CHAPTER II.
A STRANGE REVELATION.
Philip started in irrepressible astonishment as these words fell fromthe lips of his step-mother. It seemed to him as if the earth werecrumbling beneath his feet, for he had felt no more certain of theexistence of the universe than of his being the son of Gerald Brent.
He was not the only person amazed at this declaration. Jonas, forgettingfor 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 hismother.
"Gosh!" he exclaimed in a tone indicating utter surprise andbewilderment.
"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 theeffect 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 withsarcasm.
"In such a matter as that I believe no one's word," said Phil. "I askfor proof."
"Well, I am prepared to satisfy you. Sit down and I will tell you thestory."
Philip sat down on the nearest chair and regarded his step-motherfixedly.
"Whose son am I," he demanded, "if not Mr. Brent's?"
"You are getting on too fast. Jonas," continued his mother, suddenlyturning to her hulking son, on whose not very intelligent countenancethere was an expression of greedy curiosity, "do you understand thatwhat I am going to say is to be a secret, not to be spoken of to anyone?"
"Yes'm," answered Jonas readily.
"Very well. Now to proceed. Philip, you have heard probably that whenyou were very small your father--I mean Mr. Brent--lived in a small townin 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 nottroubled by many guests. The few who stopped at his house were businessmen from towns near by, or drummers from the great cities, who hadoccasion to stay over a night. One evening, however, a gentleman arrivedwith an unusual companion--in other words, a boy of about three yearsof 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 careof it for the night. The offer was gladly accepted, and you--for, ofcourse, 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 arequest. It was that your new friend would take care of you for a weekwhile he traveled to Cincinnati on business. After dispatching this, hepromised to return and resume the care of you, paying well for the favordone him. Mrs. Brent, my predecessor, being naturally fond of children,readily agreed to this proposal, and the child was left behind, whilethe 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 livelyas ever. In fact, you seemed to feel quite at home among your newsurroundings, which was rather unfortunate, FOR YOUR FATHER NEVER CAMEBACK!"
"Never came back!" repeated Philip.
"No; nor was anything heard from him. Mr. and Mrs. Brent came to theconclusion that the whole thing was prearranged to get rid of you.Luckily for you, they had become attached to you, and, having nochildren of their own, decided to retain you. Of course, some story hadto be told to satisfy the villagers. You were represented to be theson of a friend, and this was readily believed. When, however, my latehusband left Ohio, and traveled some hundreds of miles eastward to thisplace, 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 womanwhom he had regarded as such, but he could read nothing to contradictthe story in her calm, impassive countenance. A great fear fell upon himthat she might be telling the truth. His features showed his contendingemotions. But he had a profound distrust as well as dislike of hisstep-mother, and he could not bring himself to put confidence in whatshe 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 methis 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 neverpretended to like you, and now I have less cause than ever, after yourbrutal treatment of my boy."
Jonas endeavored to look injured, but could not at once change theexpression of his countenance.
"Your explanation is quite satisfactory, Mrs. Brent," returned Philip."I don't think I stood much higher in your estimation yesterday thantoday, so that I haven't lost much. But you haven't given me any proofyet."
"Wait a minute."
Mrs. Brent left the room, went up-stairs, and speedily returned,bringing with her a small daguerreotype, representing a boy of threeyears.
"Did you ever see this before?" she asked.
"No," answered Philip, taking it from her hand and eying it curiously.
"When Mr. and Mrs. Brent decided that you were to be left on theirhands," she proceeded, "they had this picture of you taken in the samedress in which you came to them, with a view to establish your identityif at any time afterward inquiry should be made for you."
The daguerreotype represented a bright, handsome child, dressedtastefully, and more as would be expected of a city child than of oneborn in the country. There was enough resemblance to Philip as he lookednow to convince him that it was really his picture.
"I have something more to show you," said Mrs. Brent.
She produced a piece of white paper in which the daguerreotype had beenfolded. Upon it was some writing, and Philip readily recognized the handof the man whom he had regarded as his father.
He read these lines:
"This is the picture of the boy who was mysteriously left in the chargeof Mr. Brent, April, 1863, and never reclaimed. I have reared him as myown son, but think it best to enter this record of the way in which hecame into my hands, and to preserve by the help of art his appearance atthe time he first came to us. GERALD BRENT."
"Do you recognize this handwriting?" asked Mrs. Brent.
"Yes," answered Philip in a dazed tone.
"Perhaps," she said triumphantly, "you will doubt my word now."
"May I have this picture?" asked Philip, without answering her.
"Yes; you have as good a claim to it as any one."
"And the paper?"
"The paper I prefer to keep myself," said Mrs. Brent, nodding her headsuspiciously. "I don't care to have my only proof destroyed."
Philip did not seem to take her meaning, but with the daguerreotype inhis hand, he left the room.
"I say, mother," chuckled Jonas, his freckled face showing hisenjoyment, "it's a good joke on Phil, isn't it? I guess he won't bequite so uppish after this."