CHAPTER III.

PRETTY HEIRESS PLEADS FOR CLIFFORD.

Clifford Faxon was really a striking-looking young man when arrayed in his best, which is by no means saying very much for his clothes, which were of the cheapest material.

But with his gentlemanly bearing, his clear, honest brown eyes, and frank, genial face, he was one who always attracted a second look from those whom he met.

One might have taken him for a son and heir of the squire, rather than a menial in his employ, as he issued once more from the house.

“Well, sir, where are you going now?” demanded Squire Talford, who was still sitting upon the veranda, and whose musings regarding his relations with his bound boy had not been of the most soothing nature during the last half-hour.

He well knew that, when Clifford’s time should expire, he would find it no easy matter to fill his place with another so capable and faithful, and he was irritated beyond measure over the probability of having to hire another man and pay full wages for what he had been getting for little or nothing during the last four years.

“I have an engagement with Professor Harding—it is my evening for reading Greek and Latin with him,” Clifford respectfully replied, and then proceeded on his way, apparently unmindful of the customary “humph!” to which his employer always gave vent whenever anything annoyed him.

When Clifford was obliged to leave the academy in April, according to the terms of his contract with Squire Talford, the principal had expressed a great deal of disappointment, for he would have graduated with high honors if he could have remained until the close of the school year, but his hard master would not give him the two months to complete the course. “The farm work must be done and Clifford could not be spared,” he coldly told the professor, who had presumed to intercede for his promising pupil. So the boy had been obliged to go into the field to plow, hoe, and dig, while his more favored classmates went on in advance of him and graduated.

But Professor Harding was determined that the boy’s education should not be interrupted, and told him that he would give him certain evenings in every week during the summer, and, if he could complete the course before fall, he should have his diploma, even though he could not acquire it in the ordinary way.

Clifford gladly availed himself of this opportunity, for his highest ambition was to prepare himself for and obtain a college education.

As he wended his way toward his teacher’s house his heart was beating high with hope, in spite of the weariness of his body, for, since counting the money in his possession, he had conceived the daring purpose of taking the examinations for Harvard for the coming year.

Professor Harding greeted him, as he always did, with a smile of pleasure, for he liked the plucky, manly boy.

“You are late to-night, Cliff,” he remarked, as he entered. Then, observing, that he was a trifle pale, he inquired: “Is anything wrong, my boy?”

Tears sprang involuntarily to the boy’s eyes at the kindly tone and smile; but, quickly repressing all signs of emotion, he seated himself and gave his friend a brief account of what had occurred, and closed by producing the munificent testimonial which he had received from the passengers of the “limited express” for preventing a terrible accident.

“I have brought this money to you, Professor Harding,” he observed, as he laid it upon the table before his friend, “to ask if you will invest it for me until I need it? It is my nest-egg for college, and I am going to take the exams. this fall.”

“Seven hundred and fifty dollars, Cliff!” the man exclaimed, in surprise; “that is surely a handsome gift, but it is far too little for the service you have rendered—that could never be estimated in dollars and cents. Why, the corporation ought to give you a thousand more for saving their property from being wrecked.”

“I am more than satisfied,” said Clifford, with a smile.

“But I am afraid you are a trifle presumptuous to contemplate entering college on so small an amount,” said his friend gravely. “The expenses will be heavy, you know. I feel sure you will pass the exams. all right, but I am thinking of the draft upon your strength later on if you try to work your own way.”

“I am going to try it, all the same,” said Clifford, his face brightening at the assurance of his teacher that he would “pass.”

“This money will surely suffice for one year with economy, and that will give me quite a start, while I am sure I do not need to tell you that I shall make the most of my time.”

“Indeed, you do not—you have always done that, ever since I have known you, but I wish you had some friends who could give you a lift along the way now and then. Have you no aunts or uncles? Do you remember your father, Cliff, or know anything about his family?” the professor thoughtfully inquired.

“No, sir,” said the boy with a sigh, “my mother would never talk about my father. Whenever I questioned her she would always put me off by saying, ‘Wait until you are older, my son, and then I shall have something to tell you.’”

