abruptly. It was not the nearly noiseless step of a bare foot, such as
his servants. It was the step of someone in European shoes, yet
without the firm, decided tramp of a European. Yet the tread of a
European shoe, muffled to the slithering, soft effect of a native
foot. A naked foot, booted. This was the Bishop's hour of rest, and
his servants had instructions to admit no one. Well, no one in a
general sense, yet there were always two or three recognised
exceptions. But it was not one of these exceptions, coming in
noiselessly like that. The Bishop sprang up, standing straddle of his
long chair, and looking fixedly in the direction of the approaching
sound. He hated interruptions, and was indignant to think that any one
should have slipped in, past the eyes of his watchful servants. Just
then a figure appeared at the far end of the verandah, a white clad
figure rapidly advancing. A dark skinned, slim figure, clad in white
linen European clothes, even down to a pair of new, ill fitting, white
canvas shoes with rubber soles. That accounted for the sound
resembling bare feet. Really, they could never wear shoes properly,
these natives, however much they might try.
Still standing straddle across his chair, the Bishop called out
angrily to the intruder. Since he was not a European, and obviously
not a native Prince--native princes never slithered in like that, all
the pomp of the East heralded their coming--the Bishop could afford to
let his annoyance manifest itself in his voice. Therefore he called
out sharply, asking the stranger's business.
A slim youth stepped forward, bare headed, hollow chested, very dark
in the gathering twilight, and his hands clasped together as if in
supplication, stood out blackly against the whiteness of his tunic.
The Bishop noticed that they were trembling. Well they might, for he
had taken a great liberty, by this presumptuous, unannounced visit. It
had a sort of sneaking character about it. Coming to steal, perhaps,
and being surprised in the act, had determined to brazen it out under
the pretext of a visit. The young man, however, walked boldly up to
the Bishop's chair, and the Bishop, rather taken aback, sat himself
down again and extended his legs on the rest, in their usual
comfortable position.
"I've come to see you, Sir," began the stranger, using very good
English though with a marked native accent, "on a question of great
importance. On a matter of principle--of high principle. I've never
seen you before, but you are known to me by reputation."
The Bishop snorted at this piece of impudence, but the youth went on
unabashed.
"A very noble reputation, if I may presume to say so. But you know
that, of course. What you are, what you stand for. Therefore I have
dared to come to you for help. It is not a matter of advice--that
does not enter in at all. But I want your great help--on our side. To
right a great, an immense, an immensely growing wrong."
The youth hesitated and stopped, wringing his dark, thin hands
together in evident agitation. The Bishop surveyed him coldly, with
curiosity, without sympathy, enjoying his embarrassment. So that was
it--some grievance, real or fancied. Fancied, most likely. He felt a
distinct sense of resentment that his hour of repose should have been
broken in upon so rudely by this native--bringing him wrongs to
redress in this uncalled for manner. There were plenty of people in
the Bishop's service expressly appointed for the purpose of looking
into complaints and attending to them. To bring them up to
headquarters, to the Bishop himself, was an act of downright
impertinence. Very much as if a native should bring his petty quarrels
up to the Governor-General. These thoughts passed through the Bishop's
mind as he regarded the intruder with a fixed and most unfriendly eye.
A few moments of hesitating silence followed, while the Bishop watched
the darting movements of a lizard on the wall, and waited for the
stranger to continue.
"I want your help," went on the youth in a low voice. "You are so
powerful--you can do so much. Not as a man, but because of your
office. Perhaps as a man, too, for they say you are a good and just
man. But the combination of a strong man in a high office----"
Still no help from the Bishop. That he did not clap his hands together
and call for his servants to have this intruder thrown out, marked
him, in his estimation, as the kind of man that the youth had
suggested. A just and liberal man. Very well, he was ready to listen.
Now that he was caught, so to speak, and obliged to listen against his
will.
"It's about the opium traffic," explained the young man, breathing
hard with excitement, and wringing his thin hands together in
distress.
