Without another word Henderson turned on his heel and strode away. The men had met in the avenue and Reid saw Henderson walk rapidly back to the house and disappear from his view. But it was impossible almost to describe the furious rage that possessed Henderson’s soul as he did so.
“This is too much,” he muttered darkly between his bitten lips, and he at once proceeded to his own room, vowing vengeance as he went.
“He shall not live to insult me again,” he swore fiercely; and then he sat down deliberately and tried tothink how he could best carry out his murderous intentions.
Reid saw nothing more of him during the day, but after nightfall, about eight o’clock, Henderson walked down to the stables, where he was almost sure to find Reid at this hour. The groom was there engaged in looking after the horses, and he turned around and nodded as his so-called master entered.
“There’s the money you asked for,” said Henderson, in a sullen tone, holding out a check, “and I hope it’s the last you’ll want for some time.”
Reid took the check and glanced at it, and then put it in his pocket-book.
“That’s all right,” he said, and then he proceeded to discuss the points of the animal he proposed to purchase.
“She’s a real beauty,” he said, and so on.
Henderson took very little notice. Presently, however, he addressed the groom.
“You talked of taking the trap and Brown Bess,” he said; “if you do, what time will you be back, as I want the trap to drive over in the evening to Captain North’s?”
“What time do you want to go?” asked Reid.
“I have to be there by nine. It’s a kind of sporting supper he has on, and I promised to go.”
“It’ll not take ye more than an hour to go to Newstead? Well, I’ll be back by seven, and ye better drive one of the other horses.”
“All right,” answered Henderson, shortly, and then without another word he left the stable, and Reid looked after him curiously.
“He looked uncommon vicious,” he thought; “I wonder if he can be planning any mischief?”
And this idea recurred again to his mind when he saw Henderson the next morning. There was a dark, lowering, determined look on his face that Reid did not like, and as he indulged in no strong language the groom began to think it looked suspicious.
“Be sure you are back by seven,” was all Hendersonsaid in allusion to their conversation of the night before; and when he had turned away, Reid began whistling softly to himself.
And all the day after Henderson was restless and strange in his manner. He told his mother that he would not be at home at dinner-time, as he was going to Captain North’s, and accordingly about half-past six o’clock he left the house, and proceeded on foot to a lonely spot in the road, that he knew Reid must pass on his return from Skidder’s, the horse dealer’s.
This part of the road ran through a little wood, and there were trees on either side of the horse path. Here behind the trunk of a great spreading oak Henderson stationed himself with murder in his heart. He meant to shoot Reid, cost him what it might, for the man’s insolence had become to him utterly unbearable.
It was nearly seven o’clock when he reached the little wood, and it was a cold, gray, drizzling evening, with a fog floating over the lowlands, and there was a general air of bleakness and discomfort in the whole scene. But Henderson with his black passions roused felt none of this. He stood there hidden, with his revolver ready in his hand, and with his ear alert to catch every sound. But none came; only the melancholy moan of the wind through the trees, or the cry of the curlew winging its way over the sedges on the marsh below.
Henderson began to get impatient. Would he never come, he thought. He looked at his watch again and again; half-past seven, eight, and then the autumn day began to close, and the night to gather in.
It was quite dark—just nine o’clock—when at last he did hear the rumble of wheels and the sharp trot of a horse’s hoofs on the stony road. Henderson stood breathless, his revolver raised ready to fire, his eyes peering eagerly through the darkness and the mist. The sounds came nearer.
“It is Brown Bess’ trot,” he told himself with savage glee; “I’ll have him this time and no mistake.”
The dog-cart passed the spot where he was standinga moment later, and Henderson fired. There was a cry; the horse swerved violently aside, and then started off in a furious gallop, and Henderson stood panting on the roadway, wondering if his enemy were dead.
He listened eagerly until the sound of the horse’s gallop grew fainter and fainter, and then Henderson proceeded to carry out the plan which he had laid down for himself. This was actually to go to Captain North’s supper, who was a somewhat disreputable sporting man in the neighborhood, who, for reasons of his own, had not given the cold shoulder to Henderson during the time of the great scandal about him.
Henderson therefore turned and walked on quickly in the direction of Captain North’s place, Newstead. It was only about a mile from the little wood where he had fired the shot at Reid, and it did not take him long to arrive there. A sort of savage exultation filled his breast as he proceeded on his way. At all events, he had wounded Reid, for he had heard the man’s startled cry. And the shot could not be traced to him, he believed, for he would be known to be at North’s supper at the time, and in the darkness it was impossible that Reid could have recognized him.
At Newstead he received a warm welcome.
“How late you are, old fellow!” cried the host, a dissipated red-faced man of fifty, rising from the table and grasping Henderson’s hand.
“Am I?” answered Henderson. “Well, my mother was not well, and so I did not start so early as I intended.”
After this he sat down to supper with the rest, and seemed in high spirits. They were a rough lotaltogether, and they all seemed bent on enjoying themselves. They drank, laughed, joked, and sang, and Henderson joined in the thick of it. It was indeed after two in the morning before they began to talk of dispersing.
“I wonder if my trap is here?” asked Henderson.
“No, sir,” answered the servant he addressed; “there is nothing here from Stourton Grange.”
“Confound that fellow. I wonder why he has not come; got drunk, as usual, I suppose,” said Henderson.
“Do you mean that groom of yours, Reid?” asked Captain North. “I’m told he’s quite a swell now, and goes about buying horses, and blustering about some money he has had left him, or that he has power over you, or something. I would get rid of him if I were you, Henderson.”
“He’s a lazy dog,” swore Henderson, and then the conversation dropped.
One of the guests who was going Henderson’s way offered to give him a lift, and Henderson accepted the offer. This man drove Henderson nearly to the avenue at Stourton, and there they parted, Henderson proceeding on foot in the direction of the Grange. As he walked on in the darkness and the gloom, for the first time since he had fired the shot at Reid, a sort of dread, of shrinking from the consequences of what he had done, stole over his soul. But he braced himself up to conquer this feeling.
