“Ah, that’s true,” said one of them. “Fair play’s a jewel, anyhow.”
“It is not only the unfairness to them,” I said, “but you put yourselves very often out of the way of receiving benefit from those who do most sincerely and earnestly wish to help you. As long as we dislike people, it is hardly possible that they can do us any good. If you are not in a hurry to go, I will tell you about a man I met with lately, who was doing himself a great deal of mischief in this way.”
They said they were in no hurry,—they shouldn’t do anything more that night; they were glad to stay.
(I did not give them the story so fully as I have written it here. I had no notes with me; and simply told them from memory the part that would apply to our previous conversation.)
“For some weeks before we went into the house in which we now live, several workmen were employed there; and I generally went once in the course of the day, to see how they were getting on. One of them, a painter, was a remarkably clever man; he seemed to have read an endless number of books, papers, and everything else. It was the time of the Indian mutiny; and if I had been unable to look at the papers, he could always tell me anything that was going on. He often made remarks upon the government of the country, and sometimes these were very sensible. As he was a single man, and did not seem to care much where he spent his time, I proposed to him that (as he had to come all the way from Blackfriars) he should take possession of a little bed-room in the house, and make himself comfortable there. He seemed very glad to do this. A day or two after he had settled himself, I had occasion to go to his room; and I found, amongst other things, a great quantity of books and newspapers strewed about. Some of the books were political, some on India; and there were a few novels, by no means the best. After I had finished speaking to him about his work that day, I said to him, ‘When I was up in your room just now, I was looking at your books. Some of them are very good. I am going to ask you to be so kind as to lend me one for a few days, it is “Napier’s India.”’ He seemed much pleased, and ran off directly to fetch it. When he returned, I said, ‘There was one thought that came into my mind while I was looking at your books. If I had not known whose they really were, I should have supposed that they belonged to some one who had no interest in anything beyond the present life; some one who meant to get as cleverly as possible through that;—but that was all.’