The Magic Cameo
                              A Love Story

                        _By_ MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON

                                AUTHOR OF
               “The Churchyard Betrothal,” “Mona,” “Wedded
                  By Fate,” “A Hoiden’s Conquest,” “The
                         Lily of Mordaunt,” etc.

                             [Illustration]

                           A. L. BURT COMPANY
                           PUBLISHERS NEW YORK




Popular Books

By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON

In Handsome Cloth Binding

Price per Volume, 60 Cents

  Brownie’s Triumph
  Earl Wayne’s Nobility
  Churchyard Betrothal, The
  Edrie’s Legacy
  Faithful Shirley
  For Love and Honor
    Sequel to Geoffrey’s Victory
  Forsaken Bride, The
  Geoffrey’s Victory
  Golden Key, The; or a Heart’s Silent Worship
  Heatherford Fortune, The
    Sequel to The Magic Cameo
  He Loves Me For Myself
  Helen’s Victory
  Her Faith Rewarded
    Sequel to Faithful Shirley
  Her Heart’s Victory
    Sequel to Max
  Heritage of Love, A
    Sequel to The Golden Key
  Hoiden’s Conquest, A
  How Will It End
    Sequel to Marguerite’s Heritage
  Lily of Mordaunt, The
  Little Miss Whirlwind; or Lost for Twenty Years
  Lost, A Pearle
  Love’s Conquest
    Sequel to Helen’s Victory
  Love Victorious, A
  Magic Cameo, The
  Marguerite’s Heritage
  Masked Bridal, The
  Max, A Cradle Mystery
  Mona
  Nora, or The Missing Heir of Callonby
  Sibyl’s Influence
  Threads Gathered Up
    Sequel to Virgie’s Inheritance
  Thrice Wedded
  Tina
  Trixy, or The Shadow of a Crime
  True Aristocrat, A
  True Love’s Reward
  Virgie’s Inheritance
  Wedded By Fate

                       For Sale by all Booksellers
              or will be sent postpaid on receipt of price

                     A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS
                        52 Duane Street New York

                        Copyright, 1898 and 1899
                            BY STREET & SMITH

                             THE MAGIC CAMEO




THE MAGIC CAMEO.




PRELUDE.

THREE PICTURES.


Picture number one shows us a young man of about twenty-eight years
standing on the veranda of a fine country residence that rises out of the
midst of spacious and well-kept grounds, while stretching out and around
on every hand are many broad acres of carefully tilled fields of grain,
luxuriant waving grass, and, in the distance, a belt of woodland.

Behind the mansion are roomy and substantial barns and outhouses for
various purposes, all in perfect repair and telling of comfortable
quarters for horses, cows, and other kinds of stock. It is, in fact, a
thrifty and ideal New England farm, and a home of which any man might
reasonably feel proud.

But the young man standing upon the broad veranda has at this moment no
thought of his prospective inheritance. His form is as rigid as that of a
statue; his face is set and colorless; his eyes wide and staring and full
of hopeless wretchedness, as they scan the letter which he is holding in
his hand. The missive had been brought to him a few moments previous by
the hired man who had just returned from the village post-office, and
who had shot a sly glance and smile up at his young master, to indicate
that he had not been unmindful of the delicate and flowing handwriting in
which it had been addressed, that had caused such a glad light to leap
into the eyes of the recipient and made him blush like a girl as he tore
it eagerly open.

Let us read the lines which occasioned such a sudden transformation,
blotting out the love-light from his eyes, burning to ashes all the
tenderness in his nature and writing hard and cruel lines upon his face:

    “ALFRED: I know that you can never forgive me the wrong I am
    doing you, but, too late, I have learned that I love another
    and not you. When you receive this I shall be the wife of that
    other—you well know who. I wish I could have saved you this
    blow, so near the day that was set for our wedding; but I
    should have doubly wronged you had I remained and fulfilled my
    pledge to you with my heart irrevocably given elsewhere. Forget
    and forgive if you can.

                                                            “T. A.”

“My God! and she was to have been my wife one month from to-day!” bursts
from the white lips of the reader as he finishes perusing the above for
the second time.

He sways dizzily, then staggers toward one of the massive pillars that
support the roof of the piazza, and leans against it, too weak from the
terrible shock he has received to stand alone; and there he remains,
staring sightlessly before him, oblivious to everything save his own
misery, until an elderly gentle-faced woman comes to the door and says:

“Alfred, supper is ready.”

The man starts, stands erect, his brows contracted, his lips set in a
white line of determination. He deliberately folds the letter, returns it
to its envelope, and slips it into an inner pocket. As he crushes it down
out of sight a look of hate sweeps over his face and blazes in his eyes.

Then he turns and follows the woman into the house.

       *       *       *       *       *

Picture number two was sketched more than two years later, and shows
a small, meagerly furnished room, in an humble tenement, located in a
narrow street of a great Western city. It has only one occupant—a young
and attractive woman, who is sitting before a fire in an open grate, for
it is a chill November night.

Her face is stained with weeping; her eyes are red and swollen; great
heart-rending sobs burst from her every now and then, and she is
trembling from head to foot.

As in the first picture, there is a letter. She holds it in her hands,
upon her lap, and she has crumpled it with her fingers, which are
twitching nervously, causing the paper to rattle in her grasp.

“Merciful Heaven! can it be true?” she breathes, between her quivering
lips. “I cannot, will not believe a human being could be so heartless, so
lost to all honor and manliness.”

She raises the missive, spreads it out before her, and reads it through
again, although every word was already seared, as with a hot iron, upon
her brain. It was brief, cold, and fiendishly cruel. It was addressed to
no one, and was also without signature.

    “I’m off,” it began. “There is no use in longer trying to
    conceal the fact that I am tired of the continual grind of the
    last two years. It was a great mistake that we ever married,
    and I may as well confess what you have already surmised—that
    I never really loved you. Why did I marry you, then? Well, you
    know that I never could endure to be balked in anything, and as
    I had made up my mind to cut a certain person out, I was bound
    to carry my point. You know whom I mean, and that he and I were
    always at cross-purposes. The best thing you can do will be
    to go back to your own people—tell whatever story you choose
    about me. I shall never take the trouble to refute it, neither
    will I ever annoy you in any way. Get a divorce if you want
    one. I will not oppose it; as I said before, I am tired of the
    infernal grind and bound to get out of it. I’ll go my way, and
    you may go yours; but don’t attempt to find or follow me, for I
    won’t be hampered by any responsibilities in the future.”

The woman fell into deep thought after this last perusal of the letter,
and she sat more than an hour gazing into the fire, scarcely moving
during that time.

The cheap little clock on the mantel striking eight finally aroused her,
and, with a long-drawn sigh, she arose, walked deliberately to the grate,
laid the epistle on the coals and watched it while the flames devoured
it, reducing it to ashes, which were finally whirled in tiny particles up
the chimney by the draft.

“So that dream has vanished,” she murmured; “now I will come down to the
practical realities of life. But, oh! what has the future for me?”

       *       *       *       *       *

Picture number three is not unveiled until fourteen years later.

In a palatial residence on Nob Hill, in San Francisco, a
distinguished-looking gentleman may be seen sitting in his luxurious
library. Its walls are hung with an exquisite shade of old rose, the
broad frieze representing garlands of flowers in old rose, gold, and
white. The furniture is of solid mahogany, richly carved, upholstered in
blue velvet and satins; costly draperies are at the windows; Turkish rugs
of almost priceless value are strewn about the inlaid and highly polished
floor, and statues, bric-a-brac, and fine pictures, gathered from many
countries, are artistically arranged about the room.

The gentleman, who is in evening dress, excepting that he has on a
smoking-jacket of rich black velvet, is lazily reclining in an adjustable
chair, and engaged in cutting the leaves of one of the late magazines,
while he smokes a cigar.

Presently the portieres of a doorway are swept aside, and a beautiful
woman enters. She is in full evening dress, and clad like a princess in
satin, of a deep shade of pink, brocaded with white. Diamonds encircle
her white neck, gleam in her ears, and amid her nut-brown hair.

The gentleman turns to her, his face glowing with mingled pride and
pleasure.

“Nell! what a vision of loveliness!” he exclaims, with an eager thrill in
his tones.

She comes to him with a fond smile upon her lips, lays her fair arms
around his neck, and kisses him.

“So much for your flattery,” she playfully responds.

“Ah, I am tempted to try for the same reward again,” he returns, in the
same vein, as he captures one jeweled hand and lays it against his lips.

“But, dear, do you know how late it is getting to be?” questions the
lady, as she glances at the gilded clock on the mantel.

“Well, I am all ready, except getting into my coat. Run away for your
opera-cloak, and I will not be a minute behind you, though really, Nell,
I am too comfortable to move,” concludes the man, in a regretful tone.

“Oh, you lazy, unappreciative fellow,” gaily retorts his companion. “Here
one of the leaders in society is about to tender a brilliant reception
to the distinguished mayor of the city, and he is so indifferent to the
honor that he prefers to sit and smoke at home to receive the homage
awaiting him. Come, sir; your wife is ambitious if you are not.”

She administers a playful box on his ear as she ceases, then trips away,
while the gentleman watches her with a smile on his lips and his heart in
his eyes.

He arises the instant she disappears, and is on the point of following
her when his glance falls upon a paper which, until that moment, has lain
unnoticed upon the table. He picks it up, and runs his eyes up and down
its columns.

Suddenly a shock seems to go quivering through him, and every particle
of color fades out of his face. He stands up as if transfixed for a full
minute. Then the paper drops from his grasp.

“At last!” he mutters; “at last!”

He draws a long, deep breath, like one who, having been long oppressed,
suddenly feels a weight removed. Then he throws back his shoulders and
walks with a proudly uplifted head and elastic step from the room.




CHAPTER I.

AN ACT OF HEROISM.


A long and heavily laden passenger-train—the 3 o’clock limited express
from Boston to New York—and composed chiefly of parlor-cars, was almost
ready to pull out of the station. The engineer and fireman were in their
places, while the porters, standing beside their steps, were awaiting the
last signal from the gong.

Midway of the train, and sitting at the open window of her section, a
young girl of perhaps fourteen or fifteen years, was sitting. She was a
veritable pink-and-white beauty, with golden hair lying in soft, fluffy
curls about her forehead, beneath which a pair of mischievous blue eyes—a
saucy light gleaming in their azure depths—looked out and down upon the
handsome face of a tall, well-formed youth, with an unmistakable air of
high breeding about him, who was standing on the platform outside with a
somewhat lugubrious expression on his countenance.

He was evidently about eighteen years of age, and everything about him
indicated a scion of a wealthy aristocrat.

“Remember, Mollie,” he was saying, “you have promised to write me every
week, and I shall expect you to tell me everything you hear, see, and
do—yes, and think. I don’t know how I’m going to stand it to have you
gone, for nobody knows how long, with the ocean between us and all our
good times at an end.”

“Nonsense, Phil, you silly boy! You are going to be at Harvard, and,
absorbed in your studies and your various clubs and societies, you will
soon forget all about those ‘old times,’ and be bored beyond expression
if I should take you at your word and inflict a letter, filled with
foolish, girlish gossip, upon you every week,” the girl laughingly
retorted.

Nevertheless, her saucy eyes grew a trifle sad while she was speaking,
and a deeper pink glowed upon her cheeks.

“No, it is not ‘nonsense,’ and I shall never ‘forget,’ as you will prove
to your satisfaction, if you will only do your duty,” the young man
earnestly returned. “So send on your letters, and mind, Mollie, you don’t
let any one steal your heart away from me, for you know you are to marry
me just as soon as I am through college.”

He had lowered his voice during this last sentence, while he regarded the
lovely face with a tender, admiring look that spoke volumes. The azure
eyes drooped and a scarlet wave leaped to the delicately blue-veined
temples; but she replied:

“Marry you as soon as you are through college, indeed!—who said so, I
should like to know?” A tantalizing laugh revealed two rows of small
white teeth between the ruby lips.

“Mollie! Mollie! don’t torment me,” the youthful lover returned, with a
note of earnest entreaty in his tone. “You know that we have planned it
all a hundred times, when you and I were playing ‘keep house’ together in
the tent under the old elms at your home on the Hudson.”

“Oh, but that was only play, Phil. In another month you’ll be dancing
attendance on the pretty Cambridge girls, and, after four years of such
fun, you’ll cease to remember that such a being as Mollie Heatherford
exists, or that she ever played Joan to your Darby under the elms at
Sunnyhurst,” and two roguish eyes gleamed with mischief as they scanned
the clouded face beneath her.

“You are cruel, Mollie. I shall always be faithful to you, and I wish
you would give me some pledge before you go; say,” as his glance fell
upon the small, white hand that rested upon the window-sill, and on which
there gleamed several costly rings, “give me that cameo you are wearing
to seal the compact. It really isn’t a lady’s ring, and would look far
better on my hand than yours, and I’ll send you something pretty and nice
in place of it. Now, Mollie, dear, be good to me—don’t go away and leave
me in suspense.”

But Miss Mischief had no intention of being caught in the net so cleverly
spread for her. She laughed roguishly back into the handsome face
upturned to her, and saucily shook her head.

“No, I can’t give you the cameo, Phil,” she said, “and I’m not going to
make any promises—now. Hark, there is the last bell. Good-by, and do
yourself credit at college.”

The train began to move as she spoke. Phil clasped the hand outstretched
to him while he ran along beside the car.

“Remember, it is mine. I shall claim it in four years, promise or no
promise. Now, write me every week; don’t forget me; good-by.”

He had to relinquish the hand at last, but he took off his hat and waved
a farewell, while his fond eyes lingered upon the sweet, smiling face
looking back at him, until the train rolled out of the station.

He knew it would be the last time he would see it for a long while,
for pretty Mollie Heatherford was soon to go abroad for an indefinite
period. She had been spending a week with the Temples in Brookline—Phil’s
home—making a farewell visit previous to her departure, and she was now
on her way to New York to rejoin her father and mother, and the trio were
to sail for Europe within a few days.

“By Jove! I believe she is the prettiest girl I ever saw, and she’ll have
a pile of money some day. I’ll stick to Mollie and her pile, and the
Cambridge girls may hang their harps on the willows for all me. I’m going
to look out for number one.”

Such were the mental comments of Philip Wentworth, whose mother—a
widow—had married a wealthy man by the name of Temple some four years
previous. And these comments were an index to the young man’s character,
which, summed up in a word, might be written selfish.

The express-train steamed rapidly on its way, bearing the pretty heiress
of the Heatherford million toward her home. The day had been very hot
and sultry—it was late in July—and some three hours after leaving Boston
ominous clouds began to gather in the West. A little later the train ran
into a terrific electric-storm.

Mollie Heatherford sat crouching in her section, white and trembling, and
dreading every instant a deadly bolt which would bring swift destruction
and annihilation to her, yet too proud and sensitive to confess her fear
and seek the reassuring companionship of some fellow traveler.

The heavens were so thickly overcast, and the rain descended in such
torrents it seemed almost like night in the car, and the porter began to
light the lamps.

He had only half-completed his task when there burst upon the affrighted
ears of the awe-stricken passengers within the train a startling, warning
whistle from the engine, then a sudden shock and crash, followed by
shrieks and cries of men, women, and children.

On this same afternoon, while “the Limited” was speeding on its way
from Boston to New York, a youth of perhaps seventeen years might have
been seen toiling beneath the blazing sun in a hay-field, adjoining the
grounds surrounding a stately mansion, and which was located on the
outskirts of a beautiful country town not far from New Haven.

Every now and then the young man would glance anxiously up at a small
cloud that was floating along the western horizon, and every time he
looked it seemed to have grown larger and larger. Then he would fall to
work again with fresh vigor, apparently unmindful of the broiling heat
and of the great beads of perspiration which rolled over his face and
dropped upon the ground.

He was working alone, and it did not seem possible that he would be able
to get all the hay in the field into cocks and covered with caps before
the storm would be upon him. But there was a resolution in every glance
of his eye, determination in every vigorous movement of his body, and
he pressed on, while the cloud grew, mounting higher and higher in the
heavens, while vivid flashes of lightning, followed by the heavy roll of
thunder, gave warning that the storm was coming nearer and nearer.

He had timed himself well; the task was completed; the last cap spread as
the first drops fell, when the youth shouldered his rake and turned his
steps toward the farmhouse. He had to run for it, for the storm was fast
overtaking him, but he reached the great barn just in season to escape
the deluge.

Hanging his rake upon a beam, he removed his broad hat, wiped the
perspiration from his face, and heaved a long sigh of relief.

“Well, I did it,” he observed, with a satisfied uplifting of his head,
“but small thanks I’ll get for my efforts. However, that is not my
affair. My part was to do as I’d be done by, thanks or no thanks. Great
Cæsar! how it rains! What lightning! What thunder!” he exclaimed, as
flash after flash swept athwart the murky sky and almost simultaneous
reports crashed like the continuous firing of mighty cannons, while the
rain came down in sheets and drenched the thirsty earth.

He stood watching the conflict of elements for a few moments, then he
remarked again:

“I am sure I have earned the right to rest a while, so I’m going in to
have a tussle with Tacitus for an hour or two. Ho! hum! I wonder if I
shall be able to pass the exams. and enter college this fall.”

He tossed his hat upon a peg, then, passing through a side door,
traversed a short passage, then a shed, and finally entered the roomy,
pleasant kitchen of the farmhouse, where a tidy, good-natured looking
woman was mixing biscuit for supper.

With a smile and a pleasant word to her, the young man crossed the room,
opened a door and mounted a flight of stairs to a small room on the back
of the house, and which overlooked a winding stream, and, a few rods
away, the railroad. Here he threw himself into a chair before a table,
upon which there were several books, and was soon absorbed in the “Annals
of Tacitus.”

Suddenly there came a blinding flash of lightning, followed instantly by
a crash that seemed to shake the very foundation of the earth.

“That was very near,” muttered the youth, looking up from his book and
glancing out of the window.

A startled cry burst from him as he did so, and he sprang to his feet.

“Heavens! the old crooked maple has been struck and fallen directly
across the track!” he exclaimed.

He snatched a cheap watch from his pocket and glanced at it, his face
growing white with a terrible fear.

“The New York limited express will be due here in exactly half an hour.
Unless something is done, some warning given before it rounds the curve
there will be a horrible accident,” he soliloquized with pale lips.

He rushed from the room, down the stairs, through the kitchen, and into
the shed, where, seizing an ax, he darted out of a back door unmindful
of the pouring rain, through a garden, and down a bank beyond, and, in
another moment, was on the railroad beside the great tree, whose trunk
was at least twelve inches in diameter, and whose branches spread out
over the track for many feet.

This maple had stood there on the bank for many years, while storm
after storm had gradually undermined it, until it was held only by the
strength of its own roots. The roadmaster of that section had, for some
time, contemplated having it removed, as he felt that it was unsafe to
allow it to remain. But he had neglected it just a little too long, and
the present tempest had wrenched it from its place, causing it to fall
directly across both tracks.

With quick and vigorous strokes the young man trimmed away some of the
branches, so that he could get at the trunk, and then he fell to work
with his ax as he had seldom worked before, forgetting that he had
already performed the labor of two men that day, and the tree was finally
severed just outside the rails nearest the roots.

But another division must be made before it could be removed from its
dangerous position, and he sprang between the two tracks and fell to work
again, the elements still keeping high carnival around him. The chips
flew right and left, while with every blow of the ax the youth’s breath
was forced from him with a shrill, hissing sound, showing that he was
putting forth his strength to the utmost. But he had hewn only about
two-thirds of the log when the whistle of a locomotive fell upon his ear
and warned him that the train was only a mile away, speeding on toward
swift destruction.

What should he do? He knew there would not be time to complete his task
and drag the tree from the track before the train would be upon him,
while there was a bridge over the road not fifty feet behind him, and
beneath it a foaming, rushing, thundering torrent, into which the engine
and coaches, if derailed, would doubtless plunge headlong.

A wild look of fear shot into his eyes. An expression of horror was on
his pallid face as these thoughts flashed through his mind. The next
instant he snatched a red bandanna from his pocket and started on a swift
run down the track, tying the handkerchief to a branch of the maple as
he went. On, on, like a deer he ran. The curve was reached and rounded.
The train was in sight. Nearer and nearer it came thundering on; then the
short, sharp sound of the danger-whistle fell upon the boy’s ear, and
his heart bounded into his throat with a sudden sense of relief as he
realized that his signal had been seen and recognized.

Then he dashed it to the ground, and, turning, sped back to the maple,
and fell to work again with his ax with all his might.

The moment the engineer had espied the improvised flag he knew there was
danger ahead, and, blowing the signal to warn the brakemen, he reversed
his engine, and opened the valves, and it was this ready response to
the waving bandanna that had caused the crash and shock which had so
frightened and shaken up everybody on the train, although no real damage
had been done, and he finally brought his engine to a standstill within
three feet of the youth, and just in season to see the last blow from his
ax, which cleft the trunk of the maple asunder.

Both he and the fireman sprang to the ground and ran toward him, reaching
him just as, with a faintly murmured “Thank God!” he fell forward
exhausted, and was caught in their strong arms before he could touch the
ground. He did not entirely lose consciousness; but he was too spent and
weak to move or even speak.

Many of the passengers left the train and gathered around him in spite
of the rain, which continued to fall heavily, although it was gradually
abating.

The conductor, comprehending at once what had occurred, and anxious
to lose no more time than was absolutely necessary, ordered the youth
to be put aboard the train and made as comfortable as possible until
they reached the next station. Then the brakemen, with the engineer and
fireman, removed the debris from the tracks, after which everybody was
ordered back into the coaches, and the train went steaming on its way
once more.




CHAPTER II.

A TOUCHING TRIBUTE.


The hero of the incident would have much preferred to have been left by
the side of the railroad with the mutilated maple until he could gather
sufficient strength to crawl back to the farmhouse, but he was too
exhausted to express his wishes, and thus he was obliged to go along with
the train.

The next stopping-place was New Haven, the express being due there a
little after 7, and during the ride the youth, under the care of the
conductor and some of the passengers, recovered sufficiently to tell
who he was and where he belonged, as well as how he had discovered the
obstruction upon the road. His name, he said, was Clifford Faxon, and his
home was with a gentleman known as Squire Talford, who lived near the
village of Cedar Hill, or between that place and New Haven.

He appeared to be rather reticent and sensitive about talking of himself,
but some gentlemen adroitly drew him out and learned that he was an
orphan, and had been bound to the Squire since he was thirteen, or for
the last four years, working for his “board and clothes”; that he had
attended the academy of the town from September to April of every year,
and was hoping to work his way through college when his time was out.

As he came more fully to himself he gave his audience an account of how
the maple had fallen across the railroad; how he had realized what the
terrible consequences must be unless it was removed and the engineer of
the express warned of the danger; how he had been inspired to take his ax
and hurry to the scene and work diligently as long as he could to remove
the obstruction, and, when he found that would be impossible, he had run
forward and waved his red handkerchief to stop the train.

His listeners were thrilled with admiration and gratitude in view of his
heroism and the incalculable debt which they owed him. Their sympathies
were also enlisted for him, for they saw that he was a fine, manly
fellow, and capable of far better things than serving a farmer, as a
bound boy, for a mere pittance.

One gentleman, a resident of New Haven, said he knew something of his
history, having learned it through the principal of the academy in the
town where he lived, and he had never heard anything but good of him,
while he was sure he had been under a hard master during the last four
years.

The result of this was a proposition to see what could be done in the way
of a testimonial to manifest the appreciation of the passengers, who had
been rescued from probable death.

Two gentlemen were appointed in every car to see what they could raise
toward this end, and they worked so zealously and to such good purpose
that a handsome sum had been realized before the train steamed into the
New Haven station.

Pretty Mollie Heatherford had listened to the thrilling story with bated
breath and gleaming eyes, her cheeks glowing with repressed excitement.

“Why, he is a hero!” she cried, enthusiastically, as she emptied her
purse—after reserving simply a carriage-fare, in case no one should meet
her in New York—into the hat of the gentleman who told the tale in her
hearing. “I want to see him. I want to shake hands with him, and thank
him personally,” and she secretly determined that she would do so. When
the train stopped at New Haven she was the first one to alight from the
coach, eager to catch a glimpse of the young hero.

She pushed her way toward the baggage-car, in which a couch had been
extemporized for the youth, and stood close beside the steps as young
Faxon came down.

He was still very pale, but was fast recovering his strength, and the
girl thought his face—although his features were not as clear-cut or as
regular as Philip Wentworth’s—the finest, the manliest she had ever seen.

He was deeply tanned from his summer’s work in the fields. He was clad
in a pair of overalls, without coat or vest or hat; and his feet were
encased in coarse and clumsy shoes, while, as may be surmised, he was
drenched and soiled from his rough work in the field and storm.

But, to admiring little Miss Heatherford, this lack of “purple and fine
linen” and other accessories of high life to which she had always been
accustomed, made not the slightest difference. It was the spirit of the
youth, the character and nobility which were stamped upon his fine, open
face, and that alone of which she was conscious.

And almost the first object that young Faxon’s great, dark eyes rested
upon as he made his way from the car was the fair, upturned face of the
beautiful girl with the eager light of hero-worship in her own blue eyes,
the quivering of intense emotion hovering about her red lips.

She made her way close to his side, regardless of the crowd that was
gathering to get a look at him, and held out a dainty white hand upon
which sparkled rare and costly gems.

“I want to thank you,” she began, with almost breathless eagerness.
“You have saved my life—you have saved all our lives, and it is such a
wonderful, such a grand thing to have done! I am very grateful to you,
for my life is very, very bright. I love to live. Oh, I cannot say half
there is in my heart, but I shall never forget you. I shall love you for
your heroism of this day always. Here, please take this to remind you
that I mean every word I have said. It seems small and mean, in view of
what you have done, but when you look at it I want you to remember that
there is one grateful heart in the world that will never forget you.”

While she was speaking she had slipped from her finger the exquisitely
carved cameo ring which Philip Wentworth had begged her to give him only
a few hours previous, and, as she ceased, with tears in her eyes, she
thrust it into the brown hand of the youth, and, before he could protest
against accepting it, she had glided away, and was lost among the crowd.

The next moment the throng parted, and a gentleman stood before him,
claiming his attention.

In a few words of grateful acknowledgment he presented him with what he
termed “a slight testimonial” of the appreciation of the passengers for
his act of heroism that afternoon, and wished him all success in the
future.

The testimonial was in the form of a good-sized wallet, well filled
with greenbacks and coins of various denominations. Then he took the
boy by the arm, led him down the platform to a carriage, and, putting a
five-dollar bill into the coachman’s hand, bade him take him to his home,
wherever that might be.

Young Faxon, with tears of emotion in his eyes, sprang into the vehicle,
glad to escape from the curious crowd, and was driven away amid the
cheers of the grateful passengers of the “limited express,” which, a
moment later, was again thundering on its way toward its destination.

The storm was over. The clouds were breaking up and dispersing, revealing
patches of cerulean sky between the rifts, while, in the west, brilliant
rays from the declining sun streamed in upon the hero of the day through
the carriage window as he was driven out of the city toward the home of
Squire Talford.

Glancing through the opposite glass he saw a radiant rainbow spanning
the eastern sky, its vivid colors reflected in a second and almost as
perfect as an arch. His young heart was strangely thrilled by the sight.

Was it a bow of promise to him he asked himself. Did it portend a future
that would be brighter than the last four years had been, of release from
a hard and cruel task-master, of a broader outlook and the opportunity
to indulge the aspirations of a heart that had long been hungering for
education, culture, and intellectual advancement?

Yes, he was almost sure of it, for, clasped close in his brown hands, he
held the fat wallet which would at least be the stepping-stone toward
the achievement of the one great desire of his heart—a college course
at Harvard; and his eyes grew bright, the color came back to his cheeks
and lips, and his spirits were lighter than they had been for many a
long month. Then his eyes fell upon the beautiful cameo, which had been
presented to him by “the prettiest girl he had ever seen,” and which he
had mechanically slipped upon his little finger. But he laughed outright,
as the incongruity between the costly and exquisite jewel and the hard,
brown hand it graced, and the mean apparel in which he was clad, flashed
upon him.

“I wish I knew her name,” he mused, as he studied the beautiful design.
“What lovely eyes she had! What wonderful hair—bright as the gold of this
ring. I shall always keep it. It shall be my talisman, my mascot, and
sometime, when I have won a worthy position for myself in the world, I
will try to find her and tell her what encouragement, what a spur both
her words and gift were to me. I shall never forget what she said. Ah!
if I might hope to win, by and by, the love of some one as beautiful as
she! But, of course, she did not mean anything like that,” he concluded,
with a sigh and deprecatory shrug of his shoulders.

When the carriage drove to the door of Squire Talford’s stately mansion,
and the proud owner, who was sitting upon the veranda, saw his “bound
boy” alight from it, his brow contracted with displeasure, and an angry
gleam burned in his cold gray eyes.

“Well, sir, where have you been, and how does it happen that you return
in such style?” he demanded, in sharp, curt tones.

Clifford Faxon colored a vivid crimson, more at the sarcastic tone than
at the peremptory words. But in a respectful manner he related what had
occurred, although he made as light as possible of his own agency in the
matter, except in so far as it was necessary to explain that, after his
unusual exertions in the hay-field and his almost herculean efforts to
remove the fallen tree from the track before the arrival of the express,
he was so prostrated that he had to be taken aboard the train and carried
to New Haven, when some of the passengers had insisted upon sending him
home in the carriage.

“Humph!” ejaculated the squire, as he concluded, and eying him sharply
from beneath his heavy brows, “and was that the extent of their
gratitude?”

“No, sir,” replied the youth, flushing again and glancing at the wallet
in his hand. “They made up a purse for me.”

“Ah-a! how much?” questioned the man eagerly.

“I do not know, sir. I have not counted it yet.”

“Give it to me. I’ll count it, and take care of it for you,” said the
squire peremptorily.

“Excuse me, sir, but I prefer to take care of it myself,” said the youth
respectfully but firmly.

“What! do you defy me?” roared his companion. “Give me that money
instantly! Do you forget that you are bound to me; that I am your master?”

The boy’s eyes flashed, and he was silent for a moment. Then, meeting the
glance of the infuriated man with a look that never quailed, he replied
quietly, but with a reserve force that made itself felt:

“No, sir; I do not forget that I am bound to you for just one month
longer. Until September 1st I shall acknowledge and serve you as my
‘master.’ At the expiration of that time my bondage will cease, and I
shall be free!”

“You impudent whelp!” exclaimed Squire Talford, in a towering passion, as
he sprang to his feet and descended the steps of the driveway, where the
youth was standing. “Give me that money this instant, or I will thrash
you within an inch of your life; do you hear?”

“Take care, sir!” Clifford returned with an emphasis that caused the man
to pause involuntarily, while his dark eyes flashed with a dangerous
light.

He stepped back a pace or two and folded his arms tight across his chest,
as if to restrain the surging passion within him, which he feared might
get the better of him.

“Take care, sir!” he repeated, “you have ‘thrashed me within an inch of
my life’ for the last time, and I mean what I say, Squire Talford. I have
been your bond-slave for four long, weary years; ever since my mother
who, when she was dying and thought she was making a wise provision for
me, signed a paper which made you my ‘master’ until I should be seventeen
years of age, which, thank God, will be just one month from to-day. I do
not need to rehearse to you what that bondage has been. You know as well
as I do that my lot has been that of a serf, that I have been made to do
the work of a man; yes, and in some instances, like to-day, for example,
that of two men, during most of that time. For this I have received
my board, lodging, and clothes—such as they are,” he interposed, his
scornful glance sweeping over his coarse garment.

