A WOMAN'S BARGAIN.
As John Temple entered the library, Mr. Churchill, who was standing by
the fireplace, looked quickly up in his face, and then crossed the room
to meet him.
"Well, Mr. Temple," he said, "I heard you had arrived last night, so I
rode over early this morning to ask if May is with you?"
He had fixed to say this during his ride to the Hall, and he blurted it
out in the forced way that prepared speeches are often made.
"Unhappily she is not," answered John Temple, in a low voice, and with
downcast eyes.
"Not with you! That's odd; then where did you leave her?"
For a moment Temple did not speak; a quiver passed over his face, and
his lips trembled.
"Mr. Churchill," he began, and then he paused.
"Well, Mr. Temple, what is this mystery about?" now asked Mr.
Churchill, sharply. "I know you are married to her, so what is wrong?"
"We quarreled and she has left me," said Temple, forcing himself to
utter the words. "She left me without a line, or word--I can not tell
you where she is."
"Can not tell me where she is! Quarreled with you and left you!"
repeated Mr. Churchill in the utmost astonishment. "Mr. Temple, I can
not believe such an incredible story."
"Yet it is most unhappily true, Mr. Churchill. I would give everything
I possess in the world to be able to tell you more--to tell you where
she is."
Temple's voice broke and faltered as he uttered the last words, and Mr.
Churchill looked at him in absolute amazement and consternation.
"And do you mean to tell me," he said, in a hard, angry voice, "that
this girl, who was so fond of you that she left her home for you, has
forsaken you after a few months of marriage? I can not, I will not
believe it; you are keeping something back."
"An incident came to May's ears--an incident of my early life,"
faltered Temple.
"About some woman, I suppose?" interrupted Mr. Churchill.
"Unfortunately about a woman, and--and after that we quarreled, and she
left me. She did not tell me she was going; she gave me no hint, or I
should never have left her alone. But one night when I returned to our
hotel I found she was gone, and though I sought her everywhere, though
I put it into the hands of the police, no trace of her, no reliable
trace at least, has ever been heard of her, and sometimes--I fear the
worst."
Here Temple broke down; he covered his face with his hand; his
agitation was unmistakable.
"You mean that my girl has put an end to herself, though you may have
given her great cause for quarreling with you and leaving you? Then I
don't believe it, sir, I tell you that." And Mr. Churchill struck his
hand heavily down on the writing-table as he spoke. "She may have left
you, I suppose she has, but she had too much spirit, my May had, to
take her life for any such folly."
"If I could only hope this."
"You may not only hope it, but be sure of it! But this must be
investigated at once. I'll move heaven and earth to find my girl; ay,
and I'll find her!"
"Would to God that you could."
"I will; there, I've said it, and I seldom say what I do not do. When
and how did she disappear? Who saw her last? Tell me everything."
Then John Temple, in broken and faltering words, did tell Mr. Churchill
everything he knew of May's disappearance. Only he kept back the true
cause. He gave him the address of the inspector of the police who had
conducted the inquiry; he told even the cabman's story of the lady he
had driven to Westminster bridge. But Mr. Churchill would not listen to
any such suggestion that May had taken her young life.
"You may have broken her heart, perhaps you have," he said, harshly,
"but my lass was no weak fool to destroy herself for a worthless man!
No, she is hiding herself somewhere, and her father will find her. But
it's a pity, Mr. Temple," he added, bitterly, "that you did not leave
her alone."
"I loved her very dearly. Since she left me my life has been one
unending regret."
"Yet you let another woman come between you! This may be the way of
fine gentlemen, but my poor girl, I suppose, would not stand it."
Temple did not speak; he stood there facing the angry man before him;
his heart was full of shame and pain.
"The long and the short of it is, I suppose," continued Mr. Churchill,
"that May believed that you had ceased to love her; or had never loved
her as she thought you had, and so she left you. But she should have
written to her father! If I had not positively ascertained that you
were married to her, if I had not seen the register of your marriage
with my own eyes, I would have found you both out long before this.
However, as it is--"
"Go to whatever expense you like, Mr. Churchill; find May, and you will
lift a weight off my heart that is almost too heavy to bear."
John Temple spoke earnestly, almost passionately, and Mr. Churchill
could not but believe him.
"It's a queer business," he said; "if you were fond of her why did you
not stick to her? But I'll start to-night for London."
"Let me hear from you every day; I will join you if you like."
"No, I'm best alone; I'm more likely to find her alone. But what am I
to go back and say at home?"
"Say anything; what matter is it?"
"But it is matter to me, Mr. Temple! I'll say you've had a difference,
and I'm going to London to try to make it up--yes, that will do, and I
must make it up."
Mr. Churchill left the Hall shortly after this, and John Temple
returned to the morning-room, where Mrs. Temple was eagerly awaiting
him.
"Well," she said, excitedly, "is he gone? What did you tell him?"
"What you bade me; I told him everything--except why she--"
"Left you? That was right. Oh! I'm so glad, so glad, John Temple, you
did not tell him that."
