"Waal, squire, I reckon everything is done now to the turn of the key. I've packed a dozen shirts, and, if I do say it, no Chang Wang could have put a better shine on 'em than I've given 'em. There's two dozen pocket-handkerchiefs, as white as snow; collars and cuffs to last a month, if you're careful; and everything else all in shipshape. Now I'll have lunch for you in about ten minutes, and that'll give you plenty of time to catch the train."
So spoke Maria Kimberly, as she stood in the doorway leading from the kitchen into the dining-room, where Squire Talford was sitting at his desk filling out some checks to settle his monthly bills. He was on the point of starting for Washington, whither he was going on business connected with some patents in which he had recently become interested, and which would keep him away from home for about six weeks or two months.
"All right, Maria. I'm about through; but what are you going to do with yourself while I'm gone?" the man responded, but without looking up from his employment.
"Oh, I'll take good care o' things, and I'll find enough to do, never you fear," said the woman, with a peculiar glitter in her eyes. "I ain't cleaned house yet; I've put it off, waitin' for you to git away, so's I could have full swing. I'll see that Pat and the boy don't do no loafin'; and you needn't give yourself a mite of oneasiness—things'll go on just as straight if you was goin' to be here yourself."
The squire knew this without being told, for Maria was an excellent manager, an efficient housekeeper, and, barring the fact that she had a sharp tongue, and was rather more independent than was sometimes quite agreeable, no one could have suited him better as a superintendent of affairs, both on the farm and in the house.
She had been in his family for many years, and having been thoroughly trained by his wife in every department of domestic life and economy, while being honest and faithful as the day is long in the performance of every duty, she was entirely competent to assume the management as she had done upon Mrs. Talford's death, and everything had gone on like clockwork from that day.
Squire Talford had never manifested any desire to marry again. Maria asserted that he was "too tight" to be willing to increase his expenses in any such way; for, although he always wanted the nicest of everything for himself, he used to grumble over the expense of clothing his wife.
He was very proud of his fine estate—his handsome mansion and broad acres, and kept them in first-class order; but, while he wanted every comfort for himself, he had dispensed with some luxuries and style after Mrs. Talford's demise, was close and mean with his help, and seemed to think of nothing save accumulating money.
"Though goodness knows what'll ever become of it when he's gone, for he ain't a kindred soul to leave it to, as far as I know," Mrs. Kimberly would sometimes remark in a confidential manner to her friends.
"Yes, I reckon I can trust you to keep a sharp eye out while I'm gone," the squire returned to Maria's observation, "though I'm not so sure about the loafing—you're a little inclined to be too soft-hearted with the boys. I want to find that pile of wood all sawed, split, and housed when I get back."
Maria sniffed audibly as she glanced through a window at the pile of wood referred to, and which comprised a good many cords of solid timber, and she had no idea of pushing "the boys" beyond a certain limit.
"Waal, maybe you will, and maybe you won't," she returned after a moment, with an independent toss of her head. "It'll depend a good deal on what kind o' weather we have. I suppose you know," she continued, with a sudden softening of her face and tone, "that Cliff is in Washington. I hear he's got a fine position, too. Do you imagine you'll feel any interest to look him up?"
"Not the slightest, Maria," returned Squire Talford, in a cold tone, and with a sudden stiffening of his angular figure. "Clifford Faxon is nothing to me, and I shall not concern myself in the least to learn anything about his movements."
"Oh!" returned his companion, with a peculiar inflection, while she screwed her lips into a resentful pucker, "I didn't know but you'd feel a kind o' curiosity to find out if he's workin' his way along up toward the top o' the heap in Washington, same's he did at college. You know you didn't prophecy anything very flatterin' to him when he started out for himself, but he got there, all the same."
The squire flushed hotly at this reminder.
"I think you'd better hurry up lunch, Maria," was all the reply he deigned her, and the woman vanished, but chuckling to herself as she went:
"He pretends he ain't curious, but he is, all the same, and I'd be willin' to bet my new black silk—which I ain't had on since that day at Cambridge, I'm goin' to keep it for Cliff's wedding—that he will find out about the boy," she muttered to herself, while dishing up the tempting meal which she had prepared for the master of the house.
An hour later Squire Talford was en route for New York, and Maria was left mistress of the field.
Early next morning she vigorously set about preparations for the semi-annual house-cleaning, although, to all appearance, the mansion was immaculate from garret to cellar. Nevertheless, twice every year every room was religiously upset, cleaned, and renovated.
She invariably began in the attic and went down in the most methodical manner, just as her mistress had done every year of her married life. Every box, drawer, and trunk—excepting a couple which the squire never allowed any one to touch—had to be overhauled, their contents thoroughly brushed and shaken, for fear of moths, and every nook and corner swept and scrubbed.
For some reason Maria experienced a greater sense of freedom to-day than she had ever felt before; doubtless it was because of the squire's absence, for there would be no fear of disturbing him with the noise overhead, and having no regular dinner to get, there would be nothing to interrupt operations.
She always said that the worst was over when she got through with the attic, and late in the afternoon, when she cast a satisfied glance around the clean, orderly, sweet-smelling room, every beam and rafter of which had undergone vigorous treatment, a sigh of content escaped her.
"You can't put your finger on a speck o' dust anywhere," she soliloquized, "and everything is in shipshape. It's a good job done, too, and I'm not sorry it's over."
She gathered up her brushes, pail, and mop and turned to leave the place, when her glance fell upon a small hair trunk which she had dragged out into the hall at the head of the stairs, and had neglected to replace in its accustomed corner. It was one of those which the squire never allowed to be opened and overhauled.
"I s'h'd jest like to know what's in the old thing," Maria remarked as she sat down her utensils and picked it up in her strong arms. "It looks's if it had been made in the year one, and it's always locked tighter'n a drum—goodness! goodness me!"
The latter explosive ejaculations were occasioned by an unlucky slip of the antiquated receptacle, then a resounding crash upon the floor, when the hinges snapped, the cover flew off, and a promiscuous assortment of things were scattered in every direction in the attic, which but a moment previous had presented such an orderly appearance.
Maria stood for a moment looking ruefully upon the havoc she had made, her arms akimbo, her temper ruffled in view of the work of gathering up the débris before her.
"Waal," she at length observed, with a sigh of resignation, "I guess I'm likely to find out what was in it, after all, though"—with a contemptuous sniff—"I don't imagine I'm going to be very much entertained by the operation."
The trunk had been packed full of papers—deeds, letters, bills, etc., which had been tied up in separate bundles, but the strings having given way in the force of the fall, they now lay in confused heaps and irretrievably mixed, as far as Maria was concerned.
She sat down upon the floor and began to gather them up, restoring them in as orderly a manner as possible to the trunk. Among other things she came upon a box which had slid a little to one side of the heap. This, also, had burst open, and its contents were partially spilled out. Reaching for it, she drew it toward her, and was attracted by a pungent odor which clung to it.
