When the first inquiry as to the cause of Elsie Wray’s death was ended, and the adjournment announced, something which he could not resist drew John Temple to the side of the room where May Churchill and her father were standing.
“Well,” he said, addressing May, “one part at least of a very painful affair for you is over.”
May looked gratefully up in his face.
“Yes, it has been most painful, but I am so very, very sorry for Mr. Wray. I should like to go and shake hands with him, but he has never looked at me,” answered May.
“Still, I think I should go,” advised John; “the feeling that true sympathy is given to us is always grateful.”
“Then I will go.”
The landlord was standing with a stern face andkindling eyes as she approached him. He had just watched the departure of Henderson and his groom, and he believed now that Henderson had, to say the least of it, been the cause of Elsie’s death. He had read the insulting letter the young man had sent her, and with his own tongue he had acknowledged there had been “some talk of a marriage” between them. Deceived and betrayed, the poor girl might have put an end to her own life. But not less did James Wray consider him Elsie’s murderer, and he was vowing vengeance in his heart when May Churchill, with her flower-like face, drew near him and placed her small hand timidly in his.
“Mr. Wray,” she said, and that was all. But the landlord needed not words to tell him of the true feelings of her heart. In that gentle touch, in those beautiful eyes, he read her great sympathy and regret. He felt sure she did not despise nor scorn his dead Elsie, and that her womanly tenderness forgave all her shortcomings. His hard eyes grew dim, and he placed a horny brown hand in her white pretty one.
“Thank you, my dear,” he said, and turned away to hide his emotion.
John Temple had watched this meeting, and fully appreciated it. Mr. Churchill was busy talking to one of the jurymen, a neighbor, and John once more speedily found himself at May’s side.
“Let us go outside,” he said, and May went. They stood talking together until Mr. Churchill joined them, and Mr. Churchill spoke very cordially to John.
“I want you to come over to Woodside again, Mr. Temple, and try the mare before I send her to the Hall stables,” he said. “When will it be convenient for you to do so? This afternoon?”
“Yes; that will suit me very well,” answered John; and while a few moments later her father went to see after his trap, John had a word to half-whisper into May’s willing ears.
“I will see you again, then,” he said, and May smiled her answer, and as her father drove her back to Woodside,John Temple’s words and looks recurred again and again to her mind.
As for John, he walked back to the Hall, thinking only of her.
“She is the dearest little girl,” he told himself, and he wished the afternoon were already come. But he found when he arrived at his uncle’s house that he was eagerly awaited for, and that he was expected to give a complete account of all that had taken place during the inquest.
The news of Elsie Wray’s tragic death had indeed created an immense sensation in the neighborhood. Young Henderson of Stourton Grange was so well known, and had frequently visited at Woodlea Hall, and when John Temple entered the dining-room he found both Mrs. Temple and her mother, Mrs. Layton, eagerly talking of him.
“Well, here you are at last,” said Mrs. Temple. “Now come and tell us all about it, and what had Tom Henderson to do with it?”
“A good deal, I fear,” answered John, seating himself at the luncheon table.
“But what?” asked Mrs. Temple, sharply.
“By his own account he wrote to the unfortunate girl to ask her to meet him on the ridge above Fern Dene on the night of her death, and he also said there had been some talk of marriage between them.”
“Of marriage!” repeated Mrs. Temple, incredulously, and at the same moment Mrs. Layton emitted a dismal groan.
“He wanted to be out of it; fling her off, I understand,” continued John.
“I should think so,” said Mrs. Temple, scornfully. “A girl of that class!”
“He should have remembered that when he made love to her,” remarked John, coolly.
“The depravity of the girl, to think of such a thing!” cried Mrs. Layton.
“Do you mean of marriage?” smiled John.
“I mean of marriage with a young man in a perfectlydifferent position of life to her own, Mr. Temple,” replied Mrs. Layton, with injured dignity.
“Yet we have heard of such things,” said John.
“There is but one end to such connections,” groaned Mrs. Layton, “disgrace and shame, and in this case death; in my opinion she deserved to die.”
“I do not believe Tom Henderson shot her,” said Mrs. Temple.
“He said in his evidence he never went near the place, and his groom corroborated this. He said he got afraid to go, and that he intended writing to her again to try and make some arrangement. Altogether it is a very shady affair for him,” replied John.
“Other young men have shady affairs, too, Mr. Temple,” said Mrs. Temple, with a toss of her handsome head, and John’s face turned a dusky red as she spoke.
“We can’t all pose as perfection, you know, my nephew John,” continued Mrs. Temple. “For my part I do not intend to give up young Henderson—he is too good-looking.”
“Unless they hang him,” said John.
“Hang him! Impossible.”
“Not at all impossible, I assure you. He will have to prove he was not near the place, or he will run a pretty good chance of it. I did not like the groom’s face; it was shifty, and he gave me the idea he was not speaking the truth.”
“And your own evidence, Mr. Temple?” said Mrs. Layton. “How did you account for your chance meeting with Margaret Churchill at such an early hour?”
“By my love for the morning air, Mrs. Layton,” answered John, smiling.
“Margaret Churchill, in my opinion, is a most designing young person,” continued Mrs. Layton. “Rachel, my love, may I trouble you for a little more of that delicious curry. Yes, a most designing young person. I am told that she did everything to attract young Henderson, and that her father also tried to entangle him, and then when she had led the poor young man on to a certain point, she turned round.”
“I do not believe he ever proposed for her,” said Mrs. Temple. “I suppose you think her handsome?” she added, looking at John.
“I think she has a beautiful face,” answered John, decidedly.
“Beautiful! That’s a strong term,” remarked Mrs. Temple, scornfully.
“Yet it is one I should apply to her.”
“It may account, then, for your early walk, Mr. Temple,” said Mrs. Layton, with a little sneering laugh.
“My meeting with Miss Churchill was simply accidental, Mrs. Layton,” said John, coolly. “Naturally the poor girl, after such a dreadful discovery, stopped the first person she met to tell him of it.”
“But you knew her before?” asked Mrs. Layton.
“I had spoken to her before; I have bought a horse of her father, and I saw her then.”
“A very convenient transaction for the Churchills,” said Mrs. Layton, with a sneer. “She is a person with no idea of her own position in life, I consider. Would you believe it, I went the other day to the farm for the purpose of buying some eggs, and when I asked Margaret Churchill the price, she looked quite offended, and said she did not sell eggs! Fancy a farmer’s daughter not selling eggs! However, she presented me with a few, and I took them.”