“I have served you faithfully, patiently, and you know it,” he resumed,
“not because of any personal regard or respect that I have entertained
for you, or of fear of your many unjust ‘thrashings,’ but”—his tone
softening and faltering slightly—“because my mother taught me to obey,
always, the golden rule, to suffer wrong rather than commit a wrong,
and, once having made a contract, to abide by it to the letter. This,
sir, is the reason why you see yonder hay-field as it is”—with a gesture
indicating the white-capped cocks at which he had labored so hard that
afternoon. “Much of that hay would have been soaked by the rain had not
duty bidden me to do unto my neighbor as I would be done by, and so I did
my utmost to save it. Now, sir, having done my best for you to-day and
always, I am in no mood to have you lay so much as your finger upon me
in anger.”

The man and the youth stood looking straight into each other’s eyes for
one long, silent minute, the man noting the broad, square shoulders,
the muscular limbs, and dauntless air of the figure before him. Then he
stepped back a pace or two with an impatient shrug.

“Well, have you done?” he questioned, with a sneer, but his face, even to
his lips, was white with repressed passion.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then be off and attend to your chores,” was the stern command.

“Pat can do the chores to-night, sir. I think I have done enough for one
day,” was the quiet but decided response, and the young man turned coolly
away, walked around to a side door, entered the house, and mounted to his
room.

Throwing himself into a chair he dropped his head upon his table with a
sense of weakness and weariness such as he had seldom experienced. The
reaction had come, and he realized that the excitement of the last few
hours, especially of the last few moments, had taken more out of him than
a week of ordinary work would have done.

“The end is near,” he muttered, “and I hail its coming, for I am afraid
that I could not much longer keep my promise to my mother and remain in
the service of that tyrant.”

He sat thus for, perhaps, fifteen minutes. Then, lighting a candle, he
opened the precious wallet and proceeded to count its contents.

His face took on a look of wonder as he laid out, one by one, the
various bills and noted their denomination. He had not counted upon such
generosity, even though he had realized that the purse was crowded to its
utmost capacity.

“Seven hundred and fifty-four dollars!” he exclaimed in astonishment, as
he laid the last coin upon the table. “Surely I must be dreaming! But no,
these crisp fives, tens, two twenties, three fifties, besides the gold
and silver, tell their own story. But oh! it does seem too good to be
true! And now my first act must be to put it where it will be safe. Give
it to Squire Talford, indeed! Never! It would be the last I should ever
see of it. I will take it to Professor Harding. He will advise me what to
do with it.”

After replacing the money in an orderly manner in his wallet, he arose
and proceeded to change his clothes, dressing himself with great care.




CHAPTER III.

PRETTY HEIRESS PLEADS FOR CLIFFORD.


Clifford Faxon was really a striking-looking young man when arrayed in
his best, which is by no means saying very much for his clothes, which
were of the cheapest material.

But with his gentlemanly bearing, his clear, honest brown eyes, and
frank, genial face, he was one who always attracted a second look from
those whom he met.

One might have taken him for a son and heir of the squire, rather than a
menial in his employ, as he issued once more from the house.

“Well, sir, where are you going now?” demanded Squire Talford, who was
still sitting upon the veranda, and whose musings regarding his relations
with his bound boy had not been of the most soothing nature during the
last half-hour.

He well knew that, when Clifford’s time should expire, he would find it
no easy matter to fill his place with another so capable and faithful,
and he was irritated beyond measure over the probability of having to
hire another man and pay full wages for what he had been getting for
little or nothing during the last four years.

“I have an engagement with Professor Harding—it is my evening for
reading Greek and Latin with him,” Clifford respectfully replied, and
then proceeded on his way, apparently unmindful of the customary “humph!”
to which his employer always gave vent whenever anything annoyed him.

When Clifford was obliged to leave the academy in April, according to the
terms of his contract with Squire Talford, the principal had expressed
a great deal of disappointment, for he would have graduated with high
honors if he could have remained until the close of the school year, but
his hard master would not give him the two months to complete the course.
“The farm work must be done and Clifford could not be spared,” he coldly
told the professor, who had presumed to intercede for his promising
pupil. So the boy had been obliged to go into the field to plow, hoe,
and dig, while his more favored classmates went on in advance of him and
graduated.

But Professor Harding was determined that the boy’s education should not
be interrupted, and told him that he would give him certain evenings in
every week during the summer, and, if he could complete the course before
fall, he should have his diploma, even though he could not acquire it in
the ordinary way.

Clifford gladly availed himself of this opportunity, for his highest
ambition was to prepare himself for and obtain a college education.

As he wended his way toward his teacher’s house his heart was beating
high with hope, in spite of the weariness of his body, for, since
counting the money in his possession, he had conceived the daring
purpose of taking the examinations for Harvard for the coming year.

Professor Harding greeted him, as he always did, with a smile of
pleasure, for he liked the plucky, manly boy.

“You are late to-night, Cliff,” he remarked, as he entered. Then,
observing, that he was a trifle pale, he inquired: “Is anything wrong, my
boy?”

Tears sprang involuntarily to the boy’s eyes at the kindly tone and
smile; but, quickly repressing all signs of emotion, he seated himself
and gave his friend a brief account of what had occurred, and closed
by producing the munificent testimonial which he had received from the
passengers of the “limited express” for preventing a terrible accident.

“I have brought this money to you, Professor Harding,” he observed, as he
laid it upon the table before his friend, “to ask if you will invest it
for me until I need it? It is my nest-egg for college, and I am going to
take the exams. this fall.”

“Seven hundred and fifty dollars, Cliff!” the man exclaimed, in surprise;
“that is surely a handsome gift, but it is far too little for the service
you have rendered—that could never be estimated in dollars and cents.
Why, the corporation ought to give you a thousand more for saving their
property from being wrecked.”

“I am more than satisfied,” said Clifford, with a smile.

“But I am afraid you are a trifle presumptuous to contemplate entering
college on so small an amount,” said his friend gravely. “The expenses
will be heavy, you know. I feel sure you will pass the exams. all right,
but I am thinking of the draft upon your strength later on if you try to
work your own way.”

“I am going to try it, all the same,” said Clifford, his face brightening
at the assurance of his teacher that he would “pass.”

“This money will surely suffice for one year with economy, and that will
give me quite a start, while I am sure I do not need to tell you that I
shall make the most of my time.”

“Indeed, you do not—you have always done that, ever since I have known
you, but I wish you had some friends who could give you a lift along
the way now and then. Have you no aunts or uncles? Do you remember
your father, Cliff, or know anything about his family?” the professor
thoughtfully inquired.

“No, sir,” said the boy with a sigh, “my mother would never talk about my
father. Whenever I questioned her she would always put me off by saying,
‘Wait until you are older, my son, and then I shall have something to
tell you.’”

“And did she leave no papers to explain what she meant?”

“No; at least, none that I could ever find.”

“Well, there will be some way provided for you, I am sure,” said the
professor. “I will gladly take charge of your little fortune until you
need it. I will see that it is safely invested for you to-morrow. Does
the squire know about it?”

“Yes, and demanded it of me, because I am still under bonds,” replied
Clifford, with a flash in his eyes.

“Demanded it!” repeated his companion, in surprise.

“Yes,” and the young man repeated, word for word, what had passed between
himself and his task-master upon his return from New Haven.

“Well, I must say he is a hard man, and I cannot understand how any one
as rich as Squire Talford is supposed to be can be so penurious and
indifferent to so promising a fellow as you are, my boy!”

“Thank you,” responded Clifford, with a laugh, “I am certainly
fortunate in having so kind a friend as you have always been to me, and
now”—opening one of his books—“I am ready for my lesson.”

He read for an hour, becoming so absorbed in his work that he forgot his
weariness and the trials of his young life, while his teacher followed
with a manifest interest, which betrayed how deeply his feelings were
enlisted in this pupil, who was so ambitious and such a credit to him.

Before 10 o’clock Clifford was back in his own room, where, on his table,
he found an appetizing little lunch awaiting him. Until that moment he
had forgotten that he had had no supper.

“Well,” he said, as he sat down to it, “I surely have one other good
friend besides the professor. Maria always looks out for me; I am sure I
should often go hungry but for her.”

Maria was Squire Talford’s woman-of-all-work. Less than half an hour
later he was sleeping soundly and restfully, the consciousness of duty
well done and a more promising outlook for the future sweetening his
rest.

“Papa—please papa, do as I ask you; you are very rich, are you not?”

“Well, yes, Buttercup, I suppose I am what would be regarded as a rich
man, even here in New York.”

“Then you can send this poor boy some money, just as well as not. Only
think, papa, but for his bravery and the awful work that he did in that
dreadful storm, there must have been a terrible accident, and I should
never have come back to you, to say nothing about all those other people.”

“Hush, Goldenrod! I cannot bear that you should even hint at such a
calamity; the house—the world would be utterly desolate without you. What
would ten thousand fortunes be to me if I should lose you! Yes, Mollie,
I will send this lad a substantial token of my gratitude, if I find he
is worthy and likely to make a good use of money. I must be sure of that
first,” and Richard Heatherford gathered the slim, graceful form of his
only darling into his arms and held her close to his heart, while his
eyes rested with tearful fondness upon the fair, flushed face that was
lifted so earnestly to his.

She was his idol—this sweet, golden-haired, azure-eyed maiden, whom he
had named Marie for his French mother, but whom he almost invariably
addressed by some other tender pet-name, expressive of his fondness for
her, while to her playmates and school friends she was known by the
familiar name of Mollie.

She was sweet and lovable, always blithe and cheery, the life of the
house, and a favorite with all who knew her.

Mr. Heatherford had met her in New York on her arrival on “the Limited,”
and, the train being, of course, a little late, he was in a state of
painful suspense until it rolled into the station, and he held his
darling safe in his arms. When the two were seated in their elegant
carriage behind a fine pair of bay horses, with driver and coachman in
cream-white livery, and on their way uptown, Mollie, sitting beside her
father with his arm enfolding her, had told the story of the thrilling
experience of the afternoon, while the man’s face had grown as white as
chalk, as he realized how very near he had come to losing his choicest
earthly treasure.

Mollie had begged him then to send that brave boy “a lot of money,”
but, for the time being, he did not pay much heed to her request. He
could think of nothing, talk of nothing, but his thankfulness over her
wonderful escape from an appalling doom. But the following morning, when,
after breakfast, she followed him to the library and renewed the subject,
he was more ready to listen to her, and finally yielded to her request to
do something handsome for the lad, provided he found, upon inquiry, that
he was worthy.

“Oh, he is certainly worthy, papa,” Mollie asserted with enthusiasm,
“you never saw a nicer face than his. He isn’t handsome or stylish, like
Phil, you know”—with a little mocking laugh—“but he has a pair of great,
earnest brown eyes which make you feel good just to look into. His face
is as brown as a nut—all but his forehead, which is white and high and
nicely shaped like yours, papa dear,” and she emphasized her statement
with a fond little caress planted directly between his brows. “He had no
hat on,” she resumed; “he was in his shirt sleeves and wore overalls,
and his shoes were as coarse and clumsy as they could be; but I never
thought of his clothes after once looking into his face—it was so good,
so honest, and true.”

“Really, sweetheart, you are very enthusiastic over this rustic hero of
yours,” said Mr. Heatherford, and smiling at her earnestness, “but I
cannot wonder, now that I begin to realize something of the feat that he
accomplished.”

“And papa”—Mollie went on, now blushing and speaking with some
embarrassment, “when we reached New Haven I went to him and thanked
him for what he had done, and—I gave him that ring you let me buy last
spring.”

“What! that cameo?”

“Yes; you know I wanted to give it to Cousin Rex when he went to
California, but his mother had just given him a nice ring, and so I
bought him something else and kept the cameo. I have always liked it, for
it was so beautifully carved; so, even though it isn’t exactly a lady’s
ring, I have worn it, now and then, myself. I happened to have it on
yesterday.”

Mr. Heatherford laughed aloud with amusement.

“Well, well, Buttercup! So you gave it to this young Faxon—I believe you
said that is his name—as a souvenir! Of course, my darling, I do not care
anything about the ring, but what on earth will your rustic hero do with
it? He certainly will not want to wear it with overalls and brogans, and
if he has a particle of sentiment in his composition, he would never
think of realizing money on it when it was presented under such romantic
circumstances.”

“Well, papa, I’m afraid it wasn’t the most appropriate gift in the
world,” said Mollie, a shadow falling over her bright face, “but I just
had to do something to show him how grateful I was, personally, and he
certainly looked as if he was glad to be appreciated.”

“Never mind, dear,” said her father comfortingly. “I will write to-day
and make some inquiries, and if I find he is all right, I will do
something handsome for him. Let me see—you said that he told some of the
gentlemen aboard the train he wanted to go to college?”

“Yes, he said that he had nearly finished his course in the academy
of the town where he lives, and was going to try to work his way
through college,” Mollie replied. “Just think of it, papa!” she went on
earnestly, “and it doesn’t seem fair, does it? There is Phil, who really
doesn’t care particularly about having a college course, only it is the
proper thing, and so he is going to Harvard in September, and he has
every wish gratified—plenty of money, fine clothes, and lots of good
times; and here is this poor boy, without any one but himself to depend
upon, and he is going to work his way through! It is a queer world, isn’t
it?” she concluded, with a sigh of perplexity.

“There, there; don’t bother your pretty head about it, Goldenrod; it is a
problem you will never solve,” said her father, stroking her shining head
with a caressing touch; “go and do your reading for mama, while I write
my letter and get the matter off my mind.”

“But to whom will you write?” queried Mollie.

“I think I will address my letter to the principal of the academy; he
will probably be able to tell me more about this young seeker after
knowledge than any one else.”

And the gentleman proceeded to put his plan into immediate execution. He
wrote a brief but comprehensive epistle, addressing it to the “Principal
of the Academy, Cedar Hill,” telling him that he wished to show his
appreciation of young Faxon’s heroic act in some practical way, and
asking his advice regarding the best method of doing this.

He gave no name, as he said he preferred to remain incog, and not hamper
the lad with any sense of obligation, but that any communication sent
to a certain lock box in New York would reach him. He stated that an
immediate reply was desired, as he was on the eve of going abroad.

Professor Harding’s face glowed with genuine pleasure when he received
the letter the next morning, for now he saw that it would perhaps be
practicable for his protégê to enter college. He replied immediately,
giving a brief history of Clifford Faxon’s life and circumstances,
speaking of him in the highest terms, and claiming that any assistance
rendered him in his efforts bestowed, and in behalf of the boy, in whom
he was deeply interested, he thanked his unknown correspondent most
heartily for his kind intentions.

A day or two later there came to Clifford a cashier’s check for a
thousand dollars, made payable to himself, and with it a few sentences
of hearty appreciation of his recent act, and also of encouragement for
the future.

But the donor and writer was anonymous.




CHAPTER IV.

CLIFFORD FAXON’S VOW.


Clifford regarded himself as the most fortunate fellow in the world when
this generous gift was received.

“Was anybody ever so lucky before! I am sure an ax was never so
effectively wielded!” he exclaimed, his face radiant with happiness,
as he discussed the gift of his unknown benefactor with his teacher.
“Now, my education is assured, Professor Harding, and if I don’t win a
scholarship, now and then, to help me out, it will not be for lack of
energy and industry.”

“Cliff! what an ambitious fellow you are!” said his friend, smiling at
his enthusiasm, “but if you set out to win a scholarship I feel pretty
sure that you will get it.”

“Thank you. Now, another important point upon which I would like your
judgment—do you agree with me in my preference for Harvard?”

“Yes, I think so,” replied the professor. “If I should consult my own
pleasure, however, I suppose I should say go to Yale; for then I could
see you frequently, and perhaps help you over a hard place now and then;
but as I am a Harvard man myself, and it is also your choice, I will be
loyal to my alma mater and say go there.”

“Then Harvard it will be,” said Clifford, “and as for the rough places,
why, I can write you when I come to them.”

Again Professor Harding smiled, for he knew the boy well enough to feel
sure that he would master all difficulties without any assistance from
him, for he had seldom known him to seek aid, if, by any means, he could
conquer by his own efforts. Thus the college question was settled.

Meantime he was to work out his contract with Squire Talford—until
September 1st—when the professor said he must come to him and spend
the remainder of the time, before the beginning of the school year, in
preparing for his examinations, and he would not “thrash” but coach him
“within an inch of his life.”

Our young hero was jubilant over the prospect before him. His daily tasks
seemed but play to him; he was up with the lark, and worked with a will
until sunset, and, after supper, improved every moment until bedtime
conning his books.

“You are a born mathematician,” his teacher remarked to him one evening,
after giving him some intricate problems to test his knowledge, “and I
have not the slightest fear for you in mathematics; but you are still a
trifle behind in Greek and Latin, and so we will devote the most of our
time to those branches,” and at this hint of his deficiency Clifford
worked along those lines with redoubled diligence.

He had found himself very popular after his heroic deed became known
to the public, but he bore his honors with exceeding modesty, and had
but little to say about the affair. Glowing accounts of it had been
published in both the New Haven and local papers. Professor Harding had
been interviewed, and had spoken in the highest terms of commendation
of his pupil, while, as Squire Talford and his peculiarities were well
known, there appeared more than one strong hint regarding the hard life
which the boy had led during the four years of his bondage with him.

According to the conditions of the contract which the squire had made
with Mrs. Faxon, Clifford was to receive twenty-five dollars in money and
a suit of new clothes on the day when his time expired. The contemplation
of this approaching expenditure of money made the wretched miser—for
he was nothing else, when it came to putting out his dollars for other
people—cross and miserable, and he racked his brain for some excuse by
which he could evade his obligation.

He broached the subject to Clifford one evening about a week previous to
the expiration of his time.

“I suppose you’re bound to go the first of the month?” he remarked, with
evident embarrassment, for he had felt very uncomfortable in the lad’s
presence ever since he had so boldly faced him and freely spoken his mind.

“Yes, sir; my time will be up one week from to-night.”

“Couldn’t you be persuaded to sign for a couple of years longer, if I’d
agree to do better by you?”

The youth flushed crimson, and a peculiar gleam leaped into his eyes at
the proposition; but, instantly putting a strong curb upon himself, he
quickly responded:

“I think not, sir; I have made my plans to go to college, and I do not
care to change them.”

“What good will a college education do you?” the man demanded, with an
ill-concealed sneer; “you won’t have a penny when you get through, and,
if you’re aspiring to a profession, there’ll have to be another four
years’ course atop of that.”

“I am not looking beyond the college course just now, sir; when I have
accomplished that I feel sure that the way will be opened for me to
choose and fit myself for my future.”

“Humph! perhaps you imagine you’re going to have windfalls all along the
route,” was the sarcastic rejoinder, “but, if you do, let me tell you,
you will find yourself mightily mistaken.”

Clifford made no response to this thrust, and after an interval of
silence the squire abruptly resumed:

“How about that twenty-five dollars that I was to pay you when your time
was up and the new suit?”

“Why,” said Clifford, lifting a look of astonishment to the man’s
face, “of course, I expect that the conditions of the contract will be
fulfilled.”

“Oh, you do! Why, money has been pouring in upon you so fast of late you
can afford to buy your own clothes,” said the squire, with an uneasy
hitch in his chair and a frown of displeasure.

Clifford’s face flamed an indignant red, and it seemed to him as if he
must give vent to the scorn which sent the hot blood tingling through
every nerve in his body.

“Squire Talford,” he said, after a moment spent in trying to control
himself, “I have no wish to say anything to you that I shall ever regret,
but, truly, I should suppose that your self-respect would prevent you
from suggesting anything so penurious and dishonest, after the four years
of faithful service that I have given you, especially when you take into
consideration the fact that I have never been decently clad during all
that time, nor had a dollar of spending-money, except what I have myself
earned by picking berries in their season, and doing odd jobs for other
people after my regular work was done. No, sir, I shall not purchase my
own suit. I feel that I am justly entitled to all that the contract calls
for, and I shall demand its fulfilment.”

“Oh, you will, will you!” was the rasping retort, while the man was white
with rage.

“Certainly, and it is little enough—far too meager for one of my age to
have to start out in life with. But I suppose my poor mother was too ill
to realize what scant provisions she was making for me, though I presume
she trusted to your humanity and honesty to at least provide suitably for
me during the four years I was to live with you.”

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed his companion viciously, and with peculiar
emphasis. “Your poor mother, perhaps, realized more than you seem to
imagine she did; she was glad enough to get you housed in a respectable
home, without being too particular about the conditions.”

Clifford sprang erect, stung to the soul by the insinuating tone and
words of his companion.

“What do you mean, sir?” he demanded, in a voice that shook with
suppressed anger. “What is it that you mean to imply in connection with
my mother, who was one of the purest and loveliest of women?”

“Oh, nothing—nothing!” retired the squire, with a sinister smile, “only
it is pretty evident that she never told you much about her early life,
while—ahem!—if I’m not mistaken, you never saw your father, did you?”

“No,” and now Clifford was deathly white and his eyes wore a hunted look,
as a terrible suspicion flashed into his mind. “Oh, what do you mean?”

“Well, perhaps it will be just as well for your peace of mind, my
aspiring young man, if you don’t get too inquisitive,” the man retorted
maliciously. “I can tell you this much, however: Your mother, Belle
Abbott, as she was known in her younger days, was one of the handsomest
girls I ever saw; but she was a—coquette; she had more beaux than you
could shake a stick at, and she got her pay for it in the end.”

“Did you know my mother when she was a girl?” queried Clifford, with a
look of astonishment.

“I should say I did,” was the grim response.

“And—my father also?” said the youth eagerly.

“Ahem! I had that honor,” sneered the squire. “But about that suit of
clothes,” he added, rising and abruptly changing the subject. “If you
insist upon it, why, I suppose I shall have to get them. I’ll step in to
see Black, the tailor, to-morrow morning and talk the matter over with
him.”

But Clifford had been too highly wrought up to care much about clothes
or anything else in connection with his contract. His curiosity had
been excited to the highest pitch, and he was determined to learn
something about the father whom he had never known—about whom his mother
would never talk—if it was possible—to wring any information from his
companion, who, he realized, was determined to torment him to the last
point of endurance.

“Who was my father? Tell me what you know about him!” he exclaimed, also
springing to his feet and placing himself in the squire’s path.

The man regarded him silently for a moment, an evil expression in his
cold, gray eyes; then a smile that made Clifford shiver relaxed his thin,
cruel lips.

“Who was your father?” he repeated, with cold deliberativeness; “he was
a treacherous rascal, if there ever was one, and it is no credit to you
that he was your father; and if you were ten years older I should say
that he had come back to haunt me! Tell you about him!” he continued, in
a terrible tone. “I’ll tell you this much—I hated him; I still hate him
as few people have the power to hate, and if you are wise you will never
mention him in my presence again, for I might forget myself and wreck my
vengeance upon you.”

He turned abruptly as he concluded and entered the house, without giving
Clifford time to protest or ask another question. The boy, left alone,
sank back into his chair, cold chills creeping over him, his heart
burdened with tantalizing fears and suspicions. The squire had called his
father a “treacherous rascal.”

In what, he wondered, had he been treacherous and dishonorable? Why was
it no credit to him—his son—that he was his father?

Surely, it seemed to him now, in the light of this interview, as if the
squire had been continually wreaking his hatred of his father upon him
during the four weary years that he had lived with him. But what had
caused this hatred? What did it mean?

What was the reason that his mother had always been so reticent upon
the subject. She would never talk with him about his father or her
early life, and always appeared so distressed and excited whenever he
questioned her that he was forced to desist.

Once, however, she had told him, and only a short time before she died,
that if she should be taken from him before he was eighteen years of age,
he might open a certain box, which she had always kept locked, and read
some letters and papers which he would find in it.

But when that time came—when, after his wild grief over his irreparable
loss was somewhat spent, he went to look for these papers, they were
gone—the box was empty.

Whether she had shrunk from having him see them and learn of some great
sorrow—perhaps shame—that had evidently preyed upon her mind for years,
and had destroyed them, or whether they had been stolen from her, he
could have no means of knowing.

Evidently Squire Talford was, in a measure, posted upon certain facts
connected with the early life of both his father and mother, and it was
just as evident that he intended to keep him in the dark regarding them;
whether because they were of any real importance, or because he simply
wished to torment him because of his avowed hatred, he could not tell.

What rankled most bitterly in his heart was the man’s taunt that it would
be better for his peace of mind if he was not too inquisitive.

Clifford was extremely proud and sensitive, and it galled him almost
beyond endurance to have it insinuated that there might be some stigma
resting upon his birth and upon his dear mother’s honor.

But no; he did not believe that could be possible, and he resented the
suspicion as soon as it took form in his thought, for he felt sure that
his pure, gentle, and refined mother had never knowingly done wrong. If
she had been deceived, the sin was not hers, but another’s.

He sat in his room that night for a long time meditating upon these
things, but growing more wretched and perplexed the more he considered
them.

“Well, I can help nothing,” he said, at last, throwing back his head with
an air of conscious rectitude; “I am what I am; I can gather nothing
definite from Squire Talford’s miserable insinuations. I may not even be
entitled to the name I bear, but I know that I will make it one that a
son of mine—if I should ever have one—will be proud to own.”

And with that worthy determination he resolutely drove the subject from
his thoughts by burying himself in his books, and when he finally retired
to rest he fell into as sound and refreshing slumber as if he had not a
care in the world.




CHAPTER V.

A DARING TRICK.


The morning following the interview between Squire Talford and Clifford,
the former repaired to the establishment of the tailor, where he was
accustomed to have his clothing made, to have a talk with the man
regarding the “freedom suit” which the contract demanded for his “bound
boy.”

He inquired Mr. Black’s price for making; then he asked to see the goods,
with the intention of selecting the very cheapest he had in stock.

But Mr. Black informed him that he had worked up everything so close he
really hadn’t anything on hand suitable for a young man like Clifford,
but he was expecting a fresh invoice that very afternoon, and would send
him samples as soon as they came.

“Very well,” said the squire; “and as I have to have a new suit for
myself this fall, send along something that will do for me also, and I
will give you both orders at once.”

Mr. Black promised he would do as requested, and then the squire went
about other business; and about half an hour before tea-time that
afternoon a boy appeared at Squire Talford’s door, with the promised
samples.

His ring was answered by the maid of all work, or perhaps the
housekeeper would be the more proper term, for Maria Kimberly had been
a member of the squire’s household for upward of fifteen years. She was
a widow, and her maiden name was Barnes. She had come there a girl in
her teens, about two years after the marriage of the squire, and for six
months had been under the training of his wife. Then she had married and
gone away to a home of her own; but, being left a widow before she had
been a wife a year, she had returned to the service of Mrs. Talford, whom
she loved and served most faithfully as long as she lived, and, being
competent in every respect, had acted as housekeeper for the squire ever
since her death, which had occurred about five years previous.

She was a shrewd, practical, commonplace person, but possessing quick
sympathies and a kind heart, and from the day that Clifford had come into
the house she had befriended the bright, but lonely, boy, growing more
and more fond of him as the years went by, and she had slyly shown him
many a favor and made many a rough place smooth for him.

Now, when she saw the tailor’s boy at the door with the package in his
hands, she instantly surmised the nature of his errand, for she had
overheard some of the conversation regarding the “freedom suit.”

Always feeling herself a privileged person in the house, and being
especially interested in this matter, she calmly unfolded the parcel and
proceeded to examine its contents.

“H’m,” she breathed, after adjusting her glasses and testing the quality
of the various samples, “some of ’em are fair to middlin’, and some of
’em you could shoot peas through; of course, he will buy the cheapest
suit for him; he won’t give the boy a decent suit if he can help it. I’ve
half a mind to show ’em to Cliff and see what’d be his choice.”

She stood a moment considering the matter, then she deliberately slipped
the package into her pocket and returned to the kitchen, where she had
been busy getting supper when the bell had interrupted her operations.

A few minutes later Clifford came in from the shed, bringing a huge
armful of wood, which he packed neatly in the wood-box behind the stove,
taking care to make no litter to offend Mrs. Kimberly’s keen eyes, for
the woman was neatness personified, and would not tolerate the slightest
disorder in her immaculate domains.

“My, how good those biscuits smell!” the youth observed appreciatively,
as Maria opened the oven door to take a look at the snowy puffs inside.

“Wait till you get a nibble at ’em,” said the woman, with a satisfied nod
of her head; “and I’ve got a turnover for you, too. I had some apple and
a little dough left over when I was makin’ the pies this mornin’,” she
added, lifting a kindly look to his face.

“Then you should call it a leftover instead of a turnover,” said
Clifford, laughing. “You are always doing something nice for me, Maria.
I’m afraid you have spoiled me with your dainties, and I shall miss them
when I go to Cambridge, and have to be satisfied with what I can get in
some third-rate boarding-house.”

“There ain’t no fear that anybody’ll ever spoil you,” returned Maria,
with significant emphasis; “but I own I am consarned about your digestion
bein’ spoiled by the poor cookin’ in them dreadful boardin’-houses. But
come here,” she continued, drawing him to a window and taking something
from her pocket with a mysterious air, “if you were goin’ to have a new
suit which o’ these pieces of cloth would you choose?”

“Ah! some samples!” exclaimed the boy, an eager look on his face. “Did
the squire tell you to show them to me?”

“Never you mind what the squire told me to do, I just want to see
what kind o’ judgment you will show in your selection,” Mrs. Kimberly
responded, with a knowing air.

Clifford examined the various slips in silence for several moments, and
finally separated two from the others.

“This is a pretty style of goods,” he remarked, holding up one of them,
“but rather light, perhaps, for fall and to be serviceable; the other
mixed goods I like almost as well.”

“Yes, and it’s a better cloth, too—the best in the lot,” interposed his
companion; “it’s close and firm, and would do you good service.”

“Well, then, if I am allowed to choose, I’ll take it,” said Clifford;
“and, yes, on the whole, I believe I shall like it better than the other.”

“All right,” observed Maria, hastily gathering up the samples and
returning them to their wrapper as she caught the sound of a latch-key in
the front door. She slipped them back into her pocket.

Later, when she was serving the squire at his solitary meal, she laid the
package from the tailor before him, curtly remarking:

“Here’s somethin’ a boy brought for you this afternoon.”

The squire removed the wrapper and examined its contents. Finally
separating two of the samples from the others, he laid them beside his
plate, and tossed the remainder into a waste-basket that stood under a
desk behind him, and the sharp eyes of Maria Kimberly observed that one
of the selected samples was the very piece which Clifford had chosen,
while the other was the coarsest, ugliest goods among the lot.

“Goin’ to have a new suit, squire?” she briefly inquired, with a curious
gleam in her eyes.

“Yes, I need a new fall suit, and Cliff has got to have one, too; how
will this do for him?” and the man passed the shoddy up to her.

“Humph! you might shoot peas through it,” she said, with a scornful
sniff, and using the same expression as when she had examined the cloths
by herself.

“Not as bad as that, I reckon; but it will have to do for him,” said the
man coldly. “This is better goods, and I think I’ll have my suit made
from it. What do you think of it?” and he held it out to her.

There was a bright spot of red on the woman’s cheeks and a resentful
gleam in her eyes as she took it.

“This is something like, but t’other ain’t worth the thread ’twould take
to make it up,” she said, with considerable asperity.

“It will have to do,” was the curt response, and the man resumed his
interrupted supper, while the housekeeper vanished into the kitchen.

She threw herself into a rocker and began swaying herself back and forth
with more energy than grace, muttering now and then, and nodding her head
angrily in the direction of the dining-room door. She continued this
until the squire rang his bell to signify that he had finished his meal,
when she returned to the other room and began to gather up the dishes.

