Chapter Sixteen.“A Calmour at Hilversea.”Wagram’s private study, or “den,” where he was wont to do all his business thinking and writing, and which was absolutely sacred to himself and his papers and general litter, was a snug room overlooking the drive; and thence, as he sat with his after-breakfast pipe in his mouth and some business papers relating to the estate before him on the morning following the incidents just recorded, he was—well, not altogether surprised at seeing a girl on a bicycle skimming up to the front door.“Poor child!” he said to himself. “She looks positively radiant. I used to think, in those awful days, if I were in the position I am in now—by the grace of God—what a great deal I could do for others, and yet, and yet, it’s little enough one seems to be able to do.”He need not have disparaged himself. There were not a few, among them some who had shown him kindness in “those awful days,” who now had reason to bless his name as long as they lived, and their children’s children after them.“Come in. Yes; I’ll be down in a minute or two,” he said in response to the announcement that Miss Calmour had called on a matter of business, and very much wished to see him. He smiled to himself as he remembered the occasion of her last call—also “on a matter of business.” Then he made a note as to where to resume the work in which he had been interrupted, laid down his pipe, and went downstairs.“And now,” he said merrily when they had shaken hands, “what is this ‘matter of business’?”Delia was looking radiant, and, consequently, very pretty. She had that dark warmth of complexion which suffuses, and her hazel eyes were soft and velvety.“This will explain,” she said, holding out the editor’s letter; “and, Mr Wagram, it would be affectation for me to pretend that I did not know whom I had to thank for it.”“Of course. As far as I can see it is the editor ofThe Old Country Side. But editors don’t want thanking; they are hard, cold-blooded men of business, as I have had ample reason to discover in my old struggling days.”She made no comment on this last remark. She had heard that this man’s life had not been always a bed of roses.“Yet, how could this one have heard of me?” she said. “No; I don’t know how to thank you enough for this—and Clytie too. She has almost more work than she can do, all thanks to your introductions. You are too good to us.”“My dear child, haven’t you learnt yet that we must all help each other in this world as far as lies in our power? The difficulty sometimes lies in how to do it in the right way. By-the-by, this letter, I observe, makes it a condition that you should obtain my father’s permission. How, then, could we possibly have had anything to do with instigating the offer?”Delia smiled, remembering her sister’s dictum: “That’s only a red herring.” However, she had sufficient tact not to press the point.“I see they want six photographic views,” he went on. “Now, if I might suggest, do two of the house, from different points of view—outside; one of the hall and staircase; two of the chapel, outside and in; and one of the lake. That makes it.”“But, Mr Wagram, you are forgetting the African animals. I must have those; they are such a feature.”“Why, of course. Well, then, now I think of it, we will delete the interior of the chapel. To the crowd it would only look like any other interior. What is your camera, by the way?”“Only a Kodak. Bull’s-eye Number 2. But I understand time exposures, and it takes very sharp and clear.”“And shorthand writing too. You are a clever girl, and should be able to turn your accomplishments to useful account.”Again Delia smiled, for she remembered having let out that she was a ready shorthand writer during that former conversation.“Well, now, what I suggest is this: I have rather a pressing matter of business to finish off this morning, so, if you will excuse me, I propose to turn you over to Rundle. He will show you every hole and corner of the house; he knows it like a book. We only looked at it cursorily last time you were here. That will take you all the morning. After lunch—we lunch at one—I can take you over the outside part of the job myself.The Old Country Sideis a first-rate pictorial, and we must do justice to Hilversea in it, mustn’t we?”Delia professed herself delighted, as indeed she was. Then Rundle, having appeared in response to a ring, Wagram proceeded to direct him accordingly.“Show Miss Calmour all there is to see, Rundle,” he said, “and work the light for her so as to get everything from the best point of view for photography. I showed her the priest’s hiding-place the other day, so you needn’t; besides, you don’t know the secret of it.”“No, sir; and it’d have been a good job if some others hadn’t known there was such a thing,” said the old butler in historic allusion. “This way, miss.”Delia appeared at lunch radiant and sparkling. Rundle had proved a most efficient cicerone, she declared; indeed, so much had there been to see and hear that she wondered how on earth she was going to compress her notes into the required limit. Wagram was in a state of covert amusement, for he knew that his father was not forgetting his former dictum.“A Calmour at Hilversea! Pho! it’d be about as much in place as a cow in a church!”And yet, here was this bright, pretty girl, who talked so intelligently and well—why, she might have been anybody else as far as keeping the old Squire interested and amused was concerned.“Now, Miss Calmour, which shall we take first—the animals or the chapel?” said Wagram as they rose from table.“The animals, I think, because it may take some time, and the sun is not as reliable as it might be. The chapel I can get much easier with a time exposure, if necessary.”“Right. I’ll tell them to get my tyres pumped up, and we can bike down there.”Their way took them over the very road where the adventure had befallen, then a turn to the left, where the riding was rough. Here, under the trees, a shed of tarred planks came into view.“We’ll leave our machines here,” said Wagram, dismounting. “They’ll be quite safe; still, I’ll chain them together, as a matter of precaution.”“What a perfectly lovely place this is,” said the girl as they walked on beneath great over-arching oaks, which let in the sunlight in a network on the cool sward. “Tell me, Mr Wagram, don’t you sometimes find life too good to be real?”He looked at her a trifle gravely. There was something very taking in her genuineness and spontaneity. In the present instance she had voiced what was often in his mind.“Yes, indeed I do,” he said; “so much so that at times it is almost startling.”It did not occur to him how he was giving vent to some of the most solemn side of his meditations for the benefit of this girl—this daughter of the drunken, disreputable, old ex-army vet, any other member of whose family he would not willingly have had there at all. But had he known her better—that is, had he known her before that eventful day—he would have reason to marvel at the great and wondrous change that had come over her within that short space of time. Her former slanginess, and other amenities and ideas begotten of Siege House, were to her now quite of the past, so effective had been recent influences to refine and soften her.“Look there, we are in luck’s way so far,” he said. “Have you got an exposure ready?”They had reached a high paling with the upper part bent over inward. In front was a step-ladder giving access to a small wooden platform at the top of this.“Don’t show too suddenly,” he whispered as he helped her up this; “you’ve a fine chance.”Delia could hardly restrain a cry of delight. About twenty yards away a couple of white-tailed gnus were feeding, and just beyond three more of the larger and brindled kind, and a little apart from these a fine specimen of the sable antelope. It was as if some fortunate freak of Nature had grouped and focussed the lot for her own especial benefit.“Got ’em,” she whispered, clicking the trigger.Up went every head. The white-tailed gnus, their wild eyes staring out of fierce-looking, whiskered countenances surmounted by sharp meat-hook-like horns, began to snort and prance round and round. Those of the other kind drew nearer, uttering a raucous bellow.“Now, snap them again,” whispered Wagram; “you’ll never get a better chance.”“There; that’ll be perfect. Are there any more, Mr Wagram?”“None worth taking. Some of the smaller kinds of antelope; but we hope to get some more specimens. Haldane got these for us. He’s been an up-country sportsman in his time, and shot lots of them.”“How picturesque they look; but they are very ugly.”“Not the sable antelope?”“Oh no; the others. They look as if Nature had started to make a goat, then changed her mind, and manufactured a bad attempt at a buffalo, with a dash of the camel thrown in.”“Good description,” laughed Wagram. The creatures, excited by the sound, snorted and bellowed, pawing the ground or capering in absurd antics, while two had got up a sham fight on their own account.“Supposing we were to go down into the enclosure?” she said.“Hadn’t you a specimen of what that would mean the other day? We have notices posted everywhere warning people against venturing in; but this part of the park is right away from any public road, and we don’t encourage trippers. Hallo!”—looking up—“it’s lucky you got your snapshots. It has started to rain.”Big drops were pattering down. The sky had become quickly overcast, and an ominous boom from a black, inky background of cloud told that a summer shower was upon them with characteristic suddenness. They regained the shed where they had left their bicycles only in the nick of time, as, with a roar and a rush, the rain whirled upon them in a tremendous downpour. Then the vivid sheeting of blue electricity, almost simultaneously with the sharp thunder-crack. The girl gave a little start.“Are you afraid of thunder?” asked Wagram, with a smile.“Not now. Sometimes when I am alone I get rather nervous, but now I don’t mind it a bit.”She spoke no more than the truth. She would have welcomed another hour of the most appalling thunderstorm that ever raged to sit here as she was doing now, and spend it in this man’s society. Yet a wooden shed, open in front, and overhung by tall, spreading oaks, is not perhaps, the safest refuge in the world under all the circumstances. But the thunder and lightning soon passed over, although it continued to rain smartly.“Mr Wagram, there is something I would like to talk to you about,” began the girl, rather constrainedly, after a quite unwonted interval of silence—for her. “I have been thinking of late that I would like to be a Catholic.”Wagram looked up keenly.“Have you given the question careful study?” he said.“I have thought it over a great deal. I am fairly at home in the Catholic services. You see, I was travelling on the Continent as companion for a time, and then we always attended them, so I do know something about it.”“To know ‘something’ isn’t sufficient; you must know everything.”“Tell me, then. What should I do?”“First, be sure that you are thoroughly in earnest; then you must undergo instruction.”Delia’s face brightened.“I will,” she said. “But—tell me how.”“There is a mission in Bassingham. Go and consult the priest there.”Delia tried all she knew to keep her face from falling. She had hoped, in her ignorance, that Wagram would have accepted the post of instructor.“Father Sonnenbloem!” she said. “But, he’s a German.”“Well, what then? My dear child, the Catholic Church is the Church of the World, and is above nationality in that it embraces all nations—hence its name. As it happens, Father Sonnenbloem is one of the most kind-hearted and saintly men who ever lived. He is learned, too. If you are in earnest you could go to no one better.”Delia declared that she would; and, the rain having ceased, they went forth just as a bright shaft of sunlight, darting through the cloud, which it was fast dispelling, converted the rain drippings from the leaves into a shower of glittering diamonds, and the moist, ferny, woodland scents after the shower were delicious.“We shall have a splashy ride back, I’m afraid,” said Wagram as they regained the road. “No; it has run off rather than soaked in. It won’t hurt us; and you’ll have the sun for your remaining shots.”After she had taken the chapel and the Priest’s Walk—she must take that, she said—Delia asked, somewhat diffidently, if she could see the ornaments.“Certainly,” answered Wagram; “only we must get hold of Father Gayle for that, because he has got the keys of all the best things.”The chaplain was at home, and soon found.“Been taking our private Zoo, I hear, Miss Calmour,” he said genially as he joined them. “Your second sight of it is not quite so startling as your first, eh?”In the sacristy—for they did not do things by halves at Hilversea—Delia was lost in wonder and delight at the beauty of the vestments and ornaments, rich and exquisite in texture and design, and she almost had to shade her eyes to look at the great sun-shaped monstrance, blazing with precious stones; but what interested her no less, perhaps, was a splendid old chasuble of Flemish make, rich and full, and displaying a perfect chronicle of symbolism in every detail of its embroidery, which Wagram pronounced to have been almost certainly worn by their martyred relative.“From that to my boy’s things is something of a skip,” he went on, half opening a drawer, in which lay an acolyte’s dress of scarlet and lace; “only the rascal isn’t over-keen on getting inside them when he’s here—eh, Father? Says he has enough of that sort of thing to do at school.”“Oh, well, we mustn’t expect a boy to be too pious,” laughed the priest. “I know I was anything but that at his age.”Delia was interested. It was the first time she had heard Wagram refer to his son, and she was about to question him on the subject when the sound of a door opening, and of voices inside the chapel, caught their attention.“It’s Haldane and Yvonne,” pronounced Wagram. “Perhaps they’ve come to have a practice.”His conjecture proved correct, as in a minute or two the new arrivals joined them in the sacristy. They wanted to try over a few things, they said, and now the organist was nowhere to be found. Wagram couldn’t play and sing at the same time, and the same held good of Yvonne, while Haldane couldn’t play at all. What on earth was to be done?“Could I be of any use, Mr Haldane?” said Delia with some diffidence. “I have some knowledge of accompaniment, and am used to the organ; in fact, I can singandplay at the same time without difficulty.”“The very thing!” cried Haldane. “What a friend in need you are, Miss Calmour.”They adjourned to the choir-loft over the west door, and Delia took her seat at the organ. It was small, but a perfect little instrument for the size of the building—here again Hilversea did not do things by halves—and had an automatic blower.“This is a treat,” said the girl as she ran her fingers over the keyboard. “Why, the instrument is perfect. What shall we start upon?”“Arcadelt,” said Yvonne. “Can you take soprano, Miss Calmour?”“Yes.”“All safe. Then we are set up. Mr Wagram, you take tenor, and father will take bass, though he’s not as good as he might be at it. Now, are you ready?”And then Arcadelt’sAve Maria, than which, probably, no more beautiful composition of its kind was ever wrought, in its solemn and plaintive melody and exquisite interpretation of light and shade, went forth from the four voices, cultured voices too, swelling up to the high-pitched roof in all its richness of sound, and softening into tender petition.“Lovely, lovely!” whispered Delia, half to herself, as it ended.“It is, isn’t it?” said Yvonne. “Do let’s have it on Sunday, Mr Wagram.”“Shall we?”“Oh, do, Mr Wagram,” echoed Delia enthusiastically. “I’ll ride over, wet or fine, if only to hear it.”“Very well, then, we will; but won’t you not only hear it but help us in it?”“May I? Oh, I shall be delighted.”They tried over a few more things, including a gem or two of Gounod, then adjourned to the house for tea.“What a universal genius that little girl is, Wagram,” said Haldane as they walked thither, the two girls being in front.“Yes; she’s a clever child—seems able to turn her hand to anything.” And then he told of the day’s doings.“Good, and good again,” said Haldane. “We must tell everyone to get that number ofThe Old Country Side. Then they may give her another job.”“I think they very likely will,” said Wagram, with a twinkle in his eyes that escaped his friend.
