Her Royal Highness: A Romance of the Chancelleries of Europe

It was all plain now. The man who had been marked out as Lola’s husband she hated, because of her secret love for that young Frenchman in whose arms she now stood clasped.

He was telling her how he had left Brindisi three weeks before, and going down the Red Sea had landed at Port Sudan, afterwards taking sail to Khartoum and then post-haste across the desert to Haifa.

“Had I not caught the coasting steamer I could not have reached here until you had left,” he added.

“Yes, Henri. But you must be most careful,” she urged. “My uncle must never suspect – he must never dream the truth.”

“I know, darling. If I travel back to Cairo with you I will exercise the utmost discretion, never fear.”

“Neither by word nor by look must the truth ever be betrayed,” she said. “Remember, Henri, my whole future is in your hands.”

“Can I ever forget that, my darling?” he cried, kissing her with all the frantically amorous passion of a Frenchman.

“It is dangerous,” she declared. “Too dangerous, I fear. Gigleux is ubiquitous.”

“He always is. But leave it all to me,” the man hastened to assure her, holding her ungloved hand and raising it fervently to his lips. “I shall join your steamer as an ordinary passenger just before you sail.”

“But you must avoid me. Promise me to do that?” she implored in a low, earnest tone.

“I will promise you anything, my darling – because I love you better than my life,” was his low, earnest answer, as he tenderly stroked the soft hair from her brow. “Do you recollect our last evening together in Rome, eh?”

“Shall I ever forget?” was her reply. “I risked everything that night to escape and come to you.”

“Then you really do love me, Lola – truly?” For answer she flung her long arms around his neck and kissed him fondly. And she then remained silent in his strong embrace.

Chapter Six.

More Concerning the Stranger

At their feet, winding its way for thousands of miles between limitless areas of sand, its banks lined for narrow distances with green fields and the habitations of men, flowed dark and wondrous the one thing that makes human life possible in all the lands of the Sudan and of Egypt – flowed from sources that for ages were undiscovered, and which even in this day of boasted knowledge are yet incompletely known – the Nile.

In the lazy indolence of that sun-baked land of silence, idleness and love, affection is quickly cultivated, as the fast-living set who go up there each winter know well. Hubert Waldron, man of the world that he was, had watched and knew. He stood there, however, dumbfounded, for there was now presented a very strange and curious state of affairs. Lola, the dark-eyed girl who had enchanted him and held him by the great mystery which surrounded her, was now revealed keeping tryst with a stranger – a mysterious Frenchman who had come up from the blazing Sudan – a man who had come from nowhere.

He strained his eyes in an endeavour to distinguish the stranger’s outline, but in vain. The man was standing in the deep shadow. Only the girl’s familiar form silhouetted against the starlit sky.

“We must be very careful of my uncle,” the girl urged. “The slightest suspicion, and we shall assuredly be parted, and for ever.”

“I will exercise every discretion, never fear, dearest,” was his reassuring reply, and again he took her soft, fair face in both his hands and kissed her passionately upon the lips.

“But, Henri,” she exclaimed presently, “are you quite sure they suspect nothing at home – that you have never betrayed to anyone your affection for me? Remember, there are spies everywhere.”

“Surely you can trust me, my darling?” he asked in reproach.

“Of course, dear,” she cried, again raising her lips and kissing him fondly. “But, naturally, I am full of fear lest our secret be known.”

“It cannot be known,” was his confident reply. “We can both keep the truth from others. Trust me.”

“And when we return to Europe. What then?” she asked in a low, changed tone.

“Then we shall see. Why try and look into the future? It is useless to anticipate difficulties which may not, after all, exist,” he said cheerfully, again stroking her hair with tenderness.

He spoke in French in a soft, refined voice, and was evidently a gentleman, though he still stood in the shadow and was therefore undistinguishable. He was holding the girl in his arms and a silence had fallen between them – a silence only broken by the low lapping of the Nile waters, and that rhythmic chant now receding: “Ah-lal-hey! Al-lal-hey?”

“My darling!” whispered the stranger passionately. “My own faithful darling. I love you – ah! so much more than you can ever tell. And, alas! I am so unworthy of you.”

She, in return, sighed upon his breast and declared that she loved but one man in all the world – himself.

“Since that night we first met, Lola – you remember it,” he said, “my only thought has been of you.”

“Ah, yes,” was her reply. “At my aunt’s ball in Vienna. I recollect how the Baron von Karlstadt introduced us, and how you bowed and invited me to dance. Shall I ever forget that evening, Henri – just over a year ago.”

“And old Gigleux? Is he still quite as troublesome as ever?”

“Just. He has eyes in the back of his head.”

“And Mademoiselle Lambert – is she loyal to you?”

“I fear not, alas!” was Lola’s reply. “She is paid to spy upon me. At least that has latterly become my impression. I have wanted to become her friend, but she is unapproachable.”

“Then we must exercise every discretion. On board I shall avoid you studiously. We can, of course, meet again in Cairo, for it is a big city, and you will sometimes be free.”

“Yes. Till then, adieu, Henri. But,” she added, “it will be so hard to be near you for the next three weeks and never speak.”

“It must be. Gigleux is no fool, remember,” the man replied.

“I must be getting back. They will miss me,” she said wistfully. “How shall I be able to pass you by dozens of times a day, Henri, maybe sit down at the same table with you, and betray no sign of recognition? I really don’t know.”

“But you must, darling! You must – for both our sakes,” he argued, and then he once again clasped her in his strong arms and smothered her with his fierce passionate caresses.

Hubert Waldron witnessed it all. He held his breath and bit his lip. Who could be this mysterious Henri – this secret lover whom Lola had met by appointment in that far-off, out-of-the-world place?

He recollected that Lola had flirted with him and that she had amused herself by allowing him to pay her compliments. Yet the existence of one whom she loved so devotedly in secret was now revealed, and he stood aghast, filled with chagrin at the unexpected revelation.

The pair, locked in each other’s arms, moved slowly forward in his direction.

She was urging him to allow her to get back, but he was persuading her to remain a little longer.

“Think of all the long weeks and months we have been parted, sweetheart!” he was saying. “Besides we must not speak again until we get to Cairo. I shall remain at the little hotel over to-morrow. But it would be far too dangerous for us to meet. One or other of the passengers might discover us.”

“Yes,” she sighed; “we shall be compelled to exercise the greatest caution always. All my future depends on the preservation of our secret.”

Waldron slipped from his hiding-place and away behind another tree, just before the pair passed the spot where he had been standing.

He watched them as they went forth into the light, and at last realised that the man was tall and slim, though, of course, he could not see his face.

He watched their parting, a long and tender farewell. The ardent lover kissed her upon the lips many times, kissed her cheeks, kissed her soft white hands, and then at last reluctantly released her and stood watching as she hurried on to the next belt of palms back to the landing-stage.

Afterwards he strode leisurely on behind her, and was soon lost to view in the black shadows.