The Red Derelict Part 20

"Well, well, there's something in that," said the old man, mollified by this brightening of prospects. "I must have a gla.s.s of grog on the strength of it."

Clytie looked at him for a moment, shook her pretty head, and then got out a bottle. He was quite sober, and it was the first that day.

"Only one," she said. "No more, mind."

She did not think it necessary to tell him that this increase of material prosperity was due to the good offices of Wagram. The latter was not the one to do things by halves, and had never forgotten the promise he had made on the occasion of his call at Siege House.

"There you are, Delia!" she triumphantly declared as the orders came pouring in. "You never know what you lose through want of asking. If I hadn't put it point-blank to him I shouldn't have got all these--and it makes a difference, I can tell you. What a devil of a good chap he must be!"

A few days later a surprise came for Delia in the shape of a letter from the editor of a particularly smart and up-to-date pictorial, requesting her to contribute to its ill.u.s.trated series of articles on old country seats, so many words of letterpress and so many photographs of Hilversea Court, and quoting a very liberal rate of remuneration if the contribution proved to be to the editor's satisfaction. The girl was radiant.

"It's too good to be true, Clytie. How can they have heard of me?" she exclaimed. "Surely no one has been playing a practical joke on me. I can hardly believe it."

Clytie scanned the letter "It's genuine right enough," she p.r.o.nounced.

"Wagram again."

"What? But--no--it can't be this time. Why, don't you see what it says: 'Provided you can obtain the permission of Mr Grantley Wagram'?

So, you see, it's apart from them entirely."

"That's only a red herring. I'll bet you five bob he's at the back of it. Are you on?"

"N-no," answered Delia, upon whom a recollection was dawning of things she had let fall on that memorable occasion of her last visit to Hilversea. She had prattled on about herself, and her experiences, among which had been a little journalism of a very poorly-paid order.

"I believe you are right, Clytie," she went on slowly. "I remember letting go that I had done that sort of thing in a small way, and even that I would be glad to do it again in a large one if only I got the chance, but I never dreamt of anything coming of it--never for a moment."

"No? Well, you're in luck's way this time, dear. Probably this editor is a friend of his; and then, apart from that, a man in the position of Wagram of Hilversea can exercise almost unlimited influence in pretty near any direction he chooses--by Jove, he can."

Delia did not at once reply, and, noting a certain look upon her meditative face, Clytie smiled to herself, and forebore to make any allusion to her cherished scheme, which, in her own mind, she decided was growing more promising than ever.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

"A CALMOUR AT HILVERSEA."

Wagram's private study, or "den," where he was wont to do all his business thinking and writing, and which was absolutely sacred to himself and his papers and general litter, was a snug room overlooking the drive; and thence, as he sat with his after-breakfast pipe in his mouth and some business papers relating to the estate before him on the morning following the incidents just recorded, he was--well, not altogether surprised at seeing a girl on a bicycle skimming up to the front door.

"Poor child!" he said to himself. "She looks positively radiant. I used to think, in those awful days, if I were in the position I am in now--by the grace of G.o.d--what a great deal I could do for others, and yet, and yet, it's little enough one seems to be able to do."

He need not have disparaged himself. There were not a few, among them some who had shown him kindness in "those awful days," who now had reason to bless his name as long as they lived, and their children's children after them.

"Come in. Yes; I'll be down in a minute or two," he said in response to the announcement that Miss Calmour had called on a matter of business, and very much wished to see him. He smiled to himself as he remembered the occasion of her last call--also "on a matter of business." Then he made a note as to where to resume the work in which he had been interrupted, laid down his pipe, and went downstairs.

"And now," he said merrily when they had shaken hands, "what is this 'matter of business'?"

Delia was looking radiant, and, consequently, very pretty. She had that dark warmth of complexion which suffuses, and her hazel eyes were soft and velvety.

