Part 17 (1/2)
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 c.o.c.ktail?” said his host. ”There are many spurious editions of the c.o.c.ktail 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 c.o.c.ktail, 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 gla.s.s. 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 a.s.sented.
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 _fortiere_ 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.