Part 22 (1/2)

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 pa.s.sionate 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?”

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 descended with heavy tread to the hall. His powerful frame quivered with emotion.

He slammed the door and, endeavouring to control himself, sauntered down the terraces, and entered the croft by way of the stable-yard. He was just in time to hear the buzz of a rapidly-revolving engine, and, looking upwards, he saw an aeroplane winging its way at lightning speed over 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 a handkerchief to the disappearing airman. His rage knew no bounds. He wanted a gun to take a parting shot at this American, who had intruded himself on his happiness. He waited with folded arms and scowling face, until Hilda had tripped across the soft gra.s.s of the croft. She ran straight up to him, and, before he had time to resist, threw her arms around his neck. Her sweet voice, in genuine tones, rang in his ears: ”Raife, Raife, how we have missed you. You dear, wicked old thing to have run away from us.”

The complete spontaneity of her action, and the earnestness of her conduct, immediately softened his rage. For a while he said nothing.

She lingered with her arms still clinging to him, and appealed: ”Raife, why, I verily believe you are angry with me. Don't, dear Raife. It will break my heart if you, my hero, my own true love, should be angry with me.”

Then, as the cloud gradually removed from his stern countenance, she continued, pleadingly: ”What have I done, Raife? Was it only that stupid talk about Mr Brookman's American voice? Why, we always talk that way over there. If you had been away for a long time, wouldn't you like to hear an English voice, even if it was only dear old Edgson's, or one of your grooms' or gardeners'?”

The conquest was nearly complete. Raife's smile was only half-hearted as yet, however, as he said, in a tone of remonstrance: ”Yes, but they tell me you have been riding in that fellow's aeroplane.”

Hilda laughed merrily as she said: ”Of course I have. You dear heart, you don't have to be jealous about that. You great, big, brave darling.

You go up in one, and you will find there's no time for courting when you are chug-chugging through the air at sixty to seventy miles an hour.

You only want to court the sky, or else the clouds, then!”

He stopped and gazed into her eyes, and a gradual feeling of shame came over him, as it dawned upon him that his jealousy had savoured far more of the plebeian than the patrician. He was receiving a lesson from this pure-spirited, ingenuous American girl. She might be impulsive, but she was frank and pure-spirited. She had given up her love to her hero and she would be true to him.

He stooped lower and kissed her, saying: ”Forgive me, Hilda. I was jealous, and I was a veritable fool. There seems to be a kink in my character somewhere, and you have made me ashamed of myself.”

The reconciliation was nearly complete, and the first quarrel of the lovers had ended. Would there be any further rifts in the lute, or was there to be perfect peace after this ill-considered hurricane of jealousy?

Harold Brookman sailed through the clouds on his northward journey to Hendon aerodrome. He arrived without further mishap, and was received with acclamation by his comrades of the air. He was not aware of how imminent had been the quarrel between himself and his host, Sir Raife Remington. Nor was he aware of the unreasoning ferocity of the other man's jealousy.

The two lovers wandered, arm in arm, through the gardens. Their happiness was apparently restored, but Hilda Muirhead had received the first shock to her ideals. The wound was there. Would it be allowed to heal for ever, or would the malignant curse of the long years ago enter into her young life also?

Their progress was slow, and there was little conversation between them.

Here and there a gardener saluted them, and inwardly envied the young master and his bride ”that was to be.” Lady Remington watched them from the library window as, occasionally, they came into view. To her, also, happiness had, in part, returned after the distressing incidents of the morning. Her heart ached for her wayward son, and the future was fraught with danger. She loved Hilda already with a mother's love, and she was very anxious lest Raife's vagaries should destroy the peace of the young girl's life. She descended the broad staircase and met them as they sauntered along the terrace. She was the first to speak, with the intuitive knowledge that, by doing so, she might save embarra.s.sment.

She addressed herself to Raife:

”Wasn't it strange, Raife, that Mr Brookman should come from Cincinnati, and be married to Hilda's old college friend? What was her name, Hilda?”