A Country Sweetheart
by Dora Russell · English · Gutenberg #47282 · 745,119 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: A Country Sweetheart
Author: Dora Russell
Release date: November 4, 2014 [eBook #47282]
Most recently updated: October 24, 2024
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A COUNTRY SWEETHEART ***
A COUNTRY SWEETHEART
BY
DORA RUSSELL,
AUTHOR OF
"HIS WILL AND HERS," "THE BROKEN SEAL," "THE
LAST SIGNAL," ETC.
CHICAGO AND NEW YORK:
RAND, McNALLY & COMPANY,
PUBLISHERS.
THE SONG OF THE "No. 9."
My dress is of fine polished oak,
As rich as the finest fur cloak,
And for handsome design
You just should see mine--
No. 9, No. 9.
I'm beloved by the poor and the rich,
For both I impartially stitch;
In the cabin I shine,
In the mansion I'm fine--
No. 9, No. 9.
I never get surly nor tired,
With zeal I always am fired;
To hard work I incline,
For rest I ne'er pine--
No. 9, No. 9.
I am easily purchased by all,
With installments that monthly do fall,
And when I am thine,
Then life is benign--
No. 9, No. 9.
To the Paris Exposition I went,
Upon getting the Grand Prize intent;
I left all behind,
The Grand Prize was mine--
No. 9, No. 9.
At the Universal Exposition of 1889, at Paris, France, the best sewing
machines of the world, including those of America, were in competition.
They were passed upon by a jury composed of the best foreign mechanical
experts, two of whom were the leading sewing machine manufacturers of
France. This jury, after exhaustive examination and tests, adjudged
that the Wheeler & Wilson machines were the best of all, and awarded
the company the highest prize offered--the GRAND PRIZE--giving other
companies only gold, silver, and bronze medals.
The French government, as a further recognition of superiority,
decorated Mr. Nathaniel Wheeler, president of the company, with the
Cross of the Legion of Honor--the most prized honor of France.
The No. 9, for family use, and the No. 12, for manufacturing uses, are
the best in the world to-day.
And now, when you want a sewing machine, if you do not get the best it
will be your own fault.
Ask your sewing machine dealer for the No. 9 Wheeler & Wilson machine.
If he doesn't keep them, write to us for descriptive catalogue and
terms. Agents wanted in all unoccupied territory.
WHEELER & WILSON MFG. CO., CHICAGO, ILL.
[Illustration] _SCOTCH_
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ARE GOOD OATS
Packed in
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[Illustration] THE
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AND THE
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Have an established reputation as
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This reputation has resulted from a combination
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KIS-ME GUM CO.,
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_READ_
Sons and Fathers
BY HARRY STILLWELL EDWARDS.
The Story that won the _$10,000 Prize_ in
The Chicago Record's Competition.
Bound in English Linen with Gold Back and Side
Stamps. Price $1.25.
RAND, McNALLY & CO., PUBLISHERS,
CHICAGO AND NEW YORK.
Copyright, 1894, by Dora Russell.
Copyright, 1895, by Dora Russell.
A COUNTRY SWEETHEART.
CHAPTER I.
THE NEW HEIR.
In the summer time, from the door of a darkened room, a gray-haired,
bent old man had just followed a great surgeon down the wide staircase
of Woodlea Hall.
The surgeon looked around when he reached the last steps, and there was
kindly pity on his grave face as he met the appealing eyes that were
fixed on his.
"I am sorry to say there is no hope, Mr. Temple," he said, in answer to
the mute inquiry on his listener's face.
Mr. Temple's bowed gray head bent a little lower when he heard this
verdict, and that was all.
"Is he your only son?" asked the surgeon, commiseratingly.
"He is our only child," answered Mr. Temple.
"Ah--that is sad, but there is no doubt football is a dangerous game."
"How--how long will he be spared to us?" now inquired Mr. Temple with
quivering lips.
"He will drift away probably during the night, or in the small hours of
the morning. He will not regain consciousness; the injury to the base
of the brain is too severe."
The great surgeon only stayed a few minutes longer in the
grief-stricken household after this, and then was driven away. And
when he was gone, with a heavy sigh--almost a moan--Mr. Temple began
to ascend the staircase, and on the first landing a lady was standing
waiting for him with terrible anxiety written on her pale face.
Mr. Temple looked up when he saw her, and shook his head, and as he did
this the lady sprang forward and gripped his hand.
"What did he say?" she asked in a hoarse whisper.
"Come in here, my poor Rachel," he answered gently, and as he spoke he
led her forward into a room on the landing, the door of which chanced
to be open, and then closed it behind them. "My dear--I grieve very
much to say--Sir Henry's opinion is not very favorable."
His voice broke and faltered as he said these words, and a sort of
gasping sigh escaped the lady's lips as she listened to them.
"What did he say?" she repeated, with her eyes fixed in a wild stare on
Mr. Temple's face.
"He--he said we must prepare--"
"No, no! not to lose him!" cried the lady with a sudden passionate
wail. "Phillip, I can not, I will not! He was so bright a few hours
ago--so bright and well--my Phil, my boy--and now, now--it will kill me
if he dies!"
She flung herself on the floor in a frantic passion of grief before
her husband could prevent her, and lay there writhing in a terrible
paroxysm of despair, while the gray-haired man beside her bent over
her, and tried in vain to comfort or soothe her. She was his wife, but
fully twenty years younger than he was; a handsome dark-eyed woman, of
some thirty-five years, and the injured boy lying in the darkened room
was her only child.
"Who did it?" she suddenly cried, raising herself up. "Who murdered
him? Which of the boys?"
"My dear, it is so difficult to tell in a scramble--so difficult to
find out."
"I will find out!" went on Mrs. Temple, passionately. "I do not believe
it was an accident; someone must have struck him on the head. Oh! my
boy, my darling!" she continued, rocking herself to and fro; "the one
thing I had to love; the only one that loved me--must, must I lose you,
too!"
"It is a terrible blow, Rachel--but--"
"Why not try someone else? Do you hear, Phillip?" said Mrs. Temple,
now starting to her feet, and grasping her husband's arm. "Send or
telegraph for another doctor at once."
"My dear, it would do no good," answered Mr. Temple, sadly. "You heard
what Doctor Brown said; Sir Henry Fairfax is one of the first surgeons
in town--and--he said there was no hope."
A wild shriek broke from Mrs. Temple's lips as she heard this fatal
verdict. Her agonized grief was indeed pitiful to behold. Again and
again she repeated that her boy was the one being that she had to love;
was the only one she loved, and the gray-haired old man sighed deeply
as he listened to her frantic words.
She never seemed to think of his grief, nor even to remember it. It
was her own loss she harped on; her own misery. But Mr. Temple did
not reproach her with this. He did not say my heart, too, is broken;
the spring of my life is gone. Yet this was so. The poor lad Phillip
Temple, drifting away so fast from life, had been the center of all
his hopes, the pivot of all his joy. And he, too, was telling himself
sadly, as he listened to his wife's moans, that the boy had been the
only one who had loved him, or who had cared for his love.
"She never loved me," he thought, looking at the handsome
grief-stricken woman before him; and as he did so his memory went back
to fifteen years ago; back to the days when he, the squire, had gone
wooing to the whitewashed parsonage house, and had won the dark-eyed
girl on whom he had set his heart. He had not asked himself then if her
heart was his. She seemed to like him; she smiled on him and accepted
his presents, and her mother hinted at the advantages of an early
wedding-day.
So they were married, and by and by Mr. Temple found out his mistake.
She had never loved him, and one morning fell fainting from her chair
when she read the news that a soldier cousin had been killed at some
distant Indian outpost.
And in the days that followed he learnt the truth. Her cousin had been
her lover, but the old hindrance, want of money, had stood between
them, and thus Mr. Temple had won his wife. She made very little secret
of this to her husband, and did not affect love she could not feel.
Her child became her idol, and from the time when the baby boy began
first to lisp her name she worshiped him with the whole strength of her
passionate, ill-regulated heart.
The boy, however, had been a bond between the husband and wife, and
they had got on fairly well together for his sake. They used to talk
to each other of his future, and it was a subject equally dear to them
both. He was a fine, healthy, clever lad of fourteen when he went out
to play football on the fatal day when he was carried back to his
father's house insensible. He had somehow fallen, and a rush of boys
had swept over him, and when they raised him up he never spoke again.
They took him back to Woodlea Hall; the village doctor was sent for
in all haste, and at once advised further advice to be telegraphed
for. This was done, and Sir Henry Fairfax arrived from town only to
pronounce the case to be hopeless.
It was a terrible affair, people said, terrible for the poor mother
and for the poor squire, who somehow was the most popular of the
two. Country neighbors called at the lodge gates, with commiserating
inquiries, while the parents hung over the speechless boy, waiting in
terrible anxiety for Sir Henry Fairfax's arrival. He came late in the
afternoon, and did not stay long. He carefully examined the unconscious
lad, heard what the country doctor had to say, and then told the father
the truth.
The boy was dying; the little heir to the broad acres and the old
name was about done with earthly things. It had been a beautiful day;
the sun had blazed down from a cloudless sky on the wide park, the
glowing flower-beds, and the green lawns of Woodlea Hall. It seemed
a mockery; outside so bright, inside so full of gloom. Still, until
Sir Henry Fairfax's arrival, there had been hope. Doctor Brown, the
country doctor, had spoken of "returning consciousness" to the anxious
mother. They had watched and waited, however, for that "returning
consciousness" in vain. The lad lay white and still, breathing slowly,
with closed eyes. He took no notice of his mother's tender words, of
her fond appeals. He did not hear them, and his bright eyes were closed
to smile no more.
"Rachel, my dear, will you leave him any longer alone?" at last Mr.
Temple ventured to say, as his wife wept and moaned, and he laid his
hand on her shoulder as he spoke.
She started and looked up.
"Did you say no hope?" she asked, wildly.
"Sir Henry said--" faltered Mr. Temple.
"Then there is none for me--none, none!" went on the wretched woman,
in her despair. "Why should I lose everything? Why should God take
everything from me? I have been a good woman for Phil's sake, and He
is going to take him--all the good that is in me will be buried in his
grave!"
"Hush, hush, my poor girl; do not talk thus."
"What do you understand," continued Mrs. Temple, yet more wildly, "of
love like mine? You are old--you do not suffer--"
"I do, God knows I do!" cried the unhappy man, and tears rushed into
his eyes, and ran down his furrowed cheeks as he spoke.
"When George Hill died, I bore it for Phil's sake," went on Mrs.
Temple, regardless, or forgetful, of the useless pain she was
inflicting; "and now--and now, my darling, my darling, must I lose you,
too?"
"Come to him now, at least," urged Mr. Temple; "you would wish to be
with him, would you not, Rachel? There may be some--parting word."
Mrs. Temple moaned aloud.
"You mean before he--"
"Before he leaves us. Come, my poor Rachel, for his sake try to compose
yourself."
These words seemed to have some effect on the unhappy mother. She made
an effort to be calm, and a few minutes later, leaning on her husband's
arm, and tottering as she went, she returned to the bedside of the
dying boy.
Those standing round it moved back as she approached it. There were
present the village doctor and Mrs. Layton, Mrs. Temple's mother, and
the poor lad's nurse. No one spoke. Doctor Brown had already told Sir
Henry Fairfax's opinion to the two weeping women, and Mrs. Layton
silently put her hand into her daughter's as she neared the bed. But
Mrs. Temple shrank from this mark of sympathy. Without a word she fell
on her knees and fixed her eyes on the face of the unconscious boy.
No wonder she had loved him. He had inherited her own handsome
features, and dark marked brows, and lithe slim form. But his
disposition had not been like hers. He lacked her waywardness, her
excitability. He had been a sunny-faced, sunny-hearted lad, and to see
him lying thus--mute, white, and still--was inexpressibly painful.
They watched him hour after hour. The sun dipped behind the green hills
that lay to the west, and slowly the summer daylight began to fade, and
still there was no change. Mrs. Layton crept noiselessly out of the
room to go down to the vicarage to see after her husband and household,
but all the rest remained. The gray-haired father sat at one side of
the bed, and at the other the mother knelt. From time to time the
doctor felt the small brown wrist that lay outside the coverlet, and
the old nurse by the window was praying silently.
But Mrs. Temple breathed no prayer. In her heart was hot revolt
and despair. She never took her eyes from her boy's face, and her
expression told her anguish. Once the doctor poured her out some wine,
but she put it from her with a gesture of loathing.
And so the numbered hours stole on. Presently a new light shone into
the room--a soft pale radiancy--and the moonbeams lit the dying face.
They fell on it more than an hour, and then a faint change took place
in the breathing. The doctor bent down and listened; the father drew
a gasping sigh. It was the passing away of the young soul; and a
moment or two later they were forced to tell Mrs. Temple that she was
childless.
Then the pent-up anguish broke loose. The bereaved mother caught the
dead boy in her arms, and called to him by every endearing name to come
back to her.
"Come back, my darling, my darling; do not leave me alone!" she
shrieked in her despair.
They sent for her mother, but the very presence of Mrs. Layton seemed
still further to excite her.
"But for you," she cried, turning on her mother in her frantic grief,
"he would never have been born! But for you I would have been with
George--George Hill, from whom you parted me!"
It was a most painful scene. Mrs. Layton drew the gray-haired old
squire out of the room, and tried to whisper some words of comfort in
his ear.
"Grief has made poor Rachel beside herself," she said. "Fancy her
talking of George Hill now, when the poor fellow has been dead over ten
years. They were children together, you know."
But Mr. Temple made no answer. He knew very well that his wife was
speaking the truth, and that his mother-in-law was not. He turned from
Mrs. Layton and went into his library, and sat there alone, thinking.
The boy's death had changed everything. Mr. Temple was a rich man, for
besides his own large property, he had in his youth married for his
first wife the daughter and heiress of Sir Richard Devon, whose estates
marched with his own. At her death this lady had left everything she
possessed to her husband, and thus Mr. Temple was one of the largest
land-owners in the country.
The old man sighed when he thought of all this, and covered his face
with his hands. He was thinking who would now come after him; thinking
of his heir. He knew who it must be. The Woodlea estates had been
entailed by his father in the event of his having no children, beyond
him. The late Mr. Temple had left two sons, Phillip, the heir, and
John, who had gone into the army and died young. But he had married,
and left a son, also named John. This John Temple the squire knew was
now the heir to Woodlea. He was a man of some thirty years old, and
occasionally had visited his uncle, but no great intimacy had existed
between them.
John Temple had a fair fortune, and had not sought to increase it. He
had been educated as a barrister, but he had never practiced. He had
lived a good deal abroad, and led a roving life, it was said, but his
uncle knew very little about him. He had had in truth small interest
in him. But now all this was changed. His bright young son, his hope
and pride, had passed away, and the old squire, sitting with his bowed
head, knew that John Temple was his heir.
CHAPTER II.
THE MAYFLOWER.
Three days later they carried young Phillip Temple to his grave, and
the new heir came to Woodlea as a mourner. His uncle had written to
John Temple to tell him of the sad and untimely death of his son, and
John Temple had received the news with a little shrug.
"Poor lad, what a pity, and he was such a fine boy," he said to the
friend who was dining with him, when the squire's black-edged letter
was placed in his hand.
"But this will make a great difference to you?" answered his friend.
It was then John Temple gave the little shrug.
"It will give me a good many more thousands a year than I have now
hundreds," he said, "but that will be about the only difference. The
poor lad with his youth would have enjoyed the old man's money more
than I shall. I am too old to believe in the pleasures of riches."
"I am not, then," replied the friend enviously; "you can buy anything."
"No," answered John Temple, and his brow darkened.
He was a good-looking man, this new heir of Woodlea, tall and slender,
and with a pair of keen gray eyes beneath his dark brows. He looked
also fairly-well content with life, and took most things calmly, if not
with absolute indifference.
"I have been able to pay my way, and what more does a man want?" he
said, presently, as his friend still harped on his new inheritance. "To
be in debt is disgusting; I should work hard to keep out of it."
"It is very difficult to keep out of it," was the reply he received.
"You must cut your coat according to your cloth," answered John Temple,
smiling. "Had I lived extravagantly I should now have been in debt, but
I have not, and therefore I have no duns."
What he said of himself was quite true. He had lived within his income,
and was not therefore greatly elated by learning that he would probably
soon be a rich man. Perhaps he affected to care less about his change
of fortune than he really did. He was cynic enough for this. At all
events he accepted his uncle's invitation to be present at his poor
young cousin's funeral, and he wrote in becoming and even feeling terms
of the sad loss the squire had sustained.
Mr. Temple read this letter with a sigh, but he was not displeased with
it. He did not show it to his wife, who was prostrate with grief. Mrs.
Temple's condition was indeed truly pitiable. Her one moan was she had
no one to love her now, and she refused to be comforted.
"She will be better," said Mrs. Layton to the squire, "when it is all
over. Rachel is, and always was, very emotional."
Mrs. Layton meant that her daughter would be better when her young son
was in his grave. But Mr. Temple did not consult his mother-in-law on
the subject. He fixed the day for the poor lad's burial himself, and
he invited the funeral guests. And it was only after John Temple had
accepted his invitation that he told Mrs. Layton that he expected his
nephew.
Mrs. Layton went home to the vicarage brimful of the news.
"Of course this young man is the heir now," she said to her husband;
"but surely Rachel will have the Hall for her life? We must see about
this, James."
The Rev. James Layton, an easy-going man, looked up from the
composition of his weekly sermon as his wife spoke.
"I dare say it will be all right," he said.
"But it may not be; this young man is sure to marry after the squire's
death, and he looks extremely ill and shaken, and I can not have
Rachel's home interfered with."
"You are always looking forward," replied the Rev. James, pettishly.
"I'm busy, I've my sermon to finish."
"The sermon can wait, and is of no consequence; but Rachel's future is.
You must speak to the squire about it at once."
"I consider it would be absolutely indecent, Sarah, to do so at
present."
"That's all very fine, but the poor old man may take a fit any day, and
then where should we be--with a new madam at the Hall, after all Rachel
has gone through?"
"She always seemed right enough till the poor lad died."
"Still, she married an old man, and should therefore have the benefit
of it."
"Well, wait until the poor boy is in his grave, at any rate."
"Dilatory as usual! I always said, James, you would never get on,
because you are not pushing enough. You do not court the bishop like
the other greedy parsons, and just look where you are. At sixty-nine,
in a small vicarage like Woodlea, with under four hundred a year! You
can not expect me to have patience; and how about poor Rachel? You'll
allow this young man, John Temple, to come down to the funeral, and
perhaps obtain power over a silly old man, and your own daughter may be
left out in the cold! And all because you won't speak a few words, and
insist on the Hall being settled on her."
"Speak yourself," said Mr. Layton, impatiently.
"I would at once, only I know he won't listen to me. He's got some
stupid grudge into his silly old head, and never consults me about
anything. You are the person to do it, and you must do it."
"Well, go away for the present, at any rate."
"Oh, yes, just like you! Wait till young Temple arrives; wait until it
is too late, and then you will be satisfied!"
Having thus reproved her husband at the vicarage, Mrs. Layton crossed
over to the hall for the purpose of reproving her daughter. And as
she entered the wide domains, and looked around at the luxuries and
beauties of the place, she naturally felt anxious to keep them in the
family.
"Rachel must rouse herself," she mentally reflected, as she ascended
the broad staircase. "Now the poor boy is gone, she has lost a bond
between herself and the old man, and therefore she must exert herself
to keep up her influence."
She thought this again as she walked along the wide, softly-carpeted
corridor that led to her daughter's room.
"What a nice house!" she reflected. "No one must come here. No
interloper; no new squire and his wife!"
She knew that Mrs. Temple's marriage settlement was everything that was
satisfactory. She had seen to that herself when the gray-haired man
had gone courting her dark-haired girl. She had taken full advantage
of an old wooer's folly, and seen that he paid a heavy price for his
bargain. But nothing had been said about the Hall. Then, when the boy
was born nothing naturally was said of it. His mother would live, of
course, with the young heir. But now the young heir was dead, and some
new arrangement must be made.
Mrs. Layton knew she had no easy task before her, when she rapped at
the door of her daughter's bedroom. Rachel Layton had been difficult to
manage, but Rachel Temple had developed into a very wayward woman. As
a rule, she was on fairly good terms with her mother, but she brooked
no interference. Mrs. Layton derived many benefits from her connection
with the Hall. Her mutton, her butter, her eggs, her vegetables, all
came from the same source. The remembrance of this inspirited her. The
Hall must remain Rachel's, she told herself, cost her what it would.
It was the day before the poor boy's funeral, and John Temple was
expected at Woodlea early on the following morning. There was,
therefore, no time to lose. So Mrs. Layton plucked up her courage and
entered her daughter's apartment, determined to speak her mind.
Mrs. Temple was standing at one of the windows gazing listlessly out.
She could not rest, and her handsome face was lined and drawn with her
mental sufferings. She looked years older since her boy's death, and
she glanced round as her mother entered the room without speaking.
"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Layton, "how are you feeling now?"
"How can you ask?" answered the unhappy woman, "when everything is
ended for me--that is how I feel."
