Chapter 23

LIFE IN BOSTON.

"Come this way, Mary. I'll show you your chamber. It's right here next to mine," said Ida Selden, as on the evening of her friend's arrival she led her up to a handsomely furnished apartment, which for many weeks had borne the title of "Mary's room."

"Oh, how pleasant!" was Mary's exclamation, as she surveyed the room in which every thing was arranged with such perfect taste.

A cheerful coal fire was blazing in the grate, for no murderous stove was ever suffered to invade the premises where Aunt Martha ruled. The design of the Brussels carpet was exquisitely beautiful, and the roses upon it looked as if freshly plucked from the parent stalk. At one end of the room, and just opposite the grate, were two bay windows, overlooking Mr. Selden's fine, large garden, and shaded by curtains of richly embroidered lace. In front of the fire was a large easy chair, covered with crimson damask; and scattered about the room were ottomans, divans, books, pictures, and every thing which could in any way conduce to a young lady's comfort or happiness. On the marble mantel there stood two costly vases, filled with rare flowers, among which Mary recognized her favorites. But ere she had time to speak of it, Ida opened a side door, disclosing to view a cosy little bedroom, with a large closet and bathing room adjoining.

"Here," said she, "you are to sleep; but you needn't expect to be entirely exclusive, for every night when I feel cold or fidgety, I shall run in here and sleep with you. Is it a bargain?"

Mary was too happy to speak, and dropping into the easy chair she burst into tears. In a moment Ida, too, was seated in the same chair, and with her arm around Mary's neck was wondering why she wept. Then as her own eyes chanced to fall upon the vases, she brought one of them to Mary, saying, "See, these are for you,--a present from one, who bade me present them with his compliments to the little girl who nursed him on board the Windermere, and who cried because he called her ugly!"

Mary's heart was almost audible in its beatings, and her cheeks took the hue of the cushions on which she reclined. Returning the vase to the mantel-piece, Ida came back to her side, and bending closer to her face, whispered, "Cousin George told me of you years ago when he first came here, but I forgot all about it, and when we were at Mount Holyoke, I never suspected that you were the little girl he used to talk so much about. But a few days before he went away he reminded me of it again, and then I understood why he was so much interested in you. I wonder you never told me you knew him, for of course you like him. You can't help it."

Mary only heard a part of what Ida said. "Just before he went away.--" Was he then gone, and should she not see him after all? A cloud gathered upon her brow, and Ida readily divining its cause, replied, "Yes, George is gone. Either he or father must go to New Orleans, and so George of course went. Isn't it too bad? I cried and fretted, but he only pulled my ears, and said he should think I'd be glad for he knew we wouldn't want a great six-footer domineering over us, and following us every where, as he would surely do were he at home."

Mary felt more disappointed than she was willing to acknowledge, and for a moment she half wished herself back in Chicopee, but soon recovering her equanimity, she ventured to ask how long George was to be gone.

"Until April, I believe," said Ida; "but any way you are to stay until he comes, for Aunt Martha promised to keep you. I don't know exactly what George said to her about you, but they talked together more than two hours, and she says you are to take music lessons and drawing lessons, and all that. George is very fond of music."

Here thinking she was telling too much, Ida suddenly stopped, and as the tea bell just then rang, she started up, saying, "Oh, I forgot that father was waiting in the parlor to see you. I've said so much about you that his curiosity is quite roused, but I can introduce you at the table just as well." Our lady readers will pardon Mary if before meeting Mr. Selden she gave herself a slight inspection in the long mirror, which hung in her dressing room. Passing the brush several times through her glossy hair, and smoothing down the folds of her neatly fitting merino, she concluded that she looked well enough for a traveller, and with slightly heightened color, followed Ida into the supper room, where she found assembled Mrs. Mason, Aunt Martha, and Mr. Selden. The moment her eye fell upon the latter, she recognized the same kindly beaming eye and pleasant smile, which had won her childish heart, when on board the Windermere he patted her head, as George told how kind she had been to him.

"We have met before, I believe," said he, and warmly shaking her hand he bade her welcome to Boston.

Then seating her by his side at the table he managed by his kind attentions to make both her and Mrs. Mason feel perfectly at home. Aunt Martha, too, was exceedingly polite, but after what Ida had told her, Mary could not help feeling somewhat embarrassed in her presence. This, however, gradually wore away, and before the evening was over she began to feel very much at home, and to converse with Aunt Martha as freely and familiarly as with Ida.

