BY THE SEA.
The next day Ralph Webster went to see a very different woman to the
sprightly actress. He went to see pale, sad-faced May Churchill,
propped up in an easy chair, with the unmistakable attitudes of
weakness and languor in every movement.
A sudden flush, however, rose to her very brows as Webster entered the
room, and she nervously held out her hand. She was remembering that
momentous meeting on the bridge; remembering her terrible misery and
despair.
And the ordinarily calm Webster was also ill at ease. He took the thin,
trembling little hand in his, almost without a word; he looked at the
altered face, and a strange, painful emotion stirred his heart.
"You are better?" he said a moment later, but not in his usual firm
tones.
"Yes, much better," she answered.
It was the same sweet, low voice that he had listened for too eagerly
at his aunts' house; that had touched some hidden chord in his heart
that hitherto had been mute.
"Doctor Brentwood told me you were much better," he went on, still
nervously, "and I hope soon to see you quite well."
May made no reply for a moment or so, then she looked up in his face.
"And did Doctor Brentwood tell you anything else?" she asked. "Did he
tell you that I wish to find some employment at once?"
"He told me something of this," answered Webster, taking a chair and
drawing it nearer to her; "but for you to do anything at once is, I am
sure, impossible."
"But I must, indeed I must, Mr. Webster," said May, earnestly. "I can
not any longer be a burden to you--I know I have been--"
Here she paused, and tears came unbidden into her eyes, and she turned
away her head to hide her emotion.
"Do not, I entreat you, speak thus," said Webster, also much moved. "I
have only been too happy, too thankful, to have been of any use to you.
And anything I can do for you, anything that a most sincere friend can
do, I am sure you know I will do."
"You have been most kind, most good," faltered May. "But--but do not
let us speak of the painful past; it upsets me, and unfits me for what
I have got to say, for what I must do. What I want is to find some
work, some employment."
"And what have you thought of?"
"I have thought of many things," answered May with a wan smile. "I am
not sufficiently educated to be a governess, I fear, for I have never
been at any college nor passed examinations as they do now. I could go
into a shop--"
"Certainly not," interrupted Webster, quickly.
"Why not? It is a means of livelihood, and what matter is it?" said
May, quietly.
"It is a life you are quite unsuited for, and one utterly unsuited to
you. That is out of the question."
"Then there are telegraph and post office clerks, are there not, who
are women?"
"Yes, but--"
"But Mr. Webster, I must do something. And--there is another thing I
have thought of--what I should like best, I think--to be a nurse."
"Do you mean a hospital nurse?"
"Yes, like Nurse Margaret, who has attended upon me. I am sure I should
like this best, and if Doctor Brentwood would give me a chance--"
"I am sure he will do anything for you that he can. Yes," continued
Webster, after a moment's thought, "I think that life would suit you
best. You are naturally gentle and kind, and to help poor, sick people
would be a congenial task to you. But nursing, like other things, has
to be taught. I will talk to Brentwood about it."
"Yes, they receive what they call probationers at some hospitals, and
perhaps Doctor Brentwood would kindly use his influence to get me
admitted at one of these."
"I will see about it, and I think it is the most likely thing to suit
you. But before you do anything, or think of anything, you must have a
complete change of air. You must go to the seaside for awhile."
"I can not do this, Mr. Webster."
"Forgive me saying so, but you must. Nothing will make you strong but
that. How could you nurse anyone when you still want nursing yourself?
You must go to Hastings, or one of these places."
"I--I have no money to do so--it is impossible."
"Have I not asked you to regard me as a sincere friend? Do you think
the trifle it would cost is not most heartily at your service? When you
become a very swell nurse, you know," added Webster, smiling and trying
to speak lightly, "you must repay me."
"If--if I only could," said May, with emotion.
"You can, and will. Now that is all settled, and tell me where would
you like to go--Hastings?"
"But, Mr. Webster--"
"What sort of person has waited on you here? A nice woman?"
"A very nice woman, Nurse Margaret, Sister Margaret, they call her. She
has been so good to me."
"Then you shall go to Hastings with Sister Margaret to take care of
you. And I shall expect to see quite a rosy face when I go down to see
you. And now I am not going to stay any longer to-day and tire you. We
have settled that you are to become a nurse, but first you must get
quite well. I will see Brentwood and make all arrangements. For the
present, good-by."
