The Red Derelict Part 37

Wagram began splashing mightily, at the same time uttering as loud a shout as he could compa.s.s--and that was not very loud. It seemed to answer, though. The gliding triangular fin became motionless; then, as if the great fish had altered its course, it turned broadside on, as though concluding to manoeuvre a little further before closing.

Now the hulk was almost within grasp. Two or three strokes, and the waif was about to seize the taffrail, when he was conscious of a swirl beneath him. Rising from under the keel of the derelict came into view a monstrous shape. It stamped itself upon his brain--the gleaming white belly, the snake-like writhe of the tail, the great open mouth with its rows of awful teeth, and then--those teeth closed with a snap upon the deck-chair, which Wagram had, with rare quickness and presence of mind, thrust down where his legs had been when the rush was made, and, before the sound of the crunching of wood and wicker was stilled, by a mighty effort he had hoisted himself on board the hulk.

It was a near thing. He stood for a moment chest-deep on the submerged main deck, then clambered up to the p.o.o.p and looked forth. The dark, glistening fin which had first alarmed him was still moving lazily at about the same distance off; but immediately beneath, the fragments of the deck-chair and the lashings and soundings of the monster that had tried to seize him made him vividly realise the awful peril from which he had escaped. It seemed as if the evil beast had indeed bitten off more than it could chew, for it darted to and fro, and sank and rose again in quite an abnormal way, as though seriously uneasy within.

The first feeling produced in Wagram by the sight was one of intense thankfulness, and yet his position was still desperate enough in all conscience. Here he was, on board a waterlogged hulk in mid-ocean without a sc.r.a.p of food or a drop of water. He had a brandy flask which he had filled and put in his pocket with an eye to emergencies on the occasion of the first alarm, but that was all. Still, he would not by any means abandon hope. The idea uppermost in his mind was less that he had escaped so far than that he had been preserved--and if he had been preserved it was with some good reason. So far, too, he felt neither hunger nor thirst--his immunity from the latter perhaps due to his prolonged submersion. The p.o.o.p deck was dry--in fact, very dry--and if he wanted to reach the forecastle he had only to wade along the main deck.

He glanced around seaward. The mist had completely disappeared, and from sky-line to sky-line the sea was open--open and blank; not a speck, not a sail. The hope which had sprung up within him that when the mist lifted some or all of the _Baleka's_ boats might be in sight was dispelled. He was alone.

Turning, he glanced down. Some loose rusty iron lay at his feet, remnants of the old rigging. This he was turning idly over when an object attracted his attention. Stooping, he picked it up. It was a pistol, a five-chambered revolver, but the woodwork of the stock had all but rotted away, and even as he held it something came off it and fell on the deck. Picking this up he examined it, then nearly dropped it again. The thing was of metal, and had come loose from the rotting wood. It, like the rest of the metal, was red with rust; but now, as Wagram stood staring at it, he thought he must be dreaming. It was a nameplate which had been let into the stock of the weapon, and through the rust there stood forth two letters--"E.W."

Half dazed, he stared at the thing; rubbed his eyes, and stared again.

Then he examined the pistol itself. No; there could be no mistake about it. The weapon had belonged to his brother. He ought to know it, if anybody ought, for it had been a present from himself when Everard had first left home years ago, and he himself had specially designed the fashioning of the initials on the nameplate--"E.W." It was a five-chambered weapon, too, and five-shooters were not so common as six.

And now--and now here it was, here it came into his hands again, on board a battered and abandoned hulk which seafaring authority had p.r.o.nounced to have been afloat in its battered and derelict condition for years. What mystery--what awful mystery of the deep lay behind this?

For long he stood gazing at the relic in his hand. It had been a powerful weapon, one of large and heavy calibre. Did its presence here bear silent witness to an unseen and buried tragedy; to a grim fight for life here on this ghostly craft before she had been abandoned to her endless driftings? What ghastly remnants of such might even then be lying below within her hull, perhaps even of the man to search for whom he had travelled over half the world--sepulchred for ever beneath the water which precluded any further exploration of the fabric? Again, was it for this that he himself had been so wonderfully preserved--that he might light upon this long-forgotten object to serve as a clue in his further search? Who might say?

Now a great drowsiness came over him--the drowsiness of exhaustion--and, almost without knowing it, he sank down upon the deck. One thing he did half instinctively, half mechanically, and well was it for him he did so. That was to divest himself of his coat, and with it shelter his head from the fierce sun rays. Then he fell into a profound sleep--the slumber of exhaustion.

The red sun sank like a great globe in the smoky offing of the tropical sky. The intense heat of the day was about to give place to the dews of night, which, however, served to abate but little of the sultriness; though relief from the burning rays was something to be thankful for, thought those in the boats. But before the rush of night should settle down with its accustomed rapidity an incident was in store for them. A dark object lay outlined against the lurid sky-line. Quickly, eagerly gla.s.ses were brought to bear. Those who had not got gla.s.ses hung no less eagerly on the result. A ship?

But more than a smothered curse broke from those who saw.

"It's only that derelict again," burst from young Ransome, the fourth officer, wearily. "Only that derelict--that d.a.m.ned Red Derelict. We've seen enough of _her_."

And the boats of the _Baleka_, with their castaway freight, held on their course, running before a light breeze which had sprung up with sunset, leaving behind them the Red Derelict with its one human pa.s.senger--the missing one from among themselves who had thrown away his own life to save that of a child who was already safe. And he lay, still fast asleep, with his coat over his head, drifting away with the grim hulk--away, away, over the pathless plain of the vast lonely sea.

