CHAPTER XIX.AFTER SEVEN YEARSOn 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 ofmeis 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.
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 ofmeis 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.