MARRIED
Rupert left the War Office a very thoughtful man. He had spent nearly an
hour with Lord Southwick, going into the details of his mission, of
which he now realised the danger and complexity, for it was one of those
fantastic embassies which seem easy enough to men in authority at home
who are not called upon to execute them in person. All this he did not
mind, however, for it appealed to his love of adventure; moreover, he
had good hopes of bringing the thing to a successful issue, and
understood the importance of its object, namely, to facilitate an
ultimate advance against the Khalifa, and to help to checkmate Osman
Digna, the chief who was making himself unpleasantly active in the
neighbourhood of Suakim.
But what would Edith say? And on the very day of their marriage. The
luck was hard! He drove to Grosvenor Square, but Edith was trying on her
wedding dress and would not see him. She sent down a note to say that it
would be most unlucky, adding that she had waited for him an hour and a
half, and at last was obliged to go upstairs as the dressmaker could not
stay any longer.
So he went on home, for he had to change his clothes and escort his
mother to Grosvenor Square where, somewhat against her will, she was to
dine and sleep. It was not till they were in the carriage that he found
an opportunity of telling her what had occurred.
Mrs. Ullershaw was dismayed: she was overwhelmed. Yet how could she
blame him? All she could say was—that it seemed very unfortunate, and
she supposed that instead of going to Paris, Edith would accompany him
to Egypt. Then they arrived at Grosvenor Square, and further
conversation became impossible.
They were early, and Rupert sent a message to Edith to say that he
wished to speak to her in Lady Devene’s boudoir. Presently she arrived
beautifully dressed, and began at once to reproach him for not having
called in the afternoon as he promised.
“You will forgive me when you know why,” he answered and blurted out the
whole story.
She listened in astonishment, then said:
“Am I to understand that you are going off to the Soudan to-morrow,
three hours after our marriage?”
“Yes, yes, dear. I had no choice; it was put to me as a matter of duty,
and by the Secretary of State himself. Also, if I had refused, I am sure
that it would have been remembered against me; and as you know, it is
important now that I should get on, for your sake.”
“Men are generally supposed to have duties towards their wives,” she
answered, but in a softer tone, for his remark about his career appealed
to her.
He was right. Edith considered it very important that he should get on.
Also, now that she came to think of it, this swift and sudden separation
would, after all, be no overwhelming blow to her. She seemed to have
seen plenty of Rupert lately, and was quite willing to postpone that
continual and more intimate relationship which it is the object of
marriage to establish. Had she been what is called in love, it would
doubtless be different, but Edith’s bosom glowed with no such ardours,
of which, she reflected, Rupert had enough for both of them. The obvious
conclusion was that it is quite as easy to respect, admire, and even
sympathise with a spouse in the Soudan as with one living in London.
Then as she was preparing herself to admit, as grudgingly as possible,
that this change might be for the best, however much it tore her
feelings, a new idea occurred to her. Probably Rupert expected that she
would accompany him at twenty-four hours’ notice.
“It is dreadfully sad to be separated so soon,” she said, with a little
sob. “I suppose that I could not come with you?”
Rupert’s face brightened.
“Well,” he said, “you could, but of course there are difficulties; not
much time to get ready; hot season beginning and the cholera outbreak
that is really bad in Cairo and Alexandria, at one of which I should
have to leave you.”
“I can’t pretend, Rupert dear, that heat agrees with me, or that I
should enjoy getting the cholera, which I am sure I should, for I always
catch things, but at the same time,” Edith answered, looking at him with
her sweet eyes, “I am perfectly willing to take the risk if you think I
could be the slightest comfort or help to you.”
“Comfort, yes; help, no, rather in the way,” he muttered more to himself
than to her.
