sharpest arrow she has in her quiver,—the best card in her hand. When a
woman cries, what can you do but give her all she asks for?”
“Do you—dislike women?”
“No, by Jove! I am never really happy unless one is near me, or more
than one. A man, as a rule, has an amount of energy within him which he
cannot turn to profit on himself alone. It is good for him to have a
woman by him that he may work for her, and thus have exercise for his
limbs and faculties. I am very fond of women. But I always like those
best who are most helpless.”
We were silent again for a while, and it was during this time that I
found myself lying with my head in his lap. I had slept, but it could
have been but for a few minutes, and when I woke I found his hand upon my
brow. As I started up he said that the flies had been annoying me, and
that he had not chosen to waken me as I seemed weary. “It has been that
double bathing,” I said, apologetically; for I always feel ashamed when I
am detected sleeping in the day. “In hot weather the water does make one
drowsy. By Jove, it’s getting dark; we had better have the horses.”
“Stay half a moment,” he said, speaking very softly, and laying his hand
upon my arm, “I will not detain you a minute.”
“There is no hurry in life,” I said.
“You promised me just now you would assist me.”
“If it be in my power, I will.”
“Before we part at Alexandria I will endeavour to tell you the story of
my troubles, and then if you can aid me—” It struck me as he paused that
I had made a rash promise, but nevertheless I must stand by it now—with
one or two provisoes. The chances were that the young man was short of
money, or else that he had got into a scrape about a girl. In either
case I might give him some slight assistance; but, then, it behoved me to
make him understand that I would not consent to become a participator in
mischief. I was too old to get my head willingly into a scrape, and this
I must endeavour to make him understand.
“I will, if it be in my power,” I said. “I will ask no questions now;
but if your trouble be about some lady—”
“It is not,” said he.
“Well; so be it. Of all troubles those are the most troublesome. If you
are short of cash—”
“No, I am not short of cash.”
“You are not. That’s well too; for want of money is a sore trouble
also.” And then I paused before I came to the point. “I do not suspect
anything bad of you, Smith. Had I done so, I should not have spoken as I
have done. And if there be nothing bad—”
“There is nothing disgraceful,” he said.
“That is just what I mean; and in that case I will do anything for you
that may be within my power. Now let us look for Joseph and the
mucherry-boy, for it is time that we were at Jericho.”
I cannot describe at length the whole of our journey from thence to our
tents at Jericho, nor back to Jerusalem, nor even from Jerusalem to
Jaffa. At Jericho we did sleep in tents, paying so much per night,
according to the tariff. We wandered out at night, and drank coffee with
a family of Arabs in the desert, sitting in a ring round their
coffee-kettle. And we saw a Turkish soldier punished with the
bastinado,—a sight which did not do me any good, and which made Smith
very sick. Indeed after the first blow he walked away. Jericho is a
remarkable spot in that pilgrim week, and I wish I had space to describe
it. But I have not, for I must hurry on, back to Jerusalem and thence to
Jaffa. I had much to tell also of those Bedouins; how they were
essentially true to us, but teased us almost to frenzy by their continual
begging. They begged for our food and our drink, for our cigars and our
gunpowder, for the clothes off our backs, and the handkerchiefs out of
our pockets. As to gunpowder I had none to give them, for my charges
were all made up in cartridges; and I learned that the guns behind their
backs were a mere pretence, for they had not a grain of powder among
them.
We slept one night in Jerusalem, and started early on the following
morning. Smith came to my hotel so that we might be ready together for
the move. We still carried with us Joseph and the mucherry-boy; but for
our Bedouins, who had duly received their forty shillings a piece, we had
no further use. On our road down to Jerusalem we had much chat together,
but only one adventure. Those pilgrims, of whom I have spoken, journey
to Jerusalem in the greatest number by the route which we were now taking
from it, and they come in long droves, reaching Jaffa in crowds by the
French and Austrian steamers from Smyrna, Damascus, and Constantinople.
As their number confers security in that somewhat insecure country, many
travellers from the west of Europe make arrangements to travel with them.
