The next evening, or rather in the early hours of another day, four people were seated around the hospitable board of Kathleen Weir. One of these was the actress herself, her eyes bright with joy, her cheeks flushed with excitement, for the new play had been a great success, and the character of the heroine—passionate,loving, and impulsive—had suited her, and had won genuine applause from a crowded house. And her three guests consisted of Ralph Webster, another actress, and her present lover.
This other actress was of a very different type to Kathleen Weir. If she had not been beautiful she would have been nowhere on the stage. But she was beautiful; a sleepy, languid beauty, with a skin of snow, and shadowed dreamy eyes whose power she knew. And seated near her at the round supper table was young Lord Dereham, with his eyes fixed eagerly on her face.
Lord Dereham—the Earl of Dereham—had only very lately come into his great possessions. He was rather good-looking, with an honest, open expression, and the fair woman by his side had made up her mind, in her cold-hearted, calculating way, that she would become his wife. She was not in the least in love with him, but she wished to be a countess, and have nothing to do but amuse herself, and she was doing her best to obtain these luxuries.
Her name was Linda Falconer—the lovely Falconer the men called her—and her intended quarry at the present moment was Robert, Lord Dereham. Kathleen Weir had invited these two with a motive. She knew Linda Falconer would devote herself to Dereham, and that thus without being alone with Ralph Webster, that she would virtually be so.
They had laughed and jested about the new play; Kathleen, in her quick way and with her strong sense of humor, had brightly related little incidents that had occurred during the evening. She was not afraid of Linda Falconer’s white skin and dreamy eyes; she knew Linda had no wit, and that her beauty was all she had to depend on. Kathleen, on the other hand, had many resources. She was handsome, or seemed so; she was clever, and somehow she fancied that Ralph Webster was not a man who cared only for charms that were skin deep.
Suddenly she sprang to her feet in her lithe way.
“As all you good people seem to have finished supper,” she said, “suppose we go into the other room and I will sing you a song.”
Ralph Webster at once rose.
“I am too weary to move,” said Linda Falconer, with a languid glance at Lord Dereham.
“Stay where you are then, my dear,” replied her hostess; “and you will still have the advantage of listening to my warblings. Will you stay, too?” And she looked directly at Ralph Webster.
“I will go with you, if I may?” he answered.
She smiled her saucy smile.
“Come then,” she said, and the two passed together through the draped archway that divided the two rooms.
“How sentimental that young idiot looks,” she remarked as she opened the piano.
Webster smiled, and slightly shrugged his shoulders.
“It’s his calf-love, I suppose,” he said.
“From which he will speedily awake, if he does what Linda Falconer means him to do. But what matter! Yet, poor boy, I half pity him with his round, honest brown eyes fixed on her face.”
“She is a beautiful woman.”
“Yes, she is,” answered Kathleen, sharply, “with a heart of stone. There is no thought of human affection in her; neither love nor hate. She means to marry Dereham because he is Dereham, and I dare say she will succeed. She holds the whip hand, you see, because she gives him nothing.”
“And you call that holding the whip hand?”
“I mean the more a woman gives a man the less he gives her. There, sir, that is my experience, and I hope you will profit by it.”
“I will endeavor to do so.”
“Don’t sneer; that expression does not suit your face. You look best when you look earnest, and put on what I call your fighting look. But I am forgetting my song; stand here and turn over the leaves, and be sure you do not turn two together.”
Webster did as she bade him; he stood by her side and arranged her music, and the next minute or so a sweet flood of melody filled the room. Kathleen Weir had a ringing voice; a voice that somehow kept you spellbound until its last notes had died away. There was a thrill of passion in it too, as if the singer’s soul were echoing her words. Webster leaned on the piano, and drooped his eyelids listening, for these passion-swept strains stirred a strange emotion in his own breast. A flower-like face rose before his mental vision, and he sighed restlessly, and Kathleen Weir, glancing at him quickly, saw that she had touched some hidden chord in his heart.
“This man has loved someone once,” thought the keen-eyed woman, “or—does my voice charm him?”
The last thought pleased her best. Fuller and sweeter became her song; brighter and more radiant her eyes. But Webster was not looking at her. He gave a little jerk and pulled himself together when it was all over, and then for the first time since she had commenced singing he remembered he was standing by the side of Miss Kathleen Weir.
“Did you like that?” she asked, softly.
“I more than liked it,” he answered. “Miss Weir, you have the voice of a siren, and could charm any mariner down into the deep sea.”
“And how about a landsman?” she asked, archly.
“I would ask mercy for a landsman, but would advise him not to listen to your voice too often.”
“Then—you do not wish to be charmed?”
“As I am already, it is too late for me to express such a wish.”
“Then I shall sing you another song for making such a pretty speech.”
So she sang again, but the two in the next room remained where they were; the boy happy and entranced, the woman calculating and cold. Then Kathleen Weir tired of singing, and turned around on her music-stool and talked to Webster.
“Bring a chair,” she said to him, “and let us have achat—or no, I will sit on the rug; I am like a cat, and love the warmth.”
She was like a cat, also, in the extraordinary suppleness of her limbs. She curled herself up now on the soft, white rug before the fire, and leaned back on a couch near, and fanned herself with a great feather fan.
“Now tell me something of your life,” she said, looking up at Webster, who had drawn a chair toward the fire also.
“What part of it?” he asked, looking down smilingly at the graceful woman before him.
“Oh, all of it! Were you a good boy, or a bad boy?”
“Distinctly a bad boy.”
“And a good man, or a bad man?”
“I’ve had no time to be either; I am simply a working man.”
“And—and—how shall I put it? You are not married, I presume?”
“No, I am not.”
“Nor engaged?”
“Nor engaged.”
“Happy man! You are free, then—absolutely free to do what you like?”
“I have at least no one to control me.”
“I have no one to control me, and yet I am not free,” said Kathleen Weir, half-bitterly. “I think I ought to look up that husband of mine, and see if he has not given me good cause to get rid of him altogether. What do you think, Mr. Webster?”
“I think it would be only fair to yourself.”
“I am beginning to think so, too. There is the three hundred a year to be considered, certainly, but I can command a good income now. Yes—I should rather be free.”
“And would you marry again?”
“How can I tell?” And a wave of color rose to her face. “If I did I would not marry as Linda Falconer wishes to do. I would not marry some titled boy for the sake of his name; I would marry—well, a man who has made his own.”
