It was still very early in the day when John Temple left Woodlea, in a state of strong though suppressed excitement. It had come so suddenly, this discovery, this exposure, that he had dreaded far more on May’s account than his own. But he must face the situation; he told himself this as he strode across the dewy park, as he went on with rapid steps toward the nearest railway station.

He looked at his watch; there was a train passed for the south at a quarter past eleven o’clock, and he made up his mind to endeavor to reach the station in time to travel by this. He had not a moment to spare. On he went with a pale, set face and compressed lips, running a race, as it were, with the train. And as he entered the station the engine puffed up on the metals outside. But John Temple was known to the station-master, and when he called out for a ticket to London, the station-master told him to hurry on the platform, and that he would follow with the ticket.

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

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

“We can go to Australia,” he told himself; “who is to know anything there? and I have enough to live on, and as for Woodlea, what is that to my poor, poor girl?”

But it was a terrible task that he had before him, and he shrank from it with utter loathing.

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

He tried to buoy himself up with this idea. He thought of May’s tenderness; her devotion, and remembered how she had told him hers was “the love that can not change.” The test had come; the bitter test she had never dreamed of, and he had to face the most painful ordeal of his life.

All too soon it seemed to him he saw the smoke of the great city; all too soon he was speeding through tunnels, and being carried rapidly over housetops. Then came the rush and hurry of a great terminus. John Temple had reached his destination, and as he entered a cab and told the driver to convey him to Miss Webster’s house in Pembridge Terrace, it was with a sinking heart and faltering tongue.

In the meanwhile at Pembridge Terrace everything seemed as quiet and peaceable as usual. Yet there was secret anxiety in the hearts of the two kind women of the house. For there had been something in their nephew’s manner during his visits of late that had certainly alarmed them. Ralph Webster had in truth been so restless, so unlike himself, that they could not understand him. He was indeed in a state of mind most unusual to his strong and determined nature, for he knew not how to act. His duty and sense of right urged him one way he told himself, and then, when he looked on May’s sweet, happy face he felt it almost impossible for him to be the one who could strike her so dire a blow.

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

He had left this point in doubt purposely, thinking it might hasten the catastrophe if it were known for the unhappy girl who in his eyes had been so shamefully deceived. But the actress seemed determined to learn the truth.

“Very likely the old fox is keeping it back,” she said; “he would be sure I should want more money if I knew, and Dereham was so positive about the matter. What do you think it would be best for me to do? To write to Mr. Harrison himself, or send a letter to John Temple through him; for, of course, he knows his address?”

“I should do nothing immediately, I think,” answered Ralph Webster, and the handsome actress looked at him and wondered what was his motive as he spoke.

“I don’t want to see him, mind,” she continued; “to see him now would be as disagreeable to me as no doubt to him; it’s a mere matter of money, nothing more.”

“Yes, of course. Well, I’ll try to find out all about it for a certainty in the course of a few days; and now I must go, for I promised to dine with my aunts in Pembridge Terrace this evening,” and Webster rose and held out his hand as he spoke.

“What a wonderfully attentive nephew you are!” said Kathleen Weir, also rising, with a light laugh. “Do you know I’m beginning to believe there is something behind these two respectable old ladies? A pretty cousin, eh? Or, perhaps, even a housemaid?”

Webster’s dark face colored.

“There is no cousin,” he answered; “and as far as I remember the housemaid is a remarkably plain-featured young woman, so you see you are wrong.”

“It’s like my interest in John Temple then, a mere matter of money,” smiled the actress, showing her white teeth. “Ah, well, my friend, such is life!”

“Such, indeed,” thought Webster, bitterly, as he descended the stone flight of steps that led to Miss Kathleen Weir’s flat; “here is a tragedy and a comedy combined.”

He did really dine with his aunts, and it was during the evening that both Miss Margaret and Miss Eliza became convinced that, as they expressed it, he had “something on his mind.” His dark, resolute eyes lingered on the sweet face opposite him, and his usually fluent tongue was seldom heard. He went away early, and he went away as irresolute how he should act as when he arrived.

