CLIFFORD VISITS AN OLD FRIEND.
It was quite late in the evening when Mr. Temple arrived in Saratoga
and rejoined his wife. She was already arrayed for the ball, and was
certainly a magnificent-looking woman.
Her costume was composed of white satin, combined with garnet velvet and
rare point-lace. A tiara of diamonds flashed its dazzling gleams above
the coils of her rich brown hair. A necklace of the same gems encircled
her white neck, while other ornaments of unique designs and great value
adorned her corsage.
“Well, Nell, you are a stunner!” was her husband’s admiring comment,
after exchanging greetings with her. “You usually do ‘take the
cake’—excuse the slang—but to-night you really outshine everything in the
past.”
“Thank you, Will, I’m glad you are pleased; but, dear, don’t stop to
compliment me—dress as quickly as you can or we shall be late for the
opening march,” Mrs. Temple responded, with an appreciative smile, but
with a note of impatience in her tones.
“I wish you would let me off, Nell—I really do,” said Mr. Temple
appealingly. “I am tired and dusty after my long ride, and haven’t an
atom of enthusiasm for the affair. Let Phil act as your escort, and I
will have a bath, a quiet smoke, then go to bed, for we must get away as
early as possible to-morrow.”
His wife turned and regarded him curiously, observing for the first time
the worried expression in his eyes.
“What detained you so to-night?” she inquired; “and why this hurried
flitting?—why must we return to Boston to-morrow?”
“Oh, business, of course,” said her husband, as he turned away from her
searching gaze, ostensibly to unstrap his grip, but in reality to conceal
the pallor which he felt was creeping into his face; “an affair that
has been hanging fire for some time, and has now, unfortunately for our
outing here, reached a climax.”
“Can’t you go and settle it, and then return for us? Will it take long?”
queried his wife thoughtfully.
“So long, dear, that I could not think of being separated from either you
or Minnie,” returned Mr. Temple, as he came again to her side and took
her tenderly into his arms. “Of course,” he continued regretfully, “I am
awfully sorry to take you away while you are enjoying yourself so much,
but really it seems unavoidable as things stand.”
“Oh, never mind, Will,” she responded cheerfully, and meeting his lips
with an answering caress; “my enjoyment here would be spoiled without
you, and the trunks are already half-packed. I set the girls about it as
soon as I received your telegram; and, of course, I know it must also be
a disappointment to you to miss the races.”
“Nell, you are a jewel,” said the man appreciatively, and greatly
relieved by the readiness with which she yielded to his plans; “and now
are you going to let me off for this evening?”
“Let you off, indeed!” she retorted, with pretended indignation. “Why,
Will, I never heard of anything so absurd. Here you have spent no end
of money—to say nothing of my own efforts—to get me up in this superb
style, and now you do not care to come with me to see how I will shine
among other brilliant social stars at this most magnificent affair of the
season. Phil is well enough and a most attentive escort, but I shall not
appear at Congress Hall to-night without my husband. Come, Will,” she
added, laying her white arms around his neck with a coaxing air, “I know
you are tired, but you really must come—at least, to take me in and dance
once or twice with me; then, if you want to come back and go to bed I
shall not mind so much.”
The man sighed, but made no further objection. But he was oppressed with
a terrible fear that he might run against his enemy if he should leave
his hotel, and he would rather lose half his fortune than that he should
ever set eyes on his beautiful wife or learn anything in connection with
his domestic affairs, and he inwardly cursed the luck that had caused
their paths to cross that day.
He knew that, to a certain extent, he was in this man’s power—that he
could ruin his whole future if he chose, and he had not the slightest
doubt that he would choose if the opportunity offered; hence his eager
desire to get his family away from Saratoga before he could gain any
information regarding them.
But, of course, all this involved secrets of the past which he could not
explain to his wife, and he was consequently obliged to resign himself to
the inevitable and yield the point under discussion.
Accordingly, less than an hour later the wealthy banker and his
resplendent wife made their appearance at Congress Hall, where they
were by no means the least conspicuous among the brilliant company that
thronged its spacious ballroom.
