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Chapter I

‘So we are not to be damned, after all!’ exclaimed Major Dearie, as he entered the room and looked about for a peg to hang his hat on.

‘You allude, I suppose, to the decision of the Privy Council on the doctrine of eternal punishment,’ observed Mr Beaumont, from behind a cloud of smoke.

‘I am glad of it for your sake, major,’ remarked Mr Richard Raleigh, who presided at the head of the table, as he saluted the newcomer with a graceful flourish of his pipe.

‘There's nothing in it,’ ejaculated Arthur Irving.

‘Nothing in it!’ retorted the major, with assumed amazement, while seating his ponderous person at the table, and exchanging a round of friendly nods and winks with the assembled guests. ‘Nothing in it! Do you mean nothing in damnation?’

‘No, I believe in hell; I was brought up that way.’

‘And I,’ continued the major, ‘have brought myself up to be guided by reason in all things. But this is not my humble opinion only, it emanates from the highest tribunal of the realm. What says our reverend friend here?’

‘I will tell you next Sunday,’ meekly replied Parson Tupper, as he poured himself out an ample dose of dark brandy from a demijohn, and then passed the jar with outstretched hands to his gallant interlocutor.

Now, there existed a spirit of ill-disguised but purely polemical hostility between the rough and rather boisterous soldier, who posed as a free thinker of the most advanced type, and the sleek and pacific clergyman, who deprecated disputation of any kind, but specially on theological questions.

The major was aggressive, and ever eager for a friendly passage of arms, if not a challenge to single combat; and, even when most peacefully disposed, he rarely could resist the chance of having a sly dig at his unresisting antagonist. His field of battle was a wide one, and he considered himself armed at all points; he was prepared to start at the Mosaic account of the Creation and fight his way down through all history, sacred and profane, to the present day.

The parson, on the other hand, although wanting in combativeness, was well profected for passive defence; he could retire within a shell page 2 that was equally proof against the thrusts of logic or the shafts of ridicule.

‘When you are upon that interesting topic,’ pursued the tormentor, after filling his glass and drawing some fierce whiffs from a capacious meerschaum, ‘I hope you will not forget to reply to a few of the most telling points brought forward by Bishop Colenso in his recent publication, which of course you have read. They deserve your closest attention.’

‘I have an answer to all of them,’ replied the placid divine, without taking his pipe out of his mouth.

‘Indeed?’

‘I have an answer that is complete and comprehensive, and which requires no comment. To all difficulties and apparent contradictions I reply It's a miracle.’

‘Good again,’ cried the president.

‘That's what I call a settler,’ observed Irving.

‘But, my dear sir,’ blustered the major, bristling up, ‘even if you attempt to explain certain individual acts, such as the fall of the walls of Jericho at the sound of a trumpet, which beats dynamite hollow, by the assumption of super-natural agency, how can you get over the undeniable evidence from the geological record, or——’

‘It's a miracle,’ interrupted the parson; ‘that's my last word.’

‘Well, I'm d——d,’ gasped the major, sotto voce.

‘We will hope not,’ muttered his mild opponent, but with such a dubious shake of the head, as set all the company laughing.

‘I'm afraid the devil is too firmly established amongst us to be got rid of, even by the verdict of our highest Court of Appeal,’ observed the suave Mr Beaumont, the resident magistrate, who wished to divert the discussion from the rather personal tone it was taking. ‘Not that their lordships ever contemplated the dethronement of his Satanic Majesty, by any means. Only it is no longer heretical to disbelieve in hell.’

‘The brimstone flames were extinguished some time ago,’ put in the irrepressible major.

‘I suppose,’ continued the magistrate, ‘that our ideas of future punishment are simply undergoing a gradual modification (development is the scientific term) to suit the more refined and humanitarian views of the present day. Torture and mutilation have been abolished; we no longer burn witches, or even duck them; and the society which will hardly tolerate the flogging of a garotter cannot be expected to acquiesce in the roasting of poor sinners over a slow fire for all eternity.’

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‘Precisely,’ remarked the president, sententiously. ‘and just as we have substituted solitary confinement for the lash in our prisons, so we have invented a sort of moral hell to take the place of the old sulphurous institution. Nous avons changé tout cela. Who knows? The change may answer just as well up above as it has done here below.’

‘But what is to become of the devil?’ inquired Tippings, the funny man. ‘Is he to be transmogrified, or left out in the cold?’

‘There are so many sorts and conditions of devils,’ pursued the president, ‘that we have ample material to choose from to suit our altered conditions. First, there is the grand conception of Satan, the undaunted; the sinister but mighty hero of evil, who appears glorious even in his fall.’

‘The first of rebels,’ said Irving.

‘The original of free-thinkers,’ added the parson.

‘Then we have the wily Mephistopheles,’ observed Mr Beaumont, ‘who dresses à la mode, and frequents the best society—le persifleur par excellence.’

‘A thorough-going sceptic,’ interjected Parson Tupper, with a side-glance at the major.

‘The seducer of kings, but not above tripping up an innocent young couple, especially in a dark lane, when returning from evening chapel,’ retorted Major Dearie, with a side-glance at the parson.

‘Then there is the ordinary devil,’ said Raleigh; ‘a sort of hobgoblin, or moral hyena, who went about like a roaring lion seeking whom he might devour, and picking up tit-bits where least expected. He did good service in the Middle Ages, and, according to Buckle, kept even such a hard-headed nation as the Scotch in terrorem for centuries. He has lost much of his prestige since, but will frighten old women even to this day.’

‘Not forgetting our grotesque Old Nick,’ put in Tippings, with a grin. ‘A queer old cuss, who was always up to pranks. We used to sing at school—

Have you ever seen the devil,
With his wooden spade and shovel,
Digging up potatoes,
With his tail cocked up?

‘The devil is a stern reality,’ said Irving, seriously. ‘He is the source of all sin and misery in this world; the father of lies.’

‘That last proposition I will make bold to dispute,’ declared the president, stoutly. ‘That the devil is intent on mischief, I will admit, page 4 and he is quite diplomatic enough to tell a lie when it suits him, but there is no necessary connection between falsehood and evil. In fact, there are good lies as well as bad ones.’

This astounding assertion was met by a general murmur of dissent. The parson almost crossed himself, and even the major gravely shook his head.

Mr Richard Raleigh felt the symptoms of opposition, but that he rather liked. He realised that he would have the room against him, but nothing daunted, he threw himself back in the presidential chair, placed his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, spread himself out, and prepared to support his thesis against all comers.

‘Yes,’ he said with emphasis, ‘I am aware that in advancing such an opinion I am running counter to an accepted belief; for, strange to say, although so many thinking people disagree on most things with one another; although there are a hundred different religions, and as many more schools of philosophy which are all at loggerheads, all hating and denouncing one another; yet they all agree to agree upon one point—The Belief in Truth. They—every one of them—profess to be inquirers after truth; they all pin their faith on truth; they all sound her praises, burn incense at her altar, and subscribe to the universal dictum that whatever is true must be good. There would seem to be a consensus of opinion on that point. Whether the converse holds good is another question.’

‘I am sure it doesn't,’ interjected Tippings, dolefully. ‘For last month I received tidings that an old maiden aunt had died and left me a big legacy. That was good, but unfortunately it turns out not to be true.’

‘It is, no doubt, a knotty point,’ continued the president, without heeding the interruption, ‘to decide whether there may be moral good without truth. I will maintain that there is no necessary connection between the two. Of course, you will understand, that I am speaking of truth in the abstract.’

‘Can't you bring it nearer home?’ roared the commodore from the other end of the room. ‘Is it right to tell a lie?’

‘That depends.’

‘Never!’ was the loud response from all parts of the room.

