The time of my departure was coming. I scarcely need say that I had a
new outfit. The darzies were set to work and various articles were
purchased until the boxes were full to bursting. The day before my
departure a large basket was filled, the center piece a huge fruit cake,
surrounded by lesser cakes and the spaces filled with sweets. When this
was full to the top, the sight of it was enough to gladden the mouths of
any number of boys. Mr. Percy, no doubt, recalling his boyhood days as
if he knew what was coming, said, “Charles, I think the boys will be
glad to see you again.” And they were. We had many a feast out of that
basket. We appointed a catering committee to see to the distribution and
to prolong our stock. I could not take the credit to myself and omit Mr.
Percy, so I told them that he had sent the basket for them as well as
for me, and I think they were better boys for knowing they had such a
friend. He, I think, would have called this one of his religious
services. And why not?
As I had plenty of money to buy all I wanted on our market day, I
reserved most of my share of the basket for little Johnny, the only
child of the widow, who, like me, never had a father, and except his
poor mother, scarcely a friend. Though he was not of our higher class
society, I invited him to our treats, and as it was my basket, and I was
somewhat master of the situation, no one, except two or three snobs,
made objection to his coming.
My leaving home was quite an event, like the departure of some honored
guest. All showed their love and respect not for myself alone, but on
account of the friendship Mr. Percy had for me. He took me to the
station in his carriage, and as the train was starting grasped me by the
hand and with tears in his eyes said, “God bless you Charles. Be
studious; be true; be clean in thought, in word, and deed,” and he stood
watching until the train was out of sight.
The years passed pleasantly though monotonously. We boys had our little
tiffs as men have their big ones. Toward the close of the year we put up
a big calendar of our own on the wall of our room, and in the evening,
at the close of each day, a boy in turn marked off the date with a long
black pencil, and we all joined in a song composed by our poet for the
occasion. Any one who has never been a boy at school can smile at this
if he pleases. It was our way of keeping track of time.
I had a good supply of new books, and to get time to read them, finished
my lessons as quickly as possible. My two letters a week came as
regularly as the dates on our calendar. The delight I had in those just
received, and the anticipation of those coming, was to me a great source
of pleasure. And I had mine to write. Shortly after the term opened, the
principal, meeting me, said: “Master Japhet, you need not send your
letters to me any more for me to read. Seal them and put them in the
post-box, and you can write as many as you wish.” He did not say why,
for he never gave a reason for anything, as his word was law, he was law
unto himself, and to all the rest of us, for that matter. But I knew the
wherefore of it, that it was one of Mr. Percy’s surprises, as it was
characteristic of him to give surprises of pleasure without even hinting
about them. I could well say: “Nothing like having a friend at Court.” I
left our dignified governor with almost a bound of delight, thinking I
could write just as I felt, the thoughts of my heart without a spy over
me.
The year closed, and we were all soon homeward bound again.
I need not tell who met me or how I was received. We had our morning
rides, our evening drives, our walks, our talks, our cozy dinners and
those blessed after-dinner coffee chats in front of the fire in the
drawing room, for my vacations always occurred in the cold seasons, when
it was pleasant to have a fire. Then we three enjoyed ourselves. I mean
by three, Mr. Percy, Cockear and myself, for Cockear always made one of
our company. He sat in front of us, on the rug, with that ear of his
always erect, listening intently to all that was said, and frequently
bowing assent to any good point that he thought we had made. And
sometime, somewhere in the great beyond, he may be able to tell us how
much he was helped to a higher and nobler life by those talks of ours.
If God is so careful as to number the hairs of our heads, and to notice
every sparrow that falls, will He not also look after the good dogs?
To tell really just what I think: I have seen many dogs whom I thought
better fitted for heaven and eternal life than lots of men I have known.
This may be only an opinion or a prejudice of mine, yet I will vouch for
this as a fact, that a dog was never known to betray his friends. And
still further. If mankind were as good as dogs in their morals and
actions, then the clergy, priests and parsons might all go to cleaning
pots and kettles or some honest labor, instead of trying to clean the
souls of men.
