CHAPTER XLI.
A WOMAN’S OFFER.
She returned to town in the highest spirits, and the first thing she did was to write to Ralph Webster.
“Come and dine with me to-morrow night,” she wrote. “I have some wonderful news to tell you. I shall be alone, and we will dine at eight.
K. W.”
Ralph Webster received this tiny note the next morning, and after a little consideration he determined to accept her invitation. He naturally felt a strange interest in Kathleen Weir’s proceedings, and wondered what her news could be; wondered if in any way it could affect the one woman of whom he ever thought.
He had seen May Churchill the day before, and had noticed on her fair face a certain new serenity; a new peace, as if her bitter pain had passed away. And he had heard also from his friend, Doctor Brentwood, that the young probationer was learning to be a most excellent nurse; that she took interest in and studied her duties, and that some of the patients had said that her face was like an angel’s as she stood by their bedsides.
May, in truth, was learning something besides nursing. She was learning the stern, sad lessons of life. The sick and sorrowing taught her these; taught her to look beyond the passing joys and hopes of earth. She knew now that her sorrow had not been greater than that of others, nor her cross heavier to bear. So patiently and bravely did she do the work that lay nearest to her hand.
To Ralph Webster she naturally felt very grateful, and she had said something of this the last time he had seen her. But he still had never spoken of his strong, deep feelings toward her. He had not, in fact, the same opportunities of doing this at the hospital as he had at Hastings. But he was only biding his time. “Some day I will try to win her,” he told himself each time he saw her; “some day she will forget, and cease to grieve.”
He was thinking of her as he drove to the flat occupied by Miss Kathleen Weir; thinking of her, as he always did, with tender and protecting love. But the handsome woman who rose to welcome him amid her flowers and the ornate decorations of her room, naturally knew nothing of this secret of his heart. Kathleen Weir received him with smiles and real pleasure. She looked in his dark, earnest face and compared him mentally with the man she had seen the day before.
“He is worth winning,” she thought; “worth everything—at least to me.”
“And what is your wonderful news?” asked Webster, smiling, after they had shaken hands and Kathleen Weir had once more sank down on the satin couch from which she had risen at his entrance.
“Wait until we have dined,” she answered, gaily. “It is so wonderful it would take away your appetite if we did not.”
“Very well, I am content to wait,” said Webster, and a few minutes after dinner was served. It was a luxurious little meal. Kathleen had spared nothing to make it attractive and agreeable, and during it she was bright and charming, and Webster thought he had never seen her look so well.
Then, when it was over, she rose in her lithe way and returned to the drawing-room, followed by Webster.
“Now, I am going to give you a great surprise,” she said; “where will you sit?”
He drew a chair and placed it near her.
“Well, I am prepared to be surprised,” he answered, with a smile.
“Yet you will never guess where I was yesterday. You will never guess who I saw. I went down to Woodlea Hall; I had a long interview with John Temple, its new owner.”
A dark flush rose to Webster’s face as he listened to these words.
“I went, in fact, to try to do a stroke of business, and I did it. You did not seem inclined to do it for me, and there was no one else in whom I had absolute trust but myself. I went to Woodlea for the purpose of seeing John Temple, and making him a polite offer to get rid of me. It is a splendid place, and I told him that I had no idea I had made such a good match.”
“And you saw him?” said Webster, with a great effort.
“Of course I saw him. I told him I was quite as tired of being married to him as he could be of being married to me. And I told him also it was no use his trying to get a divorce from me, as he had nothing to go upon. ‘But,’ I added, ‘I can get one from you. I have only to invent that you tore the hair out of my head, and beat me black and blue, to win my case’ and my gentleman did not deny it.”
“But surely you will not—”
“But surely I will,” went on Kathleen Weir, as Webster paused and hesitated. “However, I have not told you all. ‘And as you are a rich man,’ I continued, ’you must pay for your freedom. I am ready to swear falsely; to rid you of a wife to whom you are indifferent, and who is perfectly indifferent to you, but I must be paid for it.’ He made no objections, and I named the sum I would accept—ten thousand pounds—and to this also he made no objections. Now, don’t you think it was very clever of me?”
“But—have you any case against him?”
“Of course I have a case, and we can arrange the particulars between us. He won’t deny the hair-pulling and the beatings, and the judge will believe me to be an injured woman, and give me the release I am dying for. I will be free—free and rich—and perhaps then—”
Her voice faltered as she said the last few words, for the first time during this interview, and her eyes fell. Webster’s eyes also fell, and he moved uneasily, and then he rose and went toward the fireplace and stood leaning against the mantel-piece.
Kathleen Weir glanced after him; then also rose and followed him to where he was standing.
“Do not think me hard, or cold, or mercenary,” she said, “in making this bargain. I—I was not thinking of myself when I did so. I make a large income by my profession; more than I need. But I wanted this sum—Ralph Webster, shall I tell you why?”
She put out her white hand as she spoke, and laid it on his arm. It was trembling, and Webster saw it tremble, and an embarrassed silence followed for a few moments between them.
“Shall I tell you why?” she presently repeated, in a soft, low voice, and she looked up in his face. “I wanted it for you—for you, for whose sake I wish also to be free.”
“Hush, hush, do not speak thus,” said Webster, in great agitation. “I thank you very much for your kindness, your friendship—but—”
“But what?” asked Kathleen, quickly, and her face grew pale.
“There—there is a girl, a woman,” faltered Webster, “whom I may never marry—who—who does not love me, yet—”
“You love her?” said Kathleen, with a sort of gasp.
“Yes, and I shall love no other—forgive me, Miss Weir—but this is true.”
Again there was a few moments’ painful silence, and then with a strong effort the actress recovered herself.
“Well, there is no harm done,” she said, and she turned away. “And for the matter of that,” she added, with a harsh little laugh, “I am not divorced yet; I may never be!”
Ten minutes later—after Webster was gone—Kathleen Weir was pacing up and down her drawing-room in a state of intense and concentrated excitement.
“Am I so mad,” she said, speaking aloud to herself, “to let this folly utterly upset me? I have wasted my affections then for the second time, but it won’t kill me! Webster shall not think he has broken my heart any more than the other one did. Yet I like him,” and her face softened; “he has a great heart—and the girl, the woman, whoever she is, may be proud of her conquest. But I am not going to pine; life isn’t long enough to waste on a vain regret.”