It was made from some sweet-smelling, fine-grained wood, and the corners were ornamented with heavily wrought silver, although the metal was badly tarnished from having lain so long unused. There were numerous letters in it, some being addressed in a woman's delicate handwriting and others in a bold, clear, masculine chirography.
"Miss Belle Abbott," Maria read from one of the envelopes addressed in the bold hand.
Then she gave a violent start.
"Goodness—gracious! How came this here?" she ejaculated. "Belle Abbott! Why, that was Cliff's mother's name afore she was married. But I wonder who W. F. T. Wilton was?" she continued as she closely inspected the handwriting on another envelope. "I'm sure Mis' Faxon must have writ these letters, for the writin' looks just like what I've seen in some of Cliff's books that he told me she gave him. But it beats me to know how these things ever got into Squire Talford's old trunk, 'less Mis' Faxon gave them to him to keep for the boy, 'n' if she did he'd oughter had 'em long ago. What's this, I wonder?"
"This" comprised two pieces of parchment attached to each other by a pin. They were folded long and narrow, like legal documents, and were also bound about with a narrow blue ribbon.
With firmly compressed lips and a flushed face, Maria sat regarding them intently, and as if deliberating a point within herself for a few moments.
"I'm going to know," she said at last, in tones of stern decision, and, suiting the action to the words, she deliberately removed the ribbon and pin, unfolded one of the papers, and began to read it with eager interest.
Every bit of color faded out of her face by the time she reached the bottom of the sheet, and with staring eyes and bated breath she seized its mate and proceeded to read that.
"Good land!" she ejaculated at length. "Now I understand some things that have always puzzled me afore! So this is Belle Atwood's marriage-bill, and this tells about Cliff's baptism! And Faxon isn't his last name, either!" she went on, with a gasp of excitement. "It is—he is—why, good Lord!—now I know why Squire Talford has always hated him so; though I never did take much stock in that story I heard when I first came here—that he was in love with her once, and she jilted him for some one else."
She sat thinking deeply for some time, a look of perplexity on her plain, honest face.
"There's some things I can't quite see through, after all," she resumed after a time; "if what I suspect is true—and there ain't much doubt about it—why on earth did Mis' Faxon ever bind that boy to the squire? Aha!" a flash of intelligence sweeping over her face, "I begin to see—it was a trick of his. He is not a man that ever forgives a wrong—he hated her and the boy's father and the boy himself, because of what they'd done. He meant to crush 'em all, and so he pretended to befriend Mis' Faxon—wormed himself into her confidence, so got her to sign them bond papers, and then, when she died, stole this box, so the boy could never find out who he really is. I remember now that she sent for him the night she died. I'll bet he stole these papers at that time. Oh! he's a tricky one, Squire Talford is! He thought he'd fixed things so that nobody'd ever find out the truth; but it's a long lane that hasn't any turn in it, and I'm goin' to prove it to you, you miserly, gray-headed, hard-hearted old rascal!"
And Mrs. Kimberly emphasized her words by angrily shaking the papers in her hand at the demolished old trunk, in lieu of the man himself, until they rattled noisily.
"Humph!" Maria resumed after some minutes, and, arousing herself from another fit of musing into which she had fallen, "I always thought there was a skeleton hid in this old hair trunk, and now I've unearthed it. 'Murder will out,' they say, and I guess the Lord thought He'd make me His instrument to see justice done that boy. He just sent me up here to-day to smash the thing, and now I s'pose I've got to finish the business up. I'm going to take charge of these papers and see that Cliff gets them."
She began to replace them and the letters in the box as she spoke, with a set face and determined air.
"Of course, I shall tell the squire just how I happened to find 'em," she went on. "I ain't one to hide anything. I'll just face him and out with the whole matter, but they ain't never goin' back into his possession again if I lose my place for it!" She handled the letters reverently as she laid them, one by one, into their receptacle, her face softening involuntarily.
"Of course, these letters will tell Cliff a lot that I may never know anything about, and what is none o' my business," she mused, but with a yearning curiosity to know their contents, nevertheless. "I only hope, if the squire has been trying to cheat him out o' anything that belongs to him, they'll help to set him right."
Having restored all that she thought belonged there to the box, she set it one side, then finished packing the trunk, replaced the cover, and, rising, drew it to the corner where it was accustomed to stand.
Then taking the exhumed "skeleton" under her arm she marched straight down to her own room, where she locked it safely away in her own trunk and hid the key.
She was quite upset by the exciting discovery of the afternoon, and for the first time in many years lay awake until after midnight nervously conning the matter over in her mind, and trying to decide just what she ought to do about it. It proved to be a perplexing question, and she chewed the cud of indecision industriously for the next two weeks, while she scrubbed and cleaned, took up and put down carpets, washed, ironed, and hung curtains, and performed the manifold duties that throng upon the busy matron during house-cleaning time.
Half a dozen times she began a letter to Cliff asking him to come to Cedar Hill, as she had something important to tell him, but she tore each one up, her sense of loyalty to the squire making her feel that she ought to tell him of her discovery first; while, too, she doubted the wisdom of asking Cliff to leave his business and be at the expense of such a journey. Once she thought she would go to a lawyer and tell him the whole story, for she had a suspicion that there might be some property coming to Cliff if his identity could be proven. But such a measure did not quite commend itself to her, for she thought he might not care to have another party let into the secrets of his origin and his mother's domestic troubles, while she also reasoned that it would be only fair to give the squire a chance to voluntarily right the wrong he had committed.
The two weeks lengthened into a month, and she was no nearer a decision than on the day of her discovery.
Meantime, however, Providence was opening the way for her to be relieved of the burden which she felt was fast becoming too heavy to be borne.
Squire Talford, on arriving in Washington, took a room in a boarding-house in a quiet street. He did not like hotel-life for numerous reasons, the chief one being that he was too economically inclined to spend his money in that way, while he also objected to the constant change, rush, and excitement of such a place.
Now, it happened, strangely enough, that Clifford had a room in a house adjoining Squire Talford's boarding-place, although he took his meals farther down on the same street.
Thus it naturally came about that the whilom bound boy and his former master ran up against each other only a few days after the arrival of the latter in the nation's capital. The encounter occurred on Sunday, about the middle of the afternoon, when Clifford, with a red moss-rosebud on his coat, started forth for the Lamonti mansion, where he was to dine with the Heatherfords.
The squire had been out to post some letters at the nearest box, and was returning to his boarding-place when the two met on a corner.
Clifford flushed slightly, and was greatly surprised to see the man so far from home, but with the politeness which always characterized him, lifted his hat and cordially saluted him. The man shot a frowning glance at him and passed on without a word, as if he had been a total stranger to him. Possibly, if Clifford had been shabbily clad and had not looked so prosperous, happy, and handsome, he might not have been quite so churlish; but it made him secretly furious to see him clothed better than himself, a fact which plainly indicated to him that he was still making his way steadily upward, while his buoyant air and alert, energetic step told of perfect health and a heart at peace with the world.
