The acquaintance of the two girls had grown into friendship, then intimacy, the difference between their ages and bringing up notwithstanding. It had still further brought out all that was good in Delia; and what was good in the eldest daughter of disreputable, tippling old Calmour was, strange to say, very good indeed; and, as is not infrequently the case, a certain amount of knowledge of the seamier side of life rendered her all the more safe and useful a companion to the younger girl, every day of whose existence had been spent in sunshine. She had the tact not to push her standpoint unduly—indeed, more than once Yvonne wanted to half quarrel with her because she would hardly ever come over to see them without a distinct invitation. But when she did come she always entered so thoroughly into the child’s studies and pursuits—painting or music, or whatever it might be, especially the latter, and the organ in the chapel at Hilversea underwent a good deal of work in those days, for the girls would delight to cycle over, and enjoy a long quiet practice all to themselves. Frequently Haldane would make the third of the party, for he had a fine voice, and was fond of music.
Then Wagram had gone, announcing his departure suddenly; and the only mitigating gleam of sunshine which flashed into Delia’s life was on occasions when she was over at the Haldanes and they talked about him. This they did pretty frequently, and the burden of their remarks ought to have rendered the absent man uncomfortably conceited could he have heard them.
The two boys, too, when home for the holidays, for Gerard always spent his at Haldane’s now his home was shut up, took to her wonderfully. She would enter into all their interests and school experiences as though she were an elder sister, and was full of life and fun when and wherever they were concerned.
“That Miss Calmour is a jolly girl, Yvonne,” Gerard would pronounce. “No humbug or bosh about her. No; and she never lectures us either, as some people do. I say, get her here a lot before we go back; she’s no end fun.”
And Reggie would duly second the proposal. Delia had, in fact, won both their hearts, but the one nearest to her own was Gerard. She would, too, subtly get him to talk about his father, but not too often.
“You know, Miss Calmour,” he said on one occasion, “people don’t half understand the pater. They think him no end cold and stand-offish and all that, but I can tell you he isn’t. Why, what d’you think? I was asked once if I weren’t awfully afraid of him. Fancy that! Did you ever hear such bosh?”
“Bosh, indeed, Gerard.”
“Rather. They seem to think that because he isn’t always talking at the top of his voice, and laying down the law, and all that sort of thing, that he’s stiff and starched. Is he, though! I can tell you there’s no one I can more jolly well get on with—and would rather be with—not even among any of the fellows at school. I wish he’d come back, don’t you?”
“Of course. I should think everybody who knew Mr Wagram would wish that. You miss him a lot, then?”
“Rather. I’m having a ripping time here, of course—always do have—but I miss the dear old pater no end. I don’t see any too much of him as it is.” And the boy had turned away his head to hide the tears that had welled to his eyes.