“Ralph doesn’t look well,” said Miss Margaret, as the door closed behind him.

“No, indeed,” sighed Miss Eliza.

“And how silent he was!” smiled May.

But the day after this visit, the very next day, she knew what had made him silent and sad. It was a dreary day, dull, and at times wet, and during the afternoon, about four o’clock, Miss Margaret, Miss Eliza, and May were all sitting in the dining-room at Pembridge Terrace, where a cheery fire helped to exclude some of the gloom outside. Miss Margaret was knitting, Miss Eliza reading a novel, and May seemingly reading a novel, but really thinking of John Temple. The sound of a cab stopping at the door, however, interrupted all their occupations.

“Can that be Ralph?” said Miss Margaret, looking up.

May also looked up and turned her head so that she could see out of the window, and the next moment rose with a glad cry.

“It’s John!” she said, and as she spoke she ran out of the room into the hall, just as John Temple was entering it.

“John! dear John!” she cried, and without a word he took her in his arms and pressed her, nay crushed her, against his breast.

“John!” again May murmured, and then she raised her head and looked in his face.

It was pale and agitated, and he spoke no word. And as she looked at him he pressed his lips on hers and something in his expression, something even in his touch, with the swift and subtle knowledge of love, thrilled her heart with sudden fear.

“Is anything the matter?” she whispered. “John, are you ill?”

“I am not very well,” he answered, slowly and painfully.

“Oh, I’m so sorry—how long have you been ill?” asked May, anxiously.

“I am only tired, I think; I will tell the driver of the cab to stop—I want you to go out with me for a little while, May.”

“Yes, of course, but first come in and rest,” answered May, uneasily, for his manner was so strange.

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

“John is not very well, Miss Webster,” said May, a little tremulously; “I think he wants nursing and being taken care of.”

“Oh! I’m so sorry,” said the two kind ladies, almost with one breath.

“It is nothing,” answered John, nervously, as he shook hands with them; “I am tired, that is all.”

“You must have some wine or some tea. You must stay to dinner, of course?” the next moment suggested hospitable Miss Webster.

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

Both the sisters protested against this, but John Temple was firm, and after he had taken his wine he looked at May, and asked her to get ready to go out with him. May rose at once to obey his wish, but she still felt uneasy. John was not like himself; his smile was strained, his very voice was different.

“Something is worrying him dreadfully, I am sure,” she told herself as she hurried on her hat and cape, and when she turned to the sitting-room and told John she was ready, to her surprise John put out his hand to take leave of Miss Webster.

“But you’ll bring May back; we will see you, then?” said Miss Webster, also surprised.

“Oh! yes, I forgot,” answered John, and then he led May to the cab, and, having placed her in it, took his seat by her side.

May slid her little hand into his as the horse started.

“John, I am sure something is vexing you,” she said, tenderly and anxiously, looking at his half-averted face; “have you any bad news to tell me?”

“I have some news,” he answered, with an effort.

“Is it bad news?” urged May.

“I can not tell you here; wait until we get to the hotel—I will tell you then.”

“But John—”

“Hush, hush, dear; you will hear it soon enough.”

He spoke huskily, almost hoarsely, and he turned away his head from her tender gaze. After this they drove on almost in silence until they reached the Grosvenor Hotel, where John usually stayed when he was in town. When he arrived there he ordered rooms and dinner, and then when they were alone May once more looked at him questioningly.

“Tell me now, John, what is it?” she asked.

“May—” began John, and then he paused, absolutely unable to find words to tell her the truth.

“Oh! do tell me, John!” she prayed, and she laid her hand beseechingly on his arm.

Then he looked at her, and there was great pain in his eyes and on his pale face.

“I should rather be dead—I swear it, though you may not believe it—than say to you what I am forced to say to-day.”

“Oh! you frighten me! What can it be?” cried May.

