CHAPTER IV.

CLIFFORD FAXON’S VOW.

Clifford regarded himself as the most fortunate fellow in the world when this generous gift was received.

“Was anybody ever so lucky before! I am sure an ax was never so effectively wielded!” he exclaimed, his face radiant with happiness, as he discussed the gift of his unknown benefactor with his teacher. “Now, my education is assured, Professor Harding, and if I don’t win a scholarship, now and then, to help me out, it will not be for lack of energy and industry.”

“Cliff! what an ambitious fellow you are!” said his friend, smiling at his enthusiasm, “but if you set out to win a scholarship I feel pretty sure that you will get it.”

“Thank you. Now, another important point upon which I would like your judgment—do you agree with me in my preference for Harvard?”

“Yes, I think so,” replied the professor. “If I should consult my own pleasure, however, I suppose I should say go to Yale; for then I could see you frequently, and perhaps help you over a hard place now and then; but as I am a Harvard man myself, and it is also your choice, I will be loyal to my alma mater and say go there.”

“Then Harvard it will be,” said Clifford, “and as for the rough places, why, I can write you when I come to them.”

Again Professor Harding smiled, for he knew the boy well enough to feel sure that he would master all difficulties without any assistance from him, for he had seldom known him to seek aid, if, by any means, he could conquer by his own efforts. Thus the college question was settled.

Meantime he was to work out his contract with Squire Talford—until September 1st—when the professor said he must come to him and spend the remainder of the time, before the beginning of the school year, in preparing for his examinations, and he would not “thrash” but coach him “within an inch of his life.”

Our young hero was jubilant over the prospect before him. His daily tasks seemed but play to him; he was up with the lark, and worked with a will until sunset, and, after supper, improved every moment until bedtime conning his books.

“You are a born mathematician,” his teacher remarked to him one evening, after giving him some intricate problems to test his knowledge, “and I have not the slightest fear for you in mathematics; but you are still a trifle behind in Greek and Latin, and so we will devote the most of our time to those branches,” and at this hint of his deficiency Clifford worked along those lines with redoubled diligence.

He had found himself very popular after his heroic deed became known to the public, but he bore his honors with exceeding modesty, and had but little to say about the affair. Glowing accounts of it had been published in both the New Haven and local papers. Professor Harding had been interviewed, and had spoken in the highest terms of commendation of his pupil, while, as Squire Talford and his peculiarities were well known, there appeared more than one strong hint regarding the hard life which the boy had led during the four years of his bondage with him.

According to the conditions of the contract which the squire had made with Mrs. Faxon, Clifford was to receive twenty-five dollars in money and a suit of new clothes on the day when his time expired. The contemplation of this approaching expenditure of money made the wretched miser—for he was nothing else, when it came to putting out his dollars for other people—cross and miserable, and he racked his brain for some excuse by which he could evade his obligation.

He broached the subject to Clifford one evening about a week previous to the expiration of his time.

“I suppose you’re bound to go the first of the month?” he remarked, with evident embarrassment, for he had felt very uncomfortable in the lad’s presence ever since he had so boldly faced him and freely spoken his mind.

“Yes, sir; my time will be up one week from to-night.”

“Couldn’t you be persuaded to sign for a couple of years longer, if I’d agree to do better by you?”

The youth flushed crimson, and a peculiar gleam leaped into his eyes at the proposition; but, instantly putting a strong curb upon himself, he quickly responded:

“I think not, sir; I have made my plans to go to college, and I do not care to change them.”

“What good will a college education do you?” the man demanded, with an ill-concealed sneer; “you won’t have a penny when you get through, and, if you’re aspiring to a profession, there’ll have to be another four years’ course atop of that.”

“I am not looking beyond the college course just now, sir; when I have accomplished that I feel sure that the way will be opened for me to choose and fit myself for my future.”

“Humph! perhaps you imagine you’re going to have windfalls all along the route,” was the sarcastic rejoinder, “but, if you do, let me tell you, you will find yourself mightily mistaken.”

Clifford made no response to this thrust, and after an interval of silence the squire abruptly resumed:

“How about that twenty-five dollars that I was to pay you when your time was up and the new suit?”

“Why,” said Clifford, lifting a look of astonishment to the man’s face, “of course, I expect that the conditions of the contract will be fulfilled.”

“Oh, you do! Why, money has been pouring in upon you so fast of late you can afford to buy your own clothes,” said the squire, with an uneasy hitch in his chair and a frown of displeasure.

Clifford’s face flamed an indignant red, and it seemed to him as if he must give vent to the scorn which sent the hot blood tingling through every nerve in his body.

“Squire Talford,” he said, after a moment spent in trying to control himself, “I have no wish to say anything to you that I shall ever regret, but, truly, I should suppose that your self-respect would prevent you from suggesting anything so penurious and dishonest, after the four years of faithful service that I have given you, especially when you take into consideration the fact that I have never been decently clad during all that time, nor had a dollar of spending-money, except what I have myself earned by picking berries in their season, and doing odd jobs for other people after my regular work was done. No, sir, I shall not purchase my own suit. I feel that I am justly entitled to all that the contract calls for, and I shall demand its fulfilment.”

“Oh, you will, will you!” was the rasping retort, while the man was white with rage.

