Driven From Home

by Horatio Alger, Jr.

  “I trust you are quite well and happy, dear father. My only regret is, that I cannot see you occasionally. While my stepmother and Peter form part of your family, I feel that I can never live at home. They both dislike me, and I am afraid I return the feeling. If you are sick or need me, do not fail to send for me, for I can never forget that you are my father, as I am your affectionate son, CARL.”

  This letter was handed to Dr. Crawford at the breakfast table. He colored and looked agitated when he opened the envelope, and Mrs. Crawford, who had a large share of curiosity, did not fail to notice this.

  “From whom is your letter, my dear?” she asked, in the soft tone which was habitual with her when she addressed her husband

  “The handwriting is Carl's,” answered Dr. Crawford, already devouring the letter eagerly.

  “Oh!” she answered, in a chilly tone. “I have been expecting you would hear from him. How much money does he send for?”

  “I have not finished the letter.” Dr. Crawford continued reading. When he had finished he laid it down beside his plate.

  “Well?” said his wife, interrogatively. “What does he have to say? Does he ask leave to come home?”

  “No; he is quite content where he is.”

  “And where is that?”

  “At Milford.”

  “That is not far away?”

  “No; not more than sixty miles.”

  “Does he ask for money?”

  “No; he is employed.”

  “Where?”

  “In a furniture factory.”

  “Oh, a factory boy.”

  “Yes; he is learning the business.”

  “He doesn't seem to be very ambitious,” sneered Mrs. Crawford.

  “On the contrary, he is looking forward to being in business for himself some day.”

  “On your money--I understand.”

  “Really, Mrs. Crawford, you do the boy injustice. He hints nothing of the kind. He evidently means to raise himself gradually as his employer did before him. By the way, he has a home in his employer's family. I think Mr. Jennings must have taken a fancy to Carl.”

  “I hope he will find him more agreeable than I did,” said Mrs. Crawford, sharply.

  “Are you quite sure that you always treated Carl considerately, my dear?”

  “I didn't flatter or fondle him, if that is what you mean. I treated him as well as he could expect.”

  “Did you treat him as well as Peter, for example?”

  “No. There is a great difference between the two boys. Peter is always respectful and obliging, and doesn't set up his will against mine. He never gives me a moment's uneasiness.”

  “I hope you will continue to find him a comfort, my dear,” said Dr. Crawford, meekly.

  He looked across the table at the fat, expressionless face of his stepson, and he blamed himself because he could not entertain a warmer regard for Peter. Somehow he had a slight feeling of antipathy, which he tried to overcome.

  “No doubt he is a good boy, since his mother says so,” reflected the doctor, “but I don't appreciate him. I will take care, however, that neither he nor his mother sees this.”

  When Peter heard his mother's encomium upon him, he laughed in his sleeve.

  “I'll remind ma of that when she scolds me,” he said to himself. “I'm glad Carl isn't coming back. He was always interferin' with me. Now, if ma and I play our cards right we'll get all his father's money. Ma thinks he won't live long, I heard her say so the other day. Won't it be jolly for ma and me to come into a fortune, and live just as we please! I hope ma will go to New York. It's stupid here, but I s'pose we'll have to stay for the present.”

  “Is Carl's letter private?” asked Mrs. Crawford, after a pause.

  “I--I think he would rather I didn't show it ,” returned her husband, remembering the allusion made by Carl to his stepmother.

  “Oh, well, I am not curious,” said Mrs. Crawford, tossing her head.

  None the less, however, she resolved to see and read the letter, if she could get hold of it without her husband's knowledge. He was so careless that she did not doubt soon to find it laid down somewhere. In this she proved correct. Before the day was over, she found Carl's letter in her husband's desk. She opened and read it eagerly with a running fire of comment.

