The way of the spirit

by H. Rider Haggard

But Providence showed no sign of stirring. Then why not help it? At first Dick shrank from the idea, to which, however, his mind became accustomed by degrees. Just for amusement, he considered half-a-dozen ways in which the thing might be done, but sinking the morality of the question, put them all aside as too risky. The world called such deeds by an ugly name, and if they were found out, avenged them in a very ugly fashion. Indeed, the fate of anyone who was suspected of having interfered with Rupert in this oasis would doubtless prove particularly unpleasant. It was not to be thought of, but if only Fate would come to the rescue, could he help it if by some fortunate chance he were appointed its instrument?

The student of life may sometimes have noticed that there does seem to exist an evil kind of entity which, with Dick, we may call Fate, that is on the look-out for trustworthy tools of his character, and now, just in the nick of time, that Fate made its bow to him. It happened thus. Dick had several natives with him, one of whom he had hired as a dragoman at Tewfikiyeh. When they started on their ride across the desert, this man seemed well enough, but two days after they reached the oasis he began to be ailing. Apparently he suffered from ague and nervous depression, after which he developed glandular swellings in various parts of his body.

At first Dick, who, it will be remembered, had some acquaintance with medicine, thought that he was going to be very ill, but in the end the swellings burst, and he gradually recovered. When he was about again, Dick asked the man, who could speak English, what he considered had been the matter with him, whereon he replied that, although he said nothing of it for fear lest his companions should turn him out, he believed that he had been attacked by plague, as the day before he left Tewfikiyeh, where there were several cases, he had gone to visit a relative who died of it while he was in the house.

“Indeed,” said Dick, “then I bid you say nothing of it now, for though I think you are mistaken, if once that idea got round, these people would quarantine us all upon the mountain-top, or turn us into the desert.”

Then, as no one else seemed to be unwell, he tried to dismiss the matter from his mind, nor did he mention it at all.

A few nights later; it was on the seventh day after Edith, weeping on her angarib, had made her confession to Tabitha, Dick returned from the town in a very evil temper. Feeling that a crisis was at hand, and that he must come to terms while he could, he had attempted to make more confidences to Rupert, and had even hinted that if the latter were interested in them, there existed certain letters written by Edith which he might like to read. Rupert said nothing, so taking his silence as an encouragement, Dick went on:

“Look here, Rupert; speaking as one man to another, you understand, of course, that I am in a most difficult position. I thought myself the heir to about a million pounds’ worth of property, but the happy circumstance of your having survived deprives me of everything. I thought also that I was the proud possessor of the reversion to your wife’s affections; indeed, she left me little doubt upon that point, for which of course you, who were nominally dead, cannot blame her. These, too, must go with the rest, since naturally Edith knows on which side her bread is buttered. Now I make you a business proposition: You provide me with what I must have, enough to live on—let us say, a capital sum of £300,000, which you can very well spare, and we will balance our accounts once and for all.”

“And if I don’t?” asked Rupert quietly, for he wished to get to the bottom of this man’s baseness.

“Then,” answered Dick, “I am afraid that instead of a sincere friend Edith and yourself will find me, let us say, a candid critic. There are many ill-natured and envious people who would be glad to read those letters, and, like the Sibylline books, they may go up in price.”

“Have you them here?” asked Rupert.