Читать книгу Denis Dent - Ernest W. Hornung - Страница 8

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The following were the facts, as Denis grasped them by degrees.

Not many minutes had elapsed between the mishap to the port life-boat and the resolution of the North Foreland into so much wood and iron at the bottom of the sea, with a single top-gallant mast standing out to mark the place. But during those few minutes the minor disaster had caused another.

The loss of the first boat augured ill for the rest; and, indeed, only the chief officer’s lived to salute the sun; but before it was launched, Miss Merridew had been swept overboard through the little faith of her own friends, who had lashed her life-belt to a fallen spar, only to give a gratuitous handle to the next great wave.

It was Captain Coles whose last remembered act had been to prevent one or both gentlemen from diving after her to their death—some said with his revolver at their heads; and, as if because neither seemed to care any longer for his life, these were the two male passengers to be saved. They were dragged into the mate’s boat. The boat was successfully launched by a mixture of good management and better luck. But it was entirely to the mate’s credit that she immediately stood out to sea, and so continued until picked up by a coasting vessel, which landed the party in Melbourne before night. The post-haste journey to the landward scene of the wreck, all that night and nearly all next day (it was a matter of a hundred miles up and across country), was only such as any father would have undertaken in the circumstances, and most men in Ralph Devenish’s position would have taken with him.

But Captain Devenish did not accompany Mr. Merridew to the little outbuilding in which Denis lay; nor did Jim Doherty, or his master, remain even so long as to see the older man take the bandaged hands, tenderly, tremulously, in both of his.

The interview which followed was an affecting one; but Denis had done too much, too recently, to take a very emotional view of his exploits. In his heart he took little credit for them. It was not he who had saved Nan Merridew’s life, but a merciful God who had merely used him as His tool; and while, perhaps, more thankful than he now knew for that supreme preferment, the prostrate man was almost morbidly alive to its disadvantages. Thus, when Mr. Merridew led the conversation back almost to the point at which their last had been interrupted, it was Denis who created the awkward silence. He was touched by the uncontrolled revelation of a hard man’s soft side, by the contrast between the exceedingly deliberate and rather irritating voice that he remembered on the poop, and the voice that still broke with very tenderness. But his own voice was so much the more dispassionate, and apparently perverse.

“I unsay every word,” said Mr. Merridew, for the second time, and more pointedly than ever; for, even in his really generous emotion, he could not help feeling that it was unsaying a great deal.

Denis nodded from his pillow, but only to signify that he heard. “You are very kind,” he answered at length, with no ironic intent; “too kind, I almost think. You might live to regret it.”

“No, no; never, never! Now I know what you are.”

“I am a junior officer in the merchant service—with a captain’s certificate.”

Mr. Merridew was genuinely pained. “Dent,” said he, “I take back my words twice over, and still you throw them in my teeth! Surely you must see that everything is altered now?”

“But it might have happened to anybody else,” urged Denis, with gentle tenacity. “You should look at it in that way, Mr. Merridew. Suppose it had been one of the stewards; for all you knew, or seemed prepared to believe, I was no more eligible than they, the night before last. I have been infinitely lucky—no, blessed, blessed!—but that’s all. It doesn’t give me ten thousand pounds to put to hers.”

Mr. Merridew jumped up from the bedside. It was partly with temper that he was trembling now.

“Have you changed your mind already, Mr. Dent, or is all this so much affectation on your part? Did you mean what you said to me that night before we struck or did you not?”

“Every word of it,” answered Denis, in a whisper that brought the other back to his former position on the bed, only now he was peering into eyes averted from his own.

“You do love her, don’t you, Dent? I can see it—I can see it—whatever you may say!”

Denis could only nod. His weakness had come upon him very suddenly. But by an effort he was able to prevent it from rising to his eyes. And soon he was sufficient master of himself to attend to what Mr. Merridew was saying with so strange an eagerness of voice and manner.

“You must come back with us. That’s what you must do. Melbourne’s a perfect pandemonium: street upon street of tents, teeming with the very sweepings of the earth, and ship upon ship without a man on board. But there’s a fine clipper, the Memnon by name, lying ready for sea at Geelong, and we’ll all go home in her together. She’s bound to be under-officered, and I suppose you would be happier so than as a passenger; but let this voyage be your last. You said you were as good a man ashore as at sea, if my memory serves me as well as yours. Well, now I can believe you, and in you, as I shall show you—as I shall very soon show you! I have no one to follow me in the firm, Denis—that’s your name, isn’t it?—and you don’t mind my calling you by it, do you? But if you became my son, Denis ... can’t you see ... can’t you see?”

The man’s tongue had run away with him, as the unlikeliest tongues will, under strong emotional strain: so we prattle of our newly dead, magnifying the good that we belittled in their lives. But here the strain was far greater; for she who had been dead was alive again; and this, this was her saviour, for whom nothing, not even the girl herself, was now too good.

