GOOD RESOLUTIONS.
John Temple went early to Woodside the next morning, after first making
up his mind that he must indulge in no more lovemaking to May Churchill.
"It's not fair to the dear little girl," he told himself. "I was led
away last night; any man would--a saint would have been, and I am not a
saint."
He kept this determination in his mind all the way to the farm. He was
going to see Mr. Churchill about his horse, and not to look at the
sweet Mayflower. Nevertheless, his pulses beat a little more quickly
when he thought of her, and when he rang at the doorbell of the house
his heart was throbbing fast.
In answer to his inquiry if Mr. Churchill were within, the maid
replied, with rather a peculiar smile, that her master had left home
for some days.
"But," she added, "he left a letter for you, sir, with Miss Churchill,
and she told me to tell you this if you called."
"Then can I see Miss Churchill?" asked John.
"Yes, sir; will you step this way?"
John accordingly followed the maid to the dining-room, and when she
announced Mr. Temple, May rose to receive him with a shy smile and a
charming blush.
"I called to see your father about the horse," began John as he took
her pretty white fluttering hand in his.
"Yes, he left a letter for you," answered May; "a--very strange thing
has happened, Mr. Temple."
"What has happened?" asked John, smiling, and thinking the while how
lovely she looked.
"After you left last night," and the blush deepened as she spoke, "he
told me he was going away to be married to-day."
"To be married!" echoed John, in great surprise.
"Yes, it has upset me very much; I do not like the person; I do not
like it at all."
"And you knew nothing about it?"
"He told me a few days ago he was thinking of going to be married
again; but this is so sudden--I am very much distressed about it."
"You must not let it worry you."
"But I can't help it worrying me; I can't bear the idea of it--it has
made me very unhappy."
May was standing with her hand leaning on the back of the chair from
which she had risen at John's entrance, and somehow it seemed only
natural that he now should put his brown hand over her white one in a
consoling manner.
"I am very sorry," he said; "and I can not bear to think of you being
unhappy."
"It's very good of you," began May, "but--"
"I won't allow you to be unhappy," continued John; "come, you must
cheer up--you dear little girl."
He really did not mean to do it, but when a man has once nearly kissed
a pretty girl, it seems very natural for him to do it again. At all
events John did kiss the lovely blooming face before him, and all the
rebuke he got was:
"Oh! Mr. Temple, you should not do that!"
"I know I should not," answered John, penitently; "but you are so
sweet, so dear, I could not help myself--and then you are unhappy, you
know, so you must forgive me."
"I am really unhappy."
"Don't think about the horrid woman," consoled John, taking the two
pretty hands in his; "think of something else--think a little bit about
me."
The last few words were half-whispered, and they seemed to console
May somehow. She began to smile again, and she looked softly at John,
though she drew her little hands away from his grasp.
"It seems such a thing," she said, "for him to forget my mother."
"Ah--well; he is only mortal, I suppose."
"Then do you think everyone forgets, Mr. Temple?"
"I think men--" and then he paused. "I know someone that I never could
forget," he continued.
May did not inquire who this "someone" was.
"Someone whose face I would dream of if I did not see it for twenty
years," went on John, energetically.
"It would be changed in twenty years," replied May, with a little sigh.
"Not in my eyes; in my eyes it could never change."
This was the way in which John kept to his resolution. They went into
the garden awhile after this, and sat listening to a black bird singing
to his mate. Then they went to May's fernery, and walked beneath the
shadow of the trees, and talked fond foolish words. May forgot all
about her father's marriage and her hated stepmother. She was with the
man she liked best in all the world, and she believed he loved her.
What happiness is like this? The golden hours of youth and hope; the
vague foreshadowings of still greater joy.
Before they parted John had promised to call again.
"I shall be so lonely," May had said softly, and how could he leave her
lonely? Yet he did not mean any wrong; it was the drifting tide bearing
him on to he knew not where.
At all events during the next few days he went constantly to Woodside.
Mr. Churchill's marriage had taken place, and the wealthy widow from
Castle Hill would, no doubt, soon be installed at the farm. May tried
not to think of it, and she tried also to tell herself that she must
not think seriously of Mr. Temple. But do what she would she did think
of him. After all, if he really loved her, would not that sweep away
the social difference between them?
And he did love her. May felt sure of this, and this surety alone
brought her great happiness. People might try to separate them; his
uncle probably would try, but true love can overcome all obstacles. In
these sweet dreams the girl lived during the few days following her
father's marriage. Then the time for the adjourned inquest approached,
and in due course May received a letter from her father to tell her
that on the following evening that he and his newly-made wife would
arrive at Woodside.
The preparations for this event were intensely disagreeable to May.
John Temple also heard the news with great annoyance. No more quiet
walks in the lonely garden then; no more tender hand-clasps, nor long,
uninterrupted interviews. He gathered from May that her stepmother was
not a lady; that she was bustling and interfering.
"Perhaps it is better," John told himself.
May's two young brothers, Hal and Willie Churchill, had been away for
their holidays for a week or two also during this time, so that John
Temple and the Mayflower practically had been able to see each other
whenever they liked. They knew now this state of things would end. The
boys were coming home; Mr. and Mrs. Churchill were on the point of
arriving, and moreover, John Temple had received a hint from his uncle
that his visits to Woodside Farm had been remarked on, and that it
would be well that they should cease.
"It can end in nothing, you know, John," the squire had said, not
unkindly.
"Certainly it will end in nothing, uncle," answered John, gravely. "I
think, if you do not mind, after the adjourned inquest on that poor
girl is over, I will leave Woodlea for a month or two."
"My dear boy, you are your own master, and must guide your own
actions," said the squire; "only I do not think it quite fair to this
pretty girl that you should pay her so much attention when you can not
marry her."
