They were happy days at Aldborough Park.
Each succeeding day seemed to complete the sum of Hilda Muirhead's
hopes. In addition to motor-car rides to Southport, the scene of
Raife's first meeting with "the other woman," Gilda Tempest, Hilda
learnt the joys of riding behind good horses. Raife was an expert whip
and drove a tandem as an expert. The countryside was again alive, now
that the wayward young man had returned to reside among them. There
were dinner-parties at the Park, and garden-parties, where Hilda was
introduced to the county families, some of whom were amiable, and even
affable, whilst others were not. It was a meeting of disappointment to
many of the stately dames, and sometimes frigid daughters, that an
American woman should have been selected to reign as queen at the
beautiful old home, which, hitherto, had been regarded as a stronghold
of English womanhood. These matters were, however, of slight
consequence to Hilda, whose happiness was supreme in the possession of
the love of the handsome and dashing young aristocrat, whom Fortune had
thrown in her way.
She captured the hearts of all the men, and a large proportion of the
women, with her frank and ingratiating manners. She over-ruled
convention without destroying good taste; the tenants and townspeople
were completely won over by her cordiality and good nature, which was
frequently lavish. The old landlord, Twisegood, added to his evening
custom by narrating the free and unconventional manner in which she made
her first entry into his house. The old town of Tunbridge had not been
so gay since the days of farthingales, frills and furbelows.
Hilda excelled in most sports. At tennis, golf, and every pastime, she
led the way, and there was renewed life in clubs that had become, in a
sense, rusty for want of what is generally called "fresh blood."
Raife Remington, the woman-hater of a few months ago, had become the
most courtly of lovers, and it only needed the joy of marriage bells to
complete the symposium of human delight.
In human affairs, however, it is not to be supposed that Fate will not
be fickle, and cast a cloud to destroy the perfection of desire.
Jealousy has ever been an accompaniment to love, and it draws no
distinction between the yokel and the aristocrat.
When Harold Brookman, in the competition flight from the Hendon
aerodrome to Manchester, came to grief and descended rather hurriedly in
the home-croft of Aldborough Park, it was Hilda who, by chance,
extricated him from a tangled mass of machinery. With a sense of
initiative and promptitude she obtained assistance, and Harold Brookman
was installed in a room at the Park, pending his recovery from the
crumpled state in which he found himself.
It has been customary to surround aeronauts with a halo of heroism, and
Harold Brookman's exploits were the talk of the world of flying. It
happened, unfortunately, that Harold possessed that form of good looks
that belongs to flying men, indicating firm resolve and determination.
Further, chance willed it that he should be an American.
Those who live under foreign flags are naturally attracted to their
fellow-countrymen when they happen to meet. Hilda Muirhead was
supremely happy in her love for Raife Remington, and he in turn, was
satisfied in their mutual devotion. It was unfortunate, therefore, that
Raife should have overheard Hilda's genuine and impulsive utterance as
she and the injured man met for the first time on the terrace after his
recovery from the accident.
"Well now, sakes alive, it's good to hear your voice, Mr Brookman.
I've been away from home so long, it seemed I was never going to hear a
good American voice again."
Raife, who came over on to the terrace at that moment, glared at Harold,
and in response to Hilda's invitation: "Hullo, Raife, come and talk to
us," he replied, rather gruffly, "I'm sorry, I'm busy just now.
Besides, I haven't got a good American voice."
The incident should have been quite unimportant, but nothing is
unimportant where jealousy is concerned.
Raife nursed his indignation, and, without announcing his intention,
went to London that afternoon. Lady Remington, realising that it was
natural that Hilda should be pleased to meet one of her countrymen,
especially in such exceptional circumstances, urged Harold Brookman to
prolong his stay. In spite of his daring aerial exploits, Harold was
very human, and the prospect of enjoying the hospitality of this
charming old lady, and the company of his attractive young countrywoman,
was agreeable. So he stayed at Aldborough Park, and, when the slight
repairs that were necessary had been effected to his aeroplane, he made
some trial flights from the croft, which was admirably adapted for the
purpose.
It was natural that he should invite Hilda to accompany him on a flight,
and she accepted the invitation with enthusiasm. The delights of
aviation have been described, and their fascination for the more
courageous type of woman is a matter of surprise to many, but it is
easily understood by the psychologist. Many days passed, and the
wayward Raife sulked at his club in London.
Eventually he returned unannounced, as was his custom. He imagined that
Harold Brookman had taken his departure. He chose to drive in a cab
that attended at the station, and called on the old landlord, Twisegood,
on his way home. The old man greeted him with his customary enthusiasm.
The somewhat incongruous couple were really friends, in spite of the
difference in their station in life. For a while, Raife's ill-humour
subsided, and he greeted the landlord cheerily.
"Well, Twisegood, how are you, and what's the news?"
Without waiting for a reply, he smacked the old man on the back, saying:
"Come along, let's go up to the white room and have a chat. You have
what you like, but bring me a bottle of your sparkling cider."
He ascended the stairs and entered the quaint white room. As he threw
himself into a chair, and awaited the landlord with the refreshment, his
mind, which was already perturbed, reverted to the occasions when he had
met Gilda Tempest in that same room. It also brought to his memory the
tragic death of his father, and the extraordinary encounter with Gilda
in his library in the middle of the night. In spite of these episodes
of crime, this strange girl still exercised an extraordinary fascination
over him. The fit of jealousy was still on him, and his prolonged fit
of sulking in London had not alleviated it. He sprang from his chair,
and paced the room angrily, muttering:
"It's good to hear your American voice, Mr Brookman. Bah! She'll call
him Harold next." Twisegood stood in the doorway, holding the silver
tray of refreshments. The old man waited, wondering what could have
disturbed the young master in this way. Turning on his angry stride,
Raife said:
"Come in, Twisegood. Put the tray down and let's sit and talk. I'm not
quite myself to-day, so don't take any notice of me, if I'm
disagreeable." He took a deep draught of the cider, and added: "What's
the news up at the Park? I've been away for a few days."
Twisegood smacked his lips after a long pull at his favourite Kentish
ale, and commenced:
"Well, Master Raife, there be fine times. That American gentleman, he
be flying in his machine all over the place, and they do tell me that
Miss Muirhead, she be a real plucked 'un, and she goes up along with
him."
Raife did not wait for any more. The demon of jealousy and hate
possessed him. He rushed from the room and down the stairs, exclaiming
in passionate tones: "I'll murder the brute, in spite of his American
voice."
Old Twisegood stood mystified by this extraordinary outburst. He
descended slowly, wagging his head.
Raife drove up to the main entrance of Aldborough Park, and, as he
entered, met his mother, Lady Remington. In a fierce rage he approached
her. "Mother! What's that American fellow doing here? He's got to
go--and go at once."
Lady Remington was alarmed at her son's agitation, and endeavoured to
pacify him, saying: "Raife, what's the matter with you? You look
positively deranged."
They went up the staircase together, and the old lady endeavoured to
pacify her son. They entered the library, and, with all the tact and
patience at her command, she tried to soothe his wounded feelings. It
seemed to her that some terrible streak of ill-fortune had entered into
her life, and that of her unfortunate son.
He rang the bell viciously for Edgson. No one else would have answered
the noisy peal that indicated the master's rage. When he appeared,
Raife demanded: "Where is Mr Brookman?"
The butler replied, with deference: "I think he's in the croft, Sir
Raife, with his flying-machine."
In sharp tones, that were unfamiliar to the old servant, he rasped out:
"Where is Miss Muirhead?"