

Transcribed from the 1864 Chapman and Hall “Tales of All Countries”
edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org





                         A RIDE ACROSS PALESTINE.


CIRCUMSTANCES took me to the Holy Land without a companion, and compelled
me to visit Bethany, the Mount of Olives, and the Church of the Sepulchre
alone.  I acknowledge myself to be a gregarious animal, or, perhaps,
rather one of those which nature has intended to go in pairs.  At any
rate I dislike solitude, and especially travelling solitude, and was,
therefore, rather sad at heart as I sat one night at Z—’s hotel, in
Jerusalem, thinking over my proposed wanderings for the next few days.
Early on the following morning I intended to start, of course on
horseback, for the Dead Sea, the banks of Jordan, Jericho, and those
mountains of the wilderness through which it is supposed that Our Saviour
wandered for the forty days when the devil tempted him.  I would then
return to the Holy City, and remaining only long enough to refresh my
horse and wipe the dust from my hands and feet, I would start again for
Jaffa, and there catch a certain Austrian steamer which would take me to
Egypt.  Such was my programme, and I confess that I was but ill contented
with it, seeing that I was to be alone during the time.

I had already made all my arrangements, and though I had no reason for
any doubt as to my personal security during the trip, I did not feel
altogether satisfied with them.  I intended to take a French guide, or
dragoman, who had been with me for some days, and to put myself under the
peculiar guardianship of two Bedouin Arabs, who were to accompany me as
long as I should remain east of Jerusalem.  This travelling through the
desert under the protection of Bedouins was, in idea, pleasant enough;
and I must here declare that I did not at all begrudge the forty
shillings which I was told by our British consul that I must pay them for
their trouble, in accordance with the established tariff.  But I did
begrudge the fact of the tariff.  I would rather have fallen in with my
friendly Arabs, as it were by chance, and have rewarded their fidelity at
the end of our joint journeyings by a donation of piastres to be settled
by myself, and which, under such circumstances, would certainly have been
as agreeable to them as the stipulated sum.  In the same way I dislike
having waiters put down in my bill.  I find that I pay them twice over,
and thus lose money; and as they do not expect to be so treated, I never
have the advantage of their civility.  The world, I fear, is becoming too
fond of tariffs.

“A tariff!” said I to the consul, feeling that the whole romance of my
expedition would be dissipated by such an arrangement.  “Then I’ll go
alone; I’ll take a revolver with me.”

“You can’t do it, sir,” said the consul, in a dry and somewhat angry
tone.  “You have no more right to ride through that country without
paying the regular price for protection, than you have to stop in Z—’s
hotel without settling the bill.”

I could not contest the point, so I ordered my Bedouins for the appointed
day, exactly as I would send for a ticket-porter at home, and determined
to make the best of it.  The wild unlimited sands, the desolation of the
Dead Sea, the rushing waters of Jordan, the outlines of the mountains of
Moab;—those things the consular tariff could not alter, nor deprive them
of the glories of their association.

I had submitted, and the arrangements had been made.  Joseph, my
dragoman, was to come to me with the horses and an Arab groom at five in
the morning, and we were to encounter our Bedouins outside the gate of
St. Stephen, down the hill, where the road turns, close to the tomb of
the Virgin.

I was sitting alone in the public room at the hotel, filling my flask
with brandy,—for matters of primary importance I never leave to servant,
dragoman, or guide,—when the waiter entered, and said that a gentleman
wished to speak with me.  The gentleman had not sent in his card or name;
but any gentleman was welcome to me in my solitude, and I requested that
the gentleman might enter.  In appearance the gentleman certainly was a
gentleman, for I thought that I had never before seen a young man whose
looks were more in his favour, or whose face and gait and outward bearing
seemed to betoken better breeding.  He might be some twenty or twenty-one
years of age, was slight and well made, with very black hair, which he
wore rather long, very dark long bright eyes, a straight nose, and teeth
that were perfectly white.  He was dressed throughout in grey tweed
clothing, having coat, waistcoat, and trousers of the same; and in his
hand he carried a very broad-brimmed straw hat.

“Mr. Jones, I believe,” he said, as he bowed to me.  Jones is a good
travelling name, and, if the reader will allow me, I will call myself
Jones on the present occasion.

“Yes,” I said, pausing with the brandy-bottle in one hand, and the flask
in the other.  “That’s my name; I’m Jones.  Can I do anything for you,
sir?”

“Why, yes, you can,” said he.  “My name is Smith,—John Smith.”

“Pray sit down, Mr. Smith,” I said, pointing to a chair.  “Will you do
anything in this way?” and I proposed to hand the bottle to him.  “As far
as I can judge from a short stay, you won’t find much like that in
Jerusalem.”

He declined the Cognac, however, and immediately began his story.  “I
hear, Mr. Jones,” said he, “that you are going to Moab to-morrow.”

“Well,” I replied, “I don’t know whether I shall cross the water.  It’s
not very easy, I take it, at all times; but I shall certainly get as far
as Jordan.  Can I do anything for you in those parts?”

And then he explained to me what was the object of his visit.  He was
quite alone in Jerusalem, as I was myself; and was staying at H—’s hotel.
He had heard that I was starting for the Dead Sea, and had called to ask
if I objected to his joining me.  He had found himself, he said, very
lonely; and as he had heard that I also was alone, he had ventured to
call and make his proposition.  He seemed to be very bashful, and half
ashamed of what he was doing; and when he had done speaking he declared
himself conscious that he was intruding, and expressed a hope that I
would not hesitate to say so if his suggestion were from any cause
disagreeable to me.

As a rule I am rather shy of chance travelling English friends.  It has
so frequently happened to me that I have had to blush for the
acquaintances whom I have selected, that I seldom indulge in any close
intimacies of this kind.  But, nevertheless, I was taken with John Smith,
in spite of his name.  There was so much about him that was pleasant,
both to the eye and to the understanding!  One meets constantly with men
from contact with whom one revolts without knowing the cause of such
dislike.  The cut of their beard is displeasing, or the mode in which
they walk or speak.  But, on the other hand, there are men who are
attractive, and I must confess that I was attracted by John Smith at
first sight.  I hesitated, however, for a minute; for there are sundry
things of which it behoves a traveller to think before he can join a
companion for such a journey as that which I was about to make.  Could
the young man rise early, and remain in the saddle for ten hours
together?  Could he live upon hard-boiled eggs and brandy-and-water?
Could he take his chance of a tent under which to sleep, and make himself
happy with the bare fact of being in the desert?  He saw my hesitation,
and attributed it to a cause which was not present in my mind at the
moment, though the subject was one of the greatest importance when
strangers consent to join themselves together for a time, and agree to
become no strangers on the spur of the moment.