  “ `Reasons which we both understand,' ” she repeated, scornfully. “That is a covert attack upon me. Of course, I ought to expect that. So he had a hard time. Well, it served him right for conducting himself as he did. Ah, here is another hit at me--`Yet I would rather do either than live in a home made unpleasant by the persistent hostility of one member.' He is trying to set his father against me. Well, he won't succeed. I can twist Dr. Paul Crawford round my finger, luckily, and neither his son nor anyone else can diminish my influence over him.”

  She read on for some time till she reached this passage: “While my stepmother and Peter form a part of your family I can never live at home. They both dislike me, and I am afraid I return the feeling.” “Thanks for the information,” she muttered. “I knew it before. This letter doesn't make me feel any more friendly to you, Carl Crawford. I see that you are trying to ingratiate yourself with your father, and prejudice him against me and my poor Peter, but I think I can defeat your kind intentions.”

  She folded up the letter, and replaced it in her husband's desk.

  “I wonder if my husband will answer Carl's artful epistle,” she said to herself. “He can if he pleases. He is weak as water, and I will see that he goes no farther than words.”

  Dr. Crawford did answer Carl's letter. This is his reply:

  “DEAR CARL:--I am glad to hear that you are comfortably situated. I regret that you were so headstrong and unreasonable. It seems to me that you might, with a little effort, have got on with your stepmother. You could hardly expect her to treat you in the same way as her own son. He seems to be a good boy, but I own that I have never been able to become attached to him.”

  Carl read this part of the letter with satisfaction. He knew how mean and contemptible Peter was, and it would have gone to his heart to think that his father had transferred his affection to the boy he had so much reason to dislike.

  “I am glad you are pleased with your prospects. I think I could have done better for you had your relations with your stepmother been such as to make it pleasant for you to remain at home. You are right in thinking that I am interested in your welfare. I hope, my dear Carl, you will become a happy and prosperous man. I do not forget that you are my son, and I am still your affectionate father,

  “PAUL CRAWFORD.”

  Carl was glad to receive this letter. It showed him that his stepmother had not yet succeeded in alienating from him his father's affection.

  But we must return to the point where we left Carl on his journey to Buffalo. He enjoyed his trip over the Central road during the hours of daylight. He determined on his return to make an all-day trip so that he might enjoy the scenery through which he now rode in the darkness.

  At Buffalo he had no other business except that of Mr. Jennings, and immediately after breakfast he began to make a tour of the furniture establishments. He met with excellent success, and had the satisfaction of sending home some large orders. In the evening he took train for Niagara, wishing to see the falls in the early morning, and resume his journey in the afternoon.

  He registered at the International Hotel on the American side. It was too late to do more than take an evening walk, and see the falls gleaming like silver through the darkness.

  “I will go to bed early,” thought Carl, “and get up at six o'clock.”

  He did go to bed early, but he was more fatigued than he supposed, and slept longer than he anticipated. It was eight o'clock before he came downstairs. Before going in to breakfast, he took a turn on the piazzas. Here he fell in with a sociable gentleman, much addicted to gossip.

  “Good-morning!” he said. “Have you seen the falls yet?”

  “I caught a glimpse
of them last evening I am going to visit them after breakfast.”

  “There are a good many people staying here just now--some quite noted persons, too.”

  “Indeed!”

  “Yes, what do you say to an English lord?” and Carl's new friend nodded with am important air, as if it reflected great credit on the hotel to have so important a guest.

  “Does he look different from anyone else?” asked Carl, smiling.

  “Well, to tell the truth, he isn't much to look at,” said the other. “The gentleman who is with him looks more stylish. I thought he was the lord at first, but I afterwards learned that he was an American named Stuyvesant.”

  Carl started at the familiar name.

  “Is he tall and slender, with side whiskers, and does he wear eyeglasses?” he asked, eagerly.

  “Yes; you know him then?” said the other, in surprise.

  “Yes,” answered Carl, with a smile, “I am slightly acquainted with him. I am very anxious to meet him again.”

  CHAPTER XXXIV.

