Part 6 (2/2)
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 extinguis.h.i.+ng the numerous candles, and her pulse quickened as she saw Wagram, now divested of his ca.s.sock 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, flas.h.i.+ng 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 pa.s.s 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 a.s.sure 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 princ.i.p.al 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.
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