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.”