DISAPPEARED.
Mr. and Mrs. Churchill returned to Woodside late on the following
evening, and were both somewhat surprised not to find May up to receive
them. The two boys, however, were.
"May has gone to bed with a bad headache," said Hal, with a grin, for
the information of his stepmother.
"I think she should have sat up; it is only proper respect to us,"
retorted Mrs. Churchill.
"Not if she is ill, my dear," said Mr. Churchill, who somehow missed
seeing his pretty daughter.
Mrs. Churchill said nothing more on the subject. She ate her supper
and arranged "the things" that she had brought from Castle Hill to her
own satisfaction, and then retired for the night, well satisfied with
herself and what she had done during the day.
And the next morning she rose early, as was her usual practice, and
began her healthful daily life with her accustomed energy. At half-past
eight o'clock she and her husband and the two boys were seated at the
well-spread breakfast table, but still May had not appeared.
"Ring the breakfast bell again, Hal," directed Mrs. Churchill
presently. "I can not have May lying in bed all day."
The breakfast bell was rung for the second time, but it failed to bring
May down-stairs. Therefore, after she had finished her own excellent
breakfast with excellent appetite, Mrs. Churchill said she would go
upstairs to see after her stepdaughter.
"I'll not take her up any tea, as she may be only idling," she
remarked, as she rose from the table; "but I'll see what is really the
matter with her."
She accordingly went upstairs and rapped at May's bedroom door. There
was no reply, so Mrs. Churchill opened it and went in.
One glance at the bed showed her that it had not been slept in; another
glance around the room told her it was empty.
Mrs. Churchill felt half-frightened. Again she looked around, and
this time her eyes fell on a letter lying on the toilet-table. She
approached the toilet-table and took up the letter. It was directed to
her husband, and it was sealed, and Mrs. Churchill knew at once that
something very serious had happened.
She hurried out of the room carrying the letter with her. As she
descended the staircase she saw her husband in the hall, about to open
the front door, for the purpose of leaving the house.
"William!" she called, and waved the letter, and when Mr. Churchill
noticed the expression of her face he at once turned back to meet her.
"Come in here," she said, opening the dining-room door, and putting her
hand on her husband's arm as she spoke. The dining-room was empty and
Mrs. Churchill closed the door behind them.
"William," she said, when they were alone, "May is not in her room; the
bed has never been slept in, and she has left this letter lying on the
toilet-table for you."
"Good heavens! What can be the matter?" exclaimed Mr. Churchill; and he
proceeded to tear open the letter, and read it eagerly, while his wife
peered over his shoulder trying to do so too.
And this was what he read:
"MY DEAR FATHER: You told me once that you did not wish me to remain in
your house if I could not treat your wife with the respect which you
considered was her due. I find I can not do this; nor can I endure any
longer the, to me, odious visits of Mr. Henderson. I am, therefore,
going away, and you need not be afraid for my future life. I should not
have left you if I did not know that you had someone to look after you
and care for you, but this I am sure you have. Be kind to the two dear
boys, and believe me to remain still, your affectionate daughter.
MAY."
Mr. Churchill's clear bronzed complexion flushed darkly as he read this
letter and comprehended its meaning.
"What do you think of that?" he asked, handing it to his wife.
Then Mrs. Churchill read the letter fully, and her clear skin also
flushed as she did so.
"She has run away with someone," she said, as she finished the letter.
"She tried to put the blame on me, but that is an excuse--she has gone
with some lover."
"She has no lover that I know of but young Henderson," replied Mr.
Churchill, somewhat hoarsely. He was terribly upset by May's letter,
remembering the words which he himself had used to his young daughter,
and to which she had referred.
"She was sure to have lovers," continued Mrs. Churchill. "You may not
know of them. Who can tell? It may be someone beneath her."
"You don't know May when you say that!" said Mr. Churchill, angrily.
"May is a thorough little lady whatever she is. She would not look at
anyone beneath her."
"Yet such things have been."
"May would do nothing of the sort; I know that," positively asserted
her father. "And how do we know that she has gone away with anyone?
Most likely gone on some wild-goose chase because she could not get on
with you."
"Oh! try to blame me. That's just like a man."
"I am not blaming you; but I won't have anything of that kind said of
my girl. May held herself too high for that."
Mrs. Churchill did not speak. She drew in her firm lips. She bore a
fresh grudge against May.
"Where are the boys? The boys may know something about this?" now said
Mr. Churchill.
The boys were accordingly called into the dining-room. Will went
innocently, but Hal with a guilty conscience, which, however, he was
prepared to disguise.
"When did you last see your sister yesterday?" asked Mr. Churchill,
sternly.
"We had tea with her at five o'clock," answered Will; "and after that I
did not see her."
