CHAPTER XIV
CONSULTING THE ORACLE
Phil did not like to hurt the feelings of his companion, and refrained from laughing, though with difficulty.
“She doesn’t appear to know you,” he said.
“No,” said Wilbur; “I haven’t had a chance to make myself known to her.”
“Do you think you can make a favorable impression upon—the daisy?” asked Phil, outwardly sober, but inwardly amused.
“I always had a taking way with girls,” replied Mr. Wilbur complacently.
Phil coughed. It was all that saved him from laughing.
While he was struggling with the inclination, the lady inadvertently dropped a small parcel which she had been carrying in her hand. The two boys were close behind. Like an arrow from the bow Mr. Wilbur sprang forward, picked up the parcel, and while his heart beat wildly, said, as he tendered it to the owner, with a graceful bow and captivating smile:
“Miss, I believe you dropped this.”
“Thank you, my good boy,” answered the daisy pleasantly.
Mr. Wilbur staggered back as if he had been struck. He fell back in discomfiture, and his face showed the mortification and anguish he felt.
“Did you hear what she said?” he asked, in a hollow voice.
“She called you a boy, didn’t she?”
“Yes,” answered Mr. Wilbur sadly.
“Perhaps she may be near-sighted,” said Phil consolingly.
“Do you think so?” asked Mr. Wilbur hopefully.
“It is quite possible. Then you are short, you know.”
“Yes, it must be so,” said G. Washington Wilbur, his face more serene. “If she hadn’t been she would have noticed my mustache.”
“True.”
“She spoke kindly. If—if she had seen how old I was, it would have been different, don’t you think so?”
“Yes, no doubt.”
“There is only one thing to do,” said Mr. Wilbur, in a tone of calm resolve.
“What is that?” inquired Phil, in some curiosity.
“I must wear a stove-pipe hat! As you say, I am small, and a near-sighted person might easily suppose me to be younger than I am. Now, with a stove-pipe hat I shall look much older.”
“Yes, I presume so.”
“Then I can make her acquaintance again, and she will not mistake me. Phil, why don’t you wear a stove-pipe?”
“Because I don’t want to look any older than I am. Besides, an errand-boy wouldn’t look well in a tall hat.”
“No, perhaps not.”
“And Mr. Pitkin would hardly like it.”
“Of course. When you are a salesman like me it will be different.”
Mr. Wilbur was beginning to recover his complacency, which had been so rudely disturbed.
“I suppose you wouldn’t think of marrying on your present salary?” said Phil. “Six dollars a week wouldn’t support a married pair very well.”
“The firm would raise my salary. They always do when a man marries. Besides, I have other resources.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes; I am worth two thousand dollars. It was left me by an aunt, and is kept in trust for me until I am twenty-one. I receive the interest now.”
“I congratulate you,” said Phil, who was really pleased to hear of his companion’s good fortune.
“That money will come in handy.”
“Besides, I expect SHE’S got money,” continued Mr. Wilbur. “Of course, I love her for herself alone—I am not mercenary—still, it will be a help when we are married.”
“So it will,” said Phil, amused at the confident manner in which Mr. Wilbur spoke of marriage with a lady of whom he knew absolutely nothing.
“Philip,” said Mr. Wilbur, “when I marry, I want you to stand up with me—to be my groomsman.”
“If I am in the city, and can afford to buy a dress-suit, I might consent.”
“Thank you. You are a true friend!” said Mr. Wilbur, squeezing his hand fervently.
The two returned to Mr. Wilbur’s room and had a chat. At an early hour Phil returned to his own boarding-place.
As time passed on, Phil and Wilbur spent considerable time together out of the store. Mr. G. Washington Wilbur, apart from his amusing traits, was a youth of good principles and good disposition, and Phil was glad of his company. Sometimes they went to cheap amusements, but not often, for neither had money to spare for such purposes.
Some weeks after Phil’s entrance upon his duties Mr. Wilbur made a proposal to Phil of a startling nature.
“Suppose we have our fortunes told, Phil?” he said.