“A very convenient transaction for you, Mrs. Layton,” scoffed John, who was getting out of temper, and an angry gleam shot into Mrs. Layton’s light eyes as he spoke.
“I always do what I consider my duty, Mr. Temple,” she said, drawing up her spare little form. “My husband is fond of fresh-laid eggs, and as this misguided young person would not sell them, I had to consider him.”
John made a sarcastic little bow.
“Wifely duty!” he said; and Mrs. Layton always spoke of him after this passage of arms with great bitterness.
“He is a dangerous person,” she remarked later inthe day to her daughter. “Mark my words, Rachel, a dangerous, designing person, and I believe he is carrying on, or will carry on, an intrigue with Margaret Churchill, and how would you like that?”
“I hate the whole lot of the Churchills!” answered Mrs. Temple, passionately. “But his uncle will never allow him to carry on an intrigue with this girl.”
“My dear Rachel, you forget that your husband is elderly, and that this young man is his heir,” said Mrs. Layton. “I do not like to speak on unpleasant subjects, but I think it my duty to tell you this, that when at my earnest suggestion your father spoke to the squire about settling the Hall, furniture, and carriages on you for life, after poor little Phillip’s death, that the squire said he had no power to settle the Hall; that it was entailed on the heir.”
“Oh! don’t, don’t, mother!” cried Mrs. Temple, rising in strong excitement, and beginning to pace the room. “I try to forget my darling’s death; try to put it out of my mind, or I think I should go mad, and now you begin to harp on it again. Let everything go; what matter is it when I have lost him!”
“My dear Rachel—”
“It has made me reckless,” continued Mrs. Temple, “and I often wonder now, mother, where it will end. But on the whole I rather like John Temple, and—he must have nothing to do with this Churchill girl. I will speak to Phillip about it. Both those boys played in that fatal game—who knows? one of them may have been my darling’s murderer.”
She burst into passionate sobs as she ended this speech, and her mother saw it was useless to say anything more. When these fits of excitement came over Rachel Temple, no one had the least control over her. She became, as she had said, reckless, and in this mood she continued the whole of the remainder of the day.
In the meanwhile John Temple was against his will being detained by his uncle, who had been out on business in the morning, and only returned to the hall after his wife and Mrs. Layton had left the luncheon table.
The squire, as the ladies had been, was eager to hear all about the inquest, and John, though inwardly impatient to start for Woodside, was obliged to go through the whole details again to his uncle.
It was late in the afternoon when he found himself free, and then he at once proceeded to the farm. But when he arrived there he found Mr. Churchill was from home.
“When will he be back?” he inquired of the neat maid-servant.
But as he spoke, May Churchill, who had been watching for him, came across the hall from the drawing-room.
“My father was obliged to go out at four o’clock, Mr. Temple,” she said in her sweet-toned voice, “but I do not think he will be very long away. Will you come in and have some tea?”
John gladly accepted this invitation. He followed May into the drawing-room, and sat there drinking tea and looking in her fair face. It was a very pretty room, sweet with flowers, and gracefully furnished. Everything seemed to suit the young mistress, and John was half-unconscious how long he stayed there. The shadows began to lengthen, the sun dipped behind the hills, and still he remained. Then presently the moon rose, and still Mr. Churchill had not returned.
“Am I tiring you?” asked John.
“Oh, no,” answered May, with a smile and a blush.
John went across the room, and for a moment stood looking out of the open window at the garden beyond, on which now the cold, white moonbeams fell. May had been leaning there before, and an irresistible impulse seemed to draw him closer to her. It was one of those moments when a strange subtle knowledge comes to two human hearts. He bent his head until it nearly touched the lovely face; he took a little fluttering hand in his.
“Come,” he half-whispered, and led her through the casement which opened from the ground, to the silent dewy garden outside. Pale fantastic shadows lay onflower and leaf, the breeze rustled through the lilac bushes, and stirred the fruit-laden boughs. John forgot everything but the sweet and strong emotion which stirred his heart. He put his arm around the slight girlish form; he drew her to his breast.
“Dear one,” he murmured, and May felt too happy to resist his caress. Her breath came short, her bosom heaved, and her hand lingered tenderly in his.
“Mayflower,” whispered John, “may I call you by that sweet name?”
“Yes,” came fluttering from May’s rosy lips, and the little monosyllable was breathed very near to John’s.
Click went the garden gate at this moment, and the two heard it, and started quickly apart. Then a heavy, determined footstep sounded on the gravel walk, and a second or two later Mr. Churchill appeared. He looked surprised but not displeased to see John Temple with his daughter, and apologized for his absence.
“I waited as long as I could, Mr. Temple,” he said, “but I had some business I was forced to attend to.”
“My uncle delayed me,” answered John, “talking of that unfortunate business; but,” he added, smiling, “Miss Churchill has been very good; she has given me some tea, and the night is so lovely we were taking advantage of it.”
“All right,” answered the farmer, “but come in now and have something to eat. I fear it is too late to go down to the stables.”
“I will come over to-morrow and see the mare,” said John; “but thanks, very much, I can not go in now. Good-night Miss Churchill.”
Mr. Churchill hospitably pressed him to go into the house and have supper with them, but John declined. He felt somehow that he could not eat. He was too much excited, and those brief moments with May had moved him deeply. He had realized for the first time how dear she was to him; he knew now that he felt for her what he had never felt for any woman before.
They shook hands and parted, and John walked home alone in the moonlight. There was a delicious sense oflife and love in his heart, and he smiled softly as he went on.
“I think she likes me,” he was thinking; “my little country sweetheart—my country sweetheart.”
He repeated these words to himself again and again. And again and again also he mentally saw the girl’s lovely profile on which the moonlight glimmered as she stood in the window. It was a picture in his mind’s eye which never again faded away. There are such pictures that Time’s hand can not touch. And this was one of them to John Temple; the sweet girlish face glorified by the pale white beams.
When he reached the Hall dinner was over, but we may be sure the heir was not allowed to suffer by this. The butler speedily spread a tempting repast before him, but John did not feel hungry still. He lit a cigar and went out on the terrace, and there his excitement sobered down. Other scenes rose up before him; other hours of passion and love.
