The way of the spirit

by H. Rider Haggard

“Ach!” said the Dowager Lady Devene, when Edith expatiated to her upon the hardship and dangers of the journey which she must undertake alone—“ach! if that is all, I will come with you as a companion. I am not afraid, and I have always wished to see the land where Pharaoh oppressed the Israelites. We will start next week, and in a month I hope to see my dear Rupert again—almost as much as you do,” she added, looking at Edith sideways.

Now as this speech was made before several other people, Edith had no choice but to acquiesce, and indeed it had come to this—she also wished to see Rupert. Even in her somewhat flinty heart remorse had been at work of late years; also, she had wearied of her lonely life, and wished to put a stop to the scandals that were floating about concerning her, which, as she foresaw, would soon culminate in her being exposed to much annoyance from Dick. In fact, he was already threatening to blackmail her and making unpleasant remarks as to certain indiscreet letters that she had written to him after Rupert’s visit to London, in which that visit and other matters showing the extreme intimacy which existed between them were alluded to not too obscurely. So she arranged to depart for the East, accompanied by Lady Devene.

Before they sailed, she received a packet from the late Lord Devene’s bankers, which, they stated by the mouth of a confidential clerk, they had been directed to deliver to her one month after his death, and not before. On opening it she found that it contained that statement concerning herself made by her mother, to which Lord Devene had alluded. Also, there were two letters from him, one addressed to her and the other to Rupert, the latter being left open that she might read it.

That to herself was brief, and ran:

I have given you all I can. Accept this wealth as a make-weight to the initial wrong I did to you by becoming your father. I was weak enough to hope that when I revealed that fact to you, you would show some affection towards a lonely and broken-hearted man. You, however, took another view, irritated perhaps by our previous somewhat acrimonious conversation. I grieve to say that on such argumentative occasions I have never been quite able to master my tongue, and as you remarked, you seem to have inherited the weakness. At least I have not cared to expose myself to a second rebuff. I do not blame you, but it is true that from that day forward I made up my mind to end an existence which has become hateful to me. If its dregs could have been sweetened by the love of one who is, after all, my child, I should probably have been content to endure its physical and mental miseries whilst awaiting their natural termination. But it has been destined otherwise, so like some of those old Romans whom I so much admire, my day done, I go from this hated scene out into the utter darkness whence I came. Good-bye! May you be happier than your father,

D.

It was a horrible letter for a daughter to receive from the author of her being, but fortunately it did not affect Edith so much as would have been the case with many women. She felt that there was a certain injustice about the thing. To begin with, her father had taken her at her word after the incomprehensible male habit. Then she had spoken when utterly irritated, first by his bitter gibes and sarcasms, and secondly by being suddenly informed that she was quite another person than she had supposed herself to be for over thirty years. Still, now when it was too late, she felt grieved. It was generally Edith’s lot to be grieved—too late. Yes, she was grieved, no more, when others might have been paralysed with horror and unavailing remorse.

Afterwards, she took out of its envelope and read the letter to Rupert. Here it is:

DEAR DEVENE,—For I give you the name which will be yours when you read this, if you should ever do so.

I have learned all your story, or if not all of it, at least enough to show me how accurate was the estimate which I formed of you long ago. Had not fortune fought against you, you would have been a great man, if such a creature really exists, which I doubt, since in nine hundred and ninety-nine cases out of a thousand, ‘great’ is only a popular translation of the vulgar word ‘successful.’