When Gilda Tempest had disappeared in the dead of night among the
rhododendron bushes, Raife stood at the open latticed window of the old
library, which had so nearly been the scene of a second tragedy. He was
amazed at the squirrel-like movements of this wonderful girl, who had
just played the part of burglar with the dexterity of a practised hand.
Yet she had told the tragedy of a life-story with a restrained, dramatic
power that was convincing--at least to him. Again she had taken
possession of him and all his thoughts: his love and passion were for
her.
On the morning following these extraordinary occurrences, there was
seated an old gentleman, wearing blue spectacles, on a secluded seat on
the Parade at Brighton. He appeared to be immersed in a book that he
held close to his face. An observant onlooker would have noticed that
his attention was less engrossed in the book than in the passers-by, of
whom, at this point of the Parade, there were not many. A
neatly-uniformed nursemaid, with her two young children, approached the
seat and appeared to show intention of taking possession of the scant
amount of room that was left vacant. The old gentleman uttered a snarl,
and glared through his blue spectacles so ferociously that, by common
consent, the children refused this particular seat at that particular
moment. The old gentleman was again left in sole possession. In spite
of the book, impatience seemed to characterise his gestures. At last,
with a grunt of satisfaction, he observed, in the distance, the person
for whom he had waited.
An elderly lady shuffled her way along the front. As she approached
this secluded spot, after looking round warily, she took her place at
one end of the seat. The old gentleman raised his hat courteously and
said: "Well! where are they? Have you got them?"
In a beautiful voice, but in tremulous tones, the old lady said: "No, I
have not got them."
With a half-suppressed howl, he said: "What! you have not got them? You
lie! You are deceiving me."
Still tremulously, but quite restrained, she replied:
"No! I have not got them, and I am not deceiving you. Let me tell you
what happened."
In spite of the blue glasses the old man's face assumed a contorted
expression of anger that was hateful to behold. Grasping her arm with a
vicious grip, he almost shrieked: "Again I tell you, you lie! Where are
they? You dare not tell me you have bungled after all the care I took."
"Hush!" she whispered. "You will be heard. Yes! I bungled."
Then this innocent-looking old lady told the events of the previous
night at Aldborough Park, for it was Gilda Tempest disguised with
consummate craft. The old man writhed and fumed, as each incident of
that eventful night was narrated to him in the soft and musical tones of
this young criminal of the beauteous countenance. The crime of a
burglar is at all times contemptible. This story of an attempted
burglary was peculiarly repellent, coming from the lips of a young girl
who was so dearly loved by the "intended victim." To have stolen any
property belonging to Raife Remington would have been discreditable, but
to attempt, with all the skilled burglar's art, to steal those valuable
jewels of the baroness, which had been entrusted to Raife for safe
keeping--that was to place him in the most invidious position. It
sounded hateful in the hearing. Yet this old reprobate of the deepest
dye was the cause of this young girl's downfall, and he was furious at
her failure.
With a resumption of his usual self-control he hissed: "Those jewels are
worth thirty thousand pounds. You were clumsy to miss such a prize.
Now listen to me. That young fool's father killed your father."
Gilda shuddered, and tears trickled down the cheeks which had been
skilfully lined to disguise their youthful beauty.
Again, stooping towards her, his words were reduced almost to a whisper
as he said: "Look at me straight in the eyes, Gilda, and listen. You
must make love to that man. He cannot, and shall not resist you. He
must marry you, and you--must--ruin--him. That shall be your revenge.
It shall be my revenge--and your father's revenge."
Then, springing to his feet with extraordinary vigour, he added:
"Come now! Remember what I have said. It must be. It shall be."
People turned to look at this peaceful and distinguished-looking "old"
couple sauntering down the front to their hotel.
There is an unscrupulous type of villain in this world, whose power for
harm is unbounded. Even as the weasel, the stoat, and certain of her
types of ferocious animals, kill for the lust of killing, so these
evil-minded people pursue their depredations. The worst of this type
exercise a curious fascination over women.
It is not essential to discuss the possibilities of hypnotism,
mesmerism, or any other forms of mind influence, or thought
transference. A perusal of the newspapers, and even a general
observation of those around us is sufficient to satisfy us of the
existence of this power. Curiously, it would more generally seem to be
exercised for evil rather than good. Doctor Danilo Malsano exercised
his malicious influence over Gilda Tempest with all the malignancy of
the type of predatory blood-sucking animals, to which allusion has been
made.
It was easy, therefore, for plans to be made to encompass the downfall
and ruin of Raife Remington. Subterfuge brought clandestine meetings
between the young couple. The clandestine element is that which appeals
most strongly to the ordinary lover. Raife Remington loved Gilda
Tempest with a fierce passion, which he could not control, but, in many
senses, he was an ordinary lover.
