From One Generation to Another | Page 3

is not even the ghost of Love, it is only Custom. This
was the spirit of Seymour Michael. He had already acquired one or two
objects of a vague ambition; and, possessing them, had only learnt to be
accustomed to them--not to value them.
There was no elation in the thought that he was freed from the
encumbrance of Anna Hethbridge by a chance misprint. Neither was
there hesitation in turning accident ruthlessly to his own advantage.
There was only a steady pressing forward--an unceasing, unwearying
attention to his own gain.
In those days news travelled slowly, and the personal had not yet taken
precedence in journalism. In the anxiety for the State, the Individual
was apt to be overlooked. Seymour Michael counted on six months of
oblivion at the least--he hoped for more, but with characteristic caution
acted always in anticipation of the worst.
He had scarcely thrown the newspaper aside when a comrade entered
the bungalow carrying another copy of the same journal.
"I say, Michael," exclaimed this man, "do you see that you're put in
among the killed?"
"Yes," replied Seymour Michael, without haste, without hesitation. "I
have already written to contradict it. Not that there is any one to care
whether I am dead or alive. But it might do me harm in Leadenhall
Street. I can't afford to be dead even for a week when so much

promotion is going forward."
This was artistic. Most of us forget to preserve our own characteristics
in diverging from the truth. The tangled web is only woven when first
we practise to deceive. Later on the facility is greater, the handling
superior, and the web runs smooth and straight. Seymour Michael was
apparently no novice at this sort of thing. He was even at that moment
making mental note of the fact that up-country mails were in a state of
disorganisation, and a letter which was never written may easily be
made to have miscarried later on.
But even he could not foresee everything--no one can. Not even the
righteous man, much less the liar.
"Do you mean to say," pursued the newcomer, "that you are not writing
to your family about it--only to the Company?"
"That is all."
"Rum chap you are, Michael," said the other, lighting a cheroot.
"Heartless beggar I take it."
"Not at all. The simple fact is that I have no one to write to. I only
possess one or two distant relatives, and they would probably be rather
sorry than otherwise to have the report contradicted."
The younger officer--a mere boy--with a beardless, happy face, walked
to the door of the bungalow.
"Of course there is always this in it," he said carelessly. "By the time
the contradiction reaches home the news may be true."
Seymour Michael laughed lamely. A joke of this description made him
feel rather sick, for a Jew never makes a soldier or a sailor, and they are
rarely found in those positions unless great gain is holden up.
With this pleasantry the youth departed, leaving Michael to write the
letter which he had advised as written. As he drew the writing materials

towards him he cursed his brother officer quietly and politely for a
meddling young fool. He wrote a formal letter to the Company--the old
East India Company which administered an empire with ledger and
daybook--calling their attention to the mistake in the newspaper, and
begging them not to trouble to give the matter publicity, as he had
already advised his friends.
This done, he proceeded with the ordinary routine of his daily life.
Such men as this are case-hardened. They carry with them a conscience
like the floor of an Augean stable, but they know how to walk thereon.
Moreover, he was one of those who assign to their dealings with men
quite a different code of morals to that reserved for women. His was the
code of "not being found out." Men are more suspicious--they find out
sooner: ergo the morals to be observed _vis à vis_ to them are of a
stricter order. Railway companies and women are by many looked upon
as fair game for deception. Consciences tender in many other respects
have a subtle contempt for these two exceptions. Many a so-called
honest man travels gaily in a first-class carriage with a second-class
ticket, and lies to a woman at each end of his journey without so much
as casting a shadow upon his conscience.
Seymour Michael carried this code to the farthest limit of safety. All
through the months that followed he went about his business with a
clear conscience and a heart slightly relieved by the removal of Anna
Hethbridge from his path to prosperity. He served his country and the
Company with a keenness of foresight and a soldierly exposure