Risen from the Ranks: Harry Walton's Success

MRS. CLINTON’S PARTY.

When Oscar and Harry reached home they were met by Maud, who flourished in her hand what appeared to be a note.

“What is it, Maud?” asked Oscar.  “A love-letter for me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Oscar.  No girl would be so foolish as to write you a love-letter.  It is an invitation to a party on Saturday evening.”

“Where?”

“At Mrs. Clinton’s.”

“I think I will decline,” said Oscar.  “I wouldn’t like to leave Harry alone.”

“Oh, he is included too.  Mrs. Clinton heard of his being here, and expressly included him in the invitation.”

“That alters the case.  You’ll go, Harry, won’t you?”

“I am afraid I shouldn’t know how to behave at a fashionable party,” said Harry.

“Oh, you’ve only got to make me your model,” said Oscar, “and you’ll be all right.”

“Did you ever see such conceit, Mr. Walton?” said Maud.

“It reminds me of Fletcher,” said Harry.

“Fitz Fletcher?  By the way, he will probably be there.  His family are acquainted with the Clintons.”

“Yes, he is invited,” said Maud.

“Good!  Then there’s promise of fun,” said Oscar.  “You’ll see Fitz with his best company manners on.”

“I am afraid he won’t enjoy meeting me there,” said Harry.

“Probably not.”

“I don’t see why,” said Maud.

“Shall I tell, Harry?”

“Certainly.”

“To begin with, Fletcher regards himself as infinitely superior to Walton here, because his father is rich, and Walton’s poor.  Again, Harry is a printer, and works for a living, which Fitz considers degrading.  Besides all this, Harry was elected President of our Debating Society,—­an office which Fitz wanted.”

“I hope” said Maud, “that Mr. Fletcher’s dislike does not affect your peace of mind, Mr. Walton.”

“Not materially,” said Harry, laughing.

“By the way, Maud,” said Oscar, “did I ever tell you how Fletcher’s pride was mortified at school by our discovering his relationship to a tin-pedler?”

“No, tell me about it.”

The story, already familiar to the reader, was graphically told by Oscar, and served to amuse his sister.

“He deserved the mortification,” she said.  “I shall remember it if he shows any of his arrogance at the party.”

“Fletcher rather admires Maud,” said Oscar, after his sister had gone out of the room; “but the favor isn’t reciprocated.  If he undertakes to say anything to her against you, she will take him down, depend upon it.”

Saturday evening came, and Harry, with Oscar and his sister, started for the party.  Our hero, having confessed his inability to dance, had been diligently instructed in the Lancers by Oscar, so that he felt some confidence in being able to get through without any serious blunder.

“Of course you must dance, Harry,” he said.  “You don’t want to be a wall-flower.”

“I may have to be,” said Harry.  “I shall know none of the young ladies except your sister.”

“Maud will dance the first Lancers with you, and I will get you a partner for the second.”

“You may dispose of me as you like, Oscar.”

“Wisely said.  Don’t forget that I am your Mentor.”

When they entered the brilliantly lighted parlors, they were already half full.  Oscar introduced his friend to Mrs. Clinton.

“I am glad to see you here, Mr. Walton,” said the hostess, graciously.  “Oscar, I depend upon you to introduce your friend to some of the young ladies.”

“You forget my diffidence, Mrs. Clinton.”

“I didn’t know you were troubled in that way.’”

“See how I am misjudged.  I am painfully bashful.”

“You hide it well,” said the hostess, with a smile.

“Escort my sister to a seat, Harry,” said Oscar.  “By the way, you two will dance in the first Lancers.”

“If Miss Maud will accept so awkward a partner,” said Harry.

“Oh, yes, Mr. Walton.  I’ll give you a hint if you are going wrong.”

Five minutes later Fletcher touched Oscar on the shoulder.

“Oscar, where is your sister?” he asked.

“There,” said Oscar, pointing her out.

Fletcher, who was rather near-sighted, did not at first notice that Harry Walton was sitting beside the young lady.

He advanced, and made a magnificent bow, on which he rather prided himself.

“Good-evening, Miss Vincent,” he said.

“Good-evening, Mr. Fletcher.”

“I am very glad you have favored the party with your presence.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fletcher.  Don’t turn my head with your compliments.”

“May I hope you will favor me with your hand in the first Lancers?”

“I am sorry, Mr. Fletcher, but I am engaged to Mr. Walton.  I believe you are acquainted with him.”

Fletcher for the first time observed our hero, and his face wore a look of mingled annoyance and scorn.

“I have met the gentleman,” he said, haughtily.

“Mr. Fletcher and I have met frequently,” said Harry, pleasantly.

“I didn’t expect to meet you here,” said Fletcher with marked emphasis.

“Probably not,” said Harry.  “My invitation is due to my being a friend of Oscar’s.”

“I was not aware that you danced,” said Fletcher who was rather curious on the subject.

“I don’t—­much.”

“Where did you learn—­in the printing office?”

“No, in the city.”

“Ah!  Indeed!”

Fletcher thought he had wasted time enough on our hero, and turned again to Maud.

“May I have the pleasure of your hand in the second dance?” he asked.

“I will put you down for that, if you desire it.”

“Thank you.”

It so happened that when Harry and Maud took the floor, they found Fletcher their vis-a-vis.  Perhaps it was this that made Harry more emulous to get through without making any blunders.  At any rate, he succeeded, and no one in the set suspected that it was his first appearance in public as a dancer.

Fletcher was puzzled.  He had hoped that Harry would make himself ridiculous, and throw the set into confusion.  But the dance passed off smoothly, and in due time Fletcher led out Maud.  If he had known his own interest, he would have kept silent about Harry, but he had little discretion.

“I was rather surprised to see Walton here,” he began.

“Didn’t you know he was in the city?

“Yes, I met him with Oscar.”

“Then why were you surprised?”

“Because his social position does not entitle him to appear in such a company.  When I first knew him, he was only a printer’s apprentice.”

Fletcher wanted to say printer’s devil, but did not venture to do so in presence of a young lady.

“He will rise higher than that.”

“I dare say,” said Fletcher, with a sneer, “he will rise in time to be a journeyman with a salary of fifteen dollars a week.”

“If I am not mistaken in Mr. Walton, he will rise much higher than that.  Many of our prominent men have sprung from beginnings like his.”

“It must be rather a trial to him to come here.  His father is a day-laborer, I believe, and of course he has never been accustomed to any refinement or polish.”

“I don’t detect the absence of either,” said Maud, quietly.

“Do you believe in throwing down all social distinctions, and meeting the sons of laborers on equal terms?”

“As to that,” said Maud, meeting her partner’s glance, “I am rather democratic.  I could even meet the son of a tin-pedler on equal terms, provided he were a gentleman.”

The blood rushed to Fletcher’s cheeks.

“A tin-pedler!” he ejaculated.

“Yes!  Suppose you were the son, or relation, of a tin-pedler, why should I consider that?  It would make you neither better nor worse.”

“I have no connection with tin-pedlers,” said Fletcher, hastily.  “Who told you I had?”

“I only made a supposition, Mr. Fletcher.”

But Fletcher thought otherwise.  He was sure that Maud had heard of his mortification at school, and it disturbed him not a little, for, in spite of her assurance, he felt that she believed the story, and it annoyed him so much that he did not venture to make any other reference to Harry.

“Poor Fitz!” said Oscar, when on their way home Maud gave an account of their conversation, “I am afraid he will murder the tin-pedler some time, to get rid of such an odious relationship.”