CLIFFORD LEARNS HIS FATHER'S NAME.
Maria, evidently, was not far away, for she entered the room almost
immediately after the ringing of Squire Talford's bell and bearing the
box in her hands. She paused, after closing the door, and glanced
inquiringly at the squire.
"Give it to him," he said, with a nod toward Clifford, and Maria placed
it in his hands, after which she walked quietly from the room again.
Clifford was deeply moved, and his hands trembled visibly as he untied
the cord that held the cover in place and removed it. He merely glanced
at the letters as he took them out; but seized the folded parchment with
an eagerness which betrayed how anxious he was to learn the identity of
the man who had married and deserted his mother.
He removed the pin that held the two papers together and unfolded the
topmost one, which proved to be the marriage-certificate. He searched it
eagerly for the name he wanted, and a perplexed look swept over his face
as he read it: "W. F. T. Wilton."
"W. F. T. Wilton," he repeated thoughtfully. "Well, it does not
enlighten me very much. What do the initials 'W. F. T.' stand for?"
"William Faxon Temple," briefly replied his companion, and regarding him
with a peculiar look.
At first the name did not seem to mean much to Clifford. Then, all at
once, he started erect, a terrible shock galvanizing him from head to
foot, as his mind flew back to his first summer in the mountains, where
he had met the wealthy banker, William F. Temple, and his family; as he
recalled also his interview with the man on the morning after Minnie
Temple's rescue, when he had been so strangely moved upon learning his
own name.
"But it cannot be possible!" he muttered, repudiating the thought almost
as soon as it had taken form in his mind.
"What cannot be possible?" inquired the squire.
"Why, I know a man here in Washington by the name of William F. Temple,
and it struck me as an odd coincidence that is all," Clifford explained,
but with clouded eyes.
"Well?" said the squire, but with such a peculiar intonation that
Clifford started again.
"You cannot mean--surely it cannot be possible that he is the man you
refer to--your half-brother!" he cried breathlessly.
"Yes, he, and no other, is the man," was the emphatic response, "only he
has found it convenient to drop the name of Wilton."
"But are you sure? Have you met this man who calls himself William F.
Temple? Do you know that he is your brother?"
"Yes, I am sure--we have met and recognized each other, greatly to his
confusion. I could take my oath as to his identity and that he is the
man who married Belle Abbot more than twenty-three years ago, though I
am sure he has never dreamed of your existence, for you were born eight
months after he had deserted your mother. She called herself by the name
of Faxon and named you Clifford, for your grandfather, Abbot. She said
you should never be known by the name of Wilton, and as the population
of New Haven was constantly changing, and her home was on the outskirts
of the city, she hoped to keep your identity a secret and your young
life unhampered by any knowledge of the great wrong of which your father
had been guilty. She never heard one word from her husband, and she
finally came to the conclusion that he must be dead. I also shared that
belief, for I was pretty sure that if he was alive and needed money he
would make some effort to get his share of his mother's property; but
four years ago last summer we suddenly ran across each other on a train
between New York and Albany----"
"You did?" sharply interposed Clifford, "and did you tell him of my
existence?"
"You may be sure I didn't. I never meant that any one should know that
there was any tie of kinship between you and me," replied the squire,
with some asperity. "At first Bill pretended that he did not know me,
but I very soon brought him down from his high horse and convinced him
that I knew my man. He was dressed like a nabob, and told me that he had
become rich--he even told me that I was welcome to all that our mother
left, and that he should never give me any trouble about his share of
it; but I supposed that was a kind of bribe for me to let him alone,
and, as I'd come to look upon everything as belonging to me, I concluded
to give him a wide berth, rather than to get into an expensive lawsuit
over the matter. I never met him again until the day you took your
degree at Harvard--bah! I did not mean to let that cat out of the bag!"
the man interposed, with a shrug of irritation and flushing hotly.
"Oh! I knew you were there," Clifford quietly returned. "I saw you
almost as soon as I entered the hall, and your presence was a great
inspiration--I feel I owe you a great deal for it."
"An inspiration!" repeated his companion, wonderingly.
"Yes; for I knew you had come to criticize--to ascertain for yourself if
I had been able to work my own way through college and acquit myself
creditably, and the knowledge proved a wonderful bracer for me. But you
were telling me about your second meeting with Mr. Temple."