“I am a fool,” he reflected; “a girl’s beautiful face has made me feel like a boy.”
In the meanwhile the girl with the beautiful face was receiving a very unpleasant surprise. She had gone into the house to order her father’s supper with a new feeling of joy and radiant hope glowing in her heart.
“He loves me,” was the sweet thought that flushed her smooth cheeks, and made her bright eyes sparkle. May never doubted this after those brief moments in the moonlight. And she felt a modest pride in the thought. That this good-looking well-born gentleman should care for her made her very happy. He was the first man also that she had really liked. So pretty a girl, of course, got admirers on every side. But admiration does not necessarily win love. A woman may feel flattered when her heart is totally untouched.
She ordered her father’s supper therefore with a light heart, and went into the dining-room to share it with him gratified and glad. Mr. Churchill also seemed in fairly good spirits, and ate his food with excellent appetite. Then, when the meal was over, he commenced tosmoke, and May was just contemplating leaving the room to indulge in her sweet thoughts alone, when her father looked up and addressed her.
“May, I went to see Mrs. Bradshaw this afternoon,” he said.
“Yes,” answered May, somewhat indifferently, for the subject of Mrs. Bradshaw was very unpleasant to her.
“And we have fixed to be married to-morrow morning,” continued Mr. Churchill, in his quiet, determined way.
“To-morrow morning!” echoed May, utterly surprised.
“Yes, what is the good of waiting? But it is to be quite quiet; she did not wish you even to know until it was over. But you have been a good little daughter to me, and therefore I do not care to keep it a secret from you, and I hope also you will be a good daughter to your new mother.”
May’s face flushed painfully.
“She can never be a mother to me,” she said.
“My dear, that is folly. To-morrow she will be your father’s wife, and will take her place here, of course, as mistress. And I hope you two will get on well together. If you are wise you will do so.”
May did not speak.
“We will only be away for a few days, a week at most, as I shall have to be back, I suppose, for the adjourned inquest. We are going to London, and if you are a good girl I will bring you back a smart gown.”
“But father—to-morrow you agreed—for Mr. Temple to come here.”
“Mr. Temple must wait; I did not like to tell him I was going to be married to-morrow when he proposed to come. I will leave a note for him, and give orders that he can have the mare over on trial whenever he likes. Well, May, come and give me a kiss, and wish me happiness.”
The girl rose up at her father’s bidding and kissed his brow.
“I wish you happiness, father,” she said, in a low, faltering voice, and then she turned away and suddenly left the room.
She went to her own, and stood at the window looking out on the moonlit garden.
“Will this make any difference to him?” she was thinking, and a vague uneasiness stole into her heart.
John Temple went early to Woodside the next morning, after first making up his mind that he must indulge in no more lovemaking to May Churchill.
“It’s not fair to the dear little girl,” he told himself. “I was led away last night; any man would—a saint would have been, and I am not a saint.”
He kept this determination in his mind all the way to the farm. He was going to see Mr. Churchill about his horse, and not to look at the sweet Mayflower. Nevertheless, his pulses beat a little more quickly when he thought of her, and when he rang at the doorbell of the house his heart was throbbing fast.
In answer to his inquiry if Mr. Churchill were within, the maid replied, with rather a peculiar smile, that her master had left home for some days.
“But,” she added, “he left a letter for you, sir, with Miss Churchill, and she told me to tell you this if you called.”
“Then can I see Miss Churchill?” asked John.
“Yes, sir; will you step this way?”
John accordingly followed the maid to the dining-room, and when she announced Mr. Temple, May rose to receive him with a shy smile and a charming blush.
“I called to see your father about the horse,” began John as he took her pretty white fluttering hand in his.
“Yes, he left a letter for you,” answered May; “a—very strange thing has happened, Mr. Temple.”
“What has happened?” asked John, smiling, and thinking the while how lovely she looked.
“After you left last night,” and the blush deepened as she spoke, “he told me he was going away to be married to-day.”
“To be married!” echoed John, in great surprise.
“Yes, it has upset me very much; I do not like the person; I do not like it at all.”
“And you knew nothing about it?”
“He told me a few days ago he was thinking of going to be married again; but this is so sudden—I am very much distressed about it.”
“You must not let it worry you.”
“But I can’t help it worrying me; I can’t bear the idea of it—it has made me very unhappy.”
May was standing with her hand leaning on the back of the chair from which she had risen at John’s entrance, and somehow it seemed only natural that he now should put his brown hand over her white one in a consoling manner.
“I am very sorry,” he said; “and I can not bear to think of you being unhappy.”
“It’s very good of you,” began May, “but—”
“I won’t allow you to be unhappy,” continued John; “come, you must cheer up—you dear little girl.”
He really did not mean to do it, but when a man has once nearly kissed a pretty girl, it seems very natural for him to do it again. At all events John did kiss the lovely blooming face before him, and all the rebuke he got was:
“Oh! Mr. Temple, you should not do that!”
“I know I should not,” answered John, penitently; “but you are so sweet, so dear, I could not help myself—and then you are unhappy, you know, so you must forgive me.”
“I am really unhappy.”
“Don’t think about the horrid woman,” consoled John, taking the two pretty hands in his; “think of something else—think a little bit about me.”
The last few words were half-whispered, and they seemed to console May somehow. She began to smile again, and she looked softly at John, though she drew her little hands away from his grasp.
“It seems such a thing,” she said, “for him to forget my mother.”
“Ah—well; he is only mortal, I suppose.”
“Then do you think everyone forgets, Mr. Temple?”
“I think men—” and then he paused. “I know someone that I never could forget,” he continued.
May did not inquire who this “someone” was.
“Someone whose face I would dream of if I did not see it for twenty years,” went on John, energetically.
“It would be changed in twenty years,” replied May, with a little sigh.
“Not in my eyes; in my eyes it could never change.”
This was the way in which John kept to his resolution. They went into the garden awhile after this, and sat listening to a black bird singing to his mate. Then they went to May’s fernery, and walked beneath the shadow of the trees, and talked fond foolish words. May forgot all about her father’s marriage and her hated stepmother. She was with the man she liked best in all the world, and she believed he loved her. What happiness is like this? The golden hours of youth and hope; the vague foreshadowings of still greater joy.
Before they parted John had promised to call again.
