Mrs. Faxon, while she would never talk about her husband, had never said outright that he was dead, but what little she had said had led Clifford to infer that such was the case. Ever since he had been old enough to reason for himself he had surmised that there was some mystery connected with him, and he had been sure of it after Squire Talford had flung at him those exasperating hints and sarcasms.
“Ah! that means, I suppose, that he died before you were born,” Mr. Temple observed, with his eyes fastened upon the fair little face resting upon his breast; “but”—as Clifford did not reply to the observation—“have you no relatives? Pardon me if I seem inquisitive,” he interposed, glancing curiously at the young man’s grave face, “but, after what happened the other day, I cannot fail to experience a personal interest in you.”
Clifford hesitated a moment before replying. Then he said in a somewhat reserved tone:
“No—I have no relatives that I know of. My mother was alone in the world, and supported herself and me by teaching as long as she was able to work.”
“And have you been shifting for yourself ever since she died?” queried his companion.
“Yes, sir, in a way. I was bound to a man by the name of Talford, who lives in Cedar Hill, Connecticut, for four years, until I went to college.”
“Ah-a! bound, were you? Who bound you to him?”
“My mother,” Clifford replied, beginning to grow restive beneath this catechising.
The man might feel an interest in him, but he thought he was carrying it rather too far in thus prying into his personal history, while he always chafed when his mind reverted to that contract with the squire.
He had never been disturbed in this way until the man had revealed to him the bitter hatred which he had entertained for his father, and he could never understand how his mother, if she had been conscious of this enmity, could have consigned him to his care, or, rather, his tyranny; it had been a blind problem to him for more than a year.