Chapter Nineteen. Gilda Receives a Staggering Blow.

Gilda Tempest sat in her room in her uncle’s well-appointed flat in Bloomsbury. Her face showed traces of great mental strain. There were no lines in her face, but a drawn expression, which her enemies would have called haggard. She held a copy of the Morning Post, and was reading it leisurely until her attention was attracted by a paragraph as follows:

“The engagement has been announced of Sir Raife Remington, Bart., of Aldborough Park, Tunbridge Wells, to Miss Hilda Muirhead, daughter of Reginald Pomeroy Muirhead, Esq., President of the Fifth National Bank of Illinois, U.S.A. We understand that the marriage will take place shortly at St. George’s, Hanover Square.”

Gilda read this announcement three times. The third time she threw the paper on the floor and stamped upon it. Then, clutching her head with her hands, she sank on to a lounge and sobbed violently, exclaiming:

“What have I done to deserve this? Raife! Raife! You were the only one who could have saved me from this hideous nightmare, called life. I have lost you!” Her sobs choked further utterance, and she collapsed, huddled into a tangled mass of broken-hearted, crumpled womanhood.

Good, bad, or indifferent, Gilda Tempest had one affection which had penetrated her heart. Her love for Raife was sincere and with all the temptestuous fury of a jealous woman she now hated Hilda Muirhead.

She hissed the words between her sobs, “Daughter of Reginald Pomeroy Muirhead, President of the Fifth National Bank of Illinois! Why must she rob me of the only hope I had in life?” With a desperate effort she rose from the lounge and, straightening herself to her full height, staggered across the room to a full-length mirror, where she stood rigidly glaring at her own presentment. The face that had been drawn before she had read the announcement in the Morning Post, was now distorted, and her beautiful hair was dishevelled. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Passion was written on the face that now showed lines, lines of rage and rebellion. “I will not obey any more! My life has been a torture. I mutiny! I will win, or I will die!”

The door opened softly. Doctor Malsano stood there with folded arms, and in a still, soothing tone, he said, “Gilda, child. Come, tell me what is the meaning of this?”

Gilda turned on him with an expression fierce and defiant. For many seconds neither spoke. Then, urbanely, the doctor murmured soothingly: “Come, Gilda! Let me help you in your trouble. What is the reason of your distress?”

The girl stood erect, throbbing with intense emotion. Again there was a long silence. Then, bursting into sobs again, she pointed to the newspaper and said, “Read that. See! See what you have done. You have made me a robber, and now you have robbed me of the only desire I have on earth. I will rob you now, for I will kill myself.”

The doctor smiled and, crossing the room, picked up the paper. Then he approached the girl and said suavely: “Show me, Gilda. What shall I read?”

The girl seized the paper and pointed to the paragraph. He read it, and his face momentarily lost its ingratiating expression, and he muttered, “Bah! that fool Lesigne.” He recovered himself and led the girl to the lounge. Smoothing her hands and gazing earnestly into her eyes he talked. “Gilda! this is unfortunate, and that fool Lesigne is to blame. He is not worth his money. I shall dispose of him if he is not cleverer. He has bungled more than once. I sent him to Cairo. His report to me was incomplete. I did not know it was as bad as this. Gilda, I am your uncle, your guardian. We will alter this somehow. Child, go to sleep now. I will make my plans.”

The mysterious power of this man had its influence. He left the room. Gilda, still sobbing but pacified, did the doctor’s bidding and slept.

He went to his room and turned the key in the door. He flung himself into a chair and snatched a phial from a table at his side, drinking the full contents. Every indication of benevolence had left his face, and now it showed signs of torture. He cursed violently, murmuring: “That fool Lesigne! How shall I dispose of him? He bungled at Nice—at Cuneo—at Hammersmith—now at Cairo. I must kill him somehow, for he knows too much.” The drug now began to take effect and his features relaxed. Just before sleep overtook him he muttered:

“She must avenge her father’s death. The feud must be carried on. I will see to it to-morrow.” The doctor slept peacefully in the deep recess of the big arm-chair. The soft light of the solitary lamp reflected from a distance on his face. There was a smile on his face. A close observer would have noticed that it was cruel—sardonic, and that the breathing was stertorous.

When Raife, Mr Muirhead and Hilda arrived at Tunbridge Wells, they decided that they should stroll through the town before driving to Aldborough Park. It was morning-time. There was no hurry, and Hilda had never seen an old-world English town. They entered the motor-car which awaited them at the station and Raife ordered the chauffeur to drive to the “Blue Boar.” On the way he said: “If you were English, I would not dare to do anything so unconventional as this, but I feel I know you will like it, and I want you to see one of our old-world posting-houses. It is a fine type of an English inn.”

When they pulled into the stable-yard and had dismounted, Hilda was charmed with the quaintness of everything. Mr Twisegood had heard their arrival, and greeted them with all the pomp and ceremony at his command. With the inevitable “Lud a mussy!” which was a prelude to most of his speech, he said, “Why, Sir Raife, we’ve missed you this many a long day; I’m sure, sir, as ’ow we welcomes you ’ome, sir.”

Hilda, after the manner of American girls, walked “right in,” and Mr Twisegood had soon invited her to look over the house. Raife took Mr Muirhead into the parlour, saying: “Now, sir, you have mixed some delightful cocktails for me in Cairo; will you allow me to introduce to you an old English coaching drink in an old English coaching and posting-house? Mary!”

In response to his call a rosy-cheeked, buxom maid appeared.

“Bring two glasses of sloe gin and put them in two of those old ‘rummers.’ Bring me the bottle and I will pour them out,” were Raife’s instructions.