For a struggle was going on in Rupert’s mind. He positively could not
bear the idea of parting with his wife almost at the church door. It was
a bitter disappointment to him, as it must be to any man who marries
from motives of affection, and the very thought of it caused his heart
to ache physically. At the same time, he knew that Edith did feel heat,
for his mother had told him this, and the cholera was so virulent that
he heard by letter from Cairo that every European there, also at Port
Said and Alexandria, especially women and children, who could afford or
contrive to get away, had done so. Could he take this utterly
unacclimatised English lady thither at such a time, just out of
selfishness, and at the beginning of the hot weather? Supposing she fell
ill! Supposing anything happened to her! He turned white at the mere
thought of such a thing, and said:
“Edith, I don’t want to disappoint you, but I think you had better not
come till the summer is over and we are clear of the cholera. Then you
can join me in Cairo, or more probably I shall be able to fetch you.”
“It must be as you wish, dear,” she answered, with a sigh, “for I can’t
set up my opinion against yours. I would offer to come out with you, at
any rate as far as Egypt, only I am afraid it would be a quite useless
expense, as I am such a miserable traveller that even the train makes me
sick, and as for the sea—! Then there would be the returning all alone,
and no arrangements made about your mother into the bargain. However,
don’t you think I might try it?”
“Yes—no, I suppose not, it seems absurd. Oh, curse the Secretary of
State and Lord Southwick, and the whole War Office down to the cellars,
with all the clans of the Shillooks thrown in. I beg your pardon, I
shouldn’t speak like that before you, but really it is enough to drive a
man mad,” and yielding for once to an access of his honest passion,
Rupert swept her up into his strong arms and kissed her again and again.
Edith did not resist, she even smiled and returned about one per cent.
of his endearments. Still this tempestuous end to that fateful
conversation did nothing to make her more anxious to reverse the
agreement at which they had arrived, rather the contrary indeed. Yet,
and the conviction smote her with a sense of shame as it came suddenly
home to her, the worst of it was, she knew that if Dick had stood in
Rupert’s place, and Dick had been unexpectedly ordered to Egypt, not the
sea, nor the heat, nor even the cholera which she feared and loathed,
would have prevented her from accompanying him.
At dinner the whole thing came out, except the details of Rupert’s
mission, which, of course, were secret, and it cannot be said that the
news added to the gaiety of the meal. Although his appetite did not seem
to be affected, Dick was most sympathetic, especially to Edith. Lord
Devene said little, but looked vexed and thought the more; Edith sat
_distraite_ and silent; Rupert was gloomy, while Mrs. Ullershaw, who
felt this upset keenly for her own sake as well as her son’s, seemed to
be nigh to tears. Only Tabitha was emphatic and vigorous, for no one
else seemed to have the heart to discuss the matter. Like Rupert she
objurgated the War Office, and especially the man, whoever he might be,
who had conceived the idea of sending him at such a time. “A schemeful
wretch”—“One without shame,” she called him, translating, as was her
custom, from the German in which she thought. Nor was the definition
inaccurate, while the vigour with which she launched it caused Dick to
hope sincerely that Lord Southwick would remember his promise to conceal
his private but important share in the transaction.
“Ach! my dear Edith,” she went on, “it is awkward for you also, for
however will you get ready to start for the East by to-morrow night?”
This was a bomb-shell, and its explosion nearly shook Edith out of her
wonted composure.
“I am not going,” she said, in a hesitating voice, “Dick does—”
“Dick! What has Dick to do with it?” exclaimed her ladyship, pouncing on
her like a heavy cat on a mouse.
“Nothing, I assure you,” broke in Dick himself, in alarm. “She meant
Rupert.”
“Ach! I am glad to hear it. It does seem to me that there is too much
Dick about Edith, even when she is getting married; yes, and
everywhere.”
“I really think that Tabitha is right; there is too much Dick,”
reflected her husband, but aloud he said nothing, only sipped his
champagne and watched the play.
Nor, although he looked daggers, did Dick say anything, for he was
afraid of Lady Devene, and respected the acumen which was hid beneath
her stout and placid exterior. Then with his usual chivalry, Rupert,
ignoring the Dick side of the business, came to the rescue and explained
that he, and he alone, was responsible for Edith’s stopping in England,
giving the reasons with which we are acquainted.
Lady Devene listened patiently as she always did to Rupert while he
blundered through his story.
