THE THREE YOUNG MEN
It was beginning to be daylight in the city of Boston; and as the gray
east gradually brightened and grew red in the coming of day, a young
man looked out upon the busy world around him, with that feeling of
utter loneliness which one so often feels in a great city where all is
new and strange to him. Scarcely four weeks had passed since the notes
of a tolling bell had fallen sadly upon his ear, and he had looked
into a grave where they laid his mother to her last dreamless rest. A
prevailing fever had effected what the fancied ailments of years had
failed to do, and Billy Bender was now an orphan, and alone in the
wide world. He knew that he had his own fortune to make, and after
settling his mother's affairs and finding there was nothing left for
him, he had come to the city, and on the morning which we have
mentioned went forth alone to look for employment, with no other
recommendation than the frank, honest expression of his handsome face.
It was rather discouraging, wearisome work, and Billy's heart began to
misgive him as one after another refused his request.
"It was foolish in me to attempt it," thought he, as he stopped once
more in front of a large wholesale establishment on M---- street.
Just then his eye caught the sign on which was lettered, "R.J. Selden
& Co." The name sounded familiar, and something whispered to him to
enter. He did so, and meeting in the doorway a tall, elegant-looking
young man, he asked for Mr. Selden.
"My uncle," returned the gentleman, who was none other than George
Moreland, "has not yet come down, but perhaps I can answer your
purpose just as well. Do you wish to purchase goods?"
Billy, thinking that every one must know his poverty, fancied there
was something satirical in the question, but he was mistaken; the
manner was natural to the speaker, who, as Billy made no direct reply,
again asked. "What would you like, sir?"
"Something to do, for I have neither money nor home," was Billy's
prompt answer.
"Will you give me your name?" asked George.
Billy complied, and when he spoke of his native town, George repeated
it after him, saying, "I have some acquaintances who spend the summer
in Chicopee; but you probably have never known them."
Immediately Billy thought of the Lincolns, and now knew why the name
of Selden seemed so familiar. He had heard Jenny speak of Ida, and
felt certain that R.J. Selden was her father.
For a moment George regarded him intently, and then said, "We seldom
employ strangers without a recommendation; still I do not believe you
need any. My uncle is wanting a young man, but the work may hardly
suit you," he added, naming the duties he would be expected to
perform, which certainly were rather menial. Still, as the wages were
liberal, and he would have considerable leisure, Billy, for want of a
better, accepted the situation, and was immediately introduced to his
business. For some time he only saw George at a distance, but was told
by one of the clerks that he was just graduated at Yale, and was now a
junior partner in his uncle's establishment. "We all like him very
much," said the clerk, "he is so pleasant and kind, though a little
proud, I guess."
This was all that Billy knew of him until he had been in Mr. Selden's
employment nearly three weeks; then, as he was one day poring over a
volume of Horace which he had brought with him, George, who chanced to
pass by, looked over his shoulder, exclaiming, "Why, Bender, can you
read Latin? Really this is a novelty. Are you fond of books?"
"Yes, very," said Billy, "though I have but a few of my own."
"Fortunately then I can accommodate you," returned George, "for I have
a tolerably good library, to which you can at any time have access.
Suppose you come round to my uncle's to-night. Never mind about
thanking me," he added, as he saw Billy about to speak; "I hate to be
thanked, so to-night at eight o'clock I shall expect you."
Accordingly that evening Billy started for Mr. Selden's. George, who
wished to save him from any embarrassment, answered his ring himself,
and immediately conducted him to his room, where for an hour or so
they discussed their favorite books and authors. At, last, George,
astonished at Billy's general knowledge of men and things, exclaimed,
"Why, Bender. I do believe you are almost as good a scholar as I, who
have been through college. Pray how does it happen?"
In a few words Billy explained that he had been in the habit of
working summers, and going to school at Wilbraham winters; and then,
as it was nearly ten, he hastily gathered up the books which George
had kindly loaned him, and took his leave. As he was descending the
broad stairway he met a young girl fashionably dressed, who stared at
him in some surprise and then passed on, wondering no doubt how one of
his evident caste came to be in the front part of the house. In the
upper hall she encountered George, and asked of him who the stranger
was.
"His name is Bender, and he came from Chicopee," answered George.
"Bender from Chicopee," repeated Ida. "Why I wonder if it isn't the
Billy Bender about whom Jenny Lincoln has gone almost mad."
