The way of the spirit

by H. Rider Haggard

“All right,” he answered, “don’t frighten Edith; I will take precautions.”

He did, with the result that it was past two o’clock before he could find time for food, he who had eaten nothing since seven on the previous night.

For the next three days, knowing her terror of infectious diseases, every morning he sent a message to Edith that she must not see him, but with Tabitha and, of course, with Mea, he associated as before, since neither of them would listen to his warnings. There had been no further cases amongst Dick’s people, or elsewhere, and although his camels were now ready, Dick himself had not yet returned. It was reported that he was enjoying excellent sport on the hills.

Rupert thought very little more about the plague, however, for he had other things on his mind. Within four days the month would be up, and he must give his answer to the great question. Edith, whom for her own sake he still refused to see, had taken a desperate step; she had sent him a letter.

Why do you keep me away from you? (she wrote). Of course I know that I used to be afraid of illnesses, but I don’t care any more about them now. Sometimes I think it would be a good thing if I did catch the plague and it made an end of me and my wretched life. Rupert, I know you forbade me to speak to you about these matters until next week, but you never said that I mightn’t write, and I will write upon the chance that you may read. Rupert, I am a miserable woman, as I deserve to be, for I have been very wicked. I acknowledge it all now. Dick has been my curse. When I was still quite a child, he began to make love to me; you know how handsome and taking he was then, and I fell under his influence, which for years I could never shake off. I tried to, for I knew that he was bad, but it was no good, he attracted me, as a magnet attracts a bit of iron. Then you came home, and I really did admire you and respect you, and I was very flattered that you should care for me. Also, I will tell you all the truth, I thought that you were going to be a peer and wealthy, and that you had a great career before you, and I wished to be the wife of such a man. Dick of course was furiously jealous; he insulted me upon the very day that you proposed to me, and because I would not be turned from my purpose, he set to work to avenge himself upon us both. It was he who gave the War Office the idea of sending you out on that wretched mission, and who afterwards took away your good name.

But, Rupert, I did not know all this at the time when you were supposed to be dead. I let Dick, who seemed to be turning out better then, regain his influence over me. That day on which you came home I had become secretly engaged to him. This will help to explain what followed. Really, I was out of my mind and not responsible. Afterwards, in my distress, I wrote Dick some foolish letters, which he has held over my head ever since I refused to have anything more to do with him. Also, I would have asked your pardon and tried to make it up with you if I had known where you were gone. But I did not know, and I was afraid to inquire for fear of betraying the shameful facts.

Rupert, it is true that I have grown to hate Dick, as much as I once loved him, if I ever did love him. Since I have found out how vile and treacherous he is, that it was he who set to work to blacken your reputation, as afterwards he has done by mine, and the rest of it, I have loathed him; but he follows me like my shadow and threatens me. I cannot cast him off, and if he says things about me, and shows those letters, who will believe that I am innocent—I with whom my own husband will have nothing to do? I shall be a ruined woman. Even here he has followed me; yes, and the wicked wretch tried to murder you, I am sure, by giving you that sickness. Well, thank Heaven! he seems to have failed there.

Rupert, my husband, before the God that made me, I tell you the honest truth. I love you now, body and soul; it was only Dick that stood between us, and he is gone from me for ever. I am miserable because I may not be near you, and, if you will forgive all the past, and come back to me, no man in the world shall have a better wife, or one more obedient to his wishes. I know it is much to ask; I know I do not deserve it, and I know, too, that this beautiful lady Mea loves you, and that she is as true and good as you are. Oh! Rupert, Rupert, don’t break my heart; don’t turn me out to wander again in the wilderness alone. If so, I do not know what will happen to me, but I think that I shall go to the bad, like many another poor creature. At any rate, it may be amusing while it lasts. Rupert, be merciful, as you hope for mercy.—Your wife (for I suppose that I still have a right to sign myself so),

EDITH.

This letter produced a great effect upon Rupert, as its writer had hoped that it would do. When he received it he was already low-spirited, but after reading it his depression became acute. The piteous way in which Edith made the best of a bad case; her evident and honest repentance, and the curious heart-change which, as she declared and as he half believed, now inclined her towards himself, all touched him deeply, especially the repentance.