CHAPTER VII.

CLIFFORD ACQUITS HIMSELF WITH HONOR.

Clifford had been keenly stung by the manner in which Philip Wentworth had saluted him.

“Say—here! you window-washer!” rang continually in his ears, as he went about his work. He felt very sure that the young man knew his name as well as he knew his, for they had met every day in the class-room. However, whether he knew him or not, there was no excuse for his assuming the supercilious manner and tone that he had in addressing him. These feelings continued to rankle in his heart for some time, and then Clifford pulled himself up sharply.

“How foolish I am!” he thought. “The fact that I am poor, and have to wash windows to eke out my small resources will neither make nor mar my life. What I myself am and what use I make of my opportunities will alone count in the race between me and my classmates. At the same time, I am not going to put myself in a way to be browbeaten by any man living. I can find work enough to do for people who are civil, and I have no intention of being tyrannized over by cads.”

And he carried out his determination to the letter, always bearing himself in a gentlemanly manner, and so for the most part winning the respect of those with whom he came in contact.

The weeks sped by, and nothing of special interest occurred during the winter. Clifford moved on in the even tenor of his way, working with a will until spring came, summer opened, and with it the all-important examinations.

They were over at last, and, to his great joy, he passed with honors, and won the—scholarship.

He was a proud and happy fellow, and, on class-day, while he was dressing for the exercises, he brought forth the cameo ring which Mollie Heatherford had given him a little less than a year previous, and viewed it tenderly.

“I do not even know her name,” he murmured regretfully, “but to me she was, and still is, the loveliest girl that I have ever seen, and this beautiful ring will always be a precious talisman to me—something to incite me always to work for the best and highest results. I wonder if I might venture to wear it to-day as a reward for my year’s work?”

He slipped it upon the little finger of his left hand, and held it off to note the effect, a thoughtful look on his fine face.

“It is a lovely thing,” he continued, drawing it toward him again, and studying it attentively for the thousandth time. “The carving is particularly fine. Yes, I will wear it just for to-day.”

A few hours later Clifford was standing beneath a great tree on the campus conversing with one of his classmates. Almost unconsciously he had lifted his left hand, and laid it against the trunk of the tree. It was a firm, strong, shapely hand, and the costly circlet upon the fourth finger stood out conspicuously upon it.

He and his friend were absorbed in discussing some of the numerous events of the week, and were unaware of the presence of any one else, until they were startled by a voice close beside them, exclaiming with marked emphasis:

“By thunder!”

Both young men turned to find Philip Wentworth standing beside them and staring, with a look of blank astonishment and dismay on his face, at the ring upon Clifford’s finger.

“Well, Wentworth, what are you thundering about?” laughingly inquired Clifford’s companion, who was known as Alf Rogers, and was a prime favorite in the institution.

Without appearing to heed his question, Wentworth bent a flashing look upon Clifford.

“Where did you get that ring?” he demanded sharply.

Clifford flushed at his peremptory tone, and his hand involuntarily dropped to his side. But he immediately lifted it again, and held it before him, where all three could plainly see the gem he wore.

“Oh, this cameo?” he observed, his face softening to sudden tenderness, which did not escape his interlocutor, as he gazed upon it.

“Yes,” curtly and emphatically replied Wentworth.

Clifford was tempted to tell him that it was none of his business, but refraining from so discourteous a retort, he quietly returned:

“It was given to me.”

“Who gave it to you?” and Wentworth’s lips twitched nervously as he put the question, while there was a savage gleam of jealous anger in his eyes.

Clifford’s ire began to get the better of him now.

“Pardon me,” he said coldly, “if I tell you that is a matter which cannot concern you in the least.”

“Don’t be so sure, young man; it does concern me, and far more, perhaps, than you have any idea of,” was the excited retort. “I could swear that that is the only ring of its kind in the world, and I should recognize it if I should see it in China.”

“Possibly you may be correct, Mr. Wentworth, ‘that it is the only ring of its kind in existence,’” calmly observed our hero. “I should not be surprised if such were the case, for the carving is peculiarly fine, the subject a rare and difficult one. Nevertheless, it was a gift to me, and is one that I prize very highly.”