"But, my dear Rachel, this is folly; everything is not ended for you,
and you have, I am sure, many years of happy life before you yet."
"Happy life! Very happy life--alone in the world."
"You may not always be alone, Rachel, and I have come here just now,
my dear, especially to speak of your future."
"I have no future."
"My dear child, yes; you have had a great loss--"
"No one knows what he was to me!" interrupted Mrs. Temple,
passionately, and she began to wander up and down the room wringing
her hands as she went. "My darling, my boy, and to think that after
to-morrow I shall see him no more--that they will take away from me
even what is left!"
"Rachel, has Mr. Temple told you that--his nephew is coming to-morrow?"
"No," replied Mrs. Temple, listlessly.
"He is, then--Mr. John Temple--who, of course, is now Mr. Temple's
successor."
"Is he coming so quickly to take my darling's place!" cried Mrs.
Temple, with a sudden flash of indignation. "But what matter, what
matter!"
"It is a matter, my dear, and it is about this that I wish to speak to
you. When you married, the Hall was not included in your settlement, as
I now see that it ought to have been, but--we could not foresee your
sad loss. Now this young man will succeed Mr. Temple, but he ought not
to have the Hall in your lifetime. That must be secured to you, and
before this young man arrives I think Mr. Temple ought to be spoken to
on the subject, and I should advise you to exert yourself, my dear, and
prevent young Mr. Temple gaining an undue influence over your husband."
Mrs. Temple fixed her large dark eyes on her mother's face.
"What are you talking of?" she said.
"I am telling you, my dear Rachel, only you do not seem to attend
to what I am saying, that this young man is coming, who is now your
husband's heir, and naturally he will try to obtain power over his
uncle, which you should not allow. And, as I told you before, this
house is not settled on you, therefore--"
"Be silent, mother, be silent!" cried Mrs. Temple with strong
indignation, lifting up her hands. "What, when my darling's not gone
from it yet--when he is still under the roof--you talk of such things!
You always were a wicked, worldly woman, but this is too much--too
much!"
Her tone and manner frightened Mrs. Layton. "I only meant, my dear--"
she began.
"Go away, leave me alone!" went on Mrs. Temple, and Mrs. Layton thought
it best to go.
"She has no common sense," she reflected as she went back to the
vicarage. "However, I have done my duty, and whatever happens I am not
to blame."
But in spite of this "little disagreement" with her daughter, as she
called it, Mrs. Layton did not fail to appear the next day at the Hall.
She went early, "as of course I must see after the sad arrangements,"
she told her husband, "as Rachel is quite incapable of doing so, and I
consider Mrs. Borridge, the housekeeper, anything but what she ought to
be."
So she interfered in the sad arrangements, and she saw John Temple,
the new heir, arrive with jealous eyes. She admitted, however, that he
was good-looking, "which makes it worse," she mentally added. She saw
also the squire receive him, and introduce him to the funeral guests as
"my nephew," with a certain sad emphasis on the words that Mrs. Layton
fully understood.
All the gentlemen in the neighborhood had been invited, and nearly all
arrived at the Hall to follow poor young Phillip Temple to his grave.
The squire of Woodlea was universally respected, and the guests looked
at his bowed gray head, and grasped his thin trembling hand with deep
sympathy. It was a truly affecting sight as the slim coffin was borne
into the churchyard followed by the childless old man. As on the day of
the poor lad's death the sun was shining brightly, and in the pretty
spot where they laid him, green trees were dappling the green grass.
Groups of the villagers stood around to watch the sad procession,
and talk of the dead boy. They had all known him; he had grown up in
their midst, and the tragic accident that had ended in his death had
occurred in a field close to the churchyard.
John Temple stood by his uncle's side during the service, and he
noticed just at its close a girl dressed in white, and wearing white
ribbons, step forward and approach the open grave.
She was carrying a large white wreath, and her eyes were full of tears,
and she hesitated as if she did not like to go through the group of
mourners around the grave. She was close to John Temple, and he turned
round and addressed her.
"Do you wish to place that wreath in the grave?" he said, kindly.
"Yes, but I--" faltered the girl.
"Shall I place it for you?" asked John Temple.
"Oh, thank you, if you would," she answered, gratefully.
He took it from her hands, and laid it gently and reverently on his
young cousin's coffin. There were many other flowers, and as John
Temple placed hers, the girl took courage and went up close to the
grave and looked in.
"He was so fond of flowers," she said in a low tone, and her tears fell
fast.
"Poor boy," answered John Temple, and then he looked at the girl and
wondered who she was.
But the service was over and the mourners turned away, and John went
with them. He glanced back and saw that the girl in the white frock was
still standing by the grave. Others, too, had now approached it; gone
to take a last look at the young heir.
The funeral guests did not return to the Hall, except John Temple, who
drove there with his uncle. The squire was deeply affected, and John
not unmoved.
"He--he was everything to me," faltered the squire.
"I feel the deepest sympathy for you," answered John Temple, and his
words were actually true.
It was a short but dreary drive, and when they reached the Hall the
squire asked John Temple to excuse him until dinner time.
"I feel I am unfit company for anyone," he said, "but make yourself
quite at home in the house that will be yours some day," he added, with
melancholy truth.
Thus John was at liberty to pass the time as best he could. He went
to the Hall door, and looked out on the green park. It was a tempting
vista. His uncle's words not unnaturally recurred to his mind. So this
was his inheritance; this wide wooded domain, this stately mansion
house. The son of a younger son, he had been brought up in a very
modest home, and he remembered it at this moment. It was certainly a
great change, and John Temple thought of it more than once as he walked
straight across the park, and finally reached a long country lane
scented with meadow-sweet, and its hedges starred with the wild rose.
Temple lit a cigarette, and sat down on a rustic stile. The whole scene
was so rural it half-amused John. The hayfield near; the cows standing
in another field beneath some trees for shelter from the sun; the
distant gurgle of a brook.
"It only wants the pretty milkmaid," thought John, with a smile.
This idea had scarcely crossed his mind when he saw advancing down the
lane the same girl in the white frock that he had seen by his young
cousin's grave. She was gathering the roses from the hedge rows, and
placing them in a small basket whenever she saw one that struck her
fancy. She was intent on her task, and never saw Temple seated on his
stile until she was quite close to him. Thus, he had an opportunity of
watching her, as she stretched out her hands to pluck the flowers.
It was a charming face, fresh, young, and beautiful, and Temple was
half sorry when, with a little start and a blush, she perceived how
near she was to him. He rose and raised his hat, and the girl looked at
him half-shyly, and then addressed him.
"You are the gentleman, are you not," she said, "who so kindly placed
my wreath in dear Phil Temple's grave?"
"Yes," answered John Temple, "it was very kind of you to bring one."
"Oh, no," said the girl, quickly, "we knew him so well, you know. He
was the dearest boy, and--and his death was so dreadfully sad."
"Most sad, indeed; I am truly sorry for his poor father."
"Oh! it is terrible; terrible for every boy that was playing in the
field."
"How did it happen?" asked Temple.
"They were running after the ball, all the boys at Mr. Carson's school,
and Phil, they think, fell, and there was a rush of boys, and someone
must have struck his head with his foot. No one will say they did,
but some one must. My young brother was playing, but no one seems
to be able to say how it happened. But he never spoke again; he was
unconscious from the first."
"It must have cast quite a gloom over the neighborhood."
"It has been dreadful for everyone; everyone loved him, and to think
now--"
"Well, his sufferings are over."
The girl raised her beautiful eyes with a look of surprise to John
Temple's face.
"But life is not suffering," she said. "His life was all
brightness--but you did not know him?"
"Yes, I did, slightly; he was a fine boy, and I was very sorry indeed
to hear of his death. I am his cousin, John Temple."
"I did not know; I heard the squire's nephew was coming--but of course
I did not know--"
"And you? Do you live near here?"
"Yes, at Woodside Farm; that white house there, yonder in the fields."
She pointed as she spoke to a long, low house standing some half a mile
distant. As she did so John Temple looked again at her lovely face.
Never in all his wanderings, he was telling himself, had he seen one
half so fair. The coloring and features were alike perfect. Perhaps his
gaze was too steadfast, for she dropped her eyes and suddenly turned
away.
"I must be going now," she said; "I came to get those roses to make
another wreath--good-morning." And she bowed and turned away.
Her manner was so simple and dignified that John Temple felt it would
be a liberty to follow her, or try to detain her. Therefore he turned
his footsteps once more in the direction of the Hall, and on his way
thither he encountered Mr. Layton, the vicar of Woodlea, who had read
the service over poor young Phillip's grave.
The vicar had noticed John Temple among the mourners; he was a
connection of the family, and he stopped.
"I think I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. John Temple?" he said.
"Yes," answered John, touching his hat.
"I am the vicar here; my daughter married your uncle. Ah--this has been
a sad affair."
"Most sad--can you tell me the name of the young lady you must have
just met?"
The vicar smiled.
"Ah, that is our village beauty," he said; "they call her the
Mayflower."
CHAPTER III.
A SAD FLIRT.
John Temple was too much interested on the subject to be content with
such crude information.
"The Mayflower," he repeated, smiling. "What a pretty name for a pretty
girl! But I suppose that is not her real name?"
"No, her real name, for I christened her, and so should know, is
Margaret Alice Churchill, but she was born in May, and that is how she
got her pet name, I suppose."
"She has a lovely face."
"Yes, yes, she is well-favored, and is a good girl, too, I believe--a
very good girl. They say young Henderson, of the Grange, wants to marry
her, but this may be just gossip."
"And who is he?"
"Oh, he's a well-to-do young man, very well-to-do. His father died
about a year ago, and he came into the family property. It's not a
large estate, but a snug bit of land, and the old man had saved money."
"Quite an eligible young man then," said John Temple, a little
mockingly.
"Yes, Miss Margaret might do worse. And he's a nice lad, too; fond of
sport and that kind of thing. But you'll be meeting him, for I suppose
now we will often see you at the Hall?"
Mr. Layton looked at John Temple with slight curiosity in his mild face
as he said this, for he was remembering the lecture his wife had given
him on the subject of the Hall.
"I do not know, I am sure," answered John; "of course nothing has been
said yet on any such subject."
"Still, Mr. Temple, you are the direct heir, you know, to the squire
after poor young Phil is gone. I always understood the Woodlea property
was strictly entailed by the squire's father, on the surviving children
of his sons, and you are now the only surviving child, I believe?"
"I believe there was some such arrangement," said John, rather
repressively. He considered it too soon to speak of heirs or heirships,
and he was getting rather tired also of the vicar's company.
"I think I must be going on my way," he added; "good-day, Mr. Layton,"
and he touched his hat.
But the vicar was somewhat loth to be shaken off.
"We will meet again at dinner-time; the squire has asked me to dinner;
it's a sad occasion, but these things must be."
It was not only a sad occasion, but a very tiresome occasion, John
thought, some hours later, when he did meet the vicar again at the
squire's table. And not only the vicar, but Mrs. Layton also, who
dined unasked at the Hall. She had indeed spent the day there, and was
not a woman to know there was a meal going on in her son-in-law's house
without joining it. She, therefore, took her daughter's place at the
head of the table, also unasked, and talked a good deal to John Temple.
She was a brisk little woman, with a small thin face, and a sharp
tongue. She might have been pretty once perhaps, when her eyes were
not so hard, if that ever had been. Now she was certainly not pretty,
nor sweet with any womanly grace. She had an eager, watchful look, as
though always on the alert. She was watching John Temple, as she sat at
the squire's table, and talked to him; watching and speculating as to
what he would do after the squire was gone.
"How is Mrs. Temple?" asked John, in a low tone, while the vicar was
prosing on to the poor squire.
"Poor dear, what can I say?" answered Mrs. Layton; "she was wrapped up
in him; yes, wrapped up. I consider it wrong myself, Mr. Temple, to
make an idol of anything; all may go, all may go! My dear squire, may I
trouble you for a little more of that salmon? It's delicious."
Mrs. Layton got her salmon, and ate her green peas with relish, and all
the time went on enlarging about her daughter's grief. She also tried
to extract some information from John as to his past life, but here she
signally failed. John was reticent and repressive, and probably, as she
remarked afterward to her husband, "he had good reason to be."
"And the vicar tells me you met Margaret Churchill to-day," she said,
presently. "Well, she's a pretty girl, but I fear a sad flirt, a very
sad flirt."
"Pretty girls often get that character," answered John, "because men
naturally admire them."
Mrs. Layton shook her head.
"But Margaret really goes too far," she said. "Now there's young
Henderson of Stourton Grange, an excellent match for her, and far
beyond what she might expect. Yet after letting him run after her
for months, and encouraging him in every way, I'm told she's actually
refused him."
"She may not like him."
"But then why did she seem to like him, Mr. Temple? Her encouragement
was marked, positively marked. And then there's our curate, Mr.
Goodall--certainly he is not much in anyway, and has nothing to offer
her, but still she flirts with him. I consider it unwomanly, degrading
in fact, to make so little of herself as to take up with everyone, yet
this is what Margaret Churchill does."
"You are very hard on the pretty Mayflower."
"Yes, now look at that--Mayflower indeed! Such an absurd name. And
I'm told she always likes to be called May, but I make a point of
addressing her always as Margaret, the name she was christened by."
"If ever I have the privilege I shall call her Miss May."
"It's a privilege you will share with a good many young men, I'm
afraid, Mr. Temple. Yes, Margaret Churchill, to my opinion, is a very
indiscreet young woman."
"She's very handsome, at all events."
"Yes, in a way; everything depends on taste, you know. James," this was
to the footman, "hand me the stewed chicken again. Try this entree, Mr.
Temple; it's excellent."
John Temple was exceedingly glad when the dinner was over. Mrs. Layton
wearied him to death. She went into small parish details and squabbles,
and gave the minutest description of her wrongs.
"A clergyman's wife has many trials, Mr. Temple, but I try to bear
them, and it is such a poor parish, too. My husband and I have toiled
here for over thirty-nine years, and we barely can live, and certainly
the laborer is worthy of his hire."
"Certainly," said John, with a laugh.
"And talking of labor, I do not know what the working classes are
coming to," continued Mrs. Layton, with extraordinary rapidity; "I
assure you, Mr. Temple, I can not get a man--just a common working
man--to plant and dig my little bit of potato ground, under half a
crown a day! I've tried a shilling, which I consider fair, eighteen
pence, two shillings, all in vain. It's absurd."
Thus Mrs. Layton talked on, and then, after having taken two glasses of
port wine, she finally withdrew, "to see after my poor dear," she said,
alluding to her daughter. After she was gone John asked leave to go out
on the terrace to smoke, and he breathed a sigh of relief when he found
himself alone.
The terrace ran round one side of the house, and below it were the
gardens. The haze of evening was lying over the glowing flower-beds,
and the dew upon the grass. It was all so still; the drone of a late
reveler returning from the flowers, the rustle of a bird's wing among
the trees, were the only sounds.
Up and down walked John, thinking of many things. "If this had only
happened ten years ago," he was reflecting; "happened when I was young."
He did not look very old in the soft light, with the evening breeze
stirring the thick brown hair above his brow, for his head was
uncovered. A man in his prime; a handsome man, and one well-fitted
to please a woman's eyes. Perhaps he knew this, and somehow his mind
wandered to the fair-faced girl he had seen and admired in the country
lane.
"So she is a little flirt, is she?" he thought, with a smile. "The
pretty Mayflower."
The name pleased him almost as much as the girl's beauty had done. She
reminded him of the roses he had seen her gather from the hedge. She
was so fresh and sweet, he thought, and it amused him to hear of her
lovers.
"Of course she has lovers--what girl worth looking at has not?--but I
wonder if she has ever loved," he reflected.
By and by he began thinking of another woman, and as he did so he
frowned. He began to whistle to distract his thoughts, and then
suddenly remembered how lately this had been the house of death. He
felt sorry for the poor mother, with her fresh grief, upstairs; sorry
for the gray-haired old man.
"I suppose I should go in and talk to him," he said, and he did. He
found the squire alone.
The vicar had gone home with his wife, and there was no one in the
dining-room but the desolate old man.
John tried to talk to him, but he found it very difficult. When two
lives have run in completely different grooves, the conversation is
apt to be strained. The squire had always lived in the country, John
Temple always in towns. They spoke a little on politics, and John
easily perceived his uncle's opinions were opposed to his own. But he
did not intrude this on his attention, and it was a subject at least to
converse on.
They parted on friendly terms for the night, and the next morning the
squire called his nephew into the library, and spoke to him seriously
of his change of position.
"It is only right that you should have an allowance out of the estates
now, John," he said, "when you will probably so soon inherit them."
"Please do not speak of such a thing," answered John, with an earnest
ring in his voice which pleased the squire.
"I must both speak of it and think of it," he said. "My poor boy's
death has been a great shock to me, and shocks at my age are not easily
thrown off. I wish to feel to you, and treat you now as my heir, and
I wish you to be quite open to me as regards your affairs. Like most
young men I suppose you have debts?"
"No," smiled John, "I have none."
"I am glad to hear it," answered the squire, "though I was quite
prepared to pay them if you had. I also propose to allow you one
thousand a year out of the property, and I hope you will look on this
house in the future as your home."
"You are most kind and generous, uncle."
"I am simply just; this house, you know, and the Woodlea property are
entailed on you. I have other property which came to me through my
first poor wife." And here the squire sighed.
"But why speak of things which must be distressing to you so soon?"
"Things of this kind are always best settled--life is so
uncertain--look at my dear boy."
"That was a very exceptional case."
"No doubt, but still I wish everything to be arranged between you and
me. I am sorry we have not seen more of each other, but it is not too
late. For the present you will stay on here, at least for a time?"
"If you wish it, yes."
"I do wish it;" then the squire went into further business details, and
John Temple knew that he would be a richer man some day than he had
ever dreamed of. The squire had saved out of his large rental, and he
had not been communicative to his wife's family as to the real extent
of his income. He disliked Mrs. Layton exceedingly, and was barely
civil to her for his wife's sake. If she had known the extent of his
wealth her encroachments would have been even greater than they were,
and Mr. Temple considered he had quite enough of Mrs. Layton as it was.
During this conversation the uncle and nephew were mutually pleased
with each other. And after it was over John Temple went out for a
stroll, and with a smile at his own folly, turned his footsteps in the
direction of the country lane where he had met "the Mayflower."
But no pretty girl was to be seen. The lane somehow looked very empty
to John, though the roses were still blooming on the hedge-rows, and
the meadow-sweet scenting the air. He therefore walked on and on. He
saw a belt of trees in the distance, and he determined to walk until he
reached them.
He found when he did so a wooded hillside with a gurgling streamlet at
its foot. A rustic narrow bridge spanned the rivulet, and ferns grew
on either side of it in great luxuriance. It was a pretty shady spot,
with a winding dell on one side of the little bridge. Along this John
Temple had proceeded a few yards when he caught a glimpse of something
white beneath one of the trees. He looked again and saw it was a girl
sitting on a camp-stool reading. He drew nearer; the girl heard his
approaching footsteps, even on the mossy turf. She looked up. It was
the Mayflower, and John Temple felt he had not had his walk in vain!
He stopped when he reached her, and took off his cloth traveling-cap.
"Forgive me addressing you, Miss Churchill," he said, smilingly; "but I
have lost my way."
The Mayflower smiled, too.
"You are a long way from the Hall," she said.
"I wanted a good walk, and now will you tell me where I am?"
"This place is called Fern Dene, and the wood beyond, up the hill
there, is called Fern Wood. It is famous for its ferns, and there are
some very rare kinds growing about here, and there are also some rare
kinds of moths, but I never can bear to catch them."
"No, it's better to let them have their lives in peace."
"Yes, and they look so beautiful fluttering about. But I admit I steal
the ferns. This is part of the squire's property, so you must not tell
him."
"You would doubtless be arrested as a poacher."
"Not quite so bad as that," laughed the Mayflower; "indeed, I think he
knows. Dear Phil Temple," and her expression changed, "often came here
with me to help me to collect them, for I have a fernery at Woodside of
which I am very proud."
"I wonder if we could find some now?" asked John. "I know something
about ferns, and can tell the rare ones."
The Mayflower did not speak; in truth she was considering whether it
would be quite proper for her to go fern hunting with a young man of
whom she knew so little.
Perhaps John Temple saw, or thought he saw, the reason of her
hesitation. He smiled; he looked in her bright fair face, and then he
condescended to a subterfuge.
"I feel quite tired with my walk," he said. "I wonder if you would
think me rude or lazy if I were to sit down on the turf?"
Still the girl did not answer, but she smiled.
"May I?" asked John, emboldened by the smile.
"The turf is not mine, but the squire's," answered the Mayflower, still
smiling; upon which John flung himself on the mossy grass not far from
her feet.
"I call this luxury," he said, stretching out his long limbs. "Fern
Dene--so this is Fern Dene? Do you often come here, Miss Churchill?"
"Yes, very often; it's a nice walk from home."
"And you read here. May I ask what you were reading when I interrupted
you?"
"A novel, of course," answered the Mayflower, with a blush.