“You love ambition in men, then?”
“Yes, distinctly yes! I should like to look up to the man I married, not down.”
“What is your present husband, Mr. Temple, like?” asked Webster, somewhat abruptly. “Have you a portrait of him?”
“I believe I have, somewhere; as to looks he was all right.”
“May I see his portrait? I may know him by sight; I may help you to be free.”
Kathleen Weir rose from her lowly position, and crossing the room, opened an unlocked marquetry cabinet.
“There used to be one here somewhere,” she said, “but I have not seen it for ages. The last time I saw it I remember I turned its face to the wall. Ah, here it is—yes, this is John Temple.” And she shook a little dust off the photograph as she spoke.
Webster eagerly crossed the room and took the photograph from her hand. For a moment he did not recognize the face; it was certainly not a copy of the same photograph that Miss Webster had shown him. It was a picture of a young man—almost a boy—but as he closely scanned the features he became convinced that the John Temple he was now gazing at was the same John Temple who had married May Churchill.
He muttered something between his teeth which made Kathleen Weir look quickly up in his face.
“Do you know anything of him?” she asked.
“I may; I don’t quite know. Will you let me keep this photograph for one day? I wish to compare it with another.”
“Keep it forever, if you like. How strange if you should know anything of John Temple!”
“There are many strange things in life.”
“That is true; strange sympathies; strange hidden ties. We are drawn to some people, are we not, and repelled by others? We are wonderful creatures.”
“Yes,” answered Webster, slowly. He was scarcely listening to her; he was still gazing at the photographhe held in his hand, and wondering how he ought to act.
“May I ask you a question?” he said, a moment later, looking at Kathleen Weir.
“Of course you may.”
“Where were you married?”
“Do you mean in what church?”
“I mean in what place. Were you married in London?”
“Yes, certainly; I was married in an old city church called St. Jude’s. We were married there because it was out of the way, I suppose. John Temple chose the church, and I went and lived a fortnight in the parish before it took place.”
“And—forgive me—you cared for him then?”
“Yes; more fool I! But why do you ask all these questions? You make me curious.”
At this moment the curtain dividing the two rooms moved, and the beautiful actress, Linda Falconer, stepped between them, followed by her young lover.
“We have come to ask you for another song, Kate,” said Miss Falconer, languidly. “Dereham, here, is quite enchanted with your voice.”
“He will not be enchanted any more to-night, then,” answered Kathleen Weir; “this man and I,” and she nodded at Webster as she spoke, “have been talking of old times, and singing would seem frivolous after our conversation.”
“Ah! I did not know you knew Mr. Webster long ago.” And Miss Falconer rested for a moment her dreamy eyes on Webster’s dark face.
“I knew him in some spirit-land, I believe,” said Kathleen, with a light laugh. “I really feel as if I had known you somewhere else, do you know, Mr. Webster. Where can it have been.”
“In some spirit-land, perhaps, as you say,” answered Webster, with a smile. “But I must go now, and may I really take this photograph with me? I will return it the day after to-morrow.”
“Take it by all means, and come to supper the dayafter to-morrow. You may have something to tell me,” she added, significantly.
“I may; I can not tell. Good-night, Miss Weir.”
He shook hands with the others after this, and went away carrying the photograph with him. He was now almost convinced that the John Temple who had married May Churchill was the same John Temple who had married Kathleen Weir. If this were so May was not his wife, and Kathleen was! Webster’s dark face flushed, and his heart beat faster as he thought of it. But suddenly he remembered May’s words about faithfulness in love. Would she change even if she knew the man she had married to be completely unworthy? She might and she might not, and greatly disturbed in mind Ralph Webster returned to his chambers, and when he got there drew out the old photograph and examined again the somewhat faded likeness of the man he had never seen.
But the next morning brought him a letter, which more surely confirmed his suspicions. This was from Kathleen Weir herself, and the subject of it was her husband, John Temple.
“Dear Mr. Webster,” she wrote, “you had scarcely gone to-night, when I heard something that has surprised me greatly. It seems that Linda Falconer, in the pleasant way that we all talk of our friends’ sins or sorrows, had been telling Lord Dereham, when I was singing to you, all about my unfortunate marriage, of which he had never heard. When she mentioned John Temple’s name Dereham pricked up his ears. ‘Is that the man,’ he said, ‘who not long ago came into a fortune by his young cousin being killed at football?’ Now if this is my John Temple who has come into a fortune, it is a very plain fact that he should increase my allowance to something more respectable than a paltry three hundred a year. And I want you to find out this for me. I receive my income from him through a certain Mr. Harrison, a solicitor, and I inclose Mr. Harrison’s address. Will you go to him and make inquiries? I will think it most awfully good of you if you will,and I shall be eternally grateful to you if I were not so already! I am treating you as a friend, for I feel somehow that you are one, and the thought is very pleasant to me. Write after you have seen Harrison, and come the day after to-morrow to supper.
“Yours most sincerely,
”Kathleen Weir.”
There was no longer any doubt in Ralph Webster’s mind after he had read this letter as to the identity of the John Temple who had married two women. But there was a doubt; a strange vivid doubt as to how he should act under such painful circumstances. Before him rose the sweet, girlish face of May Churchill, with her glad eyes and quiet happiness; and then he thought of the change this cruel news would bring. The light would fade from her eyes, and the color from her smooth cheeks, and a crushing sense of shame and sorrow overshadow her young life. He tried to put his own feelings out of the question. The passionate beating of his heart he would not listen to.
“I must think what would be best for her,” he told himself; “but at all events I will go and see Harrison, and learn the whole story, as far as he knows of it.”
Mr. Harrison, the solicitor, was a personal acquaintance of his own. He had given him a couple of briefs, and they always exchanged friendly nods when they met. He only needed some slight excuse to pay Harrison a visit, and he soon found one on some point of law which he affected not quite to understand.
The solicitor received him almost with effusion. He was a little bustling man, and had a large business, and a rising barrister was always a person of consideration to him. He had not seen Webster since Kathleen Weir’s diamond case had been in court, and he quickly proceeded to compliment Webster on the way he had conducted the cross-examination of the maid.
“Ah, very good, very good indeed, Mr. Webster,” he said rubbing his hands together to express his satisfaction. “You tackled her splendidly, and it was a somewhat awkward affair for the handsome actress unless ithad been cleared up. Very good-looking woman Miss Kathleen Weir, though of course, that isn’t her real name.”
