Part 23 (1/2)

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 apt.i.tude 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--”

Un.o.bserved 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, a.s.sailed 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 circ.u.mstances.

”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 courts.h.i.+p, 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.”