THE DINNER-PARTY
When Edith reached home it was to find that Rupert had been engaged all
the morning in unpacking his baggage. Now he had just set up the two
steles, which, it may be explained for the benefit of the uninitiated,
are sepulchral tablets whereon the old Egyptians inscribed the records
of their lives, or sometimes prayers. They were massive articles, as
Edith had discovered on the previous night, most suitable to their
original purpose in a tomb, but somewhat out of place in a very small
London drawing-room, perched respectively on a piano and the top-shelf
of a Chippendale bookcase.
“Don’t they look well, mother?” he was saying.
“Yes, dear, yes,” answered Mrs. Ullershaw doubtfully; “but perhaps a
little solid and time-worn.”
“Time-worn! I should think they are,” he answered. “One of them is about
four, and the other three thousand years old, but the more recent—no,
not that of the man and his wife seated side by side—the other, is much
the more valuable. It comes from Tel-el-Amarna, which, as of course you
know, was the city built by the heretic king, Khuen-Aten, and was put up
in the tomb of one of the royal princesses. Look at her picture on the
top, with the globe of the sun above, and from it the rays ending in
hands all stretched out in blessing over her. I’ll translate it to you,
if you like.”
At this moment there was a most ominous crack, whereon Edith, who had
entered unobserved, remarked mildly:
“If I were you, Rupert, I should put it on the floor first, for that—Ah!
I thought so!”
As she spoke, the poor top-shelf buckled and broke, and down came the
monument with a crash. Rupert sprang at it, dumb with fear, lifting it
in his strong arms as though it were a toy.
“Thank Heaven!” he ejaculated, “it isn’t injured.”
“No,” said Edith, “but the bookcase is.”
Then he set to work to find another place for it, this time, at his
mother’s suggestion, on the ground. There remained, however, the Osiris,
a really magnificent bronze, between two and three feet in height, which
could not possibly be accommodated.
“I know,” said Rupert, and shouldering the god, he marched it off
downstairs.
“Do you think, Cousin Mary,” asked Edith, as she watched him depart with
this relic of the past, “that Rupert could be persuaded to remove those
two shabby tombstones also?”
Mrs. Ullershaw shook her head.
“No. Please don’t mention it, dear. He has set his heart on having them
here, and says he has been thinking how nice they would look in this
room for years. Besides, he would only take them into the dining-room.”
“Then let them stay,” answered Edith decidedly. “I can’t eat my dinner
before those memorials of the dead. I suppose he has not brought a mummy
too.”
“It seems that he had one, dear, but was obliged to leave it behind,
because they would not have it on board the ship unless he would pay for
it at what he calls ‘corpse-rate.’”
“There is always something to be thankful for,” said Edith, as she went
to take off her hat.
When, however, she came down to luncheon, and found the great bronze
Osiris standing among the plates on the sideboard, her sense of
gratitude was lessened, but as Rupert was delighted with the effect, she
made no comment.
Whilst they were at their meal a note arrived for Rupert, whose brow
puckered at the sight of the handwriting which he remembered well
enough.
“Who is it from, dear?” asked Mrs. Ullershaw, when he had read it.
“Lord Devene,” he answered shortly. “He wants Edith and myself to dine
this evening, and says that he has got the Under-Secretary for War, Lord
Southwick, to meet me. Of course I can’t go and leave you alone the
first night I am at home. I’ll write and say so.”
“Let me see the note first, dear. Edith, you read it; I have not got my
spectacles.”
So she read:
Dear Rupert,—Welcome home, and, my dear fellow, a hundred
congratulations! You have done splendidly. I hear your praises on all
sides, and I am very proud of you. But I want to tell you all this in
person. Come and dine to-night with Edith at eight. I have just met
Southwick, the Under-Secretary for War, at the club, and he is most
anxious to have a private talk with you before you report yourself, so
he has put off something or other in order to meet you. I took the
liberty of saying that he was sure to do this, as I knew that you could
not as yet have made any engagements.—
Your affectionate cousin,
DEVENE.
