CHAPTER VIII.

AN INSOLENT DEMAND.

In spite of the court of inquiry and the mortification to which he had been subjected, Clifford was by no means crushed, in view of his recent encounter with Philip Wentworth, who, he had long been conscious, had been nursing a grudge against him ever since the day of their first meeting. On the whole, when he came to think the matter over by himself, he was secretly pleased with the outcome of it, for he had at least learned the secret of his precious ring and the initials of the fair unknown who had been its donor.—“M. N. H.” He wondered what they stood for.

Mrs. Temple and Wentworth had both familiarly spoken of her as “Mollie,” but he would have given a great deal to have learned her full name; yet he was too proud to ask it, or to acknowledge to them that he was in ignorance of it.

“Mollie!” he found himself repeating over and over, until the homely name rang like sweetest music in his heart.

The ring was a thousand times more precious to him now than it had ever been, with its hidden legend which would hereafter possess as great a significance to him, almost as much as that of the fetish of the African devotee.

The face of the young girl was still as clear and distinct in his mind as the carving of his cameo, and he still thrilled in every pulse of his being whenever he recalled the beautiful azure eyes that had shone with such intense earnestness as she watched for him to come forth from the car at New Haven, the quiver of her red lips and the light of heartfelt gratitude illumining her delicate, clear-cut features.

How his heart leaped as he seemed to hear again the music of her fresh young voice, as she gave utterance to those eager, impulsive words: “Life is very bright to me; I love to live; I shall never forget you; I shall love you for the heroism of this day—always.”

He had said those last words over and over to himself many, many times, until they had awakened in his own heart a love for that peerless girl that would never wane—a love that meant a thousandfold more than she had intended to imply, and which would never be satisfied with less than a full requital from its object.

This mood was on him now stronger than ever as he thought over that never-to-be-forgotten scene. But how dare he dream of such a thing! It surely seemed to him the height of presumption, and he flushed a guilty crimson in view of his audacity.

Then another train of thought was started, and his handsome brown eyes were clouded with pain as he questioned within himself what this sweet, golden-haired, blue-eyed “Mollie” could be to Philip Wentworth, that he should so arbitrarily demand how he had become possessed of the ring that had once been hers.

When he had told him that it did not concern him, he had exclaimed with repressed passion, “It does concern me, and more, perhaps, than you have any idea.”

What did he mean by that? he wondered. Could it be possible that there had been a boy-and-girl love affair between those two, and that Philip Wentworth had become madly jealous upon seeing the ring upon his hand and failing to ascertain how it had come there?

This was not a very pleasing thought to him, but he had at least learned that the fair “Mollie” was at present traveling in Europe, while he also reasoned that there could not have been any very confidential missives exchanged, or the young man would not have been so in the dark regarding the presentation of the cameo, and these facts afforded him some consolation. Then his mind reverted to the beautiful woman whom the professor had introduced as Mrs. Temple, and whom Wentworth had addressed as “mother.”

He felt sure that they were mother and son, in spite of the different names they bore, for there was a strong resemblance between them, although she had deported herself like a gracious and high-bred lady, while he was a veritable snob.

Probably, Clifford reasoned, she had been a widow, and had married a second time a man by the name of Temple, and he wondered if there was a Mr. Temple now living, and what he was like. But these people and things soon slipped from his mind, for, early the next morning, he left Cambridge for the White Mountains, where his ever-thoughtful friend, Professor Harding, had secured for him a position as head porter in a hotel, where he usually spent a portion of his summer with his family. Clifford found his friends already there, and was welcomed most cordially by them.

He found that his duties would be somewhat heavy, although they were not, on the whole, disagreeable, while they would give him a complete rest and change from the close mental application of the last ten months.

It is needless to say that he was most faithful in his new position, for it was his nature to do well whatever he had to do, and, before a fortnight had passed, the proprietor of the house, Mr. Hamilton, confided to Professor Harding that he had never before secured so efficient and gentlemanly a person for the place.

The guests, also, all seemed to appreciate him, for he was always courteous in his bearing, and attentive to their wants. He would never allow any loud talking or rough handling of baggage from the men who worked under him, while he managed to systematize everything connected with his department so that there was no confusion and seldom a mistake.

He had been there a little over a month, when one day, as he was returning from the post-office with the afternoon mail, he met with an adventure.

He rode a large and valuable bay horse that belonged to Mr. Hamilton, who, after he learned that Clifford knew how to handle horses, liked to have him exercise the animal occasionally. The day had been unusually warm, and Clifford was allowing his steed to make his own pace up a steep incline, while he read a letter which he had received from his good friend, Maria Kimberly, who was almost his only correspondent.

Upon reaching a small plateau he checked his steaming horse to allow him to rest before climbing the next ascent. He finished his letter, refolded and tucked it away in a pocket, then, removing his hat, and wiping the perspiration from his forehead, he turned in his saddle to look back upon the valley behind and beneath him.

“What a view!” he said aloud, and with kindling eyes; “it is worth a great deal to have such a scene as this to look upon day after day, and nature paints the loveliest pictures, after all.” Then, with a glance above and beyond him, he continued: “And the hills! the everlasting hills! how wonderful they are! I have read somewhere that ‘rocks and mountains stand for the solid and grand ideas of Truth.’ It is a beautiful thought, and makes them a hundredfold more lovely to me. I believe I am receiving an inspiration this summer that will never leave me——”

“Ahem! you appear to be struck on the hills, Faxon,” a voice here interposed with a mocking inflection, and, glancing toward the spot from whence it seemed to proceed, Clifford saw to his astonishment the face of Philip Wentworth peering at him over a boulder that lay almost on the edge of the mountain road, and was half-concealed by a clump of sumac that was growing beside it.