“If it would help my fortune, or hurry it up, I shouldn’t object,” said Phil, smiling.
“I want to know what fate has in store for me,” said Wilbur.
“Do you think the fortune-tellers know any better than you do?” asked Phil incredulously.
“They tell some strange things,” said Wilbur.
“What, for instance?”
“An aunt of mine went to a fortune-teller and asked if she would ever be married, and when? She was told that she would be married before she was twenty-two, to a tall, light-complexioned man.”
“Did it come true?”
“Yes, every word,” said Mr. Wilbur solemnly. “She was married three months before her twenty-second birthday, and her husband was just the kind of man that was predicted. Wasn’t that strange?”
“The fortune-teller might easily have guessed all that. Most girls are married as young as that.”
“But not to tall, light-complexioned men!” said Wilbur triumphantly.
“Is there anything you wish particularly to know?” asked Phil.
“I should like to know if I am going to marry—you know who.”
“The daisy?”
“Yes.”
Phil was not much in favor of the scheme, but finally agreed to it.
There was a certain “Veiled Lady,” who advertised her qualifications in the Herald, as the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, and therefore gifted with the power to read the future. Mr. Wilbur made choice of her, and together they went to call upon her one evening.
They were shown into an anteroom, and in due time Mr. Wilbur was called into the dread presence. He was somewhat nervous and agitated, but “braced up,” as he afterward expressed it, and went in. He wanted Phil to go in with him, but the attendant said that madam would not allow it, and he went forward alone.
Fifteen minutes afterward he re-entered the room with a radiant face.
“Have you heard good news?” asked Phil.
Mr. Wilbur nodded emphatically and whispered, for there were two others in waiting:
“It’s all right. I am to marry her.”
“Did the fortune-teller say so?”
“Yes.”
“Did she give her name?”
“No, but she described her so that I knew her at once.”
“Will it be soon?” asked Phil slyly.
“Not till I am twenty-four,” answered Mr. Wilbur soberly. “But perhaps she may be mistaken about that. Perhaps she thought I was older than I am.”
“Do you doubt her knowledge, then?”
“No; at any rate, I can wait, since she is to be mine at last. Besides, I am to be rich. When I am thirty years old I am to be worth twenty thousand dollars.”
“I congratulate you, Wilbur,” said Phil, smiling. “You are all right, at least.”
“The next gentleman!” said the attendant.
Phil entered the inner room, and looked about him in curiosity.
A tall woman sat upon a sort of throne, with one hand resting on a table beside her. A tall wax-taper supplied the place of the light of day, which was studiously excluded from the room by thick, dark curtains. Over the woman’s face was a black veil, which gave her an air of mystery.
“Come hither, boy!” she said, in a clear, commanding voice.
Phil advanced, not wholly unimpressed, though he felt skeptical.
The woman bent forward, starting slightly and scanned his face eagerly.
CHAPTER XV
PHIL AND THE FORTUNE-TELLER
“Do you wish to hear of the past or the future?” asked the fortune-teller.
“Tell me something of the past,” said Phil, with a view of testing the knowledge of the seeress.
“You have left an uncongenial home to seek your fortune in New York. You left without regret, and those whom you have left behind do not miss you.”
Phil started in amazement. This was certainly true.
“Shall I find the fortune I seek?” asked our hero earnestly.
“Yes, but not in the way you expect. You think yourself alone in the world!”
The fortune-teller paused, and looked searchingly at the boy.
“So I am,” returned Phil.
“No boy who has a father living can consider himself alone.”
“My father is dead!” returned Phil, growing skeptical.
“You are mistaken.”
“I am not likely to be mistaken in such a matter. My father died a few months since.”
“Your father still lives!” said the fortune-teller sharply. “Do not contradict me!”
“I don’t see how you can say that. I attended his funeral.”
“You attended the funeral of the man whose name you bear. He was not your father.”
Phil was much excited by this confirmation of his step-mother’s story. He had entertained serious doubts of its being true, thinking it might have been trumped up by Mrs. Brent to drive him from home, and interfere with his succession to any part of Mr. Brent’s property.
