GILDING RUBS OFF.
An interruption now occurred in the arrival of two large
heavily-laden mules with their drivers.
"Ah, there comes my luggage at last!" exclaimed Denis, jumping up
from his seat, and going forth to meet them. "I hope, Walter, that
your goods and chattels will pack into the very smallest dimensions,
for as my beasts have as much as they can bear, they can't well carry
very much more."
"A case of 'The last feather breaks the camel's back,'" observed
Walter.
"I never could make out the sense of that proverb," said the
Irishman. "I'd put the last feather first, and the camel would not
so much as feel it."
Walter glanced at the speaker to see if he were in jest or earnest;
but Denis's handsome face betrayed no consciousness that he had been
talking nonsense.
"My pony," said young Gurney, "can carry the few things which I shall
require; I shall walk, and lead it."
Dermot Denis was busy with one of his trunks which had been removed
from the mule and placed on the ground. He extracted from it a
corkscrew and a bottle of brandy, and with these returned to the
house, followed by Walter.
"I'm glad that the rascals brought the mules in time," said the
Irishman, seating himself, and applying the screw to the cork. "You
and I must finish our dinner with a 'dhrop of the cratur,' as my
countrymen say."
"Thanks; but I never taste wine or spirits."
"Oh, nonsense; if you've never done it yet, you must do it now, if
only for good fellowship. You've not been ass enough to take the
pledge, I suppose?" Denis had the bottle between his knees, and out
came the cork.
"Excuse me for two minutes," said Walter, and he went hastily into
the inner apartment. There on a table lay his Bible, his desk, and a
few scattered papers and books.
"Here is a new danger," said Walter to himself. "I had better do at
once what I have often thought of doing." He opened his Bible,
dipped his pen, and in a firm bold hand wrote on the fly-leaf, "I
declare that I will never, except by medical advice or at communion,
let a drop of alcohol pass my lips." Walter signed the declaration,
added the date, and returned to the room where Denis was mixing his
brandy and water. The Irishman pushed the bottle towards him. "I
have taken a pledge," said Walter.
"When did you take it?"
"I took it just now."
Denis gave a little whistle of surprise. Walter had made up his mind
that his friend would be angry at opposition from one so much his
inferior in age and position; but the frank face of Denis did not
look angry, it had only an expression of half-contemptuous pity,
which was to Walter harder to bear. No man, especially a very young
one, likes to be thought weak-minded by the companion to whom he
looks up. It was the doubt how he himself could bear perpetually to
oppose himself to the wishes of his benefactor that had made Walter
take the decided step of signing the pledge. "Well, you're the
loser, I'm the gainer, for my liquor will last the longer," said
Denis, raising his glass to his lips. "But," he observed, as he set
it down empty, "if you fancy that you will curry favour with the
Mohammedans by giving way to their nonsensical prejudices regarding
wines, you'll find that you are greatly mistaken. They don't follow
their Vedas* at all." (Denis, it appears, did not know any
difference between the Vedas and the Koran.) "The Mohammedan drinks
on the sly. He sits on his carpet spread on the floor, with his
brandy-bottle in one hand and his hookah in the other, and drinks
till he rolls under the table." Denis spoke authoritatively, as one
who knows a great deal more about Eastern habits than a youth who had
spent all his years in India. Walter did not care to contradict him.
Half-an-hour before Denis had been a hero in his eyes; the gilded
image of a chivalrous knight was already losing a little of its
brightness.
* Hindu Scriptures.
"Now, take me to your Kandahar man; I'll strike my bargain at once.
He shall guide us through the Afghan passes."
Walter led the way into the native village, which was not many steps
distant from what had been the home of the pastor. It was much like
other villages in India--a congregation of mud-huts, with not a pane
of glass to be seen, but was somewhat cleaner than those of the
heathen. One small, neat building of brick, with a bell hung aloft,
showed that it possessed a place for Christian worship. Swarthy
natives came out of what Denis called their ant-hill; women stood in
the doorways, to stare at the unwonted sight of a European stranger.
There were swarms of children of both sexes and all ages, who
received many a kind word from Walter as they stood smiling and
salaming.
