CHAPTER XXXIX.

JOHN TEMPLE'S RETURN.

When a rich man dies the news soon spreads. Mr. Churchill had not neglected when he wrote to John Temple and the bankers, also to send an announcement of the squire's death to the _Times_. This announcement was read on the following morning, as we have seen, by Ralph Webster, by Kathleen Weir, and also by Mr. Harrison, the solicitor, as well as the bankers.

Both Mr. Harrison and the bankers knew at this time where to find the heir. John Temple, after various restless wanderings, had gone to Cairo, and had written from there to his bankers, and also to Mr. Harrison, on business. Mr. Harrison read the news of Mr. Temple's death, and at once telegraphed the information to his now rich client. And during the day the firm of bankers also telegraphed, and forwarded Mr. Churchill's letter.

These two telegrams were a great shock to the lonely and unhappy man to whom they were addressed. John Temple had gone to Egypt to try and divert his mind, and the change had no doubt been good for him; but to learn that his uncle was dead, that Woodlea was now his, seemed to bring all the past back to him with fresh pain.

At first he determined not to return to England; not to accept the fortune and position which were now his. Then came Mr. Churchill's letter--a distinct, explicit letter--and he knew as he read it that it was useless any longer to hide the truth. Mr. Churchill would insist on learning his daughter's fate; would no doubt, now that he knew his address, find him out and force it from his lips.

With an intense feeling of shrinking pain John Temple therefore accepted the position thrust upon him. He telegraphed to Mrs. Temple at Woodlea that he would arrive there, he expected, on such a date, and he telegraphed also to Mr. Harrison. He did not, however, write to Mr. Churchill; he felt this was beyond his strength.

"I will tell him the truth," he told himself, and tried to nerve himself for the bitter task. "They may do what they like," he thought, gloomily; "I can not, I think, suffer more than I have already done."

Mrs. Temple was greatly excited when she received this telegram. Her husband already lay in his grave, and had been followed there by his friends and tenantry. His young widow, however, did not go. She watched the long procession leave the Hall with dry eyes. She had got accustomed to the idea and was not even thinking of the dead when they bore him away.

Mr. Churchill was one of the mourners, and he could not help having a certain uneasy feeling in his mind as he listened to the solemn words of the service, while the old squire was laid by his young son's side. He had heard from the bankers, who had informed him that Mr. John Temple was at Cairo, and that they had forwarded his letters to him there. But no word had come from John Temple in reply. Mr. Churchill, therefore, could not understand it. But surely soon the mystery would end; in fact it must end, Mr. Churchill determined, when he turned away from the squire's grave.

And a day later brought John Temple's telegram to Mrs. Temple. Her mother, who had not left the Hall since the squire's death, carried it to her, and Mrs. Temple tore it open with trembling hands.

"He is coming home!" she cried, and that was all.

"John Temple?" asked Mrs. Layton, aghast, who had secretly begun to hope that something might have happened to the new owner of Woodlea.

"Yes," answered Mrs. Temple, without looking up.

She was re-reading John Temple's telegram, which was couched in his usual somewhat graceful language. In it he expressed his deep regret for "your, may I say our, great loss." Then came the day and date that he expected to arrive in England, and on the following day, after he had done so, he proposed to go to Woodlea, "if quite convenient to yourself."

Mrs. Temple smiled a little scornfully as she read the last words.

"He has the whip hand now," she thought; "he said I turned him out of the house, and now he can turn me."

Mrs. Temple, in fact, knew this to be the case. The squire's will had been read, and though she was most amply provided for, the Hall and its contents went to the heir. This arrangement was only in accordance with the original entailment of the property. Mrs. Layton, as we know, had tried hard to have this clause set aside, but the squire would listen to no such suggestion. The Hall went with the estate, and John Temple was now its owner.

"And--does he mention anything about bringing anyone home with him?" now inquired Mrs. Layton.

"Not a word; I don't believe that girl is his wife."

"Yet Mr. Churchill assured your father and myself that she is. And your father knows by name the clergyman who he says married them, Mr. Mold."

"Well, we shall see, at all events; he will soon be here."

Mrs. Temple, however, sent no message to Mr. Churchill that John was expected shortly at Woodlea. She desired her mother not to mention it; she wished to be the first, at all events, to know the truth about John Temple's marriage.

And until the day of his arrival she was very restless. A second telegram came on the morning of that day to tell her he expected to be at Woodlea by about seven o'clock in the evening. A carriage was, therefore, sent to the station to meet him, and Mrs. Temple wandered about the house after this in a state of great excitement. At last she heard the sound of the carriage wheels returning, and, looking very pale and handsome, she went into the hall to meet the new owner.

But when John Temple entered the house, and the lights fell on his altered face, she gave a little start and a sort of cry.

"What is the matter?" she said, as she went forward and took his hand. "Have you been ill?"

John Temple scarcely answered her. He looked brown, lined, and haggard, and naturally returning to Woodlea was very painful to him. Yet he bore himself with a certain calmness and dignity. He nodded to some of the servants that he knew, and then, on Mrs. Temple beckoning him to do so, he followed her into the morning room, and she hastily closed the door behind him.