He held out his hand, which May took tremulously. She dare not ask him
any questions, nor even inquire after his aunts. She knew if she did
she would break down, and he knew this also. They both ignored the
past, or at least did not speak of it.
And when she next saw Doctor Brentwood after this interview with Ralph
Webster, he told her that everything was settled. She was to go to
Hastings in three days, and Sister Margaret, the hospital nurse, was to
accompany her.
"And when you return I will see about receiving you here as a
probationer," said the doctor, "as Webster tells me you wish to become
a nurse. Would you rather stay here, or go to another hospital?"
"I should rather stay here if I may," answered May, gratefully.
"I think I can manage it. Yes, the sea-cure is the very thing for you,
and I expect you will come back quite well."
"But--but, Doctor Brentwood, about the expense? I can not--"
The doctor moved his well-shaped hand.
"That is all settled," he said; "don't you trouble your head about
anything. Sister Margaret has instructions to arrange everything for
you."
And May found that Sister Margaret had instructions to go out and
purchase everything she required in the way of dress or outfit. She
was a nice, kind, sensible woman, whose own brow was not unlined
with sorrow, and she felt great pity for the poor young widow--so
May was supposed to be in the hospital--whom she had nursed through
her grievous illness. She was also instructed to ask Mrs. Church no
questions regarding her past life.
"She has had great troubles; let her try to forget them," the doctor
told the nurse. "She has youth to help her, and thinking of the past
will do her no good."
Ralph Webster saw May again before she left town for Hastings, but when
she tried to thank him for all he had done for her he would not listen.
To do anything for her indeed was his greatest happiness. But he tried
to hide this, and did hide the strong, deep feelings of his heart.
But a painful incident occurred before he parted with her. Webster
noticed that May was agitated, and suddenly her delicate skin flushed,
and with quivering lips she asked him a question:
"Have you," she said, in a broken voice, "seen or heard anything
of--him?"
Webster hesitated, but he saw it was only cruel to prolong her suspense.
"I have heard nothing," he answered, "of Mr. Temple; except I know a
person who saw him one day."
"Then he is still in London!" cried May, with deep emotion; "still--he
must have made inquiries--he--he was sure to make inquiries--but no
doubt he believes me dead. It is best that he should believe me dead!"
She suddenly broke down and burst into passionate sobs. In vain Webster
entreated her to try and compose herself. It seemed as though the
flood-gate of her emotion was let loose, and the long strain of silence
broken.
"I am dead!" she kept on repeating; "dead to every one; no one knows I
live but you."
"And yet you pain me so deeply," said Webster, in a low tone.
"Forgive me," sobbed May, "but I thought I would ask."
"Hush, hush! try not to think of all this. A new life is opening to
you; try to go into it with a brave heart. Believe me, there is nothing
like work; it deadens pain."
There was an irrepressible ring of sadness in his voice as he said the
last words, which told of his own hard struggle, the struggle of which
May knew nothing. But something in his voice made her dry her tears and
look at him. He was very pale, and his face had grown thinner and more
marked, she noticed, and her heart reproached her for adding to his
troubles.
"Forgive me for being so selfish," she said, gently; "I--will not give
way any more. But have you been ill? You do not look very well."
"I have been too hard-worked, I suppose," answered Webster, trying to
smile. "I shall go down to Hastings for a day's holiday while you are
there, and that will freshen me up. And now, is there anything else I
can do for you?"
"Nothing, nothing indeed! You have only been too good."
"That is all right then, and now good-by."
He stooped down as he spoke and pressed his lips upon her hand, and
then turned quickly away. And May looked after him gratefully.
"How good he is!" she thought; "what a noble heart he has! I wonder
what made him look so sad."
But a few minutes later Sister Margaret bustled into the room, and she,
also, was full of Mr. Webster's praise.
"What a thorough gentleman he is!" she said, quite enthusiastically.
"Have you known him long, Mrs. Church?"
"For some time," answered May, and her tone reminded Sister Margaret
she had been instructed to ask Mrs. Church no questions regarding her
past life.
Yet the good woman naturally felt curious, and had decided in her own
mind that Mr. Webster must have been an old lover of the young widow's,
and she began to hope that it might end in a marriage. This was, of
course, entirely her own theory, for she had certainly nothing to go
on. For she and May were quite a fortnight at Hastings before they
either saw or heard anything more of Mr. Webster.