The slight stung Clifford for the instant, but, replacing his hat and straightening himself with an air of conscious superiority, he went on his way, and half an hour later had forgotten the existence of the man.
He had far more interesting things to think about just then, for he and Mollie were laying their plans for the most important event of their lives—their marriage, which it had been decided should take place some time during the latter part of January.
Several times during the next three weeks Clifford met the squire, and, out of respect for his years, invariably saluted him in a gentlemanly manner, but always with the same result—the man as often passed him with a cold stare and without moving a muscle of his hard, forbidding face.
"I wonder why he has always hated me so?" Clifford mused upon one of these occasions. "I served him faithfully during the four years that I lived with him—my conscience is clear of ever having once wilfully disobeyed him or neglected my work. I cannot understand how one human being can entertain such an unreasonable grudge against another. I am sure I have no desire to exchange places with him, rich as he is, for I think it must be very uncomfortable to hate one as he seems to me. I wish Mollie could meet him—she reads faces like books, and I really would like to know what her analysis of his character would be."
He had his wish granted not very long afterward. Squire Talford stepped into a stationery-store one afternoon on his way home to dinner, to lay in a fresh supply of paper and envelopes. He had observed before entering that a very handsome equipage was standing before the door, for being fond of fine horses, and a good judge of them, as well, he never passed them unnoticed.
He even turned to take a second look out of the window of the store before making his purchase, and found himself wondering who could be the fortunate owner of the blooded pair, while his appreciative eyes also took in the elegant appointments of the carriage and harness and the liveried coachman and footman.
Presently he turned to the counter, and found himself standing beside a beautiful girl, very richly attired. She was sitting on a stool, evidently waiting for something, and after giving his own order, Squire Talford's glance wandered again to the vision of loveliness beside him, noting her delicate, high-bred features, her wonderfully blue eyes, and hair of shining gold.
A clerk came to her after a moment or two and apologized for the necessity of keeping her waiting still longer—something seemed to have gone wrong with the order she had given.
"Never mind," said Mollie—for it was she—with the rarest of smiles and in sweetest tones. "I am not in any hurry, and do not mind waiting in the least."
"Humph" grunted the squire to himself, as he took his package and left the place.
The little incident had somehow jarred upon him and set him thinking, for he well knew that if he had been kept waiting like that, whether he had been in a hurry or not, he would have fretted and fumed and taken pains to make the clerk as uncomfortable as possible; but the lovely girl had unconsciously given him a lesson in true courtesy and charity.
He could not resist the temptation to pause on the sidewalk as he went out and take another look at the beautiful horses which he had previously admired.
"A fine pair you have there," he observed to the coachman.
"Yes, sir," replied the man, but looking neither to the right nor left, nor unbending from his stiff, upright position a hairsbreadth.
"Morgan?"
"Yes, sir," with the same rigidity as before.
"How old are they?"
"Six years, or thereabouts."
The squire eyed them yearningly a moment, then, turning, was about to proceed on his way when a passer-by jostled him, and, as he was just on the edge of the curb, caused him to lose his balance, when he nearly fell inside the carriage, which was a victoria.
He recovered himself almost immediately, however, and, after brushing the dust from his clothing, passed on, but grumbling over the rudeness and carelessness of him who had caused his discomfort.
Three minutes later Mollie emerged from the store, stepped into her carriage, and gave the order to be driven "home."
As the vehicle drew up before her door and she was about to alight, her foot came in contact with some object upon the floor. Stooping to ascertain what it was, she was greatly surprised to find a gentleman's wallet lying upon the mat just inside the carriage.
"Why, I wonder how this could have come here?" she exclaimed. Upon opening it she found several papers neatly arranged in one pocket and a number of bank-notes of various denominations, together with a slip of paper bearing the name, "A. H. Talford, No. —— Twelfth Street, N. E.," in another.
"Talford!" she repeated thoughtfully.
Where had she heard that name before? she wondered.
"Walker," she said, holding the wallet up for her coachman to see, "do you know anything about this? I have just found it on the floor."
The man thought a moment, and then told her of the elderly gentleman who had admired the horses, and then, making a misstep, had almost fallen into the carriage.
"Ah! Then the wallet must be his. Walker, you may turn around and drive me to No. —— Twelfth Street, N. E.," said Mollie, as she resumed her seat.
The man swung his horses around, and they went trotting down-town again. Arriving at the residence corresponding to the number on the slip, Mollie alighted and inquired of the maid who responded to her ring if Mr. Talford was in.
"Yes," the girl replied, with a peculiar smile, for the man had discovered his loss only a few moments before, and was turning the house upside down in his efforts to discover the missing wallet. Mollie passed the maid her card, and told her to say to the gentleman that she would like to see him.
She waited in the parlor nearly five minutes before the squire made his appearance, and then he seemed to be greatly excited and in a very unhappy frame of mind. He started upon finding himself face to face with the beautiful girl whom he had seen in the stationer's store, and searched her face curiously.
Mollie arose as he entered, and, approaching him, extended the wallet. She said afterward she never saw a more avaricious expression on any human face.
"I found this in my carriage, sir, after leaving the store where I met you a short time ago," she said. "My coachman thinks it must have slipped from your pocket as you stumbled and almost fell close beside the vehicle."
The man sprang forward and seized the purse with a greedy look and grasp.
"Yes, it is mine," he exclaimed in eager, tremulous accents. "My address is inside—I will show you."
"That is not necessary, Mr. Talford," Mollie pleasantly returned. "I took the liberty of opening the wallet, and found it, or I should not have known to whom to return it."
"Yes, yes; of course," said the squire, with some embarrassment, as he whipped it open and began to finger the bills nervously. Mollie's red lips curled slightly at the act, for she read his thoughts like a printed page. She saw that it was his nature to distrust every one, and a fear that he would be overreached by those with whom he came in contact that he was wondering, even then, whether he should find his precious money intact.
"I am very glad I found it and was enabled to restore it so soon," she went on, "and I preferred to bring it to you myself rather than to entrust it to a messenger."
She moved toward the door as she concluded, for the man's forbidding and churlish presence chilled her like an icy wind.
"Ah! yes—yes, thank you, young woman. I'm much obliged to you, I am sure," stammered the squire as he glanced irresolutely from his wallet to her, then back again at the crisp bills within it. "I—I suppose I ought to pay you something for your trouble."
Mollie flushed a vivid crimson at the reluctant suggestion, and drew herself up with involuntary hauteur.
"Indeed no, sir," she coldly responded. "I assure you you are very welcome to what I have done, and I will not detain you longer. Good evening, Mr. Talford," and she bowed herself out with a grace that could not wholly veil the vein of mockery and contempt that underlay her words, and vanished from his sight, but leaving him with a sense of shame and meanness such as he had seldom experienced in life.
"Talford! Talford! Where have I heard that name? It rings in the chambers of my memory with a strangely familiar sound, and it almost seems as if I have seen that face before," Mollie mused, with a look of perplexity on her face, as she drove back in the fast gathering twilight toward home; but she failed to place either face or name, and soon forgot all about them for the time.
