CHAPTER XIV.

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.