I commenced to read, and I read on deeply interested. There was much that I could not understand, much that betrayed an intimate knowledge with schools of philosophic thought the names of which even were unknown to me. But there was a great deal which, despite my prejudice against the writer, seemed to me almost sublime. It was written from a noble, almost an idyllic standpoint. There were no carping pessimisms in it, no Nineteenth Century disputativeness. It seemed to be the work of a man who believed in all that was pure and lofty in nature and in human nature. The spirit of a good, high-minded man seemed to be breathing through it in every line. I laid it down when I was half-way through with a startled little gasp. Could this be my Uncle Rupert! this the man whose life was a living lie? Never had my faith in my father wavered for one moment, but just then everything seemed chaos. I read on until I came to a passage where the hero of the story was speaking of another man:
"An unhappy man! Of course he is an unhappy man! He always will be! Go and ask him what it is he desires. He will tell you a larger fortune, or a peerage, or something of that sort. He is a fool—a blind fool—not to have realised by this time that desires expand with possessions, and the more the one increases the more ravenous the other becomes. Bah! the principle is as simple as ABC. 'Tis the moralists of the earth, be they Christians or Chinese, who win here! Logic and philosophy may knock Christianity into a cocked hat. But Christianity can make a man happy, which is exactly what philosophy won't do. Happiness is internal, not external. It must sit in the heart, and not float in the senses. And what gratification is there which a man can get out of the good things of the world which can strike deeper than the senses? Happiness is a consciousness; it is the consciousness of goodness. Dreadfully common-place talk this, but common-placisms are often truisms!"
I closed the book, and walked up and down the room restlessly. A great bewilderment seemed to be closing in upon me. My faith in my father was never really shaken, and yet this book seemed to me to ring with evidences that it was written by a high-minded, naturally good man. All my ideas were disarranged. A great wave of wondering doubt seemed beating against the prejudice which had grown up in my heart against my Uncle Rupert. At last I could bear it no longer. With the book still in my hand I hurried out into the street. Within ten minutes I stood before Rupert Devereux's house in Mayfair, and almost immediately was ushered by the servant into his study.
He was bending close over his writing-desk with his back to me, writing fast, and sheets of foolscap lay on the floor all around him. He had not heard me announced, and he wrote on without looking up.
I stepped into the middle of the room and spoke to him:
"Rupert Devereux," I cried, "it is I, Herbert Devereux's son. Turn round, for I have something to say to you."
He started to his feet, and turned an eager face towards me. Then he advanced a step or two, half holding out his hand.
"Hugh, you have come to accept my offer. God grant that you have."
I shook my head. "I have come to ask a question of the man who wrote this book," I answered, holding it out. "I have come to ask the man who writes that happiness is the abstract product of a consciousness of right doing, whether he is happy? Rupert Devereux, you know what happiness is. Tell me, are you happy?"
He sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands. My heart grew lighter as I looked upon him.