“He deserved it. I hope he is dead,” he thought, and in this mood he neared his home.
He had to pass the stables on his way, and as he did so he saw they were fully lighted. He hesitated, then nerved himself to go in and inquire why this was so. He entered one of the open doors, and a peculiar gasping sound fell on his ears. He passed two of the stalls, and he saw the horses in them were restless and uneasy. Then he came to the third stall—Brown Bess’ stall—and such a sight met his eyes that he never forgot it to his dying day.
Reid was standing there and a farrier whom he knew,and on the straw of the stall lay Brown Bess, panting and struggling in her death agonies. Blood was flowing from her nostrils; blood from her distended jaws, while convulsive tremors ran through her sleek and glossy form.
“What is this? What has happened?” asked Henderson, hoarsely.
The two men, who had not noticed his approach, as they were watching the horse, now turned around and saw Henderson.
“Some scoundrel shot her on the road as we came through Henley Wood,” answered Reid, gloomily. “She’s shot through the lungs, Mr. Roberts here says—and it’s all up with her, poor beast.”
“Yes, Mr. Henderson, I fear nothing can be done,” said Mr. Roberts, the farrier, shaking his head.
Henderson gave a kind of cry, and knelt down on the straw beside the dying horse.
“Bess! Bess! My poor Bess! don’t you know me?” he exclaimed, and his words were broken by a sob.
The dumb creature in her death throes knew her master’s voice. She opened her fast glazing eyes a little wider; she tried to whinny her welcome, but the exertion killed her. A rush of blood came from her mouth, a terrible struggle convulsed her limbs, and the two men standing behind seized Henderson and pulled him forcibly away from her.
“She might kick you without knowing it, sir,” said the farrier. “Ay, poor brute, it will be all over in a moment or so.”
His words were true; there was another plunge or two, then a faint quivering ran through her frame, and then all was still. Henderson stood watching her, and then with a groan he covered his face with his hand, and turned away.
“It’s a bad business,” said the farrier. “Who on earth could have shot her?”
“It was just at the turn in Henley Wood,” repeated Reid; “we were coming home as nicely as could be when I heard a shot close at hand. Poor Bess a-kind o’jumped in the air, and then started galloping, and never stopped till we got to the stable door.”
“And you saw no one?” asked the farrier.
“Not a living soul; it was too dark,” answered Reid.
“And what were you doing out so late?” asked Henderson, in a strange, hollow voice, now looking at his groom.
“Well, ye know, master, I’d been buying that mare I told you of, and Skidder and I wet the bargain, and I got a bit tight. But I waited till I was all right, and then I was driving away quietly home—”
“You sacrificed her life,” interrupted Henderson, darkly and sternly, “the best horse a man ever rode,” and then without another word he strode out of the stable, his heart full of inexpressible bitterness.
For he knew that his own hand had killed the creature he had loved. Brown Bess had been his favorite horse, and had been given to him by his father shortly before his death, and Henderson remembered at this moment his pride and pleasure when he received the gift.
And another memory, too, rose before him; a memory fraught with remorse and shame, and the face of the dead girl, Elsie Wray, seemed to hover near him in the darkness, as he had seen her in the days of her early love. He had ridden Brown Bess to the Wayside Inn shortly after his father had presented her to him, for the purpose of showing Elsie his new possession. And when he was leaving the girl had followed him out of the house, and laid her dark head against the mare’s glossy neck and kissed her.
He saw this little scene again now, and groaned aloud in his misery. He had killed them both, he was thinking—the two who had loved him—and bitter and unavailing regret and remorse filled his heart. His mad passion for May Churchill had blinded him to all sense of justice and right, and he had flung away the love which was truly his for the sake of a fair face that had always looked coldly at him.
And now it all came back to him! Elsie’s vainappeals and awful death, and he shuddered as he walked on; shuddered and stumbled amid his haunting visions of the past.
A pale-faced woman was standing, candle in hand, watching for him as he staggered toward the open door of Stourton Grange. This was his mother, who had grown uneasy at his prolonged absence, and was now peering into the mist and darkness looking for her only son. Presently she saw him; saw his haggard face, and his eyes full of remorse and gloom. She went forward to meet him; she took his cold, damp hand.
“My dear, are you not well?” she said, tenderly, as she led him into the hall, and put her candle down on the table. “You look ill, Tom, what is the matter?”
For a moment he looked at her, and then suddenly broke down, and a choking sob burst from his lips.
“Tom, come in here; I’ve a fire here,” went on Mrs. Henderson, putting her hand through his arm and leading him into the drawing-room. She made him sit by the fire; she got him what he required, and hung over him and tended him with her mother’s love strong in her breast, as though he had been the sinless child she had once cradled there.
She asked no questions, but presently she gathered from his half-incoherent words that Brown Bess was dead, and that he was weary of his life. She soothed and comforted him, and finally persuaded him to go to bed, but she did not leave him that night, nor for many nights to come.
Either the shock he had received, or some subtle poison floating in the damp, dank air, had struck him down, but before the morning he was in a high fever. And with extraordinary courage and devotion Mrs. Henderson nursed him alone. She sent for no doctor; she sought no help. She knew she was risking his life by doing this, but she knew also that his babbling tongue might reveal the dark secret of which she was only too sure. So no ears but hers heard the ghastly details of the tragedy on the ridge above Fern Dene.
Over and over again in the still hours of the night he related the grim story. Sometimes he fancied Elsie was standing by and would entreat her to take away her dying curse.
“I did not mean it, Elsie! on my soul I did not!” he more than once cried, and his miserable watcher fell on her knees and prayed to God that his words might be true.
