<h2><SPAN name="page177"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>XX.</h2>
<p><span class="smcap">The</span> shock left Johnny and Bessy
numb, and, though Bessy was quicker, the change took Johnny two
or three days to realise—even to understand. His
first distinct impression was one of injury and resentment.
He had been tricked—hoodwinked. His mother—even
his mother had deceived him and Bessy. Why? Why not
tell them first?</p>
<p>She <i>would</i> have told them, he was sure; she told them
everything. Butson had persuaded her to keep them in
ignorance till the thing was done, lest they should rebel, and
perhaps bring her to a change of mood. And Johnny’s
guess was a good one. . . . Forthwith his resentment became
something more; hate, mere hate for this man who had come between
him and his mother—this cadger of suppers thrusting himself
into their intimate life. . . .</p>
<p>And yet—perhaps this was simple anger at the slight and
the deception; jealousy at finding a stranger as dear to his
mother as himself was. Butson might turn out none so bad a
fellow. He was very decent over the callipers, for
instance. . . . Curse the callipers! <SPAN name="page178"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">p.
178</span>Johnny’s anger was not to be reasoned down.
On Sunday he had his own mother. Now there was nothing but
Butson’s wife.</p>
<p>More, the man was his father—his stepfather; chief
authority in the house, with respect and obedience due to
him. That seemed intolerable. For a moment Johnny had
mad notions of leaving home altogether, and shifting for
himself—going aboard ship, abroad, anywhere. But that
would be to leave Bess alone—and his mother; his mother
might need him yet.</p>
<p>He told Long Hicks, as they tramped to work over the locks and
bridges in the bright morning, early and still; and it surprised
him to see Hicks’s tacit concern at the news. The
long man reddened and stuttered, and checked himself suddenly at
an imminent outburst of speech. But that was all; he
offered no opinion and made no remark; and as he was given to
suppressed excitement on small occasion, Johnny presently forgot
it.</p>
<p>As for Bessy, her distress, quiet as it was, was beyond
telling. Her association with her mother had been so
intimate that this change was stark bereavement; and for Butson
and his coarse pretence her feeling was sheer repulsion.</p>
<p>Neither boy nor girl had the habit of dissimulation, and
though they said little, it needed small discernment to guess
something of their sentiments. Poor Nan was <SPAN name="page179"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>dismayed to
perceive that they did not take to Butson instant on the news of
the novel relationship. Indeed, it perplexed her. For
in her simple view he was a resplendent person of finer mould,
sore hit by a cruel world, and entitled to the respectful
sympathy, at least and coldest, of the merest stranger.
More, nobody could be more completely devoted than he to the
interests of Johnny and Bessy; he had most vehemently assured her
of it, again and again. But after all, the thing was
sudden; they must realise his true worth soon. Though
meantime she was distressed extremely.</p>
<p>Butson saw plainly enough, but for the present cared not at
all. He had won his game, and for a little time unwonted
plenty and comfort satisfied him. Though he was not
insensible that this was a place wherein he must do something
more to make himself absolute master.</p>
<p>Uncle Isaac got the news on Tuesday evening, when he came for
supper. For a week or ten days he had been little seen at
Harbour Lane, because of an urgent job involving overtime, a
thing not to be neglected in these lean years. He had
suspected nothing, moreover, supposing Butson to be so often
attracted to Nan’s by the mere prospect of supper.</p>
<p>Now, when he was told, he was near as astonished as Johnny had
been. He sat at random—fortunately on a
chair—and opened mouth and eyes. But ere his <SPAN name="page180"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>mouth
closed he had resolved on his own course. The thing was
done, and past undoing.</p>
<p>He sprang to his feet, and seized one of Butson’s
hands—the nearest—in both his own. “Mr.
Butson!” he said: “Butson! Me ole friend
’Enery—me dearest ’opes an’ wishes is
rewarded. Nan, you’re done most dootiful the
confidentialest o’ my intentions. For what was my
confidential intentions? ’Ere, I says, confidential
to meself, ’ere is my niece, a young woman as I wish every
possible good fortun’ to, though I sez it meself: a very
sootable young woman o’ some little property with two
children an’ a business. Two children an’ a
business was my reflection. What’s more,
’ere’s my very respected friend Butson—than
which none more so—fash’nable by ’abit
an’ connexions, with no children an’ no
business. Them considerations bein’ thus what
follers? What’s the cause an’ pediment to
’oly matrimony? Far be it from me, sez I, to
dictate. But I’ll take ’im in to tea,
any’ow. An’ I’ll do whatever else is
ne’ssry. Yus, I’ll do it, sez I, as is my
dooty. <i>I’ll</i> work it if it’s mortal
possible. Whether grateful or not <i>I’ll</i> do
it. An’ I done it.”</p>
<p>Uncle Isaac punched his left palm with his right fist, and
looked from husband to wife, with the eye of the righteous
defying censure. Nan flushed and smiled, and indeed she was
relieved. No consideration of her unaccustomed secrecy had
given her more doubt than <SPAN name="page181"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>that it must shut her off from Uncle
Isaac’s advice; loss enough in itself, and probably an
offence to him.</p>
<p>“This,” Uncle Isaac went on, taking his chair once
more and drawing it up to the table: “this is a great
an’ ’appy occasion, an’ as sich it should be
kep’ up. Nan, is there sich a thing as a drop
o’ sperrits in the ’ouse?”</p>
<p>There was most of a small jar of whisky—the first
purchase Mr. Butson had caused on his change of condition.
It was brought, with tumblers, and Uncle Isaac celebrated the
occasion with full honours and much fragmentary
declamation. He drank the health of bride and bridegroom,
first separately and then together. He drank the health of
the family, completed and adorned by the addition of
Butson. He drank success to the shop; long life to all the
parties concerned; happiness to each of them. And a certain
forgetfulness ensuing, he began his toast-list afresh, in
conscientious precaution lest something had been omitted.</p>
<p>“See there, Bess; see there, me gal,” he
exclaimed, with some thickness of utterance, turning to Bessy
(whose one desire was to remain unnoticed), and making a
semicircular swing of the arm in Butson’s direction.
“Yer father! Noo s-stepfather! Local
p’rentis! As a cripple an’ a burden it’s
your dooty to be grateful for the c-circumstance.
Bein’ a widderer o’ long ex-experience <SPAN name="page182"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>meself
I’m grateful for s-surroundin’ priv’leges,
which it is your dooty t’ respeck. See? Dooty
t’ respeck an’ obey; likewise honour.
’C-cos if shillun don’ ’speck an’
’bey whash good C-catechism? Eh?” Uncle
Isaac’s voice grew loud and fierce. “Whash
become C-catechishm I say? Nullavoid.
Ca’chishm’s nullavoid.” . . . Here,
pausing to look round at Mr. and Mrs. Butson, he lost his
argument altogether, and stared owlishly at the wall. . . .
“’Owsomedever, the ’casion bein’ the
state an’ pediment o’ ’oly matrimony,
’cordin’ to confidential ’tentions,
nothin’ remains but ashk you all join me ’n
drinkin’—d-drinkin’—er—er—lil’
drop more.”</p>
<p>Uncle Isaac subsided with his face on the table, and his eyes
closed. So that it grew necessary for Mr. Butson to shake
him and bring him to a perpendicular. Whereupon, being duly
invested with his hat, he was safely set in his way on the narrow
pavement of Harbour Lane.</p>
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