The Way of the Spirit

CHAPTER VIII

EDITH’S CRUSHED LILIES

“Rupert,” said his mother, “I want you to give me your arm to my room, I am going to bed.”

“Certainly,” he answered; “but wait one minute, dear. I have to take that eight o’clock train to-morrow morning, so I will just say good-bye to Tabitha, as I shan’t come back again.” Mrs. Ullershaw breathed more freely. If there were anything in the wind about Edith he would not be talking about

the eight o’clock train. “Go,” she said; “I’ll wait.”

Lady Devene was by herself, since amongst that gay throng of young people no one took much note of her, seated in a big oak chair on a little dais at the end of the hall far away from the fire and hot water coils, for she found the heat oppressive. As he made his way towards her even the preoccupied Rupert could not help noticing how imposing she looked in her simple black dress, which contrasted so markedly with her golden hair and white and massive face, set up there above them all, elbow on knee and chin on hand, her blue eyes gazing over their heads at nothingness. In reality, the miserable woman was greeting the New Year in her own fashion, not with gai-

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ety and laughter, but with repentance for her sins during that which was past, and prayers for support during that which was to come.

“Ach, Rupert!” she said, rousing herself and smiling pleasantly as she always did at him, “it is kind of you to leave those young people and their jokes to come to talk with the German frau, for that is what they call me among themselves, and indeed what I am.”

“I am afraid,” he said, “I have only come to say good-night, or rather good-bye, for I must go to town to-morrow morning before you will be down.”

She looked at him sharply.

“So I have driven you away with my tale of troubles. Well, I thought that I should, and you are wise to leave this house where there is so much misery, dead and living, for no good thing can happen in it, no good thing can come out of it – “

“Indeed,” broke in Rupert, “that is not why I am going at all, it is because – “ and he told her of the visit he must pay.

“You do not speak fibs well like the rest of them, Rupert; you have some other reason, I see it on your face, something to do with that dreadful Dick, I suppose, or his – ach! what is the English word – his flame, Edith. What? Has she been playing tricks with you too? If so, beware of her; I tell you, that woman is dangerous; she will breed trouble in the world like his lordship.”

Rupert felt very angry, then he looked at that calm, fateful face which a few hours before he had seen so impassioned, and all his anger died, and was replaced by a fear which chilled him from head to heel. He felt that this brooding, lonely wom-

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an had insight, born perhaps of her own continual griefs; that she saw deep into the heart of things. He who understood her, who sympathised with, even if he did not entirely adopt her stern religious views, who knew that prayer and suffering are the parents of true sight, felt sure that this sight was hers. At least he felt it for a moment, then the unpleasant conviction passed away, for how could its blackness endure in the light of the rosy optimism of new-risen and successful love?

“You are morbid,” he said, “and although I am sure you do not wish to be so, that makes you unjust, makes you pass hard judgments.”

“Doubtless it is true,” she replied, with a sigh, “and I thank you for telling me my faults. Yes, Rupert, I am morbid, unjust, a passer of hard judgments, who must endure hard judgment,” and she bowed her stately, gold-crowned head as before the appointed stroke of wrath, then held out her hand and said simply: “Good-bye, Rupert! I do not suppose that you will often come to see me more – ach! why should you? Still if you do, you will be welcome, for on you I pass no hard judgments, and never shall, whatever they say of you.”

So he shook her hand and went away saddened.

Giving his mother his arm, for she was very infirm, Rupert led her quietly out of a side door and down the long passages to her room, which was next to his own at the end of the house, for stairs being difficult to her, she slept on the ground floor, and he at hand to keep her company.

“Mother,” he said, when he had put her in her chair and stirred the fire to a blaze, “I have something to tell you.”

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She looked up quickly, for her alarm had returned, and said: “What is it, Rupert?”

“Don’t look frightened, dear,” he replied, “nothing bad, something very good, very happy. I am engaged to be married to Edith, and I have come to ask your blessing on me, or rather on both of us, for she is now a part of me.”