But it was a terrible time. Mrs. Henderson’s thick brown hair grew gray, and her once comely face lined and haggard. She let it be understood in the household “that the young master” was suffering from delirium tremens, and as Henderson was known to have been drinking heavily lately, this account of his illness was universally believed.
The groom, Jack Reid, went up to the house each morning to ask after him, but he made no attempt to see his master. The events of the night on which Brown Bess had died seemed to have had a sobering effect on this man. For in his own mind Reid now never doubted that Henderson had intended to kill him when by mischance he killed the horse. Their frequent quarrels, and something in Henderson’s lowering looks when he had proposed to borrow the dog-cart and Brown Bess, had rather alarmed Reid at the time, and for this reason he had purposely delayed his return home until he thought his master would be absent at Captain North’s supper party.
Then, when Henderson had gone into the stable, and flung himself in his grief down by his dying horse, Reid had seen the muzzle of a revolver suddenly appear from one of the pockets of his overcoat. It instantly struck the man at this moment who had shot Brown Bess. The bullet intended for himself had destroyed the animal that Henderson loved best, and Reid gave a little shudder when he thought of his own narrow escape.
But he said nothing of his suspicions. But a day or so afterward he walked over to Captain North’s place, and after telling some of the men about the stables ofhis master’s illness, he casually inquired what time the “young squire” had arrived at Newstead on the night of the Captain’s supper party.
“Late,” was the reply he received. “Nearly an hour later than the other gents. It wouldn’t be less than a quarter to ten o’clock when he came, and he had a strange sort of look when he did. Ay, it was the d. t. coming on, no doubt.”
This answer satisfied Reid that he had not been mistaken. Henderson had had time then to reach Newstead after he had fired the shot in Henley Wood that had killed Brown Bess. And the idea frightened Reid. He had not, in fact, believed Henderson before capable of deliberate murder. He knew he had not gone to the ridge above Fern Dene intending to shoot poor Elsie Wray. The girl’s threats and taunts had maddened him, and in a moment of uncontrollable passion he had killed her. But this attempt on Reid’s own life was a very different affair. It showed the man that he had to deal with a stronger and more savage and vindictive nature than he had expected. He had bullied and traded on Henderson’s secret, never supposing that he dare attempt to throw off the yoke. But he had gone too far, and Reid now admitted this to himself, and determined to be more careful and more prudent in the future.
But Henderson was ill for many days, and it was weeks after Brown Bess’ death that Reid first saw his master. They met in the avenue by chance, while Henderson was walking with his mother, and leaning on her arm, for his strength was completely shattered. The faces of both men flushed when they saw each other, but Reid respectfully touched his hat as he approached the mother and son.
“I hope you are feeling better, sir?” he asked, and for a moment he stopped.
“Yes, I am better,” answered Henderson, briefly, and he scowled and walked on, but there was a look in his sunken eyes that Reid did not care to see.
Henderson, in fact, still nourished the bitterest animosityagainst the man who held his secret, and who had treated him with such insolence and disrespect. Nor as his health returned did he forget the loss of Brown Bess. He blamed Reid for this, and hated the groom with a deadly hatred that grew and grew.
And during the days of his convalescence a letter came to him which did not tend to make him any happier. It was from Mrs. Temple, but was of a very vague and unsatisfactory nature.
“I am sorry to hear you have been ill,” it began, “but the address we talked of was not forthcoming, so I could not send it. J. T. wrote to his uncle certainly, but the sole address he gave was Paris, and moreover he said he was leaving that city next day. I can not help thinking it looks suspicious, but on his return we may learn more, as he mentions that in another week or so he would arrive at Woodlea. If I hear anything I will let you know; in the meanwhile perhaps you had best not come here. Yours very truly,
“R. T.”
Miss Webster was agreeably surprised when she received her nephew Ralph’s answer to her letter in which she had told him of May Churchill’s marriage.
It was a quiet, ordinary letter, and mentioned that affair in the most commonplace manner.
“My dear Aunt Margaret,” Miss Webster read with a considerable feeling of relief. “I received your letter telling me of the marriage of your pretty young friend, and I am sure we will all join in wishing her every happiness. But what I don’t quite like about the matter is its secrecy. A secret marriage is, I think, always unfair to the woman; and I understood from you that this Mr. Temple was his uncle’s heir, by the will of hisgrandfather, in the event of the elder Mr. Temple leaving no children. Now, if this is so, why should your Mr. Temple be afraid of his uncle, and prefer to cast a slur on the woman he has married, when his uncle can really (I presume) eventually do him no harm? However, it is no affair of ours.
“The weather here has been all that we could desire, and if I was not afraid of boring you with the oft-told description of Alpine scenery, I could tell you of some wonderful bits of coloring from the effect of the sunshine on the snow. However, as I hope soon to see you, I will not write a long letter to-day. In another fortnight I must be back to town, and hard at work at the old grind.
“With love to yourself and Aunt Eliza,
“Yours affectionately,
”Ralph Webster.”
Miss Webster silently put this letter into her sister Eliza’s hand, and after Miss Eliza had read it she returned it with one of her usual gentle sighs.
“Dear boy!” she said, and that was all. Still both the sisters felt relieved, and were glad to think no great harm had been done. The way in which Ralph had taken the news in fact made it easier for them to answer their other letters which they had received from the bride and bridegroom. In his, John Temple asked Miss Webster very kindly to look out for a suitably furnished house in their neighborhood for May. This Miss Webster had done, but she could not hear of one that was to be let at once. There was a house in the same terrace, but it would not be vacant for two months. Could Mrs. John Temple wait that long, Miss Webster had inquired.
To this John answered no. He could not be absent longer from England than another fortnight, and he must see May settled in town before he left her. Again the sisters went out house-hunting, but were still unsuccessful. At last, half-nervously, Miss Webster proposed to Miss Eliza to ask May to come to them until she could see about a house for herself.
“I have thought about that, too,” answered Miss Eliza; “but I did not like to suggest it.”