Wagram’s private study, or “den,” where he was wont to do all his business thinking and writing, and which was absolutely sacred to himself and his papers and general litter, was a snug room overlooking the drive; and thence, as he sat with his after-breakfast pipe in his mouth and some business papers relating to the estate before him on the morning following the incidents just recorded, he was—well, not altogether surprised at seeing a girl on a bicycle skimming up to the front door.
“Poor child!” he said to himself. “She looks positively radiant. I used to think, in those awful days, if I were in the position I am in now—by the grace of God—what a great deal I could do for others, and yet, and yet, it’s little enough one seems to be able to do.”
He need not have disparaged himself. There were not a few, among them some who had shown him kindness in “those awful days,” who now had reason to bless his name as long as they lived, and their children’s children after them.
“Come in. Yes; I’ll be down in a minute or two,” he said in response to the announcement that Miss Calmour had called on a matter of business, and very much wished to see him. He smiled to himself as he remembered the occasion of her last call—also “on a matter of business.” Then he made a note as to where to resume the work in which he had been interrupted, laid down his pipe, and went downstairs.
“And now,” he said merrily when they had shaken hands, “what is this ‘matter of business’?”
Delia was looking radiant, and, consequently, very pretty. She had that dark warmth of complexion which suffuses, and her hazel eyes were soft and velvety.
“This will explain,” she said, holding out the editor’s letter; “and, Mr Wagram, it would be affectation for me to pretend that I did not know whom I had to thank for it.”
“Of course. As far as I can see it is the editor ofThe Old Country Side. But editors don’t want thanking; they are hard, cold-blooded men of business, as I have had ample reason to discover in my old struggling days.”
She made no comment on this last remark. She had heard that this man’s life had not been always a bed of roses.
“Yet, how could this one have heard of me?” she said. “No; I don’t know how to thank you enough for this—and Clytie too. She has almost more work than she can do, all thanks to your introductions. You are too good to us.”
“My dear child, haven’t you learnt yet that we must all help each other in this world as far as lies in our power? The difficulty sometimes lies in how to do it in the right way. By-the-by, this letter, I observe, makes it a condition that you should obtain my father’s permission. How, then, could we possibly have had anything to do with instigating the offer?”
Delia smiled, remembering her sister’s dictum: “That’s only a red herring.” However, she had sufficient tact not to press the point.
“I see they want six photographic views,” he went on. “Now, if I might suggest, do two of the house, from different points of view—outside; one of the hall and staircase; two of the chapel, outside and in; and one of the lake. That makes it.”
“But, Mr Wagram, you are forgetting the African animals. I must have those; they are such a feature.”
“Why, of course. Well, then, now I think of it, we will delete the interior of the chapel. To the crowd it would only look like any other interior. What is your camera, by the way?”
“Only a Kodak. Bull’s-eye Number 2. But I understand time exposures, and it takes very sharp and clear.”
“And shorthand writing too. You are a clever girl, and should be able to turn your accomplishments to useful account.”
Again Delia smiled, for she remembered having let out that she was a ready shorthand writer during that former conversation.
“Well, now, what I suggest is this: I have rather a pressing matter of business to finish off this morning, so, if you will excuse me, I propose to turn you over to Rundle. He will show you every hole and corner of the house; he knows it like a book. We only looked at it cursorily last time you were here. That will take you all the morning. After lunch—we lunch at one—I can take you over the outside part of the job myself.The Old Country Sideis a first-rate pictorial, and we must do justice to Hilversea in it, mustn’t we?”
Delia professed herself delighted, as indeed she was. Then Rundle, having appeared in response to a ring, Wagram proceeded to direct him accordingly.
“Show Miss Calmour all there is to see, Rundle,” he said, “and work the light for her so as to get everything from the best point of view for photography. I showed her the priest’s hiding-place the other day, so you needn’t; besides, you don’t know the secret of it.”
“No, sir; and it’d have been a good job if some others hadn’t known there was such a thing,” said the old butler in historic allusion. “This way, miss.”
Delia appeared at lunch radiant and sparkling. Rundle had proved a most efficient cicerone, she declared; indeed, so much had there been to see and hear that she wondered how on earth she was going to compress her notes into the required limit. Wagram was in a state of covert amusement, for he knew that his father was not forgetting his former dictum.
“A Calmour at Hilversea! Pho! it’d be about as much in place as a cow in a church!”
And yet, here was this bright, pretty girl, who talked so intelligently and well—why, she might have been anybody else as far as keeping the old Squire interested and amused was concerned.
“Now, Miss Calmour, which shall we take first—the animals or the chapel?” said Wagram as they rose from table.
“The animals, I think, because it may take some time, and the sun is not as reliable as it might be. The chapel I can get much easier with a time exposure, if necessary.”
“Right. I’ll tell them to get my tyres pumped up, and we can bike down there.”
Their way took them over the very road where the adventure had befallen, then a turn to the left, where the riding was rough. Here, under the trees, a shed of tarred planks came into view.
“We’ll leave our machines here,” said Wagram, dismounting. “They’ll be quite safe; still, I’ll chain them together, as a matter of precaution.”
“What a perfectly lovely place this is,” said the girl as they walked on beneath great over-arching oaks, which let in the sunlight in a network on the cool sward. “Tell me, Mr Wagram, don’t you sometimes find life too good to be real?”
He looked at her a trifle gravely. There was something very taking in her genuineness and spontaneity. In the present instance she had voiced what was often in his mind.
“Yes, indeed I do,” he said; “so much so that at times it is almost startling.”
It did not occur to him how he was giving vent to some of the most solemn side of his meditations for the benefit of this girl—this daughter of the drunken, disreputable, old ex-army vet, any other member of whose family he would not willingly have had there at all. But had he known her better—that is, had he known her before that eventful day—he would have reason to marvel at the great and wondrous change that had come over her within that short space of time. Her former slanginess, and other amenities and ideas begotten of Siege House, were to her now quite of the past, so effective had been recent influences to refine and soften her.
“Look there, we are in luck’s way so far,” he said. “Have you got an exposure ready?”
They had reached a high paling with the upper part bent over inward. In front was a step-ladder giving access to a small wooden platform at the top of this.
“Don’t show too suddenly,” he whispered as he helped her up this; “you’ve a fine chance.”
Delia could hardly restrain a cry of delight. About twenty yards away a couple of white-tailed gnus were feeding, and just beyond three more of the larger and brindled kind, and a little apart from these a fine specimen of the sable antelope. It was as if some fortunate freak of Nature had grouped and focussed the lot for her own especial benefit.
“Got ’em,” she whispered, clicking the trigger.
Up went every head. The white-tailed gnus, their wild eyes staring out of fierce-looking, whiskered countenances surmounted by sharp meat-hook-like horns, began to snort and prance round and round. Those of the other kind drew nearer, uttering a raucous bellow.
“Now, snap them again,” whispered Wagram; “you’ll never get a better chance.”
“There; that’ll be perfect. Are there any more, Mr Wagram?”
“None worth taking. Some of the smaller kinds of antelope; but we hope to get some more specimens. Haldane got these for us. He’s been an up-country sportsman in his time, and shot lots of them.”
“How picturesque they look; but they are very ugly.”
“Not the sable antelope?”
“Oh no; the others. They look as if Nature had started to make a goat, then changed her mind, and manufactured a bad attempt at a buffalo, with a dash of the camel thrown in.”
“Good description,” laughed Wagram. The creatures, excited by the sound, snorted and bellowed, pawing the ground or capering in absurd antics, while two had got up a sham fight on their own account.
“Supposing we were to go down into the enclosure?” she said.
“Hadn’t you a specimen of what that would mean the other day? We have notices posted everywhere warning people against venturing in; but this part of the park is right away from any public road, and we don’t encourage trippers. Hallo!”—looking up—“it’s lucky you got your snapshots. It has started to rain.”
Big drops were pattering down. The sky had become quickly overcast, and an ominous boom from a black, inky background of cloud told that a summer shower was upon them with characteristic suddenness. They regained the shed where they had left their bicycles only in the nick of time, as, with a roar and a rush, the rain whirled upon them in a tremendous downpour. Then the vivid sheeting of blue electricity, almost simultaneously with the sharp thunder-crack. The girl gave a little start.
“Are you afraid of thunder?” asked Wagram, with a smile.
“Not now. Sometimes when I am alone I get rather nervous, but now I don’t mind it a bit.”
She spoke no more than the truth. She would have welcomed another hour of the most appalling thunderstorm that ever raged to sit here as she was doing now, and spend it in this man’s society. Yet a wooden shed, open in front, and overhung by tall, spreading oaks, is not perhaps, the safest refuge in the world under all the circumstances. But the thunder and lightning soon passed over, although it continued to rain smartly.
“Mr Wagram, there is something I would like to talk to you about,” began the girl, rather constrainedly, after a quite unwonted interval of silence—for her. “I have been thinking of late that I would like to be a Catholic.”
Wagram looked up keenly.
“Have you given the question careful study?” he said.
“I have thought it over a great deal. I am fairly at home in the Catholic services. You see, I was travelling on the Continent as companion for a time, and then we always attended them, so I do know something about it.”
“To know ‘something’ isn’t sufficient; you must know everything.”
“Tell me, then. What should I do?”
“First, be sure that you are thoroughly in earnest; then you must undergo instruction.”
Delia’s face brightened.
“I will,” she said. “But—tell me how.”
“There is a mission in Bassingham. Go and consult the priest there.”
Delia tried all she knew to keep her face from falling. She had hoped, in her ignorance, that Wagram would have accepted the post of instructor.
“Father Sonnenbloem!” she said. “But, he’s a German.”
“Well, what then? My dear child, the Catholic Church is the Church of the World, and is above nationality in that it embraces all nations—hence its name. As it happens, Father Sonnenbloem is one of the most kind-hearted and saintly men who ever lived. He is learned, too. If you are in earnest you could go to no one better.”
