May and Sister Margaret stayed another fortnight at Hastings after this sea excursion, and Webster went twice down to see them during this time, and Sister Margaret was satisfied in her own mind that everything was progressing as she could wish. Then the weather broke up, and storms and gales swept around the coast, and the sea-foam flew into the town. And it was only when this happened that Webster yielded to May’s repeated requests for them to return to London. She wished now most earnestly to commence working to earn her own living, and had had some correspondence with Doctor Brentwood on the subject. He had arranged that she should join the staff of nurses at St. Phillip’s, as probationer, and Sister Margaret had already given her some instructions. But twice during this time a strong temptation rose in Ralph Webster’s heart; a temptation, however, which he checked, and this was to ask May to be his wife, and so shelter her all her future life.
“It would but frighten her, and make her uneasy,” he told himself; “no, it is too soon.”
So May went back to St. Phillip’s with Sister Margaret, and when Webster saw her again she was dressed in the black gown and white cap and apron of a nurse. She looked, however, so charming in this costume that he could not conceal his admiration.
“You look like—well, what shall I say?” he said, smiling. “A sister of light.”
“Do you mean an angel?” answered May, smiling also. “Ah, I wish I felt like one.”
“And how do you really like the life?” went on Webster, with his dark eyes still fixed on her fair face.
“There are painful things, of course,” hesitated May, “but still you always feel that you are helping someone, and that is something.”
“But I hope they do not give you any hard work; any disagreeable work?”
“They are very good to me,” answered May, softly; “everyone has been very good, and as for you, Mr. Webster—”
“Being good is not in my way,” answered Webster, hastily turning away his head.
“I do not know what you call good then; I can not tell you what I think.”
May’s voice faltered a little when she said this, and Webster’s self-imposed reserve perhaps might have broken down, but just at this moment Doctor Brentwood entered the room, as it was in his sitting-room that the interview between May and Webster was taking place. Indeed, it must be admitted that “Mrs. Church” was treated with some favoritism by the house surgeon; and there were some plain nurses and some plain probationers who made their private comments and remarks on this fact. But May was so gentle and unassuming that as a rule she disarmed criticism.
“It’s her pretty face,” they said, shrugging their shoulders; “well, men are all alike.”
And her pretty face had no doubt a great deal to do with it, and her pretty manner, and her sad, sweet smile. Doctor Brentwood openly said to Webster she was too handsome for a nurse, but he knew, as all men who looked at her knew, that she never sought or desired attention or admiration of any kind.
And so the quiet, dreary months drifted away, and May stayed on at St. Phillip’s Hospital, and only Ralph Webster knew that she lived there. Of John Temple, Webster heard nothing, except that one day, when Christmas was past and gone, he accidentally met Mr. Harrison, the solicitor, who told him smilingly that he had had a visit from the actress, Miss Kathleen Weir.
“She had heard somehow,” he said, “that Mr. John Temple is now heir to his uncle’s estates, and she therefore wished her allowance increased. But I puther off, my dear sir, I put her off; quite time enough when Mr. John Temple does succeed.”
“And where is Mr. John Temple now?” asked Webster.
“He is abroad; he went abroad shortly after I had the visit from Miss Kathleen Weir, and he looks shockingly ill; really shockingly. I wish, I am sure, he may live to come into his inheritance.”
“What sort of man is he?”
“He used to be a remarkably nice fellow; pleasant, and rather philosophical in fact. But when I saw him last he had a most shattered appearance, like a man who had gone through some great mental strain, or bodily illness. I fancy, you know, Mr. Webster,” added the little man, shaking his head, “that that early and unfortunate marriage of his has been a most tremendous worry to him. At least when I mentioned Miss Weir having called at my offices he scowled, and muttered something about wishing he had never seen her face. He may, you see, now want to form a more reasonable marriage, but there is this millstone—a handsome enough millstone though, ha, ha, ha! hanging about his neck.”
“He should not forget that he hung it himself though,” answered Webster, grimly; and then he left Mr. Harrison. But when he next saw Kathleen Weir, in reply to her eager inquiries, he was able to tell her that he had heard that Mr. John Temple had gone abroad.
“But where and when?” asked the actress quickly.
“That I can not tell you.”
“But, Mr. Webster, I am anxious to know. That old rogue, Mr. Harrison, the solicitor, of course knows very well. But if I went to him he would not tell me. How am I to find out?”
“But what good would it do you to find out?”
“Because I am convinced John Temple has something to hide! I want to be divorced from him, that’s the truth, and if I knew where he was I could set detectives to watch his movements. Don’t you see?”
“Unfortunately I can not tell you where he is.”
“I wonder if old Harrison would tell you? Oh! do be a good soul and help me if you can,” and she laid her pretty, white, be-ringed hand on his arm and looked into his face. “It’s so stupid to be bound like this to a man who is perfectly indifferent to you, and, moreover, who actually detests you! I swear to you he looked as if he really hated me that day on Westminster bridge. And why should I waste all my youth and my life? His money is not worth it.”
“It is a very hard case, certainly.”
“I have felt this lately,” said Kathleen Weir, in rather a marked manner; “before, I think I did not care.”
Again she looked in Webster’s face, and with a sort of discomfort his keen dark eyes fell before her large, restless, gray ones. He was not a vain man, but a vague consciousness smote into his heart that this handsome woman had begun to regard him with different feelings to his own. This idea made him more chary of his visits and colder in his manner. And Kathleen Weir, quick to perceive this, also drew back. Thus some weeks passed without him seeing her, when one morning an announcement in theTimesbrought her affairs more prominently before his mind.
This was no less than a notice in the obituary column of the sudden death of the squire of Woodlea:
“On the 21st inst., at Woodlea Hall, Phillip Temple, Esq., aged 75, of heart disease.”
Webster read the announcement twice over, thinking all the while of the great changes it might bring. Not to the fair black-robed probationer at St. Phillip’s Hospital, though, he decided; it could not touch her very nearly now, but to John Temple and Kathleen Weir.
And yet on second thoughts he remembered it would bring Temple back to England, and would make the friends of the missing girl more eager in their inquiries to learn her fate. John Temple would probably now be forced to tell what he knew, and the fact of his first marriage might be brought home to him. Therefore,the knowledge of the squire’s death disquieted Webster exceedingly, and the day did not pass without his receiving further news concerning it.
The evening post in fact brought him a letter from Kathleen Weir, and the notice from theTimesof Mr. Temple’s death fell out of it when Webster opened the envelope. The actress had evidently written in a state of great excitement.
