That Eurasian

by Aleph Bey

Who was this Peter, under whose protection it is assumed to place England? An ordinary man, unstable in character, impulsive, blowing hot and cold at a breath, declaring he would never leave Jesus, and then swearing that he never knew him, as much a betrayer at heart as Judas, but not as manly, for Judas showed his consciousness of the wrong he had done by killing himself, while Peter, shrewd as a modern Jesuit, shuffled out of his brazen falsehood around to the winning side. In mental ability he was inferior to any of his fellows, a bigot in his belief and in his character, far less to be admired than any of the others. Supposing him to have been transcendent in virtue, wisdom and goodness above all other men who have ever lived, and to have been absolutely perfect, yet he was only a man. Then why should he be made a saint, or be invested with divine power and made protector of anything, in the place of God? In respect to mankind, the veneration of Peter and attributing to him power or authority above all other men is absurd, but when considered in respect to God, it is outrageous blasphemy and idolatry. It is placing a creature, and a very insignificant one in the place of the Creator.

CHAPTER XXIV.

One day, reading in my library so intently that I did not hear the sound of wheels, my bearer brought me a card on which was the name “Mrs. Clement.” I told him to show her into the drawing room. Soon I went in and saw an elderly lady, slender in form, with snow-white hair drawn up in curls at the side of her forehead and with a very bright, intelligent face. She was old in years, but evidently young in heart and mind. All this I saw at a glance. With her was a young man whom I judged at once to be her son, slender and delicate with a bright face partially covered with a beard and a heavy moustache. On my entering the room they rose and greeted me, the mother introducing the young man as her son. We then seated ourselves, and had some introductory talk, probably about the weather, or some such interesting, novel subject. In fact I had become so absorbed in reading Plato’s “New Republic,” that I was still in a dreamy state and supposed they had called on some matter of business.

The mother then spoke. “Are you the Mr. Japhet who was in the St. George’s School in 18—.” “Yes,” I replied. “I must be the one as I know of no other. The Japhets by that name are very scarce, as I never met one in my life.” “Well!” she replied. “Johnny has always been talking of you and of coming to see Mr. Japhet, and I thought I would come with him.” This was what she said, but she had scarcely uttered the name, “Johnny,” before I aroused from my stupor, sprang from my chair and taking both his hands in mine, exclaimed, “Johnny, is it you?” I put my arms around him and gave him a real brotherly hug, and would have kissed him after the good German fashion, but let my tears of joy flow instead. Taking his hands again I studied his features, asking: “Is it really true that you are Johnny?” Then turning to the widow, “Mrs. Clement, I wish to shake your hand again for Johnny’s sake.” I saw the tears glistening in her eyes as she observed us, for was not he the only son of the widow, the treasure of the mother’s heart and life! Had she not a right to be proud of him and of the love I showed him? Why should we not give full play to our sympathies and feelings, the noblest traits of our human nature? Have we not enough in life to make us hard and unfeeling that we should not soften our natures by yielding to our affections when we can do this sincerely?

I have seen husbands and wives, parents and children meet and separate as coldly as if they were only strangers or ashamed to show any feeling. How very strange, and is it not unnatural? Surely I did not take time just then to philosophize for I was too excited even to think. Recovering myself, I ordered the bearer to tell the Khansaman to bring some tea and toast, to open the two guest rooms, to bring in the luggage and dismiss the gari, and all this in one sentence and a breath. I was in a state of delightful excitement and I yielded myself entirely to it, and why not? No more of Plato’s New or Old Republic, but the pleasure of the old and new friendship. I have often recalled Mr. Percy’s saying, “Charles don’t dawdle! When you have anything to do, either work or play, give to it all your might, mind and being.”

I need not say we were busy, not a moment wasted either before or at breakfast. I insisted on the midday rest, that my friends might not become exhausted, but Johnny found me in the library. I call him Johnny for he was always that to me, and ever will be and why not? Later in the afternoon we had our walk in the garden, and then our long drive about the station, but I doubt if either of us saw anything. The pleasant time was after dinner, when we had our coffee in front of the fire in the big room. It reminded me of the old times when we three, Mr. Percy, Cockear and I, sat before our fire and were like boys together. Ah! those happy, joyous days! How much has passed since then?

In this more quiet time Mrs. Clement gave me a little of their history. When Johnny’s school days closed, several years after my time, he tried in various places for a situation, but failed completely. The world seemed harsh and dreary to the widow and her son, the future without any prospect on which to rest a hope. Without friends or influence, what could they expect? Just then a letter came that like the wand of a fairy swept away all the clouds and darkness. It appeared that years before Johnny was born, his father had befriended a lad by helping him to a situation in Bombay, where he commenced at the bottom, and by diligence and honesty rose step by step, until he became one of the partners of the firm. He had lost track of his friend, but on the evening of the day on which he was admitted to the firm, he was recalling the past, and thought of the time when he was a homeless orphan, and almost friendless, and of the one to whom he owed his position and the success of his life. From that moment he could not rest until he had found his benefactor. He wrote letters to him, not knowing that he was dead. One of these letters reached the widow. The writer gave an outline of his life, told of his gratitude, and that if in any way he could do a favor to the one to whom he owed everything, he was not only ready, but anxious to do it. It was like a debt, and almost a burden to him, and he could not be happy until he had discharged it, or shown his willingness to do so.

This letter came as a message from Heaven to the widow and her son. She wrote and explained everything, with the result that Johnny got a situation, and in the course of time became a partner of the man whom, as a lad, his father had befriended. This was most natural, and such incidents would oftener happen if people would pay their debts of gratitude, and put their religion into deeds, and not so much into words.

“So, Mr. Japhet,” said the mother, sitting with her cup of coffee in her hand, forgetting to take a sip of it, “you have our history. I say our history, for in it all, Johnny and I have been one. He was all I had, and I think I was everything to him, though many bright eyes have tried to win him away from me, I have him still.”

“Don’t be too sure, good mother,” said Johnny, “Don’t you know that Cupid’s arrow, if the right one be used, may pierce the hardest heart. Didn’t it your’s once?”