"Oh, that's it, is it?" exclaimed the Bishop, breaking silence. "I
thought it must be some such thing. I mean, something that is no
concern of mine--nor yours either," he concluded sharply.
"It is both my concern and your concern," replied the young man
solemnly, "both yours and mine. Your race, your country, is sinning
against my race and my country----"
"Your country!" interrupted the Bishop disdainfully.
"Yes, my country!" exclaimed the young man proudly. "Mine still, for
all that you have conquered it, and civilized it and degraded it!"
The Bishop sprang up from his chair angrily, and then sank back again,
determined to listen. He would let this fellow say all he had to say,
and then have him arrested afterwards. He would let him condemn
himself out of his own mouth. How well they spoke English too, these
educated natives.
"What is this Colony, Sir," continued the young man gaining control of
himself, "but a market for the opium your Government sells? For you
know, Sir, as well as I, that the sale of opium is a monopoly of your
Government. And we are helpless, defenceless, powerless to protect
ourselves. And do you know what your Government makes out of this
trade, Sir--the revenue it collects from selling opium to my people?
Three quarters of the revenue of this Colony are derived from opium.
Your Government runs this colony on our degradation. You build your
roads, your forts, your schools, your public buildings, on this vice
that you have forced upon us. Before you came, with your civilization,
we were decent. Very decent, on the whole. Now look at us--what do you
see? How many shops in this town are licensed by your Government for
the sale of opium--and the license money pocketed as revenue? How many
opium divans, where we may smoke, are licensed by your Government, and
the license money pocketed as part of the revenue?"
"You needn't smoke unless you wish to," remarked the Bishop drily. "We
don't force you to do it. We don't put the pipe between your teeth and
insist upon your drugging yourselves. How many shops do you say there
are--how many smoking places? Several hundred? We don't force you into
them, I take it. You go of your own choice, don't you? We Europeans
don't do it. It's as free for us as it is for you. We have the same
opportunities to kill ourselves--I suppose that's how you look at
it--as you do. Yet somehow we abstain. If you can't resist----"
The Bishop shrugged his shoulders. Yet he rather despised himself for
the argument. It sounded cheap and unworthy, somehow. The youth,
however, did not seem to resent it, and went on sadly.
"It's true," he said, "we need not, I suppose. Yet you know," he
continued humbly, "we are a very simple people. We are very primitive,
very--lowly. We didn't understand at first, and now it's too late.
We've most of us got the habit, and the rest are getting it. We're
weak and ignorant. We want you to protect us from ourselves. Just as
you protect your own people--at home. You don't import it into your
own country--you don't want to corrupt your own people. But what about
the races you colonise and subject--who can't protect themselves? It's
not fair!" he concluded passionately, "and besides, this year you have
sold us two millions more than last year----"
"Where did you get your figures?" broke in the Bishop with rising
indignation. This cowering, trembling boy seemed to have all the
arguments on his side.
"From your own reports, Sir. Government reports. Compiled by your own
officials."
"And how did _you_ obtain a Government report?" asked the Bishop
angrily. "Spying, eh?"
The young man ignored the insult, and went on patiently. "Some are
distributed free, others may be bought at the book shops. There is one
lying on your table this moment, Sir."
"Well enough for me," remarked the Bishop, "but how did you come by
it?" The sharp eyes had recognised the fat, blue volume buried under a
miscellaneous litter of books and pamphlets on a wicker table. A lean
finger pointed towards it, and the accusing voice went on.
"There is more than opium in that Report, Sir. Look at the schools.
How little schooling do you give us, how little money do you spend for
them. We are almost illiterate--yet you have ruled us for many years.
How little do you spend on schools, so that you may keep us submissive
and ignorant? You know how freely you provide us with opium, so that
we may be docile and easy to manage--easy to manage and exploit."
The Bishop sprang up from his chair, making a grasp for the white coat
of his tormentor, but the fellow nimbly avoided him, and darted to the
other side of the table. It was almost completely dark by this time,
and the Bishop could not pursue his guest in the gloom, nor could he
reach the bell.
"Are you a Seditionist, Sir? How dare you criticise the Government?"
