there, the right and the triumph were to- | he thought, "not only particularly longs gether. Mr. Fisher liked Walter Hib- to go by your route, but thinks you a bert; and though by tacit agreement their genius for finding it out." relations inside the office were purely formal, outside they were more intimate. Occasionally they took the form of a quiet dinner, or a few hours in the little house near Portland Road, where Florence contributed a good deal to her husband's popularity. As he walked along the Strand that morning, Walter meditated on many ways of improving his condition and at the same time of not overworking himself. He found that it told on him considerably to be down late at the office three nights a week, doing his article, and then, with the excitement of work still upon him, to go home tired and hungry in the small hours of the morning. It was bad for Florence too, for she generally sat up for him, declaring that to taste his supper and to have a little chat with him did her good and made her heart light. Sometimes he thought he would take up a different line altogether (he knew his editor would aid and abet him in anything for his good) and try living in the country, and running up to town every day if necessary. But this would never do, it would only make him restive. His position was not yet strong enough to admit of taking things so easily. It was important to him to live among men of knowledge and influence, to be in the whirl and twirl of things, and London was essentially the bull's-eye, not only of wealth and commerce, but of most other things with which men of all degrees concern themselves. He stopped for a moment to look at a bookshop; there was a box of second-hand books outside; he hesitated, but remembered that he had no time to stay. As he turned away some one touched him on the arm, and a voice said doubtfully:: "Will you speak to me, Walter?" He looked up and instantly held out his hand with a smile. "Why, it's Wimple," he said; "how are you, old fellow? Of course I'll speak to you. How are you?" The man who had stopped him was about eight-and-twenty, he was tall and thin, his legs were too long and very rickety. To look at he was not prepossessing; he had a pinky complexion, pale reddish hair, and small, round, dark eyes with light lashes and weak lids. On either side of his face there were some straggling whiskers; his lips were thin and his whole expression very grave. His voice was low but firm in its tone, as though he wished to convey that even in small matters it would be useless to contradict him. He wore rather shabby, dark clothes, his thin overcoat was unbuttoned and showed that the undercoat was faced with watered silk that had worn a little shiny; attached to his waistcoat was a watchguard made of brown hair ornamented here and there with bright gold clasps. He did not look strong or very flourishing. He was fairly gentleman-like, but only fairly so, and he did not look very agreeable. The apparent weakness of his legs seemed to preAnd when he got to this point he came vent him from walking uprightly; he to the conclusion that he was thinking too looked down a good deal at the toes of his much about himself. After all he only boots, which were well polished. The wanted a month's rest or a couple of oddest thing about him was that with all months' change of air; a friendly talk such his unprepossessing appearance he had a as he might possibly get in the next quar- certain air of sentiment; occasionally a ter of an hour would probably bring about sentimental tone stole into his voice, but either and in a far better form than he he carefully repressed it. Walter rememhimself could devise it. Mr. Fisher was bered the moment he looked at him that a man of infinite resource, not merely in the brown hair watchguard had been the regard to his paper, but for himself and gift of a pretty girl, the daughter of a his friends too, when they consulted him tailor to whom he had made love as if in about their personal affairs. It was one compensation for not paying her father's of his characteristics that he liked being bill. He wondered how it had ended, consulted. Walter felt that the best thing whether the girl had broken her heart for would be to get away alone with Florence, him or found him out. But the next moto some place where the climate had no ment he hated himself for his ungenerous cause to be ashamed of itself; he wanted thoughts, and forcing them back spoke in to be sated with sunshine. It was no good as friendly a voice as he could manage. going alone, and no matter how pleasant a "It's ages since we came across each friend went with him, a time always came other," he said, "and I should not have when he wanted to go by one route and seen you just now if you had not seen the friend by another. "Now, your wife," | me.' "I wasn't sure whether you would speak to me," Mr. Wimple said solemnly as they went towards Fleet Street together, and then almost hurriedly, as if to avoid thinking about unpleasant things, he asked, "How is your wife?" "All right, thank you. But how are you, and how are you getting on?" "I am not at all well, Walter "- Mr. Wimple coughed, as if to show that he was delicate" and my uncle has be haved shamefully to me.' 66 Why, what has he done?" Walter asked, wishing that he felt more cordial, for he had known Alfred Wimple longer almost than he had known any one. Old acquaintance was not to be lightly put aside. It constituted a claim in Walter's eyes as strong as did relationship, though it was only when the claim was made on him, and never when he might have pressed it for his own advantage, that he remembered this. an refuse, and it's a beggarly sum, after all." To which Walter answered nothing. He had always felt angry with himself for not