Chapter XXXI.

Otago Witness, Issue 2105, 28 June 1894, Page 39

Chapter XXXI.

Too Bitter to bo Borne. It was still very early in .the day when John Temple left Woodlea, in a state of strong though suppressed excitement. It had come so suddenly, this discovery — this exposure that he had dreaded far more on May's account than his own. Bat he must face the situation ; he told himself this as he strode across the dewy park, as he went on with rapid steps towards the nearest railway station. . He looked at his watch ; a train passed fcr the south at a quarter pa3t 11 o'clock, and he made up bis mind to endeavour to reach the station in time to travel by this. He had not a moment to spare ; on he went with a pale, set face and compressed lipa, running a race, as it wore, with the train. And as he entered the station the engine puffed up on the metals outside. Bat John Temple was known to the stationmaster, and when he called out for a ticket to London the stationmaster told him to hurry on the platform, and he would follow with the ticket.

All this happened so quickly that John Temple had little time to think. It was not until be found himself actually in the train, speeding on his way to town, that he began quite to realise what was before him.

" Poor May, my poor sweet May," he almost groaned. For well he knew that the news be was bearing her would well nigh break her heart. And he could not now keep it from her. Her father was certain now to find her, and the only thing was that John had the start of htm. There was not another train south for some hours, and in the meantime John determined to see May, and try to induce her to seek a new home in another land.

"We can go to Australia," he told himflelE. " Who is to know anything there 1 And I have enough to live on ; and as for Woodlea, what is that to my poor, poor girl ? " Bat,it was a terrible task that he had before him, and he shrank from it with utter loathing.

" Why was Iso weak ? " he muttered. " I should have told her the truth. I was led away by-her beauty, by her love, and went drifting on, and now she must know everything. Bat if she loves me best of all it may still come right."

He tried to buoy himself np with this idea. He thought of May's tenderness ; her devotion, and remembered how she h^d told him hers was "the love that cinnot change." The teat had corns ; the bitter> test she had never dreamed of, and he had to face the most painful ordeal of bis life.

All too soon it seemed to him he saw the smoke of the great city ; all too scon he was speeding through tunnels and being carried rapidly over housetops. Then came the rush and hurry of a great terminus ; John Temple bad reached hia destination, and as he entered a cab and told ihe driver to convey bim to Miss Webster's house iD Pembridge Terrace, it was with a einkiog heart and faltering fcor.gce.

In the meanwhile at Pembrjidgo Terrace everj thing seemed as quiet and peaceable as usual. Yet thera was secret anxiety in the hearts of'tbe two kind women of the house. Fcr there had been som-Jthii-.g in their nephew's manner during bis vieits of late that had certainly alarmed them. Ralph Webster had in truth been so restless, so unlike himself that they could not understand him. He was indeed in a state of mind moat; unusual to his strong and determined nature, for he knew cot bow to act. His

duty and sense of right urged him one way, he told himself, and then, when he looked on May's sweet-, happy face, he felt it would be impossible for him to be the one who could striko her so dire a blow.

Bat of one thing he had no doubt, which waa the certainty of John Temple's early marriage to Kathleen Weir. He had even gone to the city church she had named and examined bhe register of the ill-suited marriage which had ended so disastrously. He had seen Kathleen Weir since his interview with Mr Harrison, the solicitor, but he bad not told her that Mr Harrison knew of the identity of the John Temple who had married her, and paid -her a yearly allowance, and the John Temple who had become the heir of the Woodlea property through the death of bis cousin.

He bad left this point in doubt purposely, thinking it might; hasten the catastrophe if it were known fcr the' unhappy girl who in his eves had been to shamefully deceived. Bufrthe actress seamed determined to learn tbe truth.

"Very likely tbe old fox is keeping it back," she taid ; "I c would be snre I should want mora money if I knew, and Dereham was so positive about the matter. What do yon think it would be bast for me to do — to write to Mr Harrison himself, or send a letter to John Temple throng's him 7 for o£ course he knows his address."

