Kitabı oku: «The Broken Thread», sayfa 8
Chapter Fifteen
Raife’s Resolve
On the day succeeding Raife’s night excursion, having refreshed himself by a little sleep, that had come readily after the night’s adventure, and those aids that come to a rich man in rooms in St. James’s, he was planning a day’s pleasure-hunting with Gilda. He was writing a note, making an appointment, when his man, Pulman, entered and announced a visitor. “Mr Herrion wishes to see you, sir.”
“Ask him in, Pulman, I’ll see him at once,” said Raife.
Inspector Herrion entered, immaculately clad, as usual, but without the drawl in his speech which he used principally at society functions, and when he felt it would serve him in his work.
“Good morning, Herrion,” said Raife, cheerily, and with extended hand. “What were we chasing that fellow last night for? I got so keen on the hunt, I forgot to ask what it was all about.”
Herrion smiled a cryptic smile, and then said solemnly: “Sir Raife, I want to speak very seriously to you on a subject that concerns you deeply, and the rest of your family.”
“Great Scott! Herrion, what’s the meaning of this? What’s it all about? You look like an undertaker. Come, my dear fellow, what’s it all about?”
“Well, Sir Raife, I am speaking to you entirely outside my professional capacity. If you take offence, I can’t help it. I shall be very sorry, but, I repeat, I can’t help it. It is the high regard in which I hold you and your family that prompts me to speak.”
Raife laughed heartily and said: “Come, come, Herrion, you’re getting worse and worse. I shan’t take offence. Sail ahead and tell me all about it. First of all, have a drink.”
“Well, I take you at your word, but please listen to me to the end.”
Raife dispensed the drinks and Herrion proceeded:
“The man we chased last night was one of a gang of burglars. I had word they were making an attempt on Gildersley House, which contains a lot of valuable property, and there is jewellery and plate, too. I was right. Somehow, we did not succeed in catching them. When I seized you, I did not, of course, recognise you, and I thought you were one of the gang.”
Raife intervened. “I think that’s rather amusing, don’t you?”
“No, Sir Raife, I fear not. That Apache-looking fellow is practically in the employ of a certain Doctor Malsano.”
Raife started, and his expression became engrossed.
“The important part of what I want to say is,” proceeded the detective, “that, although it is merely a coincidence that you should have been in the middle of the night on the scene of an attempted burglary, I saw you, earlier in the evening, dining at the Savoy with a Miss Gilda Tempest, who is supposed to be the niece of this Doctor Malsano.”
Raife sprang from his seat and said: “Come, come, Herrion, I can’t hear a word against Miss Tempest.”
“I ask you to keep cool, Sir Raife, until I explain to you how serious is the situation. It is incredible to feel that your good name – Sir Raife Remington – should be associated with a gang of continental swindlers, of whom this lady is the decoy.”
Again Raife hotly intervened. “I must ask you, Herrion, not to drag Miss Tempest’s name into the dust.”
“It is true, I think you will agree, that my professional position entitles me to speak.”
Raife winced, but his was not the nature to give in easily. In spite of his own personal knowledge of the doctor, and of Gilda, he loved the girl dearly, and love is blind – sometimes to the point of madness.
Herrion continued: “I assure you, in confidence, that Doctor Malsano and Miss Tempest are liable to arrest at any moment. When I was in Nice, a short while ago, they had a plan for stealing the Baroness von Sassniltz’s jewels. She was staying at the Hôtel Royal, and so were they. In addition, this Apache-looking fellow, who fell in the river last night, was in their service for the purpose. He was employed as a messenger, and I had him removed. I had other work on and could not stay to protect the baroness’s jewels. I did my best in the circumstances. The doctor caught sight of me in the hotel, and he, and his niece, disappeared at once.”
This was circumstantial enough, and, but for the obstinate strain in all young lovers, would have carried conviction. Raife remained obdurate, almost defiant, but the skilled observation of the famous detective noticed that he was wavering. With great dignity and deliberation he added: “Sir Raife Remington, in your own interests, I beg of you to abandon this mad alliance. It is suicidal.”
