You shall see how well I keep my
pupils in order. And, now and then, you shall bring me a nosegay of
flowers from your garden--"
"That won't suit me," he said. "I give you no more flowers unless you take
them all. Will you take them? Answer."
"Oh, Mr. Gibbon!"
"'Oh, Mr. Gibbon!'" and he mimicked her. "Is that the way to speak to me?
After all the years of my worship, am I still 'Mr. Gibbon' to you?"
"I suppose so," was all poor Deleah could say.
He was standing with his back to the door. He turned swiftly and locked
it, then holding the key in his shaking hand, crossed his arms again:
"Now!" he said, facing her; "we come to realities now. No more 'Oh, Mr.
Gibbon!' no more talk about flowers. Listen. I, Charles Gibbon, love you
with a passionate and desperate love that is not going to be played with.
Do you, Deleah Day, love me? Say it out, once for all; Gospel truth; as
God is in heaven to hear it."
"I don't love you."
"Do you hate me?"
Deleah was frightened, but she was angry too: "Just for the minute I think
I do."
"All the same, hating me, will you marry me, and come to live in the house
I have made for you?"
"No," said Deleah, pale and suddenly breathless. "I won't!"
He listened, panting as if from long running; his chest laboured beneath
the grip of his folded arms as if it must burst.
Pages:
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332