So William Faxon Temple Wilton's mortal experience on this plane of
existence came to an end. Love of ease and pleasure, selfishness and
greed, the fostering of malice, passion, and appetite invariably bring
their punishment, even here.
When all was over it was found, upon making a thorough examination of
his papers, that the man had left no will. A memorandum of a few
bequests was discovered in a little blankbook in his desk, showing that
he had given some thought to the subject; but these, of course, amounted
to nothing, and Philip Wentworth was appalled when he realized what such
culpable neglect on the part of Mr. Temple meant in connection with his
mother and sister.
"Mother, this is simply awful!" he exclaimed, when they were at last
obliged to relinquish their fruitless search; "you and Minnie are
literally penniless, for not a dollar of Mr. Temple's fortune can either
of you touch. Clifford Faxon, who is his son by that other woman,
becomes the sole heir to his magnificent property."
"Can that be possible?" said Mrs. Temple, greatly distressed. "Oh, it
seems dreadful that Minnie—that innocent child—must suffer for the sin
of another. She was her father's idol, and, of course, he intended that
she should be his heiress. I know if he had even dreamed that the truth
would be revealed he would have made a will in her favor, and settled
the matter irrevocably."
"He did know," said Phil, flushing with indignation; "don't you know he
said that he realized that Faxon was his son, as long ago as when he met
him at the mountains. I cannot understand how he dared to leave matters
so at loose ends."
"Well," observed Mrs. Temple, after a thoughtful pause, "I am not going
to cast reflections upon him now. I told him that I forgave him, and I
will hold to what I said. I begin to think that unlimited wealth is a
snare which binds and warps all that is best in our natures. I am not
literally penniless, as you said. I have my own small fortune, which
Will insisted upon settling upon me when we were—ah! why do I refer to
that miserable farce!" she interposed with sudden passion.
But she calmed herself almost instantly and continued:
"I am sure I can manage with what I have quite comfortably, though, of
course, we will have to give up all this style and exercise economy.
Now, Phil"—with an air of determination—"I am not going to have any
legal contest or gossip over these matters. Everything has been kept
quiet so far, and for both Minnie's and my sake there must be no
scandal. I am going to send for Mr. Faxon, tell him frankly that there
is no will, and relinquish everything to him."
"That would be neither right nor sensible!" cried Philip hotly, his old
grudge against Clifford flaming up anew. "Of course, I can understand
that Faxon—hem! has certain legal rights that will have to be
respected; but, morally, he has no right to this fortune—Minnie should
have every dollar of it. Blast it all!" he burst forth, as he sprang to
his feet and excitedly paced the room, "we are in a horrible situation.
If we fight for the property that damnable secret will all have to come
out——"
"Yes, and there would be no use in fighting, for Mr. Faxon can easily
prove his own position and get everything. Oh, it would be worse than
folly, Phil, to attempt to contest the matter—our hands are tied—we
are utterly helpless; so I am going to quietly give up everything. I
would rather forfeit every penny than have the world know our shameful
story."
Philip was almost beside himself in view of this unforeseen calamity.
Since the trouble has fallen upon his mother he had borne himself with
more dignity and manliness than he had ever manifested. He had seemed to
be suddenly transformed, and had been a veritable staff and support to
her. He had even appeared somewhat softened toward Clifford upon
learning how nobly considerate he had been and that he had given his
word to preserve their secret inviolate.
But now, when he realized that he alone was Mr. Temple's heir, and that
his mother and sister would be deprived of the luxuries to which they
had always been accustomed, his old hatred revived with tenfold fury,
and he became capable for the time of almost any crime in his desire to
wreck vengeance upon his rival.
But Mrs. Temple proceeded to put her resolution into immediate action,
and wrote a brief, courteous note to Clifford, requesting him to call at
his earliest convenience, as she had a matter of the most vital
importance to discuss with him.
He at once surmised something of the nature of the matter—for he knew
that if he had not been mentioned in Mr. Temple's will he could break it
if he chose—and accordingly presented himself at the Temple mansion
that same evening.