Five hours later Mollie, clad in a trailing robe of pale-yellow satin, and looking a veritable princess, with her shining hair coiled high upon her shapely head and encircled with a tiara of diamonds, stood in the drawing-room of the residence of the English ambassador making her obeisance to that distinguished gentleman and his courtly wife.
She was accompanied by her father, who was now the picture of health, whose every movement was replete with vigor and almost youthful energy; for, as he claimed, after fifty years of aimless groping he was just beginning to learn how to live. Clifford was also with them, but following a step or two in the rear, and, with his fine face and manly bearing, there was not a handsomer man in the room. Their salutations over, they moved aside to make way for others, when a beautiful girl, all in white, except that she wore a great bunch of scarlet poppies in her belt, stepped forward and extended a faultlessly gloved hand to Clifford.
"I am sure that Mr. Faxon is not one to forget his old friends," she smilingly observed, while her face glowed with undisguised pleasure at the meeting.
"Miss Athol!" he exclaimed, as he cordially clasped her hand, "this is indeed an unexpected pleasure! Of course, I could not forget you, and I am most happy to meet you again."
"The pleasure is mutual, I assure you," Miss Athol heartily returned, "neither have I forgotten the auspicious occasion of our last meeting at Harvard, while too"—with a significant glance—"there are some other memories that haunt me. Mr. Faxon, when I think of that terrible accident and that awful descent that you made over the precipice I grow faint and dizzy even now."
"Then please don't think of it," said Clifford, laughing, and, anxious to change the subject, he added: "Allow me to inquire if this is your first visit to Washington?"
"Oh, no; we have all been here a number of times, but papa was elected Senator for our district this winter, and we are going to be located here for the present. He has been in town some weeks, but mama and I arrived only last Saturday," Gertrude explained. Then she added, smiling, "How singular that you also should have drifted to Washington just at this time!"
"Yes, we meet people where we least expect to, sometimes. I have been here for more than a year, and have a position in the Patent Office Department."
"Climbing all the time, I am sure," said the girl, as her glance swept his handsome face and figure with a thrill of admiration. "I knew you would. I should not be in the least surprised to find you located in the White House some day."
"Oh, Miss Athol! I beg that I may escape the responsibilities of such a position," Clifford exclaimed, flushing to his temples and feeling decidedly uncomfortable to be so lauded. Then, with a sudden thought, he continued: "But now I am going to ask the privilege of presenting you to a friend whom I am sure you will find very congenial—may I?"
"Certainly. I shall be delighted to meet any friend of yours, Mr. Faxon," said Gertrude cordially.
Clifford turned to attract the attention of Mollie, who had been exchanging greetings with a prominent society woman, and a moment later he had introduced the two girls to each other.
The moment Miss Athol looked into Mollie's beautiful face and observed the tender glance which Clifford bestowed upon her, she knew instinctively that she had met the woman whom he was to marry.
"And she is worthy of him, which is saying a great deal for her," she mentally affirmed. "She is exquisitely lovely, but the best in the land is none too good for Clifford Faxon."
The young ladies appeared to be instantly attracted to each other, and in less than ten minutes felt as if they had been acquainted for years, and would be friends for the remainder of their lives.
In a corner, not far from this interesting group, and curiously watching the brilliant throng all about him, stood Squire Talford. And the man, if one did not closely observe his cold gray eyes and the cruel, cynical expression about his mouth, made quite a fine appearance in his evening-attire.
He had never been anything of a society man, but since he was in Washington he was determined to go the whole figure and see all there was to be seen, and as money was no object where his own gratification was concerned, he easily found ways of obtaining the entrée to fashionable circles.
He had observed Mollie when she entered the room, and instantly recognized her as the young lady who had restored his wallet to him that afternoon. He had thought her a remarkably pretty girl at that time, but now, in her evening-costume, she seemed a hundred-fold more lovely, and he was positively fascinated by her beauty.
He also noted the richness of her dress and costly jewels, and, at once recalling the fine equipage which he had seen before the stationer's store, decided that she must be the daughter of some very wealthy man.
Her loveliness and charm of manner grew upon him continually, and he became anxious to learn more about her. He sought a gentleman whom he knew, and after chatting for a few moments upon current events, suddenly broke off and remarked:
"I've been watching that young woman in yellow over there; can you tell me who she is?"
"Ah, yes; that is Miss Heatherford. She's an out-and-out beauty, isn't she? A regular stunner!" was the animated reply. "She is one of the most attractive young ladies in Washington this winter, and a favorite wherever she goes. She is rich, also—has a handsome fortune in her own right, although a year ago this time she was working for a living in this city."
"Can that be possible?" inquired the squire, and appearing to be deeply interested in the gentleman's statements.
"Yes, and that is her father, that fine-looking man with the snow-white hair. Five years ago he was known as one of the money-kings of New York, but he lost every dollar of it by a series of misfortunes, and came here and went to work as a clerk for the government. Then he was taken ill, lost his position, and was reduced almost to the verge of beggary; but his daughter, like the true-blue she is, came nobly to the front, got a situation as private secretary to a wealthy old Frenchman who had some mission to this country, and supported herself and her father."
"But where did she get her present fortune?" inquired Squire Talford.
"Well, it is quite a story, and I cannot go into the details just now," his companion replied, "but the girl proved herself a heroine in two or three instances, and saved the life of the Frenchman's grandchild, prevented a robbery in the house, and won his confidence to such an extent that he made her the guardian of the child, to whom he left an immense amount of money, and a snug sum to Miss Heatherford herself. She has only recently appeared in society here, but every one has fallen in love with her—men and women alike. She is spoken for, however, for she is soon going to marry a fine fellow who bids fair to become a prominent man in the world if he keeps on as he has begun, for he is as smart as chain-lightning—there he is now, just in the act of introducing a lady to Miss Heatherford."
Squire Talford started and flushed crimson as he instantly recognized Cliff. He had not observed him before, and now to find him in that brilliant assemblage, and apparently received on an equal footing with the most distinguished, was a shock which he had not been prepared for.
"Humph! So she is going to marry him!" he managed to say without betraying how much he had been startled.
"Yes, the engagement was announced the first of the season, and, of course, any one can see that, morally and mentally, the young man is her equal in every respect. But it has leaked out that he has worked his own way up from boyhood. His name is Faxon—Clifford Faxon—and I am told that he first met his fiancée in a railroad accident—or, rather, what would have proved to be a terrible smash-up but for the boy's superhuman efforts to remove an obstruction that lay upon the track, and which made a veritable hero of him. It seems that the girl was on board the train, and she was so impressed by the wonderful achievement that she gave him a very handsome ring, which he wears constantly."