“I think that you must go, dear,” said his mother.
“But I don’t wish to,” Rupert answered, with energy. “I hate
dinner-parties.”
“Dear, sooner or later you will have to, so why not now? Also Edith
would be disappointed.”
“Yes, of course,” said that young lady. “I want to meet Lord Southwick.
They say he is the greatest bore in London; quite a curiosity in his own
line.”
Then Rupert gave way, and having sent a verbal acceptance by the
footman, for the rest of the luncheon was as solemn as the bronze Osiris
on the sideboard.
To a man like Rupert that dinner-party was indeed a terrible ordeal.
Time had scarcely softened his vivid recollection of that horror of the
past, over which he still mourned day by day with the most heart-felt
remorse. With a shuddering of the soul he remembered its last dreadful
chapter, and now almost he felt as though the book of some new tragedy,
in which he must play the leading part, was about to be opened in the
fateful company of Lord Devene. Most heartily did he wish himself back
in the society of old Bakhita, or even of the Sheik of the Sweet Wells,
in the Soudan, or in any other desolate place, so long as it was far
from Mayfair. He even regretted having come home; but how could he
refuse to do so at his mother’s prayer? Well, it must be faced; escape
was impossible, so he set his teeth and prepared to go through with the
thing.
“Great Heavens, what a man!” reflected Edith to herself, glancing at his
stern countenance, as he helped her from the cab that evening. “One
might think he was going to execution, not to dinner.”
The door—how grateful Rupert felt that it was a different door—opened,
and there his gratitude faded, for behind the footman stood that
identical spare, sombre-looking man who had told him of Clara’s death.
He had not changed in the slightest, Rupert would have known him a
hundred yards off; and what was more, it seemed to him that the
obsequious smile with which the butler greeted him had a special
quality, that the sight of him suggested interesting memories to the
smiler. What if this man—bah! the very thought of it made him feel cold
down the back.
Edith vanished to take off her cloak, and he, who must wait for her, was
left alone with that black, smiling demon.
“Glad to see you back safe and sound, Colonel,” he said, as he took his
coat.
“Wish I could say the same,” grunted Rupert involuntarily.
The butler thought a little, for this cryptic sentence puzzled him; then
taking the point, as he imagined, went on:
“Ah! I daresay you feel the changes, sir—in this establishment, I mean.
Well,”—and he glanced cautiously, first behind him and then at the
powdered footmen by the door, “I am sure you won’t betray me, sir, if I
say that so do we. Her second ladyship, sir, isn’t what her first
ladyship was,” and he sighed with genuine regret, for most of the
servants had been very fond of poor Clara, who always tried to shield
them from his lordship’s anger, and was generous. “Her present ladyship,
sir, preaches and drives, and makes us read tracts, sir,” he added, with
peculiar bitterness, “whereas we loved her first ladyship”—here his
voice sank to a whisper—“almost as much as you did, sir.”
At this moment, to Rupert’s intense relief, for really his head was
swimming beneath the horror of these confidences, the double front doors
were thrown wide, and through them walked a stiff, poker-like man
wearing an eyeglass, who, he gathered, was Lord Southwick. The butler,
whose somewhat saturnine appearance in truth covered an excellent heart,
and who really was delighted to see Rupert, if for no other reason,
because his late mistress had been so fond of him, was obliged to step
forward to take Lord Southwick’s coat. At this moment, too, Edith
arrived, looking radiant in a dress of black and silver, saying:
“Now, Rupert, I am ready.”
“So am I, I am sure,” he answered.
“Well, don’t be reproachful, I have not been very long,” and she fixed
her gaze upon his head.
“Is anything wrong with my hair?” he asked, becoming aware of it.
“I don’t know until you take your hat off,” she replied gently, but
wondering how long it might be since her distinguished cousin had gone
out to dinner.
Rupert snatched off the hat and thrust it into the unwilling hands of
one of the door footmen, for it was not his business to receive hats.