"Well," she said, after she had done this, looking quickly up in his face; "are you alone?"

"Yes," answered John Temple, and his eyes fell.

"Where is she then?" went on Mrs. Temple, excitedly. "The girl you took away?"

John Temple's pale face grew a little paler, and his lips quivered.

"Would to God I could tell you," he said, in a hoarse and broken voice; "but I know nothing."

"Know nothing!" repeated Mrs. Temple in the greatest surprise. "What do you mean by this, John Temple? You can not expect us to believe you; her father, I am certain, will not."

"I have returned here to tell what I know," continued Temple, still in that broken voice; "and I would give all I possess in the world to be able to tell more. But I can not--she--she left me one night--"

"Left you?" interrupted Mrs. Temple, sharply.

"Yes, the night I left Woodlea. I went up to town; I saw her, and I was forced to tell her what I feared would break her heart."

"What did you tell her?"

"I told her that the man she had trusted--the man that she had loved, and believed to be her husband--for we were married--had yet deceived her."

"What do you mean? How did you deceive her?"

"Because when I was a very young man, almost a lad, I had hung a millstone about my neck; I had married another woman, an actress, and I knew that this now must come to May's ears."

"John Temple!" exclaimed Mrs. Temple, starting back.

"You may well look startled, yet this was so. I had induced this poor girl to leave her home; to go to some old friends of mine, and from their house we were married."

"When you said you were going abroad?"

"We did go abroad immediately after our marriage. I intended it to be a secret marriage until the time came I hoped to be able to obtain a divorce from the woman I had first married. Until I met May I had not cared nor thought of this. I made her an allowance, and never made any inquiries about her life. But the nephew of the ladies with whom I had left May got to know this woman, this actress, Kathleen Weir--"

"Kathleen Weir!"

"Yes, Kathleen Weir; and I knew after you had discovered through young Henderson where May was that the whole story could no longer be kept a secret. But I believed she cared for me too well to part from me--"

Here Temple's voice broke and faltered, and he paused.

"But she did part from you?" asked Mrs. Temple, quickly.

"I will tell you," went on John Temple, speaking with a great effort. "I took her to an hotel, and I told her the truth, and after the first shock, which nearly killed her, was over, I thought she had become reconciled to the idea. I said we should never part; that I would take her to Australia, anywhere, and devote my whole life to her, and that I hoped some day to be free. I left her for a short time to get some things that she required before we went away, as she did not wish to see her father, and--and when I left her she said we could not live apart. I was not away more than an hour, but when I returned to the hotel she was gone. She had left no note, no address--not a word--and from that day to this I have heard nothing," and Temple covered his face with his hand, deeply affected.

"But you sought her, surely? You made inquiries?"

"Every effort was made to find her. I employed the police, I wandered about the streets of London day and night, but it was all in vain. One thing only I heard--that someone like her, on the night she disappeared from the hotel, had taken a cab and asked to be driven to Westminster bridge--"

"But surely you did not think--"

"What could I think?" went on John Temple, with deep emotion. "I believed she had loved me too well to leave me, and--and perhaps in her misery--her despair--"

"Oh, my poor fellow, I am sorry for you!" exclaimed Mrs. Temple, and she went up to John Temple and laid her hand on his arm. "So this is the story, is it? A sad, sad story!"

"I left England, meaning never to return," continued Temple, after a short pause. "Even when the news came of my poor uncle's death I did not mean to do so. I received a letter from Mr. Churchill; a letter he had a right to write, and to which I was bound in honor to reply. I have come back for the purpose of doing this; I will tell him the truth--"

"Do not talk of it any more just now," interrupted Mrs. Temple. "This is your own house now, but let me, for once at least, act as hostess. You will find your old rooms all ready for you, and we dine at half-past eight."

"I think I am too tired to dine; will you excuse me?" said Temple, wearily.

"Nonsense, nonsense, I won't excuse you. We shall be quite alone. My good mother has been with me since your poor uncle's death until to-day; but to-day I insisted on her departure. I was not going to have you annoyed by her."

"Thank you for being so considerate."

"Oh! you know I always wished to be good friends with you; it was not until--well, never mind, let us forget the past."

"I fear that is impossible," said John Temple, sadly.

"At all events do not let us talk of it. Good-by for the present then; I will see you in half an hour."

After this she left him, and John Temple went slowly upstairs to his old rooms. These were all lighted and ready for him, with bright fires burning in the grates, and obsequious servants eager to attend on their new master. But John Temple felt unutterably depressed. Everything reminded him of the lovely face he believed now was befouled and stained by the river's slime, and when he was alone he covered his face and moaned aloud.

But presently the dinner-gong sounded, and he was forced to go down-stairs and act his part. To do Mrs. Temple justice, she tried in every way to divert his mind. She made him tell her about Egypt, and spoke to him about books and travels, and talked to him as best she could. She felt, in truth, sorry for the gloomy-faced man opposite to her, and in her impulsive way she showed this very plainly.