“Is it not?” answered Webster, trying not to show his eager interest.
“No, no, no; there’s a bit of romance connected with Miss Weir’s life that, strange to say, I’ve been connected with for some years. She’s a married woman in fact; married to a certain Mr. John Temple, who is a client of ours; but they are separated by mutual consent, and Mr. Temple allows her a fair income to live on, but, of course, she does not need it; I am told she commands high prices on the stage, but still it is only right that Mr. John Temple should allow her something.”
“Mr. John Temple,” repeated Webster, quietly; “is that the man who became heir to a large fortune not long ago, by the death of his young cousin during a game of football?”
Mr. Harrison nodded his head.
“The very man, Mr. Webster! Yes, Mr. John Temple has been born under a lucky star I think. He is now heir to his uncle Mr. Temple of Woodlea Hall, a large land-owner, and a rich man to boot. But I have not told Miss Kathleen Weir of this windfall; you see she might be setting up claims that would annoy Mr. John Temple; asking for a larger allowance perhaps, or even to take his name.”
“To which I suppose she has a legal right?”
“Yes, unfortunately I fear so; nay it is so. In his hot young days you see he was led away to hang a millstone round his neck, just like many young men, and now, no doubt, he bitterly repents it. Ah, it’s a great mistake—a great mistake when a young fellow marries beneath him.”
“No doubt, but, Mr. Harrison, I am keeping you from your work and must no longer detain you. Thank you for answering my question, and now I must say good-morning.”
“Good-morning, Mr. Webster; very pleased to have seen you,” and the little man bustled about sayingmany pleasant things. But Webster soon cut him short and went away. He had learned all that Mr. Harrison could tell him.
Women in general have a strong interest in jewels, and in stories connected with them, and Mrs. Temple of Woodlea was no exception to this rule. Thus the day after Kathleen Weir’s diamond case had been decided she was reading it in the morning papers, when her husband’s nephew John Temple entered the breakfast-room.
He shook hands with her and then with his uncle in his usual pleasant fashion, but had scarcely begun his breakfast when Mrs. Temple commenced talking about the actress’ diamonds.
“There is such a strange case in the papers this morning,” she said, addressing John Temple; “an actress, Kathleen Weir, has had her diamonds stolen in a most extraordinary manner.”
John Temple was in the act of helping himself to some toast from the toast-rack as Mrs. Temple made the remark, and for a moment his hand remained suspended, and a dusky wave of color rose to his face.
“Do you know her?” asked Mrs. Temple, quickly, instantly noticing these signs of agitation.
“No,” answered John Temple, a little huskily, and then he took the toast, but left it untasted on his plate.
“Have they recovered the diamonds then?” asked the squire.
“No, I suppose not; her maid had taken them and substituted false ones in the same settings. But here is the account; you had better read it.” And Mrs. Temple handed the newspaper to her husband.
John Temple said nothing; he began slowly eatinghis breakfast, but apparently without appetite, and then he opened another newspaper and turned to the column containing the trial of Margaret Johnstone for diamond stealing.
“So,” he said, a little scornfully, after he had read it, “this young lady, Miss Kathleen Weir, seemingly was tired of some of her diamonds, and wished to dispose of them?”
“Perhaps she was tired of the man who gave them to her?” replied Mrs. Temple.
“Very likely,” said John, with a little shrug of his shoulders; “of the poor fool who perhaps impoverished himself to give her gauds.”
“And then perhaps also tired of her?” retorted Mrs. Temple.
Again John Temple shrugged his shoulders and sat somewhat moodily glancing over the newspapers, while his uncle’s wife followed his movements with her handsome dark eyes. He interested her, this good-looking man who had taken her dead boy’s place, and having him at Woodlea made the house seem less dull. She had a strong craving for excitement, and to her anything was better than the wearisome company of her old husband. And she could not understand John Temple. He was always gentle and friendly in his manner to her, but he was never confidential. And this annoyed her. Unconsciously almost to herself she was beginning to regard him with warmer feelings than she would have cared to own. At all events she was jealous of him, and half-believed that for his sake May Churchill had left her home.
So when breakfast was over, and the squire after his usual fashion had retired to his library, Mrs. Temple went up to John, who was still reading the newspapers, and lightly touched his shoulder.
“If the truth were known, sir,” she said, smiling, “I believe you could tell us something about Miss Kathleen Weir’s diamonds.”
Again a flush rose to John Temple’s face, but this time it was an angry one.
“What makes you say such a thing?” he answered quickly.
“Because I was watching you when you first heard of the robbery. Ah, my nephew John, I fear you are not as good as you look.”
“You have a most brilliant imagination, my handsome aunt!”
“Do not call me by that odious name! But perhaps I have more discernment than you give me credit for.”
“I gave you credit for every good quality; discernment among the rest.”
Mrs. Temple nodded her head and stood by his side looking down at his face. She saw he was more annoyed than he cared to show. And she knew there must be some cause for this, for as a rule John Temple was very even tempered. But she did not say anything more about the diamonds, and after a moment or two she turned away, and John Temple was left to his own reflections.
His expression changed after she left the room, and he frowned, stirred uneasily, and once more read over the evidence given at Miss Kathleen Weir’s jewel case. And a bitter look came over his face as he did so; a look of contempt and scorn, and flinging down the newspaper he went to the window of the room, and stood looking out moodily at the wide park, which one day would be his own.
“I have paid pretty heavily for a boy’s folly,” he muttered, “and some day, my sweet flower, it may fall on you.”
And this thought stung him sharply. He loved his Mayflower, as he called her, with a true and passionate love, and he would have given up almost anything for her sake. Her beauty, her tenderness, and her devotion to himself had entirely won his heart. Before he had met May Churchill he had been almost indifferent to the consequences of the “boy’s folly,” which now galled him so deeply. But he little guessed how near the shadow of it was stealing across his path.
Yet this knowledge came to him only a day later afterthe conversation about the actress’ demands had taken place between himself and his uncle’s wife. He went down to breakfast on this particular morning rather earlier than usual, but the letters and newspapers had already arrived, and placed near his usual seat at the table was a large letter directed in the now well-known handwriting of Miss Webster.
He knew that this would contain an inclosure from May, and so he quietly put the envelope into his pocket without any comment.
“More bills?” said Mrs. Temple, looking at him with a curious little smile.
“I am afraid so,” he answered, and his uncle glanced up at him over his newspaper with some uneasiness in his expression as he spoke.
