The Red Derelict

by Bertram Mitford

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

  THE SEA AND HER DEAD.

  The old Squire was skimming the morning paper, without much show ofinterest, however. Of politics he declared himself sick, and there wasnot much of any interest all round. He felt himself wishing that allnewspapers 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 pickingup of an open boat, a small dinghy, in fact, containing three men in thelast stage of starvation and exhaustion, survivors--probably the solesurvivors--of the passengers and crew of the steamship _Carboceer_,homeward bound from West Africa. The steamer, according to thenarrative of these, had run at full speed ahead on to a huge floatinghulk in black midnight, and had gone down in less than five minutes theyestimated, and that amid a scene of terrible panic.

  "But," continued the paragraph, "the survivors, consisting of two seamenand a passenger, seem unable to agree as to the cause of the disaster.The sailors pronounce the obstruction to be a derelict, and are emphaticon this point. On the other hand, the passenger, Mr Develin Hunt, isequally positive that he saw at any rate one man on board of it, whichpoints to the possibility of another lamentable catastrophe due to thecarelessness of those in charge of a certain type of windjammer inneglecting to show lights."

  The paragraph went on to a little more detail, mainly conjectural, butof this Grantley Wagram took no heed. He had dropped the paper, and satstaring into space, with the look upon his face of a man who has metwith a shock, as violent as it is unexpected--as one who had seen anapparition from beyond the grave.

  "Develin Hunt!" he repeated. "Good God! it can't be. Yet--there can'tbe two Develin Hunts."

  He snatched up the paper again, with something of a tremble as hegrasped it, and once more scanned the paragraph. Then he turned eagerlyto several other morning dailies which lay on the table. More detailmight be set forth in each--but no. Either too hurriedly did he turnover 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 passenger of this ghastly marine tragedy," itconcluded, "proves to be a West African trader who has spent many yearsfar up country--an elderly gentleman of some sixty years, named DevelinHunt."

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

  "Of some sixty years?" he repeated--"that would be about the age. No;he'd be more than that. There can't be two Develin Hunts! The sea hasgiven up her dead."

  He looked years older as he sat there, still grasping the paper, and forit he had reason; for should his conjectural identification of this manprove an accurate one, why, then, it meant that the ruin of his housewould be fixed, and, humanly speaking, beyond his power to avert.

  For long he sat, motionless as a stone figure. Through the open windowcame in the joyous sounds of the summer morning--the rustle of the greatelms in a light breeze, the caw of rooks, and the distant clicking of amowing-machine, and, with all, the scent of flowers upon a groundworkfragrance of new-mown hay. Every nerve and sense was alive to these.No wonder that he should look grey and stony. What if all should endwith him?

  What if his son--? And then from without came the voice of his son,together with that of another, and both were inquiring as to hiswhereabouts. The voices from outside acted as a tonic; and, pullinghimself together, the old Squire got up and went to meet their owners--his son and the family chaplain. Wagram had been serving the latter'sMass, and had brought him in to breakfast.

  "Looking fit? Oh, well, I suppose so. I haven't begun to feel my yearsas yet," was the easy answer of the old diplomat to the fresh, cheerygreeting of the priest. But the latter was not altogether deceived.His keen observational faculty did not fail to detect a certain drawnand anxious look, differing from the ordinarily suave expression of hishost's face. "Wagram, tell Rundle to get us out a bottle or so of thatdry, sparkling hock. You know, the 13 bin. I believe that's betterthan anything else on a warm morning like this."

  "Upon my word, Squire, you've missed you're vocation," laughed FatherGayle. "You ought to have been a crack physician, for certainly no oneanswering to that qualification could have been guilty of a moresalutary prescription."

  "Any news?" said Wagram, picking up the paper. Then, as they sat down:"Why, this is a queer yarn, these three chaps being picked up in aboat." Then, after briefly skimming it: "Why, by George! I wonder ifthat's the hulk we were reading about the other day when Haldane washere? I shouldn't be surprised. It must be very much in the same partof the world."

