RENUNCIATION
Rupert went into the outbuilding where the sick man lay and examined
him. His eyes were bloodshot, his tongue was black, he had glandular
swellings, and his temperature was nearly 106. Moreover, he was passing
into a state of coma. He felt his pulse, which was dropping, and shook
his head. In his varied experience as an amateur doctor he had never
seen a case like this.
Leaving the man, Rupert went into the house to mix some quinine, for he
knew not what else to give him. On the table a book lay open which he
recognised as a medical work, and while he manipulated the quinine and
the water, his eye caught the heading at the top of the page. It was
“Plague.” That gave him an idea, and he read the article. Certainly, the
symptoms seemed very similar, especially the bubonic swellings, but as
personally he had never actually seen a case of plague, he could not be
sure. He called the servant in charge of the house and questioned him,
that same dragoman who had recently been sick and recovered, but was
still very weak. With a little pressure he told Rupert all; how he had
visited his relative who was dying of the plague, and as he believed
suffered from it himself, like the other man in the hut. Now Rupert was
quite sure, and set about taking precautions, sending down to the town
for guards to form a cordon round the place, and so forth.
Meanwhile the patient became rapidly worse and he went in to attend to
him, staying there till about two hours later, when he died. After
seeing to the deep burial of the body, Rupert went to Edith’s house on
his way back to the town to warn them of what had happened. Strolling
about near it under her white umbrella he found Tabitha and told her the
bad news, which personally did not alarm her. She inquired where Dick
was, and he replied that he had gone on a hunting expedition, but
luckily left his medicine book behind him open at the article which gave
him a clue. Next she asked to see the letter which Dick had written to
Rupert, and taking it from his pocket, he handed it to her. Tabitha read
it attentively.
“I see, Rupert, you have quarrelled with him at last,” she said. “Ach!
what a coward that man is!” then a light flashed in her eyes, and she
added: “No, I understand now. It is a little trick of dear Dick’s; he
knows it is the plague, he runs away, he sends for you, he hopes that
you will catch it. Mein Gott! he is not only a coward, he is a murderer;
you quarrel with him—what you say?—you beat him? Well, he hit you back
with the plague, or try to.”
Rupert began to laugh, then checked himself and said: “No, Tabitha, he
would scarcely be such a brute as that. Why! assassination is nothing to
it. Anyhow, I am not afraid; I do not catch things.”
“You do not know the dear Dick; I do,” she replied grimly. “Go home,
Rupert, at once, burn the clothes you are wearing, sit in smoke, wash
yourself all over with soaps, do everything you can.”
“All right,” he answered, “don’t frighten Edith; I will take
precautions.”
He did, with the result that it was past two o’clock before he could
find time for food, he who had eaten nothing since seven on the previous
night.
For the next three days, knowing her terror of infectious diseases,
every morning he sent a message to Edith that she must not see him, but
with Tabitha and, of course, with Mea, he associated as before, since
neither of them would listen to his warnings. There had been no further
cases amongst Dick’s people, or elsewhere, and although his camels were
now ready, Dick himself had not yet returned. It was reported that he
was enjoying excellent sport on the hills.
Rupert thought very little more about the plague, however, for he had
other things on his mind. Within four days the month would be up, and he
must give his answer to the great question. Edith, whom for her own sake
he still refused to see, had taken a desperate step; she had sent him a
letter.
Why do you keep me away from you? (she wrote). Of course I know that I
used to be afraid of illnesses, but I don’t care any more about them
now. Sometimes I think it would be a good thing if I did catch the
plague and it made an end of me and my wretched life. Rupert, I know you
forbade me to speak to you about these matters until next week, but you
never said that I mightn’t write, and I will write upon the chance that
you may read. Rupert, I am a miserable woman, as I deserve to be, for I
have been very wicked. I acknowledge it all now. Dick has been my curse.
