I wanted Maida to marry me in Cairo, with her cousin Sir Robert to give her away: but the blow my brother had struck long ago had hurt her sensitive soul to the quick. She said that she could not be my wife until Lord Haslemere and Lady Haslemere were willing to welcome her. She wanted no revenge, but she did want satisfaction.
I had to yield, since a man can't marry a girl by force nowadays, even when she admits that she's in love. Sir Robert found her a chaperon, going to England, and I was allowed to sail on the same ship. Maida was invited to stay with Lady Annesley until the wedding could be arranged on the bride's own "terms"; but Fate was more eloquent than I: she induced Maida to change her mind.
Lady Annesley was as brave (for herself and her husband) as a soldier's wife must be; but she had three children. For them, she was a coward. Maida had not been two days at the Annesley's Devonshire place, and I hadn't yet been able to tackle Haslemere, when an anonymous letter arrived for the girl's hostess. It said that, if Lady Annesley wished her three little boys to see their father come home, she would turn out of her house the enemy of a noble family whose vendetta was not complete. At first, the recipient of the letter was at a loss what to make of it. Frightened and puzzled, she handed the document to Maida (this was at breakfast) and Maida was only too well able to explain.
The letter had a London postmark: and the girl knew then, with a shock of fear, that "Dr. Rameses" was in England—had perhaps reached there before her. An hour later I knew also—having motored from the hotel where I was stopping in Exeter. The question was, why did the enemy want to get the girl out of her cousin's house?—for that desire alone could have inspired the anonymous warning. Without it, he might have attempted a surprise stroke: but of his own accord, he had for some reason eliminated the element of surprise.
As for me, I was thankful. Not because Essain, alias Rameses, had come to England, but because he was throwing Maida into my arms. This result might be intended by him; but naturally I felt confident that she would be safe under my protection. I argued that she couldn't expose Lady Annesley and the children to danger; the Annesleys had suffered enough for a sin of generations ago: and if she gave up the shelter of her cousin's house she must come to me. What mattered it, in such circumstances, whether the family welcome came before or after the wedding? I guaranteed that it would come. And so—owing to the anonymous letter, and its visible effect upon Lady Annesley, Maida abandoned the dream she had cherished. We were married by special licence: and now, on the Annesley's yacht—too small to be needed for war-service by the Admiralty—we stood on our wedding night.
"Nothing can ever separate us again, my darling!" I broke out suddenly, speaking my thought aloud.
"No, not even death," Maida said, softly, almost in a whisper.
"Don't think of death, my dearest!" I cut her short.
"I'll try not," she said. "But it seems so wonderful to dare be happy—after all. And the memory of that man—the thought of him—I won't call it fear, or let it be fear—is like a black spot in the brightness. It's like that big floating black shape, moving just enough to show it is there, in the silver water. Do you see?" and she pointed. "Does that sound we hear, come from it—like a bell—a funeral bell tolling?"
"That's a bell buoy," I explained. "I remember it well. You know, when I was a boy I spent holidays with my brother at Hasletowers; and I loved this old buoy. I've imagined a hundred stories about it; and—by Jove—I wonder what that chap can be up to!"