Part 41 (1/2)
A look at his face startled her. She sank back into her chair, in evident confusion. But her troubled eyes met his appealingly.
Wilmington's disturbance was plain.
”I had ventured to think--to hope--” he began, abruptly--”that although you refused to give me your promise when I asked it, yet that you would not again--or so soon again--receive Mr. Lathrop--privately.”
Delia rose and came towards him.
”I told Lady Tonbridge not to come down. Was that very wrong of me?”
She looked at him, half smiling, half hanging her head.
”It was unwise--and, I think, unkind!” said Winnington, with energy.
”Unkind to you?” She lifted her beautiful eyes. There was something touching in their strained expression, and in her tone.
”Unkind to yourself, first of all,” he said, firmly. ”I must repeat Miss Delia, that this man is not a fit a.s.sociate for you or any young girl. You do yourself harm by admitting him--by allowing him to see you alone--and you hurt your friends.”
Delia paused a moment.
”Then you don't trust me at all?” she said at last, slowly.
Winnington melted. How pale she looked! He came forward and took her hand--
”Of course I trust you! But you don't know--you are too young. You confess you have some business with Mr. Lathrop that you can't tell me--your guardian; and you have no idea to what misrepresentations you expose yourself, or with what kind of a man you have to deal!”
Delia withdrew her hand, and dropped into a chair--her eyes on the carpet.
”I meant--” she said, and her tone trembled--”I did mean to have told you everything to-day.”
”And now--now you can't?”
She made no reply, and in the silence he watched her closely. What could account for such an eclipse of all her young vivacity? It was clear to him that that fellow was entangling her in some monstrous way--part and parcel no doubt of this militant propaganda--and calculating on developments. Winnington's blood boiled. But while he stood uncertain, Delia rose, went to the bureau where she had been writing, brought thence a cheque, and mutely offered it.
”What is this?” he asked.
”The money you lent me.”
And to his astonishment he saw that the cheque was for 500, and was signed ”Delia Blanchflower.”
”You will of course explain?” he said, looking at her keenly. Suddenly Delia's embarra.s.sed smile broke through.
”It's--it's only that I've been trying to pay my debts!”
His patience gave way.
”I'm afraid I must tell you--very plainly--that unless you can account to me for this cheque, I must entirely refuse to take it!”
Delia put her hands behind her, like a scolded child.
”It is my very own,” she protested, mildly. ”I had some ugly jewels that my grandmother left me, and I have sold them--that's all.”