After this she went back into the room where they had dined and took up one of the half-emptied champagne bottles and poured some of it into a glass and drank it. Then she rang the bell and ordered her brougham to come around for her in half an hour, and having done that she sat down to her desk and wrote and dispatched telegrams to Linda Falconer, to Lord Dereham, and to two other men that she knew, inviting them to supper that evening at half-past eleven o’clock. Presently she sent out and ordered an elaborate supper to be sent in from a confectioner’s; ordered everything she could think of; the most expensive luxuries she could buy.
When she had completed her arrangements she drove to one of the theaters to pass the time until her expected guests would arrive. A man she knew joined her there, and she invited him also to return with her to supper. She seemed in the wildest spirits; she laughed and jested, and showed her white teeth; all the while a cold sharp pang lay pressing on her heart.
The supper was a great success, and never had Kathleen Weir been so witty or so gay. She sang, she coquetted, and played her part so well that Linda Falconer looked at her with her shadowed, dreamy eyes, and asked her if she had come into a fortune.
“I have the prospect of one, at all events,” answered Kathleen; “and there is nothing like money, you know, Linda—nothing, nothing!”
“I think there is something better than money,” said Dereham, with his honest brown eyes fixed on Linda Falconer’s lovely face.
“You mean love!” And Kathleen Weir shrugged her white shoulders. “My friend, that is because you are young and innocent. Love is a delusion, a pitfall into which we stumble only to find it full of disappointments. We love a man or a woman whom at the time we think perfection, but it is not the true man or woman, but an idealized creature of our own imaginations. We find this out when it is too late, and we blame the unfortunate recipient of our deluded affections, not our own folly in being deluded.”
“Well, I believe in love,” answered Dereham, sturdily.
“Long may you believe in it, then,” said Kathleen, with a light laugh. “But, Dereham, you won’t. You too will wake up and find your idol shattered.”
“How spiteful you are, Kathleen!” remarked Linda Falconer, calmly. “Have you had a disappointment in love lately?”
“No, my dear, for I have not been in love. I love myself too well to waste my affections on an ungrateful man.”
“But you might find a grateful one?” said one of her friends, smiling.
“I doubt it, greatly. However, I do not mean to try. I mean to amuse myself, and if you are always thinking of one person it is impossible to do so.”
She talked in this strain a little longer and then rose and went to the piano, and presently her wonderfully clear and ringing voice filled the room. The men present stood around her, except Lord Dereham, who remained in the supper-room with Linda Falconer.
“How excited Kathleen Weir is to-night! Do you think she has taken too much champagne?” remarked Linda of her friend.
Dereham laughed.
“Can’t tell,” he said; “but that was all rot she talked.”
“Do you mean about love?” asked Linda, softly, and for a moment she looked in Dereham’s face, and then cast down her beautiful eyes with a sigh.
“Yes,” he answered, ardently, and he bent forward and took her white hand. “I believe in it—and—and Linda, don’t you?”
“I—try not to think of it,” she half-whispered.
“But why?”
“Because—ah, Dereham, you must not ask;” and again she sighed.
“But I do ask, and I want you to answer me. Why do you try not to think of love?”
“Because—the—the person I could love is not as I am.”
“How do you mean?”
“His rank is different to mine,” answered Linda, in a low, sad tone.
“His rank! What has rank to do with it? If a man really loves he never thinks of these things. Linda, who is the person you could love? Will you tell me?”
Again Linda looked in his face, and their eyes met; Linda’s said very plainly—at least she intended them to say—“You are the person I could love”; and thus Dereham understood their meaning.
“Then—then do love me, dearest,” he said, bending closer, and half-whispering in her ear. “Let my rank be yours; your life be mine—be my wife?”
Linda Falconer smiled gently as she listened to the words. She had wished to listen to them for some little while, but she had not been in a hurry. She was too wise, too cold, to allow the young man to think she was in any haste to receive his proposal. But as he had proposed, she was also too wise to allow the opportunity to pass.
“But are you sure, quite sure, of your own heart?” she asked, pensively. “You heard what Kathleen Weir said—and—and unless you really love me—”
“I do most deeply, most truly; I have thought of this almost ever since I met you, but I was never sure of you; you do not make a rush at a fellow like some women do, and—and though I was afraid I liked you all the better for it.”
He made this ingenious confession to a woman who knew very well he was speaking the truth. She had intended to win this young lord, and she had won him, and no doubt had done it cleverly.
“I was afraid too,” she said, softly, “afraid to love you—at least to show my love—but not now.”
And before the party broke up she had time to whisper her news to Kathleen Weir.
“It is all settled,” she said; “we are engaged,” and her eyes were bright with triumph.
Kathleen Weir listened, and somehow another woman’s success and happiness gave her a fresh pang.
“So this cold, selfish woman has won, and I have lost,” she thought, bitterly, after her guests had left her. All her high spirits had now died away; she sat wearily down, but after a while returned to the supper-room and drank several glasses of champagne to benumb the aching pain at her heart. As a rule, she was a very sober woman, and the unusual quantity of wine that she had taken quickly affected her. She walked, but not very steadily, back into the drawing-room, and as she did so her foot tripped on a cushion that someone had accidentally thrown and left on the floor. She stumbled, and to save herself from falling caught hold of a brass floor-lamp, and in doing so overturned it. And in an instant—before her first agonized cry could escape her lips—the burning oil streamed over her bare neck, throat, and arms, and the light dress that she wore was in flames.
She uttered shriek after shriek, and ran—a burning mass—to the door of the room. A gentleman who lived in the flat above her heard her cries and quickly came to her assistance. He promptly wrapped her in a coverlet that he caught up, and succeeded, after a few minutes, in crushing out the cruel flames; but she was terribly burned, and the decorated room where the accident occurred, which she had made so bright with flowers when she had awaited Webster’s coming, was one blackened ruin ere the fire died out.
CHAPTER XLII.
WEBSTER’S STRUGGLE.
Late in the afternoon of the following day, as Webster was leaving one of the law courts where he had been pleading, a gentleman, a stranger, touched his arm and addressed him.
“You are Mr. Webster, the barrister, are you not?” he said.
“Yes,” answered Webster, looking up.
“I am Doctor Lynton,” continued the gentleman, who was a grave-faced, middle-aged man. “I have been to your chambers at the Temple to seek you, and have followed you here. I have come from Miss Kathleen Weir, the actress.”
