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.”