Part 7 (2/2)
”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 l.u.s.ty 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 inst.i.tution 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 pa.s.sed 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.
CHAPTER SEVEN.
CONCERNING A DERELICT.
”So that was your heroine of the adventure, Wagram?” said the old Squire as they sat at breakfast the following morning.
”Yes. What did you think of her?”
”Poor girl.”
”Poor girl? Why?” asked Monsignor Culham.
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