“Jove! Miss Athol, but you are hard on a fellow!” Philip here burst forth, and having changed color half a dozen times during her spirited speech.
“Hard! I? I should say that is a term that would better apply to yourself,” she retorted. “Why, it seems to me that you are perfectly callous. I admire Mr. Faxon. He is a gentleman, in spite of his poverty and the menial position which he occupies, and certainly he is no coward. I honor him for his determination to get an education, even though he is willing to become a ‘drudge’ to obtain it, and I, for one, shall always be proud to claim him as an acquaintance.”
It would be difficulty to describe the conflict of emotions that raged within Philip Wentworth’s breast as he listened to the above brave and spirited defense of the man he hated; but it only acted as a spur to goad him on to achieve his purpose, and make a complete conquest of the fearless girl who had so nobly constituted herself Clifford Faxon’s champion.
He leaned suddenly forward, and boldly grasped her hands, which were lying idly in her lap.
“Miss Athol—Gertrude,” he began, in tones that shook with the passion that possessed him, “after what you have just said, I suppose it would better become me to slink out of your sight and hide my head, but I cannot. In spite of all, I am going to tell you that I love you madly, devotedly, and that I am even presumptuous enough to hope that I may yet win you for my wife. Perhaps, my darling, I may be a ‘coward’; no doubt Faxon, whom you so affect to admire, is worth a dozen such useless fellows as I, who am, unfortunately, an heir to the ‘proverbial spoon.’ But I can’t help it, though I am humiliated beyond expression by your scorn, and I will do anything in reason to atone for my seeming ingratitude, or whatever you may choose to call it, if only you will forgive me; smile on me once more; tell me that you will try to love me, and will some day marry me.”
CHAPTER XIII.
A REVELATION.
Philip Wentworth, when he began his impulsive declaration, had no more intention of making her a definite proposal of marriage than he had of hanging himself. It had been, and still was, his one aim in life to marry Mollie Heatherford, just as soon as his college course was completed.
Mr. Heatherford was numbered among New York’s richest men, and, as Mollie was his only child, Philip was looking forward to the handling of her magnificent inheritance, “when the old man should pass in his checks,” as he was wont to express it to himself.
The moment he stood committed to Miss Athol he could almost have bitten his tongue out with mingled anger and chagrin. He had simply been amusing himself in seeking her society, and making love to her something after the fashion of the story which they had read and discussed in “The Glen” on the day of Minnie’s accident, but, even though he saw he was winning the girl’s heart, he had never intended carrying the affair to a point-blank offer of marriage.