A vague sense of disappointment stole into May Churchill’s heart as she read this letter of John Temple’s—a vague sense of disappointment and pain. He seemed so terribly afraid that people should talk about them, and then, her father—for the first time May felt remorse about her father—and began to realize that she might have caused him great anxiety.
And her own position, too, unless they were to be married soon, would be very trying. John had said that in a fortnight at latest he would join her, but now he did not seem at all certain of this. Altogether the letter disturbed her exceedingly, and she was sitting still and silent in her own room, when kind Miss Eliza rapped at the door and put in her head.
“My dear,” she said, “our nephew Ralph wishes to know if you would like to go to one of the picture galleries this morning?”
“I think not, Miss Eliza,” answered May in a constrained voice.
“Are you feeling tired?” now asked good Miss Eliza; “Ah, I was afraid you were doing too much.”
“I think I do feel a little tired, but it is nothing; only I should rather not go out this morning,” said May, gently. “But please thank Mr. Webster for his kindness in offering to take me.”
“I am sure it gives him pleasure; but I’ll go now and tell him you do not wish to go.”
After this Miss Eliza went away, and presently May heard the front door of the house shut sharply. It was Ralph Webster going out, with also a feeling of disappointment in his heart of which he was half-ashamed.
“What can have tired her, I wonder?” he was reflecting. “She seemed as bright as possible last night.”
May in the meanwhile was thinking of what she should do about answering John Temple’s letter. She had seenthat gentle look of surprise in Miss Margaret’s mild eyes when she had placed John’s letter in her hand, and no doubt she would be yet more surprised when she asked her to inclose her own to him. Yet John had requested her to do this, and she must, of course, do as he wished.
So after awhile she sat down to write to him. She had never written to him before, and this first love letter was therefore a very serious affair. She began it three times.
“Dear John”—no, that was too cold. “My own dearest John”—no, that was too warm! “Dearest John;” yes, May thought that would do. Was he not her dearest John? Not only her dearest John, but the dearest to her of all on earth.
May thought this as she went on with her letter. She told him how good and kind Miss Webster and Miss Eliza were to her, and she told him also of all the places and amusements they had taken her to see.
“Their nephew, Mr. Ralph Webster, has gone with us generally, also,” she added; “but oh! how I wish you were here, John. It all seems like a beautiful new world to me, but I miss you always. Still you must run no risks for my sake. And John, dear John, do keep out of the way of that wretched Mr. Henderson. Somehow I am afraid of him, though I know he can do you no harm. But he is a passionate-tempered man, I am certain, and cruel, as we know after the way he behaved to that poor, poor girl who shot herself. I wonder if her spirit ever haunts him? Her memory must, I am certain, for no doubt he broke her heart.”
After she had once begun her letter May found it quite easy to go on. It seemed almost as if she were talking to John; telling him her thoughts as she had done in the still garden at Woodside, when no one was by to listen. Note-sheet after note-sheet she filled with this fond prattling, until she suddenly remembered with dismay that hers would be such a big letter for Miss Webster to inclose to John. Still she could not part with one word. She pressed her sheets together as tightly as she could, and then went somewhat nervously down-stairswith her letter in her hand to seek Miss Webster.
Miss Eliza had gone out to change her novel at the nearest library, for Miss Eliza was a great lover of fiction, and thus May found Miss Webster alone in the dining-room industriously engaged in marking some household linen. May felt that she colored painfully when Miss Webster raised her kind eyes as she entered the room and greeted May with a smile.
“Well, my dear,” she said, “Eliza says you feel rather tired this morning, and I am sorry for that. Is there anything you would like? A glass of port wine before lunch?”
“Oh! no, Miss Webster,” answered May with a smile and a pretty blush. “There is really nothing the matter with me—only I had a letter to write—to Mr. Temple.”
“To Mr. Temple?” repeated Miss Webster, looking at the fair face of her young guest.
“Yes, he asked me to write,” went on May, nervously; “and—and—Miss Webster, he—”
“Well, my dear, what is it?” asked Miss Webster, gently, as May paused and hesitated.
“He said if you would be so kind as to inclose my letters to him he would like that best,” said May, taking courage. “You see he is staying with his uncle, and I believe his uncle’s wife is rather an odd woman—so he thinks it best that she should not know that we write to each other at present.”
Miss Webster did not speak for a moment or two after May had made this somewhat confused explanation. But she was thinking very seriously. So this young girl’s visit to London was evidently a secret, she was reflecting—a secret from Mr. John Temple’s relations; probably from May Churchill’s own. The knowledge of this made Miss Webster somewhat nervous. She had the greatest belief and trust in Mr. John Temple—had they not known him for years?—and she was quite sure he would not do what was wrong to anyone. Still, May was a young girl—and once moreMiss Webster’s gentle eyes rested on the young girl’s face.
“Please do this for me, Miss Webster,” pleaded May, in her pretty way, laying her little white hand on Miss Webster’s thin, bluish-tinted one.
“It must seem funny to you, I know, but it won’t some day—some day,” she added, a little proudly, raising her head, “you will know that neither John nor I are doing any wrong.”
“I am sure you are not,” answered Miss Webster, taking the little fluttering hand in hers. “I have a great regard for Mr. John Temple, and so has sister Eliza. Yes, my dear, I will inclose your letter. You will find some large envelopes lying on the writing-table there.”
So the large envelope was duly directed to John Temple, Esq., in the rather old-fashioned, shaky handwriting of Miss Margaret Webster, and was carried to the nearest post office by May herself, and sped on its way, until the next morning it was lying on the breakfast table at Woodlea Hall, near the seat that John usually occupied while he was staying there.
The squire always opened the letter-bag, and passed on the letters to their different owners, but it chanced this morning that John Temple was not yet down when his big letter arrived, neither was Mrs. Temple. Presently, however, Mrs. Temple appeared, and looked first at her own letters, and then at John’s large one.
“What old woman, I wonder, is writing to John Temple?” she said, holding up the letter to attract her husband’s attention. “Perhaps it contains one from a young one.” And she laughed.
“You should not say such things as that, Rachel,” answered the squire, rather reprovingly.
“Why not?” went on Mrs. Temple.
At this moment John Temple opened the dining-room door, and walked up to his place at the table, while Mrs. Temple still had his letter in her hand.
“Good-morning, Mrs. Temple; good-morning, uncle,” said John, pleasantly.
“Good-morning, nephew John,” answered Mrs. Temple, with just a touch of defiance in her tone. “Do you see I am meddling with your property?” And she placed the letter in his hand. “I have just been admiring the handwriting of your lady correspondent, and the size and fullness of her epistle.”
John’s brown face colored slightly, and he put out his hand for his letter, but that was all.
“Ah,” he said, looking at it with affected carelessness, “this is from my landlady in town, and no doubt contains all my unpaid bills.”
“I thought you had no unpaid bills,” retorted Mrs. Temple, smiling. “Your uncle, on my suggesting that he should pay some of mine, held you up as a pattern in the matter of bills. ‘John owes nothing,’ he said; now it appears to me that if that envelope contains nothing but bills, that John must owe a great deal.”
“Rachel, do not talk nonsense,” interrupted the squire, moving his newspaper restlessly. “John, what will you take?”
John put his letter into his pocket before he made his choice.
“Let me hide my bills first,” he said. “Thanks, uncle,” he said, “I’ll have some cold grouse.”
Thus the subject of John’s letter was dropped for the present, but Mrs. Temple had not forgotten it. She waited until the squire went out of the room, and then went up to John, smilingly.
“Well, my nephew John,” she said, “I’ll leave you now to study your unpaid bills; or,” she added archly, “to read your love letters from an old woman, and one, maybe, from a young one, too!”
“I wish it were so,” replied John, as Mrs. Temple laughed and moved toward the door of the room; “but I am not so fortunate as you think.”
But the moment she had disappeared his expression changed, and he hastily drew out the envelope Miss Webster had directed, and found inside the letter from May. This also he quickly opened, and his face softened strangely as he read the tender words it contained.
“May, dear little May,” he murmured to himself, half-aloud, “and you miss me, darling, do you? but not more, not half so much, May, as I miss you.”
He read her long letter twice, and then put it into his pocket, and going into the hall, took a cap from the hat-stand, and strolled out into the park. The mist lay on the dewy grass and floated in the air, blurring the landscape somewhat, and hanging shadow-like around the trees. But John Temple scarcely noticed the atmosphere. He was trying to unravel some of the problems of his life; to make a crooked path straight for the sake of his young love.
“But for May I should not mind,” he was thinking, “but I must shield May; she must never know.”
Then he thought of her as he had first seen her by his young cousin’s grave; thought of the day when he had met her in the country lane gathering the hedge roses; and of those other meetings when they had drifted nearer and nearer to each other’s hearts.
“A good man would have fled from temptation, I suppose,” he replied, gloomily enough. “But I did not, and now—it is too late.”
It was quite true that young Henderson had made a terrible scene when he first heard that May Churchill had disappeared from her home. He heard it from his groom, Jack Reid, whom he now regarded with the most bitter hate and fear, though he was obliged to suppress these feelings.
Reid had, indeed, proved a hard task-master, and had insisted on his price to the uttermost farthing. Henderson had, no doubt with some difficulty, paid him onethousand pounds, and had tried in vain to avoid paying him the other thousand, at least for a time.
“This won’t do, you know, master,” he had said, insolently enough on Henderson making some excuse about the money; “that’s all very fine, but our bargain was for two thousand, and you must keep your part of it if I keep mine.”
“But I tell you, man, I can not raise the money without old Ormsby, the lawyer, being most inquisitive about it, and asking all sorts of questions,” answered Henderson.
“It’s your money, not his, isn’t it?” retorted Reid, coolly. “And it’s your debt, too, isn’t it? Maybe if the lawyer knew the truth he would think it wasn’t much to pay for your life?”
“You are always bringing that up,” said Henderson, gloomily.
He was looking very ill; people said he drank heavily, and certainly his naturally clear brown complexion had a different hue now to what it used to have. He was irritable, too, and excitable to a painful extent, and his unhappy mother lived in constant dread of some outbreak.
“The truth is, master,” went on Jack Reid, quite coolly, a few moments later, “I really want this money down, and I must ha’ it too, for I am thinking of starting a race-horse or two in a small way, and capital I must have.”
“You never would be so mad!” cried Henderson, in a sudden passion. “You would just throw away the money and get into all sorts of debts and troubles.”
“Many a man has begun on less,” continued Reid, contemplatively. “I know a good horse when I see one, and anyhow I mean to try—now Tom, my boy—”
“How dare you speak to me thus?” almost shouted Henderson, growing pale with rage.
“A good many folks would say how dare you to speak to me so?” replied Reid, significantly.
Henderson did not speak; he stood there quivering with passion, glaring at the man who was his master and made him feel it.
“Now, Tom, my boy,” repeated Reid, with a short and somewhat scornful laugh, “it’s no good for us two to quarrel. We both know too much, and we may as well make the best of the situation. And what I was about to propose is this: My two thousand pounds I will ha’; but what about you going into partnership with me and making the capital four thousand? We could do something with that, and then old Ormsby, the lawyer, would not be surprised any longer at yer wanting the money.”
Henderson swore a bitter oath, and cursed the man before him.
“Do your worst!” he cried. “I’d rather go to the bottomless pit as have anything more to do with you.”
“Ye’ll find yer’self there most likely, whether ye have anything to do wi’ me or not,” retorted Reid. “It’s no good swearing and cursing, my friend Tom; ye’ve got the rope round yer neck, remember, if I choose to pull it.”
Again Henderson swore a tremendous oath.
“Come, come, it’s all very fine using big words,” continued Reid, “but they’re not business, and I mean business. I think we could start very well on four thousand, and ye’d best think it over, for I’ve been looking about me, and I think I know a fellow who would let me his place cheap, as he’s a bit down in his luck at present.”
“And you’ve been talking about this to other people, have you?” asked Henderson, savagely. “What do you suppose they will think? Where did you get the money? they will ask.”
Reid winked one of his shrewd brown eyes.
“I’ve thought of all that, my boy,” he answered, “and I’ve been throwing out hints lately that a relation in Australia has died and left me money.”
“I wish you would go there,” said Henderson, eagerly catching at the idea of getting rid of his incubus. “Australia’s just the country for you, Reid. With your capital you are sure to do well there, whereas this racing stable business is an immense risk.”
“I mean to try it, for all that,” answered Reid,sturdily, “and I don’t mean to be got rid of so easily as to be pushed off to Australia or anywhere else. No, I mean to try my luck where I am, and you’d best think over the proposal I’ve made. However, partnership or no partnership, I must ha’ the second thousand by next week, so ye must raise it as best ye can.”
A savage, almost murderous, gleam shot from Henderson’s eyes as the man spoke, and Reid noticed this.
“That kind of thing won’t do for the like o’ me,” he said, significantly. “It’s all very well with a poor helpless lass, but it’s man to man wi’ us, and I’d back myself against ye.”
Again that terrible look passed over Henderson’s face, but with a great effort and an inward oath he suppressed the words that rose to his lips.
“This man and I shall not live together on the earth,” he silently swore, and from this hour he never forgot his vow.
But Reid, reckoning on his own personal strength perhaps, had no fear of his master. Nay, he seemed to take a sort of grim pleasure in irritating him, and after a few moments’ silence he began on the subject of May Churchill’s disappearance, of which he had just heard, the report not having yet reached Henderson’s ears.
“Well, ha’ ye heard the last news?” he asked.
“What news?” answered Henderson, sullenly.
“About that bonnie lass fra’ Woodside Farm—”
“What!” cried Henderson, springing up erect, for he had been leaning against one of the stable stalls during the rest of this interview. “What do you say?”
“It’s just hearsay wi’ me,” replied Reid, “but I’ve been told that Miss Churchill’s run away fra’ home, and no one can hear tell of her.”
“I don’t believe it; it’s a lie,” said Henderson, every particle of color dying out of his face. “It’s just some confounded bit of gossip like the rest—but at all events I’ll ride over and see. Saddle Bob for me, Reid.”
The groom proceeded leisurely to obey this order, while Henderson stood by impatient and excited. Hekept repeating, “It’s a lie; nothing but a lie;” but Reid could see that every limb of his body was quivering, and that the report had agitated him almost beyond control. The moment the horse was ready Henderson sprang on his back and galloped out of the stable yard. Nor did he draw rein until he reached Woodside Farm. Then he hastily dismounted, and after giving his horse in charge of one of the grooms, he strode to the house door and violently rang the bell.
The maid who opened it said the master was out, but the mistress was in.
“Can I see Mrs. Churchill?” asked Henderson, hoarsely.
At this moment Mrs. Churchill herself appeared at the dining-room door. She had seen Henderson arrive from the window, and now went forward to receive him.
“Good-afternoon, Mr. Henderson,” she said, with extended hand. “Come in here. I suppose you have heard what has happened?”
“About May?” gasped Henderson, who was pale and trembling in every limb.
“Yes, about May,” replied Mrs. Churchill, calmly. “May has behaved in the most extraordinary manner; she has run away from home.”
Henderson did not speak; he staggered against a chair; he grasped its back to support himself.
“Mr. Churchill and I,” continued Mrs. Churchill, still calmly, “had been away from home for a couple of days, to my place at Castle Hill, and when we returned the night before last, May had left a message with one of the boys that she had a headache, and had gone to bed. Well, yesterday morning she did not come down to breakfast, and I went upstairs to look after her. Her room was unoccupied, her bed had not been slept in; in fact, she had disappeared. Her father went at once to the station, and it appears from the station-master’s account she started for London in the afternoon of the evening of our return. The whole thing had been planned beforehand.”
“And,” faltered Henderson, for he could scarcely speak the words, the violence of his emotion was so great, “was she—alone?”
“Perfectly alone. She had engaged a strange boy to take her trunk to the station, and she had taken all her best things with her. And she left a letter for her father lying on the toilet-table of her room, in which she falsely endeavored to blame me for her conduct. She said she could not get on with me, so she had gone away. But I don’t believe a word of it; I believe I was only a blind.”
Henderson gave a sort of sigh of relief; after all, May had gone alone.
“How do you mean about a blind?” he asked, after a moment’s silence.
“Well, Mr. Henderson, I will trust you; I know you liked this foolish girl, and you know what I wished concerning yourself and her. Therefore, I expect this will go no farther. But my belief is, that though she certainly ran away with no one from here, that someone will join her, and this is why I trust you. Do you know of any lover—any admirer she had?”
A dark-red dusky flush rose to Henderson’s pale face.
“No—” he said, “unless—”
“Unless whom?”
Henderson began moving restlessly up and down the room with irregular footsteps.
“There is that fellow,” he said, at length, “that is to be Mr. Temple of Woodlea’s heir, they say—well, I’ve seen May with him more than once. I saw her with him just after the boy’s death, and another time,” and then he suddenly paused, remembering that it was in Fern Dene that he had twice seen May with John Temple.
“I know she knew him; she was thrown with him, you see, when that unfortunate girl committed suicide, but I scarcely think there could be anything between them, though certainly on the very day of our return here after our marriage trip, we found him here.”
“You found him here?”
“Yes, but Mr. Churchill seemed to think nothing of it, and I have never seen him here since; still, one never can tell.”
“She changed to me from the day he came,” went on Henderson, in a broken voice; “before that she was always pleasant and friendly, if nothing more. If I thought this fellow had induced May to leave her home I would be even with him, that is all.”
“My dear Mr. Henderson, do not speak in that way. We have really nothing to go on regarding Mr. John Temple. As I have told you, I never saw him here except that once, when we came home, and I have no reason to believe she ever met him outside, and he certainly did not run away with her. She went alone for one thing, and for another Mr. John Temple is at present at the Hall; Mr. Churchill saw him when he went to tell the squire of May’s disappearance on the morning when we found she was gone.”
“And what did he say?”
“I don’t think anything particular. Oh, yes, he said May had never said anything to him of her intention of leaving home. No, I think we may leave him out of the question; now what I want to ask you is, is there no one else, do you think, likely? Is there any young farmer about here, or even in a lower class?”
“May never would look at them.”
“That’s what her father said, but one never can tell.”
“I don’t believe it,” answered Henderson, roughly. “No, if it’s anyone, it’s this Temple! He’s a sly, quiet fellow, with a sneer on his face always, and if he’s done any harm to May he had best look to himself. He came between her and me, I know; and he’ll rue the day, I swear it on my soul, if he’s done any wrong to the girl.”
“My dear Mr. Henderson, this is folly,” began Mrs. Churchill.
But with a suppressed oath Henderson broke away from her, leaving Mrs. Churchill not a little alarmed at the wild recklessness of his whole manner and bearing.And when she told her husband of his visit he was not over-well pleased.
“It will never do, you know, Sarah, for this young fellow to go raving about the country side, talking of May and Mr. John Temple. We must remember the squire is my landlord, and that Mr. Temple will be, and I’m told Henderson has been drinking heavily lately, and has never been the same since that poor girl’s death. My opinion is we will hear of May some day soon, and that she’s gone off in a huff and taken some situation or other, not with any young man or lover at all.”
And Mrs. Churchill saw the prudence of her husband’s advice, and talked no more of May’s probable lovers. Henderson, on the contrary, rode home with every nerve in his body tingling, and his brain surging with rage. His life, in fact, had become utterly unendurable to him; his position with his groom, Reid, and now the loss of May Churchill seemed actually to madden him.
And the very day after he had seen Mrs. Churchill he met John Temple riding along the road. It was to this meeting that John had alluded in his letter to May, and there was something in the dark, lowering look of hate on Henderson’s face, as he passed, that John was not likely quickly to forget.
Though Miss Webster had acceded to May’s request, and addressed her letter to John Temple, she did not entirely forget the incident. In fact, it remained on her mind, and she began to believe there was something much more serious between John and May than mere cousinship.
May’s manner, too, had been very serious when she had said that some day she would know there was nothing wrong between herself and John. Miss Webster, in fact, began to believe that there was a secret engagement between them, and this belief disturbed her, because she was getting anxious about her nephew, Ralph Webster.
She did not know what made her think so, but still she did think that Ralph was becoming very much attached to their young guest. May was such a pretty girl, and he was constantly thrown with her, so after all it was only natural. Another thing, Ralph, who had been so eager about his vacation holiday before May’s arrival, now seemed to have forgotten its existence.
Little things do not escape eyes sharpened by real affection, and one evening shortly after she had addressed May’s letter to John Temple, Miss Webster found the “young people,” as she called them, together at the piano in the drawing-room, May playing and Ralph Webster, with violin on shoulder, performing a very fair accompaniment to May’s music. True, Aunt Eliza was also present, industriously knitting a violet silk sock for her nephew Ralph, but still Miss Webster felt uneasy. And presently when they paused they both laughed good-naturedly, and Ralph looked around and jokingly asked for applause.
“Aunt Margaret, Aunt Eliza, why don’t you clap your hands?” he said. “I have never touched the violin since I was a boy at school until I persuaded Miss Churchill just now to allow me to try to accompany her. And don’t you think it was lovely?”
“I think it was lovely,” laughed May Churchill.
“It seemed very nice, my dears,” answered Aunt Margaret, gravely.
“Very nice,” sighed Aunt Eliza, mildly.
“To call anything ‘very nice’ is an insult, I consider,” went on Ralph Webster, with a laugh. “It means you don’t admire my performance, but that at the same time you do not wish to hurt my feelings. Pretty girls are told they look ‘very nice’ by jealoussisters and rivals, and there is no warmth in such an opinion! Never mind, Miss Churchill, see if we can’t do better next time—what have you here?”
He stooped down and began to turn over May’s music as he spoke, asking for this piece or that. But May naturally had no great assortment, as she had brought no music with her, and all she possessed was what she had bought in town since her arrival.
She turned round on the music-stool, however, and bent down to assist Webster in his search, and as she did so for a moment, partly by accident, he laid his hand on hers. It was only a touch, but Aunt Margaret, watching them, saw a glow, a sudden light gleam in Ralph Webster’s eyes, and a flush rise to his somewhat sunken cheeks. Then, she looked at the girl’s fair face, but it was calm and placid as a summer’s day. She had scarcely noticed the touch that had thrilled through his strong frame. Aunt Margaret fidgeted in her seat; she was one of those quiet women who we forget have once been young; forget that they too have had their deep joys, their silent sorrows, their withered hopes. Yet with Margaret Webster this had been so, and there was a green grave in a distant country churchyard, where the one she had loved best lay still in his unbroken sleep. Only a common story, but it made Margaret Webster understand the glow on her nephew’s cheeks, and the unruffled pale pink bloom on May’s. The man loved and the girl was indifferent, and Miss Webster’s gentle heart shrank from the probable pain that Ralph Webster would endure.
The idea nerved her to take some action. She waited till May and Aunt Eliza also had retired for the night, and while her nephew went on with his pipe she suddenly broached the subject of his holiday.
“Are you not going away at all this year, Ralph?” she asked, “for you see September is drawing to a close.”
Ralph drew his pipe from his firm lips, and looked steadily at his aunt.
“Have you any motive for asking that, Aunt Margaret?” he said.
Miss Webster hesitated. Her faded cheeks flushed slightly; her thin hands moved uneasily.
“I think you have,” went on Ralph Webster.
“Well, Ralph, I have,” replied Miss Webster, with an effort. “You see Miss Churchill is still with us, and for the present likely to remain, and I am not quite easy in my mind about something. I know nothing, you know, my dear; but still something a little strange, I think, occurred the other day, and I think it better to tell you. You remember Mr. John Temple wrote to ask us to receive his young cousin for a short time? A fortnight, I think he said.”
Ralph Webster nodded his head; he was listening intently to his aunt’s words.
“We were only too happy to do this, both Eliza and myself,” continued Miss Webster. “We have both the greatest regard and friendship for Mr. John Temple; but the other day I got a letter from him inclosing one for May Churchill, which, of course, I at once gave her, and the same day May gave me a very large letter to inclose to Mr. John Temple. It seemed strange, did it not? As if there were some secret?”
Still Ralph did not speak. His dark, marked brows were knitted; he was evidently thinking deeply.
“And,” proceeded Miss Webster, “when I hesitated a little, just a little, about inclosing her letter to Mr. John Temple, May suddenly said, ‘I know all this must seem strange to you, Miss Webster, but some day you will understand it; some day you will know that neither John nor I are doing any wrong’—or words to that effect at least.”
“And you addressed the letter to Temple?” asked Ralph Webster, in a low, concentrated voice.
“Yes, my dear, I did. I addressed it to him at Woodlea Hall, and May went out and posted it herself—and—and, Ralph, I have considered it over, and I thought it best to tell you.”
Again Ralph Webster nodded his head.
“I understand,” he said, briefly.
“You see you have been a good deal thrown withher,” went on Miss Webster, apologetically, “and May is such a pretty girl—”
“You thought I might lose my heart to someone engaged to another man, eh, Aunt Margaret?” interrupted Ralph Webster, as his aunt paused, but though his lips smiled, there was a ring of pain in his voice. “Well, Aunt Margaret, perhaps I am safer away—thank you for the hint.”
“Good-night, my dear,” said Miss Webster, rising, and gently kissing his brow. But though she listened and waited long to hear the sound of Ralph’s footsteps also going to his room, she did not hear them. For it was morning, and Miss Webster was sleeping her placid sleep, when a pale, haggard-faced man stole quietly up the staircase, afraid to awaken the other inmates of the house.
Yet later in the day Ralph Webster went down to breakfast with no sign of any inward conflict on his resolute face. Perhaps he was a shade paler than usual, but that was all. His manner at least showed nothing. He talked in the same fashion to May as he had talked the night before, and to his aunts. But just when breakfast was over, he made a little announcement.
“Do you know, I am obliged to tear myself away to-day from your pleasant society,” he said, without addressing anyone in particular; “Bedford, a friend of mine, is starting to-day for a fortnight’s trip to Switzerland, and I proposed to go with him; I can not very well get off.”
