We have hinted that Wagram's departure on his self-imposed quest had
taken place quite quietly; nevertheless, after it he was very greatly
missed, by none more so, perhaps, than the Haldanes. To Haldane,
indeed, he had confided some inkling of his strange mission--not the
whole of it--but had bound him to secrecy: for the benefit of the
neighbourhood at large, certain family and business matters had
necessitated the undertaking, and with this the neighbourhood must
perforce rest content. Then, as time wore on, and nearly each few and
far between letter, instead of announcing the wanderer's early return,
only notified a fresh start farther afield and in a contrary direction,
Haldane grew puzzled.
"Confound the fellow! Why the deuce can't he come back instead of
wasting time and energy over some wild-goose chase?" he would say on
such occasions. "It isn't that he's fond of travel, and all that sort
of thing. I believe at bottom he hates it."
"I'm sure he does, father," chimed in Yvonne. "Every day away from
Hilversea is a day not lived, according to him. And the place looks so
dismal all shut up. I vote we go away for a change ourselves."
"Wrong time, Sunbeam. The weather's exceptionally beastly abroad, from
what the papers say. And the Continent in vile weather is--well, unfit
for publication."
"I'd have liked to take Delia Calmour with us," went on the girl.
"She's so companionable and intelligent, and takes such interest in
everything; never talks the silly idiotic bosh most girls do. She'd
have enjoyed it so much, too."
"Poor girl!" said Haldane. "It's a thousand pities she's so
confoundedly handicapped. She'll never get a show now on the strength
of those awful relatives. Yes; it's a thousand pities."
In saying that the absent Squire of Hilversea was missed by none more
than by the Haldanes we should have recorded an exception, and it was
named Delia Calmour. To her it seemed that the light of day had gone
out. And yet, why? It had been seldom enough she had seen him of late
before his departure; and even on such occasions, a little ordinary
conversation in his quiet genial way. That was all. And yet--and yet--
the girl would cheerfully have yielded up life itself to have heard once
more the sound of his voice in just one of those ordinary conversations.
To such a pass had things come.
But she kept her own counsel heroically. Never by word or look did she
betray herself. Even Clytie was puzzled. She had read through her up
to a certain point, but had failed to credit her sister with the
secretiveness and self-control to the highest point of which the latter
had nearly attained. So she was puzzled.
To her dying day Delia would never forget the announcement of that
departure. It had been made to her one Sunday when she had cycled over
to Hilversea by Wagram himself, in his pleasant easy manner, and she had
received it with a frank natural regret, that came from her well. Not
all at once did she realise that she had received a blow between the
eyes.
"Be missed?" he had repeated, echoing her words. "Well, I am selfish
enough to hope I shall be missed a little. One thing is certain: I
sha'n't stop away any longer than I can help. I'm not going for fun,
anyhow."
Then he had invited her in for lunch. The Haldanes were there, and
Father Gayle, and on this occasion four or five other people; in fact,
it was a sort of "send-off" affair, for he was to start early on the
following morning.
"I shan't stay away any longer than I can help," had been the words,
uttered in an easy natural way. Yet he who uttered them knew that in
the event of his quest proving successful he would stay away--for ever.
But there he sat, chatting with his guests easily, smilingly, as though
his very heart were not half broken over the thought of what was about
to pass away from him and his for ever. And the girl? She too was
chatting, outwardly light-hearted, with her immediate neighbours, or
joining in the general conversation, and the while she, too, in her
innermost heart was thinking what an awful blank this man's departure
would leave in her life; in it, moreover, as long as it should last.
Here was an instance of the extraordinary freaks which may run through
life's tragedies. Who would have thought of the ghastly canker which
lay behind Wagram's easy gaiety? Who would have guessed at the yearning
ache which underlay Delia Calmour's ready conversational flow?
"Who is that Miss Calmour?" one of the guests had remarked to Yvonne
after they had left the table. "Such a pretty girl, and talks so well
and brightly. So nice-mannered and refined. Does she belong to this
neighbourhood?"
And Yvonne had replied evasively, though not seeming to do so, that she
did, and that she was all the other had said; that the dear old Squire
had taken to her wonderfully shortly before his death, and that she
herself had grown very fond of her. Then she let drop that Delia was a
recent convert, which at once prepossessed the inquirer in her favour,
as she intended it should.
