bed-room, I saw the boat in which we were to be wafted into Asia being
brought up to the quay close under my window. It had been arranged that
we should start early, so as to avoid the mid-day sun, breakfast in the
boat,--Mahmoud in this way engaged to provide me with two
refections,--take our rest at noon in a pavilion which had been built
close upon the well of the patriarch, and then eat our dinner, and
return riding upon camels in the cool of the evening. Nothing could
sound more pleasant than such a plan; and knowing as I did that the
hampers of provisions had already been sent over, I did not doubt that
the table arrangements would be excellent. Even now, standing at my
window, I could see a basket laden with long-necked bottles going into
the boat, and became aware that we should not depend altogether for our
morning repast on that gritty coffee which my friend Mahmoud’s followers
prepared.
I had promised to be ready at six, and having carefully completed my
toilet, and put a clean collar and comb into my pocket ready for dinner,
I descended to the great gateway and walked slowly round to the quay. As
I passed out, the porter greeted me with a low obeisance, and walking
on, I felt that I stepped the ground with a sort of dignity of which I
had before been ignorant. It is not, as a rule, the man who gives grace
and honour to the position, but the position which confers the grace and
honour upon the man. I have often envied the solemn gravity and grand
demeanour of the Lord Chancellor, as I have seen him on the bench; but I
almost think that even Judkins would look grave and dignified under such
a wig. Mahmoud al Ackbar had called upon me and done me honour, and I
felt myself personally capable of sustaining before the people of Suez
the honour which he had done me.
As I walked forth with a proud step from beneath the portal, I
perceived, looking down from the square along the street, that there was
already some commotion in the town. I saw the flowing robes of many
Arabs, with their backs turned towards me, and I thought that I observed
the identical gown and turban of my friend Mahmoud on the back and head
of a stout short man, who was hurrying round a corner in the distance. I
felt sure that it was Mahmoud. Some of his servants had failed in their
preparations, I said to myself, as I made my way round to the water’s
edge. This was only another testimony how anxious he was to do me
honour.
I stood for a while on the edge of the quay looking into the boat, and
admiring the comfortable cushions which were luxuriously arranged around
the seats. The men who were at work did not know me, and I was
unnoticed, but I should soon take my place upon the softest of those
cushions. I walked slowly backwards and forwards on the quay, listening
to a hum of voices that came to me from a distance. There was clearly
something stirring in the town, and I felt certain that all the movement
and all those distant voices were connected in some way with my
expedition to the Well of Moses. At last there came a lad upon the walk
dressed in Frank costume, and I asked him what was in the wind. He was a
clerk attached to an English warehouse, and he told me that there had
been an arrival from Cairo. He knew no more than that, but he had heard
that the omnibuses had just come in. Could it be possible that Mahmoud
al Ackbar had heard of another old acquaintance, and had gone to welcome
him also?
At first my ideas on the subject were altogether pleasant. I by no means
wished to monopolise the delights of all those cushions, nor would it be
to me a cause of sorrow that there should be some one to share with me
the conversational powers of that interpreter. Should another guest be
found, he might also be an Englishman, and I might thus form an
acquaintance which would be desirable. Thinking of these things, I
walked the quay for some minutes in a happy state of mind; but by
degrees I became impatient, and by degrees also disturbed in my spirit.
I observed that one of the Arab boatmen walked round from the vessel to
the front of the hotel, and that on his return he looked at me--as I
thought, not with courteous eyes. Then also I saw, or rather heard, some
one in the verandah of the hotel above me, and was conscious that I was
being viewed from thence. I walked and walked, and nobody came to me,
and I perceived by my watch that it was seven o’clock. The noise, too,
had come nearer and nearer, and I was now aware that wheels had been
drawn up before the front door of the hotel, and that many voices were
speaking there. It might be that Mahmoud should wait for some other
friend, but why did he not send some one to inform me? And then, as I
made a sudden turn at the end of the quay, I caught sight of the
retreating legs of the Austrian interpreter, and I became aware that he
had been sent down, and had gone away, afraid to speak to me. “What can
I do?” said I to myself, “I can but keep my ground.” I owned that I
feared to go round to the front of the hotel. So I still walked slowly
up and down the length of the quay, and began to whistle to show that I
was not uneasy. The Arab sailors looked at me uncomfortably, and from
time to time some one peered at me round the corner. It was now fully
half-past seven, and the sun was becoming hot in the heavens. Why did we
not hasten to place ourselves beneath the awning in that boat.
