"Wretch!" he muttered between his tightly locked teeth. "And have you never heard anything of him since?"

"Wait; let me tell my story in my own way and you will know all there is to know when I am through," the squire replied, and then resumed: "I told you that Belle Abbott came home with her baby, to find her father and mother both gone and with no resources for herself except the interest in the house where her parents had died. But she was thankful for even a roof to cover her, and, being a woman of considerable energy and strength of character, she began to look about for something to do to support herself and her child, and--to pay the interest on the mortgage, which, even then, was overdue."

Again Clifford moved restlessly, for the man's malice irritated him excessively, for he began to realize now, as he never had before, something of what his mother's wrongs and sufferings had been, and how this vindictive man had oppressed her to gratify a mean revenge.

"You think I was a 'wretch,' too, no doubt," said the squire. "I don't deny it; but you know the old saying that 'even a worm will turn when trod upon,' and my heart had been trampled to adamant and I had sworn that I would have my pay for it. Your mother never went by her husband's surname after she came back--she called herself Mrs. Faxon, for she did not want you to know anything about the troubles of her life until you were old enough to comprehend them clearly. That was why she would never talk with you about your father. She had a first-rate education, having stood at the head of her cla.s.s when she graduated from the Normal School in New Haven, and so she decided to open a private school in her own house and try to get her living that way. She managed to just about cover her expenses, except that she couldn't meet the interest on that mortgage, during the last few years, and so the place came into my hands, as you know, when she died. I didn't press her for the money, and I didn't show my hoofs to her very much. I--well, I had my reasons for it, as you will see." The man faltered and changed color here a trifle.

"So," he went on, bracing himself after a moment, "she naturally believed that I had wiped out old scores; but I hadn't. I simply wanted to work out certain plans which I had in view for you, and when I proposed that she should bind you to me for a term of years she fell into the trap without a suspicion, believing that I would look out for your future interests, and, if at any time your father's death could be proved, you would come in for a certain share of the property. But that was the very thing that I was determined should never happen, and so, when, the night before she died, she sent for me and gave me a box of letters and other papers explaining your parentage to keep for you until your time was out----"

"What!" cried Clifford, flushing crimson with sudden indignation, "and you never gave them to me! Why have you done this--this wicked, inhuman thing--why have you kept them from me?"

"Because of that old devil in me, I suppose," was the dogged response.

"The hatred which I had been nursing against your father and mother for so many years seemed to concentrate upon you. I never meant you should know who your father was, nor your relationship to me, nor that you should get a penny of your grandmother's property, if I could help it."

"Did my grandmother make a will?" Clifford briefly inquired.

"No, there was no will; but as nothing was ever heard of my brother, and as I had managed everything for years, the property has all remained in my hands," the squire replied.

"Why have you told me all this now--why have you changed your mind and revealed these secrets?" Clifford demanded as he leaned forward and gazed steadily into his companion's face. Something about him seemed to fascinate the man, for he regarded him with a peculiar, searching look for a full minute.

"Your eyes are very like your mother's," he musingly observed. "She had the most beautiful eyes I ever saw, and your features are something like hers. I used to think you looked like your father, but you have changed during the last few years, and you make me think of her to-night.

Oh!"--with a sudden start and giving himself a rough shake--"why have I told you this story now? Well, for one reason, I was compelled to do so.

I thought that box of papers would never see the light again--I meant to have burned it long ago, but kept putting it off--but fate has taken the matter entirely out of my hands. I had it safely locked away in an old trunk, with a lot of other papers, but while Maria was cleaning house, after I came to Washington, the trunk got a fall, was smashed, and she found it. She brought it along with her, and this morning she informed me that I must relate the facts of your history to you or she should take the matter into her own hands. Of course, I preferred to face the inevitable," he concluded stoically.

"What are the papers in the box?" queried Clifford.

"Some old love-letters that pa.s.sed between your father and mother while they were fooling me to the top of their bent, the certificate of their marriage, and another of your baptism, with some other things of minor importance."

"Oh! then there is proof that my mother was legally married?" said Clifford eagerly.

"Yes, they were married, straight enough; though it wouldn't have surprised me at all if my scapegrace of a brother had made a fool of her. I never knew him to consult his conscience much where his own pleasure was concerned," said the squire dryly.

"I once inferred from something you said that there was some doubt about it," said Clifford flushing.

"Well, I was pretty mad at you that night, and I didn't care much what I said."

"You have said that my father was your half-brother, and that Faxon was not his surname. What was his name?" the young man inquired with a clouded brow.

"Well, it is natural that you should want to know, and these papers will tell you. I'll call Maria and she will bring them to you," Squire Talford replied, and he rang the little handbell by his side, and which was to summon Mrs. Kimberly to the scene.

CHAPTER XX.

CLIFFORD LEARNS HIS FATHER'S NAME.

Maria, evidently, was not far away, for she entered the room almost immediately after the ringing of Squire Talford's bell and bearing the box in her hands. She paused, after closing the door, and glanced inquiringly at the squire.

