“What is this, Rachel!” she cried, looking at the prostrate figure on the couch. “Whatever has happened?”
Mrs. Temple shrugged her shoulders.
“It means a fight,” she said, scornfully, “and there is the fallen one!” And she pointed to Henderson.
“But what on earth did they quarrel about?” asked Mrs. Layton, eagerly.
“The village beauty,” answered Mrs. Temple, still more scornfully; “it seems my nephew, John Temple, had run away with Miss Churchill, and his uncle has given his consent to his marriage with her, so we may expect her here.”
“What!” almost screamed Mrs. Layton.
“Rachel,” said the squire in grave reproof, “is this a way in which to speak of a most painful affair? If John Temple did induce this young lady to leave her home, as you say he did, he is bound in honor to make her his wife.”
“To make Margaret Churchill his wife!” screamed Mrs. Layton. “Why, squire, you must be mad to dream of such a thing!”
The squire gave a contemptuous bow.
“You may have your ideas, madam,” he said, “and I have mine. I have told you what mine are, and in my own house. I’ll see they are respected.”
Mrs. Layton’s face fell; the squire might be mad, was mad to talk thus, but still he was the master of the house from which so many good things went to the vicarage, and she could not afford to quarrel with him.
“Of course, I did not mean that,” she began, but with another bow Mr. Temple left the room, and Mrs. Layton was alone with her daughter, except for the presence of the doctor and the unconscious Henderson, who were quite at the other end of it.
“Did I not tell you long ago,” hissed Mrs. Layton in her daughter’s ear, “what this John Temple was? A viper, a scorpion, and now he’s turned and stung you! Oh! that I should ever live to see that upstart here! Margaret Churchill indeed!”
“She’s not here yet,” answered Mrs. Temple, bitterly; “ten to one John Temple will never marry her—why should he?”
It was still very early in the day when John Temple left Woodlea, in a state of strong though suppressed excitement. It had come so suddenly, this discovery, this exposure, that he had dreaded far more on May’s account than his own. But he must face the situation; he told himself this as he strode across the dewy park, as he went on with rapid steps toward the nearest railway station.
He looked at his watch; there was a train passed for the south at a quarter past eleven o’clock, and he made up his mind to endeavor to reach the station in time to travel by this. He had not a moment to spare. On he went with a pale, set face and compressed lips, running a race, as it were, with the train. And as he entered the station the engine puffed up on the metals outside. But John Temple was known to the station-master, and when he called out for a ticket to London, the station-master told him to hurry on the platform, and that he would follow with the ticket.
All this happened so quickly that John Temple had little time to think. It was not until he found himself actually in the train, speeding on his way to town, that he began quite to realize what was before him.
“Poor May, my poor, sweet May!” he almost groaned. For well he knew that the news he was bearing her would well-nigh break her heart. And he could not now keep it from her. Her father was certain now to find her, and the only thing in John’s favor was that he had the start of him. There was not another train south for some hours, and in the meanwhile John determined to see May, to try to induce her to seek a new home in another land.
“We can go to Australia,” he told himself; “who is to know anything there? and I have enough to live on, and as for Woodlea, what is that to my poor, poor girl?”
But it was a terrible task that he had before him, and he shrank from it with utter loathing.
“Why was I so weak?” he muttered. “I should have told her the truth. I was led away by her beauty, by her love, and went drifting on, and now she must know everything. But if she loves me best of all it may still come right.”
He tried to buoy himself up with this idea. He thought of May’s tenderness; her devotion, and remembered how she had told him hers was “the love that can not change.” The test had come; the bitter test she had never dreamed of, and he had to face the most painful ordeal of his life.
All too soon it seemed to him he saw the smoke of the great city; all too soon he was speeding through tunnels, and being carried rapidly over housetops. Then came the rush and hurry of a great terminus. John Temple had reached his destination, and as he entered a cab and told the driver to convey him to Miss Webster’s house in Pembridge Terrace, it was with a sinking heart and faltering tongue.
In the meanwhile at Pembridge Terrace everything seemed as quiet and peaceable as usual. Yet there was secret anxiety in the hearts of the two kind women of the house. For there had been something in their nephew’s manner during his visits of late that had certainly alarmed them. Ralph Webster had in truth been so restless, so unlike himself, that they could not understand him. He was indeed in a state of mind most unusual to his strong and determined nature, for he knew not how to act. His duty and sense of right urged him one way he told himself, and then, when he looked on May’s sweet, happy face he felt it almost impossible for him to be the one who could strike her so dire a blow.
But of one thing he had no doubt, which was the certainty of John Temple’s early marriage to Kathleen Weir. He had even gone to the city church she had named and examined the register of the ill-suited marriage which had ended so disastrously. He had seenKathleen Weir since his interview with Mr. Harrison, the solicitor, but he had not told her that Mr. Harrison knew of the identity of the John Temple who had married her, and paid her a yearly allowance, and the John Temple who had become the heir of the Woodlea property through the death of his young cousin.
He had left this point in doubt purposely, thinking it might hasten the catastrophe if it were known for the unhappy girl who in his eyes had been so shamefully deceived. But the actress seemed determined to learn the truth.
“Very likely the old fox is keeping it back,” she said; “he would be sure I should want more money if I knew, and Dereham was so positive about the matter. What do you think it would be best for me to do? To write to Mr. Harrison himself, or send a letter to John Temple through him; for, of course, he knows his address?”
“I should do nothing immediately, I think,” answered Ralph Webster, and the handsome actress looked at him and wondered what was his motive as he spoke.
“I don’t want to see him, mind,” she continued; “to see him now would be as disagreeable to me as no doubt to him; it’s a mere matter of money, nothing more.”
“Yes, of course. Well, I’ll try to find out all about it for a certainty in the course of a few days; and now I must go, for I promised to dine with my aunts in Pembridge Terrace this evening,” and Webster rose and held out his hand as he spoke.
