The way of the spirit

by H. Rider Haggard

“Dead, Mr. Ullershaw, dead—accident—overdose of chloral they say! His lordship found her an hour ago, and the doctors have just left.”

Meanwhile, in the room above, Lord Devene stood alone, contemplating the still and awful beauty of the dead. Then rousing himself, he took the hearth-brush, and with it swept certain frail ashes of burnt paper down between the bars of the low grate so that they crumbled up and were no more seen.

“I never believed that she would dare to do it,” he thought to himself. “After all, she had courage, and she was right, I am worse than she was,—as she would judge. Well, I have won the game and am rid of her at last, and without scandal. So—let the dead bury their dead!”

When Rupert, who had come up from Woolwich that morning, reached the little house in Regent’s Park, which was his mother’s home, he found a letter awaiting him. It had been posted late on the previous night, and was unsigned and undated, but in Clara’s hand, being written on a plain sheet and enclosed, as a blind, in a conventional note asking him to luncheon. Its piteous, its terrible contents need not be described; suffice it to say that from them he learned all the truth. He read it twice, then had the wit to destroy it by fire. In that awful hour of shock and remorse the glamour and the madness departed from him, and he, who at heart was good enough, understood whither they had led his feet.

After this Rupert Ullershaw was very ill, so ill that he lay in bed a long time, wandered in his mind, and was like to die. But his powerful constitution carried his young body through the effects of a blow from which inwardly he never really quite recovered. In the end, when he was getting better, he told his mother everything. Mrs. Ullershaw was a strong, reserved woman, with a broad, patient face and smooth, iron-grey hair; one who had endured much and through it kept her simple faith and trust in Providence—yes, even when she thought that the evil in her son’s blood was mastering him, that evil from which no Ullershaw was altogether free, and that he was beginning to walk in the footsteps of his father and of that ill guide and tempter, his cousin, Lord Devene. She heard him out, her quiet eyes fixed upon his face that was altered almost into age by passion, illness and repentance—heard him without a word.

Then she made one of the great efforts of her life, and in the stress of her appeal even became eloquent. She told Rupert all she knew of those brilliant, erratic, unprincipled Ullershaws from whom he sprang, and counted before his eyes the harvest of Dead Sea apples that they had gathered. She showed him how great was his own wrong-doing, and how imminent the doom from which he had but just escaped—that doom which had destroyed the unhappy Clara after she was meshed in the Ullershaw net, and corrupted by their example and philosophy which put the pride of life and gratification of self above obedience to law human or Divine. She pointed out to him that he had received his warning, that he stood at the parting of the ways, that his happiness and welfare for all time depended upon the path he chose. She, who rarely spoke of herself, even appealed to him to remember his mother, who had endured so much at the hands of his family, and not to bring her grey hairs with sorrow to the grave; to live for work and not for pleasure; to shun the society of idle folk who can be happy in the midst of corruption, and who are rich in everything except good deeds.

“Set another ideal before your eyes, my son,” she said, “that of renunciation, and learn that when you seem to renounce you really gain. Follow the way of the Spirit, not that of the Flesh. Conquer yourself and the weakness which comes of your blood, however hard that may be. Self-denial is not really difficult, and its fruits are beautiful; in them you will find peace. Life is not long, my boy, but remorse may be a perpetual agony. So live, then, that having obtained forgiveness for what you have done amiss, it may not be there to torment you when you come to die.”

As it chanced, her words fell in a fruitful soil well prepared to receive them—a strong soil, also—one which could grow corn as well as weeds.

“Mother,” Rupert answered simply. “I will. I swear to you that whatever it costs me I will,” and stretching out his wasted arms he drew down her grey head and kissed her on the brow.

This history will show how he kept that sick-bed promise under circumstances when few would have blamed him for its breach. Romantic as Rupert Ullershaw’s life was destined to be, thenceforward it was quite unstained.