Delia declared that she would; and, the rain having ceased, they went forth just as a bright shaft of sunlight, darting through the cloud, which it was fast dispelling, converted the rain drippings from the leaves into a shower of glittering diamonds, and the moist, ferny, woodland scents after the shower were delicious.
“We shall have a splashy ride back, I’m afraid,” said Wagram as they regained the road. “No; it has run off rather than soaked in. It won’t hurt us; and you’ll have the sun for your remaining shots.”
After she had taken the chapel and the Priest’s Walk—she must take that, she said—Delia asked, somewhat diffidently, if she could see the ornaments.
“Certainly,” answered Wagram; “only we must get hold of Father Gayle for that, because he has got the keys of all the best things.”
The chaplain was at home, and soon found.
“Been taking our private Zoo, I hear, Miss Calmour,” he said genially as he joined them. “Your second sight of it is not quite so startling as your first, eh?”
In the sacristy—for they did not do things by halves at Hilversea—Delia was lost in wonder and delight at the beauty of the vestments and ornaments, rich and exquisite in texture and design, and she almost had to shade her eyes to look at the great sun-shaped monstrance, blazing with precious stones; but what interested her no less, perhaps, was a splendid old chasuble of Flemish make, rich and full, and displaying a perfect chronicle of symbolism in every detail of its embroidery, which Wagram pronounced to have been almost certainly worn by their martyred relative.
“From that to my boy’s things is something of a skip,” he went on, half opening a drawer, in which lay an acolyte’s dress of scarlet and lace; “only the rascal isn’t over-keen on getting inside them when he’s here—eh, Father? Says he has enough of that sort of thing to do at school.”
“Oh, well, we mustn’t expect a boy to be too pious,” laughed the priest. “I know I was anything but that at his age.”
Delia was interested. It was the first time she had heard Wagram refer to his son, and she was about to question him on the subject when the sound of a door opening, and of voices inside the chapel, caught their attention.
“It’s Haldane and Yvonne,” pronounced Wagram. “Perhaps they’ve come to have a practice.”
His conjecture proved correct, as in a minute or two the new arrivals joined them in the sacristy. They wanted to try over a few things, they said, and now the organist was nowhere to be found. Wagram couldn’t play and sing at the same time, and the same held good of Yvonne, while Haldane couldn’t play at all. What on earth was to be done?
“Could I be of any use, Mr Haldane?” said Delia with some diffidence. “I have some knowledge of accompaniment, and am used to the organ; in fact, I can singandplay at the same time without difficulty.”
“The very thing!” cried Haldane. “What a friend in need you are, Miss Calmour.”
They adjourned to the choir-loft over the west door, and Delia took her seat at the organ. It was small, but a perfect little instrument for the size of the building—here again Hilversea did not do things by halves—and had an automatic blower.
“This is a treat,” said the girl as she ran her fingers over the keyboard. “Why, the instrument is perfect. What shall we start upon?”
“Arcadelt,” said Yvonne. “Can you take soprano, Miss Calmour?”
“Yes.”
“All safe. Then we are set up. Mr Wagram, you take tenor, and father will take bass, though he’s not as good as he might be at it. Now, are you ready?”
And then Arcadelt’sAve Maria, than which, probably, no more beautiful composition of its kind was ever wrought, in its solemn and plaintive melody and exquisite interpretation of light and shade, went forth from the four voices, cultured voices too, swelling up to the high-pitched roof in all its richness of sound, and softening into tender petition.
“Lovely, lovely!” whispered Delia, half to herself, as it ended.
“It is, isn’t it?” said Yvonne. “Do let’s have it on Sunday, Mr Wagram.”
“Shall we?”
“Oh, do, Mr Wagram,” echoed Delia enthusiastically. “I’ll ride over, wet or fine, if only to hear it.”
“Very well, then, we will; but won’t you not only hear it but help us in it?”
“May I? Oh, I shall be delighted.”
They tried over a few more things, including a gem or two of Gounod, then adjourned to the house for tea.
“What a universal genius that little girl is, Wagram,” said Haldane as they walked thither, the two girls being in front.
“Yes; she’s a clever child—seems able to turn her hand to anything.” And then he told of the day’s doings.
“Good, and good again,” said Haldane. “We must tell everyone to get that number ofThe Old Country Side. Then they may give her another job.”
“I think they very likely will,” said Wagram, with a twinkle in his eyes that escaped his friend.
Chapter Seventeen.Blackmail?Grantley Wagram sat alone in his library—thinking.When a man thus sits, with an open letter in front of him, at which he gazes from time to time, with a contraction of the brows, it is safe to assume that his thoughts are hardly pleasant; and such, indeed, represented the state of the old Squire’s mind.The correspondence which troubled him was not quite recent—that is to say, it was some days old. But, great Heaven! the issue it involved if the statements therein set forth were true! It speaks volumes for the old man’s marvellous self-control that he should have gone through that period evincing no sign whatever that anything had occurred to threaten his normal urbanity—no, not even to his son; and yet, day and night, awake, and even asleep, the matter had been uppermost in his thoughts. Now, those thoughts for the hundredth time seemed to voice the two words: Only Blackmail! And yet—and yet—he knew that it was blackmail from which there would be no escape.He took up the letter and scanned it, then let it fall again with a weary sigh. There was a genuine ring about the tone of the communication. No; there could hardly be two Develin Hunts.Well, a few moments would decide, for the letter which troubled him was subscribed with that name, and the writer promised to call that very morning—in fact, might arrive any moment.Even then there came a tap at the door, and the servant who entered announced the arrival of a stranger.“Show him up here,” said the Squire.The first thing the new-comer did was to look deliberately around, return to the door, open it, and look outside. Then, closing it, he came back, seated himself opposite the Squire, and said:“Don’t you know me?”“No.”“Look again. You know me right enough, though we’ve neither of us grown any younger.”“Not from Adam.” And Grantley Wagram leaned back in his chair, as if there were no more to be said.“Never heard my name before, eh?” said the stranger sneeringly.“N-no. Wait. Let’s see. Now I remember I read it in connection with some shipwreck. Are you the person referred to?”“That I am. And a hell of a time I had of it. By the Lord, we all had.”“I can quite believe that,” said the Squire. “That castaway business must be one of the most ghastly situations imaginable.”“Quite right, Squire. Come, now, I believe you’re not half a bad sort after all. I believe we are going to understand each other.”The old diplomat made no immediate reply as he leaned back in his chair and watched the other. He saw before him a tallish man, somewhat loosely hung, but conveying an idea of wiriness and strengths. The face, tanned a red brown, might very well have been good-looking at one time; now somewhat bloodshot eyes and an indescribable something told that its owner had lived hard and wildly, and that in wild, hard places.“Yes; I believe you’re not half a bad sort, Squire,” repeated the stranger, pulling at his short white beard—“far too good a sort not to haveforgottenthat a man might have a thirst after a walk on a hot morning; for I walked over here, mind.”“To be sure, I had forgotten,” said the Squire, with a pleasant laugh, as he touched an electric button on the table. “What do you fancy? A glass of wine?”“Wine? No, thanks. Scotch is good enough for me, especially good Scotch—and it’s bound to be that here,” with a comprehensive sweep of the hand round the library.A servant appearing, the whisky was ordered and brought, Grantley Wagram the while uneasily hoping that it would not have the effect of making his unwelcome visitor uproarious.“Soda? No, thanks,” said the latter emphatically; “that’ll do for those stay-at-home popinjays who loaf about clubs, not for a man who’s lived. Ah! That’s real good,” swallowing at a gulp half the four-finger measure he had poured out for himself. “Soft, mellow as milk. Squire, you’re not with me.”“Not—?”“Not with me. It isn’t usual in places I’ve been for one man to drink and another to look on.”“Oh, I see. I must ask you to take the will for the deed. This is the wrong end of the day with me for that sort of thing.”“Oh, but—it’ll never do,” returned the other in an injured tone, gulping down the remains of his glass. “We shall never get to business that way.”“Perhaps even better,” said the Squire pleasantly. “Well, now—what is your business?”At this—put point-blank—the stranger stared, and the decanter which he had reached for, to fill up again, was held arrested in mid-air.“Well, I’ll get to it,” he said, following out his immediate purpose, and tossing off a good half of the same. “I’ve been knocking about all my life—and ithasbeen a life, mind you—and now I want to squat. Some nice, bright, pleasant neighbourhood where there’s good company and a bit of sport to be had; like this, for instance.”“Quite natural,” said the Squire pleasantly. “Made your pile, I suppose, and want to settle down and enjoy it.”The other winked.“Not much ‘pile,’” he said. “For the rest you’re right. I do want to enjoy it—if by ‘it’ you mean life—and it strikes me this is just the corner of this little island to do it in.” And down went the remainder of the glass.The Squire was relieved to find that the liquor had no effect upon the man whatever, for though he had lowered practically a tumbler of it neat, and within a very short interval of time, he talked with the same easy, confident drawl, nor did his speech show any signs of thickening. The said speech, by the way, was correct, and not by any means that of an uneducated person.“And—the business?”“That’s it, Squire. I want a nice snug little box, where I can smoke my pipe in peace and stable a horse or two, and have a day’s shooting now and again, and throw a fly when I want. That’s reasonable, isn’t it?”“Quite. But, then—I’m not a house agent.”“Ha—ha—ha! Capital joke—capital! Well, for once in your life you shall be one—”“Eh?””—And find me exactly what I want. I think the terms are easy. Only there is another trifling detail I forgot. You were mentioning a ‘pile’ just now. Well, I haven’t made any pile—rather the other way on. Now, that modest establishment I suggest will want a little keeping up—a banking account, you understand.”“Yes; it would want that.”“Well, then, you could arrange all that for me too,” rejoined the stranger airily, though at heart somewhat disconcerted by the old diplomat’s coolness. “Come, now; the terms are not hard. What do you think?”“Shall I tell you what I think?”“Do.”“I think you must be an escaped lunatic.”“Ah, you think that, do you? Well, I’m not going to lose my temper with you, Squire; in fact, I admire your gameness. But it’s of no use. I like this part of the country, and I’m here to stay. When I’ve prospected around a little more I’ll tell you which place I’ll take, and how much it will require to keep up.”“Yes? Pray be modest when you do.”The other laughed. The mild sarcasm tickled him, and he felt so sure of his ground.“I think I am, all things considered,” he said. “Of course, we can break off the deal—right now. You are all right for your life, but what price when your son Wagram has to pack up and go, as, of course, he will? You have another son?”“No.”“What? Oh, Squire! Ah, I see. You don’t own him, and all that sort of thing. Well, I’m not surprised, and I don’t blame you, for he’s a hard case. Upon my word, he’s a devilish hard case—one of the hardest cases I’ve ever struck, and that’s saying a gaudy good deal. Well, now, I know exactly where to put my finger on him, and when Wagram has to pack, why, then, the other one—Everard—comes in. It’ll all be his then, and won’t he make things hum!”“I should think he most probably would, unless he’s vastly changed since I last saw him,” smiled the old man, as if his visitor had just vented some pleasant witticism.“Well, he hasn’t—not for the better at any rate, from your point of view. You may take it from me, he won’t refuse me what I am asking you—ay, and a great deal more besides. In fact, he daren’t.”“In that case, why did you come to me at all if you could get so much more from him?”“Don’t you see, Squire, that would be a waiting game, and I don’t prefer that if it can be avoided, for, of course, he couldn’t touch a thing during your time.”“No; he couldn’t—and certainly shouldn’t.”“Very well, then. There’s one motive, and here’s another. What if I have a hankering—a genuine one—after respectability? What if I would rather settle down as a highly respectable neighbour of yours—you would find me all that, I promise you—than help ‘blue’ the whole show with Everard? No; don’t smile so incredulously. A man with your cool reasoning faculties, which I have been admiring all along, ought to know human nature better.”“Now, look here, Mr Develin Hunt, or whatever you choose to call yourself,” said the Squire, rising in his chair, as a hint to terminate the interview, and speaking in a crisp, decisive tone. “Do you really imagine that this precious concoction of yours is going to frighten or influence me in the slightest degree—because, if so, you don’t know me at all—as, indeed, how should you? But I warn you that personation and blackmail are felonies in this country, and not only very severely punishable but generally very severely punished. So now I’ll say good-bye; only lay my warning to heart, and don’t come here with any more of these flimsy attempts to obtain money or I shall know next time how to treat them.”“Blackmail! Felony! Ugly words both,” said the stranger cheerfully as he, too, rose. “Well, I’m not much afraid; only, let me echo your words: ‘I shall know what to do next time’ if you refuse to see me, and that will be to place the matter before your son Wagram. He’ll think twice before allowing all the good you and he have done here—I have been taking observations, you see—to be wrecked at the sweet will of as cut-throat and piratical a ‘tough’ as ever escaped hanging, even though it be his own brother. Good-morning, Squire. Shall see you again in a few days. Looks as if we were going to have rain, doesn’t it? Good-morning.”He passed through the door, which was being held open for him, for the Squire had already rung, and went down the stairs with jaunty step. Then, as he heard the front door shut, Grantley Wagram sank back into his chair.The sting of the whole interview lay in the parting words. About the man’s identity he had no doubt, and that his other and missing son should be the instrument for undoing all that had been done, and bringing the family to utter ruin! It was terrible! He could not so much as sit still to think about it. He felt cornered and trapped.He went to the open window. The June sunshine was flooding over the richness of the foliage tossing in mountainous masses against the cloudless blue. A perfect gurgle of bird voices in sweet harmony blended in unceasing song, and that clear, pure fragrance which you will only find in the open country came up with every waft of the summer air. Red roofs nestling among the trees, near and far, where farm or tiny hamlet formed a cluster of dwellings—all the people represented by these looked up to him, and to him who should come after him, and the reflection only served to add bitterness to Grantley Wagram’s meditations. He had striven to do his best for all these, in the truest and best sense of the word, and had no reason to believe his high aims had met with failure; indeed, it would have been false modesty to pretend to himself that the very reverse was not the case. Wagram had ably and whole-heartedly seconded him, and would continue to do so after his time. Yet now, if this would-be blackmailer could but furnish convincing proof of his identity—ah, surely high Heaven would never permit such an undoing of its own work!