An annoyed expression passed over Webster’s face.
“And I have come on a sad errand,” went on Doctor Lynton. “A terrible accident happened to Miss Weir last night, and she is lying now in, I fear—nay, I more than fear, I know—a hopeless condition.”
A shocked exclamation broke from Webster’s lips.
“How did it happen?” he asked. “What happened?”
“She accidentally overturned one of those tall floor-lamps, and is dreadfully burned. And she wishes to see you; she sent me to say she wishes to see you before she dies.”
“How terrible!” exclaimed Webster. “Do you mean to tell me there is no hope?”
“Conscientiously, I can hold out none,” answered the doctor. “It is, indeed, a sad case. But can you go to her now? My brougham is waiting for me, and I am going to drive straight back to her house, and if you will come with me I shall be glad—for, poor soul, I fear she is drifting fast away.”
“I will go,” said Webster, unutterably shocked. It seemed almost impossible, this sudden change. The bright woman of last night; the gay rooms, the jests, the laughter, and now to hear of the approaching end.
He scarcely spoke after he entered the doctor’s carriage. He covered his face with one of his hands, and sat thinking what the death of Kathleen Weir might mean. A fair face—sweet, serene, and sad—rose before his mental vision, and unconsciously a sort of groan broke from his lips.
“Did you know her well?” asked the doctor, in a commiserating tone.
“You mean Miss Weir?” answered Webster, trying to rouse himself. “Yes, I have known her for some time.”
“She has seen her lawyer,” continued the doctor, “and made her will. But I do not suppose she has much to leave; these actresses as a rule spend their money as fast as they get it.”
“I do not know,” said Webster, indifferently, for he was not thinking of the actress’ will.
The doctor after this made a remark occasionally, and Webster just replied; and presently the carriage stopped before the handsome mansion where poor Kathleen Weir’s flat was situated. Her own rooms were wrecked, almost everything in them having been destroyed before the fire was extinguished. But they had carried her to another flat in the same house, and to a darkened chamber in this suite of rooms the doctor now proceeded, followed by Webster, who was deeply moved.
The doctor faintly rapped when they reached the door of the apartment where Kathleen lay, and it was immediately opened by a professional nurse.
“I am glad you have come, doctor,” she whispered; “she is very restless.”
Then the doctor went into the room and approached the bedside, and the moment Kathleen saw him she said, in a faint, low voice, which Webster heard:
“Have you brought him?”
“Yes,” answered the doctor, gently; “he is here. Mr. Webster, will you come and speak to Miss Weir?”
Upon this Webster, with faltering footsteps, also approached the bed, where, swathed and bandaged, lay the once lovely form of Kathleen Weir!
“Send everyone away, doctor,” continued Kathleen, in the same faint, low tone; “I wish to speak to Mr. Webster alone.”
The doctor and the nurse at once left the room, and then Kathleen spoke to Webster.
“Well, this is a great change,” she said.
Webster was deeply agitated, and his voice broke and faltered as he strove to express his regret and sorrow.
“It came so suddenly,” continued Kathleen; “like a bad dream—only there was no waking from it.”
“How did it happen?” asked Webster, much moved.
“I tripped and fell over a cushion someone had left lying on the floor, and to save myself caught at a lamp and overturned it. I was like a mad creature last night, I think. After you left I went to the theater, and had people to supper, and we made merry, when—well, Mr. Webster, I seemed to care for nothing more; when the world seemed for me—as it is.”
“Oh, hush, hush! do not speak thus, I entreat you!”
“Well, you have nothing to blame yourself for, at least. You acted like an honest man, and I admired you when—you gave me a blow that was far more bitter than you guessed of. But it is all over now. John Temple will be free without his divorce; and if it was money that parted you from the girl or woman you cared for, it need part you no longer—for I have left you all I have to leave.”
“Miss Weir—Kathleen! Why have you done this? I want no money; I can not take it!”
“But you must, my friend; do not talk nonsense—what good can it do me now? Yes, it does do me some good, to be able thus to show you what I really think of you; to mark how I estimate you—and if it makes you happy even with someone else—”
“No money will make me happy—it was not money,” answered Webster with inexpressible pain in his face. It flashed across his mind indeed at this moment that the very death of this wayward, generous heart would end all his hopes; would leave John Temple free.
“At all events, I hope you will be happy—some day,” went on Kathleen, after a little pause; “so I sent for you to tell you this, and—to bid you good-by. But I don’t believe it will be forever. I have a vague foreshadowing of another life—another and a better one—even for a poor sinner like me. And after all, one is often tired here—tired by the shams and follies—I feel tired now—”
Her voice sank into a whisper as she uttered these last words, and then died away. Webster bent nearer, and then grew alarmed. He rang the bell, and the doctor and nurse reappeared, and Webster left the room, but not the house. A profound feeling of melancholy seemed to come over him. A sense of desolation filled his heart. The door of poor Kathleen’s wrecked drawing-room was slightly ajar, and he went in and looked around. The flames had blackened and spoilt everything, and the water poured in by the firemen had completed the ruin. He thought of her as she had sat there yesterday—a bright, smiling, handsome woman—and he thought of her now. And her generous words! Her having remembered him amid her own agony touched his very soul.
“But she little knows, poor Kathleen—she little knows!” he murmured, half-aloud, as he gazed at the desolate scene.
And then he asked himself what he must do. It Kathleen died, John Temple would be free; free to right the wrong that he had done—but would he do it? Naturally Webster thought ill of John Temple, and was not sure how he would act when he heard the wife was dead whom he had forsaken. And then, Temple knew not where to find May. “No one knows where to find her but myself,” reflected Webster, and a great struggle took place in his heart.
“Shall I again destroy the peace that is just dawning? tell her the man who treated her so vilely is now able to marry her if he will? It would be cruel, and yet, on the other hand, what right have I to judge for her?”
None, Webster told himself, as he paced restlessly up and down the deserted room. If May still cared for Temple, he had no right to stand between them; no right to think of his own happiness in comparison to hers.
He was still thinking thus when Doctor Lynton entered the room, and Webster looked quickly in his face as he did so.
“She has revived a little for the present,” said the doctor, in answer to the unspoken question written on Webster’s face. “But the action of her heart is extremely weak, arising from the shock to the system, and she will not live over the night.”