She took comfortable rooms for May overlooking the sea, and the change
of scene and fresh air soon began to revive the drooping invalid. And a
strange change came over May's mind also at this time. Sister Margaret
had many a sad tale to tell her; tales of forsaken wives and broken
hearts. Her experience of life had not lain along its smooth paths. She
had trod the rough roads, and the sick and sorrowful had been her daily
companions. And listening to her May began to learn that her case was
not worse than others; her wound not more terrible than some of her
fellow sufferers.
"I loved him too much," she told herself; "it blinded me, and I
believed he loved me as I loved him. But it was not the same."
She did not even give John Temple his due, for he had not felt for her
a brief passion that soon would pass away. He had loved her with a
selfish love, no doubt, but with a love that made him put everything
else aside for her sake. He thought, also, that she cared for him
beyond and above all earthly things; that nothing would have torn her
from his side.
She had not realized the shock, the horror of her awakening. It seemed
to end everything for her, and now slowly struggling back to life, she
told herself that John Temple had never really loved her. She had been
his plaything; his "country sweetheart," as he had often called her in
his fond hours of love.
Sitting watching the long, rolling waves breaking up against the white
cliffs, or the sea-birds winging their way above the foam, May told
herself again and again that her life was done--that is, her life of
happiness and hope. There remained but for her a cold and colorless
existence, toiling for her daily bread. Yet she did not shrink from her
fate. She accepted it as inevitable, and, after the first bitterness
was passed, bore herself with a certain amount of heroism and calmness.
"I was mad that night, and but for Mr. Webster--" she sometimes thought,
and would shudder as she did so.
"I wonder he has never been down to see us?" at last one day said
Sister Margaret, at the very moment when May was vaguely thinking of
the past.
The two were sitting together on the pier, in a bright, fresh day in
the early winter time, when Sister Margaret made this remark. All
around them was the deep blue sea, white-crested and sparkling in the
sun. Visitors were strolling about, and the whole scene was cheerful
and invigorating. May roused herself from her sad day-dreams to answer
Sister Margaret.
"You mean Mr. Webster?" she said. "I dare say he is too busy to come."
She looked up as she spoke, looked across the pier, and with a little
start the next moment she recognized Ralph Webster. He was leaning
back against the railing watching the two women he had come to see, and
when his eyes met May's he raised his hat and crossed over to speak to
them.
"Good gracious, Mr. Webster!" cried Sister Margaret, when she saw him.
"What a start you gave us! we were just speaking of you."
"Were you?" he answered, and he shook hands with them both, and then
sat down by May's side.
"May I sit beside you?" he said, as he did so.
"I have been wondering," he went on the next moment, smiling, "how long
I should stand opposite to you without your seeing me? Do you know I've
been quite five minutes over there?"
"Really!" said May. She felt nervous and agitated. Seeing him again so
suddenly had brought the past more vividly before her.
"But I have not been wasting my time," continued Webster, still
smiling; "I have been seeing, and with great and sincere pleasure, how
much you are improved. The sea air has made a wonderful difference in
you."
"Yes; doesn't she look well?" said Sister Margaret, proudly.
"Indeed she does. This is a charming day," went on Webster, looking up
at the blue sky, and then down at the blue sea. "It seems like a rest
to sit here; a rest from the worries of the world."
"And have you been very busy?" asked May, half-shyly.
"I always work fairly hard, you know," answered Webster.
May did not speak again for a few minutes. She was thinking of what she
had often thought--how she had been first interested in Webster's work
in the case concerning Kathleen Weir's diamonds. She was wondering if
he ever saw her now--the woman he knew to be John Temple's wife.
And Webster, watching her delicate profile, almost guessed what
was passing in her mind. But he tried to change the current of her
thoughts. He pointed out a white-sailed little vessel scudding before
the wind; he talked of the sea and of the sky, and May listened, and
for the time her troubles faded from her mind.
Suddenly, however, Sister Margaret seemed uneasy, and began to fidget
with her silver watch, twice unhooking it from her waistband. She
looked at May, but May did not notice her. At last she said, in a
slightly marked tone:
"It is a quarter-past one o'clock, Mrs. Church."
"Is it?" answered May, dreamily.
