Part 1

FROM JAFFA TO JERUSALEM.

Coasting along the arid Syrian shore, there is little to attract the attention of the traveller from Port Said to Jaffa, till the last-named town is in sight. If, however, there is a haze upon the water and the wind is from the shore, a powerful perfume of orange-flowers borne across the sea is the first intimation that one is nearing Jaffa, perhaps the most ancient town—certainly one of the most ancient towns—in the world. Presuming that no wind has sprung up since you left the Egyptian port—in which case you will be carried on to Beyrout, as the steamers only touch at Jaffa in calm weather, owing to the danger and almost impossibility of landing passengers or goods—presuming, however, that all is well, you reach Jaffa most probably in the early morning; and having anchored outside a reef of rocks which incloses a natural harbour permitting the entrance only of small boats, you look upon a scene as picturesque and peculiarly eastern in its character as you could wish. Rising abruptly from the sea, the whitened, flat-roofed houses intermingle with the domes of the mosques and the convent towers; while the surmounting citadel, the surrounding wall, and massive gates, give the distinctive character that one had observed in Tangier, or Algiers, or Cairo.

Along the quay is collected a throng of people, containing representatives of half the ports in the Levant or the East. Huge brown-sailed boats are moored in the smooth water within; while outside, the water washes over the encircling rocks—the fabled rocks of Andromeda’s captivity. Palms and plantain trees are scattered here and there, with the glimpse of orchards beyond; and stately camels, with their stalwart Bedouin guides, carrying bales of merchandise or corn, now and again move across the line of vision on the shore. And now the boats are putting out to the steamer, and the swarthy boatmen ply their oars with vigour; and boats filled with oranges and lemons and gigantic melons, and bright-hued fishes, swarm around us. Not least, to add to the general effect, and certainly chiefest for one’s individual comfort, are the men of Cook and Howard the agents, clad respectively in blue and red, who in well-manned boats are at the service of the traveller. Here, be it remarked, that whatever prejudice may exist amongst ordinary British travellers against ‘Cooking it’ on the continent, in the East the services of these agents are invaluable; and the travelling public owes much to them for having brought dragomans, guides, hotel-keepers, and stable-keepers to some decency in the matter of their charges. Placing ourselves in the hands of one of them, we are landed at the quay, and pass along the narrow crowded street that leads to the market-place at the top of the town.

The first thing that struck one was the remarkable beauty of the inhabitants, men and women alike. Jews, Turks, Syrians, and Arabs were all in marked contrast to the ugly squat Egyptians amongst whom we had recently sojourned; and the Bedouins are a much finer race than those of either the Egyptian or Sinaitic Desert, whose acquaintance we had just made. As may be assumed, there is a marked Jewish cast of countenance—as we call it at home—amongst all classes, even to the Bedouins. The camels, too, are larger and finer looking. It is to be feared, however, that it is only in physical qualities that the Syrians can show a superiority to the Egyptians; morally, they appear to be very much on a par.

We pass along the winding antiquated street, through ancient arches, up occasional broad steps, past shops of all kinds—holes in the wall, where Jews and Greeks, squatted on their hams, are ready to sell you anything from an estate to a pair of slippers—jostled by camels and mules and donkeys carrying grain and merchandise of various kinds, and accompanied by the handsome picturesque Bedouins of the Syrian Desert, through bazaars with fruit-sellers, water-carriers, and hawkers of all kinds plying their various trades, until we reach the market-place, where there seems to be more spirit and business-like animation than one usually sees in the East. The house of Simon the tanner is pointed out to us, and we receive the information with the necessary reserve. But there are unmistakable tanneries in its neighbourhood, if that evidence goes for anything. Arrived at the hotel, we first ordered a couple of horses to be got ready as soon as possible; and having viewed the sorry-looking hacks, took a hurried breakfast, as we were anxious to be on the road. Good horses and saddles are usually to be obtained in Syria without any difficulty, but we had unfortunately hit upon the very time when they were least plentiful, namely, the Thursday following Easter Sunday. Breakfast was not a very long affair, consisting of the inevitable cutlet and eggs, anchovies, sliced sausages, olives, figs, and oranges—to which some months in the East had made us familiar. A most dirty and exasperating waiter, who seemed to take more than the average delight of his Syrian countrymen in telling lies, boldly asked for ‘backsheesh,’ informing us that his former statement as to being the proprietor was untrue; and when he saw us loading our revolvers, asked what we were ‘going to shoot his people for; that was not good!’ However, he did us the honour to guide us personally to a point where the road led to Jerusalem; and away we went on our journey.

