The Broken Thread

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.

Chapter Twenty

The Most Momentous Occasion of Hilda’s Life

Hilda was a fairly practical, self-reliant, American girl. She was face to face with the most momentous occasion of her life as she passed through that line of respectful servants. With a woman’s knowledge she was fully conscious of the strict scrutiny to which she was being subjected from under all those apparently drooping eyelashes.

“Where is my mother, Edgson?” asked Raife.

“She is in the library, Sir Raife,” answered the old butler.

“Will you announce us, please. No, don’t trouble, I will go upstairs myself, if you good folk will wait here,” and he ushered them into an old oak-panelled room, with gloomy old portraits that seemed to frown down upon them.

Raife’s meeting with his mother was affectionate, and tears were in her eyes as she asked: “Have you brought her, Raife?”

He replied, cheerily: “Yes, mother dear, and I want you to like her and give her and her father a hearty welcome to Aldborough.”

In somewhat anxious tones, she said: “I hope I shall, dear, and I promise to try. Of course, they shall have a hearty welcome. She is my son’s choice, and I will do my duty.” Then, in halting accents, she added: “You are your own master here. Forgive me, Raife, if I appear anxious. I love you very dearly, and with all a mother’s love. You are all I have left in this world, and I fear for your happiness.” Then, smiling, she again added: “I will not remind you that you were always a brave, darling, wayward boy.”

Raife took his mother in his arms and reverently kissed her on the forehead, saying, with a happy laugh: “You dear, darling mother! Never fear for me. I will not forget that I am a Reymingtoune.” As he left the room Lady Remington turned to the window and wiped away a tear.

Raife almost ran down the staircase, and, bursting into the room, called out cheerily to Hilda and her father: “Come along, good folks, and meet my dear old mother. She is upstairs and awaits you.”

The close scrutiny of the servants was easy to bear. Hilda’s heart fluttered as they climbed the wide old staircase and entered the library. Lady Remington was standing to receive them. Raife started to present them. “Mother, this is – ”

He did not finish.

Hilda, with a charming impulse, had crossed the room with both hands extended, exclaiming: “You are Raife’s mother. Oh, I’m so glad!”

The radiance of this beautiful young girl, the charm of her musical voice, and the evident spontaneity of the action, were magical. The stately Lady Remington took the two extended hands and kissed Hilda on both cheeks, saying: “Welcome, Hilda. I am sure I shall like you, and I hope you will like me. May you both be very happy.”

Mr Muirhead stood by Raife’s side, viewing this unconventional scene, where the newer West had conquered the stiffer conventions of the older West by a display of genuine frankness. His handsome face was made the more handsome by the pleased smile that it bore. Raife now presented him to his mother with more formality than Hilda had allowed in her case.

When Lady Remington and Mr Muirhead had left the room to stroll around the gardens, Hilda exclaimed: “Oh, Raife. This is all very wonderful. I did not believe such places existed outside storybooks. Your mother is a darling. I love her already. I’m glad I don’t have to stamp my foot and shake my fist, as I told you I would in Cairo, if she didn’t like me.”

Raife kissed her again and again, and through the kisses said: “How do you know she likes you?”

Imitating Raife’s accents, she said: “Woman’s instinct, dear boy, woman’s instinct. Besides, she wouldn’t have kissed me so hard if she didn’t like me.”

The words were hardly finished when he seized her, exclaiming: “That settles it! Then I’ll show you I more than like you, I love you!” And he kissed her until she pretended that it hurt.

Now, at last, were Raife’s ideals realised, and complete happiness was nearly his. There could be no other spectres or phantoms to cast a shadow over their pure love. Hilda broke away and ran to the other side of the room. The window was open and she looked out, crying: “Oh, do come, Raife, look at that wonderful clump of rhododendrons.”

She did not see it, but a pained expression crossed his face as he came to the window, and, placing an arm around her, they looked down together on the rhododendrons. Why could not happiness last? What was the curse that at every turn blighted his fondest hopes? The last time he had looked on those rhododendrons was on that fateful dark night, when Gilda Tempest, the burglar – the burglar whom he had fancied that he loved – slid down the silken rope from the window, and disappeared in their dark shadows. And now the hideous memory came to his mind, to destroy his brightest hopes, his dream of bliss. He turned away, leaving Hilda at the window. He stood lighting a cigarette, and again his gaze chanced in a tragic direction. In front of him was the safe, where his father had shot and killed the burglar, and there, the spot where his murdered father had, in his dying words, stammered out, in choking gulps to Edgson, the awful warning to Raife, his son, to “beware of the trap – she – that woman.” Who was that woman and what was the trap? Again, that was the spot where he had nearly shot Gilda Tempest, the second burglar. Why, oh why, had his mother chosen this room in which to receive his beloved Hilda – his fiancée?