Then, piloted by other footmen who met them at intervals, at length Miss
Bonnythorne and Colonel Ullershaw were announced, in stentorian tones,
at the threshold of the great drawing-room.
On the further side of the apartment two men were leaning against a
marble mantel-piece, for the night was chilly, and a small fire burned
on the hearth; while at a little distance, engaged apparently in looking
straight before her, a placid, handsome-looking woman of stout
proportions, with great coils of hair wound about her head, sat upon an
Empire sofa, her hands folded upon her plain black dress, which was
unrelieved by any jewellery.
For a moment Rupert’s recognition of the men was merely automatic, since
all his attention was taken up by the splendid mantel-piece that he
remembered well, and on which he seemed to see the ghost of Clara
leaning as she was wont to do. Yes; it was the same that had stood in
her boudoir, moved here as too valuable to be left in the old mansion.
He could not mistake those statues which supported the shelf above. A
mist gathered before his eyes, and when it cleared he saw Lord Devene
advancing on him with outstretched hand, nodding affectionately to Edith
as he came.
The same man, he thought, only several degrees greyer in tone, and not
quite so firm in his walk. Then, in the actual presence of his enemy—for
so he felt him to be, now as always—the courage of the
conscience-haunted Rupert returned to him, and he determined to play his
part to the best of his ability.
As he approached, Lord Devene was thinking to himself: “Edith summed him
up very well, as usual—a bear, but a fine, right-minded bear who has
learnt his lesson once and for all. It is written on his face.” Then he
said in the most hearty fashion that he was able to command, though no
affectation of cordiality could altogether deaden the brassy ring of
that well-remembered voice:
“Ah! here you are, punctual as a soldier should be, and very welcome, I
can tell you, my dear Rupert. I am delighted to see you back safe and
sound, and bringing your sheaves with you in the shape of all sorts of
honours,” and taking Rupert’s great, sunburnt palm in his dry hand, he
shook it, adding: “Why, what a big fellow you have become in every sense
of the word. Don’t ask me to mount you this season.”
“Thank you,” said Rupert simply, then fixing on the allusion to his
personal appearance as easiest to deal with, went on. “Afraid one is apt
to grow stout in Egypt. Can’t get enough exercise, too much sun there.
How are you?”
Then he stopped, for another voice, also well-remembered, was addressing
him, and he turned to see his cousin Dick. Undoubtedly, even at that
moment he noticed it, for by constitution and training Rupert was
observant, Dick was a very handsome man. The dark and languid eyes
looked a little tired, it was true, and the oval face had lost some of
its colour. Still, it and the graceful, shapely form remained attractive
to behold—at least, so thought many women.
“How do you do, my hero of a hundred fights?” said Dick, in the
drawling, rather sarcastic voice which had always irritated his cousin
as a boy, and still irritated him to-day.
“Very well, thank you, Dick,” answered Rupert, “but I’m not a hero, and
I have not been in a hundred fights.”
“It’s near enough,” said Dick, shaking his hand in a somewhat weary
fashion. “A man is what people choose to think of him, the exact facts
don’t matter. We have called you the family hero for years, and as our
records reveal no other, of course we make the most of you.”
“Then please stop calling me so now, there’s a good fellow, for I don’t
like it. I am only a very ordinary officer in the Egyptian army.”
“The great were ever modest,” answered the exasperating Dick. “Why—” and
he fixed his eyes upon his cousin’s rather seedy dress-coat, “I hoped
that you would come with all your orders on. Well, we’ll get you to a
public dinner where you will have to wear them.”
“Stop talking nonsense, Dick,” said Edith sharply, for she saw that
Rupert was beginning to grow angry, and feared lest his cousin’s jealous
chaff should produce some explosion. “Here are Lord Southwick and the
other people at last. Come, Rupert; I want to introduce you to Lady
Devene.”