“It seems so unkind,” said Miss Webster, “when her room is standing empty.”
The offer was therefore made, and was gratefully accepted both by John Temple and May.
“It is more than good of you,” wrote John, “but I will leave May to thank you herself.”
May’s letter was a pretty bride-like epistle, in which “dear John’s” name occurred and re-occurred in every other line. “I am quite, quite happy,” she wrote; “but how could I be otherwise when dear John is so good to me, and when I am with him, for that alone means happiness to me. We wander together about this wonderful city, and dear John shows me beautiful things of which I had never dreamed, and which but for him I should have never seen. I tell him he is like some prince in the fairy tales, who found his poor little country sweetheart in the green woods. I feel so unworthy of him, but he will never listen to this, and his generous, noble words are very dear and sweet to my heart. I will tell you some day what he says on the subject, though I know it is only his great goodness that makes him speak thus. Still he says I make him very happy, and I pray to God night and day that I may always be able to do so.”
“Sweet young creature!” said Miss Eliza, wiping away a tear as she read these tender, loving words.
Miss Webster also was not unmoved. But when Ralph Webster arrived they did not show him May’s letter.
“She is very happy,” Miss Webster said, gently, and then for the first time she noticed the change in her nephew’s appearance.
“Why, Ralph!” she exclaimed, and then paused.
“You are looking at my gray hairs,” said Ralph, quietly. “Yes, isn’t it funny? It must have been the air of Switzerland.”
Miss Webster said nothing, but she thought the more. Not only had the air of Switzerland sown manywhite hairs round Ralph Webster’s broad brow, but it had visibly lined and aged his face. He, in fact, was looking ill, and not like a man who had just returned from his holiday.
“I am glad to get back to my work,” he said, and he was. Work was good for him, and his strong, firm mind recognized this.
“And,” he said, presently, “when do the bride and bridegroom return?”
Then Miss Webster and Aunt Eliza told their little story. They had tried in vain to find a suitable house for Mrs. John Temple at the time she required one, as Mr. John Temple was obliged to be back in England almost immediately. But they had heard of a house that would be vacant in two months.
“And so, dear Ralph, we thought we could not help offering her a home here until she finds one to suit herself,” explained Miss Webster. “And we expect her to arrive the day after to-morrow.”
A dusky flush rose to Ralph Webster’s face.
“The day after to-morrow?” he repeated, “and—Mr. Temple?”
“Oh! Mr. Temple will not stay here at all, dear, at present. He proposes to bring his bride here on Thursday afternoon, and he will stay to dinner, and then start for the Midlands by the night train. You must come to dinner on Thursday, Ralph, to meet him.”
But Ralph shook his head.
“No,” he said, “I have a case to work up on Thursday which will take me until the small hours of the morning. Besides,” he added, “it would not do, you know, for me to meet them, as I am not supposed to know that they are married at all.”
“I forgot that,” replied Miss Webster, nervously. “Dear me, dear me; these secret marriages are very trying!”
“Perhaps I will look in on Friday,” continued Ralph Webster, “and by that time you must find out how I am to address her—by her maiden or her married name.”
This was a complication that poor Aunt Margaret had never reckoned on.
“Yes, we must find out,” she said; “we must ask Mr. John Temple; really it is very awkward.”
But when Thursday arrived, and the sisters saw the bride’s sweet, happy face, they forgot at first to make any inquiries on the subject. May was looking quite charming; her dress, her beauty, even her manner was improved. She was indeed a lovely young woman that the kindly sisters took in their thin arms, and pressed their faded lips against her rosy ones. As for John Temple, he also looked exceedingly well, and his gray eyes rested again and again on the beautiful face of his fair bride with unmistakable affection.
He remained to dinner at Pembridge Terrace, but explained how he was obliged to start on his journey to Woodlea Hall almost immediately afterward. May knew this, but her face saddened a little when John repeated it, and her lips quivered.
“My uncle would never forgive me if I disappointed him,” said John, and then the little party began talking of other things.
“And how is Mr. Webster?” presently asked May. “Has he returned from abroad yet?”
This question at once reminded the sisters of their nephew’s wish to know by what name he should address May, and they looked at each other significantly; and then Miss Webster—the stronger minded of the two—after a little nervous hesitation spoke.
“Yes, he has returned, and is very well,” she said; “and—oh! my dear Mrs. John Temple, there is something I wish to ask you.”
“What is that?” answered May, smiling.
“Well, you see it is rather awkward—but—but I believe it was your wish, and—your husband’s for your marriage at present to be kept a secret?”
“Certainly,” said John Temple, rather quickly.
“And—my nephew knew Miss Churchill, you know, Mr. Temple, before her marriage, and when he meets her again—” hesitated Miss Webster.
“He had better know her as Miss Churchill still,” answered John, gravely. “For both our sakes, Miss Webster, for the present our marriage must be kept an absolute secret.”
Miss Webster stirred uneasily, and May blushed deeply, and also made a slight restless movement.
“It is absolutely necessary,” repeated John; “but if you wish, May, that Miss Webster’s friends should know you are married, why not take another name?”
“We will talk of it afterward,” said May, gently.
“But, my dear,” he answered, and he looked at his watch as he spoke, “we shall not have very long to talk of anything this evening. I must go upstairs and look after my traps, if Miss Webster will excuse me, for the cab I ordered will be here in half an hour. You had better come with me, May.”
So the two left the room together, and when they were alone John put his arm around May’s waist and drew her to his breast and kissed her face.
“I know this must seem hard to you, darling, about the name—and having to part so soon—but you see, it would never do to offend my uncle.”
“Oh! no, no, John!” replied May, fondly, and she flung her arms round his neck as she spoke. “Do you think I would wish to do you any harm? You who have been so good to me, and married me when I was so different in every way to you? Of course, your uncle naturally would resent your marriage to me, but the only thing is—”
“What, dear?”