“It can’t be possible!” cried Philip hotly, “that ring belongs to a young lady who is now traveling in Europe.”

“You are mistaken, Mr. Wentworth,” said Clifford with quiet emphasis.

“I am not; I swear it, and—I can give you double proof of what I have stated,” Wentworth asserted, glancing at a lady and gentleman who were slowly approaching them.

The former was a very handsome woman of about forty-five years, and there was a strong resemblance between her and Philip Wentworth. She was very elegantly dressed, and her diamonds were of the finest water, and she was accompanied by the professor of Greek, with whom she was conversing in a bright and animated way.

But Clifford did not appear to connect her in any way with the subject of his controversy with Wentworth, or realize that he had referred to her in stating that he could give double proof of what he asserted.

“I imagine that you will find it difficult to verify your declaration,” he observed, with quiet dignity.

“Do you dare me to do so?” demanded Philip aggressively.

“Certainly not; this controversy is of your own seeking, and is of small moment to me, excepting, of course, that it is somewhat annoying. You have, however, aroused my curiosity to a certain extent, and since you claim that you can prove that my ring belongs to another, I should like to know upon what grounds you felt justified in making that statement,” Clifford observed, with a composure which showed that he had no fear regarding the result.

“Mother!” said Philip, stepping forward a pace or two and speaking to the lady who was approaching.

“Ah, Phil!” she returned, with a bright, fond glance, “I was looking for you; you know you promised to take me over the museum, and I have a great desire to see those wonderful glass flowers.”

“Wait a moment, please, mother,” the young man replied, “there is a ring here that I would like you to see,” and, without even the courtesy of an introduction, he pointed at the circlet upon Clifford’s finger.

Although greatly embarrassed by the uncomfortable position in which he so unexpectedly found himself, he politely lifted his hat to the lady and extended his hand so that she might examine the contested jewel.

“Mollie’s ring!” she exclaimed, in a tone of great surprise, while her eyes flew to Clifford’s fine face, with a curious, searching look. “Why! it surely is the ‘magic cameo’ about which we have had so much sport with her!”

“Now, are you satisfied that I knew what I was talking about?” demanded Philip Wentworth in a tone intended only for Clifford’s ear.

He made no reply to the taunt, and there was a moment of awkward silence, when the professor, seeing that there was something amiss, yet not comprehending what it was, although he realized that Wentworth had done a rude thing, observed in a friendly tone:

“It is surely a remarkably fine bit of work, Faxon; but allow me to present you to Mr. Wentworth’s mother, Mrs. Temple, Mr. Faxon; also Mr. Rogers.”

Both gentlemen lifted their hats, and the lady acknowledged the presentation with gracious courtesy, after which the professor inquired of Mrs. Temple:

“Is there a peculiar or remarkable history connected with Mr. Faxon’s ring, which you appear to recognize?—you spoke of it as ‘the magic cameo.’”

“Oh, no, it is only a little family joke,” the lady laughingly replied; “we have a young friend who owns a cameo so exactly like this that it seems as if it must be the same, and she has always claimed that whenever she wore it something good never failed to happen to her. She became so thoroughly imbued with the idea that we used to laugh at her about her magic cameo. Of course, this cannot be the same, for I am sure that Mollie would never have parted with it under any ordinary circumstances. I am surprised, however, to find it duplicated; I did not suppose there was another like it in existence. I hope, Mr. Faxon, it will prove to be a mascot for you as well as for our little friend,” Mrs. Temple concluded, and smiling brightly up into the manly face above her.

“Mother, this is not a duplicate; this is Mollie’s ring,” Philip here interposed with a frown and note of impatience in his tones.

“Are you not a trifle rash, Phil, in making such an assertion?” his mother questioned with a gentle reproof, a slight cloud of annoyance sweeping over her face.

“I am sure I can prove it,” he returned loftily. Then, addressing Clifford, he inquired: “Have you any knowledge of a secret connected with this ring?”

“A secret!” our hero repeated wonderingly; “no, I do not know of any secret,” and he eyed it curiously, flushing as he did so.

Philip Wentworth’s eyes glowed with malicious triumph.