  "You forget, Wagram," said the chaplain quizzically, "that so far wenone of us know what the mischief it is you are talking about, save thatit concerns three men in a boat, a yarn, and Haldane. Now, even in mychildhood, I was never good at piecing together puzzles. I can't answerfor the Squire."

  "Here you are; read it for yourself," said Wagram, pushing the paperacross the table. "It's a ghastly thing to figure out, though, if theseare the sole survivors. Develin Hunt! That's a rum name! Howperfectly sick that fellow must have got all through boyhood, youth, andmiddle age of being--banteringly or the reverse--told he had the Develinhim."

  They laughed at this--none more heartily than that finished old diplomatGrantley Wagram. Laughed--in his bright, genial, humorous way, and yetall the time he was thinking how Wagram was, figuratively speaking,cracking jokes over his own open grave. Laughed--even as he might havelaughed a few minutes earlier, before this dreadful bolt out of the bluehad fallen. Laughed--as Wagram, sitting there in his blissfulignorance, was laughing. Why, the thing was so sudden, so unlooked-for,and withal so disastrous, that it seemed like a dream. Yet GrantleyWagram could laugh. But within his mind still hummed in mocking refrainhis first ejaculation: "There can't be two Develin Hunts."

  They talked on of various matters--the prospects of grouse on theTwelfth, and when Wagram's boy would be home for the holidays, and soforth. Then the priest said:

  "By the way, Squire, that's a most astonishing thing Wagram has beentelling me about that Miss Calmour and the claim made against you."

  "Yes; I told Father Gayle because he seemed to have rather a--well,unexalted opinion of the poor girl when we first talked about her,"explained Wagram.

  "Oh, come; I didn't say so."

  "No. Still, I thought it only fair to show the other side of her."

  "No one could have been more astonished than I was myself," said theSquire. "She certainly behaved most honourably."

  "I should think so," declared Wagram. "Her people are chronically hardup, and, that being so, to tear up a cheque for a thousand poundsdeliberately was in her case rather heroic."

  "Probably the rest of them will lead her a terrible life on the strengthof it," said the Squire. "Poor child! she seemed a good deal betterthan her belongings. We must see if we can't do something for her."

  "Yes, we must," agreed Wagram. "This is a morning to tempt one out. Ithink I shall jump on the bicycle and rip over to Haldane's--unless youwant me for anything, father."

  "No, no. I've a thing or two to think over, but nothing that you needbother about," answered the Squire, adding to himself--"as yet."

  Soon after breakfast Father Gayle took his leave, and the Squire hisusual morning stroll round the gardens and shrubbery. But he did wrongto be alone, for, try as he would, the one idea clung to his mind in averitable obsession: "There can't be two Develin Hunts."

  The while Wagram, skimming along the smooth, well-kept roads, was againthrilled with the intense joy of possession as he revelled in the coolshade of over-arching trees; in the moist depths of a bosky wood,echoing forth its bird-song, with now and again the joyous crow of acock pheasant; in the green and gold of the spangled meadows and thepurl of the stream beneath the old bridge. Surely life was too good--surely such an idyllic state could not be meant to last, was themisgiving that sometim
es beset him; for he had known the reverse side ofall this--had known it bitterly, and for long years.

  Haldane and Yvonne were pacing up and down one of the garden walks, theformer smoking a pipe and dividing his attention between the morningpaper and the lovely child beside him. Just behind the latter, steppingdaintily, and turning when they turned, was the beautiful little Angoracat.

  "Did you see this, Wagram?" said Haldane, the first greeting over,holding out the newspaper. "Well, you remember that confounded strayhulk we were reading about over at your place? It's my belief that it'sthe very one that's sent this boat to the bottom. Did you read aboutit?"

  "Yes."

  Yvonne's face was now the picture of blue-eyed mischief.

  "Well, this chump that was picked up, did you notice what a devilish oddname they've given him?"

  "Develin Hunt, isn't it?"

  "Yes. Well, now, think of his life spent in being told he had theDevelin him."

