TOO BITTER TO BE BORNE.
It was still very early in the day when John Temple left Woodlea, in a
state of strong though suppressed excitement. It had come so suddenly,
this discovery, this exposure, that he had dreaded far more on May's
account than his own. But he must face the situation; he told himself
this as he strode across the dewy park, as he went on with rapid steps
toward the nearest railway station.
He looked at his watch; there was a train passed for the south at a
quarter past eleven o'clock, and he made up his mind to endeavor to
reach the station in time to travel by this. He had not a moment to
spare. On he went with a pale, set face and compressed lips, running
a race, as it were, with the train. And as he entered the station the
engine puffed up on the metals outside. But John Temple was known to
the station-master, and when he called out for a ticket to London, the
station-master told him to hurry on the platform, and that he would
follow with the ticket.
All this happened so quickly that John Temple had little time to think.
It was not until he found himself actually in the train, speeding on
his way to town, that he began quite to realize what was before him.
"Poor May, my poor, sweet May!" he almost groaned. For well he knew
that the news he was bearing her would well-nigh break her heart. And
he could not now keep it from her. Her father was certain now to find
her, and the only thing in John's favor was that he had the start of
him. There was not another train south for some hours, and in the
meanwhile John determined to see May, to try to induce her to seek a
new home in another land.
"We can go to Australia," he told himself; "who is to know anything
there? and I have enough to live on, and as for Woodlea, what is that
to my poor, poor girl?"
But it was a terrible task that he had before him, and he shrank from
it with utter loathing.
"Why was I so weak?" he muttered. "I should have told her the truth. I
was led away by her beauty, by her love, and went drifting on, and now
she must know everything. But if she loves me best of all it may still
come right."
He tried to buoy himself up with this idea. He thought of May's
tenderness; her devotion, and remembered how she had told him hers was
"the love that can not change." The test had come; the bitter test she
had never dreamed of, and he had to face the most painful ordeal of his
life.
All too soon it seemed to him he saw the smoke of the great city; all
too soon he was speeding through tunnels, and being carried rapidly
over housetops. Then came the rush and hurry of a great terminus. John
Temple had reached his destination, and as he entered a cab and told
the driver to convey him to Miss Webster's house in Pembridge Terrace,
it was with a sinking heart and faltering tongue.
In the meanwhile at Pembridge Terrace everything seemed as quiet and
peaceable as usual. Yet there was secret anxiety in the hearts of the
two kind women of the house. For there had been something in their
nephew's manner during his visits of late that had certainly alarmed
them. Ralph Webster had in truth been so restless, so unlike himself,
that they could not understand him. He was indeed in a state of mind
most unusual to his strong and determined nature, for he knew not how
to act. His duty and sense of right urged him one way he told himself,
and then, when he looked on May's sweet, happy face he felt it almost
impossible for him to be the one who could strike her so dire a blow.
But of one thing he had no doubt, which was the certainty of John
Temple's early marriage to Kathleen Weir. He had even gone to the
city church she had named and examined the register of the ill-suited
marriage which had ended so disastrously. He had seen Kathleen Weir
since his interview with Mr. Harrison, the solicitor, but he had not
told her that Mr. Harrison knew of the identity of the John Temple who
had married her, and paid her a yearly allowance, and the John Temple
who had become the heir of the Woodlea property through the death of
his young cousin.
He had left this point in doubt purposely, thinking it might hasten the
catastrophe if it were known for the unhappy girl who in his eyes had
been so shamefully deceived. But the actress seemed determined to learn
the truth.
"Very likely the old fox is keeping it back," she said; "he would be
sure I should want more money if I knew, and Dereham was so positive
about the matter. What do you think it would be best for me to do? To
write to Mr. Harrison himself, or send a letter to John Temple through
him; for, of course, he knows his address?"
"I should do nothing immediately, I think," answered Ralph Webster, and
the handsome actress looked at him and wondered what was his motive as
he spoke.
"I don't want to see him, mind," she continued; "to see him now would
be as disagreeable to me as no doubt to him; it's a mere matter of
money, nothing more."
"Yes, of course. Well, I'll try to find out all about it for a
certainty in the course of a few days; and now I must go, for I
promised to dine with my aunts in Pembridge Terrace this evening," and
Webster rose and held out his hand as he spoke.
"What a wonderfully attentive nephew you are!" said Kathleen Weir, also
rising, with a light laugh. "Do you know I'm beginning to believe there
is something behind these two respectable old ladies? A pretty cousin,
eh? Or, perhaps, even a housemaid?"
