CHAPTER XII.

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.”