TWO LETTERS
When Rupert reached his camp beyond the great temple, he asked the
sergeant of his guard whether the Sheik Ibrahim had been there with his
servants. The soldier answered that he had seen no sheik.
“He must have been watching to find me alone; lucky I had my pistol with
me,” thought Rupert to himself.
Then he ate his dinner, and afterwards sat down and wrote a report of
this and other matters to his superiors in Cairo. As he finished copying
the paper, to his surprise he heard a steamer hoot, and next minute his
orderly informed him that a boat coming up stream was making fast
opposite to the temple.
“So old Bakhita was right, after all. What long ears she must have,”
thought Rupert, as he started to board the steamer.
She proved to be a Government boat from Assouan, carrying a company of
Egyptian troops under the command of a brother-officer of his own, who
brought him despatches and private letters. Though one of the latter was
in the handwriting of his mother, from whom he was most anxious to hear,
as no letter of hers had reached him for some time, it was
characteristic of Rupert that he read the despatches first. Amongst
other things, these contained an order that he should proceed at once to
Cairo, there to advise with his chiefs on certain matters connected with
the state of affairs in the Wady-Halfa district. They informed him also
that the officer who brought them would stay to carry on his work at
Abu-Simbel.
As the boat was to start down Nile at dawn, Rupert spent most of the
night in making arrangements with his successor, and in instructing him
as to the political position. When this duty was finished, and the
company of soldiers had been disembarked and camped, his own packing
claimed attention, so that, in the end, he did not get aboard the
steamer till nearly four o’clock in the morning—that is, about an hour
before she cast off. Going at once to his cabin, Rupert opened his
mother’s envelope, to find that the letter within was written with
pencil, and in a very shaky hand. Consumed by anxiety, he began to read.
It ran as follows;—
My Dearest Son,—My last letter to you was that which I wrote to say how
thankful I was to hear that by God’s mercy you had safely passed the
great dangers of the battle of Toski, and the delight with which I saw
you so favourably spoken of in the official despatches reporting the
victory.
That was five weeks ago, and I have not written since because, dear
Rupert, I have been somewhat seriously ill and was not able to do so.
Nor would I let anyone else write lest you should be frightened. One
night, Rupert, whilst reading my Bible before going to bed, a very
strange feeling suddenly came over me, and I remember no more for two
days. When I recovered consciousness the doctor told me that I had had a
stroke, I could not quite make out of what kind, nor does it matter. He
added, not then but afterwards, that for a while my condition was
precarious, and intimated to me that although all danger had passed for
the present and I might live for years, this was without doubt a
warning. Of course I understood what he meant and asked no more.
My dearest boy, as you know, I do not fear death, especially if it
should come in so merciful a form. But on the other hand, I do not wish
to die without seeing you again. So, if it is possible, and your career
will not be greatly injured thereby, I write to ask you to come to
England as soon as you can, for, Rupert, it is now well over eleven
years since you left home, during all which time I have not seen your
face except in dreams.
I cannot write much, for my left arm is paralysed, and all that side of
my body very stiff and helpless, which makes it difficult for me to sit
up, so I am asking your cousin, Edith Bonnythorne, to tell you what news
there is. One piece, however, I must mention, since a young woman might
not like to speak of it in writing to a gentleman.
There has been another of those sad disappointments in Lord Devene’s
family, the sixth, I think, since his remarriage. This time the child, a
boy, was born at seven months. Every possible effort was made to save
his life; indeed I am told that the poor little thing was put into a
kind of incubator, the latest invention, which is said to be very
successful in such cases. But it was of no use, the child died. So,
although I know you care nothing about it, you are once more his heir,
and I think likely to remain so.
Poor Lady Devene has been to see me. She is a good sort of woman,
although very narrow in her religious views, I think she calls herself a
Calvinist (fancy _his_ marrying a Calvinist!). She grieves more over the
fact that the child was not christened than because of its sad death.
Indeed, speaking half in German and half in English, as is her way when
moved, she said right out that she believed it died because Lord Devene
would not have the ceremony performed lest it should catch a chill, and
added that she was sure no child of theirs would ever live unless her
husband abandoned his godless and free-thinking ways. Lastly, she
declared that she wished she had never married him, but supposed that it
was so ordained in punishment of her sins, the worst of which was that
being dazzled by the prospect of so brilliant a match, she had accepted
what he told her about his religious principles without satisfying
herself that he spoke the truth. I hear that there was a great quarrel
between them as to this matter of the christening, in which she seems to
have had the best of it, although he would not give way, for Tabitha
(that is her name) is very stolid and strong-willed when she likes. At
any rate, he lost his temper and became violent, saying he wished that
either she or he were dead, to which she answered that she did not take
chloral. I tell you all this because I think you ought to know. It is a
sad story, and I cannot help believing that there is something in what
poor Lady Devene says. Do try to come to see me, my dearest, dearest
Rupert.—Your ever loving mother,
MARY ULLERSHAW
Rupert was deeply moved by the contents of this letter. His mother was
the one being whom he really loved upon earth; and although of course he
always contemplated such a possibility in a vague fashion, the fact that
she might die at any moment, that she had indeed been very near to
death, absolutely overwhelmed him. He had never taken any leave
heretofore: first, because he shrank from returning to England and the
inevitable meeting with Lord Devene, and secondly, for the reason that
his career had moved forward so rapidly from point to point and from
place to place, that at no given time had it been convenient so to do
without the loss of some considerable opportunity.
