And during this time, also, Miss Kathleen Weir had felt very much disappointed that she had neither seen nor heard anything of Mr. Ralph Webster. That is, she only received two brief notes from him, both declining her invitations to “a merry supper after the play to meet Linda Falconer, as you admired her so much—and her swain, Dereham.”

But Webster, with the ever-present memory of that despairing face on the bridge, and the constant anxiety for the unhappy girl lying in St. Phillip’s Hospital, nigh unto death, had felt it was impossible for him to encounter the gay and lively sallies of the actress. Not that he had lost interest in the woman who stood between poor May and happiness, but his mind was too much out of tune to go into such vivacious company, and he therefore had refused Miss Weir’s invitations.

But nearly three weeks after he had taken May Churchill to St. Phillip’s, a change came over her condition. Her physical health decidedly improved, and one morning when Doctor Brentwood was paying his usual visit to her she spoke to him of her future life.

“I am going to live now, doctor, am I not?” she said, in a low, pained tone.

“Certainly you are going to live,” replied the doctor. “I hope for many years; until you are quite old,” and he smiled.

“That will be a long time,” said May, with a weary sigh; “I am not much past twenty now—a long, long time.”

“It seems long to look forward to, but time passes quickly enough, especially when it is fully employed.”

“It is about this that I meant to speak to you of, doctor,” continued May, and a faint color stole to her pale cheeks. “If I am going to live I must do something to gain my own living; I must find some employment.”

“Everyone is better employed,” answered the doctor, cheerfully; “it’s good for mind and body alike. Now what do you think you would like to do?”

“Since I have felt a little better I have thought of this constantly. I—I should like to see Mr. Webster about it, as he might be able to help me.”

“I am sure he will do anything to help you; he is your sincere friend, and has been most anxious about you during your illness, and has called each morning to inquire for you. Therefore you may depend on his assistance, I am certain, and, I may add, on mine.”

“You are very good—”

“And now I am going to ask you a question which is not a medical one,” interrupted the doctor, “and, therefore you need not answer it unless you like. But have you no friends, no relations, to whom you can now apply?”

“None!” answered May, with sudden emotion; “I wish to be as one dead to everyone I know—they must think me dead, and I would have been, but for—”

“Forgive me for having pained you, and I will promise never again to allude to the subject. So you would like to see Ralph Webster? Well, you shall see him to-morrow, and I am truly glad to find you so much better.” And then he smiled kindly and went away.

He felt interested in this forlorn and broken-hearted young woman, who he was sure his friend Webster had saved from some tragic fate; and not the less interested on account of May’s fair face. He therefore wrote to Webster during the day, and told him of the improvement in May’s health, and also of her wish to find some employment.

“Don’t throw cold water on this, my dear fellow,” he added; “it will be the very best thing possible for her, and will give her an interest in life which she has well-nigh lost. Can you call to-morrow afternoon?” And so forth.

Doctor Brentwood’s letter was a great relief to Webster’s mind, and he received another by the same post from Miss Kathleen Weir. This was a highly characteristic epistle.

“Dear Mr. Webster: For the third and last time, unless you come, will you take supper with me this evening; or if suits you better will you call in the afternoon? Wire which. Yours ever sincerely.

“Kathleen Weir.”

Webster read this note with a smile; thought it over, and then decided to call during the afternoon, and he accordingly telegraphed Miss Weir to that effect. And as he drove to the actress’ flat he was wondering if she had any news to tell him, and he found that she had some.

She received him in her usual airy fashion, and she was charmingly dressed in a most becoming tea-gown.

“Well, you have come at last,” she said, holding out her hand as Webster entered her drawing-room.

“Yes,” he answered, taking it, “and I should have come before, but I have been a good deal worried of late.”

“About money or love?”

“About neither, as it happens.”

“I thought there were only two things worried men, and the want of money was the worst. Well, we must all have it; but I have been more than worried, I have been upset; I have seen a ghost!”

“A ghost?”

“Yes, the ghost of a dead love! There, can you guess what I mean? Well, I suppose not, so I must tell you. But I have really been shocked; I have seen John Temple in the flesh, though looking so awfully ill that he was much more like a dead man than a living one.”

“Where did you see him?” asked Webster, quickly.

“I will tell you. Yesterday morning I drove down to see Mr. Harrison, the solicitor, as I wanted to be quite certain whether John Temple is the man who has come into the fortune, as Dereham was so positive that he was. Well, you know Harrison’s offices are at Westminster, and I saw the old boy sure enough, but he was as sly as a fox. He did not deny that John Temple was the man ‘that ultimately, mind ultimately, my dear madam,’ he kept repeating, would succeed to his uncle’s estate or estates. ‘But his position at present is unchanged,’ he added, and he threw ice on my suggestion that I should have an increased allowance. ‘When Mr. John Temple succeeds to the property the question can then be mooted,’ and so on. In fact I got no satisfaction for my trouble, and when I came out of the office in a very bad humor I told the cabman to drive over Westminster bridge and back again, as I thought the river air might improve my temper.”

