“If I were a legislator, sir, I’d prohibit any woman under forty-three from sleeping in a public conveyance. It is downright dangerous, – I would n’t say it ain’t immoral. The immovable aspect of placid beauty, Mr. Tramp, etherealizes a woman. The shrewd housewife becomes a houri; and a milliner – ay, sir, a milliner – might be a Maid of Judah under such circumstances!”
Mr. Yellowley seemed to have run himself out of breath with this burst of enthusiasm; for he was unable to resume his narrative until several minutes after, when he proceeded thus:
“The fat gentleman and myself were soon engaged in conversation. He was hastening down to bid some friends good-bye, ere they sailed for India. I was about to leave my native country, too, – perhaps forever.
“‘Yes, sir,’ said I, addressing him, ‘Heaven knows when I shall behold these green valleys again, if ever. I have just been appointed Secretary and Chief Counsellor to the Political Resident at the court of the Rajah of Sautaucantantarabad! – a most important post – three thousand eight hundred and forty-seven miles beyond the Himalaya.’
“And here – with, I trust, a pardonable pride – I showed him the government order for my free transit, with the various directions and injunctions concerning my personal comfort and safety.
“‘Ah,’ said the old gentleman, putting on his spectacles to read, – ‘ah, I never beheld one of these before. Very curious, – very curious, indeed. I have seen a sheriff’s writ, and an execution; but this is far more remarkable, – “Simon Yellowley, Esq., and lady.” Eh? – so your lady accompanies you, sir?’
“‘Would she did, – would to Heaven she did!’ exclaimed I, in a transport.
“‘Oh, then, she’s afraid, is she? She dreads the blacks, I suppose.’
“‘No, sir; I am not married. The insertion of these words was a mistake of the official who made out my papers; for, alas! I am alone in the world.’
“‘But why don’t you marry, sir?’ said the little man, briskly, and with an eye glistening with paternity. ‘Young ladies ain’t scarce – ’
“‘True, most true; but even supposing I were fortunate enough to meet the object of my wishes, I have no time. I received this appointment last evening; to-day I am here, to-morrow I shall be on the billows!’
“‘Ah, that’s unfortunate, indeed, – very unfortunate.’
“‘Had I but one week, – a day, – ay, an hour, sir,’ said I, ‘I ‘d make an offer of my brilliant position to some lovely creature who, tired of the dreary North and its gloomy skies, would prefer the unclouded heaven of the Himalaya and the perfumed breezes of the valley of Santancantantarabad!’
“A lightly breathed sigh fell from the sleeping beauty, and at the same time a smile of inexpressible sweetness played upon her lips; but, like the ripple upon a glassy stream, that disappearing left all placid and motionless again, the fair features were in a moment calm as before.
“‘She looks delicate,’ whispered my companion.
“‘Our detestable climate!’ said I, bitterly; for she coughed twice at the instant. ‘Oh, why are the loveliest flowers the offspring of the deadliest soil!’
“She awoke, not suddenly or abruptly, but as Venus might have risen from the sparkling sea and thrown the dew-drops from her hair, and then she opened her eyes. Mr. Tramp, do you understand eyes?”
“I can’t say I have any skill that way, to speak of.”
“I’m sorry for it, – deeply, sincerely sorry; for to the uninitiated these things seem naught. It would be as unprofitable to put a Rembrandt before a blind man as discuss the aesthetics of eyelashes with the unbeliever. But you will understand me when I say that her eyes were blue, – blue as the Adriatic! – not the glassy doll’s-eye blue, that shines and glistens with a metallic lustre; nor that false depth, more gray than blue, that resembles a piece of tea-lead; but the color of the sea, as you behold it five fathoms down, beside the steep rocks of Genoa! And what an ocean is a woman’s eye, with bright thoughts floating through it, and love lurking at the bottom! Am I tedious, Mr. Tramp?”
“No; far from it, – only very poetical.”