“Dear Mr. Webster,” he read. “The inclosed cutting from the newspaper will tell you what has occurred. This Mr. Temple, whose death it records, is the uncle of John Temple, who is his heir. John Temple is now, therefore, a rich man, and as I am unfortunately his wife, he can not prevent (I suppose) my benefiting by his accession to fortune. But though money is a great thing, an immense thing, it is not everything! John Temple, looking like a ghost, with misery stamped on every feature of his face! There was, I am sure, some strong reason for this, for as a rule he is an easy-going man, inclined to make the best of everything, as he used to think it not worth while to strive with fate.
“There I did and do disagree with him. It is worth while at any rate to try and make the best of one’s life, and it is not making the best of mine, I think, to remain the wife of a man I never see. He is a rich man now, can afford to pay a long price for his freedom, and his freedom I am certain he desires. What I mean is this: He will now be coming to England, and will, of course, go down to the place he has inherited. I want, therefore, someone to go to him and make him a proposition; to say in fact, Kathleen Weir, the wife of whom you are tired, is also tired of you, and wishes to be free from so galling a tie. I am certain it might be arranged, only it is so difficult to write on such matters, and one can only do so to someone in whom you have complete confidence. I have complete confidence in you, though I have seen so little of you of late, but I think I can understand the reason of this. At all events, will you come to see me now, and we can talk the matter over?Will you come to-morrow evening? I shall be alone, as I have a whole host of things to tell you.
“Ever sincerely yours,
”Kathleen Weir.”
Webster read this letter, and at once understood its meaning. Kathleen Weir wished to be free, and she believed that John Temple had given her cause to seek a divorce, and that if she were anxious to obtain one, that he would offer no opposition; nay, gladly aid her in her desire. She also meant, and Webster smiled a little scornfully as he thought this, that she intended to make him pay for his freedom. They were to play into each other’s hands in fact, and she wished some confidential friend or agent to approach him on the subject.
“I wonder if she intends this honor for me,” he reflected, bitterly. And he thought of May Churchill with a quick pang of pain.
If this woman could obtain a divorce, and would accept money to be divorced, which no doubt John Temple would gladly pay, he would be free to marry May. Webster bit his lips and frowned angrily at this idea. This no doubt was Kathleen Weir’s design; she would not scruple, she had said, to invent a charge of cruelty against him, and for the rest she had a perfectly good case.
Webster began walking restlessly up and down the room after he had considered the actress’ letter, but he determined to do nothing to aid her.
But if she succeeded, what should he do? What would be best and kindest to the poor girl whose heart John Temple had nearly broken?
It was a painful question, not easy to answer or to solve, but at all events Kathleen Weir had not yet obtained her divorce.
“I will go and see her,” he decided; “I will learn exactly what she means to do.”
Therefore on the following evening he did go to see her, and she was very pleased to welcome him. Shestarted up as he entered the room, and held out her little white hand.
“How good of you to come,” she said. “I have been wishing so much to see you.”
“I came to talk over your great news,” he answered with a smile.
“It is great news, isn’t it? Great and good news, for I hope soon it will free me of John Temple.”
“But—what have you to go upon?”
“I will find something to go upon,” said the actress, half impatiently. “I have his address, at all events, now, for he is sure to go to Woodlea Hall and look after his property, and I must find someone—or—” and she paused and thought for a moment, and then clapped her hands. “I must find someone,” she repeated, “to go to him, or go myself. There, Mr. Webster, what do you think of that? What do you think of my going to visit my lord in his new state? I would be a welcome visitor, wouldn’t I, and no doubt could make a splendid bargain with him in his eagerness to get rid of me.”
“But—it would expose you to a very painful scene.”
“I am accustomed to scenes, you know,” answered Kathleen Weir, with a little laugh. “Do you know I think it is a splendid idea. At all events, we might mutually agree to meet somewhere, and arrange also mutually to get rid of each other.”
“But what about the Queen’s Proctor intervening?”
Kathleen Weir gave an airy shrug of her shoulders.
“We must manage to be too clever for the Queen’s Proctor, and John Temple, I’m certain, will be only too glad to back me up in anything I say. I shall have some handfuls of hair ready, and swear he tore them out of my head.” And Kathleen Weir laughed.
But Ralph Webster did not laugh. He was thinking of May Churchill, and how her fate might hang on the false words of this woman’s tongue, and he looked very grave when he rose to go away.
“Going so soon?” cried Kathleen Weir, gaily. Shewas disappointed at his leaving so early, but she did not wish to show this.
“I can wait,” she thought, after he had quitted the room; “they say everything comes to those who wait.”
Mr. Temple’s sudden death had also naturally created great excitement both at Woodlea Hall and at the farm at Woodside. The squire had breakfasted with his wife as usual on the morning it occurred, and about an hour later Mrs. Temple had gone into the library to ask him for some money she required, when to her surprise and alarm she found him with his gray head lying on the writing-table before him, and his arms hanging limply by his side.
“Phillip!” she exclaimed, and ran up to him, and laid her hands on his shoulder.
But the face that had ever looked gently at her did not stir. Then Mrs. Temple raised his head, and the moment she did so she gave a wild shriek. For there was no mistaking the pallid gray hue of the complexion, or the dull, glazed, half-open eyes. Mr. Temple was dead, and Mrs. Temple, ever impulsive and excitable, ran screaming to the door of the room to tell the news and summon the household.
They sent for the doctor, and the newly-made widow knelt by the squire’s side and chafed his cold hands, and wailed and wept for the man to whom in his lifetime she had given no love. Now she regretted this, she clung to him, and would fain have recalled him to her side.
And presently her mother arrived on the scene and then her father. Mrs. Layton’s first thought when she heard the squire was dead was to speculate on how much he had left behind him, and to groan in spirit atthe idea that now her daughter would probably have to leave the Hall.
“And that John Temple will be coming, I suppose,” she whispered to her husband, “and where will we all be?”
“My dear, to speak of such things in the presence of death—” began the vicar, mildly. But Mrs. Layton turned her little eager face away from him before he could complete his homily.
“I must see after things,” she said, which meant a great deal to Mrs. Layton’s mind. First she had to induce her daughter to leave the dead man’s side and go to her own apartments. Then she ran from room to room, picking up little things here and there that she thought at such a time she could collect without remark. Nothing came wrong to Mrs. Layton! A few sheets of note-paper, an envelope or two, anything in fact that she could lay her hands on.