liking Alfred better; they were such very old friends. They had been schoolfellows long ago, and afterwards, when Walter was at Cambridge and Alfred was articled clerk in London (he was by three years the younger of the two), there had been occasions when they had met and spent many pleasant hours together. To do Walter justice, it had always been Alfred who had sought him and not he who had sought Alfred, for in spite of the latter's much professed affection Walter never wholly trusted him; he hated himself for it, but the fact remained. "The worst of Alfred is, that he lies," he had said to himself long ago. He remembered his own remark to-day with a certain amount of reproach, but he knew that he had not been unjust; still, after all, he thought it was not so very great a crime; many people lied nowadays, sometimes without being aware of it. He was in "Done! why, he has turned me out of his office, just because he wanted to make room for the son of a rich client, for noth-clined to think that he had been rather ing else in the world." "That was rough," Walter answered, thinking almost against his will that Wimple had never been very accurate and that this account was possibly not a fair one. "What excuse did he make?" "He said my health was bad, that I was not strong enough to do the work, and had better take a few months' holiday. It is quite true about my health. I am very delicate, Walter." He turned, and looked at his friend with round, dark eyes that seemed to have no pupils to them, as though he wanted to see the effect of his statement. "I must take a few months' rest." "Then perhaps he was right after all. But can you manage the few months' rest?" Walter asked, hesitating, for he knew the question was expected from him. In old days he had had so much to do with Wimple's affairs that he did not like to ignore them altogether. "He makes me an allowance, of course, but it's not sufficient," Alfred Wimple answered reluctantly; "I wanted him to keep my post open for a few months, but he refused, though he's the only relation I have." "Well, but he has been pretty good," Walter said, in a pacific voice, “and perhaps he thinks you really want rest. It's not bad of him to make you an allowance. It's more than any one would do for me if I had to give up work for a bit." "He only does it because he can't well hard on Alfred, who had been very constant to him. Besides, Wimple had been unlucky; he had been left a penniless lad to the care of an uncle, a rich city solicitor, who had not appreciated the charge; he had never had a soul who cared for him, and must have been very miserable and lonely at times. If he had had a mother or sister, or any one at all to look after him, he might have been different. Then too Walter remembered that once when he was very ill in the vacation it was Alfred who had turned up and nursed him with almost a woman's anxiety. A kindness like that made a link too strong for a few disagreeables to break. He could not help thinking that he was a brute not to like his old friend better. I am sorry things are so bad with you, old man; you must come and dine and talk them over." Mr. Wimple looked him earnestly in the face. "I don't like to come," he said, in a half-ashamed, half-pathetic voice; "I behaved so badly to you about that thirty pounds, but luck was against me." "Never mind, you shall make it all right when luck is with you," Walter answered cheerfully, determined to forget all unpleasant bygones. "Why not come tonight? we shall be alone." Mr. Wimple shook his head. "No, not to-night," he said; "I am not well, and I am going down to the country till Wednesday; it will do me good." A little smile hovered round his mouth as he added, "Some nice people in Hampshire have asked me to stay with them." would come on Thursday instead of on Wednesday. I expect an old friend and should like you to meet him; he is clever and rather off luck just now; of course you'll get your chat with my wife all right Mr.in fact better if there are one or two people to engross me." "In Hampshire. Whereabouts in Hampshire?" There was a certain hesitation in Wimple's manner as he answered: "You don't know them, and I don't suppose you ever heard of the place, Walter; it is called Liphook." "Liphook, why of course I know it, it is on the Portsmouth line; we have a cottage, left us by my wife's aunt only last year, which is in the same direction, only nearer town. How long are you going to stay there? Till Wednesday. I will come and dine with you on Thursday, if you will have me." "All right, old man, 7.30. Perhaps you had better tell me where to write in case I have to put you off for business reasons." Mr. Wimple hesitated a minute, and then gave his London address, adding that he should be back on Wednesday night or Thursday morning at latest. They were standing by the newspaper office. "Do you think there might be anything I could do here?" he asked, nodding at the poster outside the door; "I might review legal books or something of that sort." "Very well, Thursday if you like; it will do equally well for me; I am free both evenings as far as I know." "Agreed then," and Walter went down the office stairs pleased at his own success. "That horrid Mr. Wimple will spoil our dinner; I never liked him," Florence exclaimed when she heard of the arrangement. 