Reading books romantic stories you will plunge into the world of feelings and love. Most of the time the story ends happily. Very interesting and informative to read books historical romance novels to feel the atmosphere of that time.An Unknown Lover by Mrs George de Horne Vaizey (hardest books to read TXT) đź“–
- Author: Mrs George de Horne Vaizey
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At each turn of the dusty path she glanced ahead with shrinking eyes, each bungalow held a possibility, a dread. Did he live there? Was he perhaps even now looking out from behind those shrouding-blinds? And of what was Dorothea thinking as she sat so silently by her side? The look in her sweet, tired eyes, the clinging touch of the thin hand were so eloquent of love that Katrine’s heart could not but be content with her welcome, but her thoughts were awhirl.
It was a relief to both women when the bungalow was reached, and the appearance of the small son set their tongues free. Dorothea flushed with pride as she listened to her friend’s appreciation of her son’s beauty and charm, and the urchin, scenting the arrival of a new slave, put forth his best wiles. He was a beautiful child, but in a colourless, fragile fashion which differentiated him sadly from the children at home. As Katrine held his limp little hand and looked at the tracery of blue veins on the delicate forehead, her heart swelled with pity and tenderness.
“I held a child, a little boy like this, in my arms all the time in,—in the boat, Doll!” she said softly. “He comforted me! I realised then—what it might mean—”
“Yes!” Dorothea’s voice had an edge of pain. Her own treasure was held by so frail a thread that the value of him could not be discussed. Katrine divined as much, and switched the conversation to the safer subject of appearances.
“He’s adorable, Doll. A gem! Beyond all my dreams. And such a discreet blend! Your eyes, and Jack’s nose. Jack’s hair, your complexion—”
“Ah, my dear, that’s a lost joy! Don’t talk of complexions to me, and you so pink and white. Katrine, you are so pretty! I never thought you were going to be so pretty, though, of course, I’ve had photographs.”
Involuntarily Katrine’s eyes turned towards the mantelpiece, where a certain photograph had been wont to stand, a bold photograph which had made eyes at bachelor guests; had first pitied, and then decoyed. “I give you my word it looked as if it wanted to come!” The blood rose in her cheeks; looking across the room at Dorothea, she perceived that she also had flushed. Had she read the unspoken thought?
Once again the child’s garrulity came to the rescue, but while she played with him and drank her tea Katrine was conscious that Dorothea’s eyes were wandering towards the clock, and that she was summoning courage for an announcement which had to be made.
Presently it came.
“Shall I take you to your room, dear? Your boxes have arrived and you must be longing to have a bath and change. And it’s getting late. Pour o’clock. There is just an hour before—Jim comes!”
“Comes here?”
Dorothea nodded.
“He insisted. I tried to make it later, but it was no use. Five o’clock, not a moment later.”
Katrine rose hastily. Suppose he came earlier, and found her unprepared! She was eager to reach the stronghold of her own room.
“I think,” she announced haughtily, “it’s presumptuous! One wants a little time... Send word that I’m tired, and prefer to wait until to-morrow.”
Dorothea held out her hands with a gesture which signified that she might send as many messages as she pleased, but the result would be the same.
“I’ll stay in my room!” Katrine threatened.
Dorothea laughed.
“It would make no difference! He’d interview you through the door, he’d say all that he had to say, only—we should all overhear! It’s no use, Kitty, you might as well give in. When Jim Blair makes up his mind it’s useless to fight. He carries it through.”
Not this time! Katrine said to herself. Not this time. Nevertheless it seemed impossible to avoid the meeting. It had to come. Perhaps the truest wisdom lay in getting it over. She looked at Dorothea, a deep questioning glance, mutely imploring confidence, but Dorothea would speak of nothing but such practical matters as baths, the temperature of water, the opening and unpacking of trunks. Not once had she mentioned Bedford’s name. How much, how little, did Dorothea divine?
Alone in the quaint un-English bedroom Katrine bathed and made her toilette. Dorothea’s loving hands had already opened the box which had come safely through so many perils, and there, upon the topmost tray, lay the clothes which had been packed with careful forethought for this special occasion. A fine white gown of an elaborate simplicity which bore the hall-mark of Grizel’s taste, dainty shoes and stockings, the touch of blue which was necessary to the success of any costume intended for Katrine, even the large tortoise-shell pins for her hair. With what expectation, what fond, shy hopes had they been laid together! It had been with something like the reverence of a bride for her wedding robe, that she had smoothed those folds. Katrine shivered. An overwhelming pity rose in her heart, not alone for herself, but also for the good, tender man for whom was stored so bitter a disappointment. Patient, trustful Jim Blair, who was even now awaiting her coming with a lover’s eagerness and impatience! A moment later, her thoughts had flown back on the wing of a feminine impulse to a still dearer personality.