"It will probably come out."
"It may and it may not. At all events you may not be here if it does;
it is a thousand times best kept quiet. And what is Mr. Churchill going
to do?"
"He is going to London--going, I fear, on a vain search."
"That may not be also. Come, we must hope for the best."
But John Temple only sadly shook his head. It remained his fixed idea
that May was dead, as he believed she had loved him too well to live
apart from him.
But he felt grateful to Mrs. Temple for her kindness and consideration
for his feelings; grateful perhaps that she had spared him telling
May's father all the bitter truth. And Mrs. Temple told the same story
to her mother. Mrs. Layton, we may be sure, was not long in arriving at
the Hall, but her daughter would not allow her to see John Temple.
"You worry him, and he and his wife have quarreled about some old love
of his or other, and she has actually left him," she said.
"Left him!" cried Mrs. Layton, triumphantly. "I knew no good would come
of it; no good ever does come of unequal marriages. But I don't believe
she has left him; I believe he has left her."
Mrs. Temple shrugged her shoulders.
"At all events they have parted," she said; "and naturally he does not
wish to be asked any questions on the subject, so while he is here
please do not come."
Mrs. Layton drew her meager little form up to its full height.
"Rachel, is it possible," she said, "that you forbid your mother to the
house?"
"It is John Temple's house now, not mine, and he does not wish to be
worried; so please stay away," replied Mrs. Temple, coolly; and Mrs.
Layton departed, feeling that "a judgment" was sure to descend on her
daughter's head.
Mrs. Temple told John Temple of this quarrel, and laughed a little
scornfully at the recollection of it.
"My mother is a woman," she said, "on whom all delicacy of feeling is
wasted, for she has none;" and John Temple certainly agreed with her.
But on the third day after his arrival at Woodlea something occurred
which worried and disturbed him more than twenty visits from Mrs.
Layton. It was a fine spring day and Mrs. Temple had gone out for a
drive, but John Temple had refused to accompany her. However, about
four o'clock, tempted by the sunshine, he lit a cigar and strolled out
into the park.
He walked on moodily enough with bent head, when his attention was
attracted by the sound of carriage wheels approaching down the avenue.
He supposed it would be Mrs. Temple returning from her drive, and so he
walked on. But when the carriage drew nearer and he was about to meet
it, he saw it was not one of the Hall carriages, but evidently a hired
one. He therefore turned hastily into a side path, for he was in no
mood to encounter strangers. Then he heard the carriage stop, and a few
moments later, when he again looked around, he perceived a lady on the
side path, who was evidently following him.
He stopped, and for an instant the thought, the wild hope, crossed
his brain, could it be May? But no; the lady who was approaching him,
though closely veiled, was taller than the slender girlish form of his
lost love. She advanced quickly, and in another minute they met; and
John Temple started back as they did so.
For it was the woman to whom he had not spoken for long years; the
woman he had wedded in his early youth, and whose existence had been a
curse and a stumbling-block in his way!
"You!" he said, sternly. "Why are you here?"
"From a natural feeling of curiosity," answered the actress, who bore
the professional name of Kathleen Weir. "I wished to see you in your
new home!" And she gave a little laugh.
"It is useless--" began John Temple; but with a little airy wave of her
hand she interrupted him.
"Pardon me," she said, "it may be very useful to us both. I have come
with a purpose; a purpose which I am quite sure will be a welcome one
to you; I want you to help me to get rid of you."
Again she laughed, and then flung back her veil and stood looking
steadily at the husband who had forsaken her. She was a handsome woman,
but John Temple saw no beauty in the large, bright, restless gray eyes;
in the mocking, saucy lips.
"I do not understand you," he answered, coldly.
"Not yet; but you will by and by. So this is your new inheritance?" she
continued, looking round at the wooded park, with the fine gray old
mansion standing in its midst. "My friend John, I had no idea I had
made such a good match," she added, mockingly.
"If you have come to talk thus, our interview must end."
"What! grudge me a word or two, after these long years? Well, come,
that is mean of you. But I have not come to talk nonsense, but sense. I
have come, in fact, to talk business."
"I suppose you want your allowance increased?"
Kathleen Weir nodded.
"That I certainly do," she said, "and my terms have gone up since I
have seen what a fine place you have got. But it is not only about
my allowance I want to talk; I want to know if we can not arrange a
divorce between us?"
John Temple looked at her quickly.
"My bait takes, I see," went on Kathleen Weir, coolly. "Now, you can't
get a divorce from me; I've been too careful for that; perhaps too
cold, for a burnt child dreads the fire; or maybe I was too prudent to
run the risk of losing my allowance. No, you can not get a divorce from
me; now, the question is, can I get one from you?"
John Temple was silent; he looked down, he moved his hands impatiently.
