MARY VERN’S GUARDIAN.
One afternoon when Larry had a half a day to himself, he was strolling
down Broadway, when a young lady, coming from a jewelry store, ran and
caught him by the arm.
“Why, Mr. Barlow, where have you been keeping yourself?” she asked.
He turned to find himself confronted by Mary Vern, dressed in the
deepest of mourning.
“Miss Vern,” he returned, in surprise. “I hardly expected to see you
here.”
“No? Then you didn’t know I was living in New York now?”
“No. I was wondering what had become of you since the sad loss of your
father. I was very, very sorry to hear of that.”
He looked at her sympathetically and saw her eyes fill with tears,
which she hastily brushed away.
“It was a—a great shock,” she said, in a low voice. “I don’t feel that
I will ever get over it. But what are you doing here? Have you gotten
into the fire department at last?”
“I have, although as yet I am only in the school of instruction.”
“I don’t understand,” and she looked puzzled.
“I am learning. I am not yet a graduate, so to speak,” he smiled. “You
know there is a great deal for a city fireman to learn.”
“I presume that is true.” The girl paused. “Then you have moved to the
city?”
“Yes. My sister and I live in a little flat,” and he gave the address.
“I live on West Forty-first street now,” she went on, and gave the
number. “I shall be pleased to see you at any time when I am home.”
“Thank you, Miss Vern. You are very good to—me.” He was going to say
“a common fireman,” but checked himself.
“I have not forgotten that you saved my life,” she returned, her face
flushing. “I shall never forget that.”
“Of course you are not living alone?” he said, to change the subject.
“No, I am living with my guardian and his daughter Laura. His name is
Mr. Martin Pollox.”
“Martin Pollox!” gasped our hero in astonishment.
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“I—er—I know of him,” he stammered. “So Mr. Pollox is your guardian?”
“Yes.”
“Made so by your father’s will, I suppose.”
“Yes.”
“I am sorry to hear it,” said Larry, bluntly.
“Why?” and her face showed her interest.
“Well, if you want the truth, Mr. Pollox is a man I do not like. In
fact, I have grave reasons for not liking him.”
At this Mary Vern’s face fell slightly.
“To tell the truth, I do not like Mr. Pollox myself,” she said, in
almost a whisper, and with a look behind her.
“Doesn’t he treat you right?”
“He does and he doesn’t. He hates to see me going to visit any of my
old friends. He wants me to either stay home or else go out with his
daughter Laura, whom I don’t like.”
“But you are alone now.”
“No; Laura is still in the store. She will come out in a moment.
“Why does he object to your visiting your old friends?”
“I do not know, except that he is afraid I may talk over my late
father’s affairs with them.”
“But he oughtn’t to be afraid of that if he is a square man,” insisted
Larry.
“He is a—very queer man.”
“How queer? Perhaps you had better tell me. I may be able to do
something for you.”
“Whenever he has certain visitors come to the house he bundles me out
of sight and hearing.”
“Don’t want you to hear what is going on, eh?”
“Then he talks, too, of sending me to England to be educated. I do not
want to go to England.”
“Has he ever told you how much your father left you?”
“No; but papa was worth over two hundred thousand dollars when he died.”
“And all this is now in Mr. Pollox’s care?”
“Yes.”
“Is he a relative?”
“He claims to be a distant relative, but I cannot trace the line.”
“Have you any near relatives?”
“No.”
“It is a great pity. Frankly, I would not trust Mr. Pollox any further
than I could see him.”
“Do you think he would—would cheat me out of my fortune?” cried Mary
Vern, with wide open eyes.
Before Larry could answer, a stylishly dressed young woman emerged from
the jewelry store and caught Mary by the arm.
“Come, we will go on,” she said, coldly.
She looked a great deal like Martin Pollox, and Larry rightfully
guessed that she was the daughter Mary Vern had mentioned.
“Very well,” said the girl. “Allow me——”
“Good-bye,” interrupted Larry, not caring for an introduction. “I’ll be
in your neighborhood Wednesday afternoon,” he whispered, and, lifting
his cap, walked off.
“Mary, who is that creature?” demanded Laura Pollox when the two girls
were alone.
“He is a friend of mine—the one who saved my life at that fire in
Ferryville. His name is Larry Barlow.”
“A very common-looking young man. If I were you I wouldn’t have
anything to do with him.”
“I shall not forget the great service he did for me. He risked his life
for mine.”
“Pooh! I think you overrate his services, Mary. Any fireman would have
done as much.”
“I don’t think so.”
“What is he doing in New York?”
“He has joined the fire department here.”
“You must not make a friend of him. He is not in our society.”
“He is as good as anybody.”
“Nonsense, Mary! He is only a low, ill-bred young man, who——”
“He is no more low and ill-bred than you!” retorted Mary Vern, hotly.
“He did me a great service, and I shall always consider him my friend
and my equal.”
At this Laura Pollox pursed up her lips tightly.
“As you please, but I don’t think papa will allow it,” she said, and
added: “Here comes John with the carriage. We had better go home before
you discover some more of your country acquaintances.”
In a moment more they had entered the carriage. When they got home Mary
went directly to her room, while Laura sought out her father, who was
in the library.
“What is it, Laura?” asked Martin Pollox, as he looked up from some
patent papers he was studying.
“I want to speak about Mary,” answered the fashionable daughter.
“What of her?”
“Today, when we were out on Broadway, she spoke to a common-looking
fellow from Ferryville—the fireman who saved her at the hotel fire.
She seems to want to make a friend of him.”
“Ahem! He can’t be her equal.”
“That is what I said.”
“Mary must forget him. What was his name?”
“Larry Barlow.”
At the mention of our hero’s name Martin Pollox fell back in his chair
in amazement.
“Barlow! Are you sure?”
“Yes, papa. Why are you surprised?”
“I—er—it is nothing. Only I once knew a man named Barlow.”
“This was a young man. He is now a New York fireman.”
“Is that so?” Martin Pollox paused. “Well, Mary should have nothing to
do with him.”
A lady visitor was now announced to see Miss Laura, and she went off,
leaving her father to himself.
“Larry Barlow!” muttered Martin Pollox. “It must be that man’s son. If
so he must not become a visitor here under any circumstances.”