“What a wonderfully attentive nephew you are!” said Kathleen Weir, also rising, with a light laugh. “Do you know I’m beginning to believe there is something behind these two respectable old ladies? A pretty cousin, eh? Or, perhaps, even a housemaid?”
Webster’s dark face colored.
“There is no cousin,” he answered; “and as far as I remember the housemaid is a remarkably plain-featured young woman, so you see you are wrong.”
“It’s like my interest in John Temple then, a merematter of money,” smiled the actress, showing her white teeth. “Ah, well, my friend, such is life!”
“Such, indeed,” thought Webster, bitterly, as he descended the stone flight of steps that led to Miss Kathleen Weir’s flat; “here is a tragedy and a comedy combined.”
He did really dine with his aunts, and it was during the evening that both Miss Margaret and Miss Eliza became convinced that, as they expressed it, he had “something on his mind.” His dark, resolute eyes lingered on the sweet face opposite him, and his usually fluent tongue was seldom heard. He went away early, and he went away as irresolute how he should act as when he arrived.
“Ralph doesn’t look well,” said Miss Margaret, as the door closed behind him.
“No, indeed,” sighed Miss Eliza.
“And how silent he was!” smiled May.
But the day after this visit, the very next day, she knew what had made him silent and sad. It was a dreary day, dull, and at times wet, and during the afternoon, about four o’clock, Miss Margaret, Miss Eliza, and May were all sitting in the dining-room at Pembridge Terrace, where a cheery fire helped to exclude some of the gloom outside. Miss Margaret was knitting, Miss Eliza reading a novel, and May seemingly reading a novel, but really thinking of John Temple. The sound of a cab stopping at the door, however, interrupted all their occupations.
“Can that be Ralph?” said Miss Margaret, looking up.
May also looked up and turned her head so that she could see out of the window, and the next moment rose with a glad cry.
“It’s John!” she said, and as she spoke she ran out of the room into the hall, just as John Temple was entering it.
“John! dear John!” she cried, and without a word he took her in his arms and pressed her, nay crushed her, against his breast.
“John!” again May murmured, and then she raised her head and looked in his face.
It was pale and agitated, and he spoke no word. And as she looked at him he pressed his lips on hers and something in his expression, something even in his touch, with the swift and subtle knowledge of love, thrilled her heart with sudden fear.
“Is anything the matter?” she whispered. “John, are you ill?”
“I am not very well,” he answered, slowly and painfully.
“Oh, I’m so sorry—how long have you been ill?” asked May, anxiously.
“I am only tired, I think; I will tell the driver of the cab to stop—I want you to go out with me for a little while, May.”
“Yes, of course, but first come in and rest,” answered May, uneasily, for his manner was so strange.
John Temple went down the steps to speak to the driver, and May stood at the open door watching him. Then he reascended the steps, and she shut the door behind him and put her arm through his, and together they entered the dining-room where Miss Webster and Miss Eliza were standing, full of expectation and excitement.
“John is not very well, Miss Webster,” said May, a little tremulously; “I think he wants nursing and being taken care of.”
“Oh! I’m so sorry,” said the two kind ladies, almost with one breath.
“It is nothing,” answered John, nervously, as he shook hands with them; “I am tired, that is all.”
“You must have some wine or some tea. You must stay to dinner, of course?” the next moment suggested hospitable Miss Webster.
“Thanks, I will take a glass of wine,” answered John, “but I will not stay to dinner; I am going to take May out to dine with me.”
Both the sisters protested against this, but John Temple was firm, and after he had taken his wine helooked at May, and asked her to get ready to go out with him. May rose at once to obey his wish, but she still felt uneasy. John was not like himself; his smile was strained, his very voice was different.
“Something is worrying him dreadfully, I am sure,” she told herself as she hurried on her hat and cape, and when she turned to the sitting-room and told John she was ready, to her surprise John put out his hand to take leave of Miss Webster.
“But you’ll bring May back; we will see you, then?” said Miss Webster, also surprised.
“Oh! yes, I forgot,” answered John, and then he led May to the cab, and, having placed her in it, took his seat by her side.
May slid her little hand into his as the horse started.
“John, I am sure something is vexing you,” she said, tenderly and anxiously, looking at his half-averted face; “have you any bad news to tell me?”
“I have some news,” he answered, with an effort.
“Is it bad news?” urged May.
“I can not tell you here; wait until we get to the hotel—I will tell you then.”
“But John—”
“Hush, hush, dear; you will hear it soon enough.”
He spoke huskily, almost hoarsely, and he turned away his head from her tender gaze. After this they drove on almost in silence until they reached the Grosvenor Hotel, where John usually stayed when he was in town. When he arrived there he ordered rooms and dinner, and then when they were alone May once more looked at him questioningly.
“Tell me now, John, what is it?” she asked.
“May—” began John, and then he paused, absolutely unable to find words to tell her the truth.
“Oh! do tell me, John!” she prayed, and she laid her hand beseechingly on his arm.
Then he looked at her, and there was great pain in his eyes and on his pale face.
“I should rather be dead—I swear it, though youmay not believe it—than say to you what I am forced to say to-day.”
“Oh! you frighten me! What can it be?” cried May.
“Do you remember when—when I went away and left you, May,” went on John Temple, in a broken voice; “when I wrote to you and told you that you were to be quite sure of your feelings toward me if I were to be anything more to you; when I told you that I believed that if two people truly loved each other that nothing should part or change them?”
“I remember,” answered May, lifting her head and looking with steadfast eyes in his face, “when you wrote that there were other feelings between men and women besides the love that can not change, and that I was to question my heart. I did—I told you then my love could never change, and now I tell you again—it can never change.”
“My darling!”
He caught her to his breast, he kissed her eyes, her lips, her brow, and then in hurried, agitated words he tried to tell her all.