He had been sitting behind the rock where, screened by it and the growth of sumac, he had been idly gazing into the depths below, for the road just there ran along the edge of an almost perpendicular precipice.

He had seen Clifford approaching, although he was himself unseen, but he had had no intention of making his presence known, until our hero’s eloquent outburst fell upon his ears, whereupon he became irritated beyond measure. He was dressed in the height of style—in an immaculate suit of white linen, and he carried a cane having an elaborately carved ivory head.

He came around into the road and stood there looking up into Clifford’s face with a derisive smile. Clifford colored vividly at his manner of addressing him, but quickly recovering himself, he courteously returned:

“Ah! good afternoon, Mr. Wentworth. Yes, I am in love with these grand mountains, but I had no idea that I was rhapsodizing before an audience. It has been a warm day,” he concluded, and drew up his bridle preparatory to moving on, when his companion detained him.

“Wait a minute, Faxon,” he said, “I’ve been wanting to see you ever since class-day, but no one could tell me where to find you. It’s about that ring, you know; I’m dying to know just how you came by it.”

“It was a gift, Mr. Wentworth,” Clifford briefly replied.

“So you said before, but who gave it to you?” demanded Philip, with a frown.

“I cannot tell you.”

“Hang it all! don’t be so deucedly secretive,” was the impatient retort. “Was it given to you by a lady?”

“Pardon me, but I cannot tell you,” Clifford reiterated.

“Will not, you mean,” Wentworth angrily rejoined.

Clifford did not deign to answer this thrust, and his silence, which stood for assent, was maddening to his companion. All his life he had been the pampered idol of his mother, who had seldom denied him a wish, and he had grown up selfish, arrogant, and almost lawless.

During his own father’s life, he had been curbed to a certain extent, for the man possessed good sense and judgment, and, had he lived, would doubtless have brought out the best that was in his son; but the man had been cut down just when the boy had needed him most, and so his mother had spoiled him until he had become intolerant of all opposition to his wishes.

Thus Clifford’s calm indifference to his demand drove him into a white heat of rage.

“You do not need to tell me where it came from,” he burst forth, “for, as I told you before, I know who had possession of it up to three o’clock of the day when you claim that it was given to you—given, ha!” he concluded, with an insulting significant laugh.

All the blood in his body seemed to rush into Clifford’s face at this cowardly insinuation.

“Wentworth! do you mean to imply that I came by it through dishonorable means?” he sternly demanded.

“Well, that is a point upon which I have my own opinion,” Philip retorted, “but I can swear to this that at the hour I have named on the thirtieth of July, of last year, that ring was on the hand of a certain lady of my acquaintance. She was on the point of starting for New York, and as I was taking leave of her I asked her to give it to me as—as a souvenir.”

“Ah!”

It was only an exclamation, and it had escaped Clifford almost involuntarily, but it expressed a great deal, and his heart had given a great throb of exultation over the knowledge that what his blue-eyed, golden-haired divinity had refused to give the rich and aristocratic Philip Wentworth, she had, freely, and even enthusiastically, bestowed upon him, a poor bound boy, who had stood before her, hatless and drenched to his skin in his shirt-sleeves and overalls and wearing a pair of clumsy shoes, the like of which this petted son of fortune would have scorned for his servant.

Young Wentworth was excessively nettled by the monosyllable, and instantly regretted having betrayed so much.

“I am only telling you this,” he hastened to explain, “to prove how preposterous it seems in you to claim that this lady should have given you the ring, after having refused it to me, and I will also add, as a clincher, that Miss—the lady is my fiancée.”

For a moment Clifford felt as if he had been struck a blow in the face, and the sense of a terrible loss settled upon his heart. Then, as he recalled the youthful face that had been lifted so earnestly to him, and also the fact that the girl had not discarded short dresses, a faint smile of skepticism involuntarily curved the corners of his mouth. Philip was quick to note it, and was exasperated by it.

“You do not believe it,” he said sharply, “but it is true nevertheless; the matter was arranged when we were mere children, and we have grown up with the understanding that we are to be married when I am through college. Faugh!” he interposed, with a shrug of impatience, “why do I tell you this, I wonder? I am a fool to give it away to you; but, Faxon, I want that ring! Do you hear?”

Clifford gazed down upon the handsome, imperious face upturned to him with an expression of amazement. The audacity of the demand almost paralyzed him for the moment.

“You want the ring!” he repeated, when he could find voice.

“That’s what I said,” Philip returned consequentially. “I can’t have you wearing a ring that belongs to my fiancée. Of course, I am willing to pay you something handsome for it rather than have any words over the affair—say, fifty dollars, and ask no further questions regarding how you came by it.”

Clifford was filled with indignation, both at the imputation flung at him and the proposition to barter his gift for money. Sell his precious ring—his “mascot,” with its magic legend and initials of its fair donor! Never! He would almost as soon have parted with his right hand, and he grew very white about the mouth at the thought. But he seldom gave outward expression to anger, no matter how deeply moved he was, and, after a moment spent in making an effort to speak calmly, he said, in a low tone of quiet decision:

“Mr. Wentworth, I could not, for a moment, think of surrendering my ring to you.”

“I’ll make it a hundred, if you like,” persisted Philip.

“No, sir; I would not part with it at any price.”

Philip Wentworth’s face grew livid with mingled rage and disappointment.

“—— you, for an obstinate upstart!” he exclaimed furiously, and, lifting his slender cane high above his head, he dealt Clifford’s horse a fierce and stinging blow upon the thigh. It was a terrible shock to the beautiful and spirited creature, who scarce ever had known the touch of a lash. With a snort of fear he wheeled, sprang erect upon his hind legs, and the next moment was pawing the air on the very edge of that almost perpendicular precipice.