66 "I know you didn't, and I don't like him either, which is mean of me, for he's a very old friend." "But if we neither of us like him, why should we inflict him on our lives?" "We won't; we'll cut him as soon as he has five hundred a year; but it wouldn't be fair to do so just now when he's down on his luck; he and I have been friends too long for that." "But not very great friends?” "Perhaps not; but we won't throw him over in bad weather-try and be a little nice to him to please me, there's a dear Floggie," which instantly carried the day. "You had better ask Ethel Dunlop; Fisher is fond of music, and she will amuse him "when he is tired of flirting with you," Walter suggested. "I expect Fisher has a dozen men ready for anything at a moment's notice,' Walter answered, "but I'll put in a word for you if I get the chance;" and with a certain feeling of relief he shook his friend's hand and rushed up-stairs. The atmosphere seemed a little clearer when he was alone. "I'll do what I can for him," he thought, "but I can't stand much of his company. There is a want of fresh air about him that bothers me so. Perhaps he could do a legal book occasionally, he used to write rather well. I'll try what can be done." But his talk with Mr. Fisher was so important to himself and so interesting in many ways that he forgot all about Alfred until he was going out of the door; and then it was too late to speak about him. Suddenly a happy thought struck him Mr. Fisher was to dine with Walter next week, he would ask him for Thursday. Then if he liked Alfred it might go all right. He remembered, too, that Alfred always dressed carefully and looked his best in the evening and laid himself out to be agreeable. "By the way, Fisher, I wonder if you "He'll never tire of that," she laughed, "but I'll invite her if you like. She can sing while you talk to Mr. Wimple and your editor discusses European politics with me." "He'll probably discuss politics outside Europe, if he discusses any," her husband answered; "things look very queer in the East." "They always do," she said wisely, "but I believe it's all nonsense, and only our idea because we live so far off." "You had better tell Fisher to send me out to see." "Us, you mean." "No, me. They wouldn't stand you, dear," and he looked at her anxiously; "I shouldn't be much surprised if he asked me to go for a bit- indeed, I think he has an idea of it." "Oh, Walter, it would be horrible." "Not if it did me good; sometimes I think I need a thorough change." She looked at him for a moment. "No, not then," she answered. From Blackwood's Magazine. SKETCHES FROM EASTERN TRAVEL. XIII. every stone, every lizard, every every. thing!" "He is a very uncanny personage !" exclaims Philippa-"never speaking a THE SYRIAN DESERT, FROM DAMASCUS word, but every now and then suddenly TO KARYATEN. breaking into a hoarse, quiet, cackling laugh, for no reason whatever." IT is the first of May. Behold our travellers bidding a last farewell to Damascus, "He is evidently not used to Euro. with its shady gardens and cool, clear peans," says the sister. "I suppose he streams of water, its crowded bazaars (re-is greatly amused at our outlandish ways." splendent with rich silken stuffs of all the colors of the rainbow, and more especially stocked to overflowing with an endless variety of delectable sweetmeats), and lastly its pale-faced inhabitants, richly robed, but sad of countenance through this moon of Ramadan, fasting from dawn to sunset, and feasting by night. Behold the familiar cavalcade threading its way through those same bazaars -narrow streets which scarcely allow room for the riders to pass between the " "shops on each side, so that the horses have to pick their way among the goods set out for sale. Quietly and swiftly the bright hours slip away. The chief event of the day is that, at different points on the line of march, the cavalcade encounters three huge droves of camels, the smallest of which contains sixty at least. They are in the charge of a few Bedouin folk who have brought them across the desert from Bagdad, intending to sell them in Damascus. Many of the camels are quite young, and most of them seem very wild — at least so thinks the trembling Sebaste when they crowd up to her, showing their teeth, and craning forward their ostrich-like necks as though debating whether to peck first herself or her beloved steed. The plain is crossed in a north-easterly direction, the travellers ascend the slopes of its bounding chain of hills, and, in the afternoon, descend the other side to the plain beyond, where they camp outside the village of Muadameyeh. Gathered round the supper-table in the sitting-tent after dark, the wanderers indulge in wild conjectures about the unknown regions on which they are entering. "What is the name of our next camping-place, Cæsar?" asks the father, as the young dragoman appears with a dish of dried dates. "To-morrow, sir," is the answer, "we shall not gamb at no blace. We shall be in the wilderness." At last the city is left behind, and through its belt of shady gardens the procession winds on to the open plain beyond. The travellers present a more picturesque appearance than hitherto, for (rightly judging that no amount of muslin puggarees will avail against the power of desert suns) they have provided themselves with huge kefiyehs of gorgeous Damascus silks, which, bound round their hats, shade the eyes, and fall over the shoulders in protecting folds. The cavalcade is now headed by the stately figure of Sheikh Nasr ibn Abdullah, his dark eyes sparkling as he feels his steed bound beneath him, and scents afar off the air of the desert. Truly it is a goodly sight to see the dark-robed sheikh galloping across the plain, sometimes (with one hand on his horse's mane) Accordingly, in the course of next day's bending to the ground, and, without draw-march our travellers find themselves at ing rein, picking some flower which he last in the Syrian desert. It is a perfectly gravely presents to one or other of the level plain, bounded to north and south ladies. And whithersoever goes the son by two ranges of bare hills. At first the of Abdullah thither follows him Sheikh breadth of the plain from range to range 'Ali, his