THE CHAMELEON MIND
Many men are chameleons. They take their mental colour from the
surroundings of the moment. They are swayed by every fresh change of
circumstance, influenced by every strong mind with whom they come in
contact. If such a man goes on from year to year in the same even groove
of work, the chameleon mind may not be apparent on the surface; but if
by any chance he is suddenly jolted from his accustomed groove, the
mental instability becomes plain to read.
Arthur Dean was of this class.
When a clerk at £2 per week he had looked forward to promotion to £3 a
week as something dazzling in its opulence, while £4 a week represented
the pot of gold at the foot of the rainbow. Now a sudden turn of
Fortune's wheel had lifted him to a salary of £6 a week and all expenses
paid, and the work he was required to do for his money was so trifling
in amount as to be almost ludicrous. He had merely to read over a few
letters and send off a few brief cablegrams saying nothing in
particular.
As Lars Larssen had tersely phrased it, he was no longer a "clerk"--he
was a "business man."
And he knew that if he carried out orders faithfully and intelligently,
his future with his employer was assured. Larssen had a strong
reputation for loyalty to his employees. He exacted much, but he gave
much in return. As his own fortunes grew, so did those of his right-hand
men. If a man after faithful service was stricken down by illness,
Larssen allowed him a liberal pension.
That was "business" as the shipowner viewed it in his broad, far-sighted
way. He saw business not as the mere handling of goods, but as the
handling of _men_. In the attainment of his ambitions he was dependent
on faithful service from his employees, and accordingly he made it worth
their while to be faithful. He was liberal to them because liberality
paid him. His position in the world was somewhat like that of a robber
baron in the Middle Ages, carving out a kingdom with the help of loyal
followers. The people he plundered were the outsiders, and a certain
share of the spoils went to his men.
So Dean knew that if he carried out thoroughly the work entrusted to
him, Larssen would stand by his spoken promise. He resolved to obey
orders as faithfully and as intelligently as he possibly could. He did
not write home what form his new work was taking. In his letters to
Daisy he explained simply that he was being sent to Canada on a
confidential mission, at a big increase of salary, and that he was
having a regal time of it. At Quebec and Montreal and Ottawa and
Winnipeg he scoured the shops to find presents which would carry to her
a realisation of his new position.
Dean began to feel his importance growing rapidly as he journeyed across
the Atlantic and around the principal cities of Canada. He thought he
realised the meaning of "business" as it was viewed by the men up above,
the men at the roll-top desks. He saw now that it was not hard, plugging
work that earned them their big salaries. In a short fortnight he had
begun to look a little contemptuously on the grinders and plodders. Why
couldn't they realise how little their patient, plodding service could
ever bring them? But some men, he reflected, were born to be merely
clerks all their days. He was different--out of the common ruck. He
could see largely, like Lars Larssen did. He was a man of importance.
Canada pressed a broad thumb on his plastic mind without his conscious
knowledge. Canada with her young, red-blooded vigour swept into him like
a tidal wave of open sea into a sluggish, marshy creek. Canada thrust
her vastness and her limitless potentialities at him with a careless
hand, as though to say: "Here's opportunity for the taking." Canada
taught him in ten days what at home he would never have learnt in a
lifetime: that London is not the British Empire.
The clerk who lives out his life in the rabbit-warren of the city of
London by day, and in a cheap, pretentious, red-brick suburb by night,
believes firmly that outside London not much matters. He lumps together
the Canadian, the South African, the Australian, and the New Zealander
under the slighting category of "colonials." He imagines them bowing
themselves humbly before the majesty of the Londoner, taking their cues
from London and reverencing it as the fount of all wisdom and might and
wealth.
There is no one more "provincial" than the Cockney born and bred.
After ten days of Canada, Dean with his chameleon mind felt himself
almost a Canadian. He was beginning to pity the limitations of the
Londoner. He considered himself raised above that level.
Winnipeg, the new "wheat pit" of North America, impressed him most
strongly. He could feel the bursting strength of the young city--a David
amongst cities. He could feel it growing under his feet to its kingdom
of the granary of Britain. The epic of the wheat pulsed its stately
poetry into him--thrilled him with the majestic chords of its mighty
song.
He had a half-idea that Lars Larssen's big scheme was in some way
connected with the epic of the wheat, and it gave him fresh importance
to think that he was serving such a man in so confidential a position.
He tried a little gamble in "May wheat" with a Winnipeg bucket-shop,
plunging what was to him the important sum of twenty dollars. Luck was
with him full-tide. From the moment he bought, May wheat shot upwards,
and in a few days he had closed the deal with fifty dollars to his
credit.
That evening he wandered around the city with money jingling in his
trouser-pockets. He bought himself a good seat at a music-hall, and at
the bar boldly ordered cocktails with weird names of which the contents
were wonderful mysteries to him.
On his way home to his hotel about midnight, a flaming placard outside a
tin-roofed chapel caught his eye and stopped him for a moment. The
wording was crudely sensational:
THE WICKED FLOURISH!
BUT FOR HOW LONG?