Webster heard this verdict in silence; but the fleeting breath was not stayed even as long as the doctor had thought. A few minutes later the nurse entered the room and addressed Webster.
“The poor lady upstairs, sir,” she said, “has something to give you before she goes, and I think it won’t be long now.”
“Will it do her any harm my seeing her?” asked Webster, looking at the doctor.
“Nothing will do her any harm,” answered the doctor, gravely; “from the first there was no hope; and it is only from the original strength and vitality of her constitution that she has lasted so long.”
So Webster returned to the bedside of the dying woman, and even during the short time of his absence her voice was weaker. It was indeed only a husky whisper now, and he had to bend over her very closely to understand what she said.
“I want you to have this ring—this ring,” and a bandaged hand crept out toward Webster’s, who took it gently in his own, and stooping down kissed it. “Keep it for my sake,” went on those husky tones; “and if you see John Temple—”
But the next moment she gave a kind of cry.
“What is this? What new pain is this?” she gasped out. “Lift me up—I am choking—lift me up!”
Both the doctor and Webster at once raised her in their arms, but after a few gasping sighs, she indicated that she wished to lie back again.
“It—is—all over,” she murmured; “and—I die as I wished—with my hand in yours.”
They were her last words; there were a few faint struggles, a few long, low sighs, and then all was still. But to the end Webster kept her poor maimed hand in his, and when it was all over he again bent down and kissed it, and when he raised his head his eyes were dim with unshed tears.
Late that night he sat alone in his chambers pondering still on how he should act. A hard and bitter struggle was warring in his heart; how hard and bitter he only knew. Unconsciously almost to himself he had begun to hope that some day he would win May Churchill for his wife; that some day she might return his love. He was not a man to love lightly, nor one to change. His feelings were characteristic, strong, and undivided; his life high-toned and pure. Until he had seen May’s flower-like face he had loved no woman, and indeed scarcely had given the sex a thought. His profession, his career, had occupied his whole time, and he hardly knew that there lay a hidden fire in his breast, which had kindled and burst forth at the beauty of a country girl.
Now he did not deceive himself. He knew during that dark struggle in the midnight hours when Kathleen Weir lay dead, that if he gave May up he gave up also the best hopes of his manhood, the one love of his life. But after a stout fight with the opposing passions of his heart, the nobler part of his nature conquered.
“Shall I not give her back happiness at the cost of my own?” he determined. “I will go to him, and if he is a cur, she shall never know; if not—”
His face was very gray and pale, but he had made up his mind. He would see John Temple, and he and May must decide their fate.
CHAPTER XLIII.
STRANGE NEWS.
The next day was a wet and dreary one, almost a storm. The wind sighed through the budding trees at Woodlea Hall, and the rain beat against the window panes. A bright fire was, however, burning in the library during the afternoon, and the new master, John Temple, was there, and Mrs. Temple, the widow of the old one.
John Temple was smoking endless cigarettes and reading. He was nearly always smoking now, and Mrs. Temple declared she delighted in the smell of tobacco. She in truth delighted to be in John Temple’s company, and nearly always contrived to be so.
Presently John Temple rose from his easy chair and flung the remains of his last cigarette into the grate, and having lit a new one began walking restlessly up and down the long room, and Mrs. Temple’s dark eyes followed his tall, slight form as he did so.
“What are you thinking of, John?” at last she asked.
“Can’t tell,” he answered somewhat listlessly; “the wind disquiets me, I think.”
“It is a storm,” she said, and then she also rose, and went first to one of the windows of the room and looked out. Presently she turned around and joined John Temple, and slid her hand through his arm and began walking by his side.
She had scarcely done this, however, when they both heard the sound of carriage wheels approaching up the avenue, and a minute or so later the hall doorbell rang.
“What a bore!” exclaimed John Temple. “If it is any visitors, say I’m out.”
“Very well,” she answered, but still remained by his side. A few moments later, however, a footman rapped at the room door and then entered, carrying a salver on which lay a card, which he presented to his new master.
John Temple put out his hand carelessly and took it up, but the instant he saw the printed name a quick change came over his face.
“Who is it?” asked Mrs. Temple, sharply, who had noticed the change.
“A man I wish to see—you may show him in here,” he went on, addressing the footman; “and perhaps you,” and he looked at Mrs. Temple, “if you do not mind—”
“You wish me to go?” said Mrs. Temple, quickly. “Very well, I will—only do nothing rash.”
John Temple made no answer to this, and then Mrs. Temple quitted the room, and in the hall she passed a tall, dark man, who was being ushered to the library by the footman.
And a moment later Ralph Webster entered the room. He bowed gravely to John Temple, who also bowed, and a slight flush rose to his face as he did so.
“You are Mr. John Temple, I presume?” then said Webster.
“I am.”
“I have come on a strange errand, Mr. Temple,” continued Webster; “but I have come because I believe it to be my duty to do so. I am the nephew of two ladies whom you used to know; of the ladies to whose care you confided the young lady whom you afterward married from their house.”
John Temple bowed his head; his face contracted as if with pain.
“I understand,” he said in a low tone. “Have—have you anything to tell me?”
Webster hesitated for a moment and then went on.
“I knew this young lady; I met her at my aunts’, and I knew you also by name, and had been told of your marriage. But in the course of my professional career I met another lady—Miss Kathleen Weir—and from her I learned the early history of her life and her connection with you.”
Temple’s lip curled.
“Has she sent you to me?” he said. “I presume you know she came here, and wished to make some arrangement?”
“Yes, I know,” answered Webster, gravely. “No, she has not sent me here—Miss Kathleen Weir is dead.”
“Dead! impossible!” cried John Temple, and his face grew pale.
“She died yesterday afternoon; an accident had occurred the night before, and she overturned a lamp and was terribly burned. I was with her when she died; I saw her die.”
“Good God! I can not believe it!” exclaimed Temple.
“It is nevertheless true—and I, knowing of her marriage to you—knowing also of your other marriage—”
“What have you got to say to me, sir?” interrupted Temple, quickly. “I am denying nothing; but what have you got to say?”
“This,” answered Webster, with quiet dignity. “When I heard of your first marriage I knew that you had also contracted a second marriage, and that—the young lady was living under my aunts’ roof.”
“Well?” said Temple, sharply.
“But I could not—I did not feel that I was called upon to tell this—to destroy her happiness.”
Unconsciously Webster’s voice faltered as he uttered the last few words, and Temple looked at him with eager anxiety.
