Chapter XXX 111. Remorse.

Otago Witness, Issue 2106, 5 July 1894, Page 39

Chapter XXX 111. Remorse.

After John Temple had left May he drove straight to Pembridge Terrace, feeling that the worst of a most painful day was over. At all events May would not leave him, and in another country they would both forget the paßt.

" And whp knows what may happen 1 " he thought. " That woman," and his brow darkened, "is not likely to lead or to go on leadiDg an immaculate life. I may be able to get a divorce, and the moment I can I will marry May. My dear little May, if I have -wronged you it was because I loved you so well." So thinking of her tenderly, fondly, he arrived at Pe/nbridge Terrace, and when he entered the dining room where the two sisters were alone, tbey both almost at once exclaimed : "Where is Mrs John?" " Sac is not very well, I'm sorry to say," answered John Temple, "and I persuaded her to stay at the hotel and let me come on alone to you. I am going to take her to* morrow for a day or two to the sea, as we both want a little change, I think; and I have come to tell you this and ask if you will kindly let your maid pack a few things that May will requiie, and I will take them back in the cab with me." " Well, this is sudden ! " cried Miss Web* ster. "But she is not ill, is she?" inquired kindly Miss Eliza. 11 No, but she was tired, so I thought she was better where she was than driving through the streets. She will write to you to-morrow most likely, and I scarcely know I how to thank you for all your kindness to her — poor child." I There was a tender ring in John's voice as be said tbe last two words that both the ! gentle-hearted women notioed. " It has been a great pleasure to us to have her here," said Miss Webster. "She's a sweet flower," sighed Miss Eliga. " She's a dear girl," said John Temple j and for a moment— jast a moment— a sorb of moisture stole over his grey syes, After this Miss Webster hurried out of the room tp paok, or superintend the packing of, what she thought May would require dar< ingherfew days'proposad excursion to the se^i Thus Misß Elisft was left to entertain John Tempiej a task wbloh she fonfid by no mean* easy to perform, He was abeent'tnlnded and silent, and rose quiokly wfcen Miss Webster* and tbe maid returned with May's packed portmanteau. " I have put everything in I thought Bhs would want," said Miss Webster ; " but if I have forgotten anything, if she will telegraph 5 I will send it at once." " I am sure it is all right," said John, and be held out his hand to Miss Webster, thinking that most likely it would be' tbe last timfe 1 for years that be would press that kindly palm. "Good-bye, Mi=s Webster; goodbye, Miss Eliza ; and thank you for all your great kindness."

He left the honf c a few minutes later, and it was' strange that both the 6i*terß weie somewhat imr.fe3s.pd by his mannt " He looked very serious," said Miss Webster. "I hopp, I am sure,- nothing is wrong." "Perhaps it has come out about their marriage, and be bas quarrelled with bis uncle ?" suggested Mibb Eiizi. In the meanwhile John Temple wss diiving back to his hotel, his thoughts still dwelling very tenderly on M*y. •• I will make it all up to her," he was thinking. '• My little Mayflower shall never regret her choice, nor her love." He had grown almost cheerful by the time he had reached the hotel. "After all, it was dull enough at Woodlea,"

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he was reflecting; " and I can't quite under-, stand Mrs Temple'u attitude. We shall be happier oat of i f - all — out of civilisation — for a while. I think I shall like a different life." He soon arrived at the hotel, paid bis cab fare, and then ran lightly up the staircase, after giving Maj'B portmanteau to one of the waiters to carry. He knew the number of the sitting>room where he had left May, as he was well acquainted with the hotel, and when he reached the door he opened it without rapping. One glance round the room told him it was empty But this did not make him uneasy. " She has been too tired to sit up," he thought, " and has gone to bed " ; and be turned round to the waiter who was following him with the portmanteau, and asked the number of the bedroom he had engaged. The man told him, and John Temple took the portmanteau from his band, and went in the direction the waiter indicated. When be arrived at the bedroom door, he rapped, but there was no answer. Then he opened the door and went in ; but, like the sitting room, he found it empty. " Yeu have made a mistake ; this is not the room," he said sharply to the waiter, who was still following him. "Yes, sir, this is the bedroom you engaged," replied the waiter. " Bat the lady — my wife— is not here I " 11 No, sir; the lady in sitting room Number 11 left the hotel some time ago." '■ Left the hotel 1 " repeated John Temple blankly. " Are you sure of this ? " " Yes, sir ; I saw her go down the staircase and go out. I felt sure it was the lady from Number 11, as, if you remember, I lit the room after the lady took ill. And 1 fetched the doctor up for her also." A strarjge, cold feeling crept into John Temple's heart. '• And you saw her go out ? " he repeated. "Yes, sir, and as she passed through the hall I asked her if she required a cab." " And did you get her one 1 " interrupted John hastily. "No, sir; she just shook her head and went out. Aud, you'll excuse me, sir, mentioning it, but 111 1 hought the lady looked very ill." "Went out alone 1 I cannot understand it I " exclaimed John Temple ; and then he once more entered the bedroom and looked around. Could she have left some letter, pome message ? he was thinking. Bat there was nothing; no sign that she had been there. After this he went back to the sitting room, and here he found May's cape lying on the floor. He had unfastened it when she had fainted, and Hung it over the end of a couch. Bat her hat was gone I Tbe poor girl in her despair had never remembered her cape, and as John Temple lifted it up a sudden fear, a sudden anguish, struck his soul.

