The chapel belonging to Hilversea Court stood a little back from the
main avenue, and was so embowered in fine old trees as to be invisible
in summer-time from the main road which skirted the park wall on the
outside.
From the west front of it, at right angles to the main avenue, there
opened out a second avenue, of a good width, and shaded by rows of tall
limes extending some four hundred yards, and terminating in a sculptured
stone Calvary of sufficient size and proportions as to be plainly
discernible even at a distance. This avenue was known as the Priest's
Walk.
The origin of the name was by no means clear. Some said it was because
successive family chaplains for generations had been in the habit of
pacing this avenue while saying their office, or for purposes of
combining exercise with meditation; others that tradition had it that in
the reign of Elizabeth a refugee priest was arrested there, and being,
of course, subsequently martyred, was said to revisit the scene at
midnight on the anniversary of his martyrdom, and pace up and down--
incidentally, headless. None, however, could say for certain. But the
name had stuck--had been there, indeed, beyond the memory of the
grandfather of the oldest inhabitant.
On this cloudless June afternoon, however, there was nothing reminiscent
of tragedy or special manifestation. Quite a throng of people lined the
avenue on either side, quiet and expectant, talking but little, and then
in subdued tones. Overhead, at intervals, drapings of crimson and white
and gold spanned the avenue, as though for the passage of royalty; for
it was the octave day of the Feast of Corpus Christi, and the procession
customary on that solemnity was about to take place.
The occasion was a gala one at Hilversea. As far as possible the day
was observed on the estate as a general holiday, and so great was the
popularity of the old Squire and his son that even those among their
tenants who differed with them in creed would willingly meet their
wishes in this respect. Moreover, there was an abundant spread laid out
in several large marquees, to which all belonging to the place were
welcome, whether they attended the religious observances or not; and
this held good of a sprinkling of people from outside, even though drawn
thither by no more exalted a motive than that of witnessing a
picturesque sight.
That it was all this there could be no room for two opinions as the
chapel doors were thrown wide and the procession emerged. Headed by the
cross-bearer and acolytes came a long double file of white-clothed
children wearing veil and wreath, girls from a neighbouring convent
school, and a number of choir boys in lace-trimmed cottas and scarlet
cassocks, which showed in bright contrast to the more sober black ones
of the lay singers; several priests in cassock and cotta, all holding
lighted candles; then, preceded by torch-bearers and thurifers, and
walking beneath a golden canopy, came the celebrant bearing the Sacred
Host in a gleaming sun-shaped monstrance, and attended by deacon and
subdeacon, all three richly vested. Several banners, borne aloft at
intervals, added a final stroke of picturesqueness to the moving
pageant.
The demeanour of the onlookers varied only in degrees of reverence, for
of the opposite there was none. Headed by the old Squire and such of
the house party not officially assisting in the ceremony many fell in
behind and followed on. So still was the summer air that the flame of
the numerous tapers burned without a flicker, and when a pause occurred
in the chanting a perfect chorus of thrush-song from the adjoining woods
mingled with the musical clash of censer chains and the tinkle of the
canopy bells.
Wagram, in cassock and cotta, was acting as master of ceremonies,
keeping a careful eye on the line of march with a view to rectifying any
tendency to crowding up on the one hand or "gappiness" on the other.
"A little quicker, please," he whispered to a tall, beautiful girl of
sixteen, with hair that shone like a flowing golden mantle over her
white dress. She was supporting a large banner, and was flanked by two
wee tots, similarly attired, holding the tassels. With a nod of the
head she complied, and then Wagram, stepping back a pace or two to
beckon the others on, brushed against somebody kneeling. Turning to
offer a whispered apology he beheld Delia Calmour, who, giving him a
little smile and reassuring nod, was occupied in resettling her hat.
For a moment he found himself wondering that she should be there at all,
then the discharge of his duties drove all thought of her out of his
mind.
At the far end of the avenue a _reposoir_ had been erected--a temporary
throne, abundantly decked with lights and flowers--and here all knelt
while the _Tantum ergo_ was sung; and the white Host, framed in the
flashing sun rays of the jewelled monstrance, gleamed on high as
Benediction was given. Then, reforming, the procession, returning,
moved forward once more upon its rose-strewn way, singing now the Litany
of Loreto, which, being, of course, well known to most of those present,
was taken up on all sides, and chorused forth in one great and hearty
volume of rhythm.