When it was finished, Edith, who had found time to collect herself, said
in a somewhat offended voice:
“You see now you were unjust to me, Tabitha. I—I wished to go.”
Next moment she wished something else, namely, that she had remained
silent, for Lady Devene answered with calm conviction:
“Indeed—is it so? Then I am sorry you have not more influence with him.
It would have been better that you should go. Why did you tell him that
you were afraid of the hot sun and of the cholera sickness? He would not
have thought of it himself, who is afraid of nothing. Come, the subject
is unpleasant; let us go upstairs and talk of the wedding presents.”
So they went and not too soon, for what between doubt, anger, and a
guilty conscience, Edith was on the verge of tears.
That night after Rupert had departed Edith and Lord Devene spoke
together in the library.
“What is the meaning of all this?” he said to her. “First, tell me, who
engineered this mission of Rupert’s? Did you?”
“No, indeed,” she answered, with passion, filled for once with conscious
innocence. “How can you accuse me of such a thing?”
“I am glad to hear it,” he replied, taking no notice of her indignation.
“Then, as I thought, it was Dick. Be quiet and listen! Rupert’s
employment was suggested more than a week ago. I heard about it in the
House of Lords and put a stopper on it. I know that Dick saw Southwick
yesterday, because the latter mentioned it in a note to me, since which
time the idea has revived. You can form your own conclusions.”
“It is impossible,” broke in Edith. “He would never be so mean.”
“You have a high idea of your cousin, whom, for my part, I think capable
of anything low. Well, it does not matter, it is done and cannot be
undone. Now of course Tabitha was right. I admire her power of getting
to the heart of things. Whatever may have passed between you, it was you
who would not go to Egypt, not Rupert who would not take you. You know
well enough that you could have made him take you; you could have
refused to be left behind; but you talked about sea-sickness and heat
and cholera—he let it all out at table.”
Edith sat silent. As other women had found before her, it was useless to
argue with this remorseless man, especially when he had truth upon his
side.
“Now,” he went on, “why did you refuse to go? Oh, pray save yourself the
trouble of invention. I will tell you. As Tabitha says, because there is
still too much Dick. You do not like the man who is going to be your
husband, Edith; you shrink from him; oh, I have seen you clench your
hand and set your lips when he touched you. You are glad of this
opportunity to postpone your married life. It has even occurred to you,”
and he bent over her and looked her in the eyes, “that from such
missions as this, men often do not come back, as it has occurred to
Dick. They pass away in a blaze of glory and become immortal, like
Gordon, or they vanish silently, unnoted, and unremembered, like many
another man almost as brave and great as he.”
Edith could bear it no longer, but sprang to her feet with a cry of:
“Not that! Not that!”
“Not that, as yet, but all the rest, eh?”
“If so, am I responsible?” she answered. “Did I make my own heart, and
who forced me into this marriage?”
“Oh, please understand me, Edith. I do not in the least blame you for
disliking Rupert; indeed it is a sentiment in which you have my hearty
sympathy, for no one can dislike him more than I do, or, I may add, with
better cause. As for the rest, I suggested the marriage to you, I did
not force you into that marriage. I still suggest it for the most
excellent reasons which far over-ride petty personal likes or dislikes,
but still I do not force you. Make this mission of Rupert’s an excuse
for postponing it if you will, after which it can quietly drop out of
sight. Only then, remember, that a document which I have signed to-day
goes into the fire, or rather two documents, a settlement and a will.
Remember that Dick goes out of this house, and as a consequence, out of
the House of Commons also and into the gutter which Nature has fitted
him to adorn. And lastly, remember that henceforth you make your own way
in the world and provide for your own necessities. Now you will
understand that I force you to nothing, for where that precious organ
which they call their hearts are concerned, high-minded women—like
yourself—will not let such material trifles weigh with them.”
Edith stood still as a statue. Then drawing the rose from her bosom she
began to tear it to pieces, petal by petal. Lord Devene lit a cigarette,
and waited till the rose was stripped down to its calyx.
“Well,” he asked, “does the oracle declare itself? I daresay it is as
likely to be correct as any other,” and he glanced at the petals on the
floor and the stalk in her hand.
