"
He was a man of so much reserve himself that he respected hers. "Very
well," he said; and after a minute added, "I am quite sure you were not to
blame."
"I don't know," said Deleah, and hung her head, as she walked along.
To blame or not, she was horribly ashamed. She felt always in his society
as shy and _gauche_ as an awkward child, and was conscious that it was in
such a light he regarded her. She would have died rather than that he
should have known of that frantic struggle in Gibbon's arms, of that mad
embrace.
Deleah, who had no advantage of excellent training, happened to be
naturally musical. She played no difficult music, but her touch on the
piano was good. Her voice, by no means powerful, was true and pure and
pleasing. To Miss Forcus, who, in spite of the advantages of education,
loved the wrong things consistently in music, and liked to be moved to
tears by the plaintive songs of Claribel, it was a great pleasure to lie
back in her chair, book or embroidery fallen to the floor, and watch
Deleah's fingers tripping through the variations of Brinsley Richards's
masterpieces; to hear her tunefully lamenting that "she could not sing the
old songs," or in cheerfuller mood announcing that she might "marry the
Laird" if she would--"the Laird of high degree.
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