“Of course I will take half the expense,” said he, absolutely blushing as
he mentioned the matter.

“As to that there will be very little.  You have your own horse, of
course?”

“Oh, yes.”

“My dragoman and groom-boy will do for both.  But you’ll have to pay
forty shillings to the Arabs!  There’s no getting over that.  The consul
won’t even look after your dead body, if you get murdered, without going
through that ceremony.”

Mr. Smith immediately produced his purse, which he tendered to me.  “If
you will manage it all,” said he, “it will make it so much the easier,
and I shall be infinitely obliged to you.”  This of course I declined to
do.  I had no business with his purse, and explained to him that if we
went together we could settle that on our return to Jerusalem.  “But
could he go through really hard work?” I asked.  He answered me with an
assurance that he would and could do anything in that way that it was
possible for man to perform.  As for eating and drinking he cared nothing
about it, and would undertake to be astir at any hour of the morning that
might be named.  As for sleeping accommodation, he did not care if he
kept his clothes on for a week together.  He looked slight and weak; but
he spoke so well, and that without boasting, that I ultimately agreed to
his proposal, and in a few minutes he took his leave of me, promising to
be at Z—’s door with his horse at five o’clock on the following morning.

“I wish you’d allow me to leave my purse with you,” he said again.

“I cannot think of it.  There is no possible occasion for it,” I said
again.  “If there is anything to pay, I’ll ask you for it when the
journey is over.  That forty shillings you must fork out.  It’s a law of
the Medes and Persians.”

“I’d better give it you at once,” he said again, offering me money.  But
I would not have it.  It would be quite time enough for that when the
Arabs were leaving us.

“Because,” he added, “strangers, I know, are sometimes suspicious about
money; and I would not, for worlds, have you think that I would put you
to expense.”  I assured him that I did not think so, and then the subject
was dropped.

He was, at any rate, up to his time, for when I came down on the
following morning I found him in the narrow street, the first on
horseback.  Joseph, the Frenchman, was strapping on to a rough pony our
belongings, and was staring at Mr. Smith.  My new friend, unfortunately,
could not speak a word of French, and therefore I had to explain to the
dragoman how it had come to pass that our party was to be enlarged.

“But the Bedouins will expect full pay for both,” said he, alarmed.  Men
in that class, and especially Orientals, always think that every
arrangement of life, let it be made in what way it will, is made with the
intention of saving some expense, or cheating somebody out of some money.
They do not understand that men can have any other object, and are ever
on their guard lest the saving should be made at their cost, or lest they
should be the victims of the fraud.

“All right,” said I.

“I shall be responsible, Monsieur,” said the dragoman, piteously.

“It shall be all right,” said I, again.  “If that does not satisfy you,
you may remain behind.”

“If Monsieur says it is all right, of course it is so;” and then he
completed his strapping.  We took blankets with us, of which I had to
borrow two out of the hotel for my friend Smith, a small hamper of
provisions, a sack containing forage for the horses, and a large empty
jar, so that we might supply ourselves with water when leaving the
neighbourhood of wells for any considerable time.

“I ought to have brought these things for myself,” said Smith, quite
unhappy at finding that he had thrown on me the necessity of catering for
him.  But I laughed at him, saying that it was nothing; he should do as
much for me another time.  I am prepared to own that I do not willingly
rush up-stairs and load myself with blankets out of strange rooms for men
whom I do not know; nor, as a rule, do I make all the Smiths of the world
free of my canteen.  But, with reference to this fellow I did feel more
than ordinarily good-natured and unselfish.  There was something in the
tone of his voice which was satisfactory; and I should really have felt
vexed had anything occurred at the last moment to prevent his going with
me.

Let it be a rule with every man to carry an English saddle with him when
travelling in the East.  Of what material is formed the nether man of a
Turk I have never been informed, but I am sure that it is not flesh and
blood.  No flesh and blood,—simply flesh and blood,—could withstand the
wear and tear of a Turkish saddle.  This being the case, and the
consequences being well known to me, I was grieved to find that Smith was
not properly provided.  He was seated on one of those hard, red,
high-pointed machines, in which the shovels intended to act as stirrups
are attached in such a manner, and hang at such an angle, as to be
absolutely destructive to the leg of a Christian.  There is no part of
the Christian body with which the Turkish saddle comes in contact that
does not become more or less macerated.  I have sat in one for days, but
I left it a flayed man; and, therefore, I was sorry for Smith.

I explained this to him, taking hold of his leg by the calf to show how
the leather would chafe him; but it seemed to me that he did not quite
like my interference.  “Never mind,” said he, twitching his leg away, “I
have ridden in this way before.”

“Then you must have suffered the very mischief?”

“Only a little, and I shall be used to it now.  You will not hear me
complain.”

“By heavens, you might have heard me complain a mile off when I came to
the end of a journey I once took.  I roared like a bull when I began to
cool.  Joseph, could you not get a European saddle for Mr. Smith?”  But
Joseph did not seem to like Mr. Smith, and declared such a thing to be
impossible.  No European in Jerusalem would think of lending so precious
an article, except to a very dear friend.  Joseph himself was on an
English saddle, and I made up my mind that after the first stage, we
would bribe him to make an exchange.  And then we started.

The Bedouins were not with us, but we were to meet them, as I have said
before, outside St. Stephen’s gate.  “And if they are not there,” said
Joseph, “we shall be sure to come across them on the road.”

“Not there!” said I.  “How about the consul’s tariff, if they don’t keep
their part of the engagement?”  But Joseph explained to me that their
part of the engagement really amounted to this,—that we should ride into
their country without molestation, provided that such and such payments
were made.