“And did she leave no papers to explain what she meant?”

“No; at least, none that I could ever find.”

“Well, there will be some way provided for you, I am sure,” said the professor. “I will gladly take charge of your little fortune until you need it. I will see that it is safely invested for you to-morrow. Does the squire know about it?”

“Yes, and demanded it of me, because I am still under bonds,” replied Clifford, with a flash in his eyes.

“Demanded it!” repeated his companion, in surprise.

“Yes,” and the young man repeated, word for word, what had passed between himself and his task-master upon his return from New Haven.

“Well, I must say he is a hard man, and I cannot understand how any one as rich as Squire Talford is supposed to be can be so penurious and indifferent to so promising a fellow as you are, my boy!”

“Thank you,” responded Clifford, with a laugh, “I am certainly fortunate in having so kind a friend as you have always been to me, and now”—opening one of his books—“I am ready for my lesson.”

He read for an hour, becoming so absorbed in his work that he forgot his weariness and the trials of his young life, while his teacher followed with a manifest interest, which betrayed how deeply his feelings were enlisted in this pupil, who was so ambitious and such a credit to him.

Before 10 o’clock Clifford was back in his own room, where, on his table, he found an appetizing little lunch awaiting him. Until that moment he had forgotten that he had had no supper.

“Well,” he said, as he sat down to it, “I surely have one other good friend besides the professor. Maria always looks out for me; I am sure I should often go hungry but for her.”

Maria was Squire Talford’s woman-of-all-work. Less than half an hour later he was sleeping soundly and restfully, the consciousness of duty well done and a more promising outlook for the future sweetening his rest.

“Papa—please papa, do as I ask you; you are very rich, are you not?”

“Well, yes, Buttercup, I suppose I am what would be regarded as a rich man, even here in New York.”

“Then you can send this poor boy some money, just as well as not. Only think, papa, but for his bravery and the awful work that he did in that dreadful storm, there must have been a terrible accident, and I should never have come back to you, to say nothing about all those other people.”

“Hush, Goldenrod! I cannot bear that you should even hint at such a calamity; the house—the world would be utterly desolate without you. What would ten thousand fortunes be to me if I should lose you! Yes, Mollie, I will send this lad a substantial token of my gratitude, if I find he is worthy and likely to make a good use of money. I must be sure of that first,” and Richard Heatherford gathered the slim, graceful form of his only darling into his arms and held her close to his heart, while his eyes rested with tearful fondness upon the fair, flushed face that was lifted so earnestly to his.

She was his idol—this sweet, golden-haired, azure-eyed maiden, whom he had named Marie for his French mother, but whom he almost invariably addressed by some other tender pet-name, expressive of his fondness for her, while to her playmates and school friends she was known by the familiar name of Mollie.

She was sweet and lovable, always blithe and cheery, the life of the house, and a favorite with all who knew her.

Mr. Heatherford had met her in New York on her arrival on “the Limited,” and, the train being, of course, a little late, he was in a state of painful suspense until it rolled into the station, and he held his darling safe in his arms. When the two were seated in their elegant carriage behind a fine pair of bay horses, with driver and coachman in cream-white livery, and on their way uptown, Mollie, sitting beside her father with his arm enfolding her, had told the story of the thrilling experience of the afternoon, while the man’s face had grown as white as chalk, as he realized how very near he had come to losing his choicest earthly treasure.

Mollie had begged him then to send that brave boy “a lot of money,” but, for the time being, he did not pay much heed to her request. He could think of nothing, talk of nothing, but his thankfulness over her wonderful escape from an appalling doom. But the following morning, when, after breakfast, she followed him to the library and renewed the subject, he was more ready to listen to her, and finally yielded to her request to do something handsome for the lad, provided he found, upon inquiry, that he was worthy.