"Yes, of course; that is only natural."
The Mayflower looked quickly down at the good-looking brown face raised
to hers, as John Temple said this, for something in his tone made her
think he was amusing himself at her expense.
"Yes, it is only natural," she answered, with a spirit; "I like to read
of lives that I suppose are very often drawn from life."
"With all its tragedies, its comedies, its subterfuges, and its
lies--it's always the same old story."
"But there are some lives in which there are no tragedies--nor even
comedies?"
"About these, if there be such, there are no stories to tell."
Just at this moment there appeared coming down the hill through the
trees behind them the stalwart form of a young man, carrying a gun, and
followed by two dogs. He paused a moment when he saw the white dress
of the Mayflower, and smiled; but in another moment, perceiving John
Temple lying on the grass at her feet, he frowned.
The dogs ran forward and were approaching the Mayflower's camp-stool in
the manner of welcome and familiar friends, when their master harshly
called them back, and, hearing his voice, the Mayflower looked round
just in time to see the young man savagely strike one of the dogs with
a whip which he had drawn from his pocket.
The poor beast yelled and shrank back, and the Mayflower rose
indignantly, her fair face flushing as she did so.
"Oh, Mr. Henderson, what a shame!" she cried. "What are you striking
the poor dog for?"
The young man, on being thus addressed, came forward, and there was a
flush on his handsome face also, as he approached the girl. John Temple
did not move; he lay looking up at two figures before him.
"Why did you strike Juno?" repeated the Mayflower, as the young man
drew near.
He raised his cloth cap as he answered, and his brown eyes fell.
"One must keep them in order," he said, half-sullenly.
"But Juno was doing nothing. Come here, poor Juno; I hate cruelty."
"Yet you sometimes practice it," retorted the young man in a low tone.
He was singularly striking looking. Tall and splendidly formed, with
features--though he was as brown as a gypsy--of remarkable regularity.
It was indeed impossible not to remark on his personal appearance.
The one defect on his face, perhaps, was his mouth, which was sensual
looking, though shaded by a thick, crisp, brown mustache. Still, he was
a splendid specimen of young manhood, and John Temple, from his vantage
ground, mentally, distinctly admitted this. Yet, in spite of all his
physical advantages; in spite, also, of being undoubtedly well-dressed,
there was a certain countrified look about him which was almost
indescribable.
The Mayflower turned her pretty head away when he spoke of her
cruelty, and his brown eyes followed this slight movement with
unmistakable eagerness. But she made no answering sign of interest. She
looked down at John Temple lying on the grass, and he rose as she did
so.
"So you are fond of God's dumb creatures?" he said.
"I am very fond of horses and dogs," she answered; "indeed, I think, of
all animals."
"And, no doubt, they are fond of you?"
The girl laughed softly and blushed a little, and then stooped down and
stroked poor Juno's fawn head, who had once more crept to her side, in
spite of her master's lowering looks.
"What a handsome creature!" said John Temple; "and she evidently knows
you."
"Oh, yes; we are old friends," answered the Mayflower, and she half
glanced at the young man she had called Mr. Henderson as she spoke, but
he did not look pleased.
"Perhaps you like new friends better?" he said. "Well, good-morning,
Miss Churchill," and once more touching his cap he strode away,
whistling for his dogs to follow him.
"Who is the country Adonis?" asked John Temple, smiling.
"Oh, he is called Mr. Tom Henderson of Stourton Grange," replied the
Mayflower, demurely.
"Ah!" said John, still smiling. He understood now, he thought, the
cause of Mr. Henderson's clouded brow and sullen words.
"He is a handsome fellow, don't you think, Miss Churchill?" he asked.
"People call him good-looking," answered Miss Churchill, and she cast
down her eyes a little consciously. "But I don't think he has a nice
temper; fancy him striking the poor dog!"
"Perhaps he was jealous because she seemed fond of you."
"That was very foolish then."
"Ah, but jealousy is a devouring demon," said John Temple. "But, of
course, you never felt it?"
"Oh, yes, I have!"
"I can not believe it, Miss Churchill, though I am sure you have caused
much."
Again that puzzled look stole over the girl's face. She could not help
feeling as though she knew Mr. Temple very well, and would like to talk
nonsense to him, and yet she was conscious that perhaps she should not.
"Do you know Mrs. Layton, the vicar's wife?" now inquired John Temple,
remembering the character she had given Miss Churchill.
"Oh, yes, and she's such a spiteful old woman!"
"She's an awful old woman, I think. She bored me to death last night
when she dined at the Hall."
"Did she mention me?" now asked the Mayflower, with a glance of fun in
her dark blue eyes.
"Well, to tell the truth, she did," answered John Temple.
"And she abused me, of course?"
"That was impossible."
"Oh, but I know she did if she mentioned me. I am one of her pet
aversions. She says all sorts of hard things about me, and because they
call me May at home she always addresses me as 'Miss Margaret,' as she
thinks it is an ugly name, and I hate it."
"The vicar told me they called you the Mayflower," said John, looking
earnestly at the girl's lovely face.
"Oh! that is a foolish name," she answered, with a blush and a smile
rippling over her rosy lips.
"I think it is a charming name, and forgive me if I say--"
"Please don't say any nonsense--at least I mean--"
She paused here, and blushed more deeply than before.
"You mean I have not to pay you any compliments? What I was going to
say is no compliment, but the simple truth. But I will not tell you
even the truth unless you like it."
"I--I do not care for compliments."
"You do not need them."
"That is all right then," smiled the Mayflower. "And--now I must say
good-by, Mr. Temple; it is time I was going home."
She put out her little hand quite timidly, and John Temple took it in
his own.
"May I see you again sometimes?" he said. "Will you come here again?"
"I--do sometimes come here."
"I shall hope to see you then. Good-by, Miss Churchill."
He took off his cap and stood bare-headed before her, and as with her
light feet the Mayflower turned homeward, she was not thinking of her
lover, young Henderson, but of the stranger who had just crossed her
path.
CHAPTER IV.
THE OLD LOVE AND THE NEW.
After Mr. Tom Henderson had left the Mayflower with John Temple in Fern
Dene, he walked onward with a frowning brow and an angry heart. He was
in love with the pretty girl he had just seen sitting with another man
lying at her feet; in love with her, and jealous of her very words, and
moreover he knew who this other man was.
He had seen John Temple at poor young Phil Temple's funeral the day
before, and knew therefore that this good-looking, pleasant-tongued man
was the new heir of Woodlea.
"And how on earth did Margaret Churchill pick up his acquaintance?" he
asked himself, scowlingly. He felt savage at the very thought. He was a
hot-tempered man, and had been brought up at home, and always had had
very much his own way at Stourton Grange. And now he was master there,
and had no small opinion of his own importance.
He knew that in point of family and position he was a good match for
Margaret Churchill. Margaret's father was a tenant farmer, and Tom
Henderson a land-owner, and he quite appreciated the difference. But
the beauty of the neighborhood apparently did not. She did not treat
the young squire of Stourton as he expected to be treated, and perhaps
this really only added to her attractions in his eyes.
At all events he felt very angry at seeing her with John Temple. He
walked on with hasty steps, and never noticed that presently he was
followed by a woman. By and by he came to a field of tall uncut corn,
which was swaying in the summer breeze. Then she made haste to overtake
him. She quickened her steps, she almost ran, and a few moments later
she called out his name.
"Tom!" she cried, and young Henderson hearing her voice turned quickly
round, and a dusky flush rose to his face as he did so.
"Well, Elsie," he said, stopping and looking by no means well-pleased,
"where have you cast up from?"
"Ah! I've followed you ever so far, Tom," panted the girl; "I've been
waiting about all the morning trying to see you."
"That was wasting your time then, Elsie."
"No, don't say that, but I could not rest till I saw you. Why did you
not come last night, Tom, as you promised?"
"I could not get away; some one came to the Grange."
"Well I've got something to tell you; something that's nearly driven me
mad, though I know it's nothing but lies--oh, yes, I know that, Tom."
She looked up in his handsome face as she spoke--the half-averted
face--and there was beseeching love and tenderness in her eyes.
"And what is this wonderful thing then, Elsie?" he asked.
"It was Elizabeth Jenkins, and she said--"
"Well, what did she say?"
"I know it's all nonsense, and you mustn't be angry, Tom--but she said
you often went to Woodside Farm; that you--were running after Miss
Churchill, in fact."
The flush deepened on young Henderson's face.
"Oh! that I was running after her, was I? Well, I haven't caught her
yet, Elsie," he said, with an uneasy laugh.
"Oh, don't jest about it, Tom, don't laugh; it was a cruel thing to
say--cruel to me."
The young man did not speak; he cast his brown eyes down on the path;
he moved the arm restlessly with which he was carrying his gun.
"Of course she just said it from spite--just because she knew--"
continued the girl, hesitatingly.
Then Henderson looked up.
"What does she know, Elsie?" he said, glancing at the girl's face.
Her lips quivered and her bosom heaved as he asked the question.
"What everyone must soon know, Tom," she answered; "what you are and
must be to me."
An expression of great annoyance contracted Henderson's features.
"And you mean to say you have talked to this woman?" he said, angrily.
"I have not said much," she replied, half-sullenly, "but she knows."
"Then you are a fool for your pains."
He said this roughly enough, and a sudden rush of tears filled the poor
girl's eyes as he spoke.
"It can't go on, Tom!" she cried, piteously, "your father's dead now;
you know you always promised to marry me when your father died."
"This is folly," muttered Henderson, under his thick mustache.
"What is folly?" asked the girl, sharply, looking up.
"This talk about our marriage--it's an old story, Elsie, and we may as
well drop it."
The change in her expression was something terrible, as she listened
to these heartless words. She grew deadly pale, and her whole frame
trembled.
"Drop it--never!" she repeated, with passionate earnestness. "Tom, if
you hate me now you must marry me; I will kill myself or you if you
don't."
"It's no good talking folly."
"It's not folly; it's truth, as there is a God above us it is truth!
What, after all, after all," and she wrung her hands, "you would go
back! But you shall not, Tom! You may think to throw me over because
you are tired of me, and take up with another girl, but there are two
words to that--I will go to Miss Churchill myself--"
"If you do," interrupted Henderson, with a fierce oath, "I will strike
you dead!"
"You can't strike me worse than you've struck me now, but strike me or
not, I'll do what I say unless you keep your word."
She stood there defying him, with her eyes gleaming and her hands
clenched. She was a handsome woman, of a certain type, with a clear
brown skin and thick, coarse black hair. She looked also determined and
passionate, and perhaps Henderson was afraid to excite her further. At
all events he moderated his tone.
"Well, don't make any more row," he said; "we can talk it over some
other time."
"But it must be settled, Tom; I can't wait," she answered.
An evil look came over Tom Henderson's face.
"You are always worrying a man," he said; "there's no such wonderful
hurry about it, and there's my mother to consider."
"There's always something to consider; first it was your father, now
your mother. But I am to be considered too, I--I and something besides."
Henderson did not speak for a moment; he stood as though irresolute.
Again he looked at the excited face before him; at the gleaming dark
eyes and full quivering lips, and then he said more soothingly:
"Well, go home now, Elsie, and keep quiet, and we'll see what can be
done."
"I am not going to be put off."
"I must consider things, and see what I think best. If you go home now
I'll come and have a talk with you to-night at the old place about nine
o'clock."
"Will you be sure to come?"
"Yes, I'll be sure. And now, good-by, Elsie; you go your way and I'll
go home."
He nodded to her carelessly, and then turned away, and the girl stood
looking after him as he went. And there was infinite pain in her
expression, infinite distress.
"And he loved me once," she muttered; "he loved me once."
These words seemed like an epitaph on her life's happiness. She knew it
was all over, and that the young man to whom she had given so much was
weary of her; weary of the frail bondage by which she held him.
And, in truth, never was man more weary. Young Henderson's face was
black as night as he strode on after he had left the girl he called
Elsie. She was a chain around his neck, an intolerable burden, from
which he could see no way to free himself.
And yet he must be free! Margaret Churchill's lovely face rose before
him as he passed down the fields of waving corn. He would not give her
up, he told himself; he would not let this folly of his almost boyhood
come between himself and his fair love.
He remembered the days when he had first known Elsie Wray; the days
when he used to ride past the pretty, rather picturesque wayside public
house where her father lived, and where the handsome, motherless girl
occasionally acted as barmaid.
He was just about nineteen when he had first spoken to her--a handsome,
dark-browned lad--and, having been caught in a passing storm, he
had taken shelter at the wayside house. Elsie was about his own
age--perhaps a year younger--and these two had drifted first into a
flirtation, and then, on the girl's part at least, into a deep and
passionate love.
It went on for years, always, young Henderson believed, in secret, on
account of his father. The squire of Stourton was an irascible old
gentleman, and would have allowed "no folly," as he would have called
it, between his son and a barmaid. Alas, for the poor girl! The young,
ardent, handsome lover came night after night in the gloaming, and
the two wandered together in the dewy fields, and sat on the lone
hillsides, and talked of the days when they would be free to wed, and
when there would be no partings between them any more.
So it went on until, in an evil hour for poor Elsie, young Henderson
saw Margaret Churchill's (the Mayflower's) fairer face, and his first
love-dream was over. Over for him but not for Elsie Wray, with all its
bitter fruits. She could not believe at first that he had changed;
it seemed impossible, and she so fond. Then his father died, and her
hopes of speedy marriage revived. But there was always some excuse from
the once ardent lover. It was too soon after his father's death, his
affairs were not settled, and so on.
And now for the first time she had heard from some friend that he went
to Woodside Farm, and, naturally, as Miss Churchill was considered the
prettiest girl in all the country round, her jealousy was aroused. She,
however, little guessed how far her false lover had committed himself
with his new love. He had, in fact, asked Margaret Churchill to be his
wife, and though she had said him nay, he still held determinately to
his purpose.
"No one and nothing shall come between us," he muttered, with gloomy
emphasis, with his teeth set hard, as he walked on homeward after his
stormy interview with Elsie. And there was a look on his face, a dark,
savage look, that boded ill for the poor girl who had loved him too
well.
CHAPTER V.
MRS. TEMPLE.
"I can not get that girl's face out of my head," John Temple thought
more than once, as he walked back to the Hall. Her beauty had indeed a
wonderful charm for him. He had seen and known many pretty women, but
to his mind none so fair and sweet as the Mayflower. And he liked to
think of her by this name.
"She is just like a flower," he told himself. "Ah! that such a face
should ever fade!"
This idea made him more thoughtful. He began to muse on the brief
tenure of earthly things. And as he approached the stately house that
in all probability would one day be his, he was thinking thus still.
"I may never come here," he thought, looking at the old Hall, with the
summer sunshine falling on its gray walls; "never, nor child of mine."
A shadow passed over his face; he struck impatiently with his walking
stick at a tall thistle growing by the wayside, and there was a cloud
still on his brow as he entered the hall, and went up the broad
staircase that led to the bedroom appropriated to his use.
As he passed down one of the corridors, a tall lady in black suddenly
opened one of the doors and appeared before him. She was very pale, and
her dark eyes were gleaming as though she were laboring under strong
mental excitement.
She looked at John Temple, and then came out on the corridor and
confronted him.
"So," she said, "you have come to take my boy's place?"
Then John knew at once who she was. This was his uncle's wife, the
bereaved mother, who had lost her only child. He bowed low, and a look
of pity came into his gray eyes.
"I have felt very much," he said, "for your great grief."
"It has benefited you, at any rate," she answered, bitterly.
"I can not feel it a benefit at such a cost."
She looked at him keenly as he said this, and then her faced softened.
"You can not tell what he was to me," she murmured in a broken voice;
"my only one, my only one!"
A sudden passion of tears here came to her relief. Her bosom heaved
and her whole form was convulsed, and John Temple naturally felt
exceedingly disconcerted. He tried to say some consoling words; he
endeavored to take one of her trembling hands. But the sound of her
sobs soon attracted the attention of someone within the bedroom from
which she had come out. A respectable maid appeared and endeavored to
persuade her to return.
"Oh, madam! do not give way so," she said; "I was sure it was a pity
you should see--this gentleman so soon. But she would see you, sir,"
she added, looking at John Temple.
"If my presence distresses you," said John, courteously, looking
pityingly at the weeping woman, "I shall leave the Hall at once."
"What matter is it, what matter is it!" moaned Mrs. Temple; "nothing
matters to me now!"
With this she turned away and went back into the bedroom, and the
maid hastily closed the door after her, and John saw her no more.
But the incident affected him; her grief was evidently so deep and
heartrending; her bitter words to him only the natural outpouring of
her troubled heart.
"Poor woman," thought John, and he said nothing to his uncle of this
meeting when they dined together in the evening.
The squire again spoke to John of the property and his tenants.
"I have improved some of the farm holdings very much during the last
few years," he said; "at Woodside Farm especially the whole of the
outbuildings have been renewed."
"Ah," said John, interested, "at Woodside Farm?"
"Yes, that is one of the best farms on the property, and is let to a
very respectable man named Churchill. Suppose we walk over to-morrow
morning, and I will show you the place?"
John, nothing loath, at once assented.
"The house is old and somewhat picturesque," continued the squire, "and
now that the outbuildings are in such good order, I consider Woodside a
sort of model place."
John expressed himself desirous of seeing it, and he doubtless was. He
had not forgotten that Woodside was the Mayflower's home, and he wished
again to look on her fair face.
"There can be no harm in it," he thought; "it is a very innocent
pleasure indeed to admire a pretty girl."
Accordingly at breakfast the next morning he reminded the squire of his
proposition of the night before.
"Didn't you say, sir," he said, "that we had to go over and see some
model farm or other this morning?"
"Yes, to be sure, Woodside Farm," answered the squire, "but it had gone
out of my head, as things sometimes do now. I am glad you reminded me
of it."
The uncle and nephew accordingly started together almost immediately
breakfast was over.
"We will get there, I think, before Churchill gets away among his
fields," said the squire. "I should like you to see him, for I believe
him to be a highly respectable man."
It was a bright, fresh morning, and John Temple enjoyed the walk.
The waving mazes of uncut corn; the hedge-rows scented with the
meadow-sweet; the cattle standing under the trees, made to his mind a
pleasant picture.
"After all, the country is charming," he said, raising his head as
though more freely to inhale the air, and looking round at the green
and fertile landscape.
"Do you think you would not tire of it?" asked the old man by his
side, lifting his sad eyes and looking steadfastly at his nephew's
good-looking face. He was wondering what his life had been; how the
last decade of his thirty years had passed. Not in riotous living he
told himself, for John Temple's features bore no marks of dissipation
nor sin. His eyes were clear and resolute, his whole bearing that of a
man who had led at least a fairly good life.
"He looks honest," thought the squire, and then he sighed, thinking of
his dead boy, and all the fond hopes which lay buried in his untimely
grave.
"I might tire of it," answered John, smiling in reply to his uncle's
question, "if I never had any change, for I think we all want change.
It is human nature, part of our heritage, to desire it."
Again the old man sighed.
"You must marry now, John," he said, and as he spoke a flush rose to
his nephew's face.
"I think not," he answered.
"You will think differently I hope, some day," continued the squire.
"But here we are at Woodside; it is a pretty spot."
It was indeed a pretty spot; a long, low, white house, standing amid
a large old-fashioned garden, with trim box-borders, and fruit trees
laden with their ripening crops. They approached the house from the
front, but at the rear the squire pointed out with some pardonable
pride the new and expensive outbuildings.
"I wish every farm on the property was in such good order," he said.
"But we will go into the garden, and I dare say will find the farmer
somewhere about, or perhaps his daughter can tell us where he is."
As he spoke the squire opened the garden gate and passed down the
walks, accompanied by John Temple and followed by two dogs. A little
summer house stood on the path, and a moment later a pretty scrimmage
ensued. A very handsome gray kitten was disporting itself at the
entrance of the summer house, and at the sight of the avowed enemies of
its race, the kitten prepared for battle. With tail erected and every
hair on end, it stood to receive the charge it evidently expected.
The dogs saw it, and with vicious yells ran forward, and the brave
kitten's moments had been numbered had not its mistress with a cry
sprang forward from the interior of the summer house and caught it to
her breast. The squire and John called back the dogs; the Mayflower
protected her kitten, and then stood smiling and blushing to receive
her visitors at the entrance of the summer house.
"Oh, Mr. Temple, your dogs frightened me so!" she said, as the squire
offered her his hand.
"I am very sorry," he answered, "but they have not touched your kitten,
have they?"
"In another instant they would," smiled the Mayflower, holding her pet
tightly in her arms.
"What a pretty creature it is," said John Temple, now stroking the
kitten's striped head, whose large eyes were wide open with terror.
"Yes, isn't he a beauty?" answered the Mayflower. "Poor Jacky! and
would the naughty dogs have eaten you?"
Jacky looked as if he decidedly thought that they would, and clung to
his mistress' white frock, who soothed and comforted him. The Mayflower
certainly was a lovely creature as she stood thus, with her fair head
uncovered. She had been sewing in the summer house; trimming a white
straw hat, and ribbons and flowers lay strewn about, and as a man of
taste John Temple found it impossible not to admire so pretty a picture.
