The Red Derelict

He unlocked a safe and got out the tin case. It was all corroded with its long submersion in salt water but quite intact. It brought back to him that gruesome dive into the heart of the spectral derelict; and for a few minutes he sat there, going over in his mind that time alone on the oily waters of the glistening deep, and that awful moment in the darkness when the receding lights had betokened that he was left to his fate – the hand of rescue stretched forth only to be withdrawn. He shook the recollection off, as that of a nightmare from which one awakes, then, procuring the requisite tools, set to work to open the case.

It was full of papers – close packed, full to bursting. Some two or three were of parchment-looking substance, others of thin rice paper. The latter were stitched together with a kind of thin thread of animal fibre. This detail he took in at once, the result of his recent and complete savage training. He spread them out upon the capacious writing-table in front of him, and then —

Great Heaven! what was this? “Develin Hunt!” There was the name, not at the end of a document, but in the middle of it. He stared again, and could hardly believe his eyes. Develin Hunt! He had expected to find some clue as to his lost brother’s fate, which was his reason for not having handed over the box to the captain of the Runic as containing a possible clue to the identity of the Red Derelict, but instead the first name to meet his eye was that of Develin Hunt!

He pulled himself together, and, with mind cool and business-like, set himself to examine the documents, beginning with this one. And it was the most important of all, for it was nothing more nor less than a marriage certificate.

He gazed at it for a moment, then got up again and went to the safe. From this he extracted a document, and spread it side by side with the first one. It was a copy of another marriage certificate, that which Develin Hunt had produced for the enlightenment of his father and himself, but – the one he had just extracted from the tin box bore date four years earlier.

What then? The man might have been a widower at the time. So far he himself was – well, just where he was – where he had been.

He had forgotten for the moment all about Everard and his fate. Eagerly he turned over the other papers. They seemed to have no bearing on the subject until he got to the thin ones, which, in effect, were a sort of diary, stitched together, as we have said. And before he had gone far through this he realised that the discovery of this other marriage certificate was of very first-rate importance indeed, for it set forth unmistakably that the other party referred to was alive at the time of his mother’s marriage with his father – alive, in fact, long subsequently thereto, if not alive at the present day. It was further obvious that any information to be sought for on the subject must be sought in South Africa. Could this be established it followed that Develin Hunt’s marriage with his mother was invalid and that of his father was valid.

South Africa! Haldane might help him here; he had spent years of his life in those parts. And yet, he remembered, to Haldane’s mind Develin Hunt’s name had conveyed no idea other than as subject-matter for a joke, even as it had done to his own. Well, this need mean nothing, unless it were that, like many adventurers, this man had not always gone under his own name.

Again and again he read through the paper, and with each perusal the piecing together of the puzzle became easier. And as it did so came another thought. Would it not be far easier and quicker to get into communication with the adventurer himself, and, at the possible price of some further blackmail, obtain from him at first hand the solution of the whole difficulty? It was wrong and immoral, no doubt, to compound so grave and dangerous an offence as blackmailing, but the awful anguish of mind he had gone through seemed to justify anything – anything in the abstract, such as this was, and not hurtful to any individual – to ensure relief. Even so, a weight seemed to have been lifted from him – the whole weight, in fact – and, with the consciousness, other words spoken by the old Squire came back to him: “There is no telling what Time may work, so give Time his chance.” Prophetic they sounded now, words of gold-mouthed wisdom. He had given Time his chance, and Time had worked accordingly; and lo, from the bowels of this spectral relic of a ship floating for years on the slimy surface of the tropical seas, Time had yielded up this its secret.

And then he was brought back to everyday realities by two sounds – the ringing of the luncheon bell and the voice of his son outside.

Chapter Thirty Nine.

Time’s Consummation

“Well, Gerard, old chap? Been keeping your nose hard to the grindstone?” said Wagram as they sat down at table.

“Rather. Old Churton takes care of that,” laughed the tall, handsome lad. “He must have been a terror at Rugby.”

Wagram had taken his son from school for a quarter on his return. He yearned to have the boy with him after his long separation, and his restoration to life, as it were; but he sent him to read every morning with a neighbouring Anglican rector, an ex-public school master.

