The Sabbatarian tendency of the English mind at home and abroad is
proverbial, and if they are well-behaved on Sunday in London they are
models of virtue in Simla on the same day. Whether they labour and are
well-fed and gouty in their island home, or suffer themselves to be
boiled for gain in the tropical kettles of Ceylon and Singapore; whether
they risk their lives in hunting for the north pole or the northwest
passage, or endanger their safety in the pursuit of tigers in the Terai,
they will have their Sunday, come rain, come shine. On the deck of the
steamer in the Red Sea, in the cabin of the inbound Arctic explorer, in
the crowded Swiss hotel, or the straggling Indian hill station, there is
always a parson of some description, in a surplice of no description at
all, who produces a Bible and a couple of well-thumbed sermons from the
recesses of his trunk or his lunch basket, or his gun-case, and goes at
the work of weekly redemption with a will. And, what is more, he is
listened to, and for the time being--though on week days he is styled a
bore by the old and a prig by the young--he becomes temporarily invested
with a dignity not his own, with an authority he could not claim on any
other day. It is the dignity of a people who with all their faults have
the courage of their opinions, and it is the authority that they have
been taught from their childhood to reverence, whenever their traditions
give it the right to assert itself. Not otherwise. It is a fine trait of
national character, though it is one which has brought upon the English
much unmerited ridicule. One may differ from them in faith and in one's
estimate of the real value of these services, which are often only saved
from being irreverent in their performance by the perfect sincerity of
parson and congregation. But no one who dispassionately judges them can
deny that the custom inspires respect for English consistency and
admiration for their supreme contempt of surroundings.
I presume that the periodical manifestations of religious belief to
which I refer are intimately and indissolubly connected with the staid
and funereal solemnity which marks an Englishman's dress, conversation,
and conduct on Sunday. He is a different being for the nonce, and must
sustain the entire character of his dual existence, or it will fall to
the ground and forsake him altogether. He cannot take his religion in
the morning and enjoy himself the rest of the day. He must abstain from
everything that could remind him that he has a mind at all, besides a
soul. No amusement will he tolerate, no reading of even the most
harmless fiction can he suffer, while he is in the weekly devotional
trance.
I cannot explain these things; they are race questions, problems for the
ethnologist. Certain it is, however, that the partial decay of strict
Sabbatarianism which seems to have set in during the last quarter of a
century has not been attended by any notable development of power in
English thought of that class. The first Republic tried the experiment
of the decimal week, and it was a failure. The English who attempt to
put off even a little of the quaint armour of righteousness, which they
have been accustomed to buckle on every seventh day for so many
generations, are not so successful in the attempt as to attract many to
follow them. They are not graceful in their holiday gambols.
Meditating somewhat on this wise I lay in my long chair by the open door
that Sunday morning in September. It was a little warmer again and the
sun shone pleasantly across the lawn on the great branches and bright
leaves of the rhododendron. The house was very quiet. All the inmates
were gone to the church on the mall, and the servants were basking in
the last few days of warmth they would enjoy before their masters
returned to the plains. The Hindoo servant hates the cold. He fears it
as he fears cobras, fever, and freemasons. His ideal life is nothing to
do, nothing to wear, and plenty to eat, with the thermometer at 135
degrees in the verandah and 110 inside. Then he is happy. His body
swells with much good rice and _dal_, and his heart with pride; he will
wear as little as you will let him, and whether you will let him or not,
he will do less work in a given time than any living description of
servant. So they basked in rows in the sunshine, and did not even
quarrel or tell yarns among themselves; it was quiet and warm and
sleepy. I dozed lazily, dropped my book in my lap, struggled once, and
then fairly fell asleep.
I was roused by Kiramat Ali pulling at my foot, as natives will when
they are afraid of the consequences of waking their master. When I
opened my eyes he presented a card on a salver, and explained that the
gentleman wanted to see me. I looked, and was rather surprised to see it
was Kildare's card. "Lord Steepleton Kildare, 33d Lancers "--there was
no word in pencil, or any message. I told Kiramat to show the sahib in,
wondering why he should call on me. By Indian etiquette, if there was to
be any calling, it was my duty to make the first visit. Before I had
time to think more I heard the clanking of spurs and sabre on the
verandah, and the young man walked in, clad in the full uniform of his
regiment. I rose to greet him, and was struck by his soldierly bearing
and straight figure, as I had been at our first meeting. He took off his
bearskin --for he was in the fullest of full dress--and sat down.
"I am so glad to find you at home," he said: "I feared you might have
gone to church, like everybody else in this place."
