The Errand Boy | Page 5

"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