He was now well aware of Gilda's skill as a "thief"--a burglar. The
thought rankled in his mind, but still he could not stave off the desire
for her company. A smile from her chased away the hateful reminiscence
of the night in the library at Aldborough Park, when she was fully
revealed as a thief. There were other mysterious circumstances that, in
his ordinary mood, he could not explain away, but when Gilda smiled and
looked at him with her appealing eyes, all doubt vanished.
He was certain of one thing--Doctor Malsano was a blackguard, and he
hated him. Again, his sense of reason--nay of duty--impelled him to
give information to the police that would lead to the arrest and
conviction of this arch-criminal--a criminal who used his uncanny powers
to employ, as a dupe, a sweet, beautiful girl whom he called his niece.
His influence appeared almost supernatural, and yet, his cowardice was
evident in the fact that he adopted such foul methods. So, in spite of
all this, when Gilda smiled, that baneful person, her uncle, was safe
from arrest as far as Raife was concerned.
There were many incongruities in this courtship. Their first meeting,
and each subsequent meeting, had been quite unconventional--yet there
was nought but pure thought as far as this couple were concerned when
they met.
The baleful influence of the doctor at other times alone made for
trouble.
In all these circumstances, then, it is not surprising that the quaint,
old-world, white room of the "Blue Boar" at Tunbridge Wells should have
become the rendezvous when it was the only opportunity that served.
Raife Remington's sense of proportion had restrained him for a week or
two, and he had not met Gilda. Doctor Malsano was not the type of man
to allow his victim to elude his machinations for long. Gilda was,
therefore, compelled to adopt the disguise of a hospital nurse, and,
with full instructions from information obtained by the doctor, visited
Tunbridge Wells. On the pretext of a patient who was expected from
town, she obtained a room at the "Blue Boar." It was not hard to invent
a ruse to ensure Raife's attendance at the "Blue Boar." When Gilda met
him on the staircase, her old influence returned, and under the
chaperonage of the landlord, Mr Twisegood, they started the interview.
The astute, old Twisegood chuckled as he discreetly left the room, but,
at the same time, he had no real knowledge of the state of affairs. Nor
was Raife aware that this "accidental" meeting had been cunningly
planned by Doctor Malsano.
For long they talked. Gilda exercised her fascinating arts, and Raife
succumbed more completely than ever. The conquest was complete, and
Raife arranged to meet her in town, where they should run less risk of
observation, and each should enjoy their own society unmolested by the
inquisitive.
During all this strange courtship the ordinary caresses, in which lovers
freely indulge, had been few indeed. Now, to-day, when Fate seemed
propitious, their caresses were less restrained, and, for the first
time, Raife kissed Gilda passionately. The fire of youthful kisses will
destroy discretion. The sight of a neatly-costumed nurse being
passionately embraced by the youthful owner of Aldborough Park would
have made an interesting film for a cinema. In real life the casual or
accidental witness of such a scene, is liable to be shocked. In this
instance the genial old landlord of the "Blue Boar" was ascending the
stairs, and saw sufficient of the impassioned incident, through a
mirror, to encourage him to give a loud and friendly cough. The process
of disentanglement was instant and complete. Most of us are familiar
with it. With a discreet tap at the door, which had been, with an
inadvertence which was frequent on such occasions, left partly open, the
old man announced: "If you please, Sir Raife, Lady Remington is coming
upstairs and would like to see you."
Raife merely exclaimed, in a tone that indicated panic, and the
exclamation consisted of one word only--a characteristically English
utterance, "What!" Hastily pushing the old man out of the room, and,
closing the door, he stood for a moment bewildered. Then Raife
ejaculated in short, disjointed sentences: "Good heavens! The mater!
What brings her here? How did she know?"
Gilda stood calmly. She had been well trained to avoid panic in an
emergency.
A man ceases to be an aristocrat when he allows panic to be more than
momentary. Sir Raife Remington, Bart., was an aristocrat. Gilda's
practised eye looked at the window and calculated the drop.
With a discretion inherited through generations of "service," Twisegood
had descended the old staircase.
Lady Remington, with the instinct of a mother, ascended the staircase.
Her rather "exalted" tones sounded from without:
"Is this the room, Twisegood?" Her hand was upon the handle of the
door.
Then did inspiration seize Raife.
Whispering hurriedly: "You go down this staircase," pointing to the
secret exit, "into the loose box at the bottom and wait your chance."
To Gilda, who had shown such dexterity in descending by a silken rope
from the library window at Aldborough Park, it was easy to find a "way
out" by a staircase, even if it did lead her into a loose box in a
stable!
When Lady Remington explained that the horse in her brougham had cast a
shoe, and that Twisegood's man was attending to it--and that Twisegood
had said that Sir Raife was upstairs, it became easier to understand why
Lady Remington was climbing those stairs at that unpropitious moment.
Sir Raife expressed his opinion of affairs to Twisegood at a later date.