“And she left me to endure all this misery—a bitter, unending remorse and regret,” now said John Temple, in a broken, agitated voice. “She—who said she loved me—who said that we could not live apart—it seems that she could.”
“Mr. Temple, you are unjust.”
“It may be so, but—it was not thus that I regarded her. However, if your news be true—if poor Kathleen is indeed dead—I will, of course, at once remarry May. She knows, I suppose, that you are here; knows why you came?”
“She knows nothing. I have not seen her since Miss Weir’s death.”
“And where is she living now?”
“At St. Phillip’s Hospital. She has never left it. She is now one of the nursing sisters there; she insisted on working for her daily bread.”
For a few moments after this Temple did not speak. He stood with knitted brows as if in thought. Then he held out his hand to Webster.
“I am very grateful to you,” he said; “grateful to you for coming to tell me all this; and for your kindness—to the poor girl to whom I did so great a wrong. But I will be honest with you; I believed May loved me so well that even had I told her of that early tie—broken years ago—that she still would have shared my fortunes. I judged her feelings by my own—but it seems I was mistaken.”
Webster did not speak; he cast down his eyes; an angry throb passed through his heart.
“However, we need not speak of this,” continued Temple after a moment’s pause. “There is now but one course for me to take, which is at once to go to her, and for us to be immediately remarried. Her father is in London at this very time seeking her—he did not believe as I did.”