“They will never be missed; they are of no value,” she told herself as she gathered her spoil together. She was haunted by the idea that John Temple might arrive at any moment, and that she would not have such another opportunity.
The servants were all down-stairs talking of their master’s sudden death, and the whole household naturally disarranged. Mrs. Temple was in a state of half-remorseful grief and excitement, and she also was now thinking of the coming of John Temple.
“He will be master now, I suppose,” she thought bitterly, “and I shall be turned out.”
She remembered, too, the morning he had left Woodlea through her interference, and mentally saw again his pale, set face as he had told her he would never return. He would return now, and would that girl come with him? Mrs. Temple kept asking herself. For up to the time of the squire’s death nothing had been seen or heard at the Hall of John Temple since the morning he quitted it. Mr. Temple had felt naturally offended by his nephew’s reticence, but at last, at Mr. Churchill’s earnest request, he had writtento John Temple’s bankers to ask if they could tell him of his nephew’s whereabouts. The bankers wrote to inform the squire, in reply, that Mr. John Temple was abroad, and that before leaving England he had taken out a considerable sum of money in letters of credit. They wrote nothing more; they had, in fact, been instructed by John Temple before he left England to give no information if any inquiries were made about him. He had gone away a moody and remorseful man, but Mr. Harrison, the solicitor, knew where to find him, and also some officers of the police force. With these he had left orders, which he believed now to be useless, that should anything ever be heard of the lady who had disappeared from the Grosvenor Hotel on such a date that he was at once to be communicated with. But John Temple believed that May was dead; believed that in a sudden frenzy of grief and shame she had destroyed herself. And many a dark and dismal hour he had stood looking down into the murky river, moodily thinking it was sweeping over the fair head of his young love. It was on one of these miserable occasions that Kathleen Weir had seen him, and a sudden feeling of hate and anger had swept through his heart at the sight of her. And shortly after this encounter he had left England. He felt, in truth, that he could bear the strain no farther; that the terrible haunting memory of the young life he believed he had destroyed would overthrow his reason if he remained any longer on the spot.
In the meanwhile Mr. Churchill, in spite of his own secret anxieties, had gone about telling his neighbors that his daughter and her husband, Mr. John Temple, were abroad. There was no one to contradict this, yet somehow the impression got about that everything was not quite right. Perhaps it was the way in which Mrs. Churchill drew in her firm lips when her husband spoke of his daughter. At all events, she never spoke of her, nor did she encourage her stepsons to do so.
At first the boys had been overjoyed when they heard of May’s marriage, and looked forward to manya happy day at the Hall. But when week after week passed, and May never wrote to them, they could not understand it.
What was to prevent her writing? they asked each other, doubtfully, even if she were twenty times abroad. Then the banker’s letter confirmed the news that John Temple was abroad, and after that, all through the winter months, neither at the Hall nor at the homestead, was anything more heard of John Temple or May.
The squire died in the early spring-time, and the news reached Woodside in less than an hour after Mrs. Temple had found her husband dead. It naturally threw Mr. Churchill, and even his wife, into a state of excitement.
“Now, we must hear from them!” cried Mr. Churchill.
“We will know the truth at last,” said Mrs. Churchill, in a more subdued tone.
“What truth?” answered her husband, sharply. “They were married, and now Mr. John Temple is the squire of Woodlea, and May is his wife—but all the same, I am sorry to hear the old squire has passed away.”
“How will they let Mr. John Temple know that his uncle is dead, if they do not know where he is?” suggested Mrs. Churchill in her practical way.
“I will see to that,” replied Mr. Churchill, determinedly. “There will be no one, I suppose, to look after things at the Hall now but the stupid old parson and his skin-flint of a wife. Madam won’t know anything about business, so as May’s father I will ride over at once, and of course Mr. Temple, as heir, must be immediately telegraphed for. His bankers, by this time, probably really do know where he is.”
“I think you are quite right to go, William,” said Mrs. Churchill, who, in truth, was full of curiosity to know all about the matter.
So Mr. Churchill mounted his horse and speedily reached the Hall in a state of scarcely suppressed excitement. And his coming was not unnoticed. Mrs.Layton, from one of the upper windows, peered down into the court-yard when she heard the sound of his horse’s hoofs below, and gave a kind of cry when she saw who it was.
“Here is the first of them!” she exclaimed aloud to herself, and then she hastily looked round the room to see what she could pick up before “the others arrived.”
She caught up some trifle, and then hurried down to her daughter’s bedroom.
“Rachel!” she cried, “that Churchill has arrived; you must rouse yourself, and lock up all the jewels and silver, or they will be laying hands on everything.”
“I’ll do nothing of the sort,” answered Mrs. Temple, coldly.
“What, you’ll let them have the diamonds!” screamed Mrs. Layton, in absolute despair.
“The diamonds are heirlooms, so I suppose John Temple’s wife—if he has one—has a right to wear them,” answered Mrs. Temple, contemptuously. “I will have nothing touched until John Temple arrives.”
“Then you’ll lose everything! Do you suppose that low people like these Churchills will not seize whatever they can get? At all events, secure the jewels and the money in the house.”
“Will you go away and leave me alone!” cried Mrs. Temple, passionately. “Surely on a day like this—” And then she suddenly burst into tears. Even to her wayward mind, this greed was shocking in the house of death.
Her mother left her with uplifted hands after this outburst. But Mrs. Layton was still determined not to waste her time. She therefore hurried into the poor squire’s dressing-room and snatched up and secured on her person his diamond studs, which were lying in a tray on the toilet table. Then she looked eagerly around for his keys. He was sure to have money locked away somewhere, she was thinking. But she could not find the keys, and after a vain search for them she opened a linen drawer and turned out half a dozen or so of pocket handkerchiefs.
“Poor man, he will never want them more,” she reflected; “and I have such bad colds every winter they’ll come in nice and handy, and the servants were sure to have stolen them.”
Having pocketed these also, she went down-stairs to see Mr. Churchill. She found him closeted with her husband, the vicar. The two men were discussing the best plan how immediately to inform John Temple of his uncle’s death. Mr. Churchill had told the vicar of the banker’s letter, and had suggested this as a means of communication with the new heir.
The letter would probably be in the drawers of the writing-table in the library, Mr. Churchill had said, but the vicar—a timid man—had shrunk a little back from approaching a spot where so lately had lain the poor squire’s gray head. Mr. Churchill, however, urged that it should be done, and they were talking it over when Mrs. Layton entered the room.