The answer was immediate and unexpected.
"Yes, I criticise the Government--just as I have been criticising it
to you. But more in sorrow than in anger. Although in time the anger
may come. Therefore that is why I have come to you--for help, before
our anger comes. You are a strong man, a just, a liberal man--so I'm
told. You hold a high position in the Church maintained by your
Government, just as the opium traffic is maintained by your
Government. Both are Government monopolies."
In the distance the cathedral chimes rang over the still air--the old,
sweet Canterbury chimes, pealing the full round, for it was the hour.
Then the hour struck, and both men counted it, mechanically.
"Your salary, Sir--as well as the salaries of the other priests of
your established church, out here in this Colony--comes from the
established opium trade. Your Canterbury chimes ring out, every
fifteen minutes, over the opium dens of the Crown!"
At this supreme insult the Bishop leaped at his tormentor, striking a
blow into space. The youth bounded over the low rail of the verandah
and disappeared amongst the shrubbery in the darkness.
To say that the Bishop was shaken by this interview is to put it
mildly. For he was a good man in his way, and moreover, in a certain
restricted sense, a religious one. But he was lazy and not inclined to
meddle in affairs that did not concern him. And colonial politics and
the management of colonial affairs were certainly not his concern.
Nevertheless, the horrible grouping together of facts, as the young
Seditionist had grouped them for him, their adroit placing together,
with the hideous, unavoidable connection between them, upset him
tremendously. He sat on in the darkness trying to think, trying to
see his way clear, trying to excuse or to justify. He had never
thought of these things before, yet he well knew of their existence.
All sorts of injustices abounded in civilized states--it was perhaps
worse in the colonies. Yet even in the colonies, little by little they
were being weeded out, or adjusted. Yet this particular evil, somehow,
seemed to flourish untouched. Not an effort was made to uproot it. The
only effort made, apparently, was to increase and encourage it. And
with the acquiescence of men like himself. All for what--for money?
For Crown revenues! Pretty poor business, come to think of it. Surely,
if the Colony could not exist by honest and legitimate trade, it might
better not exist at all. To thrive upon the vices of a subject people,
to derive nearly the whole revenue from those vices, really, somehow,
it seemed incompatible with--with--that nasty fling about the Church!
He rang for his boy, and a lamp was brought in and placed upon the
table beside him, and the Bishop reached over for the unheeded Report,
which had been lying on the table so long. The columns of figures
seemed rather formidable--he hated statistics, but he applied himself
to the Report conscientiously. Yes, there it was in all its simplicity
of crude, bald statements, just as the young man had said. Glaring,
horrible facts, disgraceful facts. For an hour he sat absorbed in
them, noting the yearly increase in consumption as indicated by the
yearly increase in revenue. Three quarters of the revenue from
opium--one quarter from other things. He wondered vaguely about his
salary; that painful allusion to it troubled him. It was just possible
that it came from the one quarter derived from legitimate trade.
Certainly, it was quite possible. But on the other hand, there was an
unquiet suspicion that perhaps it didn't.
The Bishop moved into the dining room, carrying the fat Blue Book
under his arm, and read it carefully during his solitary meal. Those
carefully compiled tables, somehow, did not do credit to what he had
heretofore been pleased to consider the greatest colonising nation in
the world. Were all colonies like that--run on these principles? Yet
the Government, apparently, had felt no hesitation in setting forth
these facts explicitly. Presumably the Government felt justified. Yet
it certainly was not--the word honourable rose to his mind, but he
suppressed it at once--however, nothing else suggested itself. Years
ago, so many years ago that he had lost count, the Bishop had worked
for a time in the East End. He had had clubs and classes, and worked
with the young men. He used to know a good deal about certain things,
and to feel strongly---- But since then he had become prosperous, and
a high dignitary in the Church. Something stirred uneasily in the back
of his mind, as he dawdled over his dinner and turned the pages of the
Blue Book----
Then he went back to the verandah again, and subsided into his long
chair. He sat in darkness, for he disliked the night-flying insects of
the Tropics, and had a nervous horror of them. Lamps made them
worse--brought them in thicker shoals. He gazed out at the twinkling
lights of the vessels at anchor in the harbour. There were many ships
in the roadway to-night, a sight which would ordinarily have pleased
him, but his thoughts were in sharp contrast now to his comfortable,
contented thoughts of a few hours ago.