When I was still quite a child, he began to make love to me; you know
how handsome and taking he was then, and I fell under his influence,
which for years I could never shake off. I tried to, for I knew that he
was bad, but it was no good, he attracted me, as a magnet attracts a bit
of iron. Then you came home, and I really did admire you and respect
you, and I was very flattered that you should care for me. Also, I will
tell you all the truth, I thought that you were going to be a peer and
wealthy, and that you had a great career before you, and I wished to be
the wife of such a man. Dick of course was furiously jealous; he
insulted me upon the very day that you proposed to me, and because I
would not be turned from my purpose, he set to work to avenge himself
upon us both. It was he who gave the War Office the idea of sending you
out on that wretched mission, and who afterwards took away your good
name.
But, Rupert, I did not know all this at the time when you were supposed
to be dead. I let Dick, who seemed to be turning out better then, regain
his influence over me. That day on which you came home I had become
secretly engaged to him. This will help to explain what followed.
Really, I was out of my mind and not responsible. Afterwards, in my
distress, I wrote Dick some foolish letters, which he has held over my
head ever since I refused to have anything more to do with him. Also, I
would have asked your pardon and tried to make it up with you if I had
known where you were gone. But I did not know, and I was afraid to
inquire for fear of betraying the shameful facts.
Rupert, it is true that I have grown to hate Dick, as much as I once
loved him, if I ever did love him. Since I have found out how vile and
treacherous he is, that it was he who set to work to blacken your
reputation, as afterwards he has done by mine, and the rest of it, I
have loathed him; but he follows me like my shadow and threatens me. I
cannot cast him off, and if he says things about me, and shows those
letters, who will believe that I am innocent—I with whom my own husband
will have nothing to do? I shall be a ruined woman. Even here he has
followed me; yes, and the wicked wretch tried to murder you, I am sure,
by giving you that sickness. Well, thank Heaven! he seems to have failed
there.
Rupert, my husband, before the God that made me, I tell you the honest
truth. I love you now, body and soul; it was only Dick that stood
between us, and he is gone from me for ever. I am miserable because I
may not be near you, and, if you will forgive all the past, and come
back to me, no man in the world shall have a better wife, or one more
obedient to his wishes. I know it is much to ask; I know I do not
deserve it, and I know, too, that this beautiful lady Mea loves you, and
that she is as true and good as you are. Oh! Rupert, Rupert, don’t break
my heart; don’t turn me out to wander again in the wilderness alone. If
so, I do not know what will happen to me, but I think that I shall go to
the bad, like many another poor creature. At any rate, it may be amusing
while it lasts. Rupert, be merciful, as you hope for mercy.—Your wife
(for I suppose that I still have a right to sign myself so),
EDITH.
This letter produced a great effect upon Rupert, as its writer had hoped
that it would do. When he received it he was already low-spirited, but
after reading it his depression became acute. The piteous way in which
Edith made the best of a bad case; her evident and honest repentance,
and the curious heart-change which, as she declared and as he half
believed, now inclined her towards himself, all touched him deeply,
especially the repentance.
Yet he could not but see that almost every argument she used might be
urged with even greater effect upon behalf of Mea, who wrote no letters
and made no prayer. Why should Mea’s heart be broken? Why should Mea be
left to wander in that lonely wilderness whereof Edith spoke, or perhaps
to take to those common courses of despair—Mea, who had never offended,
who had always played an angel’s part towards him?
Of course the only answer was that he was married to Edith, and that he
was not married to Mea; that he had taken Edith for better or for worse,
and that to them applied the ancient saying: “Those whom God has joined
together, let no man put asunder.” He knew well enough in which
direction his own feelings lay. Yet, what right had he to thrust her
out, his wife, whom he had asked to marry him? On the other hand, what
right had he to desert Mea, the woman who had saved and sheltered him?
Rupert was sore perplexed; he could find no answer to these problems. He
wrote a note to Edith thanking her for her letter, the contents of which
he said he was considering, adding that he was quite well, but she had
better still keep away from him for a while. Then he took a sudden
resolution. He would go to Mea, and lay the whole matter before her.