“Ah, I was once,” said Mr. Yellowley, with a deep sigh. “I used to write sweet things for ‘The New Monthly;’ but Campbell was very jealous of me, – couldn’t abide me. Poor Campbell! he had his failings, like the rest of us.
“Well, sir, to resume. We arrived at Southampton, but only in time to hasten down to the pier, and take boat for the ship. The blue-peter was flying at the mast-head, and people hurrying away to say ‘good-bye’ for the last time. I, sir, I alone had no farewells to take. Simon Yellowley was leaving his native soil, unwept and unregretted! Sad thoughts these, Mr. Tramp, – very sad thoughts. Well, sir, we were aboard at last, above a hundred of us, standing amid the lumber of our carpet-bags, dressing-cases, and hat-boxes, half blinded by the heavy spray of the condensed steam, and all deafened by the din.
“The world of a great packet-ship, Mr. Tramp, is a very selfish world, and not a bad epitome of its relative on shore. Human weaknesses are so hemmed in by circumstances, the frailties that would have been dissipated in a wider space are so concentrated by compression, that middling people grow bad, and the bad become regular demons. There is, therefore, no such miserable den of selfish and egotistical caballing, slander, gossip, and all malevolence, as one of these. Envy of the man with a large berth, – sneers for the lady that whispered to the captain, – guesses as to the rank and station of every passenger, indulged in with a spirit of impertinence absolutely intolerable, – and petty exclu-siveness practised by every four or five on board, against some others who have fewer servants or less luggage than their neighbors. Into this human bee-hive was I now plunged, to be bored by the drones, stung by the wasps, and maddened by all. ‘No matter,’ thought I, 4 Simon Yellowley has a great mission to fulfil.’ Yes, Mr. Tramp, I remembered the precarious position of our Eastern possessions, – I bethought me of the incalculable services the ability of even a Yellow-ley might render his country in the far-off valley of the Himalaya, and I sat down on my portmanteau, a happier – nay, I will say, a better man.
“The accidents – we call them such every day – the accidents which fashion our lives, are always of our own devising, if we only were to take trouble enough to trace them. I have a theory on this head, but I ‘m keeping it over for a kind of a Bridgewater Treatise. It is enough now to remark that though my number at the dinner-table was 84, I exchanged with another gentleman, who could n’t bear a draught, for a place near the door, No. 122. Ah, me! little knew I then what that simple act was to bring with it. Bear in mind, Mr. Tramp, 122; for, as you may remember, Sancho Panza’s story of the goatherd stopped short, when his master forgot the number of the goats; and that great French novelist, M. de Balzac, always hangs the interest of his tale on some sum in arithmetic, in which his hero’s fortune is concerned: so my story bears upon this number. Yes, sir, the adjoining seat, No. 123, was vacant. There was a cover and a napkin, and there was a chair placed leaning against the table, to mark it out as the property of some one absent; and day by day was that vacant place the object of my conjectures. It was natural this should be the case. My left-hand neighbor was the first mate, one of those sea animals most detestable to a landsman. He had a sea appetite, a sea voice, sea jokes, and, worst of all, a sea laugh. I shall never forget that fellow. I never spoke to him that he did not reply in some slang of his abominable profession; and all the disagreeables of a floating existence were increased ten-fold by the everlasting reference to the hated theme, – a ship. What he on the right hand might prove, was therefore of some moment to me. Another Coup de Mer like this would be unendurable. The crossest old maid, the testiest old bachelor, the most peppery nabob, the flattest ensign, the most boring of tourists, the most careful of mothers, would be a boon from heaven in comparison with a blue-jacket. Alas! Mr. Tramp, I was left very long to speculate on this subject. We were buffeted down the Channel, we were tossed along the coast of France, and blown about the Bay of Biscay before 123 ever turned up; when one day – it was a deliciously calm day (I shall not forget it soon) – we even could see the coast of Portugal, with its great mountains above Cintra. Over a long reach of sea, glassy as a mirror, the great ship clove her way, – the long foam-track in her wake, the only stain on that blue surface. Every one was on deck: the old asthmatic gentleman, whose cough was the curse of the after-cabin, sat with a boa round his neck, and thought he enjoyed himself. Ladies in twos and threes walked up and down together, chatting as pleasantly as though in Kensington Gardens. The tourist sent out by Mr. Colburn was taking notes of the whole party, and the four officers in the Bengal Light Horse had adjourned their daily brandy and water to a little awning beside the wheel. There were sketch-books and embroidery-frames and journals on all sides; there was even a guitar, with a blue ribbon round it; and amid all these remindings of shore life, a fat poodle waddled about, and snarled at every one. The calm, sir, was a kind of doomsday, which evoked the dead from their tombs; and up they came from indescribable corners and nooks, opening their eyes with amazement upon the strange world before them, and some almost feeling that even the ordeal of sea-sickness was not too heavy a penalty for an hour so bright, though so fleeting.
