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.