"Yes, I ran against him and his whole family just as I was leaving the
grounds. They were a stunning party, and their carriage and horses as
fine as one would care to see. But it nearly took Bill's breath away to
see me--he looked as if he had met a ghost, though neither of us let on
that he knew the other," the squire explained.
"And that man is my father!--you have taken my breath away by the
revelation," said Clifford, with an air of bewilderment and a sudden
sense of repulsion. "However, I have no desire to lay claim to any such
relationship. Do you know where he went and how he made his money after
he deserted my mother?"
"I've been told that he 'struck pay-gravel' in some Western mines; then
went to San Francisco, where he set up as a banker, got into society
there, and served one or two terms as Mayor of the city and met his
present wife--who was a rich widow by the name of Wentworth and married
her there. I learned this from a San Francisco man whom I met when I
first came to Washington."
"When--how long ago was he married to this woman?" Clifford questioned,
with a violent start.
"I'm sure I don't know--I haven't felt interest enough in their affairs
to make any inquiries about the matter," said the squire indifferently.
"I remember when I met him on that trip to Albany I told him that all
the folks at home were gone. He said he knew it--he'd kept himself
posted; so I suppose he must have married this woman after that."
But Clifford had grown deathly pale while he was speaking, for his mind
had been working rapidly.
"No--no; great heaven;" he exclaimed, "I am sure he must have married
her before my mother died!"
"What's that?" exclaimed the squire, and now all on the alert, while a
malicious gleam flashed into his eyes.
"Yes, I am sure of it--oh! the shame of it!" groaned Clifford in deep
distress, "and that dear, sweet child, Minnie, who is, of course, my
half-sister, has no legal right to the name she bears; neither has her
proud-spirited mother. What a wretch that man has been!"
"Hold on, my boy--don't go so fast," interposed his companion, with
considerable excitement. "What is all this lament about?--explain what
you mean."
"You have said that you have seen Mr. Temple's whole family; then of
course you know that he has a beautiful little daughter about eleven
years old----"
"His child by this second marriage?--are you sure?" exclaimed the squire
breathlessly.
"Yes; her name is Minnie Temple."
"Ha! I had never given a thought to the girl nor her possible age. But
if what you say is true, I have lived to see him bitterly punished," and
the man chuckled maliciously.
"Ah, yes, he must long have felt that a sword was hanging over his
head," Clifford gravely observed. "Let me see; I met the family in the
White Mountains during the vacation after my first year at college.
Minnie was then five years old; more than five years have elapsed since
then, so she must be between ten and eleven now, and my mother died ten
years ago last August," he concluded, with a look of keen pain in his
eyes.
"And that proves Mrs. Temple to be no wife and the child illegitimate.
Bill Wilton was a fool ever to show his face this side of the Rockies
again--it's a true saying, 'give a rogue rope enough and he'll hang
himself.' We'll fix him now, though I never dared to hope for such a
triumph as this," said the squire, with another chuckle that actually
made Clifford's flesh creep.
"Oh, don't!" he exclaimed, with mingled disgust and distress.
"Don't!" repeated the man in a tone of astonishment. "Don't you want to
see a rascal like that brought to justice? I do. His whole life has been
one long story of selfish indulgence and crime."
"I am not thinking of him at all," said Clifford sorrowfully, "but of
the innocent ones who have been so deeply wronged by him--that lovely
woman and her sweet child----"
"How about yourself?" snapped the squire. "You have your rights."
"My dear mother was a legal wife. Assured of that, I am not disturbed
about myself, as far as Mr. Temple is concerned. I have fought my way
thus far, and I shall go still higher, without extorting anything from
him."
"But you surely will demand that he shall do the fair thing by you in
the disposition of his property."
"No!" cried Clifford, in a tone of scornful repudiation. "I would never
claim kinship with such a man and I want none of his gold. But"--a
wistful expression creeping into his eyes and dropping into a musing
tone--"I could love that dear child--my little half-sister--very
tenderly if I might be allowed to. I have always felt a sort of
proprietorship in her ever since the day that I went over that precipice
after her--somehow she has seemed to belong to me in a way, though I
little imagined that I was rescuing my own sister from a terrible
death----"
"'Death!--rescue!'" repeated the squire wonderingly, "what are you
talking about, Cliff?"
