Kitabı oku: «The Broken Thread», sayfa 9
Chapter Seventeen
Mr Muirhead and Hilda Discover Raife’s Identity
When Raife had returned to his room after the pleasantest evening of his life, he meditated, as is the wont of impulsive young men after an event. The night was very hot and, in spite of the clear starlit sky overhead, it was sultry. He donned a light cashmere dressing-gown and walked out to the balcony which overlooked the old town. Seating himself in a wicker chair, he lit a cigar and talked to himself, a practice of elderly people and those who are mentally perturbed. He talked to himself softly, in short, disjointed sentences. He muttered, with a curl of his lips: “Gilda! Ha! ha! That was a passing fancy. I was a fool. I’m glad I got out of it as well as I did. It was good of that fellow, Herrion, to steer me out of the mess I was landing myself into. Fancy marrying a ‘lady’ burglar.”
He yawned and relit his cigar which had gone out. Cigars make no allowance for meditative monologues. Continuing, he raised his voice slightly: “Woman-hater! Of course, I’m a woman-hater. Two women have landed me in a hole.” Starting from his reverie, he thought he heard a cough. Yes, it was a woman’s cough. He stood up and leant over the balcony. As he looked down, he saw a woman with a light shawl over her head. She was on the balcony immediately under his. He only caught a glance as the figure entered the window below, which corresponded with the one that led to his own room. He whispered now, lest he should be overheard: “I wonder who that woman was. Was it Miss Muirhead? – Hilda! I rather like the name. It rhymes with Gilda. But what a different type of girl. And, after all, I must have companionship of some sort.”
Next morning the trio met again in the foyer. The ice was broken now. Hotel friendships are very warm whilst they last. Would this one last?
When Raife left, after his story of the wound he got on behalf of a strange woman in Khartoum, Mr Muirhead and Hilda, each holding the card in their hands, the card that Raife had given them, looked at one another with puzzled expressions. Then Mr Muirhead read aloud: “Sir Raife Remington, Bart., Aldborough Park, Tunbridge Wells.”
Hilda asked: “Why didn’t he tell us he was a baronet?”
Her father answered, reflectively: “Yes, these Englishmen certainly are curious. Now, if he’d been an American judge, or colonel, we should have known all about it in five minutes, and more than we wanted to know before the day was out, and before the dinner was over, we should have hated him for it.”
Hilda, too, gazed reflectively, and said, “Yes, that’s only too true. Then again, how strange that he should be ashamed of helping that poor woman in Khartoum, and after being stabbed, too.”
It has been said of Americans and others that they dearly love a lord. Why shouldn’t they? Especially if he is a nice lord. Raife was not a lord, but he was a baronet, and a very handsome and agreeable baronet. Mr Muirhead was an American business man, and it is the habit of such men to go to the “rock-bottom” of things, so he said to Hilda: “I wonder whether he’s a new-fledged political baronet, or one of the old families. I expect they’ve got a Debrett or Burke’s Peerage downstairs. I’ll look it up in the morning.”
When Mr Muirhead looked up Raife’s ancestry in the morning, he was not sorry to learn that Raife was descended from the Tudor and Elizabethan Reymingtounes. He had just completed this operation when they met Raife in the foyer. They greeted one another with cordiality, and Mr Muirhead induced Raife, without much difficulty, to join them in an expedition. Hilda was divinely beautiful at the dinner of the previous night. On this morning, riding in the bright sunlight, she was radiant. The reserve of the previous evening was absent and she talked intellectually. At times, her conversation was brilliant, and interspersed with those quaint witticisms that seem only possible to Americans, and are doubly entertaining when they flow from the lips of a pretty American girl. As Raife sat opposite to her, listening to the pleasing flow of her talk, he wrestled with his inclinations, and his mind determined for him that he need not be altogether a woman-hater. There was no harm in enjoying the society of a pretty girl as long as he did not allow himself to become entangled. At the same time, he could not help contrasting this sunny, vivacious young girl, with the handsome, white-haired, courtly father, against the mysterious Gilda, admittedly a “lady” burglar, and her sinister uncle with the unpleasing eyes.
During a lull in the talk, which had been mostly between Hilda and Raife, Mr Muirhead said: “I notice from your card that you are Sir Raife Remington, a baronet. I’ve been wondering why you didn’t mention that fact before.”
Raife laughed, and replied: “Oh, I don’t know. It didn’t occur to me.”