So Rupert was introduced to her ladyship, who, awaking from her private
meditations, held out her plump hand, looked him in the face with her
fine, china-blue eyes, and said, with a German accent:
“Ah! you are the Colonel Ullershaw of whom I hear so much, the soldier
who has been fighting bravely for the English. I am very glad to see
you. I like soldiers; my father was a soldier, but the French killed him
at Gravelotte. You are very welcome.”
Rupert bowed, and as he did so felt that this lady spoke the truth, and
that her greeting was cordial and without reservation. From the
beginning he conceived a regard for this German peeress, feeling her to
be sound and honest, according to her lights. Then Lord Devene brought
up Lord Southwick and introduced him, first to his wife and next to
Rupert. After this the other guests claimed attention, and Rupert was
able to retire and employ himself in examining the pictures until dinner
was announced.
To his delight he found that Edith was given to him as a partner.
“I am glad,” he said shyly, as they went together down the broad stair.
“I never hoped for such luck.”
She looked at him innocently and asked: “What luck?”
“Why, having to take you down instead of one of those strangers.”
“I am sure it is very nice of you to say so, Rupert, and I appreciate
it,” she answered, smiling.
“Yes,” said the voice of Dick behind them, “but, old fellow, you should
pay your compliments in a whisper. Sound travels up these London
staircases,” and he and his partner, a pretty and piquante heiress,
laughed merrily.
“Take no notice of that impertinent Dick,” said Edith as they entered
the dining-room; “it is only his way.”
“I don’t like his way; I never did,” grumbled Rupert.
Nor, to tell the truth, did Edith, who knew well that Dick was furiously
jealous, and feared lest he should go too far and show it openly.
At dinner Rupert found himself seated on the left of Lady Devene, who
was at the head of the table, and opposite to Lord Southwick, who had of
course taken her down. Next to Lord Southwick was the pretty heiress,
and by her Dick, who therefore sat almost opposite to Edith. With the
rest of the company we need not concern ourselves.
The dinner went on as dinners in big houses do. After he had drunk some
champagne, Dick began to flirt ostentatiously with the pretty heiress,
who appeared to be quite equal to the occasion; his object being, as
Edith was aware, to make her jealous, or at least angry. Lady Devene, in
her German accent, conversed with Lord Southwick about cooking—a subject
in which he did not seem to take the slightest interest; while Edith
drew on Rupert to tell her of the Soudan and the military operations
there in which he had shared. This subject suited him well, and Lord
Devene, watching the pair of them from the bottom of the table, soon
understood that he was talking in a manner that compelled the respect of
her intelligence, since she listened to him intently enough.
Although Rupert did not know it, Lord Southwick began to listen also,
and having exhausted the subject of entrées, so did Lady Devene.
“What was that you said about the advantages of the Suakim-Berber route,
Colonel Ullershaw?” asked Lord Southwick, presently fixing his eyeglass
upon him.
Rupert repeated his remarks.
“Hum,” commented Lord Southwick. “Wolseley thought otherwise.”
“I did not mean to set up my opinion against that of Lord Wolseley, my
lord,” answered Rupert, “it was only a private view I was expressing to
Miss Bonnythorne.”
“And a very sound view too, in my judgment,” said the Under-Secretary,
in the precise, official manner that rarely deserted him; “indeed,
events have proved it to be so. Moreover, Colonel Ullershaw, your
opinion is undoubtedly entitled to respect. I know it; for after hearing
that I was to meet you at dinner, I looked up your record at the War
Office and read a private memorandum, which you may remember writing for
the information of your superior officers, though perhaps you were not
aware that it was forwarded home.”
Rupert coloured and muttered that he was not.
“I wish that it had been acted on,” continued Lord Southwick, “but it
wasn’t, and there’s an end. By the way—it is rather unkind to speak of
it—but did you know, Colonel Ullershaw, that you were once recommended
for the V.C.—after Tamai where you were wounded?”
Rendered absolutely speechless, Rupert shook his head.
