A LETTER FROM NEW YORK.
It is unnecessary to detail the conversation which took place between
Squire Turner and Hartley Brandon, since the nature of it may be guessed
from the events which followed. As might be expected, Brandon was by no
means squeamish, and made no objection to what was proposed. Indeed,
he made an occasional suggestion which was adopted by his kinsman. The
squire did not, of course, think it politic to reveal the real causes of
his hostility to Harry, nor of the reasons which he had for desiring that
the boy should be out of the way.
He was too cautious a man for this, and moreover had too little
confidence in Brandon, whom he regarded as an unprincipled fellow, being
in this opinion not far from right. He merely said that he had reasons
for wishing Harry out of the way, and expressed his willingness, should
matters turn out satisfactorily, not only to make Hartley a present
advance of fifty dollars, but to pay him over a further sum of five
hundred when the affair was over, besides what might be needed for
preliminary expenses.
To the shiftless vagabond, who had been tossing about the ocean for a
quarter of a century, five hundred dollars was a large sum, though we may
consider it a trifling compensation for an act of villany. So he readily
promised the squire his co-operation.
“It is best that you should leave Vernon at once,” said the squire, when
the arrangements between them were concluded.
“Why?” asked Brandon, rather disappointed, for he fully expected to be
the squire’s guest till the next day.
“Because it won’t do for you to be seen by the boy. He would recognize
you when you meet in the city, and this might lead him to suspect
something wrong.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I will have my horse harnessed to the carryall, and will take you over
to the Wrexham station, where you can take the cars for the city.”
“What time do the cars start?”
“In a couple of hours. We have no time to lose.”
“Have you got anything eatable in the house? I’m almost famished. Haven’t
eaten anything since early this morning.”
“I will look to that. Stay here, or rather I will lead the way upstairs.
Some one might be in. How will some beefsteak suit you?”
“Just the thing. Only let there be plenty of it. I’ve got a famous
appetite.”
Brandon was conducted upstairs to a back room on the second floor, where
the squire suggested that he might as well fill up a portion of the
time till lunch by brushing his clothes, and performing ablutions which
appeared to be needful. He then went downstairs to give the necessary
directions to Mrs. Murray.
“Broil some beefsteak and plenty of it,” said the squire. “You may boil
two or three eggs also, and send up a loaf of bread and some butter.”
“Where shall I set the table?” asked Mrs. Murray.
“Never mind about a table. You can carry all up on a waiter to the back
chamber when ready.”
Seeing that the house-keeper looked surprised, he added, in rather an
embarrassed way:—
“The fact is, the man was a school-mate of mine, who hasn’t turned out
very well. Out of pity, I am going to help him a little, but don’t care
about his being seen in my house.”
This seemed plausible enough, particularly when Mrs. Murray saw Brandon,
who certainly looked very much like one who had not turned out very
well. The rapid manner in which the abundant meal melted away under his
vigorous attacks was certainly a tribute to the culinary skill of the
house-keeper, who was led to form a more favorable estimate of the shabby
stranger in consequence.
In a little more than half an hour Squire Turner was on his way to
Wrexham, Brandon occupying a back seat. They reached the depot ten
minutes before the train arrived, so that there was ample time to buy a
ticket.
So the train was set in motion that was to lead to important changes
in the life of our young hero. These it shall be our task gradually to
unfold, and set on record.
Four days passed quietly. The villagers had ceased to talk of the fire,
as another exciting occurrence had succeeded. Deacon Watson had been
thrown out of his carriage and broken his leg, and the details of this
accident were still fresh in the mouths of all.
Harry pursued the even tenor of his way in his new position, trying to
make himself as useful as possible, and succeeding to the satisfaction
of his employer. Always prompt, always reliable, Mr. Porter felt that
in spite of his youth he fully filled the place of Alfred Harper, whose
temporary loss he now regarded with equanimity.
Harry was weighing some sugar for a customer one afternoon when John
Gaylord, who had just got through sorting the mail, said to him, “Here’s
a letter for your mother, mailed at New York.”
“Let me see it,” said Harry, who felt some curiosity as to who might
have written to his mother, for her correspondence was very limited.
He took the letter in his hand, and looked at the direction. It was in a
dashing business-hand, quite unknown to him, and revealed nothing.
“I will take it home when I go to supper,” he said.