"Fancy passing all one's life among such as these!" exclaimed Denis,
shrugging his shoulders. "Do you dignify these bare-footed blackies
by the name of Christians?"
"My father has baptised more than forty," replied Walter, "but the
majority----"
"Where's the Kandahar fellow?" asked Denis, who had no taste for
anything like a missionary report.
Walter led the way into a mud-built dwelling. The Irishman did not
stoop his tall form sufficiently to avoid knocking his head as he
entered, and in the semi-darkness stumbled over a recumbent calf
which shared the dwelling. Hanif, the Afghan, wrapped in a blanket,
was lying on his _charpai_.*
* Native bedstead.
Conversation was at once entered upon by Denis, Walter acting as his
interpreter. The Afghan looked astonished at the opening sentences,
and burst forth into rapid, excited utterances.
"What on earth is the fellow saying?" asked Denis with impatience.
"He is vowing by his Prophet's beard that he will not undertake to
guide you; that the Feringhee* must be mad to think of crossing the
frontier. Hanif declares that if you did reach Kandahar by his
means, he would be bastinadoed, or lose his hand or his head; and
that if you were murdered on the way, the Feringhees would insist on
his being hanged, however innocent he might be. Really," said
Walter, in a tone of expostulation, "I think that there is some
reason in what the man says. I wish that you would turn your
thoughts in some other direction."
* Natives call Europeans Feringhees.
"Give your advice when it's asked for," said Denis, pettishly. "If
you're afraid to accompany me, I let you off your agreement. You may
stay and vegetate here amongst your niggers."
"I am not afraid," commenced Walter, who was a good deal nettled;
"but----"
His new friend cut him short: "Tell the fellow I'll pay him treble
what he could fairly demand. Afghans would do anything for gold."
And so it proved. Hanif's eyes glistened at the thought of the large
payment offered; and as the _bard sahib_ (great gentleman) was
evidently so rich, perhaps an idea of helping to relieve him of some
of his goods by the way made the Pathan less reluctant to run some
risk. Was he not accustomed to hazard his life for _loot_ (plunder)?
So the bargain was struck; the party were to start early on the
following morning.
Denis returned to the house. Walter remained to make arrangements
with a respectable Christian native employed as a catechist as to the
care of his own trifling property during his absence. He gave him
the keys of the dwelling, to which some missionary might perhaps be
sent before long.
The little church-bell was rung--such was the custom at Santgunge--to
gather the native Christians for devotions before they retired to
rest. As, surrounded by simple worshippers, Walter joined in the
praise and the prayer, again he solemnly devoted himself to his God,
before proceeding on what might prove to be a dangerous journey.
Then, after exchanging kind words and good wishes with those who
loved him for his father's sake as well as his own, the missionary's
son returned to his dwelling.
Denis, having had his own way, had quite recovered his temper, and
was in exuberant spirits when Walter joined him.
"I wondered how long you were going to leave me to my own
meditations, with no light but that of my cigar, while you enjoyed
the intellectual conversation of your niggers, so soon to be
exchanged for company so insipid as mine!" he said, laughing, as
Walter entered the room.
Young Gurney, by lighting a lamp, soon dispelled the darkness. In
the gaiety of his heart Denis drew his chair closer to Walter's, and
was inclined to be quite confidential.
"I don't mind telling you, old boy--for I know you'll be silent as
the grave--what is my great object in pushing on beyond the border.
You'll not breathe a word to a soul alive."
"Mr. Denis," said Walter, "we are going amongst Afghans, one of whose
characteristics is intense curiosity. We shall be questioned and
cross-questioned on every point, and often silence is in itself a
reply."
"Oh, I'm a match for Afghans!" cried Denis lightly; "I can lie like a
Persian--only, unluckily, I don't know the language they lie in!"
"I do know the language, and I cannot lie," observed Walter;
"therefore I had better be in ignorance of anything that you wish to
remain concealed."