"Is your father in the house?" now asked the squire.
"He was in the garden five minutes ago, looking at the apple trees,"
replied the Mayflower. "Shall I call him, Mr. Temple?"
But at this moment Mr. Churchill, the farmer, was seen advancing toward
them, as he had heard in another part of the garden the squire and
John Temple calling back their dogs, and now came to see what was the
matter. He took off his low-crowned hat when he recognized the squire,
but Mr. Temple held out his thin hand to his favorite tenant.
"Well, Mr. Churchill, how are you?" he said. "I have brought my nephew
to see you; my nephew--and now my heir."
His voice faltered a little as he said the last few words, and a look
of respectful sympathy passed over the farmer's brown face.
"Glad to make your acquaintance, sir," he said, looking at John Temple
with a pair of very intelligent gray eyes.
Altogether he was a good-looking man, and was, moreover, an excellent
farmer. He had gone with the times, and instead of grumbling at the
price of corn and foreign competition, grew on his land the crops he
found to sell best. He was a great breeder of horses also, and his
stud was quite a famous one. He was also a keen man at a bargain, and
prosperous. He had married a lady in a superior social position to
himself, whom he had won by his good-looking face, and he had given his
only daughter Margaret Alice Churchill (the Mayflower) an excellent
education. Mrs. Churchill had died two years ago, but as yet he had
taken no second wife, so May, as she was always called at the farm, was
the mistress of the house.
He had two other children, both schoolboys, and Willie Churchill (the
second boy) had been one of the players in the fatal game of football
when poor Phil Temple, the little heir of Woodlea, had met his death.
The squire knew this fact, but no particular blame had been laid on the
boy. A rush had taken place, and the little heir had fallen, and it was
said to be impossible to tell who had given the actual kick or blow
that had destroyed Phil Temple's life.
"I think it will interest my nephew to have a look at your stud,"
continued the squire; "he's lived mostly in towns, and knows nothing of
farming, I dare say, but horses interest nearly all men."
"To be sure," answered Mr. Churchill. "But won't you come in,
gentlemen, and rest awhile first, and have a glass of claret, or a
taste of our home-brew or cider?"
The squire accepted the farmer's offer, and said he would have a glass
of the home-brewed ale, as he knew it of old. He therefore walked on
toward the house, accompanied by Mr. Churchill; and May Churchill,
still carrying her kitten, followed the two, with John Temple by her
side.
"I was quite glad when my uncle proposed to come here to-day, Miss
Churchill," he said; "I wanted to see your pretty home."
"You are very welcome," answered the Mayflower, with such a charming
grace of manner that John Temple could not help wondering where she
could possibly have acquired it.
"You must show me your fernery," he continued; "and," he added hastily,
for they were now nearing the house, "will you come one day to Fern
Dene, and let me try to find some rare ones for you? Will you come
to-day--this afternoon?"
May blushed to her pretty white brow.
"This afternoon?" she repeated with hesitation.
"Yes, why not? It is fine; promise to come?"
"Very well," said May, and as she spoke her father turned round and
addressed her.
"May, my dear," he said, "give me the cellar keys."
"At three o'clock," remarked John Temple in a low tone, but May had
heard the words.
She hurriedly entered the flower-festooned porch of the house, which
opened into a long low hall with windows on either side of the door,
which also were filled with flowers.
The whole place, indeed, had an air of comfort and refinement, and
the dining-room into which Mr. Churchill ushered the squire and
John Temple was not only substantially but handsomely furnished. A
rich turkey carpet lay on the polished oak floor, and the sideboard
and mantel-piece were of carved oak. John Temple looked around with
astonishment. He had pictured a tenant-farmer's house to be so very
different. For, from the silver flagon in which a neat hand-maiden bore
the home-brewed ale, to the fair young daughter, everything at Woodside
was of the very best.
May Churchill lingered in the room a few minutes, and then when the
squire began to talk of the stud and their accommodation, she went
out, and John Temple saw her once more enter the garden. But he did
not see her again during his visit to the farm. The farmer was intent
on his different breeds of horses, and had made a good bargain with
the government during the last months for mounts for the troops. John
got a little weary, it must be confessed, to all this, but the squire
was interested. John was thinking of the sunny garden not far away,
and wishing he was wandering with fair May among the flowers. However,
he made no sign of this. He left Mr. Churchill with the impression
that he was a sensible, well-bred young man, and likely to make a good
landlord, and this last idea was an important point to Mr. Churchill's
mind.
The uncle and nephew left Woodside in time to be back to the Hall for
lunch, and when they entered the dining-room, to their great surprise
they found Mrs. Temple awaiting their arrival.
It was the first time that she had been down-stairs since her boy's
death, and the squire went forward with some emotion, and took her hand
when he saw her.
"My dear," he said, "I am very glad you are able to come down
to-day--this is John Temple, my nephew."
John bowed low, and Mrs. Temple fixed her dark eyes on his face, but
did not speak, or make any allusion to their meeting on the corridor
the day before.
"We have had a long walk," continued the squire, a little nervously,
"and you must be hungry, John?"
"Please sit down, then," said Mrs. Temple, still looking at John with
her restless eyes, and waving him to take a seat at the table. "It's a
fine day outside, isn't it?"
"A charming day," answered John. "Do you think you will feel well
enough to venture out a little?"
"I don't know," she replied; "I am weary of being indoors. I feel as if
I can not breathe, and yet to go out so soon, so soon"--and she covered
her face with her hand.
"My love, I entreat you not to agitate yourself," said the squire, yet
more nervously.
She took her hand from her face; her eyes were dry and hard, and she
smiled a bitter smile.
"I did not mean to make a scene," she said. "I meant to be as if
nothing had happened--as if I had still something to live for. I
apologize to you, Mr. Temple."
Again John bowed low his comely head.
"I wish you could understand," he said, "how deeply and truly I
sympathize with your grief--I do, indeed, Mrs. Temple."
There was the ring of truth in his voice; the gleam of truth in his
gray eyes, and Mrs. Temple seemed to understand this.
"Do not let us speak of it," she said, and as she spoke she seated
herself at the table. "Now, tell me where you have both been?"
"We have been over some of the farms," answered the squire, hastily,
and John understood that for some reason or other he did not wish to
speak of their visit to Woodside to his wife.
But John was an easy conversationalist, and the lunch hour passed not
unpleasantly. After it was over Mrs. Temple rose, restlessly.
"Come with me into the garden for a short time," she said, addressing
John; "it will occupy my mind a little to talk to you."
"I shall be most happy," he answered, and for the next half-hour he
walked up and down the garden walks with his uncle's wife. She was
evidently trying to keep herself under control, but occasionally she
grew excited.
"You must have thought me mad yesterday," she said once, "to waylay you
as I did. But I felt so restless to see you; I hated you, you know,
because--because you had come to take my darling's place."
"I hope you will not hate me any longer," replied John, gently.
She looked at him searchingly.
"No," she said, "I do not think I shall. But bear with me for a little
while, for I have suffered so much. Mine has been a life of suffering,"
she added, impetuously. "No one knows, none but my own heart, what I
have gone through."
"We all suffer at times, I believe," answered John, gravely.
"But men do not suffer as women do," continued Mrs. Temple, excitedly.
"Men can go out into the world, can fight, can struggle, while we sit
breaking our hearts at home. But why speak of it? Anyone can tell what
my life has been--look at my marriage?"
"But my uncle is most devoted to you?"
"A young woman married to an old man! Take my advice, Mr. Temple, don't
marry an old woman."
She gave a harsh little laugh as she said this, and it jarred on John's
ears. He grew restless to go away. It must be nearing three o'clock, he
knew, and he wanted to be in the woods at Fern Dene, with someone who
was fresh and fair, not like this dark, handsome, spirit-torn woman.
And with quick intuition Mrs. Temple perceived this.
"You are tired of me," she said, "and I am getting tired of you.
Good-by for the present; we will meet again at dinner;" and with
this she nodded and turned away, and John was free to follow his own
inclinations.
CHAPTER VI.
CRUEL WORDS.
What these inclinations were we may easily guess. To walk as quickly
to Fern Dene as possible, yet when he arrived there he found that May
Churchill was just preparing to go home.
"I could not come before," he explained, hastily; "my uncle's wife took
into her head to go into the garden, and asked me to go with her, and
what could I do?"
"Poor Mrs. Temple!" said May, pityingly.
"Yes, indeed, she is greatly to be pitied."
"Her loss was terrible, most terrible. Phil was such a dear, bright
boy, and to die unconscious, as he did, must have nearly broken his
mother's heart."
"Do you know her?" inquired John Temple.
"A little; merely through things connected with the schools and the
church, you know. I used to teach at the schools once," added the
Mayflower, with a smile rippling over her rosy lips; "but Mrs. Layton
made herself so disagreeable that I left off, and since then I have
been one of her black sheep."
"I hope I shall be one of her black sheep, too."
"It has its disadvantages though, I assure you. If you have any little
peccadillos or failings, Mrs. Layton will find them out and preach them
on the housetops, unless you are in her good graces."
"I am sure you have neither peccadillos nor failings."
"Ask Mrs. Layton," laughed May.
"Mrs. Layton's opinion would never change mine."
"Then you are stanch to your friends," said May, looking at him with
her beautiful eyes.
"I know I shall always be stanch to you."
May laughed and turned away her head, and John saw the white throat
color and the lovely bloom on her smooth cheeks deepen.
"We are forgetting the ferns," she said.
"So we are; tell me the best place to find them."
She led him up a green arcade, through which a shallow stream went
bubbling on. By the marge of the water strong, hardy ferns were
plentiful, but these were principally of the larger kinds. But here
and there in little mossy dells, the rarer fronds in their delicate
greenery grew, and John Temple, pen-knife in hand, was speedily engaged
in cutting them from the earth. The Mayflower stood by his side, while
John knelt on the ground, and John felt conscious that the situation
was a dangerous one. Alone in the woods with a beautiful girl,
kneeling practically at her feet! Yet he felt wonderfully happy. His
years seemed to roll back; he was a youth again, with all the hopes and
aspirations of youth.
He looked up at the fresh, bright face bending over him, and he forgot
many things that he ought to have remembered. As for May Churchill she
also felt perfectly happy. She had never known anyone she liked half so
much as Mr. Temple, she was thinking. "And he is so good-looking, too,"
pretty May also reflected, glancing down on John's brown head.
These two, in truth, were fast drifting into that dangerous stream
where too often lives are wrecked and hearts are broken. Standing
on the marge the golden tide flows by, and we only see the shining
surface, not the rocks below. But sweet are these hours; sweet the
dawn, the dream, of joys to come! The dawn may cloud, the dream be
broken, but the coming shadows seem far away.
It was only the early dawn for John and May. Neither of them, indeed,
had for a moment reflected that this meeting would make any difference
in their lives. Feelings are strange and subtle, and creep in unawares
to the human heart. They only both felt very happy, and the world
seemed very bright. Bright to them, and dark and black to jealous eyes
watching them from the higher ground above.
These jealous, fiery brown eyes were those of young Henderson of
Stourton Grange. He had hoped to meet May Churchill during the
afternoon in Fern Dene, as she often went there, and to his rage, when
he arrived at the crest of the hill above the Dene, he saw May again
with John Temple.
He could see John look up in her face, as he knelt on the ground, and
May look down and smile on his. Henderson had gone to the Dene in a
most unhappy and unsettled state of mind, and this sight seemed to
half-madden him. His brow grew black as night, and a bitter curse broke
from his lips.
"But if I swing for it, this shall not be," he muttered.
Then he thought darkly of his interview with Elsie Wray the night
before, and now this girl stood as an obstacle in his way. He had not
dared openly to refuse to marry her, yet he never meant to do so.
He feared her; she might fulfill her threat, and write or go to May
Churchill, and then he knew that in that case all hope of winning May
was over.
"I must try to get her to go away," he thought, frowning and knitting
his black brows. "But then there's that confounded old fool, her
father."
It was certainly a miserable enough position in which he found himself.
Bound by his honor, by a hundred promises, to marry one woman, and
passionately in love with another! He stood mentally cursing his folly,
his fate, and the unhappy girl who had trusted him too much. But give
up May he would not. There was a dogged obstinacy about this young
man; the sullen, unreasonable obstinacy of a low order of mind, and
when once he had determined on a thing nothing would turn him from his
purpose.
So gnawing his thick, red underlip beneath his brown mustache, and
grinding his strong white teeth in his wrath, he watched the two below
dallying on the green sward. He did not seek to interrupt them. He had
already learnt to hate the smiling indifference of John Temple's manner
to him, and he knew he could not rely on his own temper. No; he saw
them arrange the ferns they had got in May's little basket; he saw them
stand side by side, looking at the bubbling stream, and then he watched
them leave the Dene and cross the rustic bridge which led to it.
They were still together when he lost sight of them, and then he turned
homeward, with a gloomy brow and an angry heart. As he strode on,
various plans crossed his brain. But of one thing he was determined.
Cost what it might, he would get rid of Elsie Wray.
As he neared Stourton Grange, a substantial square stone house,
standing in an extensive well-kept garden, he encountered a tall,
good-looking lady in deep mourning. This was his widowed mother, and
Tom Henderson was her only son. Her face brightened when she saw him,
and she put out her hand when she met him, and laid it on his arm.
"My dear, how lucky that I should come upon you," she said, smiling
affectionately.
Young Henderson's smile in return was a somewhat forced one, and her
fond eyes instantly perceived this.
"Something is worrying you, Tom," she said, quickly. "What is it?"
Tom did not speak; something was worrying him, more than worrying him,
but it was not a thing he could exactly tell his mother.
She looked up fondly into his eyes.
"My dear," she asked, "can I help you in anything? I am sure there is
something wrong."
"You are quite right," he answered abruptly.
"What is it, Tom? Surely you can trust your mother."
"Oh, I can't tell you about it."
He said this very impatiently, and Mrs. Henderson looked at him
anxiously.
"Is it about some woman, Tom?" she said.
Tom replied by a sort of a groan.
"I wish you would marry, Tom," continued Mrs. Henderson, earnestly.
"Many mothers don't wish their sons to marry because they say it takes
them away from themselves, but I don't feel this. Your happiness would
be mine. Tom, a little bird has whispered to me that you run after a
certain very pretty girl; is this true?"
"You mean May Churchill?" answered Tom Henderson; "well, I certainly do
admire her very much."
"And--are you engaged to her?"
"No; there are always worries in the way."
"Not surely--"
"Mother, I may as well tell you that I have made a fool of myself, but
I must get out of it."
"But Tom--"
"There! don't talk of it like a good old woman; I'll get out of it,
that I'm determined."
Mrs. Henderson did not say anything more. She walked on with her
hand through her son's arm, feeling very anxious. Tom Henderson had
been a wayward boy, and he was a wayward man, and his mother was
conscious perhaps that she had spoilt her only child. She had heard a
rumor--got one of those painful hints which friends do not scruple to
give--about her son's connection with Elsie Wray of the Wayside Inn.
But she had never spoken of it to Tom. She was a delicate-minded woman,
and extremely attached to him, and there were subjects on which Mrs.
Henderson felt she could not speak to her boy.
The mother and son walked home together and then parted, Mrs. Henderson
to see after some household arrangements, Tom to retire to his own room
to write a letter to Elsie Wray.
Let us look over his shoulder as he sat, pen in hand, with his black
brows knitted and his handsome face distorted with the angry passions
in his heart. He began:
"Dear Elsie," and then paused. He did not in truth know what to say.
He knew he was acting shamefully, but he told himself it was folly to
sacrifice the happiness of his whole life because a foolish girl had
loved him too well.
Again he began "Dear Elsie," on a fresh note-sheet, and this time
continued his letter:
"DEAR ELSIE: Our interview of last night was very unsatisfactory,
and I want to see you again, and I hope we will come to some lasting
agreement. I am quite willing to come down handsomely for any supposed
wrong I may have done you, and I hope you will act like a sensible girl
and accept my proposition. Will you meet me to-night at nine o'clock,
on the ridge above Fern Dene? It's a quiet place, and we can have
our talk out there without being interrupted as we were last night.
There is always someone about near your house, seemingly. But do act
sensibly, and don't make a row about what can not be helped now.
"Yours sincerely,
"T. H."
He finished this letter, and then put it in his pocket and walked to
the stables, and gave it to his groom. This man was engaged rubbing
down a horse when his master appeared, and he seemed quite accustomed
to receive such missions.
"Take that over to Miss Wray, Jack," said young Henderson; "make some
excuse--have a pot of beer or something--but give it into her own
hands, and no one else's, and here's a shilling for the beer."
"Very well, master," answered Jack, pocketing the note and the shilling
with something between a grin and a nod, and then touching his
forelock. "Must I go directly?"
"Yes," said Henderson, and then he turned away, and went whistling out
of the stables with his hands in his pockets.
Upon which Jack took a rough towel and rubbed his own face and hands,
and otherwise improved his appearance, and then started off on his way
to the wayside public house.
"The game's nearly up," he thought, with another grin, as he went
shambling on. "Miss Elsie will ha' to look a bit lower than the young
master before she's done."
He speedily arrived at his destination. It was a pretty spot--this
wayside house, with its trellised walls, covered with creepers and
roses, and its open porch. In the porch the master of the house, James
Wray, was sitting smoking a long white pipe, and he took it from his
mouth and nodded in a friendly manner when the groom from Stourton
Grange appeared.
"Well, Jack, my lad," he said, "and how are ye all at the Grange?"
James Wray was not unaware of the intimacy of his daughter with the
young owner of the Grange, or without his private hopes that some day
he might see Elsie the mistress there. He therefore made room for Jack,
the groom, to take a seat beside him in the porch, but this did not
suit Jack's views.
"No, master," he said, "I'm that dry I must ha' a drop o' beer first,
and I'll go in and get it, and then come out and ha' a bit crack."
The landlord nodded his head and resumed his pipe, and Jack entered the
house. Two or three men were sitting drinking, and a good-looking smart
girl was acting as barmaid, but Elsie Wray was not visible. Jack looked
around, called for his beer, but had a word to whisper in the barmaid's
ears as she was serving it.
"Where's the young missis?" he asked.
"She's in the parlor, I think, Mr. Impudence," answered the smart
barmaid, tossing her head.
"Tell her one of the lads fra' the Grange wants a word wi' her," said
Jack, winking one eye, upon which, with another toss of the head, the
barmaid vanished; and a few moments later Elsie Wray, who looked pale,
agitated, and handsome, appeared.
Jack touched his forelock and went up to her, and produced Tom
Henderson's letter.
"The young master sent this for you, miss," he said.
Elsie put out a shapely brown hand and eagerly caught at the letter,
and then without another word retired with it and ran hastily upstairs
to her own little bedroom to read it.
When she got there she tore it open with trembling fingers, and, as her
eyes fell on the insulting words it contained, the poor girl turned
deadly pale, and staggered back as if something had struck her.
"How dare he! How dare he!" she cried aloud, in sharp bitter tones of
anguish.
Again she read the cruel words. She stared at them as though they
burned into her brain, and then with sudden passion she flung the
letter on the floor and trampled it beneath her feet.
"The coward! The base coward!" she muttered. "So he would buy me off,
would he? Me! But he shall see; he shall see!"
She began to pace up and down the room after this, evidently revolving
some question in her mind. Then she suddenly remembered that the groom
from Stourton would probably be waiting for an answer. And with her
eyes flashing, and her head thrown back, she returned to the bar in the
room below.
Jack was still sitting there drinking his beer, and he rose when Elsie
appeared.
Without a moment's hesitation she went up to him.
"Tell him," she said, in concentrated tones of suppressed anger and
passion, "that I will be there."
That was all; without another word she turned and left the bar, and the
men sitting there looked at each other as she did so. The expression of
her face was so tragic that it seemed to forebode evil. Jack Reid--the
groom's surname was Reid--said nothing. He looked rather frightened,
and shortly afterward left the Wayside Inn, declining the offer of the
landlord, who was still sitting on the porch, to remain any longer.
Meanwhile in her room upstairs Elsie Wray was in a state of mind
bordering on distraction. All the hopes of her future life seemed
dashed to dust. But with hard-set teeth she told herself that she would
not give in. Tom Henderson must keep his word and marry her, even if he
never spoke to her afterward.
"Or he or I shall die for it," she muttered with bated breath.
Then she stole to her father's room, and from a locked cupboard there
drew out a loaded revolver. Elsie, a favorite daughter, and one whom he
completely trusted, always kept the landlord's keys.
Having thus secured the weapon, about two hours later she started with
a determined heart to keep the tryst that Tom Henderson had given her.
By this time a fitful moon had risen, the light being constantly
obscured by drifting clouds. It was a wild-looking night, and seemed to
suit the mood of the unhappy woman who went out to meet her false lover
under such cruel circumstances.
CHAPTER VII.
THE LAST TRYST.
Before Elsie Wray quitted the Wayside Inn, however, she had a word to
say to the young barmaid who had brought her the message that the groom
from Stourton Grange wished to speak to her.
She beckoned this girl to her, who was officiating at the bar, and
whispered a few words to her in the passage outside the room.