“‘Which is 123?’ thought I, as I elbowed my way along the crowded quarter-deck, now asking myself could it be the thin gentleman with the two capes, or the fat lady with the three chins? But there is a prescience which never fails in the greater moments of our destiny, and this told me it was none of these. We went down to dinner, and for the first time the chair was not placed against the table, but so as to permit a person to be seated on it.
“‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said the steward to me, ‘could you move a little this way? 123 is coming in to dinner, and she would like to have the air of the doorway.’
“‘She would,’ thought I; ‘oh, so this is a she, at all events;’ and scarce was the reflection made, when the rustle of a silk dress was heard brushing my chair. I turned, and what do you think, Mr. Tramp? – shall I endeavor to describe my emotions to you?”
This was said in a tone so completely questioning that I saw Mr. Yellowley waited for my answer.
“I am afraid, sir,” said I, looking at my watch, “if the emotions you speak of will occupy much time, we had better skip them, for it only wants a quarter to twelve.”
“We will omit them, then, Mr. Tramp; for, as you justly observe, they would require both time and space. Well, sir, to be brief, 123 was the angel of the railroad.”
“The lady you met at – ”
“Yes, sir, if you prefer to call her the lady; for I shall persist in my previous designation. Oh, Mr. Tramp, that was the great moment of my life. You may have remarked that we pass from era to era of our existence, as though it were from one chamber to another. The gay, the sparkling, and the brilliant succeed to the dark and gloomy apartment, scarce illumined by a ray of hope, and we move on in our life’s journey, with new objects suggesting new actions, and the actions engendering new frames of thought, and we think ourselves wiser as our vicissitudes grow thicker; but I must not continue this theme. To me, this moment was the greatest transition of my life. Here was the ideal before me, which neither art had pictured, nor genius described, – the loveliest creature I ever beheld. She turned round on taking her place, and with a slight gesture of surprise recognized me at once as her former fellow-traveller. I have had proud moments in my life, Mr. Tramp. I shall never forget how the Commander of the Forces at Boulahcush said to me in full audience, in the presence of all the officials, —
“‘Yellowley, this is devilish hot, – hotter than we have it in Europe.’
“But here was a prouder moment still: that little graceful movement of recognition, that smile so transient as to be scarce detected, sent a thrill of happiness all through me. In former days, by doughty deeds and hazardous exploits men won their way to women’s hearts; our services in the present time have the advantage of being less hazardous; little attentions of the table, passing the salt, calling for the pepper, lifting a napkin, and inviting to wine, are the substitutes for mutilating giants and spitting dragons. I can’t say but I think the exchange is with the difference.
“The first day passed over with scarce the interchange of a word between us. She arose almost immediately after dinner, and did not make her appearance during the remainder of the evening. The following morning she took her place at the breakfast-table, and to my inexpressible delight, as the weather still remained calm, ascended to the quarterdeck when the meal was over. The smile with which she met me now had assumed the token of acquaintance, and a very little address was necessary, on my part, to enable me to join her as she walked, and engage her in conversation. The fact of being so young and so perfectly alone – for except her French maid, she did not appear to know a single person on board – perhaps appeared to demand some explanation on her part, even to a perfect stranger like myself; for, after some passing observations on the scenery of the coast and the beauty of the weather, she told me that she looked forward with much hope to the benefit her health might derive from a warmer air and less trying climate than that of England.