The acquaintance of the two girls had grown into friendship, then
intimacy, the difference between their ages and bringing up
notwithstanding. It had still further brought out all that was good in
Delia; and what was good in the eldest daughter of disreputable,
tippling old Calmour was, strange to say, very good indeed; and, as is
not infrequently the case, a certain amount of knowledge of the seamier
side of life rendered her all the more safe and useful a companion to
the younger girl, every day of whose existence had been spent in
sunshine. She had the tact not to push her standpoint unduly--indeed,
more than once Yvonne wanted to half quarrel with her because she would
hardly ever come over to see them without a distinct invitation. But
when she did come she always entered so thoroughly into the child's
studies and pursuits--painting or music, or whatever it might be,
especially the latter, and the organ in the chapel at Hilversea
underwent a good deal of work in those days, for the girls would delight
to cycle over, and enjoy a long quiet practice all to themselves.
Frequently Haldane would make the third of the party, for he had a fine
voice, and was fond of music.
Then Wagram had gone, announcing his departure suddenly; and the only
mitigating gleam of sunshine which flashed into Delia's life was on
occasions when she was over at the Haldanes and they talked about him.
This they did pretty frequently, and the burden of their remarks ought
to have rendered the absent man uncomfortably conceited could he have
heard them.
The two boys, too, when home for the holidays, for Gerard always spent
his at Haldane's now his home was shut up, took to her wonderfully. She
would enter into all their interests and school experiences as though
she were an elder sister, and was full of life and fun when and wherever
they were concerned.
"That Miss Calmour _is_ a jolly girl, Yvonne," Gerard would pronounce.
"No humbug or bosh about her. No; and she never lectures us either, as
some people do. I say, get her here a lot before we go back; she's no
end fun."
And Reggie would duly second the proposal. Delia had, in fact, won both
their hearts, but the one nearest to her own was Gerard. She would,
too, subtly get him to talk about his father, but not too often.
"You know, Miss Calmour," he said on one occasion, "people don't half
understand the pater. They think him no end cold and stand-offish and
all that, but I can tell you he isn't. Why, what d'you think? I was
asked once if I weren't awfully afraid of him. Fancy that! Did you
ever hear such bosh?"
"Bosh, indeed, Gerard."
"Rather. They seem to think that because he isn't always talking at the
top of his voice, and laying down the law, and all that sort of thing,
that he's stiff and starched. Is he, though! I can tell you there's no
one I can more jolly well get on with--and would rather be with--not
even among any of the fellows at school. I wish he'd come back, don't
you?"
"Of course. I should think everybody who knew Mr Wagram would wish
that. You miss him a lot, then?"
"Rather. I'm having a ripping time here, of course--always do have--but
I miss the dear old pater no end. I don't see any too much of him as it
is." And the boy had turned away his head to hide the tears that had
welled to his eyes.
It was all Delia could do to keep herself from following suit, but she
did, with an effort.
"Your father is one of the best and noblest men that ever lived,
Gerard," she answered. "It is a privilege to have known him."
There were times when she would take herself to task. What right had
she to indulge in such feelings? Ought she not rather to crush them?
Yet why? Their influence upon her was wholly for good, never for evil.
Were her days dark--what would he have had her do? This she thought she
knew, and did it accordingly. He had known dark days himself, she had
gathered in course of some of their conversations, very dark days, yet
look at him now--a man ideally perfect in her adoring estimation. Yes;
it was good for her this obsession--doubly good. If she had passed
through the fire it was a refining one.
And, strange to say, the helping hand of the absent man seemed stretched
over her still. From several quarters came in orders for newspaper work
akin to her illustrated venture at Hilversea Court, for articles
descriptive of country life and scenery. Clytie, too, found herself
receiving almost more typing orders than she could execute. The joint
income of Siege House was beginning to look up.
"By Jove, but Wagram is a good chap!" exclaimed Clytie one day with
characteristic outspokenness. "This is all his doing, of course. I
tell you what it is, Delia, if you don't bring off my scheme within a
reasonable time of his return I'm blest if I don't cut in myself."
"Why do you think it's his doing, Clytie?" had been the answer, ignoring
the last threat.
"It wasn't for nothing he came down here pumping us that day. Well, he
is one in a good many thousands, as I shall tell him some day when he's
my bro--"
"Oh, shut up, Clytie. You know I hate that sort of chaff," interrupted
Delia testily, for the remark jarred upon her hideously.