" I should do nothing immediately I think," answered Ralph Webster, and the handsome actress looked at him, and wondered what was his motive as be spoke. " I don'c want to »cc him, mind," she continued. "To see him now would be as disagreeable to me as no doubt to him. It's a mere matter of money, nothing more." " Yes, of course. Well, I'll try to find out all about it for a certainty in the course of a few days, and now I must go, for I promised to dine with my aunts in Pembridge Terrace this evening," and Webster rose and held out his hand as he spoke. " What a wonderfully attentive nephew you are I " said Kathleen Weir, also rising, with a light laugh. "Do you know, I'm beginning to believe there is something behind these two respectable old ladies. A pretty cousin, eh? Or, perhap3, even -a housamaid?" Webster's dark face coloured. " There is no cousin," he answered ; " and as far as I remember the housemaid is a remarkably plain- featured young woman, so you see you are wrong." "It's like my interest in John Temple, then — a mere matter of money," smiled tho actress, showing her white teeth. "Ah, welJ, my friend, such is life I "

"Snob, indeed," thought Webster, bitterly, as he descended the stone flight of steps that led to Miss Kathleen Weir's flat. " Here is a tragedy and a comedy combined." He did really dine with his aunts, ana it was daring the evening that both Miss Margaret and Miss Eliza became convinced that, as they expressed it, he had "something on his mind." His dark, resolute eyes lingered on the sweet face opposite to him, and his usually fluent tongue was seldom heard. He went away early, and he went away as irresolute how he should act as when he arrived.

" Ralph doesn't look well," said Miss Margaret, as the door closed behind him. " No, indeed," sighed Miss Eliza.

" And how silent he was," smiled May. But the day after this visit— the very next day— she knew what had made him silent and sad. It was a dreary day, dull, and at times wot, and during the afternoon, about 4 o'clock, Miss Margaret, Miss Eliza, and May were all sitting in the dining room at Pembridge Terrace, where a cheery fire helped to exclude some of the gloom outside. I Miss Margaret waß knitting, Miss Eliza readI ing a novel, and May seemingly reading a novel, but really thinking of Joha Temple, t The sound of a cab stopping afc the door, however, interrupted all their occupations. " Can that be Ralph 2 " said Miss Margaret, looking up. May also looked up and turned her head, so that she could see out of the window, and the next moment rose with a glad cry. "It's John 1" she said, and as she spoke she ran out of the room into the hall just; as John Temple was entering it, • "John, dear John ! " she cried. And without a word he took her in his arms and pressed her—nay, crashed her—against bis breast. - "John l " again May murmured, and then she raised her head and looked in his face. It was pale and agitated, and he spoke no word. And as she looked at him he pressed his lips on hers, and something in his expression, something even in his toach, with the swift and subtle knowledge of love, thrilled her heart with sudden fear. "Is anything the matter ? " she whispered. "John, are you ill?"

" I am not very well," he answered Blowly and painfully.

"Ob, I'm so sorry— how long have you been ill ? " asked May anxiously, "I am only tired, I think; I will tell the driver of the cab to stop — I want you to go out with me for a little while, May." "Yes, of course, but first come in and rest," answered May uneasily, for his manner was so strange.

John Temple went down the steps to speak to the driver, and May stood at the open door watching him. Then he re-aecended the steps, and she shut the door behind him and put her arm through his, and together they entered the dining room where Miss Webster and Miss Eliza were standing full of expectation and excitement.

"John is not very well, M'ss Webster," said May a little tremulously ; " I think he wants nursing and beicg taken care of."

"Ohl I'm so sorry," said the two kind ladies almost with one breath.

11 It is nothing." answered John aervonsly as he shook hands with them. "I am tired, that is all."

" You must have some wine or some tea. You will stay to dinner, of course?" the cexb moment suggested ho3pitab)e Miss Webster.

" Thanfes, I will take a glass of wine," answered John, -"but I will not stay to dinner; I am going to take May out to dine with me."

Both the sisters protested against thi?, but John Temple was Sum, and after he had taken his wine he looked at May and asked her to get ready to go out with him. May rose at once to obey his wish, but she still f elfc uneasy. John was not like himself ; his

Bmile was strained, his very voice was diffe rent.

