May and Sister Margaret stayed another fortnight at Hastings after this sea excursion, and Webster went twice down to see them during this time, and Sister Margaret was satisfied in her own mind that everything was progressing as she could wish. Then the weather broke up, and storms and gales swept around the coast, and the sea-foam flew into the town. And it was only when this happened that Webster yielded to May’s repeated requests for them to return to London. She wished now most earnestly to commence working to earn her own living, and had had some correspondence with Doctor Brentwood on the subject. He had arranged that she should join the staff of nurses at St. Phillip’s, as probationer, and Sister Margaret had already given her some instructions. But twice during this time a strong temptation rose in Ralph Webster’s heart; a temptation, however, which he checked, and this was to ask May to be his wife, and so shelter her all her future life.

“It would but frighten her, and make her uneasy,” he told himself; “no, it is too soon.”

So May went back to St. Phillip’s with Sister Margaret, and when Webster saw her again she was dressed in the black gown and white cap and apron of a nurse. She looked, however, so charming in this costume that he could not conceal his admiration.

“You look like—well, what shall I say?” he said, smiling. “A sister of light.”

“Do you mean an angel?” answered May, smiling also. “Ah, I wish I felt like one.”

“And how do you really like the life?” went on Webster, with his dark eyes still fixed on her fair face.

“There are painful things, of course,” hesitated May, “but still you always feel that you are helping someone, and that is something.”

“But I hope they do not give you any hard work; any disagreeable work?”

“They are very good to me,” answered May, softly; “everyone has been very good, and as for you, Mr. Webster—”

“Being good is not in my way,” answered Webster, hastily turning away his head.

“I do not know what you call good then; I can not tell you what I think.”

May’s voice faltered a little when she said this, and Webster’s self-imposed reserve perhaps might have broken down, but just at this moment Doctor Brentwood entered the room, as it was in his sitting-room that the interview between May and Webster was taking place. Indeed, it must be admitted that “Mrs. Church” was treated with some favoritism by the house surgeon; and there were some plain nurses and some plain probationers who made their private comments and remarks on this fact. But May was so gentle and unassuming that as a rule she disarmed criticism.

“It’s her pretty face,” they said, shrugging their shoulders; “well, men are all alike.”

And her pretty face had no doubt a great deal to do with it, and her pretty manner, and her sad, sweet smile. Doctor Brentwood openly said to Webster she was too handsome for a nurse, but he knew, as all men who looked at her knew, that she never sought or desired attention or admiration of any kind.

And so the quiet, dreary months drifted away, and May stayed on at St. Phillip’s Hospital, and only Ralph Webster knew that she lived there. Of John Temple, Webster heard nothing, except that one day, when Christmas was past and gone, he accidentally met Mr. Harrison, the solicitor, who told him smilingly that he had had a visit from the actress, Miss Kathleen Weir.

“She had heard somehow,” he said, “that Mr. John Temple is now heir to his uncle’s estates, and she therefore wished her allowance increased. But I put her off, my dear sir, I put her off; quite time enough when Mr. John Temple does succeed.”

“And where is Mr. John Temple now?” asked Webster.

“He is abroad; he went abroad shortly after I had the visit from Miss Kathleen Weir, and he looks shockingly ill; really shockingly. I wish, I am sure, he may live to come into his inheritance.”

“What sort of man is he?”

“He used to be a remarkably nice fellow; pleasant, and rather philosophical in fact. But when I saw him last he had a most shattered appearance, like a man who had gone through some great mental strain, or bodily illness. I fancy, you know, Mr. Webster,” added the little man, shaking his head, “that that early and unfortunate marriage of his has been a most tremendous worry to him. At least when I mentioned Miss Weir having called at my offices he scowled, and muttered something about wishing he had never seen her face. He may, you see, now want to form a more reasonable marriage, but there is this millstone—a handsome enough millstone though, ha, ha, ha! hanging about his neck.”

“He should not forget that he hung it himself though,” answered Webster, grimly; and then he left Mr. Harrison. But when he next saw Kathleen Weir, in reply to her eager inquiries, he was able to tell her that he had heard that Mr. John Temple had gone abroad.

“But where and when?” asked the actress quickly.

“That I can not tell you.”

“But, Mr. Webster, I am anxious to know. That old rogue, Mr. Harrison, the solicitor, of course knows very well. But if I went to him he would not tell me. How am I to find out?”

“But what good would it do you to find out?”

“Because I am convinced John Temple has something to hide! I want to be divorced from him, that’s the truth, and if I knew where he was I could set detectives to watch his movements. Don’t you see?”

“Unfortunately I can not tell you where he is.”

“I wonder if old Harrison would tell you? Oh! do be a good soul and help me if you can,” and she laid her pretty, white, be-ringed hand on his arm and looked into his face. “It’s so stupid to be bound like this to a man who is perfectly indifferent to you, and, moreover, who actually detests you! I swear to you he looked as if he really hated me that day on Westminster bridge. And why should I waste all my youth and my life? His money is not worth it.”

“It is a very hard case, certainly.”

“I have felt this lately,” said Kathleen Weir, in rather a marked manner; “before, I think I did not care.”

Again she looked in Webster’s face, and with a sort of discomfort his keen dark eyes fell before her large, restless, gray ones. He was not a vain man, but a vague consciousness smote into his heart that this handsome woman had begun to regard him with different feelings to his own. This idea made him more chary of his visits and colder in his manner. And Kathleen Weir, quick to perceive this, also drew back. Thus some weeks passed without him seeing her, when one morning an announcement in the Times brought her affairs more prominently before his mind.