Squire Talford remembered the ring well, but it galled him inexpressibly to hear Clifford so vaunted—this boy whom he had always hated because of a secret wrong in which his mother had once figured, and which he had nursed for half a life-time. It rasped him almost beyond endurance to find that, in spite of the efforts he had made to crush him, he had overcome every obstacle in the past, and was steadily rising toward fame and fortune; that even now, in his early manhood, he had far outstripped himself in attaining a social position in the world.
"He is a handsome, intellectual-looking fellow, don't you think?" his companion inquired. "You do not often see a finer head, a more frank, honest face on a man, while his eyes are simply magnificent."
The squire literally ground his teeth with rage, but controlling himself after a moment, he remarked, with a touch of sarcasm in his tones:
"You are enthusiastic over him, I perceive. But it seems that he isn't above becoming a fortune-hunter, since he is going to marry the rich Miss Heatherford."
"There you are mistaken, sir," was the spirited retort. "Faxon is no fortune-hunter—I'd take my oath that he would never stoop to win any one from a mercenary motive. The fact is that he and Miss Heatherford met and became acknowledged lovers while the girl was working for her living, and, notwithstanding he has no fortune or social position except what he has won for himself, she is prouder of him than she would be of a crown prince."
The squire could bear no more of that kind of talk in his present frame of mind, and, excusing himself to his communicative companion, he left him and made his way toward the hall, with the intention of slipping out unobserved and returning to his boarding-place. He was so absorbed in his disagreeable reflections that he paid no heed to any of the people about him, and had just reached the great archway leading out of the drawing-room when his way was suddenly blocked by some one who had paused before him and given vent to a startled exclamation.
Squire Talford lifted his head with a great, inward shock, and found a familiar form confronting him. The two men glared into each other's faces for a full minute without speaking, both looking like a couple of specters. Then the stranger gasped with colorless lips:
"You—here!"
"Looks like it," laconically returned the squire, who instantly began to recover himself, while his eyes glittered like points of polished steel. "Perhaps you'll be wanting to buy another ticket for New York, now that you know I'm around, eh?"
"No, I'll be —— if I will!" fiercely retorted the other, in a low, angry tone. Then he elbowed his way by his enemy, and disappeared among the crowd.
The squire chuckled viciously to himself, his irritation against Clifford forgotten for the moment in his new and rather startling encounter.
"Ha, ha! Bill. You're afraid of me, and you can't conceal the fact. And you have even more cause than you dream of," he muttered, a cruel smile wreathing his lips. "I wonder what you are doing here in Washington—I'll bet you're trying to lobby some devilish scheme or other, for your own private interests. But I think there'll be a day of reckoning between you and me before you're much older."
A little later Mollie and Gertrude Athol slipped away from the company and went for a stroll through the fine conservatory that led from the south side of the house. They wandered about, chatting socially, for a time, until Gertrude, chancing to glance up, saw her father standing in the doorway beckoning to her.
"Papa wants me," she said. "I expect he wishes to introduce me to some friends of whom he told me to-day. I am sorry to leave you, Miss Heatherford, but you will come to see me soon, will you not? and then we will plan to meet often. Good night, if I should not see you again."
She tripped away, but Mollie, who was a dear lover of flowers, lingered in that bower of beauty to examine some rare and exquisite orchids which were in full bloom. Suddenly, as she rounded a corner at the extreme end of the conservatory, some one started up from a seat that was half-concealed by some palms and foliage plants, and she found herself confronted by Philip Wentworth.
She had not dreamed of his being in the house, for she had seen none of the family that evening, and, in truth, he had been there but a few minutes, having had another engagement, but had promised to join his fiancée, Gertrude Athol, before the evening was over. He had been looking for her—had come to the conservatory to seek her, entering by a door leading from the dining room, instead of the hall, when, seeing the two girls, and not wishing to meet them together, he had sought the seat referred to, and concealed himself among the foliage until they should return to the house.
But when he saw Gertrude leave and Mollie loitering among the flowers, a wild desire to talk with her took possession of him, and he arose and stood in her path.
Mollie drew herself haughtily erect, and would have passed him without a word, but he stretched forth his arms and barred her way.
"No, you shall not evade me this time," he cried in a voice tremulous with passion and wounded feeling. "I have the right to vindicate myself, and no criminal is ever condemned without a hearing. Oh, Mollie! Mollie! forgive me—forgive me! I was not myself that night. I own I had been drinking more than was good for me, and I hardly knew what I was about."
Mollie had not intended to exchange a word with him, but the self-reproach in his tones—the misery in his face—appealed to her gentle heart, and she began to be sorry for him. She told herself that she had no right to condemn him utterly, even though she felt that she could never respect or admit him to her friendship again. She recoiled a step or two from him, and her face involuntarily softened.
"If that is so," she began gently, "let it be a lesson to you, and never again make such free use of that which you admit has power to control you."
"I will not, Mollie—I will not, indeed. I promise you," Philip eagerly returned, adding appealingly: "And you will forgive me—say that you will forgive, and let us be friends, as of old, once more."
Mollie's face flushed, and she shrank involuntarily. She knew that she could never receive him as a friend again—she had no wish ever to resume the old relations with any of the family, for their treachery and ill usage had done more to weaken her faith in humanity than anything that had ever occurred in all her experience.
"No," she said, after a moment of thought. "I will be frank with you, Philip—we can never be friends again, as I understand the term. One must have confidence in one's friends—you have destroyed my confidence in you. One must respect one's friends—you have forfeited my respect. It is not easy to tell you this, but you know that I was never guilty of deception, and so I cannot pretend to a friendship that is not real."
The young man staggered back a pace. He felt as if some one had struck him a blow upon his bare heart, and in all his life he had not known such genuine suffering as he experienced at that moment. Mollie seemed beautiful as a goddess—as far above him in strength and purity of character as the stars, and yet he had never yearned for her as he did now.
"Oh! I deserve it all—I deserve you should despise me!" he exclaimed in a voice of agony; "but I love you—I love you! You, and you alone, hold my life and my future in your hands! Forgive me, Mollie—let me try to win back your respect. I swear that no one shall lead a more exemplary life—no one shall be more worthy of your confidence—your love, than I, if you will but give me a chance. See! I kneel—I beg——"
"Stop!" cried Mollie authoritatively, as she put out one hand to stay him, "never do that, for no true woman would ever wish a man to humiliate himself. And now let me say," she continued even more impressively, "you must never speak like this to me again, for—I am already the promised wife of another."
At Mollie's words Philip sprang erect, a sudden rage possessing him.
"You engaged!" he faltered in a scarcely audible voice. He had only rejoined his mother in Washington a few days previous, and, as yet, had not heard of the formal announcement of Mollie's engagement to Clifford. He had been secretly enraged during the latter part of the previous winter because of the young man's attentions to her, and he had feared that they might result in their union; but now that the blow had fallen, he found that he was entirely unprepared for it, and was almost beside himself with mingled hate and jealousy.
It did not once occur to him that he himself was playing the part of a treacherous villain, for he was still pledged to Gertrude Athol. But he would not have hesitated an instant to throw her over if he could have won Mollie and her fortune.