“Oh, Rupert, you have that always,” she answered, sinking back in her chair; “but I am astonished.”

“Why?” he asked, in a vexed voice, for he had expected a flow of enthusiasm that would match his own, not this chilly air of wonderment.

“Because – of course, nobody ever told me so – but I always understood that it was Dick Learmer whom Edith cared for, that is why I never thought anything of her little empressé ways with you.”

Again Rupert was staggered. Dick – always Dick, first from Lady Devene and now from his mother. What could be the meaning of it? Then again optimism came to his aid, he who knew full surely that Dick was nothing to Edith.

“You are mistaken there for once, mother,” he said, with a cheerful laugh; “I knew from the first what she thought about Dick, for she spoke very seriously to me of him and his performances in a way she would never have done if there were anything in this silly idea.”

“Women often do speak seriously of the bad behaviour of the man of whom they are fond, especially to one whom they think may influence him for good,” replied his mother, with the wistful smile which she was wont to wear when thinking of her own deep affection for a man who had deserved it little.

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“Perhaps,” he said. “All I have to say is that if ever there was anything – and I know there wasn’t – it is as dead as last month’s moon.”

Mrs. Ullershaw thought to herself that this simile drawn from the changeful moon, that waxes anew as surely as it wanes, was scarcely fortunate. But she kept a watch upon her lips.

“I am very glad to hear it,” she said, “and no doubt it was all a mistake, since, of course, if she had wished it, she might have married Dick long ago, before you came into her life at all. Well, dearest, I can only say that I wish you every happiness, and pray that she may be as good a wife to you as I know you will be husband to her. She is lovely,” she went on, as though summing up Edith’s best points, “one of the most graceful and finished women whom I have ever seen; she is very clever in her own way, too, though perhaps not in yours; thoughtful and observant. Ambitious also, and will therefore make an excellent wife for a man with a career. She is good-tempered and kind, as I know, for we have always got on well during the years we have lived together. Yes, you will be considered very fortunate, Rupert.”

“These are her advantages, what are her drawbacks?” he asked shrewdly, feeling that his mother was keeping something from him, “though I must say at once that in my eyes she has none.”

“Which is at it should be, Rupert. Well, I will tell you frankly, so that you may guard against them if I am right. Edith likes pleasure and the good things of the world, as, after all, is only natural, and she is extravagant, which perhaps in certain

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circumstances will not matter. Again, I hope you will never fall ill, for she is not a good nurse, not from unkindness, but because she has a constitutional horror of all ill-health or unsightliness. I have seen her turn white at meeting a cripple even, and I don’t think that she has ever quite liked sitting with me since I had that stroke, especially while it disfigured my face and made the lower eyelid drop.”

“We all have failings which we can’t help,” he answered; “natural antipathies that are born in us, and I am glad to say I am fairly sound at present. So I don’t think much of that black list, mother. Anything to add to it?”

She hesitated, then said:

“Only one thing, dear. It does strike me as curious that such a girl as Edith should be so attached to men like Dick Learmer and Lord Devene, for she is fond of them both.”

“Relationship, I suppose; also the latter has been very kind to her, and doubtless she is grateful.”

“Yes, most kind; indeed, he was her guardian until she came of age, and has practically supported her for years. But it isn’t gratitude, it is sympathy between her and him. They are as alike in character, mentally, I mean, as – as they are in face.” Rupert laughed, for to compare the blooming Edith with the faded, wrinkled Devene, or even her quick humour that turned men and things to mild ridicule, with his savage cynicism which tore them both to pieces and stamped upon their

fragments, seemed absurd.

“I can’t see the slightest resemblance,” he said. “You are cultivating imagination in your old age, mother.”