Webster's dark face colored.
"There is no cousin," he answered; "and as far as I remember the
housemaid is a remarkably plain-featured young woman, so you see you
are wrong."
"It's like my interest in John Temple then, a mere matter of money,"
smiled the actress, showing her white teeth. "Ah, well, my friend, such
is life!"
"Such, indeed," thought Webster, bitterly, as he descended the stone
flight of steps that led to Miss Kathleen Weir's flat; "here is a
tragedy and a comedy combined."
He did really dine with his aunts, and it was during the evening that
both Miss Margaret and Miss Eliza became convinced that, as they
expressed it, he had "something on his mind." His dark, resolute eyes
lingered on the sweet face opposite him, and his usually fluent tongue
was seldom heard. He went away early, and he went away as irresolute
how he should act as when he arrived.
"Ralph doesn't look well," said Miss Margaret, as the door closed
behind him.
"No, indeed," sighed Miss Eliza.
"And how silent he was!" smiled May.
But the day after this visit, the very next day, she knew what had made
him silent and sad. It was a dreary day, dull, and at times wet, and
during the afternoon, about four o'clock, Miss Margaret, Miss Eliza,
and May were all sitting in the dining-room at Pembridge Terrace,
where a cheery fire helped to exclude some of the gloom outside. Miss
Margaret was knitting, Miss Eliza reading a novel, and May seemingly
reading a novel, but really thinking of John Temple. The sound of a cab
stopping at the door, however, interrupted all their occupations.
"Can that be Ralph?" said Miss Margaret, looking up.
May also looked up and turned her head so that she could see out of the
window, and the next moment rose with a glad cry.
"It's John!" she said, and as she spoke she ran out of the room into
the hall, just as John Temple was entering it.
"John! dear John!" she cried, and without a word he took her in his
arms and pressed her, nay crushed her, against his breast.
"John!" again May murmured, and then she raised her head and looked in
his face.
It was pale and agitated, and he spoke no word. And as she looked
at him he pressed his lips on hers and something in his expression,
something even in his touch, with the swift and subtle knowledge of
love, thrilled her heart with sudden fear.
"Is anything the matter?" she whispered. "John, are you ill?"
"I am not very well," he answered, slowly and painfully.
"Oh, I'm so sorry--how long have you been ill?" asked May, anxiously.
"I am only tired, I think; I will tell the driver of the cab to stop--I
want you to go out with me for a little while, May."
"Yes, of course, but first come in and rest," answered May, uneasily,
for his manner was so strange.
John Temple went down the steps to speak to the driver, and May stood
at the open door watching him. Then he reascended the steps, and she
shut the door behind him and put her arm through his, and together
they entered the dining-room where Miss Webster and Miss Eliza were
standing, full of expectation and excitement.
"John is not very well, Miss Webster," said May, a little tremulously;
"I think he wants nursing and being taken care of."
"Oh! I'm so sorry," said the two kind ladies, almost with one breath.
"It is nothing," answered John, nervously, as he shook hands with them;
"I am tired, that is all."
"You must have some wine or some tea. You must stay to dinner, of
course?" the next moment suggested hospitable Miss Webster.
"Thanks, I will take a glass of wine," answered John, "but I will not
stay to dinner; I am going to take May out to dine with me."
Both the sisters protested against this, but John Temple was firm, and
after he had taken his wine he looked at May, and asked her to get
ready to go out with him. May rose at once to obey his wish, but she
still felt uneasy. John was not like himself; his smile was strained,
his very voice was different.
"Something is worrying him dreadfully, I am sure," she told herself
as she hurried on her hat and cape, and when she turned to the
sitting-room and told John she was ready, to her surprise John put out
his hand to take leave of Miss Webster.
"But you'll bring May back; we will see you, then?" said Miss Webster,
also surprised.
"Oh! yes, I forgot," answered John, and then he led May to the cab,
and, having placed her in it, took his seat by her side.
May slid her little hand into his as the horse started.
"John, I am sure something is vexing you," she said, tenderly and
anxiously, looking at his half-averted face; "have you any bad news to
tell me?"
"I have some news," he answered, with an effort.
"Is it bad news?" urged May.
"I can not tell you here; wait until we get to the hotel--I will tell
you then."
"But John--"
"Hush, hush, dear; you will hear it soon enough."