“May, I loved you then, and I love you now, how dearly none but my own heart can tell—but I should have told you the truth. I told you there were obstacles to our marriage, and that it must be a secret one, and you agreed to this. Our secret is now known. Mrs. Temple, my uncle’s wife, it seems, saw one of your letters to me, and she actually sent that brute, young Henderson, up to town to spy on you. He saw you enter Miss Webster’s house, and he went back and told your father.”
“Oh! John!” cried May.
“My uncle sent for me this morning, and questioned me, but I would tell him nothing; and while I was with him your father and young Henderson arrived at the Hall. Your father asked me if I were married to you, and I refused to tell him also, and then when Henderson spoke I called him a murderer and a spy. He sprang at me and struck me, but with one blow I senthim reeling to the floor, and when I left Woodlea he had not recovered his senses.”
May gave a sort of cry.
“And—and what followed?” she gasped out.
“Then I left Woodlea. I was determined to see you first before I said a word to one of them—for, May, it was not for fear of my uncle’s anger that I wished our marriage to be a secret one—but there was another reason—”
“Another reason?” echoed May, with fast whitening lips.
“Yes, when I was a boy, a mere lad at least, I met a woman older than myself; a woman who took advantage of my boyish infatuation, and led me on to do what I have cursed ever since I met you. May, do not look so white! My dear one, this need not, shall not, part us. Our love is too deep and strong for a tie, broken years ago, to come between us. But in an hour of madness, I married—”
May started back as if she had received a sudden blow.
“I married,” went on John Temple, nerving himself to speak the words, “the actress, Kathleen Weir—”
But he said no more; May’s lips parted, she gasped as if for breath, and then as John Temple caught her in his arms she sank senseless on the floor.
“My God! has it killed her!” he cried in sudden anguish, looking at her white and clammy face. He lifted her up, he placed her on a couch, he rang the bell wildly for assistance. But May lay like one dead. One arm fell motionless at her side; John grasped her wrist and could feel no pulsation. Again he rang madly at the bell, and this time it was answered.
“The lady has fainted!” he cried to the astonished waiter. “Bring water, brandy—send some of the women here, and get a doctor at once.”
In a few minutes several people were in the room, and some of the female servants began bathing May’s brow and hands with water, while John Temple tried to wet her lips with the spirits they had brought him.He knelt down at her side; he called her by every endearing name, but still May made no sign. Then a doctor hurried in and proceeded to use remedies to revive the senseless girl. And at last, with faint, gasping sighs, a tinge of color stole back to the white face, and presently May opened her eyes.
“My dearest, my darling, are you better now?” whispered John Temple, bending over her, and holding one of her cold hands fast in his.
May tried to speak, but no words came from her pale lips.
“Do not crowd round her,” said the doctor, looking up; “let her have plenty of air.”
Those standing near fell back, but John Temple did not stir.
“Did the attack come on suddenly, sir?” asked the doctor, addressing John.
“Yes,” he answered slowly.
“Ah, well, she will be better presently. Try to swallow this, madam; it will do you good.”
May tried to swallow the restorative the doctor held toward her, and its effect was soon visible. It brought back memory—infinite pain! She looked at John Temple, and he saw she was remembering his words. He bent closer to her; he whispered that nothing should ever part them; he asked her for his sake to get well; and the doctor, watching her face, slightly touched John Temple on the shoulder.
“I will give you some directions,” he said, and as John rose, he drew him to one side of the room.
“She must not be excited,” he said; “as far as I can judge, this attack has been brought on by some mental shock. Is there any tendency to heart affection?”
“I know of none,” answered John, with quivering lips.
“Is she your wife?”
“Yes.”
“Well, keep her very quiet for the next few hours, and do not talk to her of anything that would be likely to disquiet her. Are you staying here?”
“Yes,” again answered John, briefly.
“I will look in this evening then. For the present, everyone but yourself is best out of the room. But be sure you keep her quiet.”
Then he gave some further directions, and finally left the room, and presently John and May were once more alone. She lay quite still, but that terrible look of pain never left her face. John went and sat by her, and took her hand, but he dare not talk to her after what the doctor had said. And so the time passed on, and after an hour or so, May herself broke the silence.
“John,” she said in a feeble voice, “I have something to say to you.”
“What is it, my darling? But you had best not talk of anything just now.”
“I want to say—I can not go back to Pembridge Terrace,” went on May, still in those faltering accents; “I can not see my father.”
“You shall not, May—I swear you shall not! This was why I brought you away. You shall see no one, and we will go to Australia together; go anywhere you like, and you shall be my own dear wife always; my own sweet, dear wife.”
A faint shudder ran through May’s frame.
“Nothing shall ever part us, May,” continued John Temple, and once more he knelt down by her side and took both her hands in his. “We could not live apart.”
May looked in his face with strange wistfulness, and a quiver passed over her pale lips, and then she drew John’s hand closer to her.
“We could not live apart,” she murmured, and then she sighed.
“We will not, but I want to spare you all possible annoyance and worry, May. When you feel a little better, I think it would be best for me to drive over to Miss Webster’s, and tell her that as you are not feeling very well, you are not going to return there this evening, and that to-morrow you are going away for a few days with me, I will ask them to give me what youwill require, and I will not tell them where you are; or rather I shall not give them the right address. Thus, if your father goes there to-morrow, he will not find you, and to-morrow I think we had better cross to France, and we can settle our future plans there, out of the way of everyone. What do you think of this?”
May lay silent for a moment or two; then she said, slowly:
“Yes, John, that will be best; you had best go now.”
“But are you well enough for me to leave you? I do not like leaving you.”
Again May sighed wearily, and then raised herself up and put her arms around his neck.
“You had better go,” she said; “and—and John, will you remember that—that I will always love you!”
“I am sure of it; you give me fresh life, May—well, then, good-by, though I shall soon be back.”