“But you yourself told the secret,” went on Webster, recovering himself; “you told this young girl what well-nigh broke her heart—that she was no wife—that she was—”
“Be silent! How dare you speak thus!” cried John Temple, hoarsely and passionately.
“I speak for a purpose,” continued Webster; “you told her of your early marriage to Miss Weir; and in her despair, her sudden shame and anguish, she left you, never intending to see you more.”
John Temple sprang forward; he grasped Webster’s arm.
“Do you know anything?” he gasped out. “Do you know if—she lives?”
“Yes, Mr. Temple, she lives. That night, after she left the hotel in her despair, by chance I saw her; she looked so ill, so strange, that I, knowing her story, followed her. I followed her to Westminster bridge, and then—when she was very ill—when she was unconscious, I took her to St. Phillip’s Hospital.”
“And she is living? Oh! thank God! Thank God!”
There was no doubting his great thankfulness, and Webster’s voice softened a little as he went on.
“She is living, and now nearly well. She went through a long and dangerous illness, and at times we almost despaired of her life. But at last her youth reasserted itself, though only on one condition did she struggle feebly back to life. And this condition was that her very existence had to be kept an absolute secret; she wished everyone to believe her dead.”
For a moment John Temple did not speak; his lips quivered; he turned away his head.
“I promised faithfully to keep her secret,” continued Webster; “no one knew at the hospital who she was but myself, and I have kept it until now—until after the death of Kathleen Weir.”
“And she left me to endure all this misery—a bitter, unending remorse and regret,” now said John Temple, in a broken, agitated voice. “She—who said she loved me—who said that we could not live apart—it seems that she could.”
“Mr. Temple, you are unjust.”
“It may be so, but—it was not thus that I regarded her. However, if your news be true—if poor Kathleen is indeed dead—I will, of course, at once remarry May. She knows, I suppose, that you are here; knows why you came?”
“She knows nothing. I have not seen her since Miss Weir’s death.”
“And where is she living now?”
“At St. Phillip’s Hospital. She has never left it. She is now one of the nursing sisters there; she insisted on working for her daily bread.”
For a few moments after this Temple did not speak. He stood with knitted brows as if in thought. Then he held out his hand to Webster.
“I am very grateful to you,” he said; “grateful to you for coming to tell me all this; and for your kindness—to the poor girl to whom I did so great a wrong. But I will be honest with you; I believed May loved me so well that even had I told her of that early tie—broken years ago—that she still would have shared my fortunes. I judged her feelings by my own—but it seems I was mistaken.”
Webster did not speak; he cast down his eyes; an angry throb passed through his heart.
“However, we need not speak of this,” continued Temple after a moment’s pause. “There is now but one course for me to take, which is at once to go to her, and for us to be immediately remarried. Her father is in London at this very time seeking her—he did not believe as I did.”
Still Webster was silent.
“I shall, therefore,” went on John Temple, “at once telegraph to him that she is safe and well. As for you, Mr. Webster, I do not know how to thank you.”
“I need no thanks,” answered Webster a little hoarsely.
“I have the highest regard and liking for your aunts, and I hope now my poor little May will welcome them here. And you—you will dine and stay all night here?”
But Webster shook his head.
“No,” he said, “I must return by the next train to town; my mission here is ended—I will see—”
“May? Then I will travel with you. Yes, kindly see her, and break the news to her of poor Kathleen’s death. But I feel yet as if I can scarcely forgive May. If she wished to leave me she might have done so; not cost me such bitter pain.”
“We will not discuss it.”
“No, it is useless. And now, Mr. Webster, will you kindly excuse me for a few minutes? I will ring for some refreshments for you, and if you really must return by the next train to town, it passes our station at a quarter to six;” and John Temple looked at his watch. “I will go with you, and to-morrow—you will see May?”
“Yes.”
“Then that is all settled. I will rejoin you in a few minutes; I wish to tell my news to my uncle’s widow, and, Mr. Webster, I may depend on your honor, I am sure, to keep all this a secret.”
“You may quite depend upon me,” answered Webster, a little bitterly.
After this John Temple left the room, and went straight to the morning-room, where he expected to find Mrs. Temple. She was there, looking pale and agitated, and she went forward quickly to meet him.
“Who is that gentleman, John?” she said. “I have been feeling quite anxious.”
“He has brought me strange news, Rachel,” answered John Temple, gravely. He called her now by her Christian name, as she had expressed a wish that he should do so.
“Strange news?” she repeated, and her face grew paler.
“Yes; May is alive—and—”
“Then what will you do?” asked the agitated woman before him, almost with a gasp.
“There is but one thing for me to do.”
“You mean—”
“I will go to her; we must be remarried—for I have other news for you; this gentleman, Mr. Webster, has brought me other news—my first wife, Kathleen Weir, is dead.”
A half-cry broke from Mrs. Temple’s white lips, and that was all. She stood there with wide-open eyes and heaving breast. John Temple’s news was a death-blow to her new hopes of happiness and love, but still she could speak no word.
“It seems,” went on John Temple, scarcely daring to look at her white face, “that this Mr. Webster knew all the time where May was—at some hospital or other—but by May’s especial wish he kept this a secret.”
“And she calls this love!” cried Mrs. Temple, wildly and passionately. “Love! to make you endure such pain; to make your life a burden; each day a fresh pang! If this is love, I know not what it is.”
“It seems strange,” said John Temple, and then without another word he went away.
An hour or so later two men were sitting in the same railway carriage together traveling to town, but they were not talking of the loves or the tragedies of their lives. They were talking gravely of the passing topics of the day, of politics, of books, and the names of May Churchill and Kathleen Weir were never once mentioned between them. Not at least until they reached the terminus and were about to separate for the night. Then as they shook hands, John Temple said quietly: “At what time will you see May in the morning?”
“Early,” answered Webster; “about eleven o’clock.”
“Then will you telegraph to me, and I will go to her? I will also see her father.”
“And—” hesitated Webster; “what will you say to him?”
“Best tell him the truth, I think, and Mr. Churchill will see the wisdom and prudence of keeping it to himself. Besides he had better be present at our marriage.”
“And my aunts?”
“Is there any reason to say anything to them? They know nothing, and they may as well continue in ignorance of a painful story. And now again many thanks.”
So they parted, and Webster went back to his lonely chambers, and thought of what he had done.