“Do you remember when—when I went away and left you, May,” went on John Temple, in a broken voice; “when I wrote to you and told you that you were to be quite sure of your feelings toward me if I were to be anything more to you; when I told you that I believed that if two people truly loved each other that nothing should part or change them?”

“I remember,” answered May, lifting her head and looking with steadfast eyes in his face, “when you wrote that there were other feelings between men and women besides the love that can not change, and that I was to question my heart. I did—I told you then my love could never change, and now I tell you again—it can never change.”

“My darling!”

He caught her to his breast, he kissed her eyes, her lips, her brow, and then in hurried, agitated words he tried to tell her all.

“May, I loved you then, and I love you now, how dearly none but my own heart can tell—but I should have told you the truth. I told you there were obstacles to our marriage, and that it must be a secret one, and you agreed to this. Our secret is now known. Mrs. Temple, my uncle’s wife, it seems, saw one of your letters to me, and she actually sent that brute, young Henderson, up to town to spy on you. He saw you enter Miss Webster’s house, and he went back and told your father.”

“Oh! John!” cried May.

“My uncle sent for me this morning, and questioned me, but I would tell him nothing; and while I was with him your father and young Henderson arrived at the Hall. Your father asked me if I were married to you, and I refused to tell him also, and then when Henderson spoke I called him a murderer and a spy. He sprang at me and struck me, but with one blow I sent him reeling to the floor, and when I left Woodlea he had not recovered his senses.”

May gave a sort of cry.

“And—and what followed?” she gasped out.

“Then I left Woodlea. I was determined to see you first before I said a word to one of them—for, May, it was not for fear of my uncle’s anger that I wished our marriage to be a secret one—but there was another reason—”

“Another reason?” echoed May, with fast whitening lips.

“Yes, when I was a boy, a mere lad at least, I met a woman older than myself; a woman who took advantage of my boyish infatuation, and led me on to do what I have cursed ever since I met you. May, do not look so white! My dear one, this need not, shall not, part us. Our love is too deep and strong for a tie, broken years ago, to come between us. But in an hour of madness, I married—”

May started back as if she had received a sudden blow.

“I married,” went on John Temple, nerving himself to speak the words, “the actress, Kathleen Weir—”

But he said no more; May’s lips parted, she gasped as if for breath, and then as John Temple caught her in his arms she sank senseless on the floor.

“My God! has it killed her!” he cried in sudden anguish, looking at her white and clammy face. He lifted her up, he placed her on a couch, he rang the bell wildly for assistance. But May lay like one dead. One arm fell motionless at her side; John grasped her wrist and could feel no pulsation. Again he rang madly at the bell, and this time it was answered.

“The lady has fainted!” he cried to the astonished waiter. “Bring water, brandy—send some of the women here, and get a doctor at once.”

In a few minutes several people were in the room, and some of the female servants began bathing May’s brow and hands with water, while John Temple tried to wet her lips with the spirits they had brought him. He knelt down at her side; he called her by every endearing name, but still May made no sign. Then a doctor hurried in and proceeded to use remedies to revive the senseless girl. And at last, with faint, gasping sighs, a tinge of color stole back to the white face, and presently May opened her eyes.

“My dearest, my darling, are you better now?” whispered John Temple, bending over her, and holding one of her cold hands fast in his.

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

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

Those standing near fell back, but John Temple did not stir.

“Did the attack come on suddenly, sir?” asked the doctor, addressing John.

“Yes,” he answered slowly.

“Ah, well, she will be better presently. Try to swallow this, madam; it will do you good.”

May tried to swallow the restorative the doctor held toward her, and its effect was soon visible. It brought back memory—infinite pain! She looked at John Temple, and he saw she was remembering his words. He bent closer to her; he whispered that nothing should ever part them; he asked her for his sake to get well; and the doctor, watching her face, slightly touched John Temple on the shoulder.

“I will give you some directions,” he said, and as John rose, he drew him to one side of the room.