The road was very dusty, but the air was full of the perfume of flowers; and it was delicious to ride past the orange groves and gardens and orchards that extended for nearly a mile out of the busy, jostling, evil-smelling town. After passing the orchards and gardens, the road becomes rather tame and barren, and though well enough for riding, must be terribly disagreeable for those who undertake the journey by carriage. We met many pilgrims returning from Jerusalem—there had been ten thousand of them there in Holy Week. They came trooping past, on camels, mules, donkeys, and horses, in carts and carriages, and many on foot. They were chiefly Russians, but many were Levantines. Many carried the precious relics that had been made sacred to them by being laid upon the Holy Sepulchre, or perhaps thrust into the so-called ‘Holy Fire.’ Sometimes a crowd would appear in the distance, and the long cylindrical tins containing sanctified candles—some of them five or six feet long—would shine like lances in the sun. ‘Family’ camels with a sort of howdah, or a canopy with beds on either side or ‘atop,’ would hold some three or four children and their mother. Others would be squatted on the top of their baggage. All their faces had a pleased and satisfied look, as of having accomplished a desirable work. At intervals of a mile or so, we passed the guardhouses of the police, placed for the protection of the road to Jerusalem; and after about three hours and a half, reached Ramleh, the first halting-place on the road, and remarkable for its broad and clean streets, and its well-to-do, sleepy appearance. Indeed, but for the hideously diseased and distorted mendicants, one might have thought one’s self in some rather odd-looking English or French or German village; which feeling would not be dispelled by the homely appearance of the primitive little German hotel, where we were supplied with cold meat and salad, and the most delicious beer we had tasted since leaving England—_Marzenburg Export Bier_, it was called. After a short halt, we remounted, having only paid a hurried visit to the tower of Ramleh—a landmark for some distance over this flat country, and whence one obtains an extensive view. The road now improves somewhat, though there is little of interest or beauty to be seen. An hour’s ride brought us to the village of Kubâb, where we obtained some oranges and a drink of water, the heat being very great.

Leaving Kubâb, we shortly after entered the valley of Ajalon, where we enjoyed a pleasant gallop over the rich soft earth skirting the fields, which in a few weeks would be covered with verdure. The roadway itself was in course of being mended, and one pitied the unhappy occupants of the vehicles forced to traverse the highway. Here we were passed by hundreds of pilgrims, with whom we exchanged the usual ‘Liltak said,’ or ‘Naharak rubârah,’ of friendly greeting; and shortly after ascending an incline at the end of the valley, reached Latroon, the supposed birthplace of the Penitent Thief. By the roadside was a rough kind of restaurant, at which many pilgrims were regaling themselves with coffee, cakes, fruit, and their hubble-bubbles. But turning off the main road, we alighted at the _Latroon Hotel_, where everything was of a rather primitive character, but managed by a civil and intelligent young Greek. We were made very comfortable. The freshness in the air here was delightful, after our dusty and hot ride; and as it was now about four o’clock, and there was still a good six hours to Jerusalem, we determined upon staying at Latroon for the night. The interesting historical associations of the surrounding country—the passing of the pilgrims—the tinkling of bells—the finely placed ruin of the ‘Castle of the Good Thief’—the rustic character of the people about, who forgot even to ask for backsheesh—the fertile fields—here a group of Bedouins with their camels brought to knee—there a batch of pilgrims settling down for the night—while shepherds hurry home their flocks, and horses and mules and asses are being tethered for the night—all served to bring before one a charming and interesting picture, that was well worth the delay.

After a very refreshing night’s rest in a clean and comfortable room, we started betimes next morning. Half an hour from Latroon brought us to the mouth of Wady Ali, a lovely glen, through which one enters amongst the Judæan hills. The glen, with large rocks and boulders on either side, but rich in wild-flowers of all kinds, and prominent amongst them our own national thistle, did indeed at times remind us of spots we had known in the west of Scotland. After winding through a delightfully picturesque valley, well wooded, and rich in olive groves, we began to make the ascent of the Judæan hills, winding round and about by steep zigzag paths, occasionally obtaining fine views of the surrounding country, and on reaching the summit, had a splendid panorama of the coast of Syria with the Mediterranean beyond, and away to the south the bare Desert of Tih, running up to the well-cultivated country of Palestine. We had last seen this Tih Desert from the mountains of Sinai, away to the south-east.

The country about the summit of the Judæan hills is wild and bare and rocky; and as we begin again to descend gradually by zigzag and abrupt ups and downs, the road is often steep, and always difficult, and gives one an opportunity of testing and admiring the sureness of foot of the Arab horse. Poor as were the specimens we bestrode—and neither of the riders was a light weight—they picked their way amongst loose stones or glistening rocks, and down the steep inclines, with a perfectly marvellous facility, and galloped over the rough rock-strewn roads as if their legs were made of cast-iron. It is rare to find an Arab that will trot properly. The usual pace is a quick walk, or an amble, a most serviceable pace, which they seem capable of keeping up indefinitely, and which is as little distressing to the horse as to his rider. The shoe, which consists of a flat piece of metal with a hole in the middle, certainly does not seem to the stranger exactly adapted to their work; and a horse is sometimes lamed by a small stone getting into the hole; but acute judges say that this mode of shoeing—common all over the East—has advantages where the roads are hard, hot, and dry.