On our way down we met the last of these caravans for the year, and we
were passing it for more than two hours. On this occasion I rode first,
and Smith was immediately behind me; but of a sudden I observed him to
wheel his horse round, and to clamber downwards among bushes and stones
towards a river that ran below us. “Hallo, Smith,” I cried, “you will
destroy your horse, and yourself too.” But he would not answer me, and
all I could do was to draw up in the path and wait. My confusion was
made the worse, as at that moment a long string of pilgrims was passing
by. “Good morning, sir,” said an old man to me in good English. I
looked up as I answered him, and saw a grey-haired gentleman, of very
solemn and sad aspect. He might be seventy years of age, and I could see
that he was attended by three or four servants. I shall never forget the
severe and sorrowful expression of his eyes, over which his heavy
eyebrows hung low. “Are there many English in Jerusalem?” he asked. “A
good many,” I replied; “there always are at Easter.” “Can you tell me
anything of any of them?” he asked. “Not a word,” said I, for I knew no
one; “but our consul can.” And then we bowed to each other and he passed
on.
I got off my horse and scrambled down on foot after Smith. I found him
gathering berries and bushes as though his very soul were mad with
botany; but as I had seen nothing of this in him before, I asked what
strange freak had taken him.
“You were talking to that old man,” he said.
“Well, yes, I was.”
“That is the relation of whom I have spoken to you.”
“The d— he is!”
“And I would avoid him, if it be possible.”
I then learned that the old gentleman was his uncle. He had no living
father or mother, and he now supposed that his relative was going to
Jerusalem in quest of him. “If so,” said I, “you will undoubtedly give
him leg bail, unless the Austrian boat is more than ordinarily late. It
is as much as we shall do to catch it, and you may be half over Africa,
or far gone on your way to India, before he can be on your track again.”
“I will tell you all about it at Alexandria,” he replied; and then he
scrambled up again with his horse, and we went on. That night we slept
at the Armenian convent at Ramlath, or Ramath. This place is supposed to
stand on the site of Arimathea, and is marked as such in many of the
maps. The monks at this time of the year are very busy, as the pilgrims
all stay here for one night on their routes backwards and forwards, and
the place on such occasions is terribly crowded. On the night of our
visit it was nearly empty, as a caravan had left it that morning; and
thus we were indulged with separate cells, a point on which my companion
seemed to lay considerable stress.
On the following day, at about noon, we entered Jaffa, and put up at an
inn there which is kept by a Pole. The boat from Beyrout, which touches
at Jaffa on its way to Alexandria, was not yet in, nor even sighted; we
were therefore amply in time. “Shall we sail to-night?” I asked of the
agent. “Yes, in all probability,” he replied. “If the signal be seen
before three we shall do so. If not, then not;” and so I returned to the
hotel.
Smith had involuntarily shown signs of fatigue during the journey, but
yet he had borne up well against it. I had never felt called on to grant
any extra indulgence as to time because the work was too much for him.
But now he was a good deal knocked up, and I was a little frightened
fearing that I had over-driven him under the heat of the sun. I was
alarmed lest he should have fever, and proposed to send for the Jaffa
doctor. But this he utterly refused. He would shut himself for an hour
or two in his room, he said, and by that time he trusted the boat would
be in sight. It was clear to me that he was very anxious on the subject,
fearing that his uncle would be back upon his heels before he had
started.
I ordered a serious breakfast for myself, for with me, on such occasions,
my appetite demands more immediate attention than my limbs. I also
acknowledge that I become fatigued, and can lay myself at length during
such idle days and sleep from hour to hour; but the desire to do so never
comes till I have well eaten and drunken. A bottle of French wine, three
or four cutlets of goats’ flesh, an omelet made out of the freshest eggs,
and an enormous dish of oranges, was the banquet set before me; and
though I might have found fault with it in Paris or London, I thought
that it did well enough in Jaffa. My poor friend could not join me, but
had a cup of coffee in his room. “At any rate take a little brandy in
it,” I said to him, as I stood over his bed. “I could not swallow it,”
said he, looking at me with almost beseeching eyes. “Beshrew the
fellow,” I said to myself as I left him, carefully closing the door, so
that the sound should not shake him; “he is little better than a woman,
and yet I have become as fond of him as though he were my brother.”
I went out at three, but up to that time the boat had not been signalled.
“And we shall not get out to-night?” “No, not to-night,” said the agent.
