The Broken Thread Part 20

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 pa.s.sed. 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 ma.s.sive 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 pa.s.sed 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-ap.r.o.ned and white-capped maids, and a pert little page-boy in livery, with a liberal display of bright b.u.t.tons.

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 ma.s.sive ivy-clad walls, and the added b.u.t.tresses. 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 pa.s.sed 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 fiancee?

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."