The way of the spirit

by H. Rider Haggard

“Look at the end of your infernal, unsportsmanlike tricks,” said Rupert, his eyes blazing with anger. “You might have killed her.”

“I am dreadfully sorry,” answered Dick (and he was), “but really I don’t see how I am responsible for the accident. It must have been your bird that struck her.”

“It was not my bird, and you know it. Loader, who shot that pheasant?”

“Mr. Learmer, sir. It was coming over you very high, but Mr. Learmer fired before you could, and killed it.”

Just then Edith staggered to her feet, looking very white.

“Go back to your stand, Dick,” she said, “Rupert will help me home. Give me your arm, Rupert.”

So very gently, half-supporting her as he had done many a wounded man, Rupert led her to the house, which was not far away, in his grief and confusion speaking tender words to her as they went, even to the length of calling her “dear” and “dearest.” Edith did not answer him, who had a good excuse for keeping silent, although in reality she was much more frightened than hurt. But on the other hand, neither did she attempt to escape from the arm that was placed about her waist to bear her weight.

When she had reached her room, taken off her things and rubbed some liniment on the bruise—for she refused to allow the doctor to be sent for—Edith sat down in a chair before the fire and began to think. The crisis was at hand, that bird from the skies had precipitated it. After those words of Rupert’s, things could not stay where they were. He must propose to her. But the question was—should she accept him? She had been debating the point with herself that very morning, and practically had answered it in the negative. Notwithstanding Lord Devene’s injunctions and the money which depended upon her obedience, so consumedly had Rupert bored her of late, so greatly did she dislike the idea of him as a lover and a husband, so infinite was the distance between them although his passion blinded him to the fact, that she had made up her mind to take the risks and have done with it all, to tell him that she had always looked upon him “as a friend and cousin,” no more. Of course, under the circumstances, this would have been the kindest course towards Rupert, but that was a matter with which Edith never troubled her head. She looked at the question from the point of view of her own comfort and advantage and no other.

Well, this was her conclusion of the morning. The problem was—did it still hold good at the fall of night? She thought not. After all, Edith had the instincts of a lady, and this incident of the shooting, especially that of his pretending that it was not he who had shot the bird, revealed to her very clearly that in addition to his worthlessness and vices, Dick lacked those of a gentleman. That he was a coward also, who feigned ignorance of her hurt because he feared Rupert’s anger, although she knew well that he must have been longing to run to her, whose one redeeming virtue in her eyes was that he worshipped the ground she walked on. Now Rupert was a gentleman to his finger-tips, strong, tender, and true, and with him she would be safe all her life. More, her anxieties would be at an end; probably she would become a peeress, the mistress of great rank and fortune, both of which she desired intensely; at the worst, she would be provided for, and the wife of a distinguished man who loved her, and who therefore would put up with much.

Yet Edith hesitated, for all these good things must be bought at the price of Rupert’s constant company for years and years until one of them deceased. She was very unhappy and—her shoulder hurt. She wished that something would come to decide her doubts, to take the responsibility out of her hands. Under the circumstances, many girls might have fallen back upon petitions for light and guidance to the Power that they believed to direct their destinies; but this was not Edith’s way. Lord Devene’s teaching had sunk deep into her heart, and she lacked faith in anything save the great blind, terrible, tumultuous world, whereon, born as she thought, of the will of the flesh alone, she flittered from darkness into darkness.