"By the wonderful justice which the male law-givers deal out to women,
I am perfectly aware that you could run away with anyone; with a
dozen if you had a mind to, and I could get no redress unless you had
committed some act, or acts, of cruelty, to which I could swear. Now,
to be free, I am ready to swear falsely; I am ready to swear that you
tore handfuls of hair out of my head, and I have a false tress or two
out of which you can tear them--if you will make it worth my while."
"What do you mean?"
"My friend John, you are a rich man now, and I've no doubt will be
ready to pay handsomely for your liberty. You wish, I suppose, to be
free of me, and be able to marry someone else?"
"Some months ago," answered John Temple, with quick emotion, "I would
have given anything to have been so--now it is too late."
"Why is it too late?"
"It is useless to tell you; to tell you how our miserable marriage
spoilt a young life."
"But is it spoilt? And even if it is, I think you should show a little
consideration for me. I am tired of leading the life I lead; I want
someone to care a little for me. I wish, in fact, to be divorced from
you."
"Do you wish to marry again?"
"Well, if you will have it so, I think I do. But then, you know, you
must consider my position. You talk of a spoilt life, but you spoilt
and wasted my youth."
"It is easy to put it so," said John Temple, bitterly.
"Well, you married me and left me, did you not?"
"We agreed to part."
"Yes, after you had made my life so unpleasant that there was no
standing it. But I don't want to fight, or say disagreeable things.
I really want to come to an arrangement with you, an arrangement by
which you will benefit by being free; and I shall benefit by being free
also--only you must remember you are a rich man."
John Temple was silent for a moment or two; he was turning it over in
his mind whether to accept her proposition; then he remembered he had
not told Mr. Churchill of his marriage to Kathleen Weir, that he could
not be divorced without this being publicly known.
"Now I'll be quite frank with you," she went on, looking at his moody
face. "I'll want either a lump sum down, or a largely increased
allowance for swearing falsely and exhibiting in court the three
handsful of beautiful hair that you tore out of my unfortunate head.
You must pay, you see, for these little freaks of temper."
"Your jesting is out of place."
"Not at all, my friend; life has always its comical side. For instance,
it is comical my coming here to make a sensible bargain with you,
instead of talking of my broken heart."
"I presume it is not broken."
"No, it is not, thank goodness. It is a tough heart, and a man's
inconstancy and changeableness will never even make a crack in it. For
me to love and grieve now," and she looked at him straight, "a man must
be worth loving and grieving for."
"What is the bargain that you want to make, then?" asked John Temple,
impatiently, a moment later.
"It is this: You are a rich man now, and I am your wife, so I ought
to be a rich woman also. I have a right, you know, to come here if I
choose; to claim you before your new friends; in fact, to make myself
generally disagreeable. But I don't want to do this. I have my own
ideas of happiness, and it is not to force my company on an unwilling
man. But if you will give me ten thousand pounds I will bring an action
of divorce against you; I will show the hair you tore out of my head,
and swear to a black bruise or two on my arms, and perhaps a little
playful box on my ears. Mind, I am not jesting, though I talk as if I
were."
"And if I refuse your modest request?"
"Oh, well, then I must have a big allowance; and I will talk to
everyone of my husband, Mr. John Temple of Woodlea Hall, and I will buy
diamonds and have them put down to you; in fact, it will be worse for
you than if you give me ten thousand pounds and were done with me. I
really advise you to think it over."
And John Temple actually stood and did think it over.
"Let me have time to consider," he said, at length.
"Which means you will accept my terms," cried Kathleen Weir,
triumphantly. "I'm so glad. I really feel quite friendly toward you,
and we must help each other in this business, you know, and keep our
own secrets, and no one will ever be the wiser."
John Temple made no answer; he was thinking that he would in truth be
glad to be free, and yet--
"I'll see about getting a good man to manage the case," went on
Kathleen Weir, "and I will write to you, and we must get up the
evidence, you know, and have everything on the square. We'll hoodwink
the dear old judge, and I will play the injured wife to such perfection
that it will be one of my best parts. I'm glad I came to see you,
but you're not looking well, my friend; you are not as good-looking
as you were. Well, never mind, someone, I dare say, will think you
good-looking enough, particularly when she sees your grand house;
though, by the by, you have not yet asked me into it."
"My uncle's widow is there, but--"
"Oh! never mind; I brought a luncheon basket with me from town, as
I did not know whether I could depend on your hospitality; and,
besides, it might look like collusion if we were caught hobnobbing
together. No one knows of my visit here, and no one need know of it. I
will go straight back to town by the next train, and will write all
particulars to you as soon as I have arranged my case, and, as I said
before, I shall depend on your friendly assistance. So now if you will
escort me back to the very shaky hired carriage that I picked up at the
station, I will take leave of Woodlea Hall--and its new owner."
Again she laughed and showed her white teeth, and without another word
John Temple walked by her side back to the carriage which was waiting
for her in the avenue, and when they reached it he handed her in.
"Good-by," she said, holding his hand for a moment and looking at him
smilingly. "Make a better choice the second time; you are a man who
should marry a woman who thinks you perfection--I never did!"
Then she nodded, smiled again, and was driven away.