RUPERT FALLS IN LOVE
The next morning Rupert attended at the War Office, and actually was
introduced by Lord Southwick to the Secretary of State. His conversation
with the great man was not long—three minutes must have covered it.
Still, even a person of Rupert’s rather unusual modesty could scarcely
fail to understand from its tone that he was looked on with favour in
high places. The Right Honourable gentleman went so far indeed as to
congratulate him upon his past services, of which he had evidently been
informed, and to hint that his future might be brilliant. He asked him
for how long he was on leave, and when he was told six months, smiled
and remarked that it was a long time for so active a soldier to remain
idle, adding:
“Now, if we wanted to send you anywhere before it expires, would you be
willing to go?”
“Certainly, sir,” replied Rupert, with enthusiasm, for already he seemed
to have had almost enough of London, and for the moment forgot about his
mother, forgot also that return to duty would mean separation from
Edith, whose society he had begun to find so agreeable.
“Very well, Colonel Ullershaw,” answered the Secretary of State.
“Remember about it, Southwick, will you? All sorts of things keep
cropping up out there in Egypt and the Soudan, and Colonel Ullershaw
might be the man to deal with some of them,” and he held out his hand to
show that the interview was over.
“You have made an excellent impression, I am sure,” said Lord Southwick
to him in the outer room. “Only let me give you a tip. Our chief is
rather arbitrary in his ways, and expects to find the promptness upon
which he prides himself reflected in others. If he should wish to employ
you, as is quite likely, don’t hesitate or ask for time to consider, but
fall in with his views at once. It will be better for you afterwards, as
if you don’t, you probably will not be asked again.”
Rupert thanked him for the hint and departed, reflecting that he was
scarcely likely to hear more of the matter, especially as there were
plenty of officers in Egypt capable of carrying out any mission or
special service for which occasion might arise. He forgot that he was
already considered successful; that he was, moreover, and probably would
remain the heir to a very wealthy peerage; in short, a person such as
those in authority like to employ, since unto him that hath shall be
given.
Soon Rupert discovered that this attitude towards himself was very
general; indeed, in a small way, he became something of a lion. In
addition to his other advantages, Lord Southwick’s Victoria Cross story,
of which he was known to be the hero, had got about, with various
embellishments, and excited curiosity, especially among women. When town
filled again, he was asked to public dinners, where, as Dick had
prophesied, he was obliged to wear his orders. The first two or three he
rather enjoyed, but at length there came one when, to his horror, in the
unexpected absence of some distinguished general, suddenly he found
himself obliged to return thanks for the army. In fact, he got through
it pretty well, as was testified by the cheers of a not too critical
audience, but convinced that his failure had been complete, he went home
in great trouble.
“What is the matter?” asked his mother, noting his gloomy face as he
stalked into the little drawing-room which he seemed to fill with his
uniform and decorations; and Edith added: “Why are you home so early?”
“I came away before the end,” he said solemnly; “they forced me to
speak, and I made a fool of myself.”
Knowing Rupert, they did not take this statement too seriously, though
Edith was somewhat relieved when, from the reports in the newspapers
next morning, and from private inquiry, she satisfied herself that he
had really done rather well.
However this might be, Rupert would go no more to public dinners,
dreading lest again he should hear that awful and inaccurate eulogium of
himself, and be once more requested to get up and give his views upon
nothing in particular. However, plenty of private entertainments
remained, and to these Edith saw that he did go, although it is true she
did not particularly enjoy exposing him to the fascinations of various
unengaged young ladies. But her cousin Devene’s strict injunction
notwithstanding, Edith had as yet by no means made up her mind to marry
Rupert herself. She was thinking the matter over, very closely, that is
all, and meanwhile had fully determined that he should marry no one
else. So she was jealous of him, not for affection’s sake, but for fear
lest she should be forestalled.
Of affection, indeed, she had none for Rupert; if anything, she shrank
from him personally—this big, rugged man—and his inner self she could
not understand at all. He would converse with her on Egyptology and the
art of war, and other subjects that bored her to death, not excluding
religion at times. He would be earnest and take solemn views of things,
conscientious also to an extent that was absolutely painful, even going
so far as to reprove her for trifling society fibs. They had nothing in
common—their two natures were as dissimilar as is the babbling stream
from the black and iron rock over which it runs. Edith lived in the day
for the day, to catch the sunlight, to flee from the shadow. Rupert
remembered always that the day would soon be done, and that then must be
rendered the account thereof; that the watchword of life should be Duty
and Self-effacement for the common good, the greatest gain of man.
