Among the duties which devolved upon Phil was Mr. Carter's bank business. He generally made deposits for Uncle Oliver, and drew money on his personal checks whenever he needed it.
It has already been said that Mr. Carter was a silent partner in the firm of which Mr. Pitkin was the active manager. The arrangement between the partners was, that each should draw out two hundred dollars a week toward current expenses, and that the surplus, if any, at the end of the year, should be divided according to the terms of the partnership.
When Phil first presented himself with a note from Mr. Carter, he was an object of attention to the clerks, who knew that he had been discharged by Mr. Pitkin. Yet here he was, dressed in a new suit provided with a watch, and wearing every mark of prosperity. One of the most surprised was Mr. G. Washington Wilbur, with whom, as an old friend, Phil stopped to chat.
“Is old Pitkin going to take you back?” he inquired.
“No,” answered Phil promptly. “He couldn't have me if he wanted me.”
“Have you got another place?”
“Yes.”
“What's the firm?”
“It isn't in business. I am private secretary to Mr. Carter.”
Mr. Wilbur regarded him with surprise and respect.
“Is it a soft place?” he inquired.
“It's a very pleasant place.”
“What wages do you get?”
“Twelve dollars a week and board.”
“You don't mean it?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Say, doesn't he want another secretary?” asked Mr. Wilbur.
“No, I think not.”
“I'd like a place of that sort. You're a lucky fellow, Phil.”
“I begin to think I am.”
“Of course you don't live at the old place.”
“No; I live on Madison Avenue. By the way, Wilbur, how is your lady-love?”
Mr. Wilbur looked radiant.
“I think I'm getting on,” he said. “I met her the other evening, and she smiled.”
“That is encouraging,” said Phil, as soberly as possible. “All things come to him who waits! That's what I had to write in my copy-book once.”
Phil was received by Mr. Pitkin with more graciousness than he expected. He felt that he must do what he could to placate Uncle Oliver, but he was more dangerous when friendly in his manner than when he was rude and impolite. He was even now plotting to get Phil into a scrape which should lose him the confidence of Uncle Oliver.
Generally Phil was paid in a check payable to the order of Mr. Carter. But one Saturday two hundred dollars in bills were placed in his hands instead.
“You see how much confidence I place in your honesty,” said Mr. Pitkin. “You couldn't use the check. This money you could make off with.”
“It would be very foolish, to say the least,” responded Phil.
“Of course, of course. I know you are trustworthy, or I would have given you a check instead.”
When Phil left the building he was followed, though he did not know it, by a man looking like a clerk.
Ah, Phil, you are in danger, though you don't suspect it.
Phil felt that he must be more than usually careful, because the money he had received was in the form of bills, which, unlike the check, would be of use to any thief appropriating it. That he was in any unusual danger, however, he was far from suspecting.
He reached Broadway, and instead of taking an omnibus, started to walk up-town. He knew there was no haste, and a walk up the great busy thoroughfare had its attractions for him, as it has for many others.
Behind him, preserving a distance of from fifteen to twenty feet, walked a dark-complexioned man of not far from forty years of age. Of course Phil was not likely to notice him.
Whatever the man's designs might be, he satisfied himself at first with simply keeping our hero in view. But as they both reached Bleecker Street, he suddenly increased his pace and caught up with Phil. He touched the boy on the shoulder, breathing quickly, as if he had been running.
Phil turned quickly.
“Do you want me, sir?” he asked, eying the stranger in surprise.
“I don't know. Perhaps I am mistaken. Are you in the employ of Mr. Oliver Carter?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ah I then you are the boy I want. I have bad news for you.”
“Bad news!” repeated Phil, alarmed. “What is it?”
“Mr. Carter was seized with a fit in the street half an hour since.”
“Is he—dead?” asked Phil, in dismay.
“No, no! I think he will come out all right.”
“Where is he?”
“In my house. I didn't of course know who he was, but I found in his pocket a letter directed to Oliver Carter, Madison Avenue. There was also a business card. He is connected in business with Mr. Pitkin, is he not?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Phil; “where is your house?”