Frequently in our evening drives we called at the library or club, where
Mr. Percy introduced me as his Charles. All treated me cordially, as I
thought, chiefly on Mr. Percy’s account, and for his sake I put my best
in front, so as not to be unworthy of him. One evening, as I went out of
the reading room into the hall, I heard Mrs. Swelter, a great, humpy
dumpy woman, with a very red face, the wife of the General of the
station, remark: “Mr. Percy, you seem to make a great pet of that
Eurasian?” “Hit again!” I said to myself. I hurried away as quickly as I
could. I concluded that the time had come when I must know the meaning
of that word. When we gathered that evening in front of the fire I asked
Mr. Percy what it meant.
“Did you hear what Mrs. Swelter said?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied.
“I hoped you had not heard what she said. She ought not to have made any
such remark as that,” and Cockear said, for I heard him, “A dog would
not have made such a remark, even about a jungly cur.”
Then Mr. Percy explained it all as kindly as possible. “And,” he went
on, “I assure you it makes not the slightest difference to me. I look to
find in you, truthfulness, chastity, industry and ability. You have been
to me, thus far, all I could wish, so never let the thought of that word
trouble you.”
These kind words took the sting out of Mrs. Swelter’s remark; yet I did
not forget it and never will. I always forgive those who injure me, but
never forget them. That is, I remember them enough to keep out of their
way so as not to give them a second chance to wound me. This Mrs.
Swelter was a kind of sergeant-major of our station society, and all
paid deference to her, chiefly on account of the position of her
husband, but she never got more than a silent bow from “That Eurasian.”
Why should she? Once she asked Mr. Percy, why Charles never spoke to
her, and he told her that I had overheard her remark, and she could not
blame me for not being friendly. I was glad she knew my reason, and
after that I took delight in avoiding her, for I had feelings as well as
whiter-faced people.
Several evenings after this, when we three were assembled as usual, Mr.
Percy asked me, “Do you remember when I first saw you?” “Yes,” I
replied, “just as well as if it was this evening.”
“That was a strange meeting, wasn’t it?” he said. “Have you ever heard
of that little sister of yours?”
What memories that question revived! I had not forgotten her by any
means, for often at school I had recalled all I remembered of her; our
leaving that wretched court, our tramp on the dusty road, her smiles and
playfulness, the good old faqir, the death of the new mama, and then the
sad separation; and I cried many a time as I thought of these things,
and resolved that as soon as I was a little older I would go in search
of her.
Then I told Mr. Percy the story of our lives, beginning with the first
conscious knowing that I was in the world, the clinking sound of those
rupees, the sahib, my mother’s tears and cries, her death, our
destitution and wanderings up to that serai where he found us.
He had got to his feet by this time, and was walking back and forth in
the room, with his head down, listening intently. When I had finished he
asked, “Did you ever see or hear of that sahib again, or learn his
name?” “Never,” I answered. “The brute!” he exclaimed, with such energy
that I think if he had a ruler in his hand he would have broken it into
a number of pieces, and it was well for the sahib not to have been
within hitting reach just then. He was silent some minutes, when he
said:
“Charles! I would rather a thousand times be you than such a man. You
can become a true man; he never can. He has lost his manhood and God
himself cannot restore it; and he never can make atonement for the
wrongs he inflicted on your mother, on you, and on your sister. He
committed an infamous crime; worse than murder. But we must find the
sister.”
I then told him of my visit with the munshi to the girls’ orphanage:
that the sister had been taken away, and I mentioned the name of the
lady and gentleman who took her. He wrote letters addressed to the
gentleman, but they were returned, uncalled for. He wrote to friends,
but they knew nothing, and it seemed that the little sister was forever
lost to me.
On each Sunday morning Mr. Percy held his religious service. The crowd
had greatly increased, but each received the usual share. There was a
great scarcity of food in the district, on account of the slight
rainfall, and Mr. Percy, foreseeing this, had purchased a large quantity
of grain, and this he called the “Widow’s Fund.” On other days he held
what he called his morning service, when the widows came, most of them
with children. He had a careful list made out, so as to be sure that
they were really widows in need. To some of them he sold the grain at
the price he paid for it, and at half the bazar prices. To those who had
no means of purchasing he gave, so that all were supplied. The low price
at which he sold the grain greatly offended the bunyas in the bazar, as
they had a large supply on hand, which they had taken from the poor
cultivators in return for the seed and money advanced at an enormous
profit to themselves.