At present, it is true, Edith had the art to hide these abysmal
differences from his somewhat innocent eyes, although he did now and
again wonder if she were not a little shallow. She listened to his
discourses on the Pharaohs; she suffered him to draw her plans of
battles which she was apt to look at upside down; she even took an
apparent interest in his rather alarming views of human
responsibilities, and his belief in redemption that must be earned by
sacrifice. But oh! it was pain and grief to Edith, and though she was
far too clever to show it in his presence, or even in that of his
mother, when he had gone she would rise and dance about the room in joy
at her deliverance; yes, and allow Dick to seek her out and even endure
his tiresome jealousy for the mere pleasure of that congenial
fellowship. But she never allowed him any more, being too wise to
compromise herself in such a fashion.
“Oh!” Edith reflected to herself again and again, “if these things were
done in the green tree, what would be done in the dry?” If Rupert was so
insufferable even as an admirer, what would he be like when he had
assumed what she felt sure he would call the “duties and
responsibilities of matrimony,” in which she would be expected to take a
daily and an ample part?
Meanwhile, her business was to make him fond of her—to persuade him that
she was absolutely charming and necessary to his existence. Nor did
Edith fail at the task. Gradually Rupert grew to adore her, till at
length, like a sudden light, there arose in his mind an appreciation of
the stupendous fact that, all unworthy as he was of such perfections, he
might dare to cherish the ambition of making her his wife.
After all, Rupert was very human, and one who had long acknowledged the
fact that though it may be salutary for his soul’s health, it is not
good for man to live alone. With that one unfortunate exception in his
early youth, he had fled from women, not because he did not like them,
who was no misogynist, but because he deemed it right. But now, when he
came to think of it, why should he not marry like other men, and be
happy in his wife’s love, and leave children—he who loved
children—behind him, like other men? It was a great idea, and with Edith
at his side, it grew upon him fast, unaware, as he remained, that the
suggestion was one which emanated from the said Edith—not in words, but
in a thousand acts and glances. He began to pay solemn court to her; he
was dreadfully respectful and considerate; he blushed if any word with a
double meaning were uttered in her presence, and when other men looked
at her with admiration—and many did—he felt furious.
He gave her gifts also. The first of them was a huge blue scarabæus, set
in gold, which, he informed her, he had himself removed from the breast
of a body, where it had rested for three thousand years. Edith loathed
that scarabæus, both for its associations and because it did not match
any of her dresses; also because it assured her that the day of decision
was drawing nigh: Yet she was obliged to wear it sometimes, until she
managed to let it fall upon the pavement, where it was broken to bits,
which bits she showed to Rupert, as it appeared to him, almost with
tears. He consoled her, though his heart was wrung, for the thing was
really good, and next week in triumph produced another and a larger one!
Such were the humours of the situation; its tragedies, very real ones,
were to come!
It happened thus: Lord Devene, both for change of air and because he
hated Christmas and everything to do with it, departed, as was his
custom at that time of year, to spend a month at Naples. Thereon Lady
Devene, as was her custom, migrated to Devene, the family place in
Sussex. Now although the estates here were not so very large, for most
of the Devene real property consisted of an acre or two of houses in
Shoreditch, a colliery, and the ancestral brewery, the house was
magnificent and extensive. To be there alone oppressed even Lady
Devene’s phlegmatic temperament, so she asked various people who were
more or less congenial to share her solitude. More especially did she
insist that Rupert and his mother should come, for she liked them both,
particularly Rupert. This involved the asking of Edith, whom she did not
like, while Dick Learmer would be present as a matter of course in his
capacity of secretary and factotum.
Rupert did not want to accept, although the shooting was excellent and
he was fond of shooting. Even when Edith said that she should go
anyhow—for in secret she longed for the relief of a little of Dick’s
society, in love as he was—he still hesitated. Then she remarked that it
would be scarcely kind of him to deprive his mother of her only outing,
since, if he stayed in London, she would stay also. So in the end Rupert
yielded, for circumstances were too much for him. Yet he hated being
obliged to accept this hospitality. Lord Devene might be absent, it was
true, but the saturnine if friendly butler, and many painful memories,
remained. Once before, when he was nineteen, Rupert had spent a
Christmas at Devene!