“Why are you so cruel to me?” Edith moaned, thereby acknowledging that
she had found her master, and letting the stalk fall. “It is not manly
to mock a defenceless woman who has many troubles.”
A shade of compunction passed across his steely face, of affection even.
“Forgive me,” he said, “I do not wish to hurt you, but we are people of
the world, and have to deal with facts, not with sentiments and fancies.
I put the facts clearly, that is all.”
“What are your facts?” went on Edith. “That I am in love with Dick
Learmer. I deny it. I am not, and never have been; but this is true,
that he does in some way attract me, one side of me, even when with my
mind I dislike and despise him. That I detest Rupert whom I am going to
marry. I deny it; but it is true that he repels me, one side of me, even
when with my mind I appreciate and honour him, who is worth all of us,
except perhaps Tabitha. As a father or a brother I should adore Rupert
Ullershaw. Now you think that I am going to marry him for the money and
the prospects, and from fear of your anger—it is not altogether so. I do
not know if you will understand me, or even if I can make myself
intelligible. But I tell you that although it would ruin me, for I know
you keep your word, I would do what you suggest and postpone this
marriage as a preliminary to breaking it off, were it not for one thing.
It is this. I feel as though that personal aversion which I have is but
accidental and temporary, that a time may and must come when it will
break down and vanish, and that then I shall love him as I desire to do,
with my heart, my body, and my soul.”
Lord Devene stared at her.
“Curious and most interesting,” he said. “No; that is not satire. I
quite believe you, and I think it very likely that what you feel in
yourself will come about—probably too late. Meanwhile, to deal with the
evil of the present day, are you going to accompany him to Egypt or will
you await the coming of this—this psychological change of the inner
woman?”
Edith evidently had no spirit left to enable her to reply to this barbed
shaft. She only said:
“I will offer again to go to Egypt with him. Indeed now I wish to go,
away from all of you. And I wish, too, that I might die there, even of
that horrid cholera,” she added fiercely. “But I tell you that I know
Rupert, and that it is now, as you say, too late. After that wretched
scene at dinner he will never take me, because he will think that to do
so would be to cast a reflection upon me, and to admit that it was I who
did not wish to accompany him, not he who did not wish to take me.”
“Possibly,” answered Lord Devene. “I have always found the loosing of
knots very difficult; the wise people are those who do not tie them.”
Then she crept away to bed broken and sore-hearted. After she had gone
Lord Devene smoked two more cigarettes. Next he sat down and drafted a
letter with great care, which ultimately he copied out, directed to
Colonel Ullershaw, and put away.
Here it may be stated that Edith proved to be absolutely right. Although
he would have given nearly all he had to take her with him, when it was
put to him on the morrow in the presence of Lord Devene, in spite of
everything that Edith could say, Rupert positively refused to consent to
her coming, and for the exact reasons which she foresaw would sway him.
He was too loyal to do anything which he thought would in the smallest
degree asperse her. When Lord Devene intervened, moreover, he only
answered haughtily that he was the best judge of the matter which
concerned his wife and himself alone.
Thus, then, this question was finally decided.
The impression left upon Rupert’s mind by his wedding was hazy and
tumultuous. Most of that morning he had been obliged to spend at the War
Office arranging the details of his mission. Thence he rushed home to
finish his packing, dress, and convey his luggage to Charing Cross,
finally arriving at St. George’s, Hanover Square, only a few minutes
before the bride.
The best man, his old Indian friend whom he had gone to stay with on the
day after his engagement, hustled him into a pew, scolding him for being
late, telling him to put on his gloves and asking him what he had done
with the ring, which was only discovered after great difficulty. Vaguely
Rupert noticed that the place was crowded with fashionable-looking
people, who all seemed to be staring at him, as he thought, because his
hair was untidy, which it was. Then the organ began to play, and the
fashionable congregation turned and stared down the aisle, while his
friend trod on his foot, poked him in the ribs, and adjured him in a
loud whisper to wake up and look alive, as the bride was coming.