"Alice," she said, "I am going out, but don't tell father. Say, if he
asks after me, that I have gone to bed with a bad headache. Do you
understand?"
The barmaid nodded; she quite understood that her mistress was going
out to meet the young squire from Stourton Grange. This affair was
known and had been much commented on by the small circle round the
inn-keeper's family. Some had shaken their heads over it, and wished
it might end well. Others took a more charitable view. But Alice, the
barmaid, had seen the look in Elsie's face when she had given her
message to Jack Reid the groom, and her expression did not bode well.
"You won't be late, mistress?" whispered the girl.
"No," answered Elsie, in a low, slow tone, and she clutched the
revolver she held beneath her cloak yet harder as she spoke. "I will go
out by the back door," she added.
"I'll watch till you come back," said Alice, and Elsie nodded and then
glided away into the darkness, and the barmaid looked after her for a
moment, but was quickly recalled to her duties by her master's voice.
Elsie having quitted the house and closed the door softly behind her,
passed down through the kitchen garden, and speedily found herself on
the high road.
She had a long walk--at least two miles and a half--before she could
reach the high land that lies above Fern Dene. Stourton Grange stands
about a mile to the west of Fern Dene, and once or twice in the early
days of their love, Elsie had met young Henderson in the Dene. But this
was before Henderson had discovered that this shady and romantic spot
was the favorite walk and resort of pretty May Churchill. After this
there were no more meetings in the Dene with his lowly-born sweetheart.
Henderson chose another direction, and ran no risks of encountering May
Churchill while walking with Elsie Wray.
Now swiftly and silently beneath the drifting clouds the forsaken woman
went on to what Henderson meant to be her last tryst with him. She
never looked up nor around. She knew the way well, and every feeling of
her heart was concentrated on one object.
"He shall die unless he does me justice," was the thought that entirely
possessed her. She was desperate, and in her desperation she was
capable of anything.
In the meanwhile Tom Henderson was feeling anything but comfortable.
The groom, Jack Reid, had returned and had given Elsie's message to his
young master, and added what he called a hint of his own.
"She looked mortal bad," he said, significantly.
Tom Henderson whistled, but he by no means liked the prospect before
him. He drank more wine at dinner than was his wont, and his mother
again and again looked at him anxiously. She did not like his restless
movements, his somewhat disjointed words. At last he rose and said he
would go out for a smoke and a stroll.
"Don't be late, my dear," answered his mother.
"No," said Tom, and then she watched him walk down the avenue till the
red tip of his cigar disappeared in the darkness.
He went on slowly enough. He knew he was going to meet an angry,
disappointed woman, and he knew he had done Elsie the worst wrong
a man can do, yet he never swerved from his purpose. But he wished
it was over; he was essentially selfish, and he was thinking of his
own feelings of discomfort and not of the poor girl's, as he went on
through the gusty night.
Presently he came to the ridge of high land above Fern Dene. This is
rather a remarkable piece of ground; the dip of the hill from it down
to the Dene being exceedingly steep, even precipitous. This descent is
thickly studded with trees, brambles, and undergrowth. On the ridge
there is a narrow walk, with the fall of the hill on one side and
stretching fields on the other.
Along this walk Henderson went, still slowly, and as he did so the moon
suddenly broke forth from the drifting clouds, and showed him dark and
distinct the figure of a woman on the pathway before him.
It was Elsie Wray wrapped in a long cloak, and standing on the very
verge of the descent below, gazing down into its gloomy depths.
Henderson could see her face in the moonlight; could see the sharply
cut profile and the black brows, for the hood of her cloak had fallen
back, and her head was uncovered. She looked a weird and tragic figure
in this lonely spot, and for a moment Henderson hesitated to approach
her. Then he pulled himself together.
"It must be done," he told his sinking heart, and he therefore began
to walk more quickly forward, and at the sound of his footsteps Elsie
turned her face away from the ravine and looked around.
But she made no forward movement to meet him. She stood there awaiting
his approach, silent, motionless, and something in her attitude made
Henderson yet more uneasy.
At last he neared her.
"Well, Elsie," he said, holding out his hand, "I'm afraid you've had a
long walk."
She did not answer, nor did she attempt to take his proffered hand.
"I asked you to come here, Elsie," continued Henderson, somewhat
hurriedly and nervously, "because I want to have a good talk with you.
I want in fact to make some arrangements, some permanent arrangement.
You see all that talk about our marriage is nonsense. I've others to
consider, my mother to consider, and a marriage between us would never
do, that's a fact."
"When did you first learn this fact?" asked Elsie, bitterly.
"Well, you see, I was only a lad when I first knew you, Elsie, and lads
do and say a lot of foolish things. But I want to make it all square
and act handsomely, as I told you in my letter, if you will only be a
sensible girl."
"And how much do you propose to buy my silence for?" said Elsie, yet
more bitterly.
"Oh, well, it's no use speaking in that tone. I mean to do what I say,
and settle enough on you to make you comfortable for life. Why not
emigrate, and you could marry some fellow out there with the money I
give you? I thought of even as much as two thousand pounds."
"Not for ten hundred thousand pounds!" cried Elsie, raising her voice
in passionate accents. "Not for all the money that was ever coined, Tom
Henderson!" she went on. "What do you take me for? Do you think I would
sell my rights, the rights of my unborn child? Never! You must marry
me, or you will rue the day."
"I can not marry you," answered Henderson, doggedly. "Don't you see
it's impossible for a fellow in my position to do so? How can I take
a wife from a public house? You should look at things more sensibly,
Elsie!"
"You should have thought of all this before--before it was too late.
Now it is. If not for my sake, for the sake of the child--"
"Oh, bother the child!" muttered Henderson, brutally.
The face of the woman he addressed turned absolutely livid. Her eyes
dazed, her breath came short, and her hand convulsively grasped the
revolver hidden beneath her cloak.
"It shall not be the child of shame," she cried in a low fierce tone.
"If you do not promise to do me justice, Tom Henderson, as sure as
there is a God above us I will shoot you dead first, and then myself."
She lifted the revolver as she spoke, and Henderson saw the gleam of
steel in the moonlight, and his face grew pale.
"Will you promise?" repeated Elsie, sternly, and her blazing eyes
never left the changing face of the man standing before her. Henderson
faltered. He saw she was in earnest, and he changed his manner.
"Do not be foolish, Elsie," he said.
"It is not folly," she answered in a determined voice. "Long have I
borne with you; borne with your neglect, your insults; but now I have
made up my mind. Either you marry me, or we both shall die."
"Think for a moment--"
"I will think no more; I have nearly gone mad with thinking; now I
shall act. Tom Henderson, will you marry me?"
"Oh, well, if you put it in that way I suppose I must."
Elsie's raised hand, with which she had been pointing the revolver at
Henderson's throat, fell at these words, and a sigh of relief escaped
her lips.
"Let it be so then," she said, in a strange, weary tone. The strain had
been so great; the struggle was over. Her arm dropped; her head fell
on her breast. But in a moment--in this moment of weakness--the coward
before her sprang upon her, grasping her arm, and wrenched the revolver
from her grasp.
He did it so quickly that Elsie had not time to resist, nor to realize
his action. He held the revolver in the air; he gave a brutal laugh of
triumph.
"Now," he cried, "will you shoot me now? So you were going to force me
to marry you, were you, by your silly threats? But I won't, there; do
you hear, I won't!"
He almost shouted the last words, and they fell on the ears of a woman
stunned with misery.
"What!" she gasped forth. "What!"
"I'm not going to be bullied into doing anything I don't mean to do
by your tragedy airs," continued Henderson, his passions rising as he
spoke. "I've made you a fair offer; most of women would consider it a
handsome offer, but you're a fool."
She looked in his face with a stony look of despair.
"Do you mean to go back from what you promised?" she said.
"I never promised! Once for all, Elsie, make the best of the situation;
take my money, and go away."
"Coward!"
She hissed out this word with bitter emphasis. She stood there facing
him pale to the very lips. Henderson held the revolver high in his
strong hand, and she knew she could not reach it. He had robbed her of
her weapon, but he had not conquered her soul.
"You have lied then," she said, with concentrated scorn, "as you have
done a thousand times. I might have known! But for all that you shall
not marry Miss Churchill. I will go to her to-morrow, and tell her the
whole story; tell her what you are, and how you have treated me, and I
will tell my father."
"You will do this?" cried Henderson, in sudden fury. "You never shall!"
"I will do it," repeated Elsie, doggedly.
"I swear you shall not live to do it!"
"I will!" again said Elsie.
"Then I'll shoot you dead before you do it!" cried Henderson, fiercely,
pointing the revolver at Elsie as he spoke.
The woman did not flinch as the man had done. Perhaps she felt that all
her life was ended that was worth living for. At all events she did not
swerve.
"Swear that you will not go near Miss Churchill; that you will never
tell your father anything of what has been between us," continued
Henderson, still pointing the revolver at Elsie's head, "or by the
heavens above us I'll shoot you!"
"I will tell my father to-night; I will see Miss Churchill to-morrow."
These were almost the unhappy woman's last words. Henderson, maddened
by anger, by the wine he had drunk, and by her obstinacy, with a savage
oath pulled the trigger of the weapon he held, and the next moment
Elsie, with a cry, made a little spring forward, and a moment later
fell fatally wounded at his feet.
Then Henderson began to realize what he had done. He laid the revolver
on the grass; he knelt down at Elsie's side.
"Elsie, you are not any worse, are you?" he said; "I only meant to
frighten you, I only--"
As he was speaking the moon, which had hitherto been partly obscured
and hidden by the drifting clouds, suddenly shone out in its full
radiancy. It shone on the face of a woman struggling in her death
throes; on a ghastly wound which had torn open one side of her shapely
throat, and from which a stream of blood was pouring fast.
Henderson, horror-stricken, drew out his handkerchief and tried to
stanch this, but with a dying effort Elsie pushed his hand aside. She
opened her eyes; she struggled for breath.
"Tom Henderson," she gasped out, for each breath was a gasp, "God will
bring you to account for this--I curse you with my dying breath."
After this she spoke no more. Henderson, appalled by his own deed, felt
powerless. He knelt there and watched the last struggles of the woman
he had shot. He knelt there when it was all over, and when the loving,
passionate heart that he had broken had ceased to beat. Did some dim
memories rise before him as he did so? Did he think of Elsie as the
bright young girl he once had loved? If so, he uttered no word. He
waited till the last quiver was still, the last moan hushed, and then
pale, trembling in every limb, he rose.
Elsie Wray was dead, and he had killed her! The night breeze seemed
to whisper this, as they rustled in the ravine below; strange voices
muttered it in his ears. Good God! And she had cursed him as she died!
Henderson shuddered as he remembered this. Again he glanced tremblingly
at the dead woman's face. The flickering shadows of the moonlight
still played on it; the half-open eyes were full of scorn.
* * * * *
But something must be done, yes, something must be done, Henderson told
himself after a brief interval of horror. He must try to hide this deed
that he had committed, this murder that his hand had wrought. Murder!
The horrid word seemed to ring in his ears; it seemed written in flames
before his eyes. Suddenly it all grew dark; the moon had hidden her
light, and in the gloom Henderson stood alone with his dead.
Then it flashed across his brain that he had shot Elsie with the weapon
that she had brought. This seemed to offer a hope of deliverance to
his mind. She would be supposed to have shot herself. Who was there to
tell? Henderson listened a few moments with bated breath. There was not
a rustle, but the trees below stirred with the night wind; not a sound,
and it was now dark, very dark.
Summoning all his courage, he once more approached the dead woman's
body. He meant to throw it down the ravine, where chance might hide
it. With a sickening feeling of loathing he stooped and raised it in
his arms. Bah? As he did so something still warm ran over his hand. He
dropped the body with a suppressed cry; it was Elsie's blood, and when
he remembered this, it added new horror to his soul.
But it must be done. With a great effort he once more bent down. He
pulled it along this time--this lifeless thing he feared to touch.
He dragged it to the edge of the ravine; he rolled it over the sharp
descent. He heard it fall, then stop. He thought it had found a resting
place. But suddenly the crash of a branch giving way fell on his ears.
Again came a ghastly fall, then another, then a third, and then all was
still.
Henderson stood listening, spellbound with fear and horror. Great drops
of moisture fell from his forehead, his very hair seemed to bristle
with affright. Then after a time of unbroken silence, he slightly
recovered himself. He sought for, and found, the revolver he had laid
on the grass. This he flung down the ravine after the dead woman, and
having done this he turned and fled from the spot with the black curse
of murder on his soul.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE DEW ON THE GRASS.
When people have been very happy one day, they naturally wish to be
happy another. John Temple and May Churchill had been very happy
collecting the ferns in the Dene, and before they parted John expressed
a wish that this pleasure might be repeated.
"We have had a charming afternoon, have we not, Miss Churchill?" he
said, when May stopped at a short distance from her home and suggested
that here they had better part.
"Yes, I think we have," answered May, half-demurely, half-coquettishly.
"I don't think, I'm sure," smiled John. "And an idea has just struck
me, how lovely that place, Fern Dene, would be in the early morning,
when the dew is on the grass?"
"How romantic you are, Mr. Temple!"
"I was, but the weight of my years has crushed it all out of me."
"You do not look very old. How old are you, really?"
"I am thirty, but I feel forty."
"Thirty," repeated May, with a little laugh. "Just ten years older than
I am!"
"Oh, that decade, what I would give to forget it," said John Temple,
half-seriously. "To go back to my lost youth; to be like you--"
May shrugged her pretty shoulders.
"But I shall get old, too," she smiled.
"And cease to be the Mayflower," said John, with a genuine sigh. "Ah,
that is very sad."
Again May Churchill laughed. She stood there a picture of youth and
beauty; a girl in the prime of her girlhood, and conscious perhaps that
John Temple's gray eyes were fixed admiringly on her lovely face.
"Yes," he repeated, "that will really be very sad. Age makes no matter
to ordinary-looking people, you know, but to a flower--"
"When shall I begin to wither?" asked May, archly.
"Oh! do not speak of it! And yet," he continued more seriously, still
looking at May, "there are some faces that must always be beautiful;
some eyes that can never grow dim."
"I plainly perceive that age has still left you romantic, Mr. Temple."
"You inspire me, I was going to remark, to say foolish things. But on
reflection I perceive the speech lacks politeness. But how about the
dew on the grass! Will it lie till ten o'clock? Do let us meet in Fern
Dene to-morrow morning, Miss Churchill, at ten o'clock to see?"
"How can you be there so early?" smiled May.
"I would rise with the lark, I would soar, I would do anything, if you
will go."
"It would be fun, certainly. Very well, if you will be there by ten, I
will, but I do not expect to find you."
"We shall see," said John Temple, fervently.
"Yes, we shall see," answered May, with a gay little laugh. "And now
good-by, Mr. Temple."
They shook hands and each went their separate way, thinking of the
other. May Churchill was amused, excited, and flattered. How much more
agreeable was this well-bred man, she was thinking, than country-bred
young Henderson. In truth the Mayflower had never taken very kindly
to this admirer of hers. But her father often invited Henderson to
Woodside Farm, and his shrewd eyes were not blind to the young man's
love for his pretty daughter. The squire of Stourton Grange was a good
match for May, Mr. Churchill had decided in his practical way, and
certain ulterior views of his own made him wish to see May married.
May, however, was very happy at her home, and her father had never
mentioned anything of Henderson's attentions to her. Her young brothers
sometimes rallied her about the young squire, but May took it all very
good-naturedly. But if Henderson ever had had any chance of winning her
affections, the time was past after she had met John Temple.
She went home smiling and happy after parting with him, but as she was
entering the pleasant garden at Woodside, to her consternation she met
Mrs. Layton coming out of the gate. The vicar's wife did not approve of
the Mayflower, nor of her pet name, but this did not prevent her asking
small favors from her, when it suited Mrs. Layton's convenience to do
so.
"Oh, here you are, Miss Margaret," she said, holding out a thin, meager
hand; "I'm very glad I've met you, as I've had a long walk, and the
servant said you were out. I wanted to see your father, but I dare say
you will do as well. It is our school feast on Thursday, though, as
you do not attend now, of course you do not know. But still I hope Mr.
Churchill will supply the milk and cream gratis, as he kindly did last
year?"
"I've no doubt that he will," answered May, smiling.
"Thank you, then I may look on that as settled. Any little thing helps,
you know; fruit or eggs, or anything. Indeed, speaking of eggs, could
I have half a dozen fresh-laid ones to take away with me now, as the
vicar is very fond of a fresh-laid egg?"
May Churchill blushed. Mrs. Layton knew perfectly well that May had
nothing to do with the selling of eggs, nor the management of the
poultry-yard. But she simply chose to ignore this; she liked "to
keep people in their proper stations," she used to say, and as she
considered a farmer's daughter ought to know about the selling of eggs,
she was determined to let May Churchill know this.
"Of course I mean to purchase them," Mrs. Layton added, as May
hesitated.
"I will inquire if we have any to spare," replied May, just a little
haughtily; and as she spoke she turned and went in the direction
of the dairy, and a few minutes later reappeared, carrying a small
basketful of fresh eggs.
"I have brought you a few eggs, Mrs. Layton," she said, "and I trust
you will accept them."
"Oh, dear, no; please tell me how much they are?" replied Mrs. Layton,
fumbling for her purse.
"We do not sell eggs," answered May, coldly.
"Not sell eggs! Dear me, I thought all farmer's daughters sold eggs.
But as you are so kind, I will accept them; and you'll not forget to
tell your father about the milk and cream? Well, good-afternoon, Miss
Margaret; I think I must steal one of your roses, though, before I go."
It must be admitted that May Churchill entered the house after this
interview feeling a little ruffled. She had felt so happy before, and
had enjoyed her afternoon so much, and then to be snubbed in this
fashion!
"She's a vulgar old woman," she consoled herself by thinking, and
tried to forget her annoyance in arranging the table prettily for her
father's tea.
This meal was of a very substantial order. The farmer dined early,
but between seven and eight partook of a heavy meat tea. Cold lamb, a
fowl, and a home-cured ham, and various other good things awaited him,
to which he presently did ample justice. He was a very sober man, and
healthful, and he laughed heartily about Mrs. Layton asking for the
milk and cream.
"She's not troubled with modesty, the parson's wife, is she?" he said.
But somehow May did not tell her father what Mrs. Layton had said about
the selling of eggs.
May's two young brothers were spending some days with a neighboring
farmer's son, and the father and daughter were thus alone. And after
tea was over Mr. Churchill, having lit his pipe, looked more than once
reflectively at his pretty girl.
"I've got something to say to you, May," he said, at last.
"Yes, father," answered May, looking up. She was not afraid of
anything her father might have to say to her. He was always kind and
generous in the matter of household expenses, and there had never been
any squabbles between them regarding weekly bills.
"I'm thinking of marrying again, May," continued Mr. Churchill,
somewhat abruptly. "You see you're sure to marry, and the boys are
young, and will want someone to look after them--and so shall I," added
the farmer, with an uneasy laugh.
May did not speak for a moment, for she was completely astonished. Her
lovely wild-rose color deepened, her eyes fell, and her hands played
nervously with some embroidery she held in her dainty fingers.
"It's Mrs. Bradshaw of Castle Hill," proceeded Mr. Churchill; "you see
she's a handy woman, and has a nice bit of money, and there's some very
good grass land at Castle Hill."
"Mrs. Bradshaw!" repeated May in dismay. She knew the buxom widow
her father spoke of, both personally and by repute, and had never
considered her a person fit to associate with. Her own mother had
been a lady, the daughter of a clergyman, and May had certainly hoped
that if her father married again he would not marry a woman like Mrs.
Bradshaw, who had first been the wife of a country shopkeeper, and
then of Mr. Bradshaw, a farmer at Castle Hill. Altogether it was a
great blow to May Churchill, and she did not attempt to offer any
congratulations to her father.
"I would not have thought of it," continued Mr. Churchill, glancing at
his young daughter's changing face, "but that you are certain to marry
soon, May. There's young Henderson of Stourton; anyone can see what he
wants."
"I do not care for Mr. Henderson," replied May, hastily, and without
another word she rose quickly and left the room, leaving Mr. Churchill
much disappointed by the conversation that had passed between them.
Then May went to her own room, and sat down to think, with a galling
sense of annoyance in her heart. First Mrs. Layton and now her father
had made her feel her social inferiority to the man of whom she had
thought so pleasantly during the earlier part of the day.
"It's absurd, my going to meet Mr. Temple," she reflected, not a little
bitterly. "No doubt he regards me as a milkmaid, a pretty milkmaid."
She rose a few moments later, and stood looking at her own likeness in
the mirror. No milkmaid type this, but a lovely young Englishwoman,
with refined, delicate features, and the most charming expression in
the world. May unconsciously smiled as she looked at herself in the
glass. It was very trying certainly to have a stepmother like Mrs.
Bradshaw thrust upon her, and to be reproached for not selling eggs by
Mrs. Layton, but these things did not make her less fair.
