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

“And who knows what may happen?” he thought. “That woman,” and his brow darkened, “is not likely to lead, or to go on leading, an immaculate life. I may be able to get a divorce, and the moment I can I will marry May. My dear little May, if I have wronged you, it was because I loved you so well.”

So thinking of her tenderly, fondly, he arrived at Pembridge Terrace, and when he entered the dining-room where the two sisters were alone, they both almost at once exclaimed:

“Where is Mrs. John?”

“She is not very well, I’m sorry to say,” answered John Temple, “and I persuaded her to stay at the hotel, and let me come on alone to you. I am going to take her to-morrow for a day or two to the sea, as we both want a little change, I think, and I have come to tell you this, and ask if you will kindly let your maid pack a few things that May will require, and I will take them back in the cab with me?”

“Well, this is sudden!” cried Miss Webster.

“But she is not ill, is she?” inquired kindly Miss Eliza.

“No, but she was tired, so I thought she was better where she was than driving through the streets. She will write to you to-morrow, most likely, and I scarcely know how to thank you for all your kindness to her—poor child.”

There was a tender ring in John’s voice as he said the last two words that both the gentle-hearted women noticed.

“It has been a great pleasure to us to have her here,” said Miss Webster.

“She’s a sweet flower,” sighed Miss Eliza.

“She’s a dear girl,” said John Temple; and for a moment—just a moment—a sort of moisture stole over his gray eyes.

After this Miss Webster hurried out of the room, to pack, or superintend the packing of, what she thought May would require during her few days’ proposed excursion to the sea. Thus Miss Eliza was left to entertain John Temple, which she found by no means easy to do. He was absent-minded and silent, and rose quickly when Miss Webster and the maid returned with May’s packed portmanteau.

“I have put everything in I thought she would want,” said Miss Webster; “but if I have forgotten anything, if she will telegraph I will send it at once.”

“I am sure it is all right,” said John, and he held out his hand to Miss Webster, thinking that most likely it would be the last time for years that he would press that kindly palm. “Good-by, Miss Webster; good-by, Miss Eliza; and thank you for all your great kindness.”

He left the house a few minutes later, and it was strange that both the sisters were somewhat impressed by his manner.

“He looked very serious,” said Miss Webster. “I am sure I hope nothing is wrong?”

“Perhaps it has come out about their marriage, and he has quarreled with his uncle?” suggested Miss Eliza.

In the meanwhile John Temple was driving back to his hotel, his thoughts still dwelling very tenderly on May.

“I will make it all up to her,” he was thinking; “my little Mayflower shall never regret her choice, nor her love.”

He had grown almost cheerful by the time he had reached the hotel.

“After all, it was dull enough at Woodlea,” he was reflecting; “and I can’t quite understand Mrs. Temple’s attitude. We shall be happier out of it all; out of civilization for awhile—I think I shall like a different life.”

He soon arrived at the hotel, paid his cab fare, and then ran lightly up the staircase, after giving May’s portmanteau to one of the waiters to carry. He knew the number of the sitting-room where he had left May, as he was well-acquainted with the hotel, and when he reached the door he opened it without rapping. One glance round the room told him it was empty. But this did not make him uneasy.

“She has been too tired to sit up,” he thought, “and has gone to bed,” and he turned round to the waiter who was following him with the portmanteau and asked the number of the bedroom he had engaged.

The man told him, and John Temple took the portmanteau from his hand and went in the direction the waiter indicated. When he arrived at the bedroom door he rapped, but there was no answer. Then he opened the door and went in, but, like the sitting-room, he found it empty.

“You have made a mistake; this is not the room,” he said, sharply, to the waiter, who was still following him.

“Yes, sir, this is the bedroom you engaged,” replied the waiter.

“But the lady—my wife is not here?”

“No, sir; the lady in sitting-room No. 11 left the hotel some time ago.”

“Left the hotel!” repeated John Temple, blankly. “Are you sure of this?”

“Yes, sir; I saw her go down the staircase and go out. I felt sure it was the lady from No. 11, as, if you remember, I lit the room after the lady took ill? And I fetched the doctor up for her also.”

A strange, cold feeling crept into John Temple’s heart.

“And you saw her go out?” he repeated.

“Yes, sir; and as she passed through the hall I asked her if she required a cab.”

“And did you get her one?” interrupted John, hastily.

“No, sir; she just shook her head and went out; and you’ll excuse me, sir, mentioning it, but I thought the lady looked very ill.”