“I think I should rather be known to be married among Miss Webster’s friends; you see when people are not married—”
“Young men are rather apt to fall in love with a very pretty girl, eh, May? Is that what you mean? Well, darling, perhaps you are right; call yourself Mrs. Somebody-else—or no, a brilliant idea has struck me; call yourself Mrs. John!”
“Oh, yes, that will do!” cried May, smiling. “Mrs.John! that is charming—then I will bear John’s name still—my own John!”
She nestled closer to him, and John Temple murmured something about “being unworthy,” of which May took no heed. Then in wifelike fashion, she began packing what he required, and he stood watching her with a strange dimness in his eyes, which, however, May did not see. She was thinking all the time how good and noble he was; how he had risked his inheritance for her sake; for May did not know that the Woodlea estates were in truth strictly entailed on John Temple, in the event of the present owner, Mr. Philip Temple, leaving no children. She might have heard this at the time of young Phil Temple’s death, but girl’s ideas on such subjects are very vague. But she knew John’s marriage with her would offend his uncle, and therefore it behooved her for his sake to keep it a secret as long as his uncle lived.
By and by they heard a cab stop at the house-door, and the bell rang, and they knew their parting hour had come. May clung to John, and her eyes were wet with tears when they went down-stairs together, and a few minutes later he was gone! And a great blank seemed suddenly to fall on the heart of the poor young bride.
But she tried not to show this, and presently said she was tired with her journey, and asked Miss Webster’s leave to retire to bed. She kissed both the sisters before she left them, and thanked them in her pretty way for giving her for the present the shelter of their roof.
“And Miss Webster,” she said, still holding Miss Webster’s kindly hand, “I talked over the name with John—I mean the name I am to be called by—and we fixed on Mrs. John. You see there is nothing extraordinary in that, and it is still John’s name. I can not take his full name on account of his uncle, as we must run no risks; but I will be Mrs. John. Do you think you can remember Mrs. John?”
“Yes, my dear, I can remember,” answered Miss Webster, and she kissed May’s fair face again. “Andit is better that you should be known as a married woman.”
“Much better,” said May, and then she left the sisters and retired to her own room to think there and pray for John with all her heart.
The next day, of course, she wished to write to John, but he had told her not to do so unless Miss Webster directed her letter. And it seemed almost too soon to ask Miss Webster to do this. Still she wrote, telling him all her sweet thoughts, and prattling to him on paper as she had done when nestling by his side. This letter would be sent the next day, she decided, after she had added this and that to it. Then after lunch she went out to walk with Miss Eliza, and when they returned they found Ralph Webster sitting in the dining-room with his Aunt Margaret.
Miss Webster had by this time told Ralph Webster that it had been decided that their young guest had for the present to bear the name of “Mrs. John.” Ralph had listened in somewhat grim silence, and when May and Aunt Eliza appeared Miss Webster rose in a little flurry.
“This is Mrs. John, Ralph,” she said, hastily.
Ralph Webster rose quietly and held out his hand.
“How are you, Mrs. John?” he said. “I hear I have to congratulate you.”
“Yes,” answered May, with a charming blush, taking his hand; “I have been married since I saw you last.”
“So my aunt has been telling me. Well, I did not forget the edelweiss, and have three separate packets of it at this moment in my coat pocket which is hanging in the hall.”
May had forgotten about the edelweiss. But she did not tell Mr. Webster this, and accepted her portion of the ice-flower smilingly. She thought he looked graver and older, but supposed he had been working very hard. She said something about this after dinner in the drawing-room, and Ralph Webster admitted it was true.
“Yes,” he said, “I have rather an important casecoming on to-morrow, and have been burning the midnight oil over it. And as it is about jewelry I suppose it would interest you ladies. I do not know whether you have ever heard of Miss Kathleen Weir, the actress?”
May, to whom he addressed this question, shook her head.
“An actress?” echoed Miss Webster.
“Yes, and I am told a very fascinating and handsome young woman. But I shall see her to-morrow, as I am junior in the case, and have to examine the witnesses.”
“And are you for the prosecution or the defense?” asked May.
“For the prosecution. It is, in fact, rather a remarkable case. It seems Miss Kathleen Weir is a lady who owns a great number of diamonds, or rather, supposed she did. Well, a month or so ago she was either hard up, or she had a mind to change some of her diamonds for something else. At all events, she took what she supposed to be a valuable diamond brooch and earrings to the jeweler, of whom they had been purchased, for the purpose of disposing of them. The jeweler and his assistants examined the stones, and told her they were everyone paste—not diamonds at all in fact. The cases were theirs, and the settings, but the diamonds had been removed and replaced by false ones. They at first supposed Miss Weir had wished to impose on them, but the rage she flew into soon satisfied them that this was not the case. She entreated one of the jewelers to return with her to her flat to examine the rest of her diamonds. A nice discovery awaited her; half, nay more than half, were gone, and paste diamonds had been substituted in place of the real ones.”
“What a dreadful thing!” exclaimed May.
“Dreadful for Miss Weir at least. These diamonds were worth thousands of pounds, and someone must have stolen them. The question was who did it, and the affair had been in the hands of the detectives ever since. Now they have got hold of someone, and MissWeir’s confidential maid, a certain Miss Margaret Johnstone, has to be put on her trial to-morrow for robbing her mistress. I am told there is a strong defense, but I think we hold the trump card.”
“We shall be interested in the result,” said May.
“Half the women in London will be interested. There is, I believe, an extraordinary fascination in jewels to your sex, and in diamonds in particular. However, by this time to-morrow Miss Margaret Johnstone will probably know this to her cost. But now I must go; I have my notes to look up on the case. Good-night, Mrs. John; good-night, Aunt Margaret and Aunt Eliza.”
He left the house a few moments later, after his aunts had pressed him to return the following evening to tell the news about the trial. And he did this, entering the drawing-room at Pembridge Terrace the next night about nine o’clock with a slight flush on his somewhat haggard face.