Delia Calmour rose from her knees and joined the increased numbers of
those who were following. What had moved her she could not for the life
of her have told, but she had found herself bowing down in reverence as
low as those around her as the Sacred Host was borne past. Now she
followed with the rest. She could not get into the chapel, but in this
she fared no worse than nine-tenths of those in whose midst she was.
But through the open doors she could distinguish the starry glitter of
many lights on or about the high altar, as, in a dead hush, between
thunderous waves of organ and chant, the final Benediction of the
Blessed Sacrament was given.
The throng outside began to break up and those from within to come out.
The convent children were marshalled forth, two by two, in charge of
their attendant nuns, and still Delia lingered. She longed for an
opportunity of having a little talk with Wagram, if it were only for a
few minutes. She went into the chapel, thick and fragrant with incense.
Two acolytes were extinguishing the numerous candles, and her pulse
quickened as she saw Wagram, now divested of his cassock and cotta,
standing by the sacristy door, pointing out the architectural and
ornamental beauties of the interior to a couple of priests, presumably
strangers. It was of no use, she decided, and, going outside, she
wandered up the decorated avenue again. But before she had gone far she
stopped short, striving to curb the thrill of her pulses, to repress the
tell-tale rush of colour to her cheeks. A step behind her--and a voice.
That was all.
"How do you do, Miss Calmour? How quickly you walk. So you have found
your way over to our solemnity?"
Delia turned at the voice. As they clasped hands she was conscious of
an utterly unwonted trepidation. She had just given up all hope of
speaking with him. He would be too busy with other things and people to
trouble to find her out, even if he had remembered noticing her among
the attendance at all, she argued.
"Yes; but I had to screw up my courage very considerably to do so," she
returned, flashing up at him a very winning smile. "You see, I had
heard that anybody might come."
"Of course. But what were you afraid of? That you would be spirited
away and privately burnt at the stake? Or only thumb-screwed?"
"No, no--of course not. Don't chaff me, Mr Wagram; it's unkind. You
ought rather to pity my ignorance. Do you often have a ceremony like
that?"
"Only once a year hitherto. This ought, strictly speaking, to have been
held last Thursday, or Sunday, but we couldn't make it anything like as
imposing on either day. We couldn't have got the convent school for one
thing, nor such a muster of clergy. They can't conveniently leave their
own missions on those days. Now come up to the house. There's `cup'
and all sorts of things going; tea, too, if you prefer it--and I can't
allow you to break away as you did last time. Where did you leave your
bicycle?"--with a glance at her skirt.
"I stood it against the chapel railing. Will it be safe there?"
"We'd better take it along to make sure."
She would not let him get it for her. Someone might detain him if once
he left her side. Indeed, she could hardly realise that she was awake
and not dreaming. In saying that she had screwed up her courage to come
she was speaking the literal truth, and even then would have given up at
the last moment but for Clytie, whom, feebly, she had besought to
accompany her.
"Not I, my dear child," had been the decisive response. "If I were to
get into that crowd some kind soul would be safe to pass the word:
`Hullo! There's Damages.' Then what sort of show would Damages' little
sister have? No, no; you must play this innings off your own bat."
But Delia, to do her justice, had resolved in no way to second her
sister's great and audacious scheme. It made her feel mean to realise
that she had even heard it mooted. Her presence there to-day was not
due to any wish to further it, but to a legitimate desire not to let
slip so good an opportunity of furthering the acquaintance so strangely
begun.
"I have never seen a more picturesque sight," she went on as they walked
towards the house. "The effect was perfect--the procession moving
between these great tree trunks--the avenue all strewn with roses--and
all that flash as of gold here and there, and the scarlet and white of
the choir boys. And how well they seemed to do it--no fuss or
blundering. Did you organise it all, Mr Wagram? You seemed here,
there, and everywhere at once."
"I generally do master of ceremonies--a very much needed official, I
assure you, on these occasions."
"So I should imagine. And all those little tots in muslin and white
wreaths--even the plainest of them looked pretty. Tell me, Mr Wagram,
who was that lovely girl who carried one of the banners? She didn't
look as if she belonged to that convent school."
"Yvonne Haldane. No, she doesn't."
"Is she French?"
"There's nothing French about her but her name, unless that she speaks
it uncommonly well. She's staying with us--she and her father. The
peculiarity about them is that they are rarely seen apart."
"Really? How nice. You don't often find that." And the speaker's
thoughts reverted to another sort of parent, abusive or maudlin,
red-faced, and semi or wholly intoxicated. "But, Mr Wagram, who is the
priest who seemed to do all the principal part? Such a fine-looking old
man!"