I had just made up my mind that I would go round to the front and
penetrate this mystery, when, on turning, I saw approaching to me a man
dressed at any rate like an English gentleman. As he came near to me, he
raised his hat, and accosted me in our own language. “Mr. George Walker,
I believe?” said he.
“Yes,” said I, with some little attempt at a high demeanour, “of the
firm of Grimes, Walker, and Judkins, Friday Street, London.”
“A most respectable house, I am sure,” said he. “I am afraid there has
been a little mistake here.”
“No mistake as to the respectability of that house,” said I. I felt that
I was again alone in the world, and that it was necessary that I should
support myself. Mahmoud al Ackbar had separated himself from me for
ever. Of that I had no longer a doubt.
“Oh, none at all,” said he. “But about this little expedition over the
water;” and he pointed contemptuously to the boat. “There has been a
mistake about that, Mr. Walker; I happen to be the English Vice-Consul
here.”
I took off my hat and bowed. It was the first time I had ever been
addressed civilly by any English consular authority.
“And they have made me get out of bed to come down here and explain all
this to you.”
“All what?” said I.
“You are a man of the world, I know, and I’ll just tell it you plainly.
My old friend, Mahmoud al Ackbar, has mistaken you for Sir George
Walker, the new Lieutenant-Governor of Pegu. Sir George Walker is here
now; he has come this morning and Mahmoud is ashamed to face you after
what has occurred. If you won’t object to withdraw with me into the
hotel, I’ll explain it all.”
I felt as though a thunderbolt had fallen; and I must say, that even up
to this day I think that the Consul might have been a little less
abrupt. “We can get in here,” said he, evidently in a hurry, and
pointing to a small door which opened out from one corner of the house
to the quay. What could I do but follow him? I did follow him, and in a
few words learned the remainder of the story. When he had once withdrawn
me from the public walk he seemed but little anxious about the rest, and
soon left me again alone. The facts, as far as I could learn them, were
simply these.
Sir George Walker, who was now going out to Pegu as Governor, had been
in India before, commanding an army there. I had never heard of him
before, and had made no attempt to pass myself off as his relative.
Nobody could have been more innocent than I was--or have received worse
usage. I have as much right to the name as he has. Well; when he was in
India before, he had taken the city of Begum after a terrible
siege--Begum, I think the Consul called it; and Mahmoud had been there,
having been, it seems, a great man at Begum, and Sir George had spared
him and his money; and in this way the whole thing had come to pass.
There was no further explanation than that. The rest of it was all
transparent. Mahmoud, having heard my name from the porter, had hurried
down to invite me to his party. So far so good. But why had he been
afraid to face me in the morning? And, seeing that the fault had all
been his, why had he not asked me to join the expedition? Sir George and
I may, after all, be cousins. But, coward as he was, he had been afraid
of me. When they found that I was on the quay, they had been afraid of
me, not knowing how to get rid of me. I wish that I had kept the quay
all day, and stared them down one by one as they entered the boat. But I
was down in the mouth, and when the Consul left me, I crept wearily back
to my bed-room.
And the Consul did leave me almost immediately. A faint hope had at one
time, come upon me that he would have asked me to breakfast. Had he done
so, I should have felt it as a full compensation for all that I had
suffered. I am not an exacting man, but I own that I like civility. In
Friday Street I can command it, and in Friday Street for the rest of my
life will I remain. From this Consul I received no civility. As soon as
he had got me out of the way and spoken the few words which he had to
say, he again raised his hat and left me. I also again raised mine, and
then crept up to my bed-room.