“If it is for her happiness,” and then he sighed wearily; somehow he was not quite sure that it would be.
And early the next morning he sent a telegram to May at St. Phillip’s Hospital to say he would be with her by eleven o’clock. May received this telegram with great surprise, for Webster never wrote to her, nor sent telegrams, and when he called it was generally late in the afternoon. But precisely at eleven o’clock a message was sent to her that Mr. Webster was waiting to see her in the sitting-room of the house surgeon, Doctor Brentwood.
She accordingly went there, and found Webster standing, looking grave and pale, and so ill that she instantly remarked on it.
“Are you not well, Mr. Webster?” she said. “You do not look at all well.”
Webster scarcely answered her; he had taken her hand, and stood looking in her fair face, and there was great pain and trouble in his heart.
“I have some news for you, May,” he said at length.
He had never before called her “May,” and she noticed this and blushed.
“News?” she answered. “Not bad news, I hope.”
Twice he opened his lips, but somehow no words came forth. And his manner was so strange that May grew really alarmed.
“What is it?” she said. “Oh! you frighten me—has anything happened?”
Then with a great effort he told her.
“May, Kathleen Weir is dead.”
The blood rushed to May’s face as she listened to these words, and then died away, leaving her very pale.
“Dead!” she repeated; and in an instant it flashed across her mind all that this might mean to her.
“Yes,” went on Webster, trying to speak calmly, “she died the day before yesterday. It was an accident; she was burned to death.”
“How dreadful!—and does—he know?”
“Yes,” again answered Webster. “I saw him yesterday—it was but right that he should know—he is coming to you to-day.”
May gave a little cry; a little start, as if she were half afraid.
“If it is for your happiness,” continued Webster with faltering lips, “otherwise, of course—”
For a moment or two May did not speak. She stood as if thinking, as if in doubt. Then suddenly she held out her hand to Webster.
“It is but right,” she said, speaking with an effort. “And you—how am I to thank you for all you have done for me?”
Webster’s lips quivered. He tried to say some commonplace words. He stooped down and kissed her trembling hand.
“Your happiness is—everything to me,” he faltered. “I have thought of that alone.”
And somehow at this moment she understood something of the unspoken feelings of his heart. One of those glimpses into another’s soul which came unsought passed through hers. She trembled; she drew away her hand.
“May God bless you,” murmured Webster, and the next moment he was gone. And he left May strangely disturbed. His constant kindness, his generosity in word and deed, and now his unselfish love, moved her deeply. But she had not much time for thought. She had scarcely indeed returned to her duties in the wards when another message was brought to her that a second visitor was waiting for her in the house surgeon’s room, and the moment she heard this she knew who it would be.
It was in truth John Temple; and as she entered the room pale, nervous, beautiful, he advanced toward her and took her in his arms.
“How could you give me all that bitter pain, May?” were his first words, and then he bent down and kissed her lips.
“You know that I am free now,” he said, presently. “I have seen your father, and have arranged with him that we shall be married again immediately. But May, I will never believe that you really loved me now.”
She looked at him with eyes full of reproach.
“I—I meant to die,” she faltered. “But for Mr. Webster—”
“Do not, please, speak of it; you are looking very well; as pretty as ever, I think, May; and you must forget all this like a bad dream. Do you know my poor uncle is dead?”
“I never heard of it; I have lived here, and—never spoken of the past.”
“He is dead, poor man; he died quite suddenly, and I was recalled to England in consequence. I am living at Woodlea now, and you must go there, May.”
“Oh! it seems so strange—all so strange, John.”
She put her hand half-timidly into his as she spoke, and as she said it was all so strange. A long lifetime appeared to lie between her and the early days of her fond love and happiness. She looked up in John’s face; it seemed changed, too, but he was very kind and gentle to her.
“You must change this becoming dress,” he said, smiling, and laying his hand on her black gown. “The cap suits you charmingly, but it won’t do for you now, you know. You will want some money, May, so I have brought it for you.”
“Oh, how can you talk of such things—just when we have met again.”
“My child, it was your own fault that we ever parted. However, we had best agree to drop this subject forever; no one knows of it but one person, and for my sake I think she will keep the secret.”
“And—my father?”
“Oh, I was forced to tell him a garbled sort of story, but, of course, we may depend on his secrecy. He will be present at your second wedding, May, and will give you away.”
May gave a tremulous little sigh. She was remembering her first wedding, and her infinite love and trust.
“Your father will be here presently, I expect,” went on John Temple, “and I think you had better stay with him until we are married. We can be married the day after to-morrow by special license, but not to-morrow.”
Not to-morrow! for John Temple knew that on the morrow Kathleen Weir was to be laid in her untimely grave. He did not mean to follow her there; to him for long years she had been a burden and encumbrance. But all the same he did not choose to marry on her burial day.
But he did not tell May this, and while he was still talking of their future arrangements Mr. Churchill arrived. Both May and he were much affected at this meeting. Mr. Churchill caught his “little girl” in his arms and kissed her again and again, with something like a tear glistening in his brown eyes. John Temple had not told him the whole story of his first marriage; he had told him, however, that there was some flaw in the marriage to May, and that they had better be married again, and that Mr. Churchill also had better be present. And though Mr. Churchill was an affectionate father, and really fond of May, he was also a tenant. John Temple was his landlord, and it behooved him, as a prudent man, to make the best of the situation. He, therefore, accepted the explanation he was offered, and gladly agreed to keep the whole affair of the second marriage a secret at Woodside.
Thus everything was very soon arranged between the two men, and before the day was over May left the home that had sheltered her in her cruel need. But both John Temple and Mr. Churchill gave gifts to the hospital—John Temple, lavishly; Mr. Churchill, prudently. And May also slid a handsome sum into the kindly hand of Sister Margaret.
“So you are going to be married to this other gentleman,” said Sister Margaret, rather in a disappointed tone. “Well, I thought it would have been Mr. Webster.”
“Oh! hush, hush!” said May, quickly; “Mr. Webster never thought of such a thing.”
“I am almost certain he did, though I have had so little experience in lovers,” replied Sister Margaret. “Well, my dear, whoever it is, I only hope you may be happy.”
So with the good wishes of all she had known, May quitted St. Phillip’s and went with her father to the hotel at which he was staying. And the next two days were very busy ones, for May had a whole wardrobe to purchase, and John Temple was very generous. And on the night before their marriage, when they were sitting together, John Temple suddenly put his arm round her and drew her to his breast.