"Monsignor Culham. He and my father have known each other all their
lives. Ah, here they all are," as the tall forms of the prelate and his
host appeared round the end of the house. With them was a sprinkling of
black coats.
"I believe I'm a little afraid," said Delia hesitatingly.
"You needn't be. They are very good-natured men. They wouldn't wish to
burn you for the world. They prefer the `Stakes of Smithfield' with the
`e' transposed."
"Now you're chaffing me again. But, really, I'm always a little shy of
`the cloth.' I never know what to talk about."
"Make your mind easy. We shall find the lay element abundantly
represented on the lawn, never fear. But first come and say a word or
two to my father."
Remembering the episode of the gnu, Delia was a little shy of meeting
the old Squire. But she need not have been, for his denunciation of the
house of Calmour notwithstanding, his greeting of this scion thereof was
all that was kind and cordial.
"So this is the famous big game slayer?" he said after a word or two of
welcome. "What do you think of that, Monsignor? You don't meet every
day with a young lady who can boast of having shot big game--dropped a
fine specimen of the brindled gnu dead in his tracks."
"No, indeed. In South Africa, I suppose?"
"South Africa? No. Here--right here. But it was to save someone from
being badly gored."
"Which is one more instance to show that pluck and readiness of resource
are not prerogatives of our sex entirely," said the prelate, quick to
notice the look of embarrassment which had come over the girl's face.
It was even as Wagram had said, the lay element was represented on the
lawn, as a fair sprinkling of sunshades and vari-coloured light summer
dresses and hats bore token. Likewise refreshment, and while in process
of procuring some for his charge Wagram felt a pull at his sleeve.
"Who's that you've got there, Wagram? Is Damages here too?"
"Eh? Oh, by the way, Haldane, which of them is Damages?"
"Not this one; a sister; the tall one: Clytie, I think they call her."
"Oh! Well, this one isn't responsible for her sister, and she's a very
nice sort of girl. She's the heroine of the gnu adventure, you know,
and I want Yvonne to go and talk to her a little."
"Of course I will," said Yvonne, moving off with that intent.
"Look at her!" exclaimed Haldane as they watched this tall child cross
the lawn; straight, erect, gait utterly free and unstudied, the great
golden mantle of her hair rippling below her waist. "Just look at her,
Wagram! Did you ever see such a child in your life? And they talk
about `the awkward age.' Yvonne never had an awkward age."
"I should think not," assented Wagram, who ran her father very close in
his admiration for the beautiful child.
"How many girls of her age," went on Haldane, "would unhesitatingly go
and talk to an entire stranger like that? They'd kick against it,
object that they didn't know what to say, that someone else had better
undertake the job, and so on. Yet look at her; she's as self-possessed
as a woman of fifty, and as devoid of self-consciousness as a savage,
and she's talking to the other girl as if she's known her all her life."
And such, indeed, was the case. So entranced was Delia with the charm
of this child-woman that she almost forgot to do justice to the
strawberries and champagne cup which Wagram had procured for her, almost
forgot furtively to watch Wagram himself as he moved here and there
attending to other guests; forgot entirely any little _gene_ she might
have felt, remembering that, after all, this was not her world, that she
was in a sort of fish-out-of-water state. They talked of bicycling,
then of post-card collecting, then of the solemnity they had just
witnessed, and here especially the blue eyes would kindle and the whole
face light up, and Yvonne would describe graphically and well other and
similar ceremonies she had witnessed in some of the great cathedrals of
the world. Her listener thought she could have sat there for ever in
that atmosphere of refinement and ease; and this lovely child, who had
drawn her with such a magnetic fascination--they would probably never
hold converse together again. How could they, belonging as they did to
different worlds, and in this connection the thought of the atmosphere
of Siege House caused her very much of a mental shudder.
"Has this little girl been boring you a lot, Miss Calmour?" And Haldane
laid an arm round the sunny tresses upon his child's shoulders.
"Boring me! Why, I never was so interested in my life! You and your
daughter seem to have been everywhere, Mr Haldane. Boring me!" And
with a little, instinctively affectionate impulse she dropped her hand
on to that of Yvonne, as though to plead: "Don't leave me yet."
"We've been having a post-card discussion, father; Miss Calmour has a
splendid collection. But she holds that post-cards are no good unless
they've been through the post. I hold they're no good if they have,
because the picture is all spoilt."