"And you, Hal?"
"I saw her a bit later, and she was going out for a walk then," replied
the boy; "and she said she had a headache and would go to bed directly
she came in, and would not sit up for you--and that I was to tell you
so."
"And you did not see her again?"
"No, I went out, and when I came back I supposed May had gone to bed as
she said she would, for I saw nothing more of her."
"And she said nothing to you about going away?"
"Not a word," untruthfully affirmed Hal.
"Yet she is not in the house; she has written to say she has gone
away," said Mr. Churchill.
"Gone away?" repeated Will, in great surprise. "Where has she gone?"
"She does not say where," answered his father. "This must be seen to at
once. Sarah, go and ask the servants if they know anything."
Mrs. Churchill obeyed her husband, but the servants knew nothing.
"Miss," the housemaid said, had told her she had a headache, and would
not sit up to supper. She had not seen her go out, and "miss" had
requested her not to go into her room, as she hoped to go to sleep and
did not wish to be disturbed.
This was all Mrs. Churchill learned in the kitchen, but when she again
went up to May's bedroom she found that a small leather trunk, that
belonged to her, and nearly all her best clothes, had also disappeared.
Her flight, therefore, had been clearly premeditated. Someone also must
have assisted her, as it was almost impossible that she could have
carried away her trunk herself.
Mrs. Churchill went down and told her husband all this, and he once
more questioned the boys, but both denied they knew anything about it;
Willie truthfully, Hal untruthfully.
"Take my word for it, she has run away with someone," repeated Mrs.
Churchill.
Mr. Churchill now began to think there must be some truth in this.
It could not be young Henderson, as she disliked him so much; and
then there was Mr. Goodall, the curate--but no, May always laughed at
him--and then suddenly Mr. Churchill remembered John Temple, and seeing
May and him in the garden together in the moonlight.
He gave a sort of exclamation as the idea struck him, but he said
nothing. Mr. John Temple was his landlord's nephew and heir, and it was
a very serious thing to bring any such accusation against him unless he
had good grounds for it.
"I will drive over to the station, and see if I can hear anything
there," he said, hastily, and he accordingly did this, and was received
in a friendly manner by the station-master, with whom he was well
acquainted.
"I want a word with you, Mr. Johnson," said Mr. Churchill, in some
agitation.
"Certainly, sir. Come in here," replied the station-master, leading Mr.
Churchill into his private office.
"Did you see anything of my daughter, yesterday?" now asked Mr.
Churchill, in an anxious voice.
"Oh, yes, sir, of course; I put her into the quarter-to-six train
myself, on her road to London. She told me she was going to pay a visit
there."
"To London?" repeated Mr. Churchill; and he turned so pale that the
station-master grew alarmed.
"Nothing wrong, I hope, sir?" he said.
"No," answered Mr. Churchill, with a sort of gasp. "The truth is,
Johnson--don't mention this--but I'm afraid my daughter and my new wife
did not get on over-well, and I think the foolish girl must have run
away from home. Was she alone when she came to the station?"
"Quite alone, sir," answered the station-master. "In the afternoon a
boy brought a trunk and said it had to wait for a young lady who was
coming to catch a train. And I just happened to look at the address,
and it was 'Miss Churchill, London.'"
"And that was all?"
"That was all, sir--'Miss Churchill, London.' I wondered at the time
there was nothing more, but there was not."
"And the boy who brought the trunk; it was not one of my boys, was it?"
"Oh, dear, no, sir! I know both your boys quite well. This was a common
sort of lad in a fustian jacket, and I don't think I'd know him again."
"And she came to the train? How did she look?"
"She came into the station quite cheerful, sir, and she took a
second-class fare to London, and I put her into the carriage myself. I
asked her if she was going for a long visit, as you see I've known her
ever since she was a child, and she smiled in her pretty way. 'Yes, Mr.
Johnson,' said she, 'a long visit;' and those were her last words to
me."
Mr. Churchill groaned aloud.
"I fear she has run away," he said, "and as well seek for a needle in a
bundle of hay as find anyone in London if they went to hide. Thank you,
Johnson. Don't say anything, but I fear it's a bad business."
So Mr. Churchill left the station with a heavy heart, but on the way
home he saw the gray walls and towers of Woodlea Hall standing amid the
trees in the distance, and again the thought of John Temple recurred to
his mind.
"I'll make some excuse and go and see if he's there, at any rate," he
decided, and accordingly he turned his horse's head down the avenue
that led to the Hall, and a few minutes later drew up at the back
entrance.
"Can I see the squire?" he asked in some agitation.
It was yet early morning, and the squire was still at breakfast.