One morning Mr. Percy called these bunyas to his bungalow and gave them
such a scoring about their rapacity and robbery of the poor that they
all agreed to lower their prices. It was through fear of him only that
they did this, as one might as well expect pity from a tiger toward an
animal he has caught, as leniency from a bunya to the poor whom he has
in his power.
One day, toward evening, we were walking in the garden and came to one
of the benches, when we seated ourselves. Some reference was made to the
orphanage where I had been placed. I then told him that I had overheard
him tell the Padri that he would not take me away until I was larger. I
related my experience in bending all my energies to increase my growth;
how I fed myself, exercised, how I hung by the arms and chin from the
pole, measured my height each Sunday, by marks on the wall, and thought
of tying weights to my legs at night, as I was determined to be released
from the place as soon as possible. He listened without a word, with a
questioning smile playing over his face, until I had finished, and then
he unbent with laughter. He laughed till the tears came, and I had to
laugh too, for I couldn’t help it, and Cockear, who had been gravely
listening, broke out with his dog laugh. And why shouldn’t we laugh? If
the man who hath no music in his soul is fit for treason, stratagems and
spoils, what might be said of the man who never laughs? Beware of him.
I never felt the least embarrassment from Mr. Percy’s laughter, even
when it was caused by some nonsense of my own, for it was always so
good-natured, joyous and spontaneous. It was rather an incentive to me
to tell him something laughable. Had his laugh been coarse or sarcastic,
which was impossible, it would have shut me up at once. He was as open
and free with me as if I was an intimate friend, so that I had no
hesitation in telling him everything, even my mistakes and follies.
There are few people we can trust in talking truly from our hearts, and
how few parents are the confidants of their children, when they should
be first of all in their hearts and lives. But why should I, now an old
man, a unit—and a very insignificant one among the wise millions of the
world—talk of such things? I have to constantly remind myself of the
habits of old people to run into tedious details, and so, often check
myself, or I shall never finish my history.
This vacation passed, others followed, and the years at school continued
with great improvement, I think to myself and to the satisfaction of my
teachers and above all to the great pleasure of my best friend, Mr.
Percy. His letters seemed to have more breadth and to grow better as I
grew older. He wrote me on all kinds of subjects. Each one of them was
an incentive to study for I had to read up or think on the many things
referred to in them. Frequently when the boys were at their games, and I
dearly loved play, I felt in honor bound and from love to Mr. Percy that
I must think over his letters and see what I could say in reply to them.
Our library was nearly as empty as a church’s poor box and the few books
in it were of little use for the reason that they were donated, and it
often happens that benevolent people give away what is useless to
themselves or anybody else. Whether the recording angel gives a credit
mark for this kind of charity I have my doubts. I was thrown mostly on
my own resources and had to think for myself, which probably was much
better than if I had borrowed from somebody. I think this correspondence
was the best part of my school education. The most of our school duties
was to commit to memory and repeat continually rules and definitions,
and we had so much of that to do that we had no time to think. The main
object seemed to be, not to make us think and reason, but to pass our
exams. What a thing this Government system is! and the men who concocted
it. But I suppose we should have charity for them as they could not act
otherwise than within the circumference of their own capacities.
I must relate an incident that occurred during one of my later
vacations. There was a holiday. Mr. Percy had been all the morning
writing a judgment on one of his court cases. I had entered the library
to get a book and seeing him at his desk, I begged his pardon for
interrupting and was turning to leave when he said, “Don’t go, Charles,
I have finished my work and am now ready for a holiday.” So we sat and
chatted. I was looking toward two photographs on the mantel that I had
seen there ever since I entered his house. I never asked about them, and
in fact I never questioned him about his life. He had told me many
things and I felt that he would tell me all whatever he wished me to
know and that I ought not to make inquiries. I was conscious that he had
some secrets that were sacred to himself. Everybody should have such
secrets. I have a kind of pity for those who will tell all their family
affairs, to every gossip who comes along, and a contempt for those who
besmirch their own relatives, for in doing so they are throwing dirt on
their own faces. Hearing a man talk of his brother as a liar and thief,
one cannot but suspect that some of the same blood may run in the veins
of the narrator. Some may say before I finish this narrative that I do
not practice what I teach; but who does? Truth is truth at all times and
everywhere, no matter if people do often stretch it beyond its power of
tension. I am laying down a rule in general, “Don’t do as I do, but as I
tell you.” Besides my excuse for my course in this narration that, as I
am stating facts, I am compelled to make my face still blacker by
telling the truth about my own existence, which I regret and lament as
much as any mortal man can regret anything. These, however, are thoughts
of my later life, and not at all referring to Mr. Percy.