"Right oh!" cried the other, with a good-humoured laugh. "Keep your
hair on, dear. You can, too, for it's all your own, and a jolly good
lot of it too--that's where you dark ones score over us--though I don't
come far behind. Let's shut up shop now and go for a bike ride. We
shall skim over these frost-bound roads; only we'll get jolly red noses.
We can ride to Fulkston, and back through Hilversea--and adore the
empty Court in the distance," she added slyly.
They made an attractive pair as they skimmed along, both sitting
gracefully and well; the serene classical features of the one, and the
more rich and sparkling brunette beauty of the other, together with the
well-formed, graceful figures of both, constituted a picture which
caused more than one male head to come round in admiration as its owner
half halted.
"The Calmour girls! oh yes, pretty--devilish pretty--but--" constituting
the comment, either uttered or thought. But the fourteen-mile ride out,
and rather more back, added to the glow of health which mantled each
very attractive face.
"There's the old Court, all shut up," commented Clytie as the pile rose
clear against its background of now naked trees in the bright frosty
moonlight. "What a sin to own a place like that and leave it shut up.
I wouldn't."
"Wouldn't you! You'd vote it slow in a month, and start off for town,
if I know anything of you," answered Delia, starting out of a brown
study; for they were just passing the very point in the road where
Wagram had surprised her while having her fortune told by the gipsy. A
little farther, and they came to the scene of the gnu incident. There
was the white gate gleaming in the moonlight; but the slumbrous wealth
of foliage had given place to bare boughs, forming a frosted network
against the winter sky. And with that day there came back to her
another--a golden, glowing August day--that Sunday, the last long day of
interrupted sunshine--when they had surprised the mysterious stranger
and trespasser. Somehow from that day the rising of the cloud had
seemed to date, but of this she said nothing to Clytie.
On arrival home they were met by Bob, looking more than scared.
"About time you came," he grunted. "Don't know what's up with the old
man."
"Oh dear. The usual thing," said Delia, not scornful now, for she had
undergone something of a change in every way.
"No, it isn't," returned Bob quickly. "He's not `fresh' this time, but
he's devilish queer."
Old Calmour was lying on the sofa, breathing stertorously, and looking,
as Bob had said, "devilish queer."
"Get on your bike, Bob, and go and fetch Thorpe," commanded Clytie the
capable, at the same time loosening her father's shirt collar.
"Can't; it's punctured."
"Take mine, then. Only--go."
"Good Lord, Clytie! But it's not serious, eh?"
"Go--d'you hear, you jackass," she repeated, with a stamp of the foot.
"And bring him back with you. None of his--`look round directly.'
Bring him back with you."
The old man lay, staring up at them, his red and bloated face showing no
sign of recognition; and on the prompt arrival of the doctor they were
not long in learning that it never would again, for in less than an hour
old Calmour was dead. Stroke, greatly accelerated by intemperate
habits, was the medical verdict.
"What's to be done now, Delia?" remarked Clytie a day or two after the
funeral, while she and her sister were holding a serious council of
war--or rather of ways and means. "What the very devil is to be done?
We can't go on running Siege House at our rates of pay, and the poor old
dad didn't leave a cent."
This was a fact. The sale of the furniture would not put them in funds
to any great extent. Old Calmour's pension had died with him, and there
were three boys to keep at school. Well, this, of course, was out of
the question. Bob would have to live on the by no means princely salary
he received from Pownall and Skreet, and very blue did the said Bob look
over the prospect. One thing was certain: the household would have to
be broken up.
The funeral, as may be imagined, had not been largely attended; in fact,
except the dead man's family, hardly anybody had been present One of
these exceptions had been Haldane, and the circumstances had appealed to
the girls with a very real sense of appreciation.
"I expect he turned up on your account, Delia," Clytie had remarked.
"But it was brickish of him, all the same. By the way, I suppose
there's a sort of freemasonry among your people. If you hadn't joined
them he wouldn't have shown up."
"I don't know about that; it may have been on account of our
acquaintance. But it was just the sort of thing Mr Haldane would do,"
answered Delia.
Incidentally, we may remark that, whatever the motive, it was not the
last thing that Haldane did for this unfortunate family, now reduced to
real straits, after it had been decided to give up Bassingham and remove
to the metropolis--that universal, and frequently illusory, refuge for
those who "have their way to make."