Delphi Collected Works of Edgar Rice Burroughs (Illustrated) (Series Four Book 26)

by Edgar Rice Burroughs

  “I had never thought that you cared for me in any such way,” she told him. “I have looked upon you always as a very dear friend. I shall not give you my answer now. Forget that you have asked me to be your wife. Let us go on as we have been — then I can consider you from an entirely different angle for a time. It may be that I shall discover that my feeling for you is more than friendship. I certainly have not thought for a moment that I loved you.”

  This arrangement was perfectly satisfactory to Monsieur Thuran. He deeply regretted that he had been hasty, but he had loved her for so long a time, and so devotedly, that he thought that every one must know it.

  “From the first time I saw you, Hazel,” he said, “I have loved you. I am willing to wait, for I am certain that so great and pure a love as mine will be rewarded. All that I care to know is that you do not love another. Will you tell me?”

  “I have never been in love in my life,” she replied, and he was quite satisfied. On the way home that night he purchased a steam yacht, and built a million-dollar villa on the Black Sea.

  The next day Hazel Strong enjoyed one of the happiest surprises of her life — she ran face to face upon Jane Porter as she was coming out of a jeweler’s shop.

  “Why, Jane Porter!” she exclaimed. “Where in the world did you drop from? Why, I can’t believe my own eyes.”

  “Well, of all things!” cried the equally astonished Jane. “And here I have been wasting whole reams of perfectly good imagination picturing you in Baltimore — the very idea!” And she threw her arms about her friend once more, and kissed her a dozen times.

  By the time mutual explanations had been made Hazel knew that Lord Tennington’s yacht had put in at Cape Town for at least a week’s stay, and at the end of that time was to continue on her voyage — this time up the West Coast — and so back to England. “Where,” concluded Jane, “I am to be married.”

  “Then you are not married yet?” asked Hazel.

  “Not yet,” replied Jane, and then, quite irrelevantly, “I wish England were a million miles from here.”

  Visits were exchanged between the yacht and Hazel’s relatives. Dinners were arranged, and trips into the surrounding country to entertain the visitors. Monsieur Thuran was a welcome guest at every function. He gave a dinner himself to the men of the party, and managed to ingratiate himself in the good will of Lord Tennington by many little acts of hospitality.

  Monsieur Thuran had heard dropped a hint of something which might result from this unexpected visit of Lord Tennington’s yacht, and he wanted to be counted in on it. Once when he was alone with the Englishman he took occasion to make it quite plain that his engagement to Miss Strong was to be announced immediately upon their return to America. “But not a word of it, my dear Tennington — not a word of it.”

  “Certainly, I quite understand, my dear fellow,” Tennington had replied. “But you are to be congratulated — ripping girl, don’t you know — really.”

  The next day it came. Mrs. Strong, Hazel, and Monsieur Thuran were Lord Tennington’s guests aboard his yacht. Mrs. Strong had been telling them how much she had enjoyed her visit at Cape Town, and that she regretted that a letter just received from her attorneys in Baltimore had necessitated her cutting her visit shorter than they had intended.

  “When do you sail?” asked Tennington.

  “The first of the week, I think,” she replied. “Indeed?” exclaimed Monsieur Thuran. “I am very fortunate. I, too, have found that I must return at once, and now I shall have the honor of accompanying and serving you.”

  “That is nice of you, Monsieur Thuran,” replied Mrs. Strong. “I am sure that we shall be glad to place ourselves under your protection.” But in the bottom of her heart was the wish that they might escape him. Why, she could not have told.

  “By Jove!” ejaculated Lord Tennington, a moment later. “Bully idea, by Jove!”

  “Yes, Tennington, of course,” ventured Clayton; “it must be a bully idea if you had it, but what the deuce is it? Goin’ to steam to China via the south pole?”

  “Oh, I say now, Clayton,” returned Tennington, “you needn’t be so rough on a fellow just because you didn’t happen to suggest this trip yourself — you’ve acted a regular bounder ever since we sailed.