"No. I went early this morning. I belong to a different persuasion. I
suppose you are on your way to Peterhof?"
"Yes. There is some sort of official reception to somebody,--I forget
who,--and we had notice to turn out. It is a detestable nuisance."
"I should think so."
"Mr. Griggs, I came to ask you about something. You heard of my proposal
to get up a tiger-hunt? Mr. Ghyrkins was speaking of it."
"Yes. He wanted us to go,--Mr. Isaacs and me,--and suggested leaving his
niece, Miss Westonhaugh, with Lady Smith-Tompkins."
"It would be so dull without a lady in the party. Nothing but tigers and
shikarries and other native abominations to talk to. Do you not think
so?"
"Why, yes. I told Mr. Ghyrkins that all the little Smith-Tompkins
children had the measles, and the house was not safe. If they have not
had them, they will, I have no doubt. Heaven is just, and will not leave
you to the conversational mercies of the entertaining tiger and the
engaging shikarry."
"By Jove, Mr. Griggs, that was a brilliant idea: and, as you say, they
may all get the measles yet. The fact is, I have set my heart on this
thing. Miss Westonhaugh said she had never seen a tiger, except in cages
and that kind of thing, and so I made up my mind she should. Besides, it
will be no end of a lark; just when nobody is thinking about tigers, you
go off and kill a tremendous fellow, fifteen or sixteen feet long, and
come back covered with glory and mosquito bites, and tell everybody that
Miss Westonhaugh shot him herself with a pocket pistol. That will be
glorious!"
"I should like it very much too; and I really see no reason why it
should not be done. Mr. Ghyrkins seemed in a very cheerful humour about
tigers last night, and I have no doubt a little persuasion from you will
bring him to a proper view of his obligations to Miss Westonhaugh." He
looked pleased and bright and hopeful, thoroughly enthusiastic, as
became his Irish blood. He evidently intended to have quite as "good" a
"time" as Isaacs proposed to enjoy. I thought the spectacle of those
rivals for the beautiful girl's favour would be extremely interesting.
Lord Steepleton was doubtless a good shot and a brave man, and would
risk anything to secure Miss Westonhaugh's approval; Isaacs, on the
other hand, was the sort of man who is very much the same in danger as
anywhere else.
"That is what I came to ask you about. We shall all meet there at dinner
this evening, and I wanted to secure as many allies as possible."
"You may count on me, Lord Steepleton, at all events. There is nothing I
should enjoy better than such a fortnight's holiday, in such good
company."
"All right," said Lord Steepleton, rising, "I must be off now to
Peterhof. It is an organised movement on Mr. Ghyrkins this evening,
then. Is it understood?" He took his bearskin from the table, and
prepared to go, pulling his straps and belts into place, and dusting a
particle of ash from his sleeve.
"Perfectly," I answered. "We will drag him forth into the arena before
three days are past." We shook hands, and he went out.
I was glad he had come, though I had been waked from a pleasant nap to
receive him. He was so perfectly gay, and natural, and healthy, that one
could not help liking him. You felt at once that he was honest and would
do the right thing in spite of any one, according to his light; that he
would stand by a friend in danger, and face any odds in fight, with as
much honest determination to play fair and win, as he would bring to a
cricket match or a steeple-chase. His Irish blood gave him a somewhat
less formal manner than belongs to the Englishman; more enthusiasm and
less regard for "form," while his good heart and natural courtesy would
lead him right in the long-run. He seemed all sunshine, with his bright
blue eyes and great fair moustache and brown face; the closely fitting
uniform showed off his erect figure and elastic gait, and the whole
impression was fresh and exhilarating in the extreme. I was sorry he had
gone. I would have liked to talk with him about boating and fishing and
shooting; about athletics and horses and tandem-driving, and many things
I used, to like years ago at college, before I began my wandering life.
I watched him as he swung himself into the military saddle, and he
threw up his hand in a parting salute as he rode away. Poor fellow! was
he, too, going to be food for powder and Afghan knives in the avenging
army on its way to Kabul? I went back to my books and remained reading
until the afternoon sun slanted in through the open door, and falling
across my book warned me it was time to keep my appointment with Isaacs.
