As for the man looking down upon her beautiful bowed head, his heart melted within him as he listened. The sting remained that she should have asked anyone else than he to help her—above all that she should have humbled herself to ask it of such a man as Lathrop. Anxiety remained, for Monk Lawrence itself, and still more for what might be said of her complicity. But all that was further implied in her confession, her drooping sweetness, her passionate appeal to him—the beauty of her true character, its innocence, its faith, its loyalty—began to flood him with a feeling that presently burst its bounds.
She wound up with most touching entreaties to him, to save and shield her friend—to go himself to Gertrude and warn her—to go to the police—without disclosing names, of course—and insist that the house should be constantly patrolled.
He scarcely heard a word of this. When she paused—there was silence a moment. Then she heard her name—very low—
"Delia!"
She looked up, and with a long breath she rose, as though drawn invisibly. He held out his arms, and she threw hers round his neck, hiding her face against the life that beat for her.
"Oh, forgive me!"—she murmured, after a little, childishly pressing her lips to his—"forgive me—for everything!"
The tears were in his eyes.
"You've gone through all this!—alone!" he said to her, as he bent over her. "But never again, Delia—never again!"
She was the first to release herself—putting tears away.
"Now then—what can we do?"