“In Bleecker Street, near by. Mr. Carter is lying on the bed. He is unconscious, but my wife heard him say: 'Call Philip.' I suppose that is you?”
“Yes, sir; my name is Philip.”
“I went around to his place of business, and was told that you had just left there. I was given a description of you and hurried to find you. Will you come to the house and see Mr. Carter?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Phil, forgetting everything except that his kind and generous employer was sick, perhaps dangerously.
“Thank you; I shall feel relieved. Of course you can communicate with his friends and arrange to have him carried home.”
“Yes, sir; I live at his house.”
“That is well.”
They had turned down Bleecker Street, when it occurred to Phil to say:
“I don't understand how Mr. Carter should be in this neighborhood.”
“That is something I can't explain, as I know nothing about his affairs,” said the stranger pleasantly. “Perhaps he may have property on the street.”
“I don't think so. I attend to much of his business, and he would have sent me if there had been anything of that kind to attend to.”
“I dare say you are right,” said his companion.
“Of course I know nothing about it. I only formed a conjecture.”
“Has a physician been sent for?” asked Phil.
“Do you know of any we can call in?”
“My wife agreed to send for one on Sixth Avenue,” said the stranger. “I didn't wait for him to come, but set out for the store.”
Nothing could be more ready or plausible than the answers of his new acquaintance, and Phil was by no means of a suspicious temperament. Had he lived longer in the city it might have occurred to him that there was something rather unusual in the circumstances, but he knew that Mr. Carter had spoken of leaving the house at the breakfast-table, indeed had left it before he himself had set out for the store. For the time being the thought of the sum of money which he carried with him had escaped his memory, but it was destined very soon to be recalled to his mind.
They had nearly reached Sixth Avenue, when his guide stopped in front of a shabby brick house.
“This is where I live,” he said. “We will go in.”
He produced a key, opened the door, and Phil accompanied him up a shabby staircase to the third floor. He opened the door of a rear room, and made a sign to Phil to enter.
When he was fairly in the room Phil looked about him expecting to see Mr. Carter, but the room appeared unoccupied. He turned to his companion, a look of surprise on his face, but he was destined to be still more surprised, and that not in a pleasant way. His guide had locked the door from the inside and put the key in his pocket.
“What does that mean?” asked Phil, with sudden apprehension.
“What do you refer to?” asked his guide with an unpleasant smile.
“Why do you lock the door?”
“I thought it might be safest,” was the significant answer.
“I don't believe Mr. Carter is in the house at all,” said Phil quickly.
“I don't believe he is either, youngster.”
“Why did you tell me he was here?” demanded Phil, with rising indignation.
“I thought you wouldn't come if I didn't,” replied his companion nonchalantly.
“Answer me one thing, is Mr. Carter sick at all?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Then I am trapped!”
“Precisely. You may as well know the truth now.”
Phil had already conjectured the reason why he had been enticed to this poor dwelling. The two hundred dollars which he had in his pocket made him feel very uncomfortable. I think I may say truly that if the money had been his own he would have been less disturbed. But he thought, with a sinking heart, that if the money should be taken from him, he would himself fall under suspicion, and he could not bear to have Mr. Carter think that he had repaid his kindness with such black ingratitude. He might be mistaken. The man before him might not know he had such a sum of money in his possession, and of course he was not going to give him the information.
“I am glad Mr. Carter is all right,” said Phil. “Now tell me why you have taken such pains to get me here?”
“Why, as to that,” said his companion, “there were at least two hundred good reasons.”
Phil turned pale, for he understood now that in some way his secret was known.
“What do you mean?” he asked, not wholly able to conceal his perturbed feelings.
“You know well enough, boy,” said the other significantly. “You've got two hundred dollars in your pocket. I want it.”
“Are you a thief, then?” said Phil, with perhaps imprudent boldness.
“Just take care what you say. I won't be insulted by such a whipper-snapper as you. You'd better not call names. Hand over that money!”
“How do you know I have any money?” Phil asked, trying to gain a little time for deliberation.
“No matter. Hand it over, I say!”
“Don't take it!” said Phil, agitated. “It isn't mine!”
“Then you needn't mind giving it up.”
“It belongs to Mr. Carter.”
“He has plenty more.”
