Long after Hilda had retired to bed one night, Raife and Mr Muirhead
having put on their heavy motor coats, sat enjoying the moonlight, and
chatting over the events of the day. There was much to talk of, for
there were many questions of settlements, entailing long consultations
with lawyers. No reference was made between the two men to Raife's
jealousy of the last few days. An interview was arranged with Mr
Kellaway, the family solicitor, and the late Sir Henry Remington's old
friend. The services of Messrs. Gordon and Gordon, the solicitors of
Edinburgh, whom the late Sir Henry Remington had chosen to make his
will, would have to be enlisted.
Mr Muirhead explained that, whereas, he did not own valuable estates
like Aldborough Park, his financial interests in American securities
were extensive and sound. He proposed to endow Hilda with enough of his
worldly wealth to enable her to play the Lady Bountiful among Raife's
peasantry and elsewhere, and, at the same time, support herself in those
directions in which every independent-minded American girl is
accustomed.
They were talking earnestly in this manner, when Mr Muirhead remarked,
"Your servants are about late, to-night. I suppose that's a gamekeeper.
I haven't much knowledge of such things. We don't preserve game in the
United States--at least," he added, "not to the extent that you appear
to do."
Raife glanced in the direction indicated, and he saw a figure creeping
stealthily in the dark shadows of the clump of cedars and pines. "That
is not a gamekeeper," he said.
He rose, followed by Mr Muirhead, and started in the direction of the
retreating figure, which immediately commenced to run. Raife threw off
his motor coat, exclaiming: "Heavens! I wish I had my revolver."
Mr Muirhead, as is the practice of many Americans, had his. It was an
old-fashioned Deringer. He handed it to Raife, saying: "Take mine."
Then began a chase, but the retreating figure had, by now, a good start.
Down the beech avenue for a hundred yards, then through a gap into a
croft, skirting a hedgerow and over a gate at the end, Raife arrived in
time to see his quarry jump into a grey car. There were two shots, one
at Raife as he clambered over the gate, and one from Raife as the car
sped down a side lane that led to the main road. Raife was near enough
to see that the figure he had hunted was the omnipresent phantom Apache,
who had haunted him half-way over Europe and Egypt.
In the morning Hilda appeared fresh and bright, garbed in a gown of grey
tweed. She and Raife were strolling down a long, straight path, where
nectarines and peaches were trained against a high, grey-red brick wall,
buttressed and lichen-covered on top. On the other side were espalier
apple-trees and all those things which go to make an old English garden.
They passed through an arch in the wall into an orchard. The blossom
of an orchard in springtime is the most inspiring sight that humanity
can wish for. There is hope in every petal.
They had talked lightly of many things. Most of their conversation
pertained to the beauty of everything around. Hilda had thrown away the
paper that she had found under the window of her bedroom, but in spite
of her determination to forget the incident, some strange impulse
impelled her to allude to it now, although many days had passed. So she
said: "Oh, I say, Raife! In my room, the first night I was here, I
picked up a piece of paper. On it was typewritten something like this:
`It is dangerous to rob.' It was placed under the window that opens on
to the balcony. I suppose some one who stayed there before me was fond
of texts and that sort of thing, but it struck me as strange."
Raife's face clouded. The supreme happiness of that spring morning,
with its exquisite environment, had vanished. He had practically
forgotten his chase after the elusive Apache the night before. He had
been happy for a brief period while among his own on a superb spring
morning--and he now counted Hilda among his own. Why should he be
persistently pursued by a malevolent fate? He laughed at the incident,
and said: "Yes, I expect that is so. You see, I have been away so long.
I expect mother has had some dear old lady staying here, and she
dropped one of her texts, and the maid did not notice it."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Doctor Malsano sat in his den. It might be called a studio, a library,
a laboratory, for he was a master of many crafts. A maid knocked at his
door and announced, "There is a man named Lesigne wishes to see you,
sir."
"Ask him in," snapped the doctor.
A pale-faced young man, whose features resembled a combination of
cunning and all that is decadent in human physiognomy, entered
deferentially. The doctor glared at him.
