Chapter 9

When I arrived at the house I was met by the young man who had set me the morning’s task; but he was taciturn now, and wore a cold, estranged look, which seemed to portend trouble. He at once led me to a part of the house at a distance from the hall, and into a large apartment I now saw for the first time. In a few moments the master of the house, followed by most of the other inmates, also entered, and on the faces of all of them I noticed the same cold, offended look.

“The dickens take my luck!” said I to myself, beginning to feel extremely uncomfortable. “I suppose I have offended against the laws and customs by working the horses too long.”

“Smith,” said the old man, advancing to the table, and depositing thereon a large volume he had brought with him, “come here, and read to me in this book.”

Advancing to the table, I saw that it was written in the same minute, Hebrew-like characters of the folio I had examined on the previous evening. “I cannot read it; I do not understand the letters,” I said, feeling some shame at having thus publicly to confess my ignorance.

“Then,” said he, bending on me a look of the utmost severity, “there is indeed little more to be said. Nevertheless, we take into account the confused state of your intellect yesterday, and judge you leniently; and let us hope that the pangs of an outraged conscience will be more painful to you than the light punishment I am about to inflict for so destestable a crime.”

I now concluded that I had offended by squeezing Yoletta’s hand, and had been told to read from the book merely to make myself acquainted with the pains and penalties attendant on such an indiscretion, for to call it a “detestable crime” seemed to me a very great abuse of language.

“If I have offended,” was my answer, delivered with little humility, “I can only plead my ignorance of the customs of the house.”

“No man,” he returned, with increased severity, “is so ignorant as not to know right from wrong. Had the matter come to my knowledge sooner, I should have said: Depart from us, for your continued presence in the house offends us; but we have made a compact with you, and, until the year expires, we must suffer you. For the space of sixty days you must dwell apart from us, never leaving the room, where each day a task will be assigned to you, and subsisting on bread and water only. Let us hope that in this period of solitude and silence you will sufficiently repent your crime, and rejoin us afterwards with a changed heart; for all offenses may be forgiven a man, but it is impossible to forgive a lie.”

“A lie!” I exclaimed in amazement. “I have told no lie!”

“This,” said he, with an access of wrath, “is an aggravation of your former offense. It is even a worse offense than the first, and must be dealt with separately--when the sixty days have expired.”

“Are you, then, going to condemn me without hearing me speak, or telling me anything about it? What lie have I told?”

After a pause, during which he closely scrutinized my face, he said, pointing to the open page before him: “Yesterday, in answer to my question, you told me that you could read. Last evening you made a contrary statement to Yoletta; and now here is the book, and you confess that you cannot read it.”

“But that is easily explained,” said I, immensely relieved, for I certainly had felt a little guilty about the hand-squeezing performance, although it was not a very serious matter. “I can read the books of my own country, and naturally concluded that your books were written in the same kind of letters; but last evening I discovered that it was not so. You have already seen the letters of my country on the coins I showed you last evening.”

And here I again pulled out my pocket-book, and emptied the contents on the table.

He began to pick up the sovereigns one by one to examine them. Meanwhile, finding my beautiful black and gold stylograph pen inserted in the book, I thought I could not do better than to show him how I wrote. Fortunately, the fluid in it had not become dry. Tearing a blank page from my book I hastily scribbled a few lines, and handed the paper to him, saying: “This is how I write.”

He began studying the paper, but his eyes, I perceived, wandered often to the stylograph pen in my hand.

Presently he remarked: “This writing, or these marks you have made on the paper, are not the same as the letters on the gold.”

I took the paper and proceeded to copy the sentence I had written, but in printing letters, beneath it, then returned it to him.

He examined it again, and, after comparing my letters with those on the sovereigns, said: “Pray tell me, now, what you have written here, and explain why you write in two different ways?”

I told him, as well as I could, why letters of one form were used to stamp on gold and other substances, and of a different form for writing. Then, with a modest blush, I read the words of the sentence: “In different parts of the world men have different customs, and write different letters; but alike to all men in all places, a lie is hateful.”

“Smith,” he said, addressing me in an impressive manner, but happily not to charge me with a third and bigger lie, “I have lived long in the world, and the knowledge others possess concerning it is mine also. It is common knowledge that in the hotter and colder regions men are compelled to live differently, owing to the conditions they are placed in; but we know that everywhere they have the same law of right and wrong inscribed on the heart, and, as you have said, hate a lie; also that they all speak the same language; and until this moment I also believed that they wrote in similar characters. You, however, have now succeeded in convincing me that this is not the case; that in some obscure valley, cut off from all intercourse by inaccessible mountains, or in some small, unknown island of the sea, a people may exist--ah, did you not tell me that you came from an island?”

“Yes, my home was on an island,” I answered.

“So I imagined. An island of which no report has ever reached us, where the people, isolated from their fellows, have in the course of many centuries changed their customs--even their manner of writing. Although I had seen these gold pieces I did not understand, or did not realize, that such a human family existed: now I am persuaded of it, and as I alone am to blame for having brought this charge against you, I must now ask your forgiveness. We rejoice at your innocence, and hope with increased love to atone for our injustice. My son,” he concluded, placing a hand on my shoulder, “I am now deeply in your debt.”

“I am glad it has ended so happily,” I replied, wondering whether his being in my debt would increase my chances with Yoletta or not.

Seeing him again directing curious glances at the stylograph, which I was turning about in my fingers, I offered it to him.

He examined it with interest.

“I have only been waiting for an opportunity,” he said, “to look closely at this wonderful contrivance, for I had perceived that your writing was not made with a pencil, but with a fluid. It is black polished stone, beautifully fashioned and encircled with gold bands, and contains the writing-fluid within itself. This surprises me as much as anything you have told me.”

“Allow me to make you a present of it,” said I, seeing him so taken with it.

“No, not so,” he returned. “But I should greatly like to possess it, and will keep it if I may bestow in return something you desire.”

Yoletta’s hand was really the only thing in life I desired, but it was too early to speak yet, as I knew nothing about their matrimonial usages--not even whether or not the lady’s consent was necessary to a compact of the kind. I therefore made a more modest request. “There is one thing I greatly desire,” I said. “I am very anxious to be able to read in your books, and shall consider myself more than compensated if you will permit Yoletta to teach me.”