The Way of the Spirit

THE WAY OF THE SPIRIT

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 rôle 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, entirely left him. He grew fat, and as is not uncommon with those in whom the southern blood is strong, who sit up

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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 man of somewhat unpleasing aspect, who no longer appealed in the slightest to Edith’s æsthetic 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 the last sparks of his proud and bitter spirit. Of a sudden, his only child – for no others were born

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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 the real reason.

“It is time you settled yourself in life, if ever you are going to do,” 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 recreation 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 fond of you.” “Used to be, you mean. I don’t think she is now.”

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“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 spo-

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ken 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 any-

thing?”

“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

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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

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CHAPTER XX

REVELATIONS

As it happened, Edith had just left London for a week to stay with friends in Cornwall, and therefore could not obey Lord Devene’s summons till after her return. When at length she did arrive, she was shocked at the change in his appearance.

“You think that I look ill?” he said, reading her mind. “Yes, I must say that I do, Cousin George,” she answered, as

she contemplated his snow-white hair, shrunken figure, and thin face worn with sorrow and weariness.

“Well, you see, I am no longer young. Threescore and ten are the full years of man, and I have just completed them. But that’s not the worst of it; the old sleeplessness is back upon me with a vengeance. I have scarcely closed my eyes for six nights. This last job, the loss of my poor boy, has finished me, and now I don’t care how quickly I follow him into the dark; the sooner the better, I think; yes, the sooner the better.”

“Don’t say that,” said Edith gently. “I hope that you have a good many years before you.”

“No, no, nor months, nor perhaps weeks,” he added slowly. “My treadmill is nearly finished, the accursed wheel is going

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to stop. But,” he went on swiftly, as though to prevent her answering him, “I have sent for you to talk about your affairs, not mine. Why will you not marry Dick Learmer?”

“Do you consider him a desirable man for a woman to marry, Cousin George?”

“No, I don’t. He has gone all to bits of late, and he doesn’t exactly give off an odour of sanctity, does he? In fact, if you ask me my private opinion as his relative, who has had the honour of supporting him more or less for many years, I should say that he was about as big a blackguard as you could find in London, and I have always wondered how you could care twopence about him.”

“And yet you suggest that I should marry him.”

“Well, you know he is going to be a rich man, and you might as well have your share. But I understand that you won’t.”

“No,” said Edith decidedly, “I won’t. He did fascinate me rather once, but I have got over that, and now I dislike him. It is curious how we change in these matters – only I wish I had seen the truth earlier.”

“Yes, so do I. If you had, perhaps you would have gone to Egypt when you thought fit to stay at home. Well, if you won’t commit bigamy, which I admit is an awkward thing to do, why not make it up with Rupert?”

Edith gasped and sank back in her chair.

“How do you – I mean, what do you know?” she exclaimed. “Has Dick told you?”

“Ho!” said this wise old man, drawing his white eyebrows together, “so Master Dick has had a finger in this pie too, has he? He has not only murdered Rupert; he has buried him also.”

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“Murdered!”

“What else do you call it when he got him sent off to Egypt on his wedding day upon a particularly dangerous mission, and when, on the failure of that mission and his reported death, he even took the opportunity to poison the minds of his chiefs, and so blacken his memory.”

“So he really did those things?” remarked Edith reflectively. “Certainly; I will give you chapter and verse for it if you like. But about Rupert.” He paused, and drew a bow at a ven-

ture. “What happened when you saw him?”

“So Dick has told you,” she said. “Well, if he will lie about one thing, he will lie about another. But why force me to repeat the story?”

“Because I should like to hear it first-hand. What happened, and when?”

“Over seven years ago,” answered Edith hoarsely, “Rupert came back, on New Year’s Eve, a Sunday, after Dick had been to lunch. He was dressed in horrible rough clothes, and his hair was long and tangled like that of a wild man. His foot had been cut off, and his left eye put out by those savages there in the Soudan. They tortured him because he would not become a Mahommedan.”

“Ah!” said Lord Devene, “personally I think that the Mahommedan religion has points, but – plucky fellow, Rupert; it might have recommended him to some women. Well?”

“Well, he was horrible to me. As a friend I could scarcely have borne him, but as a husband – oh! you know.”

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