"No, I can not marry her," replied John, and after this the subject was
not mentioned again, but the conversation was not without effect on
John Temple.
So he went to see May for the last time before her stepmother's arrival
in a very sober frame of mind. It was a dull, wet day, and when May saw
him crossing the garden she went to open the house door for him, and
gave him her hand with a warm clasp of welcome.
"Thank you for coming to cheer me, as I feel so dreadfully dull," she
said, smiling.
"I feel dreadfully dull, too," answered John, putting down his wet
umbrella and hat on the hall stand, and the next moment he put his hand
through the girl's arm.
"Come into the drawing-room," said May, softly; "I have been making it
all smart, and there is a fire there; it is so wet."
They crossed the hall thus, John lightly leaning on May's arm, and
entered the drawing-room together. There was a bright fire burning in
the grate, and the room was fresh and sweet with flowers. Altogether
May had done her best to make it look cheerful, but still John felt
very dull.
May went up to the fire, and John held out his chilled hands to the
blaze.
"When do you expect these people to arrive?" he asked.
"Father said about six o'clock," replied May.
John took out his watch and looked at it.
"It's just four now," he said, "and I must go by five; only one hour,
May!"
May sighed softly, and John turned round and looked at her earnestly,
and then also sighed.
"The last few days have been very bright, haven't they, May?" he said.
"Yes," half-whispered May.
"Too bright, I am afraid," went on John; "it will make the coming ones
seem dull."
"There may be some bright ones still," said May, in a low tone, with
downcast eyes and blushing cheeks.
Again John looked at her. How pretty she was in her white frock and
crimson ribbons! She had a crimson rose in her waistband and another at
her throat. "Truly a fair picture," John was thinking, and it was hard,
very hard, to say the word he meant to speak.
"I am going away, May, for a bit," he said at length, with an effort.
"Going away?" repeated the girl quickly, and her face flushed, and then
grew a little pale, and John saw this.
"Yes," went on John, still with an effort, "I think I shall go abroad
for a month or two."
May did not speak; her pallor increased, and her agitation was visible.
"But I shall never forget Woodside," said John, after a moment's pause,
"nor you--Mayflower--I wish I could."
"Why?" asked May, in a trembling voice, and she put out her hand as if
for support.
"Because I would be happier if I could," answered John, also much
moved; "I will pay a bitter price, I am afraid, for the bright hours I
have spent with you."
"Oh, do not go away, Mr. Temple!" cried May, suddenly, looking at him
with imploring eyes. "I--I shall be so lonely--I shall--"
"We must try to forget all this," said John, and he put his arm around
her and pressed his lips on hers. "Dear little girl--dear Mayflower--it
is hard, it is bitter to go from you."
Tears rushed into May's eyes, and John kissed them away.
"Do not grieve, darling," he whispered, "it would make me more sad if I
thought I had done any harm to you."
"But you will come back?" said May, in a broken voice.
John did not speak. He did not mean to come back, but he could not
bear to see her distress. He kissed her again; he called her by every
endearing name, and May put her hand in his and held it fast.
"Promise me to come back," she whispered, with her cheek against his.
"I promise," said John, after a moment's pause, for he felt he could
not resist her appeal.
"And do not quite forget me when you are away."
"Forget you!" cried John, and he caught her passionately to his breast;
"would that I could, May! It would be better for you and me--but the
die is cast!"
She was still in his arms, with her head on his breast, when the sound
of carriage wheels on the gravel outside was distinctly heard in the
room. May lifted her head and gave a cry; John looked sharply around.
"If it is your father, whatever shall we do?"
May, girl-like, ran to the mirror; John, man-like, stood helpless.
"My hair is not very disorderly, is it?" she said, trying to smooth her
soft bright curls. "How odious that they should come!"
"What shall I do?" asked John.
"Stay until they come in, and then I suppose--"
"I will go--good-by, dear May."
He clasped her hand for a moment, and then May went to the door to
receive her father and his bride. Mrs. Churchill was already in the
hall, and was giving orders to the coachman and servants about her
luggage; Mr. Churchill was giving orders about the horses.
As May went forward Mrs. Churchill saw her, and advanced toward her and
kissed her face.
"Well, my dear," she said, "here we are. We have had a wet day to
travel in, but it makes it all the pleasanter to get home. And how are
you?"
She was a good-looking, middle-aged woman; robust and dark, with marked
dark eyebrows, and a firm, hard mouth. She looked a person of strong
will also; somehow her very voice told you this.
"William," she called out in a loud tone to her husband, "here is your
daughter."
Upon this Mr. Churchill came into the hall, and kissed May also.
"Well, my dear," he said, kindly, "and how have you been getting on?"
"Mr. Temple is in the drawing-room, father," said May, nervously.
"What--the squire?"
"No, Mr. John Temple."
But John by this time had appeared. He went up to Mr. Churchill and
shook hands with him.
"Well, Mr. Churchill, I hear I have to congratulate you," he said, with
a smile.
"Thank you, Mr. Temple," answered the farmer. "Sarah, my dear, this is
Mr. John Temple, our landlord's nephew and heir."
Upon this Mrs. Churchill bowed graciously, and after a few more
pleasant words, John Temple went away. Then Mrs. Churchill began
bustling about the house as if she had lived in it for twenty years.
She remarked on the furniture, and decided where she would place her
own "things," as she called them. She made no pretense about consulting
May in any of her arrangements, but took her place at once as mistress
of the house and all that it contained.
"But what matter," thought May, softly, as she stood looking out on
the still garden on the night of her stepmother's arrival at Woodside.
"What matter does anything here now make to me?"