He spoke huskily, almost hoarsely, and he turned away his head from
her tender gaze. After this they drove on almost in silence until they
reached the Grosvenor Hotel, where John usually stayed when he was in
town. When he arrived there he ordered rooms and dinner, and then when
they were alone May once more looked at him questioningly.
"Tell me now, John, what is it?" she asked.
"May--" began John, and then he paused, absolutely unable to find words
to tell her the truth.
"Oh! do tell me, John!" she prayed, and she laid her hand beseechingly
on his arm.
Then he looked at her, and there was great pain in his eyes and on his
pale face.
"I should rather be dead--I swear it, though you may not believe
it--than say to you what I am forced to say to-day."
"Oh! you frighten me! What can it be?" cried May.
"Do you remember when--when I went away and left you, May," went on
John Temple, in a broken voice; "when I wrote to you and told you that
you were to be quite sure of your feelings toward me if I were to be
anything more to you; when I told you that I believed that if two
people truly loved each other that nothing should part or change them?"
"I remember," answered May, lifting her head and looking with steadfast
eyes in his face, "when you wrote that there were other feelings
between men and women besides the love that can not change, and that I
was to question my heart. I did--I told you then my love could never
change, and now I tell you again--it can never change."
"My darling!"
He caught her to his breast, he kissed her eyes, her lips, her brow,
and then in hurried, agitated words he tried to tell her all.
"May, I loved you then, and I love you now, how dearly none but my own
heart can tell--but I should have told you the truth. I told you there
were obstacles to our marriage, and that it must be a secret one, and
you agreed to this. Our secret is now known. Mrs. Temple, my uncle's
wife, it seems, saw one of your letters to me, and she actually sent
that brute, young Henderson, up to town to spy on you. He saw you enter
Miss Webster's house, and he went back and told your father."
"Oh! John!" cried May.
"My uncle sent for me this morning, and questioned me, but I would tell
him nothing; and while I was with him your father and young Henderson
arrived at the Hall. Your father asked me if I were married to you, and
I refused to tell him also, and then when Henderson spoke I called him
a murderer and a spy. He sprang at me and struck me, but with one blow
I sent him reeling to the floor, and when I left Woodlea he had not
recovered his senses."
May gave a sort of cry.
"And--and what followed?" she gasped out.
"Then I left Woodlea. I was determined to see you first before I said a
word to one of them--for, May, it was not for fear of my uncle's anger
that I wished our marriage to be a secret one--but there was another
reason--"
"Another reason?" echoed May, with fast whitening lips.
"Yes, when I was a boy, a mere lad at least, I met a woman older than
myself; a woman who took advantage of my boyish infatuation, and led me
on to do what I have cursed ever since I met you. May, do not look so
white! My dear one, this need not, shall not, part us. Our love is too
deep and strong for a tie, broken years ago, to come between us. But in
an hour of madness, I married--"
May started back as if she had received a sudden blow.
"I married," went on John Temple, nerving himself to speak the words,
"the actress, Kathleen Weir--"
But he said no more; May's lips parted, she gasped as if for breath,
and then as John Temple caught her in his arms she sank senseless on
the floor.
"My God! has it killed her!" he cried in sudden anguish, looking at
her white and clammy face. He lifted her up, he placed her on a couch,
he rang the bell wildly for assistance. But May lay like one dead. One
arm fell motionless at her side; John grasped her wrist and could feel
no pulsation. Again he rang madly at the bell, and this time it was
answered.
"The lady has fainted!" he cried to the astonished waiter. "Bring
water, brandy--send some of the women here, and get a doctor at once."
In a few minutes several people were in the room, and some of the
female servants began bathing May's brow and hands with water, while
John Temple tried to wet her lips with the spirits they had brought
him. He knelt down at her side; he called her by every endearing name,
but still May made no sign. Then a doctor hurried in and proceeded to
use remedies to revive the senseless girl. And at last, with faint,
gasping sighs, a tinge of color stole back to the white face, and
presently May opened her eyes.
"My dearest, my darling, are you better now?" whispered John Temple,
bending over her, and holding one of her cold hands fast in his.
May tried to speak, but no words came from her pale lips.
"Do not crowd round her," said the doctor, looking up; "let her have
plenty of air."
Those standing near fell back, but John Temple did not stir.
"Did the attack come on suddenly, sir?" asked the doctor, addressing
John.
"Yes," he answered slowly.
"Ah, well, she will be better presently. Try to swallow this, madam; it
will do you good."
