MEANWHILE
It was the last day of the old year when, had there been anyone to take
interest in her proceedings among so many finer vessels going to or
returning from their business on the great waters, a black and dirty
tramp steamer, whose trade it was to carry coals to the East, might have
been seen creeping up the Thames with the tide. A light but greasy fog
hung over the face of the river, making navigation difficult, and
blurring the outlines of the buildings on its bank, and through it the
sound of the church bells—for it was Sunday—floated heavily, as though
their clappers had been muffled in honour of the decease of one of the
great ones of the earth.
In his cabin—for after the suns of the Soudan the winter wind was too
cold to face—sat Rupert Ullershaw, dressed in a mustard-coloured suit of
reach-me-downs, somewhat too small for him, and of a peculiarly hideous
cut and pattern, which he had purchased from a sailor. Physically he was
in good health, but his mental condition may best be described as one of
nervous irritability born of weeks and months of suspense. What news
awaited him on his arrival home, he wondered, and how would he, a
discredited and mutilated cripple, be received?
That he was discredited he knew already, for he had found an old paper
on board the ship, in which, on looking at it, his own name had leapt to
his eye. Someone had asked a question in Parliament concerning him and
his mission—why it had been sent, what were the facts of the rumours of
its annihilation, whether it was true that this disaster had been
brought about through the envoy, Lieutenant-Colonel Ullershaw, C.B.,
having mixed himself up in tribal quarrels over a native woman, and what
was the pecuniary loss involved to the country? Then followed the answer
of the Secretary of State, the man who had pressed him to go on the
grounds of duty and patriotism. It stated that Colonel Ullershaw had
been despatched to carry out certain confidential negotiations with a
number of sheiks on the borders of the Soudan. That according to the
report received from the Egyptian authorities, a native sergeant named
Abdullah, who accompanied him, had arrived at Cairo and informed them
that all the members of the mission, who were disguised as merchants,
had been attacked by a petty chief called Ibrahim and destroyed,
Abdullah alone escaping. That it appeared from this survivor’s evidence
that the attack was not political, but had its origin in Colonel
Ullershaw having unfortunately tried to protect two native women who
were travelling with him, one of whom, stated to be a young person of
some rank, was claimed by the sheik Ibrahim as a wife. That the loss to
the country, or rather to the Egyptian Government, amounted to about two
thousand pounds, of which one thousand was in cash.
Arising out of this were other questions, evidently framed to annoy the
Government upon a small matter, such as: Was it true that Colonel
Ullershaw had been chosen over the heads of more suitable persons,
because his great family influence had been brought to bear upon the War
Office? To this the answer was that the deceased officer’s record had
been very distinguished, and he was chosen because of his diplomatic
experience, his knowledge of Arabic and personal acquaintance with the
sheiks, with whom it was necessary to communicate: That, as the House
would be aware, his family influence as represented in that House, and,
he might add, in another place, was not likely to unduly influence Her
Majesty’s present advisers, of whom the gentlemen concerned were strong
and able opponents. (A laugh.)
The thirst for information not being yet appeased, an Irish member asked
whether it was true that a punitive expedition had been sent to kill the
chief whose wife Colonel Ullershaw had stolen—(laughter); and whether
the Government now regretted their choice of Colonel Ullershaw as the
head of this mission.
Answer: That such an expedition had been sent, but that it appeared that
Colonel Ullershaw and his party had made a very gallant fight before
they were overwhelmed, and that either he, or, as was stated by some
nomads, the lady, whom he had befriended, with the help of her tribesmen
had already killed the sheik Ibrahim and most of his men, whose corpses
had been seen by the nomads hanging to some trees: That the Government
admitted that their choice had not been justified by events, but that
he, the Secretary of State, deprecated the casting of slurs upon very
insufficient information upon the memory of a brave and devoted servant
of his country—(hear, hear!)—whose mistakes, whatever they might have
been, seemed to have sprung from the exaggerated chivalry of his nature.
(A laugh.)
Another Irish member: Was it true that Colonel Ullershaw had been
married on the day he left England to enter upon this mission? The
Speaker: “Order, order. This House has nothing to do with the domestic
concerns of the late Colonel Ullershaw.”
The Honourable member apologised for his question, remarking that his
excuse for it must be that the country, or Egypt, had to pay in lives
and money for the domestic entanglements of Colonel Ullershaw, in which
he became involved among the desert sands. (Much laughter and cries of
order.) He wished to ask the Right Honourable gentleman whether he was
sure that the gallant Colonel—(more laughter)—was really dead?
