The Errand Boy; Or, How Phil Brent Won Success by Jr. Horatio Alger (i like reading books .TXT) 📖

Philip started in irrepressible astonishment as these words fell from the lips of his step-mother. It seemed to him as if the earth were crumbling beneath his feet, for he had felt no more certain of the existence of the universe than of his being the son of Gerald Brent.

He was not the only person amazed at this declaration. Jonas, forgetting for the moment the part he was playing, sat bolt upright on the sofa, with his large mouth wide open, staring by turns at Philip and his mother.

“Gosh!” he exclaimed in a tone indicating utter surprise and bewilderment.

“Will you repeat that, Mrs. Brent?” asked Philip, after a brief pause, not certain that he had heard aright.

“I spoke plain English, I believe,” said Mrs. Brent coldly, enjoying the effect of her communication.

“I said that Mr. Brent, my late husband, was not your father.”

“I don't believe you!” burst forth Philip impetuously.

“You don't wish to believe me, you mean,” answered his step-mother, unmoved.

“No, I don't wish to believe you,” said the boy, looking her in the eye.

“You are very polite to doubt a lady's word,” said Mrs. Brent with sarcasm.

“In such a matter as that I believe no one's word,” said Phil. “I ask for proof.”

“Well, I am prepared to satisfy you. Sit down and I will tell you the story.”

Philip sat down on the nearest chair and regarded his step-mother fixedly.

“Whose son am I,” he demanded, “if not Mr. Brent's?”

“You are getting on too fast. Jonas,” continued his mother, suddenly turning to her hulking son, on whose not very intelligent countenance there was an expression of greedy curiosity, “do you understand that what I am going to say is to be a secret, not to be spoken of to any one?”

“Yes'm,” answered Jonas readily.

“Very well. Now to proceed. Philip, you have heard probably that when you were very small your father—I mean Mr. Brent—lived in a small town in Ohio, called Fultonville?”

“Yes, I have heard him say so.”

“Do you remember in what business he was then engaged?”

“He kept a hotel.”

“Yes; a small hotel, but as large as the place required. He was not troubled by many guests. The few who stopped at his house were business men from towns near by, or drummers from the great cities, who had occasion to stay over a night. One evening, however, a gentleman arrived with an unusual companion—in other words, a boy of about three years of age. The boy had a bad cold, and seemed to need womanly care. Mr. Brent's wife——”

“My mother?”

“The woman you were taught to call mother,” corrected the second Mrs. Brent, “felt compassion for the child, and volunteered to take care of it for the night. The offer was gladly accepted, and you—for, of course, you were the child—were taken into Mrs. Brent's own room, treated with simple remedies, and in the morning seemed much better. Your father—your real father—seemed quite gratified, and preferred a request. It was that your new friend would take care of you for a week while he traveled to Cincinnati on business. After dispatching this, he promised to return and resume the care of you, paying well for the favor done him. Mrs. Brent, my predecessor, being naturally fond of children, readily agreed to this proposal, and the child was left behind, while the father started for Cincinnati.”

Here Mrs. Brent paused, and Philip regarded her with doubt and suspense

“Well?” he said.

“Oh, you want to know the rest?” said Mrs. Brent with an ironical smile. “You are interested in the story?”

“Yes, madam, whether it is true or not.”

“There isn't much more to tell,” said Mrs. Brent.

“A week passed. You recovered from your cold, and became as lively as ever. In fact, you seemed to feel quite at home among your new surroundings, which was rather unfortunate, FOR YOUR FATHER NEVER CAME BACK!”

“Never came back!” repeated Philip.

“No; nor was anything heard from him. Mr. and Mrs. Brent came to the conclusion that the whole thing was prearranged to get rid of you. Luckily for you, they had become attached to you, and, having no children of their own, decided to retain you. Of course, some story had to be told to satisfy the villagers. You were represented to be the son of a friend, and this was readily believed. When, however, my late husband left Ohio, and traveled some hundreds of miles eastward to this place, he dropped this explanation and represented you as his own son. Romantic, wasn't it?”

Philip looked searchingly at the face of his step-mother, or the woman whom he had regarded as such, but he could read nothing to contradict the story in her calm, impassive countenance. A great fear fell upon him that she might be telling the truth. His features showed his contending emotions. But he had a profound distrust as well as dislike of his step-mother, and he could not bring himself to put confidence in what she told him.

“What proof is there of this?” he asked, after a while.

“Your father's word. I mean, of course, Mr. Brent's word. He told me this story before I married him, feeling that I had a right to know.”

“Why didn't he tell me?” asked Philip incredulously.

“He thought it would make you unhappy.”

“You didn't mind that,” said Philip, his lips curling.

“No,” answered Mrs. Brent, with a curious smile. “Why should I? I never pretended to like you, and now I have less cause than ever, after your brutal treatment of my boy.”

Jonas endeavored to look injured, but could not at once change the expression of his countenance.

“Your explanation is quite satisfactory, Mrs. Brent,” returned Philip. “I don't think I stood much higher in your estimation yesterday than today, so that I haven't lost much. But you haven't given me any proof yet.”

“Wait a minute.”