The next morning between ten and eleven the door bell rang, and in a moment Jenny Lincoln, whose father's house was just opposite, came tripping into the parlor. She had lost in a measure that rotundity of person so offensive to her mother, and it seemed to Mary that there was a thoughtful expression on her face never seen there before, but in all other respects, she was the same affectionate, merry-hearted Jenny.

"I just this minute heard you were here, and came over just as I was," said she, glancing at the same time at her rich, though rather untidy morning wrapper. After asking Mary if she wasn't sorry George had gone, and if she expected to find Mr. Stuart, she said, "I suppose you know Ella is here, and breaking every body's heart, of course. She went to a concert with us last evening, and looked perfectly beautiful. Henry says she is the handsomest girl he ever saw, and I do hope she'll make something of him, but I'm afraid he is only trifling with her, just as he tries to do with every body."

"I am afraid so too," said Ida, "but now Mary has come perhaps he'll divide his attentions between the two."

If there was a person in the world whom Mary thoroughly detested, it was Henry Lincoln, and the idea of his trifling with _her_, made her eyes sparkle and flash so indignantly that Ida noticed it, and secretly thought that Henry Lincoln would for once find his match. After a time Mary turned to Jenny, saying, "You haven't told me a word about,--about William Bender. Is he well?"

Jenny blushed deeply, and hastily replying that he was the last time she saw him, started up, whispering in Mary's ear, "Oh, I've got so much to tell you,--but I must go now."

Ida accompanied her to the door, and asked why Rose too did not call. In her usual frank, open way, Jenny answered, "You know why. Rose is so queer."

Ida understood her and replied, "Very well; but tell her that if she doesn't see fit to notice my visitors, I certainly shall not be polite to hers."

This message had the desired effect; for Rose, who was daily expecting a Miss King, from Philadelphia, felt that nothing would mortify her more than to be neglected by Ida, who was rather a leader among the young fashionables. Accordingly after a long consultation with her mother, she concluded it best to call upon Mary. In the course of the afternoon, chancing to be near the front window, she saw Mr. Selden's carriage drive away from his door, with Ida and her visitor.

"Now is my time," thought she; and without a word to her mother or Jenny, she threw on her bonnet and shawl, and in her thin French slippers, stepped across the street and rang Mr. Selden's door bell. Of course she was "so disappointed not to find the young ladies at home," and leaving her card for them, tripped back, highly pleased with her own cleverness.

Meantime Ida and Mary were enjoying their ride about the city, until coming suddenly upon an organ-grinder and monkey, the spirited horses became frightened and ran, upsetting the carriage, and dragging it some distance. Fortunately Ida was only bruised, but Mary received a severe cut upon her head, which, with the fright, caused her to faint. A young man, who was passing down the street and saw the accident, immediately came to the rescue; and when Mary awoke to consciousness, Billy Bender was supporting her, and gently pushing back from her face the thick braids of her long hair. At first she thought she was not much hurt, but when she attempted to lift her head she uttered a cry of pain, and laid it heavily back upon his bosom.

"Who is she?--Who is she?" asked the eager voices of the group around, but no one answered, until a young gentleman, issuing from one of the fashionable drinking saloons, came blustering up, demanding "what the row was."

Upon seeing Ida, his manner instantly changed, and after learning that she, with another young lady, had been upset, he ordered the crowd "to stand back," at the same time forcing his way forward until he caught a sight of Mary's face.

"Whew, Bill," said he, "your old flame the pauper, isn't it?"

It was fortunate for Henry Lincoln that Billy Bender's arms were both in use, otherwise he might have measured his length upon the side walk, which exercise he would hardly have relished in the presence of Ida. As it was, Billy frowned angrily upon him, and in a fierce whisper bade him beware how he used Miss Howard's name. By this time the horses were caught, anther carriage procured, and Mary, still supported by Billy Bender, was carefully lifted into it, and borne back to Mr. Selden's house. Henry Lincoln also accompanying her, and giving out numerous orders as to "what ought to be done!"

Many of Ida's friends, hearing of the accident, flocked in to see her, and to inquire after the young lady who was injured. Among the first who called was Lizzie Upton, whom the reader has once met in Chicopee. On her way home she stopped at Mrs. Campbell's, where she was immediately beset by Ella, to know "who the beautiful young lady was that Henry Lincoln had so heroically saved from a violent death,--dragging her out from under the horses' heels!"

Lizzie looked at her a moment in surprise, and then replied, "Why, Miss Campbell, is it possible you don't know it was your own sister!"

It was Henry Lincoln himself who had given Ella her information, without, however, telling the lady's name; and now, when she learned that 'twas Mary, she was too much surprised to answer, and Lizzie continued, "I think you are laboring under a mistake. It was not Mr. Lincoln, who saved your sister's life, but a young law student, whom you perhaps have seen walking with George Moreland."

