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She was remembering how her poor husband had made no secret of the fact that the younger girl was his pet; and she recalled also that for her father's sake it was Deleah who treated the arrogant, tyrannical man with unfailing respect and courtesy. "Yes. And I can understand it too, mama," Deleah softly said.
Perhaps in the restricted spaces of Bridge Street there had not been room enough or air enough for the development of both sisters; or it may have been that Deleah, with her superior beauty and winsomeness, shone the other down, and that Bessie had been conscious of the fact. Certainly she grew more amiable, more useful, even grew prettier and more lovable.
"Mama, did you see Mr. Gibbon go away?" "No. Is he gone, my dear?" Deleah dashed to the door, still open, although the windows were shuttered, and looked up and down the street. "Do you want to call him back?" her mother asked of her, in mild surprise. "I believe he is mad." Deleah was breathless, shaking with excitement or fear. "He was in the sitting-room hiding behind the door waiting for me."
Other people have told her so; but coming from you it might carry more weight." Deleah, in her innocent way was a flatterer, he perceived; but she did not gush like Bessie. He thanked his lucky stars for that. She stood before him, plainly longing to escape, her light figure almost poised for flight.
"And as to my being conceited you're always hinting I'm conceited I'm no more so than any young man would be in my place, with a lot of girls trying to catch him Ah, there you go! Don't jump on me, Deleah. You know what I mean. Lots of girls are looking out to get married, and I've got money, and I've got a name " "On the Brewers' carts. 'Forcus and Sons; Brewers."
Deleah had lived for several months at Cashelthorpe as companion to Miss Forcus, when on a certain Thursday afternoon she excused herself, as it was often her habit to do, from attending on Miss Forcus, and went to pass the hour and a half of the early-closing day with her mother and sister. Mrs.
She pinched it unconsciously but with such painful emphasis that in the morning Deleah discovered the place to be black and blue. "There he is! Quite close to us! Now perhaps you will believe! I always knew it was he who sent the tickets, and sent all the flowers and things! and he sent them for me only you always took them to yourself, Deda."
"We're leaving the shop," Mrs. Day told her. "You must try to keep where you are, for the time, Deleah. Miss Forcus is kind to you?" "Oh, so heavenly kind!" "And Sir Francis?" "I suppose he knows I am in the house. Yes. Sometimes he speaks to me quite ten words a day. Tell me about leaving the shop, mama." "Mr. Boult has proved to me that we are not solvent." "What does that mean?
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 masses 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.
"Nonsense!" Mrs. Day cried sharply. "Deleah, there is really nothing to be frightened about, my dear. The pistol was Mr. Gibbon's own. He naturally wanted it." Deleah stood in the middle of the shop, lit by the half-open door and the jet of gas above Mrs. Day's desk. She was squeezing her hands together, her arms strained against her breast as if trying desperately to stop her trembling.
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