Suddenly she paused, as her glance fell upon the two samples, that still
lay beside the squire’s plate, he having forgotten to take them when he
arose from the table.

“It’s a pesky shame!” she muttered indignantly. “He hain’t a soul in the
world but himself to spend his money on, and he’s got a tarnel sight
more’n he knows what to do with. I sh’d think he’d be ashamed to give the
boy a suit like that.”

She picked up the samples and fingered them nervously. Then she noticed
that a tag bearing a printed number was pinned to each. These numbers
corresponded to those on the list that had been sent with the samples,
and against each of which the price of the goods was carried out, but
this list the squire had tossed into the waste-basket with the discarded
samples.

“’Twould serve him right,” the woman thoughtfully muttered, with a
vicious gleam in her eyes and a backward glance over her shoulder toward
the veranda, where she knew the squire was sitting absorbed in his
evening paper. The next minute she had changed the tags on the goods!

“Mebbe ’twon’t amount to anythiny, but I’ll resk it, and if I git caught
I’ll pay for it out o’ my own pocket,” she whispered; “that boy desarves
the best that can be had, and I only hope that fortune’ll favor the
trick.”

Then she laid the samples on the squire’s desk, where she thought he
could not fail to see them when he sat down to it, after which she went
back to her work, a curious smile wreathing her thin lips.

An hour later Squire Talford lighted the student-lamp and turned to the
table for his samples, for he was about to write his order to the tailor.

Of course, he did not find them, and, going to the door leading into the
kitchen, he inquired:

“Maria, where are those pieces of cloth I left on the table at
supper-time?”

The woman was paring apples for the morrow’s baking.

“I put ’em on your desk,” she replied, in a matter-of-fact tone, but with
her mouth full of apple and a very red face, too, if he could but have
seen it.

“Oh!” said the squire, with an inflection which intimated that he might
have known where they were if he had stopped to think. He found them,
and, seating himself at his desk, he wrote his order to the tailor.

The following is an exact copy of his letter when it was finished:

                                       “CEDAR HILL, August 24, 18—.

    “ABEL BLACK, ESQ.

    “DEAR SIR: Samples received and examined. You can make a suit
    for me from goods numbered 324. Use 416 for a suit for Clifford
    Faxon—will send him to be measured to-morrow afternoon. Make
    his first and at once, as he must have it by September 1. My
    measurements you already have.

                       “Respectfully yours,

                                                 “JOHN C. TALFORD.”

After taking an impression of the above, as he did of every letter he
wrote, he sealed, addressed, and stamped it; then went out into the balmy
summer night for his habitual stroll and smoke before going to bed.

A few minutes later Maria Kimberly, whose ears had been on the alert,
stole softly into the dining-room and approached the writing-desk.

Her eyes gleamed with an exultant light as she saw the letter addressed
to the tailor and the pieces of cloth shoved one side as of no further
use.

“Cliff, my boy, fortune favors you for once, and no mistake,” she said.
“If he’d sent them pieces o’ cloth along with his letter Mr. Black would
’a’ found out that they’d been meddled with, and you’d had to wear that
measly old shoddy. I’ll jest die a-laughin’, though, when the squire’s
suit comes home, but it’ll serve him right,” she concluded, with a
chuckle of malicious glee.

Then with dexterous fingers she changed the tags on the samples back
to their original places, after which she put them carefully away in a
drawer of the desk, in case they should ever be wanted again, as she felt
sure they would.

The following afternoon Clifford was sent to the tailor to be measured
for his suit, and as he was a favorite with Mr. Black—as, indeed, he was
with every one who knew him—that gentleman took great pains to have every
measurement exact, and secretly resolved that the boy should have a suit
of clothes that would do him credit, even among the stylish collegians at
Harvard.

He was told that they would be ready for him the following Saturday
evening.

Friday night ended Clifford’s four years’ servitude with Squire Talford,
and, after packing his few belongings, he had an interview with the man,
received the stipulated twenty-five dollars, and took a respectful leave
of him.

His heart was light. He suddenly felt like a different being as he put
the money away in his pocket and realized that he was—free!

The only regret he experienced was in the thought of leaving Maria, and
the woman broke down and cried heartily when he stepped into the kitchen
to say “good-by” to her.

“Oh, Cliff!” she sobbed, as she grasped both his hands, “you’re the only
being I’ve really loved since Sam and Mrs. Talford died. I can’t bear to
have you go, for your bright face and cheery ways have helped me through
many a lonely day. But I’m glad for you—I’m downright glad, for I know
you’re goin’ among your equals, and that you’ll get to be a man to be
proud of. But I shall miss you—I’ll miss you more’n you’ll ever know,”
and the tears streamed like rain over her flushed cheeks.

“Why, Maria!” exclaimed the boy, astonished and also deeply touched to
see her so overcome, “I had no idea you would care so much about my
going. I shall miss you, too, and your many kindnesses, to say nothing
about your fine doughnuts, fluffy biscuit, glorious pies, and the
‘leftover,’” he added, with a cheery laugh. “But I’m not going to forget
you by any means. I shall always come to see you when I have a vacation.”

“Will you now—sure?” the woman exclaimed eagerly and in a grateful tone.

“I certainly will, and”—with a roguish twinkle in his handsome eyes—“when
I get through college, if I am ever fortunate enough to have a home of
my own and you are at liberty, I will give you an invitation to come and
preside over my culinary department.”

“Do you mean it, honor bright, Cliff?” demanded Maria, straightening
herself and looking him wistfully in the face.

“Of course I mean it, and would consider myself mighty lucky to get you,”
he earnestly returned.

“Then shake on it,” said the woman, holding out one hard, red hand, while
with the other she wiped away her tears, “and there ain’t the least
shadow of a doubt but I’ll be at liberty when you want me.”

Clifford gave her a cordial grip; then, with a last good-by, he went away
to Professor Harding’s home, where he was to remain until college opened;
but he left a gleam of sunshine behind him that warmed and cheered Maria
Kimberly’s lonely heart for years.




CHAPTER VI.

CLIFFORD GOES TO COLLEGE.


Upon his arrival at Professor Harding’s home Clifford received a most
cordial welcome, and was at once made to feel that he was one of the
family, and the atmosphere of peace and refinement of which he had always
been conscious in connection with this household was most congenial to
him.

The next day was spent in discussing plans for the future, laying out
the work he was to do before the school year opened, and also in making
himself useful to Mrs. Harding in a way that won him an even warmer place
than he had yet occupied in her heart.

Saturday evening the much anticipated new suit was sent to him, and was
duly admired by the whole family.

“Really, Cliff, the squire for once has done the handsome thing,”
remarked the professor, as he critically examined the suit. “This is a
fine piece of cloth, and everything is first-class.”

“Yes, sir, and I am very much pleased,” Clifford heartily responded,
little dreaming to what strategy he owed his fine feathers.

The next morning he dressed himself with great care for church, feeling
an unusual pride in his linen, and a thrill of gratitude as well, for
Maria had made him some fine shirts and polished them to the last degree
with her own hands.

When he came forth from his room he looked every inch the gentleman, and
many an eye rested admiringly upon him as he walked down the aisle with
the professor’s family and took his seat in their pew.

Squire Talford, not being a church-going man, was not there to observe
the change which new linen and fashionably cut garments had made in his
bound boy, and he did not once dream of the practical joke that had been
played upon him until the following Tuesday, when his own suit came home.

Accompanying it was a note from the tailor, which read thus:

    “DEAR SIR: I fear you have made a mistake in the selection
    of cloth for your suit. I cannot quite understand it,
    as heretofore you have ordered fine goods; but as your
    instructions were explicit I have done the best I could and
    hope you will be satisfied.

                       “Respectfully yours,

                                                    “ABEL BLACK.”

The squire looked perplexed as he read the letter, which, with the bill,
had been enclosed in an envelope and slipped under the string which bound
the box that contained the suit.

He, however, proceeded to inspect its contents, and the moment his glance
fell upon the coarse, rough cloth and he comprehended the situation a
furious exclamation burst from him. He snatched the garments from the box
and threw them angrily upon a chair.

“The fool!” he snarled, “he has made the biggest blunder of his life—he
has made up for me the cloth I ordered for that boy, and, I suppose, has
given him a suit of that fine piece of goods. Blast the man! but he shall
pay dearly for it. He will never do another stitch of work for me. The
idea, to pretend to think that I would wear cloth like this! He must have
known better. And yet,” referring to the letter, “he says he is afraid
that ‘I made a mistake in my selections, but that my directions were
explicit.’ Oh, no, Abel, my friend, you can’t shove the blame off upon me
in any such way; I always keep a copy of my letters, and I’ll soon prove
to you that this is none of my doing.”

He went to his letter-press, drew forth his book, and turned back to the
date on which he had ordered the two suits. After reading it through
he began to hunt about his desk for something. Failing to find what he
wanted he called out impatiently:

“Maria, Maria Kimberly, where are you? Come here. I want you.”

Presently the door leading into the kitchen was opened and the woman put
her head inside the room, curtly inquiring in tones which she always
assumed when the squire was out of sorts:

“What’s wanted, squire?”

Then her glance fell upon the new suit lying in a heap on a chair,
whereupon her face suddenly took on a more ruddy hue and her eyes began
to twinkle appreciatively.

“Did you throw away those samples of cloth that I showed you a week or
more ago?” the man demanded.

“I never throw away anything o’ yourn, squire. I leave that for you to
do,” said Mrs. Kimberly, somewhat loftily.

“Then where are they?” he asked impatiently.

“Oh, I reckon you’ll find ’em in one o’ the drawers or pigeonholes,” said
Maria, coming forward and taking another comprehensive squint at the suit
as she did so, the squire meanwhile pulling out and inspecting various
drawers with considerable show of irritation.

“What’s that?” Maria inquired, after a moment, and pointing into a drawer
where some dark, frayed edges were protruding from beneath a couple of
letters.

“Humph!” grunted the squire, as he drew forth the missing samples, and
Maria smiled complacently.

Then, adjusting his glasses the man compared the numbers on the tags
with those in the copy of the letter which he had written to the tailor,
and in which he had given the order for the two suits of clothes. His
face was a study as he began to realize that Abel Black was in no way
responsible for the “blunder,” for there, in black and white, sure
enough, his “instructions were explicit.”

“Thunder and lightning! I don’t understand it. I never did such a thing
before in my life!” he muttered, with a very red face, as he was forced
to admit to himself that he had blundered in writing the numbers.

“Your new suit’s come, hain’t it, squire? Is there anything wrong about
it?” calmly inquired Maria, with the most innocent air imaginable.

“Wrong!” shouted the infuriated man, “I should say there was. I got these
numbers misplaced someway in giving my order, and that dunce of a tailor,
instead of coming to find out whether I made a mistake or not, has made
up for me the cloth I meant Cliff should have, and vice versa.”

“Good land! you don’t say so!” exclaimed Mrs. Kimberly, with every
appearance of being greatly astonished. “Sure enough, this is the
cloth”—bending to examine it and to hide the convulsive twitching of her
mouth—“that I said you could shoot peas through.”

“Just so,” said the squire, bestowing a withering look upon the offensive
garments.

“And Cliff’s suit was made off the other goods?” inquired Maria, trying
hard not to betray eager interest she experienced in the matter.

“Of course—yes,” seizing the bill and tearing it open. “Here it is
charged to me—forty-five dollars! and I suppose that young upstart is
strutting around and feeling as fine as a turkeycock in a suit that cost
three times what I mean it should.”

A spasmodic, but quickly repressed snort escaped Mrs. Kimberly at this
passionate outburst.

“Ahem!” she supplemented, “’tis kind of a tough joke on you, ain’t it,
squire?”

The man turned on her with a fierce imprecation.

“Maria Kimberly,” he thundered, “if you ever give it away I’ll make you
sorry till your dying day. I should be the laughing-stock of the whole
town if it became known.”

“Sure enough, so you would! But mum’s the word, if you say so, squire,”
Maria asserted, with another hysterical catch of her breath. Then, with
an effort at composure, she inquired: “Does it—the suit—fit you?”

“Fit! Do you suppose I’d put it on—that mass of shoddy?” snapped the man,
with angry derision.

“Oh, then, you don’t intend to wear it?” observed Maria, with
well-assumed surprise.

“Of course not.”

“But it’ll be almost like throwing away a lot of good money,” said the
woman, who rather enjoyed piling on the agony.

The squire groaned, not so much for the loss of the sum which the shoddy
suit represented, but because his supposed blunder had resulted in such
good fortune for Clifford.

“Perhaps,” Maria remarked, after a moment of reflection, “you can sell
it to Tom, the milk-driver; he’s about your build, and I heard him say a
while ago that he was goin’ to get him some new clo’s before long.”

This proved to be a happy suggestion, and appealed at once to the
discomfited man. Suffice it to say that he made a bargain with the
milk-driver later, and so managed to get rid of the obnoxious garments;
but for years he was sore over the matter, and could never bear the
slightest reference to the subject. To the tailor he simply said that he
was disappointed in the suit and ordered another made.

When Maria Kimberly left his presence after the above interview she
repaired at once to the kitchen garden, ostensibly to pick “a mess of
shell beans” for the morrow’s dinner; but could any one have seen her
crouching among the tall bean-poles, and laughing until the tears rained
over her face, and she was utterly exhausted with her mirth, he would
have thought that Squire Talford’s usually sedate housekeeper had taken
leave of her senses.

The days slipped very quickly by to Clifford, who was bending all his
energies toward preparing for the ordeal before him.

Professor Harding accompanied him to Cambridge a day or two before the
date set for his examinations, to show him about a little, get him
settled, and introduce him to some of his old acquaintances, and to give
him more confidence.

The young man acquitted himself most creditably, and won honors in
mathematics, Greek and Latin, and his teacher felt justly proud of him,
and well repaid for his own efforts in his behalf.

After seeing him located in a moderate-priced and homelike
boarding-place, with a good woman whom he had known during his own
college days, the professor wished him good luck and Godspeed and
returned to his own duties in Connecticut.

Clifford set to work in good earnest—every moment of every hour was
improved to the utmost, and, to his surprise, he did not find his duties
nearly so arduous as he had anticipated.

He had always been very systematic in whatever he had to do, and,
possessing a rare power of concentration, he was enabled to commit his
lessons with comparative ease.

Thus he found that he would have considerable leisure time, and this he
resolved to turn to account to increase his limited resources, and so
began to look about for employment. But what to do was the question.

This was answered for him within a week or two by overhearing some of the
juniors and seniors complaining of their blurred and unsightly windows,
and asserting that they could find no one to do satisfactory cleaning for
them.

Acting upon the impulse of the moment, Clifford stepped up to them, and
remarked in a straightforward, manly way:

“Gentlemen, I am looking for work to help me through my course—let me try
my hand upon your windows.”

They stared at him with a supercilious air for a moment, but as he met
their glances with a front as unflinching as their own, and without
manifesting the slightest embarrassment on account of his request, one of
the number observed:

“Say, let’s try him, boys, the janitors are so rushed they’re no good,
and we don’t want any woman prowling about,” and forthwith Clifford had
half a dozen orders, and set that very afternoon to begin operations.

From that time he had all he could do at ten and fifteen cents per
window, according to size, and his work proved to be so satisfactory that
he was frequently offered a tip besides. But this he scorned to accept in
every instance.

“Thanks. I have but one price,” he would invariably observe, and never
failed to give the exact change.

Generally he was courteously treated by his patrons, but now and then he
would meet a snob whose sole aim appeared to be to make him feel the
immeasurable distance between a heavy purse and a light one. But even in
these cases he proved himself a match for such customers. He would fill
his order to the very best of his ability, but he would never take a
second one from the same party.

“Very sorry,” he would say, with the utmost politeness, “but I am too
busy. I have all the orders I can fill at present. You had better speak
to one of the janitors.”

One day he was passing along a corridor with his pail and brushes, when
some one, evidently in a hurry, passed him. The next moment the young man
paused, turned back and called out in an overbearing tone:

“Say, here! you window-washer; I want to speak to you—I have some work
for you to do.”

Clifford’s face flushed a sudden crimson, then grew as quickly white. He
set down his pail, and, turning, found himself face to face with a member
of his own class. He bowed politely to him.

“My name is Faxon,” he quietly remarked. “You are Mr. Wentworth, and we
are classmates, I believe.”

Philip Wentworth stared coldly at the speaker for a moment, and with an
air which plainly indicated that, although they might possibly be in the
same class, he regarded himself as composed of very much finer clay than
his impecunious brother collegian.

“Oh, ah! really!” he remarked at length. “I simply wanted to tell you
that I have some cleaning for you to do.”

“I hope it will be no disappointment to you, Mr. Wentworth, but I can
take no more orders at present,” Clifford calmly replied, and, picking up
his pail, he moved on, leaving his would-be patron with a disagreeable
sense of having been politely sat upon.

“Insolent upstart!” he muttered angrily, and, turning impatiently on his
heel, he pursued his way in the opposite direction.

And thus pretty Mollie Heatherford’s would-be lover, who had begged
so earnestly for the costly cameo which she had worn on that
never-to-be-forgotten day, when she so narrowly escaped a terrible doom,
and the hero, to whom she had presented the valuable gem, met for the
first time, and as classmates at Harvard.




CHAPTER VII.

CLIFFORD ACQUITS HIMSELF WITH HONOR.


Clifford had been keenly stung by the manner in which Philip Wentworth
had saluted him.

“Say—here! you window-washer!” rang continually in his ears, as he went
about his work. He felt very sure that the young man knew his name as
well as he knew his, for they had met every day in the class-room.
However, whether he knew him or not, there was no excuse for his assuming
the supercilious manner and tone that he had in addressing him. These
feelings continued to rankle in his heart for some time, and then
Clifford pulled himself up sharply.

“How foolish I am!” he thought. “The fact that I am poor, and have to
wash windows to eke out my small resources will neither make nor mar my
life. What I myself am and what use I make of my opportunities will alone
count in the race between me and my classmates. At the same time, I am
not going to put myself in a way to be browbeaten by any man living.
I can find work enough to do for people who are civil, and I have no
intention of being tyrannized over by cads.”

And he carried out his determination to the letter, always bearing
himself in a gentlemanly manner, and so for the most part winning the
respect of those with whom he came in contact.

The weeks sped by, and nothing of special interest occurred during the
winter. Clifford moved on in the even tenor of his way, working with a
will until spring came, summer opened, and with it the all-important
examinations.

They were over at last, and, to his great joy, he passed with honors, and
won the—scholarship.

He was a proud and happy fellow, and, on class-day, while he was
dressing for the exercises, he brought forth the cameo ring which Mollie
Heatherford had given him a little less than a year previous, and viewed
it tenderly.

“I do not even know her name,” he murmured regretfully, “but to me she
was, and still is, the loveliest girl that I have ever seen, and this
beautiful ring will always be a precious talisman to me—something to
incite me always to work for the best and highest results. I wonder if I
might venture to wear it to-day as a reward for my year’s work?”

He slipped it upon the little finger of his left hand, and held it off to
note the effect, a thoughtful look on his fine face.

“It is a lovely thing,” he continued, drawing it toward him again,
and studying it attentively for the thousandth time. “The carving is
particularly fine. Yes, I will wear it just for to-day.”

A few hours later Clifford was standing beneath a great tree on the
campus conversing with one of his classmates. Almost unconsciously he
had lifted his left hand, and laid it against the trunk of the tree. It
was a firm, strong, shapely hand, and the costly circlet upon the fourth
finger stood out conspicuously upon it.

He and his friend were absorbed in discussing some of the numerous events
of the week, and were unaware of the presence of any one else, until
they were startled by a voice close beside them, exclaiming with marked
emphasis:

“By thunder!”

Both young men turned to find Philip Wentworth standing beside them and
staring, with a look of blank astonishment and dismay on his face, at the
ring upon Clifford’s finger.

“Well, Wentworth, what are you thundering about?” laughingly inquired
Clifford’s companion, who was known as Alf Rogers, and was a prime
favorite in the institution.

Without appearing to heed his question, Wentworth bent a flashing look
upon Clifford.

“Where did you get that ring?” he demanded sharply.

Clifford flushed at his peremptory tone, and his hand involuntarily
dropped to his side. But he immediately lifted it again, and held it
before him, where all three could plainly see the gem he wore.

“Oh, this cameo?” he observed, his face softening to sudden tenderness,
which did not escape his interlocutor, as he gazed upon it.

“Yes,” curtly and emphatically replied Wentworth.

Clifford was tempted to tell him that it was none of his business, but
refraining from so discourteous a retort, he quietly returned:

“It was given to me.”

“Who gave it to you?” and Wentworth’s lips twitched nervously as he put
the question, while there was a savage gleam of jealous anger in his eyes.

Clifford’s ire began to get the better of him now.

“Pardon me,” he said coldly, “if I tell you that is a matter which cannot
concern you in the least.”

“Don’t be so sure, young man; it does concern me, and far more, perhaps,
than you have any idea of,” was the excited retort. “I could swear that
that is the only ring of its kind in the world, and I should recognize it
if I should see it in China.”

“Possibly you may be correct, Mr. Wentworth, ‘that it is the only ring
of its kind in existence,’” calmly observed our hero. “I should not be
surprised if such were the case, for the carving is peculiarly fine, the
subject a rare and difficult one. Nevertheless, it was a gift to me, and
is one that I prize very highly.”

“It can’t be possible!” cried Philip hotly, “that ring belongs to a young
lady who is now traveling in Europe.”

“You are mistaken, Mr. Wentworth,” said Clifford with quiet emphasis.

“I am not; I swear it, and—I can give you double proof of what I have
stated,” Wentworth asserted, glancing at a lady and gentleman who were
slowly approaching them.

The former was a very handsome woman of about forty-five years, and there
was a strong resemblance between her and Philip Wentworth. She was very
elegantly dressed, and her diamonds were of the finest water, and she was
accompanied by the professor of Greek, with whom she was conversing in a
bright and animated way.

But Clifford did not appear to connect her in any way with the subject of
his controversy with Wentworth, or realize that he had referred to her in
stating that he could give double proof of what he asserted.

“I imagine that you will find it difficult to verify your declaration,”
he observed, with quiet dignity.

“Do you dare me to do so?” demanded Philip aggressively.

“Certainly not; this controversy is of your own seeking, and is of small
moment to me, excepting, of course, that it is somewhat annoying. You
have, however, aroused my curiosity to a certain extent, and since you
claim that you can prove that my ring belongs to another, I should like
to know upon what grounds you felt justified in making that statement,”
Clifford observed, with a composure which showed that he had no fear
regarding the result.

“Mother!” said Philip, stepping forward a pace or two and speaking to the
lady who was approaching.

“Ah, Phil!” she returned, with a bright, fond glance, “I was looking for
you; you know you promised to take me over the museum, and I have a great
desire to see those wonderful glass flowers.”

“Wait a moment, please, mother,” the young man replied, “there is a ring
here that I would like you to see,” and, without even the courtesy of an
introduction, he pointed at the circlet upon Clifford’s finger.

Although greatly embarrassed by the uncomfortable position in which he so
unexpectedly found himself, he politely lifted his hat to the lady and
extended his hand so that she might examine the contested jewel.

“Mollie’s ring!” she exclaimed, in a tone of great surprise, while her
eyes flew to Clifford’s fine face, with a curious, searching look. “Why!
it surely is the ‘magic cameo’ about which we have had so much sport with
her!”

“Now, are you satisfied that I knew what I was talking about?” demanded
Philip Wentworth in a tone intended only for Clifford’s ear.

He made no reply to the taunt, and there was a moment of awkward silence,
when the professor, seeing that there was something amiss, yet not
comprehending what it was, although he realized that Wentworth had done a
rude thing, observed in a friendly tone:

“It is surely a remarkably fine bit of work, Faxon; but allow me to
present you to Mr. Wentworth’s mother, Mrs. Temple, Mr. Faxon; also Mr.
Rogers.”

Both gentlemen lifted their hats, and the lady acknowledged the
presentation with gracious courtesy, after which the professor inquired
of Mrs. Temple:

“Is there a peculiar or remarkable history connected with Mr. Faxon’s
ring, which you appear to recognize?—you spoke of it as ‘the magic
cameo.’”

“Oh, no, it is only a little family joke,” the lady laughingly replied;
“we have a young friend who owns a cameo so exactly like this that
it seems as if it must be the same, and she has always claimed that
whenever she wore it something good never failed to happen to her. She
became so thoroughly imbued with the idea that we used to laugh at her
about her magic cameo. Of course, this cannot be the same, for I am
sure that Mollie would never have parted with it under any ordinary
circumstances. I am surprised, however, to find it duplicated; I did not
suppose there was another like it in existence. I hope, Mr. Faxon, it
will prove to be a mascot for you as well as for our little friend,” Mrs.
Temple concluded, and smiling brightly up into the manly face above her.

“Mother, this is not a duplicate; this is Mollie’s ring,” Philip here
interposed with a frown and note of impatience in his tones.

“Are you not a trifle rash, Phil, in making such an assertion?” his
mother questioned with a gentle reproof, a slight cloud of annoyance
sweeping over her face.

“I am sure I can prove it,” he returned loftily. Then, addressing
Clifford, he inquired: “Have you any knowledge of a secret connected with
this ring?”

“A secret!” our hero repeated wonderingly; “no, I do not know of any
secret,” and he eyed it curiously, flushing as he did so.

Philip Wentworth’s eyes glowed with malicious triumph.

“Well, I happen to know that there is one,” he declared. “Mother, you
shall disclose what peculiarities you know regarding Mollie’s ring.”

“Really, Phil, I am afraid you are making a mistake,” Mrs. Temple
remarked, flushing and looking greatly disturbed, “but since you seem
determined to press the matter I will say that the secret is this—the
stone can be raised and underneath there is a plate on which there is
engraved a horseshoe, inclosing the words ‘For luck’ and the initials ‘M.
N. H.’”

Clifford’s heart beat with great, heavy throbs as he listened to this.
He had never dreamed that his precious ring was going to create such an
excitement, and become the object of a romantic episode when he had put
it on that morning. He now heartily wished that he had left it locked
away in his trunk.

“If your ring is like the one I have described,” Mrs. Temple continued,
“you can touch a tiny spring just under the double gold beading of the
setting, and the stone will open out on a hinge.”

Clifford carefully examined the setting, found the tiny spring, pressed
it, when, lo! the stone slipped from its place, and with a great
heart-bound, he distinctly saw the small horseshoe, with the words “For
luck” and the initials “M. N. H.” engraved within the circle.

Without a word he extended his hand to Mrs. Temple for her to see. One
glance was sufficient to assure her that her son’s assertions were
correct. The ring surely was the very same that she had seen in Mollie
Heatherford’s possession.

“How very strange!” she murmured. “I had supposed Mollie so superstitious
regarding her ‘mascot’ that nothing would ever induce her to part with
it.”

The professor also examined it with curious interest, and then glanced
wonderingly at the various members of the party.

“Now, have I proved my position?” demanded Philip, turning with
ill-concealed exultation to Clifford.

Our hero’s face had grown very pale; but it also wore a very determined
expression.

“You have certainly proved that you have seen the ring before, but you
have by no means proved that it does not belong to me,” he calmly replied.

“Will you explain how you came by it, then?” demanded Wentworth. “Knowing
what we do, and being intimately acquainted with the young lady in whose
possession it was, the last time we saw her, we naturally feel that we
are entitled to know how you came by it.”

“Pardon me,” returned Clifford, with dignity, “that does not necessarily
follow. I have told you that the ring is mine, that it was a gift to me,
and I have told you only truth.”

“Was it given to you by a lady?”

“That question I must decline to answer,” Clifford coldly responded. “But
this much I will say,” he added, after a moment of thought, “the ring
came into my possession one year ago the thirtieth of next month—July.”

“Mother! that was the very day that Mollie went to New York after her
visit with us! She wore the ring that day—it was on her finger when I
bade her good-by at the station!” Philip Wentworth exclaimed, flushing
crimson, as he recalled how he had begged it of Mollie and been refused,
while he now realized that there was a possibility that she had given it
to this “proud upstart,” but why or wherefore was beyond him to imagine.
He was galled almost beyond endurance and stung to the quick, and a
fierce hatred of his classmate took possession of him then and there.

“Well, never mind, Phil,” said his mother gravely, “and I think you
should let the matter rest. Mr. Faxon has his own reasons, no doubt, for
not wishing to say more. Come, I am afraid it is too late, after all,
for me to go into the museum to-day,” she added, glancing at her watch.
“I think the carriage will be waiting for me, and I have a reception to
attend this evening.”

With a gracious smile and bow to her recent companions she took her
son’s arm, thus forcing him to escort her to one of the entrances to the
college grounds, where she had ordered her coachman to await her.

He did not accompany her with a very good grace, and there was a heavy
frown upon his face, which betrayed that he was greatly irritated over
his failure to extort Clifford’s secret from him. The professor stood
gravely regarding our hero for a moment, as if he also would have been
glad to learn more, and was not quite pleased over his reticence; then
he excused himself and went away; but both young men could see that the
recent occurrence had left an unpleasant impression on his mind.

It certainly had been a very awkward interview, and the evidence was
rather against Clifford, for he had been proven ignorant of a most
interesting secret connected with the ring which he claimed as his own.

“Well!” he observed, glancing at his friend, “this has been a queer
experience.”

“I should say so indeed!” Rogers exclaimed, with an expression of
disgust, “but Wentworth is a purse-proud cad anyway, and if his mother
and the professor had not been here I should have been tempted to knock
him down for his insolence. You held yourself well in hand, Faxon, and I
admire you for it.”




CHAPTER VIII.

AN INSOLENT DEMAND.


In spite of the court of inquiry and the mortification to which he had
been subjected, Clifford was by no means crushed, in view of his recent
encounter with Philip Wentworth, who, he had long been conscious, had
been nursing a grudge against him ever since the day of their first
meeting. On the whole, when he came to think the matter over by himself,
he was secretly pleased with the outcome of it, for he had at least
learned the secret of his precious ring and the initials of the fair
unknown who had been its donor.—“M. N. H.” He wondered what they stood
for.

Mrs. Temple and Wentworth had both familiarly spoken of her as “Mollie,”
but he would have given a great deal to have learned her full name; yet
he was too proud to ask it, or to acknowledge to them that he was in
ignorance of it.

“Mollie!” he found himself repeating over and over, until the homely name
rang like sweetest music in his heart.

The ring was a thousand times more precious to him now than it had ever
been, with its hidden legend which would hereafter possess as great a
significance to him, almost as much as that of the fetish of the African
devotee.

The face of the young girl was still as clear and distinct in his mind
as the carving of his cameo, and he still thrilled in every pulse of his
being whenever he recalled the beautiful azure eyes that had shone with
such intense earnestness as she watched for him to come forth from the
car at New Haven, the quiver of her red lips and the light of heartfelt
gratitude illumining her delicate, clear-cut features.

How his heart leaped as he seemed to hear again the music of her fresh
young voice, as she gave utterance to those eager, impulsive words: “Life
is very bright to me; I love to live; I shall never forget you; I shall
love you for the heroism of this day—always.”

He had said those last words over and over to himself many, many times,
until they had awakened in his own heart a love for that peerless girl
that would never wane—a love that meant a thousandfold more than she had
intended to imply, and which would never be satisfied with less than a
full requital from its object.

This mood was on him now stronger than ever as he thought over that
never-to-be-forgotten scene. But how dare he dream of such a thing! It
surely seemed to him the height of presumption, and he flushed a guilty
crimson in view of his audacity.

Then another train of thought was started, and his handsome brown eyes
were clouded with pain as he questioned within himself what this sweet,
golden-haired, blue-eyed “Mollie” could be to Philip Wentworth, that he
should so arbitrarily demand how he had become possessed of the ring that
had once been hers.