Ella replied that she never saw George Moreland, as he left Boston before she came; and then as she did not seem at all anxious to know whether Mary was much injured or not, Lizzie soon took her leave. Long after she was gone, Ella sat alone in the parlor, wondering why Henry should tell her such a falsehood, and if he really thought Mary beautiful. Poor simple Ella,--she was fast learning to live on Henry Lincoln's smile, to believe each word that he said, to watch nervously for his coming and to weep if he stayed away. There were other young men in Boston, who, attracted by her pretty face, and the wealth of which she was reputed to be heiress, came fawningly around her, but with most strange infatuation, she turned from them all, caring only for Henry Lincoln. He, on the contrary, merely sought her society for the sake of passing away an idle hour, boasting among his male acquaintances of the influence had acquired over her, by complimenting her curls and pretty face! He knew that she was jealous of any praise or attention bestowed by him upon another, and had purposely told her what he did of Mary, exulting within himself as he saw the pain his words inflicted.

"I know he was only trying to tease me," was the conclusion to which Ella finally came, and then there arose in her mind a debate as to whether, under the circumstances, it were not best to treat her sister with rather more respect than she was wont to do. "The Seldens," thought she, "are among the first. If they notice her others will, and why should not I?"

This question was at last decided in the affirmative, and towards the close of the afternoon, she started for Mr. Selden's, on her way meeting with Henry, who asked "where she was going?"

"To see that _beautiful_ young lady," returned Ella, rather pettishly; whereupon Henry laughed aloud, and asked "if it were not a little the richest joke he had ever put upon her."

Ella saw no joke at all, but as Henry had turned about, and was walking back with her, she could not feel angry, and prattled on, drinking in his words of flattery, as he told her how charmingly she looked at the concert, and how jealous he felt when he saw so many admiring eyes gazing upon what he considered his own exclusive property! The very expressive look which accompanied this remark made Ella's heart beat rapidly, for Henry had never before said any thing quite so pointed, and the cloud, which for a time had rested on her brow, disappeared.

When they reached Mr. Selden's house, Henry announced his intention of calling also to inquire after Mary whom he respected on her sister's account! "But," said he, "I am in something of a hurry, and as you girls have a thousand things to talk about, I hardly think I can wait for you."

"Oh, pray, don't wait," returned Ella, hoping in her heart that he would.

Upon asking for Mary, she was taken immediately to her room, where she found her reclining upon a sofa, attired in a tasteful crimson morning gown, which gave a delicate tint to her cheeks. She was paler than usual, and her thick shining hair was combed up from her forehead in a manner highly becoming to her style of beauty. Until that day Ella had never heard her sister called handsome--never even thought such a thing possible; but now, as she looked upon her, she acknowledged to herself that Henry was more than half right, and she felt a pang of jealousy,--a fear that Mary might prove her rival. Still she tried to be agreeable, telling her how fortunate she was in being at Mr. Selden's, "for," said she, "I dare say some of our first people will notice you just because you are here!"

Ida hastily walked to the window, standing with her back towards Ella, who continued. "I think it's so funny. I've inquired and inquired about Mr. Stuart, but no one knows him, and I've come to the conclusion he was an impostor,--or a country schoolmaster, one or the other."

There was a suppressed laugh behind the lace curtain where Ida stood, and when Mary began to defend Mr. Stuart, she came out, and with great apparent interest asked who he was, and where they had seen him. Afterwards Mary remembered the mischief which shone in Ida's eyes as they described Mr. Stuart, but she thought nothing of it then.

After asking Mary who paid for her music lessons,--how many new dresses she'd got, and who cut them, Ella started to go, carelessly saying as she left the room, that when Mary was able she should expect to see her at Mrs. Campbell's.

In the mean time Henry had become so much engaged in a conversation with Mr. Selden, that he forgot the lapse of time until he heard Ella coming down the stairs. Then impelled by a mean curiosity to see what she would do, he sat still, affecting not to notice her. She heard his voice, and knew that he was still in the parlor. So for a long time she lingered at the outer door, talking very loudly to Ida, and finally, when there was no longer any excuse for tarrying, she suddenly turned back, and shaking out her cloak and tippet, exclaimed, "Why, where can my other glove be? I must have dropped it in the parlor, for I do not remember of having had it up stairs!"

The parlor was of course entered and searched, and though no missing glove was found, the company of Henry Lincoln was thus secured. Have my readers never seen a Henry Lincoln, or an Ella Campbell?