“Glad to hear it. Churton’s a conscientious man and an energetic one. It must be almost the renewal of his youth to start as bear leader again.”

“Don’t know about ‘leader’ – ‘driver’ would be nearer the right word, pater. I say, what are you doing this afternoon?”

“Going over to Haldane’s. Want to come?”

“Rather. Bike, I suppose?”

Wagram nodded. “In an hour after lunch, then,” he said.

Gerard found his father somewhat absent as they spun along between the newly-sprouting hedges in the spring sunlight, and wondered. The fact was that Wagram had made up his mind to take Haldane into confidence, at any rate partially, and was thinking over how much he should tell him as yet. To this end he had brought with him the tin case.

“Hallo, Gerard,” he cried, waking from his abstraction as they neared their objective. “By George! I’m a dullish companion for a young ’un on a bike ride – eh, old chap?”

“That’s all right, pater. Look. There’s Yvonne under the elm; and, great Scott! what the mischief has she been doing to herself? Oh, I say!”

The girl had started forward to meet them, and lo! her mantle of rippling gold no longer draped her shoulders: it formed a shining crown instead.

“You needn’t stare like that, Gerard,” she began. “It’s beastly rude, you know. Never saw anyone with their hair up before?” this with dignity. “No; but, Mr Wagram, isn’t it detestable? Will have to do the grown-up now, I suppose.”

“We must all grow up one day, Sunbeam,” was the answer. “Even I am not exempt from the process; and as for Gerard here, why he’s gone through it long ago.”

“That you, Wagram?” And Haldane came forward with a newspaper in one hand and a half-smoked pipe in the other. “Come along and find a cool seat, and I should think something else cool would go down after your spin – something long and sparkling and with a musical tinkle of ice in it, for choice. Oh, the child,” following their glances. “Yes. She’s just been trying an experiment. I tell her she’s canonised now with this bright and shining halo round her head. Think it improves her?”

“I don’t know that it does,” struck in Gerard frankly. “Ah-ah! I see. She’s hoisted it all up so that Reggie and I can’t tweak it any more.”

“Quite likely,” retorted Yvonne. “If you did now it’d be a case of ‘great cry and little wool,’ as Henry the Eighth said when he got hold of the wrong pig by the ear.”

“When he did what?” said Wagram, mystified. “History does not spare the memory of that bloody-minded monarch, Sunbeam, but it is absolutely silent on the deed you have just named – at least so far as my reading of it goes.”

Gerard threw back his head and roared. Haldane was absolutely speechless.

“Well, what is it, then? What ought I to have said? Gerard, d’you hear? I don’t believe you know yourself.”

“Oh, Lord! I shall die in a moment. ‘As Henry the Eighth said’!” he gasped. “What you were feeling after is ‘as the devil said when he tried to shear the pig.’”

“Of course! Oh, what an ass I am!” cried the girl, going off into a rippling peal.

“However, the confusion of the identity of the two particular parties is not inexcusable,” pronounced Wagram.

“You’ll be the death of us one of these days, Sunbeam,” gasped Haldane when he recovered his speech. “Hallo, Wagram, what’s the row?”

“Row? Oh, nothing,” answered Wagram in a strange voice. He had ceased to join in the general mirth. He had, in fact, picked up the paper which Haldane had let fall. It was only the Bassingham Chronicle, given over mainly to crops, and Petty Sessions and ecclesiastical presentations, and yet something in it had availed to change the expression of his countenance as well as his voice. Only a name – a name and a paragraph. Thus ran the latter:

“Motor accident – We regret to learn that Mr Develin Hunt, a gentleman who made some stay in our midst a year or two ago, and was so impressed with the natural attractions of our neighbourhood that he came to repeat it, was knocked down last evening by a motor car in front of the Golden Crown Hotel, where he is staying, and received severe internal injuries. He was carried up to his room, and Dr Foss, who was at once sent for, has advised that his relatives be at once communicated with. Those in charge of the motor car made off with all haste, and have not yet been traced.”

“Oh, ah! I meant to have told you,” said Haldane, following his glance. “That’s the chap with the rum name we were all exercising our wit on, if you remember. Poor devil! I expect he’s a ‘goner.’ ‘Severe internal injuries’ always has a dashed ugly sound.”