"I think not," returned her cousin, "for Mrs. Lincoln would hardly
suffer her daughter to _mention_ a poor boy's name, much less to go
mad about him."
"But," answered Ida, "he worked on Mr. Lincoln's farm when Jenny was a
little girl; and now that she is older she talks of him nearly all the
time, and Rose says it would not surprise her if she should some day
run off with him."
"Possibly it is the same," returned George. "Any way, he is very
fine-looking, and a fine fellow too, besides being an excellent
scholar."
The next day, when Billy chanced to be alone, George approached him,
and after making some casual remarks about the books he had borrowed,
&c., he said, "Did you ever see Jenny Lincoln in Chicopee?"
"Oh, yes," answered Billy, brightening up, for Jenny had always been
and still was a great favorite with him; "Oh, yes, I know Jenny very
well. I worked for her father some years ago, and became greatly
interested in her."
"Indeed? Then you must know Henry Lincoln?"
"Yes, I know him," said Billy; while George continued, "And think but
little of him of course?"
On this subject Billy was noncommittal. He had no cause for liking
Henry, but would not say so to a comparative stranger, and at last he
succeeded in changing the conversation. George was about moving away,
when observing a little old-fashioned looking book lying upon one of
the boxes, he took it up and turning to the fly-leaf read the name of
"Frank Howard."
"Frank Howard! Frank Howard!" he repeated; "where have I heard that
name? Who is he, Bender?"
"He was a little English boy I once, loved very much; but he is dead
now," answered Billy; and George, with a suddenly awakened curiosity,
said, "Tell me about him and his family, will you?"
Without dreaming that George had ever seen them, Billy told the story
of Frank's sickness and death,--of the noble conduct of his little
sister, who, when there was no other alternative, went cheerfully to
the poor-house, winning by her gentle ways the love of those unused to
love, and taming the wild mood of a maniac until she was harmless as a
child. As he proceeded with his story, George became each moment more
and more interested, and when at last there was a pause, he asked,
"And is Mary in the poor-house now?"
"I have not mentioned her name, and pray how came you to know it?"
said Billy in some surprise.
In a few words George related the particulars of his acquaintance with
the Howards, and then again asked where both Mary and Ella were.
Billy replied that for a few years back Mary had lived with a Mrs.
Mason, while Ella, at the time of her mother's death had been adopted
by Mrs. Campbell. "But," said he, "I never think of Ella in connection
with Mary, they are so unlike; Ella is proud and vain and silly, and
treats her sister with the utmost rudeness, though Mary is far more
agreeable and intelligent, and as I think the best looking."
"She must have changed very much," answered George; "for if I
remember rightly, she was not remarkable for personal beauty."
"She hasn't a silly, doll baby's face, but there isn't a finer looking
girl in Chicopee, no, nor in Boston either," returned Billy, with so
much warmth and earnestness that George laughed aloud, saying, "Why,
really, Bender, you are more eloquent on the subject of female beauty
than I supposed you to be; but go on; tell me more of her. Is she at
all refined or polished?"
"I dare say she would not meet with _your_ ideas of a lady," answered
Billy; "but she does mine exactly, for she possesses more natural
refinement and delicacy than two thirds of the city belles."
"Really, I am getting quite interested in her," said George. "How is
her education?"
"Good, very good," returned Billy, adding that she was now teaching in
Rice Corner, hoping to earn money enough to attend some seminary in
the fall.
"Teaching!" repeated George; "why she can't be over sixteen."
He was going to say more, when some one slapped him rudely on the
shoulder, calling out, "How are you, old feller, and what is there in
Boston to interest such a scapegrace as I am?"
Looking up, Billy saw before him Henry Lincoln, exquisitely dressed,
but bearing in his appearance evident marks of dissipation.
"Why, Henry," exclaimed George, "how came you here? I supposed you
were drawing lampblack caricatures of some one of the tutors in old
Yale. What's the matter? What have you been doing?"
"Why you see," answered Henry, drawing his cigar from his mouth and
squirting, by accident of course, a quantity of spittle over Billy's
nicely blacked shoes; "Why you see one of the sophs got his arm broken
in a row, and as I am so tender-hearted and couldn't bear to hear him
groan, to say nothing of his swearing, the faculty kindly advised me
to leave, and sent on before me a recommendation to the old man. But,
egad I fixed 'em. I told 'em he was in Boston, whereas he's in
Chicopee, so I just took the letter from the office myself. It reads
beautifully. Do you understand?"
All this time, in spite of the tobacco juice, Henry had apparently
taken no notice of Billy, whom George now introduced, saying, he
believed they were old acquaintances. With the coolest effrontery
Henry took from his pocket a quizzing glass and applying it to his
eye, said, "I've absolutely studied until I'm near-sighted, but I
don't think I ever met this chap before."
"Perhaps, sir," said Billy haughtily, "it may refresh your memory a
little to know that I was once the owner of Tasso!"
"Blast the brute," muttered Henry, meaning Billy quite as much as the
dog; then turning to George, he asked, "how long the _old folks_ had
been in Chicopee."
"Several weeks, I think," answered George; and then, either because he
wanted to hear what Henry would say, or because of a re-awakened
interest in Mary Howard, he continued, "By the way. Henry, when you
came so unceremoniously upon us, we were speaking of a young girl in
Chicopee whom you have perhaps ferreted out ere this, as Bender says
she is fine looking."
Henry stroked his whiskers, which had received far more cultivation
than his brains, stuck his hat on one side, and answered. "Why, yes, I
suppose that in my way I am some thing of a b'hoy with the fair sex,
but really I do not now think of more than one handsome girl in
Chicopee, and that is Ella Campbell, but she is young yet, not as old
as Jenny--altogether too small fry for Henry Lincoln, Esq. But who is
the girl?"
Billy frowned, for he held Mary's name as too sacred to be breathed by
a young man of Henry Lincoln's character; while George replied, "Her
name is Mary Howard."
"What, the pauper?" asked Henry, looking significantly at Billy, who
replied, "The same, sir."
"Whew-ew," whistled Henry, prolonging the diphthong to an unusual
length. "Why, she's got two teeth at least a foot long, and her face
looks as though she had just been in the vinegar barrel, and didn't
like the taste of it."
"But without joking, though, how does she look?" asked George; while
Billy made a movement as if he would help the insolent puppy to find
his level.
"Well, now, old boy," returned Henry, "I'll tell you honestly, that
the last time I saw her, I was surprised to find how much she was
improved. She has swallowed those abominable teeth, or done something
with them, and is really quite decent looking. In short," he
continued, with a malicious leer at Billy, which made the blood tingle
to his finger's end, "In short, she'll do very well for a city buck
like me to play the mischief with for a summer or so, and then cast
off like an old coat."
There was a look in Billy's eye as Henry finished this speech which
decided that young man to make no further remarks concerning Mary, and
swaggering towards the door he added, "Well, Moreland, when will you
come round and take a horn of brandy? Let me know, and I'll have in
some of the bloods."
"Thank you," said George, "I never use the article."
"I beg your pardon," returned Henry, in a tone of mock humility. "I
remember now that you've taken to carrying a Prayer Book as big as an
old woman's moulding board, and manage to come out behind in the
service about three or four lines so as to be distinctly heard; but I
suppose you think it pleases the old gent your uncle, and that
furthers your cause with the daughter. By the way, present my
compliments to Miss Selden, and ask her if she has any word to send to
Chicopee, for I'll have to go there by and by, though I hate to
mightily, for it'll be just like the old man to put me through in the
hay field; and if there's any thing I abominate, it's work."
So saying, he took his leave. Just then there was a call for Mr.
Moreland, who also departed, leaving Billy alone.
"It is very strange that she never told me she knew him," thought he;
and then taking from his pocket a neatly folded letter, he again read
it through. But there was nothing in it about George, except the
simple words, "I am glad you have found a friend in Mr. Moreland. I am
sure I should like him, just because he is kind to you."
"Yes, she's forgotten him," said Billy, and that belief gave him
secret satisfaction. He had known Mary long and the interest he had
felt in her when a homely, neglected child, had not in the least
decreased as the lapse of time gradually ripened her into a fine,
intelligent-looking girl. He was to her a brother still, but she to
him was dearer far than a sister; and though in his letters he always
addressed her as such, in his heart he claimed her as something
nearer, and yet he had never breathed in her ear a word of love, or
hinted that it was for her sake he toiled both early and late,
hoarding up his earnings with almost a miser's care that she might be
educated.
Regularly each week she wrote to him, and it was the receipt of these
letters, and the thoughts of her that kept his heart so brave and
cheerful, as, alone and unappreciated, except by George, he worked on,
dreaming of a bright future, when the one great object of his life
should be realized.