Presently we come upon the village of Kirjath-Jearim (the ‘Village of the Grapes’), and passing the possible Emmaus, descend to Kolonieh, close by a river-bed, which we cross by a bridge, to make the last ascent of the journey. On reaching the top of this ascent, Jerusalem appears suddenly close to us with a suburb of modern buildings: hospitals, almshouses, and villas—spick-and-span with iron railings, porters’ lodges, and clocks—European time, and Roman numerals on the face! which make us rub our eyes for the moment. Passing these, however, we come immediately to the walls of the Holy City; and turning sharply off to the left, past the new German hotel (Fiel), the only one outside the walls, we enter the Damascus Gate, and our journey is at an end.

It does not come within the scope of the present article to give a description, which has been done a thousand times before, of anything beyond the mere journey from Jaffa to Jerusalem. But in a few words it must be said that the impression is one of disappointment at Jerusalem. The streets are dirty and ill-paved, and scarcely any properly authenticated spot can actually be pointed out. Each sanctimonious-looking dragoman has a sniffle, and ‘lies like a wily Hindu.’ From the Greek or Armenian priest who humbugs the miserable pilgrims with his ‘Holy Fire,’ to the hawker of cards of sham flowers from Zion or Bethlehem, sham shells from the Jordan, or sham wood from Olivet, there is nothing but falsehood and extortion. About the only redeeming feature amidst the mass of corruption, dirt, and hypocrisy, is the well-kept and trim little English church, with its decent congregation; while certainly the only well-ordered quarter of the city is the Moslem quarter.

BY MEAD AND STREAM.

CHAPTER XXIX.—SUSPICION.

And those interlacing shadows of the bare branches across the footpath through the forest which had been like delicate fairy fretwork when Philip passed along, broadened and deepened into black masses before the father as he followed. He had no purpose in following, beyond a vague craving to know what Madge would say when she learned that he had disinherited this favourite of the family, and a fancy that it would be pleasant to walk back with him, when he might explain more fully than he had done the motives by which he had been actuated.

He, too, knew this pathway well; but, although he walked on, he had not yet decided to go all the way. When he entered the glade in which the King’s Oak reigned, he halted. This was a place for elfin revels, and fairy-rings were common in it. Every child brought here to play felt sure that this was the very spot where little Red Riding Hood met the wolf, and that her grandmother’s cottage stood over there, where some funny people tried to make them believe was once a Roman camp. Romans indeed! as if they were going to give up the delightful association of Red Riding Hood with the place for a lot of dull people they were forced to read about in school-books! And, of course, it was here also that the other Hood called Robin assembled with his merry men, and Little John and Friar Tuck. It was no use attempting to correct their geography by informing them that Sherwood Forest was a long way from here: the child’s imagination insists upon associating its heroes with known places.

Mr Hadleigh was reminded of the happy group of children he had found here in the sunshine not long ago, and as their bright faces rose before him in the soft twilight, he seemed to grow strong again. Pleasant memories are as helpful to us as pleasant anticipations.

When he resumed his way, he walked more firmly than he had done since Philip left him. He had now decided to go on and wait for him near the stile; and he unconsciously quickened his pace, although aware that he would have plenty of time to spare. On reaching the roadway, however, he proceeded leisurely, listening to the river, but hearing no melody in it.

As he approached the stile, he saw the figures of a man and woman slowly cross the road. They shook hands, and he heard the man say:

‘I have your promise, and I shall hold you to it. Be faithful, and I shall be able to think of the past without pain.’

There was a reply, but in a tone so low that it did not reach his ears. He recognised in the man the stranger who had recently taken up his quarters in the village, although he had only seen him once and, then, at a distance. The woman was Madge.

They parted. She hurried up the meadow; and after a brief pause, Mr Beecham turned in the direction of the village.

Mr Hadleigh had involuntarily halted, feeling that he was the accidental spectator of an incident for which the actors had not desired an audience. Beecham’s words and the girl’s manner satisfied him of that. He became immediately aware, however, that standing still would naturally suggest that he was playing the part of a spy. And he could not escape observation, for the man was coming straight towards him. He, therefore, resumed his leisurely pace.

As was frequently his habit, Mr Beecham walked with head slightly bent, his eyes seeming to read strange writings on the ground. At the sound of approaching footsteps, he looked up. There was a momentary and unaccountable change in his expression—as if he had suddenly passed under the shadow of a tree, and coming into the full light again it was placid and gentle as usual.

‘Good-evening,’ said Mr Hadleigh hastily, remembering the country custom he had adopted of saluting any one he encountered on the road.

