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!”