THE HEATHERFORD FORTUNE GONE.
“What do you mean by ‘great things’?” Philip smilingly questioned.
“Oh, that in return for the advantages you have enjoyed you will choose
some business or profession and turn your knowledge to good account.”
“Do you think it the duty of every man to devote himself to some business
or profession?”
“Yes, I do,” returned Miss Heatherford, with emphasis.
“Even if he possesses an independent fortune?”
“Yes,” she persisted, “I feel that, no matter how rich a man may be, he
should have some definite object in life.”
“How about a woman?” queried Philip, with a mischievous glance into her
thoughtful blue eyes.
“Oh, I intended to make no distinction. I should have said everybody,”
the girl replied.
“Have you marked out your future career, Mollie?” inquired the young man
in the same spirit as before. “I suppose you have been pursuing your
studies during your absence.”
“Well, I have been doing some honest work in that line during the last
four years,” she gravely returned; “but, as to my future, I have not
quite made up my mind what I am best fitted for. I want to do something.
I could teach elocution and rhetoric, both of which, you know, I have
always enjoyed very much, and perhaps some other thing,” she added
modestly.
“Such as what?” queried Phil, who was curious to learn in what she
excelled.
“Oh, please do not make me particularize regarding my acquirements,”
Mollie replied, the color coming again to her cheeks, “and, besides, you
have not yet told me what you are going to do—are you going to study a
profession?”
He wanted to tell her that the most definite object he had in view just
then was to try to win the hand and heart which he had so long coveted,
but he hardly dared venture that far so soon after her return.
There was a certain air about her that seemed to warn him against being
too familiar or precipitate, or of assuming too much upon the ground of
their early friendship; and, although all his old love revived and his
pulse thrilled under the influence of her beauty and the tones of her
magic voice, he resolved to approach her very carefully and delicately.
“Well, as you have already said regarding yourself, I have not yet
decided upon anything,” he observed.
“But surely you have a decided penchant for some particular business or
profession!” she remarked, while she regarded him earnestly and with some
surprise.
“No, I cannot say that I have,” he answered, with a doubtful shake of
his head, yet feeling strangely embarrassed and uncomfortable under the
searching look in her dark-blue eyes. “But there is time enough yet for
that,” he added, to change the topic, and making an effort to throw off
the sensation. “Now, suppose you tell me something about your impressions
of European life and travel.”
But dinner was announced just at that moment, and their conversation was
interrupted.
Mrs. Temple had arranged to have Philip escort Mollie to the dining-room,
and he exerted himself to be attentive and agreeable to her.
But one of the professors at Harvard, to whom Mollie had been introduced,
was seated on her left, and, having previously discovered that she was an
unusually intelligent girl, adroitly drew her into conversation, which
finally drifted into an animated discussion upon the geological formation
of different countries.
Several times Mollie appealed to Phil, hoping thus to draw him into the
debate, for she did not wish to appear to neglect him, neither could
she ignore the professor without being rude. But Phil did not appear to
advantage in the opinions he offered or the remarks he made, and was
entirely distanced in the race. He was greatly relieved when dinner was
over and he succeeded in whisking Mollie away to the drawing-room, where
he proceeded to monopolize her, for a while, at least.
The remainder of the evening was passed most enjoyably, there being
several musical people present, and who contributed a delightful program;
while Mollie, who was noted for her powers of elocution, gave two or
three spirited selections, which were rendered with such artistic effect
that she won much applause.
Philip had observed, while he was exchanging greetings with Mr.
Heatherford, that the man appeared greatly worn and aged; but he had
attributed this depression and change to the loss of his wife. He also
noticed, from time to time during the evening, that he avoided the
company and seemed to want to get away into a corner by himself, where he
would fall into a fit of abstraction from which he was only aroused when
Mollie went to him and after chatting with him a few minutes would draw
him out among people again.
She was tenderly watchful of him, Phil could see, even while she appeared
to be the most brilliant and entertaining, while occasionally an anxious
expression would sweep over her face and a gentle sigh escape her as her
glance rested upon his face.
The young man wondered what it all could mean, but did not give the
matter much thought, and it probably would never have entered his mind
afterward if he had not overheard Mr. Temple tell his mother after lunch
the next day, while Mollie and her father were out making a call, that
Mr. Heatherford had confided to him the fact that he had been continually
losing money at a disastrous rate during the last two years, until the
bulk of his fortune had melted away. He did not add, however, that he had
conducted some of these losing negotiations.
“Heavens!” exclaimed Mrs. Temple, aghast, “how did he ever lose it?”