"You engaged!" he repeated, his clouded eyes searching the fair face before him.
Mollie flushed. She had felt almost sure he must have known the fact, and she was considerably embarrassed to be obliged to explain matters to him. But she was determined to make him understand, once for all, that their old-time friendship could never be renewed, and that he must cease persecuting her with avowals of love.
"Yes," she quietly returned, but with downcast eyes, and a tender inflection unconsciously creeping into her tones, "I am going to marry Mr. Faxon the 25th of January."
The ax had fallen! The man whom he had hated for years had won the prize which he coveted. He could have borne it better if she had named some stranger, but to be told that his old enemy, who, in spite of every adverse circumstance, had gone straight to the front, distancing him in college; who had proved himself a hero over and over; to whom he owed the life of his young sister; against whom he had once lifted a murderous hand, and who was now rapidly rising, both in the social and political world. Oh! it was too much; it was crushing, maddening!
He stood rigid as a statue for a full minute after Mollie concluded, trying to master the tempest of jealous hate that raged within him. Then he said in a voice that was ominous in its calmness:
"And you love him?"
Mollie flashed him a glance that answered him even before she spoke, for there was a light of ineffable happiness in her eyes.
"You do not need to ask such a question!" she replied, "you know that I would never give my hand to any man who had not first won my deepest affection."
"Enough!" cried Philip, now wrought up to uncontrollable fury, "you need say no more. So that low-born upstart has effectually cut me out; curse him! Bah! I could cut his heart out!"
"Stop!" commanded Mollie, facing him with an air and look that silenced him for the moment. "If you must give expression to such ignoble sentiments regarding one who is vastly your superior in every respect, you at least shall not offend my ears with such language."
She turned abruptly as she ceased, and swept down the marble walk with the hauteur of an offended queen, and a moment later disappeared within the mansion.
Philip Wentworth, left to himself, paced back and forth in the flower-bordered path with the restless step of a caged lion, while he muttered and swore and raved like one almost on the verge of insanity, and wholly unaware of the slender, white-clad figure which had a few minutes previous flitted down another path and suddenly halted behind a huge Japanese vase taller than herself, and in which there was growing a luxuriant mass of vines, which entirely concealed her from view.
The second time he turned the sound of a quick, elastic step caught his ear. He peered around the corner, and instantly a lurid light began to blaze in his eyes. The man he hated, the rival who had come between him and the—to him—one woman in the world, was approaching him, and evidently in search of some one.
Philip Wentworth stood still, concealed from the other's view by the heavy foliage beside him, and involuntarily reaching out his hand, grasped the stem of a plant that was growing in a pot, and lifted it from its place.
Clifford, who was seeking Mollie, came rapidly on, rounded the corner, and almost ran upon Philip. He pulled himself up short, and, after a swift glance around, he observed in an easy tone, as he courteously inclined his head to his former classmate:
"Ah, Wentworth, pardon me! I should have moderated my movements somewhat before turning this corner."
He was about to pass on, when Philip hoarsely exclaimed while he faced him:
"Hold! What is this I hear? I am told that you are going to marry Mollie Heatherford. Is it true?"
Clifford drew himself up slightly before replying.
"It is true, Mr. Wentworth; I am going to marry Miss Heatherford," he coldly replied, but with significant emphasis.
"Curse you!" fairly hissed Wentworth, while his grip tightened on the stem of the plant. "So that has been your game, has it? You have deliberately set yourself to cut me out. I told you four years ago that she was my promised wife; we had been pledged to each other from childhood, and heavens! do you think I am going to tamely submit to being robbed by a low-born pauper like you? Do you imagine that I'm going to let you marry her? Never, so help me!"
His right hand swung out with tremendous force, lifting the flower-pot above his head and aiming it directly at Clifford's face.
But Faxon was too quick for him. He sprang to one side, caught the uplifted arm with a grip that almost paralyzed it, and, wrenching the dangerous missile—which fortunately remained intact, the plant having become root-bound in the pot—from his grasp, calmly replaced it where it belonged.
"Mr. Wentworth, this is the second time that you have made a rash attempt upon my life," he quietly observed. "I advise you never to repeat it, and you will remember that Miss Heatherford is my promised wife, and I shall not tolerate anything that verges upon a recurrence of what has just taken place."
He paused a moment, while a softer expression swept over his fine face.
"Wentworth, what ails you?" he continued in a more friendly tone. "What has made you so strangely antagonistic toward me all these years? I fail to understand it. It began away back during our first term in college; what caused it? Where is your manliness that you could cherish a grudge for so long? Believe me, I never had the slightest personal ill-will against you, and certainly you must have been in a very uncomfortable frame of mind most of this time. If I have unconsciously done you any wrong in the past, I should be very glad to be told of it."
Again he paused, but Philip stood silent, with downcast eyes and a sullen frown upon his brow. Clifford saw that he was incorrigible, and, repressing a sigh of regret for a life so warped by selfishness, he observed:
"Possibly I am unwise in appealing to you in any such way; but I believe the day will yet come when you will regret some of these things."
He turned and went swiftly back the way he had come, while Philip watched him with a lowering brow and a look of hate in his eyes.
Suddenly a slight rustle caused him to turn and look behind him, when an exclamation of dismay escaped him, for, leaning against the tall vase, and pale as the snowy dress she wore, he saw Gertrude Athol standing not a dozen feet from him.
"Gertrude!" the young man faltered, for he knew from her manner that she must have overheard much of what had passed—how much he dared not think.
The sound of his voice acted like a shock of electricity upon her. She stood erect, swept into the path where he was, and confronted him.
"I have heard all," she said in a cold, quiet tone. "I had no intention of playing the eavesdropper, however. Miss Heatherford and I were here in the conservatory a while ago, when my father called me, but he only wished to ask me a question or two, and then I thought that I would come back to Miss Heatherford, and that is how I happened to be here. I came just as you were declaring that she and she alone held your life and your future in her hands——" and the beautiful girl's nostrils dilated with supreme contempt as she thus repeated his words. "Therefore, considering the relations that have existed between you and me for the last four years, I felt that I had the right to hear you out and learn just to what extent I had been made your dupe——"
"Oh, Gertrude!"
"Hush!" she commanded imperatively. "I will not listen to a word of extenuation from you—there is none—there can be none. I will say my say out, and that will end everything between us. I have long felt that I might perhaps be building my hopes for the future upon shifting sand—there have been many indications of it, but I hoped that you might change for the better—that your good qualities would in the end overbalance your weakness. For more than four years I have worn your ring, believing myself pledged to you," Gertrude went on, as she calmly began to unlace the glove on her left hand, "but to-night you have said in my presence that for many years you have been betrothed to another—that you have loved—worshiped that other."
She turned the glove wrong-side out, to remove it the more quickly, slipped the ring from her finger, and held it out to him. "Here, take it. You and I will part here and now. And do not think that I shall eat my heart out and die because of disappointed love—like the girl of whom we read that summer in the mountains. I am not in the slightest danger of such a fate, for you have this night slain every spark of regard or respect that I ever entertained for you."
