CHAPTER XX.

MOLLIE MAKES A DISCOVERY.

Phil studied the fair face opposite him closely for a moment, a gleam of jealous fire burning in his eyes.

“‘Given it away!’” he repeated, throwing a note of reproach into his tones. Then, a harsh laugh breaking from his lips, he added: “Really, Mollie, in view of the past, I am very much inclined to be jealous.”

“Are you?” she questioned, with seeming nonchalance.

“Don’t you think it was rather hard on me—that you might be accused of partiality?” Phil inquired.

“I do not think that term at all applicable to the case,” Mollie quietly replied.

“Well, not knowing to what ‘case’ you refer, of course I am not capable of judging either for or against,” Philip observed in a somewhat injured tone.

Mollie laughed outright, and her eyes danced with mischief.

“Mr. Curiosity,” she retorted saucily, “if you want to know why I gave away the ring and to whom, why do you not ask?”

“You might regard me as unduly inquisitive,” said the young man demurely.

“So you are,” she flashed back at him. “I am sure you are just dying to know, and, as there is really no reason why you should not, I will tell you.”

She then proceeded to relate all that had occurred during her journey to New York on that sultry July afternoon four years ago, describing the terrible storm, her loneliness and fear, the sudden shock and stopping of the train, the falling of the maple-tree across the track, and Clifford Faxon’s heroic efforts to remove the dangerous obstruction, thus preventing a shocking accident.

As she talked she seemed to live over again the whole of that thrilling experience. She shrank visibly as she described the vivid flashes of lightning and the deafening crashes that seemed to be almost simultaneous. She caught her breath sharply as she told of those piercing whistles, which bespoke imminent danger to every quaking heart, and of the shrieks and cries, the white faces and trembling forms of men, women, and children as they expected every instant to be hurled into eternity.

Then came her description of the youthful hero as he appeared working for dear life, without a thought of self, while the conflict of elements and the deluge swept over and raged around him.

She waxed eloquent as she spoke of his poverty, how he had been clad in the coarsest and meanest of garments, with old and clumsy shoes on his feet, without hat, coat, or vest, or anything to commend him to the fastidious eye, except his frank, noble face, his honest, fearless eyes and his manly bearing.

“One did not mind his lack of suitable clothing,” she went on earnestly, “as one looked into his countenance and read there the truth and integrity of his character, and he had the finest eyes I ever saw. I am sure, though, that he had had a hard life, for he said he had been bound out to a man on a farm when he was thirteen years old for four years, but that his time was almost up, and then he was going to try to get a college education. Some gentlemen on the train took up a collection to give him a start. There was quite a generous sum raised—I don’t know just how much, but almost everybody was glad to do something to manifest their gratitude, and when we reached New Haven the money was presented to him, and he was then sent home in a hack.”

“Really! Then the young rustic rode in state for once in his life,” Phil here interposed, with an ill-concealed sneer, and Mollie wondered at the malice in his tone and what could have made his face grow so startlingly pale.

“Yes, and why shouldn’t he?” she demanded spiritedly, for his words and manner grated upon her. “Just think what he had done—prevented a terrible accident, saved thousands of dollars’ worth of property and the lives, doubtless, of many people; and, besides, he was completely exhausted by his efforts, and it would have been a shame to have allowed him to get back to his home in the country as best he could. Why, if a fortune had been raised for him there on the spot, it would not have been an adequate return. He was a hero, he had done a deed to be proud of, and for which he should be honored all his life; and he was so modest about it, too—as if he had only been chopping wood to make a fire! Why, Phil, I’d rather do a deed like that than have all the wealth and social honors of the world heaped upon me!” Mollie concluded, with gleaming eyes and glowing cheeks.

“Well, but about the ring; was it to this—‘hero’ that you gave it?” questioned Philip, in a peculiar tone.