And when the dinner was over, and the servants had left the room, John Temple asked her the particulars of his uncle's death. She told him how sudden it had been, and that she had gone into the library and found him dead.

"It was a great shock to me," she said, and for a moment her lips quivered.

"It was a terrible shock to me also," he answered; "he was a good man."

"He was very fond of you," said Mrs. Temple, turning away her head.

"I was not ungrateful," replied John Temple, in a low tone, and his gray eyes fell; "though I fear--"

"I suppose you know this house is yours, and everything in it?" went on Mrs. Temple, the next moment.

"I shall not live here, and if you wish to do so I hope you will remain."

"Oh, we can settle all that afterward."

"And that Henderson, what became of him?" now asked John Temple.

"Well, after that blow he got, you know, he was very ill. He had brain fever, or something like it, and when he got a little better his mother took him away. They have not been at home all the winter, and Stourton Grange is shut up. Some people say Henderson is in a lunatic asylum, but it may not be true."

"He drank, did he not?" said Temple, coldly.

"So they said. I can not tell, but I think he never got over the death of that girl."

But a moment later Mrs. Temple wished her words unsaid. John Temple rose restlessly and began walking slowly up and down the room, and a few minutes later asked leave to retire. It was more painful even than he had expected, coming back to Woodlea, and he felt that it would be impossible for him to remain. In the meanwhile the news of his arrival had reached Woodside Farm. One of Mr. Churchill's neighbors had called during the evening, and told Mr. Churchill, not without motives of curiosity, that he had seen "the new squire at the station."

"What! are you sure?" asked Mr. Churchill, eagerly.

"Quite sure," answered the neighbor; "I went to the station about getting the turnip seed, and saw one of the Hall carriages standing there. I know the coachman, and I asked if anyone was expected, and he said Mr. John Temple, the new Squire, was coming home from foreign parts, and he was waiting for him."

"And," said Mr. Churchill, with faltering tongue, and his bronzed face grew a little pale, "did you see him arrive?"

"Yes, I thought I might just as well hang about till the train came in; I was waiting for the seed, you see; and when the train did come, Mr. John Temple came with it, and he got into the carriage from the Hall and drove away."

"And was he alone?" asked Mr. Churchill, with scarcely suppressed agitation.

"Yes, quite alone; he had no servant or nothing. The porter carried his portmanteau to the carriage; I am quite certain he had no one with him."

Mr. Churchill asked no more questions. He also now understood the motive of his neighbor's call, but he was not a man to gratify idle curiosity. He drew in his firm lips; he made up his mind at once to see John Temple.

He did not even tell his wife the news he had just heard. Mrs. Churchill had more than once annoyed him by the way she had spoken, or rather insinuated, her doubts concerning May's marriage. So he was determined to say nothing more about it until he knew the true cause of May's long silence and absence.

It was too late to go to the Hall that night, but as early as ten o'clock next morning he mounted his horse and rode to Woodlea. John Temple had prepared his mind for this visit; had told himself that if Mr. Churchill did not call on him, that he himself would go to Woodside, and tell the truth as far as he knew it. Yet, while he and Mrs. Temple were still sitting at the breakfast table, when a servant entered the room and announced that Mr. Churchill had arrived and was waiting to see him, John Temple was conscious that his heart sank within him. But the next moment, with an effort, he nerved himself for the meeting, and rose quietly from the table.

"Ask Mr. Churchill to go into the library," he said.

The servant bowed and disappeared, and as he did so Mrs. Temple started up excitedly.

"How horrible for that man to come," she half-whispered. "Whatever will you say to him?"

"What can I say but the truth?" answered Temple, gloomily.

"But surely you will not," and she went nearer to him and laid her hand on his arm, and raised her dark eyes to his face; "you will not tell him--of your other marriage?"

"I must," said Temple, hoarsely; "how otherwise could I account for--what he must know?"

"But consider--he may be violent--a hundred things may happen. John, I would not tell him that--say that you quarreled, and that she left you--anything but that."

John Temple hesitated, and Mrs. Temple saw this in an instant.

"Take my advice, at least about this," she went on eagerly. "Telling him could do no good, and might bring much harm. Just say you quarreled--say about another woman, if you like--and that then she left you, and that you have never seen or heard of her since. I do not think as you do about it; she probably did only leave you, and some day you may hear more."

"If you think this--"

"I do, John Temple; you can not tell what this man might do if he knew the whole story. Leave it to time at least, and say nothing rash."

"I meant to tell him everything."

"And I repeat it will do no good; it would only make a violent scene, and no end of trouble might come of it."

Still John Temple hesitated, while again and again Mrs. Temple urged him not to tell Mr. Churchill more than he could possibly help. And at last her arguments, coupled with the natural shrinking of his own heart, prevailed.

"For the present then I will say we quarreled, and that she left me," he said in a faltering voice. "To tell him more would do no good--and yet--"

"That is right; tell him you quarreled about some woman, and tell him how you have sought for her; how you could hear nothing."

John Temple had no answer to this, and then slowly, with a bowed head, he left the room and went toward the library to face the man whose daughter he had wronged.