This was no less than a notice in the obituary column of the sudden death of the squire of Woodlea:

“On the 21st inst., at Woodlea Hall, Phillip Temple, Esq., aged 75, of heart disease.”

Webster read the announcement twice over, thinking all the while of the great changes it might bring. Not to the fair black-robed probationer at St. Phillip’s Hospital, though, he decided; it could not touch her very nearly now, but to John Temple and Kathleen Weir.

And yet on second thoughts he remembered it would bring Temple back to England, and would make the friends of the missing girl more eager in their inquiries to learn her fate. John Temple would probably now be forced to tell what he knew, and the fact of his first marriage might be brought home to him. Therefore, the knowledge of the squire’s death disquieted Webster exceedingly, and the day did not pass without his receiving further news concerning it.

The evening post in fact brought him a letter from Kathleen Weir, and the notice from the Times of Mr. Temple’s death fell out of it when Webster opened the envelope. The actress had evidently written in a state of great excitement.

“Dear Mr. Webster,” he read. “The inclosed cutting from the newspaper will tell you what has occurred. This Mr. Temple, whose death it records, is the uncle of John Temple, who is his heir. John Temple is now, therefore, a rich man, and as I am unfortunately his wife, he can not prevent (I suppose) my benefiting by his accession to fortune. But though money is a great thing, an immense thing, it is not everything! John Temple, looking like a ghost, with misery stamped on every feature of his face! There was, I am sure, some strong reason for this, for as a rule he is an easy-going man, inclined to make the best of everything, as he used to think it not worth while to strive with fate.

“There I did and do disagree with him. It is worth while at any rate to try and make the best of one’s life, and it is not making the best of mine, I think, to remain the wife of a man I never see. He is a rich man now, can afford to pay a long price for his freedom, and his freedom I am certain he desires. What I mean is this: He will now be coming to England, and will, of course, go down to the place he has inherited. I want, therefore, someone to go to him and make him a proposition; to say in fact, Kathleen Weir, the wife of whom you are tired, is also tired of you, and wishes to be free from so galling a tie. I am certain it might be arranged, only it is so difficult to write on such matters, and one can only do so to someone in whom you have complete confidence. I have complete confidence in you, though I have seen so little of you of late, but I think I can understand the reason of this. At all events, will you come to see me now, and we can talk the matter over? Will you come to-morrow evening? I shall be alone, as I have a whole host of things to tell you.

“Ever sincerely yours,

”Kathleen Weir.”

Webster read this letter, and at once understood its meaning. Kathleen Weir wished to be free, and she believed that John Temple had given her cause to seek a divorce, and that if she were anxious to obtain one, that he would offer no opposition; nay, gladly aid her in her desire. She also meant, and Webster smiled a little scornfully as he thought this, that she intended to make him pay for his freedom. They were to play into each other’s hands in fact, and she wished some confidential friend or agent to approach him on the subject.

“I wonder if she intends this honor for me,” he reflected, bitterly. And he thought of May Churchill with a quick pang of pain.

If this woman could obtain a divorce, and would accept money to be divorced, which no doubt John Temple would gladly pay, he would be free to marry May. Webster bit his lips and frowned angrily at this idea. This no doubt was Kathleen Weir’s design; she would not scruple, she had said, to invent a charge of cruelty against him, and for the rest she had a perfectly good case.

Webster began walking restlessly up and down the room after he had considered the actress’ letter, but he determined to do nothing to aid her.

But if she succeeded, what should he do? What would be best and kindest to the poor girl whose heart John Temple had nearly broken?

It was a painful question, not easy to answer or to solve, but at all events Kathleen Weir had not yet obtained her divorce.

“I will go and see her,” he decided; “I will learn exactly what she means to do.”

Therefore on the following evening he did go to see her, and she was very pleased to welcome him. She started up as he entered the room, and held out her little white hand.

“How good of you to come,” she said. “I have been wishing so much to see you.”

“I came to talk over your great news,” he answered with a smile.

“It is great news, isn’t it? Great and good news, for I hope soon it will free me of John Temple.”

“But—what have you to go upon?”

“I will find something to go upon,” said the actress, half impatiently. “I have his address, at all events, now, for he is sure to go to Woodlea Hall and look after his property, and I must find someone—or—” and she paused and thought for a moment, and then clapped her hands. “I must find someone,” she repeated, “to go to him, or go myself. There, Mr. Webster, what do you think of that? What do you think of my going to visit my lord in his new state? I would be a welcome visitor, wouldn’t I, and no doubt could make a splendid bargain with him in his eagerness to get rid of me.”

“But—it would expose you to a very painful scene.”

“I am accustomed to scenes, you know,” answered Kathleen Weir, with a little laugh. “Do you know I think it is a splendid idea. At all events, we might mutually agree to meet somewhere, and arrange also mutually to get rid of each other.”

“But what about the Queen’s Proctor intervening?”

Kathleen Weir gave an airy shrug of her shoulders.

“We must manage to be too clever for the Queen’s Proctor, and John Temple, I’m certain, will be only too glad to back me up in anything I say. I shall have some handfuls of hair ready, and swear he tore them out of my head.” And Kathleen Weir laughed.

But Ralph Webster did not laugh. He was thinking of May Churchill, and how her fate might hang on the false words of this woman’s tongue, and he looked very grave when he rose to go away.

“Going so soon?” cried Kathleen Weir, gaily. She was disappointed at his leaving so early, but she did not wish to show this.

“I can wait,” she thought, after he had quitted the room; “they say everything comes to those who wait.”