John Temple, however, did not seem at all disconcerted. He was always glad to hear from May, and the very fact that he had a letter in his pocket from her gave him a feeling of quiet happiness. He, therefore, talked cheerfully during the rest of the meal, but as soon as it was over he left the room, carrying his letters away with him, and Mrs. Temple looked after him as he went.
Let us follow him upstairs to the small suite of rooms which had been set apart for him by his uncle’s wish. These consisted of a sitting-room where he smoked, a bedroom adjoining, and a little ante-room which had a stone balcony overlooking the park.
John Temple went into his sitting-room, which opened from a corridor, and having pushed the door nearly close behind him, he pulled out his letter and began reading May’s fond tender words with a smile.
Then suddenly his face darkened.
“We have been all greatly interested,” he read, “about a diamond robbery, which, I dare say, you have seen in the newspapers. The maid of the popular and, I believe, pretty actress, Miss Kathleen Weir, had stolen her mistress’ diamonds and substituted false ones instead of them. How we came to hear so much about it is that Mr. Webster, the nephew of the Miss Websters,was one of the barristers in the case for the prosecution and Miss Kathleen Weir was so pleased by the way Mr. Webster conducted it that she invited him to her house. He says she is handsome and clever, but not exactly what he calls ‘nice.’ But all the same I think he rather admires her, and their acquaintance seems to progress, in spite of the alarm of his dear old aunts! Did you ever see her? Some time when you are in town—and when is that dear time to be?—you must take me to see her act.”
John Temple went on frowning as he read these innocent words. Here was a mine under his feet indeed! He knew the nature of Kathleen Weir; the outspoken frank nature, that was just as likely as not to confide her whole history to a stranger. What if she told of her early marriage to this Webster, who might repeat it to his aunts? He had warned the Misses Webster to keep his marriage to May a secret, and May did not bear his name. Still in some moment the old ladies might reveal it to their nephew, and then no one could tell where the mischief might end.
John Temple flung the letter on the table and began walking restlessly up and down the room, thinking what it would be best to do. “She must leave Pembridge Terrace at once,” he decided. But then, how could this be arranged? If he went up to town he might meet Webster, and May was too young and girlish to go about house-seeking alone.
“That confounded woman,” he thought bitterly of Kathleen Weir, “is forever in my way.”
He was full of impatience, chafing against fate and the mad folly of his youth. The door of the bedroom beyond was standing open, and farther still he could see from the balcony window of the ante-room a green patch of the park. He went into this ante-room, opened the window and stepped out on the balcony, still cursing his ill-luck. He did not see, as he leaned over the balustrade, that someone had entered his sitting-room, on the table of which the letter from May was lying open.
Yet this was so. Moved by curiosity, and a moresubtle feeling still, Mrs. Temple had followed him upstairs, shortly after he had left the breakfast room. She sometimes—not often—went into his sitting-room if she had anything that she wished particularly to say to him, and something prompted her to go into it now. The door was very slightly ajar, and she pushed it open and entered the room, and in a moment her eyes fell on the open letter on the table.
She made a step forward and looked at it. Then she read the words with which it commenced:
“My dearest, dearest John.”
Her breath came fast, her heart beat quickly, and she put out her hand as if to take it up, but glancing to the open bedroom door she saw John Temple leaning on the balustrade of the ante-room balcony beyond, and her hand shrank back.
But again she looked at the letter; looked at the address in Pembridge Terrace, which was neatly printed on the paper. She noted this in an instant, but as she did so John Temple turned his head, and Mrs. Temple quickly moved back, and left the room, without his having ever been conscious that she had been there.
But she had made a discovery; a discovery which filled her heart with jealous anger. As she walked on to her room she decided in her own mind that it was the missing girl, May Churchill, who had addressed John Temple as “My dearest, dearest John.”
“Shameful!” she thought, bitterly; “absolutely shameful; and what a liar he is, but his uncle shall know—he shall bitterly repent the part he has played.”
She walked up and down her room in a state of the greatest excitement. It seemed to her as if John Temple had done her some personal wrong, which he certainly had not. She had allowed herself to be attracted by him—to fill the waste in her heart—but he had never for a moment forgotten she was his uncle’s wife. He had pitied her in her grief about her dead boy, and his manner was always gentle and kindly to women, but he did not even admire her; she was too excitable, too uncertain in her temper, for his taste.
“But I must bring it home to him,” she now told herself; “it’s no use striking until I can bring it home—I will send for young Henderson.”
She accordingly sat down at her desk and began a letter to Henderson. At first she thought of asking him to the Hall, but afterward remembered that this might look strange to her husband and John Temple. No, she must meet him somewhere about the country, and she paused, pen in hand, thinking where it should be.
She decided in a few minutes, and then addressed the following letter to Henderson:
“Dear Mr. Henderson: Will you meet me to-morrow in the lane that leads to the West Lodge, at half-past three o’clock? I shall be walking, as I do not wish anyone to know of this appointment, and if I am not there at the time I mention, it will only be that it is absolutely impossible that I can manage to go. In that case I will go on the following afternoon, at the same time. At last I have something to tell you on the subject we talked of before; it is almost a certainty this time. In haste, yours very truly,
“R. Temple.”
She took this letter with her own hands to the nearest village post-office, not caring to place it among the other letters in the post-bag lying on the hall table, and as she was returning from her errand she encountered John Temple on the road, who was also going to the post office.
Her face flushed deeply as she met him, and a scarcely repressible feeling of anger rose in her heart; while John Temple, ignorant of the cause, looked at her with his usually pleasant smile.
“So you are taking a walk?” he said.
She hardly answered him. She was a very passionate woman, and could not hide her feelings. She stood looking at him, burning to accuse him of what she deemed his treachery and deception.
“And are you,” she said, presently, very bitterly, “carrying a letter to some hidden lady-love; a letter that you do not wish the household to see?”
John Temple was conscious that he slightly changed color.
“You are always accusing me of something or other,” he said.
“Perhaps I have good cause,” she retorted, with such marked emphasis that John Temple felt somewhat uneasy.
“I hope not,” he replied; “I have always done my best to avoid offending you.”
Mrs. Temple deigned to make no reply. She gave a little toss of her head and walked on her way, and John went his, reflecting what a sad thing it was for a woman to have a bad temper!