Grantley Wagram sat alone in his library—thinking.
When a man thus sits, with an open letter in front of him, at which he gazes from time to time, with a contraction of the brows, it is safe to assume that his thoughts are hardly pleasant; and such, indeed, represented the state of the old Squire’s mind.
The correspondence which troubled him was not quite recent—that is to say, it was some days old. But, great Heaven! the issue it involved if the statements therein set forth were true! It speaks volumes for the old man’s marvellous self-control that he should have gone through that period evincing no sign whatever that anything had occurred to threaten his normal urbanity—no, not even to his son; and yet, day and night, awake, and even asleep, the matter had been uppermost in his thoughts. Now, those thoughts for the hundredth time seemed to voice the two words: Only Blackmail! And yet—and yet—he knew that it was blackmail from which there would be no escape.
He took up the letter and scanned it, then let it fall again with a weary sigh. There was a genuine ring about the tone of the communication. No; there could hardly be two Develin Hunts.
Well, a few moments would decide, for the letter which troubled him was subscribed with that name, and the writer promised to call that very morning—in fact, might arrive any moment.
Even then there came a tap at the door, and the servant who entered announced the arrival of a stranger.
“Show him up here,” said the Squire.
The first thing the new-comer did was to look deliberately around, return to the door, open it, and look outside. Then, closing it, he came back, seated himself opposite the Squire, and said:
“Don’t you know me?”
“No.”
“Look again. You know me right enough, though we’ve neither of us grown any younger.”
“Not from Adam.” And Grantley Wagram leaned back in his chair, as if there were no more to be said.
“Never heard my name before, eh?” said the stranger sneeringly.
“N-no. Wait. Let’s see. Now I remember I read it in connection with some shipwreck. Are you the person referred to?”
“That I am. And a hell of a time I had of it. By the Lord, we all had.”
“I can quite believe that,” said the Squire. “That castaway business must be one of the most ghastly situations imaginable.”
“Quite right, Squire. Come, now, I believe you’re not half a bad sort after all. I believe we are going to understand each other.”
The old diplomat made no immediate reply as he leaned back in his chair and watched the other. He saw before him a tallish man, somewhat loosely hung, but conveying an idea of wiriness and strengths. The face, tanned a red brown, might very well have been good-looking at one time; now somewhat bloodshot eyes and an indescribable something told that its owner had lived hard and wildly, and that in wild, hard places.
“Yes; I believe you’re not half a bad sort, Squire,” repeated the stranger, pulling at his short white beard—“far too good a sort not to haveforgottenthat a man might have a thirst after a walk on a hot morning; for I walked over here, mind.”
“To be sure, I had forgotten,” said the Squire, with a pleasant laugh, as he touched an electric button on the table. “What do you fancy? A glass of wine?”
“Wine? No, thanks. Scotch is good enough for me, especially good Scotch—and it’s bound to be that here,” with a comprehensive sweep of the hand round the library.
A servant appearing, the whisky was ordered and brought, Grantley Wagram the while uneasily hoping that it would not have the effect of making his unwelcome visitor uproarious.
“Soda? No, thanks,” said the latter emphatically; “that’ll do for those stay-at-home popinjays who loaf about clubs, not for a man who’s lived. Ah! That’s real good,” swallowing at a gulp half the four-finger measure he had poured out for himself. “Soft, mellow as milk. Squire, you’re not with me.”
“Not—?”
“Not with me. It isn’t usual in places I’ve been for one man to drink and another to look on.”
“Oh, I see. I must ask you to take the will for the deed. This is the wrong end of the day with me for that sort of thing.”
“Oh, but—it’ll never do,” returned the other in an injured tone, gulping down the remains of his glass. “We shall never get to business that way.”
“Perhaps even better,” said the Squire pleasantly. “Well, now—what is your business?”
At this—put point-blank—the stranger stared, and the decanter which he had reached for, to fill up again, was held arrested in mid-air.
“Well, I’ll get to it,” he said, following out his immediate purpose, and tossing off a good half of the same. “I’ve been knocking about all my life—and ithasbeen a life, mind you—and now I want to squat. Some nice, bright, pleasant neighbourhood where there’s good company and a bit of sport to be had; like this, for instance.”
“Quite natural,” said the Squire pleasantly. “Made your pile, I suppose, and want to settle down and enjoy it.”
The other winked.
“Not much ‘pile,’” he said. “For the rest you’re right. I do want to enjoy it—if by ‘it’ you mean life—and it strikes me this is just the corner of this little island to do it in.” And down went the remainder of the glass.
The Squire was relieved to find that the liquor had no effect upon the man whatever, for though he had lowered practically a tumbler of it neat, and within a very short interval of time, he talked with the same easy, confident drawl, nor did his speech show any signs of thickening. The said speech, by the way, was correct, and not by any means that of an uneducated person.
“And—the business?”
“That’s it, Squire. I want a nice snug little box, where I can smoke my pipe in peace and stable a horse or two, and have a day’s shooting now and again, and throw a fly when I want. That’s reasonable, isn’t it?”
“Quite. But, then—I’m not a house agent.”
“Ha—ha—ha! Capital joke—capital! Well, for once in your life you shall be one—”
“Eh?”
”—And find me exactly what I want. I think the terms are easy. Only there is another trifling detail I forgot. You were mentioning a ‘pile’ just now. Well, I haven’t made any pile—rather the other way on. Now, that modest establishment I suggest will want a little keeping up—a banking account, you understand.”
“Yes; it would want that.”
“Well, then, you could arrange all that for me too,” rejoined the stranger airily, though at heart somewhat disconcerted by the old diplomat’s coolness. “Come, now; the terms are not hard. What do you think?”
“Shall I tell you what I think?”
“Do.”
“I think you must be an escaped lunatic.”
“Ah, you think that, do you? Well, I’m not going to lose my temper with you, Squire; in fact, I admire your gameness. But it’s of no use. I like this part of the country, and I’m here to stay. When I’ve prospected around a little more I’ll tell you which place I’ll take, and how much it will require to keep up.”
“Yes? Pray be modest when you do.”
The other laughed. The mild sarcasm tickled him, and he felt so sure of his ground.
“I think I am, all things considered,” he said. “Of course, we can break off the deal—right now. You are all right for your life, but what price when your son Wagram has to pack up and go, as, of course, he will? You have another son?”
“No.”
“What? Oh, Squire! Ah, I see. You don’t own him, and all that sort of thing. Well, I’m not surprised, and I don’t blame you, for he’s a hard case. Upon my word, he’s a devilish hard case—one of the hardest cases I’ve ever struck, and that’s saying a gaudy good deal. Well, now, I know exactly where to put my finger on him, and when Wagram has to pack, why, then, the other one—Everard—comes in. It’ll all be his then, and won’t he make things hum!”
“I should think he most probably would, unless he’s vastly changed since I last saw him,” smiled the old man, as if his visitor had just vented some pleasant witticism.
“Well, he hasn’t—not for the better at any rate, from your point of view. You may take it from me, he won’t refuse me what I am asking you—ay, and a great deal more besides. In fact, he daren’t.”
“In that case, why did you come to me at all if you could get so much more from him?”
“Don’t you see, Squire, that would be a waiting game, and I don’t prefer that if it can be avoided, for, of course, he couldn’t touch a thing during your time.”
“No; he couldn’t—and certainly shouldn’t.”
“Very well, then. There’s one motive, and here’s another. What if I have a hankering—a genuine one—after respectability? What if I would rather settle down as a highly respectable neighbour of yours—you would find me all that, I promise you—than help ‘blue’ the whole show with Everard? No; don’t smile so incredulously. A man with your cool reasoning faculties, which I have been admiring all along, ought to know human nature better.”
“Now, look here, Mr Develin Hunt, or whatever you choose to call yourself,” said the Squire, rising in his chair, as a hint to terminate the interview, and speaking in a crisp, decisive tone. “Do you really imagine that this precious concoction of yours is going to frighten or influence me in the slightest degree—because, if so, you don’t know me at all—as, indeed, how should you? But I warn you that personation and blackmail are felonies in this country, and not only very severely punishable but generally very severely punished. So now I’ll say good-bye; only lay my warning to heart, and don’t come here with any more of these flimsy attempts to obtain money or I shall know next time how to treat them.”
“Blackmail! Felony! Ugly words both,” said the stranger cheerfully as he, too, rose. “Well, I’m not much afraid; only, let me echo your words: ‘I shall know what to do next time’ if you refuse to see me, and that will be to place the matter before your son Wagram. He’ll think twice before allowing all the good you and he have done here—I have been taking observations, you see—to be wrecked at the sweet will of as cut-throat and piratical a ‘tough’ as ever escaped hanging, even though it be his own brother. Good-morning, Squire. Shall see you again in a few days. Looks as if we were going to have rain, doesn’t it? Good-morning.”
He passed through the door, which was being held open for him, for the Squire had already rung, and went down the stairs with jaunty step. Then, as he heard the front door shut, Grantley Wagram sank back into his chair.
The sting of the whole interview lay in the parting words. About the man’s identity he had no doubt, and that his other and missing son should be the instrument for undoing all that had been done, and bringing the family to utter ruin! It was terrible! He could not so much as sit still to think about it. He felt cornered and trapped.
He went to the open window. The June sunshine was flooding over the richness of the foliage tossing in mountainous masses against the cloudless blue. A perfect gurgle of bird voices in sweet harmony blended in unceasing song, and that clear, pure fragrance which you will only find in the open country came up with every waft of the summer air. Red roofs nestling among the trees, near and far, where farm or tiny hamlet formed a cluster of dwellings—all the people represented by these looked up to him, and to him who should come after him, and the reflection only served to add bitterness to Grantley Wagram’s meditations. He had striven to do his best for all these, in the truest and best sense of the word, and had no reason to believe his high aims had met with failure; indeed, it would have been false modesty to pretend to himself that the very reverse was not the case. Wagram had ably and whole-heartedly seconded him, and would continue to do so after his time. Yet now, if this would-be blackmailer could but furnish convincing proof of his identity—ah, surely high Heaven would never permit such an undoing of its own work!