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

A BREAK-UP AT Ba.s.sINGHAM.

We have hinted that Wagram's departure on his self-imposed quest had taken place quite quietly; nevertheless, after it he was very greatly missed, by none more so, perhaps, than the Haldanes. To Haldane, indeed, he had confided some inkling of his strange mission--not the whole of it--but had bound him to secrecy: for the benefit of the neighbourhood at large, certain family and business matters had necessitated the undertaking, and with this the neighbourhood must perforce rest content. Then, as time wore on, and nearly each few and far between letter, instead of announcing the wanderer's early return, only notified a fresh start farther afield and in a contrary direction, Haldane grew puzzled.

"Confound the fellow! Why the deuce can't he come back instead of wasting time and energy over some wild-goose chase?" he would say on such occasions. "It isn't that he's fond of travel, and all that sort of thing. I believe at bottom he hates it."

"I'm sure he does, father," chimed in Yvonne. "Every day away from Hilversea is a day not lived, according to him. And the place looks so dismal all shut up. I vote we go away for a change ourselves."

"Wrong time, Sunbeam. The weather's exceptionally beastly abroad, from what the papers say. And the Continent in vile weather is--well, unfit for publication."

"I'd have liked to take Delia Calmour with us," went on the girl.

"She's so companionable and intelligent, and takes such interest in everything; never talks the silly idiotic bosh most girls do. She'd have enjoyed it so much, too."

"Poor girl!" said Haldane. "It's a thousand pities she's so confoundedly handicapped. She'll never get a show now on the strength of those awful relatives. Yes; it's a thousand pities."

In saying that the absent Squire of Hilversea was missed by none more than by the Haldanes we should have recorded an exception, and it was named Delia Calmour. To her it seemed that the light of day had gone out. And yet, why? It had been seldom enough she had seen him of late before his departure; and even on such occasions, a little ordinary conversation in his quiet genial way. That was all. And yet--and yet-- the girl would cheerfully have yielded up life itself to have heard once more the sound of his voice in just one of those ordinary conversations.

To such a pa.s.s had things come.

But she kept her own counsel heroically. Never by word or look did she betray herself. Even Clytie was puzzled. She had read through her up to a certain point, but had failed to credit her sister with the secretiveness and self-control to the highest point of which the latter had nearly attained. So she was puzzled.

To her dying day Delia would never forget the announcement of that departure. It had been made to her one Sunday when she had cycled over to Hilversea by Wagram himself, in his pleasant easy manner, and she had received it with a frank natural regret, that came from her well. Not all at once did she realise that she had received a blow between the eyes.

"Be missed?" he had repeated, echoing her words. "Well, I am selfish enough to hope I shall be missed a little. One thing is certain: I sha'n't stop away any longer than I can help. I'm not going for fun, anyhow."

Then he had invited her in for lunch. The Haldanes were there, and Father Gayle, and on this occasion four or five other people; in fact, it was a sort of "send-off" affair, for he was to start early on the following morning.

"I shan't stay away any longer than I can help," had been the words, uttered in an easy natural way. Yet he who uttered them knew that in the event of his quest proving successful he would stay away--for ever.

But there he sat, chatting with his guests easily, smilingly, as though his very heart were not half broken over the thought of what was about to pa.s.s away from him and his for ever. And the girl? She too was chatting, outwardly light-hearted, with her immediate neighbours, or joining in the general conversation, and the while she, too, in her innermost heart was thinking what an awful blank this man's departure would leave in her life; in it, moreover, as long as it should last.

Here was an instance of the extraordinary freaks which may run through life's tragedies. Who would have thought of the ghastly canker which lay behind Wagram's easy gaiety? Who would have guessed at the yearning ache which underlay Delia Calmour's ready conversational flow?

"Who is that Miss Calmour?" one of the guests had remarked to Yvonne after they had left the table. "Such a pretty girl, and talks so well and brightly. So nice-mannered and refined. Does she belong to this neighbourhood?"

And Yvonne had replied evasively, though not seeming to do so, that she did, and that she was all the other had said; that the dear old Squire had taken to her wonderfully shortly before his death, and that she herself had grown very fond of her. Then she let drop that Delia was a recent convert, which at once prepossessed the inquirer in her favour, as she intended it should.

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 p.r.o.nounce.

"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.

It was all Delia could do to keep herself from following suit, but she did, with an effort.

"Your father is one of the best and n.o.blest men that ever lived, Gerard," she answered. "It is a privilege to have known him."

There were times when she would take herself to task. What right had she to indulge in such feelings? Ought she not rather to crush them?

Yet why? Their influence upon her was wholly for good, never for evil.

Were her days dark--what would he have had her do? This she thought she knew, and did it accordingly. He had known dark days himself, she had gathered in course of some of their conversations, very dark days, yet look at him now--a man ideally perfect in her adoring estimation. Yes; it was good for her this obsession--doubly good. If she had pa.s.sed through the fire it was a refining one.

And, strange to say, the helping hand of the absent man seemed stretched over her still. From several quarters came in orders for newspaper work akin to her ill.u.s.trated venture at Hilversea Court, for articles descriptive of country life and scenery. Clytie, too, found herself receiving almost more typing orders than she could execute. The joint income of Siege House was beginning to look up.