“May,” he said, “are you happy now? quite happy?”
“Yes,” she answered, softly; “and very grateful.”
She meant to God, but John Temple did not understand her, and kissed her very tenderly.
And early the next morning they were married, and Mr. Churchill felt sure at least that this time there was no mistake. And he was a proud and happy man as he gave his young daughter to John Temple, though not so elated as he had been when he returned to Woodside after seeing the register of their first marriage. And scarcely had the bride and bridegroom started to spend a few days at Brighton before going to Woodlea when Mr. Churchill sat down and wrote the following letter to his wife:
“Dear Sarah: I shall be back to-morrow by the first train, and I am happy to say the business that I came up to London for is now all satisfactorily settled. May had had a slight disagreement with her husband, and, like a foolish girl, quarreled with him. But it is all made up now, and I think in about a week at latest they will be going down to the Hall, and then I hope we shall often see them. May sends her love to you”—here Mr. Churchill did not quite adhere to the truth—”and to the boys, and best let all bygones be bygones. May is now Mrs. Temple of Woodlea Hall, and can hold her head up with the best of them; and Mr. John Temple, besides being my son-in-law, is my landlord, and I therefore naturally wish to keep on good terms with him. I have bought you a new silk gown, and I hope you will like it. And I remain,
“Your affectionate husband,
”William Churchill.“
John Temple wrote a letter before he left town to tell Mrs. Temple of his marriage, a letter which she received with deep emotion.
”Dear Rachel: I was remarried this morning to May, and Mr. Churchill was present. And now I am going to ask you for the sake of the friendship you have shown me, to keep the unhappy story I confided to you and this second marriage a secret. No good would come of telling it, and no one knows it but yourself, Mr. Webster (whom I can trust), and May’s father. Let us, therefore, try to forget it; but I shall not forget your kindness to me during the unhappy time when I first returned to Woodlea.
“And there is another thing that I wish to mention to you, which is that once or twice you have talked of the Hall as my house, and of your leaving it. I hope that you will do nothing of the sort, and that you will always regard it as your home. Independently of the pleasure that your company will give me, you will, of course, be the greatest advantage and assistance to my poor little May in her new position. She is looking very well, and is very sweet and gentle, but I fear her people will be somewhat of a trial. However, we must make the best of it.
“We are going down to Brighton for a few days, and I will then return to Woodlea about to-day week, I think. But I will let you know when to expect us. And with kind regards, I remain,
“Very sincerely yours,
”John Temple.
“P. S.—Above all things say nothing to your mother.
“J. T.”
CHAPTER XLIV.
MAY’S NEW HOME.
One evening nearly a fortnight after Mrs. Temple had received the letter from John Temple announcing his marriage to May, the windows of Woodlea Hall were all alight in expectation of their return.
Mrs. Temple had been in a state of great, though suppressed, excitement all day. The rooms were bright with flowers, and by her orders the whole place was arranged to appear to the best advantage. As for Mrs. Temple herself she wore an evening dress of black velvet, having discarded her deep mourning in honor of the occasion.
Yet she was feeling far from happy. This girl, this stranger, who was coming to take her place, she thought, she naturally regarded with hidden though deep resentment. John Temple could not have acted otherwise, she told herself, but this did not lessen the bitterness of her heart.
And when at last the carriage which contained John Temple and his young wife drove up to the entrance of the Hall, Mrs. Temple went forward, pale, handsome, and agitated, to receive them. She clasped John’s hand first, who warmly shook hers, and then—as though half-unwillingly—she looked at the fair girlish face by his side.
“This is May,” said John Temple, in kindly tones. “May, my dear, this is Mrs. Temple, my poor uncle’s widow.”
The two women shook hands after this, and exchanged a few remarks on the journey and the weather. May felt embarrassed and slightly overawed by this handsome woman who looked at her so coldly. It was not like going to her own home, somehow, she felt. John indeed referred to Mrs. Temple about everything, and showed his uncle’s widow the greatest consideration and respect.
And when an hour or so afterward dinner was announced, John Temple smilingly offered one arm to Mrs. Temple and the other to May.
“I must do double duty to-night, you see,” he said; and when they reached the dining-room he deliberately led Mrs. Temple to the head of the table, and indicated to May to sit at the side. But Mrs. Temple drew back.
“Nay,” she said, “this is your wife’s place.”
“Certainly not,” answered John Temple, decidedly; “this is your place, as it always has been.”
Mrs. Temple said nothing more at this time; she sat opposite to John, and May, without any feeling of anger in her heart, took the chair her husband had assigned to her. She was looking very pretty, but somehow Mrs. Temple could not understand the expression of her face. There was no elation there, nor pride in her new position. Now when the first nervousness of her arrival was over, she looked very much as she had done in the wards at St. Phillip’s.
But there were no allusions made to the past. John talked of Brighton, and of the theaters they had gone to in town, and to all outward seeming this first evening at Woodlea might have been an ordinary home-coming of a young couple from their bridal tour. But hidden in the hearts of the three present was the knowledge that this was not so. The storm was over, but its trace was there.
And the next morning a little incident occurred, which struck a somewhat chill feeling into May’s heart. Breakfast was just over, and as John Temple rose from the table, he said pleasantly, looking at Mrs. Temple:
“And how are you two going to amuse yourselves to-day?”
“In any manner you like, or that Mrs. John Temple likes,” answered Mrs. Temple.
“If you do not mind, John,” said May, rather quickly, “I should like to go over to Woodside this morning to see my father, as I think he will expect me to do so. And,” she added, with rather a wistful little smile, looking up in his face, “I hope you will come with me.”
But John Temple’s brow clouded, and he slightly shrugged his shoulders.
“My dear child,” he said, “that is a luxury which I am really not prepared to encounter. And why be in such a hurry to go over to Woodside?”
“I think my father would be disappointed if I did not go,” answered May, gently, but her face flushed and her eyes fell; “but I can go alone.”
“Then you had better drive over,” said John Temple. “And what would you like to do, Rachel?”
“Do you feel in the humor for a ride?” replied Mrs. Temple. “It is a fine morning; suppose we have a ride, John?”
“All right; what time shall I order the carriage and the horses then?”
“Shall we say eleven?” said Mrs. Temple, and she looked at May, but May’s eyes were still cast down. They, however, settled it thus, and when May returned to the morning-room about an hour later, she found Mrs. Temple already there, dressed in her habit, and John Temple talking to her.
“I hope May is not disappointed because I do not care to go to Woodside?” John was saying.
“She could not expect you to do so,” answered Mrs. Temple, just as May entered the room.
She heard the words, and somehow felt that they had been talking of her. But when a few minutes later the carriage and the riding-horses came round John Temple led his young wife to the carriage and handed her in, and nodded smilingly to her as he was turning away.
“Have you any message for my father?” said May, bending forward.
“Anything you like,” answered John, still smiling; and then he went back to the house, and May was driven in state to her old home.
And the arrival at Woodside of one of the Hall carriages, drawn by two handsome horses, with their black rosetted heads, and the servants also in mourning for their late master, naturally created quite a sensation at the homestead. Mr. Churchill was not in the house at the time, but one of the grooms hastily went in search of him to the stables. As for Mrs. Churchill, she no sooner heard that her stepdaughter was in the house than she hurried upstairs to change her dress, though she had previously determined to make no difference in her manner to May.
But the two prancing horses outside and the handsome carriage influenced her in spite of herself. She went into the drawing-room quite in a flutter, to find May standing there looking a little pensively around. What she had gone through since she had been in this room May was thinking. But Mrs. Churchill’s effusive welcome interrupted her reflections.
“Well, my dear, welcome home,” said Mrs. Churchill, and she kissed her stepdaughter as she had never kissed her before. “We heard you had arrived at the Hall last night, and your father was hoping that you could come over to see us this morning; and it’s very good of you to have done so.”
“Oh, I am very pleased to come,” answered May, with her sweet smile. “And the boys; how are the boys?”
“They are very well, my dear. They are both at school this morning, but they are looking forward to seeing you. They have talked of nothing else since your father was in London last.”
“I have brought them each a present,” said May, “and I hope they will like them. Will you give my kind love to them both? The presents are in the carriage.”
At this moment Mr. Churchill hurried into the room and caught his fair daughter in his strong arms, and kissed her vigorously.
“Well, May, my pet, and how are you? More like a Mayflower than ever, eh, May?” he added, holding May a little apart from him, and looking at her with eyes brimful of pride and pleasure. “Well, my girl, welcome to your new home! It’s kind of you to come over to see your old father the very first day you have spent at the Hall.”
“Dear father, of course I came,” said May, gently.
“And madam? She is still there, I hear; but remember, May, you’re mistress now, so don’t be put upon by any of them.”
“Oh! she is very kind.”
“Kind! I should think so; why should she not be kind? But you’re the squire’s wife, you know, now, May, and you must show her that you quite understand this. And how is your husband?”
“He is looking much better again; he has gone out for a ride with Mrs. Temple this morning.”
“Humph! Well, you should ride with him yourself, May. No one has a smarter seat on horseback than you, and I’d let them all see this.”
And during the rest of May’s visit Mr. Churchill constantly harped on this point. She was to assert herself, but May knew that, even had she wished to do so, she would have found it very difficult.
For the night before, when they were alone, John Temple had spoken to his wife on the subject of Mrs. Temple’s position in the house.
“You see, May,” he had said, “I came here and became heir of this property under very peculiar circumstances. I stepped into the place of Mrs. Temple’s only child, and therefore I feel that to disturb her in any way as mistress of the house, where she would have remained mistress had her boy lived, would be at once ungentlemanly and ungrateful of me. This is why I took her to the head of the table to-night, and I am sure you have the good taste and the good feeling to understand my wishes on the subject.”
“Then is she going to live here always?” May ventured to ask.
“She will live here, of course, as long as she wishes to do so. She is my uncle’s widow, and this was his home, and I wish her to feel that it is still her home.”
Thus May had her own position clearly defined to her. And as she listened to her father’s advice she had no idea of acting on it. But she did not tell him this; she parted with him affectionately, and Mr. Churchill was a proud man as he led her to her carriage and handed her in.
“I’ll bring your stepmother some day over to dine with you, May,” he said, before he parted with his daughter. “I want to see you in your own house; fix some day with your husband for us to come. And now good-by, my pet.”
Then, when May was gone, he returned to the house in a very boastful mood.
“She’s lovely, isn’t she, Sarah?” he remarked to his wife. “But I gave her a bit of advice about madam; madam must be taught her place, and I’ll see that she is too.”
But in the days that followed May was made to feel more than once that Mrs. Temple exercised a considerable influence over her husband’s mind. John Temple was always kind to May, always gentle, but he had fallen back into that easy-going frame of mind which had been habitual to him before he was aroused from it by his bitter remorse and self-reproach. Now, he thought, everything was right for his “little May.” He had made her his wife; he bought her a pony-carriage for herself, and two handsome ponies, so that she could drive wherever she wished, and he allowed her plenty of money, and did not object to her spending it lavishly among the poor and sick.
“I know what suffering and sickness is now, you know, John,” she one day said to him, a little wistfully; but John did not encourage her to talk on the subject. He, in fact, totally ignored, and tried to forget, the miserable time after May had left him. It disturbed him to think of it, and John Temple did not love unpleasant thoughts.
Thus weeks passed away, and May, with her sweet reasonableness of conduct, had almost won some sort of regard from the woman who was yet jealous of her, when one morning May received a letter from her father, plainly expressing a wish that he and his wife should be asked to dine at the Hall.
“It looks so odd to other people, you know, my dear,” he wrote, “and I hope you will not allow anyone to cast a slight on your own father,” and so on.
This letter disturbed May exceedingly, for she knew John Temple would not like to receive Mrs. Churchill at his table, and that Mrs. Temple also strongly objected to the whole family. Once she had had her two young brothers to spend the day with her at the Hall, and Mrs. Temple on that occasion had refused to appear.
“It won’t do, you know, May, my dear,” John had said to her afterward; “Rachel has a strong and natural objection to the boys on account of the death of her own lad in the game where they were playing. So don’t ask them again.”
May had never done so, though she knew they thought it was unkind of her. She took them presents and gave them money, but she dare not ask them to the Hall. And now about her father and stepmother she knew not what to do.
At last she took courage and went to her husband, and put her father’s letter in his hand.
“I wish to ask them so much, John,” she said.
John read the letter, shrugged his shoulders, and then put his hand kindly on his wife’s arm.