Chapter Eighteen.Further Counsels.“Monsignor Culham, sir,” announced a servant, throwing open the library door.The Squire advanced with outstretched hand. “Ah, my dear old friend, I never was more glad to see you in my life.”“And how are you, Grantley? Upon my word, in spite of whatever it is that’s bothering you, you are looking younger than ever.”“That’ll soon remedy itself, unless we can devise some way out of this abominable tangle.”“Supposing, now, you let me in behind this same abominable tangle—for, of course, I have as yet no idea as to its nature.”A week had gone by since the visit of the African adventurer, but nothing further had been heard of or from that worthy. Clearly he was not going to hurry his victim unduly, but that he had given up his predatory scheme the said victim could not bring himself to believe.In a matter involving weighty issues even the most shrewd and secretive of us may be excused for doubting his own judgment, or, at any rate, desiring to take counsel of another mind. Thus the situation, as laid down by the would-be blackmailer, had got upon even the cool nerves of the old diplomat; and upon whose judgment could he rely as he could upon that of his old friend?“But you are only just off a journey,” he now replied. “You must rest and refresh first.”“Neither, thanks; and the journey wasn’t a long one. Now, begin.”“It’s a tale soon told. My first wife—Wagram’s mother—was married before. She honestly believed her husband to be dead; in fact, if certificates and all that sort of thing count as proof, she was justified in believing it. Afterwards he turned up, and tried blackmailing us.”“Was that before Wagram was born?”“No; after. Not that it made any difference either way, because, of course, the marriage was void.”“You have no doubt whatever that he was her real husband?”“She had no doubt. Poor thing! it killed her.”“And what became of the man?”“I made it worth his while to leave the country, and on the way to New Zealand or Australia—I forget which—he was washed overboard, and never seen again. I was justified in believing him drowned, if only that he never troubled me again, which he would certainly have done otherwise.”“And he wasn’t?”“So he says. Read this,” handing him the newspaper cutting narrating the rescue of the three castaways.“And is this the man—Develin Hunt?”The Squire nodded. “Funny, isn’t it, that he should reappear in the same way as he went? Well, he has been here to blackmail me.” And he told of the recent visitor and the proposed terms.“People change a good deal in a matter of thirty years or so,” said the prelate. “And you had no doubt as to this man’s identity?”“Unfortunately, none. I didn’t let him know that, though. I treated him politely, and as if I thought him a fraud of the first water, but it didn’t seem to disconcert him. He has a trump card to throw down, for it is not merely a case of Wagram going out but—of who do you think coming in? Everard!”“What?”“Everard. He professes to know his whereabouts, declares that he has gone utterly to the bad. The fellow even dwelt upon the utter wreck that wretched boy would make of everything here in the event of establishing his claim.”To listen to the old man telling his tale in his easy, light, cynical tones you would have thought it concerned him not at all. But his friend saw deeper down than that; he knew that if this thing were to befall Grantley Wagram’s days were numbered. Heavens! it was too awful! And Wagram, whose love for his heritage was an obsession, and who was such a perfect steward of the great wealth entrusted to him—what would be the effect on him when he learnt that such heritage was reft from him at one blow—that he had no right even to the name he bore, nor his son after him? The prelate’s face wore as gloomy a look as that of his friend.“Of course, you must insist on this man furnishing you with every proof of his identity,” he said. “He can do that, of course?”“The worst of it is I’m convinced in my heart of hearts as to his identity. There was something out of the way about the fellow that even the lapse of time hasn’t affected. I don’t know quite what it is. Perhaps it’s his way of talking. Anyway, I’m sure of him.”“You can be sure of nothing in this world, Grantley—nothing that isn’t a matter of faith, which, of course, sounds paradoxical. But in mundane matters such as this it isn’t a question of faith but of hard, dry evidence, which for present purposes may be taken to mean: Can this man prove that he was validly and legally married to your first wife before you went through what we will, provisionally, and for the sake of argument, call the form of marriage with her?”“And supposing he can’t?”“Then there’s an end of the whole affair.”“Even if I am morally certain?” persisted the Squire, smiling sadly to himself as he remembered how, when they were youths at college together, he had delighted in putting every form of difficult and intricate case of conscience he could think of to the budding priest, who, for his part, had never shirked the challenge.“Everything is to be ruled upon its own merits. Moral certainty in such a matter as this is nothing, and counts for nothing. We must have clear, authenticated, documentary proof.”“I have often wondered,” went on Grantley Wagram slowly, “how Everard could really be my son; there was a total absence about him of every sort of seeming relationship or affinity. Well, well, it is too late to dwell upon that now. Yet I gave him every chance, and he threw it from him. Did I not give him every chance?”“You did indeed; you have nothing to reproach yourself with under that head.”“Then, as a matter of conscience, I am justified in resisting the claimde haut en bas? And I don’t know who could be a better authority in that department than you, old friend.”“Absolutely and entirely you are. You can’t as a juror conscientiously hang a man on moral certainty, you must have legal certainty—otherwise clear evidence. It’s the same here. When you consider the enormous stake involved the principle of ‘the benefit of the doubt’ holds good more than ever.”“Knowing what I knew,” resumed the Squire after a brief pause—“knew, or at any rate was morally certain of—I reckoned it my duty to make a second marriage, to obviate all possibility of Hilversea passing to a distant and apostate branch of the family, which stands in no sort of need of it, by the way, being as well endowed with this world’s goods as I am myself. How disadvantageous that second marriage turned out—well, you, old friend, will remember. And the only result spells—Everard. Why, it might even be better for everything to go to the other branch than to him.”“So far as we have got it doesn’t follow that it need go to either. You were saying something just now, Grantley, about your first wife being in possession of certificates proving this man’s, Develin Hunt’s, death. Now, did you ever see anything of the sort attesting his marriage to her?”“No; I never thought of it. No; I never saw any such certificate. The poor thing admitted that it had taken place; and that was enough for me, for it was a painful business, so I made it worth his while to clear out.”“You committed an error of judgment, Grantley, not only in failing to require such a certificate and establishing its genuineness, but also in omitting to institute a thorough and searching inquiry into the antecedents of this Develin Hunt prior to the alleged marriage.”“You think, then, that such may not have been valid?”“I am not in a position to think; I only know—we both know—that such things have happened. This man, you say, has led an adventurous life in various parts of the world. Who knows what experiences it may hold, any one of which would invalidate this alleged marriage, thereby rendering yours valid?”“Ah-h!”Grantley Wagram drew a long breath as he straightened himself up in his chair; his face lightened.“In that case Wagram would be safe,” he said.“Safe as yourself; but it doesn’t do to build too much on such an uncertain foundation. Still, what I should do in your place would be to take steps immediately to have this man’s past traced. Of course, the lapse of years will have added enormously to the difficulties of the search, but by sparing no expense, and setting the right people to work, the thing ought to be feasible, I imagine.”“I had thought of some such plan myself; but two heads are better than one—by Jove, they are! I’ll set to work about it directly; but meanwhile this fellow threatens to call round for his price.”“When?”“In a few days, he said, whatever that may mean; and it’s about a week ago now.”“Wait till he does call, then. But, of course, you won’t pay him any ‘price.’ Give him rope instead—and plenty of it.”“Yes; I shall require the certificate of his marriage, and it will be easy to verify it, unless, of course, it took place out of England—then it will be more difficult.”“Not necessarily. It will take more time, and I don’t know that that’s altogether an unmixed evil—the gaining of time in an important and critical matter seldom is. By the way—er—I suppose Mrs Wagram never informed you where it had taken place?”“No. You see, the whole thing came as more than something of a shock, and we agreed never to refer to it. Heavens! my working life was spent in defeating the wiles of the potential enemies of my country, and when it became a question of my own nearest affairs I seem to have acted the part of a very complete and unsophisticated idiot.”“Not an uncommon thing, my dear Grantley. I seem to remember more than one instance of an eminent judge or counsel whose will, drawn by himself, was productive of a fruitful crop of lawsuits. But now you have not got to let yourself get flurried or out of hand in the matter. This man, from your account of him, seems to be a singularly confident and level-headed type of adventurer. If his position is as secure as he would have you believe, why, then, he can afford to play a waiting game, and will be too much of a man of the world to spoil his own play by hurrying yours. If he shows an unwillingness to play the said waiting game, why, then, I think he will be giving away his own hand, which in that case is sure to be weak.”“That’s sound wisdom,” said the Squire, “and I’ll act upon it. I’ll put it to him straight that, until I’ve had time to have inquiries made, I’ll do nothing for him.”“Meanwhile don’t give him a shilling.”“Oh no; certainly not. In any case I should never dream of embarking on that idiocy over again.”“I suppose you have let drop no hint of that matter to Wagram?”“No hint. If anything comes of it, why, he’ll know soon enough—if nothing, why disturb him? And—Wagram is so ultra conscientious. He’d never have done for the Diplomatic Service.”Both laughed, but it was somewhat mirthlessly.“There is Wagram,” went on the Squire as a step and a whistled bar or two sounded outside; and then the door opened.“Ah! how are you, Monsignor? They told me you had arrived.”The old prelate’s keen, kindly glance took in the man before him as they shook hands, and there was sadness in his heart, though sign thereof did not appear. Yes; he took in the tall, straight form and the refined, thoughtful face, and realised what a blow hung over their owner. Should it fall, how would he take it? How? He thought he knew. But—it would be terrible, disastrous, ruinous. Heaven in mercy avert it!“What do you think, father?” said Wagram as they were seated at lunch. “You remember that fellow who escaped from that wreck we were reading about the other day—the fellow with the quaint name—Develin Something—ah, Hunt—that was it? Well, he’s staying in Bassingham. Charlie Vance pointed him out to me. Says he’s stopping at the Golden Crown. Funny, isn’t it?”“Very. That’s the man at whose expense you perpetrated that infamous pun, isn’t it, Wagram?” answered the Squire, with a twinkle of the eyes, and as complete aninsoucianceas though the man’s very existence were not a matter of life and death to them.“Well, I wasn’t as bad as Haldane. I only fired it off once; but Haldane—you know, Monsignor, Haldane spent the rest of the day suggesting to everyone within hail that a chap named Develin Hunt must have had a bad time throughout life in that he would be continually in the way of being told that he had the Develin him.”“Capital—capital!” said Monsignor Culham, with a hearty laugh. “I read the case in the papers at the time. And what sort of a fellow did this shipwrecked mariner strike you as being, Wagram?”“Oh, he looked a hard-bitten, unscrupulous sort of pirate. They say he’s been a West African back-country trader—a life, I imagine, likely to turn a man that way.”The prelate laughed again, so did the Squire. Thus admirably did they keep their own counsel these two finished old diplomats. But—beneath!
“Monsignor Culham, sir,” announced a servant, throwing open the library door.
The Squire advanced with outstretched hand. “Ah, my dear old friend, I never was more glad to see you in my life.”
“And how are you, Grantley? Upon my word, in spite of whatever it is that’s bothering you, you are looking younger than ever.”
“That’ll soon remedy itself, unless we can devise some way out of this abominable tangle.”
“Supposing, now, you let me in behind this same abominable tangle—for, of course, I have as yet no idea as to its nature.”
A week had gone by since the visit of the African adventurer, but nothing further had been heard of or from that worthy. Clearly he was not going to hurry his victim unduly, but that he had given up his predatory scheme the said victim could not bring himself to believe.
In a matter involving weighty issues even the most shrewd and secretive of us may be excused for doubting his own judgment, or, at any rate, desiring to take counsel of another mind. Thus the situation, as laid down by the would-be blackmailer, had got upon even the cool nerves of the old diplomat; and upon whose judgment could he rely as he could upon that of his old friend?