A LIFETIME OF EASE FOR AN ETERNITY OF HELL-FIRE!
DO YOU CHOOSE HELL?
MAKE YOUR CHOICE TO-NIGHT!
The meeting inside the chapel was in full swing. A roar of voices raised
in a marching hymn swept out to the deserted street. Dean's lips curved
contemptuously for a moment. Then the whim came to him to finish his
night's amusement by a sarcastic enjoyment of the revivalist service. He
would go inside and watch other people making fools of themselves.
He entered the swinging doors of the chapel into a room hot with the
odour of packed humanity, and found a place for himself at the rear.
Presently the hymn ended on a shout of triumph and a deep, solemn
"Amen." There was a shuffling and scraping of feet as the congregation
sat down and prepared itself to listen to the preacher.
He was a tall, lean man of fifty-five, with a thin grey beard and a hawk
nose, and eyes that burnt with the intensity of inner fire. He was the
ascetic, the fanatic, the man with a burning message to deliver. His
eyes sought round his congregation before he gave out his text, seeking
for the souls that might be ready for the saving.
"And it came to pass, that the beggar died, and was carried by the
angels into Abraham's bosom; the rich man also died, and was buried. And
in hell he lift up his eyes, being in torments, and seeth Abraham afar
off, and Lazarus in his bosom. And he cried and said, Father Abraham,
have mercy on me and send Lazarus, that he may dip the tip of his finger
in water, and cool my tongue; for I am tormented in this flame. But
Abraham said, Son, remember that thou in thy lifetime receivedst thy
good things, and likewise Lazarus evil things; but now he is comforted,
and thou art tormented."
The preacher read out the words with a slow, even intensity, making them
carry the weight of the inevitable. He paused for them to sink in before
he began the delivery of his own message.
"My friends," he said, "listen to this story from life. Many years ago
there was a young man in this very city who had a great temptation
placed before him. He was a clerk in an office, as many of you are. He
was ambitious, as many of you are. He was hoping for riches and power,
as many of you are.
"One day the devil tempted him. He could become rich if he chose to
sacrifice his conscience. The devil promised him riches and power and
all that his heart could desire. And he fell.
"My friends, the devil kept his literal promise. He always does. When he
comes to you in the watches of the night, and offers you all that you
desire on earth in return for your soul, you can know that he will keep
his promise.
"The young man is now rich and famous, and if I told you his name, you
would say that he is a man to be envied. You see his portraits in the
papers; you hear of his mansions and his motor-cars, his yachts and his
splendid entertainments; and you would never dream that he is the most
unhappy man in Canada.
"The devil has given him everything he lusted for. And yet, not ten days
ago, he came to me in secret and begged for help and counsel. His riches
and power have turned to wormwood in his mouth. His wife and children
hate him. His friends are only friends because he has money. He is the
most lonely, the most miserable of men."
The preacher leant forward over the pulpit and half whispered: "The
wicked flourish like the green bay tree, but who knows what secret
canker eats into their hearts? The devil stands beside them and whispers
mockingly: 'I have given you everything your heart lusted for; does it
taste sweet? Does it taste sweet?' So much for this world; and now, my
friends, what of the next world?"
The preacher straightened himself and with passionate sincerity flung
out a torrent of warning and exhortation to his congregation--a
lava-stream of burning words that bit into their very souls. Dean, who
had come to mock, listened with a clutch at his heart that made him
first shiver and then turn burning hot and faint. He passed his
handkerchief over his forehead nervously, gripped at the seat to steady
himself.
At length he could stand the strain no longer As he rose and stumbled
his way towards the door, towards the fresh air, the preacher stopped in
his discourse to send an individual message to him.
"Stay, my friend!" he cried. "To-night is the hour for you to choose.
To-morrow I shall be gone. To-morrow will be too late. Choose now!"
But Dean had thrust open the swinging doors and had disappeared into the
night.
At his hotel the porter handed him a telegram just arrived. It was from
Lars Larssen--an order to proceed to New York and wait the shipowner's
arrival there. It had been despatched by wireless from on board the s.s.
"Aurelia."
That scrap of paper came as a bracing tonic to Arthur Dean. It was an
order, and just now he ached to be ordered. The curt message out-weighed
all the burning words of the preacher. Even from three thousand miles
away Lars Larssen could grip hold of the mind of the young fellow and
bend it to his purpose.
The next morning Dean was smiling scornfully at his weakness of the
night before. He paid for a train ticket for New York via Toronto in a
newly confident frame of mind. He was Larssen's man again.
* * * * *
At the beginning of the journey Dean read papers and magazines and
smoked away the long hours. Tiring of that eventually, he sauntered to
the observation platform at the rear of the train.
And there he found the preacher.
There was an embarrassing silence. The minister knew him at once for
the young man who had left his chapel the night before in the middle of
the discourse. Dean knew that he was recognized, but did not wish to
appear cognizant of it. He tried to look indifferent, but with poor
success.
The minister broke the silence by offering his card and saying: "One day
you may need my help. If it please the Lord that I am alive then, come
to me and I will help you."