Their lips met in one long, tender, clinging kiss, and then John Temple reluctantly left her. But on the whole his mind was somewhat relieved. She had borne it better than he expected; at all events she had said they could not live apart.
But scarcely had the door of the room closed behind him when a great change came over May’s face. There came over it despair—blank, bitter despair. She sat up and thought. She put her hand to her brow.
“I can not bear it,” she said, half-aloud; “it is too hard to bear.”
She remembered all her sweet love-dream in these brief moments; remembered John Temple standing with her in the moonlit garden of Woodside; remembered his looks, the touch of his dear hand! And it had been all folly! He, the husband of another woman, must have known she could never be his wife. He had been amusing himself; she had been his plaything; what else could she be now?
“I can but die,” she thought; “I could not live without him—I will die, and then he will know I loved him to the end.”
She rose and tottered to her feet. She felt a great bodily weakness as though every nerve were unstrung. The restorative the doctor had left was standing on the table, and she drank some of this, and it seemed to give her strength. Her hat was lying near her, and she put it on and tried to walk feebly across the room. She had no plans, but somehow she thought of the river gliding through the great city, and hiding dark sin and sorrow beneath its murky flood.
“It would hide me,” she murmured; “hide my shame forever.”
She opened the room door and went out on the corridor, and then walked feebly down the broad staircase. No one stopped her or interfered with her, and in a few moments she reached the hall. One of the servants here came forward and asked her if she required a cab. But she shook her head, and went down the steps into the lighted streets, alone with her broken heart.
The noise and glare outside almost overwhelmed May as she went tottering feebly on. She knew not which way to turn, and felt that her weary feet would not bear her much farther. She stopped and looked half-dazed around. And as she did so a lamplight fell on her white and haggard face, showing it plainly to a man who was just about to pass her when she paused. This was Ralph Webster, but he did not recognize her. This pale-faced, miserable looking woman, whose features somehow reminded him of the beautiful, blooming girl he had seen last night at his aunt’s house, however, interested him. He, too, stopped after he had passed her, and looked back. She was beckoning for a cab, and a moment later one drew up.
The driver bent forward and asked her where she wished to go. The woman Webster was watching hesitated, got slowly into the cab, and then he heard her voice. He started; it was the voice of May, and the words she uttered sounded strange and ominous to his ears.
“Take me to one of the bridges,” she said.
“Which one, miss?” inquired the driver.
Once more there was a pause before the answer came. Then again he heard May’s voice.
“Westminster,” she said, and in an instant—swift as a flash of lightning—it darted across Ralph Webster’s acute brain that this actually might be May Churchill; that she might have learned the secret of which he was but too sure!
He made a hasty step toward the cab, but as he did so it started. But Webster was not a man to hesitate with such a doubt on his mind. At once he, too, hailed a cab, and bade the driver follow the one before him at his utmost speed.
“To Westminster Bridge,” he called as he leaped in, “and do not lose sight of the cab before us.”
The driver nodded and the race began. It was easy enough at first, but in the more crowded parts it was very difficult. One hansom cab is so like the other that to keep one particular cab in view was no easy task. The driver, however, did his best, but, unhappily, a slight block stopped them for a minute or two. Webster sat burning with impatience, but there was nothing for it but to wait. At last they were off again, and at last, too, they came in sight of the bridge. Then when they reached it Webster sprang out of the cab, and flung half a sovereign to the driver.
“Wait for me here,” he said; “I may want you again.”
Then he went on along the footpath, and, halfway across the bridge, he saw another cab drawn up at one side of the roadway, and as he approached this cab the driver beckoned to a passing policeman, and for a moment Webster paused to listen to what he said.
“I say!” called the cabman, “there’s a lady just got out of this ‘ere cab that I think ye’d best look after. She looked uncommon queer, and she told me to drive to one of the bridges; I wish she may not be after some mischief or other.”
“Which way did she go?” asked the policeman, interested.
“Straight ahead, and she’d a wild, dazed look I didn’t like.”
Webster listened no longer. With swift steps he walked on, peering around him as he went. The bridge was fairly crowded, but he pushed his way, and in a little while he saw the figure of a woman before him; of a woman whose form reminded him of the slender girlish one of whom he was thinking. Some passer-by went roughly against her, and she reeled to one side, and leaned panting against the parapet of the bridge.
In an instant Webster was at her side.
“Did that man hurt you?” he asked, quickly.
Then the woman turned her head, and Webster saw the white, despairing face, and the large, violet-rimmed eyes.
“Are you Miss Churchill?” said Webster, in a low tone, and he laid his hand gently on her arm.
A cry broke from May’s white lips.
“Oh! don’t speak to me, Mr. Webster. Oh! leave me alone—please leave me alone!” she gasped out.
“I can not leave you alone,” answered Ralph Webster firmly; “I can not leave you here—”
At this moment the policeman the cabman had spoken to came up to them, and stopped and looked at May suspiciously.
“Is this the young woman the cabman was speaking of, sir?” he said, addressing Webster. “I saw you pass when he was telling me to look after her.”
“No,” said Webster, quietly; “this young lady is a friend of mine; and a man pushed against her, and she has turned rather faint. You had best take my arm,” he added, addressing May, and without any permissionhe drew her arm through his, and led her quietly on.
For a few moments May did not speak, nor did he. Then, with his voice full of feeling, he said:
“You have heard some bad news—I fear I know what it is.”
May’s whole form quivered.
“Oh! go away and leave me alone, Mr. Webster,” she once more prayed. “Don’t tell anyone you’ve seen me—I only wish to be alone.”
“You are not fit to be alone,” answered Webster; “you have received a great mental shock, a shock that I have feared for days must come to you—you have learnt the truth, somehow, about Mr. Temple and Miss Kathleen Weir.”
May gave a sudden cry.
“How do you know?” she asked, in a broken voice. “What do you know?”
“Miss Weir told me—of her early marriage to Mr. Temple.”