"Something is worrying him dreadfully I am sure," she told herself as she hurried on her hat and cape, and when she returned to the sittiDg room and told John she was ready, to her surprise John put out his hand to take leave of Miss. Webster. " But you'll bring May back ? We will see you then," said Miss Webster, also surprised. " Oh, yes, I forgot," answered John, and then he led May to the cab, and having placed her- in it, took his seat by her side. May slid her little hand into his as the horse started. "John, I am sure something is vexing you," she said tenderly and anxiously, looking at his half -averted face. "Have you any bad news to tell me 1 " " I have Eome news," he answered with an ©Sort. "Is it bad news ? " urged May. ' " I cannot tell you here ; wait until we get to the hotel— l will tell you then." ! "Bat, John" " Hash, hush, dear, you will hear it soon I enough." He spoke huskily, almost hoarsely, and he turned away his hsad from her tender gaze. After this they drove on almost in silence until they reached the Grosvenor Hotel, where John usually stayed when he was in town. When he arrived there he ordered rooms and dinner, and then when they were alone, May once more looked at him questioningJy. •• Tell me now, John ; wba v j is it 1 " she asked. " May," began John, and then he paused, absolutely unable to find words to tell her the truth. °Ohl do tell me, John 1 " she prayed, and .she laid her hand beseechingly on his arm. Then he looked at her, and there was great pain in his eyes, and on his pale face. " I should rather be dead — I swear it, though you may not believe it — than say to you what I am forcsd to say to-day." "Oh I you frighten me I What can it be 1 " cried May. "Do you remember when — when I went away and left you, May," went on John Temple, in a broken voice—" when I wrote to you and told you that you were to b8 quite sure of ye uc feelings towards me, if I was to be anything more to you ? — when I tsld you that I believed that if two people truly loved each other, nothing should pan or change them 1 " " I remember," answered May, lifting her Tiead, and looking with steadfast eyes in his -face, "when you wrote tbat there were ■other feelings between men and women besides the love that cannot change, and that 1 was to question my heart. I did — I told you then my love could never change, and now I tell you again — it can never change I " •• My darling 1 " He caught her to his breast, he kissed her eyes, her lip?, her brow and then in hurried, agitated words he tried to tell her all. " May 1 1 loved you then, andl love you now — how dearly none but my own heart can tell — but I should have told you the truth. I told you there were obstacles to our marriage, and that it must be a secret one, and you agreed to this. Our secret is now known. Mrs Temple, my uncle's wife, it seems, saw one of your letters to me, and she actually sent that brute young Henderson up to town to spy on you. He saw you enter Miss Webster's house, and he went back and told your father." I "Oh 1 John I " cried May breathlessly. j "My uncle gent for me this morning, and I questioned me, but I would tell him nothing ; and while I was with him your father and young Henderson arrived at the Hall. Your | father asked me if I were married to you, j and I ref ased to tell him also, and then ' when Henderson spoke I called him a murderer and a spy. He sprang at me and struck me, but with one blow I sent him reeling to the floor, and when I left Woodlda he had not recovered his senses." May gave a Bort of cry. i •*And— and what followed 1 " she gasped out. " Then [ left Woodlea ; I was determined to see you first before I said a word to one of them — for, May, it was not for fear of my uncle's anger that I wished our marriage to be a secret one— but there was another reason"

"Another reason 1 " echoed May with fast whitening lips. " Yes, when I was a boy — a mere lad at least — I met a woman older than myself ; a woman who took advantage of my boyish infatuation, and led me on to do what X have cursed ever since I met you. May, do not look so white 1 My dear one, this need not, shall not, part us. Oar love is too deep and strong for a tie broken years ego to come between us. But in an hour of madness I married " May started back as if she had received a ! sudden blow. - ! •* I married," went on John Temple, nerv- ! Ing himself to speak tbe words, " theaotreso, j Kathleen Weir" I But he 6aid no more ; May's lips parted, Bhe gasped as If for breath, and then as John Temple caught her in his arms she sank senseless on the floor. "My God I has it killed her 1 " he cried in fcudden anguish looking at her white clammy face. He lifted her np ; be placed her on a couch; he rang the bell wildly for assistance; But May lay like ono dead. One arm fell motionless at her side ; John grasped her wrist and could feel no pulsation. Again he rang madly at the bell, and this time it •was answered. "The lady has fainted!" he cried to the rastonished waiter. " Bring water, brandy — send some of the women here, and get a at once." In a few minutes several people were in the room, and some of the female servants "began bathing May's brow and bands with water, while John Temple tried to wet her lips with the spirit they had brought him. He knelt down at her side ; he called her by •every endearing name, but still May made no sign. Then a doctor hurried in, and proceeded to use remedies to revive the senseless girl. And as last wish faint gasping sighs a tinge of colour sfcola back to the white face, and presently May opened her ■ejes. 11 My dearest, my darlinp, ate you better now 1 " whispered John Temple, bending over her, and holding one of her cold hands fa&fc in his.

May tried to speak, but no words came from her pale lips.

"Do not crowd round her," said the doctor, looking up ; " let her have plenty of air."