Calling to Hilda, he said: “Come, Hilda, let us go downstairs and find your father. They have gone into the grounds, and won’t be far away.”

They went downstairs, she on to the terrace, and he into a morning-room. He rang the bell and Edgson, the butler, entered. “Mix me a stiff whisky and soda, Edgson, please.”

The old man eyed his master quizzically as he handed him the cool drink in a long, sparkling tumbler. “Aren’t you feeling well, Sir Raife?”

Between gulps, Raife replied: “Oh, yes, Edgson, only a bit tired, thank you.”

“I hope, Sir Raife, you’ve had a pleasant holiday, sir. We are all very glad to see you back again, sir.”

“Thank you, Edgson. Yes, very pleasant indeed.”

Then, with the licence of an old servant of the family, Edgson chatted on: “Pardon the liberty, Sir Raife, but we saw the announcement in the Morning Post, sir, Miss Muirhead who has just come to stay, sir. She’s your ‘fyancee,’ isn’t she, sir? She’s a very beautiful young lady, sir, if I may take the liberty, sir. And if that’s her father, sir, he’s a very handsome old gentleman – Again asking your pardon, Sir Raife, we, in the servants’ hall, wishes to offer you our hearty congratulations.”

Raife was accustomed to the old butler’s garrulity and smilingly replied: “Thank you, Edgson. And will you thank the others for me. If all goes well, we’ll very soon be having gay times in the old house.”

As he retired towards the door the old man talked to himself. “Ay! That we will, I warrant, if Master Raife has anything to do with it.” He had barely closed the door when he knocked and entered again. “Excuse me, Sir Raife – ”

Raife was worried and said, rather impatiently: “Yes, Edgson,” then smiling a forced smile, added: “What is it this time?”

Closing the door, and looking around with an air of mystery, the old servant almost whispered: “Do you remember the night, sir, in last September, when I saw the light in the library, and I had the house surrounded?”

“Yes,” interrupted Raife, irritably. “What about it?”

The old man, once started, was not to be waved aside: “Well, sir, one of the under-gardeners, Hodgson, it was. He was at work among the rhododendrons, and he picked up a long piece of silk rope.”

Raife cut him short, saying: “Yes, I know, where is it?”

The old man stared at this outburst, and said: “He handed it to me, sir.”

“Did he; and have you mentioned it to anyone, else?”

With a sly look, that bordered as nearly on a wink as his well-trained discretion would allow, the old man replied, “No, Sir Raife, I have the rope. I gave him half a crown and told him to mind that we didn’t want no gabblers round Aldborough Park.”

“Quite right, Edgson, you acted very wisely. I’ll tell you all about it, perhaps, some day.”

“Perhaps” is always useful, in qualifying a promise. Producing a sovereign-purse, he extracted two sovereigns and handing them to Edgson, said: “Do what you like with these, Edgson. I suggest you give the man, Hodgson, one.”

Edgson bowed low. “Very good, Sir Raife, I’ll carry out your instructions.”

When the old man had finally gone, Raife mixed himself another whisky and soda, and cursed with a freedom that was not customary with him. This contretemps was more tangible than the others, and it was the fourth incident or train of unpleasant thoughts that had been forced on him, on this the joyful day, when he had brought Hilda to his home. He was not superstitious, but his nerves were affected by the sequence of events. Did they spell disaster?

The spring day had ended in an unusually warm moonlight night. After dinner they walked on to the terrace and sauntered up and down. Hilda’s happiness was very great, and unmarred by doubt or foreboding. “The other woman” was not in her thoughts. She surveyed the ornamental flower beds which, even in this light, showed the wealth of blossom. She had already examined, at close quarters, the old sundial and the quaint-carved stone figures around the lily pond, with a fountain in the centre, with sleepy old carp gliding through the dark shadows of its waters. At length, they decided it was warm enough to sit in the chairs that had been brought from some mysterious corner where they had rested through the long winter time.

The silence that was customary among the trio, when conversation appeared superfluous, was broken by the sound of bells from a church on a hillside some distance away. Softly at first, in irregular clangs of varying notes, they burst into a carillon, ending in crashes, known in some parts as firing. There was an evident intention of joy in the sounds that floated through the still night air until it reached the group seated in the moonlight on the terrace of old Aldborough Park.

Raife broke the silence. “Mother, why are the church bells ringing? This used not to be practice-night, for I’ve helped myself many a time to clang with those ropes in our old church tower. They wouldn’t ring like that for an ordinary week-day service, besides, it’s too late for a service. I’ll call Edgson. Perhaps he’ll know.”

