AN UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTER.
The Athols left the hotel that afternoon. Philip Wentworth disappeared
from the town the following morning, and no incidents of importance in
connection with Clifford occurred during the remainder of the season,
throughout which he continued to do honest and faithful work for his
employer, and thus commended himself to every guest of the house.
Indeed, he proved himself so efficient, so courteous, and obliging under
all circumstances, that Mr. Hamilton, who had conceived a feeling of
friendship for him, made arrangements with him to return to him the
following year, and under much more favorable conditions.
Meantime the Temples were well launched upon the topmost wave of social
popularity in Saratoga. They had taken one of the most luxurious suites
in the Grand Union Hotel, where Miss Minnie had her white-capped and
white-aproned nurse, Mrs. Temple her maid, and Mr. Temple his valet.
No equipage was more stylish or elegant, no horses more spirited or
better bred, no coachman or footman in finer liveries than those of this
wealthy gentleman, who registered as a citizen of Boston, but who, it was
rumored, had made the bulk of his fortune in the mines of Colorado and
California, and who, it was also stated upon good authority, had twice
been mayor of San Francisco, and might have been governor of the State,
if he had chosen. What more did one need to become popular?
His handsome and cultivated wife was no less conspicuous, for no one was
more charming in manner; no one wore richer or more tasteful costumes or
finer jewels than she. Her husband was very fond and proud of her, and
they were frequently referred to as “an ideal couple.” He loved to see
her arrayed in silks, satins, laces, and rare gems; he doted upon having
Minnie clad in the finest and daintiest of garments, and was never in a
happier frame of mind than when, seated in his carriage with these, his
two idols, he could roll about the country and note the admiring glances
bestowed upon them.
He realized that it was a weak point; that it bordered upon vulgarity to
be so proud of his wealth, and to love display to such an extent; but
he had not been a millionaire so very long, and he had not yet outgrown
the sense of exultation which had attended the lucky find that had so
suddenly lifted him out of the depths of poverty to the very pinnacle of
luxury and success.
Less than a score of years ago this distinguished gentleman, now figuring
as “William Temple, banker and broker,” had been a penniless adventurer,
although he fondly believed that this portion of his history was buried
in utter oblivion for all time.
One chill, dreary night, in early spring, cold, hungry, and with scarce
clothing to cover him respectably, he had wandered into a small
mining-town of the far West. The proprietors of a rude hostelry had given
him a scant supper, and allowed him to sleep in the adjoining stable. The
next morning he had let himself to a carpenter, and for several weeks
followed this trade, earning a couple of dollars a day.
Then one Sunday he, in company with another carpenter, made a trip to a
mining-camp higher up among the mountains. The following morning they
gave their notice to their employer, and, a week later, with picks,
shovels, and a few supplies, started out on a prospecting tour.
Just one month from that time the hungry, destitute man, who a few
short weeks previous had been wandering aimlessly about eking out an
insufficient existence, stuck “pay-gravel” and—his fortune was made.
Two years afterward he made another lucky find in a California mine, and
gold poured in upon him in a perfect flood.
Four years later, upon an imposing building in a busy street of San
Francisco, might have been seen in heavy gilt letters, the legend:
“William Temple, Banker,” while behind the glass doors of his private
office the man sat for a few hours of every day to keep an eye upon the
corps of efficient workers who managed his princely business.
There was little resemblance in the stately, distinguished, richly clad
gentleman to the hungry, poverty-stricken carpenter and miner of a few
years previous.
During the early years of his life he had acquired a good education,
and thus, when wealth turned her tide upon him, it was no difficult
matter, with careful reading, attention to the rules of etiquette and the
accessories of broadcloth and fine linen, to make a good appearance and
gain a foothold in society.
Not very long after establishing himself in San Francisco and attaining
a position among the élite, he met the beautiful and accomplished widow,
Mrs. Wentworth, from New York, who, with her son, a lad of about ten
years, was visiting some friends in the city.
They were mutually attracted toward each other from the first, and,
after a brief courtship of three months, they were married and set up a
magnificent establishment on “Nob Hill,” and became at once prominent
among the leaders of society.
The following year Mr. Temple, having become interested in politics, and
ambitious to attain to even greater heights, was elected mayor of the
city, and served in that capacity for two years.
Then Mrs. Temple, becoming anxious to have her boy fitted for Harvard,
where his own father had been educated, and also beginning to yearn for
the East, which had always been her home, entreated her husband to retire
from business, rest upon the laurels he had won, cross the continent, and
locate in some convenient suburb of Boston, where Philip could have the
advantages which she craved for him.
At first he appeared somewhat reluctant to do this, for he had been
interviewed and asked if he would accept a nomination for governor of
the State; but he had become very fond of his stepson, for whom he
also desired the best privileges the country afforded, and he finally
yielded the point, and a few months later found the family located upon a
beautiful estate in Brookline, Massachusetts, where—glowing accounts of
their wealth and prestige having preceded them—they were warmly received
among the élite of that aristocratic town, and also of cultured Boston.
Mrs. Temple’s first husband had been a classmate and close friend of Mr.
Heatherford, of New York, and the families had always been in the habit
of exchanging frequent visits previous to Mr. Wentworth’s death, and Mrs.