And all the rest of the day it was the same thing. When Mrs. Temple spoke to him at all, it was either in taunting or bitter words. Her husband even noticed this, and asked why she spoke thus to his nephew.
“You will soon learn,” she answered, and the squire said nothing more. He was accustomed to the changeful temper of his handsome wife, but all the same he was sorry that her manner had changed to John Temple.
And the next morning, at breakfast, John noticed how restless she was. There was some disturbing element in her mind he plainly saw, though he had no idea it was caused by himself. He had, as we know, his own anxieties and troubles, but he never dreamed of Mrs. Temple’s being connected with them.
In the meantime at Stourton Grange her letter had caused the strongest excitement in young Henderson’s breast, for she had discovered something about May Churchill, he told himself; something connected with Temple, no doubt. He waited impatiently until the time she had appointed to meet him came, and then walked to the lane that led to the West Lodge at Woodlea Hall. Here he waited nearly half an hour before Mrs. Temple appeared. At last, however, he saw her, and went eagerly forward to meet her.
“You got my letter?” said Mrs. Temple, as she shook hands with him.
“Yes, this morning,” answered Henderson, quickly, and his brown face flushed as he spoke. “You have something to tell me?”
Mrs. Temple gave a little scornful laugh.
“I have discovered, I think, where the beauty that all you men raved about is hidden; but I must be sure,” she said. “You guess what I mean? A letter came for John Temple yesterday morning—a passionate love letter—from this address,” and as she spoke she drew out the address that she had seen on May’s letter to John, and placed it in Henderson’s hand. “I am almost sure this letter was from Miss Churchill.”
“Did you see it?” asked Henderson, eagerly, and with quivering lips.
“I saw the first lines of it. It was lying open on a table in his room when I went in, and I have no doubt it was from her. But I want you to find out this; to go up to town and see this girl yourself—I mean to watch the house until she comes out of it. Do not speak to her or call upon her, or perhaps she would again disappear. But if what I believe is true John Temple shall bitterly repent the gross deception he has practiced on us all.”
Henderson ground his strong white teeth together.
“And you believe,” he said, hoarsely, “that—that May Churchill—is anything to Temple?”
Mrs. Temple laughed bitterly.
“I believe she is everything to him,” she answered. “The letter I saw began, ‘My dearest, dearest John.’”
A fierce oath broke from Henderson’s lips.
“If I believed he had wronged this girl—” he began.
“He may have married her,” replied Mrs. Temple, scornfully. “At all events, if she wrote this letter there is no doubt of the connection between them.”
“Some other woman may have written it.”
“That is what I want you to find out. Will you go to town to learn the truth, and when?”
“I will go to-morrow; no, I will go to-night; I will be at the bottom of this, and if it is as you think, Mr. Temple will find his mistake.”
“Do not act like a fool, and get into any trouble about her. But find out, and then write to me at once all particulars. If you see her, follow her at a distance, and ask at the nearest shops what name she goes by. Keep the address safe, and now good-by.”
“I am not likely to lose the address,” answered Henderson, sullenly, as he placed it in his pocket-book. “Good-by, Mrs. Temple, I will let you know what I find out, and then—”
“Do nothing until you have heard from me. Good-by; I believe now you are on the right track.”
Henderson parted from Mrs. Temple with every nerve in his body throbbing with excitement. In spite of May Churchill’s rejection of his love, his unreasonable passion for her remained unchanged. There were times when he felt he hated her; when he cursed her memory, and blamed her for the undying remorse that overshadowed his soul. But for her, he often told himself, the miserable girl who had loved him too well might have been living still, and he himself free from the galling chains held by his groom, Jack Reid.
But if he hated May, it was a sort of loving hatred, while his feelings to John Temple were of the bitterest description. He believed but that for Temple, May would ultimately have become his wife; and as he strode down the lane, after parting with Mrs. Temple, he seemed to see again, in his mental vision, John lying at May’s feet in Fern Dene in the early days of their first acquaintance.
And that he should have induced her to leave her home; that she was writing to him in the termsdescribed by Mrs. Temple, positively seemed to madden him.
“But it may be some other woman,” he told himself, as he had told Mrs. Temple. But at all events he would find out, and on his return to the Grange, to his mother’s great surprise, and not a little alarm, he told her he was about to start for London in a few hours.
Hidden anxiety and grief had wrought their baneful work now on Mrs. Henderson’s face. The terrible knowledge of her son’s crime, the awful dread of its punishment, were ever present in her mind. She had grown old before her time, and watched Henderson with unceasing eyes of fear.
Thus when she heard of his sudden journey she could scarcely suppress her nervousness. Henderson, too, was moody and reserved, and hurried on his preparations for departure.
“Will you be long away?” inquired Mrs. Henderson.
“But a few days at most,” he answered, and he told the same story to his groom, Jack Reid.
“This is something sudden,” said Reid, looking at him suspiciously. It crossed the man’s mind, indeed, that his master was about to leave Stourton for a much longer time than he stated.
“I’ll be back probably the day after to-morrow,” said Henderson, with affected carelessness; and Reid felt he could say nothing more, for he had grown certainly more respectful in his manner to his master after the episode of the shooting of Brown Bess.
“A man who would try his hand at that kind of thing might do it again,” self-argued the groom; and Reid was not one who cared to be shot at if he could help it.
So Henderson left Stourton, and having arrived in town, he went for the night to an hotel, and the next morning drove in the direction of the address which he had received from Mrs. Temple. And Fate actually favored him, for quitting his cab before he reached Pembridge Terrace, he walked up the terrace, and after passing Miss Webster’s house for a few yards he turnedback again, and as he did so he saw, in a moment, descending the steps in front of the house a figure and face that he only remembered too well.
It was May Churchill, and closely following her came the prim, neat form of Miss Eliza Webster. They opened the garden gate and then went on the street, and Henderson was so near them that had May turned her head she must have recognized him. But she was smiling and talking to Miss Eliza, and never looked back, but Henderson distinctly saw the face that had cost him so dear. He paused a minute or two, and then slowly followed the two ladies before him. They went on to Westbourne Grove, and into a large bonnet and hat shop at the corner of the street. Henderson lingered outside at a little distance from the shop, and after waiting about a quarter of an hour May and Miss Eliza once more appeared, and turned their footsteps homeward. Again Henderson followed them, his heart throbbing violently and his eyes never leaving May’s form. They went straight back to the address Mrs. Temple had given him, and Henderson now knew Mrs. Temple’s surmise had been correct. John Temple had persuaded her to leave her home, and had hidden her away, and Henderson could scarcely suppress the passionate rage that swelled in his breast when he thought of it.
