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.”