As he saw me looking toward the photographs, he said, “I have never told
you about them.” Then taking one of them down. “This is a picture of my
mother, my own dear mother. She has been my star of destiny. Her
teachings, her example, and the remembrance of her, have fashioned and
guided my life. The best gift under heaven is a good mother.” I could
have cried as he said this. “My mother! my own darling mama! Why had
fate or destiny or the brutality of a man deprived me of such a gift?”
He had continued while I thought. He described his mother, beautiful,
intelligent, refined, accomplished and more particularly, how her soul
was wrapt up in her boy, her only child and she a widow. Above all
things she wanted him to be pure and true. I then knew why he had talked
to me as he did about such things. She had been my mother too, through
him. He told of her waiting supper for him to return from school three
miles away, to which he went and returned each day on foot. As they sat
together she talked with him about his lessons and he told her the
incidents of the day, and she inquired what new ideas he had received.
So they chatted, and I have no doubt there was laughter too, for he must
have been full of roguish fun, and those eyes of hers, one could not
mistake, for they were full of mirth. He said the recollection of those
cozy table chats always brought the image of his mother fresh before
him, for they occurred just before he left home to go into the world
never to see her again. He said they had no secrets from each other.
They lived with one heart, one soul and one ambition and all of her was
centered in him.
Could I doubt when I heard this, the cause of his being so pure, honest,
candid, frank and free? His mother.
Then he told me of the farewell, of her standing on the porch, and his
going over the down, turning now and then to wave his handkerchief, to
which she replied with hers, and at last going over a little hillock,
the house was out of sight, when he ran back to the top and saw her
still looking. Then the final waving of farewells. He spoke of the
almost daily letters full of loving counsels, and then of one from a
friend with a black margin, saying that the mother had gone. The tears
came freely as he finished his narrative. “Charles,” said he, “I know
you will forgive my tears, for I cannot prevent them nor would I, when I
think of the loss of such a mother.” I was crying too and could not help
saying “Would to God I had such a mother to remember.” After our emotion
had subsided, he took down the other photograph. “This,” said he, “is a
picture of my affianced, my loved one. She was all my heart and mind
could wish. I loved her first because she was so like my dear mother,
her very counter-form, and I know had they both lived, my mother, with
the love she had for me, would have loved her, we both alike would have
been her children, as we are now. She is mine still and I am hers, not
until death do part, but forever our hearts are one. I have never failed
to look upon these pictures in the morning, and they always say ‘Robert,
we are with you, watching over you and will guide you the best we can.’
That is the impression the sight of the pictures have upon me, and
whether they do guide directly or not, might be questioned, but
indirectly they have greatly influenced my life. Can I go wrong when I
think each morning of those two pure spirits watching over me? I trust
not willingly.”
I got from this the key of his life and I could interpret many things I
had heard and seen. This revelation of his inner life, the secrets of
his soul, which he told me he had never mentioned to any one else, had a
great effect upon me. To have known such a man, and to have been trusted
by him, made me love him more than ever, and further inspired me with a
reverence for him.
With all due charity for mankind one cannot but regret that there are so
few, really pure, noble upright men in the world whom we can respect and
admire. I cannot help asking, if after all the centuries of
civilization, has the growth of mankind in purity and honesty, kept pace
with the progress in other respects? After this conversation he showed
that he felt I was nearer to him than ever before as I knew he was
dearer to me. Next to trusting in God is to have a true friend in whom
one can confide and feel that all is safe and sacred.