“Oh!” Mollie exclaimed, a silvery laugh rippling over her lips. “I had become so interested in telling the story that I had forgotten all about the ring. Yes. I was so grateful that I wanted to make it manifest personally, and I went to him, when we arrived in New Haven, thanked him, and asked him to accept the cameo as a memento of my gratitude.”

“Did you learn the name of this most wonderful of heroes?” queried Philip sarcastically.

Mollie sat suddenly erect, stung to the quick and flushing indignantly at the satirical fling.

“Why do you speak so slightingly about him, Philip?” she cried; “don’t you love to hear about brave deeds? Aren’t you glad to know that there are such noble and heroic souls in the world?”

“Oh, yes, of course. Did I speak slightingly? You must pardon me, but, truly, Mollie, I was somewhat amused, in view of your enthusiasm over this valorous backwoodsman,” Philip replied, with a laugh that had something of mockery in it.

“I think I have reason to be enthusiastic,” the fair girl coldly responded. “Yes,” she added, “I did learn the young man’s name—Clifford Faxon, he gave it, and I wish——”

“Well, what do you wish?” her companion demanded, and finding it difficult to control himself as she had pronounced the name he so hated, notwithstanding he had been prepared to hear it.

“I wish that I might meet him again. I would like to know if he attempted to go through college, and, if so, what success he is having,” said Mollie, with an earnest look on her face. “I am sure he will ultimately succeed in whatever he undertakes, for there was strength of purpose written on every line of his handsome face.”

Philip Wentworth gnawed his lip until the blood started, and a cruel, steellike glitter flashed into his eyes at this. He was furious, in view of the girl’s interest in the young man whom he had hated for years. It galled him almost beyond endurance to hear Clifford Faxon’s praises sounded by every one who knew him, but Mollie’s encomiums drove him almost to the verge of madness, and he was determined that she should never learn that Faxon had been a classmate of his—she should never meet her hero again if he could help it.

To be sure, he had said that he could never marry a poor girl; but there was a bare possibility that Mr. Heatherford might retrieve his fallen fortunes, and, in such an event, he would be only too eager to make Mollie his wife. He was beginning to feel that life would be very blank to him without her. Her beauty, her brilliant accomplishments, her amiable, yet spirited disposition, her high standard of life and its pursuits all made him realize that she was a woman to be worshiped, and that she had won a place in his heart which could never be given to another.

These feelings were intensified and his fiercest jealousy aroused by her openly acknowledged admiration for Clifford Faxon. He had been stung by Gertrude Athol’s praise of and friendliness for him; but that had been as nothing when compared with his present feelings upon hearing his name so reverently spoken by Mollie, and with that indescribable look on her fair face. He was, however, obliged to conceal his ire from her, and presently turning his canoe and changing the topic at the same time, they drifted slowly down the stream with the current toward the landing, and ere long were on the train back to town.

Another week slipped swiftly by, and as Miss Athol had returned to Buffalo, Phil had more time to devote to Mollie, of whom he became more and more enamored with every passing day; and as she always drew out all that was best in him, she little dreamed what grave defects there were in his character, and appeared to enjoy his society and gratefully appreciated his efforts to make her visit pleasant.

Mrs. Temple watched the couple with ever-increasing anxiety, and wished from her heart that something would occur to cut the Heatherfords’ visit short before irreparable mischief resulted. One morning she sought her son, and gravely cautioned him.

“Phil, you really must not do anything rash,” she said. “Mollie is the nicest girl in the world, I am willing to admit, but you can’t be saddled with a poor wife. Your income, though fair, will not admit of it, with your tastes, and Mollie’s are expensive, too. If this last venture of Mr. Heatherford’s should fall through, he will be utterly ruined and the girl a beggar; so take care!”

“I suppose that is good advice from a worldly point of view,” the young man responded, “but she is, as you have said, the very nicest girl in the world, and it is a deuced shame that the old man has lost his money; confound it!”

Mrs. Temple looked startled at this outburst, and well she might, for she could plainly read in Phil’s pale, pain-drawn face the story of his life, and knew that he had given his whole heart into Mollie Heatherford’s keeping.