Mrs. Temple received him cordially, but Phil, his mother having insisted
that he should be present during the interview, barely accorded him a
recognition.
Mrs. Temple came to the point at once, stating the case briefly, but
plainly, and to say that Clifford was astonished upon learning that
there was no will and that he alone was heir to the large fortune which
Mr. Temple had left would not feebly express his feelings.
He had never once thought of such a contingency. He supposed, of course,
that Mr. Temple had made his will, leaving everything to the woman he
adored and the child he worshiped, and that they had sent for him simply
to make terms with him to prevent him from making them any trouble in
settling the estate. But to learn that there were no terms to be
made—to learn that they had sent for him to relinquish everything,
without a desire or a condition, except that he would reassure them of
his willingness to keep their miserable secret, almost dazed him.
To most people that would have been a moment of signal triumph; but it
was not in Clifford's nature to triumph in any one's misfortune,
although it did flash upon him, as his mind reverted to that day when
Philip Wentworth had so rudely saluted him—"Say, here! you
window-washer!"—that the tables had been turned in a most wonderful
manner.
It seemed like a dream to be sitting there and know that, for the
moment, at least, he was a millionaire, while his old-time enemy and his
proud mother were groveling before him in the valley of humiliation.
He listened gravely to all Mrs. Temple had to say, and his heart ached
for her in her sorrow, and grew very tender toward her, as well, for was
she not the mother of his young sister?
When, at the close of her explanations, she begged him, for Minnie's
sake, to take everything and welcome if he would only save them the
disgrace of having the world learn the truth and point the finger of
scorn at them, he flushed to his brows with wounded feeling.
"My dear madam," he said as she concluded, "I am wondering what your
estimate of me can be! I assure you that I am as eager as yourself to
keep these matters from the world. I may as well tell you that Mr.
Temple offered to settle three hundred thousand dollars upon me upon the
same condition; but I say to you now, as I said to him that evening, I
cheerfully promise that, as far as I am concerned, the secret shall be
inviolate, and I do not want—I will not have—a dollar of this fortune
which you assert, and which I can understand, might be mine by the law
of inheritance."
At this point Philip Wentworth turned and faced him for the first time
during the interview, his face wearing an expression of profound
astonishment.
"What are you saying?" he demanded sharply; "you do not intend to take
any of Mr. Temple's money?"
"Not a penny, Wentworth," Clifford quietly returned.
"But—I do not understand it!" said Philip, with a blank stare of
wonderment.
"It is very simple," returned Clifford, with a frank smile. "Mr. Temple
never knew of my existence until a little over five years ago, and even
after he learned the fact he manifested no interest in me. All his hopes
and plans were centered in his daughter and her mother; his fortune was
made for them, and he expected and intended that it would become theirs
in the event of his death. Now, I feel that I have no more right to it,
morally, than I have to the fortune of one of the Vanderbilts. I can
see, as you do, that I might, according to the law governing such
matters, claim it all if I was so disposed; but I assure you I want no
part of it. Probably the world—if it were conversant with the
circumstances—would judge me to be quixotic and say that my pride
outweighed my judgment. Possibly, that may be true to a certain
extent—I cannot quite define my own feelings regarding the matter;
but," he concluded decidedly, "the fact remains—I will not touch it!"
Mrs. Temple had observed him with growing interest, mingled with
deepest respect and admiration, during these remarks, and as he
concluded she turned to him with an eager light in her eyes:
"Mr. Faxon," she said, "there is, I suppose, a great deal of money; may
I beg, as a personal favor, that you will take at least a portion of
it—that you will share it with Minnie?"
"Madam, that would be impossible. I most cheerfully resign everything to
her," was the firm but courteous response.
"I am amazed!" said the lady, with visible emotion, "and, morally, it
does not seem right to me that my child should, under the circumstances,
alone be enriched by Mr. Temple's wealth. Oh! I trust that the innocent
girl may not fall under the ban of your censure because of her father's
wrongdoing."