As we passed the church the people were coming out from the evening
service, and I saw Kildare, once more in the garb of a civilian,
standing near the door, apparently watching for some one to appear. I
knew that, with his strict observance of Catholic rules--often depending
more on pride of family than on religious conviction, in the house of
Kildare--he would not have entered the English Church at such a time,
and I was sure he was lying in wait for Miss Westonhaugh, probably
intending to surprise her and join her on her homeward ride. The road
winds down below the Church, so that for some minutes after passing the
building you may get a glimpse of the mall above and of the people upon
it--or at least of their heads--if they are moving near the edge of the
path. I was unaccountably curious this evening, and I dropped a little
behind Isaacs, craning my neck and turning back in the saddle as I
watched the stream of heads and shoulders, strongly foreshortened
against the blue sky above, moving ceaselessly along the parapet over my
head. Before long I was rewarded; Miss Westonhaugh's fair hair and broad
hat entered the field of my vision, and a moment later Lord Steepleton,
who must have pushed through the crowd from the other side, appeared
struggling after her. She turned quickly, and I saw no more, but I did
not think she had changed colour.
I began to be deeply interested in ascertaining whether she had any
preference for one or the other of the two young men. Kildare's visit in
the morning--though he had said very little--had given me a new
impression of the man, and I felt that he was no contemptible rival. I
saw from the little incident I had just witnessed that he neglected no
opportunity of being with Miss Westonhaugh, and that he had the patience
to wait and the boldness to find her in a crowd. I had seen very little
of her myself; but I had been amply satisfied that Isaacs was capable of
interesting her in a _tête-à-tête_ conversation. "The talker has the
best chance, if he is bold enough," I said to myself; but I was not
satisfied, and I resolved that if I could manage it Isaacs should have
another chance that very evening after the dinner. Meanwhile I would
involve Isaacs in a conversation on some one of those subjects that
seemed to interest him most. He had not seen the couple on the mall, and
was carelessly ambling along with his head in the air and one hand in
the pocket of his short coat, the picture of unconcern.
I was trying to make up my mind whether I would open fire upon the
immortality of the soul, matrimony, or the differential calculus, when,
as we passed from the narrow street into the road leading sound Jako,
Isaacs spoke.
"Look here, Griggs," said he, "there is something I want to impress upon
your mind."
"Well, what is it?"
"It is all very well for Ram Lal to give advice about things he
understands. I have a very sincere regard for him, but I do not believe
he was ever in my position. I have set my heart on this tiger-hunt. Miss
Westonhaugh said the other day that she had never seen a tiger, and I
then and there made up my mind that she should."
I laughed. There seemed to be no essential difference of opinion between
the Irishman and the Persian in regard to the pleasures of the chase.
Miss Westonhaugh was evidently anxious to see tigers, and meant to do
it, since she had expressed her wish to the two men most likely to
procure her that innocent recreation. Lord Steepleton Kildare by his
position, and Isaacs by his wealth, could, if they chose, get up such a
tiger-hunt for her benefit as had never been seen. I thought she might
have waited till the spring--but I had learned that she intended to
return to England in April, and was to spend the early months of the
year with her brother in Bombay.
"You want to see Miss Westonhaugh, and Miss Westonhaugh wants to see
tigers! My dear fellow, go in and win; I will back you."
"Why do you laugh, Griggs?" asked Isaacs, who saw nothing particularly
amusing in what he had said.
"Oh, I laughed because another young gentleman expressed the same
opinions to me, in identically the same words, this morning."
"Mr. Westonhaugh?"
"No. You know very well that Mr. Westonhaugh cares nothing about it, one
way or the other. The little plan for 'amusing brother John' is a hoax.
The thing cannot be done. You might as well try to amuse an undertaker
as to make a man from Bombay laugh. The hollowness of life is ever upon
them. No. It was Kildare; he called and said that Miss Westonhaugh had
never seen a tiger, and he seemed anxious to impress upon me his
determination that she should. Pshaw! what does Kildare care about
brother John?"
"Brother John, as you call him, is a better fellow than he looks. I owe
a great deal to brother John." Isaacs' olive skin flushed a little, and
he emphasised the epithet by which I had designated Mr. John Westonhaugh
as if he were offended by it.
"I mean nothing against Mr. Westonhaugh," said I half apologetically. "I
remember when you met yesterday afternoon you said you had seen him in
Bombay a long time ago."
"Do you remember the story I told you of myself the other night?"
"Perfectly."
"Westonhaugh was the young civil servant who paid my fine and gave me a
rupee, when I was a ragged sailor from a Mocha craft, and could not
speak a word of English. To that rupee I ultimately owe my entire
fortune. I never forget a face, and I am sure it is he--do you
understand me now? I owe to his kindness everything I possess in the
world."