“Phil!” she cried regretfully. “I am sorry I ever asked them here. I never would have had them come if I had known, and I shall be glad when they go. But you must not make a fatal mistake. Suppose you make some excuses to go away; take a trip to the Adirondacks, or go West for a while?”

Phil gave vent to a hollow laugh.

“Suppose, on the other hand, that, mothlike, I prefer to flutter around the candle and get singed?” he recklessly returned, as he saw that his mother had read his secret. “Or suppose that I should be inclined to turn over a new leaf, settle down to some business, and be willing to work for the girl I love?”

“Phil!” gasped Mrs. Temple again, and growing pale herself at his strange mood. “Are you really so far gone as that? I believe I shall insist upon your going away, for I never will consent to let you marry a beggar, though I’ll own I’m very fond of Mollie myself, and should be proud of her as a daughter if she only had money enough to sustain the style she has always been accustomed to. Where is your pride, Philip Wentworth, that you are willing to spoil your whole life?”

If she could but have known it, she was missing the grandest, most precious opportunity of her life, for the scales that held her son’s future in the balance were on the point of tipping toward a better and nobler manhood, and had she wisely and tenderly dropped a few words of sympathy and encouragement into the love-laden heart laid bare before her, she might have wrought a marvelous change, and saved both herself and him much suffering and remorse.

But those last, arrogant words did their work. The young man sprang to his feet and shook himself as if just awakening from a dream.

“Never you fear, mother,” he said, with a careless toss of his head, “the Wentworth name shall never suffer in that way through any fault of mine. I reckon I can look out for myself; but I’m not going away—the Heatherfords would think it very strange, and I have a curiosity to see how the old gentleman’s venture turns out—if he should make a corner, why, I should be on hand to improve my opportunity.”

Mrs. Temple was not quite satisfied that he could “look out for himself” in the way she desired; but she felt that she had said enough for the present, and so allowed the matter to drop.

A day or two later there came a drenching rain, when, of course, there could be no excursion or sightseeing, and everybody was shut within doors; at least, after luncheon no one ventured out.

Mr. Temple and Mr. Heatherford were playing billiards up-stairs, and Mrs. Temple was in her own room reading to Minnie, who had been indisposed for a day or two.

Mollie and Phil were alone in the library, where, for a time, they amused themselves by looking over a collection of views and photographs, among which were many of Phil’s classmates and college friends. While they were thus engaged one of the programs of the recent commencement exercises at Harvard was found among them. Mollie picked it up and began to look it over.

At first Phil did not notice what she had, for he was searching for the likeness of a friend of whom they had been talking, and which he wished her to see. He found it at last, and turned to her with the picture in his hand, when, as he caught sight of the program, his heart gave a great, startled bound, and he grew cold as ice.

He knew that if Mollie should look it carefully through she would find Clifford Faxon’s name there, learn that he had been a classmate of his, how he had distinguished himself, and, worse than all, how he—Phil—had wilfully concealed these facts from her.

What should he do? How get it away from her before the mischief was done?

“What have you there, Mollie?” he inquired, assuming an indifferent tone. “Oh, it is the commencement program,” he added. “Come, don’t get absorbed in that just now, there will be time enough by and by to look it over, and I want you, who are so clever at reading faces, to tell me what you think of this.”

He playfully laid hold of the booklet in her hands and attempted to withdraw it from her.

She tightened her grasp upon it, for almost at that instant she had caught sight of the name which he was so anxious to keep from her.

She started slightly as she comprehended the situation; then her beautiful eyes flashed up to her companion’s face, and he shrank back from the scorn in them as if from a blow.

Mollie was as pale as marble, but there was a haughty poise to her small head, and a sudden stiffening of her whole form that actually made him cringe before her.

“Why did you not tell me that Clifford Faxon was a classmate of yours?” she demanded in icy tones.