“And you knew this and never told me!” cried May. “You let me live on in my—fool’s happiness—you let me—”
But here her voice broke; she covered her face with her hand; a moan broke from, her parched lips.
“I could not bear to disturb your happiness,” said Webster, gently. “I was distressed above measure when this strange knowledge came to me. I did not know how to act, and last night when I was at Pembridge Terrace—”
“I will never go there again!” broke in May, passionately. “I will never see anyone again that I have known. You must forget this meeting, Mr. Webster; you must never tell anyone that you have seen me. Will you promise me this?”
“Only on one condition—that you will try to bear this bitter blow with fortitude—otherwise it is my duty—”
“How can I bear it?” moaned the unhappy girl. “He—was everything to me—I believed he loved me—and now, and now—”
“There is no blame to be attached to you. It is a most painful and trying position, and I do not wonder at you shrinking back from it, yet I am sure that both my aunts—”
“Mr. Webster,” interrupted May, “do not speak of this. I will never see your aunts again—never! My father is going there to-morrow—do you think I could face him?”
“Pardon my asking you, but how do you know all this?”
“He—he came to-day,” answered May in broken accents; “he took me out—and told me. He—said our secret marriage was known—for we were married—”
“I know you were; Mr. Temple has rendered himself liable by his conduct—”
“To what?” asked May, quickly, as Webster paused.
“To an action for bigamy—”
“No!” said May, sharply and quickly, and for the first time she raised her bowed head. “I will do nothing against him; I will say nothing against him—I will disappear—and you must keep my secret.”
“I will do anything for you. Will you trust me?” answered Webster, earnestly. “I know at the present time you are overwhelmed with the suddenness of the blow, and no one can wonder at it. But how did you come to be out here alone?”
“He—Mr. Temple,” faltered May, “left me for a little time, he supposed, and went to your aunts. He—he did not wish me to leave him; he did not know I never meant to see him again.”
“And then you went out?”
“I went out never to return. I will never return! I will never return, Mr. Webster—I—I—have not strength—”
“My poor, poor girl,” said Webster, very pityingly.
“And now will you leave me, Mr. Webster?” went on May, who was trembling in every limb; “I—I am better now—good-by.”
“I will not leave you,” answered Webster, quietlyand firmly. “I will stay with you until I see you in some safe shelter. I do not wonder at your decision not to return to Mr. Temple, and it is natural that just at first you should shrink from seeing those that you have known. But Fate has thrown me in your path, and it is my duty to watch over you. Turn with me now; I have a cab waiting at the other end of the bridge, and we can settle as we drive where you shall go.”
“Oh! I can not go, I can not go!” moaned May.
“You must,” said Webster; “do you think I would leave you alone in the miserable, desperate state you are in? I do not ask you to go back to Pembridge Terrace, or to see your father or Mr. Temple; all I ask you to do is to come with me, and I will take the best care of you that I can.”
“And—and you will tell no one where I am?”
“I solemnly promise I will tell no one where you are, if in return you will promise to do nothing rash. Miss Churchill, no man is worth it,” he added, half bitterly. “But come, now, let us go back to the cab.”
But by this time May’s trembling limbs had well-nigh failed her. She tottered on for a few minutes more, clinging to Webster’s arm for support, and then a deadly faintness suddenly overcame her, and she would have fallen to the ground had not Webster held her in his arms.
But when he saw her condition, he at once made up his mind. He called a passing cab; he lifted May in.
“Drive as direct as you can to St. Phillip’s Hospital,” he told the cabman.
At the great hospital which I here call St. Phillip’s Webster had suddenly remembered that he was a personal friend of the house surgeon, Doctor Brentwood. He remembered also that private patients could find accommodation there, and that there were private rooms where May could be nursed and taken care of.
Until she had fainted he had not known where to take her. Now her illness settled the matter, and half an hour later May was borne into the great gloomy building,where the sick and suffering spent their weary hours. But first Webster had a short, whispered conversation with his friend the house surgeon.
“Remember, money is no consideration, Brentwood,” this conversation ended with; “but she must not be left alone; a nurse must never leave her.”
Doctor Brentwood nodded his head and went to look after his new patient. Webster had told him as much of May’s story as he deemed necessary, and the doctor quite understood.
“She is a woman in terrible grief,” Webster had said, “and she might do something desperate unless she is well looked after.”
Thus when May regained complete consciousness she found herself in a small, neat, clean room, with a bright fire burning in the grate, and a neat hospital nurse standing by her bedside. Doctor Brentwood was also in the room, and when May looked round and asked the nurse where she was, he too went up to the bedside.
“Well, you are better now, I see,” he said, cheerfully.
“Where am I?” asked May again. “I think I must have fainted.”
“You are in the private patients’ ward in St. Phillip’s Hospital. Yes, you fainted, but I hope you will soon be all right after you have had a night’s rest.”
May put her hand over her face; she was recalling her interview with Ralph Webster on the bridge.
“Who brought me here?” she asked, presently, in a low, pained tone.
“Mr. Webster—Ralph Webster; you are a friend of his, he tells me.”
For a moment or two May said nothing, and the doctor was turning away to give some directions to the nurse, when she once more addressed him:
“Can I see Mr. Webster?” she asked.
“Certainly, if you wish it. I will bring him to you at once,” replied Doctor Brentwood; and a few minutes later Webster was in the room.
He went up not unmoved to the bed on which May was lying, with her white face and her loosed hair.
“Doctor Brentwood says you are better, and that you wish to see me?” he said, in a low tone.
“Yes, I wish to see you alone for a few minutes,” answered May.
Webster looked at the doctor, and the doctor looked at the nurse, and then they both left the room.
“Mr. Webster,” began May, brokenly and agitatedly, “you have brought me here against my will—but will you promise me at least one thing?”
“I will promise you anything you wish.”
“Will you tell no one where I am; remember, no one?”