"Surely not, Mrs. Temple," said Clifford earnestly; "on the contrary, I
have long entertained a very tender feeling toward her. How could I help
it after the thrilling experience in which we participated a few years
ago?—and now the knowledge that we are akin to each other has only
served to strengthen the bond. With your permission, I shall be glad to
cultivate an even closer friendship than has hitherto existed between
us."
"You not only have my permission—I shall be proud to have you for her
friend, and—mine," said Mrs. Temple huskily; and then, utterly overcome
by his magnanimity, she buried her face in her hands and wept.
"Thank you," returned Clifford heartily, "and allow me to say that you
both have had my deepest sympathies during this trial. Had I dreamed of
these results I should certainly have refused to comply with Mr.
Temple's request for an interview. But we will never refer to the
subject again, only let me add that I feel you have shown yourself very
honorable in your proposals to me this evening."
"Oh!" cried Mrs. Temple, with a gesture of repudiation, as she lifted
her face to him, "do not commend me for what was prompted by purely
selfish motives; my only thought was to secure your silence at any cost,
but now I really wish, out of a spirit of gratitude and of admiration
for your nobility, that I could persuade you to revoke your decision."
"I cannot, Mrs. Temple," said Clifford gravely and decisively, "but"—a
genial smile chasing the gravity away—"I will most thankfully avail
myself of your proffered friendship, and even though—because of the
world—I may not claim my young sister as such, I assure you I shall
love her none the less tenderly."
Feeling that the interview should end, Clifford now arose to go,
pleading another engagement. Mrs. Temple also arose and came toward him,
with outstretched hand.
"I am more grateful to you than I can express," she said, with the tears
springing afresh. "I have had a bitter cup to drink—a terrible wound to
bear, but you have greatly soothed and comforted me to-night; if I can
ever serve you in any way, believe me I shall esteem it a privilege to
do so."
"Thank you," said Clifford heartily, as he clasped her trembling hand.
Then he glanced somewhat doubtfully at Philip, who during the last
half-hour, had been sitting silent and apparently preoccupied, and
wearing a strangely depressed air.
"Good night, Wentworth," he said cordially, after an instant of
irresolution.
There was a moment of awkward silence.
"Phil!" broke in his mother, in a tone of surprised reproof.
The young man sprang to his feet and turned a flushed, shamed face upon
Clifford.
"I say, Faxon," he faltered huskily, "this has been too much for me!
I've been a cad and a knave time and again, but you have set your heel
upon me pretty effectually this time! I am simply crushed. You have done
to-night what I did not believe any man was capable of doing, and when
you entered the room I was in a more murderous frame of mind than I have
ever been before; but you have taken the starch all out of me, and I am
ready now to eat humble pie. If you won't feel insulted, after all that
has passed, I'd like to ask you to shake hands and wipe out old scores."
Clifford's hand went out to him with instant cordiality.
"Gladly!" he said, and in that friendly clasp there was ratified a
treaty which endured throughout their lives.
No other word was spoken, for Philip was now beyond the power of
speech, and Clifford, recognizing the fact, beat a considerate retreat,
and left the house with a buoyant heart, an elastic step, a smile on his
lips, and the consciousness of a noble victory gleaming in his
expressive brown eyes, for of an enemy he had at last made a friend.
Mrs. Temple and Philip set themselves immediately about winding up Mr.
Temple's affairs, and both seemed to have undergone a radical
transformation.
The proud, gay butterfly of fashion had suddenly become the gentle,
tender, considerate mother—a thoughtful, womanly woman; the indolent,
aimless man was fast developing into an attentive son, a wise adviser,
an efficient helper and protector.
"You are growing very like your father, Phil," his mother said to him
one day, after many hours of patient labor over perplexing accounts and
papers.
"Thank you, mother, you could not have said anything to have encouraged
me more," the young man replied, with grave appreciation, but with a
sigh over the wasted years of his life.
Upon completing their business-arrangements, Mrs. Temple insisted that
the sum of fifty thousand dollars should be made over to Mr.