It was the period of Easter, and Jerusalem was full of pilgrims.  Even at
that early hour of the morning we could hardly make our way through the
narrow streets.  It must be understood that there is no accommodation in
the town for the fourteen or fifteen thousand strangers who flock to the
Holy Sepulchre at this period of the year.  Many of them sleep out in the
open air, lying on low benches which run along the outside walls of the
houses, or even on the ground, wrapped in their thick hoods and cloaks.
Slumberers such as these are easily disturbed, nor are they detained long
at their toilets.  They shake themselves like dogs, and growl and stretch
themselves, and then they are ready for the day.

We rode out of the town in a long file.  First went the groom-boy; I
forget his proper Syrian appellation, but we used to call him Mucherry,
that sound being in some sort like the name.  Then followed the horse
with the forage and blankets, and next to him my friend Smith in the
Turkish saddle.  I was behind him, and Joseph brought up the rear.  We
moved slowly down the Via Dolorosa, noting the spot at which our Saviour
is said to have fallen while bearing his cross; we passed by Pilate’s
house, and paused at the gate of the Temple,—the gate which once was
beautiful,—looking down into the hole of the pool in which the maimed and
halt were healed whenever the waters moved.  What names they are!  And
yet there at Jerusalem they are bandied to and fro with as little
reverence as are the fanciful appellations given by guides to rocks and
stones and little lakes in all countries overrun by tourists.

“For those who would still fain believe,—let them stay at home,” said my
friend Smith.

“For those who cannot divide the wheat from the chaff, let _them_ stay at
home,” I answered.  And then we rode out through St. Stephen’s gate,
having the mountain of the men of Galilee directly before us, and the
Mount of Olives a little to our right, and the Valley of Jehoshaphat
lying between us and it.  “Of course you know all these places now?” said
Smith.  I answered that I did know them well.

“And was it not better for you when you knew them only in Holy Writ?” he
asked.

“No, by Jove,” said I.  “The mountains stand where they ever stood.  The
same valleys are still green with the morning dew, and the water-courses
are unchanged.  The children of Mahomet may build their tawdry temple on
the threshing-floor which David bought that there might stand the Lord’s
house.  Man may undo what man did, even though the doer was Solomon.  But
here we have God’s handiwork and His own evidences.”

At the bottom of the steep descent from the city gate we came to the tomb
of the Virgin; and by special agreement made with Joseph we left our
horses here for a few moments, in order that we might descend into the
subterranean chapel under the tomb, in which mass was at this moment
being said.  There is something awful in that chapel, when, as at the
present moment, it is crowded with Eastern worshippers from the very
altar up to the top of the dark steps by which the descent is made.  It
must be remembered that Eastern worshippers are not like the churchgoers
of London, or even of Rome or Cologne.  They are wild men of various
nations and races,—Maronites from Lebanon, Roumelians, Candiotes, Copts
from Upper Egypt, Russians from the Crimea, Armenians and Abyssinians.
They savour strongly of Oriental life and of Oriental dirt.  They are
clad in skins or hairy cloaks with huge hoods.  Their heads are shaved,
and their faces covered with short, grisly, fierce beards.  They are
silent mostly, looking out of their eyes ferociously, as though murder
were in their thoughts, and rapine.  But they never slouch, or cringe in
their bodies, or shuffle in their gait.  Dirty, fierce-looking, uncouth,
repellent as they are, there is always about them a something of personal
dignity which is not compatible with an Englishman’s ordinary hat and
pantaloons.

 As we were about to descend, preparing to make our way through the
crowd, Smith took hold of my arm.  “That will never do, my dear fellow,”
said I, “the job will be tough enough for a single file, but we should
never cut our way two and two.  I’m broad-shouldered and will go first.”
So I did, and gradually we worked our way into the body of the chapel.
How is it that Englishmen can push themselves anywhere?  These men were
fierce-looking, and had murder and rapine, as I have said, almost in
their eyes.  One would have supposed that they were not lambs or doves,
capable of being thrust here or there without anger on their part; and
they, too, were all anxious to descend and approach the altar.  Yet we
did win our way through them, and apparently no man was angry with us.  I
doubt, after all, whether a ferocious eye and a strong smell and dirt are
so efficacious in creating awe and obedience in others, as an open brow
and traces of soap and water.  I know this, at least,—that a dirty
Maronite would make very little progress, if he attempted to shove his
way unfairly through a crowd of Englishmen at the door of a London
theatre.  We did shove unfairly, and we did make progress, till we found
ourselves in the centre of the dense crowd collected in the body of the
chapel.

Having got so far, our next object was to get out again.  The place was
dark, mysterious, and full of strange odours; but darkness, mystery, and
strange odours soon lose their charms when men have much work before
them.  Joseph had made a point of being allowed to attend mass before the
altar of the Virgin, but a very few minutes sufficed for his prayers.  So
we again turned round and pushed our way back again, Smith still
following in my wake.  The men who had let us pass once let us pass again
without opposition or show of anger.  To them the occasion was very holy.
They were stretching out their hands in every direction, with long
tapers, in order that they might obtain a spark of the sacred fire which
was burning on one of the altars.  As we made our way out we passed many
who, with dumb motions, begged us to assist them in their object.  And we
did assist them, getting lights for their tapers, handing them to and
fro, and using the authority with which we seemed to be invested.  But
Smith, I observed, was much more courteous in this way to the women than
to the men, as I did not forget to remind him when we were afterwards on
our road together.

Remounting our horses we rode slowly up the winding ascent of the Mount
of Olives, turning round at the brow of the hill to look back over
Jerusalem.  Sometimes I think that of all spots in the world this one
should be the spot most cherished in the memory of Christians.  It was
there that He stood when He wept over the city.  So much we do know,
though we are ignorant, and ever shall be so, of the site of His cross
and of the tomb.  And then we descended on the eastern side of the hill,
passing through Bethany, the town of Lazarus and his sisters, and turned
our faces steadily towards the mountains of Moab.

Hitherto we had met no Bedouins, and I interrogated my dragoman about
them more than once; but he always told me that it did not signify; we
should meet them, he said, before any danger could arise.  “As for
danger,” said I, “I think more of this than I do of the Arabs,” and I put
my hand on my revolver.  “But as they agreed to be here, here they ought
to be.  Don’t you carry a revolver, Smith?”