The young man looked up with a smile and shook himself. "I was dreaming
of the past, and hardly realized that I was speaking aloud," he said.
Then he described the event, while the man listened attentively, his
eyes fastened upon the manly young face, and a look of wonder grew in
his eyes as he began to comprehend the heroism of the deed.
"And you did that! you went over that precipice and down a hundred feet
on a rope and back again, the same way, with that child on your back!"
he demanded in astonishment when Clifford concluded.
"Of course--there was nothing else to be done."
"Weren't you afraid?--you must have known that you were liable to lose
your head, fall and be dashed to atoms on the rocks below."
"Well, I knew there was a risk, of course; but I did not stop to think
about being afraid. I should have gone, just the same, if I had known I
should fail--I could not leave that child there without making an effort
to save her," was the grave reply.
"Well, that makes another!" ejaculated the squire thoughtfully.
"Another what?" questioned Clifford, who did not catch his companion's
meaning.
"Another deed to be proud of," was the hearty, but almost involuntary
response.
It was now Clifford's turn to look astonished--and he was beyond
measure--for it was the first time he had ever heard a word of genuine
commendation from the man's lips.
"Thank you, sir," he earnestly returned.
"Humph!" grunted the squire, as if half-ashamed of having betrayed so
much weakness; "so you don't appear to be very much elated over the fact
that you are the sole heir to William Faxon Temple's millions."
"No, sir; I do not want a dollar of his money," was the spirited reply,
"and I should never--under any circumstances--attempt to prove myself
his heir, or entitled to bear his name. My mother named me Clifford
Faxon, and while I live I will bear no other."
"Well, I must say, you are mighty indifferent about your rights; and you
do not seem to grasp the fact either, that, as my nephew, there is a
possibility that you may inherit something handsome from me one of these
days," and the man regarded him curiously as he said this.
Clifford flushed again.
"I had not thought of such a thing, I assure you," he said coldly. "Of
course I cannot help the fact that a certain relationship exists between
us; but I do not want your property, Squire Talford--I don't want any
man's money."
"Oh, you don't! It strikes me that you are mighty independent, and
perhaps may live to regret assuming such airs," snapped his companion,
in evident irritation. Then he added maliciously: "But then, I forgot
for the moment that you are expecting to marry a fortune--I am told
that Miss Heatherford is a rich girl."
Clifford was secretly furious at this spiteful thrust; nothing but his
respect for the man's age and weakened condition kept him from voicing a
scathing retort.
"Miss Heatherford's property will be settled exclusively upon herself
before she becomes my wife," he merely replied, with an air of dignity
that sat well upon him. "I have no desire to build myself up upon the
foundation of another. From my earliest boyhood I have been conscious of
something within me that was bound to rise, and if I have my health I
have no fear that I shall be able to make for myself a name and position
of which neither I nor my friends will be ashamed."
"Humph!" grunted the squire again; but he shot a look at the fine face
opposite him that had an unwonted gleam of respect in it.
"You remarked a while ago," Clifford resumed after a moment of silence,
"that you believe Mr. Temple is unaware of the fact that he has a son. I
am confident you are mistaken. I am quite sure that he knows that I am
his son, although he evidently thinks that I am ignorant regarding my
relationship to him."
He then described his first meeting with Mr. Temple a few days after
Minnie Temple's accident, and how agitated the man had been upon
learning of his name and the fact that he had been bound to Squire
Talford for four years.
The squire smiled grimly as he concluded:
"Well, it does look as if he had an inkling of the truth, that's a
fact," he said, "and he must have had quite a shock at the time--he
couldn't have felt over and above easy, I'm thinking, especially since I
came to Washington. I don't see that it has done much good telling you
this story," he went on moodily, "except that perhaps it has set your
mind at rest about your origin. I don't suppose I should ever have told
it if it hadn't been for Maria--she was bound that you should know the
truth, and, on the whole, I am not sorry it is over with."
Clifford made no reply to these remarks--he felt they called for
none--but busied himself with gathering up his papers and replacing them
in their box, his companion regarding him curiously while he did so.