“But you are only just off a journey,” he now replied. “You must rest and refresh first.”
“Neither, thanks; and the journey wasn’t a long one. Now, begin.”
“It’s a tale soon told. My first wife—Wagram’s mother—was married before. She honestly believed her husband to be dead; in fact, if certificates and all that sort of thing count as proof, she was justified in believing it. Afterwards he turned up, and tried blackmailing us.”
“Was that before Wagram was born?”
“No; after. Not that it made any difference either way, because, of course, the marriage was void.”
“You have no doubt whatever that he was her real husband?”
“She had no doubt. Poor thing! it killed her.”
“And what became of the man?”
“I made it worth his while to leave the country, and on the way to New Zealand or Australia—I forget which—he was washed overboard, and never seen again. I was justified in believing him drowned, if only that he never troubled me again, which he would certainly have done otherwise.”
“And he wasn’t?”
“So he says. Read this,” handing him the newspaper cutting narrating the rescue of the three castaways.
“And is this the man—Develin Hunt?”
The Squire nodded. “Funny, isn’t it, that he should reappear in the same way as he went? Well, he has been here to blackmail me.” And he told of the recent visitor and the proposed terms.
“People change a good deal in a matter of thirty years or so,” said the prelate. “And you had no doubt as to this man’s identity?”
“Unfortunately, none. I didn’t let him know that, though. I treated him politely, and as if I thought him a fraud of the first water, but it didn’t seem to disconcert him. He has a trump card to throw down, for it is not merely a case of Wagram going out but—of who do you think coming in? Everard!”
“What?”
“Everard. He professes to know his whereabouts, declares that he has gone utterly to the bad. The fellow even dwelt upon the utter wreck that wretched boy would make of everything here in the event of establishing his claim.”
To listen to the old man telling his tale in his easy, light, cynical tones you would have thought it concerned him not at all. But his friend saw deeper down than that; he knew that if this thing were to befall Grantley Wagram’s days were numbered. Heavens! it was too awful! And Wagram, whose love for his heritage was an obsession, and who was such a perfect steward of the great wealth entrusted to him—what would be the effect on him when he learnt that such heritage was reft from him at one blow—that he had no right even to the name he bore, nor his son after him? The prelate’s face wore as gloomy a look as that of his friend.
“Of course, you must insist on this man furnishing you with every proof of his identity,” he said. “He can do that, of course?”
“The worst of it is I’m convinced in my heart of hearts as to his identity. There was something out of the way about the fellow that even the lapse of time hasn’t affected. I don’t know quite what it is. Perhaps it’s his way of talking. Anyway, I’m sure of him.”
“You can be sure of nothing in this world, Grantley—nothing that isn’t a matter of faith, which, of course, sounds paradoxical. But in mundane matters such as this it isn’t a question of faith but of hard, dry evidence, which for present purposes may be taken to mean: Can this man prove that he was validly and legally married to your first wife before you went through what we will, provisionally, and for the sake of argument, call the form of marriage with her?”
“And supposing he can’t?”
“Then there’s an end of the whole affair.”
“Even if I am morally certain?” persisted the Squire, smiling sadly to himself as he remembered how, when they were youths at college together, he had delighted in putting every form of difficult and intricate case of conscience he could think of to the budding priest, who, for his part, had never shirked the challenge.
“Everything is to be ruled upon its own merits. Moral certainty in such a matter as this is nothing, and counts for nothing. We must have clear, authenticated, documentary proof.”
“I have often wondered,” went on Grantley Wagram slowly, “how Everard could really be my son; there was a total absence about him of every sort of seeming relationship or affinity. Well, well, it is too late to dwell upon that now. Yet I gave him every chance, and he threw it from him. Did I not give him every chance?”
“You did indeed; you have nothing to reproach yourself with under that head.”
“Then, as a matter of conscience, I am justified in resisting the claimde haut en bas? And I don’t know who could be a better authority in that department than you, old friend.”
“Absolutely and entirely you are. You can’t as a juror conscientiously hang a man on moral certainty, you must have legal certainty—otherwise clear evidence. It’s the same here. When you consider the enormous stake involved the principle of ‘the benefit of the doubt’ holds good more than ever.”
“Knowing what I knew,” resumed the Squire after a brief pause—“knew, or at any rate was morally certain of—I reckoned it my duty to make a second marriage, to obviate all possibility of Hilversea passing to a distant and apostate branch of the family, which stands in no sort of need of it, by the way, being as well endowed with this world’s goods as I am myself. How disadvantageous that second marriage turned out—well, you, old friend, will remember. And the only result spells—Everard. Why, it might even be better for everything to go to the other branch than to him.”
“So far as we have got it doesn’t follow that it need go to either. You were saying something just now, Grantley, about your first wife being in possession of certificates proving this man’s, Develin Hunt’s, death. Now, did you ever see anything of the sort attesting his marriage to her?”
“No; I never thought of it. No; I never saw any such certificate. The poor thing admitted that it had taken place; and that was enough for me, for it was a painful business, so I made it worth his while to clear out.”
“You committed an error of judgment, Grantley, not only in failing to require such a certificate and establishing its genuineness, but also in omitting to institute a thorough and searching inquiry into the antecedents of this Develin Hunt prior to the alleged marriage.”
“You think, then, that such may not have been valid?”
“I am not in a position to think; I only know—we both know—that such things have happened. This man, you say, has led an adventurous life in various parts of the world. Who knows what experiences it may hold, any one of which would invalidate this alleged marriage, thereby rendering yours valid?”
“Ah-h!”
Grantley Wagram drew a long breath as he straightened himself up in his chair; his face lightened.
“In that case Wagram would be safe,” he said.
“Safe as yourself; but it doesn’t do to build too much on such an uncertain foundation. Still, what I should do in your place would be to take steps immediately to have this man’s past traced. Of course, the lapse of years will have added enormously to the difficulties of the search, but by sparing no expense, and setting the right people to work, the thing ought to be feasible, I imagine.”
“I had thought of some such plan myself; but two heads are better than one—by Jove, they are! I’ll set to work about it directly; but meanwhile this fellow threatens to call round for his price.”
“When?”
“In a few days, he said, whatever that may mean; and it’s about a week ago now.”
“Wait till he does call, then. But, of course, you won’t pay him any ‘price.’ Give him rope instead—and plenty of it.”
“Yes; I shall require the certificate of his marriage, and it will be easy to verify it, unless, of course, it took place out of England—then it will be more difficult.”
“Not necessarily. It will take more time, and I don’t know that that’s altogether an unmixed evil—the gaining of time in an important and critical matter seldom is. By the way—er—I suppose Mrs Wagram never informed you where it had taken place?”
“No. You see, the whole thing came as more than something of a shock, and we agreed never to refer to it. Heavens! my working life was spent in defeating the wiles of the potential enemies of my country, and when it became a question of my own nearest affairs I seem to have acted the part of a very complete and unsophisticated idiot.”
“Not an uncommon thing, my dear Grantley. I seem to remember more than one instance of an eminent judge or counsel whose will, drawn by himself, was productive of a fruitful crop of lawsuits. But now you have not got to let yourself get flurried or out of hand in the matter. This man, from your account of him, seems to be a singularly confident and level-headed type of adventurer. If his position is as secure as he would have you believe, why, then, he can afford to play a waiting game, and will be too much of a man of the world to spoil his own play by hurrying yours. If he shows an unwillingness to play the said waiting game, why, then, I think he will be giving away his own hand, which in that case is sure to be weak.”
“That’s sound wisdom,” said the Squire, “and I’ll act upon it. I’ll put it to him straight that, until I’ve had time to have inquiries made, I’ll do nothing for him.”
“Meanwhile don’t give him a shilling.”
“Oh no; certainly not. In any case I should never dream of embarking on that idiocy over again.”
“I suppose you have let drop no hint of that matter to Wagram?”
“No hint. If anything comes of it, why, he’ll know soon enough—if nothing, why disturb him? And—Wagram is so ultra conscientious. He’d never have done for the Diplomatic Service.”
Both laughed, but it was somewhat mirthlessly.
“There is Wagram,” went on the Squire as a step and a whistled bar or two sounded outside; and then the door opened.
“Ah! how are you, Monsignor? They told me you had arrived.”
The old prelate’s keen, kindly glance took in the man before him as they shook hands, and there was sadness in his heart, though sign thereof did not appear. Yes; he took in the tall, straight form and the refined, thoughtful face, and realised what a blow hung over their owner. Should it fall, how would he take it? How? He thought he knew. But—it would be terrible, disastrous, ruinous. Heaven in mercy avert it!
“What do you think, father?” said Wagram as they were seated at lunch. “You remember that fellow who escaped from that wreck we were reading about the other day—the fellow with the quaint name—Develin Something—ah, Hunt—that was it? Well, he’s staying in Bassingham. Charlie Vance pointed him out to me. Says he’s stopping at the Golden Crown. Funny, isn’t it?”
“Very. That’s the man at whose expense you perpetrated that infamous pun, isn’t it, Wagram?” answered the Squire, with a twinkle of the eyes, and as complete aninsoucianceas though the man’s very existence were not a matter of life and death to them.
“Well, I wasn’t as bad as Haldane. I only fired it off once; but Haldane—you know, Monsignor, Haldane spent the rest of the day suggesting to everyone within hail that a chap named Develin Hunt must have had a bad time throughout life in that he would be continually in the way of being told that he had the Develin him.”
“Capital—capital!” said Monsignor Culham, with a hearty laugh. “I read the case in the papers at the time. And what sort of a fellow did this shipwrecked mariner strike you as being, Wagram?”
“Oh, he looked a hard-bitten, unscrupulous sort of pirate. They say he’s been a West African back-country trader—a life, I imagine, likely to turn a man that way.”
The prelate laughed again, so did the Squire. Thus admirably did they keep their own counsel these two finished old diplomats. But—beneath!