Smith said that he never had done so, but that he would take the charge
of mine if I liked.  To this, however, I demurred.  “I never part with my
pistol to any one,” I said, rather drily.  But he explained that he only
intended to signify that if there were danger to be encountered, he would
be glad to encounter it; and I fully believed him.  “We shan’t have much
fighting,” I replied; “but if there be any, the tool will come readiest
to the hand of its master.  But if you mean to remain here long I would
advise you to get one.  These Orientals are a people with whom
appearances go a long way, and, as a rule, fear and respect mean the same
thing with them.  A pistol hanging over your loins is no great trouble to
you, and looks as though you could bite.  Many a dog goes through the
world well by merely showing his teeth.”

And then my companion began to talk of himself.  “He did not,” he said,
“mean to remain in Syria very long.”

“Nor I either,” said I.  “I have done with this part of the world for the
present, and shall take the next steamer from Jaffa for Alexandria.  I
shall only have one night in Jerusalem on my return.”

After this he remained silent for a few moments and then declared that
that also had been his intention.  He was almost ashamed to say so,
however, because it looked as though he had resolved to hook himself on
to me.  So he answered, expressing almost regret at the circumstance.

“Don’t let that trouble you,” said I; “I shall be delighted to have your
company.  When you know me better, as I hope you will do, you will find
that if such were not the case I should tell you so as frankly.  I shall
remain in Cairo some little time; so that beyond our arrival in Egypt, I
can answer for nothing.”

He said that he expected letters at Alexandria which would govern his
future movements.  I thought he seemed sad as he said so, and imagined,
from his manner, that he did not expect very happy tidings.  Indeed I had
made up my mind that he was by no means free from care or sorrow.  He had
not the air of a man who could say of himself that he was “totus teres
atque rotundus.”  But I had no wish to inquire, and the matter would have
dropped had he not himself added—“I fear that I shall meet acquaintances
in Egypt whom it will give me no pleasure to see.”

“Then,” said I, “if I were you, I would go to Constantinople
instead;—indeed, anywhere rather than fall among friends who are not
friendly.  And the nearer the friend is, the more one feels that sort of
thing.  To my way of thinking, there is nothing on earth so pleasant as a
pleasant wife; but then, what is there so damnable as one that is
unpleasant?”

“Are you a married man?” he inquired.  All his questions were put in a
low tone of voice which seemed to give to them an air of special
interest, and made one almost feel that they were asked with some special
view to one’s individual welfare.  Now the fact is, that I am a married
man with a family; but I am not much given to talk to strangers about my
domestic concerns, and, therefore, though I had no particular object in
view, I denied my obligations in this respect.  “No,” said I; “I have not
come to that promotion yet.  I am too frequently on the move to write
myself down as Paterfamilias.”

“Then you know nothing about that pleasantness of which you spoke just
now?”

“Nor of the unpleasantness, thank God; my personal experiences are all to
come,—as also are yours, I presume?”

It was possible that he had hampered himself with some woman, and that
she was to meet him at Alexandria.  Poor fellow! thought I.  But his
unhappiness was not of that kind.  “No,” said he; “I am not married; I am
all alone in the world.”

“Then I certainly would not allow myself to be troubled by unpleasant
acquaintances.”

It was now four hours since we had left Jerusalem, and we had arrived at
the place at which it was proposed that we should breakfast.  There was a
large well there, and shade afforded by a rock under which the water
sprung; and the Arabs had constructed a tank out of which the horses
could drink, so that the place was ordinarily known as the first stage
out of Jerusalem.

Smith had said not a word about his saddle, or complained in any way of
discomfort, so that I had in truth forgotten the subject.  Other matters
had continually presented themselves, and I had never even asked him how
he had fared.  I now jumped from my horse, but I perceived at once that
he was unable to do so.  He smiled faintly, as his eye caught mine, but I
knew that he wanted assistance.  “Ah,” said I, “that confounded Turkish
saddle has already galled your skin.  I see how it is; I shall have to
doctor you with a little brandy,—externally applied, my friend.”  But I
lent him my shoulder, and with that assistance he got down, very gently
and slowly.

We ate our breakfast with a good will; bread and cold fowl and
brandy-and-water, with a hard-boiled egg by way of a final delicacy; and
then I began to bargain with Joseph for the loan of his English saddle.
I saw that Smith could not get through the journey with that monstrous
Turkish affair, and that he would go on without complaining till he
fainted or came to some other signal grief.  But the Frenchman, seeing
the plight in which we were, was disposed to drive a very hard bargain.
He wanted forty shillings, the price of a pair of live Bedouins, for the
accommodation, and declared that, even then, he should make the sacrifice
only out of consideration to me.

“Very well,” said I.  “I’m tolerably tough myself; and I’ll change with
the gentleman.  The chances are that I shall not be in a very liberal
humour when I reach Jaffa with stiff limbs and a sore skin.  I have a
very good memory, Joseph.”

“I’ll take thirty shillings, Mr. Jones; though I shall have to groan all
the way like a condemned devil.”

I struck a bargain with him at last for five-and-twenty, and set him to
work to make the necessary change on the horses.  “It will be just the
same thing to him,” I said to Smith.  “I find that he is as much used to
one as to the other.”

“But how much money are you to pay him?” he asked.  “Oh, nothing,” I
replied.  “Give him a few piastres when you part with him at Jaffa.”  I
do not know why I should have felt thus inclined to pay money out of my
pocket for this Smith,—a man whom I had only seen for the first time on
the preceding evening, and whose temperament was so essentially different
from my own; but so I did.  I would have done almost anything in reason
for his comfort; and yet he was a melancholy fellow, with good inward
pluck as I believed, but without that outward show of dash and hardihood
which I confess I love to see.  “Pray tell him that I’ll pay him for it,”
said he.  “We’ll make that all right,” I answered; and then we
remounted,—not without some difficulty on his part.  “You should have let
me rub in that brandy,” I said.  “You can’t conceive how efficaciously I
would have done it.”  But he made me no answer.

