Part 19 (1/2)
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 pa.s.sed 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 Sakkarah and the Serapeum, the tomb of Beni Ha.s.san. 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 fis.h.i.+ng on the sandy sh.o.r.e, 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 suns.h.i.+ne 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 a.s.sumed 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.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN.
GILDA RECEIVES A STAGGERING BLOW.
Gilda Tempest sat in her room in her uncle's well-appointed flat in Bloomsbury. Her face showed traces of great mental strain. There were no lines in her face, but a drawn expression, which her enemies would have called haggard. She held a copy of the _Morning Post_, and was reading it leisurely until her attention was attracted by a paragraph as follows:
”The engagement has been announced of Sir Raife Remington, Bart., of Aldborough Park, Tunbridge Wells, to Miss Hilda Muirhead, daughter of Reginald Pomeroy Muirhead, Esq., President of the Fifth National Bank of Illinois, U.S.A. We understand that the marriage will take place shortly at St George's, Hanover Square.”
Gilda read this announcement three times. The third time she threw the paper on the floor and stamped upon it. Then, clutching her head with her hands, she sank on to a lounge and sobbed violently, exclaiming:
”What have I done to deserve this? Raife! Raife! You were the only one who could have saved me from this hideous nightmare, called life. I have lost you!” Her sobs choked further utterance, and she collapsed, huddled into a tangled ma.s.s of broken-hearted, crumpled womanhood.
Good, bad, or indifferent, Gilda Tempest had one affection which had penetrated her heart. Her love for Raife was sincere and with all the temptestuous fury of a jealous woman she now hated Hilda Muirhead.
She hissed the words between her sobs, ”Daughter of Reginald Pomeroy Muirhead, President of the Fifth National Bank of Illinois! Why must she rob me of the only hope I had in life?” With a desperate effort she rose from the lounge and, straightening herself to her full height, staggered across the room to a full-length mirror, where she stood rigidly glaring at her own presentment. The face that had been drawn before she had read the announcement in the _Morning Post_, was now distorted, and her beautiful hair was dishevelled. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Pa.s.sion was written on the face that now showed lines, lines of rage and rebellion. ”I will not obey any more! My life has been a torture. I mutiny! I will win, or I will die!”
The door opened softly. Doctor Malsano stood there with folded arms, and in a still, soothing tone, he said, ”Gilda, child. Come, tell me what is the meaning of this?”
Gilda turned on him with an expression fierce and defiant. For many seconds neither spoke. Then, urbanely, the doctor murmured soothingly: ”Come, Gilda! Let me help you in your trouble. What is the reason of your distress?”
The girl stood erect, throbbing with intense emotion. Again there was a long silence. Then, bursting into sobs again, she pointed to the newspaper and said, ”Read that. See! See what you have done. You have made me a robber, and now you have robbed me of the only desire I have on earth. I will rob you now, for I will kill myself.”
The doctor smiled and, crossing the room, picked up the paper. Then he approached the girl and said suavely: ”Show me, Gilda. What shall I read?”