Heatherford, who, she asserted, must have lost fully that amount, first
and last, in his dealings with her husband, she and Phil having
discovered the fact during their examination of the man's account. The
man, at first, demurred against taking it, but she assured him that out
of her abundance it would never be missed, and that she would feel that
she was retaining money which did not belong to her if he did not
accept it; and he finally acceded to her request, for he well knew that
the methods which Mr. Temple had employed had amounted to the same thing
as taking so much money out of his pockets and transferring it to his
own.
During this time Clifford saw considerable of the family, and between
him and Minnie there grew up a strong and endearing friendship, which,
in after years, became the source of much happiness to them both.
Mollie, also, feeling her sympathies aroused in view of the wrongs and
trials of the family, renewed her friendship with them—even with Phil,
who was so thoroughly repentant for the past and so changed that she had
not the heart to keep him longer under the ban of her displeasure.
Their business-affairs in Washington once arranged, they returned to
their home in Brookline, where they dropped into a quiet, peaceful way
of living, Minnie throwing her whole heart into her studies to prepare
for college; Philip settling down to business in a firm where a young
and enterprising man with some capital was needed, while Mrs. Temple
devoted herself exclusively to her two children and their interests.
The twenty-fifth of January there was a brilliant society wedding in
Washington, when Mollie Heatherford gave herself to her king, and
believed that she was the happiest woman living, while Clifford felt
himself truly crowned with the supreme joy of his life. Miss Athol was
maid of honor to the fair bride, and her fiancé, the son of the British
ambassador, was Clifford's best man.
Maria Kimberly and Squire Talford were both bidden to the festivities.
The squire did not respond in any way to the courtesy extended to him,
but Maria presented herself a week beforehand, to help the affair along,
and she could not have shown a more vigorous interest if Clifford and
Mollie had been her own children.
The Temples and Philip Wentworth also received invitations, but they
excused themselves on account of their mourning.
Mollie, however, received a family remembrance in the form of a solid
silver service, and Clifford a magnificent saddle-horse for his own
private use.
Life looked very bright to the happy couple, and, indeed, to Mr.
Heatherford, as well, for he had grown very fond of the noble fellow
whom his daughter had chosen to be her life companion, and, with health,
wealth and congenial tastes, there seemed to be nothing to be desired
for their future, and they formed an ideal family in their ideal home.
When the wedding was over Maria returned to the squire, but with a
somewhat heavy heart, for she yearned to keep her old-time promise to
Clifford—to superintend his culinary department when he was able to set
up an establishment of his own.
He had told her that the place was open to her whenever she saw fit to
take it, but her sense of duty would not allow her to leave the squire,
"who wasn't nigh so chipper as he used to be afore he had that
sickness," and she hadn't the heart to leave him—at least, until he
got stronger.
The result was she continued to live at Cedar Hill for two years longer,
and during which the squire gradually failed in health, and finally was
found one morning cold and still in his bed.
He preserved his gruff, cynical, reticent manner till the last; but when
his will was read, to the astonishment of every one, it was found he had
bequeathed his entire property—excepting three thousand dollars to
Maria—which proved to be a very handsome inheritance, to Clifford
Faxon; while among his papers there was also found a letter addressed to
the young man, in which he had poured out much of the pent-up feeling of
many years, and showing plainly that his love for Clifford's mother had
been the strongest and most enduring sentiment of his nature.
"I've been proud of you, too," he closed the characteristic epistle by
saying—"prouder than you will ever know; but the devil in me that hated
your father would never let me show it."
"Poor old man!" said Clifford, as he finished the strange missive, "how
glad I would have been to have made his life more enjoyable."
Henceforth the fine estate at Cedar Hill became the summer home of the
Faxons, while Maria continued to preside there, a proud and happy queen,
in her way, of all she surveyed, for Mollie declared she would never
presume to call herself mistress in a place so immaculately kept and
well ordered as Clifford's home in the East.
She grew to love the place very dearly, for from the window she could
look out upon the very spot where, as a boy, her husband had wielded
those vigorous blows which had doubtless saved the lives of hundreds of
people and resulted in their first meeting, when she had lost her heart
while looking into his brown eyes and had given him the magic cameo,
which still graced his strong hand.
THE END.
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