“But he will think I took it. He will think I am dishonest.”
“That is nothing to me.”
“Let me go,” pleaded Phil, “and I will never breathe a word about your wanting to rob me. You know you might get into trouble for it.”
“That's all bosh! The money, I say!” said the man sternly.
“I won't give it to you!” said Phil boldly.
“You won't, hey? Then I shall have to take it. If I hurt you, you will have yourself to blame.”
So saying the man seized Phil, and then a struggle ensued, the boy defending himself as well as he could. He made a stouter resistance than the thief anticipated, and the latter became irritated with the amount of trouble he had to take it. I should be glad to report that Phil made a successful defense, but this was hardly to be expected. He was a strong boy, but he had to cope with a strong man, and though right was on his side, virtue in his case had to succumb to triumphant vice.
Phil was thrown down, and when prostrate, with the man's knee on his breast, the latter succeeded in stripping him of the money he had so bravely defended.
“There, you young rascal!” he said, as he rose to his feet; “you see how much good you have done. You might as well have given up the money in the first place.”
“It was my duty to keep it from you, if I could,” said Phil, panting with his exertions.
“Well, if that's any satisfaction to you, you're welcome to it.”
He went to the door and unlocked it.
“May I go now?” asked Phil.
“Not much. Stay where you are!”
A moment later and Phil found himself alone and a prisoner.
Phil tried the door, but now it was locked on the outside, and he found that he was securely trapped. He went to the window, but here, too, there was no chance of escape. Even if he had been able to get safely out, he would have landed in a back-yard from which there was no egress except through the house, which was occupied by his enemies.
“What shall I do?” Phil asked himself, despairingly. “Mr. Carter will be anxious about me, and perhaps he may think I have gone off with the money!”
This to Phil was the worst of his troubles. He prized a good reputation and the possession of an honorable name, and to be thought a thief would distress him exceedingly.
“What a fool I was to walk into such a trap!” he said to himself. “I might have known Mr. Carter would not be in such a neighborhood.”
Phil was too severe upon himself. I suspect that most of my boy readers, even those who account themselves sharp, might have been deceived as easily. The fact is, rogues are usually plausible, and they are so trained in deception that it is no reflection upon their victims that they allow themselves to be taken in.
Hours passed, and still Phil found himself a prisoner. Each moment he became more anxious and troubled.
“How long will they keep me?” he asked himself. “They can't keep me here forever.”
About six o'clock the door was opened slightly, and a plate of bread and butter was thrust in, together with a glass of cold water. Who brought it up Phil did not know, for the person did not show himself or herself.
Phil ate and drank what was provided, not that he was particularly hungry, but he felt that he must keep up his strength.
“They don't mean to starve me, at any rate,” he reflected. “That is some consolation. While there is life, there is hope.”
A little over an hour passed. It became dark in Phil's prison, but he had no means of lighting the gas. There was a small bed in the room, and he made up his mind that he must sleep there.
All at once there was a confused noise and disturbance. He could not make out what it meant, till above all other sounds he heard the terrible cry of “Fire!”
“Fire! Where is it?” thought Phil.
It was not long before he made a terrible discovery. It was the very house in which he was confined! There was a trampling of feet and a chorus of screams. The smoke penetrated into the room.
“Heavens! Am I to be burned alive!” thought our poor hero.
He jumped up and down on the floor, pounded frantically on the door, and at last the door was broken open by a stalwart fireman, and Phil made his way out, half-suffocated.
Once in the street, he made his way as fast as possible homeward.
Meanwhile, Phil's long absence had excited anxiety and alarm.
“What can have become of Philip?” said Mr. Carter when supper time came and he did not arrive.
“I can't think,” answered Mrs. Forbush. “He is generally very prompt.”
“That is what makes me feel anxious. I am afraid something must have happened to him.”
“Did you send him anywhere, Uncle Oliver?”
“Yes; he called, as usual, to get my check from Mr. Pitkin.”
“And he ought to have been here earlier?”
“Certainly. He wouldn't have to wait for that.”
“Philip is very careful. I can't think that he has met with an accident.”
“Even the most prudent and careful get into trouble sometimes.”