  CARL MAKES THE ACQUAINTANCE OF AN ENGLISH LORD.

  “THERE they are now,” said the stranger, suddenly pointing out two persons walking slowly along the piazza. “The small man, in the rough suit, and mutton-chop whiskers, is Lord Bedford.”

  Carl eyed the British nobleman with some curiosity. Evidently Lord Bedford was no dude. His suit was of rough cloth and ill- fitting. He was barely five feet six inches in height, with features decidedly plain, but with an absence of pretension that was creditable to him, considering that he was really what he purported to be. Stuyvesant walked by his side, nearly a head taller, and of more distinguished bearing, though of plebeian extraction. His manner was exceedingly deferential, and he was praising England and everything English in a fulsome manner.

  “Yes, my lord,” Carl overheard him say, “I have often thought that society in England is far superior to our American society.”

  “Thanks, you are very kind,” drawled the nobleman, “but really I find things very decent in America, upon my word. I had been reading Dickens's `Notes' before I came over and I expected to find you very uncivilized, and--almost aboriginal; but I assure you I have met some very gentlemanly persons in America, some almost up to our English standard.”

  “Really, my lord, such a tribute from a man in your position is most gratifying. May I state this on your authority?”

  “Yes, I don't mind, but I would rather not get into the papers, don't you know. You are not a--reporter, I hope.”

  “I hope not,” said Mr. Stuyvesant, in a lofty tone. “I am a scion of one of the oldest families in New York. Of course I know that social position is a very different thing here from what it is in England. It must be a gratifying thing to reflect that you are a lord.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. I never thought much about it.”

  “I should like so much to be a lord. I care little for money.”

  “Then, by Jove, you are a remarkable man.”

  “In comparison with rank, I mean. I would rather be a lord with a thousand pounds a year than a rich merchant with ten times as much.”

  “You'll find it very inconvenient being a lord on a thousand; you might as well be a beggar.”

  “I suppose, of course, high rank requires a large rent roll. In fact, a New York gentleman requires more than a trifle to support him. I can't dress on less than two hundred pounds a year.”

  “Your American tailors are high-priced, then?”

  “Those that I employ; we have cheap tailors, of course, but I generally go to Bell.”

  Mr. Stuyvesant was posing as a gentleman of fashion. Carl, who followed at a little distance behind the pair, was much amused by his remarks, knowing what he did about him.

  “I think a little of going to England in a few months,” continued Stuyvesant.

  “Indeed! You must look me up,” said Bedford, carelessly.

  “I should, indeed, be delighted,” said Stuyvesant, effusively.

  “That is, if I am in England. I may be on the Continent, but you can inquire for me at my club--the Piccadilly.”

  “I shall esteem it a great honor, my lord. I have a penchant for good society. The lower orders are not attractive to me.”

  “They are sometimes more interesting,” said the Englishman; “but do you know, I am surprised to hear an American speak in this way. I thought you were all on a level here in a republic.”

  “Oh, my lord!” expostulated Stuyvesant, deprecatingly. “You don't think I would associate with shopkeepers and common tradesmen?”

  “I don't know. A cousin of mine is interested in a wine business in London. He is a younger son with a small fortune, and draws a very tidy income from his city business.”

  “But his name doesn't appear on the sign, I infer.”

  “No, I think not. Then you are not in business, Mr. Stuyvesant?”

  “No; I inherited an income from my father. It isn't as large as I could wish, and I have abstained from marrying because I could not maintain the mode of living to which I have been accustomed.”

  “You should marry a rich girl.”

  “True! I may do so, since your lordship recommends it. In fact, I have in view a young lady whose father was once lord mayor I beg pardon, mayor) of New York. Her father is worth a million.”

  “Pounds?”

  “Well, no, dollars. I should have said two hundred thousand pounds.”

  “If the girl is willing, it may be a good plan.”

  “Thank you, my lord. Your advice is very kind.”

  “The young man seems on very good terms with Lord Bedford,” said Carl's companion, whose name was Atwood, with a shade of envy in his voice.