"The unpardonable sin is ingratitude," I answered, "of which you will
certainly not be accused. That is a very curious coincidence."
"I think it is something more. A man has always at least one opportunity
of repaying a debt, and, besm Illah! I will repay what I can of it. By
the beard of the apostle, whose name is blessed, I am not ungrateful!"
Isaacs was excited as he said this. He was no longer the calm Mr.
Isaacs, he was Abdul Hafiz the Persian, fiery and enthusiastic.
"You say well, my friend," he continued earnestly, "that the
unpardonable sin is ingratitude. Doubtless, had the blessed prophet of
Allah lived in our day, he would have spoken of the doom that hangs over
the ungrateful. It is the curse of this age; for he who forgets or
refuses to remember the kindness done to him by others sets himself
apart, and worships his miserable self, and he makes an idol of himself,
saying, 'I am of more importance than my fellows in the world, and it is
meet and right that they should give and that I should receive.'
Ingratitude is selfishness, and selfishness is the worship of oneself,
the setting of oneself higher than man and goodness and God. And when
man perishes and the angel Al Sijil, the recorder, rolls up his scroll,
what is written therein is written; and Israfil shall call men to
judgment, and the scrolls shall be unfolded, and he that has taken of
others and not given in return, but has ungratefully forgotten and put
away the remembrance of the kindness received, shall be counted among
the unbelievers and the extortioners and the unjust, and shall broil in
raging flames. By the hairs of the prophet's beard, whose name is
blessed."
I had not seen Isaacs so thoroughly roused before upon any subject. The
flush had left his face and given place to a perfect paleness, and his
eyes shone like coals of fire as he looked upward in pronouncing the
last words. I said to myself that there was a strong element of
religious exaltation in all Asiatics, and put his excitement down to
this cause. His religion was a very beautiful and real thing to him,
ever present in his life, and I mused on the future of the man, with his
great endowments, his exquisite sensitiveness, and his high view of his
obligations to his fellows. I am not a worshipper of heroes, but I felt
that, for the first time in my life, I was intimate with a man who was
ready to stand in the breach and to die for what he thought and believed
to be right. After a pause of some minutes, during which we had ridden
beyond the last straggling bungalows of the town, he spoke again,
quietly, his temporary excitement having subsided.
"I feel very strongly about these things," he said, and then stopped
short.
"I can see you do, and I honour you for it. I think you are the first
grateful person I have ever met; a rare and unique bird in the earth."
"Do not say that."
"I do say it. There is very little of the philosophy of the nineteenth
century about you, Isaacs. Your belief in the obligations of gratitude
and in the general capacity of the human race for redemption, savours
little of 'transcendental analysis.'"
"You have too much of it," he answered seriously. "I do not think you
see how much your cynicism involves. You would very likely, if you are
the man I take you for, be very much offended if I accused you of not
believing any particular dogma of your religion. And yet, with all your
faith, you do not believe in God."
"I cannot see how you get at that conclusion," I replied. "I must deny
your hypothesis, at the risk of engaging you in an argument." I could
not see what he was driving at.
"How can you believe in God, and yet condemn the noblest of His works as
altogether bad? You are not consistent."
"What makes you think I am so cynical?" I inquired, harking back to gain
time.
"A little cloud, a little sultriness in the air, is all that betrays the
coming _khemsin_, that by and by shall overwhelm and destroy man and
beast in its sandy darkness. You have made one or two remarks lately
that show little faith in human nature, and if you do not believe in
human nature what is there left for you to believe in? You said a moment
ago that I was the first grateful person you had ever met. Then the rest
of humanity are all selfish, and worshippers of themselves, and
altogether vile, since you yourself say, as I do, that ingratitude is
the unpardonable sin; and God has made a world full of unpardonable
sinners, and unless you include yourself in the exception you graciously
make in my favour, no one but I shall be saved. And yet you say also
with me that God is good. Do you deny that you are utterly
inconsistent?"
"I may make you some concession in a few minutes, but I am not going to
yield to such logic. You have committed the fallacy of the undistributed
middle term, if you care to know the proper name for it. I did not say
that all men, saving you, were ungrateful. I said that, saving you, the
persons I have met in my life have been ungrateful. You ought to
distinguish."
"All I can say is, then, that you have had a very unfortunate experience
of life," retorted Isaacs warmly.
"I have," said I, "but since you yield the technical point of logic, I
will confess that I made the assertion hastily and overshot the mark. I
do not remember, however, to have met any one who felt so strongly on
the point as you do."
"Now you speak like a rational being," said Isaacs, quite pacified.