Wentworth’s going West. But the intimacy, thus for a time interrupted,
was resumed when they returned East, and located in Brookline, and then
Philip and Mollie Heatherford had renewed the friendship of their early
childhood, when they had played “keep house” together in a picturesque
tent which Mr. Heatherford had caused to be erected beneath the shadows
of two magnificent elms, that grew upon the lawn of his fine estate
on the banks of the Hudson, and where they—the one thoughtlessly, the
other with something of avarice and intrigue manifesting itself even
then—agreed that when they should grow up they would “marry each other
and really keep house together.”
Two years after the Temples located in Brookline, and when Philip was
fourteen years of age, Minnie Temple came like a sunbeam into their home,
and from the hour of her birth, the entire household, the servants not
excepted, worshiped at her shrine.
Philip Wentworth had always been a selfish, exacting boy, but now the
one redeeming trait of his nature showed itself in the tender love which
he manifested for his little sister.
She was Mr. Temple’s idol, and he was in the habit of spending more
hours in the nursery than in any other portion of the house. It was
an oft-repeated joke of his wife’s to tell him that it was useless
extravagance to keep a nurse, since he was more devoted and reliable, and
achieved better results than any incumbent of the position they had ever
had.
Before going in town to his business in the morning he would invariably
visit the nursery to take a reluctant farewell of his darling, while his
first act upon his return was to personally ascertain how she was and how
she had fared during his absence.
He was extremely fond of Phil, also; was always kind to him, and lavish
in everything where money was necessary, even though the young man had
inherited a handsome fortune from his own father, but the sweet little
girl was part and parcel of his very existence.
He had seemed like one suddenly stricken with mortal illness when he had
first learned of the terrible fate that had menaced her, the day she had
fallen over the cliff, at the mountains. For many hours he had seemed
stripped of all strength, and his face was of the hue of death, while for
days afterward he would not allow her out of his sight—scarcely out of
his arms.
“What should I have done!—I could not live without her,” he had said,
with pale lips and tones that quavered, like those of an old man with
the intensity of his emotions.
“Will, I shall certainly be jealous of my own child if you go on like
this,” his wife had said in playful reproof, but secretly startled to
see him so completely unnerved.
“But, dear,” he had smilingly returned, and making an effort at
self-control, “life would be a blank to me without either of you.”
But, even as he said it, he had hugged his child convulsively to his
breast, and the almost involuntary act was more significant than words.
But as time passed the horror of that experience wore off, life resumed
its rosy hue, and seemed to promise only harmonious conditions for the
future, with his wealth and position assured as he firmly believed, and
thus he flourished, spent his money with lavish hand, lived only in the
present, and—worshiped his idols.
They had been in Saratoga only a short time when business of an urgent
nature demanded Mr. Temple’s presence in New York City. He was quite
disturbed by the call, and tried to persuade his wife to take Minnie and
her nurse and accompany him, even though he was going to be gone only a
couple of days at the longest.
Mrs. Temple regarded him with astonishment at the request.
“Positively, Will, I cannot,” she objected. “You know the ball at
Congress Hall—the finest affair of the season, I am told it will be—is to
come off Thursday night, and if I should go with you and try to get back
for that I should be fagged out; besides, you know, there is some change
which must be made in my costume before I can wear it, and the dressmaker
is coming to-morrow morning.”
“True, I did not think of the ball when I spoke,” Mr. Temple admitted,
but with a look of disappointment sweeping over his face.
He could not for a moment think of having her give up the ball, and he
was equally anxious to attend it, for he had insisted upon having her
order a magnificent costume, and had also had some jewels reset for her
to wear upon the occasion. After all this lavish preparation, he knew it
would be foolish to miss the affair, and simply to gratify a mere whim of
his own.
Consequently he was obliged to go alone, although he made his
arrangements for his trip with an unaccountable sense of reluctance and
uneasiness.
He made the trip to New York in safety, transacted his business in a most
satisfactory manner, and set out upon his return highly elated—several
hours earlier than he had anticipated, his traveling-bag stuffed with
toys and goodies for Minnie, some dainty and expensive trifles for his
wife, and a set of diamond studs and sleeve-buttons which Phil had long
coveted, and which he knew would be most acceptable, in view of the
coming ball.
As soon as the train started he settled himself comfortably in his
compartment, donned his traveling-cap, and was soon absorbed in his
newspaper.
He read for an hour or more, and then started for the smoking-car. As he
stepped inside of it and was in the act of closing the door behind him,
he observed a man in the second seat on the left half-start to his feet
and regard him with scowling intentness.
For a moment it seemed to William Temple that a hundred-pound
sledge-hammer had crushed down upon his heart and brain. His strength
suddenly forsook him, and it seemed as if he could not move another inch
if his life depended upon it, while a blur came before his eyes.
But it was only for an instant. The next, his glance shot ahead, as if he
was intent only upon finding a seat for himself, and he moved on, to all
appearance, utterly oblivious of the fact that he had attracted special
attention, or had himself observed any one whom he had ever known.
But he had not taken three steps when a brawny hand gripped his arm. He
drew himself haughtily erect at the familiar act, and, turning, faced,
with a stare of well-assumed surprise, the man who had presumed thus to
detain him.
“Well, sir; what is it? What can I do for you?” he coldly inquired, but
with an air of high-bred courtesy which had become habitual with him
since he had known “better days.”
“Ha! ha!” ejaculated the individual whom he had addressed, and with an
air of scornful amusement, “you do the high-and-mighty very well, but do
you imagine for a moment that I don’t know you, Bill——”
But a hand was laid over his mouth before he could pronounce the name
he was about to voice, and it was instantly smothered in indistinct
muttering that made it unintelligible.