“Oh, he is certainly worthy, papa,” Mollie asserted with enthusiasm, “you never saw a nicer face than his. He isn’t handsome or stylish, like Phil, you know”—with a little mocking laugh—“but he has a pair of great, earnest brown eyes which make you feel good just to look into. His face is as brown as a nut—all but his forehead, which is white and high and nicely shaped like yours, papa dear,” and she emphasized her statement with a fond little caress planted directly between his brows. “He had no hat on,” she resumed; “he was in his shirt sleeves and wore overalls, and his shoes were as coarse and clumsy as they could be; but I never thought of his clothes after once looking into his face—it was so good, so honest, and true.”

“Really, sweetheart, you are very enthusiastic over this rustic hero of yours,” said Mr. Heatherford, and smiling at her earnestness, “but I cannot wonder, now that I begin to realize something of the feat that he accomplished.”

“And papa”—Mollie went on, now blushing and speaking with some embarrassment, “when we reached New Haven I went to him and thanked him for what he had done, and—I gave him that ring you let me buy last spring.”

“What! that cameo?”

“Yes; you know I wanted to give it to Cousin Rex when he went to California, but his mother had just given him a nice ring, and so I bought him something else and kept the cameo. I have always liked it, for it was so beautifully carved; so, even though it isn’t exactly a lady’s ring, I have worn it, now and then, myself. I happened to have it on yesterday.”

Mr. Heatherford laughed aloud with amusement.

“Well, well, Buttercup! So you gave it to this young Faxon—I believe you said that is his name—as a souvenir! Of course, my darling, I do not care anything about the ring, but what on earth will your rustic hero do with it? He certainly will not want to wear it with overalls and brogans, and if he has a particle of sentiment in his composition, he would never think of realizing money on it when it was presented under such romantic circumstances.”

“Well, papa, I’m afraid it wasn’t the most appropriate gift in the world,” said Mollie, a shadow falling over her bright face, “but I just had to do something to show him how grateful I was, personally, and he certainly looked as if he was glad to be appreciated.”

“Never mind, dear,” said her father comfortingly. “I will write to-day and make some inquiries, and if I find he is all right, I will do something handsome for him. Let me see—you said that he told some of the gentlemen aboard the train he wanted to go to college?”

“Yes, he said that he had nearly finished his course in the academy of the town where he lives, and was going to try to work his way through college,” Mollie replied. “Just think of it, papa!” she went on earnestly, “and it doesn’t seem fair, does it? There is Phil, who really doesn’t care particularly about having a college course, only it is the proper thing, and so he is going to Harvard in September, and he has every wish gratified—plenty of money, fine clothes, and lots of good times; and here is this poor boy, without any one but himself to depend upon, and he is going to work his way through! It is a queer world, isn’t it?” she concluded, with a sigh of perplexity.

“There, there; don’t bother your pretty head about it, Goldenrod; it is a problem you will never solve,” said her father, stroking her shining head with a caressing touch; “go and do your reading for mama, while I write my letter and get the matter off my mind.”

“But to whom will you write?” queried Mollie.

“I think I will address my letter to the principal of the academy; he will probably be able to tell me more about this young seeker after knowledge than any one else.”

And the gentleman proceeded to put his plan into immediate execution. He wrote a brief but comprehensive epistle, addressing it to the “Principal of the Academy, Cedar Hill,” telling him that he wished to show his appreciation of young Faxon’s heroic act in some practical way, and asking his advice regarding the best method of doing this.

He gave no name, as he said he preferred to remain incog, and not hamper the lad with any sense of obligation, but that any communication sent to a certain lock box in New York would reach him. He stated that an immediate reply was desired, as he was on the eve of going abroad.

Professor Harding’s face glowed with genuine pleasure when he received the letter the next morning, for now he saw that it would perhaps be practicable for his protégê to enter college. He replied immediately, giving a brief history of Clifford Faxon’s life and circumstances, speaking of him in the highest terms, and claiming that any assistance rendered him in his efforts bestowed, and in behalf of the boy, in whom he was deeply interested, he thanked his unknown correspondent most heartily for his kind intentions.

A day or two later there came to Clifford a cashier’s check for a thousand dollars, made payable to himself, and with it a few sentences of hearty appreciation of his recent act, and also of encouragement for the future.

But the donor and writer was anonymous.