They were finally obliged to sit down to supper alone. None of the three enjoyed it. Not only Mr. Carter and Mrs. Forbush, but Julia was anxious and troubled.
“I didn't know I cared so much for the boy,” said Uncle Oliver. “He has endeared himself to me. I care nothing for the loss of the money if he will only return safe.”
It was about a quarter of eight when the door-bell rang, and the servant ushered in Mr. and Mrs. Pitkin and Alonzo.
After the usual greetings were interchanged, Mrs. Pitkin said, looking about her:
“Where is Philip?”
“We are very much concerned about him,” said Mr. Carter, his face showing his trouble. “He has not been home since morning. Did he call at your store, Pitkin?”
“Hasn't he been home since?” asked Pitkin, in a tone unpleasantly significant.
“No. At what time did he leave the store?”
“Hours since. I—I am not sure but I may be able to throw some light on his failure to return.”
“Do so, if you can!” said Uncle Oliver.
“In place of giving him a check, I gave the boy two hundred dollars in bills.”
“Well?”
“Don't you see? The temptation has proved too strong for him. I think, Uncle Oliver, you won't see him back in a hurry.”
“Do you mean to say the boy would steal?” demanded the old gentleman indignantly.
“I think it more than likely that he has appropriated the money.”
“I am sure he has not,” said Mrs. Forbush.
“And so am I,” chimed in Julia.
Mr. Pitkin shrugged his shoulders.
“So you think,” he answered; “but I don't agree with you.”
“Nor I!” said Mrs. Pitkin, nodding her head vigorously. “I never had any confidence in the boy. I don't mind telling you now that I have warned Alonzo not to get too intimate with him. You remember it, Lonny?”
“Yes'm,” responded Lonny.
“Then you think the boy capable of appropriating the money?” asked Mr. Carter quietly.
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, I don't!” said Uncle Oliver emphatically.
“You are very easily deceived,” said Mrs. Pitkin.
“Don't be too sure of that,” returned Mr. Carter, with a significant glance, that made his niece feel uncomfortable.
“I suspect you will have to admit it,” said Mr. Pitkin. “If, contrary to my anticipation, the boy returns, and brings the money with him, I will own myself mistaken.”
Just then the front door was heard to open; there was a sound of steps in the hall, and Phil came hurriedly into the room.
Mr. and Mrs. Pitkin exchanged looks of surprise and dismay; but Mrs. Forbush, her daughter and Uncle Oliver looked delighted.
“Where have you been, Philip?” asked Mr. Carter, breaking the silence. “We were getting anxious about you.”
“I have bad news for you, sir,” returned Phil, saying what stood first in his mind. “I have lost the two hundred dollars Mr. Pitkin paid me this morning.”
“So you lost it?” observed Mr. Pitkin with a sneer, emphasizing the word “lost” to show his incredulity.
“Yes, sir, I lost it,” answered Phil, looking him fearlessly in the eye; “or, rather, it was stolen from me.”
“Oh! now it is stolen, is it?” repeated Pitkin.
“Really, Uncle Oliver, this is getting interesting.”
“I believe I am the proper person to question Philip,” said Mr. Carter coldly. “It was my money, I take it.”
“Yes, it was yours. As I made the payment, I cannot, of course, be responsible for its not reaching you. You will pardon my saying that it would have been wiser to employ a different messenger.”
“Why?” demanded Uncle Oliver, looking displeased.
“Why, really, Uncle Oliver,” said Mr. Pitkin, “I should think the result might convince you of that.”
“We had better let Philip tell his story,” said Mr. Carter quietly. “How did it happen, Philip?”
Thereupon Philip told the story already familiar to the reader.
“Upon my word, quite a romantic story!” commented Mr. Pitkin, unable to repress a sneer. “So you were tracked by a rascal, lured into a den of thieves, robbed of your money, or, rather, Mr. Carter's, and only released by the house catching fire?”
“That is exactly what happened to me, sir,” said Philip, coloring with indignation, for he saw that Mr. Pitkin was doing his best to discredit him.
“It quite does credit to your imagination. By the way, boy, have you been in the habit of reading dime novels?”
“I never read one in my life, sir.”