"Have you bungled again?" the doctor asked.
"No, monsieur! I have not bungled. I left the note, as you told me,
under the young lady's window--the window of the young lady at
Aldborough Park. Since then I visited the place again and the man, Sir
Remington, he chased me across the park. I escaped and I fired at him.
He fired at me. It was difficult. I enter the car. I get away. I am
here. I await instructions. I am at your service, sir!" Doctor
Malsano took this narration of an exciting incident, as he would have
cracked an egg at breakfast-time. The young man stood deferentially, as
the old man spoke. "Lesigne, you are a bungler, but you seem to have
done this rather well. Go to your room and sleep. I may want you at
any moment."
The young man turned and left the room. He was completely under the
control of this Machiavelli--the person whose evil influence controlled
the fate of many, whilst he appeared indolent.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
They were merry days at Aldborough Park on the occasion of the wedding
of Hilda Muirhead to Sir Raife Remington. Again the church bells
pealed, and the tenants and retainers met for a feast, at which there
was much rejoicing. Edgson, the old butler, was not there. It was his
privilege to be at the house in Mayfair, and there he took his place,
honoured in the rank of servitors, which had been swelled from those at
Aldborough Park.
Mr Muirhead, with an aptitude which belongs to the aristocrats of the
United States, took his part remarkably well. Lady Remington was
gracious and kindly to all. These were Raife's happiest moments. His
innate modesty made him the more attractive to every one, for there was
the dominating personality of a strong, active man pervading the whole
situation. Hilda had no doubts. There was no sense of perturbation.
She was radiant, happy, and beautiful. She accepted everything. Lady
Remington tendered every loving service to her, personally, and she was
not allowed time to reflect on the "other woman." The "other woman" was
only known to herself and Raife. The others knew not of her. Raife and
herself did not speak of this dread apparition which had by some
mysterious means crossed the path of their perfect love several times.
A wedding at St George's, Hanover Square, is frequently an impressive
ceremony. On the day of Raife's wedding there was more than the usual
crowd of bystanders. The church was filled with a smartly-dressed
number of society women and men. There were no white horses, but a
Rolls-Royce and a Mercedes car took their place. The pages, dressed in
the Tudor costume of the period of Edward the Sixth, were there, and a
throng of people who represented many grades of the peerage. Hilda was
dressed as the best Court dressmakers of London, alone, can dress a
woman for an occasion. Raife, with the help of a Cork Street tailor,
was immaculate, and his best man was Edward Mutimer, his old college
chum, who was with him on the front at Southport when he met Gilda
Tempest for the first time.
The ceremony of marriage was complete. The choir had sung. The
organist had played the Bridal March from "Lohengrin." It was not an
occasion for Mendelssohn's Wedding March. The rice had been thrown and
the gaping crowd of onlookers were satisfied. Raife and Hilda were
alone, for a few moments, in the Rolls-Royce car. They were the
briefest moments of his short lifetime. They did not talk, for there
was too much cause for thought.
Smartest among the well-dressed women in St George's, Hanover Square,
was Gilda Tempest. It was not hard, with the confidence and skill which
had served her on so many occasions, for Gilda to join the guests who
were invited to the reception that followed the wedding. The occasion
was quite conventional, and Hilda had left to prepare for departure on
the honeymoon. Every one was chatting merrily and Raife was leaving the
room, when, to his intense surprise, he was confronted by Gilda.
"You here?" he exclaimed.
"Yes, Raife. I am here. I must talk to you, I am so sad--so alone.
Let me talk to you. It will probably be the last time. Let me talk to
you--"
Unobserved by the merry crowd of guests who were bandying commonplaces
to the sipping of champagne and various wines, Raife led Gilda into a
conservatory which overlooked a drab old London garden--or backyard,
with a lilac bush in full blossom.
Raife spoke harshly: "What do you want? Why do you come here, to-day?--
to-day of all days! Why do you come here?"
Gilda Tempest spoke. In short, staccato accents she said: "Raife!
