Part 22 (2/2)
Raife winced, blushed, and stammered: ”You didn't tell me he was married.”
Hilda replied, with some show of spirit: ”No, Raife, you didn't give me a chance. In any case, I don't see that need make any difference. If Mr Brookman, or any other fellow countryman in distress, were unmarried, I should feel it my duty to be civil to them.”
Every word, uttered with an accentuated intonation, was a stab to Raife, who cursed himself for his foolish impetuosity.
Hilda concluded: ”Yes, Harold Brookman married my college chum, Lottie Devine. They've been married about four years. They have two children and are very happy. Lottie wouldn't be my chum if she were not a nice girl, and if Harold Brookman were not a nice man, he wouldn't have married Lottie. He's over here training for a Transatlantic air race, and I hope he'll win.”
Raife Remington's discomfiture was complete.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.
ANOTHER MYSTERIOUS VISITOR IN THE NIGHT.
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-fas.h.i.+oned 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, b.u.t.tressed 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed. 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.”
<script>