It was New Year’s Eve. That day, which was fine and frosty, was devoted
to the shooting of the home coverts, where, as they lay extremely well
upon the ridges of hills with little valleys between and not a pheasant
had as yet been so much as fired at in them, the sport was very fine.
Some of the ladies who were staying in the house, and amongst them
Edith, came out after luncheon to see the shooting of the last beat,
which was the great stand of the day, for it took over an hour to do,
and if the guns were good, generally between three and four hundred
pheasants were killed there. Here the woods ran down to a point, beyond
which lay a valley. The guns were posted close together on the further
side of this valley in a gorge that led to a covert called the
Wilderness, since, had they stood at the bottom, the pheasants would
have passed over practically out of shot. As it was, they all sped on
down the gorge, heading for the Wilderness a quarter of a mile away, and
still travelling at a great height. Indeed, it was a good shot who
brought down one in three of these pheasants at this time of year when
they flew so boldly.
Rupert’s place was at the centre of the gorge where the birds came
highest, and a little above him, about five-and-twenty yards to his
right, stood Dick Learmer, who, of course, arranged the shoot, and who
was what in sporting parlance is called an “artist” at driven birds,
though not so good when they had to be walked up, as he was easily tired
and put off his form. He had placed Rupert in this very difficult spot,
which was in full view of all the line of guns and one generally
reserved for some great performer, because he was sure that, being
totally unaccustomed to that kind of sport, he would make an exhibition
of himself, especially as he had only one gun which must soon get very
hot.
As it chanced, however, the young man who carried Rupert’s cartridges,
knowing this, lent him a thick dogskin glove for his left hand and
ventured to give him a little good advice, namely, to stick to cocks,
which were more easily seen, and of these only to fire at such birds as
were coming straight over him. Rupert thanked him and chatted with
Edith, who was his companion, until the sport began, remarking that it
was very kind of Dick to have given him such a good place, which should
have been occupied by a better man.
Presently the pheasants began to fly, and in that still air, cold with
coming frost, went straight as arrows for their refuge in the
Wilderness. The first cock came over at an enormous height.
“Fire ten yards ahead of it, sir,” said the wise young man “and chuck
back.”
Rupert obeyed, and as his cartridges chanced to be loaded with No. 4
shot, brought down the bird, which fell stone-dead far behind him.
“Bravo!” said the gun on his left, “that was a good shot,” and indeed
its unexpected success put Rupert into excellent spirits and made him
think that the thing was not so difficult after all.
Therefore, in the issue he did not find it difficult, for always
remembering the instructions of his mentor to fire ten yards ahead, and
never lifting his gun save at those cocks that came straight over him,
letting all hens and wide birds go by, his success, with the help of the
No. 4, was remarkable. Indeed, he brought down nearly as many birds with
his one gun as most of the other sportsmen did with two, greatly to the
delight of Edith, who from the beginning had fathomed Dick’s kind
intentions.
But Dick was not delighted, for this petty success of his rival
irritated him. Therefore, as the long drive went on, meanly enough he
set himself to disconcert him in a very unsportsmanlike manner. Noticing
that Rupert was firing at those cocks that passed right over his head,
neglecting his own birds whereof there were a plenty, Dick devoted
himself to Rupert’s, killing a number of them with long cross shots
before Rupert could get off his gun.
Rupert said nothing, for there was nothing to say, though he could not
help feeling a little annoyed, till at last he did speak—to Edith,
asking why Dick did not confine himself to his own pheasants.
“Oh!” she answered, shrugging her shoulders, “because he’s jealous even
about his wretched shooting.”
Then an accident happened, for one of the cocks, shot far forward by
Dick in this unlawful fashion, in falling, struck Edith on the shoulder
and knocked her straight backwards to the ground, where she lay quite
still for a few moments, then sat up crying with the pain and gasping:
“Oh, it has hurt me so!”
Now Rupert’s wrath broke out, and he shouted to Dick, who pretended not
to have seen what had happened:
“Stop shooting and come here.”
So Dick came.
“Look at the end of your infernal, unsportsmanlike tricks,” said Rupert,
his eyes blazing with anger. “You might have killed her.”
“I am dreadfully sorry,” answered Dick (and he was), “but really I don’t
see how I am responsible for the accident. It must have been your bird
that struck her.”
“It was not my bird, and you know it. Loader, who shot that pheasant?”
“Mr. Learmer, sir. It was coming over you very high, but Mr. Learmer
fired before you could, and killed it.”
Just then Edith staggered to her feet, looking very white.