“‘Guides, philosophers, and friends,” hold your peace, and hear me out! I respect a truth-speaking man as much as any of you here present do, and I don't think that I have ever personally been guilty of telling a deliberate falsehood, unless it may have been where a lady was concerned. That, of course, is allowable.’

‘Of course,’ responded the company.

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‘I have even read that grave judges on the bench have admitted that there are cases where a gentleman is bound in honour to commit perjury.’

‘And throw himself afterwards on the mercy of the court,’ added Mr Beaumont.

‘A man is fully justified by law, and in the eyes of the world, in pleading not guilty to any charge against himself; in fact, he has frequently been advised by the judge to do so, although he may previously have admitted his guilt. No lawyer—perhaps I should say no successful lawyer—ever rejects favourable evidence because he knows it to be false. Client before truth is, I fancy, the rule, although I don't suppose it is openly professed. Do you admit that, Mr Beaumont, you who are a lawyer?’

‘I admit nothing,’ replied the gentleman appealed to.

‘Now in private life, by universal consent, no man is called upon to speak the truth to his own injury. Even such a blunt and uncompromising moralist as old Doctor Johnson admitted that there are occasions when a man is fully justified in telling a direct lie. He instanced, I believe, the case of a writer being questioned concerning the authorship of some work which he wished to remain anonymous. To decline to answer would be construed into an admission of the fact, therefore a point-blank denial would be warranted. Sir Walter Scott. of whom a more straightforward and honourable man could not be found, adopted that view, and stoutly repudiated the authorship of the Waverley Novels, even long after the secret had become well known.’

‘All this,’ remarked the magistrate, ‘looks like a piece of special pleading.’

‘Allow me to proceed, and you will find that there is nothing very special about it. Let us turn from peaceful arts to those of war. I fancy that my gallant friend here will readily admit that truth is not recognised in warfare. In fact, that to hoodwink and deceive an enemy is held to be laudable, even to the issuing of forged despatches.’

‘Certainly,’ replied the major, ‘any stratagem that succeeds, within the recognised rules of civilised warfare.”

‘Then, if a prisoner were able to mislead his captors by giving them a false account, he would be acting rightly and honourably?’

‘Of course.’

‘And if he lost his life through telling lies, he would be a hero?’

‘He would deserve a statue, if by deceiving the enemy he was able to contribute to the safety of his own side; even if he had been hanged as a spy.’

‘We will now turn to diplomacy,’ continued Raleigh, smiling. ‘Here page 6 truth is very much out of place—not at all in her element. In fact, duplicity is an essential part of the business. They call it finesse, and it is considered a highly distinguished accomplishment of a statesman. Accredited agents are not supposed to speak the truth, but at one time it was thought proper to place some reliance on the sacred word of honour of a reigning prince—a trust which, I fear, was so greatly abused that it has long since ceased to exist. In the ordinary walks of life, according to the prevailing rules of society, truth makes but a sorry show. Even where a lie direct is censured, equivocation and dissimulation are allowable. In the game of life we play, no one is supposed to show his hand. In the keen competition of business and conflicting interests, truth cannot be said to have a place at all. She is tacitly ignored, where she is not discarded. A man who would go about believing all he was told would be considered such an arrant fool that he would deserve to lose his money.’

‘I quite fail to see how this homily on the deceitfulness of the world, which nobody denies, is calculated to assist your argument,’ remarked Mr Beaumont.

‘I am also at a loss to understand,’ added the Rev. Tupper, ‘how the sacredness of truth can be called in question on the plea of the prevalence of duplicity and falsehood in a very artificial and godless society. You might as well deny the efficacy of virtue, because most men are immoral. The light of truth, as revealed to us by God, shines clearly above, although obscured to our vision by the mists of ignorance and sin.’

Arthur Irving, the poetical young man, who had always got a quotation at his fingers' ends, here cut in:

Truth, though sometimes clad
In painful lustre, yet is always welcome,
Dear as the light that shows the lurking rock;
‘Tis the fair star that, ne'er into the main
Descending, leads us safe through stormy life.

