Henderson parted from Mrs. Temple with every nerve in his body throbbing with excitement. In spite of May Churchill’s rejection of his love, his unreasonable passion for her remained unchanged. There were times when he felt he hated her; when he cursed her memory, and blamed her for the undying remorse that overshadowed his soul. But for her, he often told himself, the miserable girl who had loved him too well might have been living still, and he himself free from the galling chains held by his groom, Jack Reid.

But if he hated May, it was a sort of loving hatred, while his feelings to John Temple were of the bitterest description. He believed but that for Temple, May would ultimately have become his wife; and as he strode down the lane, after parting with Mrs. Temple, he seemed to see again, in his mental vision, John lying at May’s feet in Fern Dene in the early days of their first acquaintance.

And that he should have induced her to leave her home; that she was writing to him in the terms described by Mrs. Temple, positively seemed to madden him.

“But it may be some other woman,” he told himself, as he had told Mrs. Temple. But at all events he would find out, and on his return to the Grange, to his mother’s great surprise, and not a little alarm, he told her he was about to start for London in a few hours.

Hidden anxiety and grief had wrought their baneful work now on Mrs. Henderson’s face. The terrible knowledge of her son’s crime, the awful dread of its punishment, were ever present in her mind. She had grown old before her time, and watched Henderson with unceasing eyes of fear.

Thus when she heard of his sudden journey she could scarcely suppress her nervousness. Henderson, too, was moody and reserved, and hurried on his preparations for departure.

“Will you be long away?” inquired Mrs. Henderson.

“But a few days at most,” he answered, and he told the same story to his groom, Jack Reid.

“This is something sudden,” said Reid, looking at him suspiciously. It crossed the man’s mind, indeed, that his master was about to leave Stourton for a much longer time than he stated.

“I’ll be back probably the day after to-morrow,” said Henderson, with affected carelessness; and Reid felt he could say nothing more, for he had grown certainly more respectful in his manner to his master after the episode of the shooting of Brown Bess.

“A man who would try his hand at that kind of thing might do it again,” self-argued the groom; and Reid was not one who cared to be shot at if he could help it.

So Henderson left Stourton, and having arrived in town, he went for the night to an hotel, and the next morning drove in the direction of the address which he had received from Mrs. Temple. And Fate actually favored him, for quitting his cab before he reached Pembridge Terrace, he walked up the terrace, and after passing Miss Webster’s house for a few yards he turned back again, and as he did so he saw, in a moment, descending the steps in front of the house a figure and face that he only remembered too well.

It was May Churchill, and closely following her came the prim, neat form of Miss Eliza Webster. They opened the garden gate and then went on the street, and Henderson was so near them that had May turned her head she must have recognized him. But she was smiling and talking to Miss Eliza, and never looked back, but Henderson distinctly saw the face that had cost him so dear. He paused a minute or two, and then slowly followed the two ladies before him. They went on to Westbourne Grove, and into a large bonnet and hat shop at the corner of the street. Henderson lingered outside at a little distance from the shop, and after waiting about a quarter of an hour May and Miss Eliza once more appeared, and turned their footsteps homeward. Again Henderson followed them, his heart throbbing violently and his eyes never leaving May’s form. They went straight back to the address Mrs. Temple had given him, and Henderson now knew Mrs. Temple’s surmise had been correct. John Temple had persuaded her to leave her home, and had hidden her away, and Henderson could scarcely suppress the passionate rage that swelled in his breast when he thought of it.

He was tempted to go on; to speak to May, and heap reproach on her head. But he knew he had no right to do this. She might be John Temple’s wife, for anything he knew, and what good could his hard words do? None, he felt. He might, he would, punish John Temple, but what could he do to the girl? With a curse between his bitten lips he turned away, and walking back to the shop he had seen May and Miss Webster enter and leave, he went in under the pretense of buying a bonnet for his mother.

“I want a bonnet for an old lady,” he said to a pretty, smiling shopwoman, adding immediately afterward: “Who were the two ladies who have just been here—I saw them go out—a young lady and an old one?”

The pretty shopgirl smiled pertly, and instantly understood the motive of the purchase of the bonnet for “an old lady,” by this handsome young man.

“You mean Mrs. John, I suppose, sir?” she said. “She is a very handsome young lady, and it is astonishing how many gentlemen admire her and ask about her, but she is certainly very pretty.”

“And does she live near here?” inquired Henderson.

“She lives in Pembridge Terrace with the Misses Webster. She is a newly-married lady, but I believe her husband is a good deal away. She is a customer of ours, and is often in the shop.”

“And her name is—”

“Mrs. John; rather a strange name, isn’t it, sir?”

“Mrs. John,” repeated Henderson, beneath his breath, but he did nothing more. He understood it all now; she had run away with John Temple, and was called Mrs. John, and he needed no further information.