The duties of an old family butler are many and not well-defined. Speaking generally he does mostly what he pleases. He is always working in some way or another, and may be safely trusted to guard the interests of his master. It is his own chosen duty to know everything that transpires on his domain, and to know the reason for it. In response to Raife’s call, Edgson appeared. “What are the church bells ringing for, Edgson?”

With a beaming countenance, the old man replied: “They are ringing for you, Sir Raife, and, begging your pardon, Sir Raife, they are ringing for the young lady, Miss Muirhead.”

Hilda, in astonished tones, exclaimed: “What’s that? Ringing for me? What are they ringing for me for?”

Edgson stammered, but failed to make a coherent reply.

“Thank you, Edgson. That’ll do,” intimated Raife.

The old man retired, chortling to himself: “She’s a nice young lady for an American. But, lor’, these Americans don’t know as much as we do.”

When Edgson had gone, Lady Remington explained how those church bells had rung for the birth and marriage of many generations of Reymingtounes during four centuries, and sadly, she added, they had tolled a knell at many a funeral of the family. Then, more cheerfully, smiling at Raife, she continued: “My son, I am glad to say, is very popular with the bell-ringers, as well as all over the estate.”

Raife intervened. “Please leave that out, mother.”

His mother retorted: “It’s true, Raife, and I am glad of it. Well, Hilda, they are ringing those bells to welcome him back home, and to welcome you to Aldborough as the future Lady Remington.”

Hilda felt very glad and very proud. She had loved Raife for his own sake, before she had known of all these things so wonderful to her, and, indeed, before she knew he was a baronet. She had loved him for his modesty and courage in fighting the Nubian who was beating the woman in Khartoum.

Lady Remington presently said, graciously:

“Hilda, you have had a long and trying day; perhaps you would like to retire early?” Together they walked along the terrace, and Lady Remington took Hilda’s arm, and personally conducted her to her room. There the two women talked awhile. The elderly lady, so soon to be a “Dowager,” and the young American girl who was to hand down the traditions of the ancient family, and, perchance, become the mother of the future heir to the estate. Lady Remington spoke very kindly, but there was a sad note throughout. She told of her anxiety until they had met. She expressed, ungrudgingly, how Hilda’s manner had charmed her from the moment of their meeting. She alluded to the great responsibility she was undertaking. They talked for long, and at length, Lady Remington affectionately bade her good-night, and Hilda was left in privacy to her thoughts and sleep, if it would come.

A maid tapped discreetly at the door, and offered her services. Hilda’s needs were very slight that night, and she was glad when she had dismissed the maid. Attired in a loose dressing-gown she sat in a chair and wondered whether all could possibly be as well as it appeared. Her reverie lasted long. How long she did not know. Rousing herself she made preparation for sleep. Impulse prompted her to have a final look at the fine night and beautiful scene. To view those lovely gardens that were to be hers with Raife. As she approached the window, a slip of paper appeared underneath the door which opened on to a balcony. She started, but Hilda was not the type of girl to scream or become panic-stricken. She opened the paper and read a typewritten message on a plain piece of paper:

“It is dangerous to rob another.”

What did it mean? Rob another of what? Was it her fancy that the paper had just been placed there, or had it lain there a long time? Perhaps it was a text, or something of that kind. If so, it was harmless and was, perhaps, a crazy fad of some one who had occupied the room before. She studied the fastenings of the window and went to bed without looking at the night as she intended. Then she thought of “the other woman” Raife had told her about. She decided to say nothing about it, as it might make her appear foolish. It was long before sleep overtook her, but her youthful nature asserted itself and she, being very tired, at length slept.

Chapter Twenty One

Raife’s Jealousy Ends Disastrously

They were happy days at Aldborough Park.

Each succeeding day seemed to complete the sum of Hilda Muirhead’s hopes. In addition to motor-car rides to Southport, the scene of Raife’s first meeting with “the other woman,” Gilda Tempest, Hilda learnt the joys of riding behind good horses. Raife was an expert whip and drove a tandem as an expert. The countryside was again alive, now that the wayward young man had returned to reside among them. There were dinner-parties at the Park, and garden-parties, where Hilda was introduced to the county families, some of whom were amiable, and even affable, whilst others were not. It was a meeting of disappointment to many of the stately dames, and sometimes frigid daughters, that an American woman should have been selected to reign as queen at the beautiful old home, which, hitherto, had been regarded as a stronghold of English womanhood. These matters were, however, of slight consequence to Hilda, whose happiness was supreme in the possession of the love of the handsome and dashing young aristocrat, whom Fortune had thrown in her way.