"Gertrude, hear me——" Philip began, as he shrank away from the hand that held the ring out to him.
"I have already heard all I wish to hear," she spiritedly returned, and with an inflection that made him wince. "Take it!" she reiterated as she again offered him the ring. "Very well," as he still refused, "I will leave it here for you to think about."
She hung it upon a twig of the plant before him, then turning abruptly from him, swept down and out of the conservatory with the air and step of one who exulted in recovered freedom.
As she disappeared he reached forth his hand and secured the ring, for it was a valuable one, but with a shamefaced air and a muttered curse at his—"luck."
Fifteen minutes later, when he sought his mother, to inform her that he "was not well, and was going home," he espied Mollie and Gertrude standing in an alcove chatting socially together, and as calmly and serenely as if no thought of regret in connection with him had power to cast a shadow across their pathway. Gertrude was perhaps a trifle paler than usual, but she was bright and animated, and he was assured that she "never would eat her heart out for him."
The contempt that had vibrated in her tones as she said it was still ringing in his ears as he left the house, making him quiver from head to foot with a sense of humiliation such as he had never experienced before.
When Gertrude Athol entered her own room, after her return from the reception, she sat down and tried to calmly review the recent scene between her discarded lover and herself, and to consider what influence it was likely to have upon her future.
"I believe I can truly say that I am glad to be free," she said after a while, with a sudden proud uplifting of her head. "I have known from almost the first of our acquaintance that Philip Wentworth is a weak and selfish man; but he is a handsome fellow, entertaining, and well versed in all the little courtesies of life and possessing strong mesmeric power, and I believe that he was fond of me. I foolishly imagined that, because of this supposed fondness, I might be able to help him overcome his faults and arouse within him an ambition to cultivate the best there is in him; but I know him now for a treacherous villain—for a coward, and almost a murderer. Oh, yes; I am glad that I am free, and I shall not grieve for him; though, of course, any woman would naturally be keenly stung to discover that she has only been made a tool of—simply held in reserve in the event of the failure of other plans!"
Her cheeks grew crimson, and her eyes flashed indignantly at the thought, while two tears fell upon her jeweled hands. She flung them off with an impatient gesture.
"They are not for him!" she cried scornfully; "they fell only for my own wounded pride; and they are the last I shall ever shed for that. The hurt is not so very deep, thank Heaven! and will soon heal. So he has been in love with Mollie Heatherford 'all his life?' Well, she certainly is one of the dearest and loveliest girls I have ever met, and she has shown good judgment in her choice of a husband, for Clifford Faxon is worth a dozen men like Philip Wentworth."
A little later, after her acquaintance with Mollie had ripened into a strong and enduring friendship—when she learned how Philip had played fast and loose with her, according to the changes in her circumstances—her contempt merged into positive repulsion for the young man; and before the season was over her acquaintance with a son of the British ambassador, whom she met that evening for the first time, developed into a strong mutual attachment which bade fair to result in an early marriage.
Upon their return from the reception, Clifford lingered a while with Mollie before proceeding to his lodgings, and it was, therefore, quite late when he reached home. He was somewhat surprised to find a carriage standing before the house where Squire Talford boarded, while the coachman was assisting his former employer up to the door, the man groaning at every step.
"Here, sir!" called the cabman, as he espied Clifford, "will you lend a hand here, please? The gentleman has sprained his ankle, and he is more than I can manage."
"Certainly," Clifford cheerfully responded, as he sprang forward with alacrity to render what assistance he could.
"Here is his latch-key, sir," the driver continued, passing it to the young man, "If you'll open the door, we'll make an armchair and carry him up to his room, as easy as snapping your thumb and finger."
Clifford did as he was requested, and then the two clasped hands, making the squire sit upon them, with an arm around the neck of each of his helpers, and in this way he was borne up two flights of stairs and deposited upon a chair in his own room, which was little better than a closet at the back of a hall.
It was evident that the man was suffering intensely; but resolutely repressing, as far as he was able, outward manifestations of the fact, he turned to the cabman and briefly inquired:
"What's to pay for this?"
The man named his price, and, with a grunt of disapprobation, the squire drew forth his wallet—the same that Mollie had restored to him only a few hours previous—and paid the amount, whereupon the driver hurried away to his team below.
Squire Talford had not taken the slightest notice of Clifford, but the young man, although he found himself in an awkward position, felt that he had a duty to perform, and courteously inquired if he should go for a surgeon to attend to the injured limb.
"No," was the gruff response, "the leg has already been attended to at the drug-store, where I made the mis-step."
Cliff glanced down and observed for the first time that his boot had been removed and the ankle bandaged.
"But you will have to get to bed, sir; let me assist you," he remarked.
"No—I can do well enough by myself—I don't want any help," the squire returned ungraciously.
Cliff flushed and stood irresolute for a moment. Then a look of determination flashed into his eyes, and he deliberately unbuttoned and removed his overcoat.
"Excuse me, Squire Talford, but you do need help," he calmly observed. "I know that you are not at all fond of me; that my presence is disagreeable to you; but suppose, for this once, you ignore those facts and accept the aid you require. You cannot stir from your chair without great suffering if I leave you, and will probably have to sit in it all night, unless you call some one in the house, and everybody appears to be in bed. Here, let me have your hat," and without more ado he removed it from the man's head and placed it on a table.
"Now the coat," he added. "I am sure I can help you undress without disturbing you very much, and when I get you comfortably settled in bed I will leave you."
Squire Talford was beginning to realize his helplessness, and submitted to the disrobing without further objection, although not with the best grace in the world, and he never once met Clifford's eyes during the operation.
"Now," said the young man, when that task was over, "the next move will be to try to get you into bed without hurting this crippled foot if possible. I will move your chair close beside it, then I think I can easily lift you on."
He swung the chair around, while he was speaking, and, it being a rocker without arms, it was not difficult to place it just where he wanted it, when, almost before he had time to dread the change, the squire found himself reclining in a comparatively comfortable position, although the pain in his ankle seemed unbearable.
"Is there anything else I can do for you?" Clifford inquired, with a great pity in his heart for the lonely man, as he saw how deathly white he was and noted the lines of pain about his mouth.
"I don't think of anything," said the squire, in a more subdued tone than he had yet used.
Clifford hung his clothing in the closet, and straightened things generally in the room, then found his way to the bath-room, where he procured a glass of water, which he placed on a chair beside the patient, in case he should be thirsty during the night.
"I am going to my room now, Squire Talford," he said when these arrangements were completed, "but if you should need me before morning and can arouse any one, you can send for me, and I will gladly come to you. I will drop in anyway after breakfast, to see how you are."
The man nodded, but did not unclose his eyes, and Clifford, after turning the gas low, went quietly out, taking care to close the door softly after him.
The next morning on inquiring at the door regarding the squire's condition before going to his business, he was told by the landlady that he had slept but little, and was suffering very much, both from the sprain and a high fever, for he had evidently taken a severe cold.