At noon we met a caravan of pilgrims coming up from Jordan.  There might
be some three or four hundred, but the number seemed to be treble that,
from the loose and straggling line in which they journeyed.  It was a
very singular sight, as they moved slowly along the narrow path through
the sand, coming out of a defile among the hills, which was perhaps a
quarter of a mile in front of us, passing us as we stood still by the
wayside, and then winding again out of sight on the track over which we
had come.  Some rode on camels,—a whole family, in many cases, being
perched on the same animal.  I observed a very old man and a very old
woman slung in panniers over a camel’s back,—not such panniers as might
be befitting such a purpose, but square baskets, so that the heads and
heels of each of the old couple hung out of the rear and front.  “Surely
the journey will be their death,” I said to Joseph.  “Yes it will,” he
replied, quite coolly; “but what matter how soon they die now that they
have bathed in Jordan?”  Very many rode on donkeys; two, generally, on
each donkey; others, who had command of money, on horses; but the greater
number walked, toiling painfully from Jerusalem to Jericho on the first
day, sleeping there in tents and going to bathe on the second day, and
then returning from Jericho to Jerusalem on the third.  The pilgrimage is
made throughout in accordance with fixed rules, and there is a tariff for
the tent accommodation at Jericho,—so much per head per night, including
the use of hot water.

Standing there, close by the wayside, we could see not only the garments
and faces of these strange people, but we could watch their gestures and
form some opinion of what was going on within their thoughts.  They were
much quieter,—tamer, as it were,—than Englishmen would be under such
circumstances.  Those who were carried seemed to sit on their beasts in
passive tranquillity, neither enjoying nor suffering anything.  Their
object had been to wash in Jordan,—to do that once in their lives;—and
they had washed in Jordan.  The benefit expected was not to be
immediately spiritual.  No earnest prayerfulness was considered necessary
after the ceremony.  To these members of the Greek Christian Church it
had been handed down from father to son that washing in Jordan once
during life was efficacious towards salvation.  And therefore the journey
had been made at terrible cost and terrible risk; for these people had
come from afar, and were from their habits but little capable of long
journeys.  Many die under the toil; but this matters not if they do not
die before they have reached Jordan.  Some few there are, undoubtedly,
more ecstatic in this great deed of their religion.  One man I especially
noticed on this day.  He had bound himself to make the pilgrimage from
Jerusalem to the river with one foot bare.  He was of a better class, and
was even nobly dressed, as though it were a part of his vow to show to
all men that he did this deed, wealthy and great though he was.  He was a
fine man, perhaps thirty years of age, with a well-grown beard descending
on his breast, and at his girdle he carried a brace of pistols.

But never in my life had I seen bodily pain so plainly written in a man’s
face.  The sweat was falling from his brow, and his eyes were strained
and bloodshot with agony.  He had no stick, his vow, I presume, debarring
him from such assistance, and he limped along, putting to the ground the
heel of the unprotected foot.  I could see it, and it was a mass of
blood, and sores, and broken skin.  An Irish girl would walk from
Jerusalem to Jericho without shoes, and be not a penny the worse for it.
This poor fellow clearly suffered so much that I was almost inclined to
think that in the performance of his penance he had done something to
aggravate his pain.  Those around him paid no attention to him, and the
dragoman seemed to think nothing of the affair whatever.  “Those fools of
Greeks do not understand the Christian religion,” he said, being himself
a Latin or Roman Catholic.

At the tail of the line we encountered two Bedouins, who were in charge
of the caravan, and Joseph at once addressed them.  The men were mounted,
one on a very sorry-looking jade, but the other on a good stout Arab
barb.  They had guns slung behind their backs, coloured handkerchiefs on
their heads, and they wore the striped bernouse.  The parley went on for
about ten minutes, during which the procession of pilgrims wound out of
sight; and it ended in our being accompanied by the two Arabs, who thus
left their greater charge to take care of itself back to the city.  I
understood afterwards that they had endeavoured to persuade Joseph that
we might just as well go on alone, merely satisfying the demand of the
tariff.  But he had pointed out that I was a particular man, and that
under such circumstances the final settlement might be doubtful.  So they
turned and accompanied us; but, as a matter of fact, we should have been
as well without them.

The sun was beginning to fall in the heavens when we reached the actual
margin of the Dead Sea.  We had seen the glitter of its still waters for
a long time previously, shining under the sun as though it were not real.
We have often heard, and some of us have seen, how effects of light and
shade together will produce so vivid an appearance of water where there
is no water, as to deceive the most experienced.  But the reverse was the
case here.  There was the lake, and there it had been before our eyes for
the last two hours; and yet it looked, then and now, as though it were an
image of a lake, and not real water.  I had long since made up my mind to
bathe in it, feeling well convinced that I could do so without harm to
myself, and I had been endeavouring to persuade Smith to accompany me;
but he positively refused.  He would bathe, he said, neither in the Dead
Sea nor in the river Jordan.  He did not like bathing, and preferred to
do his washing in his own room.  Of course I had nothing further to say,
and begged that, under these circumstances, he would take charge of my
purse and pistols while I was in the water.  This he agreed to do; but
even in this he was strange and almost uncivil.  I was to bathe from the
farthest point of a little island, into which there was a rough causeway
from the land made of stones and broken pieces of wood, and I exhorted
him to go with me thither; but he insisted on remaining with his horse on
the mainland at some little distance from the island.  He did not feel
inclined to go down to the water’s edge, he said.

I confess that at this moment I almost suspected that he was going to
play me foul, and I hesitated.  He saw in an instant what was passing
through my mind.  “You had better take your pistol and money with you;
they will be quite safe on your clothes.”  But to have kept the things
now would have shown suspicion too plainly, and as I could not bring
myself to do that, I gave them up.  I have sometimes thought that I was a
fool to do so.