"Extraordinary feelings are the result of unusual circumstances. I was
in such distress as rarely falls to the lot of an innocent man of fine
temperament and good abilities. I am now in a position of such wealth
and prosperity as still more seldom are given to a man of my age and
antecedents. I remember that I obtained the first step on my road to
fortune through the kindness of John Westonhaugh, though I could never
learn his name, and I met him at last, as you saw, by an accident. I
call that accident a favour, and an opportunity bestowed on me by Allah,
and the meeting has roused in me those feelings of thankfulness which,
for want of an object upon which to show them, have been put away out of
sight as a thing sacred for many years. I am willing you should say
that, were my present fortune less, my gratitude would be
proportionately less felt--it is very likely--though the original gift
remain the same, one rupee and no more. You are entitled to think of any
man as grateful in proportion to the gift, so long as you allow the
gratitude at all." He made this speech in a perfectly natural and
unconcerned way, as if he were contemplating the case of another person.
"Seriously, Isaacs, I would not do so for the world. I believe you were
as grateful twelve years ago, when you were poor, as you are now that
you are rich." Isaacs was silent, but a look of great gentleness crossed
his face. There was at times something almost angelic in the perfect
kindness of his eyes.
"To return," I said at last, "to the subject from which we started, the
tigers. If we are really going, we must leave here the day after
to-morrow morning--indeed, why not to-morrow?"
"No; to-morrow we are to play that game of polo, which I am looking
forward to with pleasure. Besides, it will take the men three days to
get the elephants together, and I only telegraphed this morning to the
collector of the district to make the arrangements."
"So you have already taken steps? Does Kildare know you have sent
orders?"
"Certainly. He came to me this morning at daybreak, and we determined to
arrange everything and take uncle Ghyrkins for granted. You need not
look astonished; Kildare and I are allies, and very good friends." What
a true Oriental! How wise and far-sighted was the Persian, how bold and
reckless the Irishman! It was odd, I thought, that Kildare had not
mentioned the interview with Isaacs. Yet there was a certain rough
delicacy--contradictory and impulsive--in his silence about this
coalition with his rival. We rode along and discussed the plans for the
expedition. All the men in the party, except Lord Steepleton, who had
not been long in India, had killed tigers before. There would be enough
of us, without asking any one else to join. The collector to whom Isaacs
had telegraphed was an old acquaintance of his, and would probably go
out for a few days with us. It all seemed easy enough and plain sailing.
In the course of time we returned to our hotel, dressed, and made our
way through the winding roads to Mr. Currie Ghyrkins' bungalow.
We were met on the verandah by the old commissioner, who welcomed us
warmly and praised our punctuality, for the clock was striking seven in
the drawing-room, as we divested ourselves of our light top-coats. In
the vestibule, Miss Westonhaugh and her brother came forward to greet
us.
"John," said the young lady, "you know I told you there was some one
here whom you got out of trouble ever so many years ago in Bombay. Here
he is. This is a new introduction. Mr. John Westonhaugh, Mr. Abdul
Hafiz-ben-Isâk, commonly known to his friends as Mr. Isaacs." Her face
beamed with pleasure, and I thought with pride, as she led her brother
to Isaacs, and her eyes rested long on the Persian with a look that, to
me, argued something more than a mere interest. The two men clasped
hands and stood for some seconds looking at each other in silence, but
with very different expressions. Westonhaugh wore a look of utter
amazement, though he certainly seemed pleased. The good heart that had
prompted the good action twelve years before was still in the right
place, above any petty considerations about nationality. His
astonishment gradually changed to a smile of real greeting and pleasure,
as he began to shake the hand he still held. I thought that even the
faintest tinge of blood coloured his pale cheek.
"God bless my soul," said he, "I remember you perfectly well now. But it
is so unexpected; my sister reminded me of the story, which I had not
forgotten, and now I look at you I remember you perfectly. I am so
glad."
As Isaacs answered, his voice trembled, and his face was very pale.
There was a moisture in the brilliant eyes that told of genuine emotion.
"Mr. Westonhaugh, I consider that I owe to you everything I have in the
world. This is a greater pleasure than I thought was in store for me.
Indeed I thank you again."
His voice would not serve him. He stopped short and turned away to look
for something in his coat.
"Indeed," said Westonhaugh, "it was a very little thing I did for you."
