Possibly he might not have been so persistent in his attentions to her had he not been piqued by the young lady’s manner toward him of late. Ever since the day of Minnie’s accident she had been decidedly cool, not to say scornful, in her bearing when in his presence. His lack of courage and his total inefficiency at “The Glen,” together with his ingratitude and pretended ignorance of all knowledge of Clifford, had aroused her contempt and indignation, and, even though she had secretly learned to love him, and had been led to infer that he also loved her, she was so bitterly disappointed in him, she found it very difficult to forgive and treat him cordially.
Several times when he called she excused herself from receiving him on plea of being “engaged” which so galled the proud young gentleman that he secretly vowed that he would yet gain her favor again, “just to conquer her, if for no other reason.”
Three successive days after his mother, stepfather, and sister left for Saratoga, he called and received the same message in every instance. Then he employed strategy to achieve his purpose; watched the house to ascertain when she went out for a stroll, and followed her.
Her resort was under the shadow of a great rock on the mountain, about quarter of a mile back of the hotel, and when he came upon her, although she appeared to be reading, he saw that there were traces of tears upon her cheeks. She greeted him with studied coldness, and yet her heart had given a great bound of mingled joy and pain at his appearance.
“Ah! I have found you at last,” Philip observed, in a reproachful tone, but with a gleam of triumph in his eyes. “You have been cruel to me, Miss Athol. Please tell me wherein I have sinned, and allow me to atone, if atonement is possible.”
“I am not aware that Mr. Wentworth has been accused of any especial sin, unless, indeed, his own conscience has turned accuser,” Gertrude replied, with icy formality.
Philip colored consciously.
“You need not try to evade me in any such way,” he said; “you certainly are cherishing something against me, for, even though you have not voiced it, your looks and acts are more audible than words. Now tell me of what I am guilty.”
Gertrude regarded him steadily for a moment.
“Well,” she said at last frankly, “I confess I have been wholly unable to understand or account for your conduct of last Tuesday.”