She extended her thin, claw-like hand to Mr. Churchill, but coldly.
“This is a sad affair, madam,” said Mr. Churchill as he took it.
“Not for everyone,” she could not help replying, spitefully.
“I think for everyone,” answered the farmer, sturdily; “we all have to go, but the squire was a good man, and a good friend to all who knew him. There was but one opinion about the squire.”
“But one, I am sure,” said the vicar, weakly.
“I have been talking to the vicar, madam,” went on Mr. Churchill, still sturdily, “about the best and quickest way of communicating with Mr. John Temple.”
“But you have not his address, I understood,” said Mrs. Layton, quickly and viciously.
“That will be soon found, madam.”
“But I thought not,” replied Mrs. Layton, yet more viciously. “I understand that since Mr. John Temple quitted this house in such an extraordinary manner, that neither he nor—your daughter have ever been heard of.”
Mr. Churchill’s clear, brown face turned a dusky red.
“You are mistaken then,” he said, sharply. “I saw and heard of them both. I saw the register of their marriage and the clergyman who married them and the two ladies who were present at the ceremony! But I won’t discuss it. Vicar, will you go with me to seek the banker’s letter in the squire’s writing-table, or shall I go alone?”
“Of course you must go, James?” exclaimed Mrs. Layton. “There may be family affairs in the writing-table not intended for Mr. Churchill’s inspection. But I think this haste is most indecent; the poor man not cold yet, and everyone in such a hurry to get what is left! But we could expect nothing else.”
With this parting shot Mrs. Layton quitted the room, and half an hour later the letter from John Temple’s banker informing the squire that his nephew was abroad, was found by Mr. Churchill and the vicar in one of the drawers of the writing-table in the library. By this time the dead man had been borne away, yet there were traces of his familiar presence all around. The pen he had been using when his summons came; an unfinished letter lying on the blotting pad; the keys Mrs. Layton had coveted; the chair on which he had died!
Yet Mr. Churchill sat down there, and deemed he was doing his duty as he did so, and deliberately wrote to John Temple, his successor. He also wrote to the bankers, requesting them to forward the inclosed letter to Mr. John Temple at once when they received it, if they knew his address, and, at the same time, suggested that a telegram might be sent immediately. Then, having done this, he looked around a little sadly.
“Poor man,” he said to the vicar, “everything reminds one of him—ah, well, it’s very sad.”
But his heart was not sad as he rode home. He felt almost as though he himself had come into some portion of the dead man’s inheritance.
When a rich man dies the news soon spreads. Mr. Churchill had not neglected when he wrote to John Temple and the bankers, also to send an announcement of the squire’s death to theTimes. This announcement was read on the following morning, as we have seen, by Ralph Webster, by Kathleen Weir, and also by Mr. Harrison, the solicitor, as well as the bankers.
Both Mr. Harrison and the bankers knew at this time where to find the heir. John Temple, after various restless wanderings, had gone to Cairo, and had written from there to his bankers, and also to Mr. Harrison, on business. Mr. Harrison read the news of Mr. Temple’s death, and at once telegraphed the information to his now rich client. And during the day the firm of bankers also telegraphed, and forwarded Mr. Churchill’s letter.
These two telegrams were a great shock to the lonely and unhappy man to whom they were addressed. John Temple had gone to Egypt to try and divert his mind, and the change had no doubt been good for him; but to learn that his uncle was dead, that Woodlea was now his, seemed to bring all the past back to him with fresh pain.
At first he determined not to return to England; not to accept the fortune and position which were now his. Then came Mr. Churchill’s letter—a distinct, explicit letter—and he knew as he read it that it was useless any longer to hide the truth. Mr. Churchill would insist on learning his daughter’s fate; would no doubt, now that he knew his address, find him out and force it from his lips.
With an intense feeling of shrinking pain John Temple therefore accepted the position thrust upon him. He telegraphed to Mrs. Temple at Woodlea that he would arrive there, he expected, on such a date, and hetelegraphed also to Mr. Harrison. He did not, however, write to Mr. Churchill; he felt this was beyond his strength.
“I will tell him the truth,” he told himself, and tried to nerve himself for the bitter task. “They may do what they like,” he thought, gloomily; “I can not, I think, suffer more than I have already done.”
Mrs. Temple was greatly excited when she received this telegram. Her husband already lay in his grave, and had been followed there by his friends and tenantry. His young widow, however, did not go. She watched the long procession leave the Hall with dry eyes. She had got accustomed to the idea and was not even thinking of the dead when they bore him away.
Mr. Churchill was one of the mourners, and he could not help having a certain uneasy feeling in his mind as he listened to the solemn words of the service, while the old squire was laid by his young son’s side. He had heard from the bankers, who had informed him that Mr. John Temple was at Cairo, and that they had forwarded his letters to him there. But no word had come from John Temple in reply. Mr. Churchill, therefore, could not understand it. But surely soon the mystery would end; in fact it must end, Mr. Churchill determined, when he turned away from the squire’s grave.
And a day later brought John Temple’s telegram to Mrs. Temple. Her mother, who had not left the Hall since the squire’s death, carried it to her, and Mrs. Temple tore it open with trembling hands.
“He is coming home!” she cried, and that was all.
“John Temple?” asked Mrs. Layton, aghast, who had secretly begun to hope that something might have happened to the new owner of Woodlea.
“Yes,” answered Mrs. Temple, without looking up.
She was re-reading John Temple’s telegram, which was couched in his usual somewhat graceful language. In it he expressed his deep regret for “your, may I say our, great loss.” Then came the day and date that heexpected to arrive in England, and on the following day, after he had done so, he proposed to go to Woodlea, “if quite convenient to yourself.”
Mrs. Temple smiled a little scornfully as she read the last words.
“He has the whip hand now,” she thought; “he said I turned him out of the house, and now he can turn me.”
Mrs. Temple, in fact, knew this to be the case. The squire’s will had been read, and though she was most amply provided for, the Hall and its contents went to the heir. This arrangement was only in accordance with the original entailment of the property. Mrs. Layton, as we know, had tried hard to have this clause set aside, but the squire would listen to no such suggestion. The Hall went with the estate, and John Temple was now its owner.
“And—does he mention anything about bringing anyone home with him?” now inquired Mrs. Layton.
“Not a word; I don’t believe that girl is his wife.”
“Yet Mr. Churchill assured your father and myself that she is. And your father knows by name the clergyman who he says married them, Mr. Mold.”