"Give it to him," he said, with a nod toward Clifford, and Maria placed it in his hands, after which she walked quietly from the room again.

Clifford was deeply moved, and his hands trembled visibly as he untied the cord that held the cover in place and removed it. He merely glanced at the letters as he took them out; but seized the folded parchment with an eagerness which betrayed how anxious he was to learn the ident.i.ty of the man who had married and deserted his mother.

He removed the pin that held the two papers together and unfolded the topmost one, which proved to be the marriage-certificate. He searched it eagerly for the name he wanted, and a perplexed look swept over his face as he read it: "W. F. T. Wilton."

"W. F. T. Wilton," he repeated thoughtfully. "Well, it does not enlighten me very much. What do the initials 'W. F. T.' stand for?"

"William Faxon Temple," briefly replied his companion, and regarding him with a peculiar look.

At first the name did not seem to mean much to Clifford. Then, all at once, he started erect, a terrible shock galvanizing him from head to foot, as his mind flew back to his first summer in the mountains, where he had met the wealthy banker, William F. Temple, and his family; as he recalled also his interview with the man on the morning after Minnie Temple's rescue, when he had been so strangely moved upon learning his own name.

"But it cannot be possible!" he muttered, repudiating the thought almost as soon as it had taken form in his mind.

"What cannot be possible?" inquired the squire.

"Why, I know a man here in Washington by the name of William F. Temple, and it struck me as an odd coincidence that is all," Clifford explained, but with clouded eyes.

"Well?" said the squire, but with such a peculiar intonation that Clifford started again.

"You cannot mean--surely it cannot be possible that he is the man you refer to--your half-brother!" he cried breathlessly.

"Yes, he, and no other, is the man," was the emphatic response, "only he has found it convenient to drop the name of Wilton."

"But are you sure? Have you met this man who calls himself William F.

Temple? Do you know that he is your brother?"

"Yes, I am sure--we have met and recognized each other, greatly to his confusion. I could take my oath as to his ident.i.ty and that he is the man who married Belle Abbot more than twenty-three years ago, though I am sure he has never dreamed of your existence, for you were born eight months after he had deserted your mother. She called herself by the name of Faxon and named you Clifford, for your grandfather, Abbot. She said you should never be known by the name of Wilton, and as the population of New Haven was constantly changing, and her home was on the outskirts of the city, she hoped to keep your ident.i.ty a secret and your young life unhampered by any knowledge of the great wrong of which your father had been guilty. She never heard one word from her husband, and she finally came to the conclusion that he must be dead. I also shared that belief, for I was pretty sure that if he was alive and needed money he would make some effort to get his share of his mother's property; but four years ago last summer we suddenly ran across each other on a train between New York and Albany----"

"You did?" sharply interposed Clifford, "and did you tell him of my existence?"

"You may be sure I didn't. I never meant that any one should know that there was any tie of kinship between you and me," replied the squire, with some asperity. "At first Bill pretended that he did not know me, but I very soon brought him down from his high horse and convinced him that I knew my man. He was dressed like a nabob, and told me that he had become rich--he even told me that I was welcome to all that our mother left, and that he should never give me any trouble about his share of it; but I supposed that was a kind of bribe for me to let him alone, and, as I'd come to look upon everything as belonging to me, I concluded to give him a wide berth, rather than to get into an expensive lawsuit over the matter. I never met him again until the day you took your degree at Harvard--bah! I did not mean to let that cat out of the bag!"

the man interposed, with a shrug of irritation and flushing hotly.

"Oh! I knew you were there," Clifford quietly returned. "I saw you almost as soon as I entered the hall, and your presence was a great inspiration--I feel I owe you a great deal for it."

"An inspiration!" repeated his companion, wonderingly.

"Yes; for I knew you had come to criticize--to ascertain for yourself if I had been able to work my own way through college and acquit myself creditably, and the knowledge proved a wonderful bracer for me. But you were telling me about your second meeting with Mr. Temple."

"Yes, I ran against him and his whole family just as I was leaving the grounds. They were a stunning party, and their carriage and horses as fine as one would care to see. But it nearly took Bill's breath away to see me--he looked as if he had met a ghost, though neither of us let on that he knew the other," the squire explained.

"And that man is my father!--you have taken my breath away by the revelation," said Clifford, with an air of bewilderment and a sudden sense of repulsion. "However, I have no desire to lay claim to any such relationship. Do you know where he went and how he made his money after he deserted my mother?"

"I've been told that he 'struck pay-gravel' in some Western mines; then went to San Francisco, where he set up as a banker, got into society there, and served one or two terms as Mayor of the city and met his present wife--who was a rich widow by the name of Wentworth and married her there. I learned this from a San Francisco man whom I met when I first came to Washington."

"When--how long ago was he married to this woman?" Clifford questioned, with a violent start.

"I'm sure I don't know--I haven't felt interest enough in their affairs to make any inquiries about the matter," said the squire indifferently.