A Country Sweetheart

by Dora Russell

Miss Webster at once rang the bell violently, and a moment or two later the doctor appeared. It had been known in the household that Miss Webster had gone to break the news to the poor widow, and there were anxious listeners waiting outside. Among these were Mr. Churchill and the doctor, who had been hastily summoned after John Temple’s death, and who had accompanied the body to the Hall. He now—assisted by Miss Webster—lifted May on the bed, and he also spoke to May very impressively.

“My dear madam, think of your unborn child; you may irreparably injure it unless you control your grief.”

And May understood. She lay there with her white face and her wide-open eyes trying to keep calm. She had looked forward to her motherhood, thinking it would fill a strange void in her heart, and she struggled now as bravely as she could with her bitter pain.

That night her child was born; born amid such anguish that for long hours they scarcely hoped the young mother would survive. But when the pale spring dawn crept through the window-blinds the early beams fell on the small, pinched features of the little heir of Woodlea. They fell too on the pale, handsome face of the dead father; on the face of John Temple lying in his unbroken sleep.

May was ill for many weeks after this. She had fever, and was happily unconscious when the inquest was held on her husband’s body. And at this inquest the miserable mother of the madman Henderson was forced to appear. She gave her evidence in a broken, faltering voice, telling those present that her son had never recovered from the effects of a blow he had received from the late Mr. John Temple; that he had had brain fever, and that for some time afterward his reason was completely overthrown, and he had been confined in a lunatic asylum. Lately, however, he had appeared to be so much better that she had brought him home, though one of the keepers from the asylum accompanied him.

This man then stated that Mr. Henderson had appeared perfectly well and sane during lunch on the day of the murder, but that he afterward suddenly missed him, and at once started out to seek him, and was horrified by finding Mr. John Temple’s body lying on the roadway with Mr. Henderson’s pocket knife thrust in his breast. He said Mr. Temple was not quite dead when he found him, but expired a few moments later. He also stated that when Henderson was recaptured that he was in a state of raging madness, and boasted constantly of his murderous deed; and that he was now once more confined in the asylum.

All these terrible details May was mercifully spared, and she never knew the ghastly truth about John Temple’s death. He had been killed by a fall from his horse, she was told, and Miss Webster, and Miss Eliza, who had now joined her sister, took good care she heard nothing more.

These two good ladies indeed watched over her with the most devoted affection during the long days of her illness. And to their great delight the child throve, and by and by May would look sometimes in the baby’s face and smile. As for Mr. Churchill his pride and pleasure in the little heir was unbounded. He brought his wife to the Hall to see him, and boasted, it must be confessed, a good deal of the babe’s future possessions.

In the meantime Mrs. Temple had left the Hall. Her violent grief at John Temple’s sudden death was characteristic of her nature, and everything painfully reminded her of him. She hated, too, the “baby worship,” as she called it, of the two maiden sisters, and once or twice Mr. Churchill had somewhat plainly hinted in her presence that when May recovered that, as the mother of the heir of Woodlea, she ought to act as mistress of the house.

So Mrs. Temple went away, and her absence was a relief to May, and indeed to the whole household. May could see her father and brothers when she wished now; and at her earnest request the Misses Webster stayed on with her during the whole summer. They used to talk to her sometimes of “dear Ralph,” but the autumn was far advanced, and John Temple had lain in his grave six months, before Ralph Webster saw again the woman he had befriended in her bitter need.