“‘I already feel benefited by the sweet South,’ said she; and there was a smile of gratitude on her lip, as she spoke the words. Some little farther explanation she may have deemed necessary; for she took the occasion soon after to remark that her only brother would have been delighted with the voyage, if he could have obtained leave of absence from his regiment; but, unfortunately, he was in ‘the Blues,’ quartered at Windsor, and could not be spared.
“‘Poor dear creature!’ said I; ‘and so she has been obliged to travel thus alone, reared doubtless within the precincts of some happy home, from which the world, with its petty snares and selfishness, were excluded, surrounded by all the appliances of luxury, and the elegances that embellish existence – and now, to venture thus upon a journey without a friend, or even a companion.’
“There could scarcely be a more touching incident than to see one like her, so beautiful and so young, in the midst of that busy little world of soldiers and sailors and merchants, travellers to the uttermost bounds of the earth, and wearied spirits seeking for change wherever it might be found. Had I not myself been alone, a very ‘waif’ upon the shores of life, I should have felt attracted by the interest of her isolation; now there was a sympathy to attach us, – there was that similarity of position – that idem nolle, et idem velle– which, we are told, constitutes true friendship. She seemed to arrive at this conclusion exactly as I did myself, and received with the most captivating frankness all the little attentions it was in my power to bestow; and in fact to regard me, in some sort, as her companion. Thus, we walked the deck each morning it was fine, or, if stormy, played at chess or piquet in the cabin. Sometimes she worked while I read aloud for her; and such a treat as it was to hear her criticisms on the volume before us, – how just and true her appreciation of sound and correct principles, – how skilful the distinctions she would make between the false glitter of tinsel sentiment and the dull gold of real and sterling morality! Her mind, naturally a gifted one, had received every aid education could bestow. French and Italian literature were as familiar to her as was English, while in mere accomplishments she far excelled those who habitually make such acquirements the grand business of early life.
“You are, I presume, a man of the world, Mr. Tramp. You may, perhaps, deem it strange that several days rolled over before I ever even thought of inquiring her name; but such was the case. It no more entered into my conception to ask after it, than I should have dreamed of what might be the botanical designation of some lovely flower by whose beauty and fragrance I was captivated. Enough for me that the bright petals were tipped with azure and gold, and the fair stem was graceful in its slender elegance. I cared not where Jussieu might have arranged or Linnaeus classed it. But a chance revealed the matter even before it had occurred to me to think of it. A volume of Shelley’s poems contained on the titlepage, written in a hand of singular delicacy, the words, ‘Lady Blanche D’Esmonde.’ Whether the noble family she belonged to were English, Irish, or Scotch, I could not even guess. It were as well, Mr. Tramp, that I could not do so. I should only have felt a more unwarrantable attachment for that portion of the empire she came from. Yes, sir, I loved her. I loved her with an ardor that the Yellowleys have been remarkable for, during three hundred and eighty years. It was my ancestor, Mr. Tramp, – Paul Yellowley, – who was put in the stocks at Charing Cross, for persecuting a maid of honor at Elizabeth’s court. That haughty Queen and cold-hearted woman had the base inscription written above his head, ‘The penaltie of a low scullion who lifteth his eyes too loftilie.’