"This will explain," she said, holding out the editor's letter; "and, Mr Wagram, it would be affectation for me to pretend that I did not know whom I had to thank for it."

"Of course. As far as I can see it is the editor of _The Old Country Side_. But editors don't want thanking; they are hard, cold-blooded men of business, as I have had ample reason to discover in my old struggling days."

She made no comment on this last remark. She had heard that this man's life had not been always a bed of roses.

"Yet, how could this one have heard of me?" she said. "No; I don't know how to thank you enough for this--and Clytie too. She has almost more work than she can do, all thanks to your introductions. You are too good to us."

"My dear child, haven't you learnt yet that we must all help each other in this world as far as lies in our power? The difficulty sometimes lies in how to do it in the right way. By-the-by, this letter, I observe, makes it a condition that you should obtain my father's permission. How, then, could we possibly have had anything to do with instigating the offer?"

Delia smiled, remembering her sister's dictum: "That's only a red herring." However, she had sufficient tact not to press the point.

"I see they want six photographic views," he went on. "Now, if I might suggest, do two of the house, from different points of view--outside; one of the hall and staircase; two of the chapel, outside and in; and one of the lake. That makes it."

"But, Mr Wagram, you are forgetting the African animals. I must have those; they are such a feature."

"Why, of course. Well, then, now I think of it, we will delete the interior of the chapel. To the crowd it would only look like any other interior. What is your camera, by the way?"

"Only a Kodak. Bull's-eye Number 2. But I understand time exposures, and it takes very sharp and clear."

"And shorthand writing too. You are a clever girl, and should be able to turn your accomplishments to useful account."

Again Delia smiled, for she remembered having let out that she was a ready shorthand writer during that former conversation.

"Well, now, what I suggest is this: I have rather a pressing matter of business to finish off this morning, so, if you will excuse me, I propose to turn you over to Rundle. He will show you every hole and corner of the house; he knows it like a book. We only looked at it cursorily last time you were here. That will take you all the morning.

After lunch--we lunch at one--I can take you over the outside part of the job myself. _The Old Country Side_ is a first-rate pictorial, and we must do justice to Hilversea in it, mustn't we?"

Delia professed herself delighted, as indeed she was. Then Rundle, having appeared in response to a ring, Wagram proceeded to direct him accordingly.

"Show Miss Calmour all there is to see, Rundle," he said, "and work the light for her so as to get everything from the best point of view for photography. I showed her the priest's hiding-place the other day, so you needn't; besides, you don't know the secret of it."

"No, sir; and it'd have been a good job if some others hadn't known there was such a thing," said the old butler in historic allusion.

"This way, miss."

Delia appeared at lunch radiant and sparkling. Rundle had proved a most efficient cicerone, she declared; indeed, so much had there been to see and hear that she wondered how on earth she was going to compress her notes into the required limit. Wagram was in a state of covert amus.e.m.e.nt, for he knew that his father was not forgetting his former dictum.

"A Calmour at Hilversea! Pho! it'd be about as much in place as a cow in a church!"

And yet, here was this bright, pretty girl, who talked so intelligently and well--why, she might have been anybody else as far as keeping the old Squire interested and amused was concerned.

"Now, Miss Calmour, which shall we take first--the animals or the chapel?" said Wagram as they rose from table.

"The animals, I think, because it may take some time, and the sun is not as reliable as it might be. The chapel I can get much easier with a time exposure, if necessary."

"Right. I'll tell them to get my tyres pumped up, and we can bike down there."

Their way took them over the very road where the adventure had befallen, then a turn to the left, where the riding was rough. Here, under the trees, a shed of tarred planks came into view.

"We'll leave our machines here," said Wagram, dismounting. "They'll be quite safe; still, I'll chain them together, as a matter of precaution."

"What a perfectly lovely place this is," said the girl as they walked on beneath great over-arching oaks, which let in the sunlight in a network on the cool sward. "Tell me, Mr Wagram, don't you sometimes find life too good to be real?"