Raife, I must speak to you. You are the only person in this wide world,
to whom I can speak. Let me speak to you. Raife! I must talk, just
for the briefest while."
All the old and strange fascination of this extraordinary girl returned.
Raife stood entranced by this absorbing figure. The scene that
followed was unparalleled in the history of a wedding-day. Her beauty
had returned to her. She was no longer haggard, and there were no lines
to mar her face. Her whole soul appealed to him, and, in spite of all
the conventions, he responded.
Raife Remington fell--and fell in a most inconceivable manner.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The time drew near for the departure of the wedded couple. Hilda,
looking charming in her travelling-dress, was going round and saying
good-bye to the guests. The last farewell spoken, she looked round for
her husband. A sudden premonition of something disastrous, something
awful, assailed her and communicated itself to the others. Where was
Raife? A dozen voices cried out. There was a hurried search in every
room where he could possibly be. A few moments of agonised suspense and
wonder, and then the horrible truth was revealed.
The bridegroom had disappeared!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
On the cliffs of Cromer were a hat and coat. The local police had been
duly informed of the event, and the inspector, with a sergeant, were
investigating the circumstances.
"Looks like suicide," said the inspector. "It's a good coat, too.
Well, let's get to work. What's in the pockets? We shall have the
newspaper men round presently, and we must be ready for them when they
get here. Curse the newspapers! Our job would be much easier if it
were not for them. They smell out a tragedy like a fly finds treacle."
First came a silver card-case, with coronet and initials in
multi-coloured jewels, "R.R." The cards were inscribed "Sir Raife
Remington, Bart., Aldborough Park, Tunbridge Wells." This was a
card-case presented by Hilda Muirhead in the happy days of courtship,
which ended in marriage.
A letter, in brief, rasping sentences, was the next discovery. "Kismet!
Allah wills it. It was not to be. There is a curse in my life, and
now I abandon my life." The letter was not signed.
The inspector tossed the letter to the sergeant, who, having read it,
remarked, laconically: "Ten to one, there's a woman in the case."
The newspapers were very busy for many days after Raife's coat and hat
had been found on the cliffs at Cromer.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Again Doctor Malsano sat in his den, and there was an expression of
triumph on his face. Gilda Tempest was there, and the doctor spoke
soothingly.
"Gilda, we are approaching the end. You played your part very well the
other day at the wedding ceremony."
Gilda shuddered. The full force of the crime that she had been
compelled to commit, confronted her.
Case-hardened, and soaked in the jaundiced atmosphere of criminality,
the doctor continued to smile.
"Ha! ha! Remington thought he would escape. Your father killed him and
he killed your father. But I am here, and his son shall not escape.
Gilda, you must complete the ruin of that young fool. The vendetta is
not complete."
Gilda writhed as the old man murmured these hateful words. She loved
Raife, and, in her sane moments, would have given more than her life for
him. The baneful influence of her uncle had led her to wield a fateful
power over the man she loved.
The scene that followed the disappearance of the bridegroom on the
wedding-day in Mayfair does not admit of description.
Lady Remington, chastened by a sequence of sad events, remained stately,
and carried off the situation with a grace that softened the
difficulties of those trying moments.
The pride of Hilda Muirhead--Lady Remington--had been sorely tried. Mr
Reginald Pomeroy Muirhead would have, unhesitatingly, shot Raife
Remington if they had met.
Easy is the Avernian descent, and Raife had yielded to the malignant
control of Doctor Malsano.
A newspaper sensation does not last very long, and the disappearance of
Sir Raife Remington no longer occupied the space that would be given to
a Cabinet crisis.
The newspaper man on "a crime story" is not easily set aside. The
intelligence of the police is far beyond that which they are paid for.
There were certain discrepancies in the circumstantial evidence which
went to show that Sir Raife Remington had committed suicide.
A paragraph appeared in the daily papers to the effect that: "It is
reported that Sir Raife Remington, who so mysteriously disappeared on
the day of his wedding, has been seen in Paris."