She captured the hearts of all the men, and a large proportion of the women, with her frank and ingratiating manners. She over-ruled convention without destroying good taste; the tenants and townspeople were completely won over by her cordiality and good nature, which was frequently lavish. The old landlord, Twisegood, added to his evening custom by narrating the free and unconventional manner in which she made her first entry into his house. The old town of Tunbridge had not been so gay since the days of farthingales, frills and furbelows.

Hilda excelled in most sports. At tennis, golf, and every pastime, she led the way, and there was renewed life in clubs that had become, in a sense, rusty for want of what is generally called “fresh blood.”

Raife Remington, the woman-hater of a few months ago, had become the most courtly of lovers, and it only needed the joy of marriage bells to complete the symposium of human delight.

In human affairs, however, it is not to be supposed that Fate will not be fickle, and cast a cloud to destroy the perfection of desire. Jealousy has ever been an accompaniment to love, and it draws no distinction between the yokel and the aristocrat.

When Harold Brookman, in the competition flight from the Hendon aerodrome to Manchester, came to grief and descended rather hurriedly in the home-croft of Aldborough Park, it was Hilda who, by chance, extricated him from a tangled mass of machinery. With a sense of initiative and promptitude she obtained assistance, and Harold Brookman was installed in a room at the Park, pending his recovery from the crumpled state in which he found himself.

It has been customary to surround aeronauts with a halo of heroism, and Harold Brookman’s exploits were the talk of the world of flying. It happened, unfortunately, that Harold possessed that form of good looks that belongs to flying men, indicating firm resolve and determination. Further, chance willed it that he should be an American.

Those who live under foreign flags are naturally attracted to their fellow-countrymen when they happen to meet. Hilda Muirhead was supremely happy in her love for Raife Remington, and he in turn, was satisfied in their mutual devotion. It was unfortunate, therefore, that Raife should have overheard Hilda’s genuine and impulsive utterance as she and the injured man met for the first time on the terrace after his recovery from the accident.

“Well now, sakes alive, it’s good to hear your voice, Mr Brookman. I’ve been away from home so long, it seemed I was never going to hear a good American voice again.”

Raife, who came over on to the terrace at that moment, glared at Harold, and in response to Hilda’s invitation: “Hullo, Raife, come and talk to us,” he replied, rather gruffly, “I’m sorry, I’m busy just now. Besides, I haven’t got a good American voice.”

The incident should have been quite unimportant, but nothing is unimportant where jealousy is concerned.

Raife nursed his indignation, and, without announcing his intention, went to London that afternoon. Lady Remington, realising that it was natural that Hilda should be pleased to meet one of her countrymen, especially in such exceptional circumstances, urged Harold Brookman to prolong his stay. In spite of his daring aerial exploits, Harold was very human, and the prospect of enjoying the hospitality of this charming old lady, and the company of his attractive young countrywoman, was agreeable. So he stayed at Aldborough Park, and, when the slight repairs that were necessary had been effected to his aeroplane, he made some trial flights from the croft, which was admirably adapted for the purpose.

It was natural that he should invite Hilda to accompany him on a flight, and she accepted the invitation with enthusiasm. The delights of aviation have been described, and their fascination for the more courageous type of woman is a matter of surprise to many, but it is easily understood by the psychologist. Many days passed, and the wayward Raife sulked at his club in London.

Eventually he returned unannounced, as was his custom. He imagined that Harold Brookman had taken his departure. He chose to drive in a cab that attended at the station, and called on the old landlord, Twisegood, on his way home. The old man greeted him with his customary enthusiasm. The somewhat incongruous couple were really friends, in spite of the difference in their station in life. For a while, Raife’s ill-humour subsided, and he greeted the landlord cheerily.

“Well, Twisegood, how are you, and what’s the news?”

Without waiting for a reply, he smacked the old man on the back, saying:

“Come along, let’s go up to the white room and have a chat. You have what you like, but bring me a bottle of your sparkling cider.”

He ascended the stairs and entered the quaint white room. As he threw himself into a chair, and awaited the landlord with the refreshment, his mind, which was already perturbed, reverted to the occasions when he had met Gilda Tempest in that same room. It also brought to his memory the tragic death of his father, and the extraordinary encounter with Gilda in his library in the middle of the night. In spite of these episodes of crime, this strange girl still exercised an extraordinary fascination over him. The fit of jealousy was still on him, and his prolonged fit of sulking in London had not alleviated it. He sprang from his chair, and paced the room angrily, muttering: