CHAPTER XXXIV.
MR. CHURCHILL’S NEWS.
Early on the next morning after Ralph Webster had left May at St. Phillip’s Hospital, he called there to inquire after her, and saw his friend the house surgeon, Doctor Brentwood.
“You have come to ask after the poor little woman you brought here last night,” said the doctor, as he shook Webster’s hand. “Well, I’m sorry to say I can’t give a very good account of her. She has had a bad, restless night, and is very feverish this morning.”
“I am very sorry,” answered Webster, gravely, and a slight quiver passed over his lips.
“She seems extremely low, almost in a hopeless state,” went on the doctor. “She’s had some tremendous heart-break or other, poor soul; I suppose it’s not possible to give her any mental relief?”
“I fear not,” said Webster, in a low, pained tone. “She has lost at one blow all that made the happiness of her life.”
Doctor Brentwood looked somewhat curiously at his friend.
“She is decidedly pretty, at least she must be even remarkably so when she is well. I don’t want to seem curious, Webster, but suppose the poor young woman gets worse—and it is possible—what other friends has she besides yourself?”
“I promised her faithfully not to mention anything of her past.”
“Then I presume her name—Mrs. Church—is an assumed one?”
“I can not even answer that question. But let her have everything she can possibly require; I shall be answerable for all the expenses connected with her case.”
“And yet—you can do nothing to relieve her mind?”
“Nothing; I only wish I could.”
“Well, I must try to pull her through; poor young thing, it seems a sad case.”
“It is a terribly sad case.”
After this Ralph Webster went away, but each morning before he began his work he went to inquire at the hospital about “Mrs. Church.” And May was very ill. The shock had affected her physically as well as mentally and she lay prostrate, hopeless, wishing the life was ended that Webster had done his best to save. There were times when her mind wandered, and the fever ran high. But as a rule her great weakness was what the doctor feared most. It was as though the spring of youth were broken—the flower blighted in its bloom.
Meanwhile as days and weeks went on naturally the friends of the absent girl began to grow again uneasy concerning her fate. Mr. Churchill had returned to Woodside after his visit to London and the Misses Webster, an elated, almost overjoyed man. He had examined the register which recorded the marriage of John Temple and May Churchill, and he had seen the clergyman who had performed the ceremony. Therefore, his mind was set at rest regarding May. He did not write his news to his wife. He wished personally to carry it to her, and felt a sort of secret triumph when he remembered the remarks Mrs. Churchill had made regarding May’s disappearance.
He accordingly telegraphed to her the hour that he hoped to arrive at home, and desired the dog-cart might be waiting for him at the station to meet the train which he intended to travel by. It was waiting for him, and he was driven home, and standing at the open hall door when he reached Woodside was his wife ready to receive him.
She went quickly forward to meet him, and looked eagerly in his face.
“Well, William?” she said.
William kissed her, but there was triumph in his heart as he pressed his mustache against her firm lips. He was thinking of his girl, and thinking of her with pride.
“Have you heard anything?” half-whispered Mrs. Churchill, as she tried to lead him into the hall. But Mr. Churchill seemed in no hurry to impart his news. He gave directions to the groom who had driven him from the station regarding the horse in the dog-cart, and inquired about another animal that was ill. Then, at last, he turned and entered the house, and Mrs. Churchill having closed the door behind him, followed him into the dining-room.
“Have you heard anything of May?” she again inquired quickly.
“Yes,” answered Mr. Churchill, nodding his head, while a pleased smile spread over his face; “it is all right; May is now Mrs. John Temple, and I saw the register of the marriage and the clergyman who married them myself.”
“You don’t say so!” exclaimed Mrs. Churchill, genuinely astonished.
And for a moment or two—so strange is the human heart—she felt a pang of disappointment at the good news. She had always prophesied evil things of May, and to hear that she was suddenly raised in social position so far above herself, gave her an unpleasant sensation.
“Yes,” continued Mr. Churchill, somewhat boastfully, “my girl has done well for herself, hasn’t she, Sarah? I went first to the ladies where she lived after she left here, until she married Mr. John Temple. They were two real ladies, clergyman’s daughters, and elderly, and had known Mr. John Temple for years, and he asked them to take charge of her until he could make her his wife. And you should have heard how they spoke of her, in the highest terms, and they went to the church when she was married, and so it’s all on the square.”
“Then why was there all this secrecy?” asked Mrs. Churchill, for she had not yet got over her chagrin.
“It seems he thought the old squire and madam wouldn’t like it,” answered Mr. Churchill. “But that’s all right now, for the squire himself told me he would welcome May as his nephew’s wife. And as for madam, well, madam will just have to take it as best as she can. My girl will step into her shoes when the old gentleman dies, for the Hall goes to the heir I’m told, and I’ll have my son-in-law for my landlord—but I was always proud and fond of May.”
Mrs. Churchill composed her lips and tried to swallow her mortification. But after all she was a sensible, though a hard woman, and she saw it was no use trying to throw cold water on her husband’s elation at the good fortune of his daughter. She therefore went up to him and kissed him.
“Well, my dear,” she said, “I am glad it has ended well, and that you are pleased. But you have forgotten to let me know one thing; did you see her?”
“No; as ill-luck would have it, Mr. John Temple had taken her away to the seaside for a few days, and she was out of London when I was there. But I expect we shall be hearing from her shortly; and to-morrow morning I’ll go over to the Hall and see the squire, and tell him the news. Ay, and in spite of madam, I expect we’ll be having her staying at the Hall in no time, and what will you think of that, Sarah?” And Mr. Churchill laughed aloud, and patted his wife’s comely chin.
This was, however, a little more than Mrs. Churchill’s temper could bear.
“Well, I hope it will end well,” she said, tartly; “unequal marriages rarely do.”
“I don’t see that it’s so unequal,” retorted Mr. Churchill. “What was madam herself, who holds her head so high? Only a poor parson’s daughter, with a skin-flint mother, who begs for milk and eggs of everyone who is fool enough to give her them. My girl is as good as madam any day, and as for looks there’s no doubt May has the best of them.”
“You are too uplifted, William,” answered Mrs. Churchill, reproachfully; “remember pride may have a fall.” And having administered this rebuke, Mrs. Churchill left the room, leaving her husband seriously offended.
He was indeed so offended that he would not speak again on the subject during the whole evening. But early the next morning he ordered his best horse to be saddled, as he thought it behooved him to make a good appearance on such an important occasion as carrying the news of his nephew’s marriage to the squire.
“I am going to ride over to the Hall, Sarah,” he said, as he rose from the breakfast table, and he felt as he spoke that he was master of the situation. And Sarah felt this too. It was disagreeable that this little “chit” should be raised above her, but Mrs. Churchill knew very well it was true. Her property consisted of one good farm, besides some savings of her first husband. But what was this to the large estates of the squire’s of Woodlea? And Mr. John Temple was heir to these estates, and May was his wife. So Mrs. Churchill had made up her mind to make the best of it. She had also offended her good-looking husband, and Mrs. Churchill did not like being on bad terms with him.
“Very well, my dear,” she therefore answered meekly, to her spouse’s announcement that he was going to the Hall, “and I am glad you have such good news to tell the squire.”
“It is good news,” replied Mr. Churchill, still stiffly; but he felt mollified, and deigned to kiss his hand to his wife, as she stood at the hall door and watched him mount his good horse and ride away.
And it was no doubt with an uplifted heart that Mr. Churchill rode on his errand to the Hall. He knew, indeed, that Mr. Temple’s approval, or disapproval, would ultimately make no difference to John Temple’s position. The estates were strictly entailed on the next heir, in the event of the squire dying without children. The one child of the house was dead, and John Temple was the next heir, therefore the Woodlea property must some day be his, and his children’s after him. Mr. Churchill looked proudly around, as he went on, at the wide grass-lands and wooded slopes of the familiar landscape. He seemed to see them in a new light. His grandson might become their possessor, and he, the grandsire, would no doubt reap the benefit. He was a man who loved money and success in life, but to give him his due he was also not thinking only of worldly advantages. He was thinking that no one could now throw a stone at his “little girl, and that she would be able to hold up her head with the best of them.”
And his heart was still full of pride when he drew rein at the Hall. He could scarcely ask if he could see the squire in the same tone as was his wont. But he tried to do this, and not to show any undue elation, when the squire received him in the library.
“Well, Mr. Churchill, have you any news?” asked Mr. Temple, gravely, as he held out his hand to his tenant.
“Yes, squire, I have,” answered Mr. Churchill, cordially grasping his landlord’s hand in his own.
“And what is it?” asked Mr. Temple, somewhat nervously.
“Well, sir, I went up to London, as you know, the day before yesterday, and yesterday morning I went to the house in Pembridge Terrace, Bayswater, where the ladies live whose address Mrs. Temple kindly gave me, and where my daughter May has been staying since she left her home. And, squire, I found two real ladies, elderly, and clergyman’s daughters, and they seemed very fond of my girl, and had known your nephew, Mr. John Temple, for many years. And to make a long story short, squire, Mr. John Temple and May were married from their house; the ladies going to the church to witness the ceremony, and then the young people went abroad.”
Mr. Temple’s delicate, rather pallid complexion slightly flushed at this announcement, and for a moment he was silent. The pride of birth and station were not absent from his nature, but, on the other hand, he was a good and just man, and he knew that John Temple had only acted rightly.
“Well, Mr. Churchill,” he said, rather slowly, “I am glad to hear this is so. If my nephew induced your daughter to leave her home, he has only done what a gentleman ought to do in making her his wife.”
“She left her home to become his wife, sir,” answered Mr. Churchill, rather quickly. “That was the arrangement between them, and in the meanwhile my girl went to these ladies, who are friends of his, and remained with them until her marriage. And that there might be no doubt about it, squire, I went to the church where they were married, and I saw the clergyman who married them, and examined the register; and this—” and he drew a sheet of paper from his pocket-book as he spoke—“this is the copy of the register of their marriage, and if you’ll kindly look at it you will see it’s all on the square.”
The squire settled his gold-rimmed glasses on his nose, and took the paper in his hand. In it were duly set forth the date and other particulars of the marriage of John Temple and May Churchill, or rather of Margaret Alice Churchill, for May had given her full baptismal name on the occasion of her marriage.
Mr. Temple read the copy through and then returned it to Mr. Churchill.
“Well, then, there is no mistake, Mr. Churchill,” he said, “and we must earnestly hope that the young people may be happy together. Your daughter, from what I have seen of her, is, I am sure, a charming and very pretty girl—and I will write to my nephew to congratulate him. But where are they now?”
“Well, sir, I am sorry to say I missed them. Mr. John Temple had taken May away to the seaside for a few days when I arrived in town. But no doubt we will be hearing from them soon.”
The squire looked rather puzzled.
“It was strange,” he said, “that my nephew would say nothing before he left here. However, there is no doubt about their marriage, and when you hear from your daughter, Mr. Churchill, will you let me know, and then I will write to my nephew?”
“That I will, sir,” answered Mr. Churchill; “and thank you kindly for the way in which you have spoken of my girl. You might have looked higher, naturally, for your nephew, but this I will say for my daughter May—that a sweeter or bonnier lass does not live! There’s no vice about her, sir, and she’s been a blessing and a comfort to me always, and I’m sure she will be one to her husband. Her mother was a lady—a clergyman’s daughter—and May has taken after her in all her ways.”
“She is no doubt a very sweet-looking girl,” said the squire, “and I shall be glad to welcome her here. But now I am afraid I must say good-morning, Mr. Churchill, as I have an engagement I must keep.” And the squire looked at his watch.
Upon this hint Mr. Churchill took his departure, and scarcely was he gone when Mr. Temple proceeded at once to the breakfast-room, where he had left his handsome wife.
Mrs. Temple was listlessly reading the newspaper, and she looked up somewhat surprised when he entered the room, as she did not know of Mr. Churchill’s visit.
“I have got some news for you, Rachel,” said Mr. Temple.
“News?” asked Mrs. Temple, quickly.
“Yes; John Temple is married to Miss Churchill; must have married her two days after he left here in the autumn, when he said he went to Paris—that must have been his wedding trip.”
Mrs. Temple started to her feet, and her face flushed and then grew pale.
“Is this possible?” she said. “Are you sure?”
“Mr. Churchill has just been here, and he brought with him a copy of the register of their marriage. There can be no mistake, and yet I do not understand John’s conduct, or why he was so reticent about it, when I distinctly told him that if he had induced her to leave her home that it was his duty to make her his wife.”
“There is something to hide, something he is keeping back!” cried Mrs. Temple, excitedly. “But you say they are actually married?”
“They are certainly married, and Rachel, now that the thing is done, we must try to make the best of it. Naturally it is not what I wished for John—still—”
“I should think not!” interrupted Mrs. Temple, scornfully. “A tenant farmer’s daughter—truly her pretty face has made her fortune!”
“Well, it is done, and when I hear from John I mean to write to him; after all the girl is good and pretty, and he might have done worse.”
“Not well, I think,” answered Mrs. Temple, bitterly, and then she left the room, full of excitement and anger.
The news of John Temple’s marriage was indeed very bitter to her. Unconsciously she had learnt to like him too well for one thing, and for another she disliked, nay hated, the whole Churchill family. The boys had played in the fatal game when her little son was killed, and she had always felt a strange jealousy of May’s beauty. And now she was Mrs. John Temple, the wife of the heir of Woodlea! reflected Mrs. Temple, with curling lips.
But she was too much excited to keep the news to herself. She therefore hastily put on her hat and cloak, and started for the vicarage to tell her mother. She felt a sort of grim pleasure in thinking what a rage Mrs. Layton would be in when she heard it. And she certainly was not disappointed in this. Her arrival was most unexpected and inconvenient, for she rarely went to her father’s house, and on this unfortunate morning Mrs. Layton was engaged in what she called “dressing her feathers,” that is, all the feathers that she could collect from the fowls eaten at the Hall or at the vicarage were eagerly saved and stored away by Mrs. Layton until she had acquired a sufficient quantity to have a grand assortment of them. She was therefore sitting covered with feathers in her store-room, when she was told that her daughter, Mrs. Temple, was waiting below to see her.
She tried to shake herself free of the feathers, but with many still clinging to her hair and dress she finally descended, by no means in a good humor. Mrs. Temple was standing looking out of the window as she entered the room, and she gave rather a hard laugh when she saw her mother’s extraordinary appearance.
“Whatever have you been doing?” she said.
“I’ve been dressing my feathers, my dear,” replied Mrs. Layton, “my half-yearly dressing, you know, and I don’t believe, Rachel, that your cook or your scullery-maid have sent me half what they should.”
Mrs. Temple slightly shrugged her handsome shoulders.
“We’ve had a wedding in the family,” she said, scornfully, “and I’ve come to tell you the news.”
“A wedding!” repeated Mrs. Layton, blankly.
“Yes, my nephew John Temple has entered the distinguished family of Churchill,” continued Mrs. Temple, yet more scornfully. “Nice for us all, isn’t it?”
“It can’t be true?” gasped Mrs. Layton.
“Perfectly true, I assure you! The respected head of the family has just been to the Hall to tell Phillip, and he brought a copy of the register of the marriage, and everything is all correct. My beloved nephew, it seems, was secretly married when he went away in the autumn, he said, to Paris. No doubt he did go to Paris, but it was with his highly-born bride!”
“Well, whatever is the world coming to!” cried Mrs. Layton with uplifted hands. “It will be destroyed—no doubt the end is coming—such monstrous things occur! To think that this girl, a girl I’ve bought eggs of, a girl whose character I consider to be far from what it ought to be, should make such a match! But I warned you, Rachel, against John Temple; a snake in the grass, I considered him; but I never thought he would be such a fool as this.”
“I think he must be more a fool than a snake,” answered Mrs. Temple, contemptuously. “Fancy marrying a girl like this! And Phillip says we must make the best of it, which I suppose means inviting the bride and bridegroom to stay at the Hall! However, we shall see. But, good-morning now, mother; I’ll leave you to digest my news.” And with a little nod Mrs. Temple turned away and left the house, while Mrs. Layton stood absolutely speechless with disgust.
But both Mr. Churchill’s elation and Mrs. Temple’s indignation cooled down during the next few weeks. For, to the great surprise and disappointment of Mr. Churchill, nothing was heard at Woodside either from John Temple or his supposed bride. Each morning Mr. Churchill said he could not understand it when the letters came in and there was none from May; and Mrs. Churchill—though with caution—began again to insinuate that she feared it was not all right. And the squire himself, just a week after Mr. Churchill’s visit to the Hall to announce the marriage, walked one morning over to Woodside, to ask Mr. Churchill the whereabouts of the bride and bridegroom.
“Well, squire, it’s the strangest thing, but we have not had a word from them,” answered Mr. Churchill, somewhat disconcerted.
“It is certainly very strange,” said the squire, slowly.
“Can’t understand it, because I told the ladies—the Miss Websters that she had been staying with, and who saw her married to Mr. John Temple—that you had been kind enough to say you would receive her as his wife.”
“Which I certainly shall do. Well, Mr. Churchill, why not write to these ladies and ask if they know their address? They probably do.”
“I never thought of that, sir; but I’ll write to them this very day. Thank you very much for thinking of it, squire.”
And Mr. Churchill accordingly did write to Miss Webster, and after apologizing for troubling her, told her that he was getting anxious at not hearing from his daughter, and asked her to be good enough to give him Mrs. John Temple’s address, if she knew it. And he added, “Mr. Temple, the squire of Woodlea, was here this morning, and will be glad also to hear from his nephew.”
An answer to this letter was most anxiously expected at Woodside, and after two days one came, which was as follows:
“Dear Sir: I am sorry I can not give you the information you require regarding the address of Mr. and Mrs. John Temple, as we have heard nothing from them since the day Mr. John Temple arrived here and took your daughter away for a proposed short visit to the seaside. But the same day that you called and told us Mr. Temple of Woodlea Hall would be glad to receive the young people, I felt it was my pleasing duty to write a few lines to Mr. John Temple to tell him of your visit, and also of his uncle’s sanction to his marriage. I sent this letter to the Grosvenor Hotel, where he sometimes stays while in town, but I have received no reply. And therefore we—my sister and myself—can only conclude that Mr. and Mrs. John Temple must have gone abroad, and have not received my letter.
“Trusting, however, that you will soon hear from them, I remain,
“Yours sincerely,
”Margaret Webster.”
“Yes, that’s it; no doubt they are abroad,” said Mr. Churchill, after he had read Miss Webster’s letter, handing it to his wife.
“Of course, they may be,” replied his wife.
But Mr. Churchill was quite sure that they were, and took over Miss Webster’s letter to show it to the squire. But the squire still thought it very strange, and so did Mrs. Temple when her husband told her of it.
“There is something to hide. John Temple is keeping something back,” she said. And she thought again and again, “What can it be?”
CHAPTER XXXV.
KATHLEEN WEIR’S GHOST.
And during this time, also, Miss Kathleen Weir had felt very much disappointed that she had neither seen nor heard anything of Mr. Ralph Webster. That is, she only received two brief notes from him, both declining her invitations to “a merry supper after the play to meet Linda Falconer, as you admired her so much—and her swain, Dereham.”
But Webster, with the ever-present memory of that despairing face on the bridge, and the constant anxiety for the unhappy girl lying in St. Phillip’s Hospital, nigh unto death, had felt it was impossible for him to encounter the gay and lively sallies of the actress. Not that he had lost interest in the woman who stood between poor May and happiness, but his mind was too much out of tune to go into such vivacious company, and he therefore had refused Miss Weir’s invitations.
But nearly three weeks after he had taken May Churchill to St. Phillip’s, a change came over her condition. Her physical health decidedly improved, and one morning when Doctor Brentwood was paying his usual visit to her she spoke to him of her future life.
“I am going to live now, doctor, am I not?” she said, in a low, pained tone.
“Certainly you are going to live,” replied the doctor. “I hope for many years; until you are quite old,” and he smiled.
“That will be a long time,” said May, with a weary sigh; “I am not much past twenty now—a long, long time.”
“It seems long to look forward to, but time passes quickly enough, especially when it is fully employed.”
“It is about this that I meant to speak to you of, doctor,” continued May, and a faint color stole to her pale cheeks. “If I am going to live I must do something to gain my own living; I must find some employment.”
“Everyone is better employed,” answered the doctor, cheerfully; “it’s good for mind and body alike. Now what do you think you would like to do?”
“Since I have felt a little better I have thought of this constantly. I—I should like to see Mr. Webster about it, as he might be able to help me.”
“I am sure he will do anything to help you; he is your sincere friend, and has been most anxious about you during your illness, and has called each morning to inquire for you. Therefore you may depend on his assistance, I am certain, and, I may add, on mine.”
“You are very good—”
“And now I am going to ask you a question which is not a medical one,” interrupted the doctor, “and, therefore you need not answer it unless you like. But have you no friends, no relations, to whom you can now apply?”
“None!” answered May, with sudden emotion; “I wish to be as one dead to everyone I know—they must think me dead, and I would have been, but for—”
“Forgive me for having pained you, and I will promise never again to allude to the subject. So you would like to see Ralph Webster? Well, you shall see him to-morrow, and I am truly glad to find you so much better.” And then he smiled kindly and went away.
He felt interested in this forlorn and broken-hearted young woman, who he was sure his friend Webster had saved from some tragic fate; and not the less interested on account of May’s fair face. He therefore wrote to Webster during the day, and told him of the improvement in May’s health, and also of her wish to find some employment.
“Don’t throw cold water on this, my dear fellow,” he added; “it will be the very best thing possible for her, and will give her an interest in life which she has well-nigh lost. Can you call to-morrow afternoon?” And so forth.
Doctor Brentwood’s letter was a great relief to Webster’s mind, and he received another by the same post from Miss Kathleen Weir. This was a highly characteristic epistle.
“Dear Mr. Webster: For the third and last time, unless you come, will you take supper with me this evening; or if suits you better will you call in the afternoon? Wire which. Yours ever sincerely.
“Kathleen Weir.”
Webster read this note with a smile; thought it over, and then decided to call during the afternoon, and he accordingly telegraphed Miss Weir to that effect. And as he drove to the actress’ flat he was wondering if she had any news to tell him, and he found that she had some.
She received him in her usual airy fashion, and she was charmingly dressed in a most becoming tea-gown.
“Well, you have come at last,” she said, holding out her hand as Webster entered her drawing-room.
“Yes,” he answered, taking it, “and I should have come before, but I have been a good deal worried of late.”
“About money or love?”
“About neither, as it happens.”
“I thought there were only two things worried men, and the want of money was the worst. Well, we must all have it; but I have been more than worried, I have been upset; I have seen a ghost!”
“A ghost?”
“Yes, the ghost of a dead love! There, can you guess what I mean? Well, I suppose not, so I must tell you. But I have really been shocked; I have seen John Temple in the flesh, though looking so awfully ill that he was much more like a dead man than a living one.”
“Where did you see him?” asked Webster, quickly.
“I will tell you. Yesterday morning I drove down to see Mr. Harrison, the solicitor, as I wanted to be quite certain whether John Temple is the man who has come into the fortune, as Dereham was so positive that he was. Well, you know Harrison’s offices are at Westminster, and I saw the old boy sure enough, but he was as sly as a fox. He did not deny that John Temple was the man ‘that ultimately, mind ultimately, my dear madam,’ he kept repeating, would succeed to his uncle’s estate or estates. ‘But his position at present is unchanged,’ he added, and he threw ice on my suggestion that I should have an increased allowance. ‘When Mr. John Temple succeeds to the property the question can then be mooted,’ and so on. In fact I got no satisfaction for my trouble, and when I came out of the office in a very bad humor I told the cabman to drive over Westminster bridge and back again, as I thought the river air might improve my temper.”
“And you went?” asked Webster, eagerly.
“I went; I was in a hansom, and when we got to the other end of the bridge I told the man to turn back. He did so, and there was a block as we re-crossed, and I was bending out of the cab to see what was going to happen, when my eyes fell on the figure of a man leaning on the parapet of the bridge, and staring into the river below. As I was looking at him, he lifted his head and looked around, and I saw a ghost—the ghost of John Temple! But, oh, so horribly changed! He looked haggard, worn, and old, and a sort of pity—such fools are women—crept into my heart as I looked at him. I felt sorry for him; I thought he must be in some terrible trouble, and so I felt I should like to speak to him. I pulled out my handkerchief and waved it to attract his attention, and someone told him of this, for he looked quickly up at the cab, and our eyes met! I wish you had seen the look of horror that came over his face, of shuddering horror, as he recognized me. It was hatred! He glared at me just for a moment, and then turned and fled as if the devil himself were after him. There, what do you think of that? The end of a dead love!”
“I think it is very dramatic,” said Ralph Webster, slowly. He forced himself to speak the commonplace words, but he was not thinking commonplace thoughts.
“Now, there was something in this man’s face,” went on the actress, “that told me a story. John Temple is grieving about something that has cut his heart-strings. It can’t be money in his case because for one thing he never cared very much about it, and for another he will ultimately, as Mr. Harrison described it, succeed to his uncle’s property, and with such prospects he could borrow as much as he liked, I suppose. No, it is about some woman! He was looking down into the dusky river when I first saw him. Can he have driven some poor soul to seek for refuge in its gloomy depths?”
Ralph Webster inwardly shuddered, but Kathleen Weir little thought how near she was to the truth.
“He is miserable about some woman,” she repeated, “and that is why I have sent for you to-day. I am in the way, I suppose, and I don’t want to be in the way any longer. I want to be free, and of course he does. Now, how can I find out about his life, for if I could find out, I expect I could go triumphantly through the ordeal of the divorce court.”
Webster was silent for a few moments; he was thinking the knowledge of John Temple’s second marriage would not free him from his first. It would bring disgrace to him, but not liberty to her.
“You would have to show a case against him besides this supposed woman,” he said, slowly. “Did he ever treat you cruelly?”
“You mean did he ever punch my head, or pull my hair?” answered Kathleen, with a hard, little laugh. “No, I can not truthfully say he ever did; but I might say it untruthfully, and he would be too glad to get rid of me to contradict me.”
“But it would be very dangerous; you would have to prove it.”
“At all events he forsook me?”
“I thought you parted by mutual consent?”
“How horrid you are, Mr. Webster! At all events I mean to get quit of him. I am weary of a tie which is no tie; of a bond which galls me, and I would do anything, even something desperate, to break it.”
She started to her feet, and began walking up and down the room as she spoke, swaying her tall, fine figure with a restless movement as she did so. She was looking very handsome, her excitement had flushed her face and brightened her bright eyes, and involuntarily Webster admired her.
“There!” she said, presently, “now I have told you my news, so please rouse your sharp legal brains to help me. I don’t mind about the three hundred a year now, or the ultimate reversion of some bigger sum. I want to be free. I don’t want John Temple to cut his own throat or mine—and upon my word he looked as if he could do it—but I want to scrape out of my marriage some other way.”
“Well, let me have time to think it over.”
“Thanks, and now let us drop a disagreeable subject, and tell me what you have been doing with yourself all this long time? You look thinner, and you say you have been worried?”
“Yes; we all have worries and troubles, you know, Miss Weir.”
“That is true; but still I think life might be bright, might be sweet and worth living for.”
“I am sure yours is.”
“Oh! don’t pay me those commonplace compliments; I don’t want to hear them from you.”
“You despise my best efforts to be agreeable.”
“What a disagreeable humor you are in! I declare I think I shall send you away.”
“Well, must I go?” said Webster, rising with a smile.
“Not yet; unless you will promise to come again very soon. Come to supper to meet Linda Falconer and Dereham the day after to-morrow.”
“I will see if I can, if you will allow the invitation to remain open. By the by, how is that affair progressing?”
“Oh, swimmingly, I believe, but Linda is fearfully bored with him. ‘My dear,’ she said to me the other day, ‘he is too silly.’”
“Poor boy!”
“Poor boy, indeed! However, that is settled, and you will come the day after to-morrow to supper? In the meantime, you know, don’t forget my ghost and his probable misdoings.”