I went away by myself to the end of the island, and then I did bathe.  It
is impossible to conceive anything more desolate than the appearance of
the place.  The land shelves very gradually away to the water, and the
whole margin, to the breadth of some twenty or thirty feet, is strewn
with the débris of rushes, bits of timber, and old white withered reeds.
Whence these bits of timber have come it seems difficult to say.  The
appearance is as though the water had receded and left them there.  I
have heard it said that there is no vegetation near the Dead Sea; but
such is not the case, for these rushes do grow on the bank.  I found it
difficult enough to get into the water, for the ground shelves down very
slowly, and is rough with stones and large pieces of half-rotten wood;
moreover, when I was in nearly up to my hips the water knocked me down;
indeed, it did so when I had gone as far as my knees, but I recovered
myself; and by perseverance did proceed somewhat farther.  It must not be
imagined that this knocking down was effected by the movement of the
water.  There is no such movement.  Everything is perfectly still, and
the fluid seems hardly to be displaced by the entrance of the body; but
the effect is that one’s feet are tripped up, and that one falls
prostrate on to the surface.  The water is so strong and buoyant, that,
when above a few feet in depth has to be encountered, the strength and
weight of the bather are not sufficient to keep down his feet and legs.
I then essayed to swim; but I could not do this in the ordinary way, as I
was unable to keep enough of my body below the surface; so that my head
and face seemed to be propelled down upon it.

I turned round and floated, but the glare of the sun was so powerful that
I could not remain long in that position.  However, I had bathed in the
Dead Sea, and was so far satisfied.

Anything more abominable to the palate than this water, if it be water, I
never had inside my mouth.  I expected it to be extremely salt, and no
doubt, if it were analysed, such would be the result; but there is a
flavour in it which kills the salt.  No attempt can be made at describing
this taste.  It may be imagined that I did not drink heartily, merely
taking up a drop or two with my tongue from the palm of my hand; but it
seemed to me as though I had been drenched with it.  Even brandy would
not relieve me from it.  And then my whole body was in a mess, and I felt
as though I had been rubbed with pitch.  Looking at my limbs, I saw no
sign on them of the fluid.  They seemed to dry from this as they usually
do from any other water; but still the feeling remained.  However, I was
to ride from hence to a spot on the banks of Jordan, which I should reach
in an hour, and at which I would wash; so I clothed myself, and prepared
for my departure.

Seated in my position in the island I was unable to see what was going on
among the remainder of the party, and therefore could not tell whether my
pistols and money was safe.  I dressed, therefore, rather hurriedly, and
on getting again to the shore, found that Mr. John Smith had not
levanted.  He was seated on his horse at some distance from Joseph and
the Arabs, and had no appearance of being in league with those, no doubt,
worthy guides.  I certainly had suspected a ruse, and now was angry with
myself that I had done so; and yet, in London, one would not trust one’s
money to a stranger whom one had met twenty-four hours since in a
coffee-room!  Why, then, do it with a stranger whom one chanced to meet
in a desert?

“Thanks,” I said, as he handed me my belongings.  “I wish I could have
induced you to come in also.  The Dead Sea is now at your elbow, and,
therefore, you think nothing of it; but in ten or fifteen years’ time,
you would be glad to be able to tell your children that you had bathed in
it.”

“I shall never have any children to care for such tidings,” he replied.

The river Jordan, for some miles above the point at which it joins the
Dead Sea, runs through very steep banks,—banks which are almost
precipitous,—and is, as it were, guarded by the thick trees and bushes
which grow upon its sides.  This is so much the case, that one may ride,
as we did, for a considerable distance along the margin, and not be able
even to approach the water.  I had a fancy for bathing in some spot of my
own selection, instead of going to the open shore frequented by all the
pilgrims; but I was baffled in this.  When I did force my way down to the
river side, I found that the water ran so rapidly, and that the bushes
and boughs of trees grew so far over and into the stream, as to make it
impossible for me to bathe.  I could not have got in without my clothes,
and having got in, I could not have got out again.  I was, therefore
obliged to put up with the open muddy shore to which the bathers descend,
and at which we may presume that Joshua passed when he came over as one
of the twelve spies to spy out the land.  And even here I could not go
full into the stream as I would fain have done, lest I should be carried
down, and so have assisted to whiten the shores of the Dead Sea with my
bones.  As to getting over to the Moabitish side of the river, that was
plainly impossible; and, indeed, it seemed to be the prevailing opinion
that the passage of the river was not practicable without going up as far
as Samaria.  And yet we know that there, or thereabouts, the Israelites
did cross it.

I jumped from my horse the moment I got to the place, and once more gave
my purse and pistols to my friend.  “You are going to bathe again?” he
said.  “Certainly,” said I; “you don’t suppose that I would come to
Jordan and not wash there, even if I were not foul with the foulness of
the Dead Sea!”  “You’ll kill yourself, in your present state of heat;” he
said, remonstrating just as one’s mother or wife might do.  But even had
it been my mother or wife I could not have attended to such remonstrance
then; and before he had done looking at me with those big eyes of his, my
coat and waistcoat and cravat were on the ground, and I was at work at my
braces; whereupon he turned from me slowly, and strolled away into the
wood.  On this occasion I had no base fears about my money.

And then I did bathe,—very uncomfortably.  The shore was muddy with the
feet of the pilgrims, and the river so rapid that I hardly dared to get
beyond the mud.  I did manage to take a plunge in, head-foremost, but I
was forced to wade out through the dirt and slush, so that I found it
difficult to make my feet and legs clean enough for my shoes and
stockings; and then, moreover, the flies plagued me most unmercifully.  I
should have thought that the filthy flavour from the Dead Sea would have
saved me from that nuisance; but the mosquitoes thereabouts are probably
used to it.  Finding this process of bathing to be so difficult, I
inquired as to the practice of the pilgrims.  I found that with them,
bathing in Jordan has come to be much the same as baptism has with us.
It does not mean immersion.  No doubt they do take off their shoes and
stockings; but they do not strip, and go bodily into the water.

As soon as I was dressed I found that Smith was again at my side with
purse and pistols.  We then went up a little above the wood, and sat down
together on the long sandy grass.  It was now quite evening, so that the
short Syrian twilight had commenced, and the sun was no longer hot in the
heavens.  It would be night as we rode on to the tents at Jericho; but
there was no difficulty as to the way, and therefore we did not hurry the
horses, who were feeding on the grass.  We sat down together on a spot
from which we could see the stream,—close together, so that when I
stretched myself out in my weariness, as I did before we started, my head
rested on his legs.  Ah, me! one does not take such liberties with new
friends in England.  It was a place which led one on to some special
thoughts.  The mountains of Moab were before us, very plain in their
outline.

