AFTER SEVEN YEARS
On the Tuesday after his Sunday luncheon with Edith, Dick called at the
Brook Street rooms as arranged, this time for afternoon tea. He found
Edith gloomy and upset, not at all in a mood indeed to respond to his
demonstrations of affection. He asked her what was the matter, but could
get no satisfactory answer out of her, and so at last went away in
disgust, reflecting that of all women whom he had known, Edith was the
most uncertain and bewildering.
Thus things went on for some time, interviews being alternated with
letters sufficiently compromising in their allusions to what had passed
between them, until, when actually forced into a corner, Edith informed
him that her change of conduct was owing to a dream that she had dreamed
in which she saw Rupert alive and well. Of course Dick laughed at her
dream, but still she made it serve her turn for quite another three
months. Then at length there came a day when he would be put off no
longer.
The six months of silence for which she had stipulated were, he pointed
out, more than gone by, and he proposed, therefore, to announce their
engagement in the usual fashion.
“You must not,” she said, springing up; “I forbid you. If you do so I
will contradict it, and never speak to you again.”
Now, exasperated beyond endurance, Dick’s evil temper broke out. Even to
Edith it was a revelation, for she had never seen him in such a rage
before. He swore at her; he called her names which she had not been
accustomed to hear; he said that she was a bad woman who, having married
Ullershaw for his rank and prospects, was now trying to break
his—Dick’s—heart for fun; that she had been the curse of his existence,
and he hoped that it would all come back upon her own head, and so
forth.
Edith, as a rule, was perfectly able to look after herself, but on this
occasion the man’s violence was too much for her who had never before
been exposed to rough abuse. She grew frightened, and in her fear
blurted out the truth.
“I can’t marry you,” she said, “and perhaps it is as well, as I don’t
wish to put up with this sort of thing.”
“Curse it all! Why not?” he asked. “Are you ill, or are you going into a
nunnery?”
She turned round upon him.
“No; for a better reason than either. Because a woman can’t have two
husbands. Rupert is alive.”
Dick’s rage vanished, his jaw fell and his face went white. “How do you
know that?” he asked.
“Because I have seen him here. He came not much more than an hour after
you had left that Sunday, on the 31st of December.”
“You mean your dream,” he said.
“No, I mean Rupert in flesh and blood, with his foot cut off and his eye
burnt out.”
“Then where is he now?” asked Dick, looking round as though he expected
to see him emerge from behind the curtain.
“I don’t know, I haven’t an idea. He may be in England, or he may be in
Egypt, or he may be at the bottom of the sea. We—don’t correspond.”
“I think you had better tell me all the truth if you can,” said Dick
grimly. “It will be best for both of us.”
So she did, repeating their conversation almost word for word. Dick’s
imagination was vivid, and easily pictured the scene there in the place
of its enactment. He saw the wretched, crippled man dragging himself
away upon his crutch out into the cold London night, away anywhere from
the cruel woman whom he had married in love and faith. It touched his
pity, he even felt remorseful for his share in the business.
“Poor devil!” he said aloud. “And, as an inducement to him to ‘remain
dead,’ did you tell him that you had just engaged yourself to another
man?”
“No,” she said furiously; “I told him nothing of the sort. I could not
bear the sight of him all mutilated like that; it made me sick.
Besides,” she went on, “what had he to offer? His reputation was gone,
and so have the rank and fortune which I expected.”
“That’s frank; but he is scarcely responsible, is he?” answered Dick
drily. “You see, poor Rupert was always an awful fool. It is even
conceivable that he may have believed that you married him for himself.
Really, it is a funny story. But I say, Edith, has it occurred to you,
being the kind of man he is, what an utter devil he must think you?”
“I don’t care what he thinks,” she said wildly. “The whole conditions
are changed, and I could not be expected to live with him as my husband;
indeed, we should have nothing to live on.”