II
The Bishop spent rather a wakeful night, that is, until about two in
the morning, at which hour he settled his problem and fell asleep. It
finally resolved itself in his mind as a matter for him to let alone.
He could not better it, and had not the smallest intention of making a
martyr of himself, of resigning his office, or of incurring any of the
other disagreeable experiences which beset the path of the moral
crusader. No, he could do nothing, for at two o'clock, as we have
said, he had arrived at the conclusion that the evil--if such it could
be called, since there was considerable doubt on the subject--had
reached a magnitude which no single individual could deal with.
Whereupon he wisely dismissed the matter from his mind. Not having
gone to sleep till late he was considerably annoyed when his China-boy
arrived at six with his early tea. This sense of irritation still
clung to him when an hour later he sat down on the verandah facing the
harbour and began his breakfast. Even after ten years in the Tropics,
the Bishop still continued to enjoy bacon and eggs with unabated
relish, and these did something, this morning, to mitigate his ill
humour. A fresh papaya, with a dozen seeds left in as flavouring, also
helped. Finally the boy came in and laid letters by his plate. Home
letters, bearing the familiar postmarks, so dear to dwellers in
outlying parts of the world. A small Malay kriss, with a handle of
ivory and silver and a blade of five waves served as letter opener.
The Bishop slit each envelope carefully, and laid the pile back on the
table, to be read slowly, with full enjoyment. One by one he went
through them, smiling a little, or frowning, as it happened. The mail
from Home was early this week--evidently it had come in last evening,
although he had not seen the steamer in the roads. All the better--all
the more of a surprise.
He stopped suddenly, anxiously, and an open letter in his hand
trembled violently. He finished it hurriedly, went through it a second
time, and again once more before he could acknowledge its meaning.
"MY DEAR BROTHER" [it began, with a formality about the opening
that boded trouble], "I write to you in great distress, but
sure that you will respond to the great demand I am about to
make upon you, upon all the kindness which you have shown us
for these many years. Herbert, your namesake, is in deep
trouble--disgrace, I might better say. Never mind the details.
They are sufficiently serious, sufficiently humiliating. We
have managed to cover it up, to conceal what we can, but for
the present at least, or until this blows over, it is
impossible for him to remain at home. It has all come about so
suddenly, so unexpectedly, that there has been no time to write
to you to obtain your consent. But he must leave home at once,
and there is no one to whom we can send him except yourself. In
his present position, feeling the deep dishonour that he has
brought upon himself, upon all of us in fact, we do not dare to
send him forth into the world alone. Therefore, without delay,
we are sending him to you, feeling sure of your response. Under
your guidance and care, with the inestimable benefits that he
will derive through the association with such a man as
yourself, we hope that he will recover his normal balance. Take
him in, do what you can for him for all our sakes. He has
always been devoted to you, although it was a lad's
devotion--you have not seen him for several years, and he is
now twenty. Put him to work, do whatever you think best for
him; we give him entirely into your hands. We turn to you in
this hour of our distress, knowing that you will not fail us.
"Such is the urgency, that he is going out to you on the boat
that carries this letter. Failing that, he will leave in any
event on the boat of the following week. We regret that there
has not been sufficient time to prepare you. He will be no
expense, being well provided with funds, although in future I
shall make out his remittances in your name. In haste, in
grief, and with all love,
"Your affectionate brother,
"ALLAN."
The Bishop sat thunderstruck in his chair, aghast at his predicament.