But Mr. Churchill was known to be a favorite tenant, and one of the
servants took up a message that he was waiting until the squire could
see him. A message came back, would Mr. Churchill go into the library,
and Mr. Temple would join him immediately.
This the squire did, and in his quiet, courteous manner held out his
hand to Mr. Churchill, who took it nervously.
"I am in sad trouble, sir," he began.
"I am extremely sorry to hear this, Mr. Churchill," answered the
squire, with real interest.
"It's about my daughter, sir--"
"What, that pretty girl?" interrupted the squire.
"Yes, May--well, sir, the truth is that May and my new wife didn't
get on over-well together, and we--my wife and I--have been away from
home for a couple of days, and when we went to seek May this morning
we found she was not in the house. Then I went to the station--I have
just been there--and Johnson, the station-master, he says May left last
evening by the quarter-to-six train for London, and that's every word
we know about her."
"And she left no letter? Told no one she was going?"
"Yes, she left a letter for me, to say she was going, and that was all;
not a word where she was going to."
"This is very distressing. Did she say nothing to her brothers?"
"Not a word--and squire, there is something I wanted to ask you--" and
then Mr. Churchill hesitated.
"Pray ask me, Mr. Churchill, and if there is anything I can do for you,
you may depend on me."
"Well, sir, you see May and your nephew, Mr. John Temple, were a good
bit together about that unfortunate girl's death at Fern Dene, and I've
been wondering if he could tell us anything? No offense, you know,
squire, only sometimes girls tell their troubles or fancied troubles to
other young people, and I thought perhaps she might have said something
to Mr. John Temple--that is, if he is at the Hall."
"He is certainly at the Hall," replied the squire, gravely. "He
returned last Saturday, and is now in the breakfast-room. Would you
like to see him?"
"If I might make so bold."
Mr. Temple rose and rang the bell, and when the footman answered it he
said quietly:
"Ask Mr. John Temple kindly to come to the library for a few minutes."
The footman bowed and disappeared, and a few moments of uncomfortable
silence passed between the squire and his tenant. The squire was
remembering his advice to John on the subject of May Churchill; her
father seeing the two together in the moonlit garden.
Then John Temple appeared, calm, assured, and a little pale.
He shook hands with Mr. Churchill, and then looked at him inquiringly.
"John," said the squire, as the farmer hesitated, "Mr. Churchill
has called here about his daughter; it seems that the young lady
disappeared from her home yesterday in the absence of Mr. and Mrs.
Churchill, and as you were a good deal thrown with her about that
unfortunate affair at Fern Dene, Mr. Churchill wishes to know if she
ever gave you any hint regarding her intention of leaving her home?"
"Yes, Mr. John, that's just it; just as the squire says," put in Mr.
Churchill, eagerly.
"Certainly not," replied John Temple, calmly. "I was, as you say, a
good deal thrown with Miss Churchill regarding that unfortunate affair,
but she never mentioned anything whatever to me about leaving her home."
"And she made no complaints?" asked Mr. Churchill.
"None. I think she once said she disliked that young Henderson very
much; that was at the inquest."
"And when did you last see her, Mr. John?"
"I have been away, but I saw her last Sunday at church."
This was a bold speech, yet John Temple never faltered as he spoke it.
He had made up his mind that these inquiries were sure to be made, and
he risked the chance that no one had seen his interviews with May on
Sunday or Monday.
At all events he convinced both his uncle and Mr. Churchill that he had
nothing to do with May's disappearance. The farmer thanked him and the
squire, and then withdrew, and John and his uncle were left alone.
"It's a strange business," said the squire, "but I suppose it is the
fault of the new wife. This pretty girl has perhaps gone to try her
fortune in London, in preference to living at home in uncongenial
company. But it's a pity."
"Someone told me, I forget who," answered John, "that the new wife, as
you call her, was bent on marrying this pretty girl to that brute young
Henderson. In that case one can not wonder at her running away."
"Well, I hope she'll come to no trouble; she's a very pretty girl."
"Very," replied John, laconically, and then he turned away; but his
uncle noticed that during the rest of the day there was a cloud upon
his brow.
Mr. Churchill, in the meanwhile, had returned home, and had told his
news to his wife. May had gone to London alone, and the station-master
had seen her off, and a strange boy had taken her trunk to the station.
"Then it has been all planned beforehand!" exclaimed Mrs. Churchill.
"How deceitful!"
Mr. Churchill said nothing, and was certainly looking anything but
happy.
"Will you put it into the hands of the police?" asked Mrs. Churchill.
"No," answered the farmer, decidedly. "May would have some little money
with her--a matter of twenty pounds or so, at least, and she can't
starve for a week or two with that. And when she wants money she can
come home. Remember that, Sarah," he added, emphatically, "whenever my
girl wants to come back, she's welcome here."