Chapter Nineteen.Interim—Peace!One glowing summer morning saw Delia Calmour spinning her bicycle along at a great rate up the Hilversea drive. It was Sunday, and she had come to attend the chapel, a thing she had done more than once of late, since the time she had given efficient musical aid on a certain informal occasion we wot of. Some weeks had gone by since then, and now it was golden August. The beautiful landscape lay in a shimmer of heat, but the glad shout of the cuckoo echoed no more, and the chorus of bird voices had undergone considerable abatement, but the stillness and the glowing richness of the summer haze shed a peace around as of the peace of heaven.She was late; yes, as she alighted and chained her bicycle to the railings she heard the roll of the organ within. She was late, but not very. Mass had hardly begun, she decided, as her ears caught the opening bars of theKyriein Mozart Number 1. She hesitated a moment whether to do so or not, then went up to the choir-loft. Two things struck her as Yvonne handed her the score: one, that the choir was in less strength than usual; the other, that Wagram was at the organ. He half turned, astonished, as the full, rich soprano sounded forth among, if not slightly above, the rest, then settled down to his work with renewed satisfaction. She was doubly glad that she had come, for she knew that her musical talent was of genuine practical assistance, and as such was thoroughly appreciated.“Take the organ for this,” whispered Wagram just before the offertory. “You can sing and play at the same time; I can’t. We are going to have Arcadelt—your favourite.”She complied, and was astonished at herself and the tone and expression she managed to get out of the instrument, while not in the least drowning the voices, among which her own led, clear and rich. So were others, for more than one head turned round inquiringly towards the choir-loft, among them that of the old Squire.“No—no; keep it all through,” whispered Wagram, as she would have got up. “I shall be free to make one more to sing then.”Again she obeyed, and threw her best into it, and her best was very good indeed. The music at Hilversea was above the average, but to-day it had surpassed itself.“Well done, Miss Calmour,” said Haldane enthusiastically as they met outside after the service. “What degree in music have you taken, may I ask?”“None, Mr Haldane. But I know you’re only chaffing me.”“’Pon my honour, I’m not. If you haven’t, you ought, to have. They ought to make you a Mus. Doc. at least. Oughtn’t they, Wagram?”“Of course,” said the latter, joining them. “Thanks so much for your help, Miss Calmour. If you had come a bit earlier I would have asked you to play from the very first. Our regular organist’s away, and someone had to take his place, so I threw myself—rather heroically, I think—into the breach. He’d have been jealous, though, if he’d heard you.”“I’m afraid you’ll make me very conceited, Mr Wagram,” laughed the girl rather deprecatingly. “But I am so glad if I have really been of any use.”“By Jove!” Haldane was saying to himself. “By Jove! but she is a pretty girl.”Nor was he overstating matters. Delia was dressed, plainly as usual, in cool white, which suited well her clear, mantling complexion and light hazel eyes, the latter bright with animation. She looked her best here now in the hot August sun, and what has been said of her musical accomplishment applies equally to her physical aspect—her best was very good indeed.“You’ll come up and lunch with us, Miss Calmour?” said Wagram. “It’s much too hot to ride back all the way to Bassingham in the middle of the day, especially after all your exertions on our behalf.”Delia accepted, hoping she was not betraying too much delight by her tone. Sunday at Siege House was the least tolerable day in the week, and now she wondered if she were going to have a day of heaven.“Here, Gerard,” called out Wagram, as two boys came up, accompanied by Yvonne, with whom one of them at any rate seemed to be engaged in altercation. “Miss Calmour, this is my rascal,” he explained genially. “The other has a parent of his own to give him a character, so I won’t.”Both were straightly-built, handsome boys of fourteen, a complete contrast to each other, though both of the same height—one dark, the other golden-haired and blue-eyed. The first, however, moved Delia’s interest the most as they came up and shook hands. So this was Wagram’s son! The other was Haldane’s. The two were sworn pals, and were at the same school.“Why didn’t you go and serve Mass, you scamps?” went on Wagram.“Oh, we do that enough at Hillside, pater,” answered Gerard, hanging on to his father’s arm in a sort of insinuating and conciliatory way; “besides, we got in—er—a little late.”Delia, listening, remembered Wagram’s remark when they had come upon the speaker’s acolyte dress in the sacristy the day that she had first tried her hand at the organ. He was an exact replica of his father, she decided—just what Wagram might have been at his age.“Reggie’s just as bad, Mr Wagram,” struck in Yvonne, who deemed it her mission to “round up” her brother in matters of the kind. “He slipped away from me when we were talking to old Mrs Clancy, and I believe he was at the bottom of it.”“Oh, well, as it’s the beginning of the holidays, I suppose they must be allowed some law,” rejoined Wagram.“Give me your key, Miss Calmour, and I’ll unlock your bike and wheel it up to the house,” said Gerard.“That will be good of you,” answered Delia, with a smile that won the boy’s heart there and then. She was mentally contrasting him with the raw, uncleanly, unlicked cub, which mainly constituted her experience of the animal hight ‘boy’ of the same age. Yet about this one on the other hand there was nothing priggish, nothing self-conscious. He was purely and entirely natural.During lunch the old Squire congratulated her on her playing, and also on the excellence of her illustrated article inThe Old Country Side, which had appeared that week.“We were wondering how in the world you managed to say so much in so limited a space,” he observed, “and to say just the right thing, too. What a memory you must have, child!”Delia was thinking that, whatever else might slip her memory, no single detail about Hilversea Court was likely to do so.“And the illustrations were excellent,” went on the Squire—“excellent.”“Rather,” assented Haldane. “I wish my box were not too insignificant forThe Old Country Side, Miss Calmour, then you could scare up an illustrated interview with it.”“And bring in Poogie,” said Yvonne. “Oh, and—incidentally—father.”“Where do I come in?” hazarded her brother.“To spoil the picture, of course.”“Thanks,” answered the boy, with a good-humoured laugh. Yvonne looked at him and shook her golden head.“Do you know, Miss Calmour, Reggie is the most provoking child. It’s simply impossible to tease him. I’m always trying, and you’ve just got a sample of how I succeed. Is he the same at Hillside, Gerard?”“Can’t tell tales out of school.”Then Yvonne retorted, and the banter went on fast and furious, but always good-tempered, and sometimes really humorous, until it finally merged into plans for fishing on the morrow.“They are threatening to take us all down to the west park presently, Miss Calmour,” said Wagram soon after lunch. “Do you feel up to that amount of exertion?”Delia replied that she would have been delighted, only it was time to think of getting back.“Of getting back?” repeated Wagram. “Are you obliged to? Because if not, won’t you stay and play for us again this evening? It would be a great help.”“Yes; do stay, Miss Calmour,” urged Yvonne, cordially impulsive.“There will be a bright moon to ride back by, and I can offer you my escort.”“Can I go too, pater?” said Gerard, eagerly scenting the fun of a moonlight bicycle ride.“Certainly. You wouldn’t leave your venerated dad to return over three miles of lonely road unprotected, would you?”“Then I shall be very pleased to stay,” answered the girl, her whole face lighting up. Days such as this constituted to her everything that was worth living for, and now there was more of it before her than behind.The old Squire had withdrawn, laughingly explaining that he could not do without his forty winks on a hot Sunday afternoon. The workings of Fate, or Providence, are indeed strange. Some such working it must have been that moved Haldane to declare that he too felt drowsy, and it was much too hot for exercise. In a word, he resisted all persuasion to join in the walk; had he yielded the subsequent events of this our history might have turned out very differently.They reached the paddock, and the great sable antelope, which was inclined to be tame, condescended to stalk up in a lordly manner and be fed with some crusts they had brought for the purpose. The gnus, however, kept their distance away in the middle, whisking their tails, and prancing, and shaking their fierce-looking heads. Suddenly Wagram, chancing to look round, became aware of the propinquity of a stranger. He was a little distance off along the fence, and with the aid of a bough had managed to climb up, and was holding on, watching the animals.“That’s a cool customer,” he said after watching him for a few minutes. “I must go and talk to him.”“Going to turn him away, pater?” asked Gerard.“No, I won’t do that; but I’ll drop him a friendly hint that he mustn’t make this the scene of his daily walks. You remain here.”The stranger was not in the least confused or apologetic as Wagram accosted him. The latter recognised with some interest the weather-beaten, white-bearded face of the man who had been pointed out to him as Develin Hunt.“Good specimens these,” he said approvingly. “I’ve shot many of them, so I ought to know.”“Yes. They’d be dangerous if they weren’t shut in,” said Wagram.“Very likely. Wild animals enclosed generally do get that way.”“Now you’re here you’re welcome to look at them,” said Wagram pleasantly, “but I thought I’d just mention that this is private ground.”The man dropped from his perch with a cat-like nimbleness, rather noticeable in one of his apparent years.“Meaning I’m trespassing?” he said shortly.“That’s the word,” laughed Wagram. “But, as I said before, as you are here pray see all you came to see; I have no wish that you should hurry away. Good-afternoon.”The stranger stood gazing after him.“So that’s Wagram Wagram!” he said to himself. “Why, chalk from cheese isn’t in it in the difference between him and that bright boy Everard. Lord, Lord! it’s a rum world. To think that now he should be turning me off, and soon I shall be turning him off—bag and baggage. But I hope it won’t come to that. No; somehow or other I don’t think it will. He has every inducement to be reasonable—oh, and I hope he will. He’s a fine fellow, but—necessity knows no law.”“I say, pater, that chap’s got some cheek,” said Gerard as his father rejoined them. “Look, he hasn’t moved. Didn’t you tell him to clear?”“No; I told him he needn’t hurry as he was here.”And, indeed, the stranger seemed to have taken Wagram literally at his word, for he had climbed up again to his former position, and was placidly puffing at a pipe.“Look at those three, Miss Calmour,” said Wagram presently, referring to the children, who had started some romping game; “they can no more keep quiet for half-an-hour when they get together than a lot of kittens. Yvonne is generally the one who sets it going. Look at her now—issuing her commands as usual.”The tall, beautiful child was standing erect, her blue eyes sparkling, and cheeks flushed with the glow of health and exercise, tossing back the golden flash of her flowing hair. There was grace in each unstudied gesticulation, music in the high, sweet key in which she was expostulating rapidly with her playfellows.“She is too sweet,” murmured Delia.“Isn’t she? By the way, you haven’t told me yet what you think of my son and heir—”Breaking off, the speaker turned. It was only the trespassing stranger, who raised his hat and passed on his way.”—Though, really, it’s hardly a fair question, as coming from me.”“I think he’s one of the best-looking and best-mannered boys I’ve ever seen; Mr Haldane’s son is the other.”“You do us proud,” laughed Wagram. “But Hilversea is a dullish place for one boy to get through his holidays in, shut up with two old fogeys, so he’s generally over at Haldane’s, or Haldane’s boy is over here. They divide it up between them, and get all the fun they want.”Delia was about to reply that she could not imagine the word “dull” in connection with Hilversea under any circumstances whatever; but it struck her that the remark would sound banal, and she refrained.“We shall be going North on Thursday for the grouse,” he went on. “Haldane and I always ‘split’ a moor. Then these young scamps will be in clover. We’re going to let them take out a gun this time, and they’re about half mad with anticipation.”“I expect so,” said Delia, to whom, however, the whole of this announcement brought a heart-sinking. She knew enough by this time of the manners and customs of Hilversea to be aware that such a move was probable; but somehow, now that it was on the eve of becoming an accomplished fact—well, she felt depressed. “Does old Mr Wagram shoot?”“Doesn’t he! If he isn’t quite so good at right and left now as a few years back, even yet he can hold his own with the great majority. We must round up those riotous children now and begin strolling homeward.”Of late something had occurred to Wagram and set him wondering, and to-day it struck him more than ever. This was a certain unaccountable change which had come over this girl. She seemed of late to have acquired a subtle and unconscious refinement, not only in speech and manner but also in look, which certainly was not there when he had first made her acquaintance under dramatic circumstances; indeed, were that acquaintance to be made over again, and now, assuredly one dictum in which he had summed her up would be omitted. The fact was there, but there was no explaining it. It puzzled him. To one other this change had become manifest, and her it did not puzzle at all. That one was Clytie; and, going over things in her mind, that extremely attractive schemer nodded her plotting head complacently and smiled to herself.The westering sunlight flooded down upon the vernal sheen of tossing oak foliage and smoothly undulating grass with a richness of glow that was well-nigh unearthly in the sensuous stillness of the August evening. One of this group sauntering there it thrilled through and through. The children, excited with their game, were laughing and chattering—frequently all at once. But Delia, while bearing her part as brightly and intelligibly as ever in conversation with her host, was conscious of an absorbingarrière-pensée—that, if there were such a thing as a day of paradise, she was going through just that. The while a yet further back and subtle thread of thought kept crying aloud that the paradise was a fool’s paradise.
One glowing summer morning saw Delia Calmour spinning her bicycle along at a great rate up the Hilversea drive. It was Sunday, and she had come to attend the chapel, a thing she had done more than once of late, since the time she had given efficient musical aid on a certain informal occasion we wot of. Some weeks had gone by since then, and now it was golden August. The beautiful landscape lay in a shimmer of heat, but the glad shout of the cuckoo echoed no more, and the chorus of bird voices had undergone considerable abatement, but the stillness and the glowing richness of the summer haze shed a peace around as of the peace of heaven.
She was late; yes, as she alighted and chained her bicycle to the railings she heard the roll of the organ within. She was late, but not very. Mass had hardly begun, she decided, as her ears caught the opening bars of theKyriein Mozart Number 1. She hesitated a moment whether to do so or not, then went up to the choir-loft. Two things struck her as Yvonne handed her the score: one, that the choir was in less strength than usual; the other, that Wagram was at the organ. He half turned, astonished, as the full, rich soprano sounded forth among, if not slightly above, the rest, then settled down to his work with renewed satisfaction. She was doubly glad that she had come, for she knew that her musical talent was of genuine practical assistance, and as such was thoroughly appreciated.