“You think you don’t care now, but perhaps you will some day,” sneered
Dick. “Well, what’s the game? Am I to keep this dark?”
“I think you had better for your own sake,” she answered, and added
meaningly: “With Rupert dead, and dead I am sure he will remain, there
is only one child’s life between you and an inheritance of a million of
money, or its worth. But with him alive, it is another matter, so
perhaps you will do well not to resurrect him.”
“Perhaps I shall,” said Dick. “By Jove! Edith, you are a cool hand,” and
he looked at her, not without admiration. “And now please tell me
exactly what our relations are to be in the future? As I don’t want to
be mixed up with a bigamy case—for fellows like that have an awkward
trick of reappearing—marriage seems out of the question, doesn’t it?”
“Absolutely!” answered Edith.
“Then might I ask what is in the question?”
“Nothing at all,” replied Edith firmly. “Don’t suppose for one moment
that I am going to be involved in any wretched irregularity with its
inevitable end.”
“What’s the inevitable end, my dear?”
“Where men like you are concerned, desertion and exposure, I imagine.”
“You are not complimentary to-day, Edith, though perhaps you are right.
These hole-and-corner businesses always finish in misery; very often in
mutual detestation. But now, just see what a mess you have made by
trying to get everything. You married Rupert, whom you cordially
disliked, and won’t stick to him because somebody has cut off his foot
and Devene has got an heir. You engaged yourself to me, who, up to the
present, at any rate, you cordially liked, and now you won’t stick to
me, not from any motives of high morality, which one might respect, but
for fear of the consequences. So it seems that there is only one person
to whom you will stick, and that is your precious self. Well, I wish you
joy of the choice, Edith, but speaking as a candid friend, I don’t
personally know anyone who has held better cards and thrown them under
the table. Now the table is left, that is all, a nice, hard, polished
table, and you can look in it at the reflection of your own pretty face
till you grow tired. There is one thing, I shan’t be jealous, because
what applies to me will apply to any other man. As your own husband is
not good enough for you, you will have to do without the lot of us,
though whether you will have cause to be jealous of _me_ is another
matter. Do you see the point, dearest?”
“Do you see the door, Dick?” she answered, pointing towards it.
“Very well done,” he said, mocking her, “quite in our local leading
lady’s best tragedy manner. But I forgot, you have had practice lately
with poor old Rupert. Well, I will follow his example. Good-day, Edith!”
and with a most polite bow he went.
To say that he left Edith in a rage would be to put the matter too
mildly, for his bitter slings and arrows had worked her into such a fury
that she could only find relief in tears.
“If it hadn’t been for him,” she reflected to herself, when she
recovered a little, “I don’t think I should have turned Rupert away like
that, and this is my reward. And what’s more, I believe that I have been
a fool. After all, Rupert is a gentleman and Dick—isn’t. Those doctors
are so clever that they might have mended him up and made him look
respectable; the official business could have been explained, for I am
certain he did nothing he shouldn’t do, and perhaps he may still be Lord
Devene in the end. Whereas, what am I now? A young widow who daren’t
marry again, and who must starve for the rest of her life upon a
thousand a year. Why should I be so cruelly treated? Fate must have a
grudge against me. It is too bad, too bad, and as for Dick, I hate him
worse than Rupert.”
So she said and thought, yet during the years that followed, at any rate
outwardly, this pair made it up, after a fashion, as they always did. To
her determination to be involved in nothing compromising, Edith remained
quite firm, although Dick, in his role of a man of the world, did his
best to shake her scruples whenever he saw an opportunity, arguing that
Rupert must be really dead, and that it would even be safe for them to
marry. These, however, were, as it chanced, greatly strengthened by Dick
himself, who, as time went on, progressively disimproved.