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She looked up to answer, then thought a moment, and remarked:

“I daresay that you are perfectly right, Rupert, and that these things are all my fancy; only, my dear boy, try to make her go to church from time to time, that can’t do any woman harm. Now I have done with criticisms, and if I have made a few, you must forgive me; it is only because I find it hard to think that any woman can be worthy of you, and of course the best of us are not perfect, except to a lover. On the whole, I think that I may congratulate you, and I do so from my heart. God bless you both; you, my son, and Edith, my daughter, for as such I shall regard her. Now, dear, good-night, I am tired. Ring the bell for the maid, will you?”

He did so, and then by an afterthought said:

“You remember that I have to go away. You will speak to Edith, won’t you?”

“Of course, my love, when Edith speaks to me,” the old lady replied, with gentle dignity. “But why, under the circumstances, are you going?”

At that moment the maid entered the room, so he gave no answer, only made a few remarks about the manner of his mother’s journey back to town and kissed her in good-bye.

When the maid had left again Mrs. Ullershaw, as was her custom, said her prayers, offering up petitions long and earnest for the welfare of her beloved only son, and that the woman whom he had chosen might prove a blessing to him. But from those prayers she could take no comfort, they seemed to fall back upon her head like dead things, rejected, or unheard, she knew not which. Often she had thought to herself how happy

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she would be when Rupert came to tell her that he had chosen a wife, yet now that he had chosen, she was not happy.

Oh, she would tell the truth to her own heart since it must never pass her lips. She did not trust this gay and lovely woman; she thought her irreligious, worldly, and self-seeking; she believed that she had engaged herself to Rupert because he was the heir to a peerage and great wealth, distinguished also; not because she loved him. Although her son was of it, she hated the stick whence Edith sprang; as she knew now, from the first Ullershaw, who founded the great fortunes of the family, in this way or that they had all been bad, and Edith, she was certain, had not escaped that taint of blood. Even in Rupert, as the adventure of his youth proved, it was present, and only by discipline and self-denial had he overcome his nature. But Edith and self-denial were far apart. Yes; a cold shadow fell across her prayers, and it was cast by the beautiful form of Edith – Edith who held Rupert’s destiny in her hands.

Within a few feet of her Rupert also offered up his petitions, or rather his pæan of thanksgiving and praise for the glory that had fallen from Heaven upon his mortal head, for the pure and beautiful love which he had won that should be his lamp through life and in death his guiding-star.

* * *

A while after Rupert had gone, half an hour perhaps, Edith, noticing that Dick had left the hall, as she thought to see off the last of the departing guests, took the opportunity to slip away to bed since she wished for no more of his company that night. Yet she was not destined to escape it, for as she passed the door of the library on her way up stairs, that same room in

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which Rupert had proposed to her, she found Dick standing there.

“Oh,” he said, “I was looking for you. Just come in and tell me if this belongs to you. I think you must have left it behind.” Carelessly, without design or thought, she stepped into the room, whereon he closed the door, and as though by accident

placed himself between it and her.

“Well, what is it?” she asked, for her curiosity was stirred; she thought that she might have dropped something during her interview with Rupert. “Where is it? What have I lost?”

“That’s just what I want to ask you,” he answered, with a scarcely suppressed sneer. “Is it perhaps what you are pleased to call your heart?”

“I beg your pardon?” said Edith interrogatively.

“Well, on the whole, you may have reason to do so. Come, Edith, no secrets between old friends. Why do you wear that ring upon your finger? It was on Ullershaw’s this morning.”

She reflected a moment, then with characteristic courage came to the conclusion that she might as well get it over at once. The same instinct that had prompted her to become engaged to Rupert within half an hour of having made up her mind to the deed, made her determine to take the opportunity to break once and for all with her evil genius, Dick.

“Oh,” she answered calmly, “didn’t I tell you? I meant to in the hall. Why, for the usual reason that one wears a ring upon that finger – because I am engaged to him.”

Dick went perfectly white, and his black eyes glowed in his head like half-extinguished fires.

“You false – “

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