Page:Harper's New Monthly Magazine - v108.djvu/564

530 certainly, distress in them and in her face.

"I can't thank you," she said, earnestly,—"not if you won't let me. I don't know how to do such things in spite of being prevented—as I ought to know. I can only hope you understand what I feel. I think you do." She rose, holding out her hand shyly. "Good afternoon, Mr. Courtney."

Courtney rose also, taking her offered hand. The extreme delicacy of her touch, the softness of her hands, despite their slenderness, always surprised him afresh whenever his hand touched hers. He stood looking down at her, smiling quizzically, detaining her soft, gentle hand in his.

"I shouldn't have believed this of you," he said. "You came here—didn't you?—on an errand. What was it? The last thing I should wish to do would be to head you off from anything you may have come here to say. Sit down again and don't hesitate to speak plainly."

He was very sure her actual errand had nothing to do with Rose or plans for her. He knew that Miss Ireland had dreaded her self-imposed task, and shrunk from opening it, and yet he knew that nothing would have turned her from a set purpose had she not been reminded of his services to Rose, and had he not made his offer of practical assistance, which, though refused, still placed her under some obligation of gratitude. She had, as he believed, deliberately come to interfere in his affairs. Very well. She should carry out her intention. She did not resist his motion that placed her again in her chair, and once more he sat opposite her, waiting. He would not distress her by looking at her directly. She should have every advantage—save assistance.

There was silence, and then Miss Ireland spoke suddenly, evidently grasping her courage at its flood.

"I did come here to say something to you, Mr. Courtney—something that it is very hard for me to say. I wonder if you will let me tell you just a little about ourselves—before we came here to live?"

"I should be glad. Your story begins—does it not?—'It was not always thus with me.

"Yes," she agreed, as if grateful for the help he gave her. "At least there seemed no lack of means when my aunt and uncle opened their home to me, after my parents died. But after my uncle's death we found that there was almost nothing left for any of us. That has given me the chance to do my part. We have no near relatives to depend on. You see, in a way, I was left as the man of the family. But there are times when—there are times and things that a woman cannot—cannot quite do, perhaps, as men do them. My aunt is not capable of being a father to her daughters. Rose is as yet too little to miss a father's protection; but Delia—it's—it's very different with Delia. I came here to-day to say something to you that—that isn't at all easy for me to say, Mr. Courtney. You tell me to speak plainly. May I then ask you—ask you plainly what—what you have meant—you have meant—"

Courtney sat staring at her, with an astonishment before which he saw her unable to continue to speak, and yet he could not control his utter amazement. He saw the soft, nervous color change to a hot, painful blush, the troubled eyes faltered away from his, her voice broke, but he could only sit speechless, rudely gazing at her. Remonstrance, admonition, he had expected—nay, he was generously preparing to admit he deserved; but unquestionably Miss Ireland was about to ask him what were his serious intentions! His intentions regarding Delia. Delia! It was so preposterous that he had almost laughed in her face before he recovered himself and turned deliberately to her, his manner considerate, his face serious. "I beg your pardon. I should not have met this as I did." His eyes, always his unruly feature, were less quickly grave, but it was evident that he intended to reply with courtesy, with deference, and with as entire candor as the most exacting parent could ask. "I confess you did surprise me, but you have done exactly what you ought. I will answer frankly. But first I would like to tell you in turn a little of my earlier story. I, too, might begin—'It was not always thus with me.' When I was about seventeen years old my father died suddenly, and I found then that I was not the wealthy man we had imagined I should be. The estate was in great