On shipboard it had been difficult to attain a delicacy of toilette; she had been swathed in veils, hot and wind-blown,—it was impossible to strangle a truant wish that Bedford might see her now!
Katrine stood rigid by the doorway, gathering courage, then desperately flung it open. The unfamiliar scent of the East assailed her nostrils, that scent which even more than sight proclaimed a change of country. She paced the long corridor, and caught the sound of Dorothea’s voice. She was talking; a deeper tone was heard in reply. Jim Blair had arrived! In another moment she would meet him face to face. It seemed to Katrine as if at that sound every pulse in her own body ceased beating; there came a moment of breathlessness, of almost swooning inability to think or move, then once again she braced herself, and opened the door.
Against the light, his back turned towards her, stood a tall, uniformed figure. Dorothea, flushed and trembling, swept forward and enveloped her friend in a fervid embrace. “It is Jim!” she whispered in low, intent accents. “Jim Blair. Be kind to him, Katrine, be kind!”
She slid out of the retaining arms, a wraith-like embodiment of the Dorothea who had been, and sped from the room. The door closed behind her, and Katrine stood, a motionless figure, watching another, motionless as her own. Had he heard? Did he realise her presence?
He was tall and broad; the lines of his uniform fitted tightly to his figure. He looked a man of whom a woman might be proud, but he was a man without a personality; a man whose face was hidden.
Katrine laid her hand on the back of a couch and spoke two trembling words:
“Captain Blair!”
At the sound of her voice he turned, wheeling towards her with a swift light movement, so that she might see his face, might look in his eyes—grey, magnetic eyes, curiously light against the sunburn of his face...
Five minutes later, seated upon the huge bamboo couch, supported by strong arms which seemed to bound the world, Katrine slowly recovered collected thought.
“You—are—Jim! ... Jim is—You! ... Then what of Captain Bedford? Where is he? Is there a Captain Bedford? Is he a real living man, or just a fictitious person invented for—”
“Indeed no! He is real enough, poor fellow, but in Egypt still, laid by the heel; unable to move. I only—only took his place!”
“I think,” announced Katrine slowly, “I am very angry!”
It seemed an incongruous statement to make, considering the position and appearance of the speaker, but the hearer received it with a gravity which showed that his own conscience was not altogether at ease.
“Dearest, before you judge, let me speak! Hear what I have to say! I had no intention of deceiving you. Such an idea never entered my head until at the last moment a cable arrived to say that Bedford was incapacitated, and could not sail. We were worried, all of us, to think that you should miss his help. I was racking my brains to think what I could do, when the inspiration came to meet you myself. It was an easy matter to get off for a few weeks, as there was leave owing to me, and I had started almost before I had time to think. Then came misgivings! I did not know how you would take it, if it would seem to you like going back on my promise. I had promised to keep on neutral ground for three months, and a tête-à -tête on shipboard seemed hardly playing the game.—I started on the heat of an impulse, afire to see you at the first possible moment; I landed at Port Said in a blue funk, the joy at the thought of meeting swallowed in dread of what you might say. I would have given a pile at that moment to have been safely back in India. Then—you know how! we met on shore. I knew you at the first glance, and, Katrine! you knew me. No matter who I was, or by what name I called myself, you belonged to me, and you knew it!
“At that moment, for the first time, it flashed into my head to take Bedford’s place in Bedford’s name. I had seen the list of passengers, and I knew no one on board. Ours is an out-of-the-way station, and I have seldom been home these last years. It seemed to me that if I kept close and avoided the smoke-room, I might very well get through the rest of the voyage without an explanation as to name. And I remembered what you had said—all the little feminine arguments you had used rose up and argued with me as they had never done before. You said that to meet a man with whom you were expected, almost pledged, to fall in love, was a big handicap to success; that if we could have a chance of meeting in the ordinary way, as strangers pledged to no special interest, we could test the strength of the mutual attraction far more surely. And another time you said (I think this influenced me more than anything else!) you said that one glance at my face, five minutes in my society, would tell you more than a hundred letters! Do you remember saying that? The inference was that the shape of my nose or ears was to count more than character.”
His strong hands pulled her round, so that her eyes met his.
“Katrine! do you like my ears? Are you satisfied with them now that you see them in flesh?”
“I take no interest in your ears. What are your ears to me? I was thinking of Jim Blair’s ears, and
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