The way of the spirit

by H. Rider Haggard

These words seemed to stun Rupert. He felt the weight of the blow without appreciating its significance. Three times did he re-read them. Then at last their full meaning came home to him, and with it a knowledge that he must control himself, that he must say or do nothing violent, show no strong emotion even, for those two other men in the carriage, whose curiosity, it was clear, had been deeply excited concerning him, were watching him over the tops of their newspapers. He would read on and think afterwards.

It is very possible that my late wife Clara, with whom you will remember you used to be friendly in your youth, may have expressed to you, as she often did to others, her jealousy and hatred of Marian Bonnythorne. It was well-founded, though Clara, from whom I was practically separated for many years before her death, had no real cause to complain of the matter. Nor indeed had Bonnythorne, who, after a long course of neglect, deserted his wife to go into a monastery, leaving her to me to support. You will not wish for details, as my present action will assure you of the truth of what I write. Nor do I intend to make any excuses. I look back to my intimacy with Marian Bonnythorne, of whom I was truly fond and who was fond of me, as the pleasantest episode in an existence that, notwithstanding my worldly advantages, I have not found delightful. I am very glad that Edith was born, as it is probable that she will prove the only issue whom I shall leave, and the fact of her illegitimacy does not in the least affect me, who have no high opinion of our matrimonial system. I regard Edith, indeed, with as much affection as though I could acknowledge her to be my child before the world, which, for her sake, I cannot do.

To proceed. It will now be clear to you why I forwarded this marriage between you and my daughter by every means in my power; why also I have kept the truth from both of you, fearing lest, did you know it, some of the absurd notions of which I observe you to be a victim, might lead you to be mean enough to break your engagement.

I have no reason, Rupert, to hold you in special regard. Of one matter I will not speak; indeed, though not of your own will—if you had one in those days—you did me a good turn there. I bear you no grudge, as I trust you will bear me none when you fold up this letter. But there is another cause for our want of sympathy. I have earnestly desired to have sons of my own, an inbred weakness which I confess has become almost a mania, but when I look for those sons, in their place I see you. You will inherit the rank and great wealth which should have belonged to them. It is therefore obvious and natural that I should wish my only child to share these with you, and her children to take them in their turn. One word more.

I respect you. I think you have grown into a good man according to your lights, although they are not mine, and you have done what none of us have succeeded in doing before, earned yourself an honourable position by your own exertions. Therefore I can with confidence and satisfaction leave Edith in your hands, especially as you have chanced to become earnestly attached to her, and as otherwise she would in all probability have fallen into those of that scamp, Dick Learmer, a man of whom I warn you to beware.—

Very truly yours,

DEVENE.

P.S. I am exceedingly sorry that this contretemps about your being ordered to Egypt should have happened at such a moment. You should have insisted upon Edith accompanying you, for carpe diem and its joys is an excellent motto, and it is unwise to leave behind you a wife who is only so in name. But as usual, your own obstinacy and quixotic notions have stood in your way, since when Edith offered to go this morning, you forbade her to do so in my presence. I could say no more, and you must abide the issue. Believe me, I earnestly wish your safe return for both your sakes.

D.

Rupert replaced the letter in its envelope and thrust it into his pocket. There was nothing to be said; nothing to be done. Fate had him in its net. But oh! how would it all end? He asked it of the night; he asked it of his own heart; but no answer came. Only the beat of the wheels as they rushed forward shaped themselves to words and said to him: