“Well, people call her handsome, and she may be good-looking; I suppose she is,” said Mrs. Layton, viciously, “but I have a very poor opinion of Margaret Churchill. If you believe it, I am told she is now once more endeavoring to entangle young Henderson of the Grange, in spite of the terrible scandal about him. I hear they invite him to the house, and that he buys horses of the old man, and that the new Mrs. Churchill is bent on the match.”
John Temple felt a strong wave of anger rise in his heart, but he prudently checked it before it reached his tongue.
“Well,” he said, rising from the table, “I will leave you two ladies for the present, if Mrs. Temple will excuse me? I have some letters to write, and afterward I think I shall go out; it is too fine a day to spend indoors.”
“Of course, please yourself,” answered Mrs. Temple, carelessly. She did not like John leaving her thus, to be bored by her mother’s company, but she stood on small ceremony.
“I am tired; I will lie down and read in my own room for an hour or two, I think,” she said. “Good-day, mother.”
She just extended the tips of her slender fingers to Mrs. Layton as she spoke, and then rose languidly and left the room.
The squire was thus left alone with the vicar and his mother-in-law. But he also was tired of both. Heretired into an easy chair, and put his handkerchief over his face to announce that he wanted a little rest.
“Ah, I see you want a little doze, squire,” cried Mrs. Layton, observing this. “Well, James,” she continued, addressing her husband, “I will just take another glass of port and then we must be off. It’s well for those who can afford to take rest, but a poor parson and his wife can not.”
The squire made no reply to this, and Mrs. Layton, having drank her port, took her leave, remarking to her husband as they quitted the house together:
“Poor man, he is evidently failing fast.”
“Thank heavens she is gone!” exclaimed the squire with energy, pulling the handkerchief from his face as he heard their retreating footsteps. “What a woman! She’s enough to drive anyone mad.”
John Temple went up the staircase toward his own room, after quitting the luncheon, saying some very hard things indeed below his breath of Mrs. Layton. She had made him intensely angry about May Churchill and young Henderson. Not that he believed a word of it, but it enraged him to hear the girl’s name coupled with this ruffian’s, for so he mentally designated Henderson.
John indeed had always had serious doubts as to Henderson’s actual guilt regarding Elsie Wray’s death. That he had broken the poor girl’s heart he never doubted. But there had been something in the evidence of the groom, Jack Reid, something in his face that made John believe he was not speaking the truth.
And that Henderson dare go near May! “It’s that disgusting stepmother, I suppose,” thought John; “mypoor little girl, my poor May, you will be happier with me.”
So John sat down to write to his poor little May when he got to his own room, and then started out across the park to post his letter at the nearest post office. He walked on with a bent head and a thoughtful brow. He was dissatisfied with himself, irresolute, and yet his heart was warm with love. In his letter he had asked May to fix some place where he could see her, but he was fated to meet her earlier than he expected.
May and her brothers had walked home from church, May feeling somewhat disappointed that she had not had an opportunity of exchanging a word with John Temple, but still she was ready to excuse him.
“He could not help himself; he was obliged to go with his uncle’s wife,” she told herself. But still it made her a little sad. It marked the social difference between them, as it were. If she had been his equal, and John had meant to make her his wife, he would assuredly have lingered to speak to her. As it was he could not help himself, but May sighed when she thought of it.
Then, when they reached home, Mrs. Churchill made herself purposely very unpleasant to her stepdaughter.
“That’s a very absurd hat of yours, May,” she said. “I don’t know what the folks in church would say to it.”
It was in truth a charming hat, though only suited to a lovely face. It became May exceedingly, and she had been conscious of this when she had started in the morning with her brothers; conscious perhaps of it when she saw John Temple’s gray eyes looking upward to the gallery, for she loved to think that she should seem fair in his sight, and now to hear it descried!
“I think it is a very pretty hat,” she answered, somewhat indignantly.
“To go on the stage with, perhaps, but not for a respectable farmer’s daughter to appear at church in,” continued Mrs. Churchill.
May slightly tossed her pretty head, and walked indignantly out of the room. She had no idea of leavingoff wearing her new hat, which had just cost her two pounds, on account of her stepmother’s remarks. And immediately the early dinner was over she called to her two young brothers to go out for a walk with her, and wore the picture hat in spite of Mrs. Churchill.
During their afternoon ramble they went along the country lane where May Churchill had first met John Temple in the summer time, when she was gathering wild roses to make a wreath to place on poor young Phil Temple’s grave. It was autumn now, and the cobwebs on the grass and the chill in the breeze told of the shortening days. The wild roses were gone, and the meadow-sweet scented the air no longer, but there was a serene and sober beauty in the changing leaves, in the creeping brambles growing amid the hedge-rows. And quite suddenly the three young people encountered John Temple in this very lane. John had been thinking, also, of that first meeting when he had sat on the stile, and thought, smilingly, that this rural scene only wanted “a pretty milkmaid” to complete the picture. He remembered May as he had seen her thus, so fresh, so fair, in her white frock and her dainty basket of roses. And now with glad surprise he once more encountered her.
They smiled and clasped each other’s hands, but said very few words, and then John looked at the two boys.
“So these two young gentlemen are your brothers, I suppose?” he asked.
“Yes,” answered May, while Willie and Hal grinned responsively.
“I am so glad to have met you,” continued John, looking extremely happy to have done so, “as I was just going to post—” and then he paused and looked again at the boys.
Upon this Hal, who was the youngest, though the sharpest of the two, administered a sharp kick at his brother’s ankle.
“I say, Will,” he said, “I saw some awful jolly blackberries at the other side of the hedge; let’s go in for some?”
Will took the hint, and the two boys ran together to the stile, so as to get to the other side of the hedge, and John Temple and May were alone.
“I was on my way to post a letter to you, May,” John said; “now I will give it to you—here it is.”
He drew out his letter, and put it into May’s hand as he spoke, but he still held her hand fast.
“It is to ask you to meet me, May,” he said. “To meet me, and tell me what your answer to my last letter is to be.”
May’s face flushed, and her breath came sharp; she remembered John’s last letter only too well.
“We can not talk of it to-day,” continued John; “we must be alone. In my letter to you to-day I asked you to fix some time and name place, on Tuesday, as I thought you would only get my letter to-morrow morning. But now as you, have got it to-day, can we meet to-morrow?”
“Yes,” half-whispered May; John was still holding her hand, still looking in her face, and May’s heart was beating very fast.
“I have heard something about you to-day, May,” presently said John; “something that made me very angry—only I did not believe it.”
“And what have you heard?” asked May, raising her beautiful eyes to his.
“That you are flirting—yes, that was the horrid word—flirting with that brute, young Henderson.”
May’s fair face flushed angrily.
“What a dreadful untruth!” she cried, indignantly; “I have been so miserable about this; that woman my father has married has taken it into her head that I should marry this dreadful man, and she asks him to the house, and the other day sent him into the garden after me, and he asked me to marry him, and I told him I never should.”
“I should think not,” said John Temple, quietly.
“I detest him, and can not bear to be in the room with him,” went on May; “and Mrs. Churchill has been so rude to me about it, and makes my home and my lifequite miserable. My father seems to believe everything she says, and when I got angry and said she was no mother of mine, he took her part, and said if I did not choose to treat her with proper respect, that I should not remain in his house.”
John smiled.
“And what did you say?” he asked.
“I said, ‘Very well, father; I will go.’”
“Brave little girl! And do you mean to say that your father—actually your father!—could contemplate giving you to that brute Henderson?”
“Oh, his wife can persuade him to do anything, and she has persuaded him that Mr. Henderson would be a very good match for me. It’s too disgusting,” continued May, her fair face flushing and her eyes sparkling, “and I told them both that my own mother would never have allowed such a person to come near me.”
“He shall never come near you, my dear child.”
“And he threatened—oh, don’t go near him or speak to him, Mr. Temple.”
“Did he threaten me?” asked John, disdainfully.
“He said some folly or other—he is horrid. He looks like a murderer, if he isn’t one.”
“I have a very great idea that he is one.”
“At all events he behaved shamefully to that poor girl, and yet my father’s wife praises him, and makes up to him in every way.”
“Let us forget that charming lady for awhile. What time can you meet me to-morrow, May, and where?”
“I heard my father’s wife say she was going somewhere to-morrow afternoon with my father, so I can come any time.”
“Come here at three o’clock, then, my dear little girl.”
John Temple spoke very tenderly, and felt very tenderly to the fair young girl by his side. He took both her hands in his; he smilingly admired the offending hat.
“So this is the new picture hat, is it?” he said. “By Mrs. Layton’s account, May, you are going straight on the road to perdition for wearing it.”
“And my father’s wife found fault with it, too,” answered May, smiling. “What do you think of it?”
“I think it charming; only the face beneath it is so much more charming that I can not admire it long.”
“How you are flattering me!”
At this moment Hal Churchill’s rosy face appeared above from the other side of the hedge, and though it did not remain long, his observations induced him to remark to his brother Willie:
“I say, Willie, I believe those two are spoons.”
“What makes you say that?” asked Will.
“He’s holding her hands, and going on, anyhow. Blessed good thing it would be if they are, as then May would marry the young squire, and we would get no end of tips, and get out of the way sometimes for a bit of that awful woman at home.”
“She’s disgusting,” answered Will, emphatically.
“Beastly,” said the younger brother, equally emphatically; and then the two boys re-crossed the stile, and May and John Temple seeing this, advanced to meet them.
“Have you got lots of blackberries?” asked John.
“Barely ripe,” replied Hal, amiably, to his proposed brother-in-law. “Have a few?”
He opened his stained cotton pocket handkerchief as he spoke, and offered the luxuries it contained to John, who, however, shook his head.
“I am too old to eat blackberries,” he said, with a smile; “I wish I were not.”
“Not do you any harm,” hospitably pressed Hal; “here’s a good ’un.”
Again John shook his head, with a little laugh.
“When I was a boy,” he said, “I adored blackberries and tips,” and he put his hand into his pocket and drew out two golden coins.
Hal grinned from ear to ear.
“Buy what you like with it,” continued John, pressing a sovereign into Hal’s somewhat dirty little hand.
“Oh, thank you, sir,” answered Hal, delightedly, but when John presented the other sovereign to Will Churchill, the elder boy drew back.
“No, thank you, sir,” he said, and colored deeply.
“Not take a tip!” laughed John. “Oh, nonsense; come, take it, my lad.”
Will hesitated and looked at May.
“Tell him to take it,” said John, also looking at May.
“As Mr. Temple is so kind, Will, I think you ought to accept his present,” answered May, with a little laugh, and then Will, as though half-unwillingly, took the golden coin.
“I will walk to the end of the lane with you, and then say good-by,” said John, next moment, and so the boys fell behind, and John had time to half-whisper to May as they walked on:
“Do not forget; to-morrow, here, at three o’clock.”
After this they parted, and the three young Churchills returned together to Woodside Farm.
“That’s rather a nice chap,” remarked Hal, patronizingly.
“Yes,” answered May, with embarrassment; “but, boys, don’t mention at home that we met him.”
Hal winked his blue eye.
“Mum’s the word,” he said. “I’ll tell you what, May, he’s a deal better fellow, I am sure, than that surly brute, Henderson.”
May gave no opinion as to the comparative merits of her two admirers. She walked home feeling intensely happy. All her troubles seemed to have melted into air. John Temple loved her; she was to see him to-morrow, and for the present she needed no more than this.
Both at tea and supper Mrs. Churchill noticed the lovely bloom on her stepdaughter’s smooth cheeks, and the glad, bright look in her eyes. She was an observant woman, this, and took an opportunity of inquiring of Hal Churchill during the evening if they had met anyone they knew when they were out walking.
“Not a soul,” answered Master Hal; “we met two pigs, that was all the company.”
“How absurd you are, boy,” said Mrs. Churchill,crossly. She had not been used to children, and their ways worried her. But Hal, with his sovereign in his pocket, and May, with her love in her heart, were both too happy to care about Mrs. Churchill. They were each thinking of their treasures, and all their stepmother’s shafts fell harmless.
May was up betimes the next morning; up to watch the rosy clouds in the west heralding in the day, and the sun rise over the green meadows and the yellow fields of ripening corn. It was a beautiful morning, but would it keep fine, May asked herself anxiously again and again, as she stood there gazing out on the misty blue sky. If it rained it might prevent her stepmother starting on her expedition; it might prevent her own meeting with John Temple.
But up rose the sun in cloudless splendor, and presently its rays fell on May’s bright head; on her sweet, up-turned face, and bare white throat. They fell on no fairer picture in all that bright autumn day! It was something beyond mere earthly beauty that radiated the girl’s face as she stood watching the rising sun. All that was best and noblest within her was stirred, as it were, with a deep wave of strong and unchanging love.
How the rest of that morning passed she scarcely knew. Mrs. Churchill fussed and scolded, but it all fell on deaf ears. May was living in a world of her own, and Mrs. Churchill’s sharp voice could not reach it. Then came the early dinner, and after this was over her father and her stepmother drove away. They were going to Castle Hill, Mrs. Churchill’s own place, and as it was some distance from Woodside, May knew it must be nightfall before their return.
She breathed a soft sigh of relief as she saw them disappear. Then she went up to her own room and moved about restlessly until it was time for her to go to keep her tryst with John Temple. She saw the two lads leave the house also from her window, and so she felt absolutely free.
At half-past two o’clock she started. She walked quickly—perhaps unconsciously—yet when shereached the place of meeting John was already there. He was not sitting on the stile this time, as he had done when they first had met in this country lane. He was walking to and fro, with a bent head and a somewhat anxious brow; but his face brightened when he saw May. He advanced quickly to meet her; he took both her hands.
“I was half afraid you might not be able to come,” he said.
“My father and his wife have gone out for the day,” answered May, “and the boys also are out. I have a whole afternoon to myself.”
“For me?” asked John.
“Yes, all for you,” smiled May.
“My sweetheart!” said John, and he bent down and kissed her. “Now, will you give me your answer—the answer I asked in my letter—is yours the love that can not change?”
She did not speak; she looked at him for a moment, and then nestled her sweet face against his breast.
“Tell me, my dear one,” urged John; “will there be no change in your love?”
Again May looked up, and this time her rosy lips parted.
“Mine is a love that can not change, John,” she murmured below her breath.
“Be it so, then,” said John Temple, almost solemnly, and he looked up to the blue sky as he spoke, and made an inward vow. “Neither will my love change,” he said aloud the next moment; “for weal or woe then, May, our future will be together.”
They did not speak for a short while after this. John drew May closer to his breast, and she leaned there at rest and happy. A great content seemed to overflow her being. She was with John. John had just said they should never part.
Presently John broke the sweet silence that seemed like heaven to the girl’s heart.
“It will not be all smooth sailing, you know, May,” he said.
She looked up inquiringly.
“I mean,” continued John Temple, with a sort of effort, “that our marriage, for a time at least, will have to be a secret one. There are several reasons for this; one is that my uncle would oppose it, and the other that Mrs. Temple has taken a very absurd prejudice against your family on account of the death of her boy.”
“How is that?” asked May, quickly.
“It seems that one or both of your brothers played in the game of football when poor young Phil Temple was killed, and his mother foolishly—for she is a foolish woman—has taken it into her head that one of your brothers gave him the fatal blow on the head. She has had a dream, or some nonsense or other, and she assured me gravely last night that she heard her boy’s voice say distinctly twice in one night, ‘One of the Churchills killed me.’ It’s fancy, no doubt,” continued John Temple, as he saw May’s rosy bloom beginning to fade; “but you see it makes things for us more difficult.”
“Yes, I see,” said May, slowly.
“In fact, my dear one, there is nothing for it but a secret marriage,” went on John, decidedly. “I have thought it all over—what would be best for us both—that is if you truly love me, May?”
“I do, I do!” answered May, with such emotion that her eyes grew misty with unshed tears.
“Then I will tell you my plans. They are that you should leave here at once; go up to town alone. Do not be frightened; a home will be ready for you with two very respectable old ladies, who keep a lodging-house, or rather did, in Bayswater. I lodged with them once when I was much younger, and I was such a favorite of theirs we have always kept up a kind of acquaintance. They have retired from the lodging-house business, but I will write and ask them to receive my young cousin, Miss Churchill, for a short time, and I know they will gladly do so. In a fortnight I will join you, and we will be married from their house, andall the good people here will be none the wiser. Will you consent to this?”
“I will do whatever you wish me,” said May, trustfully, and she put her hand in his.
A slight change passed over John’s face.
“You are not happy at home, May, are you?” he asked.
“I am most unhappy. Mrs. Churchill makes me miserable about that wretched Mr. Henderson.”
“It is all right then; when can you start for town—to-morrow?”
“To-morrow?” repeated May, startled.
“Yes, the sooner the better, for then the sooner I can join you. I will write to the Miss Websters at once, and give you their address—and May, I have brought fifty pounds with me for you.”
“Oh! I can not take that,” answered May, with a sudden blush.
“My dear one, you must! You are my little cousin, you know, until you are my wife, and my little cousin must pay her way. Here it is, May, and do not be foolish. Now what train will you start by to-morrow? I can not, I am afraid, see you off on account of the confounded gossip it would cause.”
“Oh, no, you must not do that. I will go in what train I can get quickly away by—and you will join me, John?” she added, wistfully.
“I swear it,” said John Temple, earnestly, “and I will write to you. But be cautious, dear May, for both our sakes. This is the Websters’ address. Drive straight from the station to their house.”
“Yes—and John, oh, John!—you do not repent liking me—you do care for me?”