Now he knew that in this matter he had been wrong and selfish, also that
it might be too late to repair his fault. Rupert determined then and
there that he would sail for home by the first steamer, even if he had
to resign his commission in the Egyptian Army in order to do so. His
mind made up on this point, he took up the second envelope directed in
clear and fastidious-looking writing to Lieutenant-Colonel Ullershaw,
C.B., D.S.O., etc., etc., Egyptian Army.
“Well, she has got it all in—just like Edith,” he thought to himself, as
his eye fell upon this somewhat elaborate superscription. Then he opened
and read the letter.
Like all that came from her—and he received several every year, since it
seemed that Edith Bonnythorne did not wish her absent relative to forget
her—it was long, well-balanced and worded, giving the idea that it had
been carefully composed and perhaps copied. It began with warm
congratulations to her dear Cousin Rupert upon his escape from harm in
the battle of Toski, of which she said she had read the accounts with
her heart in her mouth, and on the credit that he had won, which, she
added, made her even prouder of him than she had been before.
Then it told him all the details of his mother’s illness, whereof the
issue, she said, had been awaited with the greatest anxiety, since, for
a few hours, it was thought that she must die.
Next she passed on to general news, informing him that horse-racing,
gambling debts and general extravagance had involved Dick Learmer, who
was a cousin of both of them, in such difficulties that bankruptcy
proceedings had been commenced against him. In the end, however, Lord
Devene had come to the rescue and compounded with his creditors.
Moreover, he had appointed him his private secretary, with good pay—for
he earned nothing at the Bar—and as he was a capital speaker and
popular, talked of putting him up to contest, in the Liberal interest,
that division of the county in which the Devene estates were situated,
as he disliked the sitting member, a Conservative, and wished to oust
him.
“So,” added Edith, “Dick has fallen on his feet again when it seemed all
over with him. I confess that I am glad both for his own sake and
because these family scandals are very disagreeable.”
Lord Devene himself, she continued, was in a dreadful state of mind over
the death of the baby boy. Indeed she could never have believed that
anything would have moved him so much. Also, his domestic relations
appeared to be very unhappy, as he and his wife constantly quarrelled
over religious questions. What was more, on the whole she had the best
of it, since his gibes and sarcasms took not the slightest effect upon
her and she seldom lost her temper. What would be the end of it Edith
could not guess, but he was growing to look quite old and ill. The
letter ended by imploring Rupert to come home to visit his mother, whom
otherwise he might not see again, and to rest a little while after so
many years of hard work. Further, it would, she was sure, be to his
interest to make the acquaintance of the leading people in London, who
were always ready to push on a successful man with good social and
professional prospects if only they remembered that he existed.
Rupert laid this letter down by that from his mother and began to think,
for he was too tired and excited with various emotions to be able to
sleep.
He remembered the last time that he had seen Edith Bonnythorne and Dick
Learmer. It was when he was lying ill after that terrible affair many
years before. They were both of them second cousins of his own and of
each other, being, like all the rest of the family, descendants by the
male or female side of the old Ullershaw who had married a brewer’s
heiress, and accumulated the vast fortune that was now in the possession
of Lord Devene. Edith was the daughter of a certain Mr. Bonnythorne, a
High-Church clergyman, who went over to Rome, into a monastery indeed,
and died there. The wife from whom he had separated some time before he
took this step, it was said because of her friendship with her relative,
Lord Devene, of whom Mr. Bonnythorne disapproved, was a woman of
extraordinary beauty, charm, and wit, but she also had died long ago.
Dick Learmer, the next heir to the entailed Devene wealth after Rupert
himself, though the title would not descend to him under the special
remainders of the original Patent, was the son of a Chancery barrister
of Spanish extraction, whose family, the real name of which was Lerma,
had been naturalised in England for some generations. This Mr. Learmer
had died young, leaving his wife, another of the Ullershaws, and his son
Richard well provided for, but no more. After her mother’s death, Edith
Bonnythorne, who had nothing, went to live with the widowed Mrs.
Learmer, and thus it came about that she and Dick were brought up very
much together. It was said, or so Rupert had heard, that the childless
Lord Devene wished to take her into his own house, but that his first
wife, Clara, refused to receive her, which was one of the causes of the
estrangement between her and her husband.
Rupert could recall, with great distinctness, the appearance of Dick
Learmer and Edith Bonnythorne as they had stood beside his bedside all
those years ago. At that time Dick was in his twenty-second year. First
he had intended to be a doctor, but after a while gave up medicine and
began to eat his dinners for the Bar, to which profession he now
belonged. He was then a dissipated and extravagant young man, but
singularly handsome, and very popular among women. Perhaps they admired
his fine dark and rather languid eyes, shaded by long lashes, his oval
face and richly-coloured complexion, and his curling chestnut hair, all
of which he had inherited with his Spanish blood. Or his somewhat
sentimental yet passionate disposition, and the readiness of his address
may have appealed to them. At any rate, they liked him, and his cousin,
Edith Bonnythorne, then still a school-girl, was no exception to this
rule, although even at that age she knew his faults and would lecture
him upon them.