When he had told him that it did not concern him, he had exclaimed with
repressed passion, “It does concern me, and more, perhaps, than you have
any idea.”

What did he mean by that? he wondered. Could it be possible that there
had been a boy-and-girl love affair between those two, and that Philip
Wentworth had become madly jealous upon seeing the ring upon his hand and
failing to ascertain how it had come there?

This was not a very pleasing thought to him, but he had at least learned
that the fair “Mollie” was at present traveling in Europe, while he
also reasoned that there could not have been any very confidential
missives exchanged, or the young man would not have been so in the dark
regarding the presentation of the cameo, and these facts afforded him
some consolation. Then his mind reverted to the beautiful woman whom the
professor had introduced as Mrs. Temple, and whom Wentworth had addressed
as “mother.”

He felt sure that they were mother and son, in spite of the different
names they bore, for there was a strong resemblance between them,
although she had deported herself like a gracious and high-bred lady,
while he was a veritable snob.

Probably, Clifford reasoned, she had been a widow, and had married a
second time a man by the name of Temple, and he wondered if there was
a Mr. Temple now living, and what he was like. But these people and
things soon slipped from his mind, for, early the next morning, he left
Cambridge for the White Mountains, where his ever-thoughtful friend,
Professor Harding, had secured for him a position as head porter in a
hotel, where he usually spent a portion of his summer with his family.
Clifford found his friends already there, and was welcomed most cordially
by them.

He found that his duties would be somewhat heavy, although they were not,
on the whole, disagreeable, while they would give him a complete rest and
change from the close mental application of the last ten months.

It is needless to say that he was most faithful in his new position,
for it was his nature to do well whatever he had to do, and, before a
fortnight had passed, the proprietor of the house, Mr. Hamilton, confided
to Professor Harding that he had never before secured so efficient and
gentlemanly a person for the place.

The guests, also, all seemed to appreciate him, for he was always
courteous in his bearing, and attentive to their wants. He would never
allow any loud talking or rough handling of baggage from the men who
worked under him, while he managed to systematize everything connected
with his department so that there was no confusion and seldom a mistake.

He had been there a little over a month, when one day, as he was
returning from the post-office with the afternoon mail, he met with an
adventure.

He rode a large and valuable bay horse that belonged to Mr. Hamilton,
who, after he learned that Clifford knew how to handle horses, liked to
have him exercise the animal occasionally. The day had been unusually
warm, and Clifford was allowing his steed to make his own pace up a steep
incline, while he read a letter which he had received from his good
friend, Maria Kimberly, who was almost his only correspondent.

Upon reaching a small plateau he checked his steaming horse to allow him
to rest before climbing the next ascent. He finished his letter, refolded
and tucked it away in a pocket, then, removing his hat, and wiping the
perspiration from his forehead, he turned in his saddle to look back upon
the valley behind and beneath him.

“What a view!” he said aloud, and with kindling eyes; “it is worth a
great deal to have such a scene as this to look upon day after day, and
nature paints the loveliest pictures, after all.” Then, with a glance
above and beyond him, he continued: “And the hills! the everlasting
hills! how wonderful they are! I have read somewhere that ‘rocks and
mountains stand for the solid and grand ideas of Truth.’ It is a
beautiful thought, and makes them a hundredfold more lovely to me. I
believe I am receiving an inspiration this summer that will never leave
me——”

“Ahem! you appear to be struck on the hills, Faxon,” a voice here
interposed with a mocking inflection, and, glancing toward the spot from
whence it seemed to proceed, Clifford saw to his astonishment the face
of Philip Wentworth peering at him over a boulder that lay almost on the
edge of the mountain road, and was half-concealed by a clump of sumac
that was growing beside it.

He had been sitting behind the rock where, screened by it and the growth
of sumac, he had been idly gazing into the depths below, for the road
just there ran along the edge of an almost perpendicular precipice.

He had seen Clifford approaching, although he was himself unseen, but
he had had no intention of making his presence known, until our hero’s
eloquent outburst fell upon his ears, whereupon he became irritated
beyond measure. He was dressed in the height of style—in an immaculate
suit of white linen, and he carried a cane having an elaborately carved
ivory head.

He came around into the road and stood there looking up into Clifford’s
face with a derisive smile. Clifford colored vividly at his manner of
addressing him, but quickly recovering himself, he courteously returned:

“Ah! good afternoon, Mr. Wentworth. Yes, I am in love with these grand
mountains, but I had no idea that I was rhapsodizing before an audience.
It has been a warm day,” he concluded, and drew up his bridle preparatory
to moving on, when his companion detained him.

“Wait a minute, Faxon,” he said, “I’ve been wanting to see you ever since
class-day, but no one could tell me where to find you. It’s about that
ring, you know; I’m dying to know just how you came by it.”

“It was a gift, Mr. Wentworth,” Clifford briefly replied.

“So you said before, but who gave it to you?” demanded Philip, with a
frown.

“I cannot tell you.”

“Hang it all! don’t be so deucedly secretive,” was the impatient retort.
“Was it given to you by a lady?”

“Pardon me, but I cannot tell you,” Clifford reiterated.

“Will not, you mean,” Wentworth angrily rejoined.

Clifford did not deign to answer this thrust, and his silence, which
stood for assent, was maddening to his companion. All his life he had
been the pampered idol of his mother, who had seldom denied him a wish,
and he had grown up selfish, arrogant, and almost lawless.

During his own father’s life, he had been curbed to a certain extent,
for the man possessed good sense and judgment, and, had he lived, would
doubtless have brought out the best that was in his son; but the man had
been cut down just when the boy had needed him most, and so his mother
had spoiled him until he had become intolerant of all opposition to his
wishes.

Thus Clifford’s calm indifference to his demand drove him into a white
heat of rage.

“You do not need to tell me where it came from,” he burst forth, “for, as
I told you before, I know who had possession of it up to three o’clock of
the day when you claim that it was given to you—given, ha!” he concluded,
with an insulting significant laugh.

All the blood in his body seemed to rush into Clifford’s face at this
cowardly insinuation.

“Wentworth! do you mean to imply that I came by it through dishonorable
means?” he sternly demanded.

“Well, that is a point upon which I have my own opinion,” Philip
retorted, “but I can swear to this that at the hour I have named on the
thirtieth of July, of last year, that ring was on the hand of a certain
lady of my acquaintance. She was on the point of starting for New York,
and as I was taking leave of her I asked her to give it to me as—as a
souvenir.”

“Ah!”

It was only an exclamation, and it had escaped Clifford almost
involuntarily, but it expressed a great deal, and his heart had given a
great throb of exultation over the knowledge that what his blue-eyed,
golden-haired divinity had refused to give the rich and aristocratic
Philip Wentworth, she had, freely, and even enthusiastically, bestowed
upon him, a poor bound boy, who had stood before her, hatless and
drenched to his skin in his shirt-sleeves and overalls and wearing a pair
of clumsy shoes, the like of which this petted son of fortune would have
scorned for his servant.

Young Wentworth was excessively nettled by the monosyllable, and
instantly regretted having betrayed so much.

“I am only telling you this,” he hastened to explain, “to prove how
preposterous it seems in you to claim that this lady should have given
you the ring, after having refused it to me, and I will also add, as a
clincher, that Miss—the lady is my fiancée.”

For a moment Clifford felt as if he had been struck a blow in the face,
and the sense of a terrible loss settled upon his heart. Then, as he
recalled the youthful face that had been lifted so earnestly to him, and
also the fact that the girl had not discarded short dresses, a faint
smile of skepticism involuntarily curved the corners of his mouth. Philip
was quick to note it, and was exasperated by it.

“You do not believe it,” he said sharply, “but it is true nevertheless;
the matter was arranged when we were mere children, and we have grown
up with the understanding that we are to be married when I am through
college. Faugh!” he interposed, with a shrug of impatience, “why do I
tell you this, I wonder? I am a fool to give it away to you; but, Faxon,
I want that ring! Do you hear?”

Clifford gazed down upon the handsome, imperious face upturned to him
with an expression of amazement. The audacity of the demand almost
paralyzed him for the moment.

“You want the ring!” he repeated, when he could find voice.

“That’s what I said,” Philip returned consequentially. “I can’t have you
wearing a ring that belongs to my fiancée. Of course, I am willing to
pay you something handsome for it rather than have any words over the
affair—say, fifty dollars, and ask no further questions regarding how you
came by it.”

Clifford was filled with indignation, both at the imputation flung at
him and the proposition to barter his gift for money. Sell his precious
ring—his “mascot,” with its magic legend and initials of its fair donor!
Never! He would almost as soon have parted with his right hand, and
he grew very white about the mouth at the thought. But he seldom gave
outward expression to anger, no matter how deeply moved he was, and,
after a moment spent in making an effort to speak calmly, he said, in a
low tone of quiet decision:

“Mr. Wentworth, I could not, for a moment, think of surrendering my ring
to you.”

“I’ll make it a hundred, if you like,” persisted Philip.

“No, sir; I would not part with it at any price.”

Philip Wentworth’s face grew livid with mingled rage and disappointment.

“—— you, for an obstinate upstart!” he exclaimed furiously, and, lifting
his slender cane high above his head, he dealt Clifford’s horse a
fierce and stinging blow upon the thigh. It was a terrible shock to the
beautiful and spirited creature, who scarce ever had known the touch of a
lash. With a snort of fear he wheeled, sprang erect upon his hind legs,
and the next moment was pawing the air on the very edge of that almost
perpendicular precipice.




CHAPTER IX.

PHILIP WENTWORTH FINDS AMUSEMENT.


Clifford was in fearful danger for one awful moment, as the horse hung
swaying on the brow of the precipice, and, seemingly, about to be dashed
over the edge and down upon the rocks below.

To all appearance horse and rider were doomed—their fate sealed. But with
a dexterous movement the young man drew his bridle taut, his fingers
gripping it like claws of steel, his muscles unyielding as iron, and
thus he held the animal poised in the air for a brief instant, like a
statue, but for his frightened trembling; then, pulling sharply upon the
bit with his left hand, he swung him around and away from the frightful
chasm, and eased him down until one forefoot touched the ground, when
the intelligent creature helped himself farther away from his dangerous
position, though still snorting and quivering in every limb from fear.

“Be quiet, Glory! it’s all right—whoa! stand still!” Clifford called
out in a reassuring voice, as he gathered the bridle into one hand,
and with the other stroked and patted the reeking neck with a gentle,
encouraging touch, and continued to talk soothingly to him, until he was
comparatively calm again.

It had been a hairbreadth escape, and Clifford’s face was absolutely
colorless, but not so white or frozen with fear as that of Philip
Wentworth, who had become conscious that his ungovernable temper had
well-nigh made a murderer of him.

The eyes of the two young men met for one moment, then Clifford spoke
quietly to his horse, bidding him go on, and went his way up the mountain
road.

He was very thoughtful as he pursued his way back to the hotel, and was
deeply thankful. He was almost dazed, and could scarcely realize what
had happened. But for the reaction, the weakness almost amounting to
faintness, that had crept over him, it would have seemed more like a
dream—a horrible nightmare—than a reality.

He drew in long, deep breaths and tried to brace himself up, and,
gradually, he began to feel the strength coming back to him; but the
strain upon him, both mentally and physically, had been something
terrible.

Finally he forgot about himself in thinking of Philip, and wondering what
his sensations could have been while watching that desperate battle for
life.

“What a frightful temper he has!” he mused, as he recalled the young
man’s distorted face when he struck that almost fatal blow. “I am
thankful that I am not so cursed, or rather that I was taught in my
boyhood to govern myself. If he has any conscience he must have suffered
more than I did during that moment of terrible suspense.

“How ridiculous to tell me that he is engaged to that slip of a girl!” he
continued, with a skeptical smile, “and yet,” he added, more soberly, “I
know that such arrangements have been made by parents for their children,
and so what he said is not impossible. But I should be sorry, from the
depths of my heart, for her if she was doomed to spend her life with one
who possesses such a disposition. Still, I do not believe that she is
lacking in spirit, and I imagine it would not be an easy matter to drive
her to do anything regarding which she had conscientious scruples. I am
very sure that there is much strength of character behind those earnest
blue eyes. However, if she loves him she will probably marry him,” he
concluded, with a long sigh of regret and a look of pain in his eyes.

He rode his horse directly to the stable upon his return to the hotel,
and gave orders to have him carefully groomed; then he returned to his
duties in the house, and kept his own counsel regarding his recent
adventure.

It would have involved too many explanations to have talked about it,
and, since no harm had befallen the horse, he felt under no obligation to
speak of the affair to any one.

That evening there were several new arrivals, and among them some people
who were registered as Judge and Mrs. Athol and Miss Gertrude Athol,
from Buffalo, New York. Miss Athol was a remarkably beautiful girl of
about eighteen years, and as Clifford saw her during the disposal of her
trunks in her rooms, he thought that, with one exception, he had never
met one more lovely. She also was a blonde of the purest type, tall and
willowy, and possessing an air of repose and refinement, together with
an unusually sunny smile, that made one feel as if he had come into a
different atmosphere when in her presence.

There was one peculiarity about her that seemed to intensify her
beauty; she had great, soft, almond-shaped brown eyes, which contrasted
exquisitely with her delicate complexion and pale-gold hair, and which
gave marked character to her face.

“She is a true lady,” Clifford said to himself, as he mentally compared
her with some other young people who were guests in the house, and
who appeared to regard every employee as their slave, whose sole duty
consisted in serving their lightest caprice.

About the middle of the next afternoon an elegant equipage dashed up to
the door of the hotel and four people alighted and entered the house.
Clifford instantly recognized Philip Wentworth and his mother, and they
were followed by a stately, rather pompous, gentleman, with iron-gray
hair, a pair of keen, dark eyes, and a shrewd, clear-cut, intelligent
face, while he led by the hand a little girl of about five years, a
charming little fairy, who resembled both Philip and Mrs. Temple, and
who was most daintily clad, and with a great hat set on her sunny head,
framing her bright, laughing face in a most picturesque manner.

The gentleman was William F. Temple, and the child was Miss Minnie
Temple, the pet and idol of the entire household. This quartet were shown
into a reception-room, whereupon they sent cards up to Judge and Mrs.
Athol, who, as it proved, were old friends of Mrs. Temple, Mrs. Athol
having been a chum of hers at Vassar during their school-days. From that
time the two families were also inseparable.

They drove or went fishing and rowing on the lake, or made excursions
to various points of interest almost every morning; the afternoons were
devoted to bowling, golf, or tennis, while they alternated in dining each
other and attended card parties, hops, and receptions at various hotels
in the evening.

During all this time Clifford and Philip Wentworth were continually
coming in contact with each other; but the latter never betrayed, by word
or look, that he had ever met him before, and ordered him around like any
ordinary porter.

Clifford was often galled inexpressibly by his overbearing manner,
particularly so in the presence of Miss Athol, who was always gracious
toward him.

Early one morning Mr. and Mrs. Temple, accompanied by the Judge and Mrs.
Athol, started out on a trip to the summit of Mount Washington, leaving
little Minnie Temple to spend the day with Miss Athol, to whom the child
had become very much attached.

Philip Wentworth put in his appearance at the hotel after luncheon, and
about half an hour later, accompanied by Miss Athol and his young sister,
and armed with books, a lunch-basket, and a rug, started forth again,
evidently to spend the afternoon in the woods.

He had been very devoted to Gertrude Athol ever since her appearance
upon the scene, and had constituted himself her escort upon almost every
occasion, while there were times when his manner toward her bordered
strongly upon that of a lover.

Clifford had been quick to observe this, and was secretly indignant at
the growing intimacy, for he had by no means forgotten the statement
which Wentworth had made to him regarding his relations with a certain
little lady who was traveling in Europe. He watched them this afternoon
as they sauntered slowly down the road in the direction of a pretty
little nook, familiarly known as “The Glen,” Philip carrying Miss Athol’s
sun-umbrella with an air of proprietorship, while little Minnie skipped
on before them, bright and happy as a bird.

“What a sweet little fairy that child is!” Clifford murmured, as his eyes
rested fondly upon her, for, strange as it may seem, a strong friendship
had sprung up between himself and Miss Minnie, who never came to the
hotel without seeking him out to have a social little chat with him.

He continued to watch the trio until they disappeared around a bend in
the road, when he went back into the office, and resumed some clerical
work connected with his duties.

“The Glen” referred to was, in fact, something of a misnomer, for it was
nothing more or less than a quiet nook on a small plateau, carpeted with
moss, almost entirely surrounded by a luxuriant growth of great pines,
and overlooking a picturesque valley and strong, rugged mountains beyond.

It was almost on the edge of a precipice, and not far from the very point
where Clifford came so near losing his life only a short time before.

Upon arriving at their destination, Philip spread the rug he carried
upon the ground, close by a big boulder, and the three sat down, removing
their hats and making themselves generally comfortable. Then Philip
opened one of the books he had brought—a new novel that was creating
quite a sensation—and began reading aloud to his companion.

But Miss Minnie did not relish any such prosaic way of spending her
afternoon, and, becoming lonely and restless, began to wander about to
see what of interest she could find for herself. At first Philip tried
to keep her beside them, but, finding that she would not be quiet, and
fretted constantly at the restraint imposed upon her, finally gave her
permission to play about, provided she would not go beyond a certain
limit.

She soon found amusement in gathering ferns, with here and there a bright
leaf from some sumac bushes growing near the road at a point where she
was perfectly safe, and the two young people returned to their book and
gave themselves up to the enjoyment of the hour.

To Gertrude Athol the companionship of Philip Wentworth evidently meant
a great deal, if one could judge from the coming and going of her color,
the tender light within her eyes whenever they met those of the young
man, and the shy, happy smiles that hovered about her mouth.

The story which they were reading, and pausing every now and then to
discuss, had for its heroine a young girl who had been sent into the
country one summer to recuperate after a long illness, and while there
had met a young man of the world, who, after becoming acquainted with
her, monopolized her time, and made love to her in an indefinite kind of
way, yet never committing himself beyond a certain point. He completely
won the girl’s heart, and she poured out all the wealth of her nature
upon this suppositious lover, only to awake from her blissful dream at
the end of the season, when he came to bid her a stereotyped farewell,
and then drifted out of her life forever. The blow was more than the
girl could bear in her delicate state of health, while the shame she
experienced upon realizing that she had been systematically fooled, just
for the amusement of an idler, who found no better entertainment at hand,
almost turned her brain. She could not rally from it, and quietly folding
her hands in submission to the inevitable she drooped and died before the
year was out.

“Oh, what a sad, sad story!” Gertrude exclaimed, when Philip reached this
point, and her red lips quivered in sympathy with the unfortunate girl;
“and what a wicked thing it was for Gerald Frost to do! It is heartless
for any man to play with a woman’s affections in any such way.”

“It was simply a summer idyl,” replied Philip, lifting his eyes from
the book and feasting them upon his companion’s beauty, “and there are
thousands of such incidents occurring every year.”

“But it is atrocious—it is a crime!” retorted the girl spiritedly, “and
a man who will deliberately set himself at work to do such a deed is at
heart as bad as a murderer.”

“Oh, Gertrude! Miss Athol! your language is very severe,” laughed Philip.

“Yes, it sounds harsh, but it is true, all the same,” she persisted, “and
if Gerald Frost is a fair type of the summer male flirt, too much cannot
be said in condemnation of him.”

“And what about the summer girl flirt?” questioned her companion
laughingly.

“She is even worse, for one expects sincerity and sympathy from a
woman, and she shames and degrades her sex when she descends to such
ignoble pastime,” she gravely returned. “At the same time, a man has the
advantage over a woman in such a case, for it rests with him to put the
all-important question, and it is inhuman to win a young girl’s heart,
and then cast it from him as worthless. I am glad to think, however, that
there are comparatively few Amy Linders in the world. I would never have
finished the book like that—I think the author has spoiled it.”

“How would you have finished it? What would you have done if you had
been in Amy Linder’s place?” Philip inquired, and shooting a glance of
curiosity at the flushed, earnest face beside him.

“I certainly would not have drooped and died,” she returned, with a
scornful curl of her lips. “I never would have given the man who had so
wronged me the satisfaction of knowing how thoroughly he had fooled me.”

“Ah, you tell what you would not have done; but, on the other hand, what
would have been your course of action?”

Miss Athol drew her willowy figure proudly erect, and her fine eyes
blazed with the dauntless spirit within her.

“I would have lived it down,” she said, her voice vibrating with intense
feeling. “I would have risen above it, and some day, later on, I would
have caused that man to wonder if he had not made the greatest mistake
of his life; he should have learned to despise himself for having so
belittled himself and dishonored his manhood by trying to wreck the
happiness of a defenseless girl simply for amusement.”

She was glorious as she gave utterance to these animated sentences and
Philip was, for the moment, carried beyond himself by the magnetic
influence of her beauty and her spirit. He caught the white hand that lay
nearest him, and impulsively pressed it to his lips.

“Ah! no one could ever meet, play the part of lover to you, and then
leave you,” he cried, with a thrill of passion in his tones. “I——”

“Oh, I wonder where Minnie is!” Gertrude interposed, and withdrawing her
hand before he could complete what he was about to say. “Great heavens,
what was that?”

Both sprang to their feet as a frightened scream at that instant fell
upon their ears, and turned their terrified faces toward the sound just
in season to see the flutter of white garments as they disappeared over
the edge of the plateau, not a dozen yards from where they stood.




CHAPTER X.

A FRIGHTFUL ACCIDENT.


The child had played contentedly enough with her ferns and leaves until
a brilliant butterfly had appeared upon the scene and attracted her
attention, when she began to chase it, and, unmindful of her promise to
her brother, ran too near the edge of the precipice, lost her balance,
and fell with a terrified shriek into space.

Philip Wentworth rushed forward, an inarticulate cry of horror bursting
from his lips, threw himself upon his knees, grasped a young tree that
was growing there, and leaned over the chasm to see—he dare not think
what.

“Oh, God!” he groaned, as he stared into the abyss below.

“Mr. Wentworth!—oh!—is she—killed?” gasped Gertrude Athol, as she sprang
to his side, her face as white as the flannel of her outing dress.

“I don’t know—I do not dare to hope that she is not,” the young man
returned, but still gazing as one mesmerized upon the scene beneath him.

Gertrude stooped over, steadying herself by leaning upon his shoulder,
and she caught her breath sharply as she took in the situation.

Down, down, at least a hundred feet, she caught sight of a mass of white
lying like a ball of cotton in the midst of the heavy foliage of a tree.

Many years previous a tiny maple seed had found lodgment among the
rocks and earth of the mountain, which arose hundreds of feet, like a
perpendicular wall, and this had sprouted, taken root, and grown until
now quite a vigorous tree projected out at right angles from this wall,
and as the plateau above shelved outward at the top, the child had fallen
straight into the middle of the interlaced branches and heavy foliage,
and thus she had been almost miraculously saved from being dashed upon
the rocks in the ravine below.

But there was not a movement, not a sound, to tell those breathless
watchers above whether the little one was still living; she certainly was
not conscious, or she surely would have made the fact known.

“Oh! what can we do?—this is terrible!” cried Gertrude, with white lips
and shivering as from a chill. “But”—in an eager tone—“the child is safe,
I fancy! she could not have been badly hurt just dropping into the tree;
she is only breathless and faint from the fearful fall through space. Oh!
Mr. Wentworth, I am sure if some one will only go to her rescue before
she revives she can be saved.”

“Saved!” gasped Philip, with a shudder of horror; “why, she is as dead to
us and the world at this moment as if she had already been dashed upon
those rocks so far beneath her; for no one would risk his life down that
precipice to attempt her rescue.”

“Some one must! Some one shall!” cried the panting girl. “Oh! if we had
a rope and some one would lower me, I would go. Run—run to the hotel;
tell them to bring ropes—I know she can be saved—go! go!” she concluded
imperatively, while she tried to drag him to his feet.

But he appeared to be paralyzed—rooted to the spot.

“Run!” he repeated, regarding her with a dazed expression. “I could not
run to the hotel if my own life depended upon it. Oh, Minnie! my poor
darling!” he concluded, a sob of despair bursting from him.

Without another word, but like a flash, Gertrude turned, shot past him,
and sped over the ground toward the hotel. Fast and faster she flew,
never once pausing, until, spent and breathless, she sank upon the steps
leading to the veranda.

Clifford, from the office window, had seen her coming, and, realizing
that something was wrong, sprang forth to meet her.

“Miss Athol!—tell me—has anything happened? What can I do for you?” he
exclaimed, as he reached her side.

“Oh, Mr. Cliff!”—she had heard him called Cliff, and knew him by no other
name—“Minnie Temple has fallen over the cliff at the glen. A tree has
broken her fall; she is caught in the branches; I have come for men and
ropes to save her.”

Clifford’s face had grown rigid, and his heart sank heavily in his bosom
as he listened. He had been growing to love the bright, pretty child, and
he felt personally bereft at the thought of losing her. But he paused to
ask no questions, although he feared the case was hopeless. He turned
abruptly on his heel, and darted into the house.

“John!” he called to an assistant, who had just come up from the
basement, “go to the stable, and get the longest and strongest ropes you
can find; go quick! Then find Sam, come here, and wait for me.”

The man knew the case was imperative from his looks and tones, and
hurried away to do his bidding, while Clifford sprang up two flights of
stairs two steps at a time to a side room, which was remote from any
of the fire-escapes on the building, and where a knotted rope had been
placed to be used in the event of an emergency.

He snatched this from the strong hook to which it was attached, tore a
sheet from the bed, and then darted back down-stairs, where he found the
men, John and Sam, awaiting him.

“Come,” he said briefly, and then hurried on down the road after Miss
Athol, who, having done her errand and caught her breath again, was
flying back along the way over which she had just come.

As soon as they reached “The Glen,” where they found Philip still
crouching where Gertrude had left him, his face buried in his hands,
Clifford went straight to the edge of the plateau, and peered down into
the ravine.

Instantly his eyes brightened, and a look of determination leaped into
them as they rested upon that little motionless form half-buried in the
dense foliage of the tree.

Stepping back he threw off his light linen coat and vest, after which he
knotted the fire-escape rope firmly around the trunk of a young oak, and
threw the remainder of it over the cliff, and was glad to see that it was
plenty long enough for his purpose.

Then he attached one end of a larger rope which John had brought to the
same tree, and secured the other around his own body.

“Oh, Mr. Cliff! you are going down for her!” eagerly exclaimed Gertrude,
who had been breathlessly watching his movements, and her eyes met his
with a look of dawning hope in their brown depths.

“Certainly; some one must go,” he said briefly.

Involuntarily the girl’s glance wandered to Philip Wentworth, a slight
frown contracting her brow. He still sat upon the ground, his face
covered, and the very picture of despair. Clearly, he was wholly unfitted
to be of any special use in this fearful emergency.

Clifford’s next move was to firmly knot the diagonal corners of the sheet
he had brought and slip it over his left shoulder and under his right arm.

“What is that for?” questioned Miss Athol.

“To put the child into. Do you not see? It makes a kind of pouch, and,
swung over my back, will leave my hands free to use in climbing.”

“Oh, yes,” she breathed; “how thoughtful of you, and she will be safer so
than she could possibly have been in almost any other way.”

“Yes,” he said simply, and smiled a look of encouragement into her white
face.

“Now, John, Sam, and Wentworth, too, we shall need your help,” he
continued, turning sharply upon Philip to arouse him to action. “I am
going down that fire-escape. John, I want you to keep hold of this other
rope that is tied to me, and pay it out as I go—but not too fast, just
enough to feel my movements, and be sure you do not lose your head or
your grip, for in case the other rope should slip or I should need to
rest a moment a little tightening up upon it will be a great help to me,
and possibly avert a serious accident. When I start to come back pull
it up evenly and steadily—don’t let it slip, for I shall need to depend
a good deal upon its support. When I get back here to the edge of the
plateau you will—every one of you—need all your wits about you to help
me on to terra firma once more. Now, obey orders, and, God helping me, I
will do the rest.”

He stepped calmly forward to where the rope hung over, laid hold upon
the trunk of the tree to help himself off, then, seizing the knotted
fire-escape, slipped slowly down into space.

At this moment Philip Wentworth sprang to his feet and went forward,
his face still white as marble, but evidently doing his utmost to brace
himself up to assist in the rescue of his idolized little sister.

Miss Athol, however, feeling that she could not trust herself to watch
that perilous descent, went back to the boulder and sat down, covered her
face with her trembling hands, and prayed for the hero who was risking so
much to save a human life.

Other people, having learned that an accident of some kind had occurred,
had begun to gather about the place, though scarce a word was spoken, and
“The Glen” was almost as silent as if no one had been there.

Hand over hand, calmly and steadily, Clifford descended the rope,
clinging to it with his feet—from which he had removed his shoes—as well
as with his hands, never once looking down, but always up, with never a
shade of fear in his brave brown eyes.

Those above him, watching with breathless interest, grew dizzy and almost
faint, as they looked, to see him swaying backward and forward, and
from side to side, like some erratic pendulum ’twixt earth and sky, for
the rope, being loose at the lower end, he could not control it, and it
seemed as if he would never be able to stand the strain until he reached
his journey’s end.

John McQueen, a strong and sturdy Scotchman, stood a resolute and
faithful sentinel at his post, and paid out the rope in his hands just
fast enough to make it a help and a support—and Clifford told him
afterward that he never could have accomplished his task but for the
trust he reposed in his brawny arms and cool head—until, at last, the
brave fellow touched the trunk of the maple, and so far, all was well.

Here he paused to rest for a moment or two, for the strain had been
great, and his hands burned and stung from their contact with the rough
rope.

His next act was to secure the loose end to the tree, making it as
taut as possible, and thus prevent the swaying, which had so annoyed
and hampered him in making his descent. His upward climb would be the
“tug-o’-war,” and he realized that he must neglect no measure that would
be of the slightest advantage to him.

Then he began his perilous climb outward upon the trunk of the maple
toward that snowy mass lying among its dark-green foliage.

A single slip or false movement would have sent him whirling through
space to the bottom of the ravine. Very cautiously he edged his way,
almost inch by inch, taking great care not to shake or disturb the
branches where the child lay, lest she be dislodged before he could reach
her.

At last!

His hand grasped the garments, and the long-drawn breath that heaved the
chest of every watcher above told how intense was the excitement, how
terrible had been the suspense of the last few moments.

Gently, cautiously, Clifford drew the still, little form toward him until
he could encircle it with his strong arm, and then he slowly retraced his
way along that slender stem.

It was a perilous task, but the ropes were reached at last, and again he
paused to rest, while he bent a tender, anxious face over the inanimate
burden now clasped close to his breast, and placed a hand over the little
heart.

He detected slight pulsations there, and gave a reassuring nod to those
who were keeping such anxious vigil above.

At last he placed the child within the pouch which he had made of the
sheet, swung it gently around upon his back, and secured the loose
corners about his waist to prevent his burden from swaying away from his
body, and then he was ready for the ascent.

Full one hundred feet he must climb that perpendicular strand with that
precious little form upon his back.

Would he be able to accomplish the task? He did not presume to answer the
question as it flashed through his brain; he put the thought quickly away
from him almost before it had taken form.

But his brave heart never faltered in his purpose as he resolutely
grasped the rope and lifted himself from the supporting maple.

But who shall describe the agony of suspense that tortured the hearts
of those who were lying, face downward, upon the edge of the cliff, and
watching the struggle for life.

Philip Wentworth could not endure it, and knowing that there was now
plenty of help upon the ground, he retreated, faint and sick, from his
position by the oak to the boulder where Gertrude was sitting, and waited
in speechless anguish for the end.