“It will be a pleasant change, my dear,” said Aunt Margaret, in a faltering voice.
“Yes, very pleasant,” echoed Miss Eliza, in a disappointed tone.
“How you will enjoy it!” said May Churchill, heartily, looking frankly in his face.
“I hope so,” answered Ralph Webster. “Shall I bring you some edelweiss?”
“Oh, yes, do; bring us all some,” replied May, brightly.
“The ice-flower,” said Ralph Webster, slowly, withhis deep, serious eyes fixed on her face. But the next moment he roused himself and held out his hand.
“Well, good-by, Miss Churchill; I suppose I shall find you here on my return?”
“I suppose so,” said May, and a slight fluttering blush rose to her smooth cheeks.
Then Webster took leave of his two aunts, who followed him to the street door, and waited until the cab he whistled for arrived. But just before he left the room he looked back at May; there was a look on her face as if she were thinking of something, but Webster felt vaguely it was not of him.
“I am better away,” he thought, as he seated himself in the cab and waved his hand to his aunts. But all the same he sighed deeply as he lost sight of Pembridge Terrace.
And the week after he was gone seemed very quiet without him to the three ladies there. His comings and goings had made a little stir each day, and he had brought in the news, and it certainly was not so lovely as before. Miss Eliza, however, found consolation in gazing into the shop windows down Westbourne Grove, and Miss Webster in her household duties. And just ten days after he left, news came to May which filled her whole being with excitement.
It was contained in a letter from John Temple; a letter duly forwarded under cover to Miss Webster, and placed in May’s hand by that lady with a little tremulous sigh. But five minutes after she had received it May returned to the room with a face beaming with joy, and cheeks covered with blushes.
“Oh, Miss Webster!” she cried, and ran up impetuously and kissed that kind lady; “John is coming! He is coming to-morrow; there is only one more day to wait, and he will be here!”
May was in a state of great excitement all the day after receiving John Temple’s letter. She was so restless she could not stay in the house; but it was evidently a happy restlessness. She went out to shop, and bought all sorts of pretty knick-knacks, and sorely troubled Miss Eliza’s mind by her extravagance.
“Never mind, it won’t matter now,” she said, sweetly, when Miss Eliza ventured to remonstrate, and there was such a glad look in her eyes as she spoke that her gentle companion had not the heart to say anything further.
The truth was that John Temple was not only coming, but in his letter he had told May that they would be married at once.
“I am weary of waiting, my Mayflower,” he had written, “and am longing for the sight of your dear face and the touch of your dear hand.”
Sweet, welcome words that thrilled through the girl’s heart, making the world all sunshine! May had always trusted John, but she had felt that in her position waiting was very trying, though she had never for a moment blamed him for the delay. She judged his love by hers; his heart by her own. But now it was all over—the anxiety, the uncertainty. John would be with her to-morrow, and her life henceforth would be full of joy.
She counted the hours until they should meet, as many a fond, foolish woman has counted them before. She brought out her prettiest frocks; she smiled at her fair reflection in the glass.
“How will he think I am looking?” she thought, and she wondered, too, if she would see any change in him.
The two quiet sisters down-stairs looked at each other with sympathetic sighs. Miss Margaret had never told Miss Eliza about her conversation with Ralph Websterbut somehow Miss Eliza had vaguely understood that some such conversation had taken place. She, too, had been afraid for the son of their love; she, too, had watched Ralph’s dark eyes follow the slender girlish form, whose heart was now beating so joyously at the prospect of meeting another man!
But they did not speak of it. Miss Webster had said quietly to Miss Eliza during the morning, “Mr. John Temple is coming to-morrow,” and therefore Miss Eliza concluded that May’s happy looks and excitement were somehow connected with this event.
She, indeed, made no secret of this, and when the day actually came she went out the very first thing in the morning, and returned laden with flowers, with which she proceeded to fill Miss Webster’s blue china vases all over the house.
“My dear, you have quite a flower show,” said Miss Webster, kindly, looking at the glowing blossoms.
“He is very fond of flowers,” answered May, with a soft happy blush, going on with her task; and Miss Webster turned away thinking sadly enough of Ralph Webster at some Alpine village among the snow.
But May Churchill never thought of him. Her whole mind was taken up with one idea. “John is coming to-day; John is coming!”
The thought made her go singing about the house; it deepened the lovely rose-bloom on her cheeks, and made her eyes shine like stars.
“She is beautiful,” whispered Aunt Eliza to Aunt Margaret, when the girl came down dressed for dinner in her white frock, with moss-rose buds at her breast and throat.
John Temple was expected a little before seven o’clock, and a little after seven o’clock he came. We may be sure May was waiting and watching for him, and when she heard a cab stop before the house door she ran into the hall to welcome him. And a moment or two later John came in, and the two clasped each other’s hands in silence, and then John drew Mayinto the dining-room, the door of which was standing open, and clasped her to his breast.
“My own love, my own dear love,” he whispered, with his lips on hers.
But presently May drew back.
“Let me look at you,” she said softly, raising her beautiful eyes and looking into his gray ones. She had pictured his face so often in her day-dreams; pictured it looking down at her as it was looking now, full of love, and with a little sigh of rest the next moment her white eyelids fell.
“You are not changed,” she murmured below her breath.
“Did I not tell you I would never change?” answered John Temple. “My Mayflower, I will not change.”
By this time Miss Margaret in the kitchen was getting exceedingly uneasy that her turbot would be over-boiled and her ducks over-roasted. She therefore put up her head from the kitchen stairs and called to Aunt Eliza, who speedily came to her.
“Eliza, if without disturbing them, you know, dear, do you think you could give them to understand that dinner is ready?” she whispered.
Aunt Eliza nodded her head.
“What shall I do?” she said. “Knock at the door, or cough?”
“To knock would be too marked, I think,” answered Aunt Margaret. “I should just give a little cough, or a gentle sneeze outside.”
It is all very well to be told to sneeze when you do not want to do so, but it is almost an impossibility. Miss Eliza, however, proceeded to the dining-room door and tried to do her best. She, in fact, emitted a most extraordinary sound which was intended to represent a sneeze. But at all events it had the intended effect. The lovers started apart as if they had been shot.
“What is that?” said May.
“Sounds as if someone was choking outside,” answered John; “shall I see what it is?”
He accordingly opened the door, and there stood poor Aunt Eliza in the very act of preparing to attempt to sneeze again!
“Miss Eliza,” said John, warmly grasping her hand, “and how are you?”
For a few moments Miss Eliza could make no answer. She gasped for breath; she struggled to regain her ordinary expression.