She had been a beautiful child, this Edith, with her tall figure and
light, graceful carriage, so much so that people often turned to look at
her; very regular features, delicately-arched eyebrows, a broad
forehead, upon which the rippling hair of reddish gold grew low; large
dark blue eyes, somewhat heavy-lidded; a perfectly chiselled nose and
mouth, with red lips that opened a little over the white teeth when she
smiled; small feet and hands, tapering fingers and almond-shaped nails.
Such was Edith’s appearance as Rupert remembered her.
Well, he must go home; he must see all these people, which, with the
exception of his mother, was the last thing that he wished to do. Their
lives and his, which had diverged so widely, were about to cross again,
so, continuing this line of thought, he set himself to recollect what he
had heard of them of late years. After all, it was not much, for he had
never made any inquiries.
Lord Devene’s second wife, whom he married within ten months of Clara’s
death, was, he understood, a German of good family, who had filled the
place of companion to a dowager lady of title. He had married her, so
Rupert heard, on what he called scientific principles; in short, because
German women were supposed to be models of the domestic virtues. But why
she had married Lord Devene he had no idea, unless it were because he
was Lord Devene. The results had not been quite satisfactory; indeed, as
these letters showed, marriage on scientific principles had, in this
case, proved a dismal failure.
Of course all this was much to his own temporal advantage, but the fact
gave Rupert little joy; indeed, he would have been glad without
reservation if his cousin Devene were at that moment the father of a
flourishing family of sons. He did not want to succeed to the wealth and
title, should he live to do so; he had no liking for this kind of
inherited pomp which he had done nothing to earn, or for the life that
it would involve. With the mysterious sixth sense, which most of us have
in greater or less degree, he understood, indeed he was sure, that these
honours and riches would bring him no happiness; moreover, for reasons
that the reader can guess, he detested the very name of Devene. Still
this was the present situation, and he could only hope that it might
change.
For the rest, his cousin, the handsome, pleasure-loving,
sensuous-natured, and unprincipled Dick Learmer, of whom Edith spoke in
her letter, had so far closely followed the course which he would have
predicted for him. On his mother’s death he had come into his moderate
fortune of about £1,000 a year, and dissipated it with graceful ease.
Now he was hanger-on and head bottle-washer to Lord Devene, the worst
fate, Rupert reflected, that could befall most men, and one that was in
no way improved by the prospect of becoming a dummy member of
Parliament; a puppet who must dance in whatever fashion pleased his
patron and paymaster. Rupert remembered also that some years before he
had heard talk of an engagement between Dick and their cousin Edith. If
there was ever any truth in this rumour, evidently it had come to
nothing. Probably there was some truth once, for he remembered that even
when she was still a girl Dick always appeared to be attached to Edith,
an affection which she seemed to reciprocate. Doubtless if this surmise
were correct, she had shown her good sense by putting an end to the
affair when she came to know the man’s true character.
As for Edith herself, by an arrangement, of which he did not quite
understand the details, but that seemed to be convenient to them both,
financially and otherwise, for the last five years she had been living
in his mother’s house, whither she migrated on the death of Mrs.
Learmer. Although in her letters to him his mother never wrote of her
with enthusiasm, on the other hand, she never complained of her, unless
it were a complaint to say that Edith seemed dissatisfied with her
prospects and position in life, which, she added, was not wonderful when
her great beauty and considerable talents were taken into account. How
did it happen, Rupert wondered, that a person who was said to be so
lovely, and, to judge from her photographs, with justice; so clever
also, had reached her present age without marrying? Probably it was
because she had met nobody whom she cared about, and if so, this did
credit to her heart, as the breaking off of her relations with Dick, if
they ever existed, had done to her common-sense.
Well, doubtless he would soon find out all about these matters for
himself, and—the steamer was starting. With a sigh Rupert put his
letters into his pocket and went on deck. In the east the sun rose, a
huge, golden ball, and its straight, powerful rays struck full on the
colossi seated above the door of Abu-Simbel, and penetrated in spears of
light far into the temple’s mysterious and pillared depths. As they
smiled on him when first he saw them, so those solemn, stony giants
smiled on him in farewell. He wondered whether he would ever look on
them again, these hoary monuments that had stared their adieux to so
many generations of Egyptians, Greeks, Romans, Persians, Saracens, and
Christian men. He did not know, and yet again that sixth sense told him
that he would. So did old Bakhita, for when a few minutes afterwards
they steamed past her hut, she stood upon the bank and called to him:
“Farewell, Rupert Bey! farewell for a little while—till you come once
more!”
He waved his hand and watched her tall figure until a bend of the river
hid it, then, feeling drowsy at last, Rupert went into his cabin and lay
down to sleep.