Mr Muirhead was characteristically American, a seeker after information or truth, so he added: “I am a very plain American and I am not familiar with the observances or etiquette of English society. I hazard the suggestion that we should address you as ‘Sir Raife,’ Is that correct?”
Raife was very charmed with these ingenuous people, and this time he laughed heartily until his shoulder reminded them all of the dagger wound. Recovering from the spasm of pain, which had caused Hilda to regard him with the real sympathy which brought the perfect beauty into her lustrous eyes, he said: “I hope, sir, you will call me Remington, just Remington. The intricacies of etiquette are far too tiresome for such pleasant occasions as these. If Miss Muirhead insists on calling me ‘Sir Raife’ I must submit, but the sooner she will forget the prefix the greater will be my happiness.”
Hilda, with eyes that had changed from sympathy to merriment, and with fun that was not intended for flirtation, exclaimed: “Really, Sir Raife, do you mean that? If so, how soon may I call you just ‘Raife’ only?”
Mr Muirhead raised his eyebrows with a quizzical smile.
Raife replied: “I am not very familiar with your language as you always charmingly and frequently quaintly express it, but I dare to suggest ‘right now!’”
Hilda had not imagined that an Englishman, especially an English aristocrat, could be so quick and graceful in repartee, and in spite of her natural self-possession she blushed.
Raife was playing his part as a woman-hater rather badly; but he, at the time, was very confident of himself. Raife was brave enough when they had returned to the hotel, and he felt that the day’s pleasure had, in no sense, altered his determination in the matter. His bravery came to his rescue in so far that he managed to avoid the incident of a dinner together. He pleaded the excuse of his wounded shoulder and retired to his rooms.
Alone, after dinner, he renewed his moralising. He sat again on the balcony, and tried to chase away the fever of love which was more to him than a mere stab of a dagger in the shoulder. He flattered himself that he was still a woman-hater, and that he had only played a game. This was a divertissement which should last until his shoulder was healed, and then he would rejoin Colonel Langton and renew his intention of big-game shooting. It did not occur to him that he was “big game,” and that he stood to be shot at. It was yet another of those divine nights which are so frequent in Cairo, and Raife’s mood was quite contented as he sat on the balcony and surveyed this fascinating city.
Among the cities of the East, Cairo is counted one of the most enchanting. All that Europe has done to spoil the primitive grandeur of the older civilisation, which has existed centuries before us of the West, leaves Cairo a monument of the gorgeous and inscrutable past. Aladdin with the wonderful lamp and all the stories of the Arabian Nights seem to have emanated from such a place as Cairo.
Raife sat and contemplated the mysterious view which confronted him. It was dark, but it was early, and the lights of the crowded cafés flickered below in a serried row of all that counted for speculation. There, in every garb, every conceivable costume, was a mixture of nationalities from every corner of the globe Americans, Europeans, Egyptians, Turks, Arabs, Negroes, and the unfathomable Indians of the remote East. Raife thought of his first experience of the Americans, and it was a pleasing one. Hilda Muirhead was a novel type to him; for, in spite of the fact that fortune had been kind to him in the matter of wealth and family and inheritance, his experience was limited. A strange vein of adventure was his. He was descended from the Reymingtounes, who, in the days of Elizabeth, helped to found the British Empire, and saved our diminutive islands from invasion and conquest by the all-powerful Spaniard of the period. His mind did not travel in this direction. He was an English aristocrat, and possessed all the endowments of a lavish fortune. At the moment, he was a very ordinary, human young man. He thought he was a woman-hater. Hilda Muirhead was to him an interesting specimen. At least, he flattered himself that was his view of the matter.
Hilda’s opinion of Raife is rather hard to determine. She was bred, or, as they still sometimes say in the United States, “reared” in Cincinnati, which is on the border-line of south, and hers was an aristocratic lineage, dating, as far as that country is concerned, to the old colonial days when the present United States were peopled almost entirely by British. The British who fought against British before the Declaration of Independence, were, in a large number of instances, aristocrats. Hilda Muirhead was descended from such “stock.”
Raife now gazed at the wonderful grouping of minarets and mosques which were silhouetted against the sparkling sky of deepest transparent blue. Cairo is not a noisy city at night-time, and from his wickered chair everything was seductively calm. This calm was suddenly made more pleasing by the strains of music. It was soft, restrained music, and a human voice predominated. “The Rosary” should, preferably, be sung by a subdued contralto voice to a low-pitched accompaniment. This was the song that completed the breaking of a responsive string in Raife’s heart. Hilda Muirhead was singing to her father, but the song floated upwards and through the still, pure night air, reached him. Could it be an accident or was it design? No one shall ever know. It happened. The conquest, for a time, was complete, and Raife felt and knew that only one woman could have sung that song, that night, in that way.