“Take the organ for this,” whispered Wagram just before the offertory. “You can sing and play at the same time; I can’t. We are going to have Arcadelt—your favourite.”
She complied, and was astonished at herself and the tone and expression she managed to get out of the instrument, while not in the least drowning the voices, among which her own led, clear and rich. So were others, for more than one head turned round inquiringly towards the choir-loft, among them that of the old Squire.
“No—no; keep it all through,” whispered Wagram, as she would have got up. “I shall be free to make one more to sing then.”
Again she obeyed, and threw her best into it, and her best was very good indeed. The music at Hilversea was above the average, but to-day it had surpassed itself.
“Well done, Miss Calmour,” said Haldane enthusiastically as they met outside after the service. “What degree in music have you taken, may I ask?”
“None, Mr Haldane. But I know you’re only chaffing me.”
“’Pon my honour, I’m not. If you haven’t, you ought, to have. They ought to make you a Mus. Doc. at least. Oughtn’t they, Wagram?”
“Of course,” said the latter, joining them. “Thanks so much for your help, Miss Calmour. If you had come a bit earlier I would have asked you to play from the very first. Our regular organist’s away, and someone had to take his place, so I threw myself—rather heroically, I think—into the breach. He’d have been jealous, though, if he’d heard you.”
“I’m afraid you’ll make me very conceited, Mr Wagram,” laughed the girl rather deprecatingly. “But I am so glad if I have really been of any use.”
“By Jove!” Haldane was saying to himself. “By Jove! but she is a pretty girl.”
Nor was he overstating matters. Delia was dressed, plainly as usual, in cool white, which suited well her clear, mantling complexion and light hazel eyes, the latter bright with animation. She looked her best here now in the hot August sun, and what has been said of her musical accomplishment applies equally to her physical aspect—her best was very good indeed.
“You’ll come up and lunch with us, Miss Calmour?” said Wagram. “It’s much too hot to ride back all the way to Bassingham in the middle of the day, especially after all your exertions on our behalf.”
Delia accepted, hoping she was not betraying too much delight by her tone. Sunday at Siege House was the least tolerable day in the week, and now she wondered if she were going to have a day of heaven.
“Here, Gerard,” called out Wagram, as two boys came up, accompanied by Yvonne, with whom one of them at any rate seemed to be engaged in altercation. “Miss Calmour, this is my rascal,” he explained genially. “The other has a parent of his own to give him a character, so I won’t.”
Both were straightly-built, handsome boys of fourteen, a complete contrast to each other, though both of the same height—one dark, the other golden-haired and blue-eyed. The first, however, moved Delia’s interest the most as they came up and shook hands. So this was Wagram’s son! The other was Haldane’s. The two were sworn pals, and were at the same school.
“Why didn’t you go and serve Mass, you scamps?” went on Wagram.
“Oh, we do that enough at Hillside, pater,” answered Gerard, hanging on to his father’s arm in a sort of insinuating and conciliatory way; “besides, we got in—er—a little late.”
Delia, listening, remembered Wagram’s remark when they had come upon the speaker’s acolyte dress in the sacristy the day that she had first tried her hand at the organ. He was an exact replica of his father, she decided—just what Wagram might have been at his age.
“Reggie’s just as bad, Mr Wagram,” struck in Yvonne, who deemed it her mission to “round up” her brother in matters of the kind. “He slipped away from me when we were talking to old Mrs Clancy, and I believe he was at the bottom of it.”
“Oh, well, as it’s the beginning of the holidays, I suppose they must be allowed some law,” rejoined Wagram.
“Give me your key, Miss Calmour, and I’ll unlock your bike and wheel it up to the house,” said Gerard.
“That will be good of you,” answered Delia, with a smile that won the boy’s heart there and then. She was mentally contrasting him with the raw, uncleanly, unlicked cub, which mainly constituted her experience of the animal hight ‘boy’ of the same age. Yet about this one on the other hand there was nothing priggish, nothing self-conscious. He was purely and entirely natural.
During lunch the old Squire congratulated her on her playing, and also on the excellence of her illustrated article inThe Old Country Side, which had appeared that week.
“We were wondering how in the world you managed to say so much in so limited a space,” he observed, “and to say just the right thing, too. What a memory you must have, child!”
Delia was thinking that, whatever else might slip her memory, no single detail about Hilversea Court was likely to do so.
“And the illustrations were excellent,” went on the Squire—“excellent.”
“Rather,” assented Haldane. “I wish my box were not too insignificant forThe Old Country Side, Miss Calmour, then you could scare up an illustrated interview with it.”
“And bring in Poogie,” said Yvonne. “Oh, and—incidentally—father.”
“Where do I come in?” hazarded her brother.
“To spoil the picture, of course.”
“Thanks,” answered the boy, with a good-humoured laugh. Yvonne looked at him and shook her golden head.
“Do you know, Miss Calmour, Reggie is the most provoking child. It’s simply impossible to tease him. I’m always trying, and you’ve just got a sample of how I succeed. Is he the same at Hillside, Gerard?”
“Can’t tell tales out of school.”
Then Yvonne retorted, and the banter went on fast and furious, but always good-tempered, and sometimes really humorous, until it finally merged into plans for fishing on the morrow.
“They are threatening to take us all down to the west park presently, Miss Calmour,” said Wagram soon after lunch. “Do you feel up to that amount of exertion?”
Delia replied that she would have been delighted, only it was time to think of getting back.
“Of getting back?” repeated Wagram. “Are you obliged to? Because if not, won’t you stay and play for us again this evening? It would be a great help.”
“Yes; do stay, Miss Calmour,” urged Yvonne, cordially impulsive.
“There will be a bright moon to ride back by, and I can offer you my escort.”
“Can I go too, pater?” said Gerard, eagerly scenting the fun of a moonlight bicycle ride.
“Certainly. You wouldn’t leave your venerated dad to return over three miles of lonely road unprotected, would you?”
“Then I shall be very pleased to stay,” answered the girl, her whole face lighting up. Days such as this constituted to her everything that was worth living for, and now there was more of it before her than behind.
The old Squire had withdrawn, laughingly explaining that he could not do without his forty winks on a hot Sunday afternoon. The workings of Fate, or Providence, are indeed strange. Some such working it must have been that moved Haldane to declare that he too felt drowsy, and it was much too hot for exercise. In a word, he resisted all persuasion to join in the walk; had he yielded the subsequent events of this our history might have turned out very differently.
They reached the paddock, and the great sable antelope, which was inclined to be tame, condescended to stalk up in a lordly manner and be fed with some crusts they had brought for the purpose. The gnus, however, kept their distance away in the middle, whisking their tails, and prancing, and shaking their fierce-looking heads. Suddenly Wagram, chancing to look round, became aware of the propinquity of a stranger. He was a little distance off along the fence, and with the aid of a bough had managed to climb up, and was holding on, watching the animals.
“That’s a cool customer,” he said after watching him for a few minutes. “I must go and talk to him.”
“Going to turn him away, pater?” asked Gerard.
“No, I won’t do that; but I’ll drop him a friendly hint that he mustn’t make this the scene of his daily walks. You remain here.”
The stranger was not in the least confused or apologetic as Wagram accosted him. The latter recognised with some interest the weather-beaten, white-bearded face of the man who had been pointed out to him as Develin Hunt.
“Good specimens these,” he said approvingly. “I’ve shot many of them, so I ought to know.”
“Yes. They’d be dangerous if they weren’t shut in,” said Wagram.
“Very likely. Wild animals enclosed generally do get that way.”
“Now you’re here you’re welcome to look at them,” said Wagram pleasantly, “but I thought I’d just mention that this is private ground.”
The man dropped from his perch with a cat-like nimbleness, rather noticeable in one of his apparent years.
“Meaning I’m trespassing?” he said shortly.
“That’s the word,” laughed Wagram. “But, as I said before, as you are here pray see all you came to see; I have no wish that you should hurry away. Good-afternoon.”
The stranger stood gazing after him.
“So that’s Wagram Wagram!” he said to himself. “Why, chalk from cheese isn’t in it in the difference between him and that bright boy Everard. Lord, Lord! it’s a rum world. To think that now he should be turning me off, and soon I shall be turning him off—bag and baggage. But I hope it won’t come to that. No; somehow or other I don’t think it will. He has every inducement to be reasonable—oh, and I hope he will. He’s a fine fellow, but—necessity knows no law.”
“I say, pater, that chap’s got some cheek,” said Gerard as his father rejoined them. “Look, he hasn’t moved. Didn’t you tell him to clear?”
“No; I told him he needn’t hurry as he was here.”
And, indeed, the stranger seemed to have taken Wagram literally at his word, for he had climbed up again to his former position, and was placidly puffing at a pipe.
“Look at those three, Miss Calmour,” said Wagram presently, referring to the children, who had started some romping game; “they can no more keep quiet for half-an-hour when they get together than a lot of kittens. Yvonne is generally the one who sets it going. Look at her now—issuing her commands as usual.”
The tall, beautiful child was standing erect, her blue eyes sparkling, and cheeks flushed with the glow of health and exercise, tossing back the golden flash of her flowing hair. There was grace in each unstudied gesticulation, music in the high, sweet key in which she was expostulating rapidly with her playfellows.
“She is too sweet,” murmured Delia.
“Isn’t she? By the way, you haven’t told me yet what you think of my son and heir—”
Breaking off, the speaker turned. It was only the trespassing stranger, who raised his hat and passed on his way.
”—Though, really, it’s hardly a fair question, as coming from me.”
“I think he’s one of the best-looking and best-mannered boys I’ve ever seen; Mr Haldane’s son is the other.”
“You do us proud,” laughed Wagram. “But Hilversea is a dullish place for one boy to get through his holidays in, shut up with two old fogeys, so he’s generally over at Haldane’s, or Haldane’s boy is over here. They divide it up between them, and get all the fun they want.”
Delia was about to reply that she could not imagine the word “dull” in connection with Hilversea under any circumstances whatever; but it struck her that the remark would sound banal, and she refrained.
“We shall be going North on Thursday for the grouse,” he went on. “Haldane and I always ‘split’ a moor. Then these young scamps will be in clover. We’re going to let them take out a gun this time, and they’re about half mad with anticipation.”
“I expect so,” said Delia, to whom, however, the whole of this announcement brought a heart-sinking. She knew enough by this time of the manners and customs of Hilversea to be aware that such a move was probable; but somehow, now that it was on the eve of becoming an accomplished fact—well, she felt depressed. “Does old Mr Wagram shoot?”
“Doesn’t he! If he isn’t quite so good at right and left now as a few years back, even yet he can hold his own with the great majority. We must round up those riotous children now and begin strolling homeward.”
Of late something had occurred to Wagram and set him wondering, and to-day it struck him more than ever. This was a certain unaccountable change which had come over this girl. She seemed of late to have acquired a subtle and unconscious refinement, not only in speech and manner but also in look, which certainly was not there when he had first made her acquaintance under dramatic circumstances; indeed, were that acquaintance to be made over again, and now, assuredly one dictum in which he had summed her up would be omitted. The fact was there, but there was no explaining it. It puzzled him. To one other this change had become manifest, and her it did not puzzle at all. That one was Clytie; and, going over things in her mind, that extremely attractive schemer nodded her plotting head complacently and smiled to herself.
The westering sunlight flooded down upon the vernal sheen of tossing oak foliage and smoothly undulating grass with a richness of glow that was well-nigh unearthly in the sensuous stillness of the August evening. One of this group sauntering there it thrilled through and through. The children, excited with their game, were laughing and chattering—frequently all at once. But Delia, while bearing her part as brightly and intelligibly as ever in conversation with her host, was conscious of an absorbingarrière-pensée—that, if there were such a thing as a day of paradise, she was going through just that. The while a yet further back and subtle thread of thought kept crying aloud that the paradise was a fool’s paradise.