Part 32 (1/2)

”She is killing herself!”--thought the girl in a sudden anguish--”killing herself with work and anxiety. And yet she always says she is so strong. What can I do? There is n.o.body that matters to her--n.o.body!--but me!”

And she recalled all she knew--it was very little--of Gertrude's personal history. She had been unhappy at home. Her mother, a widow, had never been able to get on with her elder daughter, while petting and spoiling her only son and her younger girl, who was ten years Gertrude's junior. Gertrude had been left a small sum of money by a woman friend, and had spent it in going to a west-country university and taking honours in history. She never spoke now of either her mother or her sister. Her sister was married, but Gertrude held no communication with her or her children. Delia had always felt it impossible to ask questions about her, and believed, with a thrilled sense of mystery, that some tragic incident or experience had separated the two sisters. Her brother also, it seemed, was as dead to her. But on all such personal matters Gertrude's silence was insuperable, and Delia knew no more of them than on the first day of their meeting.

Indomitable figure! Worn with effort and struggle--worn above all with _hating_. Delia looked at it with a sob in her throat. Surely, surely, the great pa.s.sion, the great uplifting faith they had felt in common, was vital, was true! Only, somehow, after the large dreams and hopes of the early days, to come down to this perpetual campaign of petty law-breaking, and futile outrage, to these odious meetings and shrieking newspapers, was to be--well, discouraged!--heart-wearied.

”Only, she is not wearied, or discouraged!” thought Delia, despairingly. ”And why am I?”

Was it hatefully true--after all--that she was being influenced--drawn away?

The girl flushed, breathing quick. She must master herself!--get rid of this foolish obsession of Winnington's presence and voice--of a pair of grave, kind eyes--a look now perplexed, now sternly bright--a personality, limited no doubt, not very accessible to what Gertrude called ”ideas,” not quick to catch the last new thing, but honest, n.o.ble, tender, through and through.

Absurd! She was holding her own with him; she would hold her own. That very day she must grapple with him afresh. She had sent him a note that morning, and he had replied in a message that he would ride over to luncheon.

For the question of money was urgent. Delia was already overdrawn. Yet supplies were wanted for the newly rented flat, for Weston's operation, for Gertrude's expenses in London--for a hundred things.

She paced up and down, imagining the conversation, framing eloquent defences for her conduct, and again, from time to time, meanly, shamefacedly reminding herself of Winnington's benefit under the will.

If she was a nuisance, she was at least a fairly profitable nuisance.

Winnington duly arrived at luncheon. The two ladies appeared to him as usual--Gertrude Marvell, self-possessed and quietly gay, ready to handle politics or books, on so light a note, that Winnington's acute recollection of her, as the haranguing fury on the Latchford waggon, began to seem absurd even to himself. Delia also, lovely, restless, with bursts of talk, and more significant bursts of silence, produced on him her normal effect--as of a creature made for all delightful uses, and somehow jangled and out of tune.

After luncheon, she led the way to her own sitting-room. ”I am afraid I must talk business,” she said abruptly as she closed the door and stood confronting him. ”I am overdrawn, Mr. Winnington, and I must have some more money.”

Winnington laid down his cigarette, and looked at her in open-mouthed amazement.

”Overdrawn!--but--we agreed--”

”I know. You gave me what you thought was ample. Well, I have spent it, and there is nothing left to pay house bills, or servants with, or--or anything.”

Her pale defiance gave him at once a hint of the truth.

”I fear I must ask what it has been spent on,” he said, after a pause.

”Certainly. I gave 500 of it in one cheque to Miss Marvell. Of course you will guess how it has been spent.”

Winnington took up his cigarette again, and smoked it thoughtfully. His colour was, perhaps, a little higher than usual.

”I am sorry you have done that. It makes it rather awkward both for you and for me. Perhaps I had better explain. The lawyers have been settling the debts on your father's estate. That took a considerable sum. A mortgage has been paid off, according to directions in Sir Robert's will. And some of the death duties have been paid. For the moment there is no money at all in the Trust account. I hope to have replenished it by the New Year, when I understood you would want fresh funds.”

He sat on the arm of a chair and looked at her quietly.

Delia made no attempt at explanation or argument. After a short silence, she said--

”What will you do?”

”I must, of course, lend you some of my own.”

Delia flushed violently.

”That is surely absurd, Mr. Winnington! My father left a large sum!”