The Secretary of War: “I fear there is no doubt upon that point.”
The subject then dropped.
Turning over the paper in a dazed fashion—for the cruelty and injustice
of these questions and the insinuations so lightly made for party
purposes cut him to the heart—Rupert had come upon a sub-leader which
discussed the matter in a tone of solemn ignorance. Being an Opposition
organ, the leader-writer of the journal seemed to assume that the facts
were correctly stated, and that the unfortunate officer concerned
brought about the failure of the mission and lost his own life by a
course of action so foolish as to be discreditable, in which, as it
stated, “the ever-present hand of female influence can unfortunately be
traced.” It added that deeply as the death of a man who had served his
country well and gallantly in the past was to be regretted, perhaps for
Colonel Ullershaw it was the best thing that could have happened, since
it seemed probable that in any event his career would have been at an
end.
After reading this report and comment, Rupert’s common-sense and
knowledge of official ways assured him that, however unjustly, he was in
all probability a ruined man. On the charges about the lady in the
desert he might, it is true, be able to put a different complexion, but
it would be impossible for him to deny that the unfortunate presence of
Bakhita and Mea had been the immediate cause of his disaster, or indeed
that he had been spending several months as their guest. Beyond these
details, however, lay the crushing fact that he who had been expected to
succeed, had utterly and completely failed, and by failing, exposed
those who employed him to sharp criticism and unpleasant insinuations.
Lastly, the circumstance that he was now a hopeless cripple would of
course be taken advantage of to dispense with his further services.
So convinced was he of the desperate nature of his plight that he had
not even attempted to offer any explanation to the Egyptian Government,
as he saw that his only chance lay in influencing those at headquarters
and persuading them to order a further local inquiry in Egypt. Besides,
he was anxious to get home, and knew that if he had opened up the matter
in Cairo, he would probably be detained for months, and very possibly be
put under arrest pending investigations.
Rupert’s journey across the desert had been long, but unmarked by any
incident or danger, for they passed round Osman Digna’s hordes and
through country that was practically depopulated, meeting but few
natives and no white men. So far as Rupert was concerned it was
comfortable enough; since after the Arab caravan had started from the
neighbourhood of Tama, he found to his surprise that Mea had provided
him with a guard of twenty of her best men, who brought with them a tent
and ample provisions. He ordered them to return, but they refused,
saying that they had been commanded by their lady to travel with him to
the Red Sea as an escort to the dog Anubis that had insisted upon
following him from the town, which dog they were charged to bring back
safely when he parted with it at the water. Then understanding what Mea
meant by this Eastern subterfuge about the dog and fearing to hurt her
feelings, should he insist, he suffered the men to come with him, with
the good result that he found himself regarded as a great personage in
the caravan.
At length they reached a little port on the Red Sea whence the pilgrims
to Mecca proposed to proceed by dhow to Suez, and, as it chanced, found
there this English collier that was taking in fresh water. On her Rupert
embarked with the pilgrims, passing himself off as one of them, for the
captain of the collier was glad to earn a little by taking passengers.
The last that he saw of the desert was his Tama escort, who, having
kissed his hand and made their dignified farewells, were turning their
camels’ heads homewards, the poor cur, Anubis, notwithstanding his howls
and struggles, being secured in a basket which was fastened to the side
of one of the said camels. No; that was not quite the last, for as the
boat rowed out to the steamer which lay at a little distance, it passed
a jutting spit of land that gave shelter to the shallow harbour. Of a
sudden from this promontory there floated up a sound of wild, sad music,
a music of pipes and drums. Rupert recognised it at once; it was the
same that he had heard when he rode with Bakhita and Mea from
Abu-Simbel, the music of the Wandering Players, those marvellous men who
refused baksheesh.
As the morning mist lifted he saw them well, on the sandy beach within
twenty yards of the boat. There were the five muffled figures squatted
on the ground, three blowing at their pipes and two seated opposite to
them beating drums to time. As before they seemed to take not the
slightest notice of the passers-by, except that their music grew wilder
and more shrill. An English sailor in the boat shouted to them to stop
that funeral march and play something funny, but they never lifted their
heads, whereon, remarking that theirs was a queer way to earn a living,
caterwauling to the birds and fishes, the sailor turned his attention to
the tiller and thought no more about them. But even on the ship their
melancholy music could be heard floating across the water, although the
players themselves were lost in the haze. Indeed, it was while Rupert
read the report of what had passed in the House of Commons in the old
paper which he found in the deck cabin, that its last wailing burst
reached him and slowly faded into silence.