“Then I think you would succeed in writing them. For a boy of sixteen, you certainly have a vivid imagination.”
“I quite agree with my husband,” said Mrs. Pitkin. “The boy's story is ridiculously improbable. I can't understand how he has the face to stand there and expect Uncle Oliver to swallow such rubbish.”
“I don't expect you to believe it, either of you,” said Philip manfully, “for you have never treated me fairly.”
“I think you will find, also, that my uncle is too sensible a man to credit it, also,” retorted Mrs Pitkin.
“Speak for yourself, Lavinia,” said Mr. Carter, who had waited intentionally to let his relatives express themselves. “I believe every word of Philip's story.”
“You do?” ejaculated Mrs. Pitkin, rolling her eyes and nodding her head, in the vain endeavor to express her feelings. “Really, Uncle Oliver, for a man of your age and good sense——”
“Thank you for that admission, Lavinia,” said Mr. Carter mockingly. “Go on.”
“I was about to say that you seem infatuated with this boy, of whom we know nothing, except from his own account. To my mind his story is a most ridiculous invention.”
“Mr. Pitkin, did any one enter your store just after Philip left it to inquire after him?”
“No, sir,” answered Pitkin triumphantly. “That's a lie, at any rate.”
“You will remember that Philip did not make the assertion himself. This was the statement of the thief who robbed him.”
“Yes, of course,” sneered Pitkin. “He told his story very shrewdly.”
“Mr. Carter,” said Philip, “I can show you or any one else the house in which I was confined in Bleecker Street, and there will be no trouble in obtaining proof of the fire.”
“I dare say there may have been such a fire,” said Mr. Pitkin, “and you may have happened to see it, and decided to weave it into your story.”
“Do you think I stole the money or used it for my own purpose?” asked Philip pointedly.
Mr. Pitkin shrugged his shoulders.
“Young man,” he said, “upon this point I can only say that your story is grossly improbable. It won't hold water.”
“Permit me to judge of that, Mr. Pitkin,” said Mr. Carter. “I wish to ask YOU one question.”
“To ask ME a question!” said Pitkin, surprised.
“Yes; why did you pay Philip in bills to-day? Why didn't you give him a check, as usual?”
“Why,” answered Pitkin, hesitating, “I thought it wouldn't make any difference to you. I thought you would be able to use it more readily.”
“Did you suppose I would specially need to use money instead of a check this week? Why break over your usual custom?”
“Really, I didn't give much thought to the matter,” answered Pitkin, hesitating. “I acted on a sudden impulse.”
“Your impulse has cost me two hundred dollars. Do me the favor, when Philip calls next week, to hand him a check.”
“You mean to retain him in your employ after this?” asked Mrs. Pitkin sharply.
“Yes, I do. Why shouldn't I?”
“You are very trustful,” observed the lady, tossing her head. “If this had happened to Lonny here, we should never have heard the last of it.”
“Perhaps not!” responded the old gentleman dryly. “When a young gentleman is trusted with a letter to mail containing money, and that letter never reaches its destination, it may at least be inferred that he is careless.”
It will be remembered that this was the first knowledge Mrs. Pitkin or her husband had of the transaction referred to.
“What do you mean, Uncle Oliver?” demanded Mr. Pitkin.
Mr. Carter explained.
“This is too much!” said Mrs. Pitkin angrily.
“You mean to accuse my poor boy of opening the letter and stealing the money?”
“If I was as ready to bring accusations as you, Lavinia, I should undoubtedly say that it looked a little suspicious, but I prefer to let the matter rest.”
“I think, Mr. Pitkin, we had better go,” said Mrs. Pitkin, rising with dignity. “Since Uncle Oliver chooses to charge his own nephew with being a thief——”
“I beg pardon, Lavinia, I have not done so.”
“You might just as well,” said Lavinia Pitkin, tossing her head. “Come, Mr. Pitkin; come, my poor Lonny, we will go home. This is no place for you.”
“Good-evening, Lavinia,” said Mr. Carter calmly. “I shall be glad to see you whenever you feel like calling.”
“When you have discharged that boy, I may call again,” said Mrs. Pitkin spitefully.