"You mean that ignorance would be bliss to you, and safety to me!"
cried Denis. "You would not wilfully let the cat out of the bag, but
you could not help her mewing in it. Well, be it as you wish; I will
not reveal to you my great object. But--oh here's just what I want,
a supply of paper; I've a bottle of ink, and pens, but I quite forgot
the paper!" Denis's hand was upon about a quire of letter-sized
paper, on the first six or seven pages of which something had been
written, which he was about to tear off in order to throw them away.
"Hold!" exclaimed Walter hastily, laying his hand on the Irishman's
arm. "That's valuable; that's my father's writing,--a translation of
the Gospel into Pushtoo which he began but never lived to finish.
You shall have other paper. I mean to take this with me," and he put
the manuscript into his bosom.
"Now there's one thing I want to say to you, Walter Gurney," began
Dermot Denis, looking his companion full in the face; "you've been
brought up in the midst of a great deal of religious talk with all
sort of puritanical notions, till I daresay you think it a deadly sin
to look at a bottle, or dance a polka, or shuffle a pack of cards.
You're welcome to your thoughts if you keep them to yourself. But
we're going amongst a pack of rabid Moslems, and if they come on the
subject of religion, the least contradiction on your part will make
them fly at our throats. I'm not going to wave a red flag in the
face of a bull. If the bigots question me I'll say I'm a
philosopher, with no particular notions; that will save me from all
the troublesome arguments on ticklish subjects that I don't
understand. And I desire you'll do just the same."
Walter coloured to the roots of his hair, but he returned with steady
firmness the gaze of his comrade. "I'll never deny my faith," he
said, laying his clenched hand on the table; "in religious matters I
will be in bondage to no man, and if God gives me an opportunity of
speaking a word for Him, I can never engage to be silent. If you do
not accept this condition, sir, it will be impossible for me to
remain your companion."
Denis tried to laugh off his annoyance, but there was more of irony
than of mirth in his laugh. "Hear how the young cock crows!" he
cried, "when hardly out of the shell. He'll sing a different note
when his feathers are grown. Good-night, my puritanical friend, I'm
going to bed; as we start to-morrow, I hope that you'll awake in the
morning a wiser and a merrier man." And taking up the solitary lamp,
Denis retreated into the inner room, leaving Walter Gurney to
darkness and his own reflections.
These reflections were by no means agreeable. If the gilded image of
a knightly man had before appeared dimmed to Walter, it was now as if
fragments dropping off from what had seemed like armour had betrayed
the plaster of Paris beneath. When Walter had grasped the hand of
Denis as a pledge that he would, if needful, follow him to the death,
the Irishman had appeared to him in the light of a hero, generous,
gallant, and noble--a Cœur de Lion, Bayard, Sir Philip Sidney in
one. Walter, with boyish enthusiasm,--for he was little more than a
boy,--had imagined his handsome young benefactor, protector, and
friend, all that he desired him to be. They had now been but a few
hours together, and the youth had already seen folly, vanity,
selfishness, and a want of principle in his companion. Walter would
fain have recalled the feelings with which he had welcomed his
friend, and accused himself of ingratitude, fickleness, and
presumption for so quickly altering his opinion of one whom he still
desired to honour, for he still felt strongly disposed to love him.
But Walter's judgment was not now in fault. He was simply beginning
to see Denis as he actually was. Not that the bold, dashing
traveller was what the world would regard as a bad man; on the
contrary, he was made to be its favourite. Brought up in the
atmosphere of a pleasant home, Denis was addicted to no particular
vice. He was said to bear a high character, and to be liberal almost
to a fault. Yes, Denis was liberal when to be so cost him no
sacrifice of self-love. He could throw a sovereign to a beggar, but
he would not have parted with his last cigar even to his dearest
friend. But Denis had no very dear friend. As his judgment was
shallow, so his affections were weak. He was almost an
exemplification of the witty description of a man whose heart is the
exact size of his coffin--it can hold nothing but himself. Denis's
ruling passions were vanity, selfishness, and an intense thirst for
admiration. He had had too much of the last-mentioned sweet poison
already, and to imbibe it seemed a necessity of his nature. It was
this, and love of excitement which made the young Irishman undertake
dashing adventures. He would rather have been talked about for his
faults and follies than not be talked about at all.