From my window, standing a little behind the white curtain, I could see
the whole embarkation. There was Mahmoud al Ackbar, looking indeed a
little hot, but still going through his work with all that excellence of
deportment which had graced him on the preceding evening. Had his foot
slipped, and had he fallen backwards into that shallow water, my spirit
would, I confess, have been relieved. But, on the contrary, everything
went well with him. There was the real Sir George, my namesake and
perhaps my cousin, as fresh as paint, cool from the bath which he had
been taking while I had been walking on that terrace. How is it that
these governors and commanders-in-chief go through such a deal of work
without fagging? It was not yet two hours since he was jolting about in
that omnibus-box, and there he had been all night. I could not have gone
off to the Well of Moses immediately on my arrival. It’s the dignity of
the position that does it. I have long known that the head of a firm
must never count on a mere clerk to get through as much work as he could
do himself. It’s the interest in the matter that supports the man.
They went, and Sir George, as I was well assured, had never heard a word
about me. Had he done so, is it probable that he would have requested my
attendance?
But Mahmoud and his followers no doubt kept their own counsel as to that
little mistake. There they went, and the gentle rippling breeze filled
their sail pleasantly, as the boat moved away into the bay. I felt no
spite against any of them but Mahmoud. Why had he avoided me with such
cowardice? I could still see them when the morning tchibouk was handed
to Sir George; and, though I wished him no harm, I did envy him as he
lay there reclining luxuriously upon the cushions.
A more wretched day than that I never spent in my life. As I went in and
out, the porter at the gate absolutely scoffed at me. Once I made up my
mind to complain within the house. But what could I have said of the
dirty Arab? They would have told me that it was his religion, or a
national observance, or meant for a courtesy. What can a man do, in a
strange country, when he is told that a native spits in his face by way
of civility? I bore it, I bore it--like a man; and sighed for the
comforts of Friday Street.
As to one matter, I made up my mind on that day, and I fully carried out
my purpose on the next: I would go across to the Well of Moses in a
boat. I would visit the coasts of Asia. And I would ride back into
Africa on a camel. Though I did it alone, I would have my day’s
pleasuring. I had money in my pocket, and, though it might cost me £20,
I would see all that my namesake had seen. It did cost me the best part
of £20; and as for the pleasuring, I cannot say much for it.
I went to bed early that night, having concluded my bargain for the
morrow with a rapacious Arab who spoke English. I went to bed early in
order to escape the returning party, and was again on the quay at six
the next morning. On this occasion, I stepped boldly into the boat the
very moment that I came along the shore. There is nothing in the world
like paying for what you use. I saw myself to the bottle of brandy and
the cold meat, and acknowledged that a cigar out of my own case would
suit me better than that long stick. The long stick might do very well
for a Governor of Pegu, but would be highly inconvenient in Friday
Street.
Well, I am not going to give an account of my day’s journey here, though
perhaps I may do so some day. I did go to the Well of Moses--if a small
dirty pool of salt water, lying high above the sands, can be called a
well; I did eat my dinner in the miserable ruined cottage which they
graced by the name of a pavilion; and, alas for my poor bones! I did
ride home upon a camel. If Sir George did so early, and started for Pegu
the next morning--and I was informed such was the fact--he must have
been made of iron. I laid in bed the whole day suffering greviously; but
I was told that on such a journey I should have slakened my throat with
oranges, and not with brandy.
I survived those four terrible days which remained to me at Suez, and
after another month was once again in Friday Street. I suffered greatly
on the occasion; but it is some consolation to me to reflect that I
smoked a pipe of peace with Mahmoud al Ackbar; that I saw the hero of
Begum while journeying out to new triumphs at Pegu; that I sailed into
Asia in my own yacht--hired for the occasion; and that I rode back into
Africa, on a camel. Nor can Judkins, with all his ill-nature, rob me of
these remembrances.