At Suez the pilgrims left the steamer, but as she suited him very well,
and the fare demanded did not make any big hole in his £100, he revealed
himself as an Englishman and booked a passage on to London. Now London
was in sight, yonder it lay beneath that dark mass of cloud, and—what
would he find there? He had not telegraphed from Suez or Port Said.
It was, he felt, impossible to explain matters in a cable, and what
could be the use, especially as then everything would get into the
Press? They thought him dead, or so he gathered from that paper,
therefore no one would incur extra suspense or sorrow by waiting for a
few more days, to find that he, or some of him, was still alive. He
longed to see his wife with a great longing; by day and by night he
thought of her, dreaming of the love and sympathy with which she would
greet him.
Yet at times doubts did cross his mind, for Edith loved success, and he
was now an utter failure, whose misfortunes must involve her also. Could
he be the same Rupert Ullershaw who had left Charing Cross railway
station nine months before, prosperous, distinguished, chosen for an
important mission, with a great career before him? Undoubtedly he was,
but all these things had left him; like his body his future was utterly
marred, and his present seemed almost shameful. Nothing remained to him
now except his wife’s love.
He comforted himself. She would not withhold that who had taken him for
better or worse; indeed it was the nature of women to show unsuspected
qualities when trouble overtook those who were dear to them. No; upon
this point he need not torment himself, but there were others.
Was he to tell Edith the dreadful secret of her birth which had haunted
him like a nightmare all these weary months? Sooner or later he supposed
that it must be done. And must he meet Lord Devene, and if so, what was
he to say when they did meet? Then Edith would want to know the truth of
this story of the lady in the desert, which, of course, she had a right
to learn in its every detail. There was nothing in it. Mea was no more
than a dear friend to him; indeed he had thought of her but little
lately, whose mind was so preoccupied with other matters. Yet he felt
that the tale of their relationship, told exactly as it occurred, and he
could repeat it in no other way, might be open to misinterpretation, as
the facts of his escort of her and her aunt across the desert had been
already.
Well, she would have to take his word for it, and even if she did not
estimate that quite as high as Mea had done, at least she knew that he
was no teller of lies. Then after these difficulties were overcome, how
was he to live? He had saved a little money, and perhaps as a wounded
man they might give him a small pension, out of which his heavy
insurance would have to be paid, if indeed it did not absorb it all.
There remained her father’s—he winced as the word came into his
mind—settlement upon Edith, but that income, personally, he would rather
starve than touch. Still his wife must be supported in a way
commensurate with her position. This outlook, too, was so black that he
abandoned its consideration and fell to thinking of the joy of his
meeting with his mother.
Here at least there were no ifs or buts. She would understand, she would
console; his misfortunes would only make him dearer to her. For the
rest, sufficient to the day was its evil—the morrow must take care of
itself. It was indeed sufficient.
Now while the old tramp lumbers up the Thames through the grey December
mist and sleet, let us turn for a few minutes to the fortunes of some of
the other personages in this history.
After her husband’s departure, Edith returned to live with Mrs.
Ullershaw, which was an inexpensive arrangement, and, as she explained
to Dick, the right kind of thing to do. Several letters arrived from
Rupert, the last written at Abu-Simbel the night before he began his
fatal journey, and some were sent in reply which he never received. Then
came the long silence, and after it the awful, sudden catastrophe of
which they learned first from a Cairo telegram in an evening paper.
Rupert was dead, and she, Edith, who had never been a wife, was left a
widow. The blow overwhelmed her. All her card castle came tumbling about
her ears. Now she could never be the partner in a brilliant and
successful career, and the husband whose virtues she recognised, and of
whom she would have been proud, was taken from her into the darkness of
a desert grave, he who in due course should have made of her one of the
richest peeresses in England. Yes, now those gay dresses must be
exchanged for a widow’s weeds. She was furious with a Fate that had
played such a trick upon her; even her tears were more those of anger
than of sorrow, though in her fashion she mourned him truly.
Dick came to console her; he came very soon. Already he had been at the
War Office and mastered the points of Abdullah’s garbled tale, which, as
though unwillingly, he told to Edith, leaving her to put upon it what
construction she chose.
“It is nonsense,” she said angrily, for in her heart she did not believe
it at all. “Poor Rupert would never have got into any silly mess with a
savage.”
