The Red Derelict Part 22

They adjourned to the choir-loft over the west door, and Delia took her seat at the organ. It was small, but a perfect little instrument for the size of the building--here again Hilversea did not do things by halves--and had an automatic blower.

"This is a treat," said the girl as she ran her fingers over the keyboard. "Why, the instrument is perfect. What shall we start upon?"

"Arcadelt," said Yvonne. "Can you take soprano, Miss Calmour?"

"Yes."

"All safe. Then we are set up. Mr Wagram, you take tenor, and father will take ba.s.s, though he's not as good as he might be at it. Now, are you ready?"

And then Arcadelt's _Ave Maria_, than which, probably, no more beautiful composition of its kind was ever wrought, in its solemn and plaintive melody and exquisite interpretation of light and shade, went forth from the four voices, cultured voices too, swelling up to the high-pitched roof in all its richness of sound, and softening into tender pet.i.tion.

"Lovely, lovely!" whispered Delia, half to herself, as it ended.

"It is, isn't it?" said Yvonne. "Do let's have it on Sunday, Mr Wagram."

"Shall we?"

"Oh, do, Mr Wagram," echoed Delia enthusiastically. "I'll ride over, wet or fine, if only to hear it."

"Very well, then, we will; but won't you not only hear it but help us in it?"

"May I? Oh, I shall be delighted."

They tried over a few more things, including a gem or two of Gounod, then adjourned to the house for tea.

"What a universal genius that little girl is, Wagram," said Haldane as they walked thither, the two girls being in front.

"Yes; she's a clever child--seems able to turn her hand to anything."

And then he told of the day's doings.

"Good, and good again," said Haldane. "We must tell everyone to get that number of _The Old Country Side_. Then they may give her another job."

"I think they very likely will," said Wagram, with a twinkle in his eyes that escaped his friend.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

BLACKMAIL?

Grantley Wagram sat alone in his library--thinking.

When a man thus sits, with an open letter in front of him, at which he gazes from time to time, with a contraction of the brows, it is safe to a.s.sume that his thoughts are hardly pleasant; and such, indeed, represented the state of the old Squire's mind.

The correspondence which troubled him was not quite recent--that is to say, it was some days old. But, great Heaven! the issue it involved if the statements therein set forth were true! It speaks volumes for the old man's marvellous self-control that he should have gone through that period evincing no sign whatever that anything had occurred to threaten his normal urbanity--no, not even to his son; and yet, day and night, awake, and even asleep, the matter had been uppermost in his thoughts.

Now, those thoughts for the hundredth time seemed to voice the two words: Only Blackmail! And yet--and yet--he knew that it was blackmail from which there would be no escape.

He took up the letter and scanned it, then let it fall again with a weary sigh. There was a genuine ring about the tone of the communication. No; there could hardly be two Develin Hunts.

Well, a few moments would decide, for the letter which troubled him was subscribed with that name, and the writer promised to call that very morning--in fact, might arrive any moment.

Even then there came a tap at the door, and the servant who entered announced the arrival of a stranger.

"Show him up here," said the Squire.

The first thing the new-comer did was to look deliberately around, return to the door, open it, and look outside. Then, closing it, he came back, seated himself opposite the Squire, and said:

"Don't you know me?"

"No."

"Look again. You know me right enough, though we've neither of us grown any younger."

"Not from Adam." And Grantley Wagram leaned back in his chair, as if there were no more to be said.

"Never heard my name before, eh?" said the stranger sneeringly.

"N-no. Wait. Let's see. Now I remember I read it in connection with some s.h.i.+pwreck. Are you the person referred to?"

"That I am. And a h.e.l.l of a time I had of it. By the Lord, we all had."

"I can quite believe that," said the Squire. "That castaway business must be one of the most ghastly situations imaginable."

"Quite right, Squire. Come, now, I believe you're not half a bad sort after all. I believe we are going to understand each other."

The old diplomat made no immediate reply as he leaned back in his chair and watched the other. He saw before him a tallish man, somewhat loosely hung, but conveying an idea of wiriness and strengths. The face, tanned a red brown, might very well have been good-looking at one time; now somewhat bloodshot eyes and an indescribable something told that its owner had lived hard and wildly, and that in wild, hard places.

"Yes; I believe you're not half a bad sort, Squire," repeated the stranger, pulling at his short white beard--"far too good a sort not to have _forgotten_ that a man might have a thirst after a walk on a hot morning; for I walked over here, mind."

"To be sure, I had forgotten," said the Squire, with a pleasant laugh, as he touched an electric b.u.t.ton on the table. "What do you fancy? A gla.s.s of wine?"

"Wine? No, thanks. Scotch is good enough for me, especially good Scotch--and it's bound to be that here," with a comprehensive sweep of the hand round the library.

A servant appearing, the whisky was ordered and brought, Grantley Wagram the while uneasily hoping that it would not have the effect of making his unwelcome visitor uproarious.

"Soda? No, thanks," said the latter emphatically; "that'll do for those stay-at-home popinjays who loaf about clubs, not for a man who's lived.

Ah! That's real good," swallowing at a gulp half the four-finger measure he had poured out for himself. "Soft, mellow as milk. Squire, you're not with me."

"Not--?"

"Not with me. It isn't usual in places I've been for one man to drink and another to look on."

"Oh, I see. I must ask you to take the will for the deed. This is the wrong end of the day with me for that sort of thing."

"Oh, but--it'll never do," returned the other in an injured tone, gulping down the remains of his gla.s.s. "We shall never get to business that way."

"Perhaps even better," said the Squire pleasantly. "Well, now--what is your business?"