“Went out alone! I can not understand it!” exclaimed John Temple; and then he once more entered the bedroom and looked around. Could she have left some letter, some message, he was thinking. But there was nothing; no sign that she had been there. After this he went back to the sitting-room, and here he found May’s cape lying on the floor. He had unfastened it when she had fainted, and flung it over the end of a couch. But her hat was gone! The poor girl, in her despair, had never remembered her cape, and as John Temple lifted it up a sudden fear, a sudden anguish, struck his soul.

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

He went up to the table; water was standing there, and some brandy which had been brought when May was ill, and the doctor’s prescription. And her handkerchief and gloves. She had forgotten these too, but there was no letter, nor penciled note. He looked everywhere, but it was in vain. In the short time that he had been away she had disappeared, and the greatest anxiety naturally filled John Temple’s heart.

Again he recalled the waiter who had seen her leave the hotel, but the man had nothing more to tell. Then he himself went out and wandered restlessly up and down the street, looking at every one he met in a miserable state of uncertainty and doubt. He thought once of returning to Miss Webster’s, but no; she had positively refused to go there, and besides she might return at any moment. He tried to buoy himself up with this hope, but hope grew well-nigh to despair when hour after hour passed and there was no news of May.

When the last post came in he again went out into the streets. He inquired at the nearest cab-stand, but no one seemed to remember anything of a lady such as he described. He shrank from applying to the police, and spent a night of terrible misery and remorse.

“I should not have left her,” he moaned aloud as he wandered up and down the sitting-room where he had seen her last. He refused to go to bed, and more than once went down to question the night porter. But the gray dawn stole over the city, and the noise and murmur of the day began, and still nothing was seen or heard of the unhappy woman who had disappeared.

The first post arrived and there was no letter for John Temple, and then he knew that May had forsaken him. He realized this with the bitterest pain. He recalled her words and looks before he had left her, and suddenly—like a dagger—a memory smote him. She had said as she lay in his arms, “We could not live apart.”

“Good God! did she go out to die then!” burst from John Temple’s pale, quivering lips. The anguish of this idea was almost too great to bear. He hesitated no longer about going to the police. He went—a white-faced, agitated man—to the nearest station and told his story. His wife had disappeared from the hotel, he said, and he was in a state of the utmost misery and anxiety about her.

The inspector took notes and made certain inquiries. “Had he had any quarrel with the lady? Was there any reason that she should leave him?”

“No quarrel,” answered John Temple, huskily, “but I told her some bad news.”

“Did this seem to upset her greatly?”

“Yes, at the time, but when I left her she was calm and composed.”

“And she said nothing about going away?”

“Nothing, or I should never have left her.”

The inspector then asked if she had any friends in town where she was likely to take refuge, and with a groan John Temple answered, “None.”

Inquiries, however, were at once commenced, and during the day a cabman came forward and stated he had seen the lady leave the Grosvenor Hotel, and had followed her, hoping for a fare. That she had stopped and beckoned to him, and that when he had asked her where she had wished to go, that she had answered: “To one of the bridges.” That he had then said, “To which bridge?” and she had replied, “Westminster.”

When this was repeated to John Temple he grew ghastly pale, and staggered back, but the police inspector tried to reassure him.

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

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

“She had a lot of bright, light hair, all ruffled-like,” the cabman said, “and a pretty, pale face, and looked in great trouble, and had no gloves on, but he noticed some rings.”

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

And during the same day an incident occurred at Pembridge Terrace which greatly upset both the kind ladies there. They had been struck with John Temple’s manner when he parted with them the night before, and naturally thought it strange that May should leave home even for a few days without bidding them good-by. And they were actually talking of this; speculating in their mild, kindly way on the cause, and hoping nothing had gone wrong with their young friends, when the servant came upstairs, and having rapped at their bedroom door told them that a gentleman was waiting in the dining-room to see them.

“A gentleman?” said Miss Webster, surprised. “Did you ask his name, Jane?”

“Yes, ma’am, I did,” replied Jane, “and I think he said Mr. Churchill, but I’m not quite sure.”

“Churchill?” repeated Miss Webster, and the two sisters looked at each other in some consternation.

“We will be down directly, Jane,” then said Miss Webster after a little pause, and when the maid disappeared they again exchanged rather alarmed glances.

“I am afraid something has happened; that their secret is known,” suggested Miss Eliza, nervously.

“Do you think it will be May’s father?” asked Miss Webster, as she tied her bonnet strings with trembling fingers.

The two sisters were dressing themselves to go out on a little shopping excursion when they heard of their unexpected visitor, and they both felt very much upset. However, there was nothing for it but to go down and receive “Mr. Churchill,” whoever he might be. They accordingly did this together, and when they entered the dining-room they saw a tall, good-looking, middle-aged man, with a somewhat countrified appearance, standing there.

He made a bow as the sisters appeared, which they nervously returned.