Had she left him ? he was asking himself with white lips. But surely not without some word, some line.

He went up to the table ; water was standing there, and some brandy which had been brought when May was ill, and tie doctor's prescription. And her handkerchief and gloves I She had forgotten these too, but there was no letter or pencilled note I He looked everywhere, but it was in vain. In the short time that be bad been away she had disappeared, and the greatest anxiety naturally filled John Temple's heart.

Again he recalled the waiter who had seen j her leave the hotel, but the man had nothing more to tell Then he himself went out and wandered restle-sly up and down the street, looking at every one he met in a miserable state of uncertainty and doubt;. He thought once of returning to Miss Webster*. But, no ; she had positively refused to go there, and besides she might return at any moment. He tried to buoy himself up with this hope, but hope grew well nigh to despair when hour after hour passed and theie was no news of May. When the last post came in he again went out into the streets. He inquired at the nearest cabstand, bat no one seemed to remember anything of a lady such as he described. He shrank from applying to the police, and spent a night of teriible misery and remorse. " I should not have left her," he moaned aloud as he wandered up and down the Bitting room whe ehe had feen her last. He refused to go to bed, and more than once went down to question the night porter. But the grey dawn stole over the city, and the noise and murmur of the day began, and still nothing was seen or heard of the unhappy woman who had disappeared. The first post arrived, and there was no letter for John Temple, and then he knew that May had forsaken him. He realised this, with the bitterest piin. He recalled her words and looks before he had left her, and suddenly— like a dagger— a memory smote him. She bad said as she lay in his arms, '« We could not live apart." 11 Good God I did she go out to die, then 1 " burs; from John Temple's pale, quivering lips. The anguish of this idea was almost too great to bear. He hesitated no longer about going to the police. He went— a White-facad, agitated man — to the nearest station, and told his story. His wife had disappeared from the hotel, he said, and he was in a state of the utmost misery and anxiety about her.

The inspector took notes and made certain inquiries. " Had he had any quarrel -with the lady 1 Was there any reason why she should leave him ? "

"No quarrel," answered John Temple huskily ; •* bat I told her some bad news." " Did this seem to upset her greatly? " 11 Yee, at the time, but when I left her she was calm and composed." "And she said nothing about going away ? " " Nothing, or I should never have left her." The inspector then asked if she had any friends in town where she was likely to take nfuge, and with a groan John Temple answered, " None." Inquiries, however, were at once commenced, and during the day a cabman came forward and stated that be had *een the lady leave the Grosvenor Hotel, and had followed her, hoping for a fare ; that she had stopped and bsckened to him, and that when be bad asked her where she wished to go she had answered, "To one cf the bridges ; " that be then said, "To wfcich bridge 7 " ani shn had replied " Westminster." When this was reported to John Temple be

grew ghastly pale, and staggered back, but the police inspector tried to reassure him.

"No suicide had been known to have occurred from Westminster Bridge last night." he said, " and at the time the lady had been driven there the bridge would be crowded, and, besides, the cabman had called the attention of a policeman to her. Tbii policeman had also been found, and had made a statement. He said the cabman called his attention to a lady who bad just left his cab, and he therefore ab occe walked along the bridge. He came on a gentleman speaking to a lady who looked very ill, and he asked the gentleman about her, but he made a satisfactory answer, and they went away altogether, and be lost Bight of them. The policeman, however, had kept looking out daring the time of his beat, and as far as was known no tragedy had happened on the bridge."