“I shall be so lonely,” May had said softly, and how could he leave her lonely? Yet he did not mean any wrong; it was the drifting tide bearing him on to he knew not where.
At all events during the next few days he went constantly to Woodside. Mr. Churchill’s marriage had taken place, and the wealthy widow from Castle Hill would, no doubt, soon be installed at the farm. May tried not to think of it, and she tried also to tell herself that she must not think seriously of Mr. Temple. But do what she would she did think of him. After all, if he really loved her, would not that sweep away the social difference between them?
And he did love her. May felt sure of this, and this surety alone brought her great happiness. People might try to separate them; his uncle probably would try, but true love can overcome all obstacles. In these sweet dreams the girl lived during the few days following her father’s marriage. Then the time for the adjourned inquest approached, and in due course May received a letter from her father to tell her that on the following evening that he and his newly-made wife would arrive at Woodside.
The preparations for this event were intensely disagreeable to May. John Temple also heard the news with great annoyance. No more quiet walks in the lonely garden then; no more tender hand-clasps, nor long, uninterrupted interviews. He gathered from May that her stepmother was not a lady; that she was bustling and interfering.
“Perhaps it is better,” John told himself.
May’s two young brothers, Hal and Willie Churchill, had been away for their holidays for a week or two also during this time, so that John Temple and the Mayflower practically had been able to see each other whenever they liked. They knew now this state of things would end. The boys were coming home; Mr. and Mrs. Churchill were on the point of arriving, and moreover, John Temple had received a hint from his uncle that his visits to Woodside Farm had been remarked on, and that it would be well that they should cease.
“It can end in nothing, you know, John,” the squire had said, not unkindly.
“Certainly it will end in nothing, uncle,” answered John, gravely. “I think, if you do not mind, after the adjourned inquest on that poor girl is over, I will leave Woodlea for a month or two.”
“My dear boy, you are your own master, and must guide your own actions,” said the squire; “only I do not think it quite fair to this pretty girl that you should pay her so much attention when you can not marry her.”
“No, I can not marry her,” replied John, and after this the subject was not mentioned again, but the conversation was not without effect on John Temple.
So he went to see May for the last time before her stepmother’s arrival in a very sober frame of mind. It was a dull, wet day, and when May saw him crossing the garden she went to open the house door for him, and gave him her hand with a warm clasp of welcome.
“Thank you for coming to cheer me, as I feel so dreadfully dull,” she said, smiling.
“I feel dreadfully dull, too,” answered John, putting down his wet umbrella and hat on the hall stand, and the next moment he put his hand through the girl’s arm.
“Come into the drawing-room,” said May, softly; “I have been making it all smart, and there is a fire there; it is so wet.”
They crossed the hall thus, John lightly leaning on May’s arm, and entered the drawing-room together. There was a bright fire burning in the grate, and the room was fresh and sweet with flowers. Altogether May had done her best to make it look cheerful, but still John felt very dull.
May went up to the fire, and John held out his chilled hands to the blaze.
“When do you expect these people to arrive?” he asked.
“Father said about six o’clock,” replied May.
John took out his watch and looked at it.
“It’s just four now,” he said, “and I must go by five; only one hour, May!”
May sighed softly, and John turned round and looked at her earnestly, and then also sighed.
“The last few days have been very bright, haven’t they, May?” he said.
“Yes,” half-whispered May.
“Too bright, I am afraid,” went on John; “it will make the coming ones seem dull.”
“There may be some bright ones still,” said May, in a low tone, with downcast eyes and blushing cheeks.
Again John looked at her. How pretty she was in her white frock and crimson ribbons! She had a crimson rose in her waistband and another at her throat. “Truly a fair picture,” John was thinking, and it was hard, very hard, to say the word he meant to speak.
“I am going away, May, for a bit,” he said at length, with an effort.
“Going away?” repeated the girl quickly, and her face flushed, and then grew a little pale, and John saw this.
“Yes,” went on John, still with an effort, “I think I shall go abroad for a month or two.”
May did not speak; her pallor increased, and her agitation was visible.
“But I shall never forget Woodside,” said John, after a moment’s pause, “nor you—Mayflower—I wish I could.”
“Why?” asked May, in a trembling voice, and she put out her hand as if for support.
“Because I would be happier if I could,” answered John, also much moved; “I will pay a bitter price, I am afraid, for the bright hours I have spent with you.”
“Oh, do not go away, Mr. Temple!” cried May, suddenly, looking at him with imploring eyes. “I—I shall be so lonely—I shall—”
“We must try to forget all this,” said John, and he put his arm around her and pressed his lips on hers. “Dear little girl—dear Mayflower—it is hard, it is bitter to go from you.”
Tears rushed into May’s eyes, and John kissed them away.
“Do not grieve, darling,” he whispered, “it would make me more sad if I thought I had done any harm to you.”
“But you will come back?” said May, in a broken voice.
John did not speak. He did not mean to come back, but he could not bear to see her distress. He kissed her again; he called her by every endearing name, and May put her hand in his and held it fast.
“Promise me to come back,” she whispered, with her cheek against his.
“I promise,” said John, after a moment’s pause, for he felt he could not resist her appeal.
“And do not quite forget me when you are away.”
“Forget you!” cried John, and he caught her passionately to his breast; “would that I could, May! It would be better for you and me—but the die is cast!”
She was still in his arms, with her head on his breast, when the sound of carriage wheels on the gravel outside was distinctly heard in the room. May lifted her head and gave a cry; John looked sharply around.
“If it is your father, whatever shall we do?”
May, girl-like, ran to the mirror; John, man-like, stood helpless.
“My hair is not very disorderly, is it?” she said, trying to smooth her soft bright curls. “How odious that they should come!”
“What shall I do?” asked John.
“Stay until they come in, and then I suppose—”
“I will go—good-by, dear May.”
He clasped her hand for a moment, and then May went to the door to receive her father and his bride. Mrs. Churchill was already in the hall, and was giving orders to the coachman and servants about her luggage; Mr. Churchill was giving orders about the horses.
As May went forward Mrs. Churchill saw her, and advanced toward her and kissed her face.
“Well, my dear,” she said, “here we are. We have had a wet day to travel in, but it makes it all the pleasanter to get home. And how are you?”
She was a good-looking, middle-aged woman; robust and dark, with marked dark eyebrows, and a firm, hard mouth. She looked a person of strong will also; somehow her very voice told you this.