“I care for you with all my heart and soul, May! I love you as deeply as a man can love a woman; do not, at least, doubt my love.”
He took her in his arms and kissed her again and again, and with tenderest words of affection at length they parted; May returning at once to Woodside to make her preparations for leaving it, and John Temple going back to the Hall.
On her road home May determined what to do. She would take her young brother Hal partly into her confidence, and tell him she was about to run away from home on account of her stepmother’s treatment. But when she arrived at the farm she found that a letter from her father awaited her, which had been sent by hand. This letter informed her that on account of the length of the drive to and from Castle Hill, that he and his wife had determined to remain there all night, but would return on the following afternoon or evening.
This made everything much easier for May. She said nothing to Hal that night, but packed up her small belongings ready for an early start in the morning. Then when the boys had gone to bed she went to her own room, and stood there looking wistfully around. She had slept here in her childhood; she had slept here in her blooming young maidenhood, and she knew that after the night was past she would sleep here no more. She was going to take a leap in the dark; a leap into the unknown, but there was no fear in her heart, for “perfect love casteth out fear.”
She knelt down before she went to bed, and prayed for John Temple; prayed that there should be no change in their love in all their future lives.
Mr. and Mrs. Churchill returned to Woodside late on the following evening, and were both somewhat surprised not to find May up to receive them. The two boys, however, were.
“May has gone to bed with a bad headache,” said Hal, with a grin, for the information of his stepmother.
“I think she should have sat up; it is only proper respect to us,” retorted Mrs. Churchill.
“Not if she is ill, my dear,” said Mr. Churchill, who somehow missed seeing his pretty daughter.
Mrs. Churchill said nothing more on the subject. She ate her supper and arranged “the things” that she had brought from Castle Hill to her own satisfaction, and then retired for the night, well satisfied with herself and what she had done during the day.
And the next morning she rose early, as was her usual practice, and began her healthful daily life with her accustomed energy. At half-past eight o’clock she and her husband and the two boys were seated at the well-spread breakfast table, but still May had not appeared.
“Ring the breakfast bell again, Hal,” directed Mrs. Churchill presently. “I can not have May lying in bed all day.”
The breakfast bell was rung for the second time, but it failed to bring May down-stairs. Therefore, after she had finished her own excellent breakfast with excellent appetite, Mrs. Churchill said she would go upstairs to see after her stepdaughter.
“I’ll not take her up any tea, as she may be only idling,” she remarked, as she rose from the table; “but I’ll see what is really the matter with her.”
She accordingly went upstairs and rapped at May’s bedroom door. There was no reply, so Mrs. Churchill opened it and went in.
One glance at the bed showed her that it had not been slept in; another glance around the room told her it was empty.
Mrs. Churchill felt half-frightened. Again she looked around, and this time her eyes fell on a letter lying on the toilet-table. She approached the toilet-table and took up the letter. It was directed to her husband, and it was sealed, and Mrs. Churchill knew at once that something very serious had happened.
She hurried out of the room carrying the letter with her. As she descended the staircase she saw her husband in the hall, about to open the front door, for the purpose of leaving the house.
“William!” she called, and waved the letter, and when Mr. Churchill noticed the expression of her face he at once turned back to meet her.
“Come in here,” she said, opening the dining-room door, and putting her hand on her husband’s arm as she spoke. The dining-room was empty and Mrs. Churchill closed the door behind them.
“William,” she said, when they were alone, “May is not in her room; the bed has never been slept in, and she has left this letter lying on the toilet-table for you.”
“Good heavens! What can be the matter?” exclaimed Mr. Churchill; and he proceeded to tear open the letter, and read it eagerly, while his wife peered over his shoulder trying to do so too.
And this was what he read:
“My Dear Father: You told me once that you did not wish me to remain in your house if I could not treat your wife with the respect which you considered was her due. I find I can not do this; nor can I endure any longer the, to me, odious visits of Mr. Henderson. I am, therefore, going away, and you need not be afraid for my future life. I should not have left you if I did not know that you had someone to look after you and care for you, but this I am sure you have. Be kind to the two dear boys, and believe me to remain still, your affectionate daughter.
May.”
Mr. Churchill’s clear bronzed complexion flushed darkly as he read this letter and comprehended its meaning.
“What do you think of that?” he asked, handing it to his wife.
Then Mrs. Churchill read the letter fully, and her clear skin also flushed as she did so.
“She has run away with someone,” she said, as she finished the letter. “She tried to put the blame on me, but that is an excuse—she has gone with some lover.”
“She has no lover that I know of but young Henderson,” replied Mr. Churchill, somewhat hoarsely. Hewas terribly upset by May’s letter, remembering the words which he himself had used to his young daughter, and to which she had referred.
“She was sure to have lovers,” continued Mrs. Churchill. “You may not know of them. Who can tell? It may be someone beneath her.”
“You don’t know May when you say that!” said Mr. Churchill, angrily. “May is a thorough little lady whatever she is. She would not look at anyone beneath her.”
“Yet such things have been.”
“May would do nothing of the sort; I know that,” positively asserted her father. “And how do we know that she has gone away with anyone? Most likely gone on some wild-goose chase because she could not get on with you.”
“Oh! try to blame me. That’s just like a man.”
“I am not blaming you; but I won’t have anything of that kind said of my girl. May held herself too high for that.”
Mrs. Churchill did not speak. She drew in her firm lips. She bore a fresh grudge against May.
“Where are the boys? The boys may know something about this?” now said Mr. Churchill.
The boys were accordingly called into the dining-room. Will went innocently, but Hal with a guilty conscience, which, however, he was prepared to disguise.
“When did you last see your sister yesterday?” asked Mr. Churchill, sternly.
“We had tea with her at five o’clock,” answered Will; “and after that I did not see her.”
“And you, Hal?”
“I saw her a bit later, and she was going out for a walk then,” replied the boy; “and she said she had a headache and would go to bed directly she came in, and would not sit up for you—and that I was to tell you so.”
“And you did not see her again?”