With this cold comfort to hia heart John Temple was forced to be content. He saw the cabman who had driven the ladj to Westminster, and from this man's description John believed it had been May.

" She had a lot of bright, light hair, all ruffled -like," the cabman aaid, "and a pretty, pale face, and looked in great tronble, and had i o gloves od, bat he noticed some rings."

The policeman on the bridge also gave rather a similar description of the lady he had seen talking to the gentleman, whose arm she took before they went away ; but John Temple told himself, as he listened, that it had not been the same. He went back to tbe hotel, with a bowed head and a remorseful, miserable heart — went back to wait in rain for news that never came.

And during the same day an incident occurred at Pembridge Terrace which greatly upset both the kind ladies there. They had been struck with John Temple's manner when he parted witk them the night before, and naturally thought it strange that May should leave home even for a few days without bidding them good-bye. And they were actually talking of this, speculating in their mild, kindly way on the cause, and hoping nothing had gone wrong with their young friend*, when the servant came upstair?, and having rapped at their bedroom door, told them that a gentleman was waiting in the dining room to see them. " A gentleman 7 " said iliss Webster, surpriaed. " Did you ask his name, Jane 1 " " Yes, ma'am, I did," replied Jane, " and I think he said Mr Churchill, but I'm not quite sure." " Churchill ? ' repeated Mi=s Webster, and the two sisters looked at each other in some consternation. "We will be down directly, Jane," then said Miss Webster after a little pause, and when the maid disappeared they again exchanged rather alarmed glances. " I am afraid something has happened ; that their secret is known," suggested Miss Eliza nervously. " Do you think it will be May's father 1 " aßked Miss Webster, as she tied her bonnet strings with trembling fingers. Tbe two sisters were dressing themselves to go out on a little shopping excursion when they heard of their unexpected visitor, and they both felt very much upset. However, there was nothing for it but te go down and receive "Mr Churchill," whoever he might be. They accordingly did this together, and when they entered the dining room they say a tall, good-lookirg, middle-aged man, with a somewhat countrified appearance, standing there. He made a bow as tbe sisters appeared, which they nervously returned. "Excuse my calling, ladies," he said, " but I have come to make some inquiries about my daughter, May Churchill, who, I understand, has bean living with you for some time." Both the poor ladies gave a gasp, and for a moment or two stood silent. They did not in troth know what to say ; did not know how much Mr Churchill knew, or how far May was committed in his eyes. "My girl," went on Mr Churchill, seeing their hesitation, " disappeared from her home some time ago, and we have heard nothing of her till yesterday. Bat yesterday I had sure information that she is living with yoa, and that she is now called Mrs John. Is this so ? " Miss Webster drew herself up a little proudly.

" Yes, Mr Churchill," she said, " your daughter has been here, but she is not here at present." " Where i 3 she now, then ? " asked Mr Churchill, somewhat roughly ; " for I mean to find her. I have come up to London to find her, and also to find Mr John Templp, who, I Buppose, has taken her away if she bas gone from here." Again both the sisters gasped. This big, strong nun seemed to overwhelm them, and they lelfc themselves almost powerless in bis bands. "The lone and tbe short of it is," continued Mr Ohurohill, "I mean to oall Mr John Temple to account for his conduct to May, He induoed her, I believe, to leave her home, and she writes to him in such a manner, I am told, that if she isn't married to him she ought to be." Both the faded faces before him were now suffused with a sudden blush. But a moment later Miss Webster plucked up her courage. " Sir," she said, with not a little indignation in her tone, " I think you speak of your daughter, who is everything that a yonng lady should be, in a very unbecoming manner." "I do not koow, madam, what you think a young lidy should be," retorted Me Churchill ; " but I think when a girl leaves her father's houi-e and carries on an intrigue with a youog man, that it is her father's du r y to learn whether she ia married or not, and if she is not, to see that she is." " But she is married, sir 1 " replied Mies Webster, raising her head with dignity. " 1 and my sister Elizi here were present at her marriage, which was performed by the clergyman of the parish, Mr Mold. It was kept a secret on account of Mr John Temple's uncle, and if it will do him any harm I hope you will still keep it a secret, but I can positively assure you that they are mariied." Mr Churchill's expression changed con-side-ably while Ms* Webster was speak•ng. "Then all I cm say, madam, is that I am heartily glad to hear it," he answered.