“Certainly, and it is little enough—far too meager for one of my age to have to start out in life with. But I suppose my poor mother was too ill to realize what scant provisions she was making for me, though I presume she trusted to your humanity and honesty to at least provide suitably for me during the four years I was to live with you.”

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed his companion viciously, and with peculiar emphasis. “Your poor mother, perhaps, realized more than you seem to imagine she did; she was glad enough to get you housed in a respectable home, without being too particular about the conditions.”

Clifford sprang erect, stung to the soul by the insinuating tone and words of his companion.

“What do you mean, sir?” he demanded, in a voice that shook with suppressed anger. “What is it that you mean to imply in connection with my mother, who was one of the purest and loveliest of women?”

“Oh, nothing—nothing!” retired the squire, with a sinister smile, “only it is pretty evident that she never told you much about her early life, while—ahem!—if I’m not mistaken, you never saw your father, did you?”

“No,” and now Clifford was deathly white and his eyes wore a hunted look, as a terrible suspicion flashed into his mind. “Oh, what do you mean?”

“Well, perhaps it will be just as well for your peace of mind, my aspiring young man, if you don’t get too inquisitive,” the man retorted maliciously. “I can tell you this much, however: Your mother, Belle Abbott, as she was known in her younger days, was one of the handsomest girls I ever saw; but she was a—coquette; she had more beaux than you could shake a stick at, and she got her pay for it in the end.”

“Did you know my mother when she was a girl?” queried Clifford, with a look of astonishment.

“I should say I did,” was the grim response.

“And—my father also?” said the youth eagerly.

“Ahem! I had that honor,” sneered the squire. “But about that suit of clothes,” he added, rising and abruptly changing the subject. “If you insist upon it, why, I suppose I shall have to get them. I’ll step in to see Black, the tailor, to-morrow morning and talk the matter over with him.”

But Clifford had been too highly wrought up to care much about clothes or anything else in connection with his contract. His curiosity had been excited to the highest pitch, and he was determined to learn something about the father whom he had never known—about whom his mother would never talk—if it was possible—to wring any information from his companion, who, he realized, was determined to torment him to the last point of endurance.

“Who was my father? Tell me what you know about him!” he exclaimed, also springing to his feet and placing himself in the squire’s path.

The man regarded him silently for a moment, an evil expression in his cold, gray eyes; then a smile that made Clifford shiver relaxed his thin, cruel lips.

“Who was your father?” he repeated, with cold deliberativeness; “he was a treacherous rascal, if there ever was one, and it is no credit to you that he was your father; and if you were ten years older I should say that he had come back to haunt me! Tell you about him!” he continued, in a terrible tone. “I’ll tell you this much—I hated him; I still hate him as few people have the power to hate, and if you are wise you will never mention him in my presence again, for I might forget myself and wreck my vengeance upon you.”

He turned abruptly as he concluded and entered the house, without giving Clifford time to protest or ask another question. The boy, left alone, sank back into his chair, cold chills creeping over him, his heart burdened with tantalizing fears and suspicions. The squire had called his father a “treacherous rascal.”

In what, he wondered, had he been treacherous and dishonorable? Why was it no credit to him—his son—that he was his father?

Surely, it seemed to him now, in the light of this interview, as if the squire had been continually wreaking his hatred of his father upon him during the four weary years that he had lived with him. But what had caused this hatred? What did it mean?

What was the reason that his mother had always been so reticent upon the subject. She would never talk with him about his father or her early life, and always appeared so distressed and excited whenever he questioned her that he was forced to desist.

Once, however, she had told him, and only a short time before she died, that if she should be taken from him before he was eighteen years of age, he might open a certain box, which she had always kept locked, and read some letters and papers which he would find in it.

But when that time came—when, after his wild grief over his irreparable loss was somewhat spent, he went to look for these papers, they were gone—the box was empty.

Whether she had shrunk from having him see them and learn of some great sorrow—perhaps shame—that had evidently preyed upon her mind for years, and had destroyed them, or whether they had been stolen from her, he could have no means of knowing.

Evidently Squire Talford was, in a measure, posted upon certain facts connected with the early life of both his father and mother, and it was just as evident that he intended to keep him in the dark regarding them; whether because they were of any real importance, or because he simply wished to torment him because of his avowed hatred, he could not tell.

What rankled most bitterly in his heart was the man’s taunt that it would be better for his peace of mind if he was not too inquisitive.

Clifford was extremely proud and sensitive, and it galled him almost beyond endurance to have it insinuated that there might be some stigma resting upon his birth and upon his dear mother’s honor.

But no; he did not believe that could be possible, and he resented the suspicion as soon as it took form in his thought, for he felt sure that his pure, gentle, and refined mother had never knowingly done wrong. If she had been deceived, the sin was not hers, but another’s.

He sat in his room that night for a long time meditating upon these things, but growing more wretched and perplexed the more he considered them.

“Well, I can help nothing,” he said, at last, throwing back his head with an air of conscious rectitude; “I am what I am; I can gather nothing definite from Squire Talford’s miserable insinuations. I may not even be entitled to the name I bear, but I know that I will make it one that a son of mine—if I should ever have one—will be proud to own.”

And with that worthy determination he resolutely drove the subject from his thoughts by burying himself in his books, and when he finally retired to rest he fell into as sound and refreshing slumber as if he had not a care in the world.