“Well, we shall see, at all events; he will soon be here.”
Mrs. Temple, however, sent no message to Mr. Churchill that John was expected shortly at Woodlea. She desired her mother not to mention it; she wished to be the first, at all events, to know the truth about John Temple’s marriage.
And until the day of his arrival she was very restless. A second telegram came on the morning of that day to tell her he expected to be at Woodlea by about seven o’clock in the evening. A carriage was, therefore, sent to the station to meet him, and Mrs. Temple wandered about the house after this in a state of great excitement. At last she heard the sound of the carriage wheels returning, and, looking very pale and handsome, she went into the hall to meet the new owner.
But when John Temple entered the house, and thelights fell on his altered face, she gave a little start and a sort of cry.
“What is the matter?” she said, as she went forward and took his hand. “Have you been ill?”
John Temple scarcely answered her. He looked brown, lined, and haggard, and naturally returning to Woodlea was very painful to him. Yet he bore himself with a certain calmness and dignity. He nodded to some of the servants that he knew, and then, on Mrs. Temple beckoning him to do so, he followed her into the morning room, and she hastily closed the door behind him.
“Well,” she said, after she had done this, looking quickly up in his face; “are you alone?”
“Yes,” answered John Temple, and his eyes fell.
“Where is she then?” went on Mrs. Temple, excitedly. “The girl you took away?”
John Temple’s pale face grew a little paler, and his lips quivered.
“Would to God I could tell you,” he said, in a hoarse and broken voice; “but I know nothing.”
“Know nothing!” repeated Mrs. Temple in the greatest surprise. “What do you mean by this, John Temple? You can not expect us to believe you; her father, I am certain, will not.”
“I have returned here to tell what I know,” continued Temple, still in that broken voice; “and I would give all I possess in the world to be able to tell more. But I can not—she—she left me one night—”
“Left you?” interrupted Mrs. Temple, sharply.
“Yes, the night I left Woodlea. I went up to town; I saw her, and I was forced to tell her what I feared would break her heart.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I told her that the man she had trusted—the man that she had loved, and believed to be her husband—for we were married—had yet deceived her.”
“What do you mean? How did you deceive her?”
“Because when I was a very young man, almost a lad, I had hung a millstone about my neck; I had marriedanother woman, an actress, and I knew that this now must come to May’s ears.”
“John Temple!” exclaimed Mrs. Temple, starting back.
“You may well look startled, yet this was so. I had induced this poor girl to leave her home; to go to some old friends of mine, and from their house we were married.”
“When you said you were going abroad?”
“We did go abroad immediately after our marriage. I intended it to be a secret marriage until the time came I hoped to be able to obtain a divorce from the woman I had first married. Until I met May I had not cared nor thought of this. I made her an allowance, and never made any inquiries about her life. But the nephew of the ladies with whom I had left May got to know this woman, this actress, Kathleen Weir—”
“Kathleen Weir!”
“Yes, Kathleen Weir; and I knew after you had discovered through young Henderson where May was that the whole story could no longer be kept a secret. But I believed she cared for me too well to part from me—”
Here Temple’s voice broke and faltered, and he paused.
“But she did part from you?” asked Mrs. Temple, quickly.
“I will tell you,” went on John Temple, speaking with a great effort. “I took her to an hotel, and I told her the truth, and after the first shock, which nearly killed her, was over, I thought she had become reconciled to the idea. I said we should never part; that I would take her to Australia, anywhere, and devote my whole life to her, and that I hoped some day to be free. I left her for a short time to get some things that she required before we went away, as she did not wish to see her father, and—and when I left her she said we could not live apart. I was not away more than an hour, but when I returned to the hotel she was gone. She had left no note, no address—not a word—andfrom that day to this I have heard nothing,” and Temple covered his face with his hand, deeply affected.
“But you sought her, surely? You made inquiries?”
“Every effort was made to find her. I employed the police, I wandered about the streets of London day and night, but it was all in vain. One thing only I heard—that someone like her, on the night she disappeared from the hotel, had taken a cab and asked to be driven to Westminster bridge—”
“But surely you did not think—”
“What could I think?” went on John Temple, with deep emotion. “I believed she had loved me too well to leave me, and—and perhaps in her misery—her despair—”
“Oh, my poor fellow, I am sorry for you!” exclaimed Mrs. Temple, and she went up to John Temple and laid her hand on his arm. “So this is the story, is it? A sad, sad story!”
“I left England, meaning never to return,” continued Temple, after a short pause. “Even when the news came of my poor uncle’s death I did not mean to do so. I received a letter from Mr. Churchill; a letter he had a right to write, and to which I was bound in honor to reply. I have come back for the purpose of doing this; I will tell him the truth—”
“Do not talk of it any more just now,” interrupted Mrs. Temple. “This is your own house now, but let me, for once at least, act as hostess. You will find your old rooms all ready for you, and we dine at half-past eight.”
“I think I am too tired to dine; will you excuse me?” said Temple, wearily.
“Nonsense, nonsense, I won’t excuse you. We shall be quite alone. My good mother has been with me since your poor uncle’s death until to-day; but to-day I insisted on her departure. I was not going to have you annoyed by her.”
“Thank you for being so considerate.”
“Oh! you know I always wished to be good friends with you; it was not until—well, never mind, let us forget the past.”
“I fear that is impossible,” said John Temple, sadly.
“At all events do not let us talk of it. Good-by for the present then; I will see you in half an hour.”
After this she left him, and John Temple went slowly upstairs to his old rooms. These were all lighted and ready for him, with bright fires burning in the grates, and obsequious servants eager to attend on their new master. But John Temple felt unutterably depressed. Everything reminded him of the lovely face he believed now was befouled and stained by the river’s slime, and when he was alone he covered his face and moaned aloud.
But presently the dinner-gong sounded, and he was forced to go down-stairs and act his part. To do Mrs. Temple justice, she tried in every way to divert his mind. She made him tell her about Egypt, and spoke to him about books and travels, and talked to him as best she could. She felt, in truth, sorry for the gloomy-faced man opposite to her, and in her impulsive way she showed this very plainly.
And when the dinner was over, and the servants had left the room, John Temple asked her the particulars of his uncle’s death. She told him how sudden it had been, and that she had gone into the library and found him dead.
“It was a great shock to me,” she said, and for a moment her lips quivered.
“It was a terrible shock to me also,” he answered; “he was a good man.”
“He was very fond of you,” said Mrs. Temple, turning away her head.