‘Is it not to the revelations of truth,’ exclaimed the major, warmly, ‘that we owe every step in moral and intellectual progress? What have all the great philosophers and reformers of the world been but inquirers after truth? What have they done but enlighten mankind? Is it not the light of truth that has dissipated the poisonous mists of bigotry and superstition, and given us intellectual freedom? How can truth be anything but allied to what is good and useful? Why, it is in the very nature of things, and requires no argument.’

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‘My friends,’ pleaded the president, ‘pray restrain the expression of your outraged feelings until I have finished, and hear me out. Please bear in mind what I said at the outset of my argument, that I was only dealing with truth in the abstract. I was not alluding to scientific discoveries, advances in political economy, or social improvements—all these are outside of the question at issue—nor was I dealing in particular with what might be called personal veracity, which is a most laudable habit, and ought to be encouraged. The commodore interrupted me with the query, “Is it right to tell a lie?” I replied, “That depends;” at which you all cried me down. Yet, in support of my contention, you have tacitly admitted that in a great many instances it is perfectly right to tell a lie. Truth-speaking is not de rigueur in society, except in certain cases, so that it is rather the exception than the rule. According to the accepted code of morals—and what else are we to go by?—a man may tell a lie to guard his honour, to defend his liberty, to protect his interests, to serve his own party, or to deceive an enemy, and so on. The exemptions are too numerous to mention. We honour truth in theory, but we are agreed to ignore her in practice. At school, but only at school, telling a lie is a whipping offence. Then a great deal goes for the intention. Even canonised saints have been known to tell lies, and write them too, for the benefit of posterity—holy lies, they have been called—as they were intended for a good purpose.’

‘That is a Jesuitical doctrine!’ exclaimed the Rev. Tupper. ‘The Reformed Church has never countenanced it.’

‘Perhaps not. All I want to show is that as regards veracity it is recognised as a conventional matter. Now, please understand me; I have nothing to say against reverence for truth. Place the goddess on a pedestal as high as the Great Pyramid, burn incense before her, sound her praises aloud, and fall down and worship her. Only—it would, perhaps, be well if you first ascertained what you are worshipping; it would be desirable to make sure that we have all the same holy object for our adoration. Consider a moment, and ask yourselves, “What is truth?” A great many amongst the wisest and best of men have been immolated on this altar. That virtuous pagan Marcus Aurelius persecuted the early Christians cruelly, and the Christians suffered martyrdom with fortitude and even ecstasy in the cause of truth. Later on we see the true Church burning heretics by thousands on account of their errors, and true reformers destroying the true Church on account of her errors. Civilised society was desolated through whole centuries by terrible wars and bloody massacres all in the same holy cause.

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‘At the present day what do we see? The zealous missionary, who suffers exile and braves every danger and privation in the belief that he is disseminating truth; the scientist, working ardently at the destruction of those same creeds on principles that he claims to be true; the Indian fanatic, who endures self-inflicted tortures for holy truth's sake; scores of religious and philosophical sects, who are all marching under the same banner of truth, but all hating and opposing one another; victims without number to this moral Juggernaut that crushes or mangles whatever it passes over…. Now tell me, somebody, whether all these followers after truth have been guided by one or by many different lights?’

‘Many lights, of course,’ answered the parson. ‘Many lights, and all false save one.’

‘One, and indivisible, I think you should say, as the French used to describe their republic,’ continued Raleigh, with a smile. ‘This worship at the shrine of truth reminds me of the adulation paid to the statue of Liberty, which stood by the side of the guillotine, and to which poor misguided victims made their bow before their heads were struck off. But to return to our subject. Which, out of so many, do you consider the real and blessed light?’

‘The light of revelation,’ replied the party appealed to. ‘Man of his own accord cannot discover the truth which is hidden from him.’

‘The light of reason,’ asserted the major, stoutly, ‘which was given to man by nature for that purpose, and is his only guide.’

‘The light of experience, I should say,’ remarked Mr Beaumont. ‘From the wisdom of ages we obtain an insight into truth, which no single observation could ever give.’