THE MISTLETOE BOUGH.
“Let the boys have it if they like it,” said Mrs. Garrow, pleading to
her only daughter on behalf of her two sons.
“Pray don’t, mamma,” said Elizabeth Garrow. “It only means romping. To
me all that is detestable, and I am sure it is not the sort of thing
that Miss Holmes would like.”
“We always had it at Christmas when we were young.”
“But, mamma, the world is so changed.”
The point in dispute was one very delicate in its nature, hardly to be
discussed in all its bearings, even in fiction, and the very mention of
which between mother and daughter showed a great amount of close
confidence between them. It was no less than this. Should that branch of
mistletoe which Frank Garrow had brought home with him out of the
Lowther woods be hung up on Christmas Eve in the dining-room at Thwaite
Hall, according to his wishes; or should permission for such hanging be
positively refused? It was clearly a thing not to be done after such a
discussion, and therefore the decision given by Mrs. Garrow was against
it.
I am inclined to think that Miss Garrow was right in saying that the
world is changed as touching misletoe boughs. Kissing, I fear, is less
innocent now than it used to be when our grand-mothers were alive, and
we have become more fastidious in our amusements. Nevertheless, I think
that she made herself fairly open to the raillery with which her
brothers attacked her.
“Honi soit qui mal y pense,” said Frank, who was eighteen.
“Nobody will want to kiss you, my lady Fineairs,” said Harry, who was
just a year younger.
“Because you choose to be a Puritan, there are to be no more cakes and
ale in the house,” said Frank.
“Still waters run deep; we all know that,” said Harry.
The boys had not been present when the matter was decided between Mrs.
Garrow and her daughter, nor had the mother been present when these
little amenities had passed between the brothers and sister.
“Only that mamma has said it, and I wouldn’t seem to go against her,”
said Frank, “I’d ask my father. He wouldn’t give way to such nonsense, I
know.”
Elizabeth turned away without answering, and left the room. Her eyes
were full of tears, but she would not let them see that they had vexed
her. They were only two days home from school, and for the last week
before their coming, all her thoughts had been to prepare for their
Christmas pleasures. She had arranged their rooms, making everything
warm and pretty. Out of her own pocket she had bought a shot-belt for
one, and skates for the other. She had told the old groom that her pony
was to belong exclusively to Master Harry for the holidays, and now
Harry told her that still waters ran deep. She had been driven to the
use of all her eloquence in inducing her father to purchase that gun for
Frank, and now Frank called her a Puritan. And why? She did not choose
that a mistletoe bough should be hung in her father’s hall, when Godfrey
Holmes was coming to visit him. She could not explain this to Frank, but
Frank might have had the wit to understand it. But Frank was thinking
only of Patty Coverdale, a blue-eyed little romp of sixteen, who, with
her sister Kate, was coming from Penrith to spend the Christmas at
Thwaite Hall. Elizabeth left the room with her slow, graceful step,
hiding her tears,--hiding all emotion, as latterly she had taught
herself that it was feminine to do. “There goes my lady Fineairs,” said
Harry, sending his shrill voice after her.
Thwaite Hall was not a place of much pretension. It was a moderate-sized
house, surrounded by pretty gardens and shrubberies, close down upon the
river Eamont, on the Westmoreland side of the river, looking over to a
lovely wooded bank in Cumberland. All the world knows that the Eamont
runs out of Ulleswater, dividing the two counties, passing under Penrith
Bridge and by the old ruins of Brougham Castle, below which it joins the
Eden. Thwaite Hall nestled down close upon the clear rocky stream about
half way between Ulleswater and Penrith, and had been built just at a
bend of the river. The windows of the dining-parlour and of the
drawing-room stood at right angles to each other, and yet each commanded
a reach of the stream. Immediately from a side of the house steps were
cut down through the red rock to the water’s edge, and here a small boat
was always moored to a chain. The chain was stretched across the river,
fixed to the staples driven into the rock on either side, and the boat
was pulled backwards and forwards over the stream, without aid from oars
or paddles. From the opposite side a path led through the woods and
across the fields to Penrith, and this was the route commonly used
between Thwaite Hall and the town.
