“What do you think, dear Eliza?”
“I think it would be as well if Mr. John Temple knew that we were almost forced to tell the truth. Do you think you could write to him, dear Margaret?”
“Yes, if I knew his address. He usually stays at the Grosvenor, but then he said they were going to-day to the seaside, you remember?”
“But he might have left his address at the Grosvenor. I think I would try, dear Margaret. Let us ask Jane where he directed the cab to drive to last night when he left here?”
Jane was accordingly summoned to the dining-room, as she had carried poor May’s portmanteau down to the cab when John Temple had left Pembridge Terrace the evening before.
“He said the Grosvenor, ma’am, I’m nearly certain,” Jane answered to her mistress’ inquiries. So after the maid had left the room, Miss Webster decided to write to tell John Temple of Mr. Churchill’s visit and its consequences.
“Dear Mr. Temple,” she began, somewhat nervously. “Sister Eliza and myself have been somewhat upset this morning by receiving a visit from Mr. Churchill, your sweet young wife’s father. He had heard she was living with us, and had come to seek her, and was very anxious to learn the truth about her. And he said some things—made some remarks—that neither sister Eliza nor I could hear unmoved. In fact, we were almost forced, in defense of your dear wife, to tell him that you were married to her, and this seemed a great relief to his mind. But we begged him still to keep the secret, if he thought it would injure you at all with your uncle, Mr. Temple of Woodlea Hall. But to our great joy he told us that he had seen your uncle on the subject, and that he had said he would gladly welcome dear May as his nephew’s wife. I need not tell you how delighted we were to hear this, as Mr. Temple’s sanction seemed the one thing wanting to your great happiness.
“With our united love to your dear wife, and best regards to yourself, I remain sincerely yours.
”Margaret Webster.”
This letter was delivered to John Temple during the evening, as he sat alone and desolate, in his great remorse and pain.