To begin with, his good looks, which were so striking in his youth, had
entirely left him. He grew fat, and as is not uncommon with those in
whom the southern blood is strong, who sit up late at night, drink more
than is good for them, and in general live fast, Dick acquired also an
appearance that is best described as “greasy.” His rich colour departed,
leaving his cheeks tallow-like in hue, whereas beneath the eyes that
used to be so fine and eloquent appeared deep, black lines, while his
wavy, chestnut-coloured hair became quite dark, and on the top of his
head melted into baldness. In short, within seven years of the
conversation recorded above, Dick was nothing more than a middle-aged
gentleman of somewhat unpleasing aspect, who no longer appealed in the
slightest to Edith’s aesthetic tastes. Moreover, now again his
reputation was as seedy as his looks, for to those first-class companies
of which he was a director, in his desire for money to satisfy his
extravagant mode of life, he had added others of a more doubtful
character, his connection with one of which landed him in a scandal,
whence he only escaped by the help of Lord Devene. The House, too, to
which he still belonged had discovered that there was nothing in him
after all, and left him to sink to the level of an undistinguished
private member. Lastly, his health was far from good, and he had been
warned by the doctors that unless he entirely altered his way of life,
the liver attacks from which he suffered might develop into something
very serious. Meanwhile, they did not improve his temper.
More than seven years had gone by since that New Year’s Eve on which
Rupert, rejected by Edith, wiped the mud of London off his feet for
ever, when the terrible blow fell on Lord Devene which crushed out the
last sparks of his proud and bitter spirit. Of a sudden, his only
child—for no others were born to him—the bright and beautiful boy whom
he idolised, was seized by some sickness of the brain, which, in spite
of all that skill could do for him, carried him off within a week. Thus
it came about that once more Rupert, who was supposed to be dead, was
left heir-presumptive to the Devene title and settled property.
The mother accepted her loss with characteristic patience and courage.
She had never expected that the boy would live, and was not surprised at
his decease. But such a blow as this was more than Lord Devene could
bear. Here his philosophy failed him, and he had no other comfort to
which to fly. Moreover, now, the title would become extinct, and so much
of the property as he could not leave away must pass into the worthless
hands of Dick Learmer. Under these circumstances, his thoughts turned
once more to his natural daughter, Edith. He even sent for Dick, and
much as he despised and hated the man, suggested that he should marry
her, of course without telling him his real reason.
“It is time you settled yourself in life, if ever you are going to do
so,” he said, “and the same remark applies to Edith, who must have had
enough of being a widow. You will be a rich man when I am gone, and in
this pure and virtuous land it would be easy enough to purchase the
re-creation of the title. A matter of £50,000 judiciously spent on the
Party will do that in a year or so—even for you. What do you say?”
“Only that I have been trying to marry Edith for the last seven years
and she won’t have me,” answered Dick.
“Why not? I thought she was so fond of you.”
“Used to be, you mean. I don’t think she is now.”
“Ah! she may have heard of your way of life, you know, as many other
people have; but perhaps your new prospects”—and he winced as he said
the words, “may make a difference.”
“I doubt it,” said Dick. “She has got a craze in her head; believes that
Rupert may still be living.”
Lord Devene looked at him so sharply that next moment he was sorry he
had spoken the words.
“That’s a very odd craze, Dick,” he said, “after so many years. I should
not have thought Edith was a woman given to such fancies. I suggest that
you should try to disabuse her. See what you can do, and we will talk
over the matter again. Now good-bye; I’m tired.”
When the door closed behind Dick, Lord Devene began to piece together in
his own mind certain rumours that had reached him of late, but been
forgotten under pressure of his great grief. For instance, he had read
in a paper a paragraph about some white man, said to have been an
officer whose death was reported long ago, who in reality was still
living in a desert oasis which he ruled. Now, was it possible that this
white man could be Rupert? Was it possible that the letter which he had
sent him on the day of his marriage informing him of his wife’s true
parentage had so upset him that he determined never to return to her? It
was very improbable—but still—it might be worth while making a few
inquiries.