“By the way, Haldane, I wanted to get your opinion on a matter of importance,” said Wagram. “How would it do now?”

“Right. Come inside.”

“This is it,” when they were alone: “I want you to go over to Bassingham with me while I interview this very Develin Hunt. You’ve no idea what a lot depends upon it – for me. And it may be necessary for him to swear a statement.”

Haldane was too old a campaigner to evince astonishment at any mere coincidence, so he only answered:

“All right. I’ll tell them to inspan the dogcart. That’ll get us there in no time.”

There was something of an outcry on the part of their juniors at this sudden move.

“We’ll be back again before you have time to turn round, Sunbeam,” said Haldane. “Keep that fellow Gerard out of mischief – take him to try for a trout, or something. So long!”

Haldane liked things done smartly, and generally had them so done, consequently the dogcart was already at the door. On the road, for they had purposely not taken a groom, Wagram told him of the finding of the tin case on board the Red Derelict, and how its contents bore largely on his own affairs and on those of the man they were about to visit. “You can’t call to mind this man’s name or identity in the course of your former South African wanderings?” he concluded.

“No; I’ll be hanged if I can. You see, the name was bound to have stuck, unless – ”

“Unless what?”

“Unless he ran under some other name. That’s not such an uncommon thing in some parts of the round world.”

“Ah! Well, it’s possible he did. That’s just the thought that struck me.”

“If you can contrive me a glimpse of the joker I’ll soon let you know for cert. I never forget a face.”

“That might be done. We might go into the room together – then, if he’s the wrong man, you could apologise and clear.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do,” said Haldane the decisive.

The fast-trotting nag pulled up at the “Golden Crown” just within the hour of their start.

“Good-day, Smith,” said Wagram as the landlord appeared. “How is your guest – the one who got bowled over by a motor?”

“Well, Mr Wagram, I couldn’t say exactly. But,” lowering his voice, “the doctor says he’ll hardly last till night.”

“Poor fellow. I came to see if I could do anything for him. He called on us about some business, you know, when he was here before.”

“He’ll be glad to see you, I know, Mr Wagram. I’ve just been sitting with him a bit, and he was talking a lot about you – asking if you were at home, and all that. Come upstairs.”

He led the way, and they ascended to the first landing, Haldane bringing up the rear. A tap at the door, then the landlord opened it.

“Here’s Mr Wagram come to see you, Mr Hunt,” he announced.

The room was somewhat darkened, but not much. Wagram made out a form half propped up in bed. The red-brown face of the adventurer was of a sallow paleness. He heard the door softly close behind him.

“It’s good of you to come and see me, Wagram,” he began. “Hallo! Who’s with you?”

“Why, it’s Jack – Jack Faro. How are you, Jack, old man?”

The interruption proceeded from Haldane. The man on the bed started and stared, then he recovered himself.

“That’s Haldane, for a tenner,” he pronounced. “I heard you were down in these parts, Haldane, and thought of looking you up, only I heard you’d become such a tearing big swell. Thought you’d not have been over-glad to see me.”

“Oh, bosh! You ought to have known better. By the Lord! didn’t we stand them off in that ruction at Ikey Mo’s, when we’d broken the whole bally bank? Jack and I had to skip over Montsioa’s border for a time, you know, Wagram,” he parenthesised. “We’d done some shooting, you understand – but – we had to.”

“Rather, we had, and we did,” and the adventurer’s eyes lit up over the recollection.

“I say, Jack, d’you ever hear anything of the missis now?” went on Haldane in the cordial-old-comrade tone. “I must have seen her since you did, for I was passing through Kimberley only half-a-dozen years back, and she was throwing out fire and slaughter against you as hard as ever.”

Wagram, taking this in with all his ears, felt that an immense weight had lifted. Haldane had known this man’s former wife, had seen her quite lately. She was probably alive still.

“Oh, she’s got nothing to complain of,” returned the adventurer testily. “I’ve never kept her short.”

“Of course not. But, you know, women are the devil for grievances, and she was always swearing that, as your lawful wife, her place was with you.”

“I’d have murdered her long ago if it had been,” was the weary reply. “I shunted her to save her life and my neck. Women are the very devil, Haldane. I can’t think why the blazes they were ever invented.”