But a heavier heart could not have been found beating in the breast of
any human being than that of William Temple, in spite of his millions,
and the seemingly enviable position which he occupied in the world.
He found himself anxiously watching every face, in search of the one he
so much dreaded, and yet he well knew that the man was not likely to
frequent fashionable assemblages like the present. He would be far more
likely to be found in the smoking-room at a third-rate hotel, discussing
the pros and cons of the various noted horses that were booked for the
forthcoming races.
Yet one could never tell what might happen, for curiosity, pure and
simple, might prompt him to look in upon that brilliant scene, and the
bare possibility of being seen by him with his wife upon his arm gave him
a chill that actually set his teeth chattering; for in such a case he
knew it would be a very easy matter for him to make inquiries, learn the
name he was now living under, where he was stopping, and the place of his
residence.
But he managed to conceal his uneasiness from his wife and Phil, and
was, as usual, punctiliously observant of all the demands of etiquette
until it was proper for Mrs. Temple to release him and accept the
attentions of others.
Then he heaved a long sigh of relief, and drifted into an obscure corner
of the ballroom, whence he only emerged whenever it became absolutely
necessary for him to do so.
Shortly after supper, however, Mrs. Temple, who realized that her husband
was not himself, though she attributed his condition wholly to excessive
weariness, considerately signified her readiness to retire, and they
returned to their hotel.
The next morning found all, save Phil, on their way to Boston, and that
same evening back in their own palatial home in Brookline.
But it was some weeks before William Temple could breathe with his
accustomed freedom, and he still found himself watching faces in the
street with a vague fear in his heart that the one which he dreaded most
of any in the world would suddenly confront him with the malicious leer
which it had worn when the man had whispered those few blighting words in
his ear as they stood together in the station at Albany.
This nervousness wore away after a time, however, and he gradually
resumed his usual pursuits with his accustomed vigor and enthusiasm.
Nothing of special interest occurred in connection with the various
characters of our story during the three succeeding years, unless we
mention the fact that Clifford never abated one iota of his zeal during
this time, and won a scholarship every year, acquitting himself in such
a manly fashion in every department, and bearing himself so genially
toward every one, that he thereby gained the admiration and friendship of
classmates and professors alike.
Each summer vacation found him at the same mountain-house, where he
earned a snug little sum, which was a great help to him in pursuing his
college course.
The Christmas holidays and other recesses were spent with his friend,
Professor Harding, and his family, who had removed to Springfield,
Massachusetts, where the professor had secured the position of
superintendent of schools.
Once every year Clifford had paid a flying visit to Cedar Hill, and
called upon his old friend, Maria Kimberly, who was still housekeeper
for Squire Talford. He was in no wise disappointed upon these occasions
because he did not meet the squire, who, if he happened to be in the
house, never showed himself; but Maria invariably greeted him with a
beaming face and eyes full of happy tears.
“What a gentleman you have grown, to be sure!” she remarked admiringly
during one of those calls after their greetings were over.
“Thank you, Maria,” Clifford retorted, with a gleam of mischief in his
handsome brown eyes, “but, really, I am in some doubt whether to accept
that as a compliment or not, for I always tried to be a gentleman.”
“Oh, get out! You know I didn’t mean that, Clifford,” the woman returned,
and flushed. “Of course, you were always a gentleman. With such a mother
as you had you couldn’t have been anything else. I only meant that you’ve
got a spruce look about you that you didn’t have when you lived here—how
could you, when you wasn’t allowed a decent thing to wear!”
“I understand,” said Clifford, reassuringly; “but”—willing to do the
squire justice—“my freedom suit was a pretty good one.”
“Yes—it was,” Maria laconically observed, with an audible chuckle, while
her square shoulders shook with suppressed mirth.
The squire had never quite gotten over the mistake (?) about Clifford’s
freedom suit, and never saw Tom, the milk-driver, wearing the shoddy
clothes that had been made for himself without becoming secretly enraged
and giving expression to muttered remarks that were more emphatic than
elegant.