‘Good-evening,’ echoed Beecham, with a slight inclination of the head.

They passed, moving quietly on their opposite ways. Neither looked back, for each was conscious that the other intended or wished to do so, and did not care to be caught in the act.

That is one of the droll sensations often experienced in the common course of daily life. We meet a friend, part, and without any reason, have a desire to look after him, but restrain ourselves, lest he, being similarly disposed, should ‘catch us at it.’ We laugh at ourselves, and forget the absurd impulse. But what informs the look, the breath, the tone which makes us like or dislike a man or a woman without any apparent justification? The mystery is one which the poets and philosophers of all ages seem to be continually touching, but never grasping. Some call it instinct, others animal magnetism. All we know is that we feel and cannot tell why; but there are few who have not had occasion to regret that they have not allowed themselves to be guided by this inexplicable influence.

Mr Hadleigh, merely passing this stranger in the deepening twilight, knew that he was a foe.

Whether or not surprise at the words he had overheard, and wonder at their being addressed to Miss Heathcote, had anything to do with the sensation, he could not tell; but he felt as keen a chill as if he had passed an iceberg—mentally and physically the sensation was exactly the same. Yet he had heard nothing but praise of this quiet, kindly-looking gentleman. There was a degree of chagrin, certainly, in the thought that in a few weeks Mr Beecham—a casual visitor, as he might still be called—had obtained more influence amongst the villagers than the master of Ringsford had won by years of endeavour to help and guide them.

Of course, Mr Hadleigh attributed this success to the fact that the stranger was indiscriminate in his charity. He gave help wherever it was wanted, without taking the trouble to inquire into each case, or to advise the recipients of his bounty as to the future conduct which would insure their independence. He gave them their own way, in short, saying nothing about the carelessness which created their necessities. To a man who has the means, this is the easiest and shortest road to popularity. But this could never result in permanent benefit to the poor.

Now, Mr Hadleigh had really tried to do permanent good: and, compared to this newcomer, he was still a stranger amongst the people. All allowance being made for the difference of temperament and the difference of method, it was difficult to understand why Mr Beecham should so quickly win what Mr Hadleigh had long striven for with so little result—the affection of those around him.

He turned his eyes inward: was not this part—a great part—of the penalty he had to pay for making worldly success his first thought and Love the second? Was it too late to win one heart? He had gained the admiration, the esteem, the envy of many: was it too late to win one heart? How common folk would laugh at this rich, prosperous man, if they knew that life was a misery to him because he had cast away its crown—if they knew how gladly he would change places with his poorest labourer, if by so doing he might secure the affection for which he craved.

If Philip’s mother had been with him, he would have lavished upon her all that wealth could buy!... There he stopped, in bitterness, for he came to the end of his world again: wealth could not buy love. Obsequious submission, a show of respect, obedience to his orders, he could hire: but that was all. This man Beecham, without apparent effort or sacrifice, obtained at once the ‘Something’ that was beyond price.

To his relief came curiosity and suspicion of—he did not know what. But why should this man receive any promise from Miss Heathcote? Why should it have to do with his past? Why should she, who was to be Philip’s wife, be there, speaking to a stranger, when her lover was waiting for her?

He halted, and after a moment’s hesitation, turned in the direction of the village. He was not to wait for his son.

At first he walked slowly, as if he might still change his mind; but as his thoughts quickened, so did his steps, and the church tower was looming darkly against the slate-like sky when he stopped at the gate of Mr Wrentham’s cottage.

A pretty little squat building of one story, lying well back from the road; a patch of green surrounded by bushy evergreens, and the front wall covered with trellis-work, at present supporting a spider’s web of branches, which in season blossomed into red and white roses, making the cottage look like a bower rather than a homestead.

At the gate, Mr Hadleigh again hesitated, as if doubtful whether or not to carry out the intention which had brought him to the place. Since the evening of Philip’s accident, he had spoken very little in private to Wrentham. Natural enough as the accident had appeared, he was afflicted by an uneasy feeling that Wrentham had something to do with bringing it about, and that to his own visit to Golden Alley the first blame was due.

With some impatience at his weakness, he rang the bell and advanced to the door. The servant was new to the place, and required to ask the visitor’s name; whereupon a door was flung open, and Wrentham came out with effusive cordiality.

‘My dear Mr Hadleigh, this is a grand surprise. I won’t stop to ask you what has made you think of dropping in upon me; but I must say thank you for a new pleasure. Come in, come in; there is nobody here but myself. I have only arrived within the last five minutes, and Mrs Wrentham is putting our girl to sleep. You have passed over these stages of domestic inconvenience; but you can excuse us for not being always in reception order. We let our visitors take us as they find us, and those who don’t like it need not come again. Simple and sensible rule, is it not? But we should have liked _you_ to find us a little more in apple-pie order, especially as it is your first visit.’