“It’s only that derelict again,” burst from young Ransome, the fourth officer, wearily. “Only that derelict—that damned 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 passenger—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 Bassingham.
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.”