“Very well,” said Webster with a laugh. Then he took leave of the actress, and Kathleen Weir was alone.
As she had done once before after he had left her, she immediately went up to one of the mirrors in the room and gazed at her own reflection in the glass.
“Am I so weak?” she thought. “Do I actually like this man, perhaps better than he likes me? But if I were free I think he would like me—I must be free!”
CHAPTER XXXVI.
BY THE SEA.
The next day Ralph Webster went to see a very different woman to the sprightly actress. He went to see pale, sad-faced May Churchill, propped up in an easy chair, with the unmistakable attitudes of weakness and languor in every movement.
A sudden flush, however, rose to her very brows as Webster entered the room, and she nervously held out her hand. She was remembering that momentous meeting on the bridge; remembering her terrible misery and despair.
And the ordinarily calm Webster was also ill at ease. He took the thin, trembling little hand in his, almost without a word; he looked at the altered face, and a strange, painful emotion stirred his heart.
“You are better?” he said a moment later, but not in his usual firm tones.
“Yes, much better,” she answered.
It was the same sweet, low voice that he had listened for too eagerly at his aunts’ house; that had touched some hidden chord in his heart that hitherto had been mute.
“Doctor Brentwood told me you were much better,” he went on, still nervously, “and I hope soon to see you quite well.”
May made no reply for a moment or so, then she looked up in his face.
“And did Doctor Brentwood tell you anything else?” she asked. “Did he tell you that I wish to find some employment at once?”
“He told me something of this,” answered Webster, taking a chair and drawing it nearer to her; “but for you to do anything at once is, I am sure, impossible.”
“But I must, indeed I must, Mr. Webster,” said May, earnestly. “I can not any longer be a burden to you—I know I have been—”
Here she paused, and tears came unbidden into her eyes, and she turned away her head to hide her emotion.
“Do not, I entreat you, speak thus,” said Webster, also much moved. “I have only been too happy, too thankful, to have been of any use to you. And anything I can do for you, anything that a most sincere friend can do, I am sure you know I will do.”
“You have been most kind, most good,” faltered May. “But—but do not let us speak of the painful past; it upsets me, and unfits me for what I have got to say, for what I must do. What I want is to find some work, some employment.”
“And what have you thought of?”
“I have thought of many things,” answered May with a wan smile. “I am not sufficiently educated to be a governess, I fear, for I have never been at any college nor passed examinations as they do now. I could go into a shop—”
“Certainly not,” interrupted Webster, quickly.
“Why not? It is a means of livelihood, and what matter is it?” said May, quietly.
“It is a life you are quite unsuited for, and one utterly unsuited to you. That is out of the question.”
“Then there are telegraph and post office clerks, are there not, who are women?”
“Yes, but—”
“But Mr. Webster, I must do something. And—there is another thing I have thought of—what I should like best, I think—to be a nurse.”
“Do you mean a hospital nurse?”
“Yes, like Nurse Margaret, who has attended upon me. I am sure I should like this best, and if Doctor Brentwood would give me a chance—”
“I am sure he will do anything for you that he can. Yes,” continued Webster, after a moment’s thought, “I think that life would suit you best. You are naturally gentle and kind, and to help poor, sick people would be a congenial task to you. But nursing, like other things, has to be taught. I will talk to Brentwood about it.”
“Yes, they receive what they call probationers at some hospitals, and perhaps Doctor Brentwood would kindly use his influence to get me admitted at one of these.”
“I will see about it, and I think it is the most likely thing to suit you. But before you do anything, or think of anything, you must have a complete change of air. You must go to the seaside for awhile.”
“I can not do this, Mr. Webster.”
“Forgive me saying so, but you must. Nothing will make you strong but that. How could you nurse anyone when you still want nursing yourself? You must go to Hastings, or one of these places.”
“I—I have no money to do so—it is impossible.”
“Have I not asked you to regard me as a sincere friend? Do you think the trifle it would cost is not most heartily at your service? When you become a very swell nurse, you know,” added Webster, smiling and trying to speak lightly, “you must repay me.”
“If—if I only could,” said May, with emotion.
“You can, and will. Now that is all settled, and tell me where would you like to go—Hastings?”
“But, Mr. Webster—”
“What sort of person has waited on you here? A nice woman?”
“A very nice woman, Nurse Margaret, Sister Margaret, they call her. She has been so good to me.”
“Then you shall go to Hastings with Sister Margaret to take care of you. And I shall expect to see quite a rosy face when I go down to see you. And now I am not going to stay any longer to-day and tire you. We have settled that you are to become a nurse, but first you must get quite well. I will see Brentwood and make all arrangements. For the present, good-by.”
He held out his hand, which May took tremulously. She dare not ask him any questions, nor even inquire after his aunts. She knew if she did she would break down, and he knew this also. They both ignored the past, or at least did not speak of it.
And when she next saw Doctor Brentwood after this interview with Ralph Webster, he told her that everything was settled. She was to go to Hastings in three days, and Sister Margaret, the hospital nurse, was to accompany her.
“And when you return I will see about receiving you here as a probationer,” said the doctor, “as Webster tells me you wish to become a nurse. Would you rather stay here, or go to another hospital?”
“I should rather stay here if I may,” answered May, gratefully.
“I think I can manage it. Yes, the sea-cure is the very thing for you, and I expect you will come back quite well.”
“But—but, Doctor Brentwood, about the expense? I can not—”
The doctor moved his well-shaped hand.
“That is all settled,” he said; “don’t you trouble your head about anything. Sister Margaret has instructions to arrange everything for you.”
And May found that Sister Margaret had instructions to go out and purchase everything she required in the way of dress or outfit. She was a nice, kind, sensible woman, whose own brow was not unlined with sorrow, and she felt great pity for the poor young widow—so May was supposed to be in the hospital—whom she had nursed through her grievous illness. She was also instructed to ask Mrs. Church no questions regarding her past life.
“She has had great troubles; let her try to forget them,” the doctor told the nurse. “She has youth to help her, and thinking of the past will do her no good.”
Ralph Webster saw May again before she left town for Hastings, but when she tried to thank him for all he had done for her he would not listen. To do anything for her indeed was his greatest happiness. But he tried to hide this, and did hide the strong, deep feelings of his heart.
But a painful incident occurred before he parted with her. Webster noticed that May was agitated, and suddenly her delicate skin flushed, and with quivering lips she asked him a question:
“Have you,” she said, in a broken voice, “seen or heard anything of—him?”
Webster hesitated, but he saw it was only cruel to prolong her suspense.
“I have heard nothing,” he answered, “of Mr. Temple; except I know a person who saw him one day.”
“Then he is still in London!” cried May, with deep emotion; “still—he must have made inquiries—he—he was sure to make inquiries—but no doubt he believes me dead. It is best that he should believe me dead!”
She suddenly broke down and burst into passionate sobs. In vain Webster entreated her to try and compose herself. It seemed as though the flood-gate of her emotion was let loose, and the long strain of silence broken.
“I am dead!” she kept on repeating; “dead to every one; no one knows I live but you.”
“And yet you pain me so deeply,” said Webster, in a low tone.
“Forgive me,” sobbed May, “but I thought I would ask.”
“Hush, hush! try not to think of all this. A new life is opening to you; try to go into it with a brave heart. Believe me, there is nothing like work; it deadens pain.”
There was an irrepressible ring of sadness in his voice as he said the last words, which told of his own hard struggle, the struggle of which May knew nothing. But something in his voice made her dry her tears and look at him. He was very pale, and his face had grown thinner and more marked, she noticed, and her heart reproached her for adding to his troubles.
“Forgive me for being so selfish,” she said, gently; “I—will not give way any more. But have you been ill? You do not look very well.”
“I have been too hard-worked, I suppose,” answered Webster, trying to smile. “I shall go down to Hastings for a day’s holiday while you are there, and that will freshen me up. And now, is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Nothing, nothing indeed! You have only been too good.”
“That is all right then, and now good-by.”
He stooped down as he spoke and pressed his lips upon her hand, and then turned quickly away. And May looked after him gratefully.
“How good he is!” she thought; “what a noble heart he has! I wonder what made him look so sad.”
But a few minutes later Sister Margaret bustled into the room, and she, also, was full of Mr. Webster’s praise.
“What a thorough gentleman he is!” she said, quite enthusiastically. “Have you known him long, Mrs. Church?”
“For some time,” answered May, and her tone reminded Sister Margaret she had been instructed to ask Mrs. Church no questions regarding her past life.
Yet the good woman naturally felt curious, and had decided in her own mind that Mr. Webster must have been an old lover of the young widow’s, and she began to hope that it might end in a marriage. This was, of course, entirely her own theory, for she had certainly nothing to go on. For she and May were quite a fortnight at Hastings before they either saw or heard anything more of Mr. Webster.
She took comfortable rooms for May overlooking the sea, and the change of scene and fresh air soon began to revive the drooping invalid. And a strange change came over May’s mind also at this time. Sister Margaret had many a sad tale to tell her; tales of forsaken wives and broken hearts. Her experience of life had not lain along its smooth paths. She had trod the rough roads, and the sick and sorrowful had been her daily companions. And listening to her May began to learn that her case was not worse than others; her wound not more terrible than some of her fellow sufferers.
“I loved him too much,” she told herself; “it blinded me, and I believed he loved me as I loved him. But it was not the same.”
She did not even give John Temple his due, for he had not felt for her a brief passion that soon would pass away. He had loved her with a selfish love, no doubt, but with a love that made him put everything else aside for her sake. He thought, also, that she cared for him beyond and above all earthly things; that nothing would have torn her from his side.
She had not realized the shock, the horror of her awakening. It seemed to end everything for her, and now slowly struggling back to life, she told herself that John Temple had never really loved her. She had been his plaything; his “country sweetheart,” as he had often called her in his fond hours of love.
Sitting watching the long, rolling waves breaking up against the white cliffs, or the sea-birds winging their way above the foam, May told herself again and again that her life was done—that is, her life of happiness and hope. There remained but for her a cold and colorless existence, toiling for her daily bread. Yet she did not shrink from her fate. She accepted it as inevitable, and, after the first bitterness was passed, bore herself with a certain amount of heroism and calmness.
“I was mad that night, and but for Mr. Webster—” she sometimes thought, and would shudder as she did so.
“I wonder he has never been down to see us?” at last one day said Sister Margaret, at the very moment when May was vaguely thinking of the past.
The two were sitting together on the pier, in a bright, fresh day in the early winter time, when Sister Margaret made this remark. All around them was the deep blue sea, white-crested and sparkling in the sun. Visitors were strolling about, and the whole scene was cheerful and invigorating. May roused herself from her sad day-dreams to answer Sister Margaret.
“You mean Mr. Webster?” she said. “I dare say he is too busy to come.”
She looked up as she spoke, looked across the pier, and with a little start the next moment she recognized Ralph Webster. He was leaning back against the railing watching the two women he had come to see, and when his eyes met May’s he raised his hat and crossed over to speak to them.
“Good gracious, Mr. Webster!” cried Sister Margaret, when she saw him. “What a start you gave us! we were just speaking of you.”
“Were you?” he answered, and he shook hands with them both, and then sat down by May’s side.
“May I sit beside you?” he said, as he did so.