“And how is Miss Webster?” went on John, kindly. “I am very pleased indeed to see you both again, and thank you very much for taking such care of my dear little girl.”
He looked back at May tenderly as he spoke, and May smiled and went forward. By this time Miss Eliza had partly recovered her speech.
“My dear,” she said, addressing May in a slightly choking voice, “if—if Mr. John Temple—is ready—dinner is.” And then a violent fit of coughing interrupted her utterance.
“John, you have forgotten to take off your overcoat!” said May, with a little laugh.
“So I have,” answered John, going out into the hall to remove it; and when he went back into the room he once more shook Miss Eliza’s kind hand.
“She looks very well,” he said, with a smile, and a glance at May.
“Sweetly pretty,” answered Miss Eliza, with a little gentle sigh.
Then presently Miss Webster appeared, followed by her parlor maid, with the dinner. Everything was well cooked, to Miss Webster’s great satisfaction, and John Temple did fair justice to her good things. May, however, could not eat. “I am too happy,” she was thinking, as time after time she raised her eyes shyly to John’s good-looking face.
Then, when dinner was over and the ladies were about to retire to the drawing-room, John laid a detaining hand on Miss Webster’s arm.
“Can I have a few words alone with you?” he said.
“Oh! yes, certainly,” answered Miss Webster, nervously.
By this time Aunt Eliza and May Churchill had left the room, for they also had heard John Temple’s request, and Miss Webster having resumed her chair, John drew his close to her.
“It’s about May Churchill, Miss Webster, that I want to speak to you,” he began. “I do not know whether you have guessed the truth, but May and I are engaged, and are going to be married immediately.”
“I thought there must be something—” answered Miss Webster, and then she paused.
“We are going to be married at once,” continued John, speaking as though he had planned beforehand what to say, “but I am sorry to tell you our marriage for the present must be a secret one. My uncle, Mr. Temple of Woodlea, is an old-fashioned man, with many class prejudices, and May is not what he would consider, nay does consider, exactly in my position of life. Her father, in truth, is a tenant-farmer, one of my uncle’s tenants, and he never would give his consent to our marriage. Her young brothers also, unfortunately, played in the game of football when poor young Phil Temple was killed, and Mrs. Temple, my uncle’s wife, has an extraordinary prejudice on this account against the whole family. Thus you see it would never do for me, during my uncle’s life, to marry May openly.”
“Does she know this?” asked Miss Webster, quickly, her delicate complexion flushing as she spoke.
“Certainly she knows it; knows that only on these conditions we could be married—do you understand, dear Miss Webster? I admit I deceived you; I called May my cousin, and she is not my cousin, but I could not explain all this to you at the time, and my object was naturally to get a respectable home for May until I could marry her; and I knew she would have this with you, and so will you forgive me?”
“And her parents?” asked Miss Webster, moving her hands uneasily.
“Her mother is dead, and her father recently married again, and his new wife has made May’s home life wretched since she has been at Woodside. She is a vulgar person, I believe, and, moreover, she has taken into her head that May ought to marry a brutal young man who lives in those parts, and who very narrowly escaped being tried for murder lately. He certainly behaved disgracefully to a poor girl he had treated most cruelly, and who either shot herself, or whom he shot. At all events, this Henderson is a person not fit to speak to May. Yet this Mrs. Churchill pestered her continually about him, and finally May determined to leave her home to escape her persecution.”
“And—do they know about—you?”
“Not a word, nor must they know. May left a letter for her father to tell him she was leaving because she could not get on with her stepmother, and this is enough explanation for her to give. The rest is between ourselves. I mean to marry May at once, and take her abroad for a short time, and then, Miss Webster, I have a proposition to make to you, to which I most earnestly hope you will agree. I can not acknowledge my marriage to May for the present, and she is too young to live alone. So will you allow her to remain an inmate of your house? Of course, she shall have a handsome income, and I know she is fond of both you and Miss Eliza, and my mind would be at rest regarding her if I knew she was under your kindly care.”
Miss Webster had given a sort of gasping sigh more than once during this long speech of John’s. In fact, it nearly took her breath away. A secret marriage! The bride to be left with them! No wonder gentle Miss Webster’s soft gray hair nearly rose on end at the idea. It was so completely against her ideas of propriety and against dear Eliza’s also. Miss Webster, in fact, did not know what to say; she fidgeted in her chair; her thin fingers moved nervously; her whole appearance denoted her mental distress.
“I know all this must be a little startling to you,” continued John Temple, “but just consider the circumstances,and how the poor girl was actually compelled to fly from home to escape a hateful marriage that was being forced on her! We—May and I—love each other very dearly, and she is content to accept this sacrifice for my sake, and she shall never regret it. My whole future life shall be devoted to her; and at all events, Miss Webster, even if you won’t help us, I am sure our secret will be quite safe with you?”
“Your secret will be quite safe,” replied Miss Webster, still rather stiffly. She was thinking she was a clergyman’s daughter, and wondering what would be her duty under such extraordinary circumstances. And then suddenly the remembrance of Ralph Webster flashed across her mind, and her faded cheeks colored.
“I—I think this arrangement would hardly be suitable, Mr. Temple,” she said, with hesitation and downcast eyes. “You see, our nephew, Mr. Ralph Webster, almost lives with us, and—and of course, though May—I beg your pardon, the future Mrs. John Temple—is a dear sweet girl, and both of us, my sister Eliza and myself, are, if you will excuse me saying so, very fond of her. Still, though Ralph has rooms in the Temple, he looks on this as his home; and, indeed, it ought to be, as he is our poor dear brother’s only child, but still, as he is a young man—”
John Temple laughed softly as Miss Webster concluded her confused protest against his proposal that May should live with them.
“I shall not be jealous,” he said; “your nephew, I presume, is only a very young man?”
“Oh, dear, no! Our poor dear brother was very much older than we are, you know. Ralph is past thirty.”
“Past thirty?” replied John Temple, thoughtfully. “Still,” he added, and he smiled as he spoke, “I should not be afraid of May.”
“It is not of May—” began Miss Webster, and then she paused, painfully confused.
“Well,” said John, rising, “talk it over with Miss Eliza. I will send her to you, and go and talk to May.”
“That will be best,” answered Miss Webster, relieved,and a few moments later Miss Eliza entered the room, and Miss Webster in an awe-struck whisper told her news.
“It would never do; you see it would never do,” she concluded.
“It would never do,” echoed Aunt Eliza, dolefully, shaking her head and sighing dismally.
“It would be unjust—to Ralph,” said Miss Webster.
“Terribly unjust,” repeated Aunt Eliza, heaving another sigh.