‘For my part, I don't see the advantage of discussion on these matters—they only unsettle a fellow,’ observed Irving, drearily. ‘I believe that certain things are true because I was brought up that way, and I believe that they are good because they are true.’

‘I fancy we shall all come to the same conclusion,’ added Tippings. ‘In the words of the poet:

And diff'ring judgments serve but to declare
That truth lies somewhere, if we knew but where.’

‘That's about it,’ continued the president, warming up to his subject, ‘if we knew but where. Besides, on what grounds can you assert positively that truth must be good?’

‘Because,’ replied Irving, ‘truth is a divine attribute. God is Truth.’

‘My dear fellow, you are arguing in a circle. What can you know page 9 about the divine attributes? Man, in all ages, has drawn his God after his own image, and not always a very flattering likeness either. He has endowed the Deity with certain characteristics which he deems appropriate. Such terms as truthful, merciful, impartial, long-suffering, &c., applied to the Deity are meaningless.’

There was a pause, after which Mr Beaumont, taking up the argument for the other side, remarked quietly, ‘I admit that Abstract Truth, as representing the absolute Reality of Things, is hidden from us, but there is such a thing as relative truth; also the many well-ascertained facts and conditions of things, which are truths of their kind, and have proved of infinite utility to mankind. It is also given to us to discriminate moral truths, which are identified with what we know to be right and proper; therefore we are justified in asserting in a general way, Truth must be good.’

‘There I join issue with you,’ replied the other. ‘I believe that I could show that the rule does not hold absolute. What is true may, or may not be good.’

‘Gentlemen! I move that the discussion be adjourned,’ cried Arthur Irving. ‘The question is too profound to tackle at this hour of night.’

‘Could not our worthy host prepare a discourse on this momentous subject, and lay it before us at our next meeting?’ blandly inquired the parson.

‘Hear hear!’ from the major. ‘It is a monstrous paradox, but none the less interesting on that account.’

‘Carried unanimously,’ exclaimed the magistrate. ‘Mr President, we shall be prepared to hear a discourse from you at our next palaver; subject, “The Immorality of Truth”.’

‘And till then,’ put in the wag, ‘we will let truth lie.’

‘Gentlemen,’ replied the president, rising and making a low bow, ‘I shall be most happy. I will put my thoughts into a condensed form, and invite discussion upon them afterwards.’

‘Under the circumstances,’ observed Irving, sarcastically, as a parting shot, ‘I am sorry that I alluded to the devil as “the father of lies”. If the term has given offence, I beg to withdraw it.’

There was a general laugh, in which Raleigh joined heartily. ‘I have no concern about the devil's reputation, I assure you,’ he replied. ‘But let me ask you this simple question. Why should the devil go about inventing lies, when he could save himself that trouble and do quite as much harm by confining himself strictly to the truth? A malignant spirit, intent only on causing misery and dissension, and having access to all hidden sources of information, could set society by the ears, page 10 break up happy homes, disunite the closest friendships, dishonour the noblest names, and tear most reputations to shreds—in short, do an infinity of mischief, and defame us all, and yet be perfectly veracious. What gives venom to the sting of scandal is truth.’

‘And the greater the truth, the greater the libel,’ added Tipping.

‘Yet the devil tempted our first parents with a lie,’ remarked Irving, gravely.

‘Oh, murder!’ exclaimed the major, ‘I did hope that we had done with Eve and her apple long ago.’

The commodore had preserved a rather sulky silence throughout the discussion, smoking hard, and occasionally interrupting with a growl. He now saw his chance for cutting in on a favourite topic, and without further prelude he launched forth into one of his noisy yarns of former prowess, made up, as Doctor Valentine used to say, of ‘three-decker lies’.