He looked, and there, followed by her train of bridesmaids—tall, pale,
lovely—white and wonderful in her shimmering satin and pearls, Edith
floated towards him up the aisle like a vision out of heaven. From that
moment Rupert saw nothing else, not even Lord Devene, who gave her away.
The brilliant congregation, the robed bishop and clergymen, the fussy
and ubiquitous best man, the smiling bridesmaids, the stony Lord
Southwick, all vanished into space. Nothing remained save the pale,
earnest face of Edith in which the eyes shone like stars at dawn.
Nothing did he seem to hear save her whispered “I will.”
It was over; he remembered signing a book, kissing his wife and his
mother, and driving with the former in a fine carriage to Grosvenor
Square. She asked him whether he had got his luggage safely to the
station, and then it seemed that of a sudden, before he had even time to
answer, they arrived at the house, where policemen were keeping a
passage clear beneath an awning. As he helped Edith to descend from the
carriage an old woman remarked audibly:
“Pore fellow, he don’t know what he’s in for!” which struck him as an
unkind saying.
Then came the reception, a long, long ceremony, remarkable for the
multitude of strange faces and for a room set out with wedding gifts
which were “numerous and costly.” Champagne was drunk also, and the
bride’s health proposed by Lord Southwick, who described her as one of
the loveliest and most charming young ladies in London, a truth at which
everyone cheered, for it was obvious. He ended with a panegyric on
Rupert himself, briefly recapitulating his services and the distinctions
which he had won, which were, he was convinced, only earnests of those
greater distinctions that remained for him to win. Finally, he regretted
that the call of duty, to which this gallant officer had never been able
to turn a deaf ear, forced him to separate, he was glad to say for but a
short while only, from his beautiful and new-wed wife.
Rupert replied, thanking the proposer and the company for their good
wishes. He added that there were trials which all men had to face
unexpectedly, and this early and sudden separation was one of the
greatest that had come to him, especially as it had obliged him to
refuse his wife’s first request, that she might be allowed to accompany
him to Egypt, which he was forced to do because of the cholera that was
raging there.
Then he stopped, and Edith thanked him for his words with a grateful
smile while the guests began to melt away. Dick sauntered up,
beautifully arrayed, and remarking sympathetically that they had only
three hours before the departure of the train, asked, in a voice loud
enough to attract general attention, where they had finally decided to
spend their honeymoon.
Edith drew herself up and answered: “Here in London when Rupert returns
from the Soudan, or perhaps in Egypt,” after which public announcement,
until they were together in the carriage going to the station, her
husband found it impossible to secure even a private word with her.
Again the subtle Dick had succeeded in adding one more course to the
wall which it was his evil aim to build between Rupert and his wife.
The one thing which always stood out in Rupert’s mind above the level of
the grey and dim confusion of this marriage, like a black mountain-point
from an evening mist, was his farewell to his mother. While he made his
last preparations for his journey, finding that Edith was not with him,
she came timidly to the room and sat by his side. Mrs. Ullershaw was
sad, but strove to conquer her mood, or at any rate, to hide it,
speaking cheerfully of the honour that had been done him by the
Government and the advantage that he might hope for as a consequence.
Rupert, too, strove to be cheerful, though the frost of gloom that fell
on him, colder and yet more cold, nipped his heart and killed all joy.
She felt it, and at length, poor, loving woman, her grief got the better
of her and she burst into tears.
“Oh, why does not Edith accompany you?” she said. “I cannot bear to
think of your going out there alone within three hours of your marriage.
If only I could have had a little more time, ill and feeble as I am, I
would have come with you as far as Cairo, for, my boy, my boy! how can I
know that I shall ever see you again?”
Then after his manner Rupert turned and faced the situation, simply and
plainly.
“You can’t know, dearest mother,” he said, “neither of us can know; but
what does it matter? Sooner or later that separation must come, but
fortunately we are both of us convinced that it will be the last. Even
to-day when I should be so happy, I cannot pretend that the world
satisfies me; indeed it seems as full of pains and troubles as ever, for
things have gone wrong and my anxieties are increased. Well, very soon
the world will pass from beneath our feet, and then, as you have taught
me and I am sure, the true life begins. This I promise, as I promised
you years ago, that while I live I will try to be honest and upright as
you are, so that at the last we may be together again. If you go first,
then wait for me, as, if I should be called away, I will wait for you.”
