May did not speak for a moment, for she was completely astonished. Her lovely wild-rose color deepened, her eyes fell, and her hands played nervously with some embroidery she held in her dainty fingers.
“It’s Mrs. Bradshaw of Castle Hill,” proceeded Mr. Churchill; “you see she’s a handy woman, and has a nice bit of money, and there’s some very good grass land at Castle Hill.”
“Mrs. Bradshaw!” repeated May in dismay. She knew the buxom widow her father spoke of, both personally and by repute, and had never considered her a person fit to associate with. Her own mother had been a lady, the daughter of a clergyman, and May had certainly hoped that if her father married again he would not marry a woman like Mrs. Bradshaw, who had first been the wife of a country shopkeeper, and then of Mr. Bradshaw, a farmer at Castle Hill. Altogether it was a great blow to May Churchill, and she did not attempt to offer any congratulations to her father.
“I would not have thought of it,” continued Mr. Churchill, glancing at his young daughter’s changing face, “but that you are certain to marry soon, May. There’s young Henderson of Stourton; anyone can see what he wants.”
“I do not care for Mr. Henderson,” replied May, hastily, and without another word she rose quickly and left the room, leaving Mr. Churchill much disappointed by the conversation that had passed between them.
Then May went to her own room, and sat down to think, with a galling sense of annoyance in her heart. First Mrs. Layton and now her father had made her feel her social inferiority to the man of whom she had thought so pleasantly during the earlier part of the day.
“It’s absurd, my going to meet Mr. Temple,” she reflected, not a little bitterly. “No doubt he regards me as a milkmaid, a pretty milkmaid.”
She rose a few moments later, and stood looking at her own likeness in the mirror. No milkmaid type this, but a lovely young Englishwoman, with refined, delicate features, and the most charming expression in the world. May unconsciously smiled as she looked at herself in the glass. It was very trying certainly to have a stepmother like Mrs. Bradshaw thrust upon her, and to be reproached for not selling eggs by Mrs. Layton, but these things did not make her less fair.
She therefore decided that she would go and meet Mr. Temple the next morning. And she did. She said nothing to her father at breakfast about this early expedition, but started as early as half-past nine o’clock for Fern Dene, without telling anyone in the house where she was going.
She walked quickly and her spirits rose as she passed through the fields in the fresh morning air. Yes, the dew was still on the grass, she thought, smilingly, as she glanced at the herbage growing beneath the hedge-rows. Then presently she came to the little bridge across the brook that led to the Dene. How the water sparkled in the sunshine! Everything looked so bright; the blue sky, the wavering boughs of the green trees dappling the grass.