The letter went on to say that at times “the master was like one dement,” and that they were afraid of their lives. Henderson did not doubt that the girl’s words were true, and that this dark shadow hung like a suspended sword over his head. At times he grew almost reckless, but at others the grim penalty of his hidden crime filled his soul with shuddering dread.
After May Churchill’s disappearance he more than once gave way to frightful paroxysms of passion and rage, terrifying his unhappy mother with his mad words and frantic gestures. But weeks passed—three weeks, nearly a month after May’s flight—and still John Temple remained at the Hall, and even the jealous Henderson was forced to admit that this did not look as if Temple had anything to do with it. Then one day as Henderson was moodily riding down one of the country lanes he suddenly met Mrs. Temple, of the Hall, who was driving, and to his great surprise, she pulled up her ponies.
Henderson had never seen her since the great scandal about himself and poor Elsie Wray had occurred, and he was by no means sure that she would take any notice of him now. He put up his hand nervously therefore to take off his hat, but Mrs. Temple stopped, and so he also drew rein.
“Good-morning,” she said; “it’s a long time since I last saw you, Mr. Henderson.”
“Yes,” he answered, rather huskily, while a dusky flush spread over his face.
“Why don’t you come and see us?” continued Mrs. Temple.
“I was not sure you would care to see me.”
Mrs. Temple gave a little airy shrug of her handsome shoulders. She was looking very well, and had apparently got over her deep grief for the loss of her boy, and at one time Henderson had been rather a frequent visitor at Woodlea Hall.
“Oh, yes, I shall be glad to see you,” she said.
“I lost my nephew yesterday, you know,” she added; “John Temple has gone away.”