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.
CHAPTER IV.
FAIRLY STARTED.
The two companions shared the single sleeping apartment in the small house. Thus Walter could not but observe that Denis commenced the day on which a dangerous journey would be begun without anything like prayer. It was no small effort to Walter to bow the knee when he felt that Denis's eyes were watching his movements, and that the gay adventurer would be likely to despise the spirit of devotion which he did not himself possess. Walter was much disposed to go out into the jungle, and there—alone with his God—pour out his supplications for his friend as well as himself. But conscience told Walter that it was chiefly moral cowardice that prompted the love of solitude. He remembered, that thrown closely together as he and Denis must be for a considerable length of time, it was far better to meet the difficulty at once, and openly show his colours. After Walter's usual reading of the Scriptures, he therefore knelt down, and in silent but earnest supplication committed himself to his Heavenly Guide. The youth confessed his own weakness, and asked for strength, for grace never to be ashamed of his religion, whether in the presence of those who might mock, or those who might threaten. The missionary's son rose with a spirit refreshed. Denis had left the apartment. Walter knew not how his comrade regarded his conduct. If he could have read the mind of Denis he would have seen there a feeling of slight annoyance, for if anything can make a worldly man's conscience uneasy, it is the contrast between his own carelessness and the earnestness of another. But Denis had not at all a troublesome conscience—it scarcely ever gave token of its existence. The Hibernian thought exceedingly well of himself. One thing on which he prided himself was his tolerance; he extended it so widely that it embraced every form of spiritual error, and made him yield a little indulgence even to the devotion of what he would call a narrow-minded puritan like Walter Gurney.
When Walter went forth, he found his companion giving directions in most imperfect Urdu to the mule-drivers.
"Oh, come here and make these stupid fellows understand me," cried Denis; "they've no more brains than the beasts that they lead."
A few intelligible words from Walter soon made matters clear. "Are we to start at once, Mr. Denis?" he inquired.