Those standing near fell back, but John Temple did not stir. " Did the attack come on suddenly, sir 1 " asked the doctor, addressing John. j " Yes," he answered slowly. "Ah — well, she will be better presently. Try to swallow this, madam ; it will do you good." May tried to swallow the restorative the doctor held towards her, and its effect was soon visible. It brought back memory — infinite pain 1 She looked at John Temple, and he saw she was remembering his words. He bent closer to her ; he whispered that nothing should ever part them ; he asked her for his sake to get well; and the doctor, watching her face, slightly touched John Temple on the shoulder. " I will give you some directions," he said, and as John rose he drew him. to one side of the room. " She must not be excited," he said; "as far as I can judge, this attack has been brought on by some mental shock. Is there any tendency to heart affection 1 " " I know of none," answered John with quivering lips. " Is she your wife 1 " " Yes." " Well, keep her very quiet for the next few hours, and do not talk to her of anything tbat would be likely to disquiet her. Are you staying here ? " " Yes," answered John briefly. " I will look in this evening, then. For the present everyone but yourself is best out of the room. But be sure you keep her quiet." Then he gave some further directions, and finally left the room, and presently John and May were once more alone. She lay quite \ still, bat that terrible look of pain never left her face. John went and sat by her, and took her hand, but he dare not talk to her after what the doctor had said. And so the time passed on, and after an hour or so May herself broke tho silence. " John," she said in a feeble voice, " I have something to f ay to you." " What is it, my darling ? But you had best not talk of anything just now." v 11 1 want to say I — cannot go back toPembridge Terrace," went on May, still in those faltering accents ; " I cannot see my father." 11 You shall not, May — I swear you shall not 1 This was why I brought you away. You shall see no one, and we will go to Australia together— go anywhere you like — and you shall be my own, dear wife, always ; my own sweet, dear wife." A faint shudder ran through May's frame. "Nothing shall ever part us, May," continued John Temple, and once more he knelt by her side and took both her hands in his. «• We could not live apart." May looked in his face with strange wiafcf ulness, and a quiver passed over her pale lips, and then she drew John's hand closer to her. "We could not live apart," she murmured, and then she sighed. "We will not ; but I want to spare you all possible annoyance and worry. May. When you fesl a little better, I think it would be best for me to drive over to Miss Webster's, and tell her that as you are not feeling very well you are not going to return there this evening, and that to-morrow you are going away for a few days with me. I will ask them to give me what you will require, »nd will not tell them where you are ; or rather, I shall not give them the right address. Thus, if your father goes there to-morrow, ha will not find you ; and tc-morrow I think we had better cross to France, and we can settle our future plans there, out of the way of everyone. What do you think of this?" May lay silent for a moment or two ; then she said slowly : " Yes, John, that will be be3t ; yon had best go now." 11 But are you well enough for me to leave you ? I do not like leaving you." Again May sighed wearily, and then raised herself up and put her arms round his neck. "You had better go," she said; "and— and John, will you remember that — that I will always love you." ! " I ara sure of it ; you give me fresh life, i May. Well, then, good-bye, though I shall soon be back." j I Their lips met in one long, tender, cling- , i ing kiss, and then John Temple reluctantly ' left her. But on the whole his mind was somewhat relieved. She had borne it better than he expected ; at all events she had Bald they could not live apart. But BCircely had the door of the room ! closed behind him when a great change came over May's face. There came over it despair — blank, bitter despair. She sat up and thought. She put her hand tp her brow, " I cannot bear it," she said, half aloud ; " it is too bard to bear." She remembered all her sweet love dream in thesa brlet moments, Eamembered John Temple standing with her in the moonlit garden of Woodside ; remembered his looks, the touch of his dear hand 1 And it had been all folly ; he, the husband of another woman, must have known she could never be his wife. He had been amusing himself; she had been bis plaything ; what else Could she be now 1 •• I can --but die," she thought ; " I could not live without him. I will die, and then he will know I loved him to the end." She rose and tottered to her feet. She felt a great bodily weakness, as though every nerve was unstrurjg. The restorative tbe doctor had left was Btanciing op the table, and she drank some of this, and it seemed to give her strength. Her hat was lying near her, and she put it on and feebly tried to walk across tbe room. She had no plans, but somebow the thought ot the river gliding through the great c'ty, and hiding dark sin and gorrow beneath its murky flood. "It would hide me,"' she murmured ; " hide my shame for ever." She opened the room door, and went out on the corridor, and then walked feebly down the broad staircase. No one stopped her or interfered with her, and in a few moments she reached the hall. One of the servants here came forward and asked her i£ she required a cab. But she shook her head, and went down the steps into the lighted streets, alone with her broken heait I {To be continued.)