“I was not ungrateful,” replied John Temple, in a low tone, and his gray eyes fell; “though I fear—”
“I suppose you know this house is yours, and everything in it?” went on Mrs. Temple, the next moment.
“I shall not live here, and if you wish to do so I hope you will remain.”
“Oh, we can settle all that afterward.”
“And that Henderson, what became of him?” now asked John Temple.
“Well, after that blow he got, you know, he was very ill. He had brain fever, or something like it, and when he got a little better his mother took him away. They have not been at home all the winter, and Stourton Grange is shut up. Some people say Henderson is in a lunatic asylum, but it may not be true.”
“He drank, did he not?” said Temple, coldly.
“So they said. I can not tell, but I think he never got over the death of that girl.”
But a moment later Mrs. Temple wished her words unsaid. John Temple rose restlessly and began walking slowly up and down the room, and a few minutes later asked leave to retire. It was more painful even than he had expected, coming back to Woodlea, and he felt that it would be impossible for him to remain. In the meanwhile the news of his arrival had reached Woodside Farm. One of Mr. Churchill’s neighbors had called during the evening, and told Mr. Churchill, not without motives of curiosity, that he had seen “the new squire at the station.”
“What! are you sure?” asked Mr. Churchill, eagerly.
“Quite sure,” answered the neighbor; “I went to the station about getting the turnip seed, and saw one of the Hall carriages standing there. I know the coachman, and I asked if anyone was expected, and he said Mr. John Temple, the new Squire, was coming home from foreign parts, and he was waiting for him.”
“And,” said Mr. Churchill, with faltering tongue, and his bronzed face grew a little pale, “did you see him arrive?”
“Yes, I thought I might just as well hang about till the train came in; I was waiting for the seed, you see; and when the train did come, Mr. John Temple came with it, and he got into the carriage from the Hall and drove away.”
“And was he alone?” asked Mr. Churchill, with scarcely suppressed agitation.
“Yes, quite alone; he had no servant or nothing. The porter carried his portmanteau to the carriage; I am quite certain he had no one with him.”
Mr. Churchill asked no more questions. He also now understood the motive of his neighbor’s call, but he was not a man to gratify idle curiosity. He drew in his firm lips; he made up his mind at once to see John Temple.
He did not even tell his wife the news he had just heard. Mrs. Churchill had more than once annoyed him by the way she had spoken, or rather insinuated, her doubts concerning May’s marriage. So he was determined to say nothing more about it until he knew the true cause of May’s long silence and absence.
It was too late to go to the Hall that night, but as early as ten o’clock next morning he mounted his horse and rode to Woodlea. John Temple had prepared his mind for this visit; had told himself that if Mr. Churchill did not call on him, that he himself would go to Woodside, and tell the truth as far as he knew it. Yet, while he and Mrs. Temple were still sitting at the breakfast table, when a servant entered the room and announced that Mr. Churchill had arrived and was waiting to see him, John Temple was conscious that his heart sank within him. But the next moment, with an effort, he nerved himself for the meeting, and rose quietly from the table.
“Ask Mr. Churchill to go into the library,” he said.
The servant bowed and disappeared, and as he did so Mrs. Temple started up excitedly.
“How horrible for that man to come,” she half-whispered. “Whatever will you say to him?”
“What can I say but the truth?” answered Temple, gloomily.
“But surely you will not,” and she went nearer to him and laid her hand on his arm, and raised her dark eyes to his face; “you will not tell him—of your other marriage?”
“I must,” said Temple, hoarsely; “how otherwise could I account for—what he must know?”
“But consider—he may be violent—a hundred things may happen. John, I would not tell him that—say that you quarreled, and that she left you—anything but that.”
John Temple hesitated, and Mrs. Temple saw this in an instant.
“Take my advice, at least about this,” she went on eagerly. “Telling him could do no good, and might bring much harm. Just say you quarreled—say about another woman, if you like—and that then she left you, and that you have never seen or heard of her since. I do not think as you do about it; she probably did only leave you, and some day you may hear more.”
“If you think this—”
“I do, John Temple; you can not tell what this man might do if he knew the whole story. Leave it to time at least, and say nothing rash.”
“I meant to tell him everything.”
“And I repeat it will do no good; it would only make a violent scene, and no end of trouble might come of it.”
Still John Temple hesitated, while again and again Mrs. Temple urged him not to tell Mr. Churchill more than he could possibly help. And at last her arguments, coupled with the natural shrinking of his own heart, prevailed.
“For the present then I will say we quarreled, and that she left me,” he said in a faltering voice. “To tell him more would do no good—and yet—”
“That is right; tell him you quarreled about some woman, and tell him how you have sought for her; how you could hear nothing.”
John Temple had no answer to this, and then slowly, with a bowed head, he left the room and went toward the library to face the man whose daughter he had wronged.
As John Temple entered the library, Mr. Churchill, who was standing by the fireplace, looked quickly up in his face, and then crossed the room to meet him.
“Well, Mr. Temple,” he said, “I heard you had arrived last night, so I rode over early this morning to ask if May is with you?”
He had fixed to say this during his ride to the Hall, and he blurted it out in the forced way that prepared speeches are often made.
“Unhappily she is not,” answered John Temple, in a low voice, and with downcast eyes.
“Not with you! That’s odd; then where did you leave her?”
For a moment Temple did not speak; a quiver passed over his face, and his lips trembled.
“Mr. Churchill,” he began, and then he paused.
“Well, Mr. Temple, what is this mystery about?” now asked Mr. Churchill, sharply. “I know you are married to her, so what is wrong?”
“We quarreled and she has left me,” said Temple, forcing himself to utter the words. “She left me without a line, or word—I can not tell you where she is.”
“Can not tell me where she is! Quarreled with you and left you!” repeated Mr. Churchill in the utmost astonishment. “Mr. Temple, I can not believe such an incredible story.”
“Yet it is most unhappily true, Mr. Churchill. I would give everything I possess in the world to be able to tell you more—to tell you where she is.”
Temple’s voice broke and faltered as he uttered the last words, and Mr. Churchill looked at him in absolute amazement and consternation.
“And do you mean to tell me,” he said, in a hard, angry voice, “that this girl, who was so fond of you that she left her home for you, has forsaken you aftera few months of marriage? I can not, I will not believe it; you are keeping something back.”
“An incident came to May’s ears—an incident of my early life,” faltered Temple.
“About some woman, I suppose?” interrupted Mr. Churchill.