“Go back to your stand, Dick,” she said, “Rupert will help me home. Give
me your arm, Rupert.”
So very gently, half-supporting her as he had done many a wounded man,
Rupert led her to the house, which was not far away, in his grief and
confusion speaking tender words to her as they went, even to the length
of calling her “dear” and “dearest.” Edith did not answer him, who had a
good excuse for keeping silent, although in reality she was much more
frightened than hurt. But on the other hand, neither did she attempt to
escape from the arm that was placed about her waist to bear her weight.
When she had reached her room, taken off her things and rubbed some
liniment on the bruise—for she refused to allow the doctor to be sent
for—Edith sat down in a chair before the fire and began to think. The
crisis was at hand, that bird from the skies had precipitated it. After
those words of Rupert’s, things could not stay where they were. He must
propose to her. But the question was—should she accept him? She had been
debating the point with herself that very morning, and practically had
answered it in the negative. Notwithstanding Lord Devene’s injunctions
and the money which depended upon her obedience, so consumedly had
Rupert bored her of late, so greatly did she dislike the idea of him as
a lover and a husband, so infinite was the distance between them
although his passion blinded him to the fact, that she had made up her
mind to take the risks and have done with it all, to tell him that she
had always looked upon him “as a friend and cousin,” no more. Of course,
under the circumstances, this would have been the kindest course towards
Rupert, but that was a matter with which Edith never troubled her head.
She looked at the question from the point of view of her own comfort and
advantage and no other.
Well, this was her conclusion of the morning. The problem was—did it
still hold good at the fall of night? She thought not. After all, Edith
had the instincts of a lady, and this incident of the shooting,
especially that of his pretending that it was not he who had shot the
bird, revealed to her very clearly that in addition to his worthlessness
and vices, Dick lacked those of a gentleman. That he was a coward also,
who feigned ignorance of her hurt because he feared Rupert’s anger,
although she knew well that he must have been longing to run to her,
whose one redeeming virtue in her eyes was that he worshipped the ground
she walked on. Now Rupert was a gentleman to his finger-tips, strong,
tender, and true, and with him she would be safe all her life. More, her
anxieties would be at an end; probably she would become a peeress, the
mistress of great rank and fortune, both of which she desired intensely;
at the worst, she would be provided for, and the wife of a distinguished
man who loved her, and who therefore would put up with much.
Yet Edith hesitated, for all these good things must be bought at the
price of Rupert’s constant company for years and years until one of them
deceased. She was very unhappy and—her shoulder hurt. She wished that
something would come to decide her doubts, to take the responsibility
out of her hands. Under the circumstances, many girls might have fallen
back upon petitions for light and guidance to the Power that they
believed to direct their destinies; but this was not Edith’s way. Lord
Devene’s teaching had sunk deep into her heart, and she lacked faith in
anything save the great blind, terrible, tumultuous world, whereon, born
as she thought, of the will of the flesh alone, she flittered from
darkness into darkness.
The maid brought up her tea, and on the tray was a letter which had come
by the second post. It proved to be from Lord Devene, and began by
giving her a sarcastic and amusing account of the humours of a Naples
hotel. Its ending showed, however, that this was not the object of the
epistle. It ran:
I hear that you are all at Devene, including the Family Hero, who, I
hope, has had his hair cut and bought himself a new hat. The party must
be amusing. Write and tell me how many of them come down to morning
prayers. Write and tell me your news also, my dear Edith, which I await
with anxiety. It is time that matter was settled, for if it is left too
long, R. may be sent spinning to the other end of the world, and be no
more heard of for years. I will not recapitulate my arguments. I, who
have your true interests at heart, wish it for good reasons, and that is
enough. Trust yourself to me in this matter, Edith; I take the
responsibility, who know more and see further than you do. Do not let
any foolish whims, any girlish weakness, stand between you and your
future. I have said; I beg of you to listen and obey.—
Your affectionate,
DEVENE.
Edith laid down the letter with a sigh of relief. The decision had been
made for her and she was glad. She would marry Rupert. It was certain
now that if they both lived she would marry Rupert as her cousin George
commanded her to do—for it was a command, no less. Yes; she was glad,
as, notwithstanding her hurts, she dressed herself for conquest,
determining to do the thing at once, and have that engagement scene a
bad memory behind her.
But if there is any vision, any knowledge among those who dwell beyond,
certain guardian angels upon this fateful night must have made up their
books sad-eyed and sore-hearted.