He forgot all about the bonnet for his mother until the shopwoman reminded him of it.

“Choose what you like,” he said, “the lady is elderly—my mother—and a widow.”

“But does she wear a widow’s bonnet, sir?”

“I think not,” answered Henderson, indifferently. “Something dark and good—what will it cost?”

This matter was soon settled. The shopwoman chose a bonnet, and Henderson paid for it, and then drove back straight to his hotel. When he arrived there he at once addressed the following letter to Mrs. Temple:

“Dear Mrs. Temple: You were quite right. May Churchill is living at the address you gave me in Pembridge Terrace, and is called Mrs. John. I saw her leave the house and go into a shop, accompanied by an old woman. I went into the shop after they left it, and one of the girls there told me that she—May—was a Mrs. John, and that she was a newly-married woman, which I greatly doubt. I shall return to Stourton to-day, and go to-morrow morning with my news to Woodside Farm. May’s father shall know how his daughter has been treated. And I remain,

“Yours sincerely,

”T. Henderson.”

This letter reached Woodlea Hall on the following morning, and when the squire opened the letter-bag, as was his wont, he rose and placed Henderson’s letter in his wife’s hand.

“Here is a letter from London for you, Rachel,” he said.

Mrs. Temple’s handsome face flushed, and then grew pale. She had not expected to hear for a few days, at least, from Henderson, yet she knew this letter was from him. She gave once glance of her dark eyes at John Temple’s face, who was sitting at his usual place at the breakfast-table, and then without a word she rose and left the room, carrying her letter in her hand.

But she was scarcely outside the door when she opened it. She read it in the hall, and a hard and bitter look came over her expression as she did so. She had been prepared for this news, yet it fell like a fresh blow upon her heart. That subtle feeling, whose existence she would not even admit, filled her with indignation against John Temple.

“He shall leave here and go to his Mrs. John,” she whispered to herself vindictively. “I will wait until Philip leaves the breakfast-room, and then I shall go to him and tell him all. John Temple had better have trusted me—now he shall have to pay the fullest price for his folly.”

And she only waited until she heard her husband go, as he was accustomed to do, into the library after breakfast before she descended the staircase with Henderson’s letter in her hand. She went direct to the library and entered it, without knocking at the door, and the squire who was sitting before his writing table looked up as she did so.

“Were you not well at breakfast, Rachel?” he said, kindly. “Or,” he added, noticing the expression of her face, “did anything in that letter that you got vex you?”

“I was not ill,” she answered, “but this letter confirmed some shameful news that I have come to tell you about John Temple.”

“Shameful news about John Temple!” repeated the squire, pushing back his chair and looking straight at his wife’s pale, determined face.

“At least I call it shameful,” she went on, “to induce a country girl to leave her home—a daughter of one of your own tenants—to deceive you, his best friend. Philip, you remember the girl, May Churchill, who ran away? I suspected at the time that John Temple had something to do with it, and now I know. This girl is living at an address in London, and is called there Mrs. John, and she writes to him here, and if she is not married to him she ought to be—and I do not believe she is.”

“I will never believe this!” said the squire, rising in great emotion, his aged face growing pale. “What! John Temple wrong May Churchill; the little girl I have known since she was a child; the daughter of a man like Churchill, whom I respect, and who has lived on my land since he was a lad, and his father before him! Rachel, what folly is this? Who has been telling you this wicked, this insane story?”

“My own eyes told me first,” answered Mrs. Temple, in a hard, concentrated voice, “and every word that I have told you is true. Do you remember when he used to get large letters which he said were from some late landlady of his, and contained his unpaid bills? I suspected at that time he was not speaking the truth, and a day or two after I learned this was so. He got one of these large letters at breakfast, and he put it in his pocket unread. I said at the time, ‘more bills?’ and he answered, ‘I am afraid so.’ Well, after the breakfast was over, I went upstairs, and passed his sitting-room door, and it was standing ajar. I wanted to speak to him about going to call at Homelands, and I went into the room. He was not there, but an open letter was lying on the table. I went up to the table and read the first lines. It began: ‘My dearest, dearest John.’”

“But what of that?” said Mr. Temple, angrily. “You had no right to read or look at his letters for one thing, and for another, how could you tell by whom this letter was written?”

“I looked at the printed address on the paper, and I remembered it, and just at this moment I saw through the open bedroom door that John Temple was on the balcony of the little ante-room beyond. So I turned and left the sitting-room and he never knew that I had been there. Then I considered what to do, for I was determined to bring this home to him, and I suddenly remembered young Henderson of Stourton Grange—”

“What on earth had he to do with it?” interrupted the squire.