  “No, sir,” he continued, “it’s a bully idea, and you’ll all say so. It’s to take Mrs. Strong and Miss Strong, and Thuran, too, if he’ll come, as far as England with us on the yacht. Now, isn’t that a corker?”

  “Forgive me, Tenny, old boy,” cried Clayton. “It certainly IS a corking idea — I never should have suspected you of it. You’re quite sure it’s original, are you?”

  “And we’ll sail the first of the week, or any other time that suits your convenience, Mrs. Strong,” concluded the big-hearted Englishman, as though the thing were all arranged except the sailing date.

  “Mercy, Lord Tennington, you haven’t even given us an opportunity to thank you, much less decide whether we shall be able to accept your generous invitation,” said Mrs. Strong.

  “Why, of course you’ll come,” responded Tennington. “We’ll make as good time as any passenger boat, and you’ll be fully as comfortable; and, anyway, we all want you, and won’t take no for an answer.”

  And so it was settled that they should sail the following Monday.

  Two days out the girls were sitting in Hazel’s cabin, looking at some prints she had had finished in Cape Town. They represented all the pictures she had taken since she had left America, and the girls were both engrossed in them, Jane asking many questions, and Hazel keeping up a perfect torrent of comment and explanation of the various scenes and people.

  “And here,” she said suddenly, “here’s a man you know. Poor fellow, I have so often intended asking you about him, but I never have been able to think of it when we were together.” She was holding the little print so that Jane did not see the face of the man it portrayed.

  “His name was John Caldwell,” continued Hazel. “Do you recall him? He said that he met you in America. He is an Englishman.”

  “I do not recollect the name,” replied Jane. “Let me see the picture.” “The poor fellow was lost overboard on our trip down the coast,” she said, as she handed the print to Jane.

  “Lost over — Why, Hazel, Hazel — don’t tell me that he is dead — drowned at sea! Hazel! Why don’t you say that you are joking!” And before the astonished Miss Strong could catch her Jane Porter had slipped to the floor in a swoon.

  After Hazel had restored her chum to consciousness she sat looking at her for a long time before either spoke.

  “I did not know, Jane,” said Hazel, in a constrained voice, “that you knew Mr. Caldwell so intimately that his death could prove such a shock to you.”

  “John Caldwell?” questioned Miss Porter. “You do not mean to tell me that you do not know who this man was, Hazel?”

  “Why, yes, Jane; I know perfectly well who he was — his name was John Caldwell; he was from London.”

  “Oh, Hazel, I wish I could believe it,” moaned the girl. “I wish I could believe it, but those features are burned so deep into my memory and my heart that I should recognize them anywhere in the world from among a thousand others, who might appear identical to any one but me.”

  “What do you mean, Jane?” cried Hazel, now thoroughly alarmed. “Who do you think it is?”

  “I don’t think, Hazel. I know that that is a picture of Tarzan of the Apes.”

  “Jane!”

  “I cannot be mistaken. Oh, Hazel, are you sure that he is dead? Can there be no mistake?”

  “I am afraid not, dear,” answered Hazel sadly. “I wish I could think that you are mistaken, but now a hundred and one little pieces of corroborative evidence occur to me that meant nothing to me while I thought that he was John Caldwell, of London. He said that he had been born in Africa, and educated in France.”

  “Yes, that would be true,” murmured Jane Porter dully.

  “The first offic
er, who searched his luggage, found nothing to identify John Caldwell, of London. Practically all his belongings had been made, or purchased, in Paris. Everything that bore an initial was marked either with a ‘T’ alone, or with ‘J. C. T.’ We thought that he was traveling incognito under his first two names — the J. C. standing for John Caldwell.”

  “Tarzan of the Apes took the name Jean C. Tarzan,” said Jane, in the same lifeless monotone. “And he is dead! Oh! Hazel, it is horrible! He died all alone in this terrible ocean! It is unbelievable that that brave heart should have ceased to beat — that those mighty muscles are quiet and cold forever! That he who was the personification of life and health and manly strength should be the prey of slimy, crawling things, that—” But she could go no further, and with a little moan she buried her head in her arms, and sank sobbing to the floor.