And presently the two men went together into the drawing-room,
Westonhaugh asking all manner of questions, which Isaacs, who was
himself again, began to answer. The rest of us remained in the vestibule
to meet Lord Steepleton, who at that moment came up the steps. There
were more greetings, and then the head _khitmatgar_ appeared and
informed the "_Sahib log_, protectors of the poor, that their meat was
ready." So we filed into the dining-room.
Isaacs was placed at Miss Westonhaugh's right, and her brother sat on
his other side. Ghyrkins was opposite his niece at the other end, and
Kildare and I were together, facing Westonhaugh and Isaacs, a party of
six. Of course Kildare sat beside the lady.
The dinner opened very pleasantly. _I_ could see that Isaacs'
undisguised gratitude and delight in having at last met the man who had
helped him had strongly predisposed John Westonhaugh in his favour. Who
is it that is not pleased at finding that some deed of kindness, done
long ago with hardly a thought, has borne fruit and been remembered and
treasured up by the receiver as the turning-point in his life? Is there
any pleasure greater than that we enjoy through the happiness of
others--in those rare cases where kindness is not misplaced? I had had
time to reflect that Isaacs had most likely told a part of his story to
Miss Westonhaugh on the previous afternoon as soon as he had recognised
her brother. He might have told her before; I did not know how long he
had known her, but it must have been some time. Presently she turned to
him.
"Mr. Isaacs," said she, "some of us know something of your history. Why
will you not tell us the rest now? My uncle has heard nothing of it, and
I know Lord Steepleton is fond of novels."
Isaacs hesitated long, but as every one pressed him in turn, he yielded
at last. And he told it well. It was exactly the narrative he had given
me, in every detail of fact, but the whole effect was different. I saw
how true a mastery he had of the English language, for he knew his
audience thoroughly, and by a little colour here and an altered
expression there he made it graphic and striking, not without humour,
and altogether free of a certain mystical tinge he had imparted to it
when we were alone. He talked easily, with no more constraint than on
other occasions, and his narrative was a small social success. I had not
seen him in evening dress before, and I could not help thinking how much
more thoroughly he looked the polished man of the world than the other
men. Kildare never appeared to greater advantage than in the uniform and
trappings of his profession. In a black coat and a white tie he looked
like any other handsome young Englishman, utterly without individuality.
But Isaacs, with his pale complexion and delicate high-bred features,
bore himself like a noble of the old school. Westonhaugh beside him
looked washed-out and deathly, Kildare was too coarsely healthy, and
Ghyrkins and I, representing different types of extreme plainness,
served as foils to all three.
I watched Miss Westonhaugh while Isaacs was speaking. She had evidently
heard the whole story, for her expression showed beforehand the emotion
she expected to feel at each point. Her colour came and went softly, and
her eyes brightened with a warm light beneath the dark brows that
contrasted so strangely yet delightfully with the mass of flaxen-white
hair. She wore something dark and soft, cut square at the neck, and a
plain circlet of gold was her only ornament. She was a beautiful
creature, certainly; one of those striking-looking women of whom
something is always expected, until they drop quietly out of youth into
middle age, and the world finds out that they are, after all, not
heroines of romance, but merely plain, honest, good women; good wives
and good mothers who love their homes and husbands well, though it has
pleased nature in some strange freak to give them the form and feature
of a Semiramis, a Cleopatra, or a Jeanne d'Arc.
"Dear me, how very interesting!" exclaimed Mr. Ghyrkins, looking up from
his hill mutton as Isaacs finished, and a little murmur of sympathetic
applause went round the table.
"I would give a great deal to have been through all that," said Lord
Steepleton, slowly proceeding to sip a glass of claret.
"Just think!" ejaculated John Westonhaugh. "And I was entertaining such
a Sinbad unawares!" and he took another green pepper from the dish his
servant handed him.
"Upon my word, Isaacs," I said, "some one ought to make a novel of that
story; it would sell like wildfire."
"Why don't you do it yourself, Griggs?" he asked. "You are a pressman,
and I am sure you are welcome to the whole thing."
"I will," I answered.
"Oh do, Mr. Griggs," said the young lady, "and make it wind up with a
tiger-hunt. You could lay the scene in Australia or the Barbadoes, or
some of those places, and put us all in--and kill us all off, if you
like, you know. It would be such fun." Poor Miss Westonhaugh!
"It is easy to see what you are thinking about most, Miss Westonhaugh,"
said Lord Steepleton: "the tigers are uppermost in your mind; and
therefore in mine also," he added gallantly.
"Indeed, no--I was thinking about Mr. Isaacs." She blushed scarlet--the
first time I had ever seen her really embarrassed. It was very natural
that she should be thinking of Isaacs and the strange adventures he had
just recounted; and if she had not cared about him she would not have
changed colour. So I thought, at all events.