“No, I went out, and when I came back I supposed May had gone to bed as she said she would, for I saw nothing more of her.”
“And she said nothing to you about going away?”
“Not a word,” untruthfully affirmed Hal.
“Yet she is not in the house; she has written to say she has gone away,” said Mr. Churchill.
“Gone away?” repeated Will, in great surprise. “Where has she gone?”
“She does not say where,” answered his father. “This must be seen to at once. Sarah, go and ask the servants if they know anything.”
Mrs. Churchill obeyed her husband, but the servants knew nothing. “Miss,” the housemaid said, had told her she had a headache, and would not sit up to supper. She had not seen her go out, and “miss” had requested her not to go into her room, as she hoped to go to sleep and did not wish to be disturbed.
This was all Mrs. Churchill learned in the kitchen, but when she again went up to May’s bedroom she found that a small leather trunk, that belonged to her, and nearly all her best clothes, had also disappeared. Her flight, therefore, had been clearly premeditated. Someone also must have assisted her, as it was almost impossible that she could have carried away her trunk herself.
Mrs. Churchill went down and told her husband all this, and he once more questioned the boys, but both denied they knew anything about it; Willie truthfully, Hal untruthfully.
“Take my word for it, she has run away with someone,” repeated Mrs. Churchill.
Mr. Churchill now began to think there must be some truth in this. It could not be young Henderson, as she disliked him so much; and then there was Mr. Goodall, the curate—but no, May always laughed at him—and then suddenly Mr. Churchill remembered John Temple, and seeing May and him in the garden together in the moonlight.
He gave a sort of exclamation as the idea struck him, but he said nothing. Mr. John Temple was his landlord’s nephew and heir, and it was a very serious thing to bring any such accusation against him unless he had good grounds for it.
“I will drive over to the station, and see if I can hear anything there,” he said, hastily, and he accordingly did this, and was received in a friendly manner by the station-master, with whom he was well acquainted.
“I want a word with you, Mr. Johnson,” said Mr. Churchill, in some agitation.
“Certainly, sir. Come in here,” replied the station-master, leading Mr. Churchill into his private office.
“Did you see anything of my daughter, yesterday?” now asked Mr. Churchill, in an anxious voice.
“Oh, yes, sir, of course; I put her into the quarter-to-six train myself, on her road to London. She told me she was going to pay a visit there.”
“To London?” repeated Mr. Churchill; and he turned so pale that the station-master grew alarmed.
“Nothing wrong, I hope, sir?” he said.
“No,” answered Mr. Churchill, with a sort of gasp. “The truth is, Johnson—don’t mention this—but I’m afraid my daughter and my new wife did not get on over-well, and I think the foolish girl must have run away from home. Was she alone when she came to the station?”
“Quite alone, sir,” answered the station-master. “In the afternoon a boy brought a trunk and said it had to wait for a young lady who was coming to catch a train. And I just happened to look at the address, and it was ‘Miss Churchill, London.’”
“And that was all?”
“That was all, sir—‘Miss Churchill, London.’ I wondered at the time there was nothing more, but there was not.”
“And the boy who brought the trunk; it was not one of my boys, was it?”
“Oh, dear, no, sir! I know both your boys quite well. This was a common sort of lad in a fustian jacket, and I don’t think I’d know him again.”
“And she came to the train? How did she look?”
“She came into the station quite cheerful, sir, and she took a second-class fare to London, and I put her into the carriage myself. I asked her if she was goingfor a long visit, as you see I’ve known her ever since she was a child, and she smiled in her pretty way. ’Yes, Mr. Johnson,’ said she, ‘a long visit;’ and those were her last words to me.”
Mr. Churchill groaned aloud.
“I fear she has run away,” he said, “and as well seek for a needle in a bundle of hay as find anyone in London if they went to hide. Thank you, Johnson. Don’t say anything, but I fear it’s a bad business.”
So Mr. Churchill left the station with a heavy heart, but on the way home he saw the gray walls and towers of Woodlea Hall standing amid the trees in the distance, and again the thought of John Temple recurred to his mind.
“I’ll make some excuse and go and see if he’s there, at any rate,” he decided, and accordingly he turned his horse’s head down the avenue that led to the Hall, and a few minutes later drew up at the back entrance.
“Can I see the squire?” he asked in some agitation.
It was yet early morning, and the squire was still at breakfast. But Mr. Churchill was known to be a favorite tenant, and one of the servants took up a message that he was waiting until the squire could see him. A message came back, would Mr. Churchill go into the library, and Mr. Temple would join him immediately.
This the squire did, and in his quiet, courteous manner held out his hand to Mr. Churchill, who took it nervously.
“I am in sad trouble, sir,” he began.
“I am extremely sorry to hear this, Mr. Churchill,” answered the squire, with real interest.
“It’s about my daughter, sir—”
“What, that pretty girl?” interrupted the squire.
“Yes, May—well, sir, the truth is that May and my new wife didn’t get on over-well together, and we—my wife and I—have been away from home for a couple of days, and when we went to seek May this morning we found she was not in the house. Then I went to the station—I have just been there—and Johnson, the station-master, he says May left last evening bythe quarter-to-six train for London, and that’s every word we know about her.”
“And she left no letter? Told no one she was going?”
“Yes, she left a letter for me, to say she was going, and that was all; not a word where she was going to.”
“This is very distressing. Did she say nothing to her brothers?”
“Not a word—and squire, there is something I wanted to ask you—” and then Mr. Churchill hesitated.
“Pray ask me, Mr. Churchill, and if there is anything I can do for you, you may depend on me.”
“Well, sir, you see May and your nephew, Mr. John Temple, were a good bit together about that unfortunate girl’s death at Fern Dene, and I’ve been wondering if he could tell us anything? No offense, you know, squire, only sometimes girls tell their troubles or fancied troubles to other young people, and I thought perhaps she might have said something to Mr. John Temple—that is, if he is at the Hall.”