He was tempted to go on; to speak to May, and heap reproach on her head. But he knew he had no right to do this. She might be John Temple’s wife, for anything he knew, and what good could his hard words do? None, he felt. He might, he would, punish John Temple, but what could he do to the girl? With a curse between his bitten lips he turned away, and walking back to the shop he had seen May and Miss Webster enter and leave, he went in under the pretense of buying a bonnet for his mother.
“I want a bonnet for an old lady,” he said to a pretty, smiling shopwoman, adding immediately afterward: “Who were the two ladies who have just been here—I saw them go out—a young lady and an old one?”
The pretty shopgirl smiled pertly, and instantly understood the motive of the purchase of the bonnet for “an old lady,” by this handsome young man.
“You mean Mrs. John, I suppose, sir?” she said. “She is a very handsome young lady, and it is astonishing how many gentlemen admire her and ask about her, but she is certainly very pretty.”
“And does she live near here?” inquired Henderson.
“She lives in Pembridge Terrace with the Misses Webster. She is a newly-married lady, but I believe her husband is a good deal away. She is a customer of ours, and is often in the shop.”
“And her name is—”
“Mrs. John; rather a strange name, isn’t it, sir?”
“Mrs. John,” repeated Henderson, beneath his breath, but he did nothing more. He understood it all now; she had run away with John Temple, and was called Mrs. John, and he needed no further information.
He forgot all about the bonnet for his mother until the shopwoman reminded him of it.
“Choose what you like,” he said, “the lady is elderly—my mother—and a widow.”
“But does she wear a widow’s bonnet, sir?”
“I think not,” answered Henderson, indifferently. “Something dark and good—what will it cost?”
This matter was soon settled. The shopwoman chose a bonnet, and Henderson paid for it, and then drove back straight to his hotel. When he arrived there he at once addressed the following letter to Mrs. Temple:
“Dear Mrs. Temple: You were quite right. May Churchill is living at the address you gave me in Pembridge Terrace, and is called Mrs. John. I saw her leave the house and go into a shop, accompanied by an old woman. I went into the shop after they left it, and one of the girls there told me that she—May—was a Mrs. John, and that she was a newly-married woman, which I greatly doubt. I shall return to Stourton to-day, and go to-morrow morning with my news toWoodside Farm. May’s father shall know how his daughter has been treated. And I remain,
“Yours sincerely,
”T. Henderson.”
This letter reached Woodlea Hall on the following morning, and when the squire opened the letter-bag, as was his wont, he rose and placed Henderson’s letter in his wife’s hand.
“Here is a letter from London for you, Rachel,” he said.
Mrs. Temple’s handsome face flushed, and then grew pale. She had not expected to hear for a few days, at least, from Henderson, yet she knew this letter was from him. She gave once glance of her dark eyes at John Temple’s face, who was sitting at his usual place at the breakfast-table, and then without a word she rose and left the room, carrying her letter in her hand.
But she was scarcely outside the door when she opened it. She read it in the hall, and a hard and bitter look came over her expression as she did so. She had been prepared for this news, yet it fell like a fresh blow upon her heart. That subtle feeling, whose existence she would not even admit, filled her with indignation against John Temple.
“He shall leave here and go to his Mrs. John,” she whispered to herself vindictively. “I will wait until Philip leaves the breakfast-room, and then I shall go to him and tell him all. John Temple had better have trusted me—now he shall have to pay the fullest price for his folly.”
And she only waited until she heard her husband go, as he was accustomed to do, into the library after breakfast before she descended the staircase with Henderson’s letter in her hand. She went direct to the library and entered it, without knocking at the door, and the squire who was sitting before his writing table looked up as she did so.
“Were you not well at breakfast, Rachel?” he said, kindly. “Or,” he added, noticing the expression of her face, “did anything in that letter that you got vex you?”
“I was not ill,” she answered, “but this letter confirmed some shameful news that I have come to tell you about John Temple.”
“Shameful news about John Temple!” repeated the squire, pushing back his chair and looking straight at his wife’s pale, determined face.
“At least I call it shameful,” she went on, “to induce a country girl to leave her home—a daughter of one of your own tenants—to deceive you, his best friend. Philip, you remember the girl, May Churchill, who ran away? I suspected at the time that John Temple had something to do with it, and now I know. This girl is living at an address in London, and is called there Mrs. John, and she writes to him here, and if she is not married to him she ought to be—and I do not believe she is.”
“I will never believe this!” said the squire, rising in great emotion, his aged face growing pale. “What! John Temple wrong May Churchill; the little girl I have known since she was a child; the daughter of a man like Churchill, whom I respect, and who has lived on my land since he was a lad, and his father before him! Rachel, what folly is this? Who has been telling you this wicked, this insane story?”
“My own eyes told me first,” answered Mrs. Temple, in a hard, concentrated voice, “and every word that I have told you is true. Do you remember when he used to get large letters which he said were from some late landlady of his, and contained his unpaid bills? I suspected at that time he was not speaking the truth, and a day or two after I learned this was so. He got one of these large letters at breakfast, and he put it in his pocket unread. I said at the time, ‘more bills?’ and he answered, ‘I am afraid so.’ Well, after the breakfast was over, I went upstairs, and passed his sitting-room door, and it was standing ajar. I wanted to speak to him about going to call at Homelands, and I went into the room. He was not there, but an open letter was lying on the table. I went up to the table and read the first lines. It began: ‘My dearest, dearest John.’”
“But what of that?” said Mr. Temple, angrily. “You had no right to read or look at his letters for one thing, and for another, how could you tell by whom this letter was written?”
“I looked at the printed address on the paper, and I remembered it, and just at this moment I saw through the open bedroom door that John Temple was on the balcony of the little ante-room beyond. So I turned and left the sitting-room and he never knew that I had been there. Then I considered what to do, for I was determined to bring this home to him, and I suddenly remembered young Henderson of Stourton Grange—”
“What on earth had he to do with it?” interrupted the squire.
“He had been in love, was in love, like the rest of them, with this girl,” answered Mrs. Temple, scornfully, “and so I used him for my purpose. He had spoken to me once about his suspicions that Miss Churchill had eloped with John Temple, or rather that he had persuaded her to run away from home, so that he might join her afterward. So I wrote to ask Henderson to meet me—”
“You wrote to ask young Henderson to meet you?”
