CHAPTER XVI.MEANWHILEIt 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 aménageof 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.
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 aménageof 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.