“You will have to wait some time, then. I am quite capable of managing my own affairs.”
When Mr. Pitkin had left the house, by no means in a good humor, Phil turned to his employer and said gratefully:
“I don't know how to thank you, Mr. Carter, for your kind confidence in me. I admit that the story I told you is a strange one, and I could not have blamed you for doubting me.”
“But I don't doubt you, my dear Philip,” said Mr. Carter kindly.
“Nor I,” said Mrs. Forbush. “I feel provoked with Lavinia and her husband for trying to throw discredit upon your statement.”
“In fact,” said Mr. Carter humorously, “the only one of us that suspected you was Julia.”
“Oh, Uncle Oliver!” exclaimed Julia, in dismay. “I never dreamed of doubting Phil.”
“Then,” said Mr. Carter, “it appears that you have three friends, at least.”
“If,” said Phil? “you would allow me to make up part of the loss, by surrendering a part of my salary——”
“Couldn't be thought of, Philip!” said Uncle Oliver resolutely. “I don't care for the money, but I should like to know how the thief happened to know that to-day you received money instead of a check.”
Without saying a word to Phil, Uncle Oliver called the next day on a noted detective and set him to work ferreting out the secret.
In the suburbs of Chicago, perhaps a dozen miles from the great city, stands a fine country house, in the midst of a fine natural park. From the cupola which surmounts the roof can be seen in the distance the waters of Lake Michigan, stretching for many miles from north to south and from east to west, like a vast inland sea.
The level lawns, the greenhouses, the garden with rare plants and flowers, show clearly that this is the abode of a rich man. My readers will be specially interested to know that this is the luxurious and stately home of Mr. Granville, whose son's fortunes we have been following.
This, too, is the home of Mrs. Brent and Jonas, who, under false representations, have gained a foothold in the home of the Western millionaire.
Surely it is a great change for one brought up like Jonas to be the recognized heir and supposed son of so rich a man! It is a change, too, for his mother, who, though she dare not avow the relationship, is permitted to share the luxury of her son. Mrs. Brent has for her own use two of the best rooms in the mansion, and so far as money can bring happiness, she has every right to consider herself happy.
Is she?
Not as happy as she anticipated. To begin with, she is always dreading that some untoward circumstance will reveal the imposition she has practiced upon Mr. Granville. In that case what can she expect but to be ejected in disgrace from her luxurious home? To be sure, she will have her husband's property left, but it would be a sad downfall and descent in the social scale.
Besides, she finds cause for anxiety in Jonas, and the change which his sudden and undeserved elevation has wrought in him. It requires a strong mind to withstand the allurements and temptations of prosperity, and Jonas is far from possessing a strong mind. He is, indeed, if I may be allowed the expression, a vulgar little snob, utterly selfish, and intent solely upon his own gratification. He has a love for drink, and against the protests of his mother and the positive command of Mr. Granville, indulges his taste whenever he thinks he can do so without fear of detection. To the servants he makes himself very offensive by assuming consequential airs and a lordly bearing, which excites their hearty dislike.
He is making his way across the lawn at this moment. He is dressed in clothes of the finest material and the most fashionable cut. A thick gold chain is displayed across his waistcoat, attached to an expensive gold watch, bought for him by his supposed father. He carries in his hand a natty cane, and struts along with head aloft and nose in the air.
Two under-gardeners are at work upon a flowerbed as he passes.
“What time is it, Master Philip?” says one, a boy about a year older than Jonas.
“My good boy,” said Jonas haughtily, “I don't carry a watch for your benefit.”
The gardener bit his lip, and surveyed the heir with unequivocal disgust.
“Very well,” he retorted; “I'll wait till a gentleman comes this way.”
A flush of anger was visible on the cheek of Jonas despite his freckles.
“Do you mean to say I'm not a gentleman!” he demanded angrily.
“You don't act like one,” returned Dan.
“You'd better not be impertinent to me!” exclaimed Jonas, his small gray eyes flashing with indignation. “Take that back!”
“I won't, for it's true!” said Dan undauntedly.
“Take that, then!”
Jonas raised his cane and brought it down smartly on the young gardener's shoulder.