There was no time to contrast the merits of sloe gin with cocktails, for Hilda’s voice was heard from the top of the staircase. “Father, oh, do come! Here’s the sweetest old room I ever saw. It’s all white, and smells of lavender.”

They climbed the staircase and entered the room. Whilst they were admiring the whiteness and the quaintness of it, Raife’s mind was charged with the memory of the last occasion when he had been there, and of other curious occasions. He remembered his meeting there with Gilda Tempest, dressed as a hospital nurse; his mother outside the door and Gilda escaping by the secret staircase to the loose box in the stable below. Altogether he was sorry he had brought them to the “Blue Boar.” He crossed the room and looked through the latticed window into the stable-yard. Another car had arrived, and the chauffeur was just starting under the archway. The sight of that chauffeur was strangely reminiscent. His coat was open and betrayed a loose, flowing black necktie. Was it possible—could it be that infernal Apache fellow? What was he doing there? Was there no rest from this vigilant spectre who traced him everywhere?

Raife was maddened with the combination of incidents which had spoilt his return to Aldborough Park with his fiancée. Making an excuse to leave the room, he ran downstairs, and, hastily swallowing a full glass of the abandoned sloe gin, he went into the yard and asked the chauffeur: “Did you see the number of that car that was here just now?”

“No, sir,” came from the man.

He found the solitary ostler and asked him whether he knew the car or anything about it. The man had been feeding the horse in the loose box and had not seen the car.

Raife was a good-tempered man, but he was morose for a while. After the disconcerting incident of the stable-yard, and the somewhat mixed recollections caused by the visit to the white room, Raife decided that it was best to drive straight to Aldborough Park, and postpone the stroll through the town. As they drove, the apparition of Gilda Tempest in the garb of a hospital nurse, yielding to his caresses in the white room, haunted his mind. He had waived aside the Apache spectre. He could fight him, but he could not fight this apparition.

Hilda Muirhead sat opposite to him. Presently she said: “You look troubled, Raife. Has anything real serious happened?”

Raife forced a smile, and answered cheerily: “No, my dear! I’ve got a bit of a headache. One isn’t used to trains after the quietude of the desert.”

Then anent nothing, which was not her wont, Hilda added. “Oh, say! Raife. After you had left the queer white room I discovered a little door behind a curtain. It wasn’t a cupboard. I’m sure it led somewhere. It looked so cunning and mysterious. Do tell me where it leads to.”

This was the door of the narrow staircase leading to the loose box in the stable, through which Gilda Tempest had escaped when Lady Remington was about to enter the room. Raife winced at the question. The sweet young face of his fiancée opposite contrasted strangely with the face of Gilda, whom he had taught himself to hate. He replied: “Yes. There is a staircase there. I’ll show it to you some day, perhaps.” The last word qualified the promise, for he had no intention of showing it to her.

The handsome and silent-running Rolls-Royce car sped merrily over the smooth roads up and down the Kentish hills—the roads of “the garden of England,” and it was spring time. The sun of an English spring day is not as the sun of the Egyptian desert, but it is sufficient to reveal the tender buds and dainty blossom of the hedgerow. As they sped through the narrow roads that led to Aldborough Park, it made an exquisite picture. It was a picture that was entirely unfamiliar to Hilda. She may have read of a spring day in “the garden of England,” but she had not seen one, and the sight of it thrilled her. She noticed the respectful greetings of the labourers, the women and children as they passed. Sir Raife Remington was a respected power in this land of his. He was not an owner of mines and mills in a disaffected area, to be met with scowls or curt nods. He was a landlord of ancient lineage, among tenants whom he and his ancestors had ruled generously, and with mutual sympathy. A downward sweep and a curve in the road brought them to the lodge gates. The massive wrought-iron gates, surmounted by the Reymingtoune arms, were already open. The lodge-keeper and his family were grouped together, saluting and curtseying to the master of Aldborough on his return from “furrin’” parts. Raife greeted them cheerily, as the car swept through and into the avenue with its long line of stately beeches. Hilda’s breast heaved, and her heart throbbed. “I am to be Lady Remington and the mistress of all this,” she said to herself. She thought of the soot-laden city of Cincinnati, in Ohio, where she had spent so much of her time. She compared the crudeness of an American landscape with the finished charm of this historical place, of which she was to be mistress. It seemed too good to be true. The phantom of “the other woman” flitted through her mind, and her pleasure was, for a time, less restrained.

As they emerged from the avenue, the mansion, in all its ancient grandeur, came into view. They passed through the shadow of a group of ancient pines and cedars of Lebanon, a graceful sweep around flower beds ablaze with blossoms brought them to the main entrance, where the stately old butler, Edgson, stood bareheaded to receive them. He was supported by a group of white-aproned and white-capped maids, and a pert little page-boy in livery, with a liberal display of bright buttons.

Mr Muirhead had not spoken much during the car ride, but his quick powers of perception had taken in, at a glance, the majesty of this old Tudor mansion. His keen eyes had observed the extended row of gables, the twisted chimneys, the oriel windows, the massive ivy-clad walls, and the added buttresses. The mind of a banker is trained to values, and as he surveyed, with his quick comprehensive glance, the extensive stabling and greenhouses, with a vista of beautiful gardens beyond, he was satisfied that he had not made a mistake in allowing his daughter to become mistress of Aldborough Park, and any of the estates and property that Raife might own.

He did not know of Raife’s story of “the other woman.” By common consent it had been agreed that it was not necessary to tell him. Youth, in love, revels in secrets, and this was the secret of these young lovers.