“I faithfully promise you I will not. You are in a safe refuge here, and no one shall come near you nor molest you unless you wish it.”
“I wish them to think me dead,” said May, in a low, emphatic voice; “I wish everyone to think me dead.”
“I will not betray your secret,” answered Webster, and he stretched out his hand and took hers. “Will you trust me?”
“Yes; and—and do not tell them my name here. You have not told them my name?”
“I have not; Doctor Brentwood is an old friend of mine, and I know you will be well looked after under his care. Try to sleep, and forget what has happened; and what name shall I call you by?”
“Oh, anything; it is no matter.”
Webster thought for a moment or two, and then he once more took May’s hand in his own.
“I will call you Mrs. Church,” he said; “that will do, and now good-night.”
After John Temple had left May he drove straight to Pembridge Terrace, feeling that the worst of a most painful day was over. At all events May would notleave him, and in another country they would both forget the past.
“And who knows what may happen?” he thought. “That woman,” and his brow darkened, “is not likely to lead, or to go on leading, an immaculate life. I may be able to get a divorce, and the moment I can I will marry May. My dear little May, if I have wronged you, it was because I loved you so well.”
So thinking of her tenderly, fondly, he arrived at Pembridge Terrace, and when he entered the dining-room where the two sisters were alone, they both almost at once exclaimed:
“Where is Mrs. John?”
“She is not very well, I’m sorry to say,” answered John Temple, “and I persuaded her to stay at the hotel, and let me come on alone to you. I am going to take her to-morrow for a day or two to the sea, as we both want a little change, I think, and I have come to tell you this, and ask if you will kindly let your maid pack a few things that May will require, and I will take them back in the cab with me?”
“Well, this is sudden!” cried Miss Webster.
“But she is not ill, is she?” inquired kindly Miss Eliza.
“No, but she was tired, so I thought she was better where she was than driving through the streets. She will write to you to-morrow, most likely, and I scarcely know how to thank you for all your kindness to her—poor child.”
There was a tender ring in John’s voice as he said the last two words that both the gentle-hearted women noticed.
“It has been a great pleasure to us to have her here,” said Miss Webster.
“She’s a sweet flower,” sighed Miss Eliza.
“She’s a dear girl,” said John Temple; and for a moment—just a moment—a sort of moisture stole over his gray eyes.
After this Miss Webster hurried out of the room, to pack, or superintend the packing of, what she thoughtMay would require during her few days’ proposed excursion to the sea. Thus Miss Eliza was left to entertain John Temple, which she found by no means easy to do. He was absent-minded and silent, and rose quickly when Miss Webster and the maid returned with May’s packed portmanteau.
“I have put everything in I thought she would want,” said Miss Webster; “but if I have forgotten anything, if she will telegraph I will send it at once.”
“I am sure it is all right,” said John, and he held out his hand to Miss Webster, thinking that most likely it would be the last time for years that he would press that kindly palm. “Good-by, Miss Webster; good-by, Miss Eliza; and thank you for all your great kindness.”
He left the house a few minutes later, and it was strange that both the sisters were somewhat impressed by his manner.
“He looked very serious,” said Miss Webster. “I am sure I hope nothing is wrong?”
“Perhaps it has come out about their marriage, and he has quarreled with his uncle?” suggested Miss Eliza.
In the meanwhile John Temple was driving back to his hotel, his thoughts still dwelling very tenderly on May.
“I will make it all up to her,” he was thinking; “my little Mayflower shall never regret her choice, nor her love.”
He had grown almost cheerful by the time he had reached the hotel.
“After all, it was dull enough at Woodlea,” he was reflecting; “and I can’t quite understand Mrs. Temple’s attitude. We shall be happier out of it all; out of civilization for awhile—I think I shall like a different life.”
He soon arrived at the hotel, paid his cab fare, and then ran lightly up the staircase, after giving May’s portmanteau to one of the waiters to carry. He knew the number of the sitting-room where he had left May, as he was well-acquainted with the hotel, and when hereached the door he opened it without rapping. One glance round the room told him it was empty. But this did not make him uneasy.
“She has been too tired to sit up,” he thought, “and has gone to bed,” and he turned round to the waiter who was following him with the portmanteau and asked the number of the bedroom he had engaged.
The man told him, and John Temple took the portmanteau from his hand and went in the direction the waiter indicated. When he arrived at the bedroom door he rapped, but there was no answer. Then he opened the door and went in, but, like the sitting-room, he found it empty.
“You have made a mistake; this is not the room,” he said, sharply, to the waiter, who was still following him.
“Yes, sir, this is the bedroom you engaged,” replied the waiter.
“But the lady—my wife is not here?”
“No, sir; the lady in sitting-room No. 11 left the hotel some time ago.”
“Left the hotel!” repeated John Temple, blankly. “Are you sure of this?”
“Yes, sir; I saw her go down the staircase and go out. I felt sure it was the lady from No. 11, as, if you remember, I lit the room after the lady took ill? And I fetched the doctor up for her also.”
A strange, cold feeling crept into John Temple’s heart.
“And you saw her go out?” he repeated.
“Yes, sir; and as she passed through the hall I asked her if she required a cab.”
“And did you get her one?” interrupted John, hastily.
“No, sir; she just shook her head and went out; and you’ll excuse me, sir, mentioning it, but I thought the lady looked very ill.”
“Went out alone! I can not understand it!” exclaimed John Temple; and then he once more entered the bedroom and looked around. Could she have left some letter, some message, he was thinking.But there was nothing; no sign that she had been there. After this he went back to the sitting-room, and here he found May’s cape lying on the floor. He had unfastened it when she had fainted, and flung it over the end of a couch. But her hat was gone! The poor girl, in her despair, had never remembered her cape, and as John Temple lifted it up a sudden fear, a sudden anguish, struck his soul.
“Had she left him?” he was asking himself, with white lips. “But surely not without some word, some line.”