She turned her streaming face towards him and smiled and there was
something in the smile that frightened and thrilled him, for it was not
altogether of the earth.
“I know it,” she whispered—“all, all. It is true, and I bless God who
has tied us together everlastingly. They are calling you. Go, Rupert.
No, I cannot come, I do not wish those people to see my grief. Go; and
God’s blessing and mine go with you, as they shall,” and she laid her
trembling hand upon his head in benediction while he knelt beside her.
Then he kissed her and they parted.
In the hall they were all waiting, Edith in the charming
travelling-dress which she had designed for her going away. He said
good-bye to them, Lord Devene remarking with a smile that he was afraid
he was already beginning to find out that even matrimony, though it was
said to have descended from on high, could not escape its share of
shadow. Dick congratulated him warmly upon things in general and wished
that he had his chance which, he was sure, would bring him every sort of
good fortune, whereon Lady Devene muttered, “_Unberufen!_” and looked
indignantly at Edith, and the saturnine butler, who, thrusting aside the
footman, showed him to the carriage—for he was really attached to
Rupert—muttered that he only hoped that he “should see him back alive
out of them there savage parts.”
The door of the carriage slammed, the footman, with his wedding favour
still upon his breast, touched his hat and sprang to the box, the
coachman waved his white beribboned whip, and the horses started forward
into the gloom, for rain was falling heavily. So at last he was alone
with Edith—for about ten minutes.
She took his hand affectionately, more she could not have done had she
wished, since the passers-by stared idly at the blazoned,
aristocratic-looking carriage and the horses and servants decked with
wedding favours. She reminded him how they had driven together from the
station when he arrived from the East, and said how strange it was that
now she should be driving with him to the station as his wife to see him
off again to the East. Indeed she talked far more than he did whose
heart felt too full for words, and who had looked forward for months to
a very different departure with his bride. Suddenly he remembered that
he had not given her the address to which she must write to him in
Cairo, and the rest of their brief journey was occupied in his efforts
to put it down as well as the jolting of the carriage would allow.
Then came the confusion of the station, where porters, thinking that
they were a couple going away upon their honeymoon, and finding out his
name from the coachman, rushed after him calling hi! “Colonel,” or
sometimes “My lord,” and were ultimately much astonished to discover
that he was travelling alone by the Brindisi mail. Everything was
arranged at last, and the pair stood together forlornly at the door of
his smoking carriage in which there were two other passengers. Then as
the guard called to him to take his seat, the footman stepped forward,
touched his hat again, and handed him a letter with the message that it
was from his lordship, who said that there was no answer. Rupert thrust
it into the pocket of his ulster, embraced his wife, who wiped her eyes
with her handkerchief and tried to smile, and after another long minute
which seemed an eternity of time, the great engine whistled and the
train moved forward into the rain and the darkness.
Rupert sat still for a little, while the image of Edith standing alone
upon the platform faded from his sight, waiting for the confusion of his
mind to clear. Then he put his hand into his pocket to find his pipe,
more from habit than from any desire to smoke, and in doing so, found
something else—Lord Devene’s letter, which he had forgotten.
What was _he_ writing to him about, he wondered, as he broke the seal of
many quarterings and began to read. This was the letter:
My Dear Rupert,—When you told me that you had insured your life for
£10,000 and settled the amount upon Edith, I intimated to you that I
also proposed to make her a wedding present in money. (“So he did,”
thought Rupert, “I had forgotten all about it.” ) I now write to say
that I have carried out this arrangement. Under deed I have paid to her
trustees, and settled to her separate use, the capital sum of £25,000,
of which the interest will be paid to her quarterly, she having the
right to dispose of the _corpus_ by will in favour of anyone whom she
may wish. In the event of her having children, however, it is to be
divided in equal shares among them at her death.