“Then we must agree to decline. I am sure she is a sweet girl, and if there was anything I could do for her I would do it, and you, too, Eliza, but we must consider—others.”
“Yes, dear,” and after this the sisters kissed each other, and then went together nervously toward the drawing-room. But when they entered the room nothing was said of their consultation. John Temple was sitting by May on a couch, looking perfectly content, and May was smiling and looking perfectly happy. John rose with a pleasant smile as the two trembling old ladies appeared.
“Ah, Miss Webster, and Miss Eliza,” he said, “come and help May here to decide a most knotty question. Where will you sit? Now, Miss Webster, let us have your opinion first. What should May wear to be married in?”
“White, I should think,” answered Miss Webster, somewhat feebly.
“There, John, I told you so!” cried May, triumphantly.
John made an awry face.
“You see, Miss Webster, to what I have to get accustomed,” he said.
“But John, you know you like me in white best,” continued May; “at least you always said so.”
“So I do, but as we are going on our travels straight from the church, I thought something dark would be more useful. However, of course, have your own way, and to-morrow these ladies perhaps will go out andhelp us to buy a very smart traveling cloak and whatever else you require. We are going direct to Paris, Miss Webster, as this young lady has never seen that lively city.”
John talked on thus until he rose to take his leave for the night, but even then he said nothing of his proposition to Miss Webster. But the next morning he did.
“Have you thought over what I said last night, Miss Webster?” he asked.
“Yes, Mr. Temple,” answered Miss Webster, falteringly, “and we think—sister Eliza and I think—that it would be better if—the future Mrs. John Temple did not live in this house—”
“That is settled then,” said John Temple, calmly; “but perhaps you will kindly help May to find a suitable house?”
“Only too delighted to do anything for such a sweet young creature,” replied kind Miss Webster; “I assure you, Mr. Temple; both sister Eliza and myself have the greatest regard for her.”
“Thanks, very much, and now we must see about the preparations for the marriage at once. She must be married in this parish, of course; so will you kindly tell me who your parson is, and give me an introduction to him?”
After this the preparations for the marriage went on as quickly as possible, both Miss Webster and Miss Eliza assisting in every way that they could. But we will let Miss Webster describe that event in a letter which she addressed to her nephew, Ralph Webster, a few hours after it was over. She wrote this letter with a sad heart somehow, but she little guessed of the bitter and intense pain with which it was received.
“My Dearest Ralph: I have some strange news for you,” one midday Ralph Webster read at the Swiss chalet where he was staying. “Our young guest, May Churchill, was married this morning to Mr. John Temple, and both sister Eliza and myself were present at the ceremony. But what I most regret to have to tell you is that this marriage is a secret one, and neitherMr. Temple’s relatives nor her own have the slightest knowledge of it. We have indeed promised to reveal it to no one, but we make an exception in your case, as you are our near and dear relation, and also because we are quite certain we can trust this secret with you.
“The reasons for secrecy are, Mr. John Temple informed us, that his uncle, Mr. Temple, of whom he is the heir, would not hear of the marriage, and also that May’s parents, her father and stepmother, desired her greatly to marry another gentleman who lives in their neighborhood, and who, by Mr. John Temple’s account, is of bad character. May seemed very happy, and looked sweetly pretty during the marriage service, which was performed by our vicar, Mr. Mold, and we can only pray and hope that every blessing and happiness may attend the young couple who are beginning life together under what, to our poor human foresight, do not appear very fortunate circumstances.
“They started immediately after the ceremony was over for Paris, but before leaving Mr. John Temple made, what we considered, rather a strange proposal to sister Eliza and myself, which was, that on their return to England, that Mrs. John Temple should come back to reside with us in this house, while he proceeded to his uncle’s residence. But after due consideration, sister Eliza and myself came to the conclusion that this arrangement was not desirable. But we have agreed to endeavor to find her a suitable house during their sojourn abroad.
“And now having told you my news, and with kindest love from sister Eliza and myself, I remain, my dearest Ralph, your ever affectionate aunt,
”Margaret Webster.”
“P. S.—We were exceedingly glad to learn from your letter that you were in good health, and enjoying the invigorating air of the mountains.
M. W.”
Ralph Webster read this long letter through, and his strong face grew a little gray-tinted as he did so. He had never realized until now what a terrible blow thismarriage was to him; never dreamed that the girl’s face that he had seen a hundred times in his mental vision amid the glaciers and the snowdrifts had become so dear to him.
Now he knew that it was so, but he bore his pain bravely and silently. He went out from the chalet alone, down a rugged stony slope, with the snow deep on either side, and the green ice glistening at his feet. He was thinking of the woman he loved—now when he knew he loved her, when he knew she was utterly lost to him—with strange, even pathetic tenderness.
“I have not thought much of women nor love before,” he was reflecting. “She has been the only one,” and he drew his firm lips closer, “and the only one she shall remain.”
The ill-will between Tom Henderson and his groom Reid did not diminish as time went on. For one thing, to raise a sum like two thousand pounds was not an easy matter to the young squire of Stourton Grange; for another, Reid’s manner when alone with his master grew almost intolerable.
He was insolent and overbearing, and bought horses and sold them, often actually using the stables at Stourton for his own purposes. In vain Henderson stormed and swore.
“I’ve the whip hand of ye, ye know, master,” Reid would say in reply, with a significant look, and Henderson swore to himself many a time that this state of things should not go on.
And there was another element in his life—a dark, threatening dread—of which Henderson was only too conscious. This was the bitter animosity that the landlord of the Wayside Inn, James Wray, was said to nourishagainst him. Reid had warned him of this, for Henderson’s life was too valuable to himself not to be taken good care of, and with brutal frankness the groom had told Henderson of his danger.
“I say, master, ye had best look out,” he said. “I’m told, and the fellow who told me knew what he was about, that old Wray swears he’ll ha’ a shot at ye the first time ye cross his way. And they say he carries his pistols about wi’ him wherever he goes.”
Henderson made no reply to this piece of information. But it came to him also from another source, for one day he received an ill-written, badly-spelt letter from Alice, the barmaid of the Wayside Inn, warning him “for God’s sake not to go near their place, as master has sworn to have your blood if ever he sets his eyes on you, and this would make more trouble than has already been.”
The letter went on to say that at times “the master was like one dement,” and that they were afraid of their lives. Henderson did not doubt that the girl’s words were true, and that this dark shadow hung like a suspended sword over his head. At times he grew almost reckless, but at others the grim penalty of his hidden crime filled his soul with shuddering dread.