He went up to the table; water was standing there, and some brandy which had been brought when May was ill, and the doctor’s prescription. And her handkerchief and gloves. She had forgotten these too, but there was no letter, nor penciled note. He looked everywhere, but it was in vain. In the short time that he had been away she had disappeared, and the greatest anxiety naturally filled John Temple’s heart.
Again he recalled the waiter who had seen her leave the hotel, but the man had nothing more to tell. Then he himself went out and wandered restlessly up and down the street, looking at every one he met in a miserable state of uncertainty and doubt. He thought once of returning to Miss Webster’s, but no; she had positively refused to go there, and besides she might return at any moment. He tried to buoy himself up with this hope, but hope grew well-nigh to despair when hour after hour passed and there was no news of May.
When the last post came in he again went out into the streets. He inquired at the nearest cab-stand, but no one seemed to remember anything of a lady such as he described. He shrank from applying to the police, and spent a night of terrible misery and remorse.
“I should not have left her,” he moaned aloud as he wandered up and down the sitting-room where he had seen her last. He refused to go to bed, and more than once went down to question the night porter. But the gray dawn stole over the city, and the noise andmurmur of the day began, and still nothing was seen or heard of the unhappy woman who had disappeared.
The first post arrived and there was no letter for John Temple, and then he knew that May had forsaken him. He realized this with the bitterest pain. He recalled her words and looks before he had left her, and suddenly—like a dagger—a memory smote him. She had said as she lay in his arms, “We could not live apart.”
“Good God! did she go out to die then!” burst from John Temple’s pale, quivering lips. The anguish of this idea was almost too great to bear. He hesitated no longer about going to the police. He went—a white-faced, agitated man—to the nearest station and told his story. His wife had disappeared from the hotel, he said, and he was in a state of the utmost misery and anxiety about her.
The inspector took notes and made certain inquiries. “Had he had any quarrel with the lady? Was there any reason that she should leave him?”
“No quarrel,” answered John Temple, huskily, “but I told her some bad news.”
“Did this seem to upset her greatly?”
“Yes, at the time, but when I left her she was calm and composed.”
“And she said nothing about going away?”
“Nothing, or I should never have left her.”
The inspector then asked if she had any friends in town where she was likely to take refuge, and with a groan John Temple answered, “None.”
Inquiries, however, were at once commenced, and during the day a cabman came forward and stated he had seen the lady leave the Grosvenor Hotel, and had followed her, hoping for a fare. That she had stopped and beckoned to him, and that when he had asked her where she had wished to go, that she had answered: “To one of the bridges.” That he had then said, “To which bridge?” and she had replied, “Westminster.”
When this was repeated to John Temple he grewghastly pale, and staggered back, but the police inspector tried to reassure him.
“No suicide had been known to have occurred from Westminster bridge last night,” he said, “and at the time the lady had been driven there the bridge would be crowded, and, besides, the cabman had called the attention of a policeman to her. This policeman had also been found, and had made a statement. He said the cabman called his attention to a lady who had just left his cab, and he therefore at once walked along the bridge. He came on a gentleman speaking to a lady, who looked very ill, and he asked the gentleman about her, but he made a satisfactory answer, and they went away together, and he lost sight of them. The policeman, however, had kept looking out during the time of his beat, and as far as was known no tragedy had happened on the bridge.”
With this cold comfort to his heart, John Temple was forced to be content. He saw the cabman who had driven the lady to Westminster, and from this man’s description John believed it had been May.
“She had a lot of bright, light hair, all ruffled-like,” the cabman said, “and a pretty, pale face, and looked in great trouble, and had no gloves on, but he noticed some rings.”
The policeman on the bridge also gave rather a similar description of the lady he had seen talking to the gentleman, whose arm she took before they went away. But John Temple told himself, as he listened, that it had not been the same. He went back to the hotel with a bowed head and a remorseful, miserable heart. Went back to wait in vain for news that never came.
And during the same day an incident occurred at Pembridge Terrace which greatly upset both the kind ladies there. They had been struck with John Temple’s manner when he parted with them the night before, and naturally thought it strange that May should leave home even for a few days without bidding them good-by. And they were actually talking of this; speculating in their mild, kindly way on the cause, andhoping nothing had gone wrong with their young friends, when the servant came upstairs, and having rapped at their bedroom door told them that a gentleman was waiting in the dining-room to see them.
“A gentleman?” said Miss Webster, surprised. “Did you ask his name, Jane?”
“Yes, ma’am, I did,” replied Jane, “and I think he said Mr. Churchill, but I’m not quite sure.”
“Churchill?” repeated Miss Webster, and the two sisters looked at each other in some consternation.
“We will be down directly, Jane,” then said Miss Webster after a little pause, and when the maid disappeared they again exchanged rather alarmed glances.
“I am afraid something has happened; that their secret is known,” suggested Miss Eliza, nervously.
“Do you think it will be May’s father?” asked Miss Webster, as she tied her bonnet strings with trembling fingers.
The two sisters were dressing themselves to go out on a little shopping excursion when they heard of their unexpected visitor, and they both felt very much upset. However, there was nothing for it but to go down and receive “Mr. Churchill,” whoever he might be. They accordingly did this together, and when they entered the dining-room they saw a tall, good-looking, middle-aged man, with a somewhat countrified appearance, standing there.
He made a bow as the sisters appeared, which they nervously returned.
“Excuse my calling, ladies,” he said, “but I have come to make some inquiries about my daughter, May Churchill, who, I understand, has been living with you for some time.”
Both the poor ladies gave a gasp, and for a moment or two stood silent. They did not in truth know what to say; did not know how much Mr. Churchill knew, or how far May was committed in his eyes.
“My girl,” went on Mr. Churchill, seeing their hesitation, “disappeared from her home some time ago, and we have heard nothing of her till yesterday. Butyesterday I had sure information that she is living with you, and that she is now called Mrs. John. Is this so?”
