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 _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.
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:
Sir Raife Remington, Bart.,
Aldborough Park,
Tunbridge Wells.