“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 tomorrow,” 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