“To proceed. When we reached Gibraltar, Lady Blanche and I visited the rocks, and went over the bomb-proofs and the casemates together, – far more dangerous places those little cells and dark passages to a man like me, than ever they could become in the hottest fury of a siege. She took such an interest in everything. There was not a mortar nor a piece of ordnance she could afford to miss; and she would peep out from the embrasures, and look down upon the harbor and the bay, with a fearlessness that left me puzzled to think whether I were more terrified by her intrepidity or charmed by the beauty of her instep. Again we went to sea; but how I trembled at each sight of land, lest she should leave the ship forever! At last, Malta came in view; and the same evening the boats were lowered, for all had a desire to go ashore. Of course Lady Blanche was most anxious; her health had latterly improved greatly, and she was able to incur considerable fatigue, without feeling the worse afterwards.
“It was a calm, mellow evening, with an already risen moon, as we landed to wander about the narrow streets and bastioned dwellings of old Valletta. She took my arm, and, followed by Mademoiselle Virginie, we went on exploring every strange and curious spot before us, and calling up before our mind’s eye the ancient glories of the place. I was rather strong in all these sort of things, Mr. Tramp; for in expectation of this little visit, I made myself up about the Knights of St. John and the Moslems, Fort St Elmo, Civita Vecchia, rocks, catacombs, prickly pears, and all. In fact, I was primed with the whole catalogue, which, written down in short memoranda, forms Chap. I. in a modern tour-book of the Mediterranean. The season was so genial, and the moon so bright, that we lingered till past midnight, and then returned to the ship the last of all the visitors. That was indeed a night, as, flickered by the column of silver light, we swept over the calm sea. Lady Blanche, wrapped in my large boat-cloak, her pale features statue-like in their unmoved beauty, sat in the stern; I sat at her side. Neither spoke a word. What her thoughts might have been I cannot guess; but the little French maid looked at me from time to time with an expression of diabolical intelligence I cannot forget; and as I handed her mistress up the gangway, Virginie said in a whisper, —
“‘Ah, Monsieur Yellowley, vous êtes un homme dangereux!’
“Would you believe it, Mr. Tramp, that little phrase filled every chamber of my heart with hope; there could be but one interpretation of it, and what a meaning had that, – dangerous to the peace of mind, to the heart’s happiness of her I actually adored! I lay down in my berth and tried to sleep; but the nearest approach of slumber was a dreamy condition, in which the words vous êtes un homme dangereux kept ever ringing. I thought I saw Lady Blanche dressed in white, with a veil covering her, a chaplet of orange flowers on her brow, and weeping as though inconsolably; and there was a grim, mischievous little face that nodded at me with a menacing expression, as though to say, ‘This is your work, Simon Yellowley;’ and then I saw her lay aside the veil and encircle herself with a sad-colored garment, while her tears fell even faster than before; and then the little vixen from the window exclaimed, ‘Here’s more of it, Simon Yellowley.’ Lord, how I reproached myself, – I saw I was bringing her to the grave; yes, sir, there is no concealing it. I felt she loved me. I arose and put on my dressing-gown; my mind was made up. I slipped noiselessly up the cabin-stairs, and with much difficulty made my way to that part of the ship inhabited by the servants. I will not recount here the insolent allusions I encountered, nor the rude jests and jibes of the sailors when I asked for Mademoiselle Virginie; nor was it without trouble and considerable delay that I succeeded in obtaining an interview with her.
“‘Mademoiselle,’ said I, ‘I know the levity of your nation; no man is more conscious than I of – of the frailty of your moral principles. Don’t be angry, but hear me out. You said a few minutes ago that I was a “dangerous man;” tell me now, sincerely, truthfully, and candidly,’ – here I put rather a heavy purse into her hands, – ‘the exact meaning you attached to these words.’
“‘Ah, Monsieur,’ said she, with a stage shudder, ‘je suis une pauvre fille, ne me perdez pas.’
“I looked at the little wizened devil, and never felt stronger in my virtue.
“‘Don’t be afraid, Virginie, I’m an archbishop in principles; but I thought that when you said these words they bore an allusion to another – ’
“‘Ah! c’est ça,’ said she, with perfect naïveté, – ‘so you are, a dangerous man, a very dangerous man; so much so, indeed, that I shall use all my influence to persuade one, of whom you are aware, to escape as quickly as may be from the hazard of your fascinating society.’