“I expect he has spread himself too much—got tied up in too many
enterprises, and when the pinch came he was unable to turn himself,” her
husband explained. “A railroad in which he was largely represented has
collapsed; a bank of which he was a director and a heavy shareholder has
failed; a Western syndicate of immense proportions has gone to pieces—he
says there was fraud at the bottom of it—while a rascally agent, in whom
he had implicit confidence and to whom he gave power of attorney during
his absence, has played him false and skipped to parts unknown with a
large amount of money.”
“Well, surely, that is a series of misfortunes,” Mrs. Temple observed;
“but, in spite of all, I should suppose he must have a competence left—he
was accounted a very rich man before he went away.”
“Yes, but he has been sending good money after bad all the time until, he
tells me, he is reduced to a very few thousands.”
“Whew!” ejaculated Phil, under his breath, as, concealed behind a pair
of heavy curtains of a bay window, he listened to the above chapter of
accidents. “So Miss Mollie’s ‘magnificent inheritance’ has dwindled
to almost nothing! What a shame, for she is very beautiful; but a man
doesn’t want a penniless wife, especially when his own bank-account will
not more than meet his own needs.”
“I am amazed—it is absolutely shocking!” sighed Mrs. Temple, “and it will
be a great detriment to Mollie, too; she is a beautiful girl, she has
been tenderly and delicately reared, and ought to make a brilliant match.”
“I thought it wise to tell you something of this,” Mr. Temple observed,
while he covertly watched his wife’s face. “I imagined that perhaps you
might not be quite so eager to have Phil make advances in that direction
now.”
“I am sure I could not desire a more lovely wife for Phil,” the lady
thoughtfully responded; “but, really, his fortune is hardly sufficient to
warrant his marrying a poor girl. I am truly sorry for the Heatherfords;
but if I had known of this I should not have thought it wise to invite
them here at this time. Since they are here, however, we must make the
best of it, but I shall not be sorry when their visit is over.”
“It is rather an awkward position, especially as there has always been a
tacit understanding that Phil and Mollie would marry when they attained a
suitable age,” Mr. Temple remarked.
“Oh, that must now be regarded only as children’s play—which it really
was, after all,” Mrs. Temple hastily interposed, but flushing as she
remembered how eager she had always been to help on the “children’s
play.” “Of course, I should have been willing to have had such a marriage
consummated if things had remained as they were. Perhaps—do you think
there is any possibility that Mr. Heatherford will ever retrieve his
fortune?”
“I should say that is very doubtful,” said the man, suddenly averting his
eyes beneath his wife’s earnest look. “Having told you so much, I may as
well tell you that a very short time will settle his fate, either one way
or the other, for he has risked all he has upon one throw.”
“Heavens! Will, you don’t mean it is as bad as that with them!” gasped
Mrs. Temple, in dismay.
“Yes, Heatherford told me all about his affairs this morning, while
we were out driving, and if he loses in this last venture he will be
absolutely penniless.”
“That seems dreadful. Is he speculating in stocks?”
“I—I really feel that I should not say what he is doing,” returned
Mr. Temple, with some embarrassment. “All this has been strictly
confidential, you understand.”
“Does Mollie know of her father’s misfortunes?”
“Yes, and her father says that she has been the greatest comfort to him
throughout all his trouble—especially when Mrs. Heatherford sickened
and died; and now she tells him that, if worse comes to worst, she can
teach and take care of them both. He says she is an exceptionally bright
scholar—that in the school at Heidelberg, where she graduated, she was
offered a fine salary to remain and teach elocution and rhetoric; she
also speaks four languages fluently.”
“Yes, any one can see that she is very smart and talented,” said Mrs.
Temple, reflectively; then added: “Did you observe her talking with
Professor Hubbard at dinner last evening?”
“Indeed, I did, and wondered not a little,” returned Mr. Temple,
laughing, “for the professor does not often condescend to converse with
young people—he shuns them, especially girls.”
“Well, he certainly exerted himself to be agreeable to Mollie and draw
her out. He found his match, too, or I am much mistaken,” said Mrs.
Temple, in a tone of amusement. “Oh, dear!” she continued, with a
sigh, “I am terribly disappointed, for I have always been fond of the
girl, and she is just the one I would have chosen for Phil; but it will
never do for him to marry a poor girl. I must tell him of the change
in the Heatherfords’ circumstances, and caution him to govern himself
accordingly.”