Once again they sat in that room in which, after weeks of blindness, he
had recovered his sight. His story had been told, the letter had been
read, there it lay upon the ground beside them.
“And now, Rupert,” asked Mea quietly, “what shall you do?”
“I don’t know,” he answered passionately. “I have come to ask you.”
She looked at him and asked again: “Which is it that you love, your wife
or me?”
“You know well,” he replied. “It is you, and no other woman, you now and
for ever. Why do you make me tell you so again?”
“Because I like to hear it, Rupert,” she said, with her slow smile. “But
it does not make the choice easier, does it? On the one side, love; on
the other your law. Which will win, love or your law?”
“I have come to you to tell me, Mea.”
She looked upwards as though seeking an inspiration, then spoke again.
“I will be no stumbling-block in your path of righteousness. Was it for
this that I was given to you? Love is longer than your law, Rupert, and
is not that doctrine which we practise named Renunciation? It seems that
those who would reap must sow.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“I mean, Rupert, that this woman who has behaved so ill repents, and
what says our Book—the Book you taught me to believe? ‘Judge not, that
ye be not judged!’ I mean that since she has kept its letter, that oath
still stands between you and her.”
“Then I must leave you?” he muttered hoarsely.
“Yes, Rupert, I suppose so.”
“And what will become of you then?”
“I,” she replied, with another of her sweet smiles, “oh! what does it
matter? But if you wish to know, I will tell you. I think that I shall
die, and go to wait for you where love remains, and your law is
finished. Shall we agree that together, my Rupert?”
His hands trembled, and the veins swelled upon his forehead.
“I can’t,” he said hoarsely, “God forgive me, I can’t—yet. You are
nobler than I, Mea.”
“Then, Rupert, what?”
“Mea,” he said, “we have still four days. Something might happen in
those four days. Perhaps God may be pleased to help us in some manner
unforeseen. If not, at the end of them I will accept your counsel,
however cruel it may be; yes, even if it kills us both.”
“Good!” she answered, with a flash of her eyes, “such words I looked to
hear you speak, for shall the preacher of a faith fly before its fires?
The sooner we are dead, the sooner will there be an end—and a
beginning.”
“Aye,” he echoed, breaking into English, “an end and a beginning.”
Another two days had gone by, and once more Rupert and Mea sat together.
They were making arrangements for the forthcoming gathering in the
temple; also, he was giving her an account of his stewardship, he who it
seemed must so soon depart. He was ill; he was troubled. He faltered in
his speech, forgetting the Arabic words, his head bent forwards over the
book of accounts. Then suddenly he placed his hands upon the edge of the
table and raised himself with a smothered exclamation of pain.
“What is it?” she asked wildly, as he sank back into his seat.
“Nothing,” he answered, in a faint voice. “It was as though a sword
passed through me, that is all.”
“Oh! Rupert,” she cried, “you are ill.”
“Yes, Mea,” he said presently, “I am ill. I think that God _has_ shown
us a way out of our troubles, and for that blessed be His name. Mea, I
have the plague. Leave me; leave me at once.”
“Aye,” she answered, setting her lips, “when they take you from me dead,
but never before.”
Two more days and Rupert was dying with the dawn. By his side knelt Mea,
and in a chair at the end of the shadowed room, tears streaming down her
placid face, and the grey-haired Bakhita crouched crooning at her feet,
sat Tabitha. Edith was not there. Rupert had refused to allow her to be
admitted, lest she also should contract the plague. Sometimes he was
conscious, and sometimes he sank into sleep. His eyes opened, he woke
again and turned to Mea.
“Beloved,” she whispered in his ear, “I have hidden it from all save
Bakhita, but I have that which I must tell you at last. Our merciful God
has called me—I die also. Before midday I follow on your road. Wait for
me, Rupert.”
He smiled, and whispered: “I understand. I will wait—surely, surely!”
Then he stretched up his arms. She sank into them, and for the first
time their lips met. It was their kiss of farewell—and of greeting.