“Unfortunately about a woman, and—and after that we quarreled, and she left me. She did not tell me she was going; she gave me no hint, or I should never have left her alone. But one night when I returned to our hotel I found she was gone, and though I sought her everywhere, though I put it into the hands of the police, no trace of her, no reliable trace at least, has ever been heard of her, and sometimes—I fear the worst.”
Here Temple broke down; he covered his face with his hand; his agitation was unmistakable.
“You mean that my girl has put an end to herself, though you may have given her great cause for quarreling with you and leaving you? Then I don’t believe it, sir, I tell you that.” And Mr. Churchill struck his hand heavily down on the writing-table as he spoke. “She may have left you, I suppose she has, but she had too much spirit, my May had, to take her life for any such folly.”
“If I could only hope this.”
“You may not only hope it, but be sure of it! But this must be investigated at once. I’ll move heaven and earth to find my girl; ay, and I’ll find her!”
“Would to God that you could.”
“I will; there, I’ve said it, and I seldom say what I do not do. When and how did she disappear? Who saw her last? Tell me everything.”
Then John Temple, in broken and faltering words, did tell Mr. Churchill everything he knew of May’s disappearance. Only he kept back the true cause. He gave him the address of the inspector of the police who had conducted the inquiry; he told even the cabman’s story of the lady he had driven to Westminster bridge. But Mr. Churchill would not listen to any such suggestion that May had taken her young life.
“You may have broken her heart, perhaps you have,” he said, harshly, “but my lass was no weak fool to destroy herself for a worthless man! No, she is hiding herself somewhere, and her father will find her. But it’s a pity, Mr. Temple,” he added, bitterly, “that you did not leave her alone.”
“I loved her very dearly. Since she left me my life has been one unending regret.”
“Yet you let another woman come between you! This may be the way of fine gentlemen, but my poor girl, I suppose, would not stand it.”
Temple did not speak; he stood there facing the angry man before him; his heart was full of shame and pain.
“The long and the short of it is, I suppose,” continued Mr. Churchill, “that May believed that you had ceased to love her; or had never loved her as she thought you had, and so she left you. But she should have written to her father! If I had not positively ascertained that you were married to her, if I had not seen the register of your marriage with my own eyes, I would have found you both out long before this. However, as it is—”
“Go to whatever expense you like, Mr. Churchill; find May, and you will lift a weight off my heart that is almost too heavy to bear.”
John Temple spoke earnestly, almost passionately, and Mr. Churchill could not but believe him.
“It’s a queer business,” he said; “if you were fond of her why did you not stick to her? But I’ll start to-night for London.”
“Let me hear from you every day; I will join you if you like.”
“No, I’m best alone; I’m more likely to find her alone. But what am I to go back and say at home?”
“Say anything; what matter is it?”
“But it is matter to me, Mr. Temple! I’ll say you’ve had a difference, and I’m going to London to try to make it up—yes, that will do, and I must make it up.”
Mr. Churchill left the Hall shortly after this, andJohn Temple returned to the morning-room, where Mrs. Temple was eagerly awaiting him.
“Well,” she said, excitedly, “is he gone? What did you tell him?”
“What you bade me; I told him everything—except why she—”
“Left you? That was right. Oh! I’m so glad, so glad, John Temple, you did not tell him that.”
“It will probably come out.”
“It may and it may not. At all events you may not be here if it does; it is a thousand times best kept quiet. And what is Mr. Churchill going to do?”
“He is going to London—going, I fear, on a vain search.”
“That may not be also. Come, we must hope for the best.”
But John Temple only sadly shook his head. It remained his fixed idea that May was dead, as he believed she had loved him too well to live apart from him.
But he felt grateful to Mrs. Temple for her kindness and consideration for his feelings; grateful perhaps that she had spared him telling May’s father all the bitter truth. And Mrs. Temple told the same story to her mother. Mrs. Layton, we may be sure, was not long in arriving at the Hall, but her daughter would not allow her to see John Temple.
“You worry him, and he and his wife have quarreled about some old love of his or other, and she has actually left him,” she said.
“Left him!” cried Mrs. Layton, triumphantly. “I knew no good would come of it; no good ever does come of unequal marriages. But I don’t believe she has left him; I believe he has left her.”
Mrs. Temple shrugged her shoulders.
“At all events they have parted,” she said; “and naturally he does not wish to be asked any questions on the subject, so while he is here please do not come.”
Mrs. Layton drew her meager little form up to its full height.
“Rachel, is it possible,” she said, “that you forbid your mother to the house?”
“It is John Temple’s house now, not mine, and he does not wish to be worried; so please stay away,” replied Mrs. Temple, coolly; and Mrs. Layton departed, feeling that “a judgment” was sure to descend on her daughter’s head.
Mrs. Temple told John Temple of this quarrel, and laughed a little scornfully at the recollection of it.
“My mother is a woman,” she said, “on whom all delicacy of feeling is wasted, for she has none;” and John Temple certainly agreed with her.
But on the third day after his arrival at Woodlea something occurred which worried and disturbed him more than twenty visits from Mrs. Layton. It was a fine spring day and Mrs. Temple had gone out for a drive, but John Temple had refused to accompany her. However, about four o’clock, tempted by the sunshine, he lit a cigar and strolled out into the park.
He walked on moodily enough with bent head, when his attention was attracted by the sound of carriage wheels approaching down the avenue. He supposed it would be Mrs. Temple returning from her drive, and so he walked on. But when the carriage drew nearer and he was about to meet it, he saw it was not one of the Hall carriages, but evidently a hired one. He therefore turned hastily into a side path, for he was in no mood to encounter strangers. Then he heard the carriage stop, and a few moments later, when he again looked around, he perceived a lady on the side path, who was evidently following him.
He stopped, and for an instant the thought, the wild hope, crossed his brain, could it be May? But no; the lady who was approaching him, though closely veiled, was taller than the slender girlish form of his lost love. She advanced quickly, and in another minute they met; and John Temple started back as they did so.
For it was the woman to whom he had not spoken for long years; the woman he had wedded in his earlyyouth, and whose existence had been a curse and a stumbling-block in his way!
“You!” he said, sternly. “Why are you here?”
“From a natural feeling of curiosity,” answered the actress, who bore the professional name of Kathleen Weir. “I wished to see you in your new home!” And she gave a little laugh.
“It is useless—” began John Temple; but with a little airy wave of her hand she interrupted him.
“Pardon me,” she said, “it may be very useful to us both. I have come with a purpose; a purpose which I am quite sure will be a welcome one to you; I want you to help me to get rid of you.”