The song was finished. No ragtime melody followed – nothing. The exquisite completeness of the situation and the incident left Raife very doubtful as to whether he really was a woman-hater.
Chapter Eighteen
A Shadow on Raife’s Courtship
Under the pleasant conditions of Raife’s life at Shepheard’s Hotel, his dagger wound rapidly healed, and he was again able to resume an active life. Hilda Muirhead was trained to that freedom of action which belongs to the American bred. The excessive chaperonage which is customary in Europe does not belong to the United States. Mr Muirhead was an indulgent father, and he, feeling safe as to Raife’s credentials, was not in the mood to spoil the sport of young people. He remembered the days of his own courting on the beautiful countryside outside the high cliffs which overshadow the city of Cincinnati. Raife did not even now realise that he was courting. He was perfectly satisfied that he was merely having a good time and amusing himself. He and Hilda made excursions together. They visited bazaars and purchased all sorts of trifles, some of which were cheap and some were not, for an American girl has expensive tastes.
Heluan is about half an hour’s train ride from Cairo, and here, sitting in the shade outside the hotel, Raife and Hilda for the first time disclosed to themselves that their attraction for one another was not entirely platonic. The pretty little town pitched in the desert was singularly quiet. They had talked of many things and their conversation was rarely flippant, and they both possessed the faculty of enjoying silence when there was nothing of importance to say. In this remote little town, the silent spirit of the vast desert encouraged this mood.
After some minutes of such contemplation Hilda remarked to him “Raife, tell me what is a woman-hater?” She had accepted his invitation to call him “just Raife” right from the time when that invitation was extended.
Raife started, and his bronzed cheeks suffused with a scarlet tinge. Had she heard him talking to himself that night on the balcony? Was she the woman with the white shawl whom he caught a glimpse of on the balcony beneath? These thoughts crowded on him as he stammered an evasive reply. “I don’t know. Why do you ask?”
Hilda, with characteristic candour, said: “I overheard some man talking one night and he said, ‘I am a woman-hater.’”
Their conversations on many subjects had been singularly open and free, and Raife now felt that he must disclose some of his career, so with a responsive candour he said: “Hilda, it was I whom you must have heard that night. I felt that I hated a woman, and I had every reason to do so. I had fancied that I loved her, and she, with an abominable old uncle, was conspiring to ruin me. Yes. I was a woman-hater, and I came out here and started on my big-game expedition to get away from women.”
Hilda’s face wore a puzzled and pained expression, and for some time she made no reply. Then she spoke tremulously. “Raife, I am so sorry. To think I have been in your way all this time, and I thought that we had been such good friends.”
He stopped her abruptly. “Hilda! Hilda! don’t talk like that. The woman I hated is a wicked, harmful woman. You are the embodiment of all that is pure and beautiful in womanhood. Your sweet influence has softened my bitterness and restored my mind to its normal state!”
Then, archly, Hilda said: “Then I need not run away?”
Impetuously he exclaimed, striking the table with the palm of his hand: “Run away! If you do I shall follow you. Follow you? Yes, to the end of the world, for Hilda you have made me love you.”
“Hush! don’t talk like that, Raife. In America boys and girls, men and women, can be friends – just friends.”
In spite of these brave words, her breast was heaving and her pulses throbbed. “Let us go back now,” she added. “This has troubled me and I must think.”
Mr Muirhead was waiting for them when they arrived at Shepherd’s Hotel, and greeted them with his customary cordiality. As they ascended the stairway together he said: “Remington, I want you to dine with us to-night. Don’t refuse. I have arranged for a special American dish, which I am going to prepare myself.”
“Oh! What is that? If it’s as good as the cocktails you make, I can’t refuse,” said Raife, laughingly.
“It’s better, much better, my boy. It’s ‘lobster newburgh,’ and, if you don’t like it I shall count you an enemy of my country.”
“My dear Mr Muirhead, I could not be an enemy of the country that produced your genial self and your gracious daughter,” was Raife’s flattering retort.
The dinner that night was served with rather more ceremony than usual, and Mr Muirhead’s dish was a great success. Hilda did not participate so much as usual in the conversation, and her father rallied her on her quietude. At the close of dinner an attendant brought a telegram for Mr Muirhead. He opened it and having read it exclaimed, “Pshaw! that’s a nuisance. Remington, will you excuse me? This calls for attention. I must cable to the bank. I don’t suppose I shall be more than half an hour. Hilda will entertain you.”