“Bakhita,” said Mea presently in a clear and ringing voice, “it is done.
Come; tire me in those robes that I have made ready, my bridal robes. Be
swift now, for my lord calls me.”
The stern-faced, aged woman rose and obeyed. Tabitha knelt in prayer by
the corpse of Rupert, and messengers swiftly spread the news that Zahed
had departed from his people. A while later, as high and shrill the
Eastern death-wail broke upon the silence, a door burst open and in
rushed Edith.
“Oh! is it true, is it true?” she sobbed.
Tabitha pointed to the shrouded form of Rupert.
“Come no nearer,” she said, “lest you should die also—you who are not
ready to die.”
The two women, Edith and Mea, stood face to face with each other; Edith,
dishevelled, weeping; Mea, a strange and glorious sight in the rays of
the rising sun that struck on her through the open window-place. She was
clad in silvery robes that flowed about her; in her weak hand swayed the
ancient sceptre of her race, upon her breast lay a pectoral of Isis and
Nepthys weeping over dead Osiris; above her outspread hair was set that
funeral crown worked in thin gold and enamelled flowers which once she
had shown to Rupert. Her wide eyes shone like stars, and the fever that
burned upon it seemed to give to her mysterious face a richer beauty.
“I greet you, lady,” she said to Edith. “Well have I nursed our lord,
but now he has passed from us—home, and I—I follow him,” and she pointed
over the shattered temple and the wall of mountains upwards to the
splendid sky.
“You follow him; you follow him?” gasped Edith? “What do you mean?”
By way of answer, Mea tore open her white wrappings and showed her bosom
marked with those spots of plague that appear only just before the end.
“It was his last and best gift to me,” she cried in Arabic.
“Soon, very soon we two shall have done with separations and with
griefs. Hearken you, his lady according to your law. He had determined
that to-morrow he would have gone back with you whom he forgave, as I
do. But we prayed, he and I—yes, knee by knee we prayed to our God that
He would save us from this sacrifice, and He has answered to our prayer.
Behold! we who have followed the way of the Spirit inherit the Spirit;
and we who renounced, renounce no more. To me it was given to save his
life; to me it is given to share his death and all beyond it through
light, through dark—forever and forever.
“Way now, make way for Tama who comes to her lord’s bed!”
Then while they gazed and wondered, with slow steps Mea reeled to the
couch upon which the corpse of Rupert lay; uttering one low cry of love
and triumph, she cast herself beside him, and there she died.
“Now,” said the quiet voice of Tabitha, as she looked upward to heaven
over the ruined temples of a faith fulfilled and the cruel mountains of
our world—“now, who will deny there dwells One yonder that rewards the
righteous and smites the wicked with His sword?”
FINIS
WORKS BY H. RIDER HAGGARD
PARLIAMENTARY BLUE-BOOK
Report to H.M.’s Government on the Salvation Army colonies
in the United States, with Scheme of National Land
Settlement. [Cd. 2562.]
POLITICAL HISTORY
Cetewayo and his White Neighbours
WORKS ON AGRICULTURE, COUNTRY LIFE, AND SOCIOLOGY
Rural England (2 vols.)
A Farmer’s Year
The Poor and the Land
A Gardener’s Year
BOOK OF TRAVEL
A Winter Pilgrimage
NOVELS
Dawn
Beatrice
The Witch’s Head
Joan Haste
Jess
Doctor Therne
Colonel Quaritch, V.C.
Stella Fregelius
ROMANCES
King Solomon’s Mines
She
Allan Quatermain
Maiwa’s Revenge
Mr. Meeson’s Will
Allan’s Wife
Cleopatra
Eric Brighteyes
Nada the Lily
Montezuma’s Daughter
The People of the Mist
Heart of the World
Swallow
Black Heart and White Heart
Lysbeth
Pearl Maiden
The Brethren
Ayesha: The Return of She
_(In collaboration with Andrew Lang):_
The World’s Desire