"My dear, drink some water immediately, this curry is very hot--deuced
hot, in fact," said Mr. Ghyrkins, in perfectly good faith.
John Westonhaugh, who was busy breaking up biscuits and green peppers
and "Bombay ducks" into his curry, looked up slowly at his sister and
smiled.
"Why, you are quite a griffin, Katharine," said he, "how they will laugh
at you in Bombay!" I was amused; of course the remarks of her uncle and
brother did not make the blush subside--on the contrary. Kildare was
drinking more claret, to conceal his annoyance. Isaacs had a curious
expression. There was a short silence, and for one instant he turned his
eyes to Miss Westonhaugh. It was only a look, but it betrayed to me--who
knew what he felt--infinite surprise, joy, and sympathy. His quick
understanding had comprehended that he had scored his first victory over
his rival.
As her eyes met those of Isaacs, the colour left her cheeks as suddenly
as it had come, leaving her face dead white. She drank a little water,
and presently seemed at ease again. I was beginning to think she cared
for him seriously.
"And pray, John," she asked, "what may a griffin be? It is not a very
pretty name to call a young lady, is it?"
"Why, a griffin," put in Mr. Ghyrkins, "is the 'Mr. Verdant Green' of
the Civil Service. A young civilian--or anybody else--who is just out
from home is called a griffin. John calls you a griffin because you
don't understand eating pepper. You don't find it as _chilly_ as he
does! Ha! ha! ha!" and the old fellow laughed heartily, till he was red
in the face, at his bleared old pun. Of course every one was amused or
professed to be, for it was a diversion welcomed by the three men of us
who had seen the young girl's embarrassment.
"A griffin," said I, "is a thing of joy. Mr. Westonhaugh was a griffin
when he gave Mr. Isaacs that historical rupee." I cast my little
bombshell into the conversation, and placidly went on manipulating my
rice.
Isaacs was in too gay a humour to be offended, and he only said, turning
to Miss Westonhaugh--
"Mr. Griggs is a cynyic, you know. You must not believe anything he
says."
"If doing kind things makes one a griffin, I hope I may be one always,"
said Miss Westonhaugh quickly, "and I trust my brother is as much a
griffin as ever."
"I am, I assure you," said he. "But Mr. Griggs is quite right, and shows
a profound knowledge of Indian life. No one but a griffin of the
greenest ever gave anybody a rupee in Bombay--or ever will now, I should
think."
"Oh, John, are you going to be cynical too?"
"No, Katharine, I am not cynical at all. I do not think you are quite
sure what a 'cynic' is."
"Oh yes, I know quite well. Diogenes was a cynic, and Saint Jerome, and
other people of that class."
"A man who lives in a tub, and abuses Alexander the Great, and that sort
of thing," remarked Kildare, who had not spoken for some time.
"Mr. Griggs," said John Westonhaugh, "since you are the accused, pray
define what you mean by a cynic, and then Mr. Isaacs, as the accuser,
can have a chance too."
"Very well, I will. A man is a cynic if he will do no good to any one
because he believes every one past improvement. Most men who do good
actions are also cynics, because they well know that they are doing more
harm than good by their charity. Mr. Westonhaugh has the discrimination
to appreciate this, and therefore he is not a cynic."
"It is well you introduced the saving clause, Griggs," said Isaacs to me
from across the table. "I am going to define you now; for I strongly
suspect that you are the very ideal of a philosopher of that class. You
are a man who believes in all that is good and beautiful in theory, but
by too much indifference to good in small measures--for you want a thing
perfect, or you want it not at all--you have abstracted yourself from
perceiving it anywhere, except in the most brilliant examples of heroism
that history affords. You set up in your imagination an ideal which you
call the good man, and you are utterly dissatisfied with anything less
perfect than perfection. The result is that, though you might do a good
action from your philosophical longing to approach the ideal in your own
person, you will not suffer yourself to believe that others are
consciously or unconsciously striving to make themselves better also.
And you do not believe that any one can be made a better man by any one
else, by any exterior agency, by any good that you or others may do to
him. What makes you what you are is the fact that you really cherish
this beautiful ideal image of your worship and reverence, and love it;
but for this, you would be the most insufferable man of my acquaintance,
instead of being the most agreeable."