“He had been in love, was in love, like the rest of them, with this girl,” answered Mrs. Temple, scornfully, “and so I used him for my purpose. He had spoken to me once about his suspicions that Miss Churchill had eloped with John Temple, or rather that he had persuaded her to run away from home, so that he might join her afterward. So I wrote to ask Henderson to meet me—”

“You wrote to ask young Henderson to meet you?”

“Yes, what harm was there in that? I met him near the West Lodge for a few minutes the day before yesterday, and I gave him the address I had seen on Miss Churchill’s letter to John Temple, and I asked him to go up to town and find out the truth about this girl. He went the same night, and this is the letter I received from him this morning.”

She handed the squire Henderson’s letter, with a trembling hand as she spoke, and her husband’s hand trembled also as he took it. Then he read the words it contained, and a terribly shocked look came over his face.

“If this be true—” he said, with faltering lips.

“It is true,” answered Mrs. Temple, positively. “Don’t you remember she ran away, and then after a week or so he said he was going abroad? He went no doubt to join her; she was with him all those weeks abroad, and then he must have brought her back to town, and no doubt would have gone up from time to time to see her. The whole thing is perfectly plain.”

“Then in that case all I can say is that it is a shameful affair. Most shameful—but he may have married her—probably has, and if he has not done so, he must.”

Mr. Temple went hastily to the bell of the room and rang it as he spoke, and when the footman answered it, he said sharply and distinctly:

“Ask Mr. John Temple to come here at once; tell him I wish to see him.”

The footman disappeared with his message, and Mrs. Temple stood still. She was excited, pale, and determined, and she did not flinch when she heard John Temple’s step outside the door.

Then he entered and looked at his uncle.

“You wish to see me, Johnson says,” he began, but something in the squire’s face told him it was no ordinary message that he had received.

“Yes,” answered the squire, “I wish to see you, for I have just heard a tale which, if it be true, will make me bitterly regret that I ever asked you under my roof.”

“And what is it?” asked John Temple, and he drew himself up to his full height.

“It is that you induced the young girl May Churchill to leave her home; that you took her abroad with you, and that she is now living in London, I presume, under your protection, and is called Mrs. John. Now answer, is this true?”

A dark wave of color spread to John Temple’s very brows.

“Who has told you this?” he said, looking steadily at his uncle.

“My wife has just told me,” answered the squire. “It seems she suspected this, and she saw a letter lying on your table bearing a certain address in town. She told young Henderson of this, who it seems is, or was once, a lover of this poor girl’s, and she gave him the address, and this is the letter she has received this morning.”

The squire handed Henderson’s letter to John Temple as he spoke, and John read it through and then laid it down quietly on the writing-table before him.

“A truly honorable transaction altogether, I must say,” he said, scornfully, fixing his gray eyes on Mrs. Temple’s face.

“It is true,” she answered defiantly.

“True or false, it was an action that I thought no gentlewoman could have been guilty of. What, to send one man to watch and spy on another man’s actions; to read a letter not intended for your eyes! I could not have believed you capable of such conduct.”

Mrs. Temple’s eyes fell before John’s reproaches, and a vague feeling crept into her heart that she had left her work undone.

“It is useless to talk thus,” said the squire, with some dignity of manner; “my wife should not have read your letter, and I have told her so, but this does not alter the matter. You have not denied this grave charge, and if you have done this girl any wrong—a girl I have known since her childhood—you must undo that wrong as far as lies in your power. I mean you must marry her, if you have not already done so.”

John Temple made no answer to this; he stood there facing his uncle, and Mrs. Temple watched him fugitively.

“Have you married her, or have you not?” urged the squire.

“I decline to answer that question,” then said John Temple. “But you said you had regretted that you had asked me to stay under your roof. You need regret it no longer, for I will leave to-day.”

“But your leaving will not undo the wrong that you have done. Think for a moment who this poor girl is, the daughter of one of my oldest and most respected tenants; a beautiful girl, of blameless character hitherto, who perhaps in her foolish love for you has wrecked her young life. John, you are my nephew, you are my heir, and I entreat you to act now as an honorable man should do, and make her your wife.”

Still John Temple made no promise.

“You have read in that letter,” continued the squire, pointing to Henderson’s open letter lying on the writing-table, “how this young man is going to her father. Can you suppose that a respectable man like Churchill will, for a moment, sit down tamely under such an insult? No, you will have to answer to him for your conduct, as well as to me.”

But at this moment a rap came to the room door, and the squire paused.

“Come in,” he called, and the footman entered.

“If you please, sir,” he said, addressing the squire, “Mr. Henderson, of Stourton Grange, and Mr. Churchill have called, and wish very particularly to see you.”

“Where are they?” asked the squire.

“In the hall, sir,” replied the footman.

“You can show them in here,” said the squire, and he looked at John Temple as he spoke.

But John Temple made no sign; he had grown a little pale, and that was all.