The way of the spirit

by H. Rider Haggard

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?”