“And you went?” asked Webster, eagerly.

“I went; I was in a hansom, and when we got to the other end of the bridge I told the man to turn back. He did so, and there was a block as we re-crossed, and I was bending out of the cab to see what was going to happen, when my eyes fell on the figure of a man leaning on the parapet of the bridge, and staring into the river below. As I was looking at him, he lifted his head and looked around, and I saw a ghost—the ghost of John Temple! But, oh, so horribly changed! He looked haggard, worn, and old, and a sort of pity—such fools are women—crept into my heart as I looked at him. I felt sorry for him; I thought he must be in some terrible trouble, and so I felt I should like to speak to him. I pulled out my handkerchief and waved it to attract his attention, and someone told him of this, for he looked quickly up at the cab, and our eyes met! I wish you had seen the look of horror that came over his face, of shuddering horror, as he recognized me. It was hatred! He glared at me just for a moment, and then turned and fled as if the devil himself were after him. There, what do you think of that? The end of a dead love!”

“I think it is very dramatic,” said Ralph Webster, slowly. He forced himself to speak the commonplace words, but he was not thinking commonplace thoughts.

“Now, there was something in this man’s face,” went on the actress, “that told me a story. John Temple is grieving about something that has cut his heart-strings. It can’t be money in his case because for one thing he never cared very much about it, and for another he will ultimately, as Mr. Harrison described it, succeed to his uncle’s property, and with such prospects he could borrow as much as he liked, I suppose. No, it is about some woman! He was looking down into the dusky river when I first saw him. Can he have driven some poor soul to seek for refuge in its gloomy depths?”

Ralph Webster inwardly shuddered, but Kathleen Weir little thought how near she was to the truth.

“He is miserable about some woman,” she repeated, “and that is why I have sent for you to-day. I am in the way, I suppose, and I don’t want to be in the way any longer. I want to be free, and of course he does. Now, how can I find out about his life, for if I could find out, I expect I could go triumphantly through the ordeal of the divorce court.”

Webster was silent for a few moments; he was thinking the knowledge of John Temple’s second marriage would not free him from his first. It would bring disgrace to him, but not liberty to her.

“You would have to show a case against him besides this supposed woman,” he said, slowly. “Did he ever treat you cruelly?”

“You mean did he ever punch my head, or pull my hair?” answered Kathleen, with a hard, little laugh. “No, I can not truthfully say he ever did; but I might say it untruthfully, and he would be too glad to get rid of me to contradict me.”

“But it would be very dangerous; you would have to prove it.”

“At all events he forsook me?”

“I thought you parted by mutual consent?”

“How horrid you are, Mr. Webster! At all events I mean to get quit of him. I am weary of a tie which is no tie; of a bond which galls me, and I would do anything, even something desperate, to break it.”

She started to her feet, and began walking up and down the room as she spoke, swaying her tall, fine figure with a restless movement as she did so. She was looking very handsome, her excitement had flushed her face and brightened her bright eyes, and involuntarily Webster admired her.

“There!” she said, presently, “now I have told you my news, so please rouse your sharp legal brains to help me. I don’t mind about the three hundred a year now, or the ultimate reversion of some bigger sum. I want to be free. I don’t want John Temple to cut his own throat or mine—and upon my word he looked as if he could do it—but I want to scrape out of my marriage some other way.”

“Well, let me have time to think it over.”

“Thanks, and now let us drop a disagreeable subject, and tell me what you have been doing with yourself all this long time? You look thinner, and you say you have been worried?”

“Yes; we all have worries and troubles, you know, Miss Weir.”

“That is true; but still I think life might be bright, might be sweet and worth living for.”

“I am sure yours is.”

“Oh! don’t pay me those commonplace compliments; I don’t want to hear them from you.”

“You despise my best efforts to be agreeable.”

“What a disagreeable humor you are in! I declare I think I shall send you away.”

“Well, must I go?” said Webster, rising with a smile.

“Not yet; unless you will promise to come again very soon. Come to supper to meet Linda Falconer and Dereham the day after to-morrow.”

“I will see if I can, if you will allow the invitation to remain open. By the by, how is that affair progressing?”

“Oh, swimmingly, I believe, but Linda is fearfully bored with him. ‘My dear,’ she said to me the other day, ‘he is too silly.’”

“Poor boy!”

“Poor boy, indeed! However, that is settled, and you will come the day after to-morrow to supper? In the meantime, you know, don’t forget my ghost and his probable misdoings.”

“Very well,” said Webster with a laugh. Then he took leave of the actress, and Kathleen Weir was alone.

As she had done once before after he had left her, she immediately went up to one of the mirrors in the room and gazed at her own reflection in the glass.

“Am I so weak?” she thought. “Do I actually like this man, perhaps better than he likes me? But if I were free I think he would like me—I must be free!”