Major Garrow was a retired officer of Engineers, who had seen service in
all parts of the world, and who was now spending the evening of his days
on a small property which had come to him from his father. He held in
his own hands about twenty acres of land, and he was the owner of one
small farm close by, which was let to a tenant. That, together with his
half-pay, and the interest of his wife’s thousand pounds, sufficed to
educate his children and keep the wolf at a comfortable distance from
his door. He himself was a spare thin man, with quiet, lazy, literary
habits. He had done the work of life, but had so done it as to permit of
his enjoying that which was left to him. His sole remaining care was the
establishment of his children; and, as far as he could see, he had no
ground for anticipating disappointment. They were clever, good-looking,
well-disposed young people, and upon the whole it may be said that the
sun shone brightly on Thwaite Hall. Of Mrs. Garrow it may suffice to say
that she always deserved such sunshine.
For years past it had been the practice of the family to have some sort
of gathering at Thwaite Hall during Christmas. Godfrey Holmes had been
left under the guardianship of Major Garrow, and, as he had always spent
his Christmas holidays with his guardian, this, perhaps, had given rise
to the practice. Then the Coverdales were cousins of the Garrows, and
they had usually been there as children. At the Christmas last past the
custom had been broken, for young Holmes had been abroad. Previous to
that, they had all been children, excepting him. But now that they were
to meet again, they were no longer children. Elizabeth, at any rate, was
not so, for she had already counted nineteen winters. And Isabella
Holmes was coming. Now Isabella was two years older than Elizabeth, and
had been educated in Brussels; moreover she was comparatively a stranger
at Thwaite Hall, never having been at those early Christmas meetings.
And now I must take permission to begin my story by telling a lady’s
secret. Elizabeth Garrow had already been in love with Godfrey Holmes,
or perhaps it might be more becoming to say that Godfrey Holmes had
already been in love with her. They had already been engaged; and, alas!
they had already agreed that that engagement should be broken off!
Young Holmes was now twenty-seven years of age, and was employed in a
bank at Liverpool, not as a clerk, but as assistant-manager, with a
large salary. He was a man well to do in the world, who had money also
of his own, and who might well afford to marry. Some two years since, on
the eve of leaving Thwaite Hall, he had with low doubting whisper told
Elizabeth that he loved her, and she had flown trembling to her mother.
“Godfrey, my boy,” the father said to him, as he parted with him the
next morning, “Bessy is only a child, and too young to think of this
yet.” At the next Christmas Godfrey was in Italy, and the thing was gone
by,--so at least the father and mother said to each other. But the young
people had met in the summer, and one joyful letter had come from the
girl home to her mother. “I have accepted him. Dearest, dearest mamma, I
do love him. But don’t tell papa yet, for I have not quite accepted him.
I think I am sure, but I am not quite sure. I am not quite sure about
him.”
And then, two days after that, there had come a letter that was not at
all joyful. “Dearest Mamma,--It is not to be. It is not written in the
book. We have both agreed that it will not do. I am so glad that you
have not told dear papa, for I could never make him understand. You will
understand, for I shall tell you everything, down to his very words. But
we have agreed that there shall be no quarrel. It shall be exactly as it
was, and he will come at Christmas all the same. It would never do that
he and papa should be separated, nor could we now put off Isabella. It
is better so in every way, for there is and need be no quarrel. We still
like each other. I am sure I like him, but I know that I should not make
him happy as his wife. He says it is my fault. I, at any rate, have
never told him that I thought it his.” From all which it will be seen
that the confidence between the mother and daughter was very close.