Chapter I

My friend, Frank Howard, was a dry goods dealer on Washington Street. When I made his acquaintance, he was one of the most active and successful salesmen in the trade, and being a prudent man, had saved a small sum of money, with which and the credit he might be able to obtain, he proposed to commence business on his own account.

Among his acquaintances he had the good fortune to include a wealthy merchant, whose judgment had led him to form a lofty estimate of the business capacity of my friend.

To him the young aspirant for mercantile honors stated his case, and the conference ended in a voluntary proposition on the part of the merchant to supply the goods necessary to stock his store, taking his notes, the first of which would fall due in one year, in payment.

The arrangement was completed, and in a few days Frank found himself installed in a convenient store, on the best part of the street, ready to strike for his fortune.

The notes had not been signed, and one evening, on some business connected with them, Frank called, by appointment, at the princely mansion of his worthy benefactor. He was ushered into the sitting room, where the merchant was reading the evening paper. By his side sat a beautiful young lady, to whom his patron politely introduced him.

My friend belonged to that anomalous class of beings styled “handsome men;” at least the ladies all said he was handsome, though for the life of me I never could tell wherein his beauty consisted. But as I have no particular fancy for masculine beauty, it may have escaped my notice, or the natural selfishness of mankind may have prejudiced my judgment.

My friend was acknowledged by all the ladies to be a remarkably handsome man; and, probably, this was the secret of his immense success as a salesman. Whether he reckoned his beauty as one of the items of his stock in trade, when he went into business, I am unable to say; but I have not the least doubt he based his hopes of success, to a great extent, upon the influence of his prepossessing personal appearance.

Frank fixed his eyes on the young lady, as the merchant, who had, when he entered, half read a money article in his paper, turned to finish it. Miss Allen—such was the name by which she had been presented to him—was busily engaged in crocheting a little silk purse, and as she bent over the work, Frank was perfectly satisfied that he had never seen so pretty a face in his life.

And then the neatest, most graceful little foot in the world, protruded from beneath a light silk dress—a foot which completely turned Frank’s head, so that he forgot all about the notes and the merchant.

Without the least regard to etiquette, politeness, good breeding, and all that sort of thing, he stared mercilessly at her, and never, for even the fraction of a moment, removed his gaze, not even allowing himself the luxury of winking, lest the time so employed should be lost.

Frank was perfectly sure that he had never before felt exactly as he did at that halcyon moment. It seemed as though all the divinities of paradise were concentrated in the fair form before him, as though he had been transplanted to an Elysium of love.

And the maiden was not altogether unmoved. The embryo merchant several times detected her in the act of stealing a glance at him through the long, fringing eyelashes that adorned her peerless brow. He plainly saw her blush; saw her bosom heave with a flutter as she caught his earnest gaze.

Frank Howard was a handsome man; and somehow or other, men and women who are favored in this respect always contrive to find it out. Frank knew that he was a handsome man, and never in his life did he more devoutly thank his stars, which had given him personal beauty, than at this particular moment.

The lady had already found out that he was handsome, and if the stupid fellow had not stared so furiously at her, she would no doubt have done the same thing he was doing.

Mr. Allen finished the money article, and laid down the paper. Frank has owned to me that he wished it had been twice, or even four times as long.

The details of the business were discussed, and the papers drawn. While it was in progress, Frank more than once detected the beautiful fairy in the act of looking at him; several times detected her in the very act of blushing, when their eyes met.

The business was finished at last, much to the regret of my handsome friend, who, when he got into the street, went straightway into a fit of abstraction, and had walked half way across Charlestown bridge, on his way home, before he happened to think that he lived at the South End.

It was all up with poor Frank; he had fallen in love—was stark, staring mad in love—with whom he knew not, for it was well known that Mr. Allen had no daughter. She was a relative, however, for she bore his name.

But if Frank was in love, there was some consolation in the fact, that the fair creature who had stolen his heart was in the same predicament.

The next day, she came a shopping at his store, and the next, and the next; indeed, almost every day. No conversation had passed between them; and, though he had been introduced on the evening of his visit, he had been too much overwhelmed to use words.

My friend, however, did not lack that necessary attribute of a successful wooer, somewhat vulgarly termed “spunk.” He had no further business with the merchant; but then his case was a desperate one, and he made an errand.

Miss Allen blushed as he entered, but she was social and agreeable to the last degree, so much so that Frank staid till the bells rung for nine o’clock before he knew it. The ice was broken, and my friend was in for it.

The lady was a niece of the merchant, twenty-one years of age, and an heiress. In the course of a few months, Frank’s energy won the victory, and it was understood that they were engaged.

The merchant did not like it. Being somewhat exclusive in his ideas of social intercourse, the prospective marriage of his wealthy niece to a poor retailer was repugnant to the last degree, and he resolved to thwart the purpose of the loving couple.

At first, he appealed to the lady; but she only laughed at him; told him bluntly that she loved Mr. Howard, and would have him. Then he reasoned with Frank, on his ingratitude to him, his benefactor. The young man was touched, and promised to consider it.

He did consider it, and his loving inamorata helped him consider it. After a hasty deliberation, it was unanimously agreed to lay the whole matter “on the table.”

Mr. Allen was informed of the decision, and as old fogies always do when they cannot do any thing else, bit his lip and swallowed his words, fully resolved to do something dreadful, whenever an opportunity occurred.