CHAPTER XVIII.

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.”