  A peal of laughter went up from Yvonne--and it was good to hear thatchild laugh--such a clear, merry, hearty trill.

  "I've been waiting for that," she cried. "Mr Wagram, you're a perfectgodsend. Father has inflicted it upon every available being up tillnow. Briggs, the gardener, was gurgling to such an extent that he hadto stop digging. He even stopped old Finlay, driving by to Swanton, andfired it off on him."

  "Sunbeam, you are getting insufferably impudent," said her father. "Ishall really have to cane you."

  With mock gravity she held out a hand that was a very model, with itslong, tapering fingers, which closed upon those which descended upon itin a playful little slap.

  "He isn't the only sinner in that respect, Sunbeam," said Wagram. "Imyself was inflicting it upon our crowd at just about the same time."

  "And are not ashamed of yourself? I've a great mind not to show youwhere I took out a two-pounder the other evening."

  "Did you get it out yourself?"

  "That's stale. I sha'n't even answer it. Come."

  She had taken an arm of each, in the way of one who ruled both of them.But Haldane hung back.

  "Take him alone, dear. I must get two confounded letters behind myback, or they'll never get done. I'll come on after you if I'm done intime."

  "All safe. Poogie, I think I won't take _you_," picking up thebeautiful little animal. "Some obnoxious cur might skoff you."

  "Why not chuck her in the river for a swim?" said Wagram mischievously.The look Yvonne gave him was beautiful to behold.

  "_Now_, I've a great mind not to take _you_," she said severely. "Well,come along, then."

  For nearly an hour they wandered by the stream that ran below thegarden, talking trout generally, and peering cautiously over into thisor that deep hole where big trout were wont to lie. Then, recrossingthe plank bridge, with its rather insecure handrail, they started toreturn.

  The field footpath was a right-of-way, and now along it came a somewhatragged figure, dusty and tired-looking. It was that of a swarthy,middle-aged woman, with beady, black eyes. Instantly Yvonne's interestawoke.

  "She can't be English," she declared. "Wait, I'll try her."

  She opened in fluent Italian, but met with no response. A change toSpanish and French was equally without result.

  "It ain't no good, young lady," said the tramp; "I don't understand noneof them languages. And yet I ain't exactly English, neither, as you wassaying just now."

  "What! You heard that?" cried Yvonne, astonished. "You _are_ able tohear far."

  "Ay; and able to see far too. Would you like to know what I can see foryou, my sweet young lady?" she went on, dropping into the wheedlingwhine of the professional fortune-teller.

  "It would be fun to have my fortune told," said the girl ratherwistfully.

  "Yvonne, I'm surprised at you," said Wagram, with somewhat of anapproach to sternness. "Don't you know that all that sort of thing isforbidden, child, and very wisely so, too?"

  "I know; but I don't mean seriously--only just for the fun of thething."

  "No--no. Not `only just for' anything; it's not to be thought of."

  "It's 'ard to live," whined the woman, "and me that's tramped withoutbite or sup since yesterday. And I'm that 'ungry!"

  She certainly looked her words. Wagram softened in a moment.

  "Here," he said; "and now take my advice and get on your way. We don'twant any fortune-tellers round here."

  The tramp spat gleefully--for luck--on the half-crown which lay in hersurprised palm.

  "Thankee, sir, and good luck to you, sir, and to the sweet young lady.I'll move on, never fear. You're a genelman, you are."

  "What are you up to, Wagram?" said Haldane, joining them. "Encouragingvagrancy--as usual? Good line that for a county magistrate."

  "Oh, I can't see those poor devils looking so woebegone and turn themaway. The principle's quite wrong, I know, but--there it is."

  "Quite wrong. They're generally lying."

  "More than likely. Still, there it is."

  He was thinking of his meditations as he had ridden over--of thecontrast between his life now and formerly, of the intense joy ofpossession, which he hoped did not come within the definition of "thepride of life." Of the ragged tramp he had just relieved he had nofurther thought. Yet it might be that even she would cross his pathagain. It might be, too, when that befell, little enough of "the prideof life" would then be his.