Again she laughed, and then flung back her veil and stood looking steadily at the husband who had forsaken her. She was a handsome woman, but John Temple saw no beauty in the large, bright, restless gray eyes; in the mocking, saucy lips.
“I do not understand you,” he answered, coldly.
“Not yet; but you will by and by. So this is your new inheritance?” she continued, looking round at the wooded park, with the fine gray old mansion standing in its midst. “My friend John, I had no idea I had made such a good match,” she added, mockingly.
“If you have come to talk thus, our interview must end.”
“What! grudge me a word or two, after these long years? Well, come, that is mean of you. But I have not come to talk nonsense, but sense. I have come, in fact, to talk business.”
“I suppose you want your allowance increased?”
Kathleen Weir nodded.
“That I certainly do,” she said, “and my terms have gone up since I have seen what a fine place you have got. But it is not only about my allowance I want to talk; I want to know if we can not arrange a divorce between us?”
John Temple looked at her quickly.
“My bait takes, I see,” went on Kathleen Weir, coolly. “Now, you can’t get a divorce from me; I’vebeen too careful for that; perhaps too cold, for a burnt child dreads the fire; or maybe I was too prudent to run the risk of losing my allowance. No, you can not get a divorce from me; now, the question is, can I get one from you?”
John Temple was silent; he looked down, he moved his hands impatiently.
“By the wonderful justice which the male law-givers deal out to women, I am perfectly aware that you could run away with anyone; with a dozen if you had a mind to, and I could get no redress unless you had committed some act, or acts, of cruelty, to which I could swear. Now, to be free, I am ready to swear falsely; I am ready to swear that you tore handfuls of hair out of my head, and I have a false tress or two out of which you can tear them—if you will make it worth my while.”
“What do you mean?”
“My friend John, you are a rich man now, and I’ve no doubt will be ready to pay handsomely for your liberty. You wish, I suppose, to be free of me, and be able to marry someone else?”
“Some months ago,” answered John Temple, with quick emotion, “I would have given anything to have been so—now it is too late.”
“Why is it too late?”
“It is useless to tell you; to tell you how our miserable marriage spoilt a young life.”
“But is it spoilt? And even if it is, I think you should show a little consideration for me. I am tired of leading the life I lead; I want someone to care a little for me. I wish, in fact, to be divorced from you.”
“Do you wish to marry again?”
“Well, if you will have it so, I think I do. But then, you know, you must consider my position. You talk of a spoilt life, but you spoilt and wasted my youth.”
“It is easy to put it so,” said John Temple, bitterly.
“Well, you married me and left me, did you not?”
“We agreed to part.”
“Yes, after you had made my life so unpleasant thatthere was no standing it. But I don’t want to fight, or say disagreeable things. I really want to come to an arrangement with you, an arrangement by which you will benefit by being free; and I shall benefit by being free also—only you must remember you are a rich man.”
John Temple was silent for a moment or two; he was turning it over in his mind whether to accept her proposition; then he remembered he had not told Mr. Churchill of his marriage to Kathleen Weir, that he could not be divorced without this being publicly known.
“Now I’ll be quite frank with you,” she went on, looking at his moody face. “I’ll want either a lump sum down, or a largely increased allowance for swearing falsely and exhibiting in court the three handsful of beautiful hair that you tore out of my unfortunate head. You must pay, you see, for these little freaks of temper.”
“Your jesting is out of place.”
“Not at all, my friend; life has always its comical side. For instance, it is comical my coming here to make a sensible bargain with you, instead of talking of my broken heart.”
“I presume it is not broken.”
“No, it is not, thank goodness. It is a tough heart, and a man’s inconstancy and changeableness will never even make a crack in it. For me to love and grieve now,” and she looked at him straight, “a man must be worth loving and grieving for.”
“What is the bargain that you want to make, then?” asked John Temple, impatiently, a moment later.
“It is this: You are a rich man now, and I am your wife, so I ought to be a rich woman also. I have a right, you know, to come here if I choose; to claim you before your new friends; in fact, to make myself generally disagreeable. But I don’t want to do this. I have my own ideas of happiness, and it is not to force my company on an unwilling man. But if you will give me ten thousand pounds I will bring an action ofdivorce against you; I will show the hair you tore out of my head, and swear to a black bruise or two on my arms, and perhaps a little playful box on my ears. Mind, I am not jesting, though I talk as if I were.”
“And if I refuse your modest request?”
“Oh, well, then I must have a big allowance; and I will talk to everyone of my husband, Mr. John Temple of Woodlea Hall, and I will buy diamonds and have them put down to you; in fact, it will be worse for you than if you give me ten thousand pounds and were done with me. I really advise you to think it over.”
And John Temple actually stood and did think it over.
“Let me have time to consider,” he said, at length.
“Which means you will accept my terms,” cried Kathleen Weir, triumphantly. “I’m so glad. I really feel quite friendly toward you, and we must help each other in this business, you know, and keep our own secrets, and no one will ever be the wiser.”
John Temple made no answer; he was thinking that he would in truth be glad to be free, and yet—
“I’ll see about getting a good man to manage the case,” went on Kathleen Weir, “and I will write to you, and we must get up the evidence, you know, and have everything on the square. We’ll hoodwink the dear old judge, and I will play the injured wife to such perfection that it will be one of my best parts. I’m glad I came to see you, but you’re not looking well, my friend; you are not as good-looking as you were. Well, never mind, someone, I dare say, will think you good-looking enough, particularly when she sees your grand house; though, by the by, you have not yet asked me into it.”
“My uncle’s widow is there, but—”
“Oh! never mind; I brought a luncheon basket with me from town, as I did not know whether I could depend on your hospitality; and, besides, it might look like collusion if we were caught hobnobbing together. No one knows of my visit here, and no one need know of it. I will go straight back to town by the next train,and will write all particulars to you as soon as I have arranged my case, and, as I said before, I shall depend on your friendly assistance. So now if you will escort me back to the very shaky hired carriage that I picked up at the station, I will take leave of Woodlea Hall—and its new owner.”
Again she laughed and showed her white teeth, and without another word John Temple walked by her side back to the carriage which was waiting for her in the avenue, and when they reached it he handed her in.
“Good-by,” she said, holding his hand for a moment and looking at him smilingly. “Make a better choice the second time; you are a man who should marry a woman who thinks you perfection—I never did!”
Then she nodded, smiled again, and was driven away.