cousin and attendant. Pronounce is only a very few miles, but day by day, not his name, good reader, without due as the travellers advance eastward, the attention to the apostrophe. It symbol- plain grows broader and broader, an ocean izes an Arabic consonant which the sister of bluish green. Yes, really green, for explains to represent the sound heard be. (though at a later season the sandy ground tween two consecutive bleats of a camel. is parched and bare) at this time of year "So now you know how to pronounce his it is more or less covered with tufts of name," says she; "but for my part I shall outlandish desert weeds with strange arocall him the Man with the Eyes. His matic scents, and sometimes the plain is face is so muffled up that nothing but his gay with wild flowers. Otherwise there eyes is visible, and such quick, penetrat- is no vegetation whatever - not so much ing, observant eyes I never beheld in my as the ghost of a tree or shrub over all life. He notices every blade of grass, the level plain, which stretches away and as she brings her horse alongside of her sister's, "when we get home, I think I shall publish a pamphlet entitled 'The World, a Mirage,' proving that what we call the Universe- that is, the subjective side of material nature—is as different from the objective reality as is that lake we saw just now from the quivering par ticles of heated air which caused the delusion!" away to right and left toward the rocky hills, and eastward is unbroken to the utmost horizon. Oh, the delight of a gal lop over those level tracts of desert! Ladylike canterings do very well for the confined plains of inhabited countries, but when you have hundreds of miles of desert before you, then is the time to let your horse start off with a bound and rush like the wind over the vanishing plain, away and away toward the changeless horizon. Only Abu Hassan (wretch that he is!) has a notion that horses with eight hours' 'Sophia!" exclaims Sebaste reproachwork before them ought not to gallop fully, "have you no sympathy for the exmuch in the broiling sunshine and Ca-alted imaginings of philosophic minds? sar countenances him! The morning start from the desert camp is generally an early one. Sometimes breakfast is over, the tents and their furniture have been packed up, and the cavalcade is on the move before six o'clock. This ensures three hours of reasonably cool riding. Wonderful are the tender colors of the shadowy distance, gleaming in the first rays of the sun. All around the desert creatures are stirring: bright-eyed jerboas, furry and soft and brown, dart out of their holes to look at you; terrified lizards with upturned tails scurry hither and thither between your horse's hoofs; huge yellow locusts flit and swim through the clear, fresh air; a lark is singing over head; even that venomous old snake (the which approach at your peril!) is enjoying his morning exercise of twisting and coiling and gliding about the tufts of desert weed. On ride the travellers, gaily conversing through the early hours of coolness. But about nine o'clock the heat comes upon them suddenly, irresistibly. The morning breeze drops to a perfect stillness, there is no sound but that of the horses' hoofs on the hot ground, conversation dies away, and the riders go on and on in silence, their heads muffled in their silk kefiyehs, -not oppressed by the heat, but quietly enjoying the glowing atmosphere. Then do the desert fairies begin their freaks; and, as you ride on over the endless plain, suddenly you see before you a cool, still lake of shining water, dotted with islands, and reflecting its rocky shores and headlands. It is all so perfectly clear and natural that your eyes, dazzled by the hot sunshine, rest with delight on the cool, clear water. But presently, alas! the lake begins to dry up, contracting at every forward step, till all before you is once more desert-unending desert. "Sophia," says Sebaste confidentially, "Eh?" says Sophia absently; "did you speak?" 66 Philippa, dear, you will listen to me?" "Not if it's about Subjective and Objective, as it always is, Sebaste!" says Philippa severely. "I have told you be fore that I consider that division to be merely a conventional way of speaking, conveying, to my mind, very little meaning indeed!" Sebaste subsides. When midday comes the travellers no longer look about for shade, knowing that that commodity does not grow in the desert, but alight in the midst of the endless plain, holding fast their horses while the Syrian folk are busy pitching the now indispensable luncheon-tent. Then, when the Syrians are at liberty, the travellers creep under its delicious shade, and contentedly watch the preparations for the midday meal. Cæsar delicately carves the fowl in true Arab fashion (be not overshocked, fastidious reader!) with "the knife and fork that heaven gave him;" and from out the magic saddle-bags of Abu Hassan appear lemons, oranges, dates, dried figs, raisins, and so forth-a sumptuous feast in the midst of the desert. Luncheon over, while the baggage passes out of sight on its way to the camping-place, there ensues a delicious hour or more of quiescence. Space is limited in the tent, wherefore Irene and the father generally retire to their respective palanquins, where Irene studies the guidebook with indefatigable diligence (though scanty, indeed, is the intelligence to be extracted therefrom concerning these outlandish regions); while the father instructs Hassan, who reclines on the ground on the shady side of his palanquin, in the English cardinal numerals. The father is never weary of extolling the marvellous quickness of his young Arab pupil, who at the beginning of the journey knew not one word of English, but who now, starting at one, goes on almost unprompted all |