  “Yes,” said Carl.

  “I wish he would introduce me,” went on Mr. Atwood.

  “I should prefer the introduction of a different man,” said Carl.

  “Why? He seems to move in good society.”

  “Without belonging to it.”

  “Then you know him?”

  “Better than I wish I did.”

  Atwood looked curious.

  “I will explain later,” said Carl; “now I must go in to breakfast.”

  “I will go with you.”

  Though Stuyvesant had glanced at Carl, he did not appear to recognize him, partly, no doubt, because he had no expectation of meeting the boy he had robbed, at Niagara. Besides, his time and attention were so much taken up by his aristocratic acquaintance that he had little notice for anyone else. Carl observed with mingled amusement and vexation that Mr. Stuyvesant wore a new necktie, which he had bought for himself in New York, and which had been in the stolen gripsack.

  “If I can find Lord Bedford alone I will put him on his guard,” thought Carl. “I shall spoil Mr. Stuyvesant's plans.”

  After breakfast Carl prepared to go down to the falls.

  On the way he overtook Lord Bedford walking in the same direction, and, as it happened, without a companion. Carl quickened his pace, and as he caught up with him, he raised his hat, and said: “Lord Bedford, I believe.”

  “Yes,” answered the Englishman, inquiringly.

  “I must apologize for addressing a stranger, but I want to put you on your guard against a young man whom I saw walking with you on the piazza.”

  “Is he--what do you know of him?” asked Lord Bedford, laying aside his air of indifference.

  “I know that he is an adventurer and a thief. I made his acquaintance on a Hudson River steamer, and he walked off with my valise and a small sum of money.”

  “Is this true?” asked the Englishman, in amazement.

  “Quite true. He is wearing one of my neckties at this moment.”

  “The confounded cad!” ejaculated the Englishman, angrily. “I suppose he intended to rob me.”

  “I have no doubt of it. That is why I ventured to put you on your guard.”

  “I am a thousand times obliged to you. Why, the fellow told me he belonged to one of the best families in New
York.”

  “If he does, he doesn't do much credit to the family.”

  “Quite true! Why, he was praising everything English. He evidently wanted to gain my confidence.”

  “May I ask where you met him?” asked Carl.

  “On the train. He offered me a light. Before I knew it, he was chatting familiarly with me. But his game is spoiled. I will let him know that I see through him and his designs.” “Then my object is accomplished,” said Carl. “Please excuse my want of ceremony.” He turned to leave, but Bedford called him back.

  “If you are going to the falls, remain with me,” he said. “We shall enjoy it better in company.”

  “With pleasure. Let me introduce myself as Carl Crawford. I am traveling on business and don't belong to one of the first families.”

  “I see you will suit me,” said the Englishman, smiling.

  Just then up came Stuyvesant, panting and breathless. “My lord,” he said, “I lost sight of you. If you will allow me I will join you.

  ``Sir!” said the Englishman, in a freezing voice, “I have not the honor of knowing you.”

  Stuyvesant was overwhelmed.

  “I--I hope I have not offended you, my lord,” he said.

  “Sir, I have learned your character from this young man.”

  This called the attention of Stuyvesant to Carl. He flushed as he recognized him

  “Mr. Stuyvesant,” said Carl, “I must trouble you to return the valise you took from my stateroom, and the pocketbook which you borrowed. My name is Carl Crawford, and my room is 71.”

  Stuyvesant turned away abruptly. He left the valise at the desk, but Carl never recovered his money.

  CHAPTER XXXV.

  WHAT CARL LEARNED IN CHICAGO.

  AS Carl walked back from the falls he met Mr. Atwood, who was surprised to find his young acquaintance on such intimate terms with Lord Bedford. He was about to pass with a bow, when Carl, who was good-natured, said: “Won't you join us, Mr. Atwood? If Lord Bedford will permit, I should like to introduce you.”