  For days Miss Porter was ill, and would see no one except Hazel and the faithful Esmeralda. When at last she came on deck all were struck by the sad change that had taken place in her. She was no longer the alert, vivacious American beauty who had charmed and delighted all who came in contact with her. Instead she was a very quiet and sad little girl — with an expression of hopeless wistfulness that none but Hazel Strong could interpret.

  The entire party strove their utmost to cheer and amuse her, but all to no avail. Occasionally the jolly Lord Tennington would wring a wan smile from her, but for the most part she sat with wide eyes looking out across the sea.

  With Jane Porter’s illness one misfortune after another seemed to attack the yacht. First an engine broke down, and they drifted for two days while temporary repairs were being made. Then a squall struck them unaware, that carried overboard nearly everything above deck that was portable. Later two of the seamen fell to fighting in the forecastle, with the result that one of them was badly wounded with a knife, and the other had to be put in irons. Then, to cap the climax, the mate fell overboard at night, and was drowned before help could reach him. The yacht cruised about the spot for ten hours, but no sign of the man was seen after he disappeared from the deck into the sea.

  Every member of the crew and guests was gloomy and depressed after these series of misfortunes. All were apprehensive of worse to come, and this was especially true of the seamen who recalled all sorts of terrible omens and warnings that had occurred during the early part of the voyage, and which they could now clearly translate into the precursors of some grim and terrible tragedy to come.

  Nor did the croakers have long to wait. The second night after the drowning of the mate the little yacht was suddenly wracked from stem to stern. About one o’clock in the morning there was a terrific impact that threw the slumbering guests and crew from berth and bunk. A mighty shudder ran through the frail craft; she lay far over to starboard; the engines stopped. For a moment she hung there with her decks at an angle of forty-five degrees — then, with a sullen, rending sound, she slipped back into the sea and righted.

  Instantly the men rushed upon deck, followed closely by the women. Though the night was cloudy, there was little wind or sea, nor was it so dark but that just off the port bow a black mass could be discerned floating low in the water.

  “A derelict,” was the terse explanation of the officer of the watch.

  Presently the engineer hurried on deck in search of the captain.

  “That patch we put on the cylinder head’s blown out, sir,” he reported, “and she’s makin’ water fast for’ard on the port bow.”

  An instant later a seaman rushed up from below.

  “My Gawd!” he cried. “Her whole bleedin’ bottom’s ripped out. She can’t float twenty minutes.”

  “Shut up!” roared Tennington. “Ladies, go below and get some of your things together. It may not be so bad as that, but we may have to take to the boats. It will be safer to be prepared. Go at once, please. And, Captain Jerrold, send some competent man below, please, to ascertain the exact extent of the damage. In the meantime I might suggest that you have the boats provisioned.”

  The calm, low voice of the owner did much to reassure the entire party, and a moment later all were occupied with the duties he had suggested. By the time the ladies had returned to the deck the rapid provisioning of the boats had been about completed, and a moment later the officer who had gone below had returned to report. But his opinion was scarcely needed to assure the huddled group of men and women that the end of the LADY ALICE was at hand.

  “Well, sir?” said the captain, as his officer hesitated.

  “I dislike to frighten the ladies, sir,” he said, “but she can’t float a dozen minutes, in my opinion. There’s a hole in her you could drive a bally cow through, sir.”

  For five minutes the LADY ALICE had been settling rapidly by the bow. Already her stern loomed high in the air, and foothold on the deck was of the most precarious nature. She carried four boats, and these were all filled and lowered away in safety. As they pulled rapidly from the stricken little vessel Jane Porter turned to have one last look at her. Just then there came a loud crash and an ominous rumbling and pounding from the heart of the ship — her machinery had broken loose, and was dashing its way toward the bow, tearing out partitions and bulkheads as it went — the stern rose rapidly high above them; for a moment she seemed to pause there — a vertical shaft protruding from the bosom of the ocean, and then swiftly she dove headforemost beneath the waves.

  In one of the boats the brave Lord Tennington wiped a tear from his eye — he had not seen a fortune in money go down forever into the sea, but a dear, beautiful friend whom he had loved.