“William,” she called out in a loud tone to her husband, “here is your daughter.”
Upon this Mr. Churchill came into the hall, and kissed May also.
“Well, my dear,” he said, kindly, “and how have you been getting on?”
“Mr. Temple is in the drawing-room, father,” said May, nervously.
“What—the squire?”
“No, Mr. John Temple.”
But John by this time had appeared. He went up to Mr. Churchill and shook hands with him.
“Well, Mr. Churchill, I hear I have to congratulate you,” he said, with a smile.
“Thank you, Mr. Temple,” answered the farmer. “Sarah, my dear, this is Mr. John Temple, our landlord’s nephew and heir.”
Upon this Mrs. Churchill bowed graciously, and after a few more pleasant words, John Temple went away. Then Mrs. Churchill began bustling about the house as if she had lived in it for twenty years. She remarked on the furniture, and decided where she would place her own “things,” as she called them. She made no pretense about consulting May in any of her arrangements, but took her place at once as mistress of the house and all that it contained.
“But what matter,” thought May, softly, as she stood looking out on the still garden on the night of her stepmother’s arrival at Woodside. “What matter does anything here now make to me?”
The next time that May saw John Temple was at the adjourned inquest on the death of Elsie Wray. They both then simply repeated their former evidence, and the only fresh witness on the occasion was Mrs. Henderson.
In faltering and broken words the unhappy mother told what she knew to be untrue. Her son had onlybeen out for a very short time on the night of Miss Wray’s death, she said, and he had returned to the house much earlier than usual. He said he had just been down to the stables, and spoke about the horses.
“Did you know of any engagement existing between your son and Miss Wray?” asked the coroner.
“No, I did not,” truthfully replied Mrs. Henderson.
She was then questioned as to the time of Tom Henderson’s return to the house, but, though very nervous, she had carefully prepared her story. If her evidence and the evidence of the groom, Jack Reid, were true, it was impossible that Henderson could have been in the neighborhood of Fern Dene. At all events the jury gave him the benefit of the doubt. They returned a verdict that Elsie Wray had destroyed her own life when in a state of temporary insanity, and though every one in the room believed that this condition of mind had been brought on by the conduct of young Henderson, there were some ready to blame the poor girl for her folly in fixing her affections on a man so superior in rank to herself.
Among these was Mr. Churchill of Woodside, and after the inquest was over, as Henderson was handing his mother into the dog-cart, Mr. Churchill, in passing to seek his own trap, held out his hand to Henderson, and then to Mrs. Henderson, who was trembling visibly. He only said a word or two about the weather, but his manner showed a certain amount of sympathy and kindness which was very welcome to both mother and son.
May Churchill, on the other hand, who was following her father, passed them with downcast eyes. She scarcely, indeed, noticed them. A moment or two before she had had a brief interview with John Temple, and he had slipped a note into her hand, and she was thinking of this note and of his words, and not of the Hendersons.
“I have come to say good-by,” John Temple had said, in a low tone, clasping her hand and leaving the note there at the same time; “this will explain.”
“When—” began May, much agitated.
“To-day,” replied John, who understood, and answering her unspoken question, “but—I will not forget.”
Not another word was exchanged between them. Mr. Churchill called to his daughter to come to him, and several people were around them, but May saw no one, and heard no words but John’s. He did not follow her to her father’s dog-cart, but he stood watching her as her father helped her in, and when May turned to look at him he lifted his hat.
Thus they parted, and May went back to Woodside feeling both agitated and depressed. But she had her letter! With this firmly clasped in her hand she sprang from the dog-cart and ran upstairs to her own room without waiting to speak to her stepmother, who was standing in the hall to receive her husband.
When May reached her room she tore open John’s letter with trembling fingers, and read the following words, failing at the time to comprehend their full meaning:
“My Dear May—Sweet Mayflower: I am writing this because I think it right to do so; I am going away because I also think it right. I want you, in my absence, fully to comprehend your feelings toward me. If two people truly love each other I think nothing should separate them, but in the mutual attraction between men and women there is much which is not the love that can not change.
“Dear child, dear sweetheart! you are so much younger than I am that I must warn you against myself. I am world-worn, and until I met you I could not have believed that such a deep, tender, and passionate affection as I feel for you could have arisen in my heart. Yet this is so, but, on the other hand, there are strong and powerful reasons to keep us apart. You must make your own decision when I return. In the meantime believe that I love you, and that I am ready to sacrifice much for your love.
”John Temple.”
May read and re-read this letter, and could not quite follow its drift. She naturally thought that the strong and powerful reasons to keep them apart were social ones. His uncle, of course, would naturally object to his heir marrying the daughter of one of his tenants.
“But he loves me,” May whispered softly to herself; “and I love him, and will sacrifice anything for his sake—mine is the love that can not change.”
But her sweet dream was speedily interrupted. Her stepmother’s loud voice was heard calling to her on the stairs:
“May! dinner is ready; come down at once.”
May had still her hat and cape on, and it took her a few minutes to divest herself of these, but when she went into the dining-room she found her stepmother had not waited for her. Mrs. Churchill was sitting carving a large boiled leg of mutton and turnips, and she looked at May with her bright dark eyes disapprovingly as she entered the room.
“You are late for dinner, May,” she said, sharply. May made no answer. She sat down at the table, but the two thick slices of boiled mutton that her stepmother handed her was impossible food for her. In fact she could not eat it, and played with a little potato.
“Why are you not eating your mutton?” asked Mrs. Churchill.
“I do not like boiled mutton,” replied May, smiling.
“Not like excellent boiled mutton! Then what do you like? I did not know you were such a dainty eater as that.”
“May never eats very much,” said her father, kindly enough; “you like birds best, don’t you, May?”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” answered May.
“It’s impossible to have birds every day,” remarked her stepmother, decidedly, and then nothing more was said on the subject, and May went without her dinner, for which, however, she did not care.
But she did care about her stepmother’s constant interference. She had been accustomed to be her own mistress for years; to go out when it pleased her, andto read or write just as it took her fancy. Now Mrs. Churchill wished to change all this. She insisted on her going out shopping with herself; she found fault with her dress; and when she read, said she was wasting her time.
