"Now"--rising feebly and holding onto the back of his chair, while he gazed on her with the look of one whose heart was breaking--"arrange everything to suit yourself. I will not lay a straw in your way, and you shall have all the money you want."

He tottered from the room, groping his way down-stairs and walking like one who has been stricken blind, sought the library, and locked himself in to keep out intruders, while trying to face a future which did not seem to have a single ray of hope to make it worth the living.

There they found him five hours later, sitting before his desk, his head bowed upon his outstretched arms, unconscious and almost rigid.

The butler, desiring some instructions regarding certain orders his master had given him, rapped upon the door for admission; but, after repeated attempts, receiving no answer, he had gone out upon the veranda and entered the room by a window, to find the occupant of the room in the condition described.

He was borne to his room and the family physician summoned, when the attack was p.r.o.nounced an apoplectic stroke.

He recovered consciousness after a few days, but could move neither hand nor foot, while the verdict of the doctors was that his days, even his hours, were numbered.

When this was made known to Mrs. Temple she seemed to become like one petrified. She sat motionless and speechless for several minutes; then she burst into a pa.s.sion of weeping, so violent in her utter abandonment to her overwhelming grief that she was utterly prostrated by it; the flood-gates that had hitherto been held back by an almost indomitable will and pride were lifted, and all her pent-up sorrow and shame were let loose.

When the storm finally spent itself she slept from sheer exhaustion, and did not wake for several hours. Then she was calm, and once more mistress of herself, and clothing herself in soft, noiseless garments, she went directly to her husband, a chastened look on her face, an air of gentleness and resignation in her bearing that hitherto had been wholly foreign to her.

Almost ever since memory had returned to him, the sick man had lain with his eyes fastened upon the door leading from his room, and with a look of longing in them that was pathetic beyond description.

When, at length, it opened to admit his wife, his whole face lighted with an expression of joy that nearly made her weep again, but which sent a thrill to her own heart that told her she loved him still, in spite of the irreparable wrong he had done her.

She went to his bed and sat down beside him, gathering one of his lifeless hands into hers, and, bending over him, kissed him on the forehead.

Two great tears welled up from the fountain of his heart and brimmed over upon his cheeks. His wife gently wiped them away and questioned tenderly:

"Will, is there anything you would like me to do for you?"

He closed his eyes slowly, thus signifying that there was, then, opening them again, he glanced toward the nurse.

"Do you wish to be alone with me for a while?" Mrs. Temple inquired.

Yes, the sad eyes signified, and the attendant went immediately out.

"Now, dear, how can I manage to find out just what you want?" said Mrs.

Temple, when the door was closed.

Again that intensely yearning look was fastened upon her face, and she instinctively divined his thought at once.

"Is is that you wish me to say something kind to you?" she asked.

His look brightened, but the tears started at the same time.

"Well, then, Will, dear," began the chastened wife, in a voice that was tremulous with emotion, "I have fought my battle out, and I believe I can truly say that I forgive all. I see now that I was selfish in thinking only of my own suffering--I had no right to be cruel to you when you were more wretched than I. Get well, Will--try to get well, and then we will all go to some quiet place and begin to live in a more earnest and sensible way."

The tears were raining thick and fast now from the man's eyes, but she wiped them away, while she continued to talk to him in a soothing, comforting strain, until he became more composed. But she soon saw that there was still something on his mind, and she tried to ascertain what it was, but though she asked many questions regarding his business and certain appointments which she knew he had made, she could not seem to get at his thought.

At last she told him that she would say the alphabet and they would spell out his wish. When she reached the letter M, he signified that was right, and she instantly jumped to a conclusion, and inquired:

"Do you want Minnie?--how strange I did not think of that before!"

Yes, the eyes a.s.sented. Mrs. Temple rang the bell and sent for the child, who had not been allowed to come into the room, except for a moment or two, while her father was sleeping.

She soon made her appearance, looking pale and drooping, for the sensitive girl had been stricken to the heart by what she had learned, and inexpressibly lonely and wretched while her mother was brooding over her own misery.

Mrs. Temple folded her in her arms and kissed her tenderly, then made her sit down in her own chair, while she drew another near for herself.

"Papa wished me to send for you, dear," she said; "he cannot speak, but you may talk to him a little; and, love, say something kind to him," she concluded, with her lips close to Minnie's ear.

Minnie sat down by the sick man and laid her cheek against his with all her accustomed fondness.

"Papa," she murmured, "I love you--I am so sorry you are ill and cannot talk to me; but"--now lifting her head and looking earnestly into his eyes--"you know that I love you--that I shall always love you."

The look of yearning and agony which he bent upon her was more than she could bear, and, dropping her head again upon his pillow, she added:

"Now cannot you go to sleep for a little while; I will sit here beside you and hold your hand; then, perhaps, when you are rested you can talk to me a little."

She clasped his hand in both of her own soft, warm palms, raised it to her lips, kissed it, and held it there, and for nearly half an hour there was no sound in the room.

Finally the nurse came softly in, to look after her patient, and Mrs.

Temple turned, with her finger upon her lips.

"They are both asleep," she whispered.

It was true, both the man and child were wrapped in slumber; one in that which knows no waking, the other in the innocent, restful sleep of childhood.

CHAPTER XXIII.

CLIFFORD REFUSES A FORTUNE.

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, pa.s.sion, and appet.i.te 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 pa.s.sion.

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."