Clifford went up to his room and tried to persuade him to have medical advice, but the man curtly refused to do so; and after doing what little he could for his comfort, he was obliged to leave him to himself.
He found him even worse on his return at night, and he spent most of the evening with him, bathing the injured ankle, rubbing it thoroughly with a liniment which he had procured of a druggist, and afterward rebandaging it as deftly as if he were accustomed to such duties. He also bathed the man's fevered face and hands, and he seemed much refreshed afterward.
The squire did not submit to these operations with a very good grace at first, but Clifford had assumed a masterful air, and went straight ahead as if he had a perfect right to do so, and was so gentle and handy that before he was through he could see that the squire's antagonism to his presence was merging into a sort of helpless reliance upon him.
He had brought some lemons with him, and with these he made a small pitcher of lemonade, some of which the sufferer drank with thirsty relish, the remainder being left where he could easily reach it. Clifford felt very reluctant to leave him alone, for he saw that he was very ill; but the squire bade him go, saying that he was all right, and he felt obliged to obey him.
He did not feel wearied or like sleeping after reaching his own room, and, having a new book, he read until very late, retiring just as the clock in a room below struck the half-hour after twelve.
He fell asleep almost immediately; but suddenly—it seemed as if he could hardly have lost himself—he was aroused by hearing the rapid "chug-chug" of a steam fire-engine close by and a perfect babel of voices in the street below him.
He sprang from his bed and rushed to a window, and was appalled to see smoke and flame issuing from both the door and windows of the adjoining house, which he had left only a few hours previous. His first thought was for Squire Talford, who was on the third floor, and who, in his crippled condition, would find it very difficult to get out of the burning building.
He hurriedly threw on some clothing; then dashed down-stairs and out of doors. The entire lower floor of the burning house was in flames. The fire had started in the basement, and had gained great headway before it was discovered.
The stairway leading to the second story was also on fire, and thus rendered impassable, and the family and servants were being taken out of the second-floor windows by the firemen when Clifford appeared upon the scene.
"Where is Squire Talford?" he demanded of the landlady, as soon as he could find her.
"Merciful heavens, sir! I'm sure I don't know. He must be up-stairs in his room. With so many other things on my mind I haven't thought of him till this minute!" cried the almost distracted woman, wringing her hands in terror.
Clifford turned suddenly white with a terrible fear. One sweeping glance aloft told him that the man would shortly be suffocated by smoke, even if the flames had not already reached him. He knew that he could not put his injured foot to the floor; that he was almost as helpless as an infant; and unless he had immediate assistance the chances in his favor were very small indeed.
It was too late to try to save him by getting him out of the windows on the front of the house, for some of the firemen had been burned while making their last trip down the ladder with their burdens, and the flames were now pouring out of them.
Without saying a word to any one, he dashed back into his own house, bounded up three flights of stairs, and made his way out upon the roof, through a skylight, and ran across to the one on the roof of the fated building.
It was fastened; but with one blow of his heel he smashed a pane of glass, and reaching inside, unhooked it, throwing it open with a force that nearly tore it from its hinges. The next moment he was making his way down the stairs; but the whole place was black with smoke so dense that he could scarcely see or breathe.
He sprang into the squire's room, to find the man lying crossway of the bed, his face downward, panting for breath and moaning piteously. He had tried to get up to escape, wrenched his ankle, and fallen back again half-fainting from the pain, from fear, and a horrible sense of his own helplessness.
"Courage, Squire Talford!" cried Clifford, in forceful tones. "I will have you out of this very shortly. Now think quick—have you any papers and valuables that you want to take with you?"
"Yes—a package of documents in my trunk—my watch and wallet are under my pillow," the man feebly responded, though he had lifted his head eagerly the instant he caught the sound of the familiar, encouraging voice.
Clifford had the wallet and watch in his pocket almost before he ceased speaking; then he flew to the trunk—fortunately it was not locked—found the papers, and thrust them into his pocket. The next moment he was bending over the squire.
"Here, let me help you up," he said; "you must not mind if you are hurt a little—put your arms around my neck and give yourself up to me, and I will save you."
The man rolled over, and with Clifford's help stood upon his well foot, though a groan burst from him in making the effort. He clasped his hands about the young man's neck, as he was bidden, and Clifford lifted him in his arms, bore him from the room, through the volume of smoke that was now rolling up through the aperture above, up the stairs to the roof, and across it to the next house.
Here he deposited his burden upon the upper step of the flight of stairs leading below, while the fresh, frosty air had done much toward reviving the almost suffocated man.
"Now," said Clifford, "if you can manage to get inside out of the cold by yourself, I will go back and see if I can save some of your clothing. Can you?"
"Yes, I will try; but don't run any risk for the clothes, Cliff," the squire replied as he began to ease himself down the stairs; for he was shivering with cold and excitement.
In spite of the gravity of the situation, a smile flashed over Clifford's face as he noted the change in the man's tone when he pronounced his name, and marked the consideration expressed for him. He darted back and down into the room which he had only just left, although now the flames smote him as he went, for they were rolling up from below with devouring force.
He snatched a sheet from the bed, and, without making a false movement or step, piled upon it everything belonging to the squire that he could lay his hands on, emptying both trunk and closet; then gathering it up by the four corners, he knotted them, swung the pack over his head, and a moment later was again on the roof of the house, and this time getting a thorough drenching from the stream of water which had been directed to the column of smoke that was pouring out of the skylight.
He had not been any too expeditious, for almost at the same instant there came a terrible crash, which told of falling floors and stairways within the burning building. Dropping his pack through the roof of his own dwelling, he quickly followed it, to find the squire shivering in the hall below.
He assisted him down the next flight to the room he occupied, which was a large square apartment in the front of the house, and made him get into his own bed.
The man was a little inclined to rebel against this arrangement, for he seemed to think that they were still in danger from the fire; but Cliff assured him that the department were getting the flames under control, and they were in no danger, as the walls between the houses were fireproof.
As soon as he had made him comfortable, he went up-stairs again to bring down the clothing he had saved, and arranged it neatly in his closet and an empty trunk of his own; after which he had a bath and put on dry garments.
Although the engines continued to play for more than an hour after this, the worst was over, no lives had been lost, although much personal property was destroyed, and the excitement soon subsided.
But when morning broke Squire Talford was raving in the delirium of fever. Clifford felt it his duty to act upon his own responsibility, and immediately called a physician, who at once declared that the man must either go to a hospital, or have a trained nurse where he was, for he was very sick, and liable to have a tedious illness. Knowing the squire's horror of incurring heavy expenses, Clifford did not quite like to send him to a hospital, while the cost of a trained nurse in the house, with her board to be paid, would very soon amount to an appalling sum.
The man was in no condition to plan for himself, and so, after thinking the matter over seriously, and consulting with his landlady, who was a kind-hearted, sensible woman, Clifford decided to send for Maria Kimberly to come and take care of her master.