“Moab is my wash-pot, and over Edom will I cast out my shoe!”  There they
were before us, very visible to the eye, and we began naturally to ask
questions of each other.  Why was Moab the wash-pot, and Edom thus cursed
with indignity?  Why had the right bank of the river been selected for
such great purposes, whereas the left was thus condemned?  Was there, at
that time, any special fertility in this land of promise which has since
departed from it?  We are told of a bunch of grapes which took two men to
carry it; but now there is not a vine in the whole country side.
Now-a-days the sandy plain round Jericho is as dry and arid as are any of
the valleys of Moab.  The Jordan was running beneath our feet,—the Jordan
in which the leprous king had washed, though the bright rivers of his own
Damascus were so much nearer to his hand.  It was but a humble stream to
which he was sent; but the spot probably was higher up, above the Sea of
Galilee, where the river is narrow.  But another also had come down to
this river, perhaps to this very spot on its shores, and submitted
Himself to its waters;—as to whom, perhaps, it will be better that I
should not speak much in this light story.

The Dead Sea was on our right, still glittering in the distance, and
behind us lay the plains of Jericho and the wretched collection of huts
which still bears the name of the ancient city.  Beyond that, but still
seemingly within easy distance of us, were the mountains of the
wilderness.  The wilderness!  In truth, the spot was one which did lead
to many thoughts.

We talked of these things, as to many of which I found that my friend was
much more free in his doubts and questionings than myself; and then our
words came back to ourselves, the natural centre of all men’s thoughts
and words.  “From what you say,” I said, “I gather that you have had
enough of this land?”

“Quite enough,” he said.  “Why seek such spots as these, if they only
dispel the associations and veneration of one’s childhood?”

“But with me such associations and veneration are riveted the stronger by
seeing the places, and putting my hand upon the spots.  I do not speak of
that fictitious marble slab up there; but here, among the sandhills by
this river, and at the Mount of Olives over which we passed, I do
believe.”

He paused a moment, and then replied: “To me it is all
nothing,—absolutely nothing.  But then do we not know that our thoughts
are formed, and our beliefs modelled, not on the outward signs or
intrinsic evidences of things,—as would be the case were we always
rational,—but by the inner workings of the mind itself?  At the present
turn of my life I can believe in nothing that is gracious.”

“Ah, you mean that you are unhappy.  You have come to grief in some of
your doings or belongings, and therefore find that all things are bitter
to the taste.  I have had my palate out of order too; but the proper
appreciation of flavours has come back to me.  Bah,—how noisome was that
Dead Sea water!”

“The Dead Sea waters are noisome,” he said; “and I have been drinking of
them by long draughts.”

“Long draughts!” I answered, thinking to console him.  “Draughts have not
been long which can have been swallowed in your years.  Your disease may
be acute, but it cannot yet have become chronic.  A man always thinks at
the moment of each misfortune that that special misery will last his
lifetime; but God is too good for that.  I do not know what ails you; but
this day twelvemonth will see you again as sound as a roach.”

We then sat silent for a while, during which I was puffing at a cigar.
Smith, among his accomplishments, did not reckon that of smoking,—which
was a grief to me; for a man enjoys the tobacco doubly when another is
enjoying it with him.

“No, you do not know what ails me,” he said at last, “and, therefore,
cannot judge.”

“Perhaps not, my dear fellow.  But my experience tells me that early
wounds are generally capable of cure; and, therefore, I surmise that
yours may be so.  The heart at your time of life is not worn out, and has
strength and soundness left wherewith to throw off its maladies.  I hope
it may be so with you.”

“God knows.   I do not mean to say that there are none more to be pitied
than I am; but at the present moment, I am not—not light-hearted.”

“I wish I could ease your burden, my dear fellow.”

“It is most preposterous in me thus to force myself upon you, and then
trouble you with my cares.  But I had been alone so long, and I was so
weary of it!”

“By Jove, and so had I.  Make no apology.  And let me tell you
this,—though perhaps you will not credit me,—that I would sooner laugh
with a comrade than cry with him is true enough; but, if occasion
demands, I can do the latter also.”

He then put out his hand to me, and I pressed it in token of my
friendship.  My own hand was hot and rough with the heat and sand; but
his was soft and cool almost as a woman’s.  I thoroughly hate an
effeminate man; but, in spite of a certain womanly softness about this
fellow, I could not hate him.  “Yes,” I continued, “though somewhat
unused to the melting mood, I also sometimes give forth my medicinal
gums.  I don’t want to ask you any questions, and, as a rule, I hate to
be told secrets, but if I can be of any service to you in any matter I
will do my best.  I don’t say this with reference to the present moment,
but think of it before we part.”

I looked round at him and saw that he was in tears.  “I know that you
will think that I am a weak fool,” he said, pressing his handkerchief to
his eyes.

“By no means.  There are moments in a man’s life when it becomes him to
weep like a woman; but the older he grows the more seldom those moments
come to him.  As far as I can see of men, they never cry at that which
disgraces them.”

“It is left for women to do that,” he answered.

“Oh, women!  A woman cries for everything and for nothing.  It is the
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!”

“By the heavens above us, he shall be something, or I will know the
reason why!  What! he has gone off with you; he has travelled through the
country with you, hiding you from your only natural friend; he has been
your companion for weeks—”

“Six days, sir,” said I.

“Sir!” said the baronet, again giving me the lie.  “And now,” he
continued, addressing his niece, “you tell me that he is nothing to you.
He shall give me his promise that he will make you his wife at the
consulate at Alexandria, or I will destroy him.  I know who he is.”

“If you know who I am,” said I, “you must know—”

But he would not listen to me.  “And as for you, madam, unless he makes
me that promise—”  And then he paused in his threat, and, turning round,
looked me in the face.  I saw that she also was looking at me, though not
openly as he did; and some flattering devil that was at work round my
heart, would have persuaded that she also would have heard a certain
answer given without dismay,—would even have received comfort in her
agony from such an answer.  But the reader knows how completely that
answer was out of my power.

“I have not the slightest ground for supposing,” said I, “that the lady
would accede to such an arrangement,—if it were possible.  My
acquaintance with her has been altogether confined to—.  To tell the
truth, I have not been in Miss Weston’s confidence, and have only taken
her for that which she has seemed to be.”