“And what time to-morrow?” “If she comes in this evening, you will start
by daylight. But they so manage her departure from Beyrout, that she
seldom is here in the evening.” “It will be noon to-morrow then?”
“Yes,” the man said, “noon to-morrow.” I calculated, however, that the
old gentleman could not possibly be on our track by that time. He would
not have reached Jerusalem till late in the day on which we saw him, and
it would take him some time to obtain tidings of his nephew. But it
might be possible that messengers sent by him should reach Jaffa by four
or five on the day after his arrival. That would be this very day which
we were now wasting at Jaffa. Having thus made my calculations, I
returned to Smith to give him such consolation as it might be in my power
to afford.
He seemed to be dreadfully afflicted by all this. “He will have traced
me to Jerusalem, and then again away; and will follow me immediately.”
“That is all very well,” I said; “but let even a young man do the best he
can, and he will not get from Jerusalem to Jaffa in less than twelve
hours. Your uncle is not a young man, and could not possibly do the
journey under two days.”
“But he will send. He will not mind what money he spends.”
“And if he does send, take off your hat to his messengers, and bid them
carry your complaints back. You are not a felon whom he can arrest.”
“No, he cannot arrest me; but, ah! you do not understand;” and then he
sat up on the bed, and seemed as though he were going to wring his hands
in despair.
I waited for some half hour in his room, thinking that he would tell me
this story of his. If he required that I should give him my aid in the
presence either of his uncle or of his uncle’s myrmidons, I must at any
rate know what was likely to be the dispute between them. But as he said
nothing I suggested that he should stroll out with me among the
orange-groves by which the town is surrounded. In answer to this he
looked up piteously into my face as though begging me to be merciful to
him. “You are strong,” said he, “and cannot understand what it is to
feel fatigue as I do.” And yet he had declared on commencing his journey
that he would not be found to complain? Nor had he complained by a
single word till after that encounter with his uncle. Nay, he had borne
up well till this news had reached us of the boat being late. I felt
convinced that if the boat were at this moment lying in the harbour all
that appearance of excessive weakness would soon vanish. What it was
that he feared I could not guess; but it was manifest to me that some
great terror almost overwhelmed him.
“My idea is,” said I, and I suppose that I spoke with something less of
good-nature in my tone than I had assumed for the last day or two, “that
no man should, under any circumstances, be so afraid of another man, as
to tremble at his presence,—either at his presence or his expected
presence.”
“Ah, now you are angry with me; now you despise me!”
“Neither the one nor the other. But if I may take the liberty of a
friend with you, I should advise you to combat this feeling of horror.
If you do not, it will unman you. After all, what can your uncle do to
you? He cannot rob you of your heart and soul. He cannot touch your
inner self.”
“You do not know,” he said.
“Ah but, Smith, I do know that. Whatever may be this quarrel between you
and him, you should not tremble at the thought of him; unless indeed—”
“Unless what?”
“Unless you had done aught that should make you tremble before every
honest man.” I own I had begun to have my doubts of him, and to fear
that he had absolutely disgraced himself. Even in such case I,—I
individually,—did not wish to be severe on him; but I should be annoyed
to find that I had opened my heart to a swindler or a practised knave.
“I will tell you all to-morrow,” said he; “but I have been guilty of
nothing of that sort.”
In the evening he did come out, and sat with me as I smoked my cigar.
The boat, he was told, would almost undoubtedly come in by daybreak on
the following morning, and be off at nine; whereas it was very improbable
that any arrival from Jerusalem would be so early as that. “Beside,” I
reminded him, “your uncle will hardly hurry down to Jaffa, because he
will have no reason to think but what you have already started. There
are no telegraphs here, you know.”
In the evening he was still very sad, though the paroxysm of his terror
seemed to have passed away. I would not bother him, as he had himself
chosen the following morning for the telling of his story. So I sat and
smoked, and talked to him about our past journey, and by degrees the
power of speech came back to him, and I again felt that I loved him!
Yes, loved him! I have not taken many such fancies into my head, at so
short a notice; but I did love him, as though he were a younger brother.
I felt a delight in serving him, and though I was almost old enough to be
his father, I ministered to him as though he had been an old man, or a
woman.