“I repeat these words, Mr. Tramp, which may appear to you now too flattering; but the French language, in which Virginie spoke, permits expressions even stronger than these, as mere conventionalities.
“‘Don’t do it,’ said I, ‘don’t do it, Virginie.’
“‘I must, and I will,’ reiterated she; ‘there’s such a change in my poor dear Lady Blanche since she met you; I never knew her give way to fits of laughing before, – she’s so capricious and whimsical, – she was an angel formerly.’
“‘She is an angel still,’ said I, with a frown, for I would not suffer so much of aspersion against her.
“‘Sans doute,’ chimed in Virginie, with a shrug of her shoulders, ‘we are all angels, after a fashion;’ and I endeavored to smile a concurrence with this sentiment, in which I only half assented.
“By wonderful skill and cross-questioning, I at last obtained the following information: Lady Blanche was on a voyage of health, intending to visit the remarkable places in the Mediterranean, and then winter at some chosen spot upon its shores. Why she journeyed thus unprotected, was a secret there was no fathoming by indirect inquiry, and any other would have been an act of indelicacy.
“‘We will pass the winter at Naples, or Palermo, or Jerusalem, or some other watering-place,’ said Virginie, for her geography was, after all, only a lady’s-maid’s accomplishment.
“‘You must persuade her to visit Egypt, Virginie,’ said I, – ‘Egypt, Virginie, – the land of the Pyramids. Induce her to do this, and to behold the wonders of the strangest country in the universe. Even now,’ said I, ‘Arab life – ’
“‘Ah, oui. I have seen the Arabs at the Vaudeville; they have magnificent beards.’
“‘The handsomest men in the world.’
“‘Pas mal,’ said she, with a sententious nod there’s no converting into words.
“‘Well, Virginie, think of Cairo, think of Bagdad. You have read the Arabian Nights – have n’t you?’
“‘Yes,’ said she, with a yawn, ‘they are passées; now, what would you have us do in this droll old place?’
“‘I would have you to visit Mehemet Ali, and be received at his court!’ – for I saw at once the class of fascination she would yield to. ‘Drink sherbet, eat sweetmeats, receive presents, magnificent presents, cashmeres, diamond bracelets. Ah! think of that.’
“‘Ah! there is something in what you say,’ said she, after a pause; ‘but we have not come prepared for such an expensive journey. I am purse-bearer, for Lady Blanche knows nothing about expense, and we shall not receive remittances until we settle somewhere for the winter.’
“These words made my heart leap; in five minutes more I explained to Virginie that I was provided with a free transit through the East, in which, by her aid, her mistress might participate, without ever knowing it. ‘You have only to pretend, Virginie, that Egypt is so cheap; tell her a camel only costs a penny a league, and that one is actually paid for crossing the Great Desert; you can hint that old Mehemet wants to bring the thing into fashion, and that he would give his beard to see English ladies travelling that route.’
“‘I knew it well,’ said Virginie, with a malicious smile, – ‘I knew it well; you are “a dangerous man.”’
“All the obstacles and impediments she could suggest, I answered with much skill and address, not unaided, I own, by certain potent persuasives, in the shape of bank paper, – she was a most mercenary little devil; and as day was breaking, Virginie had fully agreed in all my plans, and determined that her mistress should go beyond ‘the second cataract,’ if I wished it. I need not say that she fully understood my motives; she was a Frenchwoman, Mr. Tramp; the Russian loves train oil, the Yankee prefers whittling, but a Frenchwoman, without an intrigue of her own, or some one’s else, on hand, is the most miserable object in existence.
“‘I see where it all will end,’ cried she, as I turned to leave her; ‘I see it already. Before six weeks are over, you will not ask my aid to influence my mistress.’
“‘Do you think so, Virginie?’ said I, grasping at the suggestion.
“‘Of course I do,’ said she, with a look of undisguised truth; ‘ah, que vous êtes un homme dangereux!’