Isaacs was gifted with a marvellous frankness of speech. He always said
what he meant, with a supreme indifference to consequences; but he said
it with such perfect honesty and evident appreciation of what was good,
even when he most vehemently condemned what he did not like, that it was
impossible to be annoyed. Every one laughed at his attack on me, and
having satisfied my desire to observe Miss Westonhaugh, which had
prompted my first remark about griffins, I thought it was time to turn
the conversation to the projected hunt.
"My dear fellow," I said, "I think that in spite of your Parthian shaft,
your definition of a cynic is as complimentary to the school at large as
to me in particular. Meanwhile, however," I added, turning to Mr.
Ghyrkins, "I am inclined to believe with Lord Steepleton that the
subject uppermost in the thoughts of most of us is the crusade against
the tigers. What do you say? Shall we not all go as we are, a neat party
of six?"
"Well, well, Mr. Griggs, we shall see, you know. Now, if we are going at
all, when do you mean to start?"
"The sooner the better of course," broke in Kildare, and he launched
into a host of reasons for going immediately, including the wildest
statistics about the habits of tigers in winter. This was quite natural,
however, as he was a thorough Irishman and had never seen a tiger in his
life. Mr. Currie Ghyrkins vainly attempted to stem the torrent of his
eloquence, but at last pinned him on some erratic statement about tigers
moulting later in the year and their skins not being worth taking.
Kildare would have asserted with equal equanimity that all tigers shed
their teeth and their tails in December; he was evidently trying to
rouse Mr. Ghyrkins into a discussion on the subject of tiger shooting in
general, a purpose very easily accomplished. The old gentleman was soon
goaded to madness by Kildare's wonderful opinions, and before long he
vowed that the youngster had never seen a tiger,--not one in his whole
life, sir,--and that it was high time he did, high time indeed, and he
swore he should see one before he was a week older. Yes, sir, before he
was a week older, "if I have to carry you among 'em like a baby in arms,
sir, by gad, sir--I should think so!"
This was all we wanted, and in another ten minutes we were drinking a
bumper to the health of the whole tiger-hunt and of Miss Westonhaugh in
particular. Isaacs joined with the rest, and though he only drank some
sherbet, as I watched his bright eyes and pale cheek, I thought that
never knight drank truer toast to his lady. Miss Westonhaugh rose and
went out, leaving us to smoke for a while. The conversation was general,
and turned on the chase, of course. In a few minutes Isaacs dropped his
cigarette and went quietly out. I determined to detain the rest as long
as possible, and I seconded Mr. Ghyrkins in passing the claret briskly
round, telling all manner of stories of all nations and peoples--ancient
tales that would not amuse a schoolboy in America, but which were a
revelation of profound wit and brilliant humour to the unsophisticated
British mind. By immense efforts--and I hate to exert myself in
conversation--I succeeded in prolonging the session through a cigar and
a half, but at last I was forced to submit to a move; and with a
somewhat ancient remark from Mr. Ghyrkins, to the effect that all good
things must come to an end, we returned to the drawing-room.
Isaacs and Miss Westonhaugh were looking over some English photographs,
and she was enthusiastically praising the beauties of Gothic
architecture, while Isaacs was making the most of his opportunity, and
taking a good look at her as she bent over the album. After we came in,
she made a little music at the tuneless piano--there never was a piano
in India yet that had any tune in it--playing and singing a little, very
prettily. She sang something about a body in the rye, and then something
else about drinking only with the eyes, to which her brother sang a sort
of second very nicely. I do not understand much about music, but I
thought the allusion to Isaacs' temperance in only drinking with his
eyes was rather pointed. He said, however, that he liked it even better
with a second than when she sang it alone, so I argued that it was not
the first time he had heard it.
"Mr. Isaacs," said she, "you have often promised to sing something
Persian for us. Will you not keep your word now?"
"When we are among the tigers, Miss Westonhaugh, next week. Then I will
try and borrow a lute and sing you something."
It was late for an Indian dinner-party, so we took our departure soon
afterwards, having agreed to meet the following afternoon at Annandale
for the game of polo, in which Westonhaugh said he would also play. He
and Isaacs made some appointment for the morning; they seemed to be very
sympathetic to each other. Kildare mounted and rode homeward with us,
though he had much farther to go than we. If he felt any annoyance at
the small successes Isaacs had achieved during the evening, he was far
too courteous a gentleman to show it; and so, as we groped our way
through the trees by the starlight, chiefly occupied in keeping our
horses on their legs, the snatches of conversation that were possible
were pleasant, if not animated, and there was a cordial "Good-night" on
both sides, as we left Kildare to pursue his way alone.
* * * * *