May tried to swallow the restorative the doctor held toward her, and
its effect was soon visible. It brought back memory--infinite pain! She
looked at John Temple, and he saw she was remembering his words. He
bent closer to her; he whispered that nothing should ever part them; he
asked her for his sake to get well; and the doctor, watching her face,
slightly touched John Temple on the shoulder.
"I will give you some directions," he said, and as John rose, he drew
him to one side of the room.
"She must not be excited," he said; "as far as I can judge, this attack
has been brought on by some mental shock. Is there any tendency to
heart affection?"
"I know of none," answered John, with quivering lips.
"Is she your wife?"
"Yes."
"Well, keep her very quiet for the next few hours, and do not talk to
her of anything that would be likely to disquiet her. Are you staying
here?"
"Yes," again answered John, briefly.
"I will look in this evening then. For the present, everyone but
yourself is best out of the room. But be sure you keep her quiet."
Then he gave some further directions, and finally left the room, and
presently John and May were once more alone. She lay quite still, but
that terrible look of pain never left her face. John went and sat by
her, and took her hand, but he dare not talk to her after what the
doctor had said. And so the time passed on, and after an hour or so,
May herself broke the silence.
"John," she said in a feeble voice, "I have something to say to you."
"What is it, my darling? But you had best not talk of anything just
now."
"I want to say--I can not go back to Pembridge Terrace," went on May,
still in those faltering accents; "I can not see my father."
"You shall not, May--I swear you shall not! This was why I brought you
away. You shall see no one, and we will go to Australia together; go
anywhere you like, and you shall be my own dear wife always; my own
sweet, dear wife."
A faint shudder ran through May's frame.
"Nothing shall ever part us, May," continued John Temple, and once more
he knelt down by her side and took both her hands in his. "We could not
live apart."
May looked in his face with strange wistfulness, and a quiver passed
over her pale lips, and then she drew John's hand closer to her.
"We could not live apart," she murmured, and then she sighed.
"We will not, but I want to spare you all possible annoyance and worry,
May. When you feel a little better, I think it would be best for me to
drive over to Miss Webster's, and tell her that as you are not feeling
very well, you are not going to return there this evening, and that
to-morrow you are going away for a few days with me, I will ask them to
give me what you will require, and I will not tell them where you are;
or rather I shall not give them the right address. Thus, if your father
goes there to-morrow, he will not find you, and to-morrow I think we
had better cross to France, and we can settle our future plans there,
out of the way of everyone. What do you think of this?"
May lay silent for a moment or two; then she said, slowly:
"Yes, John, that will be best; you had best go now."
"But are you well enough for me to leave you? I do not like leaving
you."
Again May sighed wearily, and then raised herself up and put her arms
around his neck.
"You had better go," she said; "and--and John, will you remember
that--that I will always love you!"
"I am sure of it; you give me fresh life, May--well, then, good-by,
though I shall soon be back."
Their lips met in one long, tender, clinging kiss, and then John Temple
reluctantly left her. But on the whole his mind was somewhat relieved.
She had borne it better than he expected; at all events she had said
they could not live apart.
But scarcely had the door of the room closed behind him when a great
change came over May's face. There came over it despair--blank, bitter
despair. She sat up and thought. She put her hand to her brow.
"I can not bear it," she said, half-aloud; "it is too hard to bear."
She remembered all her sweet love-dream in these brief moments;
remembered John Temple standing with her in the moonlit garden of
Woodside; remembered his looks, the touch of his dear hand! And it had
been all folly! He, the husband of another woman, must have known she
could never be his wife. He had been amusing himself; she had been his
plaything; what else could she be now?
"I can but die," she thought; "I could not live without him--I will
die, and then he will know I loved him to the end."
She rose and tottered to her feet. She felt a great bodily weakness as
though every nerve were unstrung. The restorative the doctor had left
was standing on the table, and she drank some of this, and it seemed to
give her strength. Her hat was lying near her, and she put it on and
tried to walk feebly across the room. She had no plans, but somehow she
thought of the river gliding through the great city, and hiding dark
sin and sorrow beneath its murky flood.
"It would hide me," she murmured; "hide my shame forever."
She opened the room door and went out on the corridor, and then walked
feebly down the broad staircase. No one stopped her or interfered with
her, and in a few moments she reached the hall. One of the servants
here came forward and asked her if she required a cab. But she shook
her head, and went down the steps into the lighted streets, alone with
her broken heart.