She therefore decided that she would go and meet Mr. Temple the next
morning. And she did. She said nothing to her father at breakfast about
this early expedition, but started as early as half-past nine o'clock
for Fern Dene, without telling anyone in the house where she was going.
She walked quickly and her spirits rose as she passed through the
fields in the fresh morning air. Yes, the dew was still on the grass,
she thought, smilingly, as she glanced at the herbage growing beneath
the hedge-rows. Then presently she came to the little bridge across the
brook that led to the Dene. How the water sparkled in the sunshine!
Everything looked so bright; the blue sky, the wavering boughs of the
green trees dappling the grass.
May walked on with a sense of exhilaration and pleasure pervading her
whole being. She walked on until where the Dene narrows, stopped for a
moment and glanced up at the steep-wooded declivity at its side. What
made her suddenly start and turn pale? A little cry broke from her
lips; a ghastly sight met her horror-stricken eyes.
A woman's body, with head hanging downward and dark hair unbound, was
suspended from a branch of one of the largest trees. May made a step
nearer with shrinking dread. She thought first the poor creature had
hanged herself, but a second glance told her this was not so.
There was a red stain of curdled blood around the drooped throat, from
which the handkerchief had fallen, and the face, with its sightless,
half-open eyes, nearly touched the ground. May went closer--then she
saw the wound in the throat--the broken branches above; she recognized
the face! It was the handsome girl from the Wayside Inn, the landlord's
daughter, and with a cry of horror May turned and fled from the spot.
She ran until she came in sight of the little bridge at the entrance
of the Dene. On this, as he was in the very act of crossing it,
John Temple saw her come hurrying on, evidently in a state of the
greatest excitement and agitation. Instead of the pretty smiling
girl he expected to meet, here was a woman who came toward him with
outstretched hand and a white, shocked face.
"Oh! Mr. Temple," she gasped out, as they met, "something so dreadful
has happened!"
"My dear Miss Churchill," he answered, taking both her hands, "what has
happened?"
"A poor girl, a poor woman, is lying I think murdered farther up the
Dene--"
"Murdered?" repeated John Temple.
"I think so, I fear so," continued May, who was trembling in every
limb. "She is hanging from a tree--she may have fallen--"
"Are you sure she is dead?" asked John Temple, gravely. "This has given
you a great shock, I fear; but I had better go at once and see if I can
do anything."
"Yes," answered May, with a shudder. "Oh! her face is so awful, awful,
Mr. Temple! I think I know who it is; a poor girl I knew by sight. What
shall we do?"
"We must see at once if help can be given. Are you afraid to show me
where she is?"
"No," said May, in a low tone, and again she shuddered.
"You need not go all the way, you know," said John Temple, kindly and
gently. "Come, lean on me; you are trembling so that you can scarcely
stand."
He drew her hand through his arm and spoke soothingly to her, and
May felt thankful that he was there. His presence seemed to give her
courage, and presently she was able to show him where the poor girl's
body was hanging from the tree. John Temple left her for a few minutes
and went on. Then he, too, saw the terrible sight that had filled May's
heart with horror. He went up and touched one of the poor girl's hands;
he felt for the stilled pulse. But he knew too well it was useless.
The ghastly face told its own tale. The woman was dead; had probably
been murdered, and the miserable affair must, of course, at once be
investigated.
He returned, therefore, to May and asked her if she were afraid to go
home as quickly as possible and give the alarm.
"I do not like leaving the poor woman's body quite alone," he said,
"but if you are afraid--"
"Oh, no," answered May; "I will run home. Father will most likely be
about the place, and he will come at once. I will go now."
She hurried away, while John Temple kept his dreary watch. Presently
she reached the homestead, and met her father almost at the gate.
Almost breathless and panting she told the dreadful news, and Mr.
Churchill listened, surprised and shocked.
"But are you sure it is Wray's daughter, my dear?" he said.
"I am almost sure," answered May. "Oh, father, it is such a dreadful,
dreadful sight!"
"In that case I had better ride over and break it to poor Wray. Why,
she was a fine, handsome, merry girl; how ever can such a thing have
happened?"
While the father and daughter were speaking, and Mr. Churchill was
considering what it would be best to do, to their surprise and pain
James Wray, the landlord of the Wayside Inn, was seen approaching in
a small dog-cart in great haste toward the house. He pulled up when
he recognized the Churchills, and they saw that his face was pale and
agitated.
"You've not seen or heard anything of my girl, have ye?" he asked,
excitedly, addressing Mr. Churchill, whose eyes fell uneasily as he
spoke. "She left home last night, and has never come back. I'm on my
way to the station, and if I hear nothing of her there I must get the
police."
"Come into the house a few minutes, Mr. Wray," answered Mr. Churchill,
feelingly; "perhaps I may have some news for you."
James Wray sprang from the dog-cart and grasped the farmer's hand.
"Not bad!" he cried, "don't say bad news about my girl! What is it,
man? What do you know?"
CHAPTER IX.
DRAWN CLOSER.
"You had better come into the house," again urged Mr. Churchill; "my
daughter here may have something to tell you."
Then James Wray looked eagerly at May, whose face grew very pale.
"I fear there has been an accident," she faltered.
"Not to Elsie? Not to my girl!" cried James Wray.
"I--saw someone lying in Fern Dene--as if she had fallen," said May in
a trembling voice; "I am not sure--who it was--not sure it was Miss
Wray--I ran to tell father--"
"Fallen!" repeated Wray, aghast. "Where could she have fallen from? How
could my girl be in Fern Dene?"
"Suppose I send one of the men to bring Doctor Graham, he's the
nearest," suggested Mr. Churchill. "I will go with you to Fern Dene if
you like, Mr. Wray."
"It can't be my girl there!" said Wray, in violent excitement. "She
went out about half-past eight o'clock, the barmaid says--how could she
be there?"
"It's better to ascertain at any rate, and I'll send for Doctor Graham
at once. This poor young woman in Fern Dene, whoever it be, may require
some assistance," answered Mr. Churchill, quietly.
He therefore at once dispatched one of the farm servants for the
doctor, who only lived a quarter of a mile distant, and he whispered a
word in May's ear.
"Are you well enough to go with us, May?" he said. "And tell some of
the women to bring brandy and blankets; the poor soul may not be dead,
you know."
May made no reply. She had looked at the landlord's agitated face, and
great pity for him was in her heart. But she was not quite sure of the
dead woman's identity. She thought it was Elsie Wray, but the face was
so awfully changed she could not be certain.
"It may not be your daughter, Mr. Wray," she said, tremulously, "who is
lying injured--but we had better see."
"It can not be my daughter," affirmed Wray, "but we can see, we can
see."
"I will drive May to Fern Dene," said Mr. Churchill. "It will take less
time, and then we can take with us what is necessary, and will you
drive the doctor, Mr. Wray?"
"Why wait for the doctor? Let us go at once," answered the landlord,
with nervous, eager impatience. "It can't be my girl there, and I must
find her."
"Very well; he can follow. My horse will be harnessed in a minute, and
then we can start," said Mr. Churchill; and very shortly afterward they
did start. Mr. Churchill's horse was a young and powerful one, and they
quickly drew in sight of the wooded dell that hid so drear a sight.
Here Mr. Churchill assisted May out of the high dog-cart, and then
fastened his horse to a tree, and took out the brandy and blankets they
had brought. By this time Wray, who had been urging his pony to its
utmost speed, overtook them, and the three together--May, her father,
and the landlord--crossed the little bridge and found themselves in the
shady Dene.
May went on, naturally with shrinking dread, and the landlord with
trembling footsteps. They had not gone far when they met John Temple;
he had heard their voices in the silence around, and now advanced to
meet them, and as he did so his face was very grave.
"This is a sad affair, Mr. Churchill," he said.
"I hope nothing very bad, Mr. Temple?" answered the farmer.
"It looks very black, at least," continued Temple; "there is a revolver
lying near the body among the undergrowth, but I thought it best not to
touch it until the police arrive."
"The body!" gasped the landlord, with staring eyes fixed on John
Temple's face, who did not know he was the father of the unhappy Elsie.
"Yes, the poor woman is quite dead, has been dead apparently for
hours," answered Temple, and as he spoke a sort of cry escaped the
landlord's lips.
"Where is she?" he asked in a hoarse voice. "It's not my girl, but
still--"
"She is suspended from a tree a little farther up the Dene," said John.
"I can show you the spot."
"Oh, no, no, Mr. Wray!" now cried May, laying her hand on the
landlord's arm. "Let father and me go first--it's no sight for you--"
But the landlord pushed aside her detaining hand.
"Let me go," he said, hoarsely, and he ran forward, followed by the
rest. Then when he beheld the ghastly sight, the streaming black hair,
the half-open eyes, a great cry escaped his lips.
"My girl, my girl!"
His words rang through the woods. He flung himself on his knees;
he raised the head; he looked wildly in the face. Yes, it was his
girl--his Elsie--lying foully murdered in this lone spot!
"Elsie, who has done this?" he asked in passionate grief.
"Father, help me to disentangle her; to lift her down," now said May,
with streaming eyes. "Oh! help us, Mr. Temple!"
"Yes," answered John Temple, "I will climb the tree and disentangle her
dress. You help to hold her head and body, Mr. Churchill, while I go
up."
He was slight and active, and soon the poor still form was loose from
the branch which had caught and held it in its fall. They laid her
gently on the grass. May Churchill knelt down and covered the ghastly
face and the blue-edged wound on the shapely throat, and she tried also
to draw away the landlord from his dead daughter's side.
"Oh, come away, come away, Mr. Wray," she said, pitifully; "this is no
place for you--I will stay with her--you go with father."
But the unhappy man took no heed of her words. He knelt there holding
one of Elsie's cold hands; his eyes were staring from his head with
sorrow.
"Who killed thee, my lass?" he asked again and again; "thee who had
wronged none."
"It may have been an accident," suggested May, tearfully and soothingly.
But at this moment the doctor and some others arrived on the spot, and
the doctor at once knelt down and removed the handkerchief from the
face and throat.
"This looks like murder," he said, in a low tone, carefully examining
the wound.
"There is a revolver lying there among the undergrowth," pointed out
John Temple.
Mr. Churchill went forward at these words to the spot John indicated,
and picked up the revolver and looked at it attentively.
"Why, Mr. Wray," he said, "this is your revolver--here is your name
engraved on it."
Then James Wray raised his stony, grief-stricken face, and looked at
the revolver in the farmer's hand.
"Yes," he said, "it's mine--how did it come here?"
"It looks as if she--"
"She never brought it--she has been lured here and shot. Oh! my girl,
my girl, that I should have lived to see this day!"
Nothing could exceed his heartrending grief. Elsie had been his only
child, and for her he had worked and saved. He was well off, and for
long had nourished a secret hope that his daughter would marry the
young squire of Stourton Grange. And now it was all over; she lay dead
before him--had died a tragic death--and a dark suspicion crossed his
mind as he looked at her motionless form.
"Whoever's done it, I'll hunt him down!" he swore, inwardly. "I'll ha'
his life for thine!"
* * * * *
It is useless to write of the painful details that followed. The
police arrived and Elsie Wray's body was carried away, followed by her
heart-broken father; May Churchill also walked close to the bearers of
the dead, as they bore her down the Dene. But before this was done,
with gentle, womanly hands May had again covered the face, and rolled
up the long hair, and arranged the dress in seemly fashion. And John
Temple stood by and watched her do this, with strange emotion.
"She is not a mere pretty girl, then," he was thinking, and he turned
away with a restless sigh.
Then, when the sad procession had crossed the little bridge at the
commencement of the Dene, May and her father returned to Woodside, and
Elsie's body was carried on to the Wayside Inn, for the inquest which
was necessary to be held on it. May was very much overcome as she stood
and watched them bear away the poor girl whose tragic end she had been
the first to discover. She wished even to follow the dead the whole
way, but Mr. Churchill would not hear of this, and John Temple also
advised her not to do so.
"Let your father drive you home," he whispered; "you look quite done up
as it is."
So May was handed into her father's dog-cart, but just as they were
starting Mr. Churchill asked John Temple to go with them.
"Can't I give you a lift, Mr. Temple?" he said.
"Thanks, very much," answered John, with alacrity, stepping up into
the back seat of the dog-cart, and when they reached the nearest road
to Woodlea Hall, he made no offer to descend, but accompanied Mr.
Churchill and May the whole way to Woodside Farm.
When they arrived there Mr. Churchill insisted that he should remain to
lunch.
"It's our early dinner, you know, Mr. Temple, but we can offer you a
fair slice of mutton."
John Temple accepted this invitation also, and then judiciously began
talking to the farmer of his horses.
"My uncle has given me a good allowance," he said, "and I want a good
horse. Have you anything you think would suit me?"
Mr. Churchill, who was a man with a keen eye to a bargain, immediately
led John away to inspect his stables and paddocks. And it ended by
John buying a valuable riding-horse and the farmer feeling that he
had done an excellent morning's work. Then came the early dinner, at
which May presided, looking in John's eyes more lovely still from the
light pallor of her smooth cheeks, and the faint violet rim round
her beautiful eyes. The tragic affair of the morning was scarcely
mentioned, but the meal was hardly over when a summons was served at
the farm for May and her father both to attend the inquest on poor
Elsie Wray's body, which had to be held on the following morning.
Then some one came to see Mr. Churchill on business, and John Temple
and May were left alone.
"Let us go into the garden for a little while," he said.
So the two went out together and walked side by side on the trim gravel
walks, between the blooming flower-beds, which were May's especial
care. May made some allusion to Elsie Wray's death, but after a word or
two on the subject John Temple changed the conversation.
"She probably committed suicide, poor girl," he said; "her appearance
indicated that she was a woman of strong and passionate emotions."
"In any case it is so terribly sad."
"Yes, but do not think of it; we all must do so to-morrow; let us put
off the evil day."
Then he began talking to her of a little tour he had had in Normandy at
this very time last year, telling her of the quaint old French towns
that he had sojourned in, with their wide ramparts, spreading orchards,
and rosy pippins. He spoke well and graphically, and somehow both
forgot the time. Suddenly, however, John glanced at his watch and gave
an exclamation.
"Why, the day has flown!" he cried. "Do you know it is actually five
o'clock, and I left Woodlea at half-past eight. My good uncle will
naturally think I have run away."
"You must tell them--" began May, and then she paused embarrassed.
"I will tell them I went out for an early walk, and by accident met
you, who had just made the sad discovery which you did. There is no
need to say anything else."
"No, of course not," answered May, relieved.
"And I will add that I went back with you to Fern Dene, and saw the
poor girl and remained there while you ran home for assistance to your
father. This affair is sure to be greatly talked of."
"Yes, it is most painful to be mixed up in it, and I feel so dreadfully
sorry for her poor father."
"The whole thing is painful--but I must go. Good-by, Miss Churchill--I
wonder if you would give me a rose?"
"Oh, yes," answered May; and she stooped down and plucked a crimson
bud. "Will you have this one?"
"A thousand thanks--once more good-by."
Then their hands met, and for a moment May looked up in John Temple's
face, and she blushed softly as she did so.
CHAPTER X.
THE WAGES OF SIN.
It was a dark night when Henderson slunk home after his accursed deed;
dark and late, yet his mother was waiting up for him and anxiously
listening for his return. She heard him turn the latch-key in the door,
and went out into the hall to meet him.
"You are late, Tom," she said.
He started violently when he saw her.
"You up!" he said, hoarsely.
"Yes, I waited to say good-night. Why, Tom," she added the next minute,
lifting her lighted candle higher, "whatever is the matter with your
coat? Where did you get that stain?"
A shudder ran through his strong stalwart frame as she asked the
question, and his guilty eyes fell on the red stain on his coat sleeve.
"I stumbled and fell; it is nothing," he said, yet more hoarsely;
"good-night, mother," and without another word he turned and hurried
up the unlighted staircase, leaving his mother looking after him in
absolute astonishment.
He always smoked before he went to bed, and usually he drank some
whisky, and therefore she could not account for his conduct. She grew
anxious about him, and after she had retired to her own bedroom she
thought she would go quietly to his room-door and see after him. As
she approached it she thought she felt a faint smell of burning. She
was afraid to go into his room, for he was spoilt and wayward and did
not care to be interfered with, so she knelt quietly down and peered
through the key-hole.
A strange sight met her startled gaze. Her son was standing by the
fireplace, without his shirt on, and he was burning it by degrees
in the grate! She saw him cut out one sleeve and then the other and
burn them, adding matches to the flaming linen to make it consume
more quickly. The coat that he had worn during the evening--a light
cloth summer one--was lying on a chair near. Presently he took this
up, and shuddered as he did so. Then he cut off the lower part of one
sleeve--and consigned this also to the flames. He watched it burn, and
then rolled up the coat, and put it into the drawer of his wardrobe and
locked the drawer. After this, he put on a dressing-gown and approached
the door of the room from which his mother had scarcely time to fly,
when he opened it and came out on the landing with a lighted candle in
his hand.
Mrs. Henderson had hurried unseen into an empty room next door, and she
now watched her son descend the staircase, and could see that he was
ghastly pale, his whole appearance denoting great agitation. A great
terror crept over the poor woman's heart, and a nameless dread took
possession of her mind. She dare not follow him, but stood hidden in
the shadow, and in a few minutes she heard him returning up the stairs.
This time he was carrying a bottle of whisky and a glass, and Mrs.
Henderson saw his hands were trembling as he did so.
He entered his bedroom and at once began drinking the whisky. He drank
glass after glass, though he was by no means in the habit of doing so,
and at last flung himself, half-undressed, stupefied, on the bed, and
speedily fell into a heavy slumber.
But Mrs. Henderson herself could not sleep for thinking of him.
Something had happened, at all events, greatly to disturb him, and Mrs.
Henderson felt ill at ease.
The next morning he did not come down to breakfast at the usual time,
and finally his mother went up to his room-door and rapped.
"It's late, Tom; are you not well?" she called.
"I've a beastly headache. I'll be down directly," he answered, and when
he did appear Mrs. Henderson was quite shocked at his appearance. He
looked ill, haggard, and nervous, and ate nothing, drinking his tea, in
sullen silence.
All the rest of the morning it was the same thing. He did not go
out, but seemed in a state of restless excitement that he could not
suppress. Then about twelve o'clock a rumor reached Stourton Grange
that a murder had been committed in Fern Dene. The gardener heard it
outside and hurried into the kitchen to tell his news. It was not
known at first who it was. A woman's body had been found in the Dene,
that was all, and when Mrs. Henderson went into her larder to inspect
its contents and order the dinner, her cook followed her and told her
mistress what she had heard.
Mrs. Henderson turned actually faint as she listened. Tom's strange
conduct instantly recurred to her mind. But no, what folly, she
told herself the next minute. But, nevertheless, she went into the
breakfast-room where Tom was sitting pretending to read the newspapers,
with trembling footsteps.
"Tom," she said, "they say something dreadful has happened in Fern
Dene--"
She was looking at her son's face as she spoke, and the ghastly pallor
that at once spread over it filled her own heart with terror.
"What has happened?" he asked, hoarsely.
"They--say a murder," answered Mrs. Henderson in a faltering voice.
"A murder! What folly!" repeated Tom, and he rose hastily and flung the
newspaper on the floor as he did so. His whole manner indicated extreme
agitation, and his mother grew pale as she watched him.
"What cock-and-bull story have you got hold of now, I wonder?" he went
on harshly, a few moments later.
"They say a woman's body has been found in the Dene," answered Mrs.
Henderson, slowly, and Tom Henderson visibly started as she spoke.
"I don't believe it," he said, abruptly, and a moment later he hastily
left the room, leaving his mother greatly agitated.
Henderson had not left the house the whole morning, but after pacing up
and down his own bedroom for some minutes an extreme restlessness came
over him, and he went toward the stables, and in the stable yard he
found Jack Reid, the groom, rubbing down a horse.
The man did not look around as his master approached him, but went on
with his task, while Henderson stood a moment or two looking on without
speaking.
"Billy looks very fresh this morning," he said, presently, with
affected carelessness, and the groom, still without looking around,
only nodded his head in answer to his master's remark.
Henderson moved uneasily, and then, after another pause and in an
uneven voice, he said:
"What's this story, Jack, my mother's been telling me about some woman
or other being found in Fern Dene?"
Then Jack did look around, and Henderson's eyes shifted and fell as he
did so.
"It's Miss Wray," he said, in a sullen tone; "she's been found dead in
the Dene."
"Miss Wray! Dead!--impossible!" exclaimed Henderson.
"It's true enough, though," answered Jack, roughly.
"How do you know? Who found her?" queried Henderson.
"Miss Churchill, from Woodside Farm, they say, and she ran and met the
young squire from the Hall. Anyhow, she's dead--she's been shot, and
they say an inquest will be held on her to-morrow."
Henderson turned absolutely livid as he listened to Jack's information.
He took two or three hasty strides down the stable yard, and then he
once more returned to the groom's side.
"Jack," he began, and then hesitated.
"Well," asked Jack, not over-respectfully.
"You remember," went on Henderson, forcing himself to speak, "taking a
note to her from me?"
Jack laconically nodded his head.