“She must not be excited,” he said; “as far as I can judge, this attack has been brought on by some mental shock. Is there any tendency to heart affection?”

“I know of none,” answered John, with quivering lips.

“Is she your wife?”

“Yes.”

“Well, keep her very quiet for the next few hours, and do not talk to her of anything that would be likely to disquiet her. Are you staying here?”

“Yes,” again answered John, briefly.

“I will look in this evening then. For the present, everyone but yourself is best out of the room. But be sure you keep her quiet.”

Then he gave some further directions, and finally left the room, and presently John and May were once more alone. She lay quite still, but that terrible look of pain never left her face. John went and sat by her, and took her hand, but he dare not talk to her after what the doctor had said. And so the time passed on, and after an hour or so, May herself broke the silence.

“John,” she said in a feeble voice, “I have something to say to you.”

“What is it, my darling? But you had best not talk of anything just now.”

“I want to say—I can not go back to Pembridge Terrace,” went on May, still in those faltering accents; “I can not see my father.”

“You shall not, May—I swear you shall not! This was why I brought you away. You shall see no one, and we will go to Australia together; go anywhere you like, and you shall be my own dear wife always; my own sweet, dear wife.”

A faint shudder ran through May’s frame.

“Nothing shall ever part us, May,” continued John Temple, and once more he knelt down by her side and took both her hands in his. “We could not live apart.”

May looked in his face with strange wistfulness, and a quiver passed over her pale lips, and then she drew John’s hand closer to her.

“We could not live apart,” she murmured, and then she sighed.

“We will not, but I want to spare you all possible annoyance and worry, May. When you feel a little better, I think it would be best for me to drive over to Miss Webster’s, and tell her that as you are not feeling very well, you are not going to return there this evening, and that to-morrow you are going away for a few days with me, I will ask them to give me what you will require, and I will not tell them where you are; or rather I shall not give them the right address. Thus, if your father goes there to-morrow, he will not find you, and to-morrow I think we had better cross to France, and we can settle our future plans there, out of the way of everyone. What do you think of this?”

May lay silent for a moment or two; then she said, slowly:

“Yes, John, that will be best; you had best go now.”

“But are you well enough for me to leave you? I do not like leaving you.”

Again May sighed wearily, and then raised herself up and put her arms around his neck.

“You had better go,” she said; “and—and John, will you remember that—that I will always love you!”

“I am sure of it; you give me fresh life, May—well, then, good-by, though I shall soon be back.”

Their lips met in one long, tender, clinging kiss, and then John Temple reluctantly left her. But on the whole his mind was somewhat relieved. She had borne it better than he expected; at all events she had said they could not live apart.

But scarcely had the door of the room closed behind him when a great change came over May’s face. There came over it despair—blank, bitter despair. She sat up and thought. She put her hand to her brow.

“I can not bear it,” she said, half-aloud; “it is too hard to bear.”

She remembered all her sweet love-dream in these brief moments; remembered John Temple standing with her in the moonlit garden of Woodside; remembered his looks, the touch of his dear hand! And it had been all folly! He, the husband of another woman, must have known she could never be his wife. He had been amusing himself; she had been his plaything; what else could she be now?

“I can but die,” she thought; “I could not live without him—I will die, and then he will know I loved him to the end.”

She rose and tottered to her feet. She felt a great bodily weakness as though every nerve were unstrung. The restorative the doctor had left was standing on the table, and she drank some of this, and it seemed to give her strength. Her hat was lying near her, and she put it on and tried to walk feebly across the room. She had no plans, but somehow she thought of the river gliding through the great city, and hiding dark sin and sorrow beneath its murky flood.

“It would hide me,” she murmured; “hide my shame forever.”

She opened the room door and went out on the corridor, and then walked feebly down the broad staircase. No one stopped her or interfered with her, and in a few moments she reached the hall. One of the servants here came forward and asked her if she required a cab. But she shook her head, and went down the steps into the lighted streets, alone with her broken heart.