He ordered his brougham and drove down to a club where he often met Lord
Southwick at this hour of the day. As it chanced, in the smoking-room,
which was otherwise quite deserted, he was the first man whom he saw.
They had not spoken together since the death of his son, and Lord
Southwick took the opportunity to offer some condolences.
“Don’t speak of it, my dear fellow,” answered Devene; “it is very kind
of you, but I can’t bear the subject. All my hopes were centred on that
boy, and there’s an end. Had Ullershaw still been living now, it would
have been some consolation, but I suppose that he must be dead too.”
“Why do you say ‘suppose’?” asked Lord Southwick sharply.
“Well, if you want to know, because of certain fancies that have come
into my head. Now tell me, have you heard anything?”
“Yes, I have, and I was going to speak to you on the matter. Some queer
things have come to my knowledge lately. First of all, we have found out
that all that yarn with which Dick Learmer stuffed up my late chief is
nonsense, for that Egyptian sergeant, Abdullah, was mortally wounded a
few months ago, and before he died made a confession that he had told
lies, and that he ran away at the very beginning of the fight between
Ullershaw and those Arab rascals. So, of course, he didn’t see him
killed as he said he did.”
“Oh! But what yarn of Learmer’s do you mean?”
“Why, that Ullershaw had taken up with some pretty native woman and was
travelling with her. Learmer gave us to understand that he had private
confirmation of the fact, and, perhaps foolishly, we believed him, and
that’s what made my old chief so wild with your cousin. Now it appears
from Abdullah’s statement, which has just been forwarded home, as they
say out there, ‘to clear the shadow that has fallen upon the reputation
of a very gallant officer,’ all that Ullershaw did was to give escort to
two helpless females across the desert, partly from charity and partly
because he thought that their presence would make his caravan look more
like a trading expedition.”
“I see,” said Lord Devene; but to himself he added: “Dick again! What a
cowardly, black-hearted scoundrel! Well, is there any more?”
“Yes. You may remember it was stated in Parliament that this abortive
expedition had cost the authorities about £2,000. Well, within the last
year, £2,000 have been paid into the Treasury from a source that we
cannot trace, accompanied by a rather involved written message to this
effect: ‘That the money was to be applied to reimburse the costs
incurred in the diplomatic mission to certain chiefs on the borders of
the Soudan, in the fitting out and providing with funds of the
expedition under the command of Lieutenant-Colonel Rupert Ullershaw,
C.B., by a person who desires to clear away the reproach that had been
laid upon him of having been the cause of a waste of public money.’ Now
did you, or his widow, do this?”
“Most certainly not!” answered Lord Devene, with a touch of his old
sarcasm. “Are either of us people likely to repay to Government money to
which they have no legal claim? How did the cash come?”
“Through a bank that would only say that it had been received from its
branch in Egypt. Further, reports have reached us that the Tama oasis,
which no one has visited for generations, is now virtually ruled by a
white man who is said to have been a British officer, although its real
chief is a woman. This woman, who is called the lady Mea, or after her
territory, Tama simply, has recently put herself in communication with
the Egyptian Government, demanding to be accorded its protection, and
offering to pay taxes, etc. The style of the letter made it certain that
it was never written by an Arab woman, so a political officer was sent
to see into the matter. He got to the oasis, and found that it is a
perfect garden, and very rich, having of late established an enormous
trade in dates, salt, horses, etc., with the surrounding tribes. Of the
white man, however, he saw nothing, his questions on the point being
politely ignored. Still he did hear by side winds that such a person
exists. That is all I can tell you about the thing, but it might be
worth your while to follow it up. I hope you will indeed, and still
more, that Ullershaw may prove to be alive. In my opinion, he has been a
cruelly-treated man, and it is just possible that a fellow of his
character, knowing this and not caring to defend himself, has chosen to
remain lost.”
“Thank you, I will,” said Lord Devene, and going home he wrote a note to
Edith telling her to come to see him.