Raife rose from his chair and walked slowly around the room. He mixed himself a whisky and soda, and drank the contents at a gulp. He crossed the room to Herrion, and, extending his hand, said:
“Herrion, you are right. I thank you heartily for your most disinterested action. I will abandon the whole accursed crew. They have blighted my life.”
The strong, stern, little man, relentless in the conviction of crime, unwavering in the performance of his duty, had saved a man’s name – a family name. A whimsical smile spread over his countenance as he left the room.
Two days later Gilda Tempest received a letter from Raife. It was brief, and to the point. It stated that it was his duty not to be associated with a man whom he was convinced was an unscrupulous criminal. He expressed regrets and bade farewell.
Gilda’s wonderful, beautiful, and yet inscrutable face did not tell how much she suffered. Doctor Malsano was furious, and showed growing signs of weakness by allowing his passion to get beyond control.
A few days after the foregoing events, Raife Remington, accompanied by Colonel Langton, was on his way to Egypt. Colonel Langton was a big-game shooter, and a club friend of some years standing. Their intention was to make for Khartoum and thence up the Blue Nile.
“The Nile-guarded city, the desert-bound city,
The city of Gordon’s doom.
The womanless city, cradleless city,
The city of men – Khartoum.”
This was to be the goal of Raife Remington who had emerged from a great crisis, the crisis of a dangerous passion for a woman. A passion for a beautiful woman – but a woman whose very presence seemed to herald trouble. The big game was to be found beyond Meshrael Zerak, and he was to forget the loss of his love, with the companionship of his friend, Colonel Langton, among the mysterious and unfathomable Arabs of the desert.
Some men are destined, by nature, to live in an atmosphere of altered plans or broken hopes. Raife Remington’s inheritance had, so far, been attended by both. Raife got to Khartoum, but he did not reach Meshrael Zerak; there were other plans for him. When he and Colonel Langton arrived at Khartoum, there remained much to be done before it was possible to get together the entire outfit necessary to a big-game shooting expedition. Colonel Langton’s experience was essential to this part of the work, and Raife took the opportunity of seeing what there is of the fantastic life of the desert city of Khartoum. In the daytime the city slumbers, and when the stars or moon rise, there is life. There are cafés in Khartoum, as well as poultry-farms, in this late land of the Mahdi and incredible horrors. Raife selected a seat at a café from which point of vantage to observe the passers-by on the broad plank walk. He called for a bottle of Greek wine, an impossible concoction, less for his consumption than as a passport or ticket for the use of the table and chair, and the enjoyment of the vantage point of observation. There were many other tables at which men sat, for be it remembered that Khartoum is “The womanless city, the cradleless city. The city of men.” They were men of many nations, from Greece, Sicily, Roumania, and nomadic Semitics from no one knows where. The British conquerors govern there, as in so much of the east and south, not by weight of numbers, but by the inherited knowledge that he is pre-eminently the sahib, the acknowledged ruler in such quarters.
There was not much of comfort in the café of Raife’s choice. The Greek wine was bad, the food he called for was worse. A couple of arc lights shed a flickering brilliance which revealed myriad insects of all sizes and shapes, and possessed of malignity in varying degree. They fell in shoals all over the place and created a sense of nausea. In spite of all this, overhead was the deep-blue vault of the unfathomable skies flecked by a million stars. The stolid, sulky silence of the dusky Arabs, in every variety of costumes, which include the turban, the tarboosh, loose, flapping drawers, and the coarse woven jibba, added to a melancholy sense. If it were possible to supplement Raife’s dejection, that was achieved by the snuffling dogs who sought garbage under chair and table, and a certain smell which belongs to much of the East.
Raife tired of the café, the plank walk, and his neighbours. He rose from the table, paid his addition and sauntered away. He was passing a narrow, evil-smelling street of the native quarter when he heard blows and cries. Raife, being unfamiliar with Oriental methods, sought a reason for the disturbance, imagining that a good row would cause a diversion and relieve the monotony of the last few hours. He proceeded down the street and discovered that there was a woman in Khartoum, and she was being beaten by a big, dusky Nubian. The woman seemed to look appealingly at Raife, and he, with all the proper, but, in the circumstances, unwise impulse of a normal man of the West, sailed in and hit that Nubian many blows with his useful fists. He should then have beaten a hasty retreat, but he did not. The result of this later indiscretion was that he received from somebody, from somewhere, a stab in the shoulder, which taught him some of the wisdom necessary in the Orient. He found his way back to his hotel, and the regimental surgeon, being sent for, treated the wound, which, though not very serious, would take a long time to heal in a place like Khartoum.
When Colonel Langton returned from purchasing water-bags, sacks, girths for camels, and many of the articles necessary for a well-equipped caravan, he discovered Raife bound up in bandages, and the regimental surgeon putting on the finishing touches to a very neat job of surgery. Having learnt the cause of things, the Colonel swore, in a characteristic fashion, at the prospect of his plans for big-game shooting being at least altered, if not indefinitely postponed.
The news of the occurrence spread, and a few of the officers called on Raife to learn about it. The story having been repeated several times, headed by Colonel Langton, the regimental surgeon and each visitor, in turn, talked interminable lectures on the folly of Raife’s action.
Raife’s pride, as well as his shoulder, was sorely hurt. He felt he had made an ass of himself, and that these fellows, with their experience, were inwardly laughing at him. He cursed the fact that, for the second time, a woman had landed him in trouble.
His days at Khartoum were very miserable. His wound would not heal and he saw that he would be a drag on the expedition if he started. He decided to return to Cairo, and try and patch himself up there.
Chapter Sixteen
The Mysterious Stab in the Dark
A few weeks after Raife’s unfortunate interference in a Nubian’s domestic affairs at Khartoum, he was reclining amid soft cushions on the piazza of Shepheard’s Hotel at Cairo.
There may be no women in Khartoum – at least, there was one, who, being in trouble herself, made trouble for Raife – but there are women at Cairo. Just what the attraction is, no one really knows. It is hot and dusty. There are flies, mosquitoes, and plenty of other irritating little things in Cairo. But Shepheard’s Hotel is generally full of visitors, and there is a predominance of gaily and richly-dressed women. They come from all countries and speak many languages. The language that one hears more than any is that of the United States of America. Americans do not, individually, stay longer, but there are more of them, therefore the supply is greater. Further, the American woman is a good talker; that is, she talks quickly and talks quite a good deal. There are several of them who talk very well.
Exclusiveness used to be the prerogative of the English to a greater extent than most other countries. As the English are becoming less exclusive, so American women are cultivating the habit. The new generation of American women have cultivated, almost inherited, a score or more of little habits, mannerisms – perhaps affectations, which are quite charming to the impressionable young English person. There is a certain gaucherie about the English which, in turn, retains a charm for the American woman. They would openly hate one another if it were not for these peculiarities, which make the one interesting to the other.
The limelight of publicity has always been turned on to the American boy and girl from infancy. For that reason they have never suffered from shyness. Until recently there has been an excess of privacy in the lives of the English of most ages. That has been altered, and now there are English girls who can rock a chair level with any girl from Kentucky to California.
Of course, the voice question had almost as much vogue as the colour question. That, in turn, has been altered. There are as many soft contraltos, or, at least, mezzo-sopranos coming from the United States as from England nowadays. Altogether, there is less need for antagonism and more need for good fellowship between the United States and Great Britain, than at any period since “The Great Misunderstanding” of a hundred years ago. This helps to explain the circumstances of the very rapid friendship that had sprung up between Sir Raife Remington, Bart., of Aldborough Park, and Miss Hilda Muirhead, the daughter of Reginald Pomeroy Muirhead, Esq., President of the Fifth State Bank of Illinois, U.S.A.
In writing of Americans it has ever been customary to allude to their wealth, of which many people possess an exaggerated estimate. The successful American is, frequently, very generous, and it is from that freedom and generosity that the exaggerated notion springs.
Mr Reginald Pomeroy Muirhead was not a very wealthy man, but he was a prosperous man, and a generous man, a fine and courtly type of the American banker.
His daughter, Hilda, who had formed such a rapid friendship with Raife Remington, on the piazza – the balcony – in the drawing-room – on the staircase – in the foyer – or any of those places where friendships are made abroad, calls for more description.
Hilda Muirhead was not more than twenty. In some respects she had the knowledge and experience of a woman of thirty. In other respects she was a simple ingénue, with the attractive grace of a gazelle-like child. The latter was her natural mood and attitude. The former had been acquired and thrust upon her by the bitterness of cruel experience at an immature period of her life.
She had a gift of talk, and the charm of her conversation won for her the attention which invariably ended in admiration. Many girls, of any nationality, do not realise the value of natural and intellectual conversation. Her father had seen to it that Hilda did. Hilda’s mother died in her infancy, leaving Hilda an only child of a devoted and gentle parent.
Hilda’s appearance was striking in the extreme, and if she had been of the “abounding” type who flaunt themselves for admiration, she would have, in an obsolete vernacular, “swept the board.” Her restraint and lack of self-consciousness were an addition to her charm.
Her hair was a glory to behold. Few had seen the full extent of that glory of her womanhood. Her old nigger “mammy” was almost the only one who had seen it in its full maturity. Her face had an indefinable irregularity of contour, and showed the southern blood in her veins. Her eyes were only large when she opened them under some strong emotion. They were not of that pertinacious, staring type, that are aggressively anxious to attract on all occasions. Her eyes were grey, and constructed for the purpose of normal sight and restrained emotion – but they were beautiful eyes.
The form of her lips had not been moulded into beauty by an assumed pout, nor were they distorted by youthful grimace. They were just wholesome lips, that helped her to talk, and laugh and sing. The rest of her face was in perfect harmony. It was not classical on the lines of a Grecian statue, nor an Italian Madonna. It was a modern, fascinating, yet dignified face.
A broken arm or a bandaged wound invariably attract attention and sympathy, especially from women. Raife’s bandaged shoulder, which necessitated that the right sleeve should remain empty, attracted the attention of the women at Shepheard’s Hotel. His Apollo-like appearance added to the effect when he arrived. In addition to the side glances in his direction, as he reclined on a long wicker chair, shaded from the hot sun which streamed from above, he had to endure the bold stares of the more brazen-faced. At this time, Raife had suffered from two women, and he was, for the present, at least, a woman-hater. He, therefore, refused to notice any of the glances that he received, whatever their nature might be. The balcony piazza and foyer of an hotel are very like the deck of an ocean steamer, and it is not possible for an invalid to resist the advances of those who wish to be polite and render aid.
Raife and Hilda Muirhead met in such a manner. The foyer was almost deserted, and Raife dropped his book just out of reach. Hilda Muirhead and her father were passing. Hilda darted forward and restored the book to Raife, who thanked her.
Mr Muirhead remarked: “I hope your injury is not serious, sir?”
To which Raife replied: “Oh, no. It is just a slight dagger wound.”
Hilda exclaimed, involuntarily: “A dagger!” Even in Egypt men are not frequently suffering from dagger wounds, and the word has a shudder in its sound.
Mr Muirhead said, smilingly: “There is generally romance surrounding a dagger wound, sir. If it would not bore or distress you, perhaps, some time later, you might feel inclined to tell us as much as you care.”
Raife thought to himself: “Oh, hang these people. Why don’t they go away? She’s a charming girl, though.”
As he thought, Mr Muirhead, with a promptitude characteristic of Americans, produced his card, and, proffering it, said: “Here is my card, sir. I am a very humble American citizen. My daughter and I occupy the suite on the first floor, facing north. I shall take it as a compliment, if you should have a dull few minutes to spare, that you should honour us with a visit. We shall be here, or hereabouts, for a week or two.”
Even in Cairo the warmth of the old gentleman’s invitation appeared rather sudden to Raife. However, he had not been in the United States, and had met few Americans. He certainly had not met one who combined so much courtliness of manner and dignity as Mr Reginald Pomeroy Muirhead, of the Fifth State Bank of Illinois, and father of a charming daughter with a musical voice.
Raife forgot he was a woman-hater. He replied, “I’m sorry I haven’t got a card with me, and, if I had, I couldn’t get at it with this confounded shoulder. My name is Remington, sir, and I’m an Englishman. I will try to avail myself of your very kind invitation.”
As they departed, Raife, for the first time, saw those lips that helped Hilda Muirhead “to talk and laugh, and to sing.” He also encountered her eyes that were for the purpose “of normal sight and restrained emotion.” On this occasion it was a sympathetic emotion.
When they had gone out into the hot sun for one of those expeditions on donkeys, that are such an attraction to visitors to Egypt, Raife contemplated. In the end he had determined that he would not accept Mr Muirhead’s invitation to visit them in his suite. He hated the sound of the word “suite,” anyhow.
It is dull work for a strong young man to recline in a wicker chair, to smoke and to read all day in a hotel, whether it be in Cairo or elsewhere. To refuse the advances of a hundred eyes of every hue, and to maintain a stoical indifference to every one around, because one has suffered at the hands of two women was a brave endeavour. Raife confined himself to his own rooms and dined in solitary state for three days. At the end of that time his desire for companionship of some kind was uncontrollable.
Raife sat in the foyer once more, and Mr Muirhead came across to him with an air of urbanity. “Ah, Mr Remington! We have not seen you during the last few days. I hope your wound has not been troubling you.”
Raife stood up and looking straight at the genial, old gentleman, said: “No, Mr Muirhead, not much; but the doctors have told me that if I don’t keep quiet, I shall have complications, and I am already tired of ‘keeping quiet,’ as they call it.”
“Well, Mr Remington, if you are tired of keeping quiet by yourself and you will dine with me to-night, in my room, I promise you quietude, and, at the same time, it may prove a relaxation to you.”
Raife could not refuse the invitation offered so gracefully, and he accepted.
When Raife was announced that evening, in Mr Muirhead’s suite of rooms, the first impression he received was that a very ordinary hotel room had been transformed into a bower of flowers and blossom, and that there were many evidences of home life around it in the shape of daintily-framed photographs and tiny ornaments representative of many countries. The arrangement of flowers on the dinner-table which awaited them, showed that an appreciative hand had tended them. Mr Muirhead received his guest, and after the ordinary interchange of greetings, sounded a gong which brought a dusky attendant.
“Mr Remington, may I have the privilege of mixing for you an American cocktail?” said his host. “There are many spurious editions of the cocktail throughout Europe, and, indeed, the world; but it is essentially an American drink, and, if you will allow me to play the part of ‘bar-tender,’ I think I may please you.”
Mr Muirhead’s cocktail, which he mixed from the ingredients handed to him by the attendant, was a superlative success.
Raife said: “Splendid! how do you do it?”
At this moment Hilda Muirhead entered.
The Oriental atmosphere at night-time is a thing apart. There is a subtle, undefinable charm about an Oriental apartment, which combines with it just sufficient of the modern to add to luxury. Mr Muirhead’s reception-room had been adapted as a dining-room for Raife’s benefit, and was sumptuous. There were rich oriental draperies and soft divans, with subdued lights; in the centre, a perfectly-appointed dinner-table for three, on which was cream-coloured napery, silver, cutlery and sparkling glass. The whole scene was a wealth of many colours, subdued and harmonised. The sombre black and white of the Western evening dress of men took its place in the soft light and deep shadows. This was the setting and background when Hilda Muirhead entered the room.
The introduction was both formal and informal. “Mr Remington, I present my daughter, my only daughter.” Then to Hilda he said: “Are you ready, my dear; shall dinner be served?”
They were, indeed, a handsome trio around the table in the rich apartment of a hundred colours, lights and shadows all welded.
Skilled were the movements of the attendants which brought the dishes – the plats which Mr Muirhead had ordered well, as a polished and travelled American.
Raife hated women less at that time than for many months past. Hilda Muirhead displayed the well-bred and experienced side of her character, and made a charming hostess. Her delicately-tinted, clinging gown revealed a neck and bust of daintily-tinted alabaster, with rounded arms. A pearl necklace was the only article of jewellery that supplemented this confection, which adorned a simple American girl. The environment, the charm of Mr Muirhead’s conversation, and the subdued grace of the fascinating girl who confronted him, presented to Raife an aspect of “Americanhood” that he had not conceived possible. There are many degrees of trippers from the United States and elsewhere. If these were trippers, then they possessed an exalted rank amongst trippers. No! they were not trippers. They were aristocrats of a type that Sir Raife Remington, Bart., had not previously encountered.
The dinner was finished and the coffee was served. Hilda had retired and the two men smoked cigarettes. Mr Muirhead, after a silence of a minute or two, said, “Mr Remington, I do not wish to intrude on any subject that may be unpleasant to you. Your allusion, the other day, to the fact that your wound was due to a blow from a dagger interested me very much at the time, and I have thought of it several times since. May I ask, I do not press the question, which may even appear impertinent – may I ask, was it – er – was it an accident?”
Raife smiled as he said: “No, there is no secret about it, although I am rather ashamed of the business. It made me appear such a fool, and has spoilt a big-game hunting expedition I had started on. I should be much further south by now, and probably mauled by some big beast I had failed to hit. So, perhaps, it’s just as well.”
Mr Muirhead was evidently interested. Big-game shooting is known mostly in America by the exploits of an ex-president, whose deeds were, at the same time, exploited and travestied by a Press peculiar to the country.
He interrupted: “Do you mind if I ask my daughter to join us again. I am sure the story will interest her so much. Do you mind? You are sure you don’t mind?”
It was impossible for Raife “to mind,” and he assented.
When Mr Muirhead returned, followed by Hilda Muirhead, every atom of Raife’s hatred of women had vanished. She had changed her dinner-gown, and was now attired in a long, trailing robe of soft silk, clasped at the waist by an antique metal belt studded with quaint stones. The conventional tight folds of her wonderful hair had been loosened and gave indication of the wealth of that glory of womanhood. Her arms were still half bare and some Egyptian bangles hung loosely around her wrists. She stood for a moment holding aside a fortière of the deepest eau-de-nil blue mingled with Indian reds. It was a complete picture of human loveliness in a background of Oriental splendour. As Raife rose from the divan, on which he had been reclining, to acknowledge her presence, he gasped with admiration.
In her well-modulated contralto tones she said, with evident earnestness: “Mr Remington, father tells me that you have consented that I should hear the story of your wound – that dagger wound.” Then she shuddered.
“My dear Miss Muirhead, I am afraid it will make a very dull story, and will make me appear very foolish. However, I will willingly appear foolish before such an audience.”
Raife told the story of the woman who was beaten by the Nubian in the back street of Khartoum; of her cries, and his attempt at rescue – and of the stab in the dark from behind. He told it in a characteristically English way – haltingly, and without embellishment.
With elbows on knees, and with dainty fingers entwined under her chin, Hilda Muirhead sat and gazed at this handsome young man – his nationality mattered not to her – as he told the story that “made him appear foolish.” It was incredible to her that a man who boldly ran down a slum, in a hateful place like Khartoum, to hammer a great big ugly black man, who was beating a woman, should be considered foolish by any one, much more so by himself. The thought, a woman’s thought, came to her – “he did it in the dark, too. What curious people these Englishmen are. How they love to ridicule themselves and one another. Fancy being considered foolish to risk his life for helping a woman.”
Hilda Muirhead gazed with admiration, whilst Mr Muirhead rose, crossed the room, and, seizing Raife’s hand, said: “Mr Remington, that’s a fine story. We shouldn’t call you a fool in the United States. We should call you a hero and give you the time of your life. I’m your friend, sir, if you will allow me that honour.”
Raife stammered and blushed. Hilda Muirhead saw that blush and admired it, for there are not many men who blush in the United States.
In an effort to change the subject, which was tiresome to him, Raife said, “By the by, Mr Muirhead, I owe you an apology.”
“Well, now, father,” said Hilda, laughingly, “I wonder what Mr Remington will apologise for next?”
Raife continued, smiling: “Oh, this isn’t so foolish as the other. Only I omitted to give you my card, when we met. I hadn’t got one with me at the moment.” He handed his card to Mr Muirhead, and, turning to Hilda, said: “May I present you with one also, Miss Muirhead?”
Father and daughter read the little neat piece of pasteboard:
