No! I think you are too bad. I am very tired. Let me go to bed, Mr.

Gibbon."

"Answer me first. How about the other one?"

"The _other_ one! I don't know what you mean."

"Sir Francis--that gave you the fifty pound. How about him?"

Deleah's eyes, staring into his, dilated, her face grew whiter than his own. "I don't know what you can mean," she said. "Sir Francis Forcus and me? Me! _Me!_ Deleah Day!" She whispered the words in a kind of awe.

Almost there seemed sacrilege in them.

"Why not? Why not?"

"I think you must be mad, Mr. Gibbon."

"I am. I often am. Quite mad. Mad with love of you."