“Excuse my calling, ladies,” he said, “but I have come to make some inquiries about my daughter, May Churchill, who, I understand, has been living with you for some time.”

Both the poor ladies gave a gasp, and for a moment or two stood silent. They did not in truth know what to say; did not know how much Mr. Churchill knew, or how far May was committed in his eyes.

“My girl,” went on Mr. Churchill, seeing their hesitation, “disappeared from her home some time ago, and we have heard nothing of her till yesterday. But yesterday I had sure information that she is living with you, and that she is now called Mrs. John. Is this so?”

Miss Webster drew herself up a little proudly.

“Yes, Mr. Churchill,” she said, “your daughter has been here, but she is not here at present.”

“Where is she now, then?” asked Mr. Churchill, somewhat roughly. “For I mean to find her. I have come up to London to find her, and also to find Mr. John Temple, who, I suppose, has taken her away if she has gone from here.”

Again both the sisters gasped. This big strong man seemed to overwhelm them, and they felt themselves almost powerless in his hands.

“The long and the short of it is,” continued Mr. Churchill, “I mean to call Mr. John Temple to account for his conduct to May. He induced her, I believe, to leave her home, and she writes to him in a manner, I am told, that if she isn’t married to him she ought to be.”

Both the faded faces before him were now suffused with a sudden blush. But a moment later Miss Webster plucked up her courage.

“Sir,” she said, with not a little indignation in her tone, “I think you speak of your daughter, who is everything that a young lady should be, in a very unbecoming manner.”

“I do not know, madam, what you think a young lady should be,” retorted Mr. Churchill; “but I think when a girl leaves her father’s house, and carries on an intrigue with a young man, that it is her father’s duty to learn whether she is married or not, and if she is not, to see that she is.”

“But she is married, sir!” replied Miss Webster, raising her head with dignity. “I and my sister Eliza here were present at her marriage, which was performed by the clergyman of the parish, Mr. Mold. It was kept a secret on account of Mr. John Temple’s uncle, and if it will do him any harm I hope you will still keep it a secret, but I can positively assure you that they are married.”

Mr. Churchill’s expression changed considerably while Miss Webster was speaking.

“Then all I can say, madam, is, that I am heartily glad to hear it,” he answered. “Naturally I was put out about my girl, and anxious to hear that it was all right with her. However, Mr. John Temple need not be afraid of his uncle, the squire. I saw the old gentleman yesterday, and he told me May would be welcomed there when his nephew brought her to the Hall.”

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

“Most delightful!” replied Miss Eliza, with emotion, “Really quite affecting!” and she drew out her handkerchief as though preparing for tears.

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

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

Mr. Churchill looked rather puzzled.

“It’s a strange thing,” he said, “but Mr. John Temple would say nothing when he was questioned yesterday whether he was married to May or not; I suppose it’s all right about the register, and that sort of thing?”

“Certainly right!” exclaimed both sisters. “We saw it signed.”

“Still, I think I should like to have a look at it, so if you ladies will kindly tell me the name of the church and the clergyman—”

“With pleasure,” replied Miss Webster. “And now, Mr. Churchill, will you take some refreshments, and have a glass of wine to drink to the health of the young couple?”

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

“I am sure I hope we have done right in telling about the marriage,” said Miss Webster, looking at Miss Eliza for comfort.

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

“But you see he cast such aspersions on May?”

“It would have roused anyone to defend her—but still—”

“What do you think, dear Eliza?”

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

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

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

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

“He said the Grosvenor, ma’am, I’m nearly certain,” Jane answered to her mistress’ inquiries. So after the maid had left the room, Miss Webster decided to write to tell John Temple of Mr. Churchill’s visit and its consequences.

“Dear Mr. Temple,” she began, somewhat nervously. “Sister Eliza and myself have been somewhat upset this morning by receiving a visit from Mr. Churchill, your sweet young wife’s father. He had heard she was living with us, and had come to seek her, and was very anxious to learn the truth about her. And he said some things—made some remarks—that neither sister Eliza nor I could hear unmoved. In fact, we were almost forced, in defense of your dear wife, to tell him that you were married to her, and this seemed a great relief to his mind. But we begged him still to keep the secret, if he thought it would injure you at all with your uncle, Mr. Temple of Woodlea Hall. But to our great joy he told us that he had seen your uncle on the subject, and that he had said he would gladly welcome dear May as his nephew’s wife. I need not tell you how delighted we were to hear this, as Mr. Temple’s sanction seemed the one thing wanting to your great happiness.

“With our united love to your dear wife, and best regards to yourself, I remain sincerely yours.

”Margaret Webster.”

This letter was delivered to John Temple during the evening, as he sat alone and desolate, in his great remorse and pain.