Part 32 (2/2)

There was one, however, whose quick woman's wit had not been slow to arrive at the fact that something had gone wrong--in some absolutely not-to-be-guessed-at and unaccountable way, but still gone wrong--and that was Delia herself. The county need not bother its opaque head any further as to how and why the Wagrams had ”taken her up,” for the said Wagrams seemed to have dropped her with equal capriciousness. And the girl herself?

No more of these pleasant informal invites to Hilversea when she cycled over to the chapel services on Sundays or other days. Wagram and the old Squire were as courteous and kindly in their bearing as ever, but-- there it ended; and, strange to say, remembering her upbringing, or want of it rather, this daughter of tippling, disreputable old Calmour did not, even in her heart of hearts, feel hurt or resentful. For, as we have said, by some quick-witted instinct of her own she realised that some great trouble, secret and, therefore, infinitely the greater, was sapping the peace of this house, to the members of which she looked up with a feeling little short of adoration. She saw this, but n.o.body else did as yet.

Delia had carried out the intention we heard her express to Wagram on the occasion of one of those visits which had const.i.tuted the bright days of her life. She had placed herself under the instruction of the old priest in Ba.s.singham whose German nationality had first aroused her insular disapproval, and had been received into the Catholic Church; but in the result she had learned that a love of beautiful music and imposing and picturesque ceremonies was not the be-all and end-all of the matter by a long way; wherefore the change had put the coping-stone to the refining process which had been going on unconsciously within her, and the former undisciplined and inconsequent daughter of rackety, happy-go-lucky Siege House had become a self-contained and self-disciplined woman. As to this something of a test was put upon her when one day, on one of the rare occasions now when she had an opportunity of talking confidentially with Wagram, the latter remarked:

”Talking of 'duties,' Miss Calmour, I wonder if you will resent what I am going to say? It seems ungracious after the great help you have given us here from time to time--musically, I mean. Well, then, you have a beautiful voice and great musical talent. Now, don't you think you ought to turn that to account nearer home? The mission at Ba.s.singham is a poor one. With your talents, if you threw yourself into helping to improve its choir, and musical arrangements generally, what a difference that might work in rendering it more attractive to outside people as well as to those within. Of course, music like many other accessories, is a mere spiritual luxury, not an essential, but it is often a powerful factor in the first instance, in attracting those without, and therefore, like any lawful agency in that direction, by no means to be despised. How if this is a talent entrusted to you to be turned to account? But there--I have no const.i.tuted right to set myself up as your adviser, and I suppose you are only setting me down as a solemn old bore intent on preaching you a sermon,” he concluded, with a smile--a sad one, she decided to herself, as his somewhat rare smiles were in these days.

The natural human in Delia was represented by a feeling of blank dismay.

Those rides over to Hilversea, and her part in the musical arrangements of its exquisite chapel, had been to her as something to live for. And now even this was to be denied her. But the self-discipline had become an accomplished fact.

”I am setting you down as nothing of the sort, Mr Wagram,” she answered steadily, ”nor do I know anybody in this world more competent to advise me or anyone else. Yes; you are right; I will follow your advice. But I may come up to Hilversea, and help occasionally when I am not wanted in Ba.s.singham, mayn't I?”

”My dear child, of course; we are only too glad. You know, I was not putting it to you in your own personal interest. In such a matter nothing personal comes in, or ought to. But there--I seem to be preaching again.”

The step Delia had taken involved upon her far less of a trial from those among whom she moved than she had expected. Old Calmour had been nasty and jeering on the subject, and in his cups had been wont to make exceedingly objectionable remarks and vulgar insinuations; but such to the girl were as mere pin-p.r.i.c.ks now. Moreover, Clytie had on every occasion quelled, not to say flattened, him with all her serene but effective decisiveness; and the egregious Bob was in a state of complete subjection, as we have shown. To Clytie herself the whole thing was a matter of entire satisfaction, for she regarded it as a step, and a very important one, in the direction of furthering her own darling scheme; which scheme, by the way, did not seem to progress with the rapidity she would have wished.