“Yes, what harm was there in that? I met him near the West Lodge for a few minutes the day before yesterday, and I gave him the address I had seen on Miss Churchill’s letter to John Temple, and I asked him to go up to town and find out the truth about this girl. He went the same night, and this is the letter I received from him this morning.”
She handed the squire Henderson’s letter, with a trembling hand as she spoke, and her husband’s hand trembled also as he took it. Then he read the words it contained, and a terribly shocked look came over his face.
“If this be true—” he said, with faltering lips.
“It is true,” answered Mrs. Temple, positively. “Don’t you remember she ran away, and then after a week or so he said he was going abroad? He went no doubt to join her; she was with him all those weeksabroad, and then he must have brought her back to town, and no doubt would have gone up from time to time to see her. The whole thing is perfectly plain.”
“Then in that case all I can say is that it is a shameful affair. Most shameful—but he may have married her—probably has, and if he has not done so, he must.”
Mr. Temple went hastily to the bell of the room and rang it as he spoke, and when the footman answered it, he said sharply and distinctly:
“Ask Mr. John Temple to come here at once; tell him I wish to see him.”
The footman disappeared with his message, and Mrs. Temple stood still. She was excited, pale, and determined, and she did not flinch when she heard John Temple’s step outside the door.
Then he entered and looked at his uncle.
“You wish to see me, Johnson says,” he began, but something in the squire’s face told him it was no ordinary message that he had received.
“Yes,” answered the squire, “I wish to see you, for I have just heard a tale which, if it be true, will make me bitterly regret that I ever asked you under my roof.”
“And what is it?” asked John Temple, and he drew himself up to his full height.
“It is that you induced the young girl May Churchill to leave her home; that you took her abroad with you, and that she is now living in London, I presume, under your protection, and is called Mrs. John. Now answer, is this true?”
A dark wave of color spread to John Temple’s very brows.
“Who has told you this?” he said, looking steadily at his uncle.
“My wife has just told me,” answered the squire. “It seems she suspected this, and she saw a letter lying on your table bearing a certain address in town. She told young Henderson of this, who it seems is, or was once, a lover of this poor girl’s, and she gave him the address, and this is the letter she has received this morning.”
The squire handed Henderson’s letter to John Temple as he spoke, and John read it through and then laid it down quietly on the writing-table before him.
“A truly honorable transaction altogether, I must say,” he said, scornfully, fixing his gray eyes on Mrs. Temple’s face.
“It is true,” she answered defiantly.
“True or false, it was an action that I thought no gentlewoman could have been guilty of. What, to send one man to watch and spy on another man’s actions; to read a letter not intended for your eyes! I could not have believed you capable of such conduct.”
Mrs. Temple’s eyes fell before John’s reproaches, and a vague feeling crept into her heart that she had left her work undone.
“It is useless to talk thus,” said the squire, with some dignity of manner; “my wife should not have read your letter, and I have told her so, but this does not alter the matter. You have not denied this grave charge, and if you have done this girl any wrong—a girl I have known since her childhood—you must undo that wrong as far as lies in your power. I mean you must marry her, if you have not already done so.”
John Temple made no answer to this; he stood there facing his uncle, and Mrs. Temple watched him fugitively.
“Have you married her, or have you not?” urged the squire.
“I decline to answer that question,” then said John Temple. “But you said you had regretted that you had asked me to stay under your roof. You need regret it no longer, for I will leave to-day.”
“But your leaving will not undo the wrong that you have done. Think for a moment who this poor girl is, the daughter of one of my oldest and most respected tenants; a beautiful girl, of blameless character hitherto, who perhaps in her foolish love for you has wrecked her young life. John, you are my nephew, you are my heir, and I entreat you to act nowas an honorable man should do, and make her your wife.”
Still John Temple made no promise.
“You have read in that letter,” continued the squire, pointing to Henderson’s open letter lying on the writing-table, “how this young man is going to her father. Can you suppose that a respectable man like Churchill will, for a moment, sit down tamely under such an insult? No, you will have to answer to him for your conduct, as well as to me.”
But at this moment a rap came to the room door, and the squire paused.
“Come in,” he called, and the footman entered.
“If you please, sir,” he said, addressing the squire, “Mr. Henderson, of Stourton Grange, and Mr. Churchill have called, and wish very particularly to see you.”
“Where are they?” asked the squire.
“In the hall, sir,” replied the footman.
“You can show them in here,” said the squire, and he looked at John Temple as he spoke.
But John Temple made no sign; he had grown a little pale, and that was all.
A minute later Henderson and Mr. Churchill entered the room. Henderson’s face was flushed a dusky red, but Mr. Churchill’s looked pale, angry, and determined. He gave a quick, sharp glance around, and then advanced toward the squire, who gravely held out his hand, which, however, his tenant scarcely touched.
“I’ve come on unpleasant business, Mr. Temple,” he said, quickly; and then he looked at John Temple.
“You mean about—” began the squire in faltering tones.
“I mean about my daughter, sir! This gentleman,” and he turned to Henderson, “has come to me this morning with a fine tale; he says my girl is living in London, and that your nephew has placed her there.”
For a moment or two no one spoke. Mr. Churchill was looking indignantly at John Temple, and the dark flush on Henderson’s face had deepened, while his eyes also were fixed with an angry scowl on Temple.
“John,” said the squire, in a firmer voice, after a brief silence; “you hear what Mr. Churchill says; is this charge true or false?”
John Temple looked slowly round at each man in turn.
“I decline to answer any questions on the subject,” he said, in a clear, firm voice.
“But I’ve a right to ask questions on the subject, sir!” almost shouted Mr. Churchill, angrily. “This girl, my daughter, disappeared from her home and nothing has been heard of her since; and now I hear she is writing to you in a way that if she isn’t married to you she ought to be.”
“I admit your right to ask questions, Mr. Churchill,” answered John Temple, still firmly; “but I have no right to betray the secrets of others. And if this spy,” and his eyes kindled, and he stretched out his arm in the direction of Henderson, “has already told you so much, he had better tell you more.”
“You dare to call me a spy, sir!” cried Henderson, in a voice hoarse with passion.
“Yes, and something worse,” answered John Temple, fiercely; “because this young lady rejected your insolent advances—advances which were an insult to her from a man like you; a man who had betrayed and broken another woman’s heart, and then, as I believe there is a God above us, murdered her—!”