“There is one thing you have forgotten,” said Denis, without withdrawing his hand from the nervous grasp that now hurt considerably. “I had not got my answer—the other night. And how can I press her for it now? Don’t answer yourself, sir, till you have thought it over, if I may ask that much of you, alone; and then I know you will agree with me. She ought not to be allowed to give me her answer now. And I—I ought to go away without seeing her again—until I have really shown myself—” He could not finish. His weakness and his sincerity were equally apparent: deeply moved, the elder man took his leave, with but one more syllable, and that to promise Denis, from the door, not to repeat a word of their conversation to Nan.

But Denis had not said all that it was in him to say, for in the first place he had not the heart, and in the next he was not too proud of his latest resolve; but it was a resolve no less, and already it might have been the resolve of his life.

“This is not the real man,” he lay saying to himself. “The real man had his say on the poop—and the sounder man of the two. I won’t take advantage of either of them. Let me make that money. I can, and I will. Then she shall give me her answer—not before.”

And yet he had an uneasy conscience about his new resolve, plausible as it became in words; but the qualm only hardened it within him; and he lay in the twilight with set teeth and dogged jaw, quite a different Denis from the one who had leaned forward to listen to Jimmy Doherty, but every inch a Dent.

Doherty came stealing back with the face of a conspirator; his worldly wisdom did not as yet include a recognition of the difficulty of picking up broken threads, even when they are threads of gold. Denis would not promise to speak to Mr. Kitto, would hear no more, indeed, of Ballarat; all he seemed to care to know now was what Captain Devenish was doing with himself.

“Him with the whiskers?” said Jimmy. “I can’t sight that gent!”

“What do you mean?”

“Beg yer pardon, mister, but I don’t like him. He speaks to you like as if you was a blessed dingo. That sort o’ thing don’t do out here; we ain’t used to it.” And young Australia shook a sage old head.

“But what’s he doing with himself, Jimmy?”

“Oh, lookin’ at the papers an’ things, an’ yawnin’ an’ smokin’ about the place.”

“And Mr. Merridew?”

“With the young lady. She ain’t a-goin’ to show up to-night, the young lady ain’t; and you can take that as gospel—for I had it from the missus herself.”

The boy’s eyes were uncomfortably keen and penetrating. Denis got rid of him, and lay thinking until it was nearly dusk. Then they brought him his first solid meal; and presently Mrs. Kitto paid a visit to a giant so refreshed that nothing would persuade him to keep his bed without a break. He must have a breath of air: he was quite himself. So early evening brought him forth in a pair of Mr. Kitto’s slippers.

The very first person he saw was Ralph Devenish, reading by lamplight in one of the many rude verandas which faced and flanked one another under the bright Australian stars. Denis went limping up to him with outstretched hand.

“I am glad to set eyes on you, Devenish,” he said gravely.

“Really?” drawled the other, with light incredulity; but he could hardly refuse the bandaged hand.

“Ralph Devenish,” pursued Denis, chilled but undeterred, “I make no apology for the sudden familiarity, partly because we’ve both been so near our death, and partly because we’re cousins. My mother was a Devenish; you may open your eyes, but I would drop them if I came of the stock that treated her as her own people did! I never meant to tell you, for there can be no love to lose between your name and mine, but I blurted it out in a rage just before we struck. I want to say that I’m heartily ashamed of the expressions I made use of then; that I apologize for them, and take them back.”

“My good fellow,” replied Devenish, with engaging candour, “I don’t recollect one of them; the fact is, I was a little drunk. As to our relationship, that’s very interesting, I’m sure; but it’s odd how one does run up against relations, in the last places you’d expect, too. I can’t say I remember your name, though; never heard it before, to my knowledge. If there’s been anything painful between your people and mine, don’t tell me any more about it, like a good feller.”

“I won’t,” said Denis, secretly boiling over, though for no good reason that he could have given. It certainly was not because Devenish continued occupying the only chair, leaving the lame man to stand. Denis was glad to have so whole a view of him as the lamplight and the easy chair afforded. Save for the patent fact that his clothes had not been made for him, the whiskered captain looked as he had looked on board, a subtle cross between the jauntily debonair and the nobly bored. As Denis watched he produced the same meerschaum that he had smoked all the voyage, a Turk’s head beautifully coloured, with a curved amber mouthpiece, and proceeded to fill it from the same silken pouch.

“Another soul saved, you see!” said Ralph Devenish, as he tapped his Turk affectionately; it was the acme of sly callousness, even if intended so to appear. Denis turned away in disgust, but turned back for a moment in his stride.

“Are you going home with the Merridews?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” said Devenish. “Are you?”

“I don’t know,” echoed Denis. “But I think—not.”

“Really?” drawled Devenish. “Well, as a year’s leave don’t last forever, I’m not so sure.”

And as Denis saw the last of him under the lamp, he had not yet resumed the filling of the Turk’s head.