“He is certainly at the Hall,” replied the squire, gravely. “He returned last Saturday, and is now in the breakfast-room. Would you like to see him?”
“If I might make so bold.”
Mr. Temple rose and rang the bell, and when the footman answered it he said quietly:
“Ask Mr. John Temple kindly to come to the library for a few minutes.”
The footman bowed and disappeared, and a few moments of uncomfortable silence passed between the squire and his tenant. The squire was remembering his advice to John on the subject of May Churchill; her father seeing the two together in the moonlit garden.
Then John Temple appeared, calm, assured, and a little pale.
He shook hands with Mr. Churchill, and then looked at him inquiringly.
“John,” said the squire, as the farmer hesitated, “Mr. Churchill has called here about his daughter; it seems that the young lady disappeared from her homeyesterday in the absence of Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, and as you were a good deal thrown with her about that unfortunate affair at Fern Dene, Mr. Churchill wishes to know if she ever gave you any hint regarding her intention of leaving her home?”
“Yes, Mr. John, that’s just it; just as the squire says,” put in Mr. Churchill, eagerly.
“Certainly not,” replied John Temple, calmly. “I was, as you say, a good deal thrown with Miss Churchill regarding that unfortunate affair, but she never mentioned anything whatever to me about leaving her home.”
“And she made no complaints?” asked Mr. Churchill.
“None. I think she once said she disliked that young Henderson very much; that was at the inquest.”
“And when did you last see her, Mr. John?”
“I have been away, but I saw her last Sunday at church.”
This was a bold speech, yet John Temple never faltered as he spoke it. He had made up his mind that these inquiries were sure to be made, and he risked the chance that no one had seen his interviews with May on Sunday or Monday.
At all events he convinced both his uncle and Mr. Churchill that he had nothing to do with May’s disappearance. The farmer thanked him and the squire, and then withdrew, and John and his uncle were left alone.
“It’s a strange business,” said the squire, “but I suppose it is the fault of the new wife. This pretty girl has perhaps gone to try her fortune in London, in preference to living at home in uncongenial company. But it’s a pity.”
“Someone told me, I forget who,” answered John, “that the new wife, as you call her, was bent on marrying this pretty girl to that brute young Henderson. In that case one can not wonder at her running away.”
“Well, I hope she’ll come to no trouble; she’s a very pretty girl.”
“Very,” replied John, laconically, and then he turnedaway; but his uncle noticed that during the rest of the day there was a cloud upon his brow.
Mr. Churchill, in the meanwhile, had returned home, and had told his news to his wife. May had gone to London alone, and the station-master had seen her off, and a strange boy had taken her trunk to the station.
“Then it has been all planned beforehand!” exclaimed Mrs. Churchill. “How deceitful!”
Mr. Churchill said nothing, and was certainly looking anything but happy.
“Will you put it into the hands of the police?” asked Mrs. Churchill.
“No,” answered the farmer, decidedly. “May would have some little money with her—a matter of twenty pounds or so, at least, and she can’t starve for a week or two with that. And when she wants money she can come home. Remember that, Sarah,” he added, emphatically, “whenever my girl wants to come back, she’s welcome here.”
While these inquiries about her flight were going on, May Churchill was safely sheltered in the home John Temple had provided for her in town. This she found to be an extremely comfortable one, and the two ladies of the establishment the most amiable of women.
May had arrived at King’s Cross terminus nervous, yet determined. She had left a home where she was no longer happy, and she was going to be married to the man she loved. What matter was it, she told herself, that for the present this marriage had to be a secret one? She had a perfect trust in John Temple, and she knew he would never deceive her.
She easily got her small belongings collected, and then directed the cab driver to convey her to the addressin Bayswater that John Temple had given her. She found herself there before she expected, and after the cabman had rung the doorbell it was quickly opened, and no less than four people appeared to welcome her. A servant first; behind, two middle-aged ladies; and behind the middle-aged ladies, a tall young man.
This young man, however, hurried to the front, opened the cab door, and said, in a pleasant voice:
“Miss Churchill, I presume? My aunts are expecting you.”
“Yes,” gasped May, nervously. “Is this Miss Webster’s house?”
“Yes, my dear, it is!” screamed one of the middle-aged ladies from the top of the door-steps. “This is our house, mine and sister Eliza’s, and we expect you are Mr. Temple’s cousin.”
“Yes,” faltered May.
By this time the young man had handed May out, and she was standing on the flags, purse in hand, ready to pay the cabman.
“Never mind the cabman!” again screamed the lady from the door-steps. “Nephew Ralph will pay him, and get in your luggage. Come in, my dear, and welcome; any friend of Mr. Temple’s is most welcome here.”
May accordingly ascended the door-steps, and her hand was shaken most warmly, first by Miss Webster, and then by Miss Eliza. They were thin, elderly women, with pleasant faces, and were evidently pleased to see their young guest.
“You must be tired with your long journey, and hungry, too,” continued Miss Webster. “We have a little bit of hot supper ready for you. Jane,” this was to the servant, “tell cook to dish up the partridges, and mind she has the plates hot. Come in, my dear—this is the dining-room—or would you rather go upstairs and take off your hat first?”
May accepted the last offer, and was accordingly ushered into a most comfortable bedroom, where everything was ready for her occupation. After pointingout the hot water, and telling her to be sure to ring for what she wanted, Miss Webster then withdrew. Upon this May bathed her face, and let down her long hair, and in a few minutes appeared down-stairs, looking so fresh and bright no one would have supposed that she had just had a long journey.
The tall young man was standing on the hearth-rug as she entered the dining-room, for a cheerful fire was burning in the grate, and he bowed when May appeared, and offered her a chair.
“This is our nephew, Mr. Ralph Webster,” said Miss Eliza, for Miss Webster happened to be out of the room, looking after the supper. “Miss Churchill, Mr. Webster.”
Miss Eliza having accomplished this introduction to her satisfaction, sighed softly, and looked first at May’s blooming face and then at her nephew’s.