"Yes, and I am sure Mr. Webster must require some refreshment after his
journey," said Sister Margaret, in a very pointed manner.
May now understood.
"Oh! yes," she said, rising. "Will you come and have lunch with us now,
Mr. Webster?"
"I shall be very pleased, if you will allow me to do so," he answered.
"Then, in that case, I will just hurry home and see that it is ready,"
said Sister Margaret, with alacrity. She was a handy woman, and
instantly made up her mind to add considerably to the usual chops at
their midday meal, on her way through the town, in honor of their
guest. But she did not wish him to know this.
"I will leave you in charge of Mr. Webster," she went on, and in a
moment later hurried away so quickly that Webster looked after her with
a smile.
"I hope Sister Margaret is not going to give herself any trouble on my
account," he said.
May smiled; almost the first smile he had seen on her face since she
had left Pembridge Terrace.
"I think she must wish to improve our usual lunch on your account," she
answered. "She is such a good, kind woman," she continued, "and she has
gone through so much trouble, Mr. Webster."
"Her face rather gives you that impression. But she looks happy enough
now--or at least content."
"It would be a great thing to feel content."
"A great thing, indeed; to know no longer the restless craving for
something we can not obtain."
"And--and do you think--" began May, and then she paused, hesitated,
and slightly colored.
"Do I think what?" said Webster, and he turned round his head and
looked at her.
"Do you think we could ever feel happy again--after a great blow, a
great shock?"
"I think we could feel happy, but not the same happiness. A sort of
sobered, perhaps, a wiser happiness, no doubt, might come to us."
"It's dangerous to be too happy," said May, with downcast eyes and
quivering lips.
"Not many of us have the chance of being so," answered Webster, rising.
"But, come, we must not keep Sister Margaret waiting."
"No," and May also rose, and together they walked down the pier, but
Webster merely talked of the people that they passed on their way. He
wished her to forget, for a time at least, the shadow on her young
life; the grief that had made it so hard to bear.
Sister Margaret had not exerted herself in vain. In addition to the
usual dish of chops, she had purchased a pigeon pie, a lobster, and
various trifles on her way through the town. In fact, she looked on
the repast she spread before Webster with pardonable pride. And he
tried to make the whole thing pleasant. He told some good stories; he
complimented Sister Margaret on her pie, and the good woman thoroughly
enjoyed herself. And when lunch was over, Webster, after going to the
window and looking at the smooth sea and the sailing boats scudding
on its blue breast, proposed that they should go out for a sail, and
Sister Margaret was quite delighted with the idea.
"I have not been out for a sail since I was a girl," she said; "it will
make me feel young again."
"And you?" said Webster, looking at May, "would you like to go?"
"I think I should," answered May, gently.
So they went down to the beach and engaged a sailing boat, and were
soon flying on white wings before the light gale. It was a beautiful
day, sunny, cloudless, almost warm, and yet with the crisp touch of
the early winter in the clear air. That crisp touch brought a wild-rose
bloom back once more to May's fair oval cheeks; it brightened her eyes,
and she smiled more than once as she sat by Webster's side.
"I have never been on the sea before," she said to Webster. "Do you
remember when--" and for a moment she paused--"when we rode on the
Thames?"
Yes, Webster remembered that day too well; remembered the beautiful
girl sitting opposite to him in the boat, on the reedy river, and
dipping her white hands in the stream. There was no shadow on her face
then, nor sorrow in her heart. Only sunshine and hope, with the unknown
future lying before her bathed in golden light.
But he made no allusion to these memories.
"I like the sea better than the river," he said, and there swept over
his heart a strange and passionate emotion as he spoke; a wish to bear
May away from her troubles forever; to carry her to a new haven of rest
and peace.
But by and by the short winter day began to close, and Sister Margaret
drew her cloak nearer to her throat with a little shiver, and glanced
uneasily at the distant shore.
"It is time we were returning, is it not, Mr. Webster?" she said.
These words roused Webster from his love-dream.
"Yes, I suppose it is," he said, and he gave directions to the boatmen
to set sail for the shore. But it was nearly dark when they reached
Hastings, and there was a silver track from a half-moon on the rippling
tide.
They crossed this in the boat, and Webster hailed it as a good omen.
"It means a silver lining to our clouds," he said; "a sign that we must
always hope."