Faithful John McQueen, who had been a worshiper at young Faxon’s shrine
from the first day of his appearance at the hotel, never once took his
eyes or his thoughts from the rope in his hands, or for a moment forgot
the important part he was playing in the tragic scene.

Up, up, Clifford came, nearer and nearer toward the goal, and with every
foot of advancement the sustaining rope was shortened just so much, with
a firm and steady pull that was a source of continual encouragement and
support to the valiant hero.

At length his right hand, now almost purple from his exertions, grasped
the last knot just below the edge of the cliff.

This was the most critical moment of all, for the plateau shelved
outward, and it hardly seemed possible that the young man and his burden
could be drawn safely up over the brink.

But willing hands and strong arms reached down and grasped him, while
John held his rope with an iron grip, and in another moment he was lifted
out of space and onto solid ground once more.

His face was almost as purple as his hands, the veins upon his forehead
stood out in knots, his breath came in shrill, quivering pants between
his livid lips, and the moment he was relieved of his burden he sank
exhausted, well-nigh unconscious, upon the rug which Gertrude had dragged
forward to receive him.




CHAPTER XI.

CLIFFORD MEETS WILLIAM TEMPLE.


Gertrude then held out her arms for Minnie, and the child was surrendered
to her. She had begun to show signs of returning animation; there was
already a little color in her lips, the heart was beating, the chest
heaving slightly, and ere long she opened her eyes to find herself gazing
straight into the familiar faces of her brother and friend.

Gertrude smiled reassuringly, and, bending, kissed her fondly.

“Oh!” breathed the child, with a convulsive shudder, “was it a dreadful
dream! Oh, Phil, did I fall?”

“Never mind the dream, Minnie, dear,” returned the young man evasively.
“You are awake now, and we will go back to the hotel.”

“But I am so tired, and I feel so queer,” gasped the little one, settling
back limp and white again in Gertrude’s arms.

“Give her to me!” said Philip, in a tone of alarm. “I will carry her to
the hotel, and we must have a doctor immediately.”

He gathered her up tenderly, and hastened away, his whole thought
centered upon her.

But Gertrude, keenly anxious for Clifford, lingered and went to the spot
where he lay, with a pile of coats under his head for a pillow and weak
as a child, his breath coming in great gasps. She knelt down beside him,
an expression of deep reverence in her beautiful eyes.

“I hope you are better,” she said gently.

He looked up and smiled.

“Oh, yes; I shall soon—be—all right,” he panted, and she could see how
his heart still throbbed and shook him from head to foot with its every
pulsation. “Those—last few feet—were—rather more than—I—had calculated
upon,” he added, after a moment.

A look of infinite pity swept over the fair girl’s face, and, drawing
her perfumed handkerchief from her belt, she wiped the moisture from his
forehead and about his lips, which were still frightfully livid.

“Cannot one of you get some water for him?” she inquired, glancing up at
those who were gathered around and apparently paralyzed into inactivity.

“Yes—I would like—a glass—of water,” said Clifford trying to moisten his
dry lips.

“You shall have it,” said Gertrude, leaping to her feet. “Come with me,
somebody, and I will send back a bottle of water.”

She sped out of “The Glen” as if her feet had been winged, and was
closely followed by one of the waiters at the hotel.

They soon overtook Philip, who was toiling up the hill with his burden,
and, telling him of her errand, Gertrude swept on past him without
pausing. On reaching the hotel she saw that a carafe was filled with
cold, fresh water, and, giving this to the man, she begged him to hurry
back with it with all possible speed.

Then she turned her attention to Minnie, who was borne directly to her
room and put to bed, while Philip hastened after a physician.

After a careful examination of the child the doctor said that she was
all right, excepting that the shock of the terrible fall had, perhaps,
unsettled her somewhat, but that rest and quiet would soon restore her to
her normal condition.

This assurance was very comforting to both of the young people, who had
been extremely anxious regarding the child’s condition.

As soon as the proprietor, Mr. Hamilton, learned what had happened he
sent a carriage to convey Clifford home, who, upon his arrival, was borne
directly to his own room, and told to remain there until he should be
fully recovered from the terrible strain which he had sustained.

The whole household had learned the story of his exploit by this time,
and great wonder and admiration were expressed by every one in view of
his heroism and power of endurance, as they gathered upon the veranda
while he was being carried into the house.

He was very glad to avail himself of his employer’s command to keep
his room until he felt perfectly able to resume his duties, for he was
anxious to escape the crowd and notoriety, while, too, he was fearfully
spent from the efforts which he had been obliged to make during the last
half of the steep ascent.

There had been moments when, if only his own life had been at stake,
he would have felt that it was scarcely worth the terrible struggle he
was making. But the consciousness that the life of another depended upon
him—the responsibility which the presence of that innocent and beautiful
child entailed upon him—was undoubtedly the one spur which proved to be
the salvation of both.

He did not lack for kind attention, for Mr. Hamilton and faithful John
McQueen could not seem to do enough for him, while Professor Harding
and his wife insisted upon taking turns in watching with him during
the night, to administer nourishment at stated times, and prevent the
necessity of his making any exertion for himself.

He slept considerably, and was much refreshed the next morning, although
still weak and unable to rise, and it was thought best that he should
keep his bed for a few days.

Late in the evening of the day of the accident Mr. Temple and his party
returned from their excursion, and were greatly excited upon learning
what had occurred, while they were also unspeakably grateful over the
fact that a terrible tragedy had been averted, and the idol of the
household had been spared to them.

Gertrude was most enthusiastic and vivid in her description of the event,
while her admiration of Clifford and the manner in which he had conducted
himself was expressed in the highest terms.

“I knew the moment when I first saw that young man that he was no
ordinary porter,” she observed, with glowing eyes. “He carries himself
like a nobleman—he has a remarkably fine face and figure, and he is
invariably courteous and gentlemanly, while if ever any one showed
himself a hero in the face of seeming impossibilities, he has done so
to-day. Don’t you agree with me, Mr. Wentworth?” she concluded, appealing
to Philip for confirmation of her assertions.

“Y—es, he has really done a—a brave thing,” that young man felt compelled
to admit, but he did so in a decidedly half-hearted and unappreciative
manner, and with a flush of irritation at Gertrude’s high praise of one
whom he had long cordially disliked and regarded with secret jealousy.

Miss Athol turned upon him with a look of astonishment. Her lips curled
slightly, and parted as if she were about to retort in a spirited manner,
but before she could voice her rebuke—whatever it may have been—Mr.
Temple inquired:

“But who is he? What is the young man’s name?”

Philip preserved an obstinate silence, and Mrs. Temple, who had never
happened to meet Clifford face to face during her visits to the hotel,
did not realize who they were talking about. So Gertrude continued to be
spokesman.

“I really do not know his name,” she said. “He seems to be a kind of
upper porter about the house, and you must have seen him. I have heard
him called Cliff, which I have supposed to be his given name abbreviated;
what his surname may be I have not the slightest idea.”

“And he is a fine fellow, I am very sure,” Judge Athol here interposed.
“A young man evidently above his present position, although he is very
unassuming. I have sometimes imagined that he might be some college
student taking advantage of the summer vacation to earn his tuition and
expenses for next year.”

Still, in the face of all this and the incalculable debt that he owed
him, Philip Wentworth remained silent. He was conscious that it was
mean and churlish to withhold what information he could give regarding
Clifford Faxon; not to acknowledge in a manly fashion, that he was his
classmate, and give him due honor, not only for having proved himself to
be a noble and worthy young man during his first year at Harvard, but
also for having that day risked his life to save that of his young sister.

But some spirit of perverseness held him mute, and even though he was
thankful from the depths of his heart for the safety of Minnie, whose
advent in the family had aroused all that was best in his nature, he
almost resented the fact that Clifford had been her savior.

A singular grudge against Clifford had taken possession of him from
the moment of their first meeting, when Clifford had plainly shown him
that, even though he was poor and struggling against great odds for an
education, he, at least, was no menial, and not lacking in independence
and self-respect.

The discovery that he had in his possession the costly cameo, which
Mollie Heatherford had declined to give him, together with his refusal to
tell how he came by it, and also the fact that he had recently come very
near being accountable for his life, all served to stir his anger and
jealousy and increase his animosity.

It spoke but very little for the manliness of this would-be aristocrat
that he did not now, in the face of his great obligations to Clifford,
make an effort to crush out these feelings from his heart, confess the
injustice he had done him, and accord him due gratitude. But obstinacy
was not the least of his many faults, and he resolutely turned away from
the still, small voice which was pointing out the path of duty to him.

“Well, whoever he is, I must see him, and make acknowledgment of the
immense debt we owe him,” Mr. Temple observed in reply to Judge Athol,
and with a very perceptible break in his voice, as his glance wandered to
the little form lying upon the bed in the adjoining room, now wrapped in
restful slumber.

But it was, of course, too late that night to see Clifford, and he was
forced to wait until the morrow, when he drove over to the hotel directly
after breakfast to ascertain how his darling was, and to interview the
hero of the previous day.

Miss Minnie was up and none the worse for her tragic experience of the
day before, but Clifford excused himself when Mr. Temple sent up his card
and requested an audience. He was still considerably under the weather,
and said he did not feel like talking about the ordeal through which he
had passed just at present, and so the gentleman was forced to curb his
impatience.

He came every day to inquire for him, and to bring him delicacies of
various kinds to tempt his appetite; but it was not until the fourth
morning after the accident that he achieved the object of his visits.

As his carriage drove to the door of the hotel on this occasion, Clifford
was sitting upon the piazza, and almost himself again, although still a
trifle weak. Little Minnie was with her father, and waved her dimpled
hand to Clifford the moment she espied him.

Clifford smiled a welcome to the pretty child, and, rising, went forward
to greet her. The moment her father lifted her from the carriage she
bounded up the steps and sprang toward Clifford, seizing with both her
little hands the one he extended to her, and a strange thrill went
tingling along the young man’s nerves at her touch.

He told himself that it was on account of the fearful experience which
they had shared, and that, because of it, a bond had been established
between them that would forever unite their hearts in a mutual interest
in each other.

Mr. Temple followed his little daughter, his lips quivering visibly.

“I am sure you must be the young man to whom we all, as a family, owe so
much,” he said, as he extended a trembling hand to Clifford. “Words are
tame. I have no power to adequately express what I feel, but if there is
anything on earth that I can do for you, you have but to make it known,
if it is attainable, it shall be done.”

Clifford gazed into the clear-cut face of the man before him, and
somehow, in spite of the genuine emotion which he betrayed, he was
instantly repelled by him.

“Thank you,” he returned, as he released the hand that he had taken, and
with the frank, genial smile which won almost every one, “you are very
kind, but, pray, believe me, the knowledge that Miss Minnie is safe and
well is reward enough for me.”

“I do not doubt that, young man,” responded Mr. Temple, while he gazed
as if fascinated into Clifford’s clear, earnest eyes; “but that fact in
nowise lightens my sense of personal obligation. Let me do something
for you, my young friend. I have wealth and influence—let me give you
something out of my abundance—at least enough to lift you out of your
present position and start you handsomely in life.”

Clifford flushed from various emotions. He could well understand the
man’s feelings. He knew it was only natural he should wish to make some
return, or tangible expression of gratitude for the rescue of his little
daughter from a horrible fate; he knew he would have felt the same had
the situation been reversed; but an unaccountable repugnance against
accepting pecuniary aid from this man for having saved the life of his
child and Philip Wentworth’s sister took possession of him. Besides this,
the feeling of affection which had been aroused in his heart for the
little one made him shrink sensitively from anything of the kind.

“Thank you,” he said again, “but I could not accept money for what I have
done.”

He spoke gently and courteously, but with a note of firmness in his
tones that warned his companion it would be useless to press the matter
further.

A cloud of disappointment settled over Mr. Temple’s countenance, and a
sense of irritation, in view of being denied the privilege of canceling a
heavy obligation, made him suddenly compress his lips and avert his eyes.
He was all the more galled because of the inequality of their positions.

Had Clifford been his equal in wealth and station he could have waived
the matter gracefully; he would have considered it an insult to offer
money to a man on the same plane of life with himself for such a deed,
but, as it was, he now felt a twofold obligation, and chafed against it.

“I am afraid you are unduly proud, young man,” he observed, after a
moment of awkward silence. “I am told that you are an employee in this
hotel, and the natural inference would be that you have your own way to
make in the world. As a rule, most young men would not be averse to a
little help upward—to a good start in some lucrative business, or a plump
little nest-egg for the future.”

Again Clifford flushed and he straightened himself a trifle.

“No, sir, I am not proud—at least, not more so than is right, I think,”
he gravely responded. “What I did for Miss Minnie I would have done
just as readily for the poorest child in the village, and so, you
perceive, I could not accept a pecuniary reward from you and preserve my
self-respect. It is true that I am poor; that I am an employee in this
hotel for the summer for the purpose of earning money to help me through
college——”

“College!” interposed Mr. Temple, in surprise.

“Yes, sir; I have just completed my freshman year.”

“Where?”

“At Harvard, and——”

“At Harvard!” repeated the gentleman, with a shock of astonishment and
dismay; “then you must have been in the same class with my stepson.”

“Yes, sir; Mr. Wentworth and I were classmates,” was the quiet reply.




CHAPTER XII.

PHILIP WENTWORTH’S PROPOSAL.


This was something of a facer to the banker, as he recalled the events of
the evening following the rescue of Minnie, when Philip had remained so
persistently silent regarding any knowledge of the hero of the day.

He colored and frowned with mingled perplexity and annoyance. He could
not quite understand why his stepson should have been so averse to
telling what he knew about him; still, he was not blind to his faults.
He knew that he was excessively proud; he knew, too, that in disposition
he was jealous, and he reasoned, possibly Miss Athol’s enthusiastic
praises had aroused his ire and obstinacy, and that was why he would
not acknowledge an acquaintance with him. It did not occur to him that
they might have quarreled at college. At the same time, even if they
had, he would have felt ashamed of such an ignoble spirit, in view of
the magnitude of the obligation they were all under, and the almost
unexampled exploit which Clifford had achieved, and which was worthy of
the highest honor that could be paid him.

He knew, of course, that Philip must have recognized him, and there
was no excuse for the contemptible silence which he had maintained;
but, considering the relationship which they sustained to each other,
he could not with dignity pursue that point farther, and so he wisely
concluded to ignore it.

“Well, well,” he said, assuming an approving tone, “you are certainly
very enterprising, and, really, I—it seems to me that you might at least
allow me to make the remainder of your course a trifle easier for you; in
fact, give me the privilege of putting you through college.”

This offer was surely a temptation to Clifford, and for a moment the
vision of having no further care during the next three years except that
of acquitting himself creditably in his studies was very alluring. But
almost immediately there came a violent revulsion of feeling, and he
scorned himself for having entertained it even momentarily. He lifted
his head, which had been bowed in reflection, and looked his companion
frankly in the eye, and replied with quiet dignity, yet appreciatively:

“Thank you, sir; you are very good to suggest it, but I am doing very
well. I have a scholarship for next year, and that will be a great help
to me. I also have some money in the bank, and with my summer earnings I
shall be able to meet all my expenses.”

“You are incorrigible,” said Mr. Temple, smiling, although a frown at the
same time contracted his brow, for he was greatly nettled over not being
able to carry his point. “However, you will at least tell me your name,
for I shall watch your future career with no little interest.”

“Thank you, sir; my name is Clifford Faxon.”

“Clifford Faxon,” the man repeated, in a peculiar tone, and as if he was
trying to remember when and where he had heard the name before.

Then he stooped suddenly and drew his little daughter, who was still
clinging to Clifford’s hand, toward him, and lifted her in his arm,
hugging her close against his heart with a movement that was almost
convulsive, while our hero observed that he had grown white as the
child’s dress.

“Well, Mr. Faxon,” he said in a brisk tone the next moment, “you surely
have good courage, and I wish you all success in life. Are—may I
inquire—are your parents living?”

“No, sir; my mother died nearly five years ago, and my father I never
saw,” Clifford returned, although he faltered slightly over the statement
regarding his father.

He was extremely sensitive over the uncertain fate of his father, and
also in view of the uncertain relations that had existed between him and
his mother.

Mrs. Faxon, while she would never talk about her husband, had never said
outright that he was dead, but what little she had said had led Clifford
to infer that such was the case. Ever since he had been old enough to
reason for himself he had surmised that there was some mystery connected
with him, and he had been sure of it after Squire Talford had flung at
him those exasperating hints and sarcasms.

“Ah! that means, I suppose, that he died before you were born,” Mr.
Temple observed, with his eyes fastened upon the fair little face
resting upon his breast; “but”—as Clifford did not reply to the
observation—“have you no relatives? Pardon me if I seem inquisitive,”
he interposed, glancing curiously at the young man’s grave face, “but,
after what happened the other day, I cannot fail to experience a personal
interest in you.”

Clifford hesitated a moment before replying. Then he said in a somewhat
reserved tone:

“No—I have no relatives that I know of. My mother was alone in the world,
and supported herself and me by teaching as long as she was able to work.”

“And have you been shifting for yourself ever since she died?” queried
his companion.

“Yes, sir, in a way. I was bound to a man by the name of Talford, who
lives in Cedar Hill, Connecticut, for four years, until I went to
college.”

“Ah-a! bound, were you? Who bound you to him?”

“My mother,” Clifford replied, beginning to grow restive beneath this
catechising.

The man might feel an interest in him, but he thought he was carrying it
rather too far in thus prying into his personal history, while he always
chafed when his mind reverted to that contract with the squire.

He had never been disturbed in this way until the man had revealed to
him the bitter hatred which he had entertained for his father, and he
could never understand how his mother, if she had been conscious of this
enmity, could have consigned him to his care, or, rather, his tyranny; it
had been a blind problem to him for more than a year.

“Was the man good to you?” Mr. Temple inquired, after a moment of
silence, during which he had been studying the young man’s face with a
strangely intent look.

“No; he was a cruel tyrant,” Clifford returned, with tightly compressed
lips and clouded eyes, as his thoughts flashed back over those four
weary years. “He made a slave of me—he hated and abused me for some
unaccountable reason. But if I live I will yet show him that his hated
and despised bound boy was capable of becoming, at the very least, his
equal,” he concluded, with blazing eyes.

Then he colored with mingled confusion and annoyance that he should
have given vent to such an outburst. He had very rarely lost control of
himself like this, and he mentally took himself to task very severely for
it.

He looked up to find Mr. Temple regarding him steadfastly, and with an
expression that affected him strangely, it was so singularly penetrating
and intense. The man started as he met his eyes. Then he observed in a
preoccupied tone:

“I am sure you will; I am sure you will. Well”—with a little shake, as
if recalling himself to the present—“as I have said before, I wish you
all success in life, and remember, if at any time you should need a—need
help in any way, you will not fail to get it if you will apply to me. My
business address is No. —— State street, Boston.”

“Thank you, Mr. Temple,” Clifford replied, and then, as another carriage
drove to the door, he bowed and left the gentleman to attend to the new
arrivals.

William Temple turned away and went slowly down the steps to his own
equipage, hugging his child to him with an intensity that was almost
fierce.

“Minnie! Minnie! Oh, my darling!” he murmured, with quivering lips and a
look in his eyes that was positively wild.

“Why, papa, what is the matter with you?” questioned the child in a
wondering tone, while she softly patted his cheek with one plump little
hand.

“Nothing, dear,” he replied, capturing the hand and kissing it
passionately. “I was only thinking.”

“What were you thinking, papa?”

He bent a half-dazed look upon her sweet face.

“Oh, I was thinking what if—what I should do without you,” he returned
unsteadily.

“Oh!” said Minnie, with an air of perplexity; “but that needn’t make you
feel bad, for you don’t need to do without me—the nice gentleman brought
me back to you, you know.”

The man folded her to him convulsively again with a suppressed groan.

“No, thank Heaven! I have you still,” he murmured, with his lips against
her cheek; “and—and the world would be a blank to me without you.”

He placed her tenderly upon the seat of the carriage; then, entering
himself, ordered the coachman to return to his hotel; but all the way
back he seemed to be absorbed in thought, and barely heeded the prattle
of the little one beside him.

The following morning the family—all save Philip—left for Saratoga.
The young man did not seem disposed to accompany them. He said he did
not care for the races, and, besides, he had some notion of joining a
fishing-party to Maine.

So he remained behind, but instead of accompanying the fishermen to Maine
he lingered, and continued to pay court to Gertrude Athol.

Possibly he might not have been so persistent in his attentions to her
had he not been piqued by the young lady’s manner toward him of late.
Ever since the day of Minnie’s accident she had been decidedly cool, not
to say scornful, in her bearing when in his presence. His lack of courage
and his total inefficiency at “The Glen,” together with his ingratitude
and pretended ignorance of all knowledge of Clifford, had aroused her
contempt and indignation, and, even though she had secretly learned to
love him, and had been led to infer that he also loved her, she was so
bitterly disappointed in him, she found it very difficult to forgive and
treat him cordially.

Several times when he called she excused herself from receiving him on
plea of being “engaged” which so galled the proud young gentleman that he
secretly vowed that he would yet gain her favor again, “just to conquer
her, if for no other reason.”

Three successive days after his mother, stepfather, and sister left for
Saratoga, he called and received the same message in every instance.
Then he employed strategy to achieve his purpose; watched the house to
ascertain when she went out for a stroll, and followed her.

Her resort was under the shadow of a great rock on the mountain, about
quarter of a mile back of the hotel, and when he came upon her, although
she appeared to be reading, he saw that there were traces of tears upon
her cheeks. She greeted him with studied coldness, and yet her heart had
given a great bound of mingled joy and pain at his appearance.

“Ah! I have found you at last,” Philip observed, in a reproachful tone,
but with a gleam of triumph in his eyes. “You have been cruel to me, Miss
Athol. Please tell me wherein I have sinned, and allow me to atone, if
atonement is possible.”

“I am not aware that Mr. Wentworth has been accused of any especial sin,
unless, indeed, his own conscience has turned accuser,” Gertrude replied,
with icy formality.

Philip colored consciously.

“You need not try to evade me in any such way,” he said; “you certainly
are cherishing something against me, for, even though you have not voiced
it, your looks and acts are more audible than words. Now tell me of what
I am guilty.”

Gertrude regarded him steadily for a moment.

“Well,” she said at last frankly, “I confess I have been wholly unable to
understand or account for your conduct of last Tuesday.”

“Ah! please explain; how was I so unfortunate as to displease you on that
occasion? To what, especially, do you refer?” Philip gravely inquired,
while he ventured to seat himself beside her, although her manner was not
particularly inviting.

“Why, to your utter indifference, apparently, to the heroism of Mr.
Faxon in saving the life of your sister. Your strange silence when Mr.
Temple was making inquiries regarding him, and the fact that you have
utterly ignored the young man ever since when you should be eager to show
him every possible honor for the unexampled deed of self-sacrifice which
he performed. Why, if it had been my sister whom he had saved, I should
have been eager to thank him on my knees and crown him for his wonderful
courage.”

Philip Wentworth gave vent to a scornful laugh at this.

“Fancy,” he said, with a sneer; “just fancy me going down on my knees to
Clifford Faxon, the drudge and window-washer of Beck Hall at Harvard!”

“What!” exclaimed Gertrude, turning to him with a start, “you don’t mean
to say that you knew him before you came here!”

Philip instantly regretted having committed himself to such an admission;
but he had spoken impulsively and under a sense of irritation.

“I can’t say that I claim him as an acquaintance,” he sarcastically
returned, “even though we were in the same class last year.”

“A classmate!” cried Gertrude, with significant emphasis and heightened
color.

“Y-e-es,” her companion somewhat reluctantly admitted, “though why such
poverty-stricken devils as he will persist in going to college, I can’t
imagine.”

“Can’t you, indeed?” retorted Miss Athol, with curling lips and flashing
eye. “Really, Mr. Wentworth, do you fondly imagine that all the good
things of earth are attainable only by those who happen to have been
born with the proverbial spoon in their mouths? And you have known this
young man all the time, and have pretended you did not!” she went on
indignantly. “You have turned your back upon him, so to speak, refusing
to accord him a single manifestation of gratitude for the incalculable
debt which you owe him, or even admit to others that he has done a
praiseworthy act.”

“Jove! Miss Athol, but you are hard on a fellow!” Philip here burst
forth, and having changed color half a dozen times during her spirited
speech.

“Hard! I? I should say that is a term that would better apply to
yourself,” she retorted. “Why, it seems to me that you are perfectly
callous. I admire Mr. Faxon. He is a gentleman, in spite of his poverty
and the menial position which he occupies, and certainly he is no coward.
I honor him for his determination to get an education, even though he is
willing to become a ‘drudge’ to obtain it, and I, for one, shall always
be proud to claim him as an acquaintance.”

It would be difficulty to describe the conflict of emotions that raged
within Philip Wentworth’s breast as he listened to the above brave and
spirited defense of the man he hated; but it only acted as a spur to
goad him on to achieve his purpose, and make a complete conquest of the
fearless girl who had so nobly constituted herself Clifford Faxon’s
champion.

He leaned suddenly forward, and boldly grasped her hands, which were
lying idly in her lap.

“Miss Athol—Gertrude,” he began, in tones that shook with the passion
that possessed him, “after what you have just said, I suppose it would
better become me to slink out of your sight and hide my head, but I
cannot. In spite of all, I am going to tell you that I love you madly,
devotedly, and that I am even presumptuous enough to hope that I may
yet win you for my wife. Perhaps, my darling, I may be a ‘coward’;
no doubt Faxon, whom you so affect to admire, is worth a dozen such
useless fellows as I, who am, unfortunately, an heir to the ‘proverbial
spoon.’ But I can’t help it, though I am humiliated beyond expression
by your scorn, and I will do anything in reason to atone for my seeming
ingratitude, or whatever you may choose to call it, if only you will
forgive me; smile on me once more; tell me that you will try to love me,
and will some day marry me.”




CHAPTER XIII.

A REVELATION.


Philip Wentworth, when he began his impulsive declaration, had no more
intention of making her a definite proposal of marriage than he had of
hanging himself. It had been, and still was, his one aim in life to marry
Mollie Heatherford, just as soon as his college course was completed.

Mr. Heatherford was numbered among New York’s richest men, and, as Mollie
was his only child, Philip was looking forward to the handling of her
magnificent inheritance, “when the old man should pass in his checks,” as
he was wont to express it to himself.

The moment he stood committed to Miss Athol he could almost have bitten
his tongue out with mingled anger and chagrin. He had simply been amusing
himself in seeking her society, and making love to her something after
the fashion of the story which they had read and discussed in “The
Glen” on the day of Minnie’s accident, but, even though he saw he was
winning the girl’s heart, he had never intended carrying the affair to a
point-blank offer of marriage.

But egotism, vanity, and obstinacy were the strongest characteristics
of his nature, and when Gertrude had so dauntlessly turned upon him,
expressing her contempt for his conduct in no measured terms, and so
fearlessly manifesting her admiration for, and espousing the cause
of, Clifford Faxon, he had been goaded to jealous fury beyond all
self-control, and a rash determination to conquer her and make her
confess her love for him had taken possession of him. But instead of
entangling her helplessly in his net, he had unthinkingly fallen into his
own trap.

Gertrude was startled, to say the least, with the turn the conversation
had taken. She had been conscious for some time that Philip Wentworth
held a very warm place in her heart. He was handsome and brilliant, and
had made himself attractive to her by those thousand and one flattering
little attentions which render men captivating in the eyes of women.

But at heart she was a noble and most conscientious girl, and she had
been bitterly disappointed upon discovering such weak and despicable
traits in the character of her admirer as Philip had manifested, and the
suffering which this had caused had carried her beyond herself, and thus
she had given vent to the scorn that has been described.

But a sudden revulsion of feeling had come when he confessed his
affection for her, and appealed so humbly, apparently, for her
forgiveness, and she began to feel that it would not be so very difficult
to pardon him and influence him to nobler sentiments, and, womanlike, she
at once began to reproach herself for her harsh judgment of him.

“Why,” she exclaimed, with crimson cheeks and averted eyes when he paused
for her reply to his suit, “you have literally taken my breath away, Mr.
Wentworth.”

“And what have you done to me, I should like to know?” he retorted, as he
shot her a roguish look, while he lifted one of her hands and imprinted a
deferential caress upon it. “You have just flayed me alive, figuratively
speaking.”

“Forgive me,” she murmured. “I am afraid I have said more than I ought.”

“Ah! but the sting lies in the fact that you could have thought such hard
things of me,” Philip replied, in a tone of tender reproach. “Still,” he
continued, drawing her gently toward him, “if you will only forgive the
sinner and try to help make him a better man in the future, all that will
be wiped out. Dearest, you can mold me to your own sweet will. I know
that I am full of faults, but I am also your willing slave, eager to be
led where you will. Gertrude, command me and love me, and no one was ever
more tractable than I will be.”

Little by little he had drawn her toward him while he was speaking, until
he had slipped his arms around her unresisting form, and she lay upon his
breast, all her scorn, contempt, and indignation merged and swallowed up
in her all-absorbing love for him.

It was very easy to forgive such an earnest pleader, and she told herself
that one so ready to confess his faults would be easily reformed, and she
was not averse to undertaking the task.

“Darling, you do love me; you will be mine?” he pleaded, in a tender
whisper, with his lips close to her glowing cheek.

“Yes, Phil, I am forced to confess that I do love you,” Gertrude replied,
in low, tremulous tones.

“And you are mine—you give yourself to me,” he persisted.

“Yes, dear, when the proper times comes—when you have completed your
college course and are ready for me.”

A wave of triumph swept over the young man’s features. He had won his
cause, he had gained his point, and that was the most he cared for.

It mattered little to him that he was desecrating holy ground in winning
the love of this pure and lofty-minded girl. His own future he had marked
out for himself, and if Mollie Heatherford returned safe and sound from
Europe, and with her fortune intact, he had not the remotest idea of
redeeming his troth to Gertrude Athol. He was simply fooling her to the
top of his bent, for the sake of conquest and the want of something more
to occupy his time.

How he was to get out of the scrape he had so unwittingly got into he did
not know; but he did not trouble himself about that just then—he would
find a way when the right time came. Meanwhile he would enjoy the present
and let the future adjust itself.

So, the two were pledged—at least, so Gertrude understood their
relations. But they agreed among themselves that they would preserve the
matter a secret until Phil should be through college. It was sufficient,
the fair girl said, with a trustfulness worthy of a better return, to
know that they belonged to each other, and there would be time enough for
their friends and the world to know it when their plans were more mature.

That same day by the evening post there came to Philip Wentworth a dainty
missive from across the water, and it was full of entertaining incident
and charming descriptions, and bore at the end the signature of Mollie
Heatherford.

“By Jove!” the young man exclaimed, with an amused laugh, after he
had read the epistle, “this is getting to be highly entertaining—one
lady-love in Europe whose thought centers upon me; another here who
firmly believes her life to be bound up in mine, and vice versa. Mollie,
however, is but a child as yet, and hardly the companion I crave just at
present. Gertrude is more to my mind for the time being. She is lovely,
bright, and charming, and delightful company, so I will enjoy her society
while I may.”

Such were the spirit and reflections of this vain and pleasure-seeking
egotist, in whom selfishness was the mainspring of life.

The Athols remained at the mountains only a few days longer, as they had
promised to visit some friends living upon the Hudson, while Philip, now
that his object had been accomplished, had consented to give up his trip
to Maine, and rejoin his mother at Saratoga.

But before their separation Philip—to keep up the farce he was
playing—had slipped upon Gertrude’s finger a costly diamond.