“Oh, you’re not alone in that opinion, old man,” laughed the other. “But, look here, when is Foss going to get you up again?”

“Never. He swears I’ll be a stiff before morning, and for once I believe him – though these quacks are the most infernal set of humbugs, as a rule. Now, Haldane, do me a favour, like a good chap, and skip downstairs for a little while. I want to hold a bit of an indaba with Wagram alone.”

“Right. So long, then.”

There was a moment or two of silence after the door had closed on Haldane. Then Hunt said:

“Well, you heard all that?”

“Yes; it is true, then?”

“Every word of it. I’m glad you heard, because it’ll save me the trouble of going over it all again.”

“Then you obtained thirty thousand pounds out of us under false pretences?”

“That’s one way of putting it, but I suppose it’s the correct one. The thing was a gamble; but, hang it, I didn’t think the money side would have bothered you over-much, Wagram. Why, as I said before, it’s only like a half-crown to you. Haldane and I have brought off bigger things than that in the old Kimberley days.”

Wagram stiffened.

“Do you mean to tell me, then, that Haldane was associated with you in blackmailing? Because, if so, you had better tell it in his presence.”

“No – no – no. Of course, I don’t mean anything of the sort. Haldane is as straight and square a chap as ever walked. This affair was off my own. I couldn’t resist it when I stumbled against Butcher Ned, and he put me up to who he was, and used to talk about his people too. Lord! how he used to hate you – you, especially. I’d have been sorry for you if he’d ever got the chance of squinting at you for a moment from behind the sighting of a rifle or pistol. By the way, you never found him, did you?”

“No. But before we talk further will you make a statement as to this first marriage of yours? Haldane is a magistrate, and you might make it before him.”

“I would willingly, but it isn’t in the least necessary. The whole thing is entirely between ourselves so far, and you can easily verify the facts.”

“I have verified them already. Do you know this?” And he held up the tin case.

“Oh, good Lord! Yes; I ought to. And you have opened it and gone into the contents? Well, then, Wagram, it isn’t like you making an unnecessary fuss. You’ve got all you want in there already.”

“Meaning the certificate. Here it is.”

“That’s right. You can burn the other things. And now, where on earth did you pick up that box?”

Wagram told him, also hurriedly, about his intervening adventures. The dying man’s face underwent some curious changes – not the least curious being that which passed over it on beholding the skeleton pistol.

“Rum thing that you should have stumbled on to that hooker not once but twice,” he said. “But, good Lord! life for me has been made up of even rummier things than that, and now I’ve got to the end of it. Yes; I know that pistol. That bright half-brother of yours plugged a hole into me with it that’ll last till my dying day – which, by the way, has come. And I? – well, I planted a mark on him that’ll last till his.”

He checked himself suddenly, with a queer look.

“What was the story of the Red Derelict?” said Wagram, after a pause.

“Better leave that alone – except that it was a story of red murder and piracy such as you’d think only existed in books. And now, Wagram,” he went on, “I’ve been yarning a lot more than any man in my state ought to yarn, and I’m feeling tired. You’d never guess what brought me down here this time. It wasn’t to fleece you again – no, no. Fact is, I heard you were back, and I was curious to see you again and hear how you had got on. And I have. You shook hands with me once; I’d be glad if you’d do it again.”

But Wagram’s hand did not come forward, nor did he move.

“That was when I thought your story a true one,” he said. “On your own showing you have heaped dishonour upon my family, and I can testify that you hastened my father’s end. It is not in human nature to forgive that – at any rate, all at once.”

“Later than ‘all at once’ will be too late, and by refusing your forgiveness to a dying man you will be denying your own creed.”

He smiled as he watched the struggle going on within the other. Then Wagram slowly put forth his hand.

“For any injury to me I forgive you freely,” he said. “For the rest I will try to. Good-bye.”

“And you will succeed. Good-bye, Wagram. You will never regret this. And ask Haldane to come up for a minute. I should like to bid him good-bye for the sake of old times.”

Wagram bent his head and left the room, and at a word from him Haldane went up.

“This is a bad lookout, Jack,” he began in his downright way. “No chance, I suppose, old chap?”

“No; none.”

“You wouldn’t like, I suppose – er – to see a parson – er – or anyone in that line?”