May tried for her father’s sake to put up with all this, but it was very annoying; then the two boys, Willie and Hal, returned home, and Mrs. Churchill tried to manage them also. Willie, who was a spoilt, rather passionate boy, was furious, but Hal suggested that as she kept the key of the jam closet, they had better be civil.
Then another disturbing element arose in the household for May. This was no less than the renewal of Tom Henderson’s now most unwelcome attentions. Henderson’s passion for her had by no means diminished in the changed circumstances of his life. Nay, he told himself that it was for her sake that he had acted as he had done. And taking advantage of Mr. Churchill’s known love for making a good bargain, he arrived at Woodside one day under the excuse that he wanted to buy a horse.
Mr. Churchill received the would-be purchaser quite civilly. And Henderson gave a long price for a very ordinary animal. Mr. Churchill was so pleased that he invited the young man into the house to have a glass of wine, and Henderson was only too delighted to avail himself of the chance of once more seeing May.
And he did see her, and also her stepmother. Mrs. Churchill was a shrewd woman, and her sharp, dark eyes speedily perceived that Henderson was deeply in love with May. He sat with his handsome dark eyes fixed on her fair face during the whole time he was in the room, and after he was gone Mrs. Churchill made particular inquiries about him.
“So,” she said, “this is the young man, is he, for whose sake that foolish girl at the Wayside Inn shot herself?”
“I have no doubt he behaved very badly to her,” replied May.
“How can you possibly tell that, my dear? A girlin her position could not expect him to marry her; he is a very nice, fine-looking young man. Does he often come here?”
“He used to come a great deal,” said May, coldly, and then she left the room, but Mrs. Churchill did not forget the subject.
“William,” she said, the same night to her husband, “do you know I believe that young Henderson admires May extremely?”
“I used to think so too,” answered Mr. Churchill, who was smoking his pipe complacently, and thinking of the good bargain he had made in the morning; “but it’s rather an awkward business, about that girl.”
“Oh, that will soon be forgotten, and I think it would be a remarkably good match for May, don’t you?”
Mr. Churchill gave one or two more puffs at his pipe before he answered.
“Stourton is nice property,” he said, at length.
“Yes, and he’s a nice-looking young man, suitable in age and everything, and girls are far better married young. I would encourage him to come here if I were you.”
But Henderson needed very little encouragement to go to Woodside. He began to do so from the day he had bought the horse, and he made very little secret of what was his attraction, and after awhile Mrs. Churchill made up her mind to bring the affair to a conclusion.
“May,” she said, quietly, after one of Henderson’s visits, “I think there is no doubt what that young man comes here for.”
May did not reply. She had always been very cold and distant to Henderson since Elsie Wray’s death, but she also knew very well the reason why he came to Woodside.
“Both your father and I think it would be an excellent match for you,” continued her stepmother.
“Nothing would induce me to marry him,” answered May, quickly and sharply, and Mrs. Churchill saw a hot flush rise to her lovely skin.
“My dear, it is folly to talk in that way. Girls inthese things must be guided by their elders, their parents. I married before I was your age, and I married because my father and mother wished me to do so, not that I was what is called in love with poor Mr. Jones. He, however, made me an excellent husband, and left me in comfortable circumstances. Mr. Henderson is well off, and it is your duty to your father to accept him, as, of course, your keep is a great expense to him.”
“Has my father complained of the expense I am to him?” asked May, angrily.
“He has not absolutely complained, but he is naturally anxious that you should settle and marry well. He was speaking to me about it only yesterday. He is not a rich man, and has, of course, many expenses. We both think young Henderson is the very man for you, and as he has a nice, independent property, it is an exceedingly good match.”
“I will never marry him,” repeated May; “please do not mention this again.”
But Mrs. Churchill did mention it again. She dwelt on it. It became her pet subject of conversation, and on one occasion when May was out, she—as she expressed it—“sounded” Mr. Henderson on his intentions toward her stepdaughter.
The young man did not require a second hint.
“I would give anything to marry her, Mrs. Churchill,” he said, “but May gives me no opportunity of speaking to her alone; she has changed to me since—”
A strange pallor spread over Henderson’s handsome face as he left his sentence incomplete, and Mrs. Churchill instantly observed this.
“Since that poor girl committed suicide, I suppose you mean?” she said, calmly. “It was an unfortunate occurrence, no doubt, but one that I think no sensible woman could blame you for. You could not be expected to marry her.”
Henderson gave a kind of gasp.
“I am glad to hear you say that, Mrs. Churchill,” he said, “but perhaps May—”
“Oh, May will get over it. Come and have tea withus to-morrow, Mr. Henderson, and I will give you the opportunity of speaking to May alone.”
Henderson was only too glad to promise to avail himself of this invitation. And on the following day he arrived at Woodside, excited and eager. And after tea was over Mrs. Churchill proceeded to carry out her little plan. She sent May into the garden alone, under the pretense that she wanted her to gather some flowers, and presently she sent young Henderson after her.
May was in the very act of cutting some roses when she heard his step on the walk behind her, and she was returning to the house to avoid him, when he suddenly caught her hand.
“Don’t go, May,” he said, in an agitated manner, “I want a few words with you.”
“I am busy,” answered May, “I can not stay.”
“You must stay,” went on Henderson, almost roughly. “May, how long is this to go on? How long are you going to play with me as you are playing with me now?”
“I never played with you, Mr. Henderson,” said May, with some dignity of manner.
“Oh, yes, you did. But play or not play, will you listen to what I have got to say?”
“I don’t wish to listen, Mr. Henderson; nothing that you can have to say to me—”
“Don’t drive me mad, May!” cried the young man, passionately. “You know I love you; that I love you too well, and yet you are always cold to me.”
“I am sorry if—if you care for me—for I can give you nothing in return.”
“Nothing!”
“Mr. Henderson, it is best to speak the truth.”
“Your parents wish it,” interrupted Henderson, eagerly; “your mother sent me to speak to you.”
“I have no mother,” said May, raising her head, proudly; “if you mean my father’s wife, she has no right to interfere with my affairs.”
“And this is all you have to say to me?”
“Yes, except to hope you will never speak of this to me again.”
A half-suppressed oath broke from Henderson’s lips.
“You carry things with a high hand, I must say; but if this means that that fellow Temple has come between you and me, he had best take care! No one shall come between us—you have cost me too much!”
An evil look came over his face as he spoke—such an evil look that May half-shuddered and hurried away, and as she entered the house she met her stepmother in the hall, who looked at her searchingly.