“Well, you were; and what’s more,” he went on, with a twinkle in his
eye, “you would have got it if your name hadn’t happened to begin with a
U. You see, the persons recommended of about equal merit or interest
were put down alphabetically; and as there were only a certain number of
crosses to be given, a fellow whose name began with T got one and you
didn’t. It wasn’t my system, I may add, but as the man who was
responsible for it is dead, and many things have happened since then, I
don’t mind telling the story.”
“I am very glad,” blurted out Rupert. “I never did anything to deserve
the V.C.”
Now this noble Under-Secretary who had been an official all his life—for
he succeeded to his peerage in an accidental fashion—who looked like a
ramrod, and who was reputed to be such a bore, was yet a man with a kind
heart, an appreciation of worth and a sense of justice. Perhaps it was
these qualities, or some of them, which caused him to answer:
“Well, you know best, and if so, it shows that the alphabetical system
works better than might have been expected. But now give me your
opinion, and you too, Lady Devene, on this case. An officer posted a
picket outside a square. The square was attacked, picket cut off. Result
of the attack indecisive, enemy being in possession of the bush about
the square. Officer who posted the picket rather badly hurt by a spear
through the shoulder—”
“I beg you,” broke in Rupert; but Lord Southwick went on imperturbably:
“A wounded man crept into the square at night saying that he had
survived the massacre of the picket and got through the enemy, but that
the sergeant who was stabbed through the leg lay in a clump of bush
about six hundred yards away, and had not yet been discovered by the
Arabs, who occupied a donga in great force between the camp and the said
clump of bush. It being impracticable to send a rescue party, the
wounded officer dresses himself up in the jibba and turban of a dead
Arab, and thus disguised, gets through the donga, finds the wounded man,
and a storm coming on, contrives somehow or other to lead, or rather to
carry him back to camp, doing the last hundred yards under a heavy fire
both from the Arabs and our own sentries. Now did that officer deserve
the Victoria Cross?”
“_Ach! mein Gott,_ I should think so,” said the phlegmatic Lady Devene,
with a force quite foreign to her nature as it was commonly understood
by her surroundings. “What was the name of that brave man? I should like
to know it.”
“I forget,” answered Lord Southwick, with a stony grin. “Ask Colonel
Ullershaw. He may remember the incident.”
“Who was it, Rupert?” said Edith, and the whole long table listened for
the reply.
Then was the Recording Angel forced to add another to the list of
Rupert’s crimes, for he lied, and boldly.
“I don’t know, I am sure. Never heard of the business; but if it
happened at all, I should say that the story has been greatly
exaggerated.”
A smile and a titter went round the table, and the Under-Secretary
grinned again and changed the subject.
For fully three minutes Lady Devene was lost in deep meditation. Then
suddenly, while her husband was telling some story of grouse-shooting on
a Scotch moor, from which they had just returned, she broke in in a loud
voice, thumping her heavy hand upon the table:
“_Himmel!_ I see it now. It is Lord Southwick’s little joke. _You_ are
that man, Colonel Ullershaw.”
Whereat the company broke into a roar of laughter, and Rupert nearly
died of shame.
The feast was over at last, and Lord Devene came into the hall to bid
his guests good-bye.
“Well,” asked Edith, as he helped her with her cloak, “you have seen
him. What do you say now?”
“Excelsior!” he said. “You must climb that difficult height. You must
marry him; that is, if you can, which I very much doubt.”
“Do you indeed?” answered Edith. “Almost am I minded to try—for the sake
of argument. Good-night!”
“Didn’t I tell you he was a hero?” sneered Dick, as he led her to the
cab. “Poor Edith! I pity you, exposed to the fascinations of such a
warrior.”
“Do you indeed,” she repeated. “Well, I admit they are rather
dangerous.”
Meanwhile Lord Southwick had button-holed Rupert by the front door.
“I shall expect to see you, Ullershaw, at the War Office, where I wish
to introduce you to the Secretary of State,” he was saying. “Would
to-morrow at half-past twelve suit you?”
Rupert, understanding that he had received an order, answered:
“Certainly, my lord, I will be there.”