  At last the long night broke, and a tropical sun smote down upon the rolling water. Jane Porter had dropped into a fitful slumber — the fierce light of the sun upon her upturned face awoke her. She looked about her. In the boat with her were three sailors, Clayton, and Monsieur Thuran. Then she looked for the other boats, but as far as the eye could reach there was nothing to break the fearful monotony of that waste of waters — they were alone in a small boat upon the broad Atlantic.

  Chapter 14

  Back to the Primitive

  As Tarzan struck the water, his first impulse was to swim clear of the ship and possible danger from her propellers. He knew whom to thank for his present predicament, and as he lay in the sea, just supporting himself by a gentle movement of his hands, his chief emotion was one of chagrin that he had been so easily bested by Rokoff.

  He lay thus for some time, watching the receding and rapidly diminishing lights of the steamer without it ever once occurring to him to call for help. He never had called for help in his life, and so it is not strange that he did not think of it now. Always had he depended upon his own prowess and resourcefulness, nor had there ever been since the days of Kala any to answer an appeal for succor. When it did occur to him it was too late.

  There was, thought Tarzan, a possible one chance in a hundred thousand that he might be picked up, and an even smaller chance that he would reach land, so he determined that to combine what slight chances there were, he would swim slowly in the direction of the coast — the ship might have been closer in than he had known.

  His strokes were long and easy — it would be many hours before those giant muscles would commence to feel fatigue. As he swam, guided toward the east by the stars, he noticed that he felt the weight of his shoes, and so he removed them. His trousers went next, and he would have removed his coat at the same time but for the precious papers in its pocket. To assure himself that he still had them he slipped his hand in to feel, but to his consternation they were gone.

  Now he knew that something more than revenge had prompted Rokoff to pitch him overboard — the Russian had managed to obtain possession of the papers Tarzan had wrested from him at Bou Saada. The ape-man swore softly, and let his coat and shirt sink into the Atlantic. Before many hours he had divested himself of his remaining garments, and was swimming easily and unencumbered toward the east.

  The first faint evidence of dawn was paling the stars ahead of h
im when the dim outlines of a low-lying black mass loomed up directly in his track. A few strong strokes brought him to its side — it was the bottom of a wave-washed derelict. Tarzan clambered upon it — he would rest there until daylight at least. He had no intention to remain there inactive — a prey to hunger and thirst. If he must die he preferred dying in action while making some semblance of an attempt to save himself.

  The sea was quiet, so that the wreck had only a gently undulating motion, that was nothing to the swimmer who had had no sleep for twenty hours. Tarzan of the Apes curled up upon the slimy timbers, and was soon asleep.

  The heat of the sun awoke him early in the forenoon. His first conscious sensation was of thirst, which grew almost to the proportions of suffering with full returning consciousness; but a moment later it was forgotten in the joy of two almost simultaneous discoveries. The first was a mass of wreckage floating beside the derelict in the midst of which, bottom up, rose and fell an overturned lifeboat; the other was the faint, dim line of a far-distant shore showing on the horizon in the east.

  Tarzan dove into the water, and swam around the wreck to the lifeboat. The cool ocean refreshed him almost as much as would a draft of water, so that it was with renewed vigor that he brought the smaller boat alongside the derelict, and, after many herculean efforts, succeeded in dragging it onto the slimy ship’s bottom. There he righted and examined it — the boat was quite sound, and a moment later floated upright alongside the wreck. Then Tarzan selected several pieces of wreckage that might answer him as paddles, and presently was making good headway toward the far-off shore.

  It was late in the afternoon by the time he came close enough to distinguish objects on land, or to make out the contour of the shore line. Before him lay what appeared to be the entrance to a little, landlocked harbor. The wooded point to the north was strangely familiar. Could it be possible that fate had thrown him up at the very threshold of his own beloved jungle! But as the bow of his boat entered the mouth of the harbor the last shred of doubt was cleared away, for there before him upon the farther shore, under the shadows of his primeval forest, stood his own cabin — built before his birth by the hand of his long-dead father, John Clayton, Lord Greystoke.