He soon learned that he had acted imprudently. Dan dropped his rake, sprang forward, and seizing the cane, wrenched it from the hands of the young heir, after which he proceeded to break it across his knee.
“There's your cane!” he said contemptuously, as he threw the pieces on the ground.
“What did you do that for?” demanded Jonas, outraged.
“Because you insulted me. That's why.”
“How can I insult you? You're only a poor working boy!”
“I wouldn't change places with you,” said Dan. “I'd like well enough to be rich, but I wouldn't be willing to be as mean as you are.”
“You'll suffer for this!” said Jonas, his little bead-like eyes glowing with anger. “I'll have you turned off this very day, or as soon as my father get's home.”
“If he says I'm to go, I'll go!” said Dan. “He's a gentleman.”
Jonas made his way to his mother's room. She noticed his perturbed look.
“What's the matter, my dear boy?” she asked. “What's the matter, Jonas?”
“I wish you'd stop calling me your dear boy,” said Jonas angrily.
“I—I forget sometimes,” said Mrs. Brent, with a half-sigh.
“Then you ought not to forget. Do you want to spoil everything?”
“We are alone now, Jonas, and I cannot forget that I am your mother.”
“You'd better, if you know what's best for both of us,” said Jonas.
Mrs. Brent was far from being a kind-hearted woman. Indeed she was very cold, but Jonas was her only son, and to him she was as much attached as it was possible for her to be to any one. Formerly he had returned her affection in a slight degree, but since he had figured as a rich man's son and heir he had begun, incredible as it may appear, to look down upon his own mother. She was not wholly ignorant of this change in his feelings, and it made her unhappy. He was all she had to live for. But for him she would not have stooped to take part in the conspiracy in which she was now a participant. It seemed hard that her only son, for whom she had sinned, should prove so ungrateful.
“My boy,” she said, “I would not on any account harm you or injure your prospects, but when we are alone there can be no harm in my treating you as my son.”
“It can't do any good,” grumbled Jonas, “and we might be overheard.”
“I will be cautious. You may be sure of that. But why do you look so annoyed?”
“Why? Reason enough. That boy Dan, the under-gardener, has been impudent to me.”
“He has?” said Mrs. Brent quickly. “What has he done?”
Jonas rehearsed the story. He found in his mother a sympathetic listener.
“He is bold!” she said, compressing her lips.
“Yes, he is. When I told him I would have him turned off, he coolly turned round and said that my father was a gentleman, and wouldn't send him away. Ma, will you do me a favor?”
“What is it, Jonas?”
“Send him off before the governor gets home. You can make it all right with him.”
Mrs. Brent hesitated.
“Mr. Granville might think I was taking a liberty.”
“Oh, you can make it all right with him. Say that he was very impudent to me. After what has happened, if he stays he'll think he can treat me just as he pleases.”
Again Mrs. Brent hesitated, but her own inclination prompted her to do as her son desired.
“You may tell Dan to come here. I wish to speak to him,” she said.
Jonas went out and did the errand.
“Mrs. Brent wants to see me?” said Dan. “I have nothing to do with her.”
“You'd better come in if you know what's best for yourself.” said Jonas, with an exultation he did not attempt to conceal.
“Oh, well, I have no objection to meeting Mrs. Brent,” said Dan. “I'll go in.”
Mrs. Brent eyed the young gardener with cold animosity.
“You have been impudent to Master Philip,” she said. “Of course you cannot remain any longer in his father's employment. Here are five dollars—more than is due you. Take it, and leave the estate.”
“I won't take your money, Mrs. Brent,” said Dan independently, “and I won't take my dismissal from any one but Mr. Granville himself.”
“Do you defy me, then?” said Mrs. Brent, with a firmer compression of her lips.
“No, Mrs. Brent, I don't defy you, but you have nothing to do with me, and I shall not take any orders or any dismissal from you.”
“Don't be impertinent to my——” burst forth from Jonas, and then he stopped in confusion.
“To your—what?” asked Dan quickly.
“To my—nurse,” faltered Jonas.
Dan looked suspiciously from one to the other.
“There's something between those two,” he said to himself. “Something we don't know of.”