“Well,” he said, quietly, but still with the air of a man who has gained something he had fought for, “we have won our case.”
“Do tell us all about it, dear!” cried his aunts in chorus.
“Will it bore you?” asked Ralph Webster, looking at May.
“No, indeed, it will not,” she answered.
“I will make it as short as possible, then. The case of the prosecution was simple enough so far. Miss Kathleen Weir discovered that more than half her diamonds had been stolen and false ones substituted. She discovered this, as I told you, by taking some of them to a jeweler’s to dispose of—the defense made a point of this, as you will hear. Well, Miss Weir gave evidence that no one ever went into her jewel-case but her confidential maid, Margaret Johnstone. This woman had been in her service five years, and she completely trusted her. She admitted she sometimes left money lying about, but it was never touched. Margaret Johnstone used to take off Miss Weir’s jewels on her returnfrom the theater, and restore them to the case, and bring them out the next day when they were required. Generally Miss Weir carried the key of her jewel-case with her, but sometimes she forgot it, and she remembered one night in particular Margaret Johnstone telling her she had done this. No suspicion, however, entered her mind as regards her maid. But no one else had access to the jewels, and when she discovered her loss she naturally told her story to the police, and Margaret Johnstone was arrested.
“The defense was peculiar. Margaret Johnstone admitted taking Miss Weir’s diamonds to a certain somewhat contraband diamond dealer, but by her mistress’ orders. This diamond dealer gave evidence. The woman on trial had from time to time brought diamond ornaments to him for sale. He was suspicious at first, he said, but Margaret Johnstone gave distinct answers. The diamonds belonged to her mistress, Miss Kathleen Weir, the actress, and she was short of ready money, and wished to sell the diamonds for the best price she could get, and have false diamonds substituted in their place in the same settings. He still hesitated, and requested the maid to bring a letter from her mistress authorizing him to carry out this project. This Margaret Johnstone did, and the dealer produced the letter in court, which Miss Weir swore was never written by her, but the handwriting slightly resembled her own.
“After this constant transactions took place between the diamond dealer and the maid. The dealer swore that he had paid thousands to Margaret Johnstone and received receipts for the money signed Kathleen Weir. He swore also he never doubted that he was dealing with the real owner of the jewels. ‘Many ladies,’ he said, ‘did the same thing, and the diamonds their husbands and friends gave them at their marriage were frequently exchanged in after years for fictitious ones.’
“Then the counsel for the defense pointed out that Miss Weir herself admitted she was going to try to dispose of some of her diamonds when the so-called fraudwas discovered. This looked as though she was in the habit of doing so, and so on. This was the defense, but of course I have not told it in legal language. All the time, however, as I told you yesterday, I was sure we held the trump card, which was that in one of the woman’s boxes, after she was arrested, a half-finished letter was found. It was to a lover in Australia, asking him if he had received safely the eight hundred pounds she had forwarded to him by the last mail. ‘She will never be the wiser,’ Margaret Johnstone had written to the lover, ‘and the paste do quite as well for her as the real.’
“The handwriting of this letter, and the letter signed Kathleen Weir, held by the diamond dealer, and the receipts also signed Kathleen Weir, were then submitted to experts. These men decided they were all really written by the same person. To make a long story short, Margaret Johnstone totally broke down under cross-examination, and began crying hysterically.
“‘It was the devil tempted me!’ she finally cried, and so no doubt it was, but he played her a scurvy trick, for she got a sentence of eight years’ penal servitude for listening to his voice.”
“Oh! poor creature!” said May, pitifully.
“My sympathies, I confess, lie with Miss Kathleen Weir,” continued Ralph Webster, smiling. “She has lost her diamonds, worth thousands of pounds, which she will never see again, and she might have had a very awkward reflection cast on her honesty. But I admit I am prejudiced in her favor, for just before I started to come here a note in the prettiest language imaginable was handed to me from Miss Kathleen Weir. My modesty forbade me to bring it, or to repeat all she had written. But she paid me a great many compliments on my ‘masterly cross-examination’—please remember I am quoting—which, no doubt, she said, ‘elicited the truth from that wretched woman.’ And, moreover, she wanted me to go to see her to-morrow afternoon, and I mean to go.”
“Oh! Ralph, to see an actress!” said Miss Webster, in dismay.
“Oh! do go,” cried May, laughing. “I am dying to hear all about her.”
“I will go,” said Ralph Webster, slowly, not knowing that the hand of Fate was leading him into a pitfall beset with doubt and anxieties from which there was no escape.
Ralph Webster did as he said he would, and went on the following afternoon to call on the actress, Miss Kathleen Weir.
She was expecting him, and her pretty flat was charmingly arranged to receive him, and herself charmingly dressed for the same purpose. She had admired his strong, earnest, dark face in the court the day before, and she was not in the least afraid of showing this. As she rose to receive him—a tall, graceful, slender woman—she held out a shapely white hand.
“I am very much pleased that you have come to see me, Mr. Webster,” she said.
“Thanks, very much, for your kind permission to do so,” replied Ralph Webster.
She was really scarcely handsome, and yet she gave you the impression that she was so. She had large, restless gray eyes, and rather a pretty, piquant nose, but her mouth was not good. It was too wide, and her smile somewhat saucy and defiant. Yet altogether her appearance was attractive, and many men, it was said, had fallen victims to her charms.
“I owe you a debt of gratitude,” she went on in her airy fashion, smiling on Ralph Webster; “but for you my character for honesty would be gone.”
“I trust not quite that.”
Miss Weir held up her pretty white hands.
“I wish you had seen the senior Mr. Jordon’s face then, when I offered my poor paste diamonds for his inspection, telling him how much the brooch and earrings had cost. He looked, ‘Woman, dare you attempt to impose on me!’ if ever a man’s thoughts were written on his countenance.”