“I did not have it marked,” he explained, “because of our agreement to
keep our own counsel, but that can easily be done later,” and she, having
the utmost confidence in him, was content.

Before her departure Gertrude sought an opportunity to have a little talk
with Clifford. She found him, on the morning of the day she was going to
leave, on the upper veranda of the hotel, where he was repairing a broken
blind.

“You are always busy, Mr. Faxon,” she observed, with a cordial smile, as
she seated herself in a rocker near him.

“Yes, Miss Athol,” the young man respectfully replied, as he removed his
hat and tossed it upon the floor; “to be busy is a condition inevitable
to my position, you know.”

This was said without the slightest evidence of self-consciousness, or of
false pride because of the necessity which obliged him to occupy a humble
position.

Gertrude watched him in silence for several minutes, admiring his fine,
stalwart figure, his easy bearing, and feeling an additional respect for
him because he did not pause in his work on account of her presence, and
the fact that she had opened a conversation with him.

“I believe you love to work—you always appear to be absorbed in whatever
you are doing,” she remarked, at length.

Clifford turned a smiling glance upon her, and she was impressed more
than she ever had been before with the frank and genial expression of his
face and the depth and earnestness of his clear brown eyes.

“Thank you,” he said. “I am sure that is a tribute worth winning. Yes, I
do love to work—that is, I love to do well whatever I have to do.”

“That is certainly a most commendable spirit,” replied the girl, a
slight shadow falling over her face as she thought of the aimless,
pleasure-loving life that her lover was in the habit of leading—drifting
with the tide, culling whatever was agreeable that was within his reach,
and seduously avoiding everything that required personal effort, or
anything of a self-sacrificing nature. “And I dare say,” she added, “you
do your studying with the same cheerfulness and energy. I understand you
are a Harvard student.”

Clifford colored a trifle, and wondered why she should be so interested
in what concerned him.

“Yes,” he replied, after a slight pause, and with a thrill of feeling
in his tones that betrayed more than his words, “I love to study; but,
perhaps”—with a light laugh—“my interest in my present occupation is not
prompted so much by a genuine love for it as for the privileges I expect
to secure by means of it during the coming year.”

“I think you need not have qualified your previous statement, Mr.
Faxon,” Gertrude gravely remarked, as she watched the shapely hand that
was dexterously manipulating the screw-driver; “or, if it required any
qualification at all, I should say that something higher than a mere
liking or love for your work prompts you in whatever you do.”

Again Clifford turned a smiling look to her, and the light in his eyes
thrilled her strangely.

“Can one be actuated by a higher motive than love?” he questioned.

“Well, I suppose not,” she thoughtfully responded, “and yet I have always
regarded duty, or a conscientious desire to do what is exactly right, as
a pretty high motive.”

“But what governs conscience?” inquired Clifford.

“God,” said Gertrude gravely.

“Yes, and God is—love,” was the quick, earnest response. “So love
fulfills all law, moral as well as civil. Don’t you see that one must
have a love for truth and justice in order to obey the dictates of
conscience and feel a desire to do what is exactly right?”

“But conscience might sometimes prompt one to do that which would be very
disagreeable. My duty to my neighbor or mankind in general might require
something of me that I would absolutely hate to do,” Miss Athol argued.
“Where would love come in in that case?”

“Yet it would be the very highest type of love that would lead one to
obey such a demand of conscience or duty,” Clifford replied, his earnest
eyes meeting hers; “it would be love for the principle of right-doing.”

“That seems almost paradoxical, doesn’t it, Mr. Faxon?” said Gertrude,
smiling, “that one could love to do what one absolutely hated to do?”

“But the love of the principle that would incite one to adhere to that
which was right and just would bring results which would annihilate or
make one lose sight of the hatred, and so, after all, it would be love
alone that would be the mainspring of the act,” Clifford returned, in a
quiet, matter-of-fact tone, which plainly indicated that he was wont to
argue along this line, and had settled some knotty problems for himself
according to this rule.

“Yes, you are right,” Gertrude remarked, after a moment of thoughtful
silence, while Clifford, having completed his work, gathered up his tools
and arose to go about other business.

She arose, also, and went nearer to him.

“I thank you, Mr. Faxon,” she continued, “for having revealed to me
what the highest type of love is; it is, indeed, as you have said, ‘a
principle,’ and not a mere sentiment, and if the world were governed by
it, according to your interpretation, we should make rapid strides toward
the millennium. But, really,” she interposed, with a silvery laugh, “I
had no idea we should have such a grave discussion. We have, almost
unconsciously, wandered quite deeply into a metaphysical argument, and I
have had something of a revelation.”

“A revelation?” Clifford repeated inquiringly.

“Yes; I have learned that love, according to the common acceptation of
the term, is a synonym for selfishness; that is, that human affection,
when actuated simply by personal attachment, is a selfish love. But,
according to your higher interpretation of the word, it is a divine
principle. Is not this a revelation?”

“Yes, and you are very receptive to have grasped it so readily,” Clifford
replied, while he regarded her expressive face earnestly.

“I am going away after lunch,” Gertrude continued, smiling up at him,
“but I shall not forget our little chat of this morning; it has done me
good, and, let me add, you have been very kind to us all since we have
been here. I am glad to have known you, and I hope we shall meet again
some time.”

She frankly extended her jeweled hand to him as she concluded, and her
beautiful eyes held something like an expression of reverence in them as
they swept the fine face before her. He took her hand in the same spirit
of friendliness that it was offered.

“Thank you, Miss Athol,” he said, “it will certainly give me great
pleasure if I am ever so fortunate as to have my path cross yours again
in the future.”

He bowed courteously to her as he concluded, then turned and quietly left
the veranda.

Gertrude Athol’s sweet face was very grave as she stood where he left
her, and thought over their recent conversation.

“‘An upstart,’ the ‘window-washer and drudge of Beck Hall,’” she
repeated, under her breath and with clouded eyes. “Why, there is the
stamp of true royalty on every feature of his grand face! He is the
truest gentleman, in every sense of the word, that I have ever met. I am
sure he is a man with a wonderful career before him, and he is certainly
one of whose acquaintance I shall ever be proud. I wonder——”

What she wondered she did not frame in words, but she lifted her left
hand and gazed at the ring which she had worn less than three days, with
a look which held in it something of anxiety and doubt.




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.




CHAPTER XV.

A LIFELONG ENEMY.


“Hush! for God’s sake, don’t air your knowledge before all the world.”

William Temple fairly hissed these words as he stooped and brought
his lips on a level with the ear of his companion, while his face was
absolutely colorless.

“Humph!” observed the other, as he roughly put away the hand from his
mouth, “then it seems that I have at last jogged your memory sufficiently
to make you willing to acknowledge a previous acquaintance.”

“I should have supposed that you would not be very anxious to renew an
acquaintance with one whom you once bitterly repudiated,” Mr. Temple
retorted acrimoniously, while a spot of angry red settled upon either
cheek.

“Humph! it is one thing to repudiate—it is another to be ignored,” was
the grim response. “Where have you been all these years? What are you
doing now? Come, sit down here and give an account of yourself,” and the
man moved along, making room for him in the seat he was occupying, for he
had no companion.

“Really, sir, I am not aware that I am accountable to you for my
movements, either in the past or present,” haughtily returned Mr.
Temple, and regarding the face before him with a malignant look, while
he mentally cursed himself in no measured terms for having come into the
smoker.

“No—possibly you are not accountable to me,” was the sarcastic rejoinder;
“at the same time, you might find it to your interest not to carry too
high a head with me.”

William Temple shot a swift, searching glance into the steely eyes
regarding him, and grew white again with mingled anger and fear. The
other, observing it, smiled knowingly.

“Sit down! Sit down!” he said authoritatively, and patting the cushion
with his strong, brawny hand; and, as if powerless to disobey, the
haughty banker sank down beside him.

“Light a cigar if you want to smoke,” the man continued, as he glanced
at the costly case in his companion’s hand, “it may serve to quiet your
nerves after the start they’ve had. I have my pipe here.”

“Thank you; but I will smoke later,” said the banker, as he slipped his
case into a pocket, while he waited with a set and rigid face for what
might follow.

His companion smiled again, and coolly looked him over, from the silk
traveling-cap upon his head to the fine, highly polished shoes upon his
feet.

“Ahem! you look as if the world had used you pretty well,” he remarked
laconically, at length.

“Yes, I have made some money during the last few years,” was the brief
but rather complacent reply, while a gleam of evil triumph leaped into
his eyes as he now observed, for the first time, the rather shabby duster
that lay over the back of the seat in front of him, and the well-worn
grip underneath it.

“Where did you make your money?”

“Some of it in Colorado—some in California.”

“Humph! Been quite a traveler, haven’t you? Been in the mining business,
I suppose.”

“Yes; part of the time.”

“And the rest?”

“Taking my ease.”

“Really! You must have struck it rich?”

“Rather.”

“What have you on the docket at the present time?”

“I’ve just come from New York. I’m going to——”

“Saratoga, perhaps, for the races,” supplemented the stranger, as Mr.
Temple suddenly cut himself short, and he caught the startled flash in
his eyes.

“To Albany,” Mr. Temple added, as he began to revolve a certain plan in
his mind, in case he found the man by his side was going beyond there.

“Well, you at least haven’t forgotten how to keep your own counsel,
Bill,” his companion remarked, with a note of irritation in his tone.
Then he added with a malicious leer: “Any interest to hear about the old
folks and——”

“No!” emphatically interposed Mr. Temple, with an impatient frown.

“All dead—every one.”

“I know it.”

“Oh, you do! Who’s been keeping you posted?”

“I’ve read the papers.”

“Then you know, perhaps, how the property was left; but you couldn’t have
expected anything else, taking all things into consideration,” and the
stranger searched the banker’s face with keen, avaricious eyes.

“Oh, you need not be disturbed. I shall never put in any claim. You are
welcome to every penny of it, as far as I am concerned,” responded Mr.
Temple, with galling contempt.

“Well, now, prosperity seems to have made you surprisingly generous; but
your magnanimity is all lost, for everything was made so tight that you
couldn’t get a penny if you should try,” snapped the man, but his face
had cleared at the other’s assurance, nevertheless. “Pity,” he continued
tauntingly, “you couldn’t have been a little more square in the old days
about some other matters.”

Mr. Temple turned upon him with a fierce though low-toned imprecation.

“You’d better let sleeping dogs lie,” he continued between his tightly
closed teeth, and his eyes glowed with a savage light. His companion
appeared to rather enjoy the effect which his words had produced, for he
chuckled audibly.

“Well, Bill, wherever you may have been and whatever you may have been up
to all these years, one thing is sure—you haven’t lost your hot temper.
But where are you living now? Are you married, and have you a family?”

“Those are matters which do not concern you in the least,” was the cold
reply. “Our paths diverged years ago, and I hoped at that time that they
would never cross again. Let me advise you to go your own way, and I will
go mine; mind your own affairs, and don’t presume to pry into mine—if you
do, I swear I will spare nothing to crush you. I am rich and powerful,
and I can do it. I will, too, I tell you, if you meddle with me.”

He had risen from his seat while speaking, and, as he concluded, he
turned abruptly and swung himself out of the car without even a backward
look.

He carried himself proudly erect until he was out of the sight of his
enemy; then his haughty head dropped, his step faltered, and he groped
his way back to his section like one who had suddenly been stricken
partially blind, and with an overwhelming sense of weakness.

“Heavens!” he breathed, as he sank into his seat and wiped the moisture
from his white face, “to think, of all the people in the world, I should
have happened to run across him. Where on earth can he be going? Not to
Saratoga, I most devoutly hope. Ha!” with a violent start, “he used to be
tremendously fond of horses, and perhaps he is bound to Saratoga for the
races. I don’t know of anything else that would be likely to take him so
far from home. Oh! if I had not been in such a hurry to get back! If I
had only waited for the next train!” he concluded, with a despairing sigh.

While he was absorbed in these painful thoughts the train stopped at a
station. At first he paid no attention to the circumstances, but after a
minute he glanced from the window, and saw his enemy walking the platform
outside.

“Ah-a! he is watching for me—watching to see where I get off,” he
muttered angrily. “But”—with sudden animation as some novel thought
seemed to strike him—“I’ll lead him a dance that he will not soon forget.
The next station is Albany. I will get off there. He will doubtless
follow me to ascertain what my next move will be; but, by a little
maneuvering, I can easily outwit him, and then catch the next express for
Saratoga, which will leave Albany in about two hours.”

Accordingly, as the train drew near Albany, he began to gather up his
belongings, and as the train pulled into Albany station he was standing
on the steps ready to alight.

At the same moment his enemy hove in sight. Without appearing to pay the
slightest attention to him, Mr. Temple deliberately walked inside the
station. He was closely followed, and aware of the fact. Passing through
and out upon the other side, he signaled a carriage.

“I wish to go to 257 —— Street,” he informed the cabman, who instantly
responded to his call.

“Yes, sir; take you there in less than twenty minutes, sir,” and the next
moment he was rolling along toward the street he had named.

Arriving at 257 —— Street, which proved to be the office of a prominent
Albany lawyer, with whom Mr. Temple had some acquaintance, he ordered the
cabman to wait, and, entering the building, inquired for the gentleman.

He was told he was out, and might not be in for some time. Mr. Temple
said he would wait, and, seating himself, took up a newspaper to pass the
time away.

More than an hour elapsed before the lawyer came, when his visitor
informed him that, as he was passing through the city and had a little
time to spare, he thought he would improve it by making him a friendly
call.

They chatted socially for half an hour or so, when Mr. Temple bade him
good day and returned to the station.

Five minutes later he met his pursuer face to face on the platform. The
Saratoga train was due to start in about ten minutes. Fifteen minutes
after that a train was scheduled to return to New York.

Presently Mr. Temple repaired to the ticket-office. He was immediately
followed thither by the one who was shadowing him.

“A ticket for New York, please,” he said to the agent.

A minute later the bit of pasteboard and the change were in his hands,
when he turned abruptly to find a blank look of disappointment had
overspread the face of the man at his elbow.

“Well, is your—curiosity satisfied at last?” he demanded, with a sneer.
“I told you I was coming to Albany. I have transacted my business here,
and now I have bought my ticket back to New York. Come on, if you want
to keep this thing up, and I’ll give you a good time at that kind of
racket.”

The stranger flushed crimson, and his eyes blazed with anger at the
taunting tone of his enemy.

“Do you live in New York?” he demanded.

“That is a matter which I will leave you to ascertain for yourself, Mr.
Paul Pry,” said Mr. Temple, with a contemptuous laugh, as he turned his
back on the man with an insolent air.

The stranger darted to his side.

“You and I will have a long account to settle one of these days,” he said
menacingly, and then, putting his lips close to his ears, he whispered
something that instantly blanched Mr. Temple’s face.

“I don’t believe it,” he said, with stiffening lips and a look of horror
in his eyes.

“It is the truth—I swear it—I can prove it,” was the fierce retort, and
then, without waiting for a reply, he strode for the Saratoga train that
was waiting and almost ready to start.

“I thought so,” muttered Mr. Temple, as he watched him board it. “He is
going to Saratoga for the races, and the very devil will be to pay if he
should see me there with Nell and Minnie. What am I going to do to avoid
such a catastrophe?”

At first he thought he would not rejoin his family at all, so great was
his dread of again encountering the man from whom he had just parted.

He was tempted to telegraph his wife that he was unavoidably detained;
that unforeseen business would not permit him to return to Saratoga, and
it would be necessary for them all to go home at once; that she must
come on immediately after the ball.

Then he feared that his telegram might alarm her, and cause her to worry
and fear something had gone wrong with him; this would spoil the ball for
her; he would miss seeing her in her new gown and jewels—an event which
he had looked forward to with almost as much interest as she herself;
while his heart yearned mightily for his child, and the thought of not
being able to see her for several days longer was unbearable.

While he was standing there disconsolate and revolving these things in
his mind, and feeling that he could not endure to see the train move on
its way, his restless glance settled upon a placard that had been placed
upon the wall near the ticket-office.

With a start and a thrill of exultation he read the board, which had the
following notice upon it:

“A special car will leave Albany for Saratoga at 6:30 P. M.”

He went immediately to the ticket-office and inquired more particularly
regarding the matter. The agent informed him that “the extra” had been
put on for the superintendent and some other high officials of the
road, who were going to Saratoga to attend a ball that was to be given
at Congress Hall that evening; that the notice had been posted so that
others, if they wished, might avail themselves of the arrangement.

Mr. Temple grasped at the chance like the drowning man at the proverbial
straw, and, finding that his ticket would be good for the special, at
once felt as if a mountain had been removed from his heart.

Fearing, however, that his wife might be anxious over his non-appearance
on the regular train, he sought the telegraph-office, and sent her the
following message:

    “Am unavoidably detained here. Will leave on special two hours
    later. Have maids pack for Boston—must return to-morrow.

                                                         “W. F. T.”




CHAPTER XVI.

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.




CHAPTER XVII.

THE SQUIRE RECEIVES A SHOCK.


Maria Kimberly was made very proud and happy one morning upon Squire
Talford’s return from the post-office by the reception of the
long-promised invitation to attend the commencement exercises at Harvard.

With a beaming face she read it through several times, handling it with
great care lest she should mar the satin-smooth paper by a single wrinkle
or blemish.

Then with an air of pride, as if some great personal honor had been
conferred upon her—as, indeed, she felt there had been—she carried it to
the squire, who was in his customary seat upon the veranda reading his
morning paper.

“There!” she exclaimed triumphantly, “I always knew that boy’d come out
at the top of the heap!”

“What boy?” inquired the man, without a suspicion that she was referring
to Clifford, while he held out his hand for the heavy cream-tinted sheet
which she was regarding so fondly.

“Read and see for yourself,” said Maria, with a satisfied smile, as she
left it with him and went back to her work in the kitchen, while she
began to con over in her mind the necessary preparations she would have
to make for the important event.

“If I’m goin’, I’m goin’ in shipshape,” she asserted, with an air of
decision. “For one thing, I’ll have that new black silk that I’ve be’n
savin’ up for, for the last five years, and I’ll just ask Alice Eldridge
to tell me how to have it made, and what I need to go with it.”

Alice Eldridge, by the way, was the minister’s daughter, a pretty,
refined girl, and noted in Cedar Hill for her excellent taste.

While Maria was planning for this most important event, Squire Talford,
having carefully read the communication which she had handed to him,
sat with bowed head and clouded brow, absorbed in thought, while it was
evident that his reflections were not of a very pleasing nature.

“Humph!” he finally ejaculated, “that proud-spirited youngster has proved
himself smart, and no mistake! So he has won the salutatory! I never
believed he’d get through—and he has worked his own way mostly! I confess
I’m a trifle curious to know how he’ll acquit himself as an orator. I’ve
half a mind to drop down to Cambridge on the sly and see what he can do;
he’d never be able to pick me out in the crowd.”

He was somewhat taken aback, however, when, upon handing back the
invitation and inquiring, with a sarcastic inflection, if she intended to
“honor the occasion with her presence,” Maria spiritedly informed him:

“Of course I’m goin’. You don’t suppose I’d stay away, much as I think
of that boy, and ’specially when he hasn’t either kith or kin to show a
bit of interest in him on the proudest day of his life. And, squire”—with
a little settling of her determined chin—“I’m goin’ to New Haven to do
some shoppin’, and I’d like to be paid up to date, if you please.”

“Very well,” said the man shortly, and with a frown, for it always hurt
him sorely to pay out any of his money unless it was for his own needs or
gratification.

And Maria did go to New Haven the following week, carrying a well-filled
purse with her, and accompanied by Alice Eldridge, who was to assist in
the selection of the gown and other fixings that were to do honor to the
“proudest day of Clifford’s life.”

And the result of this expedition was most gratifying, for, when the
kind-hearted and happy woman presented her at Cambridge on the morning
of Commencement Day, and which was almost as great an event to her as
to Clifford, she astonished the young man by a most genteel and quietly
fashionable appearance.

Her really nice black silk was made in the prevailing style, fitted her
nicely, and, with some “real lace” ruffles at the neck and wrists, was
very becoming.

Her black lace bonnet, with its nice ties and a few modest sprays of
mignonette, had been made by a New Haven milliner, who evidently knew
her business and studied effects, while a pretty handkerchief of linen
lawn, also bordered with “real lace,” and a pair of well-fitting,
pearl-gray kid gloves—all selected under the careful supervision of Miss
Eldridge—completed a tout ensemble that was very gratifying.

“Why, Maria, how very, very nice you look!” Clifford exclaimed, with
beaming eyes, as he warmly grasped her hand, after assisting her to
alight from the carriage which he had sent to her lodging-house to convey
her to the college.

“I’m glad you like it,” she quietly returned, but bestowing a shy glance
of satisfaction upon the lustrous folds of her gown as she spoke.

“Like it! why, I am proud of you!” Clifford responded, with a sincerity
that sent a warm thrill through the woman’s heart and a bright spot of
color to either cheek.

Mrs. Kimberly, being conscious, in a measure, of shortcomings in her use
of the English language, preserved a discreet silence for the most part,
except when she was alone with Clifford, and thus did not once offend his
sensitive ears in the presence of his friends.

He found her a good seat where she could both hear and see well, and was
then obliged to leave her by herself until the exercises should be over.

A few moments later a tall, spare, gray-haired man might have been seen
slipping into the auditorium, where he sought an obscure corner, and
appeared as if he was desirous of escaping observation. He was Squire
Talford.

Maria had left New Haven on the two-forty-five train for Boston, the day
previous, and he had followed her on the five o’clock express.

It was his intention to steal in just in season to hear Clifford’s
oration, then out again as soon as it was delivered, so that no one might
know of his surreptitious trip. He missed his calculations, although
he was not aware of the fact, for Clifford’s keen eyes had espied
him, almost immediately after he took his own seat upon the platform,
and instantly he knew that the man, actuated by curiosity, had come to
ascertain how he would acquit himself in the trying ordeal before him.

It was really the best thing that could have happened for Clifford, for
it at once inspired him with a sense of absolute self-possession and the
determination to do himself honor.

“He has come to criticize me,” was his mental comment, “and now I will
prove what I once told him—that I would some time win honor and respect
for the name I bear.”

A great calm settled over him, although until that moment he had been
conscious of a feeling of nervousness in view of facing that great
audience, and when he at length arose and went forward, there was not a
quiver of even a muscle—he lost all thought of fear in the determination
to prove to the man who had once expressed the utmost contempt for him,
that he had conquered every obstacle, and attained the goal he had sought.

And even this motive was soon swallowed up in his all-absorbing theme,
which he handled with remarkable skill and originality. His production
not only showed careful research and a thorough knowledge of his subject,
but sound logic, clear and brilliant reasoning, and the power to gain and
hold the attention of his audience by his graceful diction, and a fluency
that was absolutely irresistible.

His presence also was a great point in his favor, for he certainly
was a fine appearing young man. He had grown some inches during the
last four years; his figure had developed, and he was now strong and
stalwart; broad-shouldered and straight as an arrow, while one could not
look into his frank, honest, intelligent face without at once becoming
conscious that the character of the young orator was as manly, clean, and
attractive as his person.

When the exercises were over nothing was to be seen of the squire, and
Clifford made no attempt to find him. He judged that the man did not
care to meet him, or he would not have sought so obscure a place in the
auditorium. He felt sure that he had been impelled to come to Harvard
only by motives of curiosity and criticism, therefore he immediately
sought Maria, as soon as he was at liberty, and devoted himself
exclusively to her entertainment.

He conducted her over the beautiful grounds, and through some of the
dormitories, to let her see how college students lived, and finally took
her to the University Museum to see the wonderful “glass flowers” and the
valuable geological and zoological collections.

There was not time to show her all that he would have liked her to see,
for she insisted that she must return on a certain train, for the next
day was “churning day, and the cream must not be neglected.”

Clifford accompanied her to the station, and saw her comfortably settled
in a parlor-car—for Maria, who had determined to do nothing by halves on
this great occasion, already had the ticket for her seat—then sat and
chatted with her for the little time that remained before the train would
start.

“What are you goin’ to do now you’re through college?” Maria inquired,
after she had thanked him for the pleasure he had given her, and told him
how proud she was of the distinction he had won.

“Oh, I have not made up my mind yet what I shall settle down to for a
permanent business,” Clifford thoughtfully responded. “You know I have my
own way to make in the world, the same as I have had to do in order to
get through my course; and, as yet, there has seemed to be no promising
opening for me, although I have had my eye out for some time. I have done
pretty well, however, during the last three summers, with Mr. Hamilton at
his mountain hotel.”

“Yes, I know; but—I hope you ain’t goin’ to settle down to keep a hotel
after spendin’ four long years gettin’ your education, and comin’ out at
the top of the heap,” said Maria, with visible anxiety.

Clifford laughed at the characteristic speech.

“I assure you, Maria, there are some well-educated men who have made a
great success at keeping hotel,” he said. “But I do not think that I
should be quite satisfied with that kind of a life. At the same time, I
am going back to Mr. Hamilton for this summer also, since nothing better
has offered. He is contemplating opening a fine new house in Washington
in the fall, and I have agreed to go with him and act as clerk until I
can find something more to my mind. I must do something, you know, to
keep even with the world until the right thing offers.”

“Well,” said Maria gravely, after a minute of thoughtful silence, “I’ve
saved up some money, and if ever you need a few hundred to give you a
lift, you’re more’n welcome to them.”

Clifford was deeply touched by this evidence of her regard for him. He
flushed, and a suspicious moisture gathered in his eyes as he returned a
trifle huskily:

“You were always good to me, Maria, during my boyhood, and I have always
felt more grateful to you than I could ever express, and now this kind
offer is in keeping with all your previous kindness. But, my friend, I am
not in need of any financial help just at present.”

“Well, but if you ever should—I haven’t a soul in the world to care for,
or who feels any special interest in me—if ever you do need it you’ll
take it, won’t you, Clifford?” said the woman eagerly.

“Yes, Maria,” he answered gently, and seeing she would be deeply wounded
if he refused, “if I ever find myself in a strait where it becomes
necessary for me to borrow, I will come to you for help, and, believe me,
I shall never forget your goodness in offering it. But there is the bell,
and I must go, or I shall soon find myself on the way to New Haven with
you,” he smilingly concluded, as he arose to leave.

“I’m sure ’twouldn’t be the worst cross I’ve ever had to bear if you
did,” said the woman, trying to speak lightly, but with an unmistakable
quaver in her tones.

“I can’t inflict it upon you this time,” the young man returned in the
same strain, as he extended his hand to her in farewell, and, after
promising that he would write her from time to time regarding his
movements, he hurried from the train.

It was nearly midnight when Maria Kimberly reached home, where she
found the squire still up and quietly reading his evening paper by the
student-lamp in the dining-room.

He had arrived from his stolen trip only about an hour previous. He
merely glanced up as Maria came in and expressed her surprise at finding
him up so late; but he asked no questions regarding her journey, and she
was determined to volunteer no information.

She had not a suspicion that he, also, had attended the commencement at
Harvard, for Clifford, surmising that she knew nothing of his presence,
and feeling sure that the man did not wish it known, had kept his own
counsel.

But Squire Talford, although he imagined that he had been so shrewd
in his movements that neither Clifford nor his housekeeper would ever
learn where he had been that day, had, nevertheless, had an unexpected
experience which had given him quite a shaking up in a way.

As he was hurrying away from the college grounds to catch an electric-car
to take him to the railway-station, he suddenly came upon a group of
people standing upon the sidewalk beside an elegant carriage to which a
magnificent pair of black horses in silver-mounted harness were attached,
and attended by a driver and coachman in handsome livery.

The group comprised a middle-aged gentleman of distinguished appearance,
a beautiful woman richly clad, a lovely child of eight or nine years, and
a young man of about twenty-two or twenty-three.

“Oh, papa, please take me to see the birds,” the squire heard the child
say in a pleading tone. “You know, you promised me that you would.”

“Yes, Minnie, darling, I did; but mama says there will not be time
to-day. You know we are expecting guests, and she must get home to
receive them,” the gentleman replied, while he fondly patted the small
hand that rested upon his arm.

“But I want to see them so much,” said the child, with quivering lips.

“And you shall, dear. I will come again with you to-morrow morning, and
that is the very best that I can do,” her father returned.

“Ah! pardon me,” he added politely, as he found he was standing in the
way of some one who wished to pass. “Ha——!”

The startled exclamation burst from him, and was echoed by Squire Talford
as the two men found themselves face to face and recognized each other.

They stood for a full minute and gazed, as if fascinated, into each
other’s eyes, the squire’s face growing gray and rigid as he looked, his
lips twitching convulsively from some violent, inward emotion.

“Pardon me,” he finally observed, and pulling himself together with a
visible effort. Then, with a sweeping glance at the other faces of the
group, he lifted his hat and walked briskly away down the street.




CHAPTER XVIII.

MOLLIE HEATHERFORD RETURNS.


“Why, Will! who was that man?” inquired Mrs. Temple in a tone of
surprise, as she turned to observe the retreating form of Squire Talford
after the encounter described in the last chapter.

“I cannot tell you, dear,” replied her husband, in the quietest and
calmest of tones.

“But how strangely he appeared! He acted as if he knew you!” persisted
the lady, and still gazing after the man.

“Yes, he did,” her husband admitted, with apparently the utmost
composure; “he evidently mistook me for some one else. Now, shall we
go?” he concluded, turning toward the carriage, but gnawing his under
lip nervously, for it had required all the force of his will to control
himself during the recent encounter with one whom, in his youth, he had
deeply wronged, and whom, as a natural consequence, he had most cordially
hated ever since. He assisted his wife into the carriage with the same
loverlike attention which he had always shown her, then lightly swung his
little daughter in after her.

“You are not coming with us, you said, Phil,” he observed, as with one
foot on the step he turned to address the young man.

“No, I cannot. I have an engagement which will detain me for a couple of
hours; but I will try to get home in time for dinner,” Philip replied.

“Yes, do, Phil,” said his mother earnestly, “it would seem very remiss
if you should be absent on the first evening of the Heatherfords’ visit;
it almost seems as if you ought to come with us and be there to welcome
them.”

“But I really cannot,” Philip responded, with a slight frown; “they have
chosen an unfortunate day for their arrival, and I am sure they will
excuse it if I am not there to greet them. You can explain, and I will
certainly be in season for dinner.”

Mrs. Temple appeared to be satisfied with this assurance, and the
carriage drove away, while Philip slowly wended his way back into the
college grounds, and with a very thoughtful air. He had never for a
moment wavered in his determination to marry Mollie Heatherford and her
“magnificent fortune”; but, through his selfish love of pleasure and his
constant pursuit of amusement, he now found himself disagreeably hampered
in some ways, which might, if they should become known, interfere with
his interests and plans in connection with Miss Heatherford. He had kept
up a correspondence with her during her absence abroad, although Mollie’s
letters had been tantalizingly irregular, and far from being of as tender
a nature as he desired; nevertheless, he had, from time to time, referred
to their old-time betrothal with an assurance which indicated that he, at
least, regarded it as binding and definite.

At the same time he had not scrupled to keep up a desperate flirtation
with several other pretty girls, to say nothing about his entanglement
with Gertrude Athol, to whom he was still practically pledged. Indeed,
Miss Athol was at that moment awaiting him to attend her to a spread that
was to be given by one of his classmates in Beck Hall.

She had come on from Buffalo to spend a week with some friends in
Cambridge, and attend the commencement exercises in which she was,
of course, more than usually interested this year, because of Phil’s
participation in them.

