University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.
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 something

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.