“Do you think they often are?”
“Yes. All our thoughts are written on our faces at times, but I try to wear a mask when I can; do you?”
Ralph Webster laughed a low, soft laugh.
“We are forced to hide our thoughts and feelings sometimes,” he said.
“Do you know I could imagine your doing that with a very strong curb,” went on Kathleen Weir, fixing her large gray eyes on Webster’s face. “I can fancy you crushing down your strongest feelings and putting your heel on them allegorically. You have a strong will power.”
“I am not so sure of that.”
“Oh! yes, you have! If you were in love with a woman, and did not mean to tell her so, you would go away from her, and not flutter around the flame like a weaker man would do.”
“Suppose my wings were already singed?” laughed Webster.
“You would bear the pain and still go. I envy your strength.”
“But you are imagining it.”
“No! But here I am forgetting the duties of hospitality to you on your first visit. What will you take; tea, coffee, or some more masculine refreshment. They are standing there in the inner room.” And she pointed to the draped archway between the two small drawing-rooms as she spoke.
“Thanks, I will not take anything,” answered Webster.
“May I ask if you wear a concealed bit of blue ribbon? If you are a total abstainer, as I believe they call themselves?” smiled Kathleen Weir.
“I can truthfully answer no,” said Webster, also smiling.
“Have some champagne then.”
“I will have nothing, thanks.”
“What were we talking of? Ah, about being able to conceal one’s feelings. I can’t; I wish I could; I must speak my mind, and it’s brought me no end of trouble.”
“But you are clever enough, I am sure, to get out of trouble.”
“Not always; I had once to deal with a very peculiar nature, or mine was peculiar perhaps—so he said—but we could not pull together, and that brought me no end of trouble—but I have got over it.” And Miss Weir shrugged her handsome shoulders.
“You showed your wisdom,” said Webster, a little grimly.
“I know that; what is the use of grieving and fretting and losing one’s good looks for the sake of a person who has ceased to care for one? Love is never rekindled, you know; its ashes never again take fire.”
“Do you speak from experience?”
“Yes,” answered Kathleen Weir, sharply. “I’ve watched the flame die out, and the last flicker expire. It’s an unpleasant experience, when the ice has not already touched your own heart.”
“I could never imagine it happening to you.”
“You say that because I am an actress; a woman used to, and who loves flattery, you are thinking. But it did happen to me, Mr. Webster! Perhaps it was my temper, perhaps it was his, but my gentleman turned cold and disagreeable—and in the end we parted.”
Ralph Webster felt slightly embarrassed.
“And, now,” went on Miss Weir, throwing back her well-shaped head, crowned with its thick chestnut hair, “he is no more to me than last year’s snow! He changed first, but I afterward. But why need I bore you with all this? Perhaps you do know that I am a married woman parted from my husband?”
“I certainly did not know it.”
“Yes, nine years ago I married a young man called Temple—”
“Temple?” interrupted Webster, quickly.
“Yes, John Temple; he was then a very young man, studying for the bar, but he never practiced, for he had some money, and he had no ambition. I think he thought I had spoiled his life.”
A physical pain seemed to thrill through Webster’s heart, and he bit his lips to hide his emotion.
“And,” he said, after a moment’s pause, “do you never see him? What is he like?”
“I have not seen him for these six years, but I know he is still in the land of the living, and that I am not entitled to a widow’s cap, for each six months his lawyer regularly sends me one hundred and fifty pounds. He allows me, in fact, three hundred a year, and perfect liberty. I do whatever I like.” And Kathleen Weir laughed a little bitterly.
“And you chose the stage?” said Ralph Webster, in a low tone.
“I was on the stage when he had what I suppose he calls the misfortune to marry me. He was a young fellow—barely twenty-one—and I was three years older. We lived together for about three years, principally abroad, and then he tired of it. That is, he had been tiring of it all the time; we did not pull together somehow.”
Ralph Webster drew a long breath.
“What is he like, I may have seen him?” he asked.
“Like? Good-looking, with gray eyes and a very taking manner when he chose. But to me he was often eminently disagreeable.”
“And you do not know where he is now?”
“Not in the very least; abroad most likely, for the sunny south suited his pleasure-loving nature best. He had no energy, and I hate men without it. Men are born to fight in the battle of life, but John Temple stood smiling at it; he will never succeed in anything, and I love success.”
“And you have achieved it.”
“Not as much as I wish, but I am fighting for it, and will fight to the end. John Temple is a dreamer; but we can not live in dreams. Had he been worth anything his name would have been known now at the bar, as yours is.”
“And—” hesitated Webster, “you have heard nothing of him lately?”
“Not a word. But you seem interested? Have you ever met him?”
“I think not,” answered Webster. “Do you know to what family of Temples he belongs?”
“I can not even tell you that. He told me he was a younger son’s son, I remember, and he was fairly well off, and by no means given to extravagance, though in his first ardor he actually gave me the diamond earrings that so nearly got me into trouble—but for you.”
“It is kind of you to say so.”
“It is true; that woman Margaret Johnstone, who was as brazen as brass, broke down under your cross-examination like a reed with the strong wind. How powerful you were! Every word told.”
“You must not flatter me.”
“I never flatter; but the truth is that you have deservedly made a name, and will make a still greater one. I shall swagger some day that my case was won by the great Q. C., Sir Ralph Webster.”
Ralph Webster laughed, and a faint color stole to his dark face, and then he rose to take his leave.
“Going so soon?” said Kathleen Weir. “Then I must conclude you are tired of my company.”
“Please conclude nothing of the sort, but I am going to dine with two very kind old aunts at Bayswater, and I must not keep them waiting.”
“No, of course not,” and Kathleen Weir held out her white hand. “I am coming out in a new piece to-morrow; will you go and see me act, and then have supper with me afterward?”