“Is my step-mother’s story true, then?” he asked breathlessly. “She told me I was not the son of Mr. Brent.”
“Her story was true,” said the veiled lady.
“Who is my real father, then?”
The lady did not immediately reply. She seemed to be peering into distant space, as she said slowly:
“I see a man of middle size, dark-complexioned, leading a small child by the hand. He pauses before a house—it looks like an inn. A lady comes out from the inn. She is kindly of aspect. She takes the child by the hand and leads him into the inn. Now I see the man go away—alone. The little child remains behind. I see him growing up. He has become a large boy, but the scene has changed. The inn has disappeared. I see a pleasant village and a comfortable house. The boy stands at the door. He is well-grown now. A lady stands on the threshold as his steps turn away. She is thin and sharp-faced. She is not like the lady who welcomed the little child. Can you tell me who this boy is?” asked the fortune-teller, fixing her eyes upon Phil.
“It is myself!” he answers, his flushed face showing the excitement he felt.
“You have said!”
“I don’t know how you have learned all this,” said Phil, “but it is wonderfully exact. Will you answer a question?”
“Ask!”
“You say my father—my real father—is living?”
The veiled lady bowed her head.
“Where is he?”
“That I cannot say, but he is looking for you.”
“He is in search of me?”
“Yes.”
“Why has he delayed it so long?”
“There are circumstances which I cannot explain which have prevented his seeking and claiming you.”
“Will he do so?”
“I have told you that he is now seeking for you. I think he will find you at last.”
“What can I do to bring this about?”
“Do nothing! Stay where you are. Circumstances are working favorably, but you must wait. There are some drawbacks.”
“What are they?”
“You have two enemies, or rather one, for the other does not count.”
“Is that enemy a man?”
“No, it is a woman.”
“My step-mother!” ejaculated Phil, with immediate conviction.
“You have guessed aright.”
“And who is the other?”
“A boy.”
“Jonas?”
“It is the son of the woman whom you call your step-mother.”
“What harm can they do me? I am not afraid of them,” said Phil, raising his head proudly.
“Do not be too confident! The meanest are capable of harm. Mrs. Brent does not like you because she is a mother.”
“She fears that I will interfere with her son.”
“You are all right.”
“Is there anything more you can tell me?” asked Phil. “Have I any other enemies?”
“Yes; there are two more—also a woman and her son.”
“That puzzles me. I can think of no one.”
“They live in the city.”
“I know. It is Mrs. Pitkin, my employer’s wife. Why should she dislike me?”
“There is an old man who likes you. That is the cause.”
“I see. She doesn’t want him to be kind to any one out of the family.”
“That is all I have to tell you,” said the fortune-teller abruptly. “You can go.”
“You have told me strange things,” said Phil. “Will you tell me how it is you know so much about a stranger?”
“I have nothing more to tell you. You can go!” said the veiled lady impatiently.
“At least tell me how much I am to pay you.”
“Nothing.”
“But I thought you received fees.”
“Not from you.”
“Did you not take something from my friend who was in here before me?”
“Yes.”
“You told him a good fortune.”
“He is a fool!” said the fortune-teller contemptuously. “I saw what he wanted and predicted it.”
She waved her hand, and Phil felt that he had no excuse for remaining longer.
He left the room slowly, and found Mr. Wilbur anxiously awaiting him.
“What did she tell you, Phil?” he asked eagerly. “Did she tell you what sort of a wife you would have?”
“No. I didn’t ask her,” answered Phil, smiling.
“I should think you’d want to know. What did she tell you, then?”
“She told me quite a number of things about my past life and the events of my childhood.”
“I shouldn’t have cared about that,” said Wilbur, shrugging his shoulders. “Why, I know all about that myself. What I want to know about is, whether I am to marry the girl I adore.”
“But you see, Wilbur, I don’t adore anybody. I am not in love as you are.”
“Of course that makes a difference,” said Wilbur. “I’m glad I came, Phil. Ain’t you?”
“Yes,” answered Phil slowly.