On the following morning we were stirring at daybreak, and found that the
vessel was in sight. She would be in the roads off the town in two
hours’ time, they said, and would start at eleven or twelve. And then we
walked round by the gate of the town, and sauntered a quarter of a mile
or so along the way that leads towards Jerusalem. I could see that his
eye was anxiously turned down the road, but he said nothing. We saw no
cloud of dust, and then we returned to breakfast.
“The steamer has come to anchor,” said our dirty Polish host to us in
execrable English. “And we may be off on board,” said Smith. “Not yet,”
he said; “they must put their cargo out first.” I saw, however, that
Smith was uneasy, and I made up my mind to go off to the vessel at once.
When they should see an English portmanteau making an offer to come up
the gangway, the Austrian sailors would not stop it. So I called for the
bill, and ordered that the things should be taken down to the wretched
broken heap of rotten timber which they called a quay. Smith had not
told me his story, but no doubt he would as soon as he was on board.
I was in the act of squabbling with the Pole over the last demand for
piastres, when we heard a noise in the gateway of the inn, and I saw
Smith’s countenance become pale. It was an Englishman’s voice asking if
there were any strangers there; so I went into the courtyard, closing the
door behind me, and turning the key upon the landlord and Smith.
“Smith,” said I to myself, “will keep the Pole quiet if he have any wit
left.”
The man who had asked the question had the air of an upper English
servant, and I thought that I recognised one of those whom I had seen
with the old gentleman on the road; but the matter was soon put at rest
by the appearance of that gentleman himself. He walked up into the
courtyard, looked hard at me from under those bushy eyebrows, just raised
his hat, and then—said, “I believe I am speaking to Mr. Jones.”
“Yes,” said I, “I am Mr. Jones. Can I have the honour of serving you?”
There was something peculiarly unpleasant about this man’s face. At the
present moment I examined it closely, and could understand the great
aversion which his nephew felt towards him. He looked like a gentleman
and like a man of talent, nor was there anything of meanness in his face;
neither was he ill-looking, in the usual acceptation of the word; but one
could see that he was solemn, austere, and overbearing; that he would be
incapable of any light enjoyment, and unforgiving towards all offences.
I took him to be a man who, being old himself, could never remember that
he had been young, and who, therefore, hated the levities of youth. To
me such a character is specially odious; for I would fain, if it be
possible, be young even to my grave. Smith, if he were clever, might
escape from the window of the room, which opened out upon a terrace, and
still get down to the steamer. I would keep the old man in play for some
time; and, even though I lost my passage, would be true to my friend.
There lay our joint luggage at my feet in the yard. If Smith would
venture away without his portion of it, all might yet be right.
“My name, sir, is Sir William Weston,” he began. I had heard of the name
before, and knew him to be a man of wealth, and family, and note. I took
off my hat, and said that I had much honour in meeting Sir William
Weston.
“And I presume you know the object with which I am now here,” he
continued.
“Not exactly,” said I. “Nor do I understand how I possibly should know
it, seeing that, up to this moment, I did not even know your name, and
have heard nothing concerning either your movements or your affairs.”
“Sir,” said he, “I have hitherto believed that I might at any rate expect
from you the truth.”
“Sir,” said I, “I am bold to think that you will not dare to tell me,
either now, or at any other time, that you have received, or expect to
receive, from me anything that is not true.”
He then stood still, looking at me for a moment or two, and I beg to
assert that I looked as fully at him. There was, at any rate, no cause
why I should tremble before him. I was not his nephew, nor was I
responsible for his nephew’s doings towards him. Two of his servants
were behind him, and on my side there stood a boy and girl belonging to
the inn. They, however, could not understand a word of English. I saw
that he was hesitating, but at last he spoke out. I confess, now, that
his words, when they were spoken, did, at the first moment, make me
tremble.
“I have to charge you,” said he, “with eloping with my niece, and I
demand of you to inform me where she is. You are perfectly aware that I
am her guardian by law.”
I did tremble;—not that I cared much for Sir William’s guardianship, but
I saw before me so terrible an embarrassment! And then I felt so
thoroughly abashed in that I had allowed myself to be so deceived! It
all came back upon me in a moment, and covered me with a shame that even
made me blush. I had travelled through the desert with a woman for days,
and had not discovered her, though she had given me a thousand signs.