Miss Webster drew herself up a little proudly.
“Yes, Mr. Churchill,” she said, “your daughter has been here, but she is not here at present.”
“Where is she now, then?” asked Mr. Churchill, somewhat roughly. “For I mean to find her. I have come up to London to find her, and also to find Mr. John Temple, who, I suppose, has taken her away if she has gone from here.”
Again both the sisters gasped. This big strong man seemed to overwhelm them, and they felt themselves almost powerless in his hands.
“The long and the short of it is,” continued Mr. Churchill, “I mean to call Mr. John Temple to account for his conduct to May. He induced her, I believe, to leave her home, and she writes to him in a manner, I am told, that if she isn’t married to him she ought to be.”
Both the faded faces before him were now suffused with a sudden blush. But a moment later Miss Webster plucked up her courage.
“Sir,” she said, with not a little indignation in her tone, “I think you speak of your daughter, who is everything that a young lady should be, in a very unbecoming manner.”
“I do not know, madam, what you think a young lady should be,” retorted Mr. Churchill; “but I think when a girl leaves her father’s house, and carries on an intrigue with a young man, that it is her father’s duty to learn whether she is married or not, and if she is not, to see that she is.”
“But she is married, sir!” replied Miss Webster, raising her head with dignity. “I and my sister Eliza here were present at her marriage, which was performed by the clergyman of the parish, Mr. Mold. It was kept a secret on account of Mr. John Temple’s uncle, and if it will do him any harm I hope you will still keep it a secret, but I can positively assure you that they are married.”
Mr. Churchill’s expression changed considerably while Miss Webster was speaking.
“Then all I can say, madam, is, that I am heartily glad to hear it,” he answered. “Naturally I was put out about my girl, and anxious to hear that it was all right with her. However, Mr. John Temple need not be afraid of his uncle, the squire. I saw the old gentleman yesterday, and he told me May would be welcomed there when his nephew brought her to the Hall.”
“I am, indeed, glad to hear this; indeed, most glad!” said Miss Webster, with a ring of genuine pleasure in her voice. “We have the greatest respect and regard for Mr. John Temple, both my sister Eliza and myself, and we have grieved a little that his marriage and your sweet young daughter’s should have been kept a secret. But now it is all right. This is delightful news, is it not, dear Eliza?” she added, turning to her sister.
“Most delightful!” replied Miss Eliza, with emotion, “Really quite affecting!” and she drew out her handkerchief as though preparing for tears.
“Well, ladies, I am sure I thank you very much for your information,” said Mr. Churchill, heartily. “It’s a great relief to my mind; a very great relief,” and Mr. Churchill wiped his brow with his handkerchief. “You see my poor little lass lost her mother when she was only a child, and though I’m married again, a stepmother’s not the same somehow, though I’ve nothing to say against my missus. But about May? Where is she now, for I would like to kiss her before I go, and shake Mr. John Temple by the hand?”
“She left yesterday afternoon, and has gone for a few days to the seaside with her husband,” answered Miss Webster. “Mr. John Temple came yesterday and took May away with him.”
Mr. Churchill looked rather puzzled.
“It’s a strange thing,” he said, “but Mr. John Temple would say nothing when he was questioned yesterday whether he was married to May or not; I suppose it’s all right about the register, and that sort of thing?”
“Certainly right!” exclaimed both sisters. “We saw it signed.”
“Still, I think I should like to have a look at it, so if you ladies will kindly tell me the name of the church and the clergyman—”
“With pleasure,” replied Miss Webster. “And now, Mr. Churchill, will you take some refreshments, and have a glass of wine to drink to the health of the young couple?”
Mr. Churchill accepted this hospitable offer, and shortly afterward took his leave. But scarcely was he gone when the sisters began to be afraid of what they had done.
“I am sure I hope we have done right in telling about the marriage,” said Miss Webster, looking at Miss Eliza for comfort.
“I am sure I hope so,” replied Miss Eliza, in an apprehensive tone.
“But you see he cast such aspersions on May?”
“It would have roused anyone to defend her—but still—”
“What do you think, dear Eliza?”
“I think it would be as well if Mr. John Temple knew that we were almost forced to tell the truth. Do you think you could write to him, dear Margaret?”
“Yes, if I knew his address. He usually stays at the Grosvenor, but then he said they were going to-day to the seaside, you remember?”
“But he might have left his address at the Grosvenor. I think I would try, dear Margaret. Let us ask Jane where he directed the cab to drive to last night when he left here?”
Jane was accordingly summoned to the dining-room, as she had carried poor May’s portmanteau down to the cab when John Temple had left Pembridge Terrace the evening before.
“He said the Grosvenor, ma’am, I’m nearly certain,” Jane answered to her mistress’ inquiries. So after the maid had left the room, Miss Webster decided to writeto tell John Temple of Mr. Churchill’s visit and its consequences.
“Dear Mr. Temple,” she began, somewhat nervously. “Sister Eliza and myself have been somewhat upset this morning by receiving a visit from Mr. Churchill, your sweet young wife’s father. He had heard she was living with us, and had come to seek her, and was very anxious to learn the truth about her. And he said some things—made some remarks—that neither sister Eliza nor I could hear unmoved. In fact, we were almost forced, in defense of your dear wife, to tell him that you were married to her, and this seemed a great relief to his mind. But we begged him still to keep the secret, if he thought it would injure you at all with your uncle, Mr. Temple of Woodlea Hall. But to our great joy he told us that he had seen your uncle on the subject, and that he had said he would gladly welcome dear May as his nephew’s wife. I need not tell you how delighted we were to hear this, as Mr. Temple’s sanction seemed the one thing wanting to your great happiness.
“With our united love to your dear wife, and best regards to yourself, I remain sincerely yours.
”Margaret Webster.”
This letter was delivered to John Temple during the evening, as he sat alone and desolate, in his great remorse and pain.