“You see, it’s such a satisfaction to know that all is coming right at last. I am to marry HER, you know, and although it isn’t till I am twenty-four–”
“She will be nearly thirty by that time,” said Phil slyly.
“She won’t look it!” said Mr. Wilbur, wincing a little. “When I am thirty I shall be worth twenty thousand dollars.”
“You can’t save it very soon out of six dollars a week.”
“That is true. I feel sure I shall be raised soon. Did the fortune-teller say anything about your getting rich?”
“No. I can’t remember that she did. Oh, yes! she said I would make my fortune, but not in the way I expected.”
“That is queer!” said Mr. Wilbur, interested. “What could she mean?”
“I suppose she meant that I would not save a competence out of five dollars a week.”
“Maybe so.”
“I have been thinking, Wilbur, you have an advantage over the young lady you are to marry. You know that you are to marry her, but she doesn’t know who is to be her husband.”
“That is true,” said Wilbur seriously. “If I can find out her name, I will write her an anonymous letter, asking her to call on the veiled Lady.”
CHAPTER XVI
MRS. BRENT’S STRANGE TEMPTATION
Now that Phil is fairly established in the city, circumstances require us to go back to the country town which he had once called home.
Mrs. Brent is sitting, engaged with her needle, in the same room where she had made the important revelation to Phil.
Jonas entered the house, stamping the snow from his boots.
“Is supper most ready, mother?” he asked.
“No, Jonas; it is only four o’clock,” replied Mrs. Brent.
“I’m as hungry as a bear. I guess it’s the skating.”
“I wish you would go to the post-office before supper, Jonas. There might be a letter.”
“Do you expect to hear from Phil?”
“He said nothing about writing,” said Mrs. Brent indifferently. “He will do as he pleases about it.”
“I did’nt know but he would be writing for money,” chuckled Jonas.
“If he did, I would send him some,” said Mrs. Brent.
“You would!” repeated Jonas, looking at his mother in surprise.
“Yes, I would send him a dollar or two, so that people needn’t talk. It is always best to avoid gossip.”
“Are you expecting a letter from anybody, mother?” asked Jonas, after a pause.
“I dreamed last night I should receive an important letter,” said Mrs. Brent.
“With money in it?” asked Jonas eagerly.
“I don’t know.”
“If any such letter comes, will you give me some of the money?”
“If you bring me a letter containing money,” said Mrs. Brent, “I will give you a dollar.”
“Enough said!” exclaimed Jonas, who was fond of money; “I’m off to the post-office at once.”
Mrs. Brent let the work fall into her lap and looked intently before her. A flush appeared on her pale face, and she showed signs of restlessness.
“It is strange,” she said to herself, “how I have allowed myself to be affected by that dream. I am not superstitious, but I cannot get over the idea that a letter will reach me to-night, and that it will have an important bearing upon my life. I have a feeling, too, that it will relate to the boy Philip.”
She rose from her seat and began to move about the room. It was a relief to her in the restless state of her mind. She went to the window to look for Jonas, and her excitement rose as she saw him approaching. When he saw his mother looking from the window, he held aloft a letter.
“The letter has come,” she said, her heart beating faster than its wont. “It is an important letter. How slow Jonas is.”
And she was inclined to be vexed at the deliberation with which her son was advancing toward the house.
But he came at last.
“Well, mother, I’ve got a letter—a letter from Philadelphia,” he said. “It isn’t from Phil, for I know his writing.”
“Give it to me, Jonas,” said his mother, outwardly calm, but inwardly excited.
“Do you know any one in Philadelphia, mother?”
“No.”
She cut open the envelope and withdrew the inclosed sheet.
“Is there any money in it?” asked Jonas eagerly.
“No.”
“Just my luck!” said Jonas sullenly.
“Wait a minute,” said his mother. “If the letter is really important, I’ll give you twenty-five cents.”
She read the letter, and her manner soon showed that she was deeply interested.
We will look over her shoulders and read it with her:
“CONTINENTAL HOTEL, PHILADELPHIA, Feb. 5.