This she did later in the day, and was gratified and intensely relieved
to see how coolly he accepted the situation, for, knowing that he had
been really fond of Mollie in the old days, and also that they had
corresponded during the last four years, she feared that he might have
committed himself, and might now find it difficult to extricate himself
from an entanglement, if, indeed, he did not really love the girl too
well to be willing to give her up. But Philip listened without comment
through the story, and, upon its conclusion, simply remarked, with a wise
nod:
“I understand the situation, mother, and you may safely trust me. Mollie
is lovely, as everybody must admit, but, with my expensive tastes, I am
fully conscious that it would never do for me to marry a poor girl.”
He spoke with the utmost assurance; nevertheless, before a week had
passed, he found himself becoming more and more enthralled by Mollie
Heatherford’s witching loveliness, both of person and mind.
Of course, as she was a guest of the family, it became his duty to act
as her escort and take her about to see the various improvements that
had been made in the city during her absence, although he was obliged to
intersperse these duties with frequent visits to Gertrude Athol, who
was still with her friends in Cambridge, and thus he was kept very busy
during these days dancing attendance upon two divinities.
But he was not so eager now as he had thought he might be to resume his
“quarrel” with Gertrude; for, although Mr. Athol was by no means as
wealthy a man as Mr. Heatherford was once supposed to be, he possessed
a tempting share of this world’s goods, and Philip reasoned that, if he
could not find a more alluring bait, he might eventually think best to
keep his pledge to his fair daughter.
He fondly imagined that he could control his affections and be governed
by his judgment and by policy—in fact, play “fast and loose” with both
girls, and enjoy the present to the utmost without experiencing any
disastrous effects when he came to make a final decision. But he very
soon grew to realize that Cupid is a god who cannot be tampered with with
impunity, and that he was fast learning to love Mollie Heatherford with a
strength and fervency which would either demand utter self-renunciation
on his part, or ruin his life for all time.
On her part, Mollie frankly accepted his attentions, and appeared to
enjoy his society, and yet Philip was vaguely conscious at times that she
was adroitly sounding him and studying his character. She, like Gertrude,
was an independent thinker, and never hesitated to express her opinions,
and she frequently led him into spirited discussions upon topics where he
often found himself beyond his depth, and was thus made conscious that
in what pertained to character, honesty, and morality he fell far short
of the ideals that she cherished.
One afternoon he invited her to go with him to Riverside, a beautiful
spot a few miles out of Boston, where the silvery Charles winds its
alluring way among green meadows and picturesque hills and woodlands, and
which has long been a noted and favorite resort for parties who delight
in boating.
Philip was the owner of a fine canoe, and, being an expert in the
management of such craft, the young couple spent several hours skimming
over the smoothly flowing river, dipping in and out of shady, romantic
nooks and gathering the fragrant golden-hearted lilies that grew in
abundance all along the banks of the stream.
It seemed to Phil as he sat opposite his lovely vis-a-vis, who—in her
white flannel outing-suit, her jaunty sailor-hat, and shaded by a white
sun-umbrella lined with pale green—seemed like a fair, pure lily herself,
that the world and wealth were well lost for such a wife as he knew
she would make, and he found himself hungering and thirsting for the
priceless and ennobling love which he knew it was in her power to bestow
upon the man whom she would choose to be her life-companion.
They had been conversing upon various subjects, some grave, some gay,
when suddenly Philip started slightly as his glance fell upon one of
Mollie’s slim, perfect hands, which was resting upon the edge of the
boat.
“Mollie,” he observed, resting upon his oars and leaning toward her, “do
you remember the day you left for home after your last visit with us,
just previous to going abroad?”
“Of course I remember it,” she returned, a delicate flush suffusing her
face as she recalled some things that he had said to her on that day;
“it was only four years ago, you know,” she added, smiling and quickly
recovering her self-possession.
“And do you also remember that your humble servant asked you to give him
a certain ring which you were wearing that day?”
“Oh, the cameo? Yes,” and now the color deepened, while her eyes wavered
and fell beneath his gaze, for she feared he was about to ask her a
question which she knew she was not yet ready to answer.
“Why did you refuse to give it to me, Mollie?” queried the young man, in
a low, eager tone.
There was a moment of absolute silence; then Mollie said in a voice that
was not quite steady:
“Because—I did not think it best.”
Philip laughed.
“Perhaps the form of my request may have been the cause of your refusal,”
he said; “if I had worded it differently, would you have given it to me?”
“Possibly—I cannot tell,” she gravely returned, with a far-away look in
her eyes.
“If I should beg for it now, as a gift of friendship, would you bestow
it?” he persisted, determined to find out how Clifford Faxon had come by
it.
“No, I could not.”
“Why?”
“Because I have already given it away,” Mollie replied, a little
smile flitting over her red lips as she recalled that scene at the
railway-station in New Haven.