“Have you seen Mr. Henderson? Has he spoken to you?” she asked.
May felt very angry.
“I wish you would not send Mr. Henderson to speak to me,” she said; “I told you it was no use.”
“You are a foolish girl, and you should not speak to me in that manner,” retorted Mrs. Churchill.
“It has annoyed me very much,” continued May, “about these things. I may certainly be allowed to manage my own affairs.”
“We shall see, but you are very impertinent, and I shall speak to your father about your conduct.”
May said nothing more. She went to her own room, and after locking the door sat down to do what she did every hour of the day—to think of John Temple. Oh! how she longed for his return. She had made her decision; the decision that he had asked for in his letter, and was ready to brave everything for his sake. But he had been gone nearly a month, and she had heard nothing of or from him. Still she did not doubt his word nor his love. He would come back and then how different everything would seem.
But she had not heard the last of young Henderson’s visit. When she went down to supper both her father and her stepmother received her very coldly. Then when the meal was over her father spoke to her very seriously.
“May,” he said, after he had taken a few puffs at his pipe, “your mother tells me you have been acting veryfoolishly and not treating her with the respect which is her due, and which I will insist on from everyone in this house.”
“If you mean about Mr. Henderson,” answered May, turning very red, “I refuse to have anything to say to him.”
“You should take the advice of those older than yourself; your mother—”
“Mrs. Churchill is not my mother,” said May, hotly; “poor mother, I am sure, would never have urged me to encourage a man with Mr. Henderson’s character.”
Mr. Churchill got very angry.
“Don’t be so impertinent, girl!” he said. “I’ll tell you what it is, May, if you go on in this way you may find another home for yourself, for I won’t have you in mine!”
“Very well, father, I will,” answered May, and she rose and left the room, and the husband and wife were alone.
“I am afraid you have spoilt her, William,” said Mrs. Churchill.
“I’ll unspoil her, then,” swore the farmer. “I can not think what’s come over her of late.”
This was the first serious quarrel that May had ever had with her father. Mr. Churchill was, indeed, both fond and proud of her. But his new wife had already gained a strong influence over him. She was a clever woman in her way, and good-looking, and very well off, all of which qualifications Mr. Churchill thought much of, and of the last the most. Therefore, the next day he scarcely spoke to May, and her position in the house was exceedingly disagreeable.
But on the day following there came a change. It was Sunday, and May went to church with her two young brothers, her father and stepmother remaining at home, as Mrs. Churchill had a cold. And when May lifted her eyes, and looked at the squire’s square pew, she saw seated there John Temple and Mrs. Temple, his uncle’s wife.
The squire of Woodlea’s pew was at one side of the old-fashioned country church, and Mr. Churchill’s family occupied seats in the gallery. Therefore John Temple, looking up, saw the entrance of May Churchill and the two boys, and saw also the blush, the look of unmistakable joy, with which she recognized himself.
Other eyes saw this, too; a pair of handsome dark eyes that belonged to Mrs. Temple, who had followed her nephew-in-law’s upward glance, and watched, half with amusement, half with scorn, his brown face color slightly, and a soft look steal over his good-looking face. She also had seen the entrance of the three young Churchills, and drew her own conclusions from John’s expression. He had only arrived at the Hall the evening before, and had in the morning expressed a wish to attend the service at the parish church, somewhat to Mrs. Temple’s surprise.
“I thought going to church would not have been in your way,” she had said at the time.
“I have never heard your father preach,” answered John, smiling.
“You will fall asleep during the sermon—I warn you,” answered Mrs. Temple, also smiling.
“I am a bad sleeper, so that will be delightful,” said John.
The squire was ailing, and had a cold, and therefore did not go to church, so Mrs. Temple and John alone occupied the Hall pew. And when she saw the look on May Churchill’s face, and the look on John Temple’s as their eyes met, she understood why her husband’s nephew had wished to hear her father preach. That look indeed had thrilled through both their hearts. Yet, as John’s eyes fell, he sighed softly, and Mrs. Temple heard the sigh.
But May did not sigh. He had come back; she wouldsee him again, and when she did see him she would tell him she had made the decision he had asked for. She sat there between her two young brothers with her heart beating tumultuously, beating with joy and hope.
Presently Hal Churchill gave a little kick at her small foot.
“I say, May,” he said in a loud whisper, bending his head toward his sister’s ear, “d’ye see who’s in the squire’s pew?”
May made no answer. She frowned, or rather pretended to frown, and Hal went on unabashed:
“I heard he’d come back last night, but forgot to tell you,” continued Hal.
“Horrid boy,” thought May, remembering some sleepless hours she had spent grieving over John Temple’s absence.
The service went on; the weak-eyed curate, who also admired May Churchill, looked up to the gallery occasionally, and so did Mrs. Layton. This good lady repeated the responses in a loud tone, so as to let all those around her know how pious she was, yet she was not above worldly thoughts at the same time. She disapproved of May Churchill’s picture hat and picture face. She was wondering what the world was coming to when tenant farmers’ daughters dressed as May was dressed. She repeated, “Have mercy upon us miserable sinners,” but she did not really include herself in that category. She prayed for her neighbors, but not for herself, and she was greatly troubled in spirit concerning May Churchill’s picture hat.
Presently the vicar ascended the pulpit, and in his usual monotonous under-tone proceeded with his usual platitudes. A worthy man this, but misty, and perhaps his brain was mercifully clouded. It made his daily life more bearable, his scolding eager wife more endurable, and, taking all things into consideration, it was well for the Rev. James that he was not a clever nor keen-eyed man. His congregation, who expected nothing new from him, each settled him or herself to their private thoughts. The men, as a rule, mentally didtheir weekly accounts over, the women the cost of their neighbor’s dress and their own proposed new personal adornments. John Temple moved his seat to a convenient corner, whispering smilingly to his aunt-in-law as he passed her:
“It is true, I am actually going to sleep.”
Mrs. Temple smiled in return, and looked at John as he closed his eyes and leaned back his head against the curtained pew. But though he closed his eyes he did not go to sleep, nor had the slightest inclination to do so. Through those closed lids he still mentally saw the lovely face in the gallery beyond; still saw the glad look with which the Mayflower had greeted his return.