When her father had gone, and they were alone, they sat, as was their wont, for some time in silence. Hilda poured out some coffee and handed it to Raife. In doing so she touched his hand. The momentary contact thrilled him and he broke the silence. “Hilda, perhaps I was wrong in speaking as I did this afternoon. Yet it is true. Let me tell you more of the buried incident, and of another tragedy in my life.”
Raife told of his father’s murder and those fateful dying words which warned his son to beware. He told some portion of his association with the mysterious Gilda Tempest. Then he added: “There must be a kink in my own character somewhere, which I have inherited from some of my filibustering ancestors. Or perhaps there is gipsy blood in me. Things seem to happen differently to me – than to other men. But everything appears to be in my favour. I am rich, and I am the head of a distinguished family. Yet I have a wandering spirit, and an uncontrollable desire for the unconventional. I am rudderless and cannot steer a straight course.”
He had looked straight at the carpet during his narration, and his tones had been agitated. He paused and, raising his head, met her eyes gazing at him with a pained, sympathetic look. When their eyes met neither flinched, nor did they speak for some seconds.
At length Hilda placed her hand on his arm saying, “Raife, I’m so sorry. How I wish I could help you.”
Raife sprang to his feet and, holding her hands apart, each in one of his, exclaimed passionately, “Hilda, dear, sweet Hilda! You can help me. I love you madly! Let me love you! Will you be my wife? Will you steer me to a better, a more useful life?”
She dropped her head and fell forward into his arms. He seized her and showered kisses, she yielding. When at length they spoke again she said, “Raife, I loved you from the moment you told us the story of your wound. I had not met such modesty and courage combined before. Raife, dear, I will strive to help you to a happy – yes, and, as you ask me, to a useful life.”
When Mr Muirhead returned, Hilda was at the piano, singing Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s tender song, “Love me sweet with all thou art.”
Raife did not wait for a chance meeting. On the following morning he wrote a note and sent it to Mr Muirhead:
“Dear Mr Muirhead, – I have a matter of vital importance that I would like to discuss with you. Can I see you at once? – Yours very truly, —
“Raife Remington.”
When the two men met and Raife had made a statement of his affairs and position, and had asked for Hilda’s hand, the old gentleman was visibly affected, and, taking Raife’s hand, said “Remington, I like you very much. I love my daughter with all the love of a father for his only daughter. She is more precious to me than my own life. I only had one other love. It was for her mother. She is dead. The man who breaks Hilda’s heart kills me and commits a double murder. Remington, I trust you – take her.”
Raife’s happiness was now complete, and, if his complex temperament would allow him, a great future was before him. In addition to title and wealth, he had inherited marked ability, allied to a wayward disposition. The future was fraught with possibilities for good or evil. In the battle of his life would the good or evil genius win?
On the night following his betrothal to Hilda, he was strolling among the bazaars seeking to purchase something worthy of his beloved. As is the custom among those picturesque, swarthy traders, who ensconce themselves in dark corners awaiting custom as a spider awaits a fly, Raife was haggling over the price of a trinket, when he became conscious of the presence of a figure watching him. Hastily dropping the trinket, he wheeled round. He was just in time to see a familiar figure slide rather than dart around a corner a few yards away. He was determined at all hazards to capture this uncanny person and demand of him his intentions. Raife chased him around the corner and searched every nook and cranny where he could possibly have hidden. He was too late, his quarry had escaped.
Raife muttered to himself: “Curse that infernal Apache fellow! He dogged me at Nice. He was ‘killed’ in a motor smash at Cuneo. He was ‘drowned’ in the Thames at Hammersmith, and now the brute haunts me in the Bazaar at Cairo. What does he want? Why does he shadow me?”
As he sauntered back to renew his haggling for the trinket, the white-bearded and turbaned old Arab was saying to himself, “He must be Ingleesi. All the Ingleesi are mad.” It had served a useful financial purpose for Raife, however; for, fearing he might dart off again, this time not to return, he sold the trinket to Raife at his own price, which was just one-tenth of what the old man had asked. That is the way of the Oriental trader. On his way back to the hotel with his purchases, his father’s dying words recurred to him, and he was more than ever puzzled by their mystic warning. These were the halcyon days of Raife’s short life, and they had been disturbed by this hateful phantom Apache. Raife Remington might be wayward and impressionable, but he was brave and fearless, so he chased the incident from his mind, as he had chased the elusive phantom in the Bazaar.