“Well, I happen to know that there is one,” he declared. “Mother, you shall disclose what peculiarities you know regarding Mollie’s ring.”

“Really, Phil, I am afraid you are making a mistake,” Mrs. Temple remarked, flushing and looking greatly disturbed, “but since you seem determined to press the matter I will say that the secret is this—the stone can be raised and underneath there is a plate on which there is engraved a horseshoe, inclosing the words ‘For luck’ and the initials ‘M. N. H.’”

Clifford’s heart beat with great, heavy throbs as he listened to this. He had never dreamed that his precious ring was going to create such an excitement, and become the object of a romantic episode when he had put it on that morning. He now heartily wished that he had left it locked away in his trunk.

“If your ring is like the one I have described,” Mrs. Temple continued, “you can touch a tiny spring just under the double gold beading of the setting, and the stone will open out on a hinge.”

Clifford carefully examined the setting, found the tiny spring, pressed it, when, lo! the stone slipped from its place, and with a great heart-bound, he distinctly saw the small horseshoe, with the words “For luck” and the initials “M. N. H.” engraved within the circle.

Without a word he extended his hand to Mrs. Temple for her to see. One glance was sufficient to assure her that her son’s assertions were correct. The ring surely was the very same that she had seen in Mollie Heatherford’s possession.

“How very strange!” she murmured. “I had supposed Mollie so superstitious regarding her ‘mascot’ that nothing would ever induce her to part with it.”

The professor also examined it with curious interest, and then glanced wonderingly at the various members of the party.

“Now, have I proved my position?” demanded Philip, turning with ill-concealed exultation to Clifford.

Our hero’s face had grown very pale; but it also wore a very determined expression.

“You have certainly proved that you have seen the ring before, but you have by no means proved that it does not belong to me,” he calmly replied.

“Will you explain how you came by it, then?” demanded Wentworth. “Knowing what we do, and being intimately acquainted with the young lady in whose possession it was, the last time we saw her, we naturally feel that we are entitled to know how you came by it.”

“Pardon me,” returned Clifford, with dignity, “that does not necessarily follow. I have told you that the ring is mine, that it was a gift to me, and I have told you only truth.”

“Was it given to you by a lady?”

“That question I must decline to answer,” Clifford coldly responded. “But this much I will say,” he added, after a moment of thought, “the ring came into my possession one year ago the thirtieth of next month—July.”

“Mother! that was the very day that Mollie went to New York after her visit with us! She wore the ring that day—it was on her finger when I bade her good-by at the station!” Philip Wentworth exclaimed, flushing crimson, as he recalled how he had begged it of Mollie and been refused, while he now realized that there was a possibility that she had given it to this “proud upstart,” but why or wherefore was beyond him to imagine. He was galled almost beyond endurance and stung to the quick, and a fierce hatred of his classmate took possession of him then and there.

“Well, never mind, Phil,” said his mother gravely, “and I think you should let the matter rest. Mr. Faxon has his own reasons, no doubt, for not wishing to say more. Come, I am afraid it is too late, after all, for me to go into the museum to-day,” she added, glancing at her watch. “I think the carriage will be waiting for me, and I have a reception to attend this evening.”

With a gracious smile and bow to her recent companions she took her son’s arm, thus forcing him to escort her to one of the entrances to the college grounds, where she had ordered her coachman to await her.

He did not accompany her with a very good grace, and there was a heavy frown upon his face, which betrayed that he was greatly irritated over his failure to extort Clifford’s secret from him. The professor stood gravely regarding our hero for a moment, as if he also would have been glad to learn more, and was not quite pleased over his reticence; then he excused himself and went away; but both young men could see that the recent occurrence had left an unpleasant impression on his mind.

It certainly had been a very awkward interview, and the evidence was rather against Clifford, for he had been proven ignorant of a most interesting secret connected with the ring which he claimed as his own.

“Well!” he observed, glancing at his friend, “this has been a queer experience.”

“I should say so indeed!” Rogers exclaimed, with an expression of disgust, “but Wentworth is a purse-proud cad anyway, and if his mother and the professor had not been here I should have been tempted to knock him down for his insolence. You held yourself well in hand, Faxon, and I admire you for it.”