At the time of this last call of Clifford’s, which occurred during
a short recess of his senior year, the man had gone to New Haven on
business, and Maria kept him talking so busily that she did not realize
how rapidly the time was passing until a glance at the clock made her
start and suddenly cut herself short.
“My!” she exclaimed, “here it is most five o’clock, and you must have
some supper before you go.”
She was bound that he should partake of her hospitality, and yet she did
not want the two to meet, for she was sure the squire would make the
young man uncomfortable.
Clifford urged her not to trouble herself, saying he would get his
supper in New Haven before returning to Springfield.
“Well, I guess not!” she returned, with considerable spirit. “If Maria
Kimberly can’t give her friends a bite now and then when they take the
pains to come to see her, she’ll clear out and let somebody else keep
house here.”
Clifford saw that she would be hurt if he refused, therefore he allowed
her to have her way. She tied a spotless apron around her ample waist and
flew about the kitchen, mixing some of her delicious, old-time biscuit,
but keeping up a stream of conversation all the while, and in less than
half an hour had a dainty supper, of everything that she knew Clifford
liked best, laid out in the most tempting manner before her guest.
“I have never enjoyed a meal like this since I went away from the shadow
of your hospitable wing, Maria,” he told her, as he finished his second
cup of tea, “and I haven’t forgotten that you have promised to come to
live with me when I am able to set up an establishment of my own.”
The woman shot him a delightful look in return for his praise and his
reference to that “promise,” though she said, with an independent toss of
her head:
“I can assure you you wouldn’t have been allowed to forget it, and I’m
comin’ just as sure as my name is Maria Kimberly.”
“What!” cried Clifford, in mock consternation, but with a merry twinkle
in his eyes, “is there any danger of your changing it?”
“Get along, you rogue! You know there isn’t,” she retorted, with a
giggle, and growing crimson at the imputation; “but I don’t care how
soon you get somebody to change her name for yours and set up that
establishment.”
“You don’t mean that you are ready to desert the squire, do you?” the
young man inquired.
“Well, the squire don’t grow amiable as he grows older—he’s been
crosser’n usual the last two years, and he hain’t never found a boy to
suit him since you went away,” said Maria confidentially.
Clifford did not care to discuss the man’s disposition with her, and he
adroitly turned the subject by inquiring:
“Maria, how would you like to come to Cambridge when I take my degree
next June?”
“Do you mean it?” she demanded eagerly.
“I should not invite you if I did not mean it,” he gravely replied.
“Of course you wouldn’t—you never was a hypocrite, I’ll say that for you,
and—and I’d just love to come,” the woman observed, with tears in her
eyes. “I declare! I should just be too proud for anything!”
“Well, then, I will see that you have your invitation in good season,”
said Clifford, deeply touched by her appreciation of the small attention.
Maria thanked him, and then, rising, he said he must go. He left a
courteous message for Squire Talford; then, bidding her good-by, went
away, but leaving a ray of sunshine in the lonely woman’s heart which
warmed and cheered her for many a long month.
The squire merely grunted when, upon his return, she informed him of
Clifford’s visit, but she could see that he was deeply interested in her
account of him—what he had said, and how he had looked.
The remaining months of the year sped very swiftly for Clifford, many
days seeming all too short, for he was working very diligently and
perseveringly.
But the examinations were over at last, and he found that he had won the
second honor in his class.
It was a proud moment for him when he was informed that the salutatory
oration would be expected from him, while many of his classmates rejoiced
with him.
“He has earned it, if anybody ever earned anything,” his friend Rogers
observed when the honors were awarded; “he is a splendid fellow, and I am
downright glad for him.”
Philip Wentworth just managed to pull through, and probably would have
been perfectly satisfied with the knowledge that he would receive his
degree had not all his old hatred been aroused and his jealousy stirred
upon learning of Clifford’s achievement, and the interest which the whole
class was manifesting in him.