For half an hour at a stretch he thundered on, with startling oaths in support of his still more astounding assertions, relating how, as a nondescript volunteer on a line-of-battle ship, in the Baltic, during the Crimean War, he had, by mere force of genius and personal prestige, assumed command, taken the ship under fire, silenced the enemy's batteries, dispersed the hostile fleet, and achieved one of the grandest triumphs on record.

‘The captain, sir!’ he roared out, ‘the captain was my mouth-piece, nothing more. I gave my orders through him, out of respect for the discipline of the navy, as I would have done through a speaking trumpet. And yet when the engagement was over that man hardly mentioned my name in his despatches. The admiral of the fleet, he heard of me, and sent me a polite request to come on board the flag-ship. He was a grand old salt, the admiral, but stiff and formal, sir, wedded to naval etiquette. As I approached I saluted. He touched his hat; then held out one finger to me. I gave him one of my fingers in return.

“‘Sir!” he exclaimed.

“‘Sir, to you! I have given you as good as you gave me!”

“‘And who are you, sir?” thundered the admiral.

“‘I showed you in yesterday's engagement, sir, what I am,” I replied modestly.

“‘Mr Wylde,” said the admiral, suddenly altering his manner. “I had forgotten—you are a hero! My rule, young sir, is to offer one finger to a midshipman, two to a lieutenant, three to a commander, and,” he added, giving me a warm grasp, “my hand to a friend.”

‘From that day I and the admiral were inseparable. He wrote to page 11 the Admiralty reporting my services, and recommending that I should be posted at once, and receive the Victoria Cross.

‘None of these honours were granted to me, and do you know why?’ and the commodore glared sternly round upon the company.

Nobody ventured an opinion.

‘Gentlemen, you will hardly credit it, yet such was the case. It was simply because I had never been gazetted! The Lords of the Admiralty replied officially that my case was unprecedented, and consequently could not be dealt with—they could only act upon precedent. As I held no recognised grade in the navy I could not be promoted. After that, need I tell you that I abandoned Her Majesty's Service.’

There was a sigh of relief from the audience, faint murmurs, and cries of ‘shame’, ‘red-tape’, ‘incompetence’, &c., and regret was expressed at the loss sustained by the country through official stupidity.

‘And now, gentlemen!’ stormed the commodore, after emptying the remaining contents of the demi-john, waxing very red in the face, thick in the speech, and decidedly bellicose in manner, ‘I have only one more word to say. I did not say much during your rather long-winded discussion on truth, but I thought all the more. For if there is one thing which I reverence more than all others in the world and stick to, it is truth. I am a blunt and simple sailor, and I'm not up to any of your sophistries, and such like; but I know the truth when I hear it, and I reverence it wherever I find it. Truth should be a man's compass—he should always steer by her. Truth should never be tampered with, even in jest. I am very particular myself, and I expect others to be particular with me. The greatest affront to any man is to doubt his word. I, Jim Wylde, whom you see here—they call me “the Commodore”, but I may tell you that I am both more and less than a commodore—I, Jim Wylde, have been called a quarrelsome man, I have been called a fighting man. I can tell you that I am nothing of the sort, but a law-abiding, peaceable man; I am as gentle as a lamb. I am not easily provoked, and I keep out of rows. I have often stood abuse; I have allowed myself to be insulted, sworn at: I have even—you will scarcely believe it—taken a blow without returning it. But there is one thing that I would not stand from any man alive, and that is to be called a liar! To the man who calls me a liar, gentlemen, there is but one answer—down goes his house!’

Thereupon the commodore sank back into his chair with signs of evident exhaustion.

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The party broke up, and the guests took their departure in their different ways, after the usual hand-shaking.

Richard Raleigh, left alone, put aside the empty brandy jar, opened the doors and windows to dissipate the thick tobacco smoke which filled the room, and then sauntered out in the clear night air to cool his brow, and restore his equanimity after this heated discussion.

It was a beautiful night.

From the slight eminence where the house stood he could look over the little township, dimly outlined, with its shingled roofs that glistened in the bright moonlight, and the dark clumps of shrubs and lines of tall young gum trees that indicated the allotment fences.