For an instant Henderson turned ghastly pale, as this terrible accusation reached his ears, and then, with a scream of rage, he sprang forward and struck John Temple a violent blow on the chest. But he had met his match. For the next moment a swift, hammer-likethud from John’s clenched fist hit his brow, and he reeled back, and striking his head as he did so against the sharp corner of the writing table, he fell heavily on the floor.
Mrs. Temple gave a cry, and both Mr. Temple and Mr. Churchill ran forward to his assistance. They lifted up his head, but he was seemingly unconscious, and a sudden fear darted into the squire’s heart.
“He—is not dead,” he said, falteringly.
“What matter if he is?” said John Temple, still fiercely; and then without another word he turned and left the room, while the others raised Henderson on a couch, and Mrs. Temple violently rang the bell for further help.
In the meantime John Temple had gone to his own rooms, and for a moment stood there, panting still from his recent encounter, thinking how he should act. But his hesitation was very brief. He would go to May; in her hands alone now lay the course of their future lives.
“If she loves me as I love her, we shall not part,” he thought; “the world is wide.”
This was his decision, and he quickly acted on it. He pulled out a portmanteau, and was thrusting into it some things that he would require, when a rap sounded at his sitting-room door, and the next moment Mrs. Temple, pale and excited, entered the room.
In a second she saw the preparations for his departure.
“You are going away?” she said, quickly.
“Do you think I would stay?” he answered, scornfully.
Mrs. Temple made no answer; she stood there looking at him, and a strange revulsion of feeling swept through her breast.
“I—I do not want to drive you away,” she said.
“Yet you have done so,” answered John Temple, looking up at her, for he was kneeling on the ground, packing his portmanteau. “But for you this never would have happened.”
Mrs. Temple’s tall form swayed restlessly, and her pale, handsome face quivered.
“I hated to think,” she said, with sudden passion, “of your degrading yourself so.”
“I have not done so,” replied John Temple, rising to his feet and looking at her steadily.
“You have! This girl should have been nothing to you, nothing! And if in some hour of madness you had been betrayed into any folly, if you had trusted me I would have helped you if I could.”
“I have been betrayed into nothing,” answered John, coldly; “whatever I have done is by my own will.”
Mrs. Temple began walking restlessly up and down the room, and then she suddenly stopped before John.
“You came here,” she began; “you took my boy’s place—”
“You know how deeply I grieved for you,” said John Temple; “in everything I wished to consider you.”
“Yet you made love to this girl—this girl, a farmer’s daughter, whose brothers were playing in the fatal game when my boy was killed! One of them may have been his murderer; was I believe; and this is how you showed your consideration for me!”
“Mrs. Temple, this is unreasonable.”
“What is she to you? Answer this question at least; is she your wife?”
“As I told them down-stairs, I will betray no one’s secrets without their leave.”
“If she is, you need never bring her here! You heard what your uncle said about your marrying her, but I will not receive her here.”
“You shall never be asked to do so, nor will I ever return. What my uncle said was worthy of him—the words of a good man, whom I most heartily like and respect—but I will trouble you with my presence here no more.”
Again Mrs. Temple began those restless pacings up and down the floor; in her anger she had done what she did not wish to do—driven John Temple away—and now she was sorely repenting her own action.
“And there is one thing I wish to say before I go,” continued John Temple, “that I thank you for all yourkindness to me while I have been here. I came to your house under most painful circumstances, but you over-looked this—”
“Do not go!” broke in Mrs. Temple, impetuously; “at least, not yet; let us think what can be done, what it will be best to do.”
“I know what it is best for me to do,” answered John Temple, who was now in the act of locking the small portmanteau he meant to carry away with him, “and that is to leave Woodlea at once—good-by, Mrs. Temple.”
He did not offer her his hand, but she took it almost against his will, and held it.
“I have been so lonely,” she said, in a broken voice; “so miserably lonely—and now I will be more lonely still.”
John Temple made no answer to this appeal.
“Bid good-by to my uncle for me,” he said, “as I do not care, in my present temper, to encounter again those two men down-stairs.”
“What if you have killed Henderson? They were sending for the doctor for him as I came upstairs.”
“If I have I can not say I shall deeply regret it, and I am ready to answer for this, as for the rest. But not he! A brute like that is not killed by a blow on the head; and now once more good-by.”
He was gone before she could speak again, and Mrs. Temple sat down and looked around the desolate rooms. She had admired him during the last half-hour; admired his bravery and independence.
“After all he had a right to choose a woman he liked best,” she thought; “but it is a terrible mistake. A man who marries a woman of inferior birth and position always repents it—and with such relations!”
After awhile, however, she pulled herself together, and went down-stairs, and when she entered the library she found the village doctor there, as well as her husband and Mr. Churchill.
Henderson was lying on the couch ghastly pale, with a handkerchief bound around his head, and still insensible,and the doctor was bending over him holding his wrist.
Then when the squire saw his wife, he stepped back toward her and half-whispered in her ear:
“Where is John Temple?” he said.
“He is gone,” she answered, “and he says he will never return.”
Mr. Temple upon this beckoned to Mr. Churchill.
“Mrs. Temple says my nephew has left the house, Mr. Churchill,” he said.
“Then I’ll follow him,” answered the farmer, sturdily; “you have told me, squire, that if he has not already done my girl justice that you wish him and authorize him to do so?”
“Most certainly,” replied Mr. Temple; “I am ready and wishful to receive your daughter as his wife.”
“I thank you, sir, with all my heart. Will you give me the address, madam, where she is, for all this has well-nigh put it out of my head,” he added, addressing Mrs. Temple, “and I’ll go up to London to-night, or to-morrow at latest.”
Mrs. Temple went to the writing-table without a word, and wrote down Miss Webster’s address in Pembridge Terrace, which she remembered only too well, and handed it to Mr. Churchill.
“Thank you kindly, madam,” he said, “and now, as the doctor’s here, and the squire, I think I’ll go, as I leave Mr. Henderson in such good hands, and I have my missus to consult a bit, and some business to see about before I can get off to London. Good-morning, madam; good-morning, squire.”
So Mr. Churchill went away, but he was scarcely gone when Mrs. Layton rushed hastily into the room. She had heard a report somehow that there had been a quarrel between young Henderson and John Temple, and that the doctor had been sent for, so she had hurried up to the Hall to see and hear all about it.