“I have felt this lately,” said Kathleen Weir, in rather a marked manner; “before, I think I did not care.”
Again she looked in Webster’s face, and with a sort of discomfort his keen dark eyes fell before her large, restless, gray ones. He was not a vain man, but a vague consciousness smote into his heart that this handsome woman had begun to regard him with different feelings to his own. This idea made him more chary of his visits and colder in his manner. And Kathleen Weir, quick to perceive this, also drew back. Thus some weeks passed without him seeing her, when one morning an announcement in the Times brought her affairs more prominently before his mind.
This was no less than a notice in the obituary column of the sudden death of the squire of Woodlea:
“On the 21st inst., at Woodlea Hall, Phillip Temple, Esq., aged 75, of heart disease.”
Webster read the announcement twice over, thinking all the while of the great changes it might bring. Not to the fair black-robed probationer at St. Phillip’s Hospital, though, he decided; it could not touch her very nearly now, but to John Temple and Kathleen Weir.
And yet on second thoughts he remembered it would bring Temple back to England, and would make the friends of the missing girl more eager in their inquiries to learn her fate. John Temple would probably now be forced to tell what he knew, and the fact of his first marriage might be brought home to him. Therefore, the knowledge of the squire’s death disquieted Webster exceedingly, and the day did not pass without his receiving further news concerning it.
The evening post in fact brought him a letter from Kathleen Weir, and the notice from the Times of Mr. Temple’s death fell out of it when Webster opened the envelope. The actress had evidently written in a state of great excitement.
“Dear Mr. Webster,” he read. “The inclosed cutting from the newspaper will tell you what has occurred. This Mr. Temple, whose death it records, is the uncle of John Temple, who is his heir. John Temple is now, therefore, a rich man, and as I am unfortunately his wife, he can not prevent (I suppose) my benefiting by his accession to fortune. But though money is a great thing, an immense thing, it is not everything! John Temple, looking like a ghost, with misery stamped on every feature of his face! There was, I am sure, some strong reason for this, for as a rule he is an easy-going man, inclined to make the best of everything, as he used to think it not worth while to strive with fate.
“There I did and do disagree with him. It is worth while at any rate to try and make the best of one’s life, and it is not making the best of mine, I think, to remain the wife of a man I never see. He is a rich man now, can afford to pay a long price for his freedom, and his freedom I am certain he desires. What I mean is this: He will now be coming to England, and will, of course, go down to the place he has inherited. I want, therefore, someone to go to him and make him a proposition; to say in fact, Kathleen Weir, the wife of whom you are tired, is also tired of you, and wishes to be free from so galling a tie. I am certain it might be arranged, only it is so difficult to write on such matters, and one can only do so to someone in whom you have complete confidence. I have complete confidence in you, though I have seen so little of you of late, but I think I can understand the reason of this. At all events, will you come to see me now, and we can talk the matter over? Will you come to-morrow evening? I shall be alone, as I have a whole host of things to tell you.
“Ever sincerely yours,