“It is a strange thing, Mr. Tramp, but I felt that title a prouder one than if I had been called the Governor of Bombay. Varied and numerous as the incidents of my life had been, I never knew till then that I was a dangerous man; nor, indeed, do I believe that, in the previous constitution of my mind, I should have relished the epithet; but I hugged it now as the symbol of my happiness. The whole of the following day was spent by me in company with Lady Blanche. I expatiated on the glories of the East, and discussed everybody who had been there, from Abraham down to Abercromby. What a multiplicity of learning, sacred and profane, did I not pour forth, – I perfectly astounded her with the extent of my information, for, as I told you before, I was strong on Egypt, filling up every interstice with a quotation from Byron, or a bit of Lalla Rookh, or a stray verse from the Palm Leaves, which I invariably introduced as a little thing of my own; then I quoted Herodotus, Denon, and Lamartine, without end – till before the dinner was served, I had given her such a journey in mere description, that she said with a sigh, —
“‘Really, Mr. Yellowley, you have been so eloquent that I actually feel as much fatigued as if I had spent a day on a camel.’
“I gave her a grateful look, Mr. Tramp, and she smiled in return; from that hour, sir, we understood each other. I pursued my Egyptian studies nearly the entire of that night, and the next day came on deck, with four chapters of Irby and Mangles off by heart. My head swam round with ideas of things Oriental, – patriarchs and pyramids, Turks, dragomans, catacombs, and crocodiles, danced an infernal quadrille in my excited brain, and I convulsed the whole cabin at breakfast, by replying to the captain’s offer of some tea, with a profound salaam, and an exclamation of ‘Bish millah, allah il allah.’
“‘You have infatuated me with your love of the East, Mr. Yellowley,’ said Lady Blanche, one morning, as she met me. ‘I have been thinking over poor Princess Shezarade and Noureddin, and the little tailor of Bagdad, and the wicked Cadi, and all the rest of them.’
“‘Have I,’ cried I, joyfully; ‘have I indeed!’
“‘I feel I must see the Pyramids,’ said she. ‘I cannot resist an impulse on which my thoughts are concentrated, and yours be all the blame of this wilful exploit.’
“’ Yes,’ said I.
“’ T is hard at some appointed place
To check your course and turn your prow,
And objects for themselves retrace
You past with added hope just now.’
“‘Yours,’ said she, smilingly.
“‘A poor thing,’ said I, ‘I did for one of the Keepsakes.’
“Ah, Mr. Tramp, it is very hard to distinguish one’s own little verse from the minor poets. All my life I have been under the delusion that I wrote ‘O’Connor’s Child,’ and the ‘Battle of the Baltic;’ and, now I think of it, those lines are Monckton Milnes’s.
“We reached Alexandria a few days after, and at once joined the great concourse of passengers bound for the East.
“I perceive you are looking at your watch, Mr. Tramp.”
“I must indeed ask your pardon. I sail for Calais at the next ebb.”
“I shall not be tedious now, sir. We began ‘the overland,’ – the angel travelling as Lady Blanche Yellowley, to avoid any possible inquiry or impertinence from the official people. This was arranged between Virginie and myself, without her knowledge. Then, indeed, began my Arabian nights. Ah, Mr. Tramp, you never can know the happiness enjoyed by him who, travelling for fourteen long hours over the hot sand, and beneath the scorching sun of the desert, comes at last to stretch his wearied limbs upon his carpet at evening, and gazes on celestial beauty as he sips his mocha. Mahomet had a strong case, depend upon it, when he furnished his paradise with a houri and a hubble-bubble; and such nights were these, as we sat and chatted over the once glories of that great land, while in the lone khan of the desert would be heard the silvery sounds of a fair woman’s voice, as she sung some little barcarole, or light Venetian canzonette. Ah, Mr. Tramp, do you wonder if I loved – do you wonder if I confessed my love? I did both, sir, – ay, sir, both.