“Has your mother got friends in New York?” asked Gaylord.
“Not that I know of. I don’t recognize the handwriting.”
“Maybe it’s a lawyer’s letter, informing her of a legacy,” said the
senior clerk, jocosely.
“Very probable,” said Harry, smiling.
It was already the hour when he usually returned for supper. Accordingly
he put on his cap and went out of the store. Being a little curious as to
the contents of the letter, he hastened his steps, and entered the house
out of breath.
“You’re a little early,” said his mother. “Supper isn’t quite ready.”
“I hurried, because a letter came by this afternoon’s mail. It’s mailed
at New York.”
“New York!” repeated Mrs. Raymond, in surprise. “Who can it be from?”
“I don’t know. Haven’t you any friends there?”
“Not that I know of. Harry, you may take up the tea and toast, while I am
reading the letter.”
She tore open the envelope, and first, as was natural, turned to the
bottom of the second page, and read the name appended to the letter.
“Lemuel Fairchild!” she repeated, thoughtfully. “I don’t recall the name.”
“Read it aloud, mother,” said Harry.
She complied with his request.
This is the way the letter read:—
“NO. — NASSAU STREET, ROOM 7.
NEW YORK, NOV. 7, 18—.
“DEAR MADAM:—Though personally a stranger to you, I knew your
husband well, and have heard with the deepest regret of his sad
fate. We had not met for years, but I have always cherished a
warm regard for him, though on account of the absorption of my
time by important business I have not been able to keep up a
correspondence with him. But, without further preface, I will
come to my object in writing.
“If I remember rightly, you have a son who must now be a boy
of sixteen or thereabouts. No doubt you are anxious to get
him into some kind of employment. In the country I am aware
desirable opportunities are rare, and I presume you are at a
loss how to secure him one. Now, I am desirous of taking a boy,
and training him in my own business. Having no one in view, it
has occurred to me that it might be a pleasant arrangement for
you as well as for me, if I should take your son. I may add
that I am a commission merchant, doing a large business. Can
you send him up at once? As to wages, I will give him twelve
dollars a week at first. He will not earn half that, but I
shall feel that, in overpaying him, I shall be assisting the
widow and son of my old friend.
“Yours very truly,
“LEMUEL FAIRCHILD.
“If you accept my proposal, I should like to see your son at my
office some time Monday.”
Mrs. Raymond looked at Harry in perplexity, after finishing the letter.
“Lemuel Fairchild!” she repeated. “It is strange I never heard your
father speak of him.”
“Perhaps he may have done so, and you do not recall the name.”
“It may be so,” said Mrs. Raymond, slowly, “but I do not think so.”
“At any rate,” said Harry, “it’s a splendid offer. Think of earning
twelve dollars a week, to begin with, in New York!”
“Yes, it’s a good offer, but how can I spare you?” said his mother,
sorrowfully. “It will be very lonely without you. Don’t you think you had
better remain in Mr. Porter’s store?”
“That will only be for a few weeks, you know, mother. Alfred Harper will
be getting well before long, and then I shall be out of a situation. I
think we had better say yes.”
Harry’s ambition was fired by the prospect of a place in the city.
Like many another country boy he had the most splendid visions of what
city life was. By the side of a position in a city office his present
situation looked mean and contemptible. Even had the pay been the same,
he would have preferred New York to Vernon; but the fact that the salary
offered in the city was just double was an additional inducement. Why,
John Gaylord, Mr. Porter’s chief salesman, though already twenty-five
years of age, and with several years’ experience as clerk, received
just that, and no more. That Harry should be offered the same salary at
fifteen was indeed a compliment.
“I expect board is higher in the city,” said Mrs. Raymond.
“Yes, I suppose it is; but next year I shall probably have my pay raised.
Who knows but I may get into the firm some day,” said Harry, glowing with
enthusiasm, “and make money hand over hand? Then I can take a nice house
in the city, and you and Katy can come up and live with me. Won’t that be
nice?”
Mrs. Raymond confessed that it would be nice. Still she did not like to
let Harry go. But he gradually won her to his side, and she admitted that
there was something in his arguments. So, before he went back to the
store, it was virtually agreed between them that the offer was not one
to be refused.
“Let me take the letter, mother,” said Harry. “I would like to show it to
Mr. Gaylord and Mr. Porter.”