"That note," went on Henderson, desperately, "was to ask her to meet me
in Fern Dene, but I changed my mind and did not go. She had got some
folly into her head about marrying me, and so I thought afterward it
was better not to go. But she may have gone--do you see, Jack? Yes, to
be sure she may have gone," continued Henderson, wiping his dark brow.
"And, Jack, about that note? Did anyone see you give it to her?" he
went on.
"Yes, there were some fellows sitting at the bar saw me," answered
Jack, coolly.
"That's a pity--but it can't be helped," said Henderson, in increasing
agitation. "But--did anyone hear the answer she sent me?"
"Yes, she walked straight back into the bar with your letter in her
hand after she had read it, and her eyes were just blazing in her head.
'Tell him I will be there,' she said, and the fellows heard it as well
as me."
Again Henderson wiped his brow.
"She may have gone--I can't say anything about it, you know. I never
went near, but that note may get me into some trouble. Jack, I'll make
it worth your while to hold your tongue--to say nothing about the note,
as only you knew it was from me."
"I knew," answered Jack, doggedly.
"Yes, of course you knew, but you must not mention this to anyone. I'll
give you as much as five pounds--"
"Ten would suit me better."
"Well, I'll make it ten, then. If anyone asks who gave you the note,
say a stranger you met on the road gave you a shilling to deliver it to
Miss Wray. Do you understand? Put it on a stranger, and you shall have
ten pounds, for I do not wish to be mixed up in this matter at all."
"I can well understand that."
"You see, Jack, she may have gone to meet me, and when she found I was
not there she may have shot herself. She is shot, you say?"
"Yes, dead as a herring."
"It's a shocking affair; really a shocking affair," continued
Henderson, hastily; "poor girl!"
"Ay, poor lass!"
"It might have happened so--in her disappointment, you know, she may
have shot herself, that is if she had anything to shoot herself with?"
"They say her father's revolver was lying nigh her."
"Then I fear it has happened so. Don't you think so, Jack? How lucky
for me that I did not go near."
"Quite a close shave."
"Yes, quite a close shave indeed. Well, Jack, now we've arranged it,
I'll go into the house and get you the ten pounds--but remember you
were to say a stranger--that a stranger gave you the note."
Jack nodded and Henderson hastily returned to the house, and speedily
reappeared with two crisp five-pound bank notes in his pocket, which
he soon placed in Jack's horny hand, who at once deposited them in
his corduroys. But when they were safely there, he looked up with his
shrewd brown eyes in his master's face.
"About that note," he said. "Maybe the poor lass left it behind her,
and it was in yer writing."
Henderson's face fell.
"The devil it was!" he muttered.
"And maybe she's other letters, put by that ye wrote? I've taken other
letters, perhaps, signed by yer name. No, master, the story about the
stranger giving it to me won't wash. It would only make me out a big
liar, and not help ye. You'll ha' to face the letters, and stick to the
story that you did not go to meet the poor lass when she met her death."
"Of course, I did not go. After I wrote the letter, I got afraid to
meet her," said Henderson, in great agitation.
"Stick to that; ye got afraid to go, and the poor lass must ha' shot
herself because ye broke yer word; ye may make them believe that, not
the other, for lots o' folks knew what was between ye and poor Elsie."
Henderson's teeth almost chattered in his head.
"You think so?" he said, tremblingly.
"I'm sure; Alice the barmaid knew and others. Stick to the story that
ye did not go."
Jack's manner as he said this was very determined, and Henderson begun
to see the prudence of his advice.
"Perhaps you are right," he said, after thinking a moment or two. "The
letter I sent yesterday was not signed in full--only my initials--but
I have sent letters signed in full, and she may have kept them. It's a
confounded business altogether, and I wish I had never seen her."
"It's too late to wish that," replied Jack, significantly; and then he
resumed grooming the horse, while with a moody brow and an uneasy heart
Henderson returned to the house, feeling that he would be almost sure
to be called to account for the letter he had written the day before to
poor Elsie Wray.
And he was. The afternoon had not passed when a police-constable
arrived at Stourton Grange and asked to see Mr. Henderson. With a
sinking heart he went to this interview, and the policeman informed
him that he was the bearer of a summons for him to be present at the
inquiry to be held on the death of Elsie Wray during the following
morning.
"And I've one for your groom, Jack Reid, Mr. Henderson," continued the
policeman, with his eyes fixed searchingly on Henderson's changing
face; "he delivered a letter it seems to Miss Wray on the day of her
death."
"Yes," faltered Henderson; "but I did not go near."
"You must reserve your evidence until you are before the coroner, and
you had better give it carefully," and with these warning words the
policeman took his departure, leaving Henderson a prey to the most
morbid dread.
And scarcely had the constable gone when Mrs. Henderson crept into the
room with an almost colorless face.
"Tom," she said, in trembling accents, "what has that man been here
for?"
"I've to attend the inquest on that girl found in Fern Dene to-morrow
morning," answered Henderson, huskily, turning away his head.
"They say it's the girl from the Wayside Inn. Oh, Tom, did you go and
meet her?" asked Mrs. Henderson, piteously.
"I never went near her; but, mother, a confounded thing has happened.
I was ass enough to write to her to ask her to meet me; I wanted to
buy her off, in fact. When I was almost a boy I got entangled with
her, and she was always urging some claims or other that she thought
she had against me, and I wanted to pay her a big sum and be done
with it. Well, I asked her to meet me last night, but I did not go.
I went out for a short time, as you remember, and then I turned back
and came home. If you are questioned you must say I was home early, or
never out. Do you understand? They will want to throw suspicion on me
on account of the confounded letter I wrote. The girl must have gone,
I suppose, and shot herself because I did not go, for her father's
revolver was lying beside her."
Mrs. Henderson had turned absolutely white during this garbled
narrative. From this hour she never doubted her son's guilt. She looked
at him with terror-stricken eyes, but no word came from her trembling
lips.
"You must say I was home early; only out a few minutes," repeated
Henderson, doggedly, and almost with a gasp Mrs. Henderson whispered
out a few words.
"You were--at home early," she said.
"That's it; you mayn't be asked, but that's your answer, and now I'll
go out for a walk, for I've a disgusting headache still."
He turned and went out of the room as he spoke, and Mrs. Henderson
leaned against the table for support.
"Oh! my unhappy boy," she murmured with her white lips; "my miserable
boy!"
In a few minutes she saw him go down the avenue smoking, and then with
feeble, trembling footsteps, as though suddenly aged, she proceeded
to her son's bedroom. She locked the door, and then drew out her
housewifely bunch of keys. With these, one after the other, she tried
to unlock the drawer in Henderson's wardrobe, where she had seen him
hide the coat he had worn the night before, and from which he had cut
the stained sleeve. At last one of her keys opened the drawer, and with
shaking fingers Mrs. Henderson drew out the coat she had seen him roll
up and place there. With a sickening dread she now unrolled it. Half of
one of the sleeves was gone as she knew, but a faint stain--a smudge,
as it were, on the breast--quickly attracted her attention.
She shuddered as she looked at it; shuddered and turned faint, but with
an heroic effort she conquered this failing of her bodily powers. She
relocked the drawer, and wrapped her son's mutilated coat in some brown
paper she found lying on the table. She carried this parcel to her
own room, after carefully brushing out the grate in Henderson's; and
wrapping the burnt fragments it contained in paper, she carried these
away also.
When she reached her bedroom she concealed these two parcels, and then
rang for her housemaid. She bade this maid make up and light the fire,
for, as it was summer time, there were no coals in the room.
"I feel so chilly, Jane," she said; "I must have got cold, and will be
all the better for a fire."
The fire was soon lit, and when it had burnt up and the servant was
gone, Mrs. Henderson at once commenced to cut her son's coat to pieces,
and burnt it gradually. She was afraid to make a smell of burning by
doing it altogether. But every shred of it was at last consumed, and
Mrs. Henderson watched it disappear with a miserable heart.
In the meanwhile Henderson had once more strolled toward the stables,
and there, as he expected to find, was Jack Reid. The groom looked up
and nodded when he saw his master approaching.
"I wanted a word wi' ye, sir," he said; "I've been hanging about, and
all the country-side's up about the murder."
"I know nothing about it," said Henderson, doggedly, "but--you were
right, Jack, about the letter; the policeman who served the summons
about the inquest said something about you having taken one."
"I knew I was right; folks saw me gi' it to her, and there's a great
talk over it. And the police ha' been examining where she was found all
the day, and they say she must ha' shot herself, or been shot, on the
high ridge above the Dene. There's blood there, and she must either ha'
fallen into the Dene or been thrown, as the branches are broke all the
way down from the top to where she was found."
Henderson's face grew literally ghastly as he listened to these words,
and his groom watched him with a certain grim humor in his expression.
"I never went near," said Henderson, huskily.
"Ay, stick to that; ye never went near; ye only asked her to go; and
one good job is that the old man's pistol was found beside her."
"She must have shot herself. My mother will tell them I was in the
house all night; I never was out."
The groom made no answer to this, and after a few moments' silence
Henderson turned sullenly away. There was something in the groom's
manner that frightened him; a suppressed insolence and unbelief in the
man's tone.
And later in the day, as he sat moodily smoking after dinner, he
received a message by one of the maids that Jack Reid wished to speak
to him. He rose and went to the hall door, where he found the groom.
"May I ha' a word wi' ye, sir, about one of the horses?" he said, with
a significant look, and Henderson followed him out as he spoke.
"It's not about the horses, sir," he continued, as soon as they were
a little distance from the house, "but I didn't want any o' the women
folk to hear what I have got to say. But the missus mustn't say ye were
never out last night. Ben Wood, the carter, saw ye out about half-past
eight, and is ready to swear it. But I've sent for ye to say that ye'd
best say ye were down at the stables then, and I'll back ye out. Say ye
were on yer way to the stables when Ben met ye."
"Very well, Jack, you must swear this, or there'll be no end of
trouble," answered Henderson.
"Ay, trouble enough, anyhow; for, master, I've another word for
ye--ye're watched. The police ha' their eye on ye, and ye'll not go in
or out of the house now unless they know."
CHAPTER XI.
A SILENT WITNESS.
Tom Henderson returned to the house after this last interview with
his groom in a truly pitiable state of terror and alarm. And a man,
a stranger, passed him in the avenue. This was no doubt one of his
watchers; his footsteps were dogged; he was a free agent no more.
He turned cold and shuddered when he thought of it. Dread visions rose
before him, and the terrible penalty of his crime grimly haunted his
mind.
As he entered the house he suddenly remembered the coat he had worn the
day before, when he had gone to meet the hapless Elsie. He had cut out
and burnt the stained sleeve, but what if the house was searched and
the coat discovered in its--as he supposed--present condition? No, it
must be destroyed entirely, he told himself.
But how to do this? If he burnt it the smell of the burning cloth would
spread through the house. He would bury it in the garden somewhere, he
finally decided; but he must wait to do this; must be sure that no one
was loitering about, spying his actions.
He waited until midnight. Mrs. Henderson had not come down-stairs to
dinner, nor during the whole evening. She had sent a message to her son
that she had a cold, and was unable to appear. Henderson, therefore,
had only his own miserable company. And to sustain his courage he
kept drinking glass after glass of whisky, and by twelve o'clock had
certainly had more than enough.
When the clock pointed to this hour he rose, and quietly as possible
stole upstairs for the purpose of bringing down the coat that he
intended to conceal. He unlocked the drawer in the wardrobe where he
knew he had placed it, and started back with sudden astonishment and
dismay, to find it was gone! He absolutely shook with fear. Where and
how had it disappeared? He turned everything over in the drawer twenty
times with trembling hands, but did so, as he knew, in vain.
He never thought of his mother about the matter for a moment. Either
it had been taken as evidence against him, or--and his guilty soul
shivered within him at the idea--some supernatural agency had been at
work, and the restless spirit of the dead Elsie had carried away the
blood-stained garment.
This thought filled him with absolute horror. He glanced furtively
at the dark corners of the room; he fancied that unseen things were
near, and at last, unable to endure the strain any longer, he once
more hurried down-stairs, and spent the night as best he could on the
dining-room couch, after first stupefying himself with whisky.
In the morning he felt in a wretched state alike of mind and body.
The inquest on the unfortunate Elsie Wray was to be held at eleven
o'clock at the Wayside Inn, and thither Henderson knew he must go. He
had to face this ordeal, however ill he was prepared for it, and Jack
Reid, the groom, drove him over in the dog-cart at the appointed hour.
Henderson was conscious that the people who met him in the country
lanes glanced at him with suspicious and lowering looks. His connection
with the unhappy Elsie had been whispered about, and many were ready to
take the blackest view of the case.
Jack Reid did not fail to impress on his young master during this drive
that he must give his evidence with the greatest caution; telling
him again and again that it was useless to deny sending the letters
that lured Elsie to her untimely end. They agreed between them, in
fact, what each had to say, and with this understanding they at length
arrived at the Wayside Inn.
May Churchill and her father were there before them, and after the jury
had viewed the body, May was the first witness called. She gave her
evidence clearly and simply, and her remarkable beauty as she did so
excited great admiration. When he first heard her sweet low-toned voice
a thrill passed through Henderson's whole frame, and for some moments
he could not find courage to look in her face, as she spoke of her
ghastly discovery in Fern Dene. Not so John Temple! He could not take
his eyes away from this fair girlish witness, and once May looked at
him when she described meeting him after she found poor Elsie.
John Temple corroborated her words, and then her father. After this
James Wray, the landlord, gave his evidence with deep emotion, and then
Alice, the barmaid. She had waited up for her young mistress, who had
never returned, and she had waited for Elsie on previous occasions.
"Did you know who she went to meet?" one of the jurymen asked.
The barmaid hesitated, and then glanced at Henderson's changing face.
"I understood it was Mr. Henderson," she answered.
"Did she ever tell you so?"
"No," replied the girl, and then she detailed how the groom from
Stourton Grange had brought a letter for Miss Wray in the afternoon,
and how her mistress had seemed greatly upset at receiving it, and how
she had gone into the bar and said to Reid, the groom, "Tell him I will
be there."
Reid then gave his evidence, saying that his master had given him this
letter to take to Miss Wray and that he had delivered it into her own
hands.
"Have you ever taken other letters to Miss Wray?" he was asked.
"Yes, once or twice," replied the groom.
"From your master, Mr. Henderson?"
"Yes."
"Did Miss Wray seem upset when she gave you the message for your
master?"
"She seemed a bit flurried like, I thought," answered Jack.
After this Henderson himself was called, and every eye in the room was
fixed on his tall, stalwart form and handsome face as he went forward.
He was cautioned in the usual manner, but with a great mental effort he
said calmly enough:
"I do not wish to conceal anything."
"You wrote the letter that your groom delivered to Miss Wray, and which
was found in her room after her death?"
"I did."
The letter was then handed to the jury, and after they had read it
Henderson's examination was continued.
"You asked her to go and meet you on the ridge above Fern Dene?"
"I did, but afterward I made up my mind not to go. I got frightened,"
answered Henderson, in a low tone, and with downcast eyes. "There had
been some talk of a marriage between us, as you may see by what I wrote
to her, and I wished to be done with it, that was why I wrote. But I
thought afterward I would write again the next day instead of going--I
was afraid to meet her."
"Were you out during the evening of Miss Wray's death?"
"Yes, for a short time; I went down to the stables."
"And you never went near Fern Dene?"
"Never; I was in early; my mother and Jack Reid were the only persons I
spoke to during the whole evening."
Jack Reid was recalled, and confirmed this statement.
His master came down to the stables about half-past eight, he said,
"and stayed a good bit;" and then he saw him walk toward the house.
Then came the medical evidence. The wound in the throat might have
been self-inflicted, or it might not, the doctor deposed. That the
fatal shot had been fired quite close to the dead woman there was
abundant evidence to prove, but whether inflicted by her own hand it
was impossible positively to say. She had been shot on the ridge above
Fern Dene, and had either staggered back and fallen over the declivity
to the Dene below, or been thrown down. The evidence altogether was of
so unsatisfactory a nature, that the inquest was adjourned to enable
the police to endeavor to obtain some more positive information. James
Wray swore that the revolver found near his daughter's body was his
property, and this was a fact that naturally pointed to suicide. No one
else could have obtained this weapon, as Wray deposed he had seen it in
its usual place on the morning of Elsie's death. In her despair at her
false lover not keeping his appointment she had probably shot herself,
many were inclined to believe, while others did not give credence to
Henderson's statement that he had not been to Fern Dene on the night
of her death. At all events neither the coroner nor the jury were
satisfied, and the adjourned inquest was appointed to take place in a
week. Henderson heard this in sullen silence, and then, after beckoning
to Reid, he left the house, without attempting to exchange a word with
any of those present. Once he looked at May Churchill as he passed her,
but the girl's eyes fell as they met his. She did not believe that he
had shot poor Elsie, but she believed that he had broken her heart, and
a strong feeling of womanly indignation filled May's breast.
In silence still, Henderson mounted his dog-cart, and in silence also
his groom commenced to drive him homeward. They had gone quite a
quarter of a mile before either of the men spoke. Then Henderson said
uneasily:
"How do you think it went off, Jack?"
"Fairly well," replied Jack, laconically.
After this there was very little said between them until they reached
the Grange. But as Henderson was descending from the dog-cart, Jack
Reid suddenly addressed him:
"After ye've had a drink, sir," he said, "will ye come down to the
stables?"
"Why?" answered Henderson, testily. "I've got a beastly headache, and I
don't want to talk of this hateful affair any more to-day."
"But I do," answered Jack Reid, doggedly.
"It's a nuisance--" began Henderson.
"I must see ye, sir," interrupted the groom, determinedly, and
Henderson, after glancing at him, seeing the expression of his face,
nodded and went into the house.
"I'll come down presently," he said, and this apparently satisfied
Reid, as he drove the horse at once on toward the stables.
Henderson then proceeded to the dining-room, where he found his mother
sitting pale and trembling.
"Tom," she said, tremulously, and then she paused.
"It's adjourned," he answered briefly, and then he went to the
sideboard and poured out some spirit, which he eagerly drank, and
his mother had not courage to ask him any further questions. She
kept looking at him fugitively, her heart filled with the direst
apprehensions. She saw him drink more spirit, and then he left the
room, going toward the stables with a lowering brow and an angry heart.
"Confound the fellow," he muttered, thinking of his groom. He believed
that Reid wished him to pay for the evidence he had given at the
inquest, and Henderson considered the ten pounds that Reid had already
received ample reward.
When he reached the stables he found the groom smoking in the yard.
Reid went on with his pipe as his master approached him, and this
increased Henderson's feeling of anger against him.
"Well," he said, addressing the groom sharply, "what do you want?"
Then Reid took his pipe out of his mouth and looked straight in
Henderson's face.
"That was good evidence I gave for ye to-day," he said.
"Yes, yes, I am quite ready to acknowledge that," answered Henderson
somewhat impatiently.
"For a word of mine might have hanged ye, may hang ye yet," continued
the groom.
"What do you mean?" asked Henderson, turning pale to the very lips.
"This," said Reid, emphatically, "that yer hand, and yer hand alone,
spilt that poor lass' blood. I've held my tongue, but I saw ye shoot
her, and then fling her down the bank."
"It's a lie!" faltered Henderson, with his white lips.
"It's no lie, but God's truth. I watched ye that night, and followed ye
to the ridge above Fern Dene, and heard every word ye spoke, and what
the lass said to ye."
"I--I was not there."
"Yes, ye were there sure enough, master," answered Reid with a scornful
laugh. "Poor Elsie carried her father's pistol wi' her to make yer
promise to keep yer word, and make her yer lawful wife. She threatened
ye, and ye did promise, and then snatched the pistol frae the poor
lass's hand. And when she said she wad tell her father and Miss
Churchill, yer shot her. It's no good denying it, for I can prove each
word I say, and hang ye as easy as hold up my hand."
Henderson's tall form absolutely tottered, and he leaned back against
the yard pump for support.
"You--can prove nothing," he faltered.
"Can't I? I saw the moon come out and shine on her dead face, and I
heard her curse ye before she died. I saw her blood run over yer hand
and stain yer shirt and the coat ye wore. Where is that coat now,
master; ye have not worn it since?" And again the groom laughed.
Henderson shuddered; this man had stolen the coat then, he thought, and
was thus able to produce this damning evidence against him.
"How much--?" he began.
"How much will I take to hold my tongue?" continued Reid, as Henderson
hesitated and paused.
"Why, a man should pay a long price for his life anyhow? I heard ye
offer poor Elsie two thousand pounds to settle yer debt to her, and
I'll take not a penny less."
Henderson did not speak. Great drops of dew broke out on his forehead;
he felt powerless in his servant's hands. He looked in the groom's
sharp face, and the man knew he could make his own terms.
"I call it cheap," he said, "dirt cheap; two thousand pounds for yer
life. Well, master, think it over, and if yer wise ye'll not think
long--I've told ye my price."
Henderson made no answer; he turned away and went staggering to the
house like a drunken man. He knew now what his position would be, and
that this man was his master for his whole life.
CHAPTER XII.
DANGEROUS MOMENTS.