“What a handsome couple!” she was thinking, and again she sighed. By some mischance, Miss Eliza’s proper destiny had never been fulfilled. She ought to have been one of the couple, and her whole nature pointed in that direction. She was sentimental, tender-hearted, and affectionate, and yet in her middle-age she was still unwedded. But she had no jealousy of younger women. On the contrary, the suppressed maternal instincts in her heart seemed to bloom forth when she beheld a fair young face. She also regarded her tall nephew with something like the affection of a mother.
But though he might be so in her eyes, Mr. Ralph Webster could not justly be called “handsome.” He had, however, an intelligent, clever face, with marked features and dark gray penetrating eyes. His manner was self-reliant and quick. Altogether a keen-looking man, with a face well-suited to his profession, for he was a barrister; a hard-working barrister, who had already accomplished a fair amount of success.
“And you have had a long journey?” he said, leaning on the back of a chair and addressing May Churchill.
“Yes, rather,” answered May, moving uneasily, forshe did not know what John Temple had said to the Websters about her home, and Ralph Webster noticed this slight uneasiness.
“The country must be looking beautiful just now,” he continued, with his keen eyes fixed on her changing face; “this is the season of holidays, and I am longing for mine.”
“I like the autumn, too,” said May.
“Well, I think I like the spring best,” mildly remarked Miss Eliza; “in the autumn one feels that the winter is so near; you should like the spring best, too, my dear,” she added, looking at May; “you, who are in your spring-time.”
“Dear sentimental Aunt Eliza!” laughed Mr. Webster. “I am sure you are thinking of the lambkins skipping about the green fields, while I am thinking—”
“Of what, my dear?”
“I dare hardly say—lamb in another form, I am afraid.”
“Oh! Ralph,” gently rebuked Miss Eliza.
But here the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of the supper and Miss Webster. Miss Webster was the managing lady of the house, and though only two years older than Miss Eliza, regarded her as greatly her junior. She was more energetic and practical than the younger sister, but their affection for each other was very strong.
“I hope you are hungry, my dear,” said Miss Webster, now addressing May. “Ralph, will you set a chair for Miss Churchill, and carve the partridges?”
Ralph did both. He carved well, for he nearly did everything well that he tried, and he had the good sense if he did not do a thing well soon to leave off trying.
“One should never go on failing,” he used to say, “or you get into the way of it. If one thing doesn’t succeed, another may; there should be successful careers for us all—even for crossing-sweepers.”
He, in fact, had made up his mind to succeed in life, and he knew the way was to work hard. He spent hisevenings as a rule in reading dry books, instead of amusing himself like many of his compeers. He was equipping himself for the legal battles he meant to fight, and was determined to have his armor ready when it came his turn to put it on. And he knew his turn would come. A man like this has sometimes to wait for his chance, but as a rule he does not wait long. Sagacious eyes mark the rising juniors, and are glad to push them on. Ralph Webster was already by no means an unknown man in legal circles.
“He will rise, and rise high,” a good judge of human nature had predicted of him, and certainly he was doing his best to fulfill this prophecy.
His good aunts were not a little proud of him, and he was in a way fond of these two simple, kindly women. They were the only relatives he had in town, and he sometimes used to stay with them, though as a rule he lived in the Temple. He was staying with them now, and to his great amusement had been told of the expected arrival of Mr. John Temple’s “country cousin” before May Churchill came. Now, when she had arrived, he sat looking at her with admiration and curiosity.
“She’s the prettiest girl I ever saw,” he said to his aunts, after he had lit his pipe, and May had retired for the night.
“It’s a sweet face certainly,” sighed Miss Eliza.
“It’s more than a sweet face,” answered Ralph Webster, in his energetic way; “it’s a beautiful face. What did Temple say about her to you, Aunt Margaret, when he wrote?”
“He said she was his cousin, his young cousin, and would we take her in, and be kind to her for a fortnight or so, when he would come up to town to join her.”
“Lucky dog!” laughed Ralph Webster.
“And,” continued Miss Webster, with a sudden blush spreading over her faded complexion, “he inclosed a check, a ridiculously large check, for her expenses, and asked us to take her out a little to see the sights, as she has never been in London before. It’s a bad time ofthe year certainly for sights; but still perhaps you will help us a little, Ralph, to amuse her till you go on your holiday?”
“For a young woman who has never been in town there are always plenty of ‘sights,’ as you call them, to be seen in London. Yes, Aunt Margaret, I shall be glad to escort you and Aunt Eliza and the country cousin anywhere you like during the next few days.”
“How good of you, Ralph!” exclaimed Aunt Margaret.
“So good!” chimed Aunt Eliza.
“Good to myself, I should suggest,” said Ralph Webster. And then after one or two vigorous puffs at his pipe he drew it out of his lips for a moment or two.
“By the by,” he said, “how was it you got to know this Mr. Temple? I forget.”
“Oh, my dear,” answered Aunt Margaret, with another sudden blush spreading over her faded skin, which was also reflected on Aunt Eliza’s gentle face, “it was at the time—well, when our dear father was taken from us, and of course the pecuniary advantages of his living expired with him. We were thus left very badly off, and had our dear mother to consider. Therefore, when Mrs. Mason, our dear mother’s only sister, heard of our position she proposed that we should take a house in town, and bring the furniture up, and—well, try to take in lodgers or boarders. It was, of course, a great trial to my dear sister and myself, but we felt it was our duty, and we did it, and Mr. Temple, who was a much younger man then, stayed with us three years, and we have regarded him with sincere friendship ever since. He is quite a gentleman, in word and deed, and it was a pleasure to have him with us, though, considering poor Aunt Mason’s ample means, and that she had no family of her own, I almost wonder she liked her nieces to receive strangers under their roof; particularly when she meant to leave us independent a few years afterward, which she did.”
“So this was how you got to know Mr. Temple?” said Ralph Webster, after listening to Miss Margaret’s longexplanation. “He’s a barrister, you say, but does not practice? I must look up his name.”