"Why not cut the knot of the difficulty by collecting both?" suggested
Delia.
"Don't you give her any such pernicious advice, Miss Calmour," laughed
Haldane. "The craze is quite ruinous enough to me as it is. I find
myself gently but firmly impelled within a post-card shop every other
day or so--sort of metaphorically taken by the ear, don't you know--on
the ground that just one or two are wanted to fill up a vacant space in
the corner of a given page. But seldom, if ever, do I quit that shop
without becoming liable for one or two dozen."
Delia laughed at this, but Yvonne merely smiled complacently, as though
to convey that her parent might think himself lucky at being let down so
easily. The latter went on:
"Now you are inducing her to do that which makes me fairly quake, for if
she adopts the course you recommend she'll buy the cards at a greater
rate than before, and ruin me in postage over and above for the purpose
of posting them to herself."
"All safe, father; all safe this time. I wouldn't have them if they had
been through the post."
"Would you care to bring your collection over and compare notes with
Yvonne, Miss Calmour? Let me see, we are going back home on Monday.
Why not come over to lunch on Tuesday? You have a bicycle--but I
forgot, you can hardly carry a lot of post-card books on a bicycle."
"Easily. I have a carrier on the back wheel which has often held a far
greater weight," answered the girl, hardly able to conceal her delight.
"Very well, then, that's settled. But--don't stop to shoot any more
blue wildebeeste on the way."
"Oh, that wretched creature! Am I never to hear the last of it?"
laughed Delia, merrily rueful.
Two considerations had moved Haldane in the issuing of this invitation--
the spontaneous and whole-souled admiration evinced by this girl for
Yvonne, and the wistful look on the face of the latter at the
propinquity of a good post-card collection which she might not see. He
prided himself upon his knowledge of character, too, and watching Delia
closely was inclined to endorse Wagram's opinion. The house of Calmour
was manifestly and flagrantly impossible; but this seemed a nice sort of
girl, entirely different to the others. Moreover, Yvonne seemed to like
her, and Yvonne's instincts were singularly accurate for her age.
"Well, I must be moving," said Delia, with something like a sinking of
the heart. Wagram had disappeared for some time, and the groups on the
lawn were thinning out fast. "But I don't see Mr Wagram anywhere."
"He's probably in the big tent making them a speech or something," said
Haldane. "There, I thought so," as a sound of lusty cheering arose at
no great distance. "He's sure to be there. Yvonne will pilot you there
if you want to find him. It's an institution I fight rather shy of," he
added, with a laugh.
But a strange repugnance to mingling in a crowd took hold of Delia just
then. Would Mr Haldane kindly make her adieux for her? And then,
having taken leave of them, she went round to where she had left her
bicycle, and was in the act of mounting when--
"Hallo, Miss Calmour, are you off already? I've been rather remiss, I
fear, but you've no notion how one gets pulled this way and that way on
an occasion of this kind. I hope Yvonne took care of you."
"She did indeed, Mr Wagram. What a perfectly sweet child she is! Do
you know, I am to lunch there next week, and compare post-card
collections."
"That'll be very jolly."
"Won't it? Well now, Mr Wagram, I don't know when I have enjoyed myself
so much. Oh, but there is one thing I wanted to ask you," relapsing
into shyness. "Might I--er--are people allowed--to attend your chapel
here on Sundays? Now and then, I mean."
"Certainly, if there's room for them," he answered, looking rather
astonished. "It won't hold a great many, as you might have seen
to-day--oh, and, of course, you won't see anything like the ceremonial
you saw to-day."
"I know. Still, I should like to attend occasionally. Then--I may?"
"Why, of course. Meanwhile I must look out a pair of thumbscrews that's
likely to fit you. Good-bye."
In the midst of the mutual laugh evoked by this parting jest Delia
mounted her bicycle and glided away. She passed groups in the avenue,
some, like herself, awheel. Gaining the high road, there was the white
gate opening on to the by-road through the park, the scene of the gnu
adventure. Then, as by sudden magic, the spell of serenity and peace
which had been upon her was removed. She felt restlessly unhappy, in
tumultuous revolt. She thought of home, when she should get there; of
Bob's vulgarity, of Clytie's soft-toned and brutal cynicisms, of her
father, thick-voiced and reeling. Worse still, she would probably find
him in an even further advanced stage of intoxication, and more or less
foul of speech in consequence, and--this is exactly what she eventually
did find.