The Red Derelict Part 17

"I won't insist on blindfolding you, Miss Calmour," he said, with a smile, "but I'll ask you just to look out of that window for a minute."

"Certainly," she said. "Why, this is more than interesting."

"That'll do. Thanks."

"Can I look?"

"Yes."

The inner wall of the gallery was patterned faintly in large squares diagonally divided, so that you might see in them squares or triangles according to the caprice of the eye. Now, where one of these squares had been Delia saw a dark aperture easily large enough to admit the body of a man. It was about a yard and a half from the ground.

"What was it used for?" she said, as her eyes becoming more accustomed to the gloom she made out a narrow, oblong chamber, or rather closet, about eight feet by four, and running parallel with the wall.

"A priest's hiding-place. There is still a sprinkling of them to be seen in our old country houses, more or less perfect still."

"This one seems perfect. But how did they get light and air?"

"They didn't get much of the first. For the last, there's a small winding shaft that opens under the roof."

"And did they spend days in here? It must have been dreadful."

"Not to them, because their mission was in its highest sense the reverse of dreadful. But there was a dreadful side to it, for at that time every one of them who came to this country came with the quartering block and boiling pitch before his eyes, as, sooner or later, his certain end. You can imagine, then, that to such men there would be nothing very dreadful in spending a few days in a place like this."

"Of course not. What a stupid remark of mine."

"As a matter of fact, the last to use this place met with just that fate. He was a relation, and was captured in that avenue which was the route of the procession this day last week."

"How terrible," said Delia, gazing with renewed awe into the gloomy chamber. "How you must venerate this place, Mr Wagram."

"Well, you can imagine we do; in fact, it isn't often shown."

"Oh, then I do feel honoured--I mean it seriously."

He smiled.

"Have you seen enough? because if so we'll shut it up again."

"One minute. How does it open and shut? Why, it isn't a mere panel, it's a solid block of stone."

"Ah, that's the secret of it. It is easily opened from within if you know how; but from without--well, it has never been discovered. The secret has been handed down among ourselves. It is always known to three persons, of which, needless to say, I am one."

"How interesting! But if I were in there, and you and the other two were not get-at-able, what then?"

"You might as well be buried alive. Now, oblige me by looking out of that window once more."

"If I mayn't look, may I listen?"

"Certainly. Now you may turn again. Well, what did you hear?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing? Well, see if you can tell which of the squares it was that opened."

"This one. No; it doesn't sound hollow. None of them do. I give it up."

"We'll be going down again, then. You'll be glad of tea."

She protested that such a thing was beyond her thoughts amid the wonder and delight of all she had seen. On the way he pointed out a few of the more prominent family portraits.

"That is our martyr relative."

A cry of surprise escaped Delia.

"That! Why, Mr Wagram, it might be yourself."

The portrait was quite a small one, and in a ma.s.sive frame of stained oak. It represented a man of about the same age, with the same thoughtful dark eyes, the same shaped face, and the same close-trimmed, pointed beard. The figure was gowned in black, and the head crowned with a Spanish biretta with high-pointed corners. Attached to the frame was a Latin inscription.

"People do remark a likeness," he said; "but you can guess how we value that portrait for its own sake. It was painted at Salamanca just before he left for St Omer to start on the English mission."

"Is there any Spanish blood in your family, Mr Wagram?"

"A strain; but it dates rather far back. Aren't you more than ever afraid of coming to our services now?" he added slily. "The Inquisition, you know."

"Afraid? If I didn't know you were chaffing me I would say that I was the more attracted after what you have shown and told me to-day."

The old Squire was waiting for them in the great hall, where they had tea, and Delia, having now recovered her spirits completely, was chatting away as though the matter which had brought her there was but the recollection of a half-faded nightmare--a very note of interest and admiration concerning all she had just seen. Then, imperceptibly to her, they drew her on to talk about herself, and one point in the plain tale of real, plucky, hard work, which had come within her experiences of late, Wagram made a mental note of for future use.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

THE SEA AND HER DEAD.

The old Squire was skimming the morning paper, without much show of interest, however. Of politics he declared himself sick, and there was not much of any interest all round. He felt himself wishing that all newspapers were only issued weekly.

He was about to throw the paper aside when a paragraph caught his eye.

It was headed: "A Terrible Tale of the Sea," and set forth the picking up of an open boat, a small dinghy, in fact, containing three men in the last stage of starvation and exhaustion, survivors--probably the sole survivors--of the pa.s.sengers and crew of the steamship _Carboceer_, homeward bound from West Africa. The steamer, according to the narrative of these, had run at full speed ahead on to a huge floating hulk in black midnight, and had gone down in less than five minutes they estimated, and that amid a scene of terrible panic.

"But," continued the paragraph, "the survivors, consisting of two seamen and a pa.s.senger, seem unable to agree as to the cause of the disaster.

The sailors p.r.o.nounce the obstruction to be a derelict, and are emphatic on this point. On the other hand, the pa.s.senger, Mr Develin Hunt, is equally positive that he saw at any rate one man on board of it, which points to the possibility of another lamentable catastrophe due to the carelessness of those in charge of a certain type of windjammer in neglecting to show lights."

The paragraph went on to a little more detail, mainly conjectural, but of this Grantley Wagram took no heed. He had dropped the paper, and sat staring into s.p.a.ce, with the look upon his face of a man who has met with a shock, as violent as it is unexpected--as one who had seen an apparition from beyond the grave.

"Develin Hunt!" he repeated. "Good G.o.d! it can't be. Yet--there can't be two Develin Hunts."

He s.n.a.t.c.hed up the paper again, with something of a tremble as he grasped it, and once more scanned the paragraph. Then he turned eagerly to several other morning dailies which lay on the table. More detail might be set forth in each--but no. Either too hurriedly did he turn over each close-printed sheet, or the item of news had been overlooked, but nothing further could he find concerning the tragedy. At last, stuck away in a corner of a different sheet, he found another paragraph: "The only surviving pa.s.senger of this ghastly marine tragedy," it concluded, "proves to be a West African trader who has spent many years far up country--an elderly gentleman of some sixty years, named Develin Hunt."

Grantley Wagram's face lost none of its set greyness.