After May Churchill’s disappearance he more than once gave way to frightful paroxysms of passion and rage, terrifying his unhappy mother with his mad words and frantic gestures. But weeks passed—three weeks, nearly a month after May’s flight—and still John Temple remained at the Hall, and even the jealous Henderson was forced to admit that this did not look as if Temple had anything to do with it. Then one day as Henderson was moodily riding down one of the country lanes he suddenly met Mrs. Temple, of the Hall, who was driving, and to his great surprise, she pulled up her ponies.
Henderson had never seen her since the great scandal about himself and poor Elsie Wray had occurred, and he was by no means sure that she would take any notice of him now. He put up his hand nervously thereforeto take off his hat, but Mrs. Temple stopped, and so he also drew rein.
“Good-morning,” she said; “it’s a long time since I last saw you, Mr. Henderson.”
“Yes,” he answered, rather huskily, while a dusky flush spread over his face.
“Why don’t you come and see us?” continued Mrs. Temple.
“I was not sure you would care to see me.”
Mrs. Temple gave a little airy shrug of her handsome shoulders. She was looking very well, and had apparently got over her deep grief for the loss of her boy, and at one time Henderson had been rather a frequent visitor at Woodlea Hall.
“Oh, yes, I shall be glad to see you,” she said.
“I lost my nephew yesterday, you know,” she added; “John Temple has gone away.”
“Gone away?” echoed Henderson, sharply, and the dusky flush faded from his face.
“Yes, he has gone for a week or so, I believe; abroad, I think, but he was rather vague about his movements.”
Henderson did not speak. Had he gone to May, he was thinking, with a sharp and bitter pang.
“By the by,” continued Mrs. Temple, “has anything ever been heard of that pretty girl, Miss Churchill, who ran away from home? You were one of her swains, were you not, Mr. Henderson?” And Mrs. Temple laughed and showed her white teeth.
“I knew them very well, at all events,” muttered Henderson, with downcast eyes.
“Oh, you were one of her many admirers, they told me,” said Mrs. Temple, with a smile. “Well, she certainly is pretty; such a fine complexion. John Temple called her beautiful; do you?”
“She is handsome,” said Henderson, hoarsely.
“Well, I am rather curious about her flight, or disappearance, or whatever it was. Will you call to-morrow at four o’clock and tell me all about it?”
“I know nothing,” began Henderson, but Mrs. Temple stopped him with a little wave of her driving whip.
“Never mind; call to-morrow at four; and now good-morning, Mr. Henderson,” and she nodded her head and drove on.
But for a moment or two Henderson sat still on his saddle after she had passed him. What did she mean, he was asking himself. Did she suspect that there was anything between John Temple and May Churchill? that he had anything to do with her flight?
This idea which had haunted Henderson in spite of himself now recurred to his mind with threefold force. At all events he would go to the Hall and hear what Mrs. Temple had to say. And he did go, and was received by Mrs. Temple, who smilingly held out her hand to him.
“You see,” she said in that half-reckless way which was one of her characteristics, “I have not turned my back on you in spite of your troubles.”
“It is very good of you,” answered Henderson.
“Oh, being a parson’s daughter, I have naturally a spice of the devil in me, and a certain fellow-feeling to sinners. All men are sinners, you know,” she added, with a laugh; “even my paragon of a nephew, John Temple!”
“What about him?” asked Henderson, sharply.
“Oh, he posed a great deal as a saint, but I don’t quite believe in it all. Now sit down and tell me about Miss Churchill. Do you suppose she was induced to run away by John Temple?”
“How can I tell?” answered Henderson, darkly, with lowering brow.
“There was something in his manner—I don’t know what—that led me to believe that he knew more of the matter than he chose to say. Of course he didn’t run away with her; but I wonder if he knows where she is.”
“I know nothing.”
“Well, I want to find out. He promised to write to his uncle when he went away, and if I get you his address, do you think you would do something to oblige me, Mr. Henderson?”
“I will do anything,” replied Henderson, eagerly, grasping at the meaning of her words.
“Well, you see, a lady can’t make certain inquiries, but a young man can. If I got you John Temple’s address could you go and find out what he is doing? If in fact he has joined Miss Churchill? If he has been seen with her?
“Get me the address and I will go,” said Henderson, with such a fierce gleam in his brown eyes that Mrs. Temple drew back rather alarmed.
“Mind, I’ll have no quarreling,” she said; “only I want to know if John Temple is speaking the truth. His uncle spoke to him about this Miss Churchill, of course, disapprovingly, and he said there was nothing between them, and would not be. But how can we tell? He may have married her secretly for anything we know.”
“If I thought—” began Henderson, passionately.
“Now don’t speak and look like that, or I won’t give you the address! I am going to have no throat-cutting. All I want to know, is John Temple speaking the truth? If you can find out this quietly, I will regard you in future as a friend, and treat you as such in spite of Mrs. Grundy.”
Henderson’s lips moved convulsively, but with a great effort he controlled himself. He could only find out Temple’s address through Mrs. Temple, and therefore he must not frighten or quarrel with her.
“Very well,” he said, “get me the address, and I’ll find out all I can about him. And—if you’ll treat me as a friend I will be grateful—for I want one.” And he held out his hand, which Mrs. Temple took.
“You’ll live it down, no fear,” she answered; “I’ve always pitied you. But you had better go now, for my lord and master sometimes does not hold my views. But when John Temple writes to his uncle I will forward his address to you at once. And now, good-by.”
So Henderson left Woodlea Hall with a new hope in his heart. At all events he would be able to find out, if Mrs. Temple gave him John Temple’s address, whetherthere was any truth in the haunting suspicion which had pursued his own mind. But a week passed and he heard nothing from Mrs. Temple. And during this week an incident occurred that roused to fury his smoldering resentment against his groom, Jack Reid.
He had paid the man the two thousand pounds, and heard rumors of Reid swaggering at markets and meetings, but had declined to enter into any horse-racing establishments with him. Reid had tried to bully, but here Henderson was firm.
“I’ve no money, so it’s no good speaking of it,” he had said.
What was his indignation, therefore, when one day Reid coolly asked him to advance him another hundred pounds.
“There’s a little mare I must have, and I’m short a hundred of her price; so, Henderson, my boy, ye must shell out.”
Henderson’s brow grew black as night.
“She’s to be sold at Skidder’s to-morrow,” continued Reid, “and I thought I would take the dog-cart and drive over in the morning, and borrow Brown Bess for the occasion; for it’s well always to make a good appearance.” And Reid gave an insolent laugh.
“Borrow my trap and horse if you dare!” shouted Henderson, hoarse with passion.
“Well, I dare; and I must have the hundred pounds, too,” answered Reid. “Come, it’s no use swearing; ye may as well make things pleasant for us both.”