“He never practiced; he was well off, but not rich, and then some months ago he came into a great windfall. A little boy, the heir of the head of the family, Mr. Temple of Woodlea Hall, was accidentally killed at football, and Mr. John Temple became the heir of the property, and when he called the last time he was in town he told us that some day, if he lived, he would be a very rich man; but his good fortune did not seem to elate him, did it, Eliza?”
“No, indeed,” replied Aunt Eliza, “Mr. Temple is quite above anything of that kind.”
“I wonder where he picked up the country cousin?” said Ralph Webster, thoughtfully.
“Most probably at his uncle’s, the squire of Woodlea. Where do you think we could take her to-morrow, Ralph?”
“Wait until we see what to-morrow brings forth in the way of weather,” answered Ralph Webster, and they settled it thus, and shortly afterward the two sisters retired to rest, and their nephew was left to his reflections.
The next morning was fine, and when Ralph Webster saw May Churchill by daylight he decided she was prettier than ever. She had rested well; she was fresh and fair, and she carried on an animated conversation with Ralph Webster during the whole of the breakfast time.
“I suppose you row, play tennis, and hunt, and have all sorts of country occupations?” asked Ralph.
“I play tennis, but I neither row nor hunt,” answered May, smiling.
“What! you are not one of those manly young ladies who intend to annihilate us poor male creatures off the face of the earth, or at least our occupations and professions?”
“Not quite; but I think it a very good thing that women nowadays can find occupations and professions for themselves.”
“It’s not fair to men, it’s really not,” answered Webster, smiling also. “Just take my profession, for instance, which I fully expect will be invaded by the female element in no time. Now I ask you what chance has a judge to be just, to say nothing of the susceptible bosoms of the twelve good men in the jury box, when confronted with a lovely creature in silk pleading the cause of some ruffian? She’d talk them all over. She’d paint the blackest crimes white, and it would certainly come to this, that the handsomest female barristers would get all the briefs, because it would be only too well known that no man could resist them.”
“But I thought,” said May, who was very much amused, “that before barristers wear silk that they are not quite so young as they once were? Suppose, then, an elderly female barrister, with her brow wrinkled with thought, and her sallow cheeks lined with study, were to confront the jury, do you think that she would have any more effect than a man?”
Webster laughed.
“You draw an appalling picture,” he said; “for my part I can only answer I don’t think she would.”
“Yet you see she would be earning her living; and what can poor women do?”
“They should marry, and men should work for them.”
“But they can’t all marry; hundreds of things may prevent them marrying. I often wish I had been brought up to a profession.”
“Please turn your eyes away from mine; I do not wish to be cut out.”
“My dear, you are sure to marry,” said Aunt Eliza, mildly.
“Nothing is sure, Miss Webster,” laughed May, but she blushed so charmingly at the same time that Ralph Webster felt a new strange sensation that he did not quite understand.
“The day is lovely,” he said, starting up from the breakfast table and going to the window. “Suppose we all go down the river?”
The expedition was soon settled after this. The river was all new to May, and its reedy, willowy shores, its shining waters, and placid flow seemed delightful to her as she sat side by side with Aunt Eliza, or dipped her little hands into the cool stream.
Ralph Webster was a good oarsman, and presently he insisted that May should try to learn to row, and began instructing her. The girl was an apt pupil, and her strong young frame was quite capable of the fatigue. She enjoyed it, and when Aunt Eliza produced her luncheon basket, and they rowed in to have lunch, May declared she had never been so hungry before. Altogether they had a very pleasant day, and returned to Pembridge Terrace for dinner, where Aunt Margaret awaited them with a substantial and well-cooked repast.
“The day is not done,” said Ralph Webster, when dinner was over; “let us go to one of the theaters.”
His aunts looked at him in mild surprise.
“My dear,” they said, almost together, with a slight variation of words, “Miss Churchill will be tired.”
But May declared she was not tired, and her blooming face betokened the truth of her words. So to one of the theaters they went, though Aunt Eliza was tired if May was not. And the next day they went somewhere else, and Ralph Webster suddenly ceased to talk about going on his holiday. But on the third day of May’s stay in Pembridge Terrace Miss Webster received a letter which caused her to look a little grave.
It was from John Temple, and inclosed a letter for May. And it struck Miss Webster’s simple mind at once to wonder why he should not write to his “young cousin,” as he called her, direct. And something—she knew not what—induced Miss Webster not to give this letter to May in the presence of Ralph Webster.
Perhaps she felt that his keen eyes would see more in it than there really was. At all events she put it into May’s hand when they were alone, and she noticed the quick blush and the glad look with which the girl received it.
May retired at once with her new letter to her ownroom, and when she got there she read as follows in John Temple’s handwriting:
“My Dear One—My Dear Little Sweetheart: I have been thinking of you so much to-day that I must write. But I think it safer to send it under cover to dear kind Miss Webster, as one never can tell what spies there are about, and your disappearance from home has naturally created a great sensation here. The morning after you left your father came to Woodlea, and asked to see my uncle, and then me. He questioned me pretty sharply, and asked when I had last seen you. I risked it, and said at church, and that you had said nothing to me about leaving your father’s house. Then Mrs. Temple attacked me on the subject, and finally yesterday I met that brute young Henderson, and I wish you had seen the desperate look he gave me as he passed me on the road. They say he drinks heavily, and is altogether going to the bad, and that he made a frightful scene when he heard you were gone. So you see altogether we can not be too careful. I dare not in fact leave here at present, or people—Henderson, and Mrs. Temple I am certain—would suspect I was going to join you.
“Therefore, my dear one, we must wait a little while yet before I can go to you. For the reasons I told you of our marriage must be a secret one for the present, though this is very hard both on you and me. But I hope you are happy with Miss Webster, and I need not tell you that the moment I can do so with safety that I will join you, and then we can be married at once. Brighter days are, I am sure, in store for us, my Mayflower, but in the meantime when you write will you give your letters to Miss Webster to inclose to me, as it would not do for your letters to come here. Always devotedly yours,
John Temple.”