“Sir!” said the baronet, again looking at me as though he would wither me
on the spot for my falsehood.

“It is true!” said Julia, getting up from her seat, and appealing with
clasped hands to her uncle—“as true as Heaven.”

“Madam!” said he, “do you both take me for a fool?”

“That you should take me for one,” said I, “would be very natural.  The
facts are as we state to you.  Miss Weston,—as I now learn that she
is,—did me the honour of calling at my hotel, having heard—”  And then it
seemed to me as though I were attempting to screen myself by telling the
story against her, so I was again silent.  Never in my life had I been in
a position of such extraordinary difficulty.  The duty which I owed to
Julia as a woman, and to Sir William as a guardian, and to myself as the
father of a family, all clashed with each other.  I was anxious to be
generous, honest, and prudent, but it was impossible; so I made up my
mind to say nothing further.

“Mr. Jones,” said the baronet, “I have explained to you the only
arrangement which under the present circumstances I can permit to pass
without open exposure and condign punishment.  That you are a gentleman
by birth, education, and position I am aware,”—whereupon I raised my hat,
and then he continued: “That lady has three hundred a year of her own—”

“And attractions, personal and mental, which are worth ten times the
money,” said I, and I bowed to my fair friend, who looked at me the while
with sad beseeching eyes.  I confess that the mistress of my bosom, had
she known my thoughts at that one moment, might have had cause for anger.

“Very well,” continued he.  “Then the proposal which I name, cannot, I
imagine, but be satisfactory.  If you will make to her and to me the only
amends which it is in your power as a gentleman to afford, I will forgive
all.  Tell me that you will make her your wife on your arrival in Egypt.”

I would have given anything not to have looked at Miss Weston at this
moment, but I could not help it.  I did turn my face half round to her
before I answered, and then felt that I had been cruel in doing so.  “Sir
William,” said I, “I have at home already a wife and family of my own.”

“It is not true!” said he, retreating a step, and staring at me with
amazement.

“There is something, sir,” I replied, “in the unprecedented circumstances
of this meeting, and in your position with regard to that lady, which,
joined to your advanced age, will enable me to regard that useless insult
as unspoken.  I am a married man.  There is the signature of my wife’s
last letter,” and I handed him one which I had received as I was leaving
Jerusalem.

But the coarse violent contradiction which Sir William had given me was
nothing compared with the reproach conveyed in Miss Weston’s countenance.
She looked at me as though all her anger were now turned against me.  And
yet, methought, there was more of sorrow than of resentment in her
countenance.  But what cause was there for either?  Why should I be
reproached, even by her look?  She did not remember at the moment that
when I answered her chance question as to my domestic affairs, I had
answered it as to a man who was a stranger to me, and not as to a
beautiful woman, with whom I was about to pass certain days in close and
intimate society.  To her, at the moment, it seemed as though I had
cruelly deceived her.  In truth, the one person really deceived had been
myself.

And here I must explain, on behalf of the lady, that when she first
joined me she had no other view than that of seeing the banks of the
Jordan in that guise which she had chosen to assume, in order to escape
from the solemnity and austerity of a disagreeable relative.  She had
been very foolish, and that was all.  I take it that she had first left
her uncle at Constantinople, but on this point I never got certain
information.  Afterwards, while we were travelling together, the idea had
come upon her, that she might go on as far as Alexandria with me.  And
then I know nothing further of the lady’s intentions, but I am certain
that her wishes were good and pure.  Her uncle had been intolerable to
her, and she had fled from him.  Such had been her offence, and no more.

“Then, sir,” said the baronet, giving me back my letter, “you must be a
double-dyed villain.”

“And you, sir,” said I—  But here Julia Weston interrupted me.

“Uncle, you altogether wrong this gentleman,” she said.  “He has been
kind to me beyond my power of words to express; but, till told by you, he
knew nothing of my secret.  Nor would he have known it,” she added,
looking down upon the ground.  As to that latter assertion, I was at
liberty to believe as much as I pleased.

The Pole now came to the door, informing us that any who wished to start
by the packet must go on board, and therefore, as the unreasonable old
gentleman perceived, it was necessary that we should all make our
arrangements.  I cannot say that they were such as enable me to look back
on them with satisfaction.  He did seem now at last to believe that I had
been an unconscious agent in his niece’s stratagem, but he hardly on that
account became civil to me.  “It was absolutely necessary,” he said,
“that he and that unfortunate young woman,” as he would call her, “should
depart at once,—by this ship now going.”  To this proposition of course I
made no opposition.  “And you, Mr. Jones,” he continued, “will at once
perceive that you, as a gentleman, should allow us to proceed on our
journey without the honour of your company.”

This was very dreadful, but what could I say; or, indeed, what could I
do?  My most earnest desire in the matter was to save Miss Weston from
annoyance; and under existing circumstances my presence on board could
not but be a burden to her.  And then, if I went,—if I did go, in
opposition to the wishes of the baronet, could I trust my own prudence?
It was better for all parties that I should remain.

“Sir William,” said I, after a minute’s consideration, “if you will
apologise to me for the gross insults you have offered me, it shall be as
you say.”

“Mr. Jones,” said Sir William, “I do apologise for the words which I used
to you while I was labouring under a very natural misconception of the
circumstances.”  I do not know that I was much the better for the
apology, but at the moment I regarded it sufficient.

Their things were then hurried down to the strand, and I accompanied them
to the ruined quay.  I took off my hat to Sir William as he was first let
down into the boat.  He descended first, so that he might receive his
niece,—for all Jaffa now knew that it was a lady,—and then I gave her my
hand for the last time.  “God bless you, Miss Weston,” I said, pressing
it closely.  “God bless you, Mr. Jones,” she replied.  And from that day
to this I have neither spoken to her nor seen her.

I waited a fortnight at Jaffa for the French boat, eating cutlets of
goat’s flesh, and wandering among the orange groves.  I certainly look
back on that fortnight as the most miserable period of my life.  I had
been deceived, and had failed to discover the deceit, even though the
deceiver had perhaps wished that I should do so.  For that blindness I
have never forgiven myself.




***