“I have been wondering,” he went on the next moment, smiling, “how long I should stand opposite to you without your seeing me? Do you know I’ve been quite five minutes over there?”
“Really!” said May. She felt nervous and agitated. Seeing him again so suddenly had brought the past more vividly before her.
“But I have not been wasting my time,” continued Webster, still smiling; “I have been seeing, and with great and sincere pleasure, how much you are improved. The sea air has made a wonderful difference in you.”
“Yes; doesn’t she look well?” said Sister Margaret, proudly.
“Indeed she does. This is a charming day,” went on Webster, looking up at the blue sky, and then down at the blue sea. “It seems like a rest to sit here; a rest from the worries of the world.”
“And have you been very busy?” asked May, half-shyly.
“I always work fairly hard, you know,” answered Webster.
May did not speak again for a few minutes. She was thinking of what she had often thought—how she had been first interested in Webster’s work in the case concerning Kathleen Weir’s diamonds. She was wondering if he ever saw her now—the woman he knew to be John Temple’s wife.
And Webster, watching her delicate profile, almost guessed what was passing in her mind. But he tried to change the current of her thoughts. He pointed out a white-sailed little vessel scudding before the wind; he talked of the sea and of the sky, and May listened, and for the time her troubles faded from her mind.
Suddenly, however, Sister Margaret seemed uneasy, and began to fidget with her silver watch, twice unhooking it from her waistband. She looked at May, but May did not notice her. At last she said, in a slightly marked tone:
“It is a quarter-past one o’clock, Mrs. Church.”
“Is it?” answered May, dreamily.
“Yes, and I am sure Mr. Webster must require some refreshment after his journey,” said Sister Margaret, in a very pointed manner.
May now understood.
“Oh! yes,” she said, rising. “Will you come and have lunch with us now, Mr. Webster?”
“I shall be very pleased, if you will allow me to do so,” he answered.
“Then, in that case, I will just hurry home and see that it is ready,” said Sister Margaret, with alacrity. She was a handy woman, and instantly made up her mind to add considerably to the usual chops at their midday meal, on her way through the town, in honor of their guest. But she did not wish him to know this.
“I will leave you in charge of Mr. Webster,” she went on, and in a moment later hurried away so quickly that Webster looked after her with a smile.
“I hope Sister Margaret is not going to give herself any trouble on my account,” he said.
May smiled; almost the first smile he had seen on her face since she had left Pembridge Terrace.
“I think she must wish to improve our usual lunch on your account,” she answered. “She is such a good, kind woman,” she continued, “and she has gone through so much trouble, Mr. Webster.”
“Her face rather gives you that impression. But she looks happy enough now—or at least content.”
“It would be a great thing to feel content.”
“A great thing, indeed; to know no longer the restless craving for something we can not obtain.”
“And—and do you think—” began May, and then she paused, hesitated, and slightly colored.
“Do I think what?” said Webster, and he turned round his head and looked at her.
“Do you think we could ever feel happy again—after a great blow, a great shock?”
“I think we could feel happy, but not the same happiness. A sort of sobered, perhaps, a wiser happiness, no doubt, might come to us.”
“It’s dangerous to be too happy,” said May, with downcast eyes and quivering lips.
“Not many of us have the chance of being so,” answered Webster, rising. “But, come, we must not keep Sister Margaret waiting.”
“No,” and May also rose, and together they walked down the pier, but Webster merely talked of the people that they passed on their way. He wished her to forget, for a time at least, the shadow on her young life; the grief that had made it so hard to bear.
Sister Margaret had not exerted herself in vain. In addition to the usual dish of chops, she had purchased a pigeon pie, a lobster, and various trifles on her way through the town. In fact, she looked on the repast she spread before Webster with pardonable pride. And he tried to make the whole thing pleasant. He told some good stories; he complimented Sister Margaret on her pie, and the good woman thoroughly enjoyed herself. And when lunch was over, Webster, after going to the window and looking at the smooth sea and the sailing boats scudding on its blue breast, proposed that they should go out for a sail, and Sister Margaret was quite delighted with the idea.
“I have not been out for a sail since I was a girl,” she said; “it will make me feel young again.”
“And you?” said Webster, looking at May, “would you like to go?”
“I think I should,” answered May, gently.
So they went down to the beach and engaged a sailing boat, and were soon flying on white wings before the light gale. It was a beautiful day, sunny, cloudless, almost warm, and yet with the crisp touch of the early winter in the clear air. That crisp touch brought a wild-rose bloom back once more to May’s fair oval cheeks; it brightened her eyes, and she smiled more than once as she sat by Webster’s side.
“I have never been on the sea before,” she said to Webster. “Do you remember when—” and for a moment she paused—“when we rode on the Thames?”
Yes, Webster remembered that day too well; remembered the beautiful girl sitting opposite to him in the boat, on the reedy river, and dipping her white hands in the stream. There was no shadow on her face then, nor sorrow in her heart. Only sunshine and hope, with the unknown future lying before her bathed in golden light.
But he made no allusion to these memories.
“I like the sea better than the river,” he said, and there swept over his heart a strange and passionate emotion as he spoke; a wish to bear May away from her troubles forever; to carry her to a new haven of rest and peace.
But by and by the short winter day began to close, and Sister Margaret drew her cloak nearer to her throat with a little shiver, and glanced uneasily at the distant shore.
“It is time we were returning, is it not, Mr. Webster?” she said.
These words roused Webster from his love-dream.
“Yes, I suppose it is,” he said, and he gave directions to the boatmen to set sail for the shore. But it was nearly dark when they reached Hastings, and there was a silver track from a half-moon on the rippling tide.
They crossed this in the boat, and Webster hailed it as a good omen.
“It means a silver lining to our clouds,” he said; “a sign that we must always hope.”