“DEAR MADAM:—
“I write to you on a matter of the greatest importance to my happiness, and shall most anxiously await your reply. I would come to you in person, but am laid up with an attack of rheumatism, and my physician forbids me to travel.
“You are, as I have been informed, the widow of Gerald Brent, who thirteen years since kept a small hotel in the small village of Fultonville, in Ohio. At that date I one day registered myself as his guest. I was not alone. My only son, then a boy of three, accompanied me. My wife was dead, and my affections centered upon this child. Yet the next morning I left him under the charge of yourself and your husband, and pursued my journey. From that day to this I have not seen the boy, nor have I written to you or Mr. Brent. This seems strange, does it not? It requires an explanation, and that explanation I am ready to give.
“To be brief, then, I was fleeing from undeserved suspicion. Circumstances which I need not detail had connected my name with the mysterious disappearance of a near friend, and the fact that a trifling dispute between us had taken place in the presence of witnesses had strengthened their suspicions. Knowing myself to be innocent, but unable to prove it, I fled, taking my child with me. When I reached Fultonville, I became alive to the ease with which I might be traced, through the child’s companionship. There was no resource but to leave him. Your husband and yourself impressed me as kind and warm-hearted. I was specially impressed by the gentleness with which you treated my little Philip, and I felt that to you I could safely trust him. I did not, however, dare to confide my secret to any one. I simply said I would leave the boy with you till he should recover from his temporary indisposition, and then, with outward calmness but inward anguish, I left my darling, knowing not if I should ever see him again.
“Well, time passed. I went to Nevada, changed my name, invested the slender sum I had with me in mining, and, after varying fortune, made a large fortune at last. But better fortune still awaited me. In a poor mining hut, two months since, I came across a man who confessed that he was guilty of the murder of which I had been suspected. His confession was reduced in writing, sworn to before a magistrate, and now at last I feel myself a free man. No one now could charge me with a crime from which my soul revolted.
“When this matter was concluded, my first thought was of the boy whom I had not seen for thirteen long years. I could claim him now before all the world; I could endow him with the gifts of fortune; I could bring him up in luxury, and I could satisfy a father’s affectionate longing. I could not immediately ascertain where you were. I wrote to Fultonville, to the postmaster, and learned that you and Mr. Brent had moved away and settled down in Gresham, in the State of New York. I learned also that my Philip was still living, but other details I did not learn. But I cared not, so long as my boy still lived.
“And now you may guess my wish and my intention. I shall pay you handsomely for your kind care of Philip, but I must have my boy back again. We have been separated too long. I can well understand that you are attached to him, and I will find a home for you and Mr. Brent near my own, where you can see as often as you like the boy whom you have so tenderly reared. Will you do me the favor to come at once, and bring the boy with you? The expenses of your journey shall, of course, be reimbursed, and I will take care that the pecuniary part of my obligations to you shall be amply repaid. I have already explained why I cannot come in person to claim my dear child.
“Telegraph to me when you will reach Philadelphia, and I will engage a room for you. Philip will stay with me.
“Yours gratefully,
“OSCAR GRANVILLE.”
“Mother, here is a slip of paper that has dropped from the letter,” said Jonas.
He picked up and handed to his mother a check on a Philadelphia bank for the sum of one hundred dollars.
“Why, that’s the same as money, isn’t it?” asked Jonas.
“Yes, Jonas.”
“Then you’ll keep your promise, won’t you?”
Mrs. Brent silently drew from her pocket-book a two-dollar bill and handed it to Jonas.
“Jonas,” she said, “if you won’t breathe a word of it, I will tell you a secret.”
“All right, mother.”
“We start for Philadelphia to-morrow.”
“By gosh! that’s jolly,” exclaimed Jonas, overjoyed. “I’ll keep mum. What was in the letter, mother?”
“I will not tell you just now. You shall know very soon.”
Mrs. Brent did not sleep much that night. Her mind was intent upon a daring scheme of imposture. Mr. Granville was immensely wealthy, no doubt. Why should she not pass off Jonas upon him as his son Philip, and thus secure a fortune for her own child?