When the first inquiry as to the cause of Elsie Wray's death was ended,
and the adjournment announced, something which he could not resist drew
John Temple to the side of the room where May Churchill and her father
were standing.
"Well," he said, addressing May, "one part at least of a very painful
affair for you is over."
May looked gratefully up in his face.
"Yes, it has been most painful, but I am so very, very sorry for Mr.
Wray. I should like to go and shake hands with him, but he has never
looked at me," answered May.
"Still, I think I should go," advised John; "the feeling that true
sympathy is given to us is always grateful."
"Then I will go."
The landlord was standing with a stern face and kindling eyes as she
approached him. He had just watched the departure of Henderson and his
groom, and he believed now that Henderson had, to say the least of it,
been the cause of Elsie's death. He had read the insulting letter the
young man had sent her, and with his own tongue he had acknowledged
there had been "some talk of a marriage" between them. Deceived and
betrayed, the poor girl might have put an end to her own life. But not
less did James Wray consider him Elsie's murderer, and he was vowing
vengeance in his heart when May Churchill, with her flower-like face,
drew near him and placed her small hand timidly in his.
"Mr. Wray," she said, and that was all. But the landlord needed not
words to tell him of the true feelings of her heart. In that gentle
touch, in those beautiful eyes, he read her great sympathy and regret.
He felt sure she did not despise nor scorn his dead Elsie, and that her
womanly tenderness forgave all her shortcomings. His hard eyes grew
dim, and he placed a horny brown hand in her white pretty one.
"Thank you, my dear," he said, and turned away to hide his emotion.
John Temple had watched this meeting, and fully appreciated it. Mr.
Churchill was busy talking to one of the jurymen, a neighbor, and John
once more speedily found himself at May's side.
"Let us go outside," he said, and May went. They stood talking together
until Mr. Churchill joined them, and Mr. Churchill spoke very cordially
to John.
"I want you to come over to Woodside again, Mr. Temple, and try the
mare before I send her to the Hall stables," he said. "When will it be
convenient for you to do so? This afternoon?"
"Yes; that will suit me very well," answered John; and while a few
moments later her father went to see after his trap, John had a word to
half-whisper into May's willing ears.
"I will see you again, then," he said, and May smiled her answer, and
as her father drove her back to Woodside, John Temple's words and
looks recurred again and again to her mind.
As for John, he walked back to the Hall, thinking only of her.
"She is the dearest little girl," he told himself, and he wished the
afternoon were already come. But he found when he arrived at his
uncle's house that he was eagerly awaited for, and that he was expected
to give a complete account of all that had taken place during the
inquest.
The news of Elsie Wray's tragic death had indeed created an immense
sensation in the neighborhood. Young Henderson of Stourton Grange was
so well known, and had frequently visited at Woodlea Hall, and when
John Temple entered the dining-room he found both Mrs. Temple and her
mother, Mrs. Layton, eagerly talking of him.
"Well, here you are at last," said Mrs. Temple. "Now come and tell us
all about it, and what had Tom Henderson to do with it?"
"A good deal, I fear," answered John, seating himself at the luncheon
table.
"But what?" asked Mrs. Temple, sharply.
"By his own account he wrote to the unfortunate girl to ask her to meet
him on the ridge above Fern Dene on the night of her death, and he also
said there had been some talk of marriage between them."
"Of marriage!" repeated Mrs. Temple, incredulously, and at the same
moment Mrs. Layton emitted a dismal groan.
"He wanted to be out of it; fling her off, I understand," continued
John.
"I should think so," said Mrs. Temple, scornfully. "A girl of that
class!"
"He should have remembered that when he made love to her," remarked
John, coolly.
"The depravity of the girl, to think of such a thing!" cried Mrs.
Layton.
"Do you mean of marriage?" smiled John.
"I mean of marriage with a young man in a perfectly different position
of life to her own, Mr. Temple," replied Mrs. Layton, with injured
dignity.
"Yet we have heard of such things," said John.
"There is but one end to such connections," groaned Mrs. Layton,
"disgrace and shame, and in this case death; in my opinion she deserved
to die."
"I do not believe Tom Henderson shot her," said Mrs. Temple.
"He said in his evidence he never went near the place, and his groom
corroborated this. He said he got afraid to go, and that he intended
writing to her again to try and make some arrangement. Altogether it is
a very shady affair for him," replied John.
"Other young men have shady affairs, too, Mr. Temple," said Mrs.
Temple, with a toss of her handsome head, and John's face turned a
dusky red as she spoke.
"We can't all pose as perfection, you know, my nephew John,"
continued Mrs. Temple. "For my part I do not intend to give up young
Henderson--he is too good-looking."
"Unless they hang him," said John.
"Hang him! Impossible."
"Not at all impossible, I assure you. He will have to prove he was not
near the place, or he will run a pretty good chance of it. I did not
like the groom's face; it was shifty, and he gave me the idea he was
not speaking the truth."
"And your own evidence, Mr. Temple?" said Mrs. Layton. "How did you
account for your chance meeting with Margaret Churchill at such an
early hour?"
"By my love for the morning air, Mrs. Layton," answered John, smiling.
"Margaret Churchill, in my opinion, is a most designing young person,"
continued Mrs. Layton. "Rachel, my love, may I trouble you for a little
more of that delicious curry. Yes, a most designing young person. I am
told that she did everything to attract young Henderson, and that her
father also tried to entangle him, and then when she had led the poor
young man on to a certain point, she turned round."
"I do not believe he ever proposed for her," said Mrs. Temple. "I
suppose you think her handsome?" she added, looking at John.
"I think she has a beautiful face," answered John, decidedly.
"Beautiful! That's a strong term," remarked Mrs. Temple, scornfully.
"Yet it is one I should apply to her."
"It may account, then, for your early walk, Mr. Temple," said Mrs.
Layton, with a little sneering laugh.
"My meeting with Miss Churchill was simply accidental, Mrs. Layton,"
said John, coolly. "Naturally the poor girl, after such a dreadful
discovery, stopped the first person she met to tell him of it."
"But you knew her before?" asked Mrs. Layton.
"I had spoken to her before; I have bought a horse of her father, and I
saw her then."
"A very convenient transaction for the Churchills," said Mrs. Layton,
with a sneer. "She is a person with no idea of her own position in
life, I consider. Would you believe it, I went the other day to the
farm for the purpose of buying some eggs, and when I asked Margaret
Churchill the price, she looked quite offended, and said she did not
sell eggs! Fancy a farmer's daughter not selling eggs! However, she
presented me with a few, and I took them."
"A very convenient transaction for you, Mrs. Layton," scoffed John, who
was getting out of temper, and an angry gleam shot into Mrs. Layton's
light eyes as he spoke.
"I always do what I consider my duty, Mr. Temple," she said, drawing up
her spare little form. "My husband is fond of fresh-laid eggs, and as
this misguided young person would not sell them, I had to consider him."
John made a sarcastic little bow.
"Wifely duty!" he said; and Mrs. Layton always spoke of him after this
passage of arms with great bitterness.
"He is a dangerous person," she remarked later in the day to her
daughter. "Mark my words, Rachel, a dangerous, designing person, and I
believe he is carrying on, or will carry on, an intrigue with Margaret
Churchill, and how would you like that?"
"I hate the whole lot of the Churchills!" answered Mrs. Temple,
passionately. "But his uncle will never allow him to carry on an
intrigue with this girl."
"My dear Rachel, you forget that your husband is elderly, and that this
young man is his heir," said Mrs. Layton. "I do not like to speak on
unpleasant subjects, but I think it my duty to tell you this, that when
at my earnest suggestion your father spoke to the squire about settling
the Hall, furniture, and carriages on you for life, after poor little
Phillip's death, that the squire said he had no power to settle the
Hall; that it was entailed on the heir."
"Oh! don't, don't, mother!" cried Mrs. Temple, rising in strong
excitement, and beginning to pace the room. "I try to forget my
darling's death; try to put it out of my mind, or I think I should go
mad, and now you begin to harp on it again. Let everything go; what
matter is it when I have lost him!"
"My dear Rachel--"
"It has made me reckless," continued Mrs. Temple, "and I often wonder
now, mother, where it will end. But on the whole I rather like John
Temple, and--he must have nothing to do with this Churchill girl. I
will speak to Phillip about it. Both those boys played in that fatal
game--who knows? one of them may have been my darling's murderer."
She burst into passionate sobs as she ended this speech, and her mother
saw it was useless to say anything more. When these fits of excitement
came over Rachel Temple, no one had the least control over her. She
became, as she had said, reckless, and in this mood she continued the
whole of the remainder of the day.
In the meanwhile John Temple was against his will being detained by his
uncle, who had been out on business in the morning, and only returned
to the hall after his wife and Mrs. Layton had left the luncheon table.
The squire, as the ladies had been, was eager to hear all about the
inquest, and John, though inwardly impatient to start for Woodside, was
obliged to go through the whole details again to his uncle.
It was late in the afternoon when he found himself free, and then he
at once proceeded to the farm. But when he arrived there he found Mr.
Churchill was from home.
"When will he be back?" he inquired of the neat maid-servant.
But as he spoke, May Churchill, who had been watching for him, came
across the hall from the drawing-room.
"My father was obliged to go out at four o'clock, Mr. Temple," she said
in her sweet-toned voice, "but I do not think he will be very long
away. Will you come in and have some tea?"
John gladly accepted this invitation. He followed May into the
drawing-room, and sat there drinking tea and looking in her fair
face. It was a very pretty room, sweet with flowers, and gracefully
furnished. Everything seemed to suit the young mistress, and John
was half-unconscious how long he stayed there. The shadows began to
lengthen, the sun dipped behind the hills, and still he remained. Then
presently the moon rose, and still Mr. Churchill had not returned.
"Am I tiring you?" asked John.
"Oh, no," answered May, with a smile and a blush.
John went across the room, and for a moment stood looking out of
the open window at the garden beyond, on which now the cold, white
moonbeams fell. May had been leaning there before, and an irresistible
impulse seemed to draw him closer to her. It was one of those moments
when a strange subtle knowledge comes to two human hearts. He bent
his head until it nearly touched the lovely face; he took a little
fluttering hand in his.
"Come," he half-whispered, and led her through the casement which
opened from the ground, to the silent dewy garden outside. Pale
fantastic shadows lay on flower and leaf, the breeze rustled through
the lilac bushes, and stirred the fruit-laden boughs. John forgot
everything but the sweet and strong emotion which stirred his heart. He
put his arm around the slight girlish form; he drew her to his breast.
"Dear one," he murmured, and May felt too happy to resist his caress.
Her breath came short, her bosom heaved, and her hand lingered tenderly
in his.
"Mayflower," whispered John, "may I call you by that sweet name?"
"Yes," came fluttering from May's rosy lips, and the little
monosyllable was breathed very near to John's.
Click went the garden gate at this moment, and the two heard it, and
started quickly apart. Then a heavy, determined footstep sounded on
the gravel walk, and a second or two later Mr. Churchill appeared.
He looked surprised but not displeased to see John Temple with his
daughter, and apologized for his absence.
"I waited as long as I could, Mr. Temple," he said, "but I had some
business I was forced to attend to."
"My uncle delayed me," answered John, "talking of that unfortunate
business; but," he added, smiling, "Miss Churchill has been very good;
she has given me some tea, and the night is so lovely we were taking
advantage of it."
"All right," answered the farmer, "but come in now and have something
to eat. I fear it is too late to go down to the stables."
"I will come over to-morrow and see the mare," said John; "but thanks,
very much, I can not go in now. Good-night Miss Churchill."
Mr. Churchill hospitably pressed him to go into the house and have
supper with them, but John declined. He felt somehow that he could not
eat. He was too much excited, and those brief moments with May had
moved him deeply. He had realized for the first time how dear she was
to him; he knew now that he felt for her what he had never felt for any
woman before.
They shook hands and parted, and John walked home alone in the
moonlight. There was a delicious sense of life and love in his heart,
and he smiled softly as he went on.
"I think she likes me," he was thinking; "my little country
sweetheart--my country sweetheart."
He repeated these words to himself again and again. And again and again
also he mentally saw the girl's lovely profile on which the moonlight
glimmered as she stood in the window. It was a picture in his mind's
eye which never again faded away. There are such pictures that Time's
hand can not touch. And this was one of them to John Temple; the sweet
girlish face glorified by the pale white beams.
When he reached the Hall dinner was over, but we may be sure the
heir was not allowed to suffer by this. The butler speedily spread a
tempting repast before him, but John did not feel hungry still. He lit
a cigar and went out on the terrace, and there his excitement sobered
down. Other scenes rose up before him; other hours of passion and love.
"I am a fool," he reflected; "a girl's beautiful face has made me feel
like a boy."
In the meanwhile the girl with the beautiful face was receiving a very
unpleasant surprise. She had gone into the house to order her father's
supper with a new feeling of joy and radiant hope glowing in her heart.
"He loves me," was the sweet thought that flushed her smooth cheeks,
and made her bright eyes sparkle. May never doubted this after those
brief moments in the moonlight. And she felt a modest pride in the
thought. That this good-looking well-born gentleman should care for
her made her very happy. He was the first man also that she had really
liked. So pretty a girl, of course, got admirers on every side. But
admiration does not necessarily win love. A woman may feel flattered
when her heart is totally untouched.
She ordered her father's supper therefore with a light heart, and went
into the dining-room to share it with him gratified and glad. Mr.
Churchill also seemed in fairly good spirits, and ate his food with
excellent appetite. Then, when the meal was over, he commenced to
smoke, and May was just contemplating leaving the room to indulge in
her sweet thoughts alone, when her father looked up and addressed her.
"May, I went to see Mrs. Bradshaw this afternoon," he said.
"Yes," answered May, somewhat indifferently, for the subject of Mrs.
Bradshaw was very unpleasant to her.
"And we have fixed to be married to-morrow morning," continued Mr.
Churchill, in his quiet, determined way.
"To-morrow morning!" echoed May, utterly surprised.
"Yes, what is the good of waiting? But it is to be quite quiet; she did
not wish you even to know until it was over. But you have been a good
little daughter to me, and therefore I do not care to keep it a secret
from you, and I hope also you will be a good daughter to your new
mother."
May's face flushed painfully.
"She can never be a mother to me," she said.
"My dear, that is folly. To-morrow she will be your father's wife, and
will take her place here, of course, as mistress. And I hope you two
will get on well together. If you are wise you will do so."
May did not speak.
"We will only be away for a few days, a week at most, as I shall have
to be back, I suppose, for the adjourned inquest. We are going to
London, and if you are a good girl I will bring you back a smart gown."
"But father--to-morrow you agreed--for Mr. Temple to come here."
"Mr. Temple must wait; I did not like to tell him I was going to be
married to-morrow when he proposed to come. I will leave a note for
him, and give orders that he can have the mare over on trial whenever
he likes. Well, May, come and give me a kiss, and wish me happiness."
The girl rose up at her father's bidding and kissed his brow.
"I wish you happiness, father," she said, in a low, faltering voice,
and then she turned away and suddenly left the room.
She went to her own, and stood at the window looking out on the moonlit
garden.
"Will this make any difference to him?" she was thinking, and a vague
uneasiness stole into her heart.
CHAPTER XIII.
GOOD RESOLUTIONS.
John Temple went early to Woodside the next morning, after first making
up his mind that he must indulge in no more lovemaking to May Churchill.
"It's not fair to the dear little girl," he told himself. "I was led
away last night; any man would--a saint would have been, and I am not a
saint."
He kept this determination in his mind all the way to the farm. He was
going to see Mr. Churchill about his horse, and not to look at the
sweet Mayflower. Nevertheless, his pulses beat a little more quickly
when he thought of her, and when he rang at the doorbell of the house
his heart was throbbing fast.
In answer to his inquiry if Mr. Churchill were within, the maid
replied, with rather a peculiar smile, that her master had left home
for some days.
"But," she added, "he left a letter for you, sir, with Miss Churchill,
and she told me to tell you this if you called."
"Then can I see Miss Churchill?" asked John.
"Yes, sir; will you step this way?"
John accordingly followed the maid to the dining-room, and when she
announced Mr. Temple, May rose to receive him with a shy smile and a
charming blush.
"I called to see your father about the horse," began John as he took
her pretty white fluttering hand in his.
"Yes, he left a letter for you," answered May; "a--very strange thing
has happened, Mr. Temple."
"What has happened?" asked John, smiling, and thinking the while how
lovely she looked.
"After you left last night," and the blush deepened as she spoke, "he
told me he was going away to be married to-day."
"To be married!" echoed John, in great surprise.
"Yes, it has upset me very much; I do not like the person; I do not
like it at all."
"And you knew nothing about it?"
"He told me a few days ago he was thinking of going to be married
again; but this is so sudden--I am very much distressed about it."
"You must not let it worry you."
"But I can't help it worrying me; I can't bear the idea of it--it has
made me very unhappy."
May was standing with her hand leaning on the back of the chair from
which she had risen at John's entrance, and somehow it seemed only
natural that he now should put his brown hand over her white one in a
consoling manner.
"I am very sorry," he said; "and I can not bear to think of you being
unhappy."
"It's very good of you," began May, "but--"
"I won't allow you to be unhappy," continued John; "come, you must
cheer up--you dear little girl."
He really did not mean to do it, but when a man has once nearly kissed
a pretty girl, it seems very natural for him to do it again. At all
events John did kiss the lovely blooming face before him, and all the
rebuke he got was:
"Oh! Mr. Temple, you should not do that!"
"I know I should not," answered John, penitently; "but you are so
sweet, so dear, I could not help myself--and then you are unhappy, you
know, so you must forgive me."
"I am really unhappy."
"Don't think about the horrid woman," consoled John, taking the two
pretty hands in his; "think of something else--think a little bit about
me."
The last few words were half-whispered, and they seemed to console
May somehow. She began to smile again, and she looked softly at John,
though she drew her little hands away from his grasp.
"It seems such a thing," she said, "for him to forget my mother."
"Ah--well; he is only mortal, I suppose."
"Then do you think everyone forgets, Mr. Temple?"
"I think men--" and then he paused. "I know someone that I never could
forget," he continued.
May did not inquire who this "someone" was.
"Someone whose face I would dream of if I did not see it for twenty
years," went on John, energetically.
"It would be changed in twenty years," replied May, with a little sigh.
"Not in my eyes; in my eyes it could never change."
This was the way in which John kept to his resolution. They went into
the garden awhile after this, and sat listening to a black bird singing
to his mate. Then they went to May's fernery, and walked beneath the
shadow of the trees, and talked fond foolish words. May forgot all
about her father's marriage and her hated stepmother. She was with the
man she liked best in all the world, and she believed he loved her.
What happiness is like this? The golden hours of youth and hope; the
vague foreshadowings of still greater joy.
Before they parted John had promised to call again.
"I shall be so lonely," May had said softly, and how could he leave her
lonely? Yet he did not mean any wrong; it was the drifting tide bearing
him on to he knew not where.
At all events during the next few days he went constantly to Woodside.
Mr. Churchill's marriage had taken place, and the wealthy widow from
Castle Hill would, no doubt, soon be installed at the farm. May tried
not to think of it, and she tried also to tell herself that she must
not think seriously of Mr. Temple. But do what she would she did think
of him. After all, if he really loved her, would not that sweep away
the social difference between them?
And he did love her. May felt sure of this, and this surety alone
brought her great happiness. People might try to separate them; his
uncle probably would try, but true love can overcome all obstacles. In
these sweet dreams the girl lived during the few days following her
father's marriage. Then the time for the adjourned inquest approached,
and in due course May received a letter from her father to tell her
that on the following evening that he and his newly-made wife would
arrive at Woodside.
The preparations for this event were intensely disagreeable to May.
John Temple also heard the news with great annoyance. No more quiet
walks in the lonely garden then; no more tender hand-clasps, nor long,
uninterrupted interviews. He gathered from May that her stepmother was
not a lady; that she was bustling and interfering.
"Perhaps it is better," John told himself.
May's two young brothers, Hal and Willie Churchill, had been away for
their holidays for a week or two also during this time, so that John
Temple and the Mayflower practically had been able to see each other
whenever they liked. They knew now this state of things would end. The
boys were coming home; Mr. and Mrs. Churchill were on the point of
arriving, and moreover, John Temple had received a hint from his uncle
that his visits to Woodside Farm had been remarked on, and that it
would be well that they should cease.
"It can end in nothing, you know, John," the squire had said, not
unkindly.
"Certainly it will end in nothing, uncle," answered John, gravely. "I
think, if you do not mind, after the adjourned inquest on that poor
girl is over, I will leave Woodlea for a month or two."
"My dear boy, you are your own master, and must guide your own
actions," said the squire; "only I do not think it quite fair to this
pretty girl that you should pay her so much attention when you can not
marry her."
"No, I can not marry her," replied John, and after this the subject was
not mentioned again, but the conversation was not without effect on
John Temple.
So he went to see May for the last time before her stepmother's arrival
in a very sober frame of mind. It was a dull, wet day, and when May saw
him crossing the garden she went to open the house door for him, and
gave him her hand with a warm clasp of welcome.
"Thank you for coming to che
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