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?"

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-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, 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."