Here was a pretty situation! A scapegrace nephew, who had done heavens
knew what dishonourable thing--the Bishop thought of a dozen things
all at once, all equally disgraceful and equally probable,--was about
to be quartered upon him, in his peaceful, ordered, carefree life, for
an indefinite period! Really, it was intolerable. What did he, the
Bishop, know of young men and their difficulties? Who was he to guide
the footsteps of an erring one? What practical experience had he in
such matters--it was one thing to expound certain niceties of
theological doctrine, which, after all, had little bearing on daily
life--and quite another to become guardian and preceptor to a young
scamp. For he was a scamp, obviously. And of all places in the world,
to send a weak, undisciplined person out to the Colony--this rather
notorious Colony where even those of the highest principles had some
difficulty in holding to the path. It was obvious that the place for
this young man was in his home--in the home of his father and mother,
who while they had doubtless spoiled him, must nevertheless retain a
certain influence. He needed all the kindness and loving care that a
home could give. The Bishop sought refuge in platitudes, for of such
consisted his daily thoughts, running through his brain in certain
well defined, well worn brain paths. Then a wave of indignation passed
over him concerning his brother--the selfishness of turning his son
out, at this time of all times! Of shirking responsibility towards
him, of turning that responsibility over to another! To another whom
he had not even consulted! All his life his brother had had what he
wanted--riches, a beautiful home, an easy life. Yet at the first
breath of trouble he evaded his responsibilities and dumped them upon
another!
The Bishop worked himself up into a fine fury, seeing his future plans
upset, his easy-going life diverted from its normal, flowing course by
the advent of this scapegrace nephew. His eyes rested once more upon
the letter: "He is going out to you on the boat that carries this
letter." If so, then he must have already landed and would appear at
any moment. For the mailboat must have come in last night, and the
passengers had either been put ashore last evening, or had been put
ashore at sunrise, supposing the boat remained discharging cargo all
night. It was now eight o'clock. The youth should have been here.
Apparently, then, he had failed to catch this boat, and was coming the
following week. But the Bishop was troubled; he must go into town and
make sure. Since he was to be burdened with the rascal for a week (but
only for a week, he would send him packing home by the next boat, he
promised himself) his sense of duty prompted him to act at once. He
raised his fine, thin hands and clapped them together smartly.
"Rickshaw! Quickly!" he ordered the China-boy who appeared in answer
to his summons. A few minutes later he descended the broad steps of
the verandah and entered his neat, black rickshaw, with highly
polished brasses, drawn by two boys in immaculate white livery. The
Bishop kept no carriage--that would have seemed ostentatious--but his
smart, black rickshaw was to be seen all over town, stopping before
houses of high and low degree, but mostly high.
He reached the quais after a sharp run, passing the godowns filled
with rubber, which gave forth its peculiar, permeating odour upon the
heavy, stagnant air of the harbourside. No, the mailboat had gone on,
had weighed anchor early in the morning, at sunrise, they told him,
and had continued on her way up the coast. No such passenger as he
described had been landed--no one by that name. The Bishop, leaning
upon the worn counter in the dingy shipping office, scrutinised the
passenger list carefully. There was a name there, certainly, that
suggested his nephew's, but with two or three wrong letters. Not
enough for a positive identification, but perhaps done purposely, as a
disguise. Could the youth have deliberately done this? It was
possible. When pressed for a description, the Bishop was most hazy. He
could only say that he was searching for a young man, about twenty.
The agent told him that twenty young men, about twenty, had come
ashore. The Bishop was not quite satisfied, was vaguely uneasy, but
there was nothing to be done. However, when the day passed and no
nephew appeared, he drew a long breath of relief. He was safe for
another week. Had a week before him in which to formulate his plans.
And he would formulate them too, he promised himself, and would put
the responsibility of this irresponsible young creature back upon the
shoulders where it belonged. It was a great temptation not to return
to the shipping office again and engage a berth on the next homeward
bound liner, but on second thought, he determined not to do so. Above
all things he prided himself on being just and liberal. He would give
his nephew a week's trial in the Colony, after which the letter
returning him to his father would bear the air of resigned but
seasoned judgment, rather than the unreasoning impulse of a moment's
irritation. A week's guardianship, and--well, so it should be. Nothing
longer, no greater incursion into his smooth, harmonious existence.