Now that the time was approaching when he knew that Gertrude would expect
him to redeem his pledge to her, ask her hand of her father, and declare
his intentions to the world, Phil began to experience not a little
uneasiness regarding his precarious situation and how he was going to
escape from it. Therefore, he was in no enviable frame of mind as he
re-entered the college grounds, after his mother’s departure, to seek
Gertrude by appointment. He found her with a group of young people, all
of whom were invited to the “spread,” and she bestowed a bright smile of
welcome upon him as he came to her side.

She was even lovelier than when we saw her at the mountains three years
previous. She seemed taller, her form had developed to more perfect
proportions, and her expressive face bespoke growth of character,
earnestness, and purity of purpose.

She was clad all in white, even to her hat, which was trimmed with
graceful, nodding ostrich-plumes. It was an exceedingly dainty costume,
stylish as well, and, with her queenly bearing, her sweet, pure face, her
clear brown eyes, and wealth of golden hair, she did not fail to attract
attention wherever she went, and Philip was really proud of her, and also
fond of her, in a way.

The party turned their steps in the direction of Beck Hall as soon as
he joined it, while Gertrude looked as if she needed nothing more to
complete her happiness.

“Everything has passed off lovely,” she whispered, as they followed their
friends, then added shyly, “but, of course, you know in whom my chief
interest centered.”

“And did I acquit myself to your satisfaction?” queried Philip, with a
smiling and admiring glance, which plainly indicated where his present
interest centered.

“That goes without saying,” Gertrude replied, though she flushed slightly.

Then she seemed as if about to add something, but suddenly checked
herself, while a look of thoughtfulness settled over her countenance, and
her companion observed that she scanned every face they met, as if in
search of some one.

An hour and a half later, when the party broke up and they were on their
way out of the building, they encountered in one of the halls some
students who were just coming in. Clifford was among them.

Gertrude espied him instantly, and her eyes lighted with pleasure, for
she had been hoping to meet him, and his was the face she had been
watching for. She turned away from her companion and went directly to
him, her white-gloved hand cordially outstretched to greet him.

“Mr. Faxon,” she began, in her bright, vivacious way, “I am so glad
of this opportunity. I hoped I should meet you to-day, and I want to
congratulate you—your oration was positively grand.”

Clifford smiled as he doffed his hat and took the proffered hand.

“It certainly is a great pleasure to me to meet you again, Miss Athol,”
he heartily responded, then added modestly, “and thank you for your
commendation, but I fear you dignify my effort beyond its worth.”

“Indeed I do not, and, I assure you, I am only one out of many who have
voiced the same opinion,” Gertrude earnestly replied. Then, as she saw he
was averse to being made conspicuous, she inquired: “Are you glad to get
through with your course?”

“Yes, glad on some accounts, although I have thoroughly enjoyed my four
years’ work. One always is glad to attain a goal he has been seeking, you
know. But now I have to begin the real battle of life.”

“And you will win the victory, I am sure, just as you have won in
everything else you have ever attempted,” said the beautiful girl, with
shining eyes. “I wish you all success, and the next time we meet I shall
expect to find you far on the road to fame.”

“Thanks,” said Clifford, flushing at her words. Then, with a mischievous
gleam in his eyes, he questioned: “But are you contemplating leaving the
country for an indefinite sojourn?”

“No, indeed; why?”

“Why, you know it takes many years to win fame, and it would be a matter
of sincere regret to me if I thought our paths would not cross meantime.”

Gertrude laughed musically.

“It certainly will not take a great while for you, if you go on as you
have begun, and are governed by the same principle and earnestness of
purpose as when I last saw you,” she observed, with a look which told him
that she still remembered their conversation on the piazza of the hotel
in the mountains. “At all events, I hope it will not be years before
we meet again. But au revoir, I must run away now, for my friends are
waiting for me,” and with a charming smile and bow she was gone.

Philip Wentworth had withdrawn a short distance when Gertrude greeted his
rival, whom he never recognized if he could avoid doing so, and his face
was sullen and overcast when she rejoined him.

“Are you annoyed over having to wait for me?” she inquired, keenly
sensitive to the change in his manner.

“I should not be annoyed to wait your pleasure any length of time under
ordinary circumstances,” said Philip, with studied coldness.

Gertrude swept his face with a searching look.

“Under ordinary circumstances,” she repeated. “I think I do not quite
understand you.”

“Well, then, to be plain, it rather tries my temper to have you waste
your time and breath on that upstart,” he replied, with some irritation.

The girl turned upon him sharply.

“Do you still cherish that old-time animosity against him?” she gravely
inquired.

“Well, I certainly do not love him,” was the moody response.

Gertrude drew herself up proudly, and her eyes flashed.

“I am ashamed of you, Phil—I really am, for nursing such a spirit all
these years. I cannot understand it when you owe him so much. But if Mr.
Faxon is an ‘upstart,’ I only wish that the world was full of just such
people.”

“Which, I might infer, would shove me out entirely. Thanks, awfully,”
sneered her companion.

“You are entirely welcome,” the girl shot back spiritedly; “that is, if
you are so narrow-minded as to take offense at my courtesy toward Mr.
Faxon. I have known him to be a fine young man; he bids fair to make his
mark in the world, and his oration to-day was positively grand.”

“So I heard you observe to him,” Philip sarcastically rejoined.

There was a moment of awkward silence, and then Gertrude’s natural
sweetness conquered her momentary anger. She turned to her lover with a
frank and sunny smile.

“Don’t let us quarrel, Phil, and you haven’t the slightest cause to be
jealous of Mr. Faxon, for, although I respect him very highly, I do not
love him, and I do love somebody else. But, dear, you must not think
that because I have promised to be your wife I have pledged away my
individuality or my independence. I have my opinions, I have a right to
express them, and I shall expect that they will receive just the same
deference that I shall pay to yours. Is not that fair and right, Phil?”

But the young man looked straight ahead and preserved a sulky silence.
Gertrude studied his face for a moment; then she resumed with heightened
color, but with a little prouder poise of her pretty head:

“It has been conceded by every one whom I have heard speak of it, that
Mr. Faxon’s oration was the finest effort of the day. Why should not
you, as well as others of your class, candidly admit it, and give him
the honor due him? But we will not talk about it any more, if the matter
disturbs you. There are Guy and Emelie beckoning us, and wondering, no
doubt, why we are loitering. Now, Phil”—bending forward and looking
archly into his eyes—“smile on me just once, clouds are not in order
to-day.”

She looked so sweet and sunny, she was so bewitchingly pretty that no one
could have resisted her, and Philip’s face relaxed in spite of himself.
They rejoined their friends, and Gertrude was her own charming self once
more, and appeared to have forgotten all about her tiff with her lover.

Philip, however, secretly nursed his wrath and resolved that, when the
right time came to serve his purpose, the “quarrel” should be renewed.

Gertrude was beautiful and always faultlessly clad, and he was proud of
her; she was delightful company, and he never failed to enjoy himself
wherever he went with her, while she visited among people in Cambridge
whose acquaintance and good opinion he was desirous of preserving;
consequently, he did not feel quite ready to break with her—at least, not
until he was sure of capturing Mollie Heatherford and her fortune.

When he reached home that evening he found that the Heatherfords had
arrived—at least, Mollie and her father; Mrs. Heatherford had died abroad
more than a year previous.

There were several other guests invited to dinner, and the company were
all in the drawing-room when he entered.

He drew a long, deep breath when he espied Mollie standing beside his
mother, who was introducing her to some of her friends, for she was
lovely beyond description. She was still in half-mourning for her mother,
and wore a black gown of some thin, gauzy material, the lining to the
corsage cut low, and none in the sleeves, thus revealing the outlines of
her beautiful arms and neck.

It was elaborately trimmed with white, and the contrast of this effective
costume with her flawless complexion and wealth of golden hair was
marked. She was now in her nineteenth year, tall and slim, yet perfectly
formed, with a proud poise to her small head that gave her a regal air.
Her face was delicate and clear-cut as a cameo, with dainty color in her
cheeks that ebbed and flowed with every varying emotion, while her blue
eyes were just as bright and mischievous, grave or gay, as she was moved,
as in the old days when she had played with her boy-lover beneath the
elms on the bank of the Hudson.

Philip Wentworth had flirted with many beautiful girls during the last
four years, but he now declared to himself that he had never seen any one
as lovely as Mollie, or “Miss Marie Heatherford,” as she was known to the
world, only a favored few being allowed to address her by the pet-name
that had been bestowed upon her during her childhood.

Her every movement gave evidence of the refinement which foreign travel
and culture bestows. Philip’s heart leaped as he stood and watched her,
himself, for the moment, unseen.

“Mollie is the girl for me!” he mentally exclaimed. “She is perfectly
stunning. Any man might be proud to call her wife for herself alone, but,
taken with her prospective fortune—ah!”

He made his way toward the group where she stood at the other end of the
room.

“Ah! here comes Phil at last,” said Mrs. Temple, with a note of pride in
her tones, as he presented himself before them. “I am sure I do not need
to introduce two old playfellows.”

The fair girl turned with a smile of pleasure on her lips and put out her
hand to greet him, while a lovely blush deepened the color in her cheeks.

As Phil clasped the slim hand and bent upon her a look of undisguised
admiration while he murmured the joy he experienced at her home-coming,
her beautiful blue eyes were searching his face with a grave and steady
gaze.

What did she find there to make the blush fade slowly out of her
cheeks—to cause her to release the hand he had taken, after the briefest
possible clasp, and the shadow of disappointment to creep into the
earnest azure eyes?

“This is a long looked-for moment, Mollie, and I hope that you are glad
to be with us again,” Phil observed, throwing a note of tenderness into
his words that spoke volumes.

“Yes, thank you. I am glad to be at home once more,” Mollie returned in
calm, even tones. “I did not quite realize how delightful it would be
until we sailed into New York harbor and I began to see so much that was
familiar all around us. Truly, I believe there is no place like America
to an American. And so you have finished your college course to-day,” she
continued, drawing herself up a little haughtily at his persistent stare
of admiration. “No doubt you are very proud of your degree, and now your
friends will expect great things of you in the future.”




CHAPTER XIX.

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.




CHAPTER XX.

MOLLIE MAKES A DISCOVERY.


Phil studied the fair face opposite him closely for a moment, a gleam of
jealous fire burning in his eyes.

“‘Given it away!’” he repeated, throwing a note of reproach into his
tones. Then, a harsh laugh breaking from his lips, he added: “Really,
Mollie, in view of the past, I am very much inclined to be jealous.”

“Are you?” she questioned, with seeming nonchalance.

“Don’t you think it was rather hard on me—that you might be accused of
partiality?” Phil inquired.

“I do not think that term at all applicable to the case,” Mollie quietly
replied.

“Well, not knowing to what ‘case’ you refer, of course I am not capable
of judging either for or against,” Philip observed in a somewhat injured
tone.

Mollie laughed outright, and her eyes danced with mischief.

“Mr. Curiosity,” she retorted saucily, “if you want to know why I gave
away the ring and to whom, why do you not ask?”

“You might regard me as unduly inquisitive,” said the young man demurely.

“So you are,” she flashed back at him. “I am sure you are just dying to
know, and, as there is really no reason why you should not, I will tell
you.”

She then proceeded to relate all that had occurred during her journey to
New York on that sultry July afternoon four years ago, describing the
terrible storm, her loneliness and fear, the sudden shock and stopping
of the train, the falling of the maple-tree across the track, and
Clifford Faxon’s heroic efforts to remove the dangerous obstruction, thus
preventing a shocking accident.

As she talked she seemed to live over again the whole of that thrilling
experience. She shrank visibly as she described the vivid flashes
of lightning and the deafening crashes that seemed to be almost
simultaneous. She caught her breath sharply as she told of those piercing
whistles, which bespoke imminent danger to every quaking heart, and of
the shrieks and cries, the white faces and trembling forms of men, women,
and children as they expected every instant to be hurled into eternity.

Then came her description of the youthful hero as he appeared working for
dear life, without a thought of self, while the conflict of elements and
the deluge swept over and raged around him.

She waxed eloquent as she spoke of his poverty, how he had been clad
in the coarsest and meanest of garments, with old and clumsy shoes on
his feet, without hat, coat, or vest, or anything to commend him to the
fastidious eye, except his frank, noble face, his honest, fearless eyes
and his manly bearing.

“One did not mind his lack of suitable clothing,” she went on earnestly,
“as one looked into his countenance and read there the truth and
integrity of his character, and he had the finest eyes I ever saw. I am
sure, though, that he had had a hard life, for he said he had been bound
out to a man on a farm when he was thirteen years old for four years,
but that his time was almost up, and then he was going to try to get a
college education. Some gentlemen on the train took up a collection to
give him a start. There was quite a generous sum raised—I don’t know just
how much, but almost everybody was glad to do something to manifest their
gratitude, and when we reached New Haven the money was presented to him,
and he was then sent home in a hack.”

“Really! Then the young rustic rode in state for once in his life,” Phil
here interposed, with an ill-concealed sneer, and Mollie wondered at the
malice in his tone and what could have made his face grow so startlingly
pale.

“Yes, and why shouldn’t he?” she demanded spiritedly, for his words and
manner grated upon her. “Just think what he had done—prevented a terrible
accident, saved thousands of dollars’ worth of property and the lives,
doubtless, of many people; and, besides, he was completely exhausted by
his efforts, and it would have been a shame to have allowed him to get
back to his home in the country as best he could. Why, if a fortune had
been raised for him there on the spot, it would not have been an adequate
return. He was a hero, he had done a deed to be proud of, and for which
he should be honored all his life; and he was so modest about it, too—as
if he had only been chopping wood to make a fire! Why, Phil, I’d rather
do a deed like that than have all the wealth and social honors of the
world heaped upon me!” Mollie concluded, with gleaming eyes and glowing
cheeks.

“Well, but about the ring; was it to this—‘hero’ that you gave it?”
questioned Philip, in a peculiar tone.

“Oh!” Mollie exclaimed, a silvery laugh rippling over her lips. “I had
become so interested in telling the story that I had forgotten all about
the ring. Yes. I was so grateful that I wanted to make it manifest
personally, and I went to him, when we arrived in New Haven, thanked him,
and asked him to accept the cameo as a memento of my gratitude.”

“Did you learn the name of this most wonderful of heroes?” queried Philip
sarcastically.

Mollie sat suddenly erect, stung to the quick and flushing indignantly at
the satirical fling.

“Why do you speak so slightingly about him, Philip?” she cried; “don’t
you love to hear about brave deeds? Aren’t you glad to know that there
are such noble and heroic souls in the world?”

“Oh, yes, of course. Did I speak slightingly? You must pardon me, but,
truly, Mollie, I was somewhat amused, in view of your enthusiasm over
this valorous backwoodsman,” Philip replied, with a laugh that had
something of mockery in it.

“I think I have reason to be enthusiastic,” the fair girl coldly
responded. “Yes,” she added, “I did learn the young man’s name—Clifford
Faxon, he gave it, and I wish——”

“Well, what do you wish?” her companion demanded, and finding it
difficult to control himself as she had pronounced the name he so hated,
notwithstanding he had been prepared to hear it.

“I wish that I might meet him again. I would like to know if he attempted
to go through college, and, if so, what success he is having,” said
Mollie, with an earnest look on her face. “I am sure he will ultimately
succeed in whatever he undertakes, for there was strength of purpose
written on every line of his handsome face.”

Philip Wentworth gnawed his lip until the blood started, and a cruel,
steellike glitter flashed into his eyes at this. He was furious, in view
of the girl’s interest in the young man whom he had hated for years.
It galled him almost beyond endurance to hear Clifford Faxon’s praises
sounded by every one who knew him, but Mollie’s encomiums drove him
almost to the verge of madness, and he was determined that she should
never learn that Faxon had been a classmate of his—she should never meet
her hero again if he could help it.

To be sure, he had said that he could never marry a poor girl; but
there was a bare possibility that Mr. Heatherford might retrieve his
fallen fortunes, and, in such an event, he would be only too eager to
make Mollie his wife. He was beginning to feel that life would be very
blank to him without her. Her beauty, her brilliant accomplishments, her
amiable, yet spirited disposition, her high standard of life and its
pursuits all made him realize that she was a woman to be worshiped,
and that she had won a place in his heart which could never be given to
another.

These feelings were intensified and his fiercest jealousy aroused by her
openly acknowledged admiration for Clifford Faxon. He had been stung by
Gertrude Athol’s praise of and friendliness for him; but that had been as
nothing when compared with his present feelings upon hearing his name so
reverently spoken by Mollie, and with that indescribable look on her fair
face. He was, however, obliged to conceal his ire from her, and presently
turning his canoe and changing the topic at the same time, they drifted
slowly down the stream with the current toward the landing, and ere long
were on the train back to town.

Another week slipped swiftly by, and as Miss Athol had returned to
Buffalo, Phil had more time to devote to Mollie, of whom he became more
and more enamored with every passing day; and as she always drew out
all that was best in him, she little dreamed what grave defects there
were in his character, and appeared to enjoy his society and gratefully
appreciated his efforts to make her visit pleasant.

Mrs. Temple watched the couple with ever-increasing anxiety, and wished
from her heart that something would occur to cut the Heatherfords’ visit
short before irreparable mischief resulted. One morning she sought her
son, and gravely cautioned him.

“Phil, you really must not do anything rash,” she said. “Mollie is the
nicest girl in the world, I am willing to admit, but you can’t be saddled
with a poor wife. Your income, though fair, will not admit of it, with
your tastes, and Mollie’s are expensive, too. If this last venture of Mr.
Heatherford’s should fall through, he will be utterly ruined and the girl
a beggar; so take care!”

“I suppose that is good advice from a worldly point of view,” the young
man responded, “but she is, as you have said, the very nicest girl in
the world, and it is a deuced shame that the old man has lost his money;
confound it!”

Mrs. Temple looked startled at this outburst, and well she might, for she
could plainly read in Phil’s pale, pain-drawn face the story of his life,
and knew that he had given his whole heart into Mollie Heatherford’s
keeping.

“Phil!” she cried regretfully. “I am sorry I ever asked them here. I
never would have had them come if I had known, and I shall be glad when
they go. But you must not make a fatal mistake. Suppose you make some
excuses to go away; take a trip to the Adirondacks, or go West for a
while?”

Phil gave vent to a hollow laugh.

“Suppose, on the other hand, that, mothlike, I prefer to flutter around
the candle and get singed?” he recklessly returned, as he saw that his
mother had read his secret. “Or suppose that I should be inclined to turn
over a new leaf, settle down to some business, and be willing to work for
the girl I love?”

“Phil!” gasped Mrs. Temple again, and growing pale herself at his strange
mood. “Are you really so far gone as that? I believe I shall insist upon
your going away, for I never will consent to let you marry a beggar,
though I’ll own I’m very fond of Mollie myself, and should be proud of
her as a daughter if she only had money enough to sustain the style she
has always been accustomed to. Where is your pride, Philip Wentworth,
that you are willing to spoil your whole life?”

If she could but have known it, she was missing the grandest, most
precious opportunity of her life, for the scales that held her son’s
future in the balance were on the point of tipping toward a better and
nobler manhood, and had she wisely and tenderly dropped a few words of
sympathy and encouragement into the love-laden heart laid bare before
her, she might have wrought a marvelous change, and saved both herself
and him much suffering and remorse.

But those last, arrogant words did their work. The young man sprang to
his feet and shook himself as if just awakening from a dream.

“Never you fear, mother,” he said, with a careless toss of his head,
“the Wentworth name shall never suffer in that way through any fault of
mine. I reckon I can look out for myself; but I’m not going away—the
Heatherfords would think it very strange, and I have a curiosity to see
how the old gentleman’s venture turns out—if he should make a corner,
why, I should be on hand to improve my opportunity.”

Mrs. Temple was not quite satisfied that he could “look out for himself”
in the way she desired; but she felt that she had said enough for the
present, and so allowed the matter to drop.

A day or two later there came a drenching rain, when, of course, there
could be no excursion or sightseeing, and everybody was shut within
doors; at least, after luncheon no one ventured out.

Mr. Temple and Mr. Heatherford were playing billiards up-stairs, and Mrs.
Temple was in her own room reading to Minnie, who had been indisposed for
a day or two.

Mollie and Phil were alone in the library, where, for a time, they amused
themselves by looking over a collection of views and photographs, among
which were many of Phil’s classmates and college friends. While they were
thus engaged one of the programs of the recent commencement exercises at
Harvard was found among them. Mollie picked it up and began to look it
over.

At first Phil did not notice what she had, for he was searching for the
likeness of a friend of whom they had been talking, and which he wished
her to see. He found it at last, and turned to her with the picture in
his hand, when, as he caught sight of the program, his heart gave a
great, startled bound, and he grew cold as ice.

He knew that if Mollie should look it carefully through she would find
Clifford Faxon’s name there, learn that he had been a classmate of his,
how he had distinguished himself, and, worse than all, how he—Phil—had
wilfully concealed these facts from her.

What should he do? How get it away from her before the mischief was done?

“What have you there, Mollie?” he inquired, assuming an indifferent
tone. “Oh, it is the commencement program,” he added. “Come, don’t get
absorbed in that just now, there will be time enough by and by to look it
over, and I want you, who are so clever at reading faces, to tell me what
you think of this.”

He playfully laid hold of the booklet in her hands and attempted to
withdraw it from her.

She tightened her grasp upon it, for almost at that instant she had
caught sight of the name which he was so anxious to keep from her.

She started slightly as she comprehended the situation; then her
beautiful eyes flashed up to her companion’s face, and he shrank back
from the scorn in them as if from a blow.

Mollie was as pale as marble, but there was a haughty poise to her small
head, and a sudden stiffening of her whole form that actually made him
cringe before her.

“Why did you not tell me that Clifford Faxon was a classmate of yours?”
she demanded in icy tones.




CHAPTER XXI.

PHILIP WENTWORTH PUT ON PROBATION.


Philip Wentworth had never felt meaner in all his life than at that
moment, when he realized that his duplicity was exposed, and that the
girl whose esteem, of all others, he cared most to preserve had found him
out, if not exactly as a liar, as having been wilfully and contemptibly
deceptive. He flushed crimson, and then grew as pale as Mollie herself,
but he was dumb before her for the moment, and could find no voice to
answer her imperative demand.

“Why did you keep it from me?” she questioned again. “What object could
you have had in wishing to keep me in ignorance of that which you knew
would give me great pleasure to learn? Why could you not be generous to
your classmate, and give a hard-working, worthy young man the honor which
belongs to him?

“So,” she continued, as he still sat mute before her, and dropping her
eyes again upon the program, “Clifford Faxon has completed his college
course and distinguished himself, as I knew he would. I was sure that
there was power, determination, and perseverance above the average in his
character. Oh, I wish I could have come to Boston a day earlier, attended
commencement, and heard his oration.”

She sat lost in thought for a moment or two, a look of keen
disappointment on her beautiful face. Then turning suddenly to her
companion again, she briefly inquired:

“Where is Mr. Faxon now?”

“I don’t know; he left town the day after commencement,” Philip returned
in a tone of constraint.

“Is his picture among these?” eagerly questioned Mollie, and touching the
pile of photographs between them.

Philip started as if he had been stung, and his lips curled like an angry
dog’s.

“Assuredly not,” he loftily responded.

“I am sorry; I should like to see him as he looks to-day, though I am
sure he cannot have changed enough to prevent me from recognizing him if
I should meet him anywhere,” Mollie observed, and her every word cut her
listener like a lash. “But you have not told me, Phil, why you kept from
me the fact that he was at Harvard with you. Have you a grudge against
him? I wondered why you appeared so strangely the other day when I was
telling you about him; wondered how you could listen so indifferently to
the story of his wonderful heroism and speak so sneeringly of him; and
then, when you knew all the time of whom I was talking, and how glad I
would have been to learn more about him, to pretend ignorance and deceive
me! I am inclined to be very angry with you.”

Her words, her tone, her looks, were simply maddening to him, and he
turned to her with a gesture of passionate appeal.

“Mollie! Mollie! Don’t speak to me in that tone; don’t condemn me
utterly; don’t annihilate me quite with your scornful eyes,” he pleaded
in a voice that was almost shrill from mingled rage and wounded feeling.
“I did not tell you that I knew Clifford Faxon—I withheld all information
regarding him because I—I was jealous of him.”

“Jealous! Why, Phil!” exclaimed the startled girl, her look of scorn and
indignation merged into one of undisguised amazement.

“Yes; furiously, madly jealous of him,” Philip hotly returned, every
pulse in his body beating like trip-hammers, while he recklessly
threw all discretion to the winds, “for, Mollie, I love you, and it
drove me wild to have to listen to your enthusiastic praises of that
low-born fellow; to be told that you had given him the ring which I had
coveted—which I had begged of you, and you had refused to bestow upon me.

“Darling, have you not suspected this,” he went on, forgetting for the
moment everything save the fact that he loved her with all the passion
of his nature, and must win some response from her or go mad, “have you
not seen that you are more to me than all the world? Do you not know that
I have always loved you? Have you forgotten how, when we were children
playing together under the elms on the banks of the Hudson, I vowed that
I should always love you, and that when we grew up I should claim you?

“Forgive me for deceiving you about Faxon,” he went on, with assumed
humility, for he realized that he must eat humble pie before she would
pardon his duplicity; “of course I knew, when you were telling me about
that railway accident, of whom you were speaking; but some perverse
little devil held me silent, and now I am found out and punished for
it. Dearest, tell me that you forgive me, and that you return my love;
for, Mollie, from the moment we met, after your return, all the old-time
affection revived with a hundredfold intensity, and—and I just cannot
live without you.”

He had gradually drawn nearer her while speaking, and now, seizing her
hands, drew them to his breast and held them there, while he searched the
sweet, down-cast, but very grave, face before him.

She had flushed crimson when he began to pour forth his torrent of love;
then the color had gradually receded, leaving her pale and with an
expression of mingled pain and perplexity on her face.

For a moment they sat thus, and not a word was spoken. Then Mollie lifted
her head and looked her lover full in the eye, her own seeming to search
his very soul.

“Sweetheart, tell me you forgive me,” Phil whispered passionately, and
unable to endure that penetrating look; “remember my love for you made me
sin.”

Mollie smiled slightly, and the color began to creep toward her temples
again, for what woman can listen unmoved to such a confession of love for
her?—but she still studied his face, and appeared to be thinking deeply.

“You do forgive—you do love me, Mollie!” Phil burst forth eagerly, as he
noted the smile and blush.

He stretched forth his arms, and would have gathered her into them, but
she gently repulsed him and moved a little away from him.

“Yes, Phil, I forgive you as far as any wrong against me is concerned; at
the same time, I must say that I think you have been very unfair to Mr.
Faxon.”

Phil ground his heels into the carpet at this reference to Clifford,
while he secretly wished that they had been planted upon his enemy’s
handsome face.

“As for the other matter,” Mollie continued reflectively, “I—I cannot say
just now whether I love you or not.”

“Mollie!”

“Nay, do not be so impatient, Phil,” she interposed with smiling reproof,
her color deepening again; “but wait and let me be perfectly frank with
you. When I returned I confess I looked forward very eagerly to meeting
you; our earthly friendship and our correspondence have, of course,
governed my thought of you during my absence, and I have often found
myself wondering just how we would resume our—acquaintance. You have
been very nice to me, Phil, during my visit. I find you”—flashing him an
arch look—“very attractive personally, delightfully entertaining, and
well versed in all those little attentions and observances of etiquette
that usually make men attractive to women; but—I wish you had not spoken
just yet, for I am not prepared to define my own feelings toward you. I
want to know you—the real you, your inner self, a little better before I
can be sure where I stand, or make you any promises. And, Phil, you must
never attempt to deceive me again,” she interposed, a shadow falling
over her face; “I—I cannot bear anything of the kind, and nothing would
sooner establish an impassable barrier between us.”

“I will not, dear—I promise I will not,” Philip murmured, with
well-assumed humility. “But, oh, Mollie! this uncertainty seems cruel and
unendurable. How long must I wait before you will tell me what I want to
know?”

“I cannot say, Phil,” Mollie kindly but thoughtfully replied. “I like
you right well in many ways, though what has just occurred has been like
a dash of cold water over me; but liking is not love, you know, and you
will have to be patient until I know my own heart.”

He snatched one of her hands again and kissed it passionately. Her
reticence and the uncertainty of his suit only served to make him so much
the more determined to win a confession of love from her, even though he
knew that he was liable to change his mind later and break her heart;
though, to his credit be it said, there were times when better impulses
moved him, and he vowed that he would marry her in spite of his mother—in
spite of his own pride and love of worldly wealth, prestige, and ease.

“I will try to be patient,” he said, “but do not make the test too hard.”

He devoted himself to her more assiduously than ever after that, and was
so guarded in his behavior and so congenial in every way during the few
remaining days of Mollie’s visit that she began to tell herself that she
did love him, and was sometimes tempted to speak a word of encouragement
to him.

But something held her back—she never went beyond a certain limit,
although she was as kind and sweet and charming as ever.

Mr. and Mrs. Temple also showed their guests all due courtesy and
attention while they remained with them; but they experienced a feeling
of intense relief when they announced the day of their departure, for
both realized the danger of Phil’s infatuation. They were somewhat
chagrined, however, when Mr. Heatherford informed them that they would
remain in Boston for the present—until some matters of business were
settled, he said, with a quick, anxious glance at Mr. Temple which caused
that gentleman to change color a trifle—and would make their home at the
Adams House.

As soon as they were gone, Mrs. Temple persuaded Phil, though evidently
against his will, to accompany her and her husband to Newport for the
month of August. She then tried to entice him to the Adirondacks for
another four weeks, but this he refused to do, and returned immediately
to Boston, where he at once began to dance attendance upon Mollie again,
though he constantly fretted and fumed within himself because he appeared
to make no progress in his suit.

He sometimes wondered why he allowed himself to be so absorbed in
his pursuit of her, when there were plenty of girls with large
expectations—Gertrude among others—who would have said “Yes” without
presuming to impose probation upon him.

But Mollie’s rare beauty intoxicated him; her brilliancy and versatility
dazzled him, while her persistent reticence, more than all else, made
him her slave. She would not allow him to make love to her. Whenever he
approached the forbidden topic she would invariably interrupt him with
some irrelevant remark, or with a reproving smile and shake of her head.

“For Heaven’s sake, Mollie! how long is this to go on?” he burst forth
one day, after a repulse like this, and for the moment losing all
self-control.

“I cannot tell, Phil—until I know,” she gently returned. “Or,” she added,
with a grave look into his clouded eyes, “if I weary you with this
uncertainty, do not hesitate to tell me so, and we will part—friends.”

“Mollie! Mollie! How you torture me!” he cried at this. “Life to me would
not be worth the living apart from you.” And he believed that he really
meant it.

She sighed regretfully, and a shade of sadness stole over her face. She
realized that she was trying him severely, but she was not “sure” even
yet, and she would not be untrue to herself or wrong him by professing an
affection which she did not feel, although there were times when she was
almost on the point of yielding.

“I am very sure I have never met any young man whom I like as well as
Phil,” she would sometimes admit, when discussing the subject with
herself, “but I do not feel, as he says,’that I cannot live without
him.’ In fact, I am sure I could be happier without him than without my
father, and I know”—a queer little smile flitting over her lips—“that is
not the right attitude for a girl to maintain toward the man she expects
to marry. Besides, I cannot get at Phil—he eludes, he evades me, he does
not reveal his real self to me.”

Mr. Heatherford and his daughter were most comfortably located in
pleasant rooms in the Adams House, and they were very happy together,
although there were times when Mollie was conscious that her father was
weighted with a load of anxiety that was well-nigh crushing him.

But she did everything in her power to cheer and amuse him when he was
with her, coaxing him into the country while the bright October days
lasted as often as she could, and playing cribbage and other games when
they were alone evenings.