“It is a most tempting invitation—”
“That is settled then, and now I will give you aticket, or tickets, whichever you like. But I warn you not to bring the aunts, as the piece is a trifle fast.”
“Still I should like to see it—and to see you act.”
“Of course you must say that!” And Kathleen Weir rose and laughed as she did so, and, having crossed the room, she opened an inlaid cabinet, and brought out some stall tickets and placed two in Webster’s hand.
“One is for to-morrow; the other for Friday—and good-by for the present; this has been your first visit to me, but I trust it will not be your last.”
“I am quite sure it will not if you give me permission to come.”
“I do give you permission; you will always be welcome here.”
They shook hands and parted; and after Webster was gone Kathleen Weir went to a mirror at one side of the room and looked at herself attentively.
“I wonder if he thinks me good-looking,” she was reflecting. “What a clever face he has! He is a man I think that a woman could be desperately in love with; that she could give up everything for, though more fool she! Luckily, I never fall in love, and I mean to stick to this in spite of Mr. Webster.”
In the meanwhile Ralph Webster had called a cab, and was being driven to Pembridge Terrace in—for him—a strange state of excitement. The story he had just heard—the story of a wife forsaken by a John Temple—had filled his mind with a sudden suspicion. Could this be the John Temple who had married the fair girl in secret, now living under his aunt’s roof? Was this the cause of his secrecy? This other wife, of whom he had tired, had left to fight her own way in the world. It seemed feasible, and if it were so, how was he himself to act? Could he throw a bombshell in this poor child’s path, and in a moment destroy all her happiness and hopes? But on the other hand—and Webster frowned and bit his lips.
“He must be a cursed scoundrel if he has wronged her so cruelly,” he muttered, and he determined during the evening to obtain from his aunts a complete personaldescription of the John Temple who had married May Churchill.
“No doubt Miss Weir has some portrait of her lost husband,” he thought a little scornfully; “but at all events he did not break her heart. Her description of a dead love was not bad. However, she is a woman I could not love.”
The woman he could love was in Miss Webster’s drawing-room alone when he entered it, and as he did so May held out her hand with a smile.
“You have come to tell us all about your visit to the pretty actress?” she said.
“Yes,” he answered a little grimly.
“And is she very pretty? Does she look as well off the stage as on?”
“She looks very well off, at all events, and I have never seen her on, but I am going to see her to-morrow.”
May laughed her sweet girlish laugh.
“And is she nice?” she said. “How does she talk?”
“I don’t think you could call her nice. She talks in a hard, worldly fashion, but she is clever. She puts things in a quaint, original way that somehow has a certain charm in it. No, nice is not the word for Miss Kathleen Weir.”
“And what did she talk about?”
“She discoursed on the folly of loving anyone if they had ceased to love you.”
The rose-bloom deepened on May’s cheek.
“But,” she hesitated, “if—if you had really loved anyone I do not think you could cease to love them because they had tired of you.”
“And you really think,” went on Ralph Webster with a ring of pain in his voice, and with his dark, searching eyes fixed on May’s fair face, “that if you had cared for anyone and found out they were unworthy, that you would not change?”
“I think love can not change,” answered May in a low tone, and Ralph Webster suppressed a sigh as she spoke.
“Perhaps not,” he said, slowly, but at this moment Aunt Eliza entered the room, and hurried up to him with her kind welcoming hand.
“My dear Ralph,” she said, “I did not know you were here, or I should have been down before.”
“I have been hearing all about Miss Kathleen Weir, the actress, Miss Eliza,” said May, smiling.
“Oh! my dear—well, it may be an old-fashioned prejudice, I dare say it is—but I do not like actresses,” sighed Miss Eliza.
“It’s all a matter of training,” said Ralph Webster; “fancy Aunt Eliza on the stage!”
“Oh, Ralph, how can you say such things?” said Miss Eliza, reproachfully.
Ralph Webster laughed, and then the conversation changed. But before he left Pembridge Terrace for the night he took an opportunity of speaking to Miss Margaret Webster alone.
“Aunt Margaret,” he said, “what is Mr. John Temple like who married your pretty guest?”
“Good-looking; yes, I should say very good-looking indeed,” answered Miss Webster; “he has such a pleasant expression, and nice gray eyes.”
“Gray eyes,” repeated Webster, thoughtfully; he was remembering Miss Kathleen Weir’s description of her husband.
“Yes, gray eyes with dark lashes. But Ralph, my dear, if you would like to see it, I have a photograph of him?”
“I should like to see it,” answered her nephew; and Miss Webster at once rose and produced her old-fashioned photograph book.
“This is our dear father,” she said, turning to one page, and pointing out a mild-faced old gentleman in clerical garb; “and this, Ralph, is your dear father—ah! looking at this book always makes me a little sad, and brings back old times.”
“Yes,” said Ralph Webster, glancing somewhat impatiently at his grandfather and father; “but where is this wonderful Mr. Temple?”
Miss Webster then turned over several more pages of her book; pages where she and Miss Eliza were represented as young girls, then as young women in costumes of other days. Finally, she pointed to the smiling, good-looking face of a young man.
“This is Mr. John Temple,” she said, “and is exactly like what he was when—he resided here; but he looks rather older now.”
“He is certainly good-looking,” answered Webster, slowly, looking steadily at the face portrayed before him.
“There is no doubt of that, and he has a very pleasant manner, and one can not wonder at his young wife being so much attached to him. There is only one thing I do not like; that I can not approve of.”
“You mean that the marriage was a secret one?”
“Yes, and he made such a point of the secrecy. He said for both their sakes it must not be mentioned.”
“Perhaps he had good reason to keep it quiet,” said Ralph Webster.
“Oh! my dear, I hope not! Only he is afraid of his uncle’s anger, I suppose.”
“Perhaps so,” and then Ralph Webster shook hands with his aunt and went away; but as he walked down the quiet street he made up his mind to make further inquiries about Miss Kathleen Weir’s husband.