THE STEPFATHER.
Grit was disagreeably surprised at the news of Mr. Brandon's arrival,
and he looked about him in the expectation of seeing his unwelcome
figure, in vain.
"Where is he, mother?" the boy inquired.
"Gone to the tavern," she answered significantly.
"Did you give him any money?"
"I gave him a dollar," she replied sadly. "It is easy to tell how it
will be spent."
Grit had no time to inquire further at that time, for he was assisting
his mother in necessary attentions to their guests, having hurriedly
exchanged his own wet clothes for dry ones.
Mr. Jackson seemed very grateful to Mrs. Morris for her attention to
Willie. She found an old suit of Grit's, worn by him at the age of
eight, and dressed Willie in it, while his own wet suit was being dried.
The little boy presented a comical spectacle, the suit being three or
four sizes too large for him.
"I don't like it," he said. "It is too big."
"So it is, Willie," said his father; "but you won't have to wear it
long. You would catch your death of cold if you wore your wet clothes.
How long will it take to dry his clothes, Mrs. Morris?"
"Two or three hours at least," answered the widow.
"I have a great mind to go back to Portville, and get a change of
garments," said the father.
"That would be the best thing, probably."
"But I should have to burden you with Willie; for I should need to take
Grit with me to ferry me across."
"It will be no trouble, sir. I will take good care of him."
"Willie, will you stay here while I go after your other clothes?" asked
Mr. Jackson.
Willie readily consented, especially after Grit had brought him a
picture-book to look over. Then he accompanied the father to the river,
and they started to go across. While they were gone, Mr. Brandon
returned to the cottage. His flushed face and unsteady gait showed that
he had been drinking. He lifted the latch, and went in.
When he saw Willie sitting in a small chair beside his wife, he gazed at
the child in astonishment.
"Is that the cub?" he asked doubtfully. "Seems to me he's grown smaller
since I saw him."
"I ain't a cub," said Willie indignantly.
"Oh! yer ain't a cub, hey?" repeated Brandon mockingly.
"No, I ain't. My name is Willie Jackson, and my papa lives in New York."
"What is the meaning of this, Mrs. Brandon?" asked the inebriate. "Where
did you pick up this youngster?"
His wife explained in a few words.
"I thought it wasn't the cub," said Mr. Brandon indistinctly. "Where is
he?"
"He has gone to row Mr. Jackson over to Portville."
"I say, Mrs. B., does he earn much money that way?"
"He earns all the money that supports us," answered his wife coldly.
"I must see to that," said Brandon unsteadily. "He must bring me his
money every night--do you hear, Mrs. B.?--must bring me his money every
night."
"To spend for liquor, I suppose?" she responded bitterly.
"I'm a gentleman. My money--that is, his money is my money. D'ye
understand?"
"I understand only too well, Mr. Brandon."
"That's all right. I feel tired. Guess I'll go and lie down."
To his wife's relief he went up-stairs, and was soon stretched out on
the bed in a drunken sleep.
"I am glad he is out of the way. I should be ashamed to have Mr. Jackson
see him," thought Grit's mother, or Mrs. Brandon, as we must now call
her.
"Who is that man?" asked Willie anxiously.
"His name is Brandon," answered Grit's mother.
"He isn't a nice man. I don't like him."
Mrs. Brandon said nothing. What could she say? If she had spoken as she
felt, she would have been compelled to agree with the boy. Yet this man
was her husband, and was likely to be to her a daily source of anxiety
and annoyance.
"I am afraid Grit and he won't agree," she thought anxiously. "Oh I why
did he ever come back? For the last five years we have been happy. We
have lived plainly and humbly, but our home has been peaceful. Now,
Heaven knows what trouble is in store for us."
Half an hour later Mr. Jackson and Grit returned.