During business hours, when he was absent, she employed the time in
earnest and faithful study to perfect herself in certain branches which
she surmised might be useful to her in the near future.

After Mr. and Mrs. Temple’s return from the Adirondacks, Mollie became
conscious of a decided coolness in their manner toward herself and her
father, although they were always courteous whenever they chanced to meet.

Mrs. Temple seldom called—she was “so busy with club engagements,
receptions, etc.,” she gave as an excuse, and so, of course, Mollie
scarcely ever went out to Brookline.

She thought it strange that Mrs. Temple never asked her to drive, or
offered to introduce her to, or chaperon her in, society; but she tried
to think that these omissions were caused by thoughtlessness rather than
by intentional neglect.

Her father seldom mentioned Mr. Temple’s name during those days, but grew
more and more grave and silent, losing both flesh and appetite, while she
could hear him tossing restlessly at night, and then he would rise in the
morning, pale, haggard, and with heavy eyes.

Of course, these things made Mollie anxious and miserable, and she could
not account for them; but she did not like to question her father,
knowing well enough that he would confide in her when the right time
arrived, and she strove to be patient and cheerful whenever she was in
his presence.

But there came a day when she understood it all, and the shock which came
with the revelation was a rude and cruel one to the sweet and trusting
girl.

She went out one morning to do some shopping—but, oh! how glad she was
afterward that she had been unable to find what she wanted, and so had
brought back unbroken the crisp bills which her father had given her—and
on her return found her father sitting in a rigid attitude by a window
and looking dazed and strange.

“Why, papa! it is unusual for you to come home at this hour!” she
observed as she went to him and kissed him on the forehead, while she
strove to conceal the nervous trembling which had seized her. “Are you
ill, dear?” she concluded, and tenderly smoothed his hair, which had
whitened rapidly of late.

He turned his white, haggard face to her, and tried to smile
reassuringly; but it was an effort that nearly broke her heart.

“No, my darling, I am not ill; but I am—ruined; we are beggars!” he said
in a voice that shook and quivered like that of a man ninety years old.




CHAPTER XXII.

MR. HEATHERFORD RUINED.


“Beggars! Ruined!” repeated Mollie, with a wondering intonation, as if
she could not really comprehend the meaning of the words.

She had known that her father had lost a great deal of money; that
he had been greatly distressed over business complications; but,
notwithstanding, their every want had been supplied—every comfort and
luxury had been theirs up to this time, and she had no more conception
of the meaning of the word poverty, from a practical standpoint, than an
unreasoning child.

“Yes, dear,” Mr. Heatherford responded to her exclamation; “my last
venture has failed—collapsed—and I am, so to speak, ruined. Oh, my
darling, I could bear it for myself, but to have your life blighted
at the time when it should be the brightest—to have all your future
prospects blasted—crushes me to the earth.”

Mollie lifted one white hand and laid it caressingly against her father’s
cheek.

“Hush, dearie! Do not talk like that,” she said in a tone of gentle
reproof; “you make me feel ashamed, to be regarded as such a tender
exotic.” Then she inquired gravely: “What was this ‘last venture’ to
which you refer?”

The man glanced curiously up at her; then, taking her hand from his
cheek, he drew it around to his lips and kissed it.

“Never mind, Goldenrod, what it was; you would not understand it if I
should tell you,” he said evasively.

“All the same, I want you to tell me, if you please, papa, and I will try
to understand,” Mollie returned, with quiet decision, adding: “I have
heard you speak of it to Mr. Temple, and I have a curiosity to know more
about it.”

“Well, it was connected with—stocks,” Mr. Heatherford reluctantly
admitted, and changing color slightly.

“Oh! was it ‘trading in futures,’ as I heard Phil express it one day,
when you were all discussing stocks?” questioned Mollie.

Her companion bent a glance of surprise upon her.

“Well, yes; something of that kind,” he said, while a bitter smile curled
his lips.

“Did—did you lose very much that way, papa?”

“Several thousands, although three years ago I should have regarded the
amount as but a drop out of the bucket; but now, since it has taken
almost my last dollar, it seems a great deal,” the unhappy man replied,
with a sigh.

“Papa, excuse me,” and the girl flushed vividly as she spoke, “but isn’t
‘dealing in futures’ a—one way of gambling? Of course, I do not know much
about such things, but I listened quite attentively one day when you were
talking with Mr. Temple—I think he was explaining some method in which he
was interested—and it seemed to me very much like a game of chance.”

“It is, my darling,” said Mr. Heatherford, with a flush of shame, “and I
have always said that it is a disreputable business, and thousands of men
are annually ruined by it, homes are made desolate, while half the cases
of suicide in the world result from the despair which just such ruin as
now stares me in the face entails.”

“Oh, papa!” sharply cried the fair girl, and growing deathly pale, while
she searched his face with a look of horror in her eyes. The man drew her
arm around his neck and held it there with a grip which seemed to her
startled heart to indicate that he was clinging to her for salvation from
the very despair of which he had spoken. But he did not appear to heed
her cry and continued with the same hopeless note in his tone, and with
something of scorn, also:

“I would never have believed, even a year ago, that I could ever sink to
such a level; for I had only contempt for such measures and for men who
have made their fortunes in that way; but when I found everything going
against me and my resources fast dwindling to nothing, I grew wild to
retrieve myself, chiefly for your sake, however. I could not endure the
thought that you, who had always had every wish gratified—who had known
nothing but luxury, and floated upon the topmost wave of prosperity—you
who are so fitted to shine in society, should be reduced to poverty, and
so, at Mr. Temple’s suggestion, I ventured my last dollar on one throw,
and—have lost.”

“Papa, did Mr. Temple advise you to do this?” questioned Mollie, with a
start of surprise.

“Yes, and that is not the worst of it, either,” the man bitterly
returned. “However, that fact does not excuse me for having yielded to
such advice.”

“What do you mean by saying, ‘that is not the worst of it?’” queried
Mollie, who had caught the peculiar flash that leaped into his eyes as he
said it.

“Don’t ask me, dear,” he returned, with a sudden compression of his lips.
“I should not have said that—it escaped me unawares.”

“Never mind; tell me everything, papa,” the girl persisted, and
determined to get to the bottom of the matter, “even if you have lost all
your money, you haven’t lost me, and I am egotistical enough to fancy
that I am more to you than fortune.”

“Indeed, you are, my darling; more than many fortunes!” Richard
Heatherford cried as he snatched her to his breast and covered her face
with kisses. “Oh, Goldenrod, my life would not be worth living without
you!”

“And it will be worth living with me, papa—oh, papa!” Mollie murmured as
she clung to him, her eyes fastened upon his face with a nameless fear in
their blue depths that smote him to the soul.

“Mollie!” he gasped as her meaning flashed upon him, “surely you did
not think I would be guilty of that! No, no, Buttercup—my one priceless
treasure, as long as God wills, my life will be very precious to me for
your sake. When I said that half the suicides in the world were caused by
just such despair as mine, I had no thought of anything like that. Do not
fear, love, I could never be such a coward.”

The beautiful girl stood up tall and straight, her face now shining with
love and happiness.

“Then, since we are all in all to each other, why should we be
discouraged—why grieve for what you have lost?” she cried in a voice
that had a strange, exultant thrill in its sweetness. “Who cares for
luxury, for society’s smile or frown, or to ride upon the topmost wave
of prosperity? I do not, papa, truly, and, to be frank with you, I have
long dreaded the time when you would expect me to take a prominent place
in society. It all seems very hollow and unsatisfying to me, and, during
the last four years, while I have been studying so hard, I have dreamed
fond dreams of some time putting my knowledge to some practical use.
Now, dearest, do not let us look back with a single regret—you are in
the prime of life; I am young and strong. I have a good education and
I know I can turn it to some account, so let us begin life together,
find some cozy nook in which to make a simple home. I will apply at once
for a position to teach—I have some fine vouchers from those Heidelberg
professors, you know—and, after you have had time to pull yourself
together a little, perhaps something in the way of business will commend
itself to you.”

Mr. Heatherford had listened to his daughter with ever-increasing wonder,
and when she concluded he regarded her with undisguised astonishment,
mingled with admiration. It was a revelation and an inspiration to him to
find the beautiful and delicately reared girl so thoroughly practical,
so brave and unselfish, in view of what had seemed a most appalling
situation, and he was also deeply moved.

“Mollie!” he tremulously exclaimed as he held out both hands to her,
“what a dear little comforter you are! You are a veritable staff of
pure and solid gold, and you have lifted a load from my heart that was
well-nigh crushing me. I thought it would break your heart to give up
our beautiful home in New York, our summer place in Newport, the horses
and carriages, rich dresses, and the thousand and one pretty things
which you have always been accustomed to. But you have proved yourself
a noble-hearted heroine, and I am prouder of you than if you had been
crowned a queen. Mollie, it seems incredible, but my heart has not been
so light for many months. I am happy, in spite of all,” and the proud,
long-tried man dropped his head upon his daughter’s shoulder, while a sob
of infinite relief burst from his surcharged and grateful heart.

Mollie’s lovely eyes were swimming in tears, but she bravely blinked them
away, while a clear and silvery laugh rippled over her red lips.

“Papa,” she said, while she softly smoothed the hair away from his
temple, “do you remember that boy who saved the train from being wrecked
near New Haven, four years ago, to whom you sent the check?”

“Yes, dear; but what makes you think of him at this time?” inquired Mr.
Heatherford, and, looking up with sudden interest, for he had not thought
of the incident for a long while.

Mollie flushed brightly as she replied:

“He does seem rather irrelevant to the subject, I know; but I remember
that I thought he must have been the happiest fellow in the world to have
been such a hero at that time. You know I have always been something of
a worshiper of brave and noble deeds, and to be regarded as a ‘hero’ has
been to set one on a pinnacle, in my estimation. And now you have called
me a ‘heroine,’ and I am proud and happy, even though I have done nothing
to deserve the praise except to speak a few comforting words to my own
dear father.”

“A few comforting words!” repeated Mr. Heatherford, in unsteady tones.
“My child, do you so underestimate what you have done? You have shown
to-day that spirit of utter self-abnegation which alone animates all
heroes, and you can never realize how much it means to me, for you have
inspired me with new life and fresh courage. God bless you, my precious
daughter!”

He kissed her tenderly, almost reverently, on the lips, and truly felt
that God had indeed been good to him—even though he had been stripped of
every dollar in the world—in leaving him this brave, pure, and loving
girl to live for.

Both were too deeply moved for speech for a few moments; but Mollie
finally disengaged herself from her father’s embrace, and, forcing him
back into his chair, drew another for herself to his side.

“Now, papa, let us get down to the practical again,” she observed, with a
smile, “for I want you to explain this business a little more fully to
me. Will there be any debts?”

Mr. Heatherford’s eyes actually gleamed with amusement at the question,
for he could scarcely believe that Mollie realized the import of the word.

“No, dear,” he returned; “I think not. Of course, I shall give up
everything, and my real estate, though heavily mortgaged, together with
what personal property I hold, will, I am sure, be sufficient to meet all
my obligations.”

“That is lovely!” said Mollie, with animation, “for a lot of debts
would have made our burdens so much heavier for the future; besides,
no opprobrium will rest upon our name if you do not have to fail. You
needn’t laugh, papa”—as she caught his smile—“for I really am not such an
ignoramus as you might think. But I suppose it will be best for us to get
away from this expensive hotel as soon as possible.”

“Yes, and we must go back to New York immediately, for it will be
necessary to notify my creditors and make arrangements to settle with
them.”

“All right, dearie; I can be ready to leave this very evening, if you
wish,” said Mollie briskly, and her father wondered more and more as the
reserve force of this tenderly nurtured girl was made manifest to him.

“I think we will wait until to-morrow night, and go by boat, for I have
to see Mr. Temple again before I leave,” Mr. Heatherford replied, and his
face hardened suddenly as he spoke the man’s name.

“Ah!” said Mollie, who was quickly observant of the change in him, “and
that reminds me that you have not yet told me what you meant by ‘the
worst,’ in connection with Mr. Temple.”

“Sweetheart, I should never have spoken as I did—that was an unfortunate
slip,” her father replied, and feeling that, if Mollie was ever to assume
closer relations with the Temple family, it were better that she did not
know too much.

“But, having made the ‘slip,’ papa, and aroused my curiosity, it leaves
me to imagine all sorts of dreadful things if I am kept in the dark,”
she persisted, adding: “Besides, I have realized of late that something
was wrong in connection with the Temples, and wondered what could have
occasioned the change in their manner toward us.”

“Well, then, perhaps it will be best, having said so much, to tell you
that the money which I have recently lost has all gone into Mr. Temple’s
pockets.”

“Papa! Are you sure? And he advised you to make this venture!” cried
Mollie, aghast at such apparent treachery.

“Yes, there can be no doubt about it, though I learned the fact only this
morning, and that was what hurt me most.”

“I should think so, indeed. And he has pretended to be your friend—has
even entertained you in his own home while leading you on!” exclaimed the
indignant girl, with blazing eyes, her face and tone expressing infinite
scorn. “Truly it has been the tragedy of the ‘spider and the fly’ enacted
in real life!”

“Do not forget, dear, that the unwary ‘fly’ deserves his share of
condemnation for having allowed himself to be so hoodwinked,” said
Mr. Heatherford, with a bitterness which betrayed how keen was his
mortification at having become entangled in the net which had ruined him.

“Oh! but one would never dream of being so ‘wounded in the house of one’s
friends,’” retorted Mollie, with supreme contempt.

“And yet a great deal of Mr. Temple’s money, I am told, has been acquired
by these doubtful methods. It is said that he got a fine start in some
Western mines, after which he went to San Francisco, where he established
himself as a banker. After he came to Boston he also put out his sign as
a ‘banker,’ but I learned to-day that he has another office in the city
where he operates in the dark in a different business, and that many a
man is stripped of his last dollar by him.”

“How dreadful!” said Mollie, with an expression of disgust.

“It was to this office that I was taken and introduced to a gentleman
with whom, Mr. Temple informed me, he had long had successful dealings.
He spoke only truth, however, for it turns out that the man is his own
agent.”

“Oh, papa! that is worse and worse!” cried his listener, aghast. “I never
would have dreamed of anything so dishonorable of him—he has always
seemed a perfect gentleman.”

“Yes, and yet there have been times when I have observed a cruel look in
his eyes and about his mouth,” said Mr. Heatherford. “Of course, I have
never known anything about the man until within the last few years, but
I supposed him to be at least a gentleman. However, the lesson he has
taught me, though dearly paid for, has, I trust, been salutary, while it
has also revealed to me the fact that I possess a hundredfold richer mine
of wealth and heart of gold in you, my darling, than I ever dreamed was
mine.”




CHAPTER XXIII.

AFFLICTION OVERTAKES MOLLIE.


Mr. Heatherford sought an interview with Mr. Temple the morning following
his revelations to Mollie, when he did not hesitate to inform that
gentleman, much to his surprise, that he had discovered by whom, and by
what methods, he had been fleeced of his last dollar.

Mr. Temple attempted to deny the impeachment; but there was so much
of embarrassment and of conscious guilt in his manner that he stood
self-convicted. He had been wholly unprepared for such a disclosure, and,
consequently, was taken off his guard, while he was evidently deeply
chagrined to learn that the secret of his blind operations had been
discovered.

Mr. Heatherford had his say out in a quiet, dignified, but impressive
manner, after which he bade the man good day, and left him to chew the
cud of reflection, which he did in no enviable frame of mind.

Of course, Mrs. Temple and Philip were in ignorance of Mr. Temple’s
agency in Mr. Heatherford’s misfortune—indeed, they knew nothing of his
methods of doing business—and, upon learning that Mollie and her father
were to leave for New York that evening, Mollie having sent a messenger
with a brief explanatory note to Brookline, to get a box that had been
stored there, they drove in town to pay them a farewell visit.

Mr. Heatherford was out, but Mollie received them courteously and
strove to entertain them graciously, and yet the visit was formal and
constrained; for the power of thought is mightier than the tongue,
and Mrs. Temple’s mental attitude, in spite of her surface smiles and
volubility, made itself felt.

Phil threw something of the lover into his manner, notwithstanding the
warning glance from his mother, at parting, and gave Mollie’s hand a
lingering pressure that was intended to speak volumes, while he observed,
as he loitered a moment after Mrs. Temple passed from the room:

“Mollie, I cannot bear to have you go like this; tell me where to address
you, and I will write.”

“At the old home on Fifth Avenue, for the next week or two; more than
that I cannot tell you at present,” she replied.

“All right; you will hear from me very soon, and you must write me an
explanation of this sudden flitting—I do not understand it at all,” Phil
observed as, with another hand-clasp, he hurried away at his mother’s
call from the hall.

To do him justice, he was somewhat in the dark regarding the unexpected
departure of the Heatherfords. He had attended Mollie to a concert
the night but one before, and, as she had known nothing of what was
before her, of course nothing was said about any change, and the first
intimation Phil had received was when her note had come announcing her
return to New York that evening, and requesting that the “box” be sent
to the railway-station for a certain train.

When he questioned his mother, she could tell him nothing beyond the
fact that she knew that Mr. Heatherford’s “venture” had failed, and
she supposed he had got to get home and settle up his affairs as
best he could. Mrs. Temple would gladly have escaped the ordeal of a
leave-taking, but she knew she could not do so without violating all
rules of courtesy and decency; so, calling upon Phil to attend her, and
thus prevent a “private interview and all nonsense” between the young
couple, she made her farewell call.

Mollie and her father left on one of the Sound boats that same evening,
arriving in New York the following morning, when they repaired at once
to their palatial home on Fifth Avenue, and which they immediately
proceeded to dismantle and make over, with most of its treasures, to Mr.
Heatherford’s creditors.

Three days later all the world knew that the man had lost his all, but
that he would meet every dollar of his liabilities, and thus leave a
clean record and an untarnished name behind him when he should drop out
of the social world, where he had so long held a prominent position.

Philip Wentworth wrote Mollie, as he had promised to do, a few days
after her departure; but there was very little of the lover manifest
in the studied sentences which he indited, and Mollie’s lips curled
involuntarily with scorn, as, reading between the lines, she realized
that she had been wiser than she knew when she had refused to commit
herself by either confession or promise, to one who could not stand
faithful under the frowns of misfortune.

She wrote a kind and friendly letter in reply, telling him frankly just
how she and her father were situated—that they had lost everything, and
were both about to learn from practical experience what it meant to have
to work for a living.

“But”—and there was an undercurrent of reserve force and triumph in every
line—“even though the future seemed to point to a far humbler sphere in
life than they had ever known, she was by no means unhappy in view of the
prospect, for she hoped now to learn just what she was best fitted for,
and to prove the mettle of which she was made.”

There was no word or even hint of any tenderer sentiment in her letter,
and Philip Wentworth heaved a sigh of relief as he read it, while he
“thanked his lucky stars” that she had reserved her answer to his rash
and impulsive proposal that day when they floated down the sunlit
Charles, and thus he had escaped an entanglement that would have been
exceedingly awkward for him to have broken away from.

Nevertheless, such is the perversity of human nature, he chafed in secret
because he had failed to subjugate the heart he had coveted most of all,
and so add another to the many victories of that kind which he flattered
himself he had won.

He sent her a note of regret and condolence, and intimated that he should
expect to hear from her often, and to be kept posted regarding any change
of location, and hoped the time was not far distant when he should see
her again.

But it was a long time after that before he heard from her again, and
henceforth his letters to Gertrude Athol took on a tenderer tone,
although he did not definitely refer to any consummation of their hopes,
yet mentioned casually that he was contemplating getting settled in some
business as soon as he could find a favorable opening.

Mollie Heatherford, however, realized that her old-time lover had proved
recreant, even though he was too cowardly to confess it. But she did
not grieve for him; she was far too busy, even if she had been inclined
to do so, during those trying days when she was assisting her father in
the settlement of his affairs and superintending the packing of their
household-furnishings and treasures, which were to be sent to various
places to be sold.

Not a murmur escaped her, not a sigh nor a tear, as one after another of
the dear and beautiful things were removed from their accustomed places.
She was cheerful, sunny, and intensely practical through it all, and
chased many a gloomy cloud from her father’s brow by a merry laugh, a
sparkling jest, and now and then by a mock reproof because he “didn’t
obey orders from his superior any better.”

At last these sad duties were completed, and Mr. Heatherford, having
obtained through the influence of a friend a situation in the post-office
department at Washington, they removed to that city, where, taking a tiny
house in a quiet but respectable locality, Mollie became mistress of the
very modest home which their means would allow.

The enterprising girl wanted to put in an immediate application for a
position as teacher in the public schools, but her father would not
listen to the project, and appeared so sensitive upon the subject that
she finally yielded, though reluctantly, and tried to be content with
doing all in her power to make home pleasant and attractive for him.

And they were very happy, in spite of the great change in their
circumstances and manner of living. They had only five rooms, but they
were prettily, if cheaply, furnished, with odd pieces which they had been
unable to dispose of when breaking up in New York. Mollie proved herself
a very thrifty and efficient little housekeeper, and carefully followed
the instructions of an experienced colored woman who came to help her for
a few hours every day.

Mollie Heatherford, untrained in domestic economy as she was, cheerfully
faced the changed conditions of her life with a brave heart. The former
heiress to millions, the carefully nurtured idol of a loving father,
brought up from infancy in the lap of luxury, carefully shielded from
the rough side of the world, now faced the stern battle of life as the
daughter of a government clerk with a true womanly spirit of independence
and determination.

Mr. Heatherford’s salary proved to be ample for all their needs, and they
were even able to save something from it every month.

Mollie had begged a monthly allowance for household expenses, as soon as
they were settled, and her father had given her sixty dollars, reserving
the remainder of his income for rent and incidentals, and the girl was
jubilant at the end of the month when she showed him a balance in her
favor of fifteen dollars.

“I will do even better than that next month, papa,” she said with shining
eyes, after she had made him go over her neatly kept accounts with
her, “for, of course, I have made some mistakes during the last four
weeks, but Ellen knows how to make every penny count, and I am learning
something new every day.”

But, as the winter passed and the sunny days of an early spring warned
them that summer would soon be upon them, Mollie could see that,
notwithstanding his apparent cheerfulness, her father’s health was
suffering from the unaccustomed confinement of the winter. He said he
was well, but she knew that he was not, and she watched him with jealous
eyes. He rallied somewhat during the month of his vacation, which they
spent in a quiet New England town by the sea. This improvement, however,
proved to be only temporary, for, late in October, he was suddenly
prostrated by some affection of the brain which, from the outset, baffled
the physician who had been called to attend him.

Another doctor was called, but the change brought no better results
and Mollie grew wild with anxiety, as she realized that, in spite of
everything, her dear one’s mind was rapidly failing, like a candle that
has nearly burned out, for there were times when he did not seem to know
her; then he would rally for a day or two, only to lose ground faster
than ever.

Finally Doctor Partridge, the attending physician, requested that a
consultation of specialists might be called, as he did not wish to assume
the responsibilities of the case any longer without advice.

Mollie grasped eagerly at this straw, and two noted physicians were
sent for to confer with Doctor Partridge. It was not a long conference,
fortunately for the poor girl to whom the suspense of that one hour was
torturing beyond description.

It was over at last, and the physician came to her, his face very grave
and pitiful. Mollie sprang to her feet at his approach, and stood rigid
and snow-white before him, awaiting the verdict.

“Miss Heatherford,” he said very gently, “it is my painful duty to tell
you that there is absolutely no help for your father. We are all agreed
that materia medica has been exhausted in his case, and it is only a
question of time when he will entirely lose his mind and become utterly
helpless. The specialists advised me not to tell you the worst, but I had
given you my word that I would not keep anything back from you, therefore
I could not feel justified in deceiving you.”

Mollie listened to this cruel ultimatum like one petrified and feeling as
if she also were losing her mind. Then the strong curb which she had put
upon herself suddenly gave way and she burst forth in wildly rebellious
tones:

“I do not believe it! It cannot be true! I will not believe it! Oh, God
is good—surely He will not leave me utterly desolate! Doctor Partridge,
there must be help somewhere—is there not some one else to whom we can
appeal? I cannot live without my father!”

The physician was almost sorry that he had not listened to the advice
of his colleagues and kept the blighting truth from her. But she had
been so calm and self-possessed through all that he had overestimated
her strength. Still she had insisted upon being told and he had pledged
himself to withhold nothing, and he believed he was doing his duty.
He was a kind-hearted and conscientious man, and had been almost an
enthusiast in his profession, but there had been times when he was
sorely perplexed—when he was led to doubt the virtue of drugs and
the conflicting and inefficient methods of his profession, and these
seasons of doubt he found becoming more and more frequent as disease and
experiences like the present were multiplied.

Doctor Partridge spent a long time with the sorely afflicted girl, trying
to comfort and quiet her and advising her regarding the future care of
her father. He told her that the most that could be done now would be
to make him physically comfortable, and in order to do this she must
have some strong, reliable woman come to relieve her of household cares
and assist in the nursing. He said he knew of just the right person—a
faithful negress, who had had large experience in sickness, was an
excellent cook and who would be glad of a comfortable home and small
wages.

Mollie wondered vaguely where the money was coming from to defray all
these extra expenses, but she did not demur; she told the doctor to send
the woman at once, and when she came, the following day, the weary and
sorrowful girl found her a tower of strength, not only in the care of her
father, but to her aching heart as well.

“Don’t yo’ take on so, honey,” said the sympathetic creature, when
Mollie, with a wild burst of grief, told her of her father’s hopeless
case. “De doctors don’t know eberyt’ing, spite of der pertenshuns; yo’
jest trust de Lord, honey, an’ He’ll brung it out all right.”

“Oh, where is God, Eliza?” cried Mollie helplessly, while sobs shook her
slight form like a reed.

“I ’spects He am ebrywhere, honey,” returned the woman, with humble
faith, and then she brought her young mistress a steaming cup of tea,
which she made her drink, firmly believing it a panacea for an aching
heart as well as an empty stomach.

But Mollie was no weakling. When the first fierce rebellion was over
she began to consider the situation in a practical way. What was to be
done for the future? How was her helpless charge, to say nothing about
herself, to be provided for? Nearly all of the money which both she and
her father had saved had been swallowed up by the physicians and other
expenses of his illness, and some provision must now be made for their
daily needs.

She could teach, if she could obtain a position; but she had no
influential friends in the city to whom to apply for aid to secure a
school. She studied the papers every day, with the hope of finding some
want or advertisement that would come within her capabilities; but
it was late in the season—the public schools were all supplied with
teachers, and nothing else seemed to offer without requiring her to be
absent from home too many hours during the day, and the outlook seemed
dark.

One morning she had an errand to do at a bank on Pennsylvania Avenue,
and, after attending to it and making one or two necessary purchases, she
walked swiftly to a corner, to wait for a car to take her home. A pretty
French maid, who was trundling in an elegant perambulator a lovely child
of about three years, was standing talking with a young man, evidently of
her own nationality.

They became so absorbed in each other that they appeared to be wholly
unmindful of the child, who, however, seemed to be safe enough, for all
Mollie could see, although she felt that the girl was neglectful of duty.

Presently an ice-cart drove to the curb and stopped. Almost at the same
instant a strong gust of wind swept around the corner, catching the
perambulator and sending it rolling to the very edge of the sidewalk,
and within three feet of where Mollie was standing. But before she could
stretch forth her hand to save it, it went off, was overturned, and the
child, with a shriek of fear, rolled to the ground, directly in front of
the powerful gray horse that was attached to the wagon.

The animal tossed its head with a startled snort, and reared upon his
hind legs. The driver, a powerful man, with great presence of mind
snatched at his reins and, by sheer muscular strength, held the animal
back upon his haunches, with his forefeet madly pawing the air.

“For God’s sake, grab that young one, somebody!” he shouted wildly.

The French maid and her companion both appeared to be paralyzed with
fear. Neither seemed able to move from the spot where they stood,
although the girl filled the air with her shrieks.

Mollie, without a thought of anything save the precious life of the
little one, bounded forward, and crouching low under the formidable
hoofs, seized the tiny form by its clothing and sprang back upon the
sidewalk, just in season to escape being crushed to death as the
ponderous animal, now beyond the driver’s control, came down upon its
forefeet.

It was a close shave, and had Mollie hesitated an instant, the child
would have been beyond the reach of human aid. As it was, the fright
and the fall had rendered it unconscious, and a slight abrasion on one
plump little cheek, where the iron shoe had just grazed it, showed how
very narrow had been the escape. Mollie’s skirt was badly torn where the
descending hoof had caught and taken a piece out of it.

The nurse was almost beside herself with mingled joy and fear, and would
have snatched her little charge from Mollie’s arms, but she gently
repulsed her, and said in French—the language in which the girl had been
conversing with her friend: “Be quiet, the baby is not hurt, and I am
sure she will soon be quite herself. I will take her into this drug-store
and have her cared for—secure the carriage and then follow me.”

The maid mechanically obeyed her, and appeared greatly relieved to have
some one assume the responsibility of attending to her charge.

The proprietor of the store had once been a practising physician, and
into his care Mollie gave the little one. She had already begun to
revive, and now manifested considerable fear at finding herself in the
arms of a strange gentleman, who, after looking her over carefully, said
that she was uninjured.

Mollie was very sweet and gentle with her, and she was more than
half-reassured before the familiar face of her nurse appeared, when she
lapsed from tears to smiles, and was soon chatting like a magpie, in
French, with them both.

The perambulator also had escaped serious injury, greatly to the surprise
of every one, and little Lucille, as the child was named, was ere long
comfortably settled among her pillows and being trundled homeward by the
thankful Nannette.

Mollie walked a short distance with them, for she saw that the girl was
still greatly overcome from the shock which she had sustained, and she
kindly strove to reassure her, but cautioned her never to let go the
handle of the perambulator when she was on the street with the little one.

She left them at the next corner, where they were to turn, having
persuaded Lucille to kiss her and given her address to Nannette, who
begged to know where she lived, so that she might come to thank her
again when she was more herself; then she hailed an approaching car, and
returned to her own cares and responsibilities.

The further experiences of the personages in this story will be related
in the sequel to this story entitled “The Heatherford Fortune,” published
in style and price uniform with this volume.

THE END.




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  =Beau Brocade.= By Baroness Orczy.
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  =Going Some.= By Rex Beach.
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  =Imprudence of Prue, The.= By Sophie Fisher.
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  =Island of Regeneration, The.= By Cyrus Townsend Brady.
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  =Lady Merton, Colonist.= By Mrs. Humphrey Ward.
  =Lord Loveland Discovers America.= By C. N. & A. M. Williamson.
  =Love the Judge.= By Wymond Carey.
  =Man Outside, The.= By Wyndham Martyn.
  =Marriage of Theodora, The.= By Molly Elliott Seawell.
  =My Brother’s Keeper.= By Charles Tenny Jackson.
  =My Lady of the South.= By Randall Parrish.
  =Paternoster Ruby, The.= By Charles Edmonds Walk.
  =Politician, The.= By Edith Huntington Mason.
  =Pool of Flame, The.= By Louis Joseph Vance.
  =Poppy.= By Cynthia Stockley.
  =Redemption of Kenneth Galt, The.= By Will N. Harben.
  =Rejuvenation of Aunt Mary, The.= By Anna Warner.
  =Road to Providence, The.= By Maria Thompson Davies.
  =Romance of a Plain Man, The.= By Ellen Glasgow.
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  =Three Brothers, The.= By Eden Phillpotts.
  =Thurston of Orchard Valley.= By Harold Bindloss.
  =Title Market, The.= By Emily Post.
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  =Village of Vagabonds, A.= By F. Berkeley Smith.
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