Dean took the card and read the name, the Rev. Enoch Stephen Way, and a
Toronto address. He pocketed the card and murmured a conventional
thanks.
"You are an Englishman?" said the minister.
"Yes."
"Travelling on business?"
"Yes."
The answer was curt, and the minister saw that the young man resented
any cross-examination of his private affairs. He therefore turned the
conversation at once to impersonal matters.
"How do you like Canada? How does it strike you?"
"Fine!" answered Dean, relieved at the turn of the conversation. "So
big."
"You mean the extent of the country?"
"It's not that, quite. I mean that people seem to think in a bigger way.
I suppose it comes from having so much space around one."
The train was now passing through the endless miles of forest-land and
tangled hills on the route to Fort William, with scarcely a sign of
human habitation except by the occasional wayside stations. Now and
again the train would thunder over a high trestle bridge above a leaping
torrent-river. Dean waved his hand vaguely to include the primeval
vastnesses around them.
"That's right," answered the minister. "There's no cramping here. Room
for everyone. Room for spiritual growth as well as material growth. I
know the feeling you have. When I was a young man about your age I came
to Canada from the slums of Liverpool. I had been twice in jail in
Liverpool. It was for theft. In England I should probably have developed
into a chronic thief. There's little chance for a man who has once been
in prison.... But Canada gave me my chance. Canada didn't bother about
my past. Canada only wanted to know what I could do in the future."
Dean's eyes widened at this frank avowal. He had never seen or heard of
a man--and especially a man in the ministry--who would openly confess to
a prison-brand upon him.
"No wonder you like Canada," was his lame answer.
"Tell me, my friend, why you left my chapel so hurriedly last night."
Dean flushed. "I was feeling a bit faint," he returned.
"That's conscience."
"Oh, I don't know. The chapel was very packed and hot."
"It was conscience. Why won't you be frank with me?"
"There's nothing to be frank about."
The minister looked steadily at him, and Dean flushed still further and
fidgetted uncomfortably.
"I must be getting back to my carriage," he murmured.
"The Lord has brought you to me a second time. There may never be a
third time. The Lord has----"
A sudden jerk of the car threw them both off their feet. They were
passing now over a high trestle bridge above a foaming torrent. There
was a horrible grinding and jarring and crashing. The tail-car of the
train flicked out sideways and hung half over the river, dragging with
it the cars in front. For an age-long second it seemed as if the whole
train would be precipitated into the water.
Then the couplings parted.
The end car, turning over and over, struck the river a hundred feet
below and impaled itself on a jagged spur of rock hidden under the swirl
of waters.
Dean had been battered to insensibility before the car reached the
rocks.
He awoke to consciousness through the agonized dream that fiends were
staking him down under water and torturing him by letting the water rise
higher and higher, until finally he would be drowned by inches.
He awoke, struggling frantically, to the reality which had dictated the
dream.
Waters were swirling around him, and his legs were pinned fast in the
wreckage of the car tilted up on end amongst the sunken rocks. Burning
pains shot through him. Far up above on the bridge men were shouting and
rushing wildly.
He screamed out for help. A wave dashed at him and choked the scream on
his lips. He struggled to free himself from the wreckage that pinned him
fast, and blinding pain drove him to unconsciousness again.
As he awoke for the second time, a groan near by made him twist his head
to see who it might come from. It was the minister, held fast amongst
the splintered wreckage of the car, his face streaming red from a jagged
gash in his grey head.
"I can't get to you! I'm helpless!" cried Dean.
The minister answered very simply: "My friend, see to yourself. The Lord
has called me to his side."
With a sudden jerk the car settled deeper in the torrent. Only by
straining to the uttermost could Dean keep his mouth to the air above
the swirl of waters.
"Help!" he screamed to the bridge above. "I'll be drowned! Help!"
The minister began to pray aloud: "Lord, Thou hast been pleased to call
me, and I come. Receive my soul in pity, and forgive me my many sins.
And, oh Lord God, grant that this my young friend may live to see the
light and to worship Thee. Let this be his hour of repentance. Start him
upon a new path, and keep his feet from straying. In thy mercy save him
that he might live to Thy glory. Show him what Thou hast shown me,
and----"
The minister's hand dropped suddenly forward, and the waters closed over
him with a snarl.
From the bridge far above a man was being lowered on a rope, like a
spider hanging from a thread.
Dean watched him with paralyzed tongue. The strain to keep his head
above the waters was racking him like a torment of the Inquisition. The
horror of the situation grew with every second. Why did they lower so
slowly? Would release ever come in time to save him?
His hour of repentance! Yes, the preacher was right. This was his
punishment for the part he had taken in the fraudulent personation of
Clifford Matheson. It came to Dean like a blinding flash of light that
God was demanding of him whether he would repent or no--whether he would
vow to run straight for the future.
The man on the rope was growing larger. His face held the solemnity of
an Eternal Judge. In his two hands were scrolls marked Riches and
Poverty. He held them out towards Dean, demanding his instant choice.
The young man begged for a moment to consider. He shut his eyes against
the decision thrust upon him. A voice thundered in his ears....