The 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?

She would 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. . . .

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! Johnny’s anger was not to be reasoned down. On Sunday he had his own mother. Now there was nothing but Butson’s wife.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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 mouth closed he had resolved on his own course. The thing was done, and past undoing.

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’ll work it if it’s mortal possible. Whether grateful or not I’ll do it. An’ I done it.”

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 that it must shut her off from Uncle Isaac’s advice; loss enough in itself, and probably an offence to him.

“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?”

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.

“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 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.”

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.