not. It was a meeting of disappointment tomany of the stately dames, and sometimes frigid daughters, that anAmerican woman should have been selected to reign as queen at thebeautiful old home, which, hitherto, had been regarded as a strongholdof English womanhood. These matters were, however, of slightconsequence to Hilda, whose happiness was supreme in the possession ofthe love of the handsome and dashing young aristocrat, whom Fortune hadthrown in her way.
She captured the hearts of all the men, and a large proportion of thewomen, with her frank and ingratiating manners. She over-ruledconvention without destroying good taste; the tenants and townspeoplewere completely won over by her cordiality and good nature, which wasfrequently lavish. The old landlord, Twisegood, added to his eveningcustom by narrating the free and unconventional manner in which she madeher first entry into his house. The old town of Tunbridge had not beenso gay since the days of farthingales, frills and furbelows.
Hilda excelled in most sports. At tennis, golf, and every pastime, sheled the way, and there was renewed life in clubs that had become, in asense, rusty for want of what is generally called "fresh blood."
Raife Remington, the woman-hater of a few months ago, had become themost courtly of lovers, and it only needed the joy of marriage bells tocomplete the symposium of human delight.
In human affairs, however, it is not to be supposed that Fate will notbe fickle, and cast a cloud to destroy the perfection of desire.Jealousy has ever been an accompaniment to love, and it draws nodistinction between the yokel and the aristocrat.
When Harold Brookman, in the competition flight from the Hendonaerodrome to Manchester, came to grief and descended rather hurriedly inthe home-croft of Aldborough Park, it was Hilda who, by chance,extricated him from a tangled mass of machinery. With a sense ofinitiative and promptitude she obtained assistance, and Harold Brookmanwas installed in a room at the Park, pending his recovery from thecrumpled state in which he found himself.
It has been customary to surround aeronauts with a halo of heroism, andHarold Brookman's exploits were the talk of the world of flying. Ithappened, unfortunately, that Harold possessed that form of good looksthat 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 theirfellow-countrymen when they happen to meet. Hilda Muirhead wassupremely happy in her love for Raife Remington, and he in turn, wassatisfied in their mutual devotion. It was unfortunate, therefore, thatRaife should have overheard Hilda's genuine and impulsive utterance asshe and the injured man met for the first time on the terrace after hisrecovery 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 agood 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 tous," 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 isunimportant where jealousy is concerned.
Raife nursed his indignation, and, without announcing his intention,went to London that afternoon. Lady Remington, realising that it wasnatural that Hilda should be pleased to meet one of her countrymen,especially in such exceptional circumstances, urged Harold Brookman toprolong his stay. In spite of his daring aerial exploits, Harold wasvery human, and the prospect of enjoying the hospitality of thischarming old lady, and the company of his attractive young countrywoman,was agreeable. So he stayed at Aldborough Park, and, when the slightrepairs that were necessary had been effected to his aeroplane, he madesome trial flights from the croft, which was admirably adapted for thepurpose.
It was natural that he should invite Hilda to accompany him on a flight,and she accepted the invitation with enthusiasm. The delights ofaviation have been described, and their fascination for the morecourageous type of woman is a matter of surprise to many, but it iseasily understood by the psychologist. Many days passed, and thewayward Raife sulked at his club in London.
Eventually he returned unannounced, as was his custom. He imagined thatHarold Brookman had taken his departure. He chose to drive in a cabthat 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 thedifference in their station in life. For a while, Raife's ill-humoursubsided, 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 havewhat you like, but bring me a bottle of your sparkling cider."
He ascended the stairs and entered the quaint white room. As he threwhimself into a chair, and awaited the landlord with the refreshment, hismind, which was already perturbed, reverted to the occasions when he hadmet Gilda Tempest in that same room. It also brought to his memory thetragic death of his father, and the extraordinary encounter with Gildain his library in the middle of the night. In spite of these episodesof crime, this strange girl still exercised an extraordinary fascinationover him. The fit of jealousy was still on him, and his prolonged fitof 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 callhim Harold next." Twisegood stood in the doorway, holding the silvertray of refreshments. The old man waited, wondering what could havedisturbed 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 notquite myself to-day, so don't take any notice of me, if I'mdisagreeable." He took a deep draught of the cider, and added: "What'sthe news up at the Park? I've been away for a few days."
Twisegood smacked his lips after a long pull at his favourite Kentishale, and commenced:
"Well, Master Raife, there be fine times. That American gentleman, hebe flying in his machine all over the place, and they do tell me thatMiss Muirhead, she be a real plucked 'un, and she goes up along withhim."
Raife did not wait for any more. The demon of jealousy and hatepossessed him. He rushed from the room and down the stairs, exclaimingin passionate tones: "I'll murder the brute, in spite of his Americanvoice."
Old Twisegood stood mystified by this extraordinary outburst. Hedescended slowly, wagging his head.
Raife drove up to the main entrance of Aldborough Park, and, as heentered, met his mother, Lady Remington. In a fierce rage he approachedher. "Mother! What's that American fellow doing here? He's got togo--and go at once."
Lady Remington was alarmed at her son's agitation, and endeavoured topacify him, saying: "Raife, what's the matter with you? You lookpositively deranged."
They went up the staircase together, and the old lady endeavoured topacify her son. They entered the library, and, with all the tact andpatience at her command, she tried to soothe his wounded feelings. Itseemed to her that some terrible streak of ill-fortune had entered intoher life, and that of her unfortunate son.
He rang the bell viciously for Edgson. No one else would have answeredthe 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, SirRaife, with his flying-machine."
In sharp tones, that were unfamiliar to the old servant, he rasped out:"Where is Miss Muirhead?"
The answer came back: "I think she is in the croft, too, Sir Raife."
Raife seized his hat, which he had flung upon the table, and descendedwith heavy tread to the hall. His powerful frame quivered with emotion.He slammed the door and, endeavouring to control himself, sauntereddown the terraces, and entered t
he croft by way of the stable-yard. Hewas just in time to hear the buzz of a rapidly-revolving engine, and,looking upwards, he saw an aeroplane winging its way at lightning speedover the turrets and twisted chimneys of the Tudor mansion that was his.At the far end of the croft he descried Hilda, his fiancee, waving ahandkerchief to the disappearing airman. His rage knew no bounds. Hewanted a gun to take a parting shot at this American, who had intrudedhimself on his happiness. He waited with folded arms and scowling face,until Hilda had tripped across the soft grass of the croft. She ranstraight up to him, and, before he had time to resist, threw her armsaround his neck. Her sweet voice, in genuine tones, rang in his ears:"Raife, Raife, how we have missed you. You dear, wicked old thing tohave run away from us."
The complete spontaneity of
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