“That’s a lot,” thought Rupert to himself. “I wonder why he gave her so
much. Well, it will make her life easier.” Then he went on with the
letter and found the answer to his question.
Perhaps you will wonder why I am so liberal, so I may as well tell you
at once what possibly you have guessed; what, indeed, although _she_
does not know it, you must learn sooner or later. Edith is my daughter.
These words seemed to stun Rupert. He felt the weight of the blow
without appreciating its significance. Three times did he re-read them.
Then at last their full meaning came home to him, and with it a
knowledge that he must control himself, that he must say or do nothing
violent, show no strong emotion even, for those two other men in the
carriage, whose curiosity, it was clear, had been deeply excited
concerning him, were watching him over the tops of their newspapers. He
would read on and think afterwards.
It is very possible that my late wife Clara, with whom you will remember
you used to be friendly in your youth, may have expressed to you, as she
often did to others, her jealousy and hatred of Marian Bonnythorne. It
was well-founded, though Clara, from whom I was practically separated
for many years before her death, had no real cause to complain of the
matter. Nor indeed had Bonnythorne, who, after a long course of neglect,
deserted his wife to go into a monastery, leaving her to me to support.
You will not wish for details, as my present action will assure you of
the truth of what I write. Nor do I intend to make any excuses. I look
back to my intimacy with Marian Bonnythorne, of whom I was truly fond
and who was fond of me, as the pleasantest episode in an existence that,
notwithstanding my worldly advantages, I have not found delightful. I am
very glad that Edith was born, as it is probable that she will prove the
only issue whom I shall leave, and the fact of her illegitimacy does not
in the least affect me, who have no high opinion of our matrimonial
system. I regard Edith, indeed, with as much affection as though I could
acknowledge her to be my child before the world, which, for her sake, I
cannot do.
To proceed. It will now be clear to you why I forwarded this marriage
between you and my daughter by every means in my power; why also I have
kept the truth from both of you, fearing lest, did you know it, some of
the absurd notions of which I observe you to be a victim, might lead you
to be mean enough to break your engagement.
I have no reason, Rupert, to hold you in special regard. Of one matter I
will not speak; indeed, though not of your own will—if you had one in
those days—you did me a good turn there. I bear you no grudge, as I
trust you will bear me none when you fold up this letter. But there is
another cause for our want of sympathy. I have earnestly desired to have
sons of my own, an inbred weakness which I confess has become almost a
mania, but when I look for those sons, in their place I see _you._ You
will inherit the rank and great wealth which should have belonged to
them. It is therefore obvious and natural that I should wish my only
child to share these with you, and her children to take them in their
turn. One word more.
I respect you. I think you have grown into a good man according to your
lights, although they are not mine, and you have done what none of us
have succeeded in doing before, earned yourself an honourable position
by your own exertions. Therefore I can with confidence and satisfaction
leave Edith in your hands, especially as you have chanced to become
earnestly attached to her, and as otherwise she would in all probability
have fallen into those of that scamp, Dick Learmer, a man of whom I warn
you to beware.—
Very truly yours,
DEVENE.
P.S. I am exceedingly sorry that this contretemps about your being
ordered to Egypt should have happened at such a moment. You should have
insisted upon Edith accompanying you, for _carpe diem_ and its joys is
an excellent motto, and it is unwise to leave behind you a wife who is
only so in name. But as usual, your own obstinacy and quixotic notions
have stood in your way, since when Edith offered to go this morning, you
forbade her to do so in my presence. I could say no more, and you must
abide the issue. Believe me, I earnestly wish your safe return for both
your sakes.
D.
Rupert replaced the letter in its envelope and thrust it into his
pocket. There was nothing to be said; nothing to be done. Fate had him
in its net. But oh! how would it all end? He asked it of the night; he
asked it of his own heart; but no answer came. Only the beat of the
wheels as they rushed forward shaped themselves to words and said to
him:
“You have married Devene’s daughter. Poor man! Poor man! Poor man!”
That was their song through England, France, and Italy. Then the
thudding of the screw took up its burden, and chanted it until he saw
the low coasts of Egypt outlined before him and set his face to duty
once again.