”You must force the pace Delia,” she said. ”The thing's hanging a little more than I like. You've got a first-rate cut in, and you ought to be able to capture the trick. Force the pace a little more; you're not making the most of your opportunities.”

”You're wasting a deal of capacity for intrigue, Clytie,” was the answer. ”There's nothing 'hanging,' no pace to force, and no trick to capture, as I've told you before.”

The other looked at her, shook her pretty head, and--being at times inclined towards vulgarity--winked.

And then upon Hilversea and its surroundings and dependents fell another bolt--swift, sudden, consternating. The old Squire was dead.

He had pa.s.sed away in his sleep, peacefully and painlessly, for the expression of his fine old face was absolutely placid and almost smiling; and from Wagram downwards the bolt shot hard and grievous through many a heart. Not only of those belonging to the immediate neighbourhood did this hold, for in the crowd which thronged the approaches to the chapel what time the solemn High Ma.s.s of _Requiem_-- sung by the dead man's lifelong friend, Monsignor Culham--was proceeding, not a few strange faces might have been discerned; faces of those whom Grantley Wagram and his son had benefited--in some instances even to the saving of life, where, but for such benefit, the means of preserving life by affording the requisite conditions would have been lacking.

Very different, too, to the _cortege_ which we saw issue from these doors a few months back is this which now comes forth to lay the dead man in his last resting-place in the little consecrated graveyard beneath the east window of the chapel, but no less solemn. The glow and splendour of light and colour, the mellow flooding of the summer suns.h.i.+ne are no longer here, and the gurgling song of full-throated thrushes is hushed. Instead, the frost and stillness of a winter noon, and an occasional sob as the coffin is lowered into the grave, while the chant of the _Benedictus_ rolls forth mournful and grand upon the crisp air, so still that the lights borne on each side of the great crucifix burn with scarce a flicker, and the celebrant, vested in a black and silver cope of some richness, sprinkles--for the last time with holy water the remains of Grantley Wagram, now laid to his final rest.

”Requiem aeternam dona, ei Domine, Et lux perpetua luceat ei.

”Anima ejus, et animae omnium fidelium defunctorum per misericordiam Dei requiescant in pace.”

The words find echo in many a heart as the sad solemnity ends. The crowd melts away, the mourners withdraw--all save one, who stands motionless, with bowed head, looking down into the closing grave--and that one the dead man's son.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

THE RED DERELICT.

”What would happen if we went ash.o.r.e here? Why, we'd very likely be eaten.”

”Eaten! Oh, captain, you can't really mean that. In these days too!”

”But I do mean it. Yonder's a pretty bad coast. As for 'in these days,' we haven't yet captured quite all the earth, only the greater part of it. There are still some rum places left.”

”Oh!” And the inquiring lady pa.s.senger stared, round-eyed, to eastward, where, however, no sign of any coast was visible, nor yet in any other quarter.

The steams.h.i.+p _Baleka_ was shearing her way through the smooth satiny folds of the tropical swell, and the light breeze which stirred the surface combined with the air the s.h.i.+p was making to render life quite tolerable beneath the grateful shade of the awnings. Otherwise it was hot--unequivocably hot; and where the glisten of bra.s.swork was exposed to the overhead noonday sun the inadvertent contact of the bare hand with the said bra.s.swork was sufficient to make the owner jump. So completely alone on this sh.o.r.eless sea was the steamer that the plumes of smoke from her great white funnels seemed as though they had no business to taint this free, pure air with their black abominations-- seemed, in fact, an outrage on the blue and golden solitude. Yet the said solitude was by no means devoid of life. Flying-fish skimming above the liquid plain singly or in flights like silvery birds, or a school of porpoises keeping pace with the s.h.i.+p for miles in graceful leaps, as their sportive way is, const.i.tuted only hints as to the teeming life of the waters in common with the earth and air; or here and there a triangular fin moving dark and oily above the surface in scarcely perceptible glide. The sight started the inquiring lady pa.s.senger off afresh.

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