The sight of Hilda, and the warmth of her affectionate greeting, entirely dispelled this ill-omened cloud. He had quite recovered from the dagger wound now, and the weeks passed by with joyous rapidity. He and Hilda had made excursions together of many varieties. Into the desert, mounted on big white donkeys. To Memphis, the Pyramids of Sakkárah and the Serapeum, the tomb of Beni Hassan. By the luxuriously-appointed steamer, with its double decks and cool verandas, to Luxor, with its palatial modern hotels, contrasting strangely with the ancient ruins, temples, and monuments of a long-forgotten civilisation. Here was ideal ground for love-making among the whispering palm groves, with a turquoise sky above. Each scene so different from the Western ideal, yet so picturesque. The long lines or files of pelicans fishing on the sandy shore, with the flights of pink flamingoes hovering overhead. The line of native women gracefully swaying to and from the water’s edge with their pitchers balanced on their heads. These and a thousand strange sights and scenes, and, over all, the wondrous sky of the East, with its gorgeous sunrises and sunsets, and its weird depths of night. In such an Elysium did Hilda and Raife run the first course of their love, and it ran smoothly. Could such happiness last?
Hilda’s life until she met Raife had been happy, a life of sunshine untouched by shadow, save the loss of her mother. She had given her heart to this handsome young Englishman. She had no knowledge of Englishmen, except that gained by brief and flitting visits to London. The wise and practical side of her character prompted her to reflect often in the seclusion of her chamber. Were English husbands like American husbands? Would an ideal lover make an ideal husband? Raife had told her that he had loved another woman. Would that woman enter into his life again and destroy their happiness? Yes, there was misgiving in her mind at times. When Raife appeared and paid her gallant court, all doubts were dispelled, and she abandoned herself to his caresses.
In his spare moments Raife haunted the bazaars hunting for “that Apache fellow.” He was determined, if possible, to probe the mystery to its depths, no matter how foul the consequences. Once, on a trip up the Nile, among a group of lascars, he had fancied he saw a man who was not of them, and his mind at the time being slightly distrait, he conceived the idea it might be his enemy. He made straightway for the group, but by the time he got there the fellow was gone.
It had become a frequent practice for Raife to dine with Mr Muirhead lately, and at the dinner-table he announced one night: “Oh, say! Remington, I’ve had news from the bank and I’m afraid I must cut short my vacation. I mustn’t grumble; I think I’ve done rather well. But I’ve worked hard for it.”
“No doubt,” replied Raife reflectively, and with a deprecatory smile. “You’ve worked hard for your holiday. My life’s been all holiday and my work’s to come. You are going to help me, aren’t you, Hilda?”
Hilda laughed and retorted: “Surely, Raife, I’ll help, but you must promise to obey.”
Mr Muirhead joined in. “Ha! ha! I thought that was your part of the marriage contract, Hilda? Never mind, as long as you both obey perhaps it will be better all round. That brings me to what I was going to say. For the second time I have to apologise for being unfamiliar with English etiquette. I don’t know quite what is the method of procedure in the matter of English marriages, especially when the bridegroom is an exalted person.”
Raife said laughingly, “Pardon me, Mr Muirhead, but you mean I’m an ‘exulting’ person. I’ve captured the prize of the world, and I mean to preserve it. If you will accompany me to England, I will take you to Aldborough Park, and introduce you to my mother.”
Hilda intervened: “That’s just what I’m dreading. She’ll hate me, and I feel, I know it. Then I shan’t cry, I shall just stamp, and, for the first time in my life I’ll shake my fist and say ‘I told you so.’”
This assumed outburst produced the merriment that was intended. Raife proceeded. “You’ll like my mother, Hilda, and she’ll like you. If Hilda consents,” he added, looking first at one and then the other, “we’ll be married from our town house in Mayfair. We will have a ‘real’ proper marriage, ceremony, and it shall take place at St. George’s, Hanover Square.”
“Well! We’ll leave all that until we get to Aldborough Park,” intimated the prospective father-in-law. “I’m very anxious to meet your mother, and I trust we shall be friends. I believe you, my dear Raife, when you describe your mother’s amiable disposition and charms, but I expect, with that modesty of yours, you have under-estimated the grandeur of that Tudor mansion which is also yours. Ah well, then! It’s agreed we start for England as soon as we can.”