“No – no. I’ve no use for any parson. The last sight of a man like Wagram’s a sight better than any parson. Has he told you about his adventures and the Red Derelict, eh?”

“Yes; and they sounded so jolly tall that, if anybody but Wagram had told me, I shouldn’t have believed half of them.”

“But they’re true, all the same. I could take you to the very place. And the white man who put him through all that lively time was no other than the chump he was looking for – his half-brother, Butcher Ned, as we used to call him – otherwise Everard Wagram.”

“Good Lord!”

“Fact. But I wasn’t going to tell him that, neither must you – d’you hear? – neither must you. Because if you do nothing’ll prevent him from starting right away to put himself in the power of that infernal cut-throat again – under the pretence of trying to reclaim him. Reclaim Butcher Ned!”

There was a world of expression in the dying adventurer’s weakening voice over these last words. He went on:

“Wagram would never have got out of that camp alive if he hadn’t got out when he did. Don’t you see, that’s why Ned wanted to make him bring his boy out there. Then he’d have done for the pair, and come and set up here at Hilversea. He would, sure as eggs. So never let on about it.”

“All right, I won’t.” And after a little more talk the old comrades bade each other good-bye.

“You know, Wagram, it’s a deuced rum world,” said Haldane as the two were driving home again. “Fancy this poor chap Develin Hunt, over whose absurd name we were roaring when that first yarn about the derelict came to hand, turning out to be my old pal Jack Faro of the early, rousing, Kimberley days! Poor chap! How he wilted over the recollection of that old crock of his. You know, it was an echo of the old camp chaff I was firing off on him – the point of which was that the said old ruin was fond of bragging that she was Jack’s real and lawful wife, whatever others might be, and brandishing what she called her ‘lines’ in the faces of all comers. Poor old Jack! He was fairly straight as men go – and yet – and yet – I don’t know – there were things whispered about him even then. Well, he’s gone now.”

Haldane never learned of the said Develin Hunt’s – otherwise Jack Faro’s – last coup, for on that Wagram was for ever silent.

That night Develin Hunt died.

Chapter Forty.

Conclusion

“Oh, how good you have been to us! No; really, when I want to find words – well, I simply can’t.”

“Then don’t try. That’s the simplest way out of the difficulty, isn’t it?” answered Wagram, with a smile.

Delia Calmour shook her head, a puzzled little frown contradicting, as it were, the soft light that was in her eyes, and a certain tender curving of the lips. Her gaze swept over the network of sunlight glinting on the sward beneath the arching oaks, then rested on the adjacent palisade enclosing the African animals, whose quaint bellow would every now and then vie with the shout of the cuckoo to break the stillness of the lustrous summer air. She thought of herself – now enabled to make more than a comfortable living by turning her musical talents to account; of Clytie, doing exceedingly well in her own line; of raffish Bob, removed from Bassingham influences and third-rate Pownall and Skreet, to be given every chance at a fair salary with a first-class legal firm in London; of the three younger ones at school again, only at far better schools than they had ever dreamed of before – and, thus thinking, she did not exaggerate in declaring that she could not find words to express her appreciation to the man beside her – to whom all this was due. And again she repeated this.

“My dear child,” he answered, “haven’t I told you before that it’s our duty to help each other in this world as far as lies in our power? At any rate you seemed to bear in mind that principle when you literally forced the skipper of the Runic to put back because you had glimpsed some unknown poor devil left on board the derelict. Eh?”

“That’s different – quite different.”

Again she felt strangely tongue-tied. The past couple of years flashed through her mind, and how they had seemed to her to contain but one consideration, but one all-engrossing thought – the man now at her side. How their lives seemed bound up together from their first sudden and semi-tragical meeting! Even upon the vast wilderness of the wide deep they had been thrown together once more. And now here they were together again at dear old Hilversea – on the very spot, hallowed, as it were, within her mind, by the associations of those earlier days.

The time intervening, and the experiences it comprised, had rather enhanced than detracted from her beauty; indeed, it was not the fault of more than one pecuniarily eligible and physically attractive unit of the other sex that she was still Delia Calmour, eke of more than one of whom neither of these qualifications held good. And now here she was at Hilversea again.