“You might regard me as unduly inquisitive,” said the young man demurely.
“So you are,” she flashed back at him. “I am sure you are just dying to know, and, as there is really no reason why you should not, I will tell you.”
She then proceeded to relate all that had occurred during her journey to New York on that sultry July afternoon four years ago, describing the terrible storm, her loneliness and fear, the sudden shock and stopping of the train, the falling of the maple-tree across the track, and Clifford Faxon’s heroic efforts to remove the dangerous obstruction, thus preventing a shocking accident.
As she talked she seemed to live over again the whole of that thrilling experience. She shrank visibly as she described the vivid flashes of lightning and the deafening crashes that seemed to be almost simultaneous. She caught her breath sharply as she told of those piercing whistles, which bespoke imminent danger to every quaking heart, and of the shrieks and cries, the white faces and trembling forms of men, women, and children as they expected every instant to be hurled into eternity.
Then came her description of the youthful hero as he appeared working for dear life, without a thought of self, while the conflict of elements and the deluge swept over and raged around him.
She waxed eloquent as she spoke of his poverty, how he had been clad in the coarsest and meanest of garments, with old and clumsy shoes on his feet, without hat, coat, or vest, or anything to commend him to the fastidious eye, except his frank, noble face, his honest, fearless eyes and his manly bearing.
“One did not mind his lack of suitable clothing,” she went on earnestly, “as one looked into his countenance and read there the truth and integrity of his character, and he had the finest eyes I ever saw. I am sure, though, that he had had a hard life, for he said he had been bound out to a man on a farm when he was thirteen years old for four years, but that his time was almost up, and then he was going to try to get a college education. Some gentlemen on the train took up a collection to give him a start. There was quite a generous sum raised—I don’t know just how much, but almost everybody was glad to do something to manifest their gratitude, and when we reached New Haven the money was presented to him, and he was then sent home in a hack.”
“Really! Then the young rustic rode in state for once in his life,” Phil here interposed, with an ill-concealed sneer, and Mollie wondered at the malice in his tone and what could have made his face grow so startlingly pale.
“Yes, and why shouldn’t he?” she demanded spiritedly, for his words and manner grated upon her. “Just think what he had done—prevented a terrible accident, saved thousands of dollars’ worth of property and the lives, doubtless, of many people; and, besides, he was completely exhausted by his efforts, and it would have been a shame to have allowed him to get back to his home in the country as best he could. Why, if a fortune had been raised for him there on the spot, it would not have been an adequate return. He was a hero, he had done a deed to be proud of, and for which he should be honored all his life; and he was so modest about it, too—as if he had only been chopping wood to make a fire! Why, Phil, I’d rather do a deed like that than have all the wealth and social honors of the world heaped upon me!” Mollie concluded, with gleaming eyes and glowing cheeks.
“Well, but about the ring; was it to this—‘hero’ that you gave it?” questioned Philip, in a peculiar tone.