“Of course it is nonsense,” he answered, taking her cue; “but it is not
a question of morality, it’s a question of wisdom. By mixing himself up
with these women he brought about the murder of the whole lot and the
utter failure of his mission. In a way, it is as well for him that he is
gone, poor dear fellow, for he had completely done for himself. Well, it
doesn’t matter now.”
“No,” she answered heavily, “it doesn’t matter now.”
Yet when Dick, as a relative, although of the other political party, was
confidentially consulted by the Secretary of State and Lord Southwick
before the former gave those answers in the House, he talked somewhat
differently, adopting the tone indeed of a tolerant man of the world.
“Of the facts,” he said, “he knew little more than they did; but of
course poor Ullershaw had his weaknesses like other men,” and he smiled
as though at amusing recollections, “and the desert was a lonely place,
and this Abdullah described one of the women as young and beautiful. Who
could say, and what did it matter?” and so forth.
But the Secretary of State, an austere man who did not like to see his
schemes wrecked, and himself attacked on account of such ‘weaknesses,’
thought that it mattered a great deal. Hence the tone of his answers in
the House, for it never occurred to him, or indeed to Lord Southwick,
that a relation would have said as much as Dick did, unless he was very
sure of his ground. In fact, they were certain that he was putting
forward the best version of the truth and of Ullershaw’s character that
was possible under the circumstances. Who would wish, they reflected, to
throw a darker shade upon the reputation of a dead man than he was
absolutely forced to do by the pressure of sure and certain knowledge?
As for Mrs. Ullershaw, when she was assured that this dreadful news was
incontrovertible, and that her only son was indeed dead, she said merely
in the ancient words: “The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away.
Blessed be the name of the Lord,” and stumbled to the bed whence she
never rose again. Here a second stroke fell upon her, but still for many
weeks she lived on in a half-conscious state. It was during this time
that Edith left the house, saying that her room was wanted by the
nurses, and went into comfortable rooms of her own in Brook Street.
The fact was, of course, that she could no longer endure this atmosphere
of sickness. It was repugnant to her nature; the sound of her poor
mother-in-law’s stertorous breathing as she passed her door tore her
nerves, the shadow of advancing death oppressed her spirits which
already were low enough. So she went and set up a _ménage_ of her own as
a young widow had a right to do. As for Mrs. Ullershaw, by degrees she
sank into complete insensibility and so died, making no sign. A week
before Rupert reached England she was buried in Brompton Cemetery by the
side of the husband who had treated her so ill in life.
It was a little before this that an event occurred which indirectly
lessened Edith’s material disappointment, and consoled Lord Devene for
the death of Rupert that for his own reasons had grieved and
disappointed him much. To the astonishment of all the world, on one fine
autumn morning Tabitha presented him with a singularly healthy son.
“This one should do!” exclaimed the doctor in triumph, while Lord Devene
kissed it fondly.
But when they had left the room together, his wife bade the nurse show
her the child, and after she too had kissed it, said sadly:
“Ach! poor little lamb, I fear you will have no more luck than the rest.
How should you with such a father?” she added in German.
As for Dick Learmer, with the exception of the birth of this to him
inopportune child, which now stood between him and the Devene wealth,
his fortunes seemed to wax as those of his rival, Rupert, waned and
vanished. He was a clever man, with an agreeable manner and a certain
gift of shallow but rather amusing speech; the kind of speech that
entertains and even impresses for the moment, but behind which there is
neither thought nor power. These graces soon made him acceptable to that
dreary and middle-class institution, the House of Commons, where
entertainment of any sort is so rare and precious a thing. Thus it
happened that before long he came to be considered as a rising man, one
with a future.
Moreover, on one or two occasions when he addressed the House upon some
fiscal matter, he was fortunate enough to impress the public with the
idea that he possessed a business ability that in fact was no part of
his mental equipment, which impression was strengthened by a rather
clever article, mostly extracted from works of reference, however, that
he published in one of the leading reviews. The result was that soon
Dick found himself a director of several sound and one or two
speculative, but for the while prosperous, companies, which, in the
aggregate, to say nothing of the salary that he received from Lord
Devene, who also paid for his qualifying shares, furnished him with a
clear income of over £1,300 a year.
Thus was the scapegrace and debt-haunted Dick Learmer completely
white-washed and rehabilitated in the eyes of all who knew of his
existence, and thus did he come to be regarded as a political
possibility, and therefore worthy of the attention of party wire-pullers
and of the outside world at large.