All those signs I remembered now, and I blushed painfully. When her hand
was on my forehead I still thought that she was a man! I declare that at
this moment I felt a stronger disinclination to face my late companion
than I did to encounter her angry uncle.
“Your niece!” I said, speaking with a sheepish bewilderment which should
have convinced him at once of my innocence. She had asked me, too,
whether I was a married man, and I had denied it. How was I to escape
from such a mess of misfortunes? I declare that I began to forget her
troubles in my own.
“Yes, my niece,—Miss Julia Weston. The disgrace which you have brought
upon me must be wiped out; but my first duty is to save that unfortunate
young woman from further misery.”
“If it be as you say,” I exclaimed, “by the honour of a gentleman—”
“I care nothing for the honour of a gentleman till I see it proved. Be
good enough to inform me, sir, whether Miss Weston is in this house.”
For a moment I hesitated; but I saw at once that I should make myself
responsible for certain mischief, of which I was at any rate hitherto in
truth innocent, if I allowed myself to become a party to concealing a
young lady. Up to this period I could at any rate defend myself, whether
my defence were believed or not believed. I still had a hope that the
charming Julia might have escaped through the window, and a feeling that
if she had done so I was not responsible. When I turned the lock I
turned it on Smith.
For a moment I hesitated, and then walked slowly across the yard and
opened the door. “Sir William,” I said, as I did so, “I travelled here
with a companion dressed as a man; and I believed him to be what he
seemed till this minute.”
“Sir!” said Sir William, with a look of scorn in his face which gave me
the lie in my teeth as plainly as any words could do. And then he
entered the room. The Pole was standing in one corner, apparently amazed
at what was going on, and Smith,—I may as well call her Miss Weston at
once, for the baronet’s statement was true,—was sitting on a sort of
divan in the corner of the chamber hiding her face in her hands. She had
made no attempt at an escape, and a full explanation was therefore
indispensable. For myself I own that I felt ashamed of my part in the
play,—ashamed even of my own innocency. Had I been less innocent I
should certainly have contrived to appear much less guilty. Had it
occurred to me on the banks of the Jordan that Smith was a lady, I should
not have travelled with her in her gentleman’s habiliments from Jerusalem
to Jaffa. Had she consented to remain under my protection, she must have
done so without a masquerade.
The uncle stood still and looked at his niece. He probably understood
how thoroughly stern and disagreeable was his own face, and considered
that he could punish the crime of his relative in no severer way than by
looking at her. In this I think he was right. But at last there was a
necessity for speaking. “Unfortunate young woman!” he said, and then
paused.
“We had better get rid of the landlord,” I said, “before we come to any
explanation.” And I motioned to the man to leave the room. This he did
very unwillingly, but at last he was gone.
“I fear that it is needless to care on her account who may hear the story
of her shame,” said Sir William. I looked at Miss Weston, but she still
sat hiding her face. However, if she did not defend herself, it was
necessary that I should defend both her and me.
“I do not know how far I may be at liberty to speak with reference to the
private matters of yourself or of your—your niece, Sir William Weston. I
would not willingly interfere—”
“Sir,” said he, “your interference has already taken place. Will you
have the goodness to explain to me what are your intentions with regard
to that lady?”
My intentions! Heaven help me! My intentions, of course, were to leave
her in her uncle’s hands. Indeed, I could hardly be said to have formed
any intention since I had learned that I had been honoured by a lady’s
presence. At this moment I deeply regretted that I had thoughtlessly
stated to her that I was an unmarried man. In doing so I had had no
object. But at that time “Smith” had been quite a stranger to me, and I
had not thought it necessary to declare my own private concerns. Since
that I had talked so little of myself that the fact of my family at home
had not been mentioned. “Will you have the goodness to explain what are
your intentions with regard to that lady?” said the baronet.
“Oh, Uncle William!” exclaimed Miss Weston, now at length raising her
head from her hands.
“Hold your peace, madam,” said he. “When called upon to speak, you will
find your words with difficulty enough. Sir, I am waiting for an answer
from you.”
“But, uncle, he is nothing to me;—the gentleman is nothing to me!”