Mrs. Temple noticed his face flush, though he never opened his eyes. She kept looking at him and wondering what his life had been before her own terrible loss had made him the heir of Woodlea. She had expected to dislike him, almost to hate him, but she did not. His good looks favorably influenced her for one thing, and his pleasant, sympathetic manner for another. There is really no such lasting charm as this. But it is born with the man or woman who possesses it. It is the reflection from their hearts as it were; the outcome of the inner sense that understands the feelings of others and never wounds them.
John Temple possessed this gift, to some extent at least, though not in the highest sense. But at all events he never said unsuitable things, nor hit the wrong nail on the head. Some people seemingly can not help doing this. With the best intentions they ruffle our tempers, and we are glad when they go out of our sight.
So Mrs. Temple kept looking at John, and speculating as to his past.
“He is good-looking, but scarcely handsome,” she thought, and then she sighed, and her memory went back to the days of her soldier-lover, now lying in his Indian grave.
“If I had married George Hill, I would have been a good woman,” she was thinking. “Now what have I to be good for?”
She glanced contemptuously, as the thought struck her first, at her poor misty father in the pulpit, and then at her eager, watchful mother in the vicar’s pew below.
“They sold me,” she was reflecting, “and what I can give them is all they care for. Ah, it is a weary world.”
She moved, so impatiently that John Temple opened his gray eyes. The sermon was now drawing to a close, for one good quality the Rev. James Layton really did possess was not to preach too long sermons. And the moment the blessing was over Mrs. Temple rose hastily and signed to John to follow her. She wished to leave the church before her mother had an opportunity of joining her, for Mrs. Layton seldom ordered a Sunday dinner, but in general, and always if she could manage it, dined when the family at the Hall had luncheon in the middle of the day.
John looked up at the gallery as he followed Mrs. Temple out of the church, and half-smiled as his eyes met May’s, and this smile was reflected on her rosy lips. A moment later Mrs. Layton also looked up over her clasped hands, and to her consternation when she glanced at her daughter’s pew, she saw she was gone. Then she rose hastily from her knees and hurried out by the vestry door, only to be in time to see the Hall carriage disappear out of the churchyard, with her daughter and John Temple seated in it.
She ran to the churchyard gate; she frantically waved her umbrella, but all in vain. Mrs. Temple either did not, or pretended not to see her mother, and with a rueful heart Mrs. Layton had to turn and face the out-coming congregation, who were greatly amused at her discomfiture.
And she had very good cause for this feeling. She had in fact ordered no dinner for herself nor her husband at the vicarage, having securely reckoned on lunching at the Hall.
“Rachel should be ashamed of herself,” she reflected, angrily, as she returned to the vestry, “to treat her parents so, after all I have done for her.”
Only broken her daughter’s heart! This was what Mrs. Layton had done, and she considered her conduct meritorious. But she had no time for further reflection. In the vestry the vicar was divesting himself of his limp surplice, and his wife felt she must act.
“James,” she said, “I am just going to walk over to the Hall for lunch, and you must follow.”
“Did Rachel ask us?” inquired the vicar, weakly, for he also had been looking forward to the good things on the squire’s table, and a glass or two of the squire’s good wine.
“Yes,” replied Mrs. Layton, mendaciously, “but I stayed behind to tell you not to be long. I will walk on, as they always have lunch much earlier on Sundays.”
And Mrs. Layton did walk on. She went at a brisk rate, for she was determined not to be cheated out of her dinner by her ungrateful daughter. She therefore arrived at the Hall somewhat heated in mind and body.
“The family are at lunch, madam,” the footman who opened the door informed her, but, nothing daunted, Mrs. Layton walked coolly to the dining-room, and entered unannounced.
The gray-haired squire, who was sitting at the table, rose to receive her, after giving one inquiring glance at his wife, who shrugged her shoulders slightly in reply.
“I wished to see you, Rachel,” began Mrs. Layton, who was very hot, “but you hurried away from church so quickly that I had not the opportunity, and so I followed you on here.”
“Pray be seated, Mrs. Layton,” said Mr. Temple, courteously. “James,” this was to the footman, “place a chair for Mrs. Layton.”
“I must say I feel rather tired,” continued Mrs. Layton, “and shall be glad of a glass of wine. Thanks, Mr. Temple, I know your good wine of old, and I hope you will excuse me when I tell you that I have taken the liberty of asking the vicar to follow me here. I wishedto see you, Rachel, on a little business that I could not defer.”
“I dare say it would have waited,” answered Mrs. Temple, coolly. She was annoyed at her mother’s appearance, and she did not care to hide this, nor did she extend any warm welcome to her father when the good vicar came shambling in.
“Your mother said you had kindly invited us, my dear,” explained the vicar. “I am sorry I am late, but there were several things I had to see about before I could leave the vestry.”
“Oh, it is all right,” said Mrs. Temple. At this moment she felt sorry for her poor down-trodden father. She heaped good things on his plate, and ordered some of his favorite old port to be placed on the table. She took very little notice of her mother; she had in truth an immense contempt for the scheming, untruthful little woman who had given her birth.
Mrs. Layton still felt angry, but her anger did not interfere with her appetite. She ate and drank to her heart’s content, and then she began talking to John Temple.
“So you were at church this morning, Mr. John?” she said. “Well, it’s a poor place, and needs a great deal of alteration, but all these things cost money.”
The squire turned a deaf ear to his mother-in-law’s remark, but John answered courteously:
“I thought it all seemed very nice,” he answered. “Of course, you can not expect everything in an old-fashioned country church.”
“Yes, old-fashioned, that is the word,” echoed Mrs. Layton, eagerly. “Look at those galleries! Did you ever see such things? They should come down, but as I said before it all costs money, and people won’t give it, and the vicar won’t rouse himself.”
The vicar looked mildly up from his plate at this remark, and that was all.
“And talking of the galleries,” went on Mrs. Layton, speaking with great rapidity, “did you notice that absurd hat that Margaret Churchill wore this morning?Absolutely preposterous! I suppose that is what you call a picture hat?” she added, looking at her daughter.
“I thought it seemed a very elegant affair!” scoffed Mrs. Temple. “What did you think of it, my nephew John?”
“Don’t be shocked at my bad taste when I confess I never noticed it,” replied John Temple, smiling.
“You only saw the face beneath?” questioned Mrs. Temple.
John made a sarcastic bow.
“Now you compliment my good taste,” he said.