The Way of the Spirit

THE WAY OF THE SPIRIT

had outstretched dropped to her side. “Oh, your foot and eye – what has happened to them?”

“Torture,” he answered, in a kind of groan. “I fell into the hands of savages who mutilated me. I am sorry. I see that it shocks you,” and he stood still, leaning heavily on the crutch, his whole attitude one of despair with which hope still struggled faintly.

If it existed, it was destined to swift doom.

Edith made no movement, only said, pointing to a chair by him, the same in which Dick had smoked his cigarettes:

“Won’t you sit down?”

He fell on to, rather than sat in the chair, his heavy crutch clattering to the floor beside him.

“Will you have some tea?” she went on distractedly. “Oh, there is no other cup, take mine.”

“Thank you,” he answered, waving his hand in refusal. “I am drinking from a cup of my own, and I find it bitter.”

For a few seconds there was silence between them, which she broke, for she felt that it was driving her mad.

“Tell me,” she said – “tell me – dear – “ the word stuck in her throat and came out with a kind of gasp, “what does all this mean? You see I am quite ignorant. I thought you dead; look at my dress.”

“Only what I have told you. I am an unfortunate man. I was set upon by an overwhelming force. I fought as best I could, until nearly all my people were killed, but unluckily I was stunned and taken prisoner. Afterwards they offered me the choice of Islam or death. I chose death; but they tortured me first, hacking off my foot and putting out my eye with hot

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irons, and in the end, when they were about to hang me, I was rescued.”

“Islam?” she broke in, shivering. “What is Islam?”

“In other words, the Mahommedan religion, which they wished me to accept.”

“And you let them do – those dreadful things to you rather than pretend to be a Mahommedan for a few days?”

“Of course,” he answered, with a kind of sullen pride. “What did you expect of me, Edith?”

“I? Oh, I don’t know; but it seems so terrible. Well, and who rescued you?”

“Some women in authority whom I had befriended. They came at the head of their tribesmen and killed the Arabs, and took me to their home and nursed me back to life.”

She looked up quickly.

“We heard about them,” she said; “one was young and beautiful; if a savage can be beautiful, was she not?”

“Yes,” he answered indifferently, “I suppose that Mea was beautiful, but she is not a savage, she is of much more ancient race and higher rank than ours – the lady Tama. I will tell you all about her some time.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Edith, “but I don’t know that she interests me.”

“She ought to,” he replied, “as she saved my life.” Then that subject dropped.

“Do you know,” she asked, “oh! do you know about your mother?”

“Yes, Edith, I drove to the house when I landed from the ship and heard. It was there I got your address,” and thrusting

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his hand into the side-pocket of the pea-coat, he produced the crumpled envelope. “I suppose that you were with her?” he added.

“No, not at the last.” “Who was, then?”

“No one except the nurse, I think. She had another stroke and became insensible, you know. I had left a fortnight before, as I could do no good and they wanted my room.”

Now for the first time resentment began to rise in Rupert’s patient heart, stirred up there by the knowledge that his beloved mother had been left to die in utter loneliness.

“Indeed,” he said, and there was a stern ring in his voice. “It might have been kinder had you stayed, which, as my wife, it was your place to do.”

“I thought that I was no longer your wife, Rupert, only your widow. Also, it’s not my fault, but I cannot bear sickness and all those horrors, I never could,” and she looked at his mutilated form and shuddered.

“Pray then that it may not be your lot to suffer them some day,” he said, in the same stern voice.

It frightened her, and she plunged into a new subject, asking:

“Have you heard that things have gone very badly for you? First, Lord Devene has an heir, a strong and healthy boy, so you will not succeed.”

“I am heartily glad to hear it,” he said, “may the child live and prosper.”

She stared at this amazing man, but finding nothing to say upon the point that would sound decent, went on:

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“Then you are almost disgraced, or rather your memory is. They say that you caused your mission to fail by mixing yourself up with women.”

“I read it in the papers,” he replied, “and it will not be necessary for me to assure you that it is a falsehood. I admit, however, that I made a mistake in giving escort to those two women, partly because they were in difficulties and implored my help, and partly because there are generally some women in such a caravan as mine pretended to be, and I believed that their presence would make it look more like the true thing. Also, I am of opinion that the sheik Ibrahim, who had an old grudge against me, would have attacked me whether the women were there or not. However this may be, my hands are clean” (it was the second time this day that Edith had heard those words, and she shivered at them), “I have done my duty like an honest man as best I could, and if I am called upon to suffer in body or in mind,” and he glanced at his empty trouser-leg, “as I am, well, it is God’s will, and I must bear it.”

“How can you bear it?” she asked, almost fiercely. “To be mutilated; to be made horrible to look at; to have your character as an officer ruined; to know that your career is utterly at an end; to be beggared, and to see your prospects destroyed by the birth of this brat – oh, how can you bear all these things? They drive me mad.”

“We have still each other,” he answered sadly.

She turned on him with a desperate gesture. She had never loved him, had always shrunk from him; and now – the kiss of another man still tingling upon her lips – oh! she loathed him – this one-eyed, hideous creature who had nothing left to

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give her but a tarnished name. She could never be his wife, it would kill her – and then the shame of it all, the triumph of the women who had been jealous of her beauty and her luck in marrying the distinguished heir of Lord Devene. She could not face it, and she must make that clear at once.

“No, no,” she gasped. “It sounds hard, but I must tell you. I can’t, I can’t – be your wife.”

He quivered a little, then sat still as stone.

“Why not, Edith?” he asked, in a cold, unnatural voice. “Oh! look in the glass and you will see – that horrible red

hole, and the other all red also.”

“I was totally blind for a while, and I’m ashamed to say it, but grief for my mother has brought back inflammation. It may pass. Perhaps they can do something for my looks.”

“But they cannot give you back your foot, and I hate a cripple. You know I always did. Also, the thing is impossible now; we should be beggars.”

“What, then, do you wish me to do?” he asked.

“Rupert,” she replied, in an intense whisper, flinging herself upon her knees before him, and looking up at him with wild, appealing eyes – “Rupert, be merciful, you are dead, remain dead, and let me be.”

“Tell me one thing, Edith,” he said. “Did you ever love me?” “No, I suppose not quite.”

“Then why did you marry me? For my position and prospects?”

“Yes, to some extent; also, I respected and admired you, and Lord Devene forced me to it, I don’t know why.”

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Again that slight shiver went through Rupert’s frame, and he opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. Evidently she did not know the facts, and why should he tell her of her own disgrace; he who had no wish for vengeance?

“Thank you for being so plain with me,” he said heavily. “I am glad that you have told me the truth, as I wish you well, and it may save you some future misery, that of being the wife of a man whom you find hideous and whom you never loved. Only, for your own sake, Edith, think a minute; it is your last chance. Things change in this world, don’t they? I have found that out. Well, they might change again, and then you might be sorry. Also, your position as the wife of a man who is only supposed to be dead will, in fact, be a false one, since at some future time he might be found to be alive.”

“I have thought,” she answered. “I must take the risks. You will not betray me, Rupert.”

“No,” he answered, in tones of awful and withering contempt. “I shall not follow your example, I shall not betray you. Take what little is mine, by inheritance or otherwise; it will prove to the world that I am really dead. But henceforth, Edith, I hate you, not with a hate that desires revenge, for I remember that we are still man and wife, and I will never lift a finger to harm you any more than I will break the bond that is and must remain until the death of one of us. Still, I tell you that all my nature and my spirit rise up against you. Did you swear to me that you loved me as much as once you said you did, I would not touch your beauty with my finger-tips, and never will I willingly speak to you again in this world or the next. Go your own way, Edith, as I go mine,” and heaving himself out of

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CHAPTER XVIII

THE HAPPY, HAPPY LIFE

When Rupert left the house in Brook Street, he walked on aimlessly down it, down Bond Street, across Piccadilly, where in the mist he was nearly knocked over by a cab, down St. James’ Street to Pall Mall, and along it till he came to the Army and Navy Club, of which he was a member. Here he passed in front of the portico whither he had unconsciously directed his steps, then remembering that he was dead and that it would never do for him to enter there, turned round hurriedly and bumped into a portly general under whom he had served, who was about to go up the steps of the club. The general, a choleric person, cursed him, then concluding from his crutch and wretched appearance that he was a poor, homeless cripple, felt ashamed of himself, and with some words of regret, thrust sixpence into his hand.

“Pray don’t apologise, General,” said Rupert, “it was my awkwardness.” Then he looked at the sixpence, and adding: “With your permission I will pass it on,” he gave it to a hun- gry-looking crossing-sweeper who waited hard by, and limped forward.

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The general stood amazed, for he knew the voice, but could not put a name to it.

“Hi!” he shouted, after the retreating figure, but Rupert realising his danger, went on quickly towards the Athenæum and was soon lost in the mist.

“Devilish odd thing,” said the General, as he strolled up the steps. “Whose voice was it? I know – Rupert Ullershaw’s!” Then he ran to the porter’s box and asked: “Has Colonel

Ullershaw been in the club?”

“No, General,” answered the porter, “he isn’t a member now; he’s dead. Killed in the Soudan, General, some months ago.”

“Oh, yes,” said the General, “I remember. He’s the fellow who made a mess of things. Good man too, but there was a woman in it. Well, hang me, if I haven’t seen his ghost without a leg and with a beard a yard long. Can’t mistake that voice. Heard it right across the square at Abu-Klea. Most astonishing thing.”

For years afterwards this meeting with the mutilated shade of Rupert Ullershaw was the general’s favourite ghost story, especially in future days when certain facts came to be common knowledge.

Rupert passed the Athenæum. With some trouble, for they were slippery, he negotiated the steps beyond the Duke of York’s column, then hurried on past the Horse Guards and the Foreign Office, till at length he reached the Embankment, and being very tired, sat down on a seat by the river. Before long a policeman came and disturbed him, asking what he was doing loitering there. He replied humbly enough that he be-

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lieved it was a public place, whereon the policeman stared at him as the general had done, and went by. Still he rose and walked forward till he came to where the shadows were deep between two lamps, for here the thickening fog gave him privacy, and placing his bag by him, leaned upon the parapet and listened to the murmur of the river beneath.

Then and there it was, now when the exertions of walking were done with, that the whole weight of his miseries struck Rupert full. His soul descended into hell; he saw and understood the awful truth. Wrecked bodily, ruined in reputation, deserted by the world, scorned as loathsome by Edith, Devene’s daughter, who had only married him for what he had to give, there was no outcast in all that cruel London more lonesome, more hopeless than he, who, not ten months before, had been one of its fêted and sought-after favourites. It was that day twelvemonth, New Year’s Eve, he remembered, that he had proposed to and been accepted by Edith, remembered also the words spoken to him then by Lady Devene and his mother, of which now he felt the full meaning, although he had paid little attention to them at the time. Those women understood; his love had blinded him.

What was there left for him to do – who had promised to “remain dead”? The lapping of the water beneath seemed to shape an answer. It spoke to him as the thud of the steamer and the beat of the train had spoken once before, and well he understood its meaning. All his hopes lay buried beneath that water of death, and there also were his mother and many a good friend and comrade. Why should he not seek them? Edith would be pleased, for then he would remain dead in-

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