" Naturally I was put oat about my girl, and anxious to hear that it was all right with her. However, Mr John Temple need not be afraid of his uncle, tbe Equire. I saw the old gentleman yesterday, and he told me May would be welcomed there when his nephew brought her to the Hall."

" I am indeed glad to hear this ; indeed, most glad 1 " said Miss Webster, with a ring of genuine pleasure) in her voicß. "We have the greatest respect and regard for Mr John Temple, both my sister Eliza and myself, and we have grieved a little that his marriage to your sweet young daughter should have been kept a secret. But now it is all right. This is delightful news, i 3 it not, dear Eliza 7 " she added, turning to her sister.

" Moat delightful 1 " replied Miss Eliza, with emotion. " Really quite affecting ! " and she drew out her handkerchief, as though preparing for tears.

" Well, ladies, I am sure I thank you very much for your information," said Mr Churchill heartily. " It's a great relief to my mind ; a very great relief." And Mr Churchill wiped his brow with his handkerchief. " You see my poor little lass lost her mother whtn she was only a child, and though I'm married again, a stepmother's not the same somehow, though I've nothing to Bay aga'nst my missus. But about May ? Where is she now ? for I would like to kiss her before I go, and shake Mr John Temple by the hand."

"She left yesterday afternoon, and bas gone for a few days to the seaside with her husband," answered Miss Webster. "Mr John Temple came yesterday and took May away with him."

■Mr Churchill looked rather puzzled.

•• It's a strange thing," he said, " but Mr John Tempi* would say nothing when he was questioned yesterday as to whether he was married to May or not. 1 suppose it's all right about the register 'and that sort of thing 7 "

" Certainly right 1 " exclaimed both sisters. " \Te Baw it signed."

"Still, I think I should like to have a look at ir, if you ladies will kindly tell me the name of the church and the clergyman ? "

"With pleasure," replied Miss Webster. " And now, Mr Churchill, will you take some refreshment, and have a glass of wine to drink to the health of the young couple 1 "

Mr Churchill accepted this hospitable offer, and shortly afterwards took his leave. But scarcely was he gone when the Bisters began to be afraid of what they had done.

" I am sure I hope we have done right in telling about the marriage 1 " said Miss Webster, looking at Miss Elizi for comfort.

" I am sure I hope so," replied Miss Eliza in an apprehensive tone.

" But yon see he cast each aspersions on May 1 "

"It would have roused anyone to defend her— but still "

" What do yoa think, dear Eliza 7 "

" I think it would be as well if Mr John Temple knew that we were almost forced to tell the truth. Do you think yon could write to him, dear Margaret ? "

" Yes, if I knew his address. He usually stays at the Grosvenor, but then he said they were going to-day to the seaside, yoa remember."

"But he might have left his address at the Grosvenor. I think I would try, dear Margaret. Let us ask Jane where he directed the cabman to drive to last night when he left here."

Jane was accordingly summoned to tbe dining room, as she had carried poor May's portmanteau down to the cab when John Temple had left Pembridge Terrace tbe evening before.

"He said the Grosvenor, ma'am, I'm nearly certain," Jane answered to her mistress's inquiries. So after tbe maid bad left the roon Miss Webster decided to write to tell John Temple of Mr Churchill's visit, and its consequences.

" Dear Mr Temple," she began, somewhat nervously, "sister Eliza and myself have been somewhat upset this morning by receiving a visit from Mr Churchill, your sweet young wife's father. He had heard she was living with us, and bad come to seek her, and was very anxious to learn the truth about her. And he said some things — made some remarks — that neither sister Eliza nor I could hear unmoved.. In fact, we were almost forced, ia defence o£ your dear wife, to tell him that you were married to her, and this seemed a great relief to his mind. Bat we begged him, still to keep the secret, if he thought it would injure yoa at all with your uncle, Mr Temple, of Woodlea Hall. Bub to our great joy he told as that he had seen your uncle on the subject, and that he had said he would gladly welcome dear May as hla nephew's wife. I need cot tell you how delighted we were to hear this, as Mr Temple's sanction seemed tbe one thirjg wanting to your great happiness.

•• With our united love to your dear wife, and beat xegards to yourself, I remain, einoerely yours, Marqabex Websteb." This letter was delivered to John Temple during the evening, as he Bat alone and desolate in^his great remorse and pain. (To be continued )