The way of the spirit

by H. Rider Haggard

He gave her gifts also. The first of them was a huge blue scarabæus, set in gold, which, he informed her, he had himself removed from the breast of a body, where it had rested for three thousand years. Edith loathed that scarabæus, both for its associations and because it did not match any of her dresses; also because it assured her that the day of decision was drawing nigh: Yet she was obliged to wear it sometimes, until she managed to let it fall upon the pavement, where it was broken to bits, which bits she showed to Rupert, as it appeared to him, almost with tears. He consoled her, though his heart was wrung, for the thing was really good, and next week in triumph produced another and a larger one!

Such were the humours of the situation; its tragedies, very real ones, were to come!

It happened thus: Lord Devene, both for change of air and because he hated Christmas and everything to do with it, departed, as was his custom at that time of year, to spend a month at Naples. Thereon Lady Devene, as was her custom, migrated to Devene, the family place in Sussex. Now although the estates here were not so very large, for most of the Devene real property consisted of an acre or two of houses in Shoreditch, a colliery, and the ancestral brewery, the house was magnificent and extensive. To be there alone oppressed even Lady Devene’s phlegmatic temperament, so she asked various people who were more or less congenial to share her solitude. More especially did she insist that Rupert and his mother should come, for she liked them both, particularly Rupert. This involved the asking of Edith, whom she did not like, while Dick Learmer would be present as a matter of course in his capacity of secretary and factotum.

Rupert did not want to accept, although the shooting was excellent and he was fond of shooting. Even when Edith said that she should go anyhow—for in secret she longed for the relief of a little of Dick’s society, in love as he was—he still hesitated. Then she remarked that it would be scarcely kind of him to deprive his mother of her only outing, since, if he stayed in London, she would stay also. So in the end Rupert yielded, for circumstances were too much for him. Yet he hated being obliged to accept this hospitality. Lord Devene might be absent, it was true, but the saturnine if friendly butler, and many painful memories, remained. Once before, when he was nineteen, Rupert had spent a Christmas at Devene!

It was New Year’s Eve. That day, which was fine and frosty, was devoted to the shooting of the home coverts, where, as they lay extremely well upon the ridges of hills with little valleys between and not a pheasant had as yet been so much as fired at in them, the sport was very fine. Some of the ladies who were staying in the house, and amongst them Edith, came out after luncheon to see the shooting of the last beat, which was the great stand of the day, for it took over an hour to do, and if the guns were good, generally between three and four hundred pheasants were killed there. Here the woods ran down to a point, beyond which lay a valley. The guns were posted close together on the further side of this valley in a gorge that led to a covert called the Wilderness, since, had they stood at the bottom, the pheasants would have passed over practically out of shot. As it was, they all sped on down the gorge, heading for the Wilderness a quarter of a mile away, and still travelling at a great height. Indeed, it was a good shot who brought down one in three of these pheasants at this time of year when they flew so boldly.

Rupert’s place was at the centre of the gorge where the birds came highest, and a little above him, about five-and-twenty yards to his right, stood Dick Learmer, who, of course, arranged the shoot, and who was what in sporting parlance is called an “artist” at driven birds, though not so good when they had to be walked up, as he was easily tired and put off his form. He had placed Rupert in this very difficult spot, which was in full view of all the line of guns and one generally reserved for some great performer, because he was sure that, being totally unaccustomed to that kind of sport, he would make an exhibition of himself, especially as he had only one gun which must soon get very hot.

As it chanced, however, the young man who carried Rupert’s cartridges, knowing this, lent him a thick dogskin glove for his left hand and ventured to give him a little good advice, namely, to stick to cocks, which were more easily seen, and of these only to fire at such birds as were coming straight over him. Rupert thanked him and chatted with Edith, who was his companion, until the sport began, remarking that it was very kind of Dick to have given him such a good place, which should have been occupied by a better man.

Presently the pheasants began to fly, and in that still air, cold with coming frost, went straight as arrows for their refuge in the Wilderness. The first cock came